Roxelana & Suleyman

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Dariusz awoke with a shiver. Though a blanket had been placed over him while he slept, the damp of this place chilled him to the bone.

“You are awake, my prince,” Halim said, quite loudly.

Kasim and Ishak murmured and rolled closer to one another without rousing.

Dariusz wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and shuffled over to the fire. Halim handed him a cup of hot, syrupy coffee.

“Hmm, that’s good. What is this place, Halim?”

“This is our palace, my friend. I expect it was built long before the great Sultan Mehmed conquered those Byzantine dogs. Its purpose I do not know, but it is our home and I know that we are safe here. See here, I have been up early this morning and acquired you a handsome vest and pants.”

“Thank you, Halim,” Dariusz said in all honesty. “You are the friend that I need.” He reached out and accepted the clothing. With a shy nod, he squeezed Halim’s hand.

“Come, I have obtained several ducats. Today we are both princes of the city!”

Dariusz pulled on the pants and vest, the fabric smooth against his skin. Tentatively he accepted Halim’s outstretched hand and followed him, barefooted, across the planks toward the far side of the cavern. They crept up the sloping tunnel and, careful that no one would notice their exit, slipped out from behind the thorny bush and into the alleyway. Halim’s grip on Dariusz’s hand was strong, as he pulled him through the lanes of the awakening city. Dariusz had never known such familiarity, the grip slightly unnerving, but not unwelcome.

They entered the broader avenues where the growing excitement of the people became more evident to Dariusz. He found everything and everyone about him extraordinary. Cartloads of freshly baked bread rolled through the streets. Others, filled with livestock, trundled toward the roasting pits built overnight at the Hippodrome, or so Halim said.

“This is the most joyous of occasions to be in the Queen of Cities,” he stated proudly. “There will be much feasting, dancing and song. And all of it for free, compliments of the new Sultan.” He made an extravagant flourish with his free hand.

Dariusz grinned at his companion’s exuberance. “Where are we going?”

“We are going to make you look a little more like the prince that you are! There will be many maidens, or as you please, seeking fulfilment during the festivities of the next few weeks,”

They wove amongst the increasing crowds and passed through a series of corridors and archways into an open court. Men sat on benches sipping coffee and talking hurriedly in foreign tongues. Halim led Dariusz through an arcade and into a room sculpted from marbles of white and red. Golden calligraphy scrolled across the walls, citing unknown mysteries.

Halim plunked his friend down on a bench and pressed a golden ducat into the palm of a fat old barber. Dariusz’s matted, filthy hair fell to the ground in clumps. The barber, a Greek, gave squeals of disgust, but carried on as the ducat clinked against others in his pocket. He soaped up Dariusz’s lower face and ran the edge of a dagger across his chin and neck. The wispy hairs of scraggy beard gave way and exposed the taught skin and straight jaw.

Halim took his friend’s arm and pulled him toward the second room of the public hamam. He shucked off his clothing, placed them neatly on a ledge by the wall, and motioned for Dariusz to follow suit. Seeing that all the men in the second room were n***d, Dariusz did as he was beckoned and followed Halim into the heat. They slipped through the dimly lit space and onto a ledge overhanging a pool at the far end. Dariusz was aware of how dirty he was, with several months of searching and dirt clogging every pore. He scraped his fingernails across a bicep—filthy. The heat of the space soon permeated his and Halim’s flesh, until both were covered in a slick film of hot perspiration. A puddle of black sweat quickly smeared the ledge beneath Dariusz’s n***d feet, thighs and buttocks. Halim stood and reached over to grasp a scraping tool from a basket. He leaned in to scrape Dariusz’s back, but Dariusz flinched at the unrelenting familiarity of his new friend—why do you keep touching me? —and grabbed the scraper from him. Halim appeared perplexed by the reticence, but said nothing. Dariusz scraped the sweat and grime from his arms and legs, his chest and abdomen with the tool. He attempted to scrape his back, but was unable.

“It’s okay, my friend, Dariusz. You can trust me.” Halim’s whisper echoed around the cloister.

Dariusz pursed his lips and nodded, handing the scraper back to Halim, turning so that his shoulder blades and back could be cleaned. After an hour of sweating and scraping by both the men it seemed that the dirt of Dariusz’s journey had been purged. He slipped from the ledge down into the pool. Sucking in a deep breath, he submerged beneath the surface. His muscles relaxed as he held his breath and peered up through the water at the room he was in, at the rippling refraction of his grinning friend. He rubbed his arms, torso and legs and stretched and twisted luxuriantly under the water as the tension of many months of travel lifted from his flesh. He broke the surface of the pool, taking in a deep breath of the musky, masculine scented air, then sunk beneath the surface a second time, before lifting himself out of the water and up onto the ledge by Halim.

Halim sat quietly in the heat beside him, his thoughts his own. Dariusz meanwhile breathed deeply and scrutinized the men, young and old, who filled the pools and massage slabs. Two men chuckled, their arms over the other’s shoulder as they reclined in a pool. Others touched each other’s nakedness freely in between bouts of talking and whispers. He wondered at their freedom to express friendship so physically and why he had never experienced it before. Leaning back against the slick, tiled wall, his attention momentarily swept across the brown, smooth flesh of Halim’s chest, past the dark n*****s surrounded by a few wisps of black hair, and then to the thick thatch of brown hair that covered his own muscled chest. Scars puckered across his pectorals. Salty tears suddenly blurred his vision as he recalled the pain of the arrows entering his body, and yet again when old mother Baranovsky had pulled them from the aching flesh. Still, after all these months, they were tender to the touch, weeping, and kept him in a fitful wakefulness at night. The tears melded with the beads of perspiration on his cheeks. He wiped at them roughly. “This sweating stings the eyes,” he murmured to his companion who didn’t seem altogether convinced.

Halim rose and pointed to several men being pummeled on the marble massage slab in the center of the room. Dariusz shook his head. He followed Halim back to the first room of the hamam, aware of conversations following his movements and, as he turned, he knew that men in the darkest recesses were staring at him and whispering in their dark language. He felt unexpectedly uncomfortable in his nudity, even though clean, and hurried into the main room to pull on his new breeches and vest.