Part II
During the intermission, those not favoured enough to be in the imperial box retreated to an impromptu rest area behind the stand. Multitudinous canopies of various colours had been erected in the desert, giving it the appearance of the Turkish tent cities of old; the most famous that which had sprung up across from Vienna during the great siege of 1683. Each of these canopies sheltered a table, most of which were equipped with nargiles. Between these tables scurried servants, stocking up depleted nargiles with more mu’assel and planting jugs of water. At the side, the governor’s cooks ladled out cups of hoşaf from large tanks and prepared portions of pilav. Plates of apricots, bazlama and plum compote circulated amongst the guests.
The grandest table was set aside for the Cabinet ministers, who were constantly beset by local notables inquiring about life in Constantinople and the state of the empire. After an incessant flood of salutations and enquiries, the table was finally given some peace as everyone sat down to eat. Those who had brought their wives to the Sinai departed to attend to them. Finally, the only men left at the table were the Foreign Minister, Hüseyin Nihâl Pasha, and the Grand Vizier-cum-Minister of Finance, Mehmed Cavid Pasha, both for want of being married.
In only this respect were the two men similar. Hüseyin was the most junior member of Cabinet – both in age and status. At thirty-one years old, he was not only younger than all of his colleagues, but also the entire imperial family save Princess Dürrühşehvar. Politically, he was the least important of the ministers; the department of foreign policy had become increasingly marginalised as Turkey further aligned itself with the German Empire. Sultan Mehmed VI had been eager to defer on matters of international diplomacy to the line set by Berlin, satisfied that Turkish power was secure and protected. Under Abdul Mejid’s predecessor, the Sublime Porte had essentially been reduced to a German consulate; the German Ambassador and the permanent German Mission held more sway over Turkish foreign policy than the Foreign Minister.
While not the oldest member of the Cabinet, Mehmed was certainly the most senior. His ministerial portfolio included the two most important posts in Cabinet – Grand Vizier, with supremacy over government, and Minister of Finance, with control of the treasury. Mehmed had managed to accumulate this power with such subtlety that he had not even aroused the suspicions of the court, which – in the aftermath of the Three Pashas triumvirate – was notoriously opposed to power bases. With minimum effort, he stepped in to replace Said Halim Pasha as Grand Vizier in 1935, after the latter resigned due to illness. Since then, Mehmed had consolidated his influence, to the extent that he was now the third most powerful man in the empire – below only the Sultan and the Chief Black Eunuch.
Hüseyin reclined back in his seat and sighed. The resting period did little to combat the effects of the heat. Even after quaffing his glass of hoşaf, he still felt dehydrated. Worse, he had been nursing a headache since their departure from Constantinople; hours of squinting at camels in the sun had only exacerbated it.
“Why are we here, Mehmed?” he asked, turning to look at his companion. Mehmed Cavid lowered his pipe slowly.
“We are here, Hüseyin,” he replied, “because the Padishah is here. Where he goes, we go. That is the way of imperial government.” Hüseyin gazed up at the sky, looking thoroughly unconvinced.
“It seems somewhat excessive to bring half the Cabinet down to the Sinai for a day just to see some martial display,” he said, “ How are we supposed to perform our duties if we get dragged around for these asinine little events?”
“On the contrary,” said Mehmed, “Now that we are away from the pomp of the capital, we can finally attend to those duties. I anticipate getting through more work on the train journey back than in a whole week spent in Stamboul.”
“That’s a point,” said Hüseyin in agreement, taking a sip from his tea, “It is somewhat fortuitously timed, considering the sudden increase in my workload, as a result of the situation in Russia.”
“Speaking of which,” Mehmed interjected, “Have you broached this subject with the Padishah?”
“No, not yet,” replied the Foreign Minister. Mehmed nodded his head.
“Good,” he said, “Then don’t. Or at least, not now.” Hüseyin gave him a perplexed look. The Grand Vizier resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
“We are playing our hand very carefully,” he explained, “The situation is still unclear and unpredictable. If we make a move, we risk having our beards singed. Cautious reaction is the best policy. But Abdul Mejid is impulsive; a rash decision could jeopardise everything.” Hüseyin rolled the smoke pipe between his fingers.
“I do hope you are not asking me to deceive the Padishah, Grand Vizier,” said Hüseyin, in a somewhat facetious tone.
“Unthinkable,” replied Mehmed, “I ask only that you omit certain details.” Hüseyin smiled, taking up the pipe and having another smoke. When he lowered it, his expression had become vacant, for reasons that the ensuing conversation subsequently made clear.
“Pity our friend the War Minister could not attend,” he said casually. Mehmed, who had begun tearing in to his newly-arrived plate of pilav, lowered his cutlery.
“A pity,” replied Mehmed, with equal casualness, “I am sure he had his reasons, however.” He resumed eating, just as Hüseyin took another drag from the nargile. Yet for both their pretensions of airiness, there was a palpable feeling of tension.
“His absence,” said the latter, between puffs of smoke, “could be misconstrued as a snub to the Padishah.” Mehmed shrugged his shoulders lightly.
“Perish the thought,” he said, without even looking up.
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Following the great exodus to Sinai, only two Cabinet ministers remained in Constantinople – Mustafa Kemal Pasha, the Minister of War, and Bahattin Şakir Pasha, the Minister of the Interior. On the afternoon of the review, the former was paid a visit by Field Marshal Fevzi Pasha, the Chief of Staff of the Imperial Army.
Unlike his predecessors, Mustafa Kemal’s appointment to the War Ministry was based on martial pedigree rather than political experience. The military had in fact defined his entire life. Having enrolled in a military high school in 1896, he soon found himself at the College of War in Constantinople, before graduating from the Military Staff College in 1905. For a Turkish military man, the turn of the twentieth century was a time of opportunity. Six years later, Italy invaded Tripolitania. Mustafa distinguished himself in the Battle of Tobruk, prompting his first military recognition. One year later, he returned to Europe to participate in the First Balkan War. A year after that, he fought in the Second Balkan War. By 1914, he was already a lieutenant colonel in the Ottoman army.
But it was in the Great War that Mustafa distinguished himself – ironic, considering his opposition to Turkey’s entry into the war. Initially attached to the 19th Division of the 5th Army, Mustafa eventually found himself at the centre of the Dardanelles Campaign, as the British Empire sought to knock Turkey out of the war by quickly capturing Constantinople. The disastrous Gallipoli landings, which crippled the reputation of the British First Lord of the Admiralty, Winston Churchill, bolstered the standing of Mustafa, who at this point was politically isolated and relatively obscure. After a promotion to Brigadier General, he later served in the Caucasus, where he managed to achieve one of Turkey’s few victories in that notoriously one-sided campaign. In recognition of his service, he was awarded the Golden Sword of the Order of Imtiyaz. After a bout of illness, he was reassigned to Palestine. The post appeared to be political suicide; Syria was already collapsing under the combined pressures of the British offensive and the Great Arab Revolt. The sudden turn-around in Turkish fortunes, however, left Mustafa at the head of the counter-offensive against Egypt. By the end of the Great War, he was perhaps the only Turkish general widely recognised for his competence, at a time when the entire military establishment was severely discredited by Turkey’s performance in the war.
This was not to say that Mustafa was politically apathetic. Shortly after graduation, he joined Motherland and Liberty, a secret organisation of pro-reformist officers. Later, he joined the nascent Committee of Union and Progress, which was propelled into power by the Young Turk Revolution of 1908. Like others in the constitutionalist movement, Mustafa favoured restrictions on the power of the monarchy and the modernisation of Turkey. He became, however, a vociferous critic of the CUP leadership. His numerous disputes with Enver Pasha resulted in his exclusion from political power in 1913, when Enver consolidated his control over the country as head of the Three Pashas triumvirate. This was ultimately what saved Mustafa when the absolute monarchy was restored; he was able to detach himself from the CUP supporters and leadership, who were promptly purged by the new regime. Combined with his military record and popularity, Mustafa not only survived the destruction of the constitutionalist movement, but even manoeuvred his way into high office. The Sultan did not dare remove him; he was a darling of the masses, and his presence in government alleviated the threat posed by the military establishment to the autocracy.
Presently, Mustafa was in his office in the War Ministry, located in Bayezid Square. Since Bahattin Şakir was the more senior minister – and, more to the point, closer to the Sultan – he had received the largest amount of attention from the numerous administrators attempting to maintain their departments while their ministers gazed at camels in the Sinai. That left Mustafa free to attend to his defence duties. As such, by four o’clock, he was about to leave the War Ministry when there was a knock on the door of the office. Sighing, Mustafa called for the person to enter. A secretary entered, closing the door behind them.
“There is a visitor to see you, Minister,” he said, inclining his head.
“Tell them to come back tomorrow,” said Mustafa, standing up, “I am leaving just now.”
“Apologies, Minister, but it is the Field Marshal, and he says it is quite urgent.” Mustafa sighed once more, sinking back into his seat.
“Very well, send him in,” he muttered. The secretary nodded and left. A few moments later, the door swung open and admitted Fevzi Pasha into the office. The two old generals exchanged nods.
“Mustafa,” he said, advancing towards the centre of the office, a wooden baton wedged firmly under his left arm.
“Field Marshal,” he replied, “I believe you wanted to see me.” Fevzi nodded, pulling up a chair in front of his desk.
“I believe you know why,” he said, taking a seat.
“Oh?” said Mustafa, in genuine confusion. The Field Marshal sighed.
“Why is it that, with most of government down south, you have chosen to remain here?” he asked. Mustafa shrugged his shoulders, as if in apathy.
“I had more important tasks to attend to,” he replied, continuing to pack away documents into his briefcase.
“And did you say words to this effect to the Padishah?” asked Fevzi. Mustafa glanced up for a moment.
“More or less,” he said, before looking back down. As he was about to fasten the latches of his briefcase, Mustafa flinched as the end of a baton smacked into the centre of it. He looked at the Field Marshal bemusedly. The sixty-year-old general had moved with a speed that belied his age.
“Don’t get cocky, Mustafa,” said Fevzi, lifting up his baton and returning it to its previous position.
“Can you imagine how the Padishah will view this?” he said, lowering his voice and keeping his gaze level with Mustafa’s, “His own minister, brushing him off to attend to paperwork? He would have to be a fool not to regard it as a personal slight.”
“So let him see it,” snapped Mustafa, leaning forward on his desk, “I cannot understand why we have to perpetually fawn over him, to the detriment of our duties as ministers. And I certainly cannot fathom why I should waste my valuable time gawking at camels in some Arab sand-pit.”
“Don’t be a fool, Mustafa,” said Fevzi coldly, “That is how the empire runs.” Mustafa reclined back in his chair, saying nothing. When it became clear that he wasn’t going to respond, Fevzi spoke again.
“Your position is not unassailable,” he said, “Your authority is not unquestionable. If you give him adequate reason to doubt your loyalties, then he shall brush you aside. Abdul Mejid has no time for popular democracy; if he wants you gone, then you are gone, no matter how many supporters you have.” Fevzi maintained his stare to ensure that his meaning had been conveyed. When he was satisfied, the Field Marshal slowly got to his feet.
“Consider this well-intentioned advice, Mustafa,” he said, adjusting his uniform, “Don’t go tying the cord around your own neck. There are far too many people who are happy to do it for you.”
Without another word, Fevzi turned about and left the office.
