CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
Suleyman remained sitting on the log with his trusted Grand Vizier at his side, staring with intense hatred at the Itchoglan cradling the dead Janissary. He placed his hand upon Ibrahim’s shoulder and lifted himself to his feet. Ibrahim kissed the hand and, holding his attention, reached down and loosened the dagger at his side. He offered the blade to the Sultan, nodding his head when Suleyman wrapped his fingers around the jeweled handle and pulled it from his grip.
Suleyman bellowed above the roar of the downpour, “Davud! To my pavilion! Now!”
Davud wiped the rain and tears from his cheeks. Blood and dirt covered his face, shaved head and clothing as he sat up to his haunches in the reddened mud. He leaned down to kiss his friend one last time, then rose to follo
