Chapter 448: The Sultan's Tears

In the "Hall of Life" of the Dolmabahçe Palace, the smell of gunpowder mixed with death pervaded. Forty‑eight‑year‑old Sultan Muhammad V lay on a gilded bed, his cheeks sunken, his breathing as light as a thread about to snap. Six imperial physicians knelt with heads bowed outside the screen, like prisoners awaiting judgment.

War Minister Enweier Pasha and Daweiqier Halimu Pasha knelt three steps in front of the bed, their foreheads touching the floor. They had been kneeling for twenty minutes, the Persian carpet pattern deeply imprinted into their trousers.

"Your Majesty…" Halimu spoke for the third time, his voice hoarse like sandpaper rubbing, "the treaty text is here, please peruse, Your Majesty."

The attendant trembled as he lifted the parchment scroll and unfurled it before the Sultan. The opening was written in bilingual Ottoman Turkish and Arabic: "Treaty between Osman Diguo and the Lanfang Republic on the Concession for Development and Military Assistance in the Mesopotamia Region."

The Sultan's eyelids twitched slightly. He had inherited a burning, empty‑treasury mess. In eight months, defeats in the Caucasus, the collapse in Palestine, the siege of Mesopotamia, and rebel Arab tribes struck like poisoned arrows one after another. He already suffered from heart disease, and now he was at the point of oil‑spent, lamp‑extinguished.

"Recite…" the Sultan's lips emitted a faint breath.

Halimu Pasha drew a deep breath and began to read the key clauses. With each clause recited, Enweier Pasha's clenched fist on his knee tightened a fraction.

"Article One, Concession Area: centered on the city of Basra, a fifty‑kilometre deep strip along the north shore of the Persian Gulf, including but not limited to the ports of Zubair, Faou, Umm Qaisar, etc., total area about 32,000 square kilometres…"

"Article Two, Concession Term: from 20 August 1916 (Gregorian) to 19 August 2015, a total of ninety‑nine years…"

"Article Three, Concession Rights: the Lanfang Republic shall enjoy exclusive rights to explore and extract all mineral and oil‑gas resources within the concession area; the right to construct and operate ports, railways, roads and factories; the right to maintain public order and form security forces…"

"Article Four, Osman Diguo retains nominal sovereignty, Your Majesty the Sultan remains the supreme ruler of the region, and Lanfang must hold an annual flag‑raising ceremony to pay tribute to the Sultan…"

"Article Five, Consideration: the Lanfang Republic commits, within twelve months, to arm and train ten modernised infantry divisions for Osman Diguo, providing a full set of equipment including tanks, artillery, machine guns; and to provide a five‑million‑pound low‑interest loan for the purchase of food and medicine…"

When he reached "ninety‑nine years", the Sultan suddenly opened his eyes.

Those eyes had witnessed the Empire's last brilliance— in 1909, when he, as Crown Prince, visited Berlin, William II hosted a banquet at Carefree Palace, and envoys from various nations competed to toast. At that time Osman Diguo was already gravely ill, but at least it could still sit upright at the world negotiation table.

And now…

"Ninety‑nine years…" the Sultan's voice suddenly cleared, bearing a reflective power, "My great‑grandfather Muhammad II conquered Constantinople in fifty‑three days. My grandfather Abdul Majid I ruled the Empire for thirty‑nine years. My father… reigned for thirty‑three years." (ai data, Arabic names are too tangled)

He strained to turn his head, his gaze sweeping over the two senior ministers: "The agreement you ask me to sign has a lease term longer than any of their reigns. Longer than my own life…"

Cold sweat broke out on Enweier Pasha's forehead. This thirty‑four‑year‑old War Minister, an iron‑fisted figure of the Young Turkish Party, now dared not lift his head.

"Your Majesty," Halimu Pasha's voice choked, "if it were not absolutely necessary, how could we dare raise this proposal? Yet Yingguo forces are now only Distance one hundred kilometres from Basra, Kut City's sixty thousand troops are about to run out of food. On the Caucasus front, the Russian army has added five more divisions. Palestine… the British have already gathered eight divisions in Sinai, and the Gaza front is on the brink of collapse."

He took two steps forward on his knees and raised a military intelligence report above his head: "This is an urgent telegram received early this morning. The Imperial Treasury… has less than eight tonnes of gold left, enough only to pay the army's wages for three months. In the Anatolian countryside, people are already eating grass roots and bark. Your Majesty… the Empire… is about to starve to death."

The Sultan stared at the crystal chandelier on the ceiling. It was a work of Faguo craftsmen, three‑thousand‑six‑hundred crystals refracting the glint of the Bosporus Strait outside the window. Once, Osman Diguo's fleet traversed this strait like a woven tapestry, from the Black Sea to the Mediterranean, from Tripoli to the Gulf of Aden, the crescent flag unstoppable.

"Halimu," the Sultan whispered, "look up."

Daweiqier slowly lifted his head, old face streaked with tear tracks.

"Tell me the truth," the Sultan said, each word measured, "if we do not sign this treaty, three years later… what will become of the Empire?"

Silence. Only the suppressed cough of the imperial physicians.

Enweier Pasha suddenly looked up, his eyes blood‑shot: "Your Majesty! We can fight! I am willing to go to Palestine myself, lead the troops and settle the matter with the British in a death‑match! We still have loyal soldiers, we also have…"

"And how many?" the Sultan interrupted, his voice terrifyingly calm, "Enweier, you are the War Minister. Tell me, how many combat‑ready troops can the Empire still muster? How many shells? How many machine guns?"

Enweier opened his mouth, then finally bowed his head in despondency.

Halimu answered for him: "Your Majesty, on the Eastern, Western and Southern fronts, the Empire still has sixty‑two division numbers in total. But thirty‑seven of those divisions are at less than half strength, fifteen lack heavy weapons, eight have not received pay for three months. The total number of machine guns in the whole army is under two thousand, and shell stockpiles are enough for only one medium‑scale battle. Meanwhile, the Yingguo have eight hundred heavy cannons and two thousand machine guns in the Middle East. The Russians have six hundred thousand troops in the Caucasus…"

"Enough," the Sultan closed his eyes.

Tears slipped from the corners of his eyes, soaking the silk pillowcase.

"Sign it," he said, his voice as light as a sigh, "future histories will call us traitors, will say I, Muhammad V, am a sinner of Osman Diguo. But at least… at least it can let the core of the Empire live a few more years. At least it can let the children of Anatolia… have a mouthful of food."

The attendant trembled as he handed over a goose‑feather brush.

The Sultan's hand shook violently; the first time he signed, the ink bled into a blot on the parchment. He gasped, then gripped the brush firmly and signed a second, ornate signature—this was the Sultan's imperial seal, signifying the treaty's official effect.

The moment the tip touched the paper, a minaret's chant rose from outside the window. The long "Allahu Akbar" echoed on both banks of the Bosporus Strait, like the Empire's final dirge.

Having finished signing, the Sultan seemed drained of all strength, the brush slipping from his fingers. He looked at Halimu, using his last ounce of strength to say: "Tell President Daweiqier of Lanfang… ask him… to treat the people of that land kindly. They… are also children of the Almighty."

After speaking, he fell into a coma.

Three days later, Sultan Muhammad V passed away. The Empire entered a three‑month mourning period, and the treaty that would change the fate of the Middle East had already taken effect.