Roxelana & Suleyman

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

Davud entered the Cinili Pavilion in awe. Past the deep, balustraded veranda with its double-height, wide overhanging eaves were several rooms arranged around a central reception area. A great dome sparkled with the brilliance of diamonds above him, as if it were the very heavens and constellations that oversaw history. Smaller domes conveyed the purity of the tulip in simple gold or elaborately hand-painted frescos that cascaded across the concave ceiling. The walls were covered with the most beautiful tiles he could have ever imagined—they pictured peacocks and tulips; swirls and geometric shapes. Hexagonal tiles of Izniki Blue left him mesmerized. The word beautiful ran through his mind in every language he now knew. Several of the Pavilion’s rooms contained chimneys of beaten gold. Wooden doors were inlaid with tortoise-shell. Stone floors were covered, almost from edge to edge, by wonderful carpets—some flourishing in Ottoman geometry, others depicting the stylized creatures of Noah’s Ark. The score of Itchoglans, Davud amongst them, took their places and stood in silence within this opulence, waiting for the Sultan and his guests to arrive for the evening of feasting and entertainment.

Horns trumpeted and drums beat.

Several white eunuchs entered the pavilion dressed in immaculate couture, topped by the tallest of white turbans. Davud spied the small silver tubes, a symbol of their office, perched in each turban. He had learnt that these tubes were a necessary item for the eunuchs to relieve themselves. He was mesmerized by them and their use, but was more than happy that he was still able to grip his own flesh between his hands to urinate rather than insert the coldness of metal.

Next came the Sultan, followed closely by the new Grand Vizier, Ibrahim, and a score of pashas. The previous Grand Vizier, Ferhat Pasha, was conspicuous by his absence—no one would ever speak or hear of him again.

The Sultan and his court took their places on the divans around the pavilion. The beating of the drum drifted into silence and was replaced by the lyrical melody of a lute. Several black eunuchs entered the pavilion, dressed as immaculately as their white counterparts. They deftly inspected a large screen that would separate the odalisques from the prying eyes of the masculine court during the evening. Once satisfied by its adequacy, the Aga of the Black Eunuchs, who Davud knew was named Hyacinth, went behind the screen to open an adjoining door. Feminine shadows played upon the screen and gently caressed the dome above in the flicker of torchlight. The men in the main part of the room sat entranced. The sweet smell of jasmine and lilac filled their nostrils.

Davud breathed in deeply.

Cymbals crashed and the Valide Sultana entered the main room of the pavilion with the men. She was a breath-taking sight, swathed in silk and gossamer of scarlet. Though all flesh was covered under the depths of fabric and jewels, her elegance and beauty shone through her movement and grace. She sat beside her son, placing her hand firmly on his knee.

The new Grand Vizier turned to observe Hafsa, who now separated him from the Sultan. Even from across the room, Davud shivered when he saw how the Valide Sultana’s eyes bore into those of Ibrahim—as if they were reaching down into his very gut and clenching tight around his liver.

“Sweet victory, Ibrahim,” she said with smiling eyes.

Ibrahim nodded in acknowledgement.

Davud knew that Aleksandra must also be here, behind the screen, to accompany the Valide Sultana. He stared longingly at the shadows and strained to hear the softest of voices from the far side of the curtain. As he turned once more toward the Sultan and his entourage, he readied himself with the other Itchoglans to serve the trays of food to the guests.

Suleyman motioned to the Aga of the White Eunuchs, who came to the Sultan’s side and held his head low to read the minutest of hand gestures.

The Aga rose and crossed the floor to Davud and signed: “You shall not be serving with the other Itchoglans tonight, Davud. The Shadow of God wishes you to sit at his feet and eat from his plate, in respect of your accomplishment and graduation into his service.”

Davud nodded toward the Sultan in respect, and shuffled low across the room to take his place at his master’s feet. As he hunkered down by the divan, both Ibrahim and the Valide Sultana glared at him. Hafsa’s eyes twinkled at Ibrahim with a gut-wrenching delight.

A large tray of meats, breads and roasted vegetables was brought before the Sultan. All reclined in silence as he ate his fill. He motioned for Ibrahim and Hafsa to join him in his feasting and when they too were satisfied he tapped Davud lightly on the shoulder.

“Eat well from my plate, my new Itchoglan. You have constructed a Gate that will last into the realm of future history—possibly as long as the greatness of the House of Osman itself.”

Davud ate from his Sultan’s plate. He picked at the choice cuts of meat, devouring almost an entire pheasant and savoring the tangy garlic of the lamb. Ibrahim and Hafsa both observed Suleyman—his attention not once straying from the Itchoglan who undeniably relished the bites of meat, and tenderly sucked at his fingers after tasting olives from the Italian lowlands. The Sultan’s slippered foot, beneath the voluminous material of his caftan, was placed firmly against Davud’s thigh, creating a warmth and comfort in the Itchoglan that complemented the fullness of his belly.

Ibrahim drank from his goblet of sherbet as the meal progressed, wincing whenever the Valide Sultana placed her hand on his knee. When the tray of food was taken from the main party and placed before the other guests, Suleyman picked up a goblet of wine to toast his friend’s victory at Rhodes.

“To Ibrahim, our greatest Admiral and new Grand Vizier,” he said, raising the vessel.

Ibrahim nodded.

“Tell us of your battles, Ibrahim. Tell our court how your liberated the Isle of Rhodes into the auspices of the Scarlet Mantle,” Suleyman bellowed.

And so Ibrahim began his tale. He spoke long into the evening of the Battle of Rhodes. All listened intently. Davud was in admiration of the bravery, but still his attention was drawn to the undulating shadows on the screen and the freshness of jasmine perfume.

Ibrahim finally recounted his joy at once again entering their beloved Istanbul and his promises of continued glory for the empire under his rule as Grand Vizier. Suleyman placed his arm around Hafsa to rest his hand on Ibrahim’s shoulder. With palpable affection, he caressed the nakedness of his friend’s neck—tugging on a black lock of hair that had escaped the ceremonial green turban.

“We too have had adventures within the palace walls, my friend. I will tell you all in good time. But surely you must have witnessed the grandeur of the new gate that has been completed in your absence.”

Ibrahim nodded in apparent pleasure, but Davud, still at Suleyman’s feet, noted how his smile faltered when he turned his gaze toward him.

“Davud, tell us of our new gate and the symbolism that you have so skillfully embedded in its blocks and spires.”

The Itchoglan hesitated, but then spoke eagerly about his passion of the last several months.

* * * *

Behind the screen, Khadija and Haseki listened intently to the voice of the young Itchoglan. Though of a more mature timbre, and speaking in the eloquent Arabian language of the Turkish Court, Haseki was reminded of a voice from long ago. She savored the roundness of the vowels and the smoothness of the speech as it rolled from the tongue. She fondly recalled the architecture from her own childhood as the Itchoglan described the significance of the spires and the intricacies of the masonry.

Deep within her memory the voice of a love, long dead, spoke sweetly in her ear.

You know that I love you; that I have always loved you, and will never love another but you.

A tear blossomed in her eye.

She brushed it away, but still her thoughts lingered on that lost love.