Ottoman Regicide Series

By Ayşe Osmanoğlu

November 7, 2025 11:14 PM GMT+03:00

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History has a way of whispering its secrets—if you listen closely …

On May 20, 1622, dusk descended over the Yedikule Fortress, cloaking its seven towers in a foreboding shroud of darkness. The last ember of sunlight slipped beneath the horizon across the Marmara Sea as the muezzin’s call to prayer drifted on the wind. Within the fortress walls, in a dank dungeon lit only by a flickering oil lamp, chains clinked faintly as a young man of 17, not yet old enough to grow a beard, knelt in silent prayer. Suddenly, the heavy iron door swung open, and he looked up.

The Captive

The young prisoner was Sultan Osman II, the elder half-brother of Sultan Ibrahim I, whose violent end we explored in the previous “Sultan’s Salon”.

Osman was a visionary—intelligent, ambitious, and idealistic, a young ruler determined to restore the Empire’s fading glory. Soon after ascending the throne, he led a campaign against the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, eager to emulate the military triumphs of his ancestors. But his hopes were crushed. Poorly supplied and betrayed by disloyal troops, his army suffered humiliation at Khotyn. Osman returned to Istanbul defeated, yet his spirit remained unbroken.

With the piercing clarity of youth, he saw that corruption had seeped deep into the foundations of the Empire, shaking its very pillars. The bureaucracy had grown bloated and self-serving, while the Janissaries, the elite infantry corps, had become indolent and insubordinate. Once the scourge of Europe, they now lacked discipline on the battlefield and acted as a mutinous praetorian guard, meddling in state affairs.

Osman resolved upon radical reform. He would purge corruption, curb the power of the Janissaries, and raise a new army drawn from the loyal sons of Anatolia – an army that would answer to him alone.

It was a bold vision. And a fatal one.

The Corps

The janissaries—yeniceri, literally meaning “new troops”—were once the pride of the Ottoman Empire. Founded in the 14th century by Sultan Murad I, they began as an elite corps drawn from the devsirme system, trained as soldiers, and forged into the most disciplined and feared fighting force of their age.

But power and privilege corrupt. By the 17th century, the janissaries had become the Empire’s greatest internal threat, their ranks filled with idlers and profiteers who defied authority and resisted reform.

The Revolt

Rumours of Sultan Osman’s plans to disband the janissaries and strip them of their privileges spread through their barracks like flames fanned by the Lodos wind. Anger flared, and resentment ignited into open rebellion.

The mutinous janissaries gathered in the Atmeydani—the ancient Byzantine Hippodrome in Stamboul. From there, they stormed the gates of the Topkapi Palace, demanding the head of the grand vizier and the dismissal of the Sultan’s teacher and most trusted advisers.

Osman refused to yield to their demands. Believing he could calm the unrest, he appeared before them, trusting that his presence would command loyalty. But he was mistaken.

The rebels killed the grand vizier and the chief eunuch, and overthrew the young sultan. They dragged him from his throne, stripped him of his sword, knocked the turban from his head, and paraded him before the mob. On the orders of Kara Davud Pasha, Osman was taken to Yedikule, the Fortress of the Seven Towers, to await his fate.

The Fortress

Yedikule was built on the orders of Fatih Sultan Mehmed II (Mehmed the Conqueror) soon after the conquest of Constantinople. Rising behind the monumental Golden Gate of the Theodosian Land Walls, its solemn towers dominate the skyline above the Sea of Marmara like sentinels of stone. Although sources differ, Sultan Osman was likely taken to a cell on the second floor of the south tower of the Golden Gate, known as the South Marble Tower.

A deposed Sultan, especially one as impressive and idealistic as Osman, posed a serious risk to the rebels, so Kara Davud Pasha ordered his execution. As dusk fell on that fateful day, the heavy iron door to Osman’s dungeon swung open, and the Pasha entered, accompanied by 10 janissaries.

A violent struggle ensued. Osman fought for his life with such ferocity that the assassins struggled to overpower him. Eventually, the silk bowstring tightened around his throat, and the boy Sultan breathed his final breath within the cold stone walls of the Empire’s most infamous dungeon.

The Aftermath

The murder of Sultan Osman II sent shock waves through the Empire. It was the first regicide in Ottoman history—and it was brutal. The young sultan was not only strangled but his body mutilated after death, his nose and ears reportedly severed and presented to the valide sultan as proof he no longer lived.

Vengeance, however, soon came. When Sultan Murad IV ascended the throne the following year, he ordered the execution of Kara Davud Pasha and the other ringleaders, and had their bodies displayed on the gates of Yedikule. For the next two centuries, the Empire would remain locked in a bitter struggle between reforming sultans and the reactionary Janissary Corps. This struggle only ended in 1826, with the Corps’ annihilation and dissolution in the Auspicious Incident.

Yedikule Fortress is currently undergoing a comprehensive restoration. Yet this important historical monument remains open to visitors, offering a fascinating glimpse into the past. Step beneath its vaulted gates, touch the rough limestone blocks, and gaze out over the Marmara where the sea meets the sky. Then listen to the Poyraz wind as it whistles through the South Marble Tower.

History still whispers there—of youthful defiance and the peril of dreaming too boldly.

And so concludes our exploration of the four acts of regicide in Ottoman history—the tragic fates of two brothers, Sultan Osman II and Sultan Ibrahim I, and of Sultan Selim III and Sultan Abdulaziz. Thank you for accompanying me through this chapter of our imperial past. I hope you leave with a keener curiosity and feel inspired to listen a little closer, as history whispers its secrets.

Until we meet again in the next Sultan’s Salon.

By Ayşe Osmanoğlu

October 21, 2025 09:17 PM GMT+03:00

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History has a way of whispering its secrets – if you listen closely…

The Ottomans rode through Anatolia, the Balkans, Mesopotamia, and the Holy Lands with a quiver of arrows at their waist and a bow curved like a crescent moon in their hands. These bows were more than weapons of war—they were symbols of power, the emblem of the Kayi tribe, of the Turkic warrior state… but, on rare occasions, they served a far darker, more chilling purpose. On Aug. 18, 1648, one such bow was unstrung, its silk cord removed and tightened around the neck of a sultan.

War and Famine

Discontent threatened the foundations of the empire. Taxes soared. Food was scarce. The ongoing war in Crete drained the Imperial Treasury. The Venetian blockade of the Dardanelles drove the hungry to riot in Istanbul. The janissaries were in a mutinous mood. The ulema shook their heads, weary of the sultan’s increasingly erratic behavior. Grand viziers and pashas jostled like chess pieces across the chequered board of power. In the harem, Kosem, the valide sultan, plotted and schemed to reclaim influence.

At the center of it all was Sultan Ibrahim I—a ruler whose eccentricities made him volatile, and whose life would soon hang by a silk thread.

Mad or Myth?

History has branded him “Deli Ibrahim”–Mad Ibrahim. The tales are lurid: a fetish for sable and other furs, a harem of supposed excess, whims and fancies spun into legend. Yet such stories obscure a more nuanced portrait.

His elder half-brother, Sultan Osman II, had been deposed and killed by the janissaries–a story we will explore in the next “Sultan’s Salon.” His brother and predecessor, Sultan Murad IV, had executed their other brothers, leaving Ibrahim in constant fear for his own life. Years confined in the kafes, the gilded cage of imperial princes, honed a mind shaped by isolation and terror, making him ill-prepared for the burdens of rule.

The caricature of the “mad sultan” painted by those who deposed and ultimately murdered him was intended to discredit him and justify their own treacherous actions. In truth, Sultan Ibrahim was generous towards the poor and did not neglect the affairs of state. He regularly attended the Divan, attempted to curb corruption, took an active interest in strengthening the navy, answered public petitions, and oversaw an impressive program of building and renovation, including the breathtaking tiled Sunnet Odasi, the Circumcision Room, and the gilded copper Iftar Kiosk in the Topkapi Palace.

Yes, he was flawed. Like us all. Yes, he could be unstable–not surprising after living in the kafes for years, the constant threat of death looming over him, or, as some scholars suggest, it was a brain tumor that affected his health and temperament. But far from the one-dimensional Deli Ibrahim, he emerges as a tragic figure, a ruler trapped in the brutal circumstances of his life and times, who would ultimately succumb to the executioner’s silken noose.

The Last Bow

Sultan Ibrahim was deposed on Aug. 8, 1648, and declared mentally unfit to rule. He was succeeded by his 6-year-old son, Sultan Mehmed IV, and returned to the seclusion of the kafes.

Ten days after his deposition, betrayed even by his own mother acting as regent, the imperial guard dragged him from his chambers. A fatwa, a ruling under Islamic law, sanctioning his execution had been obtained from the Sheikh ul-Islam on the false charge of inciting insurrection.

On that late summer day, Ibrahim’s cries for mercy were ignored.

Silence of the Strings

Several ornate 17th-century Ottoman bows survive and are on display in the Imperial Treasury at the Topkapi Palace. They are made of wood, horn, and sinew, lacquered and inlaid with mother-of-pearl or tortoise shell, adorned with gilt and sacred inscriptions. Some were used in battle, others for hunting, each bearing the scars of use–a small nick here or a faint scratch there. Now they hang in glass cabinets, their silk bow-strings long since vanished into dust.

Look closely at these handcrafted bows next time you visit the Topkapi Palace. Close your eyes. Imagine one being unstrung, its silk cord removed. Picture two palace bostancıs, the sultan’s own guards, holding either end of the silken thread, wrapping it tightly around Ibrahim’s throat, then drawing it taut in a single, decisive motion.

To spill imperial blood was forbidden. It was considered sacred, and shedding it would violate, desecrate, the House of Osman and undermine the divine authority of the dynasty. So the same silk bow-string used to propel arrows into flight became a weapon, ending the sultan’s life while preserving the sanctity of the imperial bloodline.

Press your ear to the glass, and you may hear how the bow whispers of power and betrayal, ritual and regicide, and how the Ottoman Dynasty was preserved through sacrifice.

Before you leave Topkapi Palace, step into the Circumcision Room, linger by the Iftar Kiosk, and admire every exquisite tile, every gilded curve. These stand as a testament to a man far more complex than history’s caricature. Perhaps you will view Sultan Ibrahim differently then.

Until we meet again in the next Sultan’s Salon.

By Ayşe Osmanoğlu

October 03, 2025 12:20 PM GMT+03:00

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History has a way of whispering its secrets – if you listen closely…

But on the night of July 28, 1808, there were no whispers. Only screams shattered the stillness of Topkapi Palace’s inner courtyard. Torchlight flickered against the tiled walls as assassins moved through the corridors, intent on reaching the private chambers of a deposed sultan.

A Visionary

Sultan Selim III was a man of vision, an enlightened ruler inspired by the ideals of the French Revolution who wanted to embrace the innovations of the new century.

The Ottoman Empire was bruised following a string of military defeats. The Janissary Corps, once the Empire’s elite fighting force and scourge of Europe, had grown corrupt and hostile to change. Determined to restore Ottoman power and prestige, Selim launched the ‘New Order’: a sweeping program of reform that created a modern, European-style army, restructured state finances, and introduced ambitious administrative and educational reforms. Bold? Yes. Popular? Absolutely not! Although he was loved and admired by progressives, he was loathed and feared by conservative elites, the ulema, and, most dangerously, the Janissaries.

In his quest to modernize the Empire, Selim made many enemies. Those enemies ensured his dreams cost him his throne, and ultimately, his life.

A Prisoner

After the Janissary revolt of 1807, Selim’s cousin, Mustafa IV, was put on the throne. Selim was stripped of power and confined in the harem of Topkapi Palace. But he still had many supporters who wanted his restoration, men who believed the ‘New Order’ would revive and strengthen the state.

One such ally was Alemdar Mustafa, a powerful provincial notable. He had raised an army and was marching on the capital to reinstate Selim. Sultan Mustafa took fright. Meanwhile, the insurrectionists, particularly Chief Black Eunuch, Nezir Aga, moved to kill the only other claimants to the Ottoman throne—Sultan Mustafa’s half-brother, Mahmud, and his cousin, Selim. They believed this would guarantee Sultan Mustafa’s claim to the throne and thus cut short Alemdar Mustafa’s march.

Murder in the Seraglio

It was late. Some accounts say Selim was at prayer, others that he was asleep. Either way, his fate was sealed.

Nezir Aga and his accomplices, including the Master of the Wardrobe, the Treasury Steward, and members of the Janissary Corps, burst into Selim’s chamber. Traditionally, imperial executions were carried out with a silken bowstring so that royal blood would not be spilt. But that night, tradition was abandoned. The assassins panicked and drew their swords.

A violent struggle ensued. Selim suffered multiple stab wounds. His consort, Refet Kadinefendi, tried to shield him but was dragged away screaming. Pakize Hanim, one of his favourites, threw herself between him and his attackers, sustaining a slash to her wrist in the attempt. The sultan fell, mortally wounded, and uttered his last words, “Allahu Akbar.” His body was bundled in a quilt and taken outside – proof to the Janissaries that the reforming sultan would reform no more.

Twist in the Tale

And what of Prince Mahmud, you ask? History loves a plot twist, and this one saved the Ottoman Dynasty from extinction. Miraculously, he escaped the assassin’s blade that night. But that is a story for another Sultan’s Salon…

Alemdar Mustafa marched triumphantly into the capital and proclaimed Mahmud the new sultan. Mustafa IV was executed not long after, leaving Sultan Mahmud II the sole surviving Ottoman prince of the House of Osman.

Mahmud ensured the survival of the dynasty by fathering two sons, the future Sultan Abdulmecid and Sultan Abdulaziz. He also implemented many of the reforms Selim had envisioned, carrying forward his cousin’s legacy. And in a final stroke of poetic justice, he abolished the rebellious and corrupt Janissary Corps that had murdered Selim.

A Portrait that Speaks

My inspiration for sharing this story is the magnificent portrait of Selim III by Konstantin Kapidagli, the Ottoman Greek Court painter, which hangs in the Hall of Sultan’s Portraits at the Topkapi Palace. Selim’s very essence is captured there in oils: a complex mix of tradition and modernity.

Selim sits in traditional robes on a low divan surrounded by embroidered cushions. An ermine-trimmed cape, signifying his imperial status, drapes over his shoulders, and an elaborate turban crowns his head. Jewelled swords hang on the wall while tucked into his sash, a diamond studded dagger glitters – reminders that power and peril went hand in hand. In a cupboard behind him, a clock ticks the relentless march of time; a globe represents his fascination with the wider world; two stacks of books reveal his hunger for knowledge; and a qalamdan, his scribe’s box, reflects his love of composing music and poetry.

In his fingers, Selim holds a tespih, a symbol of his faith and spiritual devotion. These same exquisite pearl and emerald prayer beads still exist today, displayed in the Imperial Treasury at the Topkapi Palace. If he was at prayer that fateful night, imagine them slipping from his grasp as the assassins struck. Can something so luminous, so dazzling, hold memory? Can they still carry the echo of a sultan’s last whispered supplication? I like to think they can.

Until we meet again in the next Sultan’s Salon…

By Ayşe Osmanoğlu

September 02, 2025 02:51 PM GMT+03:00

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History has a way of whispering its secrets—if you listen closely.

The night was thick with whispers, slithering through palace corridors and settling in the hearts of those who dared to listen. On June 4, 1876, Sultan Abdulaziz, the former sovereign of the Ottoman Empire, was found in a room in the Feriye Palace on the Bosphorus, his wrists slashed, a pool of blood staining the chaise beneath him. The official story? Suicide. The truth? Perhaps something far more sinister.

Opening statement

The Ottoman Empire in 1876 remained a formidable power. Its dominion stretched over 12 million square kilometres, across what are now 35 countries. Its capital, Istanbul, was the fifth-largest city in the world. The empire had a population of 64 million, commanding the world’s fourth-largest army and the third-largest navy.

Sultan Abdulaziz was a strong ruler, fiercely resistant to foreign encroachment, dismissing ministers he suspected of harboring Western sympathies. Yet while the empire projected strength under his rule, there were those in Europe who saw advantage in curbing Ottoman power—and disaffected men at court who sought the sultan’s removal.

Indictment

Only days before his death, Sultan Abdulaziz was deposed in a coup led by Midhat Pasha, the reformist grand vizier, and Huseyin Avni Pasha, the chief of staff. He was replaced by his nephew, Crown Prince Murad, a liberal prince the conspirators believed they could control. Sultan Abdulaziz, stripped of power, was confined under guard at the Feriye Palace. On the morning of his death, he performed his ablutions, prayed, and afterward requested a pair of scissors to trim his beard.

His mother, Pertevniyal Valide Sultan—the queen mother—sent him her embroidery scissors and a small hand mirror. Hours later, when no one had seen him and his door remained locked, alarm spread through the palace. The valide sultan ordered it broken down. Inside, Abdulaziz lay on his side, clothes drenched in blood. The women of the harem wailed, their cries echoing across the Bosphorus.

Spoliation of Evidence

Huseyin Avni Pasha hurried to the scene. Abdulaziz was still alive, but barely—both wrists deeply slit, one side of his beard torn, his teeth broken, and a dark bruise marked his chest. The pasha did not summon medical help. Instead, he ordered the sultan to be carried to the kitchen of the palace police station—a calculated delay to ensure Abdulaziz bled to death. To conceal the violence, curtains were torn down and wrapped around the body, leaving only the arms exposed. The first doctors summoned refused to declare death by suicide. But others were persuaded.

Eyewitness Testimony

The sultan’s daughter, Princess Nazime, claimed to have witnessed her father’s murder. Pertevniyal Valide Sultan never believed her son had committed suicide. She is said to have hidden his bloodied clothes in a chest, convinced he had been assassinated.

Her suspicions seemed confirmed in a chilling confession attributed to one of the alleged assailants: “Fahri Bey … held back his arms. Haji Mehmet and Algerian Mustafa sat on their knees. And I cut his veins in his left arm as deep as I could with a pocketknife. I pierced his right arm in several places with the knife.” Whether apocryphal or genuine, the words capture the horror of that day.

Judicial Proceedings

Tragedy compounded. Sultan Abdulaziz’s third consort, Nederek Kadinefendi, died seven days later. Some accounts suggest childbirth, while others cite grief. Her brother, Captain Cerkes Hasan, sought vengeance. He stormed a cabinet meeting at Midhat Pasha’s house, killing Huseyin Avni Pasha and the Foreign Minister Mehmed Rashid Pasha, and wounding others, before being captured and executed.

For a time, Midhat Pasha prospered under Sultan Murad V and later Sultan Abdulhamid II. But in 1881, he was arrested for his role in Sultan Abdulaziz’sdeath. His death sentence was commuted to life imprisonment, and he was exiled to Ta’if, Hejaz, where he was strangled in 1883.

Sultan Murad V was deeply traumatized by his uncle’s violent death and grew increasingly suspicious of Midhat Pasha. He suffered a nervous breakdown, and after just 93 days on the throne, his reign ended. Realizing he would never regain Murad’s trust, Midhat Pasha orchestrated another coup, deposing him in favor of his younger brother, Abdulhamid. Though Sultan Abdulhamid promised constitutional reform, within two years, he abolished the constitution and restored autocracy. Murad spent the rest of his life in confinement at the Ciragan Palace.

Evidence and Verdict

For more than a century, the circumstances of Sultan Abdulaziz’s death remained shrouded in mystery. Then in 2007, a discovery in the Topkapi Palace archives revived the debate. A bloodied nightshirt and undergarments, believed to belong to the slain sultan, were found.

Perhaps preserved in secret by the distraught valide sultan, they bore witness to violence. Experts concluded that the official verdict of suicide was improbable. Sultan Abdulaziz had almost certainly been murdered.

Closing Statement

What is your verdict on what happened on that fateful morning in June? Perhaps we will never know, but the truth of the case echoes through the corridors of the Feriye Palace, lingering on the blood-stained clothes kept hidden for so long.

Until we meet again in the next Sultan’s Salon.