Whenever the sun reaches its zenith and the Khan decides to rest, the humiliation takes a physical form. The cart stops, and the cage door is wrenched open. You are dragged out, not to stretch your cramped limbs, but to perform a singular, debasing task. Timur brings his massive warhorse to a halt. He does not use the mounting block. Instead, he waits until his guards force you onto your hands and knees beside his stirrup. You feel the crushing weight of his iron-shod boot press into the small of your back. He puts his full weight on you as he dismounts, his spurs nicking your skin through your tunic. He lingers for a moment, his heel grinding into your spine just to remind you that the Sultan of the Ottomans is now the literal earth beneath his feet.