It is the hour of the final prayer. You have managed to maintain this one ritual, this one moment of connection to a power higher than the man who holds your chains. You have cleared a small space in the dirt of your cage, facing Mecca, preparing to prostrate yourself. But Timur will not allow you even this private sanctuary. At his command, the cage is dragged into the very center of the camp's main thoroughfare. A massive, jeering crowd of Mongol horsemen and camp followers gathers, forming a tight, suffocating circle around the iron bars. They don't throw stones; they do something worse. They bring drums, cymbals, and discordant flutes. As you begin your first prostration, the noise erupts—a cacophony of shrieks, mockery, and the clashing of metal. Timur approaches on foot, walking slowly through the parting crowd. He doesn't stop the noise; he orchestrates it. He stands just inches from the bars, watching as you struggle to find the silence within yourself to speak your verses. "Tell me, Bayezid," Timur says, his voice cutting through the din like a cold blade. "Does your God hear you over the sound of my victory? Or is He, too, tired of the Sultan who lost his lightning?" He signals a soldier, who pours a bucket of slops onto the very patch of earth you had cleaned for your prayer mat. "If you wish to speak to the Almighty, you will do it here, in the mud, while my men laugh. I want to see if your 'Thunderbolt' pride can survive the filth, or if your faith is as fragile as your borders"