The Drowning Guard: A Novel of the Ottoman Empire (12 page)

“I looked up, shocked at his words and at his daring to pronounce them under the roof of the Serail. He was only allowed to play with his sisters and female cousins because he was considered still an innocent child. But already he was developing the passions of a man, and he was practicing them on me. Perhaps that is why he, like my cousin Selim, was locked in the Cage of Princes, and only released for Topkapi ceremonies and performances.

“ ‘Remember, Esma. We are only half brother and sister.’

“As he rose to greet his mother and my own, I felt his warm breath exhale in a sigh. I recovered my composure and spoke as a princess should to the favored Nakshidil. I knew that she woke every day with the bright hope of some day seeing her own son as the successor to the Ottoman throne.”

“So your brother was in love with you when you were only a child. Is that why he indulges you so?” asked Ivan Postivich.

“Love?” She laughed and threw a pale hand over her eyes, remembering. “What is love, janissary? Such an ignorant word, so silly a passion. There is no such luxury as romantic love in the Imperial Harem, let alone for a princess
and prince who share the same father. But my brother cared for me and understood my tempers and ambitions, just as I understood his. It was the same with cousin Selim, who was older and first to ascend the throne, but in so many ways, more tender and compassionate. Still, all of these human emotions must vanish when a prince becomes a sultan. They must, as it is said, ‘Else an Ottoman prince is butchered under the falling leaves of a lime tree.’ ”

Esma Sultan yawned deeply, covering her mouth with a delicate white hand, streaked with shadows of blue veins. She stood up and walked to the windows to see the first light of dawn creeping through the bottom of the shutter. She opened the heavy wooden shutters and the rising sun flooded the space where she stood. She took a deep breath and smiled.

“Why do you smile, Sultane?”

“I smile because all I smell on the morning wind is the taste of salt and my jasmine from the garden, still wet with dew. Speaking to you has temporarily overpowered the efrits and djinns that come up from the waters to haunt me, janissary. I think myself capable of rest until evening falls again.”

Ivan Postivich shrugged, examining his coarse, scarred hands. He couldn’t understand how his company could have kept the murdered souls at bay. The Sultaness wrinkled her forehead as she looked out over the Bosphorus.

“I wonder if the pagan rites of Christianity may have some superstitions that are useful to the Faithful,” she murmured. “Perhaps the old doctor is correct in his remedy.”

“I am no priest, Esma Sultan.”

She turned again to the janissary and lifted her chin.

“I think you have done your work for today. I will allow you to return to the palace barracks. You are to be relieved from your regular duties. I want you to come at midnight each night, to accompany me through the dark hours when the smell is so overpowering. I shall sleep during the day—I shall instruct Saffron to see that your schedule matches my needs.”

The giant rose, his gaze fastened not on the Sultane but on the far side of the room.

“Before I leave, Sultaness, I have one favor to ask you to quench my curiosity.”

Her eyes hardened and he noticed a quickening of the muscles around her pale lips.

“Speak, janissary. But do not tire me with requests.”

He walked over to the east wall of the room.

“This—” he called over to her, pointing to a painting of horses and riders on a gold background. “Could you please tell me about this painting?”

Her mouth relaxed and she smiled, her face suddenly younger in its softness.

“That painting once hung in my father’s chambers at Topkapi.” She walked towards it, her silk slippers rasping on the mat. “He gave it to me on my eleventh birthday on one condition. Upon my death, I must return it to Topkapi as it is an Ottoman heirloom. It is precisely what you think it is—a polo game.”

The giant nodded, studying the painting.

“The Master of the Horses told me of paintings like these,” he said. “I never thought I would see one with my own eyes.”

Esma Sultan cocked her head and looked at him with interest.

“Yes, it is quite magnificent. Do you notice anything unusual about the players?”

“A light hand on the reins, perhaps. Youth and delicacy, but exhibiting confidence. These beardless ones must be Janissaries.”

Esma Sultan laughed. “O, ignorant janissary! Half of them are women!”

Ivan Postivich opened his eyes wide, looked from the Princess to the painting and back to the Princess again.

“Women on the polo field?”

“Yes, of course,” she said. “The love of the horse is in our Turkish blood. Don’t look so astonished, it shows your ignorance of our history—you bring shame to our Topkapi tutors who educated you. Before the Prophet, Turkish women were known for their horsemanship, praised in art and legend. This is the work of a Persian master who painted the Sultan’s harem at play. It is believed to be Princess Shirin and her ladies.”

“It is truly magnificent,” said Ivan Postivich.

“It is a treasure,” murmured the Princess. “Nothing less.”

She regarded him again. “It is perhaps my most prized possession. Curious you would notice it among all the treasures in this room.”

She gestured to the exquisite Chinese vases and fine English porcelain, the jewel-studded snuffboxes, pure gold sabers, ivory chests, inlaid tables and the solid gold spittoon she kept near for special visitors.

“Horses,” he said, turning back to the painting. “That is what I know best.”

She nodded. “It is good to know one true thing.”

The Princess rang a small gold bell. Immediately the doors were open to the Head Eunuch who rubbed the sleep from his eyes and straightened his tunic to greet his mistress.

“Escort the janissary to the barracks, Saffron. See that he is treated first to breakfast in the gardens and then relieved of all duties except to be at this very
place at a quarter to midnight tonight. Assign him a eunuch to serve him with a company of pages.”

“Yes, my Sultaness.”

“And open all the shutters to my bedchamber but bring me a dark veil to shade the light from my eyes. I am ready to sleep.”

Without another word, the Princess clapped and Ivan Postivich was led out of the chamber and through the grand hall to the garden.

Saffron received Postivich in the courtyard adjacent to the fountain. The janissary studied the eunuch’s face and saw none of the hostility of their first meeting, but no sign that the man liked or respected him. Still the janissary had made his mistress eager for rest for the first moment in over a week, and for this, the servant was immensely grateful. This showed in the relaxed folds around his lips and eyes. Still, he did not utter a word.

What was missing in the eunuch’s demeanor was more than compensated for by the sumptuous service lavished upon the soldier. A young mulatto eunuch brought a gold encrusted pitcher and poured lemon-scented water over his hands, splashing into a mother-of-pearl bowl. A small parade of servants—the tablakars—entered the courtyard, balancing the wooden trays on their heads. The plates were laden with palace delicacies. The Princess’s own dining maids served the food, their waists adorned with white napkins, the ends tasseled in gold embroidery.

The significance of such service was not lost on Ivan; nor was it on the serving girls. This treatment was reserved for members of the royal court or the most esteemed guests.

Ivan dined on
kaymak
, the thick rich cream spread over
simit
s, a bread baked in a ring. An exquisite salted white cheese was laid out on fine china, covered with a linen cloth perfumed in rosemary and lemon. Stuffed mussels, blue-silver caviar that mimicked the White Sea in its translucence and small fish cooked in pools of golden olive oil were arrayed in dishes with silver edges, covered in white cloths embroidered in gold thread.

Plates of
tursu
, pickled vegetables, were arrayed in front of him to tempt his appetite. There was no beverage served, and the meal gave him a great thirst. A servant brought water from a palace cistern, icy cold in a silver goblet.

“Have you eaten your fill?”

Ivan Postivich turned to see a pale ghost of a man in a white turban and scarlet tunic addressing him. He was short and somewhat flabby, with rounded breasts that strained at his starched tunic like those of a fat woman.

Ivan Postivich’s gut tightened as if someone had punched him. He recognized this white eunuch who waited on the docks after the drownings.

“My name is Emerald,” announced the eunuch. His teeth shone like yellowed bones between his pale lavender lips. His skin was as pale as scar tissue.

“I will be your personal servant while you serve our Sultaness. Please, come. I will show you to your quarters.”

Ivan Postivich was shown to a long row of rooms at the edge of the palace that housed the Solaks of the Sultana’s guard. He removed his shoes and was given bloodred slippers to pad across the stone floor.

His cot was neatly made, the room immaculate, the windows admitting the sweet air of the adjacent gardens.

“You should sleep during the day. I will come to fetch you each evening, at which time I will supervise your washing in the hamam. You shall be presented to the Princess at her biding after that hour.”

“Your name?”

“My name is Emerald,” he repeated. “Like the precious stone. If you need me for anything, you should send a page to fetch me. They are always within hearing range of these quarters. They will bring you food and drink and anything else you wish, except for women or boys. There is no fornicating within the palace grounds without express permission of the Princess. Those who disobey her are to be beheaded.”

The janissary considered this.

“And with her permission?”

Emerald’s mouth stretched into a leer. “There are great festivals of indulgence. All of Constantinople is agitated with shock and envy at her entertainments—as I am certain you well know. There is not a European ambassador in the city who would not pull out a good tooth to be invited.”

Postivich noted French accents in the eunuch’s speech. “Where were you apprenticed?”

“In the Topkapi itself. I was a boy in Selim’s court and was taught Ottoman, French, Persian, Arabic, and English. I accompanied Princess Esma Sultan to her palaces and served her through her marriage. Her husband died seventeen years ago, when she was only twenty-five.”

“Pity.”

The eunuch lifted his eyebrow and touched his tongue to his lip.

“May he dwell in Paradise with Allah and be recompensed with virgins of exquisite quality for what he has suffered here on this earth.”

“What did he suffer?”

“An untouchable Princess who ordered him from her bed, slapping and biting him on their wedding night. She bloodied his nose with a kick when he kissed the coverlet to approach her.”

“Banished from his own marriage bed? Did he not demand his rights as a man to claim her?”

“An Ottoman princess is above all men, except her brother. The poor Pasha built his own residence at the edge of Constantinople, so that he might not suffer the disgrace of the bruises from his wife who scorned him. The harem whispers he died without carnal knowledge.

“But enough gossip of the palace. You must rest so that you are ready to serve the Princess at midnight.”

Bezm-i Alem spied through the perforation in the ornate marble grille. She did not trust this white eunuch, Emerald.

Who has assigned this contemptible little beast to Ahmed Kadir? Esma Sultan scorns Emerald and only permits him to enter the palace under orders of Topkapi. When he leaves she demands that lemon oil be rubbed on every surface he has trodden or touched.

Does the Sultan have a hand in this?

She wanted to warn the corbaci, but could not think how to approach him. One of the women in the harem had told Esma Sultan that Bezm-i Alem had spoken to the giant through the screen.

“You may never speak to him again!” she screamed and slapped the young woman across her face. Bezm-i Alem stared at her in wonder, for she had not struck her since the harem girl was a small child.