Roxelana & Suleyman

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

The first night in the Agiamoglan dormitory of Topkapi Palace was bitterly cold. A brisk autumn wind and frosty snowflakes blew through cracks in the walls. Shutters creaked and groaned. Flimsy blankets fluttered. The young men and boys huddled close on the long sleeping divans to stay warm. Dariusz, in nervous wakefulness, lay pressed between two, similar in age to him. As an Agiamoglan, his immediate future would hold extreme physical and mental training. If he succeeded, if he survived the apprenticeship, he would be assigned to the Sultan’s elite military Janissary Corps—one step closer to freeing Aleksandra from her s*****y to the Sultan’s mother. Aleksandra. As his mind wandered through the fragrant locks of her hair and caressed the smile on her lips, the muscled arm of the trainee sleeping behind him brushed over his hip. Curling, masculine fingers fell against his abdomen—the warmth of the unconscious embrace not unneeded or unwelcome in the chill. The hot, sweet breath of his snoring companion wafted across his shoulder, and Dariusz fell through the depths of exhaustion and into Aleksandra’s embrace.

He awoke abruptly—the stickiness of nocturnal pleasure soaking the mattress and blanket at his groin.

“Oh, dog!” he muttered.

The bristles of an unshaven cheek brushed against his shoulder. “Do not fret, my brother,” murmured the young man that cuddled him sleepily from behind. “We are all men and we all have our dreams.”

Dariusz pondered the groggily whispered words as the rhythm of sleep surrounded him. He grasped the thick fingers that still rested at his abdomen and drifted back into the arms of his dream.

The occupants of the dormitory were woken long before dawn by the clattering of a spoon upon a wooden platter. Dariusz yawned and stretched, scratching at the hair on his chest. He turned to the one that had shared his warmth throughout the night and nudged him awake. His sleeping companion opened his mouth in a wide and extravagant yawn. He ran his fingers through his hair, reached down to scratch and tug at his groin, then offered his out-stretched hand to Dariusz.

“Yannis, from Greece.” He smiled drowsily, continuing to hold out his hand.

Dariusz smiled and, with a chuckle, grasped the hand in friendship, “Dariusz, from Galicia.”

The men rolled from the divan, each tightening the sash of their breeches and pulling on slippers. They crossed the room to large cauldrons of pilav that had been rolled into the dormitory. Those closest dug their hands into the steaming rice and scooped it into their mouths. Dariusz licked the sticky grain from his fingers and dug his hand into the cauldron a second time.

“You would think that as the center of the greatest culture in Europe, these Turks would have bowls and spoons.” Yannis brushed the sleep from his eyes and the savory rice from his lips.

Dariusz licked his fingers and pointed to the score of platters and spoons on the table beside the cauldron. They both laughed and scooped their bare hands through the seasoned rice again. When they had eaten their fill, they stepped back from the cauldron as others keenly took their place.

“Most of them are but children—no more than ten or eleven,” Dariusz pondered.

“And all of them Christians,” Yannis advised. When he noted Dariusz’s furrowed brow, he added, “Many have been gathered from Albanian villages. The life offered them here is far superior to any they could expect back in their own homes. They will become strong; they will be educated and dressed in finery. And if they are successful in joining the Janissaries troops they will have unlimited access to treasures and pleasure to satisfy their every need.”

Dariusz sat down on the divan and munched on a chunk of seeded bread that a youth offered him. “But why would the Turks want their armed forces to be made up of Christian children?”

“There are many powerful families within the Turkish Ottoman Empire, Dariusz. If the House of Osman is to keep the upper hand of authority, they do not want to train members of a rival family who in the future may turn against them. The Turks have also noted that we as Christians are of high spirits and of a natural war-like disposition.” Yannis lay back on the divan, his clasped hands behind his head. “These young lads are the perfect age to be molded into warriors for the Empire, whereas you and I, my friend—due to our maturity—will have to work twice as hard to prove our worth and dedication, if we are to be accepted.”

Dariusz nodded. His countenance softened. He felt himself flushing as he spoke to Yannis hesitantly about what occurred the previous night.

“Ya, my friend, it is natural and nothing to be ashamed of.”

“But it was not because of our closeness....” Dariusz blushed even more heavily.

Yannis placed his hand on his companion’s shoulder. “Do not question your feelings and desires, Dariusz. I too take absolute pleasure in the feminine delicacy of God’s greatest gift to man; but that should in no way stop you from expressing your masculinity in the company of other men. Let it be, for you will only ever do what is truly in your heart.”

Dariusz peered into the depths of the green eyes before him, then dropped his thoughts to the fullness of Yannis’ lips.

“Yes,” he whispered.

A bulky Janissary Officer in full uniform appeared in the doorway of the dormitory. “Everyone into the courtyard,” the Officer bellowed, repeating his words in different languages.

Dariusz and Yannis ran with the others out into the biting, cold wind that cut through the First Courtyard of Topkapi Palace; hundreds of trainees from the other dormitories also crowding into the open space. Janissaries poked and prodded them into straight lines. The officer, that had appeared in the dormitory, walked the full length of the lines, inspecting and surmising the physical attributes of the Agiamoglans. He smiled in genuine satisfaction.

“Discard your clothing, Agiamoglans,” he barked, again in several languages.

Dariusz and Yannis quickly slipped off their vests, kicked off their slippers and loosened the sashes of their breeches so that they fell to the frosty gravel. The wind sliced into their nakedness, devouring the heat of sleep and breakfast. Snowflakes drifted about them. Some of the boys were slow to disrobe, resulting in them being whipped. The thwack of leather against flesh resonated around the courtyard, but none dared yelp in pain. Any that held their hands in front of their genitals received another c***k of the whip until they placed their hands at their sides, exposing themselves completely to the elements and the scrutiny of the officers.

The Agiamoglans stood in absolute silence. The crunch of gravel under the boots of the officers resonated around the court, as they strode up and down between the six hundred-strong group of n***d trainees.

Yannis muttered to Dariusz, “Much longer in this freezing wind and I will appear no more impressive than the young ones that have yet to feel the prickle of hair, or the flush of blood at their groin.”

Dariusz whispered, from the side of his mouth, “Your Greek heritage does you well, my friend. You have nothing to fear.”

“Nor you, Dariusz, as it appears the Carpathian’s have as great a lineage as Mt Olympus.”

Dariusz blushed. He wanted to respond, but was quiet as the imposing figure of the Grand Vizier approached. The tall white turban sparkled with emeralds. The green caftan of his office billowed about his torso and legs. Several pashas rushed in his wake. As the great man cast his attention over the lines of Agiamoglans he nodded his head in respect. He signaled his approval to the Janissary Officers, stopping not far from Dariusz and Yannis. A pasha offered him a scroll, but he pushed it away, brushing a stray snowflake from his sleeve as he did so.

The Grand Vizier spoke with eloquence. “Today, my young men, you shall become Turks.” He stopped to capture the attention of all within his presence. “As such, those of you who are not yet circumcised most surely will be, by the time the sun starts its journey across the sky.”

Dariusz gasped, the length of flesh that hung between his legs impulsively pulling close to his body. He was indeed thankful that his foreskin had been removed at birth. He glanced surreptitiously at Yannis and the loose skin that clung to the head of the Greek’s p***s. Yannis had turned deathly white. There was a shimmer of horror across his countenance, but this dissipated as he faced forward and pushed his chin high.

“The second step of your journey will start with the calling of the morning muezzin,” the Grand Vizier continued. “You will all be made into Turks and renamed in reverence of our—your—heritage.” He turned and walked toward the pavilion that stood by the mosque of Aya Eirene.

The Janissaries pulled those that needed to be cut from the lines. Yannis was lead toward the pavilion with over three hundred others. Dariusz thankfully thumbed the flesh between his legs as his counterparts walked barefooted across the gravel toward the flapping canvas.

One by one the Agiamoglans returned as men. All held bloodstained clothes to their groins. When Yannis came out of the pavilion and strode across the court, Dariusz could see that he was flushed, his skin prickled in a sweat even in the bitterness of the wind. He held tight to the cloth that bound the full length between his thighs. When he reached Dariusz he smiled bravely and took his place in the line. Dariusz reached out and placed his hand on his new friend’s shoulder, letting his fingers slip across the sweat-covered flesh.

One of the youngest boys had apparently fainted during the ceremony and was being carried back to the line by an officer. The Janissary, in his blue caftan, held the bloodied cloth tenderly to the boy’s groin. He huddled down on the ground in the line of Agiamoglans and cuddled the youth into consciousness. “Your honor is great,” he spoke into the youth’s ear. “Do not fear, my young man, for you shall now feel the full pleasure of your saber in future battles. More so, for the mightiest of warriors shall teach you that even the sharpest of blades is ineffective in piercing the sweetness of life and flesh while still in its scabbard.” The youth rose slowly to his feet and took his rightful place in the line, smiling proudly when the officer shucked him under the chin in respect.

The Agiamoglans stood in silence until the first rays of sunlight glistened off the minarets and domes that surrounded them; and the warmth of the muezzin blew softly on the wind from Aya Sofya. The lines of Agiamoglans—Dariusz and Yannis included—fell to their knees.

The Grand Vizier chanted “Law illawheh illaw Allawh, Muhammed resoul Allawh.”

Obediently the Agiamoglans repeated the chant in unison. The officers walked the length of the line, lifting the men to their feet, one by one, and giving them their new names—Ahmed; Akif; Yasar; Talip; Rauf....

A Janissary stepped before Yannis, renaming him Cem.

The officer reached for Dariusz’s hand and lifted him to his feet. Placing both his hands firmly on Dariusz’s shoulders he looked briefly down at the nakedness, then up into the Agiamoglan’s hazel eyes.

“You, my brother, shall be Davud.”