Roxelana & Suleyman

CHAPTER FIVE-2

That evening, as the setting sun cast streaking shadows across the floor of the valley, the girls once again huddled within the confines of their tent. No man had set foot within it since that first horrible night, yet its occupants still spent sleepless hours worrying and praying to God. As the torches throughout the encampment were lit and the raucous noise of the dining barbarians escalated, the shadow of a man flickered on the outer skin of their pavilion. All of the tent’s inhabitants tensed as the shadow moved briskly toward the opening; recoiling as a hand reached in and pulled the flap to one side. Walking straight in amongst them, the Tartar warrior looked around at each of them in turn. He stepped toward Aleksandra and Maryana. They hugged each other tight. He signaled for them to stand and follow him. Maintaining an increasing grip on each other, they were led to the main bonfire where the Tartars ripped into stag and raw onions. Two deer were roasting on a spit—slowly turned by two young boys. All of the men were half-way drunk from wine-filled bladders.

They were led toward the largest of the tents.

The pavilion was extremely fine, spanning several yards across—the joined skins fixed to slender poplar trunks chopped from the surrounding groves. The marquee was peaked with a red triangle of material fluttering at its highest point. On the flag a black symbol was imperceptible to Aleksandra in the flickering light from surrounding torches. The Tartar warrior held open the front flap of skin and indicated for the girls to enter. They hesitated but, following a determined nod from the warrior, Aleksandra decided that they had best follow his orders. Inside was comparable to the tent they had been crowded into with the other Lvov girls. Animal skins covered the ground. Torches glowed from the central supporting pole. But there the similarity ceased. Off to one side, an opulently carved table, of a style Aleksandra had never seen, was laden with fruits and meats, breads and wine. And scattered over the animal skins were beautiful carpets and cushions of silk and fine linen—some with tassels of brightly colored thread.

The Chieftain sat at the farthest end of the table on a mound of cushions. He wore a white caftan elegantly trimmed with gold. Upon his head he wore a white linen headpiece similarly braided with the shimmering thread. He stood as the girls entered his pavilion, extending his hands in greeting.

“Welcome, young ladies. It is a pleasure to have you in my pavilion,” he said in their language.

Maryana blushed.

Aleksandra stiffened. “Why have you called us here? What are your intentions?”

“Intentions?” the Chieftain repeated, raising an eyebrow and laughing with such exuberance that Aleksandra’s Lisowska blood seethed. “My intentions are to eat, drink and enjoy the company of two beautiful ladies.”

“If you think that you can just use us for your own lust...” Aleksandra started, but her words were drowned out as the man in front of her again burst into a boisterous laughter that caused him to fall down onto the mound of cushions.

“How dare you, you arrogant....” Aleksandra launched herself toward the Chieftain. She threw herself on top of him, fists flying, her full rage engulfing her. With all her strength, she punched and scratched, words of hatred spewing from her lips, heedless of Maryana’s horrified cries.

And all the while the Chieftain continued his mirth, easily pushing her fists aside and seemingly impervious to her attempts to bite his arms.

“You killed my father, you animal. You killed my father.”

The Chieftain grasped her arms and pinned her body to his. She continued to squirm and fight.

“You killed my papa... you killed the only two men I have ever loved,” Aleksandra cried, bursting into hysterical sobbing.

Still the Chieftain held her—no longer laughing. He pulled her tight to his body.

“You killed my papa,” she whimpered.

As she sobbed, the Chieftain gently rocked her from side to side. Without loosening his grip, he placed his cheek upon her head, closed his eyes, and continued to smoothly sway her in his arms.

“Cry, my beauty. It will do you good,” he breathed softly in her ear.

He cradled Aleksandra in his arms as her sobbing endured. Maryana stood helplessly.

“Shhh,” the Chieftain cajoled Aleksandra, glancing up at Maryana.

Maryana, sorrow creasing her forehead, crept quietly over and sat beside the two huddled on the cushions. She stroked Aleksandra’s hair.

The torches burnt low as they sat, without a word, on the cushions of the opulent pavilion. The Chieftain persisted in encompassing Aleksandra with his arms—gently rocking her. The soothing motion made her wonder, in confusion, about the unexpected compassion of this man that had caused such grief and torment. Maryana now, too, seemed to feel comfortable enough to let her full body weight lean into his side while she caressed the flaming locks of red hair.

None of the food laid out on the elaborately carved table was eaten that night as the whimpering eventually subsided into a reflective, subdued quiet. The depths of a comforting stillness between the three lingered.... And, in the small hours of the morning, the Chieftain lowered Aleksandra and Maryana into the luxury of the cushions, placed a richly embroidered silk mantle over them and then left, out into the night.

* * * *

* * * *

The moon waxed and waned, filling and emptying a handful of times as it drifted above the fortress valley, through the changing of the seasons. And each night the two girls were invited to dine with the Chieftain of the Tartars. Aleksandra attended the suppers with minimal conversation—still deep in thought and perplexed distress. Maryana however, she noted, became enthusiastic about the nightly ritual. She engaged this man with questions about the world outside Galicia, listening wide-eyed to his adventures. Aleksandra observed how she hung on his every word, clung to his every detail. As the weeks wove on, Maryana taught him how to play backgammon and he divulged the intricacies and strategies of a game called Yam—which he said originated in a great and ancient civilization.

Aleksandra studied his face as he talked. His eyes sparkled when he spoke of numerous conquests in a desert-country called Africa. When he laughed, a genuine belly laugh, the fine scar line on his face crinkled, but still it did not diminish his appearances. Aleksandra ultimately decided that he was indeed a handsome man. And, no, he was not totally evil. But still there was no excuse for the pain and suffering that he had caused. Nobody could ever be forgiven for that.

She considered Maryana and the Chieftain’s conversations with somber suspicion at first—but she too was amazed by what this man had to say of the world. She could do nothing but conclude that this was indeed a world where good and evil had many variations of definition. It was, in fact, the real world in which she lived, but had never known existed.

Clenching her fists, digging her nails into her palms, Aleksandra recognized that this was the world in which she would have to survive, the world—she resolved with determination—in which she would survive, no matter what she had to do to achieve that survival.