She was, as we have seen in the instance of her son, not a woman
to stick at trifles, and she decided that Ibrahim must die.
There could be no hole-and-corner business about this; he must die, and
when his murder had been accomplished she would boldly avow to her lover
what she had done and take the consequences, believing in her power over
him to come scatheless out of the adventure. In those days, when human life
was so cheap, she might have asked for the death of almost any one, and her
whim would have been gratified by a lover who had not hesitated to put to
death his own son at her dictation. But with Ibrahim it was another matter;
he was the familiar of the Sultan, his _alter ego_ in fact, It says much
for the nerve of the Sultana that she dared so greatly on this memorable
and lamentable occasion.
On March 5th, 1536, Ibrahim, went to the royal seraglio, and, following his
ancient custom, was admitted to the table of his master, sleeping after the
meal at his side. At least so it was supposed, but none knew save those
engaged in the murder what passed on that fatal night; the next day his
dead body lay in the house of the Sultan.
Across the floor of jasper, in that palace which was a fitting residence
for one rightly known as "The Magnificent," the blood of Ibrahim flowed to
the feet of Roxalana. The disordered clothing, the terrible expression of
the face of the dead man, the gaping wounds which he had received, bore
witness that there had taken place a grim struggle before that iron frame
and splendid intellect had been levelled with the dust.
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