Dusk had fallen like a curtain. Peresto listened. Out there somewhere, a night hawk laughed softly. Hamid had not said a word since they left the yali and she wanted to leave him to brood alone; he had much to consider and there would be time enough to talk later. They sat close enough for her skirts to brush against his knees, yet she could barely make out his face in the darkness. She longed to caress him, to ease his pain.

She, too, needed time to think. She had been relieved when he agreed to return to the palace, but the brief meeting with Flora troubled her. The girl was pregnant, she was sure of it. Did Hamid know? Probably. It complicated things in ways she did not want to consider now. A sadness came over her, which suggested she was deceiving herself. She didn't feel relieved any longer to return with Hamid, she felt devastated. She pressed her lips, as if from physical pain, the muscles in her face twitched.

She was tired. The warm air and sweet scent of summer flowers mixed with earth and grass relaxed her body. In her slumber, images came to her of a baby, slippery, purple and wrinkled. Hamid's birth had been slow and noisy. More than anything, Peresto remembered the raw smell of blood. Trimujgan had screamed and breathed and pushed while Peresto listened, impatient and cringing with discomfort, helpless like an expectant father. After several hours, the baby's head appeared, followed by the whole body. The kalfa had examined him and declared that a strong and healthy baby boy had been born.

The boy, who eagerly sucked on Trimujgan's breast, had been conceived in the hammam, and the Sultan was informed of his birth as he took his bath – so much water was a bad omen, Medjid feared. For three days he remained silent without looking at the child, or naming it, without signing off on the official documents, or officially announcing the birth of his son. Three long days of terror for Trimujgan, until the celebratory gun-shots boomed across the water, securing her son's future and Trimujgan's position as Hasek-Sultana: mother of the royal prince Abdulhamid. Seven years later, on the day of Hamid's circumcision, Trimujgan died in Peresto's arms, and Medjid decreed that the Princess Peresto Sultana was to be the boy's mother.

The carriage came to a grinding halt, which jolted Peresto out of her reverie. There were murmuring voices and the relentless, choking cries of a baby. Dogs barked. Hamid opened the curtain; they stared through the open window into the night.

"Muhajirs," Peresto mumbled.

Refugees had set up camp right there on the trampled mud road and next to it, under the sheltering willows of a nearby creek. As far as the eye could see by the fire-lights, grimy tents were placed where the land was flat enough to pitch them, here and there carts loaded with belongings. Blackened pots were cooking over fire-blackened holes, with calm, wide-eyed children watching, and countless women and men sitting around the burning fires, like dark, silent ghosts.

A soldier shouted for the refugees to make way for Crown Prince Abdulhamid and the Princess Peresto Sultana. Peresto rang a bell, and immediately, the chief eunuch reined in alongside the carriage window.

"Tatars, my Lady, moving west," he said. "The Russians chased them from their homes in the Caucasus and now they're being chased from the Balkan provinces as well. For ten years they've been on the move."

"How many, you think?" she asked.

"In this camp? Hard to tell. Three hundred, perhaps, my Lady. They say thousands more are following right behind. And the city is already full."

She frowned. For hundreds of years of Ottoman rule, Muslims and Christians alike had been the Sultan's beloved subjects. Yet here they were, the muhajirs, countless Muslims, chased from their lands by their Christian brothers and sisters in the name of independence. There was no getting used to witnessing such misery, but it wasn't just that. The muhajirs constituted undeniable proof that the empire was gradually dissolving. She looked at them, and all she saw was a razor-sharp sword suspended over her head, over all their heads. The vultures were gathering from everywhere. It made the anger rise inside her again, it made her tighten in absolute concentration to gather all her fear, humiliation, loathing and strength into preparation for battle.

Hamid grabbed Peresto's wrist.

"Let these poor people be," he said. "We'll circle around."

He too was finding it an effort to compose himself, she could tell by the sharpness in his voice. In that moment they were the same, like mirrors, like mother and son, and it made her weak in the knees. She was like a starved child. It was unbearable, this yearning for his love, this neediness. She bit her lip and checked an urge to put her hand over his.

The eunuch said, "In that case we must get off the road, my Lord. It will be uncomfortable and slow us down."

"You heard the Crown Prince, we'll circle around," Peresto snapped.

It was too late. People were already clearing the path for the carriage, which swayed as the wheels got in motion. On each side of the road, heads turned as eyes followed it painstakingly make its way through the camp. The smoke from the fires hung like low clouds over the ground. Peresto pulled her veil over her mouth and nose. In the distance southwards, the streetlights of Pera glimmered like tiny stars.

"Give them food supplies to last them through Ramadan," she told the eunuch. "Instruct them to stay outside the city walls, and to move on as soon as possible."

"Where do you want them to go?" Hamid asked.

Peresto shook her head. "They can't stop in the city – we can't risk bringing bloodshed to the capital. The mosques are already overflowing, the churches too. They must keep on moving and pray they may find virgin land where they can settle."

Despite the obscurity, she caught his gaze. "These are difficult times, Hamid. For everyone."

Suddenly, from the shadows, a voice called out, "jihād al-sayf," a call to war in defence of Islam, and soon, hundreds of voices chanted.

"They want more blood," Hamid said, unbelieving. "Haven't they claimed enough?"

Inside her chest, her heart flipped. "Claimed enough?" she asked.

He avoided her gaze.

"Claimed enough." This time it wasn't a question, but an accusation. "Are you blaming them?"

He shook his head with an expression of despair, searched his pockets and brought out a pamphlet, which he handed to her. "You've heard about the massacres," he said. "The infidel despise us for what we did in Bulgaria."

"Who told you that?"

"A journalist I met in Therapia."

She scoffed. "What did you hear? The truth, I hope."

"Read it," he said. When she refused to take the pamphlet, he read it in her stead. "Bulgarian Horrors and the Question of the East." If you won't read it, I will summarise it for you. It calls on Britain to withdraw all support for the empire, and demands independence for Bulgaria, Bosnia and Herzegovina. The great anti-human specimen of humanity, that's what they call us." He quoted from memory, "Wherever they went, a broad line of blood marked the track behind them; and as far as their dominion reached, civilisation disappeared from view. They represented everywhere government by force, as opposed to government by law."

She followed his gaze to the miserable crowd outside the carriage. The Europeans blamed the Bulgarian massacres on the Turks. But what about our suffering, she wanted to ask. A wash of rage made her tremble, but she held herself rigid and kept her face unmoving.

"Nothing is ever simple and nothing is ever as it seems," she said. "Whatever people tell you, always remember that."

He looked up at her with a darkness in his eyes that made her feel blank inside. She too, was weary of it all, the violence which led to more violence, which led to war. Not because the infidel despised them for it; they were as much instigators of hate and bloodshed as anyone. And not because she feared fighting to keep the Islamic empire intact. She would have given anything to live when the empire existed for war, when their splendid troops had conquered half of Europe. All she had ever known was a faltering and shrinking empire.

The last war against the Russians in Crimea had revealed just how sick the empire had become. When the Russians attacked, the outraged and fearful British and French powers came to Sultan Medjid's aid, and the Turkish troops fought side by side with their infidel allies. On the battlefield, they had been victorious, only so their friends – their so-called allies – could invade the empire with their speculators, contractors, engineers and financiers. Many times, she had told Medjid their allies were sucking them dry. He did not see it that way. The British Ambassador had him wrapped around his finger. "He is my friend," Medjid had said of him – an error of judgement for which Peresto never forgave him. A Sultan has no friends, she'd told him.

"War is coming," she said now, in a low, trembling voice, and with a nod to the muhajir outside. "Not because of them, but because it is what the Tsar wants. The Islamic Empire crumbles, and he wants to get his hands on the spoils."

The expression on Hamid's face underwent a sudden, painful, nervous contraction. She felt a pang of guilt for having unburdened herself, but she too was growing increasingly fearful and weary of the struggle. Emptied of energy, she closed her eyes and clasped the handkerchief in her hand. He needs me strong, he needs me to keep the faith.

A voice cried out, "My Padishah!" A shadow stepped into the fire-light next to the carriage – a woman. As she approached, she lifted the bundle in her arms like an offering to the window. "My Padishah, may Allah bestow his blessings on you! Take her! Protect her, I beg you. For the love of Allah, have mercy on this innocent child."

The carriage picked up speed, but the woman walked faster, until she was running alongside them, offering her baby.

"My Padishah, take my little girl. Protect her."

The Chief Eunuch, erect on his silver stallion, trotted alongside, waiting for instruction. Hamid had withdrawn into the obscurity of the corner seat, and she could sense his muscles tighten. The woman stumbled forwards, unable to keep up. Her heroic effort reminded Peresto that if this mother lost hope, there would be no hope for any of them.

Abruptly, Hamid leaned forwards towards the window. "Accept the baby." His voice was strong and clear. "Tell her Allah never burdens a soul with more than it can bear. Tell her she is not alone, and she will not regret putting her trust in her Padishah and in God."

The Chief Eunuch wheeled his horse about and galloped back to the woman, now hunched in the dirt behind them.

Peresto exhaled. A kalfa of the Imperial Harem would care for the baby, and growing up, the girl would be trained in household duties. If gifted and beautiful, she could rise in the harem ranks until one day, she might become an odalisque, or, God willing, Valide.

Peresto leaned forward so Hamid could see her face, and said, "The British may not love us, they may even despise us, but we are worth too much for them to give us up to the Russians. If they say they will abandon us, they're bluffing. The Islamic empire might shrink, it might change form, but it cannot fall. Trust in Allah, Hamid. One day the sun will rise again, and a new day will dawn."

It was not yet midnight when they arrived at the palace. Ramadan was days away, but the heart of the harem remained undecorated for the festivities – it was dark and silent as if in mourning. Peresto's suite of women greeted them. There was bad news, the Mother of the Maids informed them in trembling whispers. The Tsar had presented the empire with an ultimatum: either make political reforms to protect the Christian population in the Balkans, or, within forty-eight hours, there would be war.

"What do the Ministers say," Peresto asked.

"The situation seems..." The Mother of the Maid's voice cracked.

"Pull yourself together, then tell me what you know."

The Mother of the Maids lowered her eyes and struggled to control her blushing face.

"Forgive me, Princess," she said and cleared her throat. "Midhat Pasha convened the ministers."

"And?" Peresto asked impatiently.

"The British, Your Highness. It seems that they refuse to send their fleet."

Peresto stopped and exchanged a quick glance with Hamid. Her eyes narrowed, she felt a hot flush creep up her neck past the pink collar. A silence descended over the party. Beneath it, Peresto sensed Hamid's resentment, a cold rage twisted his features. Uneasily, he looked about and asked, "The Sultan, where is he? Surely someone has informed him?"

The suite of women had gone quiet, their eyes glued to the floor.

"I will see him immediately," Hamid said.

"Your Highness," the Mother of the Maids said nervously, "the Grand Vizier Midhat Pasha waits for you in the selamlik." She turned to Peresto. "And there is one more thing, the Swiss doctor has arrived." She fell into a deep curtsey. The entire retinue followed suit and then withdrew.

Peresto lowered her gaze, inhaled and moved towards Hamid. He pulled away. For a second, the hurt showed on her face, before she recomposed herself. The darkness that filled his eyes broke her heart, but she could not falter now.

"Go to Midhat Pasha," she said.

_________________________

Author's note

The Ottoman Empire witnessed a significant influx of muhajirs, or Muslim refugees, fleeing persecution and conflict in various regions under Ottoman rule or in neighboring territories. These muhajirs, primarily from the Balkans, the Caucasus, and the Crimean Peninsula, sought safety and a new start within the empire's borders.

The Ottoman government, guided by the Islamic principle of providing refuge to fellow Muslims, welcomed these displaced populations and sought to resettle them in various parts of the empire.

The arrival of the muhajirs presented both challenges and opportunities for the Ottoman state, as it grappled with the need to provide housing, land, and support for the newcomers while also managing the social, economic, and political implications of their integration into Ottoman society.

The muhajir experience in 1876 reflected the complex interplay of religious solidarity, humanitarian crisis, and the broader challenges of governance and social cohesion facing the Ottoman Empire in the late 19th century.

The embedded image is of muhajirs from the Balkans waiting at the quay of Istanbul.