CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN
An Itchoglan scrubbed the Sultan’s back, ladling water onto the flesh and digging fingers into the muscles—knotted by tension. Suleyman dozed beneath the kneading, his thoughts on his friend and his whereabouts. He winced when a knuckle dug too deep, thankful when the Itchoglan stood and walked to the hamam entrance. He thumbed tears from his cheeks. The Itchoglan returned to hunker at his side, the dexterity and strength of the hands once more squeezing his flesh. Their tenderness worked their way down his back. They touched him with a gentleness and familiarity that only....
“Davud!” Suleyman rolled to sit up on the slab. He clenched his fist and threw his arm around Davud’s neck, pulling him in close to his chest. “I have been concerned for your welfare.” He shud
