Roxelana & Suleyman

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN-2

Davud walked down through the gardens of Topkapi Palace within the embrace of night. Slipping through the southern sea-wall door, he meandered along the walkway and hopped across the rocks that hugged in close between the fortification and the surf. He reached the end of Seraglio Point and jumped across the larger boulders until he came to rest on a flat shard of stone that jutted out into the foaming waterway.

Though he stood in the almost complete shadow of the palace, the world just outside his reach was bright and pulsating with life. Galata Tower, perched high on its hill on the far side of the Golden Horn was ablaze. The echoes of victory mingled with the brightness and rippled over the water. A thousand craft bobbed almost directly before him. Even more and larger ships were anchored in the Marmora—their crew laughing and jovial with the celebrations—oblivious to Davud standing in the dark, on the point. In the center of the Bosphorus, just this side of Asia, was the Tower of the Maiden. A pinnacle of white ivory, the structure, with its flaming beacon, struck a shaft straight up from the churning turmoil of the channel.

Davud toed his slippers from his feet and shucked off his breeches. He loosened his cloak and pushed it from his shoulders, letting it fall to the stone. n***d and alone, he exulted in the inky-darkness that pressed in hard against him. The soothing kiss of sea spray fell upon him as he hunkered and lay down upon his discarded clothing—his vision taken up by the life of Istanbul around him and the flow of the constellations above. The intensity enamored him.

He gripped the length of flesh that would soon be gone.

Aleksandra; Do you even know that I live? That my every action, my every breath is for you? That flesh means nothing to me without your sweet touch; your tender caress?

His breathing labored as his thoughts turned in, as he became slick with sea-spray and sweat, as his clenched hand grasped his past, as his heart beat toward his future. His chest heaved with the exertion. He turned his head to press a cheek against the coolness of the stone—his attention falling toward the sea-wall of Topkapi, to the gate in the wall, the open gate.

Standing there in silhouette was a woman.

He lay suddenly still, as she made her way toward him.

“Aleksandra,” breathed Davud. Breathed Dariusz.

Aleksandra stepped along the path and onto the boulder where he lay. She appeared incredulous, on the verge of tears, on the verge of laughter. Without a word she undid the sash of her robes and pushed them from her body. Her skin was alabaster; a stark contrast to Davud’s which was brown from training and battle. He stretched his arms toward her as she lay down on the robes beside him. He kissed her on the lips a second tender time, then rolled and slipped effortlessly into where he was always meant to be.

Davud laughed—a brilliant laughter that echoed past the Tower of the Maiden and along the course of the Bosphorus. Breathless, he arched his back, and peered up into the depths of the universe, then returned his gaze to his love.

But she was not there. She never was.

He was ready for the rising of the new day’s sun.