Roxelana & Suleyman

CHAPTER EIGHT-2

Mid-morning, the girls were led away from the docks and up into the city. Crooked streets ran past chaotic masses of ramshackle wooden homes and intimate arcaded courtyards. Alleys and lanes coiled in confusion amongst hills and valleys, suddenly transformed into the steepest of stairs, spanned across sheer ravines, clung to perilous terraces and passed under aqueducts and immense stone monuments built many, many generations ago. The intensity and vitality of the metropolis increased with every step. The vividness of unbelievable color, noise and aroma awakened and delighted Aleksandra’s every sense. Each turn in the laneway afforded a new discovery of attraction to the point of overwhelming intoxication.

The captain, who led the group, was more than pleased to point out the beauty of his beloved city to those in his charge, and Aleksandra attentively let his words encompass her. The Grand Bazaar, their destination, sat amongst the energetic turmoil on the brow of the hill between the Golden Horn, where their boat had docked, and the Sea of Marmora. Even before they spotted its high grey walls, Aleksandra could sense the rush of perfumes and clamor; the heat of the thousands that thronged within its labyrinth of corridors and arcades.

They entered via the Cloth-sellers Gate and were instantly barraged by Armenian and Greek merchants.

“One thousand kurush! Two thousand kurush! Buy my fine cloth and linen.”

Dolaps, the stalls of various sizes, explained the captain, lined both sides of the arcades conveying the finest of wares from the furthest regions of the world. Several dolaps were piled high with silk rugs from Kashmir, others with baskets of rubies and turquoise, still others with elaborately worked silver and gold, and others with row upon row of books containing the wisdom of ancient cultures, or the recent works of poets and romantics.

Aleksandra listened intently to every word as the captain expounded in his exuberant manner.

High above the stalls were elaborate plaster vaults surmounted by large cupolas. A myriad of perforations in the cupolas, like stars, let the daylight in, and the heady perfumes and smoke of the labyrinth out. Intense rays of light pierced through the holes into the shadowy arcade—lighting up intricate Ottoman blue and red arabesques that were stenciled onto the yellow walls.

The captain and his crew led Aleksandra and the others down arcade after arcade. They passed beautifully tiled fountains and mosques within the bazaar, and crossed through several balconied courtyards. The captain called these courtyards Hans, where tradesmen wove their baskets; smiths worked precious metals and stones, or tooled supple leathers. After forty minutes of pushing through the multitude of buyers and sellers, they finally reached the enormous Southern Han.

Entered via an arcade overflowing with barrels of prunes, dates, oils, rice and lentils, the Southern Han was a large, tree-filled courtyard, open to the brightness of the mid-morning sky. Three arcaded stories surrounded it. All were crammed full of buyers willing to bid on the proceedings below. The captain led his chattel into a side room where two-score of others waited for the morning’s auctions.

The master of the auction, who seemed pleased by his own importance and ability to speak several languages, logged each of the girls into a large book held by a boy. He inspected and touched each of the girls in turn, making additional notes alongside their names and places of origin. Men and boys stood on the far side of the room. All had been stripped n***d and modestly cupped their hands in front of their genitals. Aleksandra flushed with fright—her heart thumping and aching in her chest. She turned toward Tetyana, but her gaze was not returned.

One by one the n***d men were marched out into the center of the Han—into the center of the eager crowd. Aleksandra watched, horrified, through a lattice screen as they were prodded and touched in a most intimate fashion. Buyers came up to each and squeezed the men’s bodies; checked their teeth, hands and feet, and whatever else they apparently had a need or passion for.

“Thirty ducats,” bellowed a buyer from the highest gallery.

“Forty!” yelled another.

The auctioneer made rapid notes in his book.

One-by-one the men were auctioned off and taken away, all with lowered and expressionless eyes.

The last of the men, a strapping youth over six feet tall and very fine of body, strode confidently into the middle of the crowd and stepped up onto the central podium. He started flexing his muscles and boasting about his strength. He received a roar of approval from the crowd with the bidding reaching one hundred ducats before he was led away by a man in what appeared to be a military uniform.

“An Officer of the Sultan’s elite Janissary Corps,” whispered the captain, as he kept close to Aleksandra.

Next the girls were filed out to the center of the Han one-by-one.

“Fifty ducats....”

“Sixty ducats....”

Tetyana was sold to an old man who licked his lips and cupped his hands around her waist to pull her quickly out of the Han.

Aleksandra clung to the lattice as the proceedings on the other side of the screen continued—her heart racing; her mouth increasingly dry. But she knew that if she didn’t want to end up the concubine of some miserable wretch with a pouch full of gold she would have to carry an air of confidence—just as that strapping young lad had done.

“You, girl, you’re next.” The auctioneer had stuck his head into the storeroom and motioned for Aleksandra. The captain rubbed his hands together and gave her a wink. He patted his money pouch.

Hesitantly she walked to the door and, peering out at the crowd and up into the balconies, she felt as though she would faint.

“Come on, Aleksandra, you can do it,” she muttered beneath her breath.

Holding her head high and flipping her long mane of flaming red hair behind her shoulders, she marched confidently to the podium in the middle of the crowd. The balconies and the hundreds of faces above came into full view. At first she was taken aback, but then she smiled brilliantly. She shone. Holding her arms up high, she turned, making her gown twirl. The men cheered and whooped.

“Ninety ducats,” called the Janissary officer that had bought the young lad.

“One-one hundred,” stuttered an effeminate man swathed in too much silk and doused in too much lavender.

“One hundred and five,” retorted the officer, stepping forward to lay his claim.

Aleksandra regarded him in his uniform. Although he wasn’t particularly handsome, he did appear kind and so she smiled and tried anxiously to keep his eye.

“One hundred and ten ducats,” cackled the only woman in the crowd. She hoisted up her breasts as the men craned to see her. “Make that one hundred and twenty ducats. This beauty will make a fine w***e amongst my girls. And then, my men, you will all be able to sample her pretty wares... at a price.”

Aleksandra turned toward the officer, her eyes wide with horror. He rummaged through his gold pouch, shrugged and moved away. Standing alone, on the podium, surrounded by the over-crowded balconies, Aleksandra pressed the back of her hand to her mouth—mortified by the sight of the big-bosomed madam before her. “My dear God, I have got to do something.” Tears threatened to come, but she held them back, taking several deep breaths.

“Sing for me, my darling. You know how I enjoy it so,” Dariusz cooed in her ear.

And so she sang—a song that her father had taught her; a song which he said that her mother had always sung.

Her voice was sweet, like the melody of a bird on a bough.

The men in the Han listened intently, straining to hear the soft beauty of the verse. Some pooled their gold pieces, to see if they could beat the one hundred and twenty ducat bid. The Madam was growing impatient, flicking her gaze back and forth across the crowd, before glaring at the auctioneer.

When Aleksandra finished she looked optimistically around at the men and toward the officer.

“One hundred and twenty ducats stands firm! Now give me my w***e!” the Madam bellowed. She strode toward the center of the Han and her trophy. Aleksandra winced as her wrist was seized. Her eyes flashed in defiance. She would not let this woman break her.

“Ten thousand ducats,” came a strong voice from the back of the Han.

The crowd hushed.

The Madam faltered and jerked her head toward the voice in noticeable anger. The crowd parted and Aleksandra could see who made the bid. Repulsion shrouded any desires of hope as she beheld a tall Moor. His skin was pitch-black, his face an ugly, twisted disfigurement. On top of his head he wore a tall white turban.

“Ten thousand ducats,” he repeated in his deep baritone.

He wore a long caftan of threaded gold. Perched nattily near the top of his turban was a silver tube—perhaps a unique and proud symbol of his office, definitely one that puzzled Aleksandra as to its importance or use. As the crowd remained in stunned silence, the Moor turned and strode toward a curtained litter held high by four more of his kind. Its delicate structure was made of gold, encrusted with jewels. Its curtains were of the finest gold filament, interwoven with pearls and emeralds. A shadowy silhouette shimmered through the glitter of precious stone.

The crowd in the Han gasped and immediately fell prone onto the cobbles of the ground and onto the wooden boards of the balconies. Even the Madam was down flat on her face. Aleksandra was grabbed from behind and the auctioneer pushed her to the pavement until her lips pressed the timeworn stones. She could smell the sadness that imbued their smooth texture from the many thousands that had been sold off in this space into lives of misery. Peering through her mane of disheveled, red hair she observed the large Moor who had made the bid. He was given a sack by the unknown figure in the litter. He in turn gave the sack to the auctioneer and lifted Aleksandra up into his arms. She was frightened by his face with its contorted features and skin as black as... as black as.... He smiled at her—the grin compounding his brutish ugliness.

Aleksandra was stunned. Wild thoughts flashed through her mind when the thickly-roped muscles of his arms enveloped her, pulled her close to his flesh. Her breathing became even more frantic as the sickeningly-sweet smell of his breath wafted across her face. And with repulsion confusing her thoughts and filling her with dread, the blood drained from her head and she slumped into unconsciousness.