Yashim put his hands in the air and stepped out in front of the gathering crowd.

“Listen to me.”

The men paused, curious.

“Listen to me. I am from the palace.”

A bareheaded man stepped forward. “The unbelievers! They treat the Muslims like dogs!”

Yashim laid a hand on the man’s shoulder, and invited him to sit down. He opened his arm, gesturing along the line. “All of you, please. Sit down.”

The men began to form knots. After all the noise, the quiet voice of the stranger seemed almost hypnotic. Some squatted, and one or two of them actually sat, crossing their legs.

“We will find out what is going on here,” Yashim continued. The name came to him at that moment. “Where is Mullah Dede?”

The men looked around. Mullah Dede was not there.

“Fetch the mullah. Go.”

“Who are you?” It was a fat man in an open shirt. He had his hands on his hips and he was glancing right and left. “Who are you, from the palace?”

“I am Yashim.” He spoke quietly, but loud enough for the men to hear. A wary look appeared on the fat man’s face. “And your name?”

“I am… Hasan.”

Men are driven by fear: and they fear only what they do not know.

“Will anyone else give me their name?”

Men looked away, feeling the ground with their eyes.

Yashim could see the figure of the mullah climbing briskly up the avenue. “When Mullah Dede comes we will all sit quietly, while he and I discuss the matter.”

The mullah walked in slowly through the ring of men, looking from right to left. He saw Yashim, and salaamed.

“What is this gathering, my son? They say the monks have taken the body of a Muslim. Can this be true?”

“We will ask the monks,” Yashim replied.

“Yes, that is the best way.” Mullah Dede nodded slowly. “We will enter, and speak with the abbot.” He turned to the men squatting on the ground. “Go, all of you. Go in peace, and if we have need of you again, I will call.”