Roxelana & Suleyman

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

The Gate of Salutations was all but finished. The scaffolding had been removed, and Davud balanced precariously—perched high atop a single ladder—to push the cords of lead between the beaten-metal sheets of the second steeple. He had been working late into the night to finish the spire, working to complete it before the new day’s festivities accompanying Ibrahim’s triumphant entrance to the city and palace. Tiredness wracked his body, his fingers ached to the bone, but he felt none of the discomfort or pain. All he was aware of was how the moonlight glistened on the metal as he urged the lead into place. He worked quickly, deftly back and forth, until—with one final nudge of the pliable cord—he caressed his accomplishment in satisfaction. For a moment he balanced there in silence, closing his eyes, and leaning into the structure to press his cheek against it.

“Well done, my Itchoglan,” bellowed a voice from the darkness below.

Davud broke from his reverie to peer down toward the flicker of light. Several white eunuchs held torches high. And amongst them, stood the Sultan. Davud was momentarily shaken, but instinctively bowed his head in respect. He quickly climbed down from the steeple, past the solid masonry of the main structure, and jumped to the ground. He bowed a second time before his Sultan, then fell prone on the gravel at his feet.

He dared raise his gaze to see the Sultan’s extended arm. With hesitance he grasped the offered hand. His whole body quivered with the firm grip—an honor that was bestowed upon very few—as he was pulled to his full height. Again he let his head drop in respect, but Suleyman placed his fingers to his chin, lifting his face until their gaze met and locked. Nothing was said, but the pads of Sultan’s fingers remained on his chin, the warmth of the touch just below his lip.

“Your labors have filled me with much joy, young Davud. The new gate is one that I have often observed with pleasure during its construction.”

Davud blushed and Suleyman burst into laughter. He clapped his arm around the young Itchoglan’s shoulder and turned toward the gate.

“Come, my lad, you may speak. I have studied your labor of love and have been breath-taken as it has grown to its full magnificence.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Davud managed.

The two men sauntered toward the gate to scrutinize the adeptness of the masonry and the fineness of the joins. Davud pointed out the niches and the lines of the structure, explaining their purpose or symbolism.

“The gate pleases my lord?”

“Oh, definitely it does.” he said, squeezing Davud’s shoulder with a sincerity that none could ever find unpleasant. “As your reward, my Itchoglan, you shall be present in the Cinili Pavilion with my guests and Odalisques, as we celebrate the new Grand Vizier’s victory. And once we have grown tired of his details of triumph, we shall hear of the intricacies of your own masterwork.”

Davud’s heart missed a beat.

The Odalisques...

The Valide Sultana...

Aleksandra...

* * * *

With the rising of the new sun, the city of Istanbul was indeed enraptured with the spirit of celebration. The great warships of the Ottoman fleet, their sails pulling them quickly up the Marmora coast toward the Bosphorus, sailed majestically around Topkapi Palace on Seraglio Point and into the entrance of the Golden Horn. They stopped short of the chain protecting the waterway. The nobles and the new Grand Vizier boarded a flotilla of elaborately-festooned launches to traverse the final waves and currents of their journey. Tens of thousands crowded along the docks to welcome the victors. The enormity of the cheering and celebrations of the people echoed around the Golden Horn. Cannons on the Galata shore, and the sea walls of Topkapi, discharged volley after volley in honor of the navy and their leader.

Ibrahim stood staunchly on the prow of the launch as it skimmed toward the dock. He spread his arms wide to embrace Istanbul as it welcomed him. He relished the adoration that spread before him.

For him...

His thoughts, he could not help, wandered along the shoreline toward Topkapi Palace on the point—savoring the pavilions that cascaded down through the gardens toward the water.

When the launch had docked, Ibrahim was carried above the heads of his officers to a large float decorated with reams of golden fabric and the freshest blooms of Istanbul. He was drawn through the city—its inhabitants yelling and jostling to see the great Ibrahim. He waved and bowed to the people—his people for this moment. He displayed a brilliance that they adored. He waved his saber—still covered in the blood of the defeated—and the mass cheered with a deafening roar.

Ibrahim basked in the glory. He blazed.

The parade rolled regally down the Grand Boulevard toward Aya Sofya and Topkapi Palace. All about him, the wave of jubilation spread throughout the city and enveloped it, and him, in a spirit of unbridled pride and power.

* * * *

Suleyman sat in his audience chamber—encircled by his Pashas—listening to the approaching roar. Intently, he caressed his beard.

* * * *

Haseki reclined in the Courtyard of the Favorites with Khadija. Both giggled as the thunderous adulation surged over the rooftops and surrounded them. Khadija hugged her companion in excitement.

* * * *

Davud looked up and out of the dormitory window while another Itchoglan dressed him in the golden silks of his new position serving the Shadow of God on Earth.