The Sultan arrives at the Sublime Porte, surrounded by janisseries. He stares at the sobbing Greek on the floor.
"What is going on here? Get that man out of here; he's talking nonsense. Give him some kabab and send him on his way."
That settled, Murad placed himself on his throne. Just then, the four scared sons of King Djon were dragged into his presence. All were tan and slightly pot-bellied, their complexions ruddy and healthy. Except now fear paled them in a way it had not since their long-ago arrival.
"Princes, your father has declared war upon me, only a few months after we shared such a nice dinner. Apparently he did not want you back so badly."
Three of the men whimpered while the fourth, fitter than the rest, stood silently listening.
Murad stroked his closely-trimmed beard. "Now I must decide what to do with you ... for King Djon must be sent a message ..."
The fourth prince boldly stepped forward. "Your majesty ..." he said.
Murad smiled. "Yes, the court will hear the words of Iskander Bey." He clearly was very fond of the young man.
"Your majesty," the 21-year old continued, "I beseach you to show mercy upon our father. Surely he knows not what he says. Perhaps it is the years of idolatry that cloud his mind."
There is a murmur of agreement from the viziers.
Murad regarded him silently. "I do not think so. I know many Christians and they do not appear to have gone insane from their cross-worship."
He sighed. "I know you honor and respect your father, as you should, but I will do what I must. You have just been given your first command: focus on that, and trust in me to deal with Albania appropriately."
Iskander Bey, called Scanderbeg by the few Albanians who had heard of him, nodded slowly. Then, bowing, he left, his brothers remaining on their knees and frantically crossing themselves.
"What is going on here? Get that man out of here; he's talking nonsense. Give him some kabab and send him on his way."
That settled, Murad placed himself on his throne. Just then, the four scared sons of King Djon were dragged into his presence. All were tan and slightly pot-bellied, their complexions ruddy and healthy. Except now fear paled them in a way it had not since their long-ago arrival.
"Princes, your father has declared war upon me, only a few months after we shared such a nice dinner. Apparently he did not want you back so badly."
Three of the men whimpered while the fourth, fitter than the rest, stood silently listening.
Murad stroked his closely-trimmed beard. "Now I must decide what to do with you ... for King Djon must be sent a message ..."
The fourth prince boldly stepped forward. "Your majesty ..." he said.
Murad smiled. "Yes, the court will hear the words of Iskander Bey." He clearly was very fond of the young man.
"Your majesty," the 21-year old continued, "I beseach you to show mercy upon our father. Surely he knows not what he says. Perhaps it is the years of idolatry that cloud his mind."
There is a murmur of agreement from the viziers.
Murad regarded him silently. "I do not think so. I know many Christians and they do not appear to have gone insane from their cross-worship."
He sighed. "I know you honor and respect your father, as you should, but I will do what I must. You have just been given your first command: focus on that, and trust in me to deal with Albania appropriately."
Iskander Bey, called Scanderbeg by the few Albanians who had heard of him, nodded slowly. Then, bowing, he left, his brothers remaining on their knees and frantically crossing themselves.
