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The August sun had baked the hills and ridges of a variety of shades of greenish brown,

speckled here and there with their white rock jutting through the grass and brush.

Dry canyons and gorges snaked through the network of high ridges and dramatic peaks,

all of them leading down toward a flat fertile plain, an oasis here in the western reaches

of Azerbaijan.

Two armies had come to this plain on August 23rd, 1514.

Tens of thousands of soldiers all driven by the implacable wills of two men.

One of them, a short, powerfully built fellow, ran his fingers through a red beer that covered

a fair face, burnt deeply by the sun of Anatolia and Iran and shaded only a bit by a large white

turban.

The man carefully watched the army of the Ottoman Sultan deploy on the plain, Sipahi cavalry

from Greece and Serbia and Turkamans from Central Anatolia on the wings, the tall white hats

of the Sultan's slave soldier Janissary's behind a line of wagons in the center.

The harsh sunlight glinted off long archibuses in the barrels of cannon and mortars, and reflected

off chainmail and conical helmets, and caught flashes on polished metal shields and the blades

of swords.

The red-bearded man pondered for a moment.

Should he attack?

He glanced to his side, saw thousands upon thousands of cavalry drawn up and ready for battle,

his loyal Kizilbash.

...