a gallop in a single step, and Piri Pasha leaned into the beast’s neck. He held his knees tight against the saddle leather and steered the horse toward the City. Toward Istanbul.
The road was gentle as he started his long ride, but he was unused to riding alone. For so many years, when he rode out at night, his way was lit with the torches of a hundred horsemen, making his path as bright as the day. Now, he moved into the approaching darkness, knowing he would have to slow his pace or lose his way in the night. Worse still, his horse might stumble and fall, and Piri Pasha, himself, might be injured; might not be there to pass the Sword of the House of Osman to the Son of Selim.
As midnight approached, the old Pasha began to feel his age. His horse was strong and moved with the power that was legendary in these Arabian stallions. But, the gait was irregular, and the seat uncomfortable for the Pasha. This was a ride for a younger man and for younger bones. His thighs had ached for hours from the effort of squeezing the horse’s sides to maintain his balance. Now he could barely feel his legs at all. His back was pounded by the horse’s gait. His neck muscles knotted in spasm from the awkward positionrequired of it. He could get comfortable neither at a trot nor at the lope; and a long gallop was out of the question for both him and the horse.
So, Piri Pasha pressed on, pain dominating his mind, along with the agony of realizing that he had covered only a fraction of his journey in the first night of what would now certainly be at least a four-day ride. He kept the reins tight, and satisfied himself that, Inch’ Allah, he and his Sultan would arrive safely at the Tomb of Ayyüb together.
Abdullah covered the ground between Edirne and the coast in just over twenty-two hours. He had reached the ferry at dark on the next night after leaving the camp.
At the water’s edge, the ferryman was mooring his craft to the European shore. He had just packed his few possessions and his day’s meager earnings into a cloth bag. He was looking forward to a warm meal and a few hours sleep before beginning to work again before dawn.
He was walking wearily up the slope of the embankment when the Sipahi came riding hard down the same slope. His horse was lathered and covered with mud, as was the Sipahi himself. The ferryman looked up in fear as the young rider bore down upon him. He dropped his sack to the ground and turned to run for whatever cover he could find. Abdullah closed on the running man. He brought his horse up short as the man stumbled in his flight and fell sprawling to the ground.
“Get thee back to your post, old man, I will cross this water at once.”
The old man remained sprawled upon the ground. He craned his neck to look up at the rider. “But, it is after dark, sir, and dangerous to be out there in the night. I cannot see, and there is no moon, and I…”
“Enough! I am the Sultan’s Sipahi, and we will cross at once!”
The old man was about to protest again, but he looked into the eyes of the young man towering over him on this powerful agitated horse. “Yes, sir. At once. Inch’ Allah.”
Abdullah dismounted and walked his horse down to the water’s edge, while the ferryman unmoored his boat. As they crossed the narrowest point of the Dardanelles in the darkness, a distance of less than a mile, the Sipahi dozed. They made landfall on the Asian side in very good time. The Sipahi rose into the saddle as soon as the ferry scraped the sand and rock on the Asian shore. He threw the old man a gold coin from his purse. It was worth a thousand ferry rides, at least. “Allah be with you, my friend.”
“And with you,” said the old man, who then lay down upon the sand to sleep a full night in Asia for the very first time in his life.
Riding as hard as the darkness would allow, Abdullah turned his horse south again for the final push to Manisa and the caravanserai of his new Sultan. He did not dwell upon
The road was gentle as he started his long ride, but he was unused to riding alone. For so many years, when he rode out at night, his way was lit with the torches of a hundred horsemen, making his path as bright as the day. Now, he moved into the approaching darkness, knowing he would have to slow his pace or lose his way in the night. Worse still, his horse might stumble and fall, and Piri Pasha, himself, might be injured; might not be there to pass the Sword of the House of Osman to the Son of Selim.
As midnight approached, the old Pasha began to feel his age. His horse was strong and moved with the power that was legendary in these Arabian stallions. But, the gait was irregular, and the seat uncomfortable for the Pasha. This was a ride for a younger man and for younger bones. His thighs had ached for hours from the effort of squeezing the horse’s sides to maintain his balance. Now he could barely feel his legs at all. His back was pounded by the horse’s gait. His neck muscles knotted in spasm from the awkward positionrequired of it. He could get comfortable neither at a trot nor at the lope; and a long gallop was out of the question for both him and the horse.
So, Piri Pasha pressed on, pain dominating his mind, along with the agony of realizing that he had covered only a fraction of his journey in the first night of what would now certainly be at least a four-day ride. He kept the reins tight, and satisfied himself that, Inch’ Allah, he and his Sultan would arrive safely at the Tomb of Ayyüb together.
Abdullah covered the ground between Edirne and the coast in just over twenty-two hours. He had reached the ferry at dark on the next night after leaving the camp.
At the water’s edge, the ferryman was mooring his craft to the European shore. He had just packed his few possessions and his day’s meager earnings into a cloth bag. He was looking forward to a warm meal and a few hours sleep before beginning to work again before dawn.
He was walking wearily up the slope of the embankment when the Sipahi came riding hard down the same slope. His horse was lathered and covered with mud, as was the Sipahi himself. The ferryman looked up in fear as the young rider bore down upon him. He dropped his sack to the ground and turned to run for whatever cover he could find. Abdullah closed on the running man. He brought his horse up short as the man stumbled in his flight and fell sprawling to the ground.
“Get thee back to your post, old man, I will cross this water at once.”
The old man remained sprawled upon the ground. He craned his neck to look up at the rider. “But, it is after dark, sir, and dangerous to be out there in the night. I cannot see, and there is no moon, and I…”
“Enough! I am the Sultan’s Sipahi, and we will cross at once!”
The old man was about to protest again, but he looked into the eyes of the young man towering over him on this powerful agitated horse. “Yes, sir. At once. Inch’ Allah.”
Abdullah dismounted and walked his horse down to the water’s edge, while the ferryman unmoored his boat. As they crossed the narrowest point of the Dardanelles in the darkness, a distance of less than a mile, the Sipahi dozed. They made landfall on the Asian side in very good time. The Sipahi rose into the saddle as soon as the ferry scraped the sand and rock on the Asian shore. He threw the old man a gold coin from his purse. It was worth a thousand ferry rides, at least. “Allah be with you, my friend.”
“And with you,” said the old man, who then lay down upon the sand to sleep a full night in Asia for the very first time in his life.
Riding as hard as the darkness would allow, Abdullah turned his horse south again for the final push to Manisa and the caravanserai of his new Sultan. He did not dwell upon
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