As soon as the sedan was steady enough, Safiye opened the door, oblivious of her unveiled face, and seeing no one at first but me, began to rail in a mixture of Turkish and Venetian that I should stop being prudish and let them continue on their innocent road.
Her shrill tones prickled the horses’ ears. The beasts’ eyes rolled and their feet skidded off the ground again. This time Safiye would have suffered more serious injury, for there was no upholstered wall between her and the ground. Fortunately, the leader of the brigands saw the danger, too. He urged his horse as if it had been a glove on his hand, and brought it alongside the sedan in a moment. When she tumbled, Safiye tumbled into his arms. The fellow dragged her up onto the horse in front of him and fought her long limbs and her shrill lungs into obedience with skill, with a length of rope, a kerchief, and also with a grin that declared he had not had so much fun since the adventures of his youth.
His comrades, too, took what enjoyment they could at his antics. But they did not let it interfere with their haste to cut loose the horses, unpack Safiye’s caskets of jewels and clothing, pry off the sedan’s brass fixtures and in general do the work of locusts in half the time.
Soon there was nothing left to unpack but the little princess still cowering in the rear of the sedan, clinging to the handles for dear life, her veils muffling her from head to toe. It fell to a fat brigand to bend in through the narrow doorway and try to extract her. He was so big, he found it difficult to maneuver in the cramped quarters women call home for hours at a stretch. More than once he had to come up for air, red faced and basted with sweat. He looked sheepish about his tactics, which were those of a child trying to get a kitten down from a tree.
“Here, let me at her,” said the dashing young man whom I would learn was the lead brigand’s son. He drew his sword as he shoved the big man out of the way.
“Come out of there,” the young man bellowed, “or I’ll cut your throat.”
Esmikhan whimpered, but she did not obey him, either. That show of force would have brought any man around, but a well-bred young lady, though she may be vague about the details, knows there are worse fates than dying by the sword.
Her whimper brought me to action. “Excuse me, sir.” I hardly flinched when the young man turned his sword on me instead. “If you will allow me one of the horses, sir, I will bring the young lady wherever you wish, and in safety.”
The young man snorted in anger, but he stepped out of the way. He was not stupid. The sword was not making its usual swift progress, and time was running short.
I bent into the sedan and gently took Esmikhan’s hands in mine. Then I carefully helped her up and out. I readjusted a corner of her veils, which were really in no danger of revealing anything, but the gesture helped to reassure her and steadied her feet upon the ground. Then I led her to the horse and lifted her up.
“Oh, Abdullah! I’ve never ridden before.”
She thrashed her slippers in fear. They kicked me in the face and the horse skittered. She tumbled back into my arms.
“It’s been years for me, too,” I confessed. “At least since I’ve been bareback.” I didn’t say, but the thought brought my stomach to my throat: Who knew but what riding a horse would cause me pain I could not endure?
The young brigand clopped his horse up behind me and tickled my ribs with the point of his blade. “You need some help here, eunuch?”
“We will manage,” I assured him. I kept my face so only my lady could read my terror. She nodded, ready to try again, for my sake.
Sidesaddle clearly wasn’t going to work. But then I remembered that this was no European woman who would expect such niceties. My lady was even supplied with shalvar to make parting her legs easier. And I noticed, besides, that the horse was a gelding.
“It’s you and me together, fellow,” I calmed him, and got Esmikhan up astride.
Then, hitching my robes and getting a good hold of the mane, I took a deep breath and swung up in front of her. The bony ridges of the beast’s withers met my pelvis with a jar. I waited for the pain; there was none.
The young brigand shrugged his amazement, sneered under the vanity of a shaggy moustache at my rumpled robes, but waited no longer to herd us on after the others.
I heard a loud crack followed by a groan behind me and turned to look, nearly losing grip as the horse lurched the opposite direction under me. Our janissaries were now in view, driving to the attack, and the fat brigand had taken a musket ball in the jugular which spurted like a fountain. Esmikhan clung to me tighter and buried her face between my shoulder blades. The firearms with which the sultan’s men were armed could not be fired while riding, but I knew I must concentrate on working the horse and keeping our balance or we ran the risk of getting in the way of a bullet as well.
The young brigand got off our tail long enough not to aid his fallen comrade but to claim the dying brigand’s horse and tie its reins to the rear of his own saddle. He fired one taunting arrow at the janissaries, but we were already out of range. The shrubbery closed behind us like a veil, often close enough to whip my legs. Along with it closed
