Inspired by true events, 'The Blue Hour' is a story of political intrigue and doomed love set in the dying days of the Ottoman Empire during the summer of 1876. All Prince Hamid and the Belgian glove-maker, Flora Cordier, want is to pursue their for...
Unsure of what to do next, he allowed his gaze to wander across the room. Antique Ottoman weapons, bows and arrows, a collection of yataghan sabres with short curved blades, and kilij swords designed for mounted close combat decorated the walls. On display here in the home of an infidel, they looked like spoils of war. But then again, Sultan Abdulaziz had decorated his library with a Boule cabinet, an ebony clock by Thomas Tompion and no less than six gilded Louis VI wall mirrors.
The footman returned and served. They sipped champagne and listened to the distant hum from the guests in the garden. Midhat offered cigars. Hamid preferred cigarettes but accepted. He noted the star in precious stones pinned to Midhat's chest, an honour presented to him by Sultan Medjid. Silver spectacles rested on the large nose. He had aged considerably since Hamid last saw him up close, in the Dolmabahçe Selamlik, he remembered now, when Medjid was dying. Exhaustion, the doctors said, which really meant sexual excesses and drink. Midhat had come to pay his last homage. There was a scent of summer roses drifting in from the gardens that day, women weeping in the adjoining room, and Midhat's grief, which felt genuine. Hamid had appreciated that.
Midhat cleared his throat and said, "Your Highness, we have asked to meet with you because we have no means of getting in contact with the Crown Prince. As his representative, we ask your blessing to depose Sultan Abdulaziz."
Strangely, it came as a shock that they should ask his permission. He felt the crushing weight of responsibility, and apprehension. What happens during a coup? People die. His uncle? Yusufeddin? The Valide? Or, more likely, he and Murad? Putting away the unfinished cigar, he brought out a fresh cigarette from his pocket silver case, which William immediately lit for him.
Midhat elaborated at length on the dire situation of the empire, which justified the coup. William was transformed. Any suggestion of insecurity or hesitation had washed away. The focused energy which he emanated as he watched and listened, the sharp look in his eyes, the self-confidence with which he held himself, reminded Hamid of a hawk on the hunt.
It was warm, and the cloud of smoke which hovered over them hazed the room. That's what conspiracy looked like: men with cigars. He sank deeper into the green velvet chair and without stirring or uttering a word, he smoked and listened, withdrawn behind the shield of impassive dignity that he had been taught since childhood to uphold in public. A safe place to be.
Midhat paused, got up from his seat to massage his lower back, which seemed to hurt. Everything about his person looked worn and tired, apart from the eyes which glimmered as if a fire burnt within. Outside, in the Seagrave garden, hundreds of candles illuminated the black evening sky, giving the library window a warm, golden glow.
Sir Elliot seized on the opportunity to declare that Britain had always been a faithful ally, a friend of the Empire, and of Hamid's father Sultan Medjid. As the representative of the Queen, he could ensure everyone present that Britain would do all in her power to secure a peaceful transition of power.
However, events of past years, such as the default on the Empire's debt and the brutal suppression of Christians in the Balkans, culminating in the Bulgarian massacres, had complicated the political situation in Britain. The British public blamed the Sultan and the dynasty.
If Russia were to attack the Empire, the British government could not appear to support it. Not before the next election. If, however, the dynasty was to introduce a constitution with equal rights for Christians, the British public would see two modern constitutional monarchs, standing shoulder to shoulder against Russia. A different image all together, Sir Elliot finished with a timid smile.
There was an awkward silence.
"Russia will attack the Empire?" Hamid concentrated on keeping his voice steady.
"If we act swiftly, the Tsar won't have time to intervene in defence of Sultan Abdulaziz," Sir Elliot said and added: "But if it's not the coup, it will be something else. The Tsar is looking for any excuse to go to war. It's just a matter of time."
"A constitution," Hamid repeated numbly.
"Yes, like the British or the Belgian," Sir Elliot said.
There was a silence, broken by the sound of the ticking clock and distant notes from violins in the garden.
Midhat cleared his throat and said, "Before dawn tomorrow, Huseyin Avni will surround the palace with his men."
"Have you - " Hamid began, and faltered. "Have you enough men to overpower the Sultan's personal guard?"
"There will be some bloodshed, we can't avoid it, but we will prevail," Midhat said. "About the Crown Prince," he continued slowly, as if searching for the right words. "There are rumours about,... his emotional stability. Is he...Is the Crown Prince in good health?"
Taken aback, Hamid forced himself to meet the expectant gaze of each of the men. "The Crown Prince is in excellent health. Who has suggested anything else?"
Midhat dropped his gaze to the table. "Your Highness, if you believe the Crown Prince is unsuitable for the throne, then you are next in line."
The air in Hamid's lungs seemed to tighten as he realised what Midhat was proposing. "The throne belongs to my brother," he murmured, and then he found himself and added more forcefully: "Tomorrow at dawn the Crown Prince will be ready."
William shot Midhat a glance, and Midhat said: "We must be certain, my Lord."
The clock on the library mantle piece struck seven. Hamid stood. His heart pounded, and he felt William's silent gaze on him. "Effendi, you asked for my blessing on behalf of my brother and I have given it."
Midhat gave Hamid a careful, measuring look. "The risks involved...If it were to come to that, my Lord, you must..."
"It won't come to that," Hamid snapped, and was aware of both his trepidation, and of his shame for it.
"Good."
William asked some further questions about the practical arrangements and Midhat answered something which escaped Hamid. He had closed his eyes, and the world had fallen away and left his mind blanc. Behind closed eyelids, he counted silently: eight-thousand five-hundred and ninety-one days.
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Author's note
The embedded image is of the golden throne of Sultan Murad III (not the Murad in my story). It was manufactured in 1585 and stubbed with 957 peridots. In ancient times, peridots were believed to have protective powers and were used as talismans to ward off evil spirits. They are also associated with prosperity, growth, and renewal.
