The Drowning Guard: A Novel of the Ottoman Empire (34 page)

Irena had noticed the abrupt departure of Mahmud, as did most of the guests who were not imbibing heavily or smoking opium. The clatter of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestones in the courtyard suggested the Imperial carriage was drawing away at a thunderous pace. Could there be some emergency—a declaration of war or rebellion—that would provoke such a hasty retreat from the Sultan’s own birthday party?

A short time later Irena noticed the absence of Nazip—and the tinkle of her constant laugh. She thought at first that Nazip was with the Prince de Joinville, but it seemed he was already being entertained by Leyla and other women in the harem.

Even Esma was absent for a while, although she did reappear at the party before the sorbets were served. Her face was unperturbed and regal, without a
ripple of consternation. She engaged her guests in conversation and insisted they drink more of the fine French champagne. The French ambassador was giddy with pride as crate after crate was pried open and everyone toasted the health and prosperity of France, a country that could produce such a magnificent beverage.

Nakshidil smiled, too, at the gracious praise for her home country and said she would pass the compliments to her cousin the Empress Josephine of France and her husband, Napoleon. This sent a wave of murmurs through the crowd who hadn’t realized her family connections, and another toast was proposed to the health of Nakshidil.

A warm gust of wind ruffled through the leaves of the plane trees and tugged at the women’s soft garments. Irena clutched her veil to keep it from rising.

When Esma turned to make her way through the garden, Irena took her hand and pulled her apart from the crowd, into the shadows of the vines.

“Pardon me, O Sultane. Where is Mahmud?” she asked.

Esma Sultan started to say something and then bit her lip. Then she saw her companion’s expectant face, waiting for an answer.

“He has taken Nazip to his bed,” Esma Sultan said simply.

Irena had grown up in a harem and this should have been no surprise. Mahmud had thrice been refused Nazip’s company, and she knew sooner or later, he would have her.

“I see,” she said, dismayed dispite herself. She knew too much to feel this way—but she still harbored a spark of love for that young boy, the great love of her youth, who was now Sultan Mahmud II. And it pained her to think of him with Nazip.

Esma Sultan took her companion’s chin in her hand.

“Look at me,” she commanded, her voice cold.

Irena’s eyes were full of confusion. She squirmed but her mistress squeezed her chin tight, the way she used to when Irena was a little girl and the Ottoman Princess wanted her attention.

“My brother is a murderer,” Esma Sultan said. “You must realize this and forget about him. Any affection that he showed you at an early age has vanished with his childhood, just as your name Irena has vanished. These are all childish memories, swept away. He is not a little boy any longer but a man who is poisoned with power.

“It happens to them all.”

Irena drew back. “There was once tenderness in his boy’s heart.”

Esma let out a gasp in exasperation.

“That heart no longer exists. He drowned over two hundred women. He wants to kill your own brother! You are a fool to harbor any feelings but hatred for him.”

A different voice spoke, Ottoman accented with French. “If only we could preserve the innocence and compassion of a boy’s heart.”

Nakshidil stood above them on the steps, emerging from the shadows.

“I have always loved my son, but your father would not allow me to interfere,” she said to Esma Sultan. “If I could have spent more time with him, if he were not condemned to the princes’ caged apartments, I could have preserved some of that goodness, I swear on all that is holy. He was a good boy. I remember his tenderness just as Bezm-i Alem does.”

Esma Sultan approached Nakshidil and took her hand, for the Sultan’s mother was trembling on the top marble step. The Valide Sultane’s knees suddenly buckled under her and she sat unceremoniously with a thump on the hard stone.

“Are you all right, Valide Sultane?” Irena asked, rushing to her side.

“Age and illness do not allow anyone dignity, not even a Sultan’s mother,” she said, rubbing her hip and sighing deeply. “I should never want my cousin Josephine to see me so old and infirm.”

“I will have the cook make you some coffee laced with amber to cleanse your blood and render you more alert,” said Irena.

“Oh, my no! I am making peace with this dizziness and I should not want to destroy the lovely taste in my mouth of French champagne. These spells pass,” she said, patting Irena’s hand.

Esma Sultan noticed the gesture.

The Sultan’s adopted mother looked at Esma Sultan in the flickering light of the torches.

“Do you not believe, Esma Sultan, that a man is capable of compassion, that there might be a small part that is woman in his male heart?”

Esma Sultan’s face turned as hard as the marble that surrounded them.

“No! Male and female cannot coexist! Men will always be rotted with corruption and power—they cannot resist the temptation. Not even a woman’s hand can change their kismet.”

“You are wrong, Esma Sultan,” Irena said. “You have always been wrong about this!”

Nakshidil gasped that a harem girl would admonish a princess, the sister of Mahmud. Esma Sultan’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Not all is moon, not all is sun,” said Irena, her eyes glittering in the darkness. “They both exist in a human heart, be it male or female. Should I ever have sons, I swear I shall teach them compassion above all things.”

“You are a fool,” said Esma Sultan. “How can you forgive men after what you suffered at my father’s hand?”

“I have suffered at the hand of your exalted family, but I know forgiveness. Should I have children—though who would give me a baby with my face burned and twisted?—I shall teach them with all my heart what compassion and forgiveness are.”

“You do not understand power,” Esma Sultan said. “No one can change men. You speak like a child, not a woman. What do you know of men and their ambitions?”

“I do understand men, power and especially Ottomans,” Irena protested. “Much better than you, Esma Sultan—your face is still beautiful. Mine is hideous!”

“Dear girl!” exclaimed Nakshidil.

“And yet I can still forgive, though you cannot,” said Irena, her gaze steady on Esma Sultan. “I do not drown a man as if he had no soul!”

The Princess’s jaw loosened in shock. Irena was close enough for Esma to strike her face, but the Sultan’s sister was too stunned to move.

Nakshidil’s face warmed, her old teeth glinting in the moonlight. Her voice rang out as Irena stormed away.

“That one should be the Valide Sultan, Esma. Then there would be hope for the Ottoman Empire… and men’s souls.”

T
he belly of the moon had swollen, fully pregnant with light, flooding the Imperial city of Constantinople with its ghostly aura.

Ivan Postivich could not sleep. Although he still bathed in the evening, he had not been summoned to the harem of Esma Sultan for a week. He could hear her laughter and her parties in the gardens, see the procession of trays carried from the kitchens and hear the cooks argue over the food preparation.

It seemed to Postivich that he had been forgotten and he became increasingly uncomfortable with his post.

One morning, after a fitful night, a knock at the door brought an unexpected visitor.

“The Sultan’s doctor, Stephane Karatheodory, would like to have the honor of your company,” announced a page. He bowed and backed away from the door, revealing an aged man, turbaned and leaning on a cane.

“Ahmed,” said the doctor. He smiled, exposing false teeth of pure ivory, a present from the Sultan. “Will you offer an old man a cushion to rest his bones?”

“I will indeed, but pray, come with me honorable physician. We will converse in the gardens.” Postivich saw no need to add that the fountains there would confound the ears of spies. The doctor was no fool.

Postivich took a few cushions from the barracks and escorted the old doctor to the gardens, where a small fountain stood in the shade of the cypress tress.

“I have heard that you have cured Esma Sultan,” said the doctor. He groaned as he lowered his aching hips to the ground and settled onto the cushion. “She has declared this to me and shared the confidence that you were her confessor, if I am to have it correct.”

“If this is what the Princess told you, so be it,” said Postivich. “Am I one to argue with the Ottomans? Still, I only sat in her company and listened, nothing more. I am not a doctor, nor am I a priest.”

The doctor nodded his head and studied the flowers of the garden, sucking in the aroma of the honeysuckle on the palace wall. Then he said, “I doubt she told you everything. Did she speak of the murders?”

Ivan Postivich was already inclined to like the doctor, but this abrupt question made his face muscles harden.

“Why should I tell you, Greek?”

“Oh, it is ‘Greek,’ now,” retorted Stephane Karatheodory. “Do not forget you are Serbian and hardly a Turk yourself, Kapikulu. I am old so you must forgive me—I prefer to go directly to the point, like a jereed spear. I came here to give you advice, you hardheaded Serb. Show me respect or show me the gate!”

Ivan Postivich drew a breath and released it in a rush.

“Advice is often wasted on me, doctor. Please forgive my manners and my hard head.”

“Well,” said the physician, “I jostled my old bones in a carriage from Topkapi to come to speak to you so I shan’t give up so soon. I am not eager to ride back up the hill without a little rest.”

The doctor drew in a deep breath.

“Let us try an analogy, Ahmed Kadir. Perhaps you can recognize the quiet before a raging winter storm that dashes the docks with walls of water and tears trees up by the roots. Just so, this hush from Esma Sultan will not last.”

Postivich looked at the doctor, waiting to hear more.

“The Princess is joyful, more content than I have seen her in years. She runs madly from one fête to another, showering money on her slaves, guests, and hosts. I saw her last night at Topkapi. She sat beside the Sultan, stroking his hand, and feeding him golden dates.”

“She and the Sultan are brother and sister,” muttered Postivich. “They are fond of one another.”

“So they are, my son. So they are,” the doctor said, looking at the splashing fountain. He turned back to the janissary. “You’ve been in the bedchamber of Esma Sultan—one of the only uncastrated males who has been there and lived to speak of it. We are in a small fraternity, my friend.”

“Why do you speak of this?” said Postivich, his shoulders tightening.

“Because you may have had the opportunity to see the beautiful calligraphy of our Sultan Mahmud there by the Sultaness’s bedside.”

“I have never been near her bed, doctor. She converses with me reclining on the cushions of the divan. That European contraption is far from where she receives me, veiled behind drapes of gauze.”

“Of course. Well, it is a pity that you haven’t seen it. It is a magnificent piece of work and devotion.”

“Devotion?”

“To Allah. The Sultan wrote out the entire Koran in the most exquisite calligraphy. It must have taken him many months—perhaps two years of dedication.”

Ivan Postivich shrugged. An elaborate gift to give his sister, but the gesture was not so extraordinary.

He said, “The Koran is a long document and I know something of fine calligraphy from my years of tutelage at Topkapi. But two years to copy? Perhaps you exaggerate, my good doctor, the affection and gifts the Sultan has bestowed upon his sister.”

The doctor shook his head, as vigorously as his old bones would allow.

“No, Ahmed Kadir, I do not think so. Had he finished it too quickly, it would have killed him. It is written in the Sultan’s own blood.”

The janissary flinched and turned his back on the doctor.

“So you see, I do know something about the Ottomans.” The doctor leaned forward and lowered his voice. “And I know that you may be in grave danger… Ivan Postivich.”

At the sound of his name, Postivich whirled around and faced the doctor. “How do you know my Christian name?”

“You forget that I have been at Topkapi for many, many years. I have served three Sultans and my father served two before me. I was there when you were brought to Topkapi. It was I who examined you for disease before you were presented to the Sultan. I examined you before and after your circumcision. You told me your name in Serbo-Croatian, and I promised to pray for you and your soul in the Mother Church. I remember each Christian name and mark them in my Bible. Many I have lost track of but not you, Ivan. I continue to pray for your soul in the Holy Church of God.”

“Enough! I do not need your prayers, physician. Our Christian God deserted me the day they ripped me from my mother’s arms and subjected me to such humiliation.”

“God never deserts his followers, my son, though your kismet is guided by his hand. Never mind this theological debate—I come to warn you and save your life.”

“Speak then.”

“I will be brief and serve God quickly. If the Princess has truly not spoken of the murders of her lovers, she is not ‘cured’ as she pretends to be. The murders may have been at her brother’s command, but she is complicit in sin. Her guilt must be confessed to Allah, but if she hides it, Satan will possess her soul and torment her. Watch the moon. Tonight it has waxed to fullness. I predict that the weakening of light will frighten her with its darkness and she will find that she has only fooled herself into believing all is well. The face of Allah will not turn to her and shall be deaf to her cries.

“If she has not confessed the murders, if she has not spoken to you openly and fully about them, do not go near her now, for I fear it is too late. As much as she might plead and coerce you, do not enter her harem. There lies disaster. The Sultan wishes to fulfill her every need and will grow wildly jealous if you attend her. Let her find another to speak to!”

“She says that no one else can listen to her for no one hates her the way I do.”