Roxelana & Suleyman

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FOUR

The wagon creaked and jostled over a pot-holed track. Its driver apparently knew the passes through the Carpathian’s well—knew which ones led to dead ends and which would take the band to the open plains beyond. The pass they traversed was a precipitous gorge—both sides soaring hundreds of yards above the wagon and its cargo. A startled goat darted up unclimbable ledges, sending a shower of rocks and debris down upon them. Behind the wagon sauntered the fifty or so Tartar horsemen upon their mounts—tired from the raiding of Lvov, but in high spirits. They argued and talked in their language, drinking from wine-filled bladders and hungrily ripping meat from smoked lamb carcasses that hung from their saddles. The horses used in the raid trotted along behind, nibbling at tufts of grass that sprouted amongst the stones. Many were still covered in Lvov blood.

Aleksandra lay unmoving inside her hessian bag. Thick twine wound around her feet, irritating her still-swollen ankle. Mottled light came through the material and a small rip allowed her to faintly see the warriors trotting around the wagon, and the rocky cliff face soaring high above. She could hear and feel the other girls that lay in similar bags beside her. They whimpered and cried, but Aleksandra felt no emotion.

The Tartar sword came arcing down, slashing through the collar of his cloak, through the skin, flesh and bone of his neck—separating his head from his body. His body crumpled to the ground. His arms and legs flailed violently and then he was still.

Still.

Aleksandra lay numbly, without expression inside her hessian cocoon.

His cloak. His outstretched hand. The pool of blood spreading across the cobbles of the square.

The blood.

Her blood.

A tear escaped her eye—running down her cheek, cutting a course through the fine hessian dust that covered her skin.

Dariusz too fell amongst the heap of corpses after several arrows thudded into his torso—front and back. His loving hazel gaze burned deep into her soul as the life drained away.

A second tear.

Hours passed—the vivid memories of s*******r playing over and over in her head; the rocking of the wagon and the heat of the hessian-clad bodies around her eventually sending her into a fragmented nightmarish sleep.

By nightfall the wagon and its entourage had entered a broad valley, deep within the mountain range. Several score of deerskin tents clustered around many large fires. War-horses roamed in the fields and grass filled ravines surrounding this nomadic village. And about the blazing fires sat an uncountable hoard of Tartar warriors—boisterous and spirited while ripping fresh venison from the bone with their teeth, and guzzling the best wine Lvov had to offer. The wagon pulled in to the center of the throng, close to the greatest bonfire.

Woken from distressing memories that all but consumed her, Aleksandra jerked in alarm upon hearing the shouts and laughter of the men. She peered through the tear in the bag at the scene. When the wagon lurched to a standstill, she spied a man making his way from the largest of the tents. He sauntered over to the wagon, smiling at the horsemen. Dark-skinned and dark-eyed, his face was not unpleasant—though a fine scar ran across one eye and toward his left ear. The Chieftain, whom Aleksandra surmised he must surely be, was tall compared to the rest of his men and cut an imposing figure dressed in black leather garments trimmed with black fox. He nodded at his men, obviously pleased by the number of captive-filled hessians in the wagon.

Aleksandra was gripped by the legs and pulled to the rear of the wagon. She yelped in fright, but then was silent as renewed terror seeped. She was thrown to the ground. Other girls were flung from the wagon tray, on top of her, and to the dirt around her. All were manhandled to their feet and the hessians ripped from over their heads. The light of the bonfire and torches shone brutally in Aleksandra’s eyes, but as her sight adjusted she saw the frightening spectacle that surrounded them. More than twenty of the village girls cowered with her—shielding their eyes from the glare of the flame with upheld arms.

Around their group stood the Tartars; almost instantly silent and intent on eyeing the girls.

The Chieftain strode toward them. Maryana and Tetyana clasped tight to each other and Aleksandra. Unchecked tears ran down Maryana’s cheeks, and Aleksandra’s own heart thumped erratically as she clung to them. The man inspected each of the girls in turn. When he came to Maryana he stopped and caressed her cheek. His dark eyes reflected the blaze from the fire with an intensity that made Aleksandra shiver. His countenance did not reveal derision or l**t but, to Aleksandra’s confusion, a genuine thoughtfulness and warmth.

Next he came to Aleksandra. In some imagined defiance she locked her attention on the scar that cut across his cheek (thinking that he, too, could be hurt—even if only physically), as he regarded her face and hair and then slowly and purposefully inspected her body. His scrutiny lingered on the dirty, ripped and burnt clothing, as if he could see through them. His examination reverted to her face for several beats of Aleksandra’s heart, briefly mesmerized, before he turned to the band captain that had attained them, and nodded in palpable satisfaction.

Striding back to his tent, he stopped and glanced toward Aleksandra. With a grin that almost made him appear truly handsome, he disappeared inside.

Aleksandra and the girls of Lvov spent that night in a deerskin pavilion close to the central bonfire. There was no guard, nor any need for one, as they huddled in torment. The tent itself was adequate. The floor was covered in numerous animal skins and rugs. A low platform was set with fruits, salted meats and flasks of water and pungent goat’s milk. Outside, the rowdy ceremonies of the Tartar continued well into the night. Every now and then a drunken warrior would fall against the side of the tent—the girls recoiling further into one another’s arms.

Eventually the noise subsided and most of the girls were able to find some kind of anguished sleep; but not Aleksandra. With vigilance she held tight to Maryana and Tetyana. She cuddled and caressed them in silent torment—her mind completely void of any valid thought. No words could possibly suffice for what had happened... for what was happening....

Her attention flashed toward the opening of the tent when five intoxicated Tartars entered. One stumbled, falling into an inebriated, unconscious heap on top of the sleeping girls. The intrusion caused a wave of terror as the tent’s inhabitants scuttled to the farthest side. The men grabbed at them. A misshapen brute yanked at Aleksandra’s arm, placing a filthy hand over her mouth to stifle a scream, nudging close to lick her cheek with a cold, foul-smelling tongue.

“Not her, you fool. Do you want to die?” bellowed one of them in a language and tone that even Aleksandra could deduce.

Aleksandra was let go, thrown amongst the cowering bodies. She gulped in horror as four of her friends were pulled to the side—Tetyana amongst them. Savagely their clothes were ripped from their bodies and they were flung down onto the furs. The men were clumsy as they loosed their own tunics—exposing stubby lengths of hardened flesh that Aleksandra had only ever known by anecdote. The man that had grabbed at her was firmly ensconced on top of Tetyana. She had fainted, but that did not seem to worry him as he grunted and thrust into her. He slobbered over her face, neck and exposed breasts. His shoulders, covered in a thick mass of hair, heaved and shuddered until with one final violent thrust of his hips, he let out a gagging groan. He collapsed onto Tetyana—his body wracked by spasms—his muscular weight pushing her deep into the fur.

The incursion had taken no more than four minutes. As quickly as they had come into the tent, the men were gone.

Aleksandra could not move. She did not even dare to breathe.