Goodbye, my love: Part II
-A second chance-
CHAPTER ONE
The vista was such a beautiful one. The ships and boats were docked in the dark blue water at Galata, and the birds watched from above in the clear sky. Fisherman sat on boxes and barrels of ship goods while they fiddled with their fishing nets. A sharp metallic sound echoed in the air and came from a blacksmith in his shop. Empty cages were scattered across the dock, where once prisoners would have been held in before their trial.
The ground looked dry and desolate, as if it had been shielded from any falling rain. Street preachers on scaffolds performed in front of a reasonable size audience. Shouts imparted from what only could be from a human mouth, travelling through the air and reaching everyone's ears. The street preachers' shouts rose in pitch as they became stern about the subject they were preaching.
All this lay on a long piece of land which looked as though a mighty hand had scratched a furrow through the sea and filled it with dirt and rock.
A young handsome man on a ship watched this piece of land; he listened to the sound and watched the people's actions. He was familiar with the everyday activities which took place there. Although he had not been here for a while, he still felt like he never had left. This land was Constantinople, and was ruled by Sultan Bayezid II. Over the years it had been consumed by war and injustice. But it still sustained its beautiful proud image and kept its feared reputation. Constantinople was an impregnable city, equipped with well-trained soldiers known as Janissaries.
The young man forced himself to turn away from the view as he was greeted by a Janissary.
'Prince Suleiman, we are here,' the Janissary said with a bow.
'As I can see,' Suleiman replied as he glanced back at Constantinople.
Suleiman had never seen himself as a prince, he liked to see himself as a young student. He had fostered no intentions of becoming Sultan, although his grandfather was Sultan Bayezid. He had thrown himself into education and received tutoring at Topkapi Palace, his home.
The ship arrived at Constantinople and Suleiman smiled as he joined his Venetian friend Malvolio, who was leaning against the wall listening to a distance preacher. He smiled when his eyes came across Suleiman.
'They do not know what they preach,' hissed Malvolio as his hand gestured towards the preacher. The young prince glanced behind him at the audience in front of the scaffold. He listened to the words being spoken by the preacher, watched the face expressions of the audiences' faces rapidly change.
'Ahmet should be the Sultan of Istanbul! He is wise, generous, and a perfect ruler for us all. Come, brothers and sisters! Listen to the truth I speak. Do not let the words of the Janissaries poison your mind into thinking that Selim should be Sultan,' the preacher cried and Suleiman's face turned pale. Malvolio noticed this and pursed his lips tight together.
'Come, Suleiman,' he said as he gripped the prince's arm. 'He speaks rubbish.'
'He speaks his mind, his opinion. The opinion of the people?' Suleiman's own words were beginning to confuse him. Malvolio noticed some Janissaries begin to storm up to the preacher.
'Your father is best for the throne. He is strong, your uncle is weak. He is brave, your uncle is coward.'
'Be careful about where you say such things, Malvolio. Although I do thank you for expressing your kind opinion; but it should not be I who you express it to. My grandfather has made his choice.'
'He has not! He considers letting your uncle be King but I doubt he'll go along with it. He will recognise what is wrong about Ahmet soon.'
'Let us go, I no longer wish to discuss this subject,' Suleiman said sharply.
Ahmet was the favourite son of Sultan Bayezid, and uncle to Suleiman. His father was Selim, the eldest son of Sultan Bayezid. As eldest, Selim was supposed to succeed the Sultan throne and his sons after that. But Sultan Bayezid was beginning to see Selim as an un fit ruler and was deciding if Ahmet, his younger son, should be Sultan.
Meanwhile, in the lower Suburbs of Constantinople, a young Romany (gypsy) stood leaning against her caravan. Her long dark brown hair was in a long plat which flowed down her back. She listened to the slow, depressing music being played by the others. She watched the crackling flames of the camp fire flicker and waver with every gust of wind. In the distance her friend could be seen stirring the pot of stew which would be later served to all.
'Mirela!' Shouted her elder sister as she climbed out of their caravan. 'Where have you been?'
'I've been here,' Mirela responded truthfully.
'If you've been with those friends of yours spying on guards again, I swear to God I'll kill you!'
Mirela glanced around shyly and felt embarrassed now that they had attracted the attention of the other gypsies. Her and her friends often went out and watched Janissaries from a distance. They found them handsome and attractive in their beautiful gold masks and sea green outfits. Although they would never be able to marry one, after all they were only gypsies.
'I've been here,' she repeated through her gritted teeth.
'How you ever thought I would believe that,' replied her sister, the tone of her voice almost mocking her.
Mirela narrowed her eyes. 'What is it, Paola?'
'Mother requires your presence,' Paola shot back immediately. Mirela sighed and began to make her way up the steps to the caravan, but was grabbed by the wrist by Paola.
'And don't try anything funny, you know how vulnerable mother is,' she added before hastily letting go of her sister's wrist. Mirela shot a glare at her before entering the caravan.
'Mother?' She called out after she had forced the broken door to close.
'I am in here,' said a croaky weak voice coming from the only other room in the caravan apart from the one Mirela was standing in. Mirela followed the sound of her mothers' voice and sat down at her feet.
'How can I be at service, mother?' she asked.
'The party and gathering in Topkapi Palace is in a few days and you are honoured to have been chosen among the others to be entertainment with the girl dancers. I knew they couldn't resist leaving you behind, you're so very beautiful.'
Mirela felt the colour rise in her cheeks and bowed her head.
'Thank you,' she managed.
'I suggest you take some time to practice with the other girls,' added her mother.
'What of my chores?'
'I just talked with Paola, she hastily agreed to do them for the next few days.'
No wonder she was in such a bad mood, Mirela thought to herself.
'Thank you, mother,' she said, 'I'm so very grateful for this kindness.'
'Do not thank me, thank your sister,' her mother replied and she coughed. Mirela patted her back before leaving the caravan. Her eyes met Paola's and she received a horrible glare. Perhaps she should wait until tomorrow to thank her.