had left center stage. Danilo and Saida didn’t talk much but, when they did, they spoke as themselves, in their own voices, telling each other tales of things that had happened to them in their younger years. They rarely talked about events in the present. Somehow, the present edged too close to the future.
Most of the time, they rolled around in the leaves exchanging passionate kisses. Sometimes they played the games of childhood. Perhaps because she was younger, Saida cherished a fancy for tag and blind man’s bluff, flitting from tree to tree like a naughty nymph while Danilo staggered around blindfolded trying to catch her. He could never understand how someone so silly could muster such a resolute will. Still, a part of him loved her fancies and her contradictions and her dress-ups.
What will it be this time? he wondered as he waited on the rock ledge for his transport to Kinali. The last time they were together, on the eve of the Bayram of Sweets, she had greeted him with a bowl of iced sherbet that she swore she had made with her own hands. The time before that, she had brought along a mysterious dream powder for them to sniff that made him sleepy all the next day. It certainly made for a sweet Bayram, but with his gerit debut only a day away, it wouldn’t do for tonight. Definitely, he thought, if she turned up with some new potion, he must regretfully decline.
But when he reached the little green glade, she was not there. Instead, he was met at the rusty gate by a lone horse tethered to the iron railing, switching its tail and nibbling contentedly on the vines twined around the gateway.
An avid reader of Fuyuzi’s Book of Equines , he could not resist the urge to give the animal a quick appraisal — teeth, nose, withers, haunches — at which point he was interrupted by the familiar lilting voice.
“Is that my paladin come to rescue me?”
He pushed through the gate into the moonlit mosque and there she was, not reclining but sitting upright, a far cry from the harem odalisque who had first appeared at Kinali with kohl-blackened eyes swathed in diaphanous scarves. This girl, gotten up as a horse trader in a fringed leather vest and a pair of pointy, studded riding boots.
“What do you think of my horse?” she inquired, narrowing her eyes in the manner of a wily bargainer. “How much would you give me for him?”
“How much are you asking?” he drawled, trying to make his eyes even shiftier than hers. He knew she could never sell the horse even if she wanted to. Everything she owned belonged ultimately to her father.
“I might take nineteen hundred,” she teased.
“That’s robbery. His teeth are black. His ears are too close together. He’s long-waisted, his n\ose is too big and his back has a curve in it.” Danilo had learned a thing or two from Fuyuzi.
“It doesn’t matter.” She shrugged. “I’ve changed my mind about selling him.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m fond of him. I’ve named him after your father.”
“You what?”
“He’s the best horse I ever had so I named him after your father.”
“You named him Judah?”
“Not the doctor. Your blood father, Lord Birro, the knight beyond fear or reproach. I did it for you.” He was not as pleased as she expected he would be. “We Ottomans are not too proud to name our horses after the people we love,” she advised him haughtily.
He smiled, amused at her prickly pride. “Don’t try to use that ‘we Ottomans’ line on me, Princess. You forget, I know that you are more like half-Mongol, half-Turkoman on your father’s side and your mother was a Seljuk.”
“A Seljuk princess,” she corrected him.
“And my blood father is indeed a Christian knight. But,” he corrected her, “his name is not Birro. It is Pirro. Lord Pirro Gonzaga.”
“Well, it’s too late to change the horse’s name now,” she told him, tossing the subject aside with a wave of the hand. “He’s registered at the stud.”
That settled
Most of the time, they rolled around in the leaves exchanging passionate kisses. Sometimes they played the games of childhood. Perhaps because she was younger, Saida cherished a fancy for tag and blind man’s bluff, flitting from tree to tree like a naughty nymph while Danilo staggered around blindfolded trying to catch her. He could never understand how someone so silly could muster such a resolute will. Still, a part of him loved her fancies and her contradictions and her dress-ups.
What will it be this time? he wondered as he waited on the rock ledge for his transport to Kinali. The last time they were together, on the eve of the Bayram of Sweets, she had greeted him with a bowl of iced sherbet that she swore she had made with her own hands. The time before that, she had brought along a mysterious dream powder for them to sniff that made him sleepy all the next day. It certainly made for a sweet Bayram, but with his gerit debut only a day away, it wouldn’t do for tonight. Definitely, he thought, if she turned up with some new potion, he must regretfully decline.
But when he reached the little green glade, she was not there. Instead, he was met at the rusty gate by a lone horse tethered to the iron railing, switching its tail and nibbling contentedly on the vines twined around the gateway.
An avid reader of Fuyuzi’s Book of Equines , he could not resist the urge to give the animal a quick appraisal — teeth, nose, withers, haunches — at which point he was interrupted by the familiar lilting voice.
“Is that my paladin come to rescue me?”
He pushed through the gate into the moonlit mosque and there she was, not reclining but sitting upright, a far cry from the harem odalisque who had first appeared at Kinali with kohl-blackened eyes swathed in diaphanous scarves. This girl, gotten up as a horse trader in a fringed leather vest and a pair of pointy, studded riding boots.
“What do you think of my horse?” she inquired, narrowing her eyes in the manner of a wily bargainer. “How much would you give me for him?”
“How much are you asking?” he drawled, trying to make his eyes even shiftier than hers. He knew she could never sell the horse even if she wanted to. Everything she owned belonged ultimately to her father.
“I might take nineteen hundred,” she teased.
“That’s robbery. His teeth are black. His ears are too close together. He’s long-waisted, his n\ose is too big and his back has a curve in it.” Danilo had learned a thing or two from Fuyuzi.
“It doesn’t matter.” She shrugged. “I’ve changed my mind about selling him.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m fond of him. I’ve named him after your father.”
“You what?”
“He’s the best horse I ever had so I named him after your father.”
“You named him Judah?”
“Not the doctor. Your blood father, Lord Birro, the knight beyond fear or reproach. I did it for you.” He was not as pleased as she expected he would be. “We Ottomans are not too proud to name our horses after the people we love,” she advised him haughtily.
He smiled, amused at her prickly pride. “Don’t try to use that ‘we Ottomans’ line on me, Princess. You forget, I know that you are more like half-Mongol, half-Turkoman on your father’s side and your mother was a Seljuk.”
“A Seljuk princess,” she corrected him.
“And my blood father is indeed a Christian knight. But,” he corrected her, “his name is not Birro. It is Pirro. Lord Pirro Gonzaga.”
“Well, it’s too late to change the horse’s name now,” she told him, tossing the subject aside with a wave of the hand. “He’s registered at the stud.”
That settled
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