Roxelana & Suleyman

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR-1

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The four men ran through the twisting streets, clasping the wares they had stolen. Ishak was the fastest, speeding ahead with ease. Dariusz, in the middle, held tight to a sack of lentils—its weight bearing him down as he glanced over his shoulder to see the turbaned Janissaries pursuing them. They skirted the high walls of the Atik Ali Pasa Mosque and ran into the alleys leading toward the labyrinths of the Grand Bazaar. There, Dariusz hoped, they would lose their pursuers.

Entering a thoroughfare crowded with people inspecting the latest offering of the caravans from the east, Kasim slipped and flew headfirst into a mountain of barrels. His armful of apples and mandarins went flying. Dariusz faltered as several Janissaries threw themselves on top of Kasim. Fists punched and the glint of metal was raised high before being brutally thrust into flesh. Ishak ran into a dark arcade. Halim knocked the sack from Dariusz’s arms and pulled him quickly down a narrow alley.

“Come, my friend, there is nothing we can do, come quickly,” Halim yelled breathlessly.

He kept a firm grip on Dariusz’s arm—leading him through alleys, cloisters and courtyards. At length they slowed to a walk, but continued to traverse the myriad of lanes and back streets. They stopped only when they had reached the broad docks edging the Sea of Marmora. Both were still short of breath and aching from the run. Clumsily they fell down onto the stone dock, letting their legs and feet dangle over its edge. For a long time, they said nothing. Fishing boats bobbed on the sea. A few yards away a vessel had pulled in and was unloading its catch.

“There was nothing we could do,” Halim said, slowly shaking his head.

Dariusz leaned into his companion, slipping his arm over Halim’s shoulders when he saw that tears were threatening to well. They continued sitting, the sun moving higher into the sky and boat after boat of fish unloading around them.

“Come, Halim,” Dariusz said at last. “We must eat and there is bread remaining at our fine palace.”

He stood, lifting Halim to his feet as he did so. For a moment he held his friend, resting his cheek on the head of curly, black hair. Halim returned the embrace and they walked up through the streets back to the safety of their home.

Ishak had not yet returned to the cistern. Dariusz pulled Halim down through the tunnel and to the water’s edge, holding him firmly as they balanced across the boards and skirted around the bases of the columns. The creaking of the planks and the dripping of water were all that echoed in the darkness of the chamber. When they had reached the security of their ledge, they huddled by the glowing embers of the fire. With a deep shudder, Halim burst into tears. He heaved. Sobbing filled the cavern, dread resonating off the columns and rippling on the slowly eddying waters. Dariusz at first was unsure of how to comfort his friend, but placed his arms around him in the growing tenderness of their friendship. He held him tight, urging him down onto the blanket by the fire. He whispered consolations in their closeness, tasting the salt of Halim’s tears whenever his lips brushed against the trembling cheek. As the sobbing subsided and Halim’s warmth pressed firmly against him, Dariusz’s own vision blurred—a stirring throughout his body, eating at the loneliness that had obsessed him since the loss of Aleksandra. He touched the wetness of Halim’s cheek with his lips. In the depths of the sadness beside him, the flicker of reflected flame burned deep within him, radiating unexpected warmth. Halim held his gaze—slowly, consciously, lifting himself until the softly-textured flesh of his lips touched Dariusz’s. The taste of the affection consumed them both. Dariusz pressed his lips firmly into Halim’s, urging his companion’s mouth open. His tongue explored the smoothness of teeth and the softness of tongue. With eyes half closed, he caressed Halim’s side. Flesh tingled and blood rushed. Dariusz’s body shook as an excruciating heat burned him from within.

“No!” he yelled in sudden realization and disgust—pulling back, pushing Halim away. He stood up and glared down at the expression of amazement of the one before him.

“No!” he grunted hoarsely in anger at himself. Then, turning, he blindly jumped from ledge to board, around the columns and up through the tunnel out of that place.

Dariusz’s head swam in confusion as he ran through the streets of Istanbul. Tears blinded him and waves of emotions wracked his body. He stopped in an alley and heaved up what little food was in his stomach. He steadied himself against the cold alley wall—heaving, convulsing and openly sobbing. Passers-by stared, but he paid them no mind. Shaking, he slid to the ground beside his vomit. The trembling was uncontrollable—the comprehension of what he had done drowning him in uncertainty and panic.

The sun had set; his stomach still twisted in knots by the time Dariusz lifted himself up from the cobbles. He shuffled unknowingly through street after street, alley after alley. Downcast, all he saw were the stones and dirt beneath his blackened bare feet. His belly growled, but he knew that he would throw up again if he tried to consume anything—tried to reason with what he had done.

His mind lurched. He attempted to urge the... the feelings... into a darkened alley.... He spat foul bile from his mouth.

Reaching the docks, he followed them for over an hour in the obscurity of the night until he arrived at the western wall of Istanbul. A great fortress with seven massive towers loomed high above him where the docks came to an end. He hovered in its shadows, leaning against an embankment, the fortress’s darkness seeming to clench his heart with a tightening grip of fear. Janissaries crowded around, moving in and out of the structure. One group of officers huddled together near a public fountain. They were boisterous and obnoxious—pure unbridled masculinity.

“A fortune in wine and the pinkest of feminine flesh,” promised one of the officers.

“And breasts so firm they could easily subdue the sharpest of swords,” snickered another.

They slapped each other on the back, joking about the conquests that would occur that night. Dariusz remained in the shadow of the tower, listening to their conversation, wishing desperately to be one with them and their intended adventure. He followed them away from the fortress, down torch lit alleys and to a row of dilapidated wooden buildings that clung to the side of the city wall. He moved in close behind them when they entered one of the decaying structures—following them into a series of simply furnished rooms.

A toothless Turk offered the newcomers goblets of watered-down wine. Dariusz accepted one and rolled down onto a cushion in the corner, hanging on every word of the men as they laughed and cheered. The Turk, carrying a bucket of embers, lit a nagila stuffed with tobacco. It bubbled as the men drew back in turn on its mouthpiece, dense aromatic smoke quickly surrounding the table—the smell of sweet apples. One of the officers spied Dariusz sitting alone and motioned for him to join their circle. He hesitated for a moment, but knew that he had to be in their company, had to be involved with their plans. He pulled his cushion over to the low table. When offered the mouthpiece of the nagila he drew back deeply on the smoke that had bubbled through the green liquid. It cut a course down into his lungs and then curled languorously out his nostrils when he exhaled. The smoke made his head feel light—his vision of the officers beginning to obscure in the thickening haze. One of the men removed a pouch from his pocket, taking a large pinch of roughly cut green-brown herbs between stubby fingers. He pressed the wad into the tightly packed head of the nagila—the toothless waiter refreshing the embers. Each of the men sucked on the mouthpiece in turn and again it was offered to Dariusz. He placed his lips on the piece, tasting the sweet-wined saliva of the men before him, before sucking heavily from the pipe. His lips immediately went numb. His lungs filled with a bright light. The heaviness that was squeezing his heart and making his thoughts tumble began to shatter and lift. Suddenly the torches around him took on a dazzling aura and he burst into laughter—a laughter that made his cheeks and body ache, his skin tingle. The reassuring hand of an officer clapped him solidly on the back. Turning toward him, Dariusz could do nothing but chuckle and allow the giddying embrace of the nagila to take full hold of his every sense.

The officer leant in close to Dariusz. “Tonight, my young man, we will dip our sticks in the sweetest part of the universe.”

Dariusz didn’t know exactly what he meant, but found himself chuckling even more recklessly.

Wine, nagila—nagila, wine... alcohol and narcotic seemed to exist in an endless supply, and as Dariusz indulged, all motion in the room slowed and his senses converged until he could feel only the pounding in his body and the glowing in his mind, which floated as lightly as the fresh scent of lilac.

When the last of the goblets were emptied, he staggered to his feet with the others and tottered down a twisting corridor. He felt as though he was being pulled along by an invisible hand, floating on the aroma of masculinity that filled his nostrils and the moans of feminine delight and promise that drifted from ahead.

They entered a cloistered courtyard that was lit only by the heat of passion and a single smoky lamp. Writhing on voluminous divans and cushions were men and women in various stages of undress. In his drugged haze, Dariusz recognized Jews, Greeks, Janissaries and Turks squirming and thrashing about. n***d skin flashed. Clothing and weapons of war were discarded as masculinity clashed with feminine succulence, and swords of flesh stabbed and slashed into the sweetest of rivals.

Swaying under the influence of what he had consumed and what was around him, Dariusz suddenly felt under scrutiny. “The Madam,” someone whispered in his ear, and he turned to see a woman l*****g the corner of her lips and staring blatantly at his crotch.

“You will enjoy my personal services, young master,” the Madam said, grasping him by the elbow and heading towards a side room.

He was vaguely aware of his newfound comrades whistling and punching their hands in the air, urging him on. Unsure of what to expect, he allowed himself to be pulled from the courtyard and through the folds of a heavy curtain into a lamp-lit room. The room was small, but luxuriously appointed—most of the floor space taken by a heavily-cushioned divan. He stood beside it, hesitant; not knowing what he was supposed to do. The Madam smiled and undid his loose-fitting shirt. She flicked it from his torso. He swayed precariously, but she grabbed his shoulders to keep him upright. With drooping eyelids, he watched as she let her own garments fall to the floor. His eyes widened and he swallowed, hard. She would have been about forty, more than twenty years older than him, but still beautiful. Beautiful. Her skin was alabaster, her breasts full, her n*****s dark. As if in a dream, Dariusz lowered his face to suck on their beauty. He bit softly on the sweet flesh, caressed the n*****s with his tongue, but she would not let him linger and nudged his head away. A second nudge and he was pushed down onto the divan. Dariusz laughed as he was flung backwards, the exhilaration escalating as the Madam grasped the cuffs of his breeches and pulled them from his hips and legs.

The madam arched an eyebrow and licked the corner of her mouth. “You are very fine, my young master—much finer than I have seen in many years.”

Dariusz sank into the cushions with the elation of being completely n***d with a woman, her fingers caressing him as she settled down beside him. His head began to spin, his thoughts began to dervish, when she ran her lips... her tongue... across his chest and n*****s and down through the wisps of fine hair covering his abdomen. The sensation slid with astonishing euphoria lower and lower. He found himself gasping and clutching at the covering of the divan as fingers caressed the hair on his inner thighs, and a velvet moisture encompassed him, a soft flicking wetness that ran further than the length of any previous knowledge. Suddenly the Madam’s face was before his and she was kissing him firmly on the lips while guiding his inexperience into unfamiliar pleasure, unforeseeable sensations. Dariusz could only gasp as his flesh was squeezed and pulled. He was entranced by the Madam’s expression as she moved, excruciatingly slowly, upon him. In his vague delirium—the alcohol and hash coursing through his veins, the reasoning of his flesh untwining the very fabric of his seventeen years—the wrinkles before him disappeared, the dark eyes changed to blue and the black hair turned a shimmering red. The incessant cackle turned to the brilliant laughter of Aleksandra. And for a moment his love looked down upon him.

Confusion, pain and anguish inexplicably came to a head. It engulfed him. He rolled to the side, pulling his flesh from within the Madam. He jerked and spasmed as he sobbed—deeply, uncontrollably, just as Halim had done only a few hours before.

The Madam rolled with him, gently stroking the distress that lay shuddering within her arms.

“You have never been with a woman before, have you, my young master?” she asked soothingly.

Dariusz shook his head, continuing to weep.

“No... this is more than that,” she cajoled. “Tell me what is wrong.”

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