BEFORE HE WAS RED

Over time, layers of dark, grimy dirt had accumulated in the conduit, which had been built but never used, making it a perfect home for rodents and spiders. The sharp claws of the rats scratched as they scurried out of sight. An earthy smell came from rotting leaves and puddles of stagnant water that leaked or
seeped from the surrounding soil. It stank. A humid, sticky, nauseating smell.

A sharp jolt made him freeze. His nails clawed the iron.

Another convulsion along with a rattling, metallic noise, and the sound of glass
breaking. The tunnel was now pitch dark. Was the earth trying to spew them out? Or had the world crumbled on top of them? All was still – all except his thumping heart.

‘Jurad?’

Out of the darkness, Jurad’s deep voice emerged. ‘I’m right here. The lamp broke.’

‘What was that?’

‘The earth trembled. There could be more coming.’ Jurad added something in his native tongue, a curse. He spoke Turkish, French, and Greek, but found it more satisfying to curse in the language of his childhood.

Onwards they crawled. It was hard to breathe. Hamid’s mouth had gone dry, and he shook;
an attack of panic, he knew the signs. Count, he told himself: one, two, three, four. He always counted everything, to keep his mind off things he would rather not think of, or because there was usually nothing better to do. Sixty-three steps took him across the salon to his brother’s apartment, 627 steps from one garden wall tothe other. The feathers on the wing of a falcon (countless, though he kept trying), the number of fresh dates served with his morning meal – always five. (A coincidence? Or did a kindred soul in the kitchen count the dates he put on the plate? It felt like a secret bond between them, making Hamid feel less alone.) The number of days since his mother had died – 8,591, to be exact).

Ahead of him, he heard Jurad shuffle forwards. Or was Jurad behind him? He couldn’t tell anymore. In the total darkness, he had lost all sense of direction and time. He stopped and turned his head upward. The ground seemed to open beneath him, and he had the sensation of falling, as if down a deep well, but he only bumped against the conduit wall, gasping.

‘Your Highness, you all right?’

‘Call me Hamid, I told you.’ Jurad was not to blame. In all the years they had known each other, since they were boys, he’d never called him anything but ‘Your Highness’ or ‘My Lord’, and Hamid knew Jurad could not imagine calling him anything else. ‘It’s nothing,’ Hamid added in a gentler tone. ‘Let’s continue.’

Whatever argument he might have evoked for embarking on this madness, he had now
forgotten it. This wasn’t rational, there was no good reason to justify the risk they were taking, especially for only one night. He clenched his teeth.

‘Look, there’s light! We’ve arrived!’ called Jurad.

Hamid lifted his gaze. In the soft glow, he could again make out the contours of Jurad’s body. He crawled on, faster, towards what appeared to him to be a new life.

Jurad pushed aside an iron grill, heaved himself upwards, and disappeared Following close behind, Hamid emerged from the womb of the earth and landed on a cold floor. He lay panting, humid from sweat, watching the moonlight fall through the barred windows onto a shimmering pool in the stone floor near him. He blinked and choked back laughter; next to him on the floor was Jurad, and he was black with dirt.

Looking around, he saw a fountain, four taps and beneath them, shallow basins to wash the feet. The conduits had brought them out into the ablution room of a mosque where visitors performed the ritual cleansing of hands, arms, face, and feet before prayers. On the wall behind the fountain, tiles with calligraphy read: O you have believed, when you rise to perform prayer, wash your faces and your forearms to the elbows and wipe over your heads and wash your feet to the ankles. It was a modest space just inside the main entrance, connected to the prayer area. He looked about in wonder. This was nothing like the richly decorated palace mosque he was used to; the floor of the ablution area dressed in handmade Iznik tiles, the floor of the prayer area covered with wall-to-wall carpets beneath the intricately woven prayer rugs, and the niche indicating the direction of Mecca crafted from marble. The pulpit of the palace mosque from which the imam delivered the Friday sermon was also a masterful piece of woodwork, with inlays of mother-of-pearl. Here, a few oil lamps served as the only decoration, the rest plain: the slightly domed ceiling, the walls, the windows, the pulpit and the wool prayer rugs on the floor. A door led from the ablution area, probably to a room where women could pray.

‘You’re sure there’s no one here?’ Hamid whispered.

‘For a handful of gold, the watchman stays away tonight. In any case, this mosque is
hardly used.’

‘You’re nervous, I can tell.’

‘The moon is too bright.’

They washed their hands and faces in the cold water of the fountain. Dirt stuck to their hair and clothes.

Hamid struck a pose. ‘See. you’ve got nothing to worry about. Even in plain daylight, no one would know me like this.’

‘Inshallah, God willing,’ Jurad mumbled.

Hamid pushed open the large entrance door, stepped outside into the small courtyard, and filled his lungs with night air. It was crisp and dangerous and enticing –
it felt as if he were inhaling a sparkling promise replete with strange,
uncharted scents.

They stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the tall grass. There was not a soul in sight.

Jurad pointed into the obscurity ahead. ‘Up on the hill, that’s Pera. Over there, the Galata tower and below it, Galata. That’s the harbour, see?’

He saw the contours of rooftops, countless church spires, one or two slender minarets, and steam ships anchored outside the harbour.

‘And Galata bridge. You cross over that and you’re in Stamboul.’

Hamid looked sideways at Jurad, whose black skin melted into the night. It was a formidable achievement to escape the palace. It was also an act of treason, and treason was punishable by death. Yet when Hamid had proposed the bargain, Jurad had agreed to risk everything to make it happen, without asking for reason or
justification.

Hamid picked at a straw of grass, threw it away, picked up his soiled kaftan and retrieved a document from the pocket, along with a dagger. The handle was encrusted with three large, emerald stones, and the cover dispersed with diamonds. He handed it to Jurad, who admired it expertly, turning it this way and that, bringing it out of its sheath to feel the sharp edge with his thumb.

‘The most beautiful I’ve ever seen.’ Jurad’s eyes glistened in the darkness.

‘It’s yours.’

Jurad kneeled and kissed the hem of Hamid’s kaftan.

Looking away, Hamid then handed Jurad the document. ‘There’s this as well. You’re a free man now, as you desired.’

Jurad accepted it without a word; didn’t even look at it, just quietly held it.

‘You’re like a brother to me,’ Hamid said. ‘I wish you didn’t have to go. I’ll be lonely without you.’ Awkward words, blurted out; waves of pain radiated from his heart.

He wished Jurad would say he would be lonely without him, but Jurad just played with the knife in his hand as if he hadn’t heard. Hamid’s heart sank.

‘I shouldn’t have made you do this, it wasn’t fair to bargain.’

Jurad’s wide smile revealed large, white teeth. ‘Life isn’t fair. It used to make me bitter. I’m at peace with it now. I’m just glad to go home, to find my parents, my brothers and sisters. This night sort of makes it right for me to leave you.’

His words were candid and hurtful.

There was a new, long silence while Jurad folded the document and tucked it away in his kaftan, then slid the dagger under his belt. Even though the two of them were the same size, it now seemed to Hamid that Jurad towered over him.

‘Do you think you’ll know your village when you arrive in el-Habesh?’ Hamid asked.

Jurad put a hand to his heart. ‘The path will take me there. I’ll know home when I see it.’

‘Maybe we’ll never meet again.’

‘Maybe we will.’

Hamid looked towards the colossal marble palace, eerie in the dusky glow. In the obscurity, he could not make out the familiar European-style details on the facade, only the gilded main gate and, beyond it, the narrow south side of the ghostly looking palace. It was strange to see it from this angle, from the outside, compressed between the tall hills and the sea.

‘I’ll be waiting for you. Same place you left me,’ Hamid said with a nod to the palace. He didn’t mean to sound bitter, it was just how he felt.

Jurad looked to the moon. ‘When we meet again, I’ll teach you how to fish.’

How to fish? Hamid tried to imagine it, but only felt inadequate. ‘You promise?’ he asked.

‘Promises bring bad luck.’

‘Silly superstitious eunuch.’ He swatted Jurad’s head, and Jurad ducked. They laughed like they used to. His heart swelled with emotion, things he wanted to tell Jurad, but didn’t know how. Words he should have said years ago now felt insincere and melodramatic. When you cut off a leg or an arm, you bleed to death – that’s how he felt, as if the blood was seeping out of him.

He turned away from his friend. Tonight, he was not an heir to the Ottoman throne locked up in a gilded cage, he was a man like any other, free to roam the world, free from guilt and fear and regret. He would let nothing spoil this moment.

‘We’re going to Stamboul.’

‘Your Highness, no! Forgive me, we agreed to stay here. Stamboul is too far. You must be back before morning prayers. If something happens to you––’

‘We agreed on one night. This opportunity to walk the streets of my city may never come again.’ He turned his back on the palace and started down the hill. ‘And don’t ever call me “Your Highness” again.’