Roxelana & Suleyman

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SIX

Time progressed and the bubbling brook widened into a broad stream, fed by the melting snows from the mountains surrounding the valley. The passes to the east were opening up and it would only be a matter of days before the girls would be loaded onto wagons and moved out.

It was still dark on the morning that they were rallied to gather their few newly-acquired possessions and pile them into a wagon. Aleksandra helped Tetyana and the others climb up onto the rough boards, throwing furs from the tent onto them to keep them warm in the higher reaches of the Carpathians. She hunted around for Maryana, finally spying her sitting alone by one of the kitchen fires. She called her name, but when there was no response she walked over to her friend.

“What is the matter, my sweet?” Aleksandra was certain of the answer.

Maryana turned from the warmth of the fire. There were tears smeared across her cheeks as she grasped her friend’s hands and kissed them.

“Please don’t hate me, Aleks; you know that you mean so much to me.”

Aleksandra sat down beside her and slipped her arm around her waist. “I could never feel any hate toward you, Maryana. Our lives have... they have changed. Lvov was wonderful and simple, but now we know that we were shielded from how the world, and life, really is.” Past the reds and golds of the flames, Aleksandra distinguished the shadow of the Chieftain as he hovered at the opening of his pavilion. His stance was relaxed, but intent. Turning to Maryana, Aleksandra squeezed her firmly. “He is a strong man, and he will care for you.”

The two embraced before Aleksandra stood and walked to the wagon. She glanced back at her friend. The Chieftain had approached Maryana and, crouching in front of her, touched his forehead to her hands.

“Farewell, my sweet,” Aleksandra whispered to herself. “We will all survive in our own way.”

She climbed up into the wagon—the central in a caravan—and the Tartar’s threw and secured a canvas over her and the other girls, putting them into pitch-blackness. Then, slowly, the wheels of the old wagon began to roll, creaking and swaying as its load huddled amongst the furs.

None of the wagon’s occupants saw the sun that day as it skimmed across the sky. The caravan wove its way through passes, over cascading mountain streams and under waterfalls that must have plummeted several thousand feet from jagged granite peaks above. It clung precariously to tracks that were still slippery with late snowfall, and finally came to a standstill on a plateau that Aleksandra would soon realize overlooked the vast plains to the east.

As the canvasses were pulled back from the wagon, the girls were overawed by the stars that shone brilliantly above. The caravan was still very high up in the mountains and the view east, across the plains, as far as Aleksandra could see, appeared limitless in the soft haze of moonlight. Given a few minutes to attend to their toilette and eat salted stag, they were once again herded into the back of the wagon and were on their way.

No longer covered, Aleksandra was able to appreciate the full magnificence of the Carpathians and the crispness of the fresh mountain air. They travelled through the night—down through twisting passes and gorges until by early morning they had reached the pastures and wooded rolling hills of the eastern plains. The caravan, meandering onto the more substantial trails, consisted of several wagons: one with the Lvov girls; all the others loaded with silks, carpets, silverware and wine—the spoils of the village that Aleksandra never wanted to see again.

They travelled for almost three weeks, following the eastern side of the Carpathians as they arced southeast from Galicia toward the Black Sea. Finally, they reached the Iron Gate Gorge where the Danube thundered through its tight constraints and to the freedom of the sea beyond. Aleksandra had never seen the sea before, or imagined the coldness and hostility that such a body of water could bring.

In a hewn-stone, fishing village that was beaten by thundering waves, the girls and the remainder of the cargo were loaded onto boats. Aleksandra was certain she had seen one of the boat captains in Lvov—at one of the fairs held when traders passed through with their wares—but he ignored her and she put it down to her imagination... exhaustion.

The trip south across the open sea was rough; waves crashed over the bow, soaking all aboard. The vessels tipped and turned in the churning surge. All of the girls were ill as they huddled on the deck. It wasn’t until they entered the north-eastern end of the Bosphorus that the waters smoothed and the journey became bearable; stomachs began to settle. Coursing along the slim nineteen-mile waterway toward the Marmora Sea, there was no possibility that Aleksandra, nor any of the girls, could be prepared for the wondrous sight that would be greeting them at daybreak.

Istanbul.