Roxelana & Suleyman

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Dariusz and Halim met up with Kasim and Ishak by a large stone column only several yards from the alley entrance to their water-filled palace. The column, which Halim said was all that remained of an ancient Byzantine Triumphal Arch, stood before a great leafy square bound on one side by Aya Sofya and on the other by the entrance to the Hippodrome. Dariusz gaped at the thousands of people milling throughout the area. Smoke billowed from vast roasting pits as hundreds of lambs and hundreds more stag and oxen were turned slowly on spits over the flames.

The group of four pushed their way through the crowds, eagerly accepting chunks of the roasted meat and skewers of grilled eggplant and onion. Dariusz gripped firmly onto a full half leg of lamb—savoring the taste of flesh between his teeth and luxuriating in the juices that ran freely down his forearm. Ishak offered him a bladder of sweet-tasting wine from which he guzzled mouthfuls before passing on to Halim.

They settled on a grassy mound in the center of the Hippodrome. Leaning against the base of a large obelisk they were afforded a view of the crowds and the celebrations to come. Halim held out a stick of bread to Dariusz, jokingly biting a chunk out of his leg of lamb as he did so. Dariusz smiled at his friend before ripping a large piece of the bread off with his teeth. The men continued to gulp from the wine-filled bladder as it was passed around and around their circle.

A roar of excitement rippled through the crowd. The friends turned toward the entrance of the Hippodrome, and Ishak clambered up onto Kasim’s shoulders to get a better view.

Thirty mace-bearers marched under the stone arches and onto the ancient chariot raceway of the Hippodrome. The stark whiteness of their tall turbans shimmered in the bright sunlight.

“Ottea, ottea, ste chinachera gellar,” they yelled, with the hundred thousand strong crowds taking up the cry until it echoed around the stadium. The excited commotion was overwhelmingly loud.

Dariusz was oblivious to the meaning of the words, but soon also took up the chant, trying to get his mouth around the strange syllables in his increasingly intoxicated state. Halim elbowed him in the side and gave a laugh that was heightened by the wine and excitement.

“Here comes Our Lord the Sultan,” he translated.

Next came over two thousand of the Sultan’s elite Janissary Corps, marching in silence in their blue tunics and tall white turbans. The crowd hushed until all that could be heard was the clanking of swords and axes that hung from the soldiers’ waists. But this hush was short lived, replaced by a deafening roar as two thousand mounted cavalry and the same number in the Sultan’s personal guard trotted onto the raceway and around its curve.

Dariusz was in awe as the parade swung around the far end of the stadium. He swung his head back and forth, taking in the stature and strength of the armed forces that totally surrounded them. The wine was taking its toll and he placed his hand on Halim’s shoulder for support. Halim returned the touch by throwing his arm around his companion’s waist. Together they enjoyed the exhibition, comforted by a growing friendship.

Following the Sultan’s personal guard, twenty or more horses draped in scarlet velvet and wearing headpieces adorned with diamonds, pearls and turquoise pranced immaculately. And behind them, on a fine white steed, rode the new Sultan.

Sultan Suleyman Khan was clothed in a caftan of black silk, embroidered in fine gold thread. On his head, the Grand Turk wore a large turban. Around him walked four groomsmen, each with a long pike to keep the over-exuberant crowd at bay; and before him strode three pages carrying his bow and arrows and his jewel-encrusted saber. Dariusz craned his neck to capture the full spectacle—noting how Suleyman acknowledged the crowd with a slight nod of his head, but all the while continuing to bear himself appropriately, as Halim stated emphatically, as The Shadow of God on Earth amongst his people.

Halim, who was shorter than Dariusz, jumped up and down, straining to see the great Sultan over the heads of the fervent crowd. Dariusz, enamored by the increasing excitement and intoxication, crouched down and indicated for his friend to sit upon his shoulders. Rising back up to his full height, he immediately felt the heat of Halim’s groin pressed firmly against the back of his head. The beating of his heart quickened with the flow of wine through his veins and the unexpected warmth...

And then he thought of Aleksandra.

He perused the massive crowd. Could she be here watching this spectacle also? Halim shrieked and laughed as his friend turned to and fro. He placed one hand on the obelisk behind them to steady himself, but still used the other to drink deeply from their second wine-filled bladder. Dariusz gripped Halim’s legs firmly to his chest—systematically running his attention across the crowd, striving for a glimpse of the flaming red hair that had consumed his dreams and thoughts since that painful day in the market square.

His scrutiny continued as the vast masses of Janissaries, cavalry and the Sultan’s personal guard circumnavigated the Hippodrome and trotted out the far end in the direction of Aya Sofya. Finally, the Sultan himself left the enormous space on his steed to make his way to the mosque. The chant of the muezzin drifted down from the minarets that towered above the religious edifice—filling the Hippodrome with its enigmatic qualities. Halim motioned for Dariusz to set him down and, with Ishak and Kasim, he kneeled on the ground to pray. Dariusz sat on the grass, his back against the obelisk, observing his friends and the uncountable others falling to the ground around him. Those who were not of the faith remained standing or hunkered down in silent respect. There were tens of thousands in his immediate view, but many, many times that in the surrounding squares, courtyards, parks and streets of Istanbul. With a pang of sorrow that seemed to eat at his very being, Dariusz’s heart sank at ever being able to find his love in the enormity of the metropolis.

When the chanting muezzin diminished into silence, the crowd rose as one and cheered. Halim stood, clasped his companion’s hand, and motioned for Ishak and Kasim to follow.

“Come, we must secure our vantage point for the Sultan’s entrance into the magnificence of Topkapi Palace. Our Lord Suleyman may spend some great time in Aya Sofya in prayer and thanks to Allah and the Prophet Mohammed, but it will take us just as long to sample the delicacies of the festival and make our way through the crowds to the palace gates.”

Though the distance was not far, it took the young men over two hours to push through the crowds and around to the far side of Aya Sofya. With two fresh bladders of wine balanced in the crook of his arm, Halim led them into a back alley. Then, climbing from barrel to wall to balcony, they made their way onto a rooftop that gave them a g*n-barrel view of the Grand Boulevard that separated the mosque from the walls of the palace. Halim pointed out the Imperial Gate to Dariusz.

“That, my friend, is the entrance to the most wonderful of worlds.”

Dariusz could see little over the wall from their vantage point—only the tops of many fine trees, the dome of a smaller mosque and, in the distance, the red tiled roofs of the rambling palace.

The sun was high in the sky when the Sultan’s entourage made its way from the far side of Aya Sofya and into the boulevard before them. The entire magnificent spectacle that they had already witnessed repeated itself with just as much impact as in the Hippodrome. Dariusz rested lazily against the parapet of the roof, taking in the splendor, but at all times alert to the flicker of his hope.

Once the Grand Turk himself had entered the Imperial Gate of the palace, the booming of great war-drums echoed down the Grand Boulevard from the west. A second procession was making its way from the Third Hill of Istanbul.

Several hundred Janissaries marched to the beating of the massive, horse-drawn drums. Behind them a six-horse carriage of unimaginable beauty and finery rolled on wheels that sparkled as if made from the very jewels that covered the main canopy.

“It is the Valide Sultana, the Sultan’s mother,” Halim whispered in awe to Dariusz.

Around the carriage a score of footmen and courtiers marched solemnly. A smaller carriage followed closely behind, from which several courtiers threw golden ducats into the hands of the cheering crowds. Ishak and Kasim scurried off the roof and down to the boulevard so that they too might share in the riches. Dariusz and Halim continued to watch from their perch. Four more carriages followed in the wake of the first two. They were just as ornate in design, but much smaller. White stallions covered in tapestries of gold thread and pearls drew each majestically along the thoroughfare.

When the procession reached the Imperial Gate, it stopped and an officer of the Janissaries saluted the carriage of the Valide Sultana. Two footmen lifted a large trunk out of the second carriage. Its top was opened to reveal the brilliance of jewels and golden ducats to the cheering crowds. The trunk was laid at the feet of the officer before the procession proceeded through the gate and into the forecourts of the palace.

Dariusz, his arm resting across Halim’s shoulders, leaned over the parapet, staring at the last of the carriages as it made its way into the palace. His thoughts drifted inward, to the fresh sweet smell—lavender—of her familiar mane of red hair, to the melody of her voice and the sparkle of her eyes.

I love you, my sweet Aleksandra. I will find you in this great city and together we will return to our true home.

He leaned into Halim, the warmth of an unbridled friendship giving him strength and hope.