Roxelana & Suleyman

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Belgrade was over halfway from Istanbul toward Vienna.

“Ah, Vienna,” Suleyman mused to Ibrahim and his Grand Vizier. “One day that Red Apple will fall under my reign.” He dug his heels into Tugra’s flanks and galloped to the crest of the hill. The advisors, on their own steeds, followed close behind.

From the top, they had a commanding view of the valley before them. Majestic conifers and vast sheets of basalt covered its rim. The Danube meandered along the lowlands through lush pastures and cultivated areas with more than ninety thousand Janissaries marching along both its banks toward the city of Belgrade. Despite the undulations in the land they filed in perfect formation. As always, their precision made their Sultan beam in pride. The glorious noise of the Janissary Mehter band reverberated. Sixty-six war-drums—so large they had to be hauled upon carriages pulled by four horses each—boomed and bellowed along the valley’s length. Their deafening attack echoed off the basalt and assaulted the besieged city with as much anguish and force as any cannonade. They were music to Suleyman’s ears.

Puffs of white smoke plumed from the parapets of the Keep at the city’s edge—cannon. A score of his men were knocked to the ground by the lead balls, but still the troops marched and still the war drums boomed. The Janissaries retaliated with their own cannonade. Horses galloped enormous war guns into position. Troops clamored over and around them, bombarding the ancient walls and towers of the city.

The battering continued throughout the day with Suleyman and the Grand Vizier supervising from their perch. Mounted pages and runners delivered strategic directions to the officers on the field. The Janissaries suffered some losses due to the openness of the valley, but Ibrahim surmised to Suleyman that it was not as great as in the city. He pointed to a tower that was crumbling under the bombardment, and to bright flames that licked the spire of a cathedral. When twilight came, the Janissaries withdrew from the valley back to their encampment, leaving only the Mehter Band to maintain its deafening harassment of the flaming and weakened city throughout the night.

Suleyman sat astride Tugra at the entrance to the camp as the returning warriors filed past him and toward the cauldrons full of pilav. The men were hungry and eager to devour the spiced rice.

One of the Agiamoglans, his blue uniform b****y from the encounter and his scruffy, brown hair hanging low across his eyes supported another that had twisted his ankle. Suleyman studied his stature and smiled when their gaze met for the briefest of moments. The Sultan raised his fingers to his forehead in salute to the young Agiamoglan, and then turned to the Agiamoglans and Janissaries that followed. He nodded his appreciation to each. When the last of the troops had passed him, he turned to survey the men devouring their supper. Again his gaze met that of the scruffy haired youth.

The attack on Belgrade was unrelenting for several weeks throughout the heat of summer. Fires tore through the city center and many of the structures that had survived a thousand years of crusades and wars crumbled into heaps of stone. The valley was enveloped in a fog of thick black smoke. And still the war drums boomed.

On the twenty-ninth day of August Suleyman entered Belgrade—mounted upon the trotting, pristine-whiteness of Tugra.

“This is truly a wonderful day,” Ibrahim bellowed from his horse, beside Suleyman.

“Yes, my friend. We are one step closer to the ultimate Red Apple. Advise the Grand Vizier to leave a corps of ten thousand Janissaries to guard, reorganize and rebuild the city. Belgrade will be key to our attainment of Vienna.”

Ibrahim nodded, pulling at his steed’s reigns and galloping in the direction of the Grand Vizier.

The majority of the Janissary forces returned that night to their encampment to celebrate. The officials of Belgrade were eager to please their new host—whom they hoped would be far less oppressive than their previous Hapsburg rulers. They presented Suleyman with the keys to the city on a platter once touched by the prophet Jesus. Wagonloads of musicians, and pretty women and men were hauled in amongst the tents and pavilions of the victorious—a night of deals, bargaining and pleasure after the bitter weeks of battle.

Suleyman elated as his men and guests feasted on stag, oxen, rice and the pungent truffles gathered from the Belgrade forests. They were entertained by folk-dancing and the strange stringed instruments of the locals. The men sang loud and long into the night, gradually breaking away from the fires to caress the flesh of the Belgrade offerings or that of their brother Janissaries.

When the sky was swept by stars and the crescent moon swathed the forested valley in its glow, Suleyman retired to his pavilion, requesting Ibrahim come and converse with him about their triumph. Ibrahim entered the pavilion as Suleyman, lounging on a heap of cushions, selected from a tray of cheeses and fruits. “Come, my brother, come sit at my side.”

Ibrahim stepped across the carpets, picking up a flask of wine and two goblets, before seating himself at the feet of his Sultan. “We have done finely on this campaign, my lord,” he said, taking a gulp of the sticky red wine.

He opened his mouth to say more, but Suleyman placed his fingers to his lips and reached out for his friend’s hand. Ibrahim let himself be pulled closer and then, with a smile that spread across his face, he raised himself up and rolled the full length of his body onto the cushions beside Suleyman. Their lips locked and they drank deeply from a passion they had shared since boyhood.

* * * *

That night Haseki had a boy—Mehmet.