Roxelana & Suleyman

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY

The early morning dark was crisp with a breeze off the sea. The moon—the first since Davud had been accepted as an Agiamoglan—glowed faint as it slipped down behind Aya Sofya in the pre-dawn light.

A few stars shone above.

Davud pulled weeds from amongst the tulip beds and threw them into a pail. He wore a simple felt tunic. On his head was a camelhair-felt cap—the shape of a sugarloaf, and the stink of a dromedary. It had been over a year since he had done a solid day’s work and he was glad to have his hands busy. But even though he had been assigned to the corps of gardeners while in training, and delighted in the work, his mind was still very much preoccupied by dreams of Aleksandra. He contemplated the walls and domes of the palace and knew that she was in there—so close—sleeping amongst the female slaves of the Valide Sultana. The Agiamoglans were spread throughout the gardens of Topkapi Palace, along Seraglio Point—pruning, sweeping, and watering in the mottled dim. The canopies of green cypress and beech, and the vast beds of tulips in a myriad of colors spread down to the sea wall. From his vantage point Davud could see out over the Palace walls to panoramic views of the Marmora, Bosphorus and Golden Horn that surrounded the promontory. On the far shore of the Bosphorus, Asia started to shimmer in the early morning fog. Minarets, battlemented towers and even the large stone dome of a mosque pierced up through the blanket and appeared to ripple as the first rays of golden light caressed them.

When the beams hit the highest point of Aya Sofya’s minarets, the chant of the muezzin began, as it did every morning.

Davud, already on his knees, placed his lips to his clasped hands and bent down until his forehead touched the freshly dug earth. Tulips danced about him in the breeze.

His first weeks as part of the corps had been extensive. He had started classes to learn the Turkish tongue and was excited by the prospect of being able to read. The officer who ran the school had shown them vast libraries of manuscripts and books, all available for them to master the language. In the libraries of the palace he had seen books on mathematics, geometry and the arts as well as great fictional testaments from before the time of Christ. Many, it was said, had only survived the collapse of European civilizations and dynasties through the crusades, plagues and wars of the Dark Ages, because they had been secreted to the vast vaults on the Bosphorus. Davud marveled at the knowledge that was his for the taking.

When not studying or tending to the garden, the day was spent on intense physical exercise. They were supervised on the finer points of wrestling, throwing the iron weight, shooting a bow and discharging a weapon—all the attributes of a successful officer of the Janissaries. His muscles ached, but he enjoyed the camaraderie building within the corps.

Nevertheless, his thoughts were of Aleksandra.

As he contemplated the rich black soil in front of his face, he had no real plan on how to contact her, or what he would be able to do to free her from her s*****y. The palace was swarming with Janissary guards. The palace school and every movement of the Agiamoglans were monitored by the white eunuchs. The women of the harem, he had found out, were guarded by the black eunuchs. During one of the Agiamoglan briefings he thought that perhaps he could work his way up the ranks of the Janissaries, and then somehow petition the Valide Sultana for Aleksandra’s release. For now, he was content with keeping his eyes and ears open, looking for opportunities, and being satisfied with the knowledge that she was alive and safe.

The muezzin finished and Davud lifted his face and hands from the soil. He knew little of the Koran and the significance of the muezzin, but with each day of study his desire for even that to be a part of his life was increasing. He recognized that there was a vast future in this city, much more so than in Lvov. No matter what he had to do, or how he had to do it, he would one day be reunited with his passion and he knew it would forever be entwined within the twisting streets, vibrant colors and future of Istanbul.

“Helvet, helvet,” yelled a young white eunuch, running down through the garden paths past the Agiamoglans.

Davud quickly stood. This was the sign that the Sultan was entering the garden with his Favorites. To stay and observe them meant instant death. He picked up his cap and pulled it onto his head. He ran with the others down the path and to the nearest gate in the sea wall.

“Helvet.”