“Sometimes,” Father continued, “it’s a man’s own flesh and blood that stands in the way of his empire, and steps must be taken.”
A gleam of teeth beneath the hood as the stranger smiled. “Then we understand one another.”
Father cocked his head. “I understand much of you. Still. Choosing my son, when you have nephews – that I do not understand.”
It was quiet a moment, save the rustle of leaves and the pounding of Mehmet’s heart behind his ribs.
“My nephews are fine boys,” the stranger said at last. “But they are content. They lack…imagination.”
Mehmet didn’t know why, but he shivered.
The hooded face turned toward him. “Speaking of which, it seems your son has joined us.”
Oh no! He’d tried so carefully to be quiet.
Father turned toward his hiding spot, expression shifting from surprise to outrage. “Mehmet–” he started.
The stranger lifted a staying hand. “No, it’s alright. Don’t scold the boy. Mehmet, come out now, you’re not in any trouble.”
He hesitated, thinking of the mullahs and their riding crops, their assertions that they would make a mannerly boy of him for the sultan.
The stranger pushed his hood back and revealed a high forehead, and strong jaw, bold cheekbones. Fierce and beautiful, like one of the Greek statues he admired so much. “Come here, Mehmet,” he said, smiling, “let me look at you.”
Mehmet left his hiding place, brushing leaves from his kaftan, trying to look as upright and respectable as possible – a waste after hiding, but he wanted, suddenly, to impress this man.
The man looked down at him, and his smile widened. In the dancing torchlight, his eyes seemed to glow. “Hello, Mehmet. My name is Romulus, and I think you and I shall be great friends.”
