The Blue Hour

Chapter 43: Hamid

William's white palace was located off Taksim Square. A pair of symmetrical stairs flowed in zig-zag from the sumptuous entrance, across the whole of the facade and on to the street. William had bought the land and built the palace a few years earlier after a terrible fire destroyed thousands of wooden dwellings in Pera. Now, the setting sun cast the colossal building in a dusty golden light.

Their carriage continued past the main entrance, turned a corner, and came to a halt outside the garden gate. A footman received them, dressed in the Seagrave colours, a livery in deep plum with the trouser legs piped in dark red, and whisked them off to a discrete back entrance of the palace.

"For your safety, my Lord," Reshid whispered as a way of excuse for the poor reception, wiping pearls of sweat off his brow.

"Don't worry Reshid, no one knows my face," Hamid said, sounding confident despite the nervousness he felt, not about being recognised, but about standing face-to-face with Midhat Pasha. He felt out of his depth, hilariously so.

Despite the lessons with Reshid, he was not prepared for dealing with affairs of state. It wasn't Reshid's fault; he was an exceptional teacher of any subject: French, Persian, Arabic, history, mathematics, geography, economics, politics. No, he was not to blame.

Rather, it was the fault of the princely school curriculum. For centuries, it had been limited to studying the Koran and glorious tales of the dynastic past. A permanent and archaic fixture of the Osman universe until Midhat Pasha convinced Medjid that the heirs to the Ottoman throne needed a modern education. On this issue, Peresto and Midhat had agreed. Medjid gave in, and they hired Reshid. 

By that time, Hamid was already seventeen years old. His limited schooling remained irregular and detached from all practical application, and after Medjid's death, during the long years in 'the cage', it stopped altogether. All he knew was falconry and carpentry. Useless skills. Midhat would think him stupid and malleable.

The footman led them down a warren of corridors, Hamid first and Reshid close behind. For every step, he felt himself shrink. The stiff collar chaffed at his neck, he tried to loosen it, but his distracted fingers were too clumsy.

He had only met Midhat Pasha in person once or twice, years ago, never alone, so he could not claim to know him. But Peresto had encouraged Hamid to follow ministerial meetings from behind a screen in the selamlik salons when Midhat was a Minister in Medjid's government. "The words are not everything," she said. "Use your senses. Their body language will reveal who they are, what they are truly thinking, and whether they can be trusted."

While the other ministers appeared stuffy and ingratiating, Midhat's ideas to modernise the archaic Ottoman administrative system, felt inspiring. In silent admiration, he watched Midhat operate with resilience and passion. His controversial ideas for reform met with resistance from many ministers, especially the reforms in favour of Medjid's Christian subjects.

They sparked heated discussions between Peresto and Medjid. Peresto advised against. "My Padishah, be careful not to lose your way," she would say in her sugar sweet voice. "We should learn from the infidel, not to become like them, but to profit from their weaknesses. You rule by the grace of Allah. You are the shadow of Allah on earth, the Caliph of all Muslims. You are not a king, you are the Sultan of the Islamic Empire. Your flock is Muslim. Midhat Pasha forgets who he serves, he forgets who he is."

Medjid would not listen, and Hamid was secretly happy. Midhat's vision of a modern empire suggested an alternative to the order which had reigned, virtually unchanged, for centuries. It felt liberating and hopeful. Today, he felt more despondent. Whatever the empire did, things only seemed to get worse, and now it made him wonder if Peresto was right, they were losing their way.