CHAPTER 1
"Well... one thing is for sure," the King said, rolling back the scroll and placing it upon the maps laden table with a weary hand, "This peace is fragile. So far the harsh winter has shielded us from Sultan Sadiq's wrath, as he cannot transport his cannons up the Danube on such weather, but in spring he will be upon our walls… That is, if we don't act wisely while there's still time…"
Gilbert shook his head, trying to concentrate on what the Venetian emissary was saying, but his father's words kept popping into his mind. He had only been here for six months, and the pain was still vivid inside him.
"I have thus negotiated with the Divan and so, my sons, it was decided that one of you will be sent to Sadiq's court, as a guarantee of our goodwill towards the Ottomans. As such, he will enter the Sultan's service and be at his disposal…"
The Prussian sighed. And so the old King Ludwig had paid a heavy price to protect his people, by giving away his eldest son, sending him to the Ottoman hell. Gilbert had known it would be him, even before his father had uttered the words himself, that he would keep the younger Ludwig - the one who'd had the privilege to inherit his name – by his side, safe, shielded from harm. The choice had both honored and pained the older boy. Just as fearless as he would have ridden into battle for the freedom of his people he would now go to the Ottoman court, but it hurt so much to know that he probably wasn't ever going to see his parents, his brother or his homeland ever again. As one of Divan's military advisors, he was pretty much burdened with work, but there were times like this, when no amount of work could keep his mind away from painful memories.
He was brought back from his thoughts when a servant walked in hurriedly and whispered into his ear that the His Greatness the Sultan wanted to see him. His mind barely registered the Venetian retreating with a long bow as he stood up himself and followed the man outside of the room, into the richly decorated hallway.
Gilbert hated how this palace overwhelmed him – it was by far the largest he'd ever seen in his life – how there were so many intricate corridors, so many passages, interior gardens, some areas that were restricted to the majority, other areas that were completely forbidden, and how he still needed to be guided around the place like a child every single time, for fear he would get lost in this maze, this endless prison that was Topkapi, and would end up in a very wrong place.
The Prussian ignored the occasional glares thrown at him by the various courtiers and servants as he passed them by on his way to the Divan's hall. He had not adopted the humble, rather hunchbacked posture that was so familiar with them, instead walking proudly, with his chin held high. Also, the fact that he was still dressed after the European fashion irritated them, and the silver cross he stubbornly wore around his neck was an open act of defiance. Anyway, their opinion was not important. It was always the Sultan's will that mattered, and His Greatness had shown tolerance in this respect. Even if he hated the idea, Gilbert had to be grateful for these small privileges that differentiated him from the servants otherwise recruited from other parts of the Empire and its surroundings, and which had been forced to convert fully to the Ottoman ways.
But what he hated the most was the fact that Sadiq was a man to be threaded around with extreme care, feared, he was so intimidating. He was never to be looked directly in the eye, one's head could roll down for that alone. Saluting him took more than kneeling, one's forehead had to touch the cold marble at his feet and the hem of his robes had to be kissed in reverence. It was all more than humiliating and Gilbert did not take humiliation too well.
The Prussian followed the servant into the Divan's hall, wiping away the sudden sweat of his palms onto his long, black velvet coat. It was one of those moments when the familiar weight of the sword against his thigh gave him no comfort. Clenching his jaw ever so slightly, he proceeded with the protocol, crouching and leaning forward until his brow touched the soft carpet. His reluctant hand then reached for the silky purple robes and he pressed them against his lips. He could almost feel how much that was pleasing the Ottoman, yet he did not dare look up into the masked face that hovered above him. He was forced to remain in the same uncomfortable position while the Sultan leaned back on his cushions and launched in a speech meant to emphasize his on-going disdain in regard to the ways of the non-believers. Gilbert had quite the conviction that Sadiq was also enjoying that, enjoying every word that went past his lips, and felt all the more resentful for it as his back was beginning to hurt.
"… and as such we now see fit to grace you with our generosity and reward you for your services…"
Wait, what? Had the Sultan said something about a reward? For him? Well that was unusual… However, said reward failed to be named and knowing the perverted mind that was behind that statement, Gilbert decided to regard it with circumspection rather than be glad about it.
Okay so this chapter was mostly introductory and I totally had to do it because it obsessed me… But I have a little dilemma about Romania's name – since we've got a choice here – and I can't make up my mind. Therefore, I'll put forward the two names I've got in mind – Dragos and Valentin (or Vali, which I found used rather frequently in other stories) - and will ask you to VOTE!
So VOTE and whichever name gets the most votes… you know the drill :) See ya!
