Gallows

"...And hence, he shall die by the sword. May the Almighty have mercy on your soul. Do you have anything to say?"

The man shakes his head covered by a black cloth, then tilts his head upwards, as if trying to feel the faint sunlight, wanting to see it. The day is less cold now, but cloudy still. The people's voices get louder with disapproval.

"Die by the sword?! That's so cruel!"

"How old-fashioned! I thought he'd be hanged!"

"Perhaps he deserves it."

I am surprised as well. It's 1723, decapitating isn't that common anymore.

"Enough! Bring the swordsman," the Imam calls after finishing the prayers. Then descends the wooden platform, the gallows.

I mouth some prayers as the executioner, dressed in all black, now steps up on the platform. I look around and see Davut Pasha, His Majesty's soldiers and local people. Most of them are horrified, but some have the nerve to jeer. I don't see the shehzade anywhere, however.