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If tables could buckle and bend under their weight, this one would. Piled high with gifts that Cesare has given a cursory glance before turning to the ambassador, it sings to Miquel, beckoning him. He'd love to lift this jar, hold that plate into the light, run his fingers across bolts of silk and test the edge of that lovely little blade. Lacquer from Cathay, lapis lazuli from Khorasan, rugs from Shiraz and Kazakhstan, all courtesy of the Sublime Porte.
All lugged here from so far and presented with the careless decorum the Ottoman envoy is so good at: Here, have this haul, it is priceless; it means nothing to us.
None of it has been checked yet for poison. The porcelain jar with the red painted dragons: it could hold a viper, or a scorpion, so sorry. The thick bundle of cinnamon sticks: you could hide all manner of aconite under its alluring smell, and it would work delayed, of course. Too late to get help, too late to find the one responsible.
He imagines he'll have to whack away Cesare's curious paws until he can decide it's safe. Later, that is, once the ambassador has left.
Listening with one ear, he lets his attention roam. Who are the people who have fashioned these things? What does it look like, where they live?
Rest assured the Sultan the Shadow of Allah, blessed be His Name, is overjoyed to know his Highness Cem his brother is thriving in Rome. They hope he will continue to do so, and appreciate the hospitality of his noble hosts. They wonder how they can alleviate the burden of harbouring so demanding a guest, and trust His Holiness will not hesitate to specify his demands, should he wish to come a different, a new agreement?
Cesare is handling the shameless offer well, he thinks, all smiles and ease.
Think about it, Your Eminence. 300.000 ducats.
Miquel sighs softly. It's a lot of money, to make sure Cem never sees the Golden Horn again. But they'd lose these delightful yearly hoards of Eastern treasure, too.
***
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