Roxelana & Suleyman

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN-1

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Davud marched proudly with his brother Janissaries. The Sultan had returned to their encampment on the outskirts of the city before the rising of the sun, and now rode with them in their victorious entrance into Istanbul.

Tugra chomped as she pranced down the main thoroughfares of the city. She regally conveyed her master past the hundreds of thousands of mixed faiths who had gathered to celebrate the conquest and to join in the promised feasting and festivities.

The city reveled for many days and nights with musicians and others telling the story of the capture of Belgrade in verse and song. With each recounting the battles became more extraordinary; the bravery of the Janissaries and the Sultan himself more triumphant. Indeed, thousands of Christians were so impressed that they volunteered to embrace Islam as their own. Officials of the city quickly led them away to be circumcised and renamed in the Turkish fashion.

Davud and Cem celebrated with their brothers—rejoicing in the potency of their combined and individual authority and esteem. Davud’s gained strength of body and mind had resolved into a confidence that he would never have known without them.

On the twelfth night of fete he was ready to leave their company and confront the Aga of the White Eunuchs—to request acceptance into his league.

“I envy your certainty, my friend,” Cem said.

Davud arched an eyebrow. “How so?”

“That you are so sure of your masculinity, you can willingly give up that which most men measure theirs by.”

Davud squeezed his brother tight, savoring the intense green eyes that had been a part of his journey. He turned from the festivities toward the darkened corridors of Topkapi Palace.

Torches had been lit around the colonnade of the Second Court. Entering from the palace kitchens, Davud made his way along the portico before crossing the garden to the Gate of Felicity. The domes and tower of The Divan cast shadows across his path as he came to a halt in front of the gate. A white eunuch guarding the entrance questioned him, and allowed him to pass—as he had been allowed for the past year to enter the Palace School buildings within.

The quarters of the Aga were in the back of the gate. Davud grabbed the iron ring hanging in the center of the door..., but hesitated.... For interminable minutes he stood there in the dark, gripping the ring tight.... His knuckles were white—stark against the brown geometric paneling of the door. He dropped the ring and turned his hand over to study the calluses that had long been his friend, had documented his journey to this door. Then, clenching his fist forcefully around the ring in determination, he banged it twice against the wood and yanked the entry open.

At the top of the winding stone stair within the Gate structure, he found the Aga sitting on his divan, writing briskly over a stack of manuscripts. The Aga turned to him.

“Master Aga,” Davud lowered himself to his knees, “I..., I wish to join your employ so that I may better serve the Shadow of God and his household.”

The Aga placed his quill by the pot of ink. “Davud, you have proven a fine Agiamoglan and will be a valued addition to the Janissary Corps. By that honor alone you are doing a great service to the House of Osman.”

“Yes, Master Aga, but I know that I belong here within the palace walls and through my training may be a valuable personal asset to our lord the Sultan.”

“Stand up, Davud,” the Aga said, leaning back into the cushions of his divan to contemplate the youth before him.

Davud stood as the Aga held his candle toward him.

“Your gesture is honorable, young Davud, but are you certain you have prepared yourself adequately for this commitment?”

Davud nodded, however the Aga seemed to sense hesitancy. He rose and crossed the room.

“The eldest I have ever seen anyone become a eunuch is twelve—before the onset of puberty. I myself was perfected when I was but seven. You on the contrary are a young man of almost twenty years. There are many dangers for any as mature as you.”

“I understand.”

The old eunuch thoughtfully placed his hand on the young man’s groin—flesh that Davud knew the Aga would probably have no real personal memory of.

“To become a white eunuch you will not only have your pouch and seed removed, but also the full yard.” The elder used both hands to grasp Davud firmly through the cloth of his breeches. He then grasped Davud’s hand and slipped it through the front flap of the white caftan symbolizing the Aga’s status and purity. Davud’s palm and fingers brushed against the heavily wrinkled flesh of a groin that had never known the flush of blood, the heat and pleasurable ache of an erection. A downy-stubble covered the flesh of the Aga’s inner thigh—nothing more.

“My boy, think about what you are asking and take Allah into your soul that you may make the noblest of resolutions. I will be here with the coming of the new sun. If your decision is true, I will gladly accept you into my league.”

Davud held the Aga’s gaze and then, removing his hand from within the elder’s caftan, left the room.

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Haseki awoke from her nightmare, covered in a layer of perspiration. Her dreams of Dariusz had gone on unabated, even with Suleyman’s return. Sitting up from the divan, she took a sip of water from a goblet, checked that Mehmet was sleeping soundly, and stepped out onto the terrace to view the gardens and breathe deeply of the fresh, sea breeze. She noticed the flicker of movement in the groves of beech below.

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