Roxelana & Suleyman

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Davud lay n***d; face up, on a raised slab of black marble.

He had spent the previous days on horseback with the Aga of the White Eunuchs on the road to Edirne for the ritual that could not be performed within the sanctity of Istanbul.

The marble was cold and hard against his buttocks and back. It was centered in an oval, colonnaded room. The domed ceiling above was of a dark marble, patterned with a pearl-filigree that swept down to the supporting columns. Torchlight flickered, but behind the columns was an inky black. Raising his head from the stone, Davud peered down along the length of his body—past the thatch of brown hair that crossed his chest and circled his n*****s before trailing down the middle of his abdomen to cascade about his groin and the length of flesh that lay flaccid against his inner thigh. In resignation he turned to the Aga who stood beside him.

The old eunuch gently ruffled the locks above Davud’s intense gaze and indicated for the third man in the chamber to start the ceremony. The Advocate, richly draped in cloaks of red, green and yellow, commenced a deep incantation that echoed around the domed chamber. Davud closed his eyes and joined in the invocation.

“There is only one God and Mohammed is the Messenger of God...”

The incantation mellowed into silence and the Aga leaned in close to Davud. “Are you ready, my boy?”

Davud’s eyelids flicked open. “Yes, in the name of Allah and the Shadow of God on Earth, I am ready.” His voice was strong. For Aleksandra’s freedom, his thoughts stated even more emphatically.

The Advocate stepped to Davud’s midriff, letting the edge of his jeweled dagger caress the length of outstretched torso through the fine layer of hair. His incantation echoed around the chamber as he cupped Davud’s scrotum in his left hand. The skin crawled and flushed with blood, the p***s growing hard and slapping up against the taut abdomen. Davud’s heart thumped in his chest. Sweat made the block of marble slippery beneath him. The dome above echoed his breathing as it came frantic and loud.

The prayers of the Advocate escalated as he wound cord tight around the base of the extremity, then pushed the scrotum high and attempted to wrap his fingers around both it and Davud’s thickened flesh. The skin pulsated when the dagger’s curved edge was placed amongst the tight brown curls of the scrotum’s underbelly. The blade was sharp; merely holding it to the flesh coerced drops of blood to trickle down its length.

Davud’s vision blurred and the ceiling above became a haze of dancing swirls and images. The face of his love swam before him: the beauty of her eyes, the glistening of her hair, and the sweetness of her lips. His body tensed when the Advocate’s grip wrenched. He gasped—a baritone grunt that echoed about the columns and curves of the dome. He took one final deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut as the Advocate sliced the dagger into the flesh....

“Cease!” the Aga yelled, pushing his cupped hand between the dagger and Davud’s scrotum.

Davud convulsed, fevered anxiety splattering across his chest and face. He screamed in perplexed anguish—waves of o****m swelling throughout him, casting him toward exhaustion. He writhed, almost slipping from the sweat-covered slab... the Aga grabbing him with a b****y hand before he could fall to the floor, holding the n***d youth to his chest as tight as he was able. Davud sobbed—overwhelmed by grief and inconsolable confusion—distress and bitterness echoing through the chamber until they were replaced by the quiet whimpering of a man totally spent.

The Aga held Davud long after the Advocate had left the chamber, and the flickering torches started to gutter. When the last of the torches extinguished and the two were left in complete darkness, he spoke quietly. “You are truly a believer, my son, and have proven your unyielding dedication to our Empire and our Sultan. Your will is strong. And that internal strength is apparent not only in your physicality, but also by that which you are willing to endure.”

Davud held his head to the Aga’s chest—his head aching and his vision blurred by tears.

“By Mohammed, you will not be gelded on this day—or any other day upon this Earth. You are a man who has much to offer in spirit, strength and body to the Shadow of God on Earth.”

Davud did not understand. He was physically wasted and could do nothing but lean into the potency of the Aga beside him.

“I am reassigning you to the corps of Itchoglans. Amongst them, you will train for a position on the personal staff of Sultan Suleyman Khan. You will fulfil your desire to serve the greatest ruler on Earth, but, with the others in that corps, you will do it as a complete man.”

Wrapping his arms firmly around Davud’s torso and legs, the Aga—defying his own vast age—lifted the weakened body up off the slab to remove him from the chamber.

“Come, my son, you have much training before you will be ready to be presented to the Sultan.”