It was safer to stay off the main road, so they padded down a narrow path which cut through the wet spring grass. The dampness of the budding earth filled the air.

Breathless with excitement, Hamid followed in Jurad's footsteps, lured by the barely distinguishable city skyline across the narrow Bosphorus strait. In the obscurity, the rounded dome of the Hagia Sophia, with its four minarets, hovered over Stamboul like a huge black spider.

Above, the silvery moon cast a weak glow across it all, but in the crammed heart of the city it was almost pitch black. The Turkish side of the city was spread out across five hills, an ensnaring labyrinth enclosed by the dilapidated Byzantine stone walls. They roamed aimlessly through narrow, winding streets, following a curious odour, an unexplained sound, the sudden flicker of a light, an urge to explore a mysterious alleyway or an enchanting square. Jurad was hesitant and often looking over his shoulder. Ignoring his companion's apprehensiveness, Hamid felt joyfully open and curious. Everything was new to him, intriguing, or funny, or bewildering. Stray dogs fighting over scraps of food, skinny and fierce looking with bushy tails; they stepped into the gutter to inch past the growling beasts. A lone, whining dog driven away by another scrawny dog pack. A donkey making its way slowly up an indistinct pathway underneath bulging, wooden eaves that prevented passersby from glimpsing the women within. An old man smoking in a doorway and a cat who stopped cold, hunched its back and stared threateningly at them.

A winding passage funnelled them into a large square. They stopped, rooted to the spot. Young men, thousands perhaps, were huddled by fires. The smell of smoke and stale, burnt grease tickled Hamid's nostrils. A faint wind made the plane tree leaves flutter. At the centre was a large fountain. At the other end of the square, the white marble of the Sublime Porte, the seat of the Ottoman government, gleamed in the moonlight. The Italian styled building, an inferior copy of western models, made the square look rather ugly. It was only a century old, but its name dated back to Byzantine times, when the Christian emperor had announced decisions and judgements to his subjects at the gate of his palace. After the Ottomans conquered the city, the victorious Sultan had adopted the practice of communicating with his subjects at the gate of his new residence, the Topkapi Palace. The palace gate became known as Bab-i-Ali, or the Sublime Porte. Centuries later, when Topkapi Palace was abandoned for the new, marbled Dolmabahçe Palace, the Sublime Porte remained on the sleepy square. People across the world continued to refer to the Ottoman government, and even to the empire itself, as the Sublime Porte.

"Let's turn back," Jurad whispered.

Hamid could not take his eyes off the stooping shadows around the fires.

"They are softa?"

"You cannot be here."

"These are the riots everyone is talking about?"

What miserable-looking creatures they were, ghost-like, huddling around the camp fires, cooking their evening meals or sleeping. Hard to believe these were the same softa who, for weeks, had paralysed the Sultan's government. The softa had moved from the countryside to the city to study Islam in religious schools, the so-called medreses. Frustrated and unemployed, they roamed around the city in hoards. With their unkempt hair, greasy beards, wide pants, long shirts and torn kaftans they looked pitiful. As miserable and threadbare as the Stamboul stray dogs. Hamid glanced at Jurad: as threadbare and scrawny as they, themselves, now looked.

"What do they want?"

"I don't know." Jurad grunted between clenched teeth. "Your High... Hamid, we should leave."

"Just a quick look, then we'll go."

Hamid pulled the hood of his kaftan over his head and motioned for Jurad to do the same. Jurad, a black eunuch, would not blend in. A student slouched past them and Hamid followed in his trail towards the centre of the square, mimicking the young man's movements. Behind him, Jurad huffed.

A student jumped onto the rim of the fountain, lifted his arms and chanted: "Bring back Midhat Pasha."

The crowd answered, "Bring back Midhat Pasha," and began to beat pans and casseroles.

"Midhat Pasha? The Minister? Didn't my uncle exile him?" Hamid asked.

"Shhh."

A circle formed around the student, who had jumped off the fountain rim and, to the tune of his flute, danced before the crowd, his long brown hair flying as he moved. Around him, the softa danced too, chanting and beating their pots and pans.

Glued to him like a shadow was Jurad, hooded, with one hand on the jewel encrusted dagger hidden in his cloak.

"Let's go." He tugged at Hamid's sleeve.

In the darkness, Hamid couldn't see the tightness around his mouth, but he could sense his fear. Ignoring it, he sat down by a fire, next to a group of students. He was not himself, he had embraced the unknown and felt weightless and free, like a feather carried by the wind.

There were discussions held and demands made in the glow of the fire, and he listened. Fiery speeches about how the Sultan's government had failed to crush the Christian rebellions in the empire's Balkan provinces, about how his uncle's mad spending was ruining the empire, and how the root of all evil was his treacherous, Russia-friendly Grand Vizier who should be removed from office. Carried away by the passion of the students, Hamid got on his feet, and roared with them, "Bring back Midhat Pasha for Grand Vizier."

The noise subsided as the students settled for the night and drifted off to sleep, wrapped in their mantles by the dying fires. Students took turns keeping a lookout. Next to Hamid, Jurad hummed a melancholic melody in a deep, soothing voice. For the rest, the square was silent and calm.

Time drifted. Hamid contemplated the tiny stars above, the tremendous sky, the fragrant air, the pure joy of being without a past or a future. All he wanted was to hold on to it a little longer.

Had he fallen asleep? He wasn't sure. Now his eyes were wide open and his heart racing.

A group of student guards criss-crossed the square to wake everyone up. "A royal carriage is coming this way!"

Hamid felt a chill. His heart clenched tight and dropped. A royal carriage? Here? There was a sudden commotion and yelling, and Jurad jumped, already on his feet. In a matter of seconds, the softa got in motion.

A voice cried: "Let's block it!"

Voices answered: "Block it, block it!"

Another voice: "There are palace guards! Arm yourselves!"

The men reached for what they could – some had firearms and knives, most had nothing but their cooking gear. With a growing sense of panic, Hamid was swept along with the packed crowd.

"Stay close," Jurad shouted, gripping his arm.

They drifted along with the wave of softa, towards the royal carriage. In the anonymity of the crowd, Hamid felt a release of tension. Around him, the excitement of the softa expanded, and he gave himself up to it.

At one end of the square stood the royal carriage, with the golden coat of arms of Sultan Abdulaziz visible on the door. Surrounded by softa, it could neither advance nor retract. Mounted eunuchs, at least six, formed a protective ring around it, and more eunuch guards, armed with long leather whips and curved, jewel encrusted swords, were positioned on the carriage. It was a stand-off.

The softa discussed their options. What would they do now? Who was in the carriage? The eunuchs shouted orders and waved their swords. One eunuch stood in the stirrups and cried: "Make way for Prince Yusufeddin." The large, white stallion under him reared.

Over the craned heads the flute player emerged, powerful arms lifting him so everyone could see him, and he waved his arms to bid silence. "Brothers, did you hear?" he shouted, pointing at the trapped carriage. "Behold the son of Sultan Abdulaziz!"

The crowd exploded into a roar of cheers. Hamid stared at the surrounding faces, charged with tension. His heart raced. He imagined his cousin, Prince Yusufeddin, alone inside the carriage, behind drawn damask curtains, with his stomach contracted into a hard ball. Would the students break the doors open, tear him out and lynch him? He ought to prevent it, but how? And yet, beneath the horror, he felt energised and excited, like the bloodthirsty men around him.

"Your Highness, Prince Yusufeddin," the flute-player's tone was sarcastic. There was laughter.

"Here's our message to your father the Sultan: Hear the voice of your people, make Midhat Pasha Grand Vizier."

The students banged their kettle-drums and chanted: "Midhat Pasha, Midhat Pasha!"

A eunuch spurred his horse, and a softa tried to grab the reins, but the eunuch swung his sword and let the horse's hooves dance dangerously in the air. The student, struck in the head, collapsed on the ground. As other students recoiled from the rearing horse an opening was created, and the eunuch drove his horse through it, escaping at a gallop.

Jurad stared with wild eyes. He tried to tell Hamid something, but Hamid was too stunned to understand the words – sounds were muffled, his mind dull and disconnected from his body. The pressure of the crowd pushed him away from Jurad, towards the blocked carriage.

In their excitement, the softa, too, were slow to understand what would happen next, until someone cried, "The eunuch will bring reinforcements!"

Voices chimed in. There was confusion and chaos. Jurad had already snapped into action and, dragging Hamid along by one hand, he elbowed his way forward with the other, pushing against the sweaty, frenzied crowd to cut across the square.

Screams, neighing horses, eunuchs' whips lashing the air, and a confusing, dull rumbling sound assaulted Hamid's ears. Minutes later, a mounted contingent of cavalrymen charged straight into the square, their sabres drawn in pursuit of the fleeing students. There were more panicked screams. The softa scattered in all directions. But soldiers blocked the side streets, forcing the softa to fall back towards the centre of the square.

Jurad and Hamid were suddenly pressed against the closed doors of the Sublime Porte, next to a fountain. Jurad shoved Hamid into the small space under the fountain rim and, wielding his dagger, placed himself in front as a shield. Mindlessly, Hamid obeyed. He crouched, clutching his knees, and stared at the hem of Jurad's dirty kaftan in front of him, as well as his swift, dancing feet. There were continuous screams and moans, the ground trembling as the horses charged back and forth across the square. Through the noise, Hamid could hear his own quickened breathing. Jurad held his ground while he, Hamid, huddled next to a fountain. Useless. Pathetic. He felt like he might be sick.

A fleeing softa ducked for cover, crawled behind Jurad's feet, and pressed himself into the tiny space under the rim next to Hamid. Right next to them, a wounded man struggled to drag himself out of harm's way, a green slipper sliding off his foot, and in the contorted face, lips moving as if trying to speak. Hamid looked away, spotting a rifle on the ground. Just out of reach. It was unbearable to feel his frightened soul like a lump stuck in his throat. He swallowed hard and, with his eyes on the rifle, he crawled out of his hiding place. Jurad shouted something through the noise, but Hamid's attention had turned from the rifle to the imminent danger behind Jurad: a mounted soldier with his sword drawn charging straight at them. Straight at Jurad. With a leap, Hamid shoved Jurad aside, and they tumbled to the ground. Instead of spitting Jurad, the cavalryman's blade penetrated the back of a fleeing softa who folded like a penknife and landed on his knees, like a praying Christian.

Neither of them moved, just lay in a bizarre embrace with the rifle next to them on the ground. Jurad had saved his life, now he had saved Jurad's. It felt right. For a second, Jurad seemed stunned, but like a cat, he was on his feet again quickly, wrestling to push Hamid back under the fountain rim. The shuffle diverted Jurad's attention from the surrounding action, and when he swirled back around, it was too late.

Jurad emitted a stifled cry, abruptly interrupted; in one clean movement, the sword of a cavalryman severed his head from his body. It bounced on the ground and, with the blood gushing, Jurad's body swayed and dropped over Hamid.

Crawling in the dust, Hamid turned his head, blinking, but sand, tears and blood filled his eyes. He blinked again and realised he was looking straight into Jurad's eyes, still open wide in surprise.

It was hard to see, with his own eyes swimming in moisture. Terrorised, he wriggled his way out from under Jurad's body and crawled onto his knees. Next to him, Jurad's dagger appeared to float in the air, as if searching, until it stopped, pointing straight at Hamid. His pulse thumped, and it felt like his head might burst. All sound vanished, and inside the daze, someone whimpered like a wounded animal.

The next thing he knew, he was fumbling his way along the wall of the Porte. As he turned into an unguarded side street, a man bumped into him. Confused, Hamid stopped and looked around, then stared in horror at his right hand. It was clutching Jurad's bloody dagger. How did it get there? Where was Jurad? Dead, Jurad was dead.

Like an explosion, sound returned: the panicked screams, the drumming hooves of the horses. He ran with the fleeing softa, like dark ghosts in flapping kaftans, through the confusing maze of narrow winding lanes. The night echoed with fear and panic. Slippered feet tapped against the trampled mud road, panting, wheezing, whining men with clenched fists and wild eyes fixed on the back of the man in front, desperate to save themselves.

They sprinted up narrow stairs, so cramped and steep that to pass, the pursuing soldiers would have to drive their horses into a single line, and climb at a walk. Hamid threw frightened glances over his shoulder, but the light cavalry on their heels were out of sight. How far behind was hard to tell. The hard, drumming sound of the horses travelled right through the rickety wooden houses separating one alleyway from another.

The man in front of him tripped over his own slipper. Hamid fell over him, both of them tumbling to the ground, and Hamid landed with a hard thud which knocked the wind out of him. Next to him, the fallen man groaned. For a moment, Hamid thought he heard Jurad's voice. He winced and desperate tears welled up.

The other students had vanished into the darkness, leaving behind a deathly silence. Beneath it, the continued hard clatter of hooves. The soldiers manoeuvred their horses through narrow alleyways, up and down winding, cobbled stairs, closing in. His heart thumped against his ribs, one, two, three, four...

The fallen man moaned again. Hamid got on his knees and crawled to his side. A deep, bloody cut ran across his chest, and the face was contorted in pain.

"If I get you on your feet, can you walk?"

A groan and an inaudible reply.

Images of Jurad's wide-open eyes flashed in his aching head. He locked a grip under the man's arms, and, with a furious growl, pulled him upright. "Put your arm around me."

The man was taller than him, and heavy. The weight of his arm around Hamid's shoulders was crushing, but they staggered on, inching their way around a corner, and stumbled, step-by-step, down a narrow, meandering path. Too slowly. He looked around in sick disbelief. The path led them straight back to the square of the Sublime Porte. He blinked back tears. They had to move on, they couldn't stop here, out in the open. On impulse, he shoved the man backwards into a deep doorway. They clung to each other, gasping for air and listening. The sound of hooves. He shut his eyes and stopped breathing. Seconds later, the mounted soldiers came around the corner, surging past the doorway in a single line, into the square.

Loud screams made him jolt and look over his shoulder. The soldiers had captured a wounded straggler and were forcing the poor man's head into a loop. Within minutes, he hung suspended from a lamppost, his wiggling feet growing limp.

Hamid tore his eyes away from the monstrous sight, and his gaze landed on the bloodless face of the man next to him. "You're the flute player, aren't you?"

"I'm Reza, and you?"

"Hamid."

"God bless you, Hamid."

The soldiers rode on. The square lay abandoned except for the dead and the wounded, and the utensils left behind by the softa. The fires were petering out, but the air still smelled of smoke and stale, burnt grease. The leaves of thick-stemmed plane trees fluttered in the faint wind. At the far end of the square, the white marble of the Sublime Porte gleamed in the moonlight.

___________________________________________________________

Author's note

Stamboul was the heart of the city, the old Byzantine part situated on the historic peninsula between the Golden Horn and the Sea of Marmara. Some of its iconic landmarks are the Hagia Sophia, the Topkapi Palace, and the Grand Bazaar.

In the olden days, it served as the political, religious, and commercial center of Constantinople, with the old Topkapi Palace, administrative buildings, and numerous mosques, churches, and synagogues.

In 1876, Stamboul was still a densely populated, multi-cultural hub of trade and commerce, with markets, bazaars, and artisan workshops lining its labyrinthine streets, but the political center had moved with the Imperial family to the newly built Dolmabagche Palace, located on the shore of the European side of the city.