Roxelana & Suleyman

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Suleyman rode Tugra beneath the canopies of trees spread throughout the Second Court. The Aga of the White Eunuchs—the only other allowed to ride within the space due to his vast age—trotted beside him. Gazelles meandered from their route. Up ahead, scaffolding surrounded the Gate of Salutations during its reconstruction.

“The lines of the new gate are splendid.”

“Yes, my lord. The work is being overseen by one of your own Itchoglans—Davud Mason.”

Suleyman nodded. The blazing summer sun beat down upon them, the air shimmering with the dust from the construction. Masons and apprentices scurried up and around the scaffolding, ropes and pulleys hefting left and right to lift the heavy blocks of stone into place. The men and boys worked only in their breeches. The sweat on the browning flesh glistened in the sunlight; muscles stretched and strained to get the job done.

The Aga pointed to Davud who was on the uppermost deck of the wooden scaffolding. Suleyman gazed at the youth, no more than twenty-one, but of a mature virility. Davud jumped from board to board, barking directions and using his strength to push blocks into place. The hair on his chest, arms and legs had grown back and accentuated the masculinity of his silhouette.

“I have seen that youth before—on the battlefields of Belgrade.”

“Your memory serves you well, Shadow of God. He was indeed assigned to one of the platoons of Janissaries that served at that triumph. He wished to serve your lord in a more personal manner and has been undergoing the Odas of the Itchoglans.”

“How fares he in that training?”

“Exceptionally well, my lord. And with the completion of the Gate of Salutations to your satisfaction, he will be tendered for your personal service.”

“Excellent.” Suleyman unwittingly gasped when Davud jump down to a lower platform.

The Aga smiled at the Sultan’s reaction. “Yes, my lord. His build is as fine and elegant as the spires that will grace the completed gate. Davud has a sociability and pleasure that is worthy of the greatest of Sultans. He will serve you well.”

Ibrahim came walking across the Court toward them. “It will be a noble structure, my Sultan,” he said, glancing toward the new gate.

“Yes. It is fine. I cannot wait for its completion.” He turned to his future Grand Vizier. “Go get your stallion from the stables, Ibrahim. I wish to ride along the shore with you.”

Ibrahim did as he was bid.

Trotting beside the water, where the Bosphorus opened up into the Marmora, they spoke in muted tones, now and then rippled by subdued chuckles. They freely grasped at each other’s hands and slapped each other on the back in a friendship that had matured long ago.

They passed the Castle of the Seven Towers which marked the great land wall surrounding Istanbul, and continued their course when the shore turned from cobbled stone to grassy embankment. Far from the city outskirts, Suleyman motioned for them to stop amongst a natural fortress of basalt crowding into the water. Hidden by the immense blocks was a pebbled beach that had been part of many a pleasurable afternoon. The waters of the Marmora lapped the small cove as they led their horses down between the boulders.

Ibrahim slid from his mount, shucked off his riding slippers, and pushed the layers of caftan and under-garments to the ground. He ran n***d toward the waves and dove head-first into the foaming water. Surfacing a few yards out, he waved for Suleyman to join him. “My Lord.” The Sultan chuckled at the exuberance. He dismounted, released the clasps of his own accoutrement and threw the lengths of caftan over Tugra’s saddle. The mare wandered to the side of the beach to nibble on the tufts of grasses as the Sultan made his way across the pebbles to the water’s edge—wading in slowly to join his companion.

“The waters of our jewel are freezing still.”

Ibrahim swept his hand and arm through the surf, jettisoning a well-aimed splash of water. Suleyman responded by lunging at him, pushing and wrestling him beneath the waterline. Resurfacing to gasp for air, he maintained a tight grip.

“I cherish your friendship, Ibrahim. I always have and always will.”

Ibrahim returned the embrace of friendship and touched his forehead against Suleyman’s. They soaked in the water, as wave after wave rocked them back and forth, talking quietly in between bouts of wrestling that left them as carefree and breathless as when they were boys—far from being men—far from being responsible for anything. When the sun dropped to the horizon, they dragged themselves up onto the beach and lay at each other’s side, the water lapping at their waists.

Ibrahim rolled into the Sultan’s side, pinning his arms down, his weight pressing Suleyman firmly into the pebbles. The Sultan accepted his touch, treasuring the feel of the cleanly shaven jaw against his own, as Ibrahim whispered in his ear.

“Am I really so rough, my lord?”

“No, my friend. You give me the excesses that I desire.”

Tugra meandered amongst the boulders, nibbling at the succulent grass that grew between them as the crash of waves and repetitive crunch of pebbles echoed around the basalt cove. The setting sun reflected against the vivid blue and white surf of the Marmora. Plump white clouds flew across the darkening sky.

Suleyman sat up, rubbing at an ache in his shoulder. “I have a new challenge for you.”

Ibrahim’s eyebrows arched. “I have little energy left, my lord.”

Suleyman’s lips curled appreciatively. “No, my dearest friend—I too am totally spent. My challenge is that I wish you to be my Grand Vizier.”

Ibrahim hesitated, waiting for the rest of what his lord was about to say. Knowing that there must be more.

“You have served me valiantly and truthfully throughout the years, and I trust you with my life. But there are those who would question your promotion from the Privy Chamber to such a position within the Empire.”

Ibrahim nodded, but still said nothing.

“To counter all opposition, I need you to lead our navy. I need you to destroy the Catalan and Maltese Pirates that are ensconced on the Isle of Rhodes. Once you have done that, none would dare question my argument for your endorsement.”

Contemplation shimmered crossed Ibrahim’s face. He hefted himself on top of the Sultan once more, pressing him with an affection that pleased the Shadow of God on Earth.

“I am worthy of your trust, my lord, and I will deal justice to those that would cut our ties with the Ottoman province of Egypt.”

The men gripped each other firmly in tacit agreement, and for a second time Ibrahim bared his domination over the most powerful man on the planet.