shot. As he released the last of the air from his lungs, he increased the pressure on the trigger.
The unexpected impact knocked the remaining wind out of the man’s chest. He felt pain tear across his left shoulder as he crashed into the stones of the wall. Then another pain struck his shoulder blades as he landed on his back. Lights flashed before his eyes as his head impacted the rock walk. His crossbow was pinned against hischest, pressing the wooden trigger guard into his breastbone. He struggled to break free, to catch his breath. He could feel the sharp tip of the unfired arrow stuck hard against his throat.
Two gloved hands held the weapon tight against him. The man guarded the trigger with his fist. The slightest pressure would release the shaft, sending it slicing through his own throat. He might fight and struggle free, but then if the arrow flew, it could kill the knight on top of him, or kill himself. He had no stomach now for either.
He stopped his struggling, and as he heard the knight call for help, he knew that it was over. This huge knight, who happened to be on the wall for God knows what reason, would keep him pinned there like a butterfly until more knights arrived.
He let go of the crossbow and surrendered his body to his captor. Two more knights came to his side, dressed for battle in scarlet robes adorned with the white eight-pointed Cross of St. John. One knight wrenched the crossbow away, and removed the arrow with its note. The knight dashed the bow to the ground and looked for a moment at the arrow. In the few seconds it took for the him to realize what he was holding, the third knight drew near with a lantern. The knight holding the arrow unwound the tie, and opened the parchment. In the yellow light of the lantern, he read the note. Then he knelt down and brought the glow from the lamp nearer the prisoner.
As the light washed over the fallen man’s face, all three knights froze. The man in black slumped back to the ground in total surrender. The knight with the lantern let out his breath and gasped, “Dear God!”
BOOK ONE
NEVER
THE TWAIN
SHALL MEET
Edirne, northern Turkey, near the Greek border
September 21, 1520
Selim, Yavuz. Selim, the Grim.
Selim, Sultan of the Ottoman Empire, slept fitfully in his tent. He lay under a pile of silk brocade coverlets. As he rolled onto his side, a piece of parchment fell to the carpeted floor. Piri Pasha, his Grand Vizier, knelt to tuck in the sides of his master’s covers. He reached down and picked up the parchment. Leaning nearer the light of the brazier, he unrolled the document. He immediately recognized the distinctive calligraphy of his master. He smiled as he realized that even in what could certainly be the last hours of the Sultan Selim’s life, there had been time for yet one more poem. Piri had made sure to leave the gilded box of writing materials always close to Selim’s bedside, for the master liked to write late into the night when the pain woke him.
Piri unrolled the parchment. The words were written in Persian, the language of the poets. The Sultan’s hand had shaken badly. Though spatterings of ink had stained the parchment, the writing was fully legible. Piri held it closer to the warm yellow light, and read:
The hunter who stalks his prey in the night,
Does he wonder whose prey he may be?
As the Sultan’s Grand Vizier, Piri Pasha was the highest-ranking official in the entire Ottoman Empire. As such, he was arguably the second most powerful man on Earth. He sat on a low divan in the darkened tent, watching the Sultan sleep. The coal brazier gave off a red glow that carried its heat deep into the body of his master. But, Piri himself could not get warm. The Sultan made low noises as he breathed fitfully. Now and again, Selim’s eyes would tighten as a grimace of pain crossed his face.
Outside the tent, the Janissaries stood guard; two of them flanked the door, while seven
The unexpected impact knocked the remaining wind out of the man’s chest. He felt pain tear across his left shoulder as he crashed into the stones of the wall. Then another pain struck his shoulder blades as he landed on his back. Lights flashed before his eyes as his head impacted the rock walk. His crossbow was pinned against hischest, pressing the wooden trigger guard into his breastbone. He struggled to break free, to catch his breath. He could feel the sharp tip of the unfired arrow stuck hard against his throat.
Two gloved hands held the weapon tight against him. The man guarded the trigger with his fist. The slightest pressure would release the shaft, sending it slicing through his own throat. He might fight and struggle free, but then if the arrow flew, it could kill the knight on top of him, or kill himself. He had no stomach now for either.
He stopped his struggling, and as he heard the knight call for help, he knew that it was over. This huge knight, who happened to be on the wall for God knows what reason, would keep him pinned there like a butterfly until more knights arrived.
He let go of the crossbow and surrendered his body to his captor. Two more knights came to his side, dressed for battle in scarlet robes adorned with the white eight-pointed Cross of St. John. One knight wrenched the crossbow away, and removed the arrow with its note. The knight dashed the bow to the ground and looked for a moment at the arrow. In the few seconds it took for the him to realize what he was holding, the third knight drew near with a lantern. The knight holding the arrow unwound the tie, and opened the parchment. In the yellow light of the lantern, he read the note. Then he knelt down and brought the glow from the lamp nearer the prisoner.
As the light washed over the fallen man’s face, all three knights froze. The man in black slumped back to the ground in total surrender. The knight with the lantern let out his breath and gasped, “Dear God!”
BOOK ONE
NEVER
THE TWAIN
SHALL MEET
Edirne, northern Turkey, near the Greek border
September 21, 1520
Selim, Yavuz. Selim, the Grim.
Selim, Sultan of the Ottoman Empire, slept fitfully in his tent. He lay under a pile of silk brocade coverlets. As he rolled onto his side, a piece of parchment fell to the carpeted floor. Piri Pasha, his Grand Vizier, knelt to tuck in the sides of his master’s covers. He reached down and picked up the parchment. Leaning nearer the light of the brazier, he unrolled the document. He immediately recognized the distinctive calligraphy of his master. He smiled as he realized that even in what could certainly be the last hours of the Sultan Selim’s life, there had been time for yet one more poem. Piri had made sure to leave the gilded box of writing materials always close to Selim’s bedside, for the master liked to write late into the night when the pain woke him.
Piri unrolled the parchment. The words were written in Persian, the language of the poets. The Sultan’s hand had shaken badly. Though spatterings of ink had stained the parchment, the writing was fully legible. Piri held it closer to the warm yellow light, and read:
The hunter who stalks his prey in the night,
Does he wonder whose prey he may be?
As the Sultan’s Grand Vizier, Piri Pasha was the highest-ranking official in the entire Ottoman Empire. As such, he was arguably the second most powerful man on Earth. He sat on a low divan in the darkened tent, watching the Sultan sleep. The coal brazier gave off a red glow that carried its heat deep into the body of his master. But, Piri himself could not get warm. The Sultan made low noises as he breathed fitfully. Now and again, Selim’s eyes would tighten as a grimace of pain crossed his face.
Outside the tent, the Janissaries stood guard; two of them flanked the door, while seven
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