"He's at the mosque," Surur said. "We've barely returned to Constantinople, and he's already busy doing things that will have himself exiled again. Or killed. Reshid, please talk some sense into him."

He knew Surur from the years before the family's exile, when he'd taught her husband French in their library. As so often before, he thought how lucky Midhat was to have her for a wife. She was more humble than her husband, kinder, but every bit as intelligent. Whenever Reshid left her home, he felt warm inside. Surur had mastered the art of making anyone who entered her realm feel like they belonged. With a smile on his face and a lighter heart, he walked briskly towards the Süleymaniye Mosque.

The smell of cooked meat lingered after the evening meal, but the narrow streets had emptied for the night. Hamid must have gone to bed by now in his study. No matter how flattering, it felt very unsettling to have the prince seek refuge in his home. Another sign that the world was coming apart at the seams? It triggered in him a familiar, feverish energy. I envy you; he scoffed at Hamid's tearful confession.

Reshid's life had never been a quest for happiness or freedom, but for survival. If he was alive today, it was because he hadn't allowed himself to indulge in self-pity or yearning. Whatever life he had, whatever freedom, he worked for it. And sacrificed. At first, when he was a child, it had not been his choice – he'd been too young and too weak to do the necessary. His ambitious mother had chosen for him. She'd understood that the only way for her son to rid himself of the rags and shackles of his birth was to leave everything behind: his impoverished family and miserable friends, his cursed Jewish name, the pitiful village, religion, language, and culture. 

"Armin, you cannot and must not be an ordinary man," she had said, and sent him off into the world to fend for himself, alone and penniless. Dragging his crooked leg, with the crutch under his arm and a knapsack filled with books. Never had he wavered or doubted, never had he looked back. She would be proud of him.

His spirits lifted. He felt more confident, courageous even and a little self-important; he would find Midhat Pasha, deliver Peresto's message, and be done with it. A warm feeling spread in his body, and he started to whistle a merry tune.

Outside a religious school, his path was blocked by a group of sleeping street-dogs. He slowed down, and with his back grazing the school wall, he squeezed past the pack, taking great care not to disturb them. A rasping voice from inside the school caught his attention. But it wasn't the voice which made him trip over his own slipper and almost fall, it was the words spoken by it: "We should have killed Prince Yusufeddin while we had the chance." This was followed by rowdy, supportive yells.

With a fearful look left and right, he quickly slipped down a couple of steps to the entrance. The green wooden doors were shut, but through a side window he saw a vast inner courtyard with a fountain at its centre, and all around it, squatting softa. A couple of hundred? More? Many of them were armed. He didn't like softa; they were dirty and uneducated, and roamed the city in packs, like flee-infected stray-dogs.

By stretching onto his toes and pulling on the window bars, Reshid was able to hoist himself up to get a closer look inside. Their leader, the man with the rasping voice, zig-zagged through the group, his brown hair flowing.

"Our brothers died because we were unarmed. Next time, we will come prepared. The Sultan betrayed us. He has been corrupted by the infidel, but we will strike back at all traitors who attack their own. We are the protectors of Islam, we will chase the infidel out of this city. We will chase them out of the empire!"

Men brandished their arms, rifles, knives, swords, and chanted, "Kill the infidel."

A second voice, vaguely familiar, called out from the far-end corner, "Selim, my dear friend, I beg to differ."

Reshid blinked. With a frown, Selim turned around to confront the speaker, a bearded man who emerged from the obscurity at the opposite end of the courtyard. Middle-aged, with round spectacles on his nose, it was Midhat Pasha – no wonder the voice had sounded familiar. Exile had not changed him, with the intelligent eyes, the smug expression. At the centre of the courtyard, next to the fountain, the two men embraced, and deferential, Selim kissed Midhat's hand and brought it to his forehead. "What a blessed visit."

The softa cheered. Selim raised his rifle in the air to demand silence. "To what do we owe this honour?"

"It is I who am honoured." Midhat raised his voice so everyone could hear and his gaze swept over the crowd until the only sound heard was water trickling down the side of the fountain urn. Reshid held his breath.

"Dear friends, without you, I would be lost and forgotten in some godforsaken province. The Sultan didn't call me back to serve the empire – you did! You brought me back! For that, my friends, I am not only grateful, I am forever honour-bound to serve you, the people of the Ottoman empire." He waved a bundle of money in the air. "And I promised I would repay you for your efforts!" To deafening cheers, Midhat handed Selim the bundle. Reshid pulled on the bars to hoist himself up higher.

With a wave of the hand, Selim calmed the softa. "The Sultan should have made you Grand Vizier," he said.

"Your support is more important than a title, my friends. As Minister in the Sultan's government, I promise you this: change will come. Go back onto the streets and shout my name. My presence here is proof that when you speak, your Sultan must listen." With a sardonic smile, he pointed to himself, provoking cheers and laughter from his audience.

Midhat turned to Selim and took the rifle out of his hands. Here and there, smiles faded into unease. Selim looked bewildered, laughed nervously, surrendering without argument to Midhat's authority, but next to him, a man protested, "We must arm ourselves to avenge our brothers who were killed by the infidel."

Scattered voices chimed in.

"Revenge?" Midhat asked with a hard gaze on the last speaker. "What then? What good would it bring you?"

The direct question threw the man off balance. He seemed self-conscious and irresolute, and his unease was amplified by a long silence, before Midhat spoke again as he moved through the crowd.

"Yes, the Sultan has been corrupted. But not by the infidel. Isn't it true that we have lived peacefully, side by side, for centuries? Why? Because, although they are Christian, they are our brothers and sisters. So who is our real enemy? Who has corrupted the Sultan and his government?"

"Ignatieff," the crowd roared.

Midhat nodded and smiled. "The Tsar and his lackey Ignatieff have brought the empire to financial ruin. The Tsar pits us against each other. The Tsar is tearing the Islamic empire apart."

As he spoke, he seemed to look at every face, as if he wasn't addressing a group, but each man individually. The men murmured and whispered, their voices dwindled and silent minutes went by.

Midhat raised the rifle and shook it violently in the air. "Brothers, don't arm yourselves to seek revenge. Arm yourselves to defend the Islamic empire against our true enemy, the Tsar! Arm yourselves to depose the corrupted Sultan!"

In an explosion of cheers, the softa jumped to their feet, brandishing their weapons and drowning Midhat's final words. Reshid gasped, his chest heaved, but he could not tear his gaze from the wild scene. Panicked, he looked over his shoulder. A second later, large hands closed around his throat, choking him.

"A spy," his attacker called out. "I caught a spy!"

Reshid tore at the fingers, drew a couple of short ugly gasps before the world started to fade into black and he felt his body go limp.

A couple of hours later, Reshid still had trouble breathing – his throat felt swollen, his mind foggy. Reclined on cushions in Midhat's library with a wet cloth on his forehead and a cosy fire burning in the chimney, he sipped tea with a mountain of sugar. The softa had wanted to beat him into confessing he was a spy for the Sultan, but Midhat had vouched for him and brought him home. Surur had sent for a doctor to make sure his battered body would suffer no consequences from the assault.

"You heard the doctor," she said before retiring to the harem. "You're not going anywhere until the headache is gone." She turned to her husband. "Take good care of him, he is precious to me."

When they were alone, Midhat gave him a solemn look and asked softly, "Did the Sultan send you?"

"You don't believe me?" Reshid said, his pride wounded.

"Men are weak. I've been betrayed before."

Reshid's mouth tightened and beneath the wet cloth on his forehead, his head throbbed. Midhat thought him weak. In an instant, he felt his inadequacy with utter clarity and was overcome with fatigue. How could he compare with the great state leader, the moderniser, the visionary? Midhat had ideas and dreams for which he was prepared to die. And in the streets, people – albeit a bunch of uneducated hoodlums – shouted his name. That was why Peresto turned to him in her hour of need. She trusted him. But Reshid? He was driven not by dreams or ambition, but by fear, and a carnal instinct to survive. At least he knew that much about himself.

He got to his feet, stood tall, and with a bow handed him Peresto's note. Midhat Pasha glanced over it, then at Reshid. "She says I should trust you."

"Effendi, the note is proof the Princess has sent me, but her message is too delicate to put in writing. The Princess asks you to depose the Sultan." As he spoke the words, the hairs on his arms rose.

Midhat took off his spectacles, only to put them back on again in a slow, arduous process. When he rose from his chair, it was to shut the flap in the wall which separated the study from the harem. Surur, no doubt, listened in. No more. Whatever Midhat was about to say, whatever was going on, Surur did not approve, so he'd shut the flap to keep it from her. Reshid felt guilty. She had asked him to talk some sense into her husband. "I will," he'd lied, failing her as well.

_________________________

Author's note

Stray dogs were a common sight on the streets of Constantinople. They roamed the city freely, often in packs, and served as unofficial guardians and scavengers, keeping the streets clean by consuming discarded food and waste.

Generally, they were well tolerated and even cared for by the city's inhabitants. Many locals believed that the dogs possessed spiritual significance and that caring for them would bring good fortune. As unofficial guardians of neighbourhoods and public spaces, they would bark at strangers and potential threats, alerting the residents to any unusual activities.

Many foreign visitors to the city in the late 19th century wrote about the city's stray dogs in their travelogues and memoirs, or on postcards sent to friends, like the embedded image "Les chiens errant de Constantinople".