As they descended the hill, passing by solemn mosques and quiet farms, the sea glimmered invitingly beyond the decaying eastern city walls. Sprawling ivy covered the ruins, but the walls remained monumental, with double and triple rows, niches, and battlements that were overlooked by gigantic square towers. Silent and melancholy witnesses to the passage of time and the fall of empires.

Every so often, Hamid glanced over his shoulder. Even here, on the outskirts of the city, he could not shake the feeling that they were being followed. Had the Valide's spies spotted him in the Bazaar? He told himself it was unlikely. After years of confinement, his features were unknown to most, and he'd disguised himself in clothes that would be unimaginable for a prince, making every detail perfect. He wore the simple kaftan of a student and wandered across the city unaccompanied.

Still, he worried. Might Reshid have betrayed him to Peresto? He had confessed his plans to Reshid before he left. He'd had no choice. If he'd disappeared for a whole day without explanation, his teacher would have been frantic and sounded the alarm, all hell then breaking loose. Reshid had begged him not to leave. What if, God forbid, he did not return? What if Peresto found out? No, of course he would not tell her – Reshid swore to him – but what if she found out anyway? When he understood there was no way of talking Hamid out of going, he'd declared that he would come with him. Hamid had refused – he did not want to implicate Reshid. If something happened to him, Reshid could save himself by denying all knowledge of his activities. Also, how would he explain Reshid's presence to Flora?

When dawn broke, he'd left a note for Reshid promising to be back by nightfall, and with a purse of coins supplied by Hifsi, then slipped out of the house. Although instructed not to, Hifsi had followed him, he was certain of it. Hifsi would rather die than abandon his post as princely guardian. It didn't bother him, as long as Hifsi remained invisible.

Once again, he glanced over his shoulder and shrugged off the fear, relegating caution to the wind and telling himself it was only Hifsi. So what if someone else followed them too? It didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing, other than this moment.

They stepped into the cool darkness between the thick walls of one of the seawall gates and lingered, marvelling at the rhythmic sound of the waves rolling onto the beach, and at the laughter of seagulls and of the playing boys.

"It's like a dream," he said.

Something stirred inside of him. He looked around, letting his hand slide across the massive old stones, an awe-inspiring symbol of impregnability, yet as soft and warm to the touch as human flesh.

"Imagine the things these stones have seen. For a thousand years, they protected the Byzantines, until Sultan Mehmet came along. I must have heard the story told a thousand times."

As a child, he had often heard the palace storyteller, the 'meddah', recount the most glorious of all Ottoman conquests, the taking of Constantinople. The women and children of the harem would gather in a circle, and he'd cuddle up in his mother's arms, breathing her flowery perfume and the hazy scent of incense and candles.

"Oh please, tell me the story," Flora said.

Hamid wavered. The storyteller had woven his tales like invisible threads which connected the present and the past. The stories made the royal children feel proud and select, as if the divine light which Allah shone on the sublime Muslim empire also shone on them. And Hamid had felt proud too, but he'd also felt dazed and ensnared by the 'meddah's' invisible threads, like a fly caught in a spiderweb. Even here between the thick walls, he could hear Trimujgan murmur in his ear: Mehmet lives on in you. He remembered wondering what he should understand by those words. That he carried Mehmet inside of him? Or that the Sultan had attached himself to his body, like a growth? He would anxiously check his reflection in the mirror, unable to discern any trace of the brilliant, courageous Sultan who had conquered Constantinople; all he saw was an unassuming and fearful little boy. And he would be torn between relief and disappointment. It had thrilled him to think such a great man might live inside his body. And yet, if Mehmet was not there, inside him, did his absence mean he was unworthy? That he was letting everyone down?

"Please," Flora pleaded.

He raised his shoulders and pulled down the corners of his mouth.

"You want to hear the story of the conquest?"

"Are there other stories?"

"Many."

"You choose. All I've been told about the Ottoman Sultans is that they are animals."

Hamid gazed at the ground. "Well, they conquered half the world."

"I realise they must have done, but know little of their conquests. And was Mehmet the greatest of all Sultans?"

"Maybe. He chased the Christians out of Constantinople."

She laughed. "What a beastly thing to do."

"An animal," he said and smiled. He could feel her closeness with every fibre of his being. "Alright, I'll tell you the story of the conquest, but first, close your eyes and imagine flickering candlelight, and imagine trays of tea and 'lokum' being passed around to the audience."

"Lokum?"

He loved the way her eyebrows arched in incredulous astonishment when she didn't understand.

"Delightful sweets flavoured with rosewater or bergamot orange. You should take at least two, they're so good."

With a blissful smile, Flora closed her eyes and put an imaginary 'lokum' in her mouth, then a second.

"Mmmm," she murmured.

To better let the 'meddah's' gentle voice guide him, Hamid too closed his eyes.

"It was on Tuesday morning, 21 Jumada al-Thani, 857 AH..."

"Wait, what is that?"

He smiled. "In your calendar, April 6, 1453 AD."

"Ah."

"So, on Tuesday morning, April 6, 1453, Ottoman soldiers flowed down the hills like a tidal wave, then across the plains, right up to the walls of Constantinople where they took up position.

"Sultan Mehmet II came off his horse, walked barefooted onto the prayer mat and, facing Mecca, bent his forehead down to the ground three times. After him, thousands and thousands of soldiers followed in the same rhythm, facing the same direction, and with a rumble, their prayer rolled across the earth: may Allah grant us strength and victory. Followed by trumpets and cheers, the Sultan raised his standard over his headquarters: the siege of Constantinople had begun.

"The city was the heart of Christianity. For centuries, everyone – barbarians, Muslims, Persians, even rival Christians – had tried to conquer her. Every time, the Byzantine walls had resisted. After a while the empire grew weaker, however. It became destitute and depopulated, its resources depleted, and its defences left to Italian mercenaries. Even so, Mehmet's conquest didn't come easily.

"To succeed, the Sultan built a machine – a canon of titanic dimensions the likes of which the world had never seen before. For weeks, the cannon battered the city walls. Still, she resisted. Mehmet ordered that his men, in a single night, should carry his fleet from the Sea of Marmara over the tongue of land of Galata, into the inner harbour of the Golden Gate."

Hamid paused, just like the 'meddah' would have done, to help himself to more 'lokum'.

"Can I take two?" Flora laughed and, unknowingly, asked as the harem children usually did: "What happened then?"

"Well," he continued. "They hemmed in the Byzantine fleet to the north and to the south overnight. After weeks of siege, the doomed Byzantines gathered in the Hagia Sophia Church. A partial lunar eclipse signalled that the city's prophesied end had come. There was a thick fog, and when it lifted, a strange light danced about the dome. The Divine Christian Presence had abandoned the city. The Emperor himself, along with the nobles, the Greeks and all the mercenaries, soldiers, sailors and thousands of citizens prepared to die."

He could hear Flora's quick inhale, but when he looked, her eyes were still closed. Her bronzed eyelashes quivered.

At this point of the story, the harem children, who knew the story by heart, would cry Allah, Allah.

"Allah, Allah, the Sultan's men cried as they charged. Drums beat, trumpets blared, and canons thundered. The walls crumbled and Sultan Mehmet rode triumphant through the city. An impossible feat, unimagined for a thousand years. A glorious victory, so great that it stunned the world. From that moment, the infidel cowered in fear of Allah's faithful servants."

Flora opened her eyes, and said nothing for a while, until she asked, "And the Emperor, what happened to him?"

Sometimes the 'meddah' would say that he'd hanged himself before the Janissaries could reach him. Other times he would claim that the Emperor had been cut down in the street, like a dog, and they'd only recognised him the next day as a body with golden shoes, decorated with the Byzantine eagle, was found buried in a heap of corpses.

"Sultan Mehmet thanked Allah and dedicated the Hagia Sophia Church to him; the Christian altars were smashed, the mosaics painted over, and the cross fell crashing down."

Flora's eyes widened in disbelief. "Wow," she breathed. "Is all of that really true?"

"I don't know," he said. "Some of it."

"How awful."

He had kept the story respectable, omitting the most gruesome details – the massacres, the rivers of Christian blood that once flowed through the streets, the looting, the rapes.

"What are the other stories about?"

He smiled at her. "The dynasty goes back six hundred years, an unbroken line of Sultans, with countless conquests, countless stories. About love as well, and betrayal and death."

"I can't imagine..." Flora paused. "My history... I know so little..." she said, sounding apologetic.

He felt his face grow heavy, and turned away from her, looking toward the horizon. "There is something to be said for that, the not knowing."

The boys had left the cages planted in the sand, pulled up their tunics, and were now chasing each other along the water's edge, kicking up white spindrift around their legs; their rolling laughter and the cries of seagulls still filled the air. Far away in Galata harbour, a ship sounded its horn.

In one swift movement, Hamid scooped Flora into his arms, carrying her out from under the vaulted gate and towards the beach. She let out a surprised shriek, her arms instinctively wrapping around his neck. As he pressed on towards the waterline, his feet dug deep into the sand. He promptly lost his slippers, tripped, and the two of them tumbled to the ground. They laughed at his clumsiness. He wiggled his toes, a silly gesture which looked irresistibly funny and made them laugh even more.

Their laughter receded, and they sat, listening to the sound of the waves. He buried his fingers in the sun-warm grains and let the silky sand run through his fingers, over and over, noticing every surprising detail: the reflection of the light, the subtle sound of pouring sand, the sensation against his skin. He inhaled, amazed at how it made him feel. Time expanded. Contained in the simple gesture was the entire world previously unknown to him, filled with endless possibilities.

Next to him, Flora unfastened her boots. A strand of her hair fell down and covered her face so he couldn't see her; she pushed it back from her brow. He imagined her lifting her head and meeting his gaze. Day after day. For all eternity. Everything, he said to himself, is possible. He had thought that it wasn't. He'd thought that he was already dead. Yet she had blown life into him, and touched the source of his being, making it surge forth.

She threw her boots in the air, lifted her skirts, and took a few strides in the sand; her bare toes disappeared and reappeared. Funny, wiggling little sausages.

It took them a while to select the right spot to set the birds free. They considered silly elements, like the way the light hit the sand, the size or the angle of the waves that rolled onto the shore, the view across the bay, the cloud formations in the sky. But also important things that might influence the birds.

"They'll want to fly out to sea," Flora said.

"They'll want to fly off together, safely along the shore," Hamid said.

The surf lapped at their feet. Next to them stood the cages with the little doors wide open. Despite Hamid and Flora's efforts, the birds didn't move, so they waited. The water was turning golden in the setting sun, the wind slight and getting cooler. It had been a hot spring day. Spring, the season of romance and new beginnings, he thought. Season of flowering tulips and butterflies and bird nests in the trees.

"I wish they would just step out of their cages and fly away," he said.

"Maybe they're afraid," she suggested in a hushed voice. "The cage is all they know."

The birds blinked and moved their heads from side to side, lifting one foot, then the other. He reached inside one cage, inviting a bird to step onto his hand, but nothing happened.

"We can't force them, can we?" he sighed.

"They'll leave when they're ready," she said.

They contemplated the birds in silent anticipation.

Eventually, Flora said, "I think it will rain."

Reluctantly, she looked around for her boots and let out a tiny shriek. Bit by bit, as the waves receded back into the sea, they were tugging the boots along. Just in time, Flora captured them by the laces. They searched for Hamid's slippers, but they were nowhere to be found.

When they returned to the cages, one turtledove had left its perch and was standing absolutely still on the cage floor, eyeing the open door. Flora kneeled beside the cage and, while watching the bird for the slightest reaction or sign of fear, she gently eased one hand inside.

"It's alright," she whispered. "It's safe to come out."

With the tip of a finger, she touched the bird; she petted and talked soothingly for several minutes. The second bird fluttered to the floor too, wiggling its tail and – Flora gave Hamid a look of amazement – it skipped onto her finger. Ever so slowly, she withdrew her hand from the cage. The bird blinked, moved its head from left to right, leaped into the air, and made a couple of loops above their heads before returning to the top of the cage.

"Oh, you've come back for your friends," Flora whispered.

They waited. The bird cooed, but the other birds still wouldn't leave their cages.

"We must head back to the city before nightfall," Hamid said. He glanced at Flora's softly rounded face, her rosy cheeks, her lips curled into a contented smile. She seemed happy. As happy as he was – happy to be alive, happy to be with Flora. It felt like a miracle. It didn't matter that the day was ending, that in the distance ahead, rain-heavy clouds had settled over Pera, and that before long a storm would be over them.

____________________

Author's note

In the chapter, Hamid reflects on hearing the tale of Sultan Mehmet's conquest as a child. He feels both pride and confusion about what hearing these tales meant for his own identity and worthiness.

Have stories you heard in your childhood shaped your identity, your understanding of the world, and your role in it?

I would love to hear about your experiences!

The embedded image is by the Greek folk painter Theophilos Hatzimihail.