Kto ci stracil. Dzi pi kno tw w calej ozdobie

Widz i opisuj, bo t skni po tobie.”

Yashim could not understand the words; he had stopped listening. He could hear a sound like angry bees, buzzing farther up the avenue; now and again he heard shouts.

“I’ve made a start, Yash, but it’s picking the words. And matching the rhyme-”

Yashim bent forward and touched his knee. “Don’t go away,” he said.

“But I haven’t given you my translation yet.”

Yashim had scrambled to his feet. “I’ll listen later.”

“Your coffee’s coming.”

“I’ll be back.”

He went to the avenue and turned up the hill. A few hundred yards ahead he could make out the wooden gate of the monastery. The gate was shut, and outside it a few dozen men were standing in a semicircle, their backs toward Yashim.

“Unbelievers!”

“Open the gate!”

A man stooped and picked up a stone, which he threw against the wooden gate. Soon the whole crowd was hurling stones, which thunked against the heavy wooden planks.

Yashim moved to the edge of the circle.

“What are you doing?”

The man beside him turned his head sharply. “The unbelievers, efendi. They have the body of a Muslim in there. They are hiding him.”

Yashim frowned. “How do you know that?”

“At night, they will feed him to the dogs!”

Yashim put up a hand. “How can you know so much? Have you talked to them, inside? Have you seen this Muslim?”

The man turned angrily. “Open this gate! We are Muslims!”

Yashim glanced back. More men were surging up the avenue; some were shaking their fists.

Ever since the Greeks of Athens had secured their independence, Greeks and Turks had been like flint and steel, striking sparks that threatened to set the empire alight. Husrev Pasha was right, these were uncertain times. The weather was too hot-and a man was dead.