Roxelana & Suleyman

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY

The men galloped evasively around the Cirit field. A pelting autumn downpour had turned the playing area into a quagmire that made riding dangerous, but still they rode in the rain. Javelins flew, knocking opponents to the ground. Others also fell or were thrown as their steeds slipped and skidded through the mud. Most of the field had been defeated out of the game and waited patiently on the side-lines to see who would gain their Sultan’s admiration. Suleyman stood at the balustrade of Cinili Kiosk, wincing as another of the men was spiked from his horse.

“Damn, I was so sure he would be the last man on his mount.”

The final ten circled their horses in the downpour. Javelins flew and another two were knocked to the ground—rolling through the mud to evade a steed that lost its footing and tumbled toward them.

Suleyman motioned for Ibrahim to get up off the divan and join him at the edge of the terrace. “You are missing the best plays.”

“I do not wish to get soaking wet like you, my lord. I am quite comfortable and can see just as well from here.”

Suleyman smiled at his friend before turning his attention back to the game—leaning out over the balustrade into the rain, delighting as it splashed across his face and torso. The game continued until only two remained mounted. They circled and re-circled the field within the haze of the deluge. The glint of a javelin arced across the field, narrowly missing its intended target.

“Whoa, bad luck, my page.” Suleyman clapped his hands above his head.

The last two riders trotted toward each other. When they met in front of the Cinili Kiosk the one that still possessed his javelin gently nudged his remaining rival in the chest. The opponent bowed in defeat and fell voluntarily from his horse into the mud at its hooves.

“Thank you, my pages. You have acted valiantly and played a fine game,” Suleyman yelled over the noise of the pounding rain. He indicated for a eunuch to throw a pouch of ducats to the victorious page. The page caught the sack, bowed deeply from his saddle, then yanked on the reins to join the others and celebrate his victory.

Suleyman stepped back from the balustrade—his caftan wringing wet. He pushed the layers of robes from his body and let them fall to the ground. Ibrahim sucked intently on the mouthpiece of a nagila as two mutes appeared with cloths and briskly rubbed the Sultan’s n***d flesh dry. A third approached with a freshly warmed caftan and held it open.

“No, no. Leave it on the divan. Despite all this water the air is temperate. I will lounge as I am in the good company and warmth of my companion.” He crossed the last few steps to the divan and lay down on his stomach across the richly textured fabric.

“You are happier than I have seen you in many years, my brother.”

Suleyman lifted his head, a sparkle in his eyes, “Yes, Ibrahim, I am. I possess in my harem a jewel of such magnificence and depth that my breathing stops whenever I behold her beauty.”

“I am pleased for you, my lord. Tell me of your... treasure.”

Suleyman was exuberant, pulling himself up off his front to sit cross-legged. His face brightened and his expression broadened. Ibrahim grinned at him, attentive to the descriptions of beauty—the flaming hair, the ivory skin, the delicate touch.

“She truly sounds worthy of the Shadow of God on Earth,” Ibrahim said when he finally had the chance. “And I see even now that she can give you great pleasure without even being in the same pavilion.”

Suleyman unabashedly pulled a cushion over his lap.

Ibrahim leant back into the bolster at his back, his lips caressing the ivory mouthpiece of the nagila. “Yes,” he whispered. “There is nothing finer than the touch or taste of a beautiful woman.” He drew the tulip-scented tobacco deep into his lungs. With his thoughts firmly on his Sultan’s treasure, he pondered the rain that pounded the palace grounds, as he gnashed the smooth ivory tube between his molars.