[EGY] A Royal Invitation

[Kelly the Mad]

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To: Sultanzade Orhan Sleiman
From: The Office of Sultan Daoud Abdel Moneim II of Egypt and the Sudan

Subject: Invitation to Cairo

Security Clearance: Personal; Private

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Sultanzade Orhan Sleiman,

You are hereby formally invited to hold a special audience with Our Sultan, His Greatness Daoud Abdel Moneim II. If you choose to accept, a private plane will be chartered for your departure from Beirut. We hope you will attend.

Office of the Sultan,
Sultanate of Egypt and the Sudan

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Jay

 

[Jay]

The afternoon light filtered through the jacarandas, scattering violet blossoms across the cracked stones of Rue Makdisi. From the awning of the Café des Oliviers, Sultanzade Orhan Sleiman observed the slow drift of traffic on Hamra Street, the rhythm steady and indifferent, much like the man himself. His voice, warm and gravelled from years of cigarettes and long conversations, slipped easily into French as he addressed the two tourists seated nearby, a couple from Marseille, judging by their clipped vowels and careful attire.

“You must forgive Beirut, monsieur et madame,” Orhan remarked, shifting the brass ashtray slightly along the iron table. “It is a city that never quite agrees with itself. Too much memory in too little space.”

The woman, late forties, auburn hair pinned back carelessly beneath a straw hat, smiled over her glass of mint lemonade. “And yet, monsieur, it has charm. Beaucoup de charme. We were told it was dangerous, but so far we have only found cafés and poets.”

Her husband, compact, balding, dressed with that studied informality the French reserve for holidays abroad, gave a knowing shrug. “Les journaux exaggerate, as always.”

Orhan allowed himself a small nod. His left hand cupped the thin porcelain demitasse, thumb rubbing unconsciously along its rim. The ring on his finger, heavy with the old tughra seal, caught a brief flash of sun but went unnoticed.

“You have not been here long enough, then,” he said, voice dry. “Wait until parliament dissolves again. Or the lira falls another five percent. Then even the poets will start throwing stones.”

The man laughed, folding the newspaper on the table, an old copy of Le Monde, creased and thumbed at the corners. “We are used to such things. In Marseille, the fishermen riot twice a year, more if the sardines disappoint.”

Orhan’s smile was thin but not unfriendly. “Ah, but your fishermen only riot against their local officials. Here, the targets change weekly.”

The waiter passed by, deftly sweeping a few breadcrumbs from their table, and Orhan gestured absently for another coffee.

“You have lived here long, monsieur?” the woman asked. Her tone was polite but tinged with the faint curiosity of travelers sensing a story.

Orhan exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting past their shoulders to where the Corniche shimmered faintly in the distance.

“Long enough,” he replied. “I was born in Istanbul, educated in São Paulo. Married here, twice.” His voice carried no embellishment. “I left once, during the Civil War. Advised some men in Damascus who thought themselves clever. Then I advised others in Tirana who thought themselves wiser. Now I am back, because this place…” His hand swept gently toward the street. “It pulls men home whether they like it or not.”

Orhan’s new coffee arrived, dark and strong. He lifted it, inhaling the bitter steam. His left elbow rested lightly on the table, his posture relaxed.

It was near the end of the hour, the café’s shadow stretching long over the uneven sidewalk, when the boy approached. No older than twelve, his sandals slapped lightly against the stones. In his hand was an envelope, cream-colored, thick, sealed with green wax stamped in the unmistakable emblem of the Sultanate of Egypt and the Sudan.

The boy held it out without ceremony. “Effendi, for you.”

Orhan regarded him for a long second before setting down his cup. “Who gave you this?”

The boy shrugged, glanced over his shoulder toward the street, then extended his hand again, not for another letter but for payment. Orhan exhaled through his nose, extracted a folded note from his wallet, and pressed it into the boy’s fingers.

“Ya walad, you’re a capitalist already,” he muttered. The boy grinned and disappeared between the parked scooters and fruit stalls.

He turned the envelope in his hand. The wax bore the crescent and sunburst of Sultan Daoud Abdel Moneim II, an emblem seldom seen in Beirut, and rarer still addressed to men like him. Orhan slit it open with his thumbnail. His dark brows lifted imperceptibly as he read. No outward display, only a slight tightening of the jaw.

Orhan turned the envelope slowly in his hands. The wax bore the crescent and sunburst of Sultan Daoud Abdel Moneim II, rare even in Cairo, let alone Beirut. The French couple had fallen silent, their gazes now lingering on the letter with polite confusion.

“An old acquaintance?” the man asked lightly.

Orhan’s brows lifted ever so slightly. His thumb broke the seal in one clean motion.

“Family business,” he said simply, unfolding the thick vellum. His eyes flicked across the contents. He refolded the letter, slipped it into his inner pocket, and rose fluidly from his chair.

Orhan adjusted his cuffs, buttoned his jacket, and stepped out from beneath the café’s striped awning. The jacaranda blossoms continued to fall in slow, indifferent spirals. He folded the letter and slipped it into his inner pocket. The two French tourists had already resumed their quiet conversation, oblivious. Orhan rose from the table, nodding once to the elder man at the register, and stepped into the thickening dusk of Beirut’s streets.

Later That Evening

The apartment overlooked the Corniche, its balconies bleached by the salt air, shutters cracked and sun-faded. Inside, the scent of cardamom lingered faintly in the kitchen. His youngest daughter, Aylin, sat cross-legged on the floor, sketching with charcoal on coarse paper. His eldest son, Selim, leaned against the window ledge reading the day’s An-Nahar, brow furrowed in the habitual expression of men who thought the Levant could be deciphered through newspapers alone.

His wife, Yasemin, stood at the counter slicing figs, her dark hair tied loosely at the nape. Her beauty had not dimmed over the years, it had merely settled into something quieter, more enduring.

He kissed her temple and laid the letter beside her hand. “They want me in Cairo,” he said. His voice carried no particular inflection. He might have been remarking on the weather.

She wiped her hands on the towel, broke the seal cleanly, and read it once. No questions, no surprise. She had lived long enough at his side to expect such things.

“And?” she asked.

“I have not set foot in Egypt in decades. I left before Daoud's father was crowned. They remember me still.” He paused, his gaze drifting to the children. “ I have no idea about why a Sultan’s office sends a summons now. They are not in the habit of pleasantries.”

Yasemin folded the letter again, pressing the crease sharply. “Better to go and hear what he wants, Orhan. Better that than rot away here, waiting for Beirut’s storms to end.” Her tone was soft, but unambiguous.

He nodded once, as though her answer had merely confirmed what he had already decided. He crossed the room to the bureau. From its drawer, he removed a slim leather folio, worn from years abroad, its corners rounded smooth by use, and laid it on the table.

It contained the documents every man like Orhan Sleiman kept ready: his travel papers, his Ottoman lineage certificate, and the old letters from Ankara, Cairo, and Riyadh. He flipped through them with the practiced speed of a man accustomed to crossing borders without fanfare.

Outside, the lights of the Corniche blinked on one by one, reflecting off the darkened Mediterranean. He closed the folio and thought to himself…what could the Egyptians want?

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From: Sultanzade Orhan Sleiman
To: The Office of Sultan Daoud Abdel Moneim II of Egypt and the Sudan
Subject: Invitation to Cairo
Security Clearance: Personal; Private

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Your Majestry Sultan Daoud Abdel Moneim II of Egypt and the Sudan,

In the name of the Most Merciful and Compassionate,

It is with deep honor and abiding respect that I, Sultanzade Orhan Sleiman, receive your gracious summons to audience with His Majesty, the Sultan.

The bonds of history, faith, and shared legacy between our noble houses are not lost upon me. I am humbled by the invitation and view this occasion not merely as a formal courtesy, but as a rekindling of sovereign brotherhood forged in the fires of empire and preserved through generations.

Accordingly, I accept this most generous invitation. I shall make arrangements for immediate departure from Beirut upon your instruction and in accordance with the hospitality extended by your august office.

May the meeting of our houses be marked by dignity, wisdom, and divine favor.

With reverence and fraternity,
Sultanzade Orhan Sleiman

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Kelly the Mad

 

[Kelly the Mad]

As the Sultana prepared the palace in Heliopolis for their guest, the Sultan's staff arranged for a private charter jet to pick Sleiman up at Beirut's airport. It was a nice jet, with a dozen seats and in-flight drinks and food, movies, newspapers, and books—anything that the royal could want. Onboard the jet, there was nothing to give away the fact that a government was involved at all. No security, no encryption machines, no special agents hiding in the cupboards. In effect, it was a plain private jet heading to Cairo with a plain man aboard it.

Upon arrival in Cairo, there would still be no fanfare, unusual for any invitee to the Sultan's personal residence, let alone someone descending from a massively powerful family near and dear to the Sultan's own heart. A simple black SUV would retrieve Sleiman from the airport, the chauffeur in a simple suit speaking little to nothing as he drove through the urban center of Cairo, into the suburbs, and eventually into the grand buildings of Heliopolis.

Pulling into the Sultan's residence, the chauffeur would eye Sleiman in the mirror. "You must be real special, mister. The Sultan never meets in his personal residence. I don't know what you're here for, but you're special. This is the last stop now, I'll take a tip if you have one."

Jay

 

[Jay]

The plane was quieter than I had expected. One of those sleek Gulfstreams they use for oil executives and former heads of state who still need to impress themselves. There were no attendants in uniform, no insignias sewn into leather seats, no heavy air of statecraft. Just chilled tamarind juice in a crystal glass and the low hum of altitude. A Turkish newspaper folded beside an English novel I had already read.

I slept for most of the flight, the kind of sleep that doesn’t refresh so much as it delays the questions waiting for you on the ground.

When I woke, we were descending over Cairo, hazy and low in the dust light, that same old sepia burn at the horizon. The Nile cut through it like a vein too proud to dry, and I thought to myself, God, what a place to be summoned to.

The airport was as forgettable as any airport, functional, with the dull courtesy of a state that prefers not to advertise its concern. No fanfare, no men in uniform with stiff backs or ceremonial greetings. Just a man with my name scribbled on a cardboard square and a firm handshake that said he would not speak unless spoken to.

The driver kept his eyes forward until we hit the ring road, and only then did he speak, his accent thick with the old streets of Giza. "You must be real special, mister. The Sultan never meets anyone in Heliopolis."

I gave a small laugh. “You must have the wrong man,” I said, watching the city roll past billboards for mobile phones, minarets silhouetted against the neon, a young boy selling cold water from a plastic bag in the middle of traffic. “I’m no one special. Just a traveler. I advise some people, nothing more.”

He glanced at me through the mirror, eyes narrowing as though to re-measure the shape of me.

“You got a tip?” he asked after a pause, half a grin slipping in at the edge of his mouth.

I passed him, "nothing your currency I am afraid to say" handing him a folded couple thousand Lebanese liras and said nothing more. The truth is, I didn’t know what I was walking into. The Sultan’s letter had said little. A request for counsel. A meeting at the private residence. I had not been in Egypt in a while. The last time I walked those halls, Daoud was still in school, and his father was the one sending letters to men like me. That was a different time.

Kelly the Mad

 

[Kelly the Mad]

At the palace's threshold, a handsome servant boy would guide Sleiman in, taking his coat and offering up a pipe as they wound through narrow halls decorated with fine carpet and tapestries on every wall. Portraits hung high told of the grand blood that ran through the veins of the palace's occupants. Opulent yet intimate was the theme for the residence, not for show for the public or foreign dignitaries, but rather a place for the Sultan's family to live and play.

Passing through a tight courtyard, Sleiman could glimpse a group of older men in robes sitting around a small table playing chess. If he squinted, he could just make out a rifle resting in the shadow of a palm. Then back into the halls, before finally opening into a small walled garden.

Seated near the garden's center, pipe in his mouth, was the Sultan Daoud. A small table displayed a collection of confections, and in the corner, a musician plucked lightly on some stringed instrument. The midday sun filtered in through palm fronds and the wood lattice that ran with creeping vines high above their heads. The Sultan offered a warm smile as the servant boy made his exit, leaving the two alone.

"Welcome to my home, Sultanzade Sleiman. I trust the journey did not tax you too heavily. Please, come and sit with me, anything you need is yours."

Jay

 

[Jay]

Sleiman stepped forward with measured ease, his hand brushing along the edge of the low stone wall as he entered the garden. The scent of orange blossom clung to the air, sweet and ghostly. He paused a moment before seating himself, just long enough to get a feel for the older men playing across the courtyard.

He took a look at the portraits that hung high when a boy came to take his coat. Which he gave as he smoothed the crease of his trousers, then accepted the offered pipe with a grateful nod. The tobacco was strong, fragrant, as he took a puff, joining the Sultan.

“Your home has a generous memory, ya Sayyidi,” Sleiman said, exhaling slowly, the smoke curling upwards to tangle with the sun. "It is rather crazy to think that little under a century ago that this land was a part of the Ottoman Empire before being snatched away by the British," Sleiman said, taking another puff before slowly exhaling it.

He smiled faintly, tugging at the corner of his lip. “No, the journey did not tax me, though Cairo’s airport remains an exercise in patience at times. But that is Egypt in general I've learned over the years.”

“This is not the kind of summons one ignores, Your Majesty,” he said finally, Sleiman’s gaze settled on the silver tray of confections, untouched.

“So. You’ve called me back from exile, familial and otherwise. Let us not pretend it was only for company." Sleiman said, giving a faint smile, "What is it the Sultan, as magnificent as yourself, requires from a man with no throne to offer, and no army to lend?” He laughed as he took another puff of his pipe before reaching for a sugared fig, breaking it gently in half, and waiting.

Kelly the Mad

 

[Kelly the Mad]

Watching Sleiman as he spoke with kind eyes, Daoud looked nearly twice his age. In robes rather than a suit and circled by pipe smoke, the garden felt like a relic, a portal back to the peak of the Khedivate.

"I am grateful that, in spite of the unusual nature of these summons, you still chose to attend. I understand your predicament clearly, Sleiman, for just a few years ago, I too was a man with no throne to offer, no army to lend. However, the right people came to me. Egypt was tired of a back-breaking military, tired of strongmen who spat at our neighbors with nothing but hate, tired of European puppets who sold off our country for no real gain. The people were ready for a return to tradition, a return to spirituality, stability. Peace.

"The people are suffering. Syria is in shambles, and its government has effectively collapsed. They're out of luck. Turkey is in a state of discord, people are being shot dead in the streets, and it seems to me that the people do not share the idea of a revolution. The Iraqi government is in disrepair, and you are aware of Lebanon's less-than-ideal circumstances. East of the Sinai, there is a severe lack of stability and faith in government.

"I brought you here because I have begun to consider the fact that stability is needed. But it cannot be led from the outside. Egypt is not an imperialist nation; we believe in regional independence. It would not be conducive to peace for an Egyptian intervention. Do you agree?"

Jay

 

[Jay]

"Well, when the Sultan calls, typically you answer," Sleiman said letting out another puff of smoke. "I appreciate your kind words, but I feel that the Turkish people have long forgone the idea of monarchism. Even in the midst of the battles we see now, no side has truly given up the republican model." Sleiman said with a sigh. "In Syria and Iraq as well, they overthrew their monarchies for republics. Only the Gulf Arabs remain as a bastion of monarchism, and I believe even there restlessness emerges between absolutism and constitutionalism."

"However," Sleiman started, "I agree with you that for too long the regimes of this region have sold out their countries to the highest bidder in return for personal not national growth. We need regional independence and strong leaders who care for their nation. My own great-grandfather, Sultan Abdulhamid II, may Allah rest his soul, fought to protect the country from the prying eyes of European powers. The usurpers that came between him only had one idea in mind, to strip our watan of its beauty in favor of the staleness of nationalism."

"While I agree, that we need change, I don't know how I can be of much help to accomplish that. Moreover...I fear that all I could do is cause chaos." Sleiman said not knowing what his return to the homeland could do after decades in exile.

Kelly the Mad