Roxelana & Suleyman

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER TWELVE

Aleksandra spent a sleepless night. The mattresses on the long divan were stuffed with flocks of wool, but it was not their coarse texture or hardness that kept her awake. She was excited by her future. The afternoon’s conversations had opened her thoughts to the possibilities of this strange world.

The sultanas Khadija, Baykhan and Hafisa had retired to private quarters and so Aleksandra had been left to introduce herself to some of the girls she shared this dormitory with. All were very beautiful. All were virgins.

Lying awake, she wondered about the girls who slept beside her. Above their heads many lamps were kept burning bright so that she could see the entire room quite plainly. There were at least two score in the low-ceilinged dormitory. Between every tenth and eleventh girl on the great divan, slept an old woman. Aleksandra lifted herself up onto her elbow to peer around at her surroundings. When one of the old women stirred she quickly dropped back down onto the coarse mattress and closed her eyes. It would not, however, be until the first rays of the new dawn reflected in from the courtyard that she would finally fall into a deep sleep.

Dariusz held her hand tight as they ran across the alpine lawns above Lvov. She could not help but feel joy at his exuberance. They fell to the ground amongst lush grass and wild flowers. He wrapped his arms around her and gazed into her eyes...

“Wake up, young maid,” said one of the old women, poking Aleksandra in the ribs with a bony knuckle.

Aleksandra started. Around her the other girls were rousing from their slumber. The haunting, beautiful chant, which Khadija had told her was called the muezzin, was emanating from the great mosque of Aya Sofya. It drifted across the rooftops, down into their courtyard, and filled the room with its dreamlike quality.

“Come with me,” said the old woman. Without another word she turned and walked briskly away.

Aleksandra quickly pulled on fresh linen pants and a vest that she had retrieved from her trunk the night before. She caught up with the old woman and followed her into the courtyard and up two flights of stairs to a room off the top floor balcony.

The old woman was indeed very old, but Aleksandra was able to detect remnants of a beauty that would never be lost.

“I am the Mother of the Maids, my dear,” she said in a quiet voice that was melodic, but stern. “—to my every word you must listen; and my every order you must follow. To do otherwise would be foolhardy and may find you bound tightly in a sack and thrown into the Bosphorus.”

Aleksandra listened attentively as she gazed into the careworn features. She knew that she could trust this woman.

The muezzin continued. It flowed into the dim of the room and curled around her body.

The Mother of the Maids leaned toward Aleksandra and affectionately caressed her hair and skin with the back of her hand. Standing very still, by the light of the room’s sole window, the Mother traced the outline of Aleksandra’s breasts through the vest.

“You are very beautiful, my darling one,” she whispered as she carefully undid the buttons and slid the vest off the youthful body. Cupping both breasts, the Mother squeezed them gently and then ran a bony finger around the stiffening n*****s. l*****g her fingers, she moistened one of the n*****s and watched thoughtfully as it blossomed hard and red.

Wrinkled hands ran across the smoothness of Aleksandra’s back and abdomen, down to the top of her baggy pants. Gingerly, the pants were nudged down, exposing wisps of soft pubic hair. The Mother held Aleksandra’s gaze as her left hand clasped the roundness of the exposed vulva and a finger delicately probed inside. Aleksandra gasped. Slipping her finger from within Aleksandra, the mother lowered herself to her knees and inspected the firmness of the legs, and the exquisiteness of the small bare feet. Rising to her full height she whispered in a tone of respect, “You are very fine, my young maid, and worthy of what is planned for you.”

Aleksandra felt flushed as the old woman embraced her and kissed her on the forehead. The Mother helped her back into her vest and then, leading her to an ornate rug in the center of the room, begged her to sit down.

The Mother and the maid sat on the rug facing each other as the muezzin slowed to a lingering cadence that floated ever so lightly upon the breeze.

“To continue your journey, you must become one with the words of The Prophet.”

Aleksandra nodded, as Khadija had prepared her for this the previous day.

The Mother took Aleksandra’s hand and carefully extended her forefinger. “Repeat after me—There is no God, but God alone, and Mohammad is the messenger of God—Law illawheh illaw Allawh, Muhammed resoul Allawh.” Aleksandra immediately recognized the words as those of the muezzin that caressed the room.

The maid held her forefinger in front of her face and tested her negligible knowledge of the language. “Law illawheh... illaw, Allawh, Muhammed...”

“—resoul Allawh,” the mother reminded.

“—resoul Allawh.”

Lifting the maid to her feet, the Mother embraced her and kissed her once again.

“From now on you will be known by the name Haseki Hurrem—Joyous One.”

“Haseki Hurrem,” the maid repeated in an attempt to let the new and strange syllables wash away the months of fear and grief that had forever changed her life. “Joyous One,” she whispered, allowing the happiness that the name contained to lift her toward her future.

The chant of the muezzin had reached its final crescendo as Haseki embraced the Mother of the Maids in return and kissed her on the wrinkled softness of her cheek.

Haseki felt alive.

She smiled honestly and with a strengthened confidence.