CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
Davud rode at Suleyman’s side. The Sultan ran his hand across the mane of his steed, twisting the lengths of black horsehair around the thickness of his fingers. Emotionless, he studied the way the hair encircled his thumb. He tugged at it gently, and then patted the stallion’s muscled neck. Grief was evident in his every movement. His countenance was dark; his eyes bloodshot and brooding. He slouched in the saddle. Davud reached out and touched his hand in comfort as they trotted in the long file of Janissaries.
Ibrahim and Zapolya were half a mile in front of them, heading up the vast column of allied troops. Davud spotted several scouts cross from the head of the valley and approach the two leaders. They conversed for several minutes, before Ibrahim pulled on his m
