Roxelana & Suleyman

CHAPTER FIFTY

CHAPTER FIFTY

Hunkered low on a saddleless, royal stallion, Davud kicked his bare heels into its flanks, urging the horse to increase the speed of its gallop through dense undergrowth. He twisted sideways, ducking beneath a low-hanging bough, gripping tight to the stallion’s mane, yanking it to and fro to determine his route through the wood. The other Itchoglans of the Third Oda galloped on either side of him within the thick, forested terrain. One, to his left, collided with the trunk of a twisted beech and was flung from his horse. The c***k and splinter of skull and bone echoed throughout the foliage—the noise sharp amongst the heavy snorting and chomping of the horses that pushed toward each of their rider’s goal. All of the stallions were covered in thickening foam—sweat steaming in the chill of the morning air. Davud had lost his sugarloaf cap during the chase; his vest had been ripped and torn by twigs and branches; fresh scrapes and cuts stung his arms and chest, but still he lay low on his steed—urging him on.

He burst from the edge of the forest into a cultivated valley, a score of others breaking from the wood at the same instant. All galloped across the open fields, toward the far side of a valley. A pike with a fluttering red flag topped the crest before them.

That was their goal.

Davud’s goal.

Taking the steep ascent toward the flag, Davud started slipping down the sweat-soaked back of his steed. The inside of his thighs were already chafed and bleeding, his blood mottling in the saturated material of his breeches. He squeezed his legs tight against the horse, attempting to hold himself to the animal. One of the Itchoglans was ahead of him, between him and the prize that only one could achieve. He gripped the stallion’s mane, tensing to pull himself more fully up onto its back. He pressed his cheek in hard against the animal’s neck—the earthy stench of sweaty horse-hair filling his nostrils. The gradient of the ascent increased almost to vertical. Davud caught up with the other and could have reached out to grab the rival steed’s flicking tail. Instead he hugged his body close to the flesh of his horse, hanging on with all strength, melding with the raw unrestrained energy beneath him—gasping for breath as heavily as the animal.

The flash of faltering horseflesh distracted him from his concentration. The forward Itchoglan and his horse reared up from the soil, to tumble backward toward him. Davud yanked at his stallion’s mane, but his reaction was too late. The other horse fell into his own and knocked him to the ground. He twisted and tumbled down the rough embankment. The two horses and the other Itchoglan also rolled in a thickening storm of soil and sod. A hoof slapped across Davud’s face, his attention thrown toward the Itchoglan whose body was being ripped and pulverized beneath the plummeting carcass of his dead mount. Time and motion slowed—legs, tails, hooves, flesh and splintered bone rolling and sliding down to the floor of the valley.

Davud thumped to a jarring stop on the belly of a dead horse, the c*****e that was once his fellow Itchoglan spread down the length of the slope toward him. He rolled from the side of the horse and threw up in the grass, staring past his own pain up at the Itchoglan that circled his horse valiantly at the top of the crest, holding the pike and flag high.

* * * *

Davud spent the next weeks in the hospital rooms of Topkapi. None of his bones had been broken, but much of his flesh was bruised to the point of uselessness. White eunuchs tended him daily. Oils and herbs were massaged into the aching flesh. The gentlest touch caused him to wince, but in order to keep the blood flowing and the flesh alive the eunuchs dug their fingers deep between the fibers of every muscle.

The Aga of the White Eunuchs came to inspect his wounds. He ran his hands over Davud’s body in fatherly compassion.

“You have done well to graduate the First and Second Odas of the Itchoglan’s so quickly. No doubt, your training as an Agiamoglan has placed you in good stead, both physically and mentally to better your fellow-trainees. But to progress through the Third Oda you must acquire exceptional horsemanship. That and the knowledge of how to react in times of war at your Sultan’s side is vital if you are to fulfil your expected duties. You shall be well within a few days, my boy.” The Aga affectionately squeezed Davud’s toe. The divan-ridden Itchoglan winced, but managed a smile at his master.

“I shall personally get you up that hill, if it is the last thing I do.”

* * * *

Davud was again on the back of a Topkapi steed, racing out of the wood and across the valley floor. The Aga, on a painted stallion, cantered beside him, the outer layers of his caftan flapping in the wind. Both reached the bottom of the steep ascent—digging their heels into the flanks of their mounts, nudging them vigorously toward the top. A score of Itchoglans were yet to break free from the wood. The Aga overtook Davud almost immediately, his horsemanship far superior to any of the Itchoglans under his care. But when the incline steepened to near vertical, the old eunuch’s horse slipped. Davud yelled and spurred his own steed on, overtaking the Aga as the master’s horse regained its footing. Davud’s flesh and bones ached to the very marrow, but still he held secure—the horse beneath him leaping up the last few yards of the terrain. He reached the top of the crest, circled around and grabbed the pike with its fluttering red flag. He thrust it jubilantly above his head, as the Aga mounted the top of the incline.

“Ha! Well done, my Itchoglan.” The Aga pulled his horse around and slapped Davud heartily upon the back. Davud waved the flag high and whooped—the fresh smell of the wind and grasses suddenly expanded his awareness of all that could be seen from the crest. He whooped and laughed even more loudly.

They trotted back down into the valley, through the forests and fields to the gates of Istanbul in high spirits. Clopping through the winding streets, Davud was warmed by a sense of pride to be at the side of the Aga. He held his head high when the people of Istanbul moved out of the way.

They skirted the great bulk of Aya Sofya and entered the first courtyard of Topkapi. The Aga nudged his horse close to Davud’s. “You have proven yourself a fine Itchoglan. Your mastery of Arabian, Turkish and Persian has impressed even the most cynical of the eunuchs that teach in the Palace School. Your abilities in all other requirements places you in the highest realm. You have but one more skill—a trade—to prove before you may graduate from the final Oda.” Their horses stopped before the immense Gate of Salutations that marked the entrance to the Second Courtyard. “You once told me that in your previous life you were a mason in the village of Lvov.”

Davud nodded, following the Aga’s gaze toward the ancient gate.

“Our Lord, Sultan Suleyman, was much enamored by the architecture of Belgrade with its soaring steeples. He wishes the gate to be rebuilt in that style. I have chosen you to oversee the design and construction of his affection.”

“Thank you, Master Aga. I would be pleased to use my skills for such a project.”

The Aga smiled and, kicking his heels into the flanks of his steed, galloped through the existing gate. He turned and shouted, “Welcome to your vocation, young master Davud Mason.”

“Davud Mason,” the young Itchoglan muttered to himself, his mouth spreading into a grin as he beheld the stone edifice that would soon be molded and rebuilt with his own two hands for the Shadow of God on Earth.