Roxelana & Suleyman

CHAPTER SIXTY

CHAPTER SIXTY

Suleyman lounged in the warming heat of the hamam.

His day had begun as usual at five with a boisterous awakening by the clang and clatter of the Janissary Mehter band. He had spent hours in his private mosque facing toward Mecca, his forehead pressed to the carpet, praying not only for his heirs, Favorites, and people, but also for his enemies—that they may see reason and capitulate to his sovereignty and the passion of The Crescent.

Now he could relax and attend to his own pleasure.

The heat that swirled around the room sank into his body as he lay on the marble slab. Several Itchoglans hovered about him. One pared his toenails, another his finger nails. A third used a sharpened blade to expertly sculpt the satisfying growth of hair on his chin. Though he was totally n***d, each of the Itchoglans wore loose-fitting breeches that had taken on a transparency in the heat. Beads of sweat ran down their chests and backs.

Suleyman turned at the sound of bare feet plodding across the wet stone to see Davud entering the hamam. The Itchoglan had been assigned to the position of Hamawmgee Bashaw—he who washes the flesh of the Sultan. He walked through the dimly-lit hamam, over to the far side of the chamber and filled a bucket with warmed water from the fountainhead. He hunkered down and held his head low as the other Itchoglans completed their duties. When they rose to leave the chamber he approached his lord.

The sultan rolled over onto his front, placing his chin on clasped hands. Davud kneeled beside him, ladling water over the flesh and using strong hands to scrub and massage the royal back and shoulders. Suleyman pushed out a deep breath with the grip, tension dissolving, muscles loosening.

“Wonderful,” he muttered.

The Itchoglan smiled, continuing to knead the flesh in silence. He worked his way across the broad shoulders and down the spine, digging into a knot in the lower back. Tenderly, he massaged his way down the prone body. Straddling the Sultan’s legs, he dug his elbow into the back of the muscled buttock and thigh.

“Davud...”

The Itchoglan waited for the remainder of the sentence.

“Your breeches, my Itchoglan, they are clammy on my skin.”

Davud stood up at the side of his lord to peel the breeches from his legs. The layers of linen were sopping wet from perspiration and water. He threw them to the side of the podium and they sloshed across the yellow-veined marble. Once more, he knelt down over the Sultan, his knees on the marble slab either side of Suleyman’s legs, and massaged the sovereignty beneath him.

Suleyman closed his eyes, sensitive to the fingers digging deep into his flesh. The firmness of Davud’s legs pressed against the side of his own, the inadvertent brush of the Itchoglan’s p***s against the back of his calves, incited a sentiment seldom allowed or realized. Davud grasped the Sultan’s feet, working the soles and tenderly gripping and squeezing each of the toes between thumb and index finger. Suleyman rolled over onto his back as Davud pressed thumbs into the balls of his feet. Placing his hands behind his head, he peered down past his own nakedness at Davud. The Itchoglan was making his way diligently up to his thighs. Strong hands labored on the flesh, muscled arms moved tirelessly, pectorals and abdomen stretched and rippled as he leaned and turned to better grip the thickness of the legs.

Suleyman rose up onto his elbows.

“You are beautiful, Davud. And would make any man question his own masculinity.”

Davud blushed in the heat and signed, “Thank you, my lord, but it is you who are a man whose eminence is apparent, not only in your expansion of the empire, but in your physicality.”

Suleyman smiled and reached forward to stroke the lock of hair that hung from the Itchoglan’s temple. He ran the back of his hand down the cheek and neck and onto the chest. The tips of his fingers came to rest on one of the several scars that indented the flesh. He caressed the scar on Davud’s left pectoral.

“These are from Tartar arrows. You must indeed be strong of heart to have survived their points.”

Davud began to sign, but Suleyman grasped his hands to stop their movement. “You may speak freely. Your tongue is eloquent and brings me as much pleasure as the sensitivity of your fingers.”

“Thank you, my lord. What you say is correct. My heart is strong and has good reason to be.”

Suleyman once again lay down on his back, hands clasped firmly behind his head. “Tell me, what makes it so strong that it can survive death several times over.”

The Itchoglan pressed his knuckles deep into the muscles of Suleyman’s thigh. “I have a love, my Sultan—a love that has burned since I was a boy.” Devoid of all inhibition, he shifted the flaccid p***s of the Shadow of God on Earth to the right in order to better massage the left thigh.

“Tell me of this love.”

The Itchoglan turned his attention toward the tiled dome of the hamam. “She is more beautiful than the shimmer of the dawning sun over the Golden Horn; flowing red hair more radiant than the flames of passion; skin as alabaster and enchanting as the purest of Carpathian marble.” He closed his eyes, his hands resting lightly against the Sultan’s abdomen. “Her heart... her heart and intelligence as strong as any gazelle frolicking across the mountain lawns.”

The Sultan dreamed of his own passion for Haseki, no more than twenty feet away in the adjoining suites. “Your love is deep, my friend, and she who you describe sounds worthy of your affection. Where is she now?”

Davud hesitated. “I... I do not know, my lord. But she is in my heart and one day I will find her.” With knees firmly placed either side of Suleyman’s chest, Davud dug his fingers into the ropey neck and shoulder muscles.

“What is her name?”

The Itchoglan leaned down as he continued his work, his lips close to Suleyman’s ear “My love’s name is Aleksandra, my lord.... Aleksandra.”

Suleyman lay still, beneath the Itchoglan. He observed the face before him, letting himself swim within the depths of the hazel eyes. “Aleksandra...,” he breathed at last. “That is a beautiful name.”