The Drowning Guard: A Novel of the Ottoman Empire (36 page)

Ivan Postivich strode over to Saffron, and, putting a hand on his shoulder, stopped him in midstride.

“Is this a new lover of Esma Sultan? And if so, why does he smile?”

Saffron’s eyes flashed at Postivich, and he motioned to the rest of the entourage to enter the hamam.

“What business is this of yours, Kadir?”

Postivich looked at the eunuch’s face and curled his lip. “Am I not Esma Sultan’s servant, her drowning guard? I do not choose to perform such foul sins in the light of day where I can see the tears of the condemned as they cry for mercy.”

“You are not called upon to perform any service, Ahmed Kadir, except that of keeping your abominable lips sealed and adopting the proper silence of an Ottoman servant. This man is a guest of Esma Sultan and will remain with her for as many nights as she chooses. Her brother, the Sultan, has granted him life as long as he may please our Sultaness and remain within the confines of the palace. And if last night was any indication,” added the eunuch, “he shall have a long and happy term indeed.”

Ivan Postivich swallowed hard.

“Has any man visited her harem more than once and lived?”

“Of course, Corbaci. You forget that
you
have had that very pleasure. I suspect this is expressly why the Sultan has granted this young man life, so that he will be your competition.”

Ivan Postivich cursed under his breath and spat on the marble walkway. Within seconds, a young servant came running, wiping at the spittle with a scented rag.

Postivich turned and looked back at the palace, where the thick velvet curtains were still drawn, shutting out all light.

“A man whose passions possess him lives a short life,” hissed Saffron. “Don’t be a fool, Ahmed Kadir. Esma Sultan loves no man and unless she marries, no man will live who has loved her. Pray to Allah that she will not tire of this pretty boy for many moons, for if he leaves her palace walls, he will be condemned by the Sultan’s decree. He is mercilessly jealous of anyone who entertains his sister, even for one night. God have mercy on this Greek boy, for my mistress is never long satisfied.”

The harem women stood outside the hamam, laughing. Nazip climbed up another woman’s strong back to peek in through the perforations of the bathhouse, and through her laughter, conveyed the scene of the ablutions.

“He lies on the stone, on his back, Leyla. Ah, that all the riches of the Ottomans could be as sweet as what I see before my very eyes. Surely, our mistress
has ridden the divine chariot to heaven, for I have seen no other who is so well endowed.”

“You have seen no other but the Sultan, Nazip. Your imagination is limited to one night with a man and you shall have no other,” teased a blond handmaiden, who steadied Nazip’s legs as she climbed higher for a better look.

“You do not know my secrets, Leyla. Esma Sultan has let me gaze upon her lovers, even touch them, on occasion. She guarded my virginity for her brother, but I have had the pleasure of witnessing several who were aroused. This is the finest specimen I have seen in her court and he is most relaxed, I might add!”

The Sultan’s eunuch, who was in charge of Nazip’s every move, came racing across the gardens.

“Mistress Nazip! Descend at once!”

Nazip sighed and took the hand that he insistently offered to help her descend. Her hearty companion groaned and rubbed her back.

“What could I see, good eunuch,” said Nazip, her eyes dancing, “but the clouds of mist that rise from the baths? There is nothing to report but that the man within was shrouded in vapor, an invisible ghost to mortal eye.”

She smiled at her harem companions and whispered, “Ah, to have the freedom of a virgin! How dull and tiresome to be the concubine of a Sultan, where all my fun is spoiled in his honor!”

As the eunuch escorted her back to the harem, Nazip caught sight of the giant. She tried to smile, but her lips abandoned the effort and she looked at him with compassion.

“Oh gentle giant, do not grieve,” she said to him. “Esma Sultan has been cured by your company. Rejoice in her health that Allah sent you to restore!”

Postivich stared at her, but remained silent.

She turned towards the harem entrance and vanished into the walls of the Serail.

I
van Postivich left the palace of Esma Sultan, cursing all within its walls. What could he have expected? Of course she would not send for him unless it was advantageous to her. He was a fool to think otherwise, and he cursed himself to Allah that he should be weak enough to hope for more.

What strange djinn possesses me to crave the love of an Ottoman?
he thought.

Beyond the walls of the palace, he was assaulted by the foul stench of the teeming city. The day was hot, without a breath of air, and the dust lay thick as velvet on the curled leaves of the chestnut trees withering in the pounding heat of the Turkish sun. In the markets, the savage heat ravaged the vendors’ fruits and meats, their rotting odors mingling with the stink of the dogs’ warm dung. The vendors used moist towels to protect the raw meat, coloring brown despite their efforts, and festooned with swarms of fat black flies.

On the docks, fishermen sluiced cool saltwater over their catch. Dogs barked and snapped at the legions of seagulls that swarmed to the stench, as the fishmongers wiped their brows and cursed the breathless day.

Postivich strode to the edge of the Bosphorus and paid an old fisherman a coin to take him up the Golden Horn towards the River Lycus where he could spy on the horses tethered in the meadows and perhaps catch a glimpse of his beloved mare, Peri.

When the boat neared the banks, Postivich could see the Kapikulus in the fields, carrying out training drills—not cirit or polo, but military
routines created by the European cavalries. In the distance, he could make out the members of his orta training in what the Europeans called “precision riding.” They worked their horses at an extended trot, a disgraceful gait for Turkish warriors, making serpentines across the trampled grass. The sight made his belly knot as if he had witnessed his orta receiving dance lessons.

“May their beards be cursed!” said the giant at the sight. “What in the name of Allah are they wearing?”

Ivan Postivich squinted against the cruel sun to examine the Kapikulu regiment’s new costume: Cossack trousers, black boots, and blue cloaks—the uniforms of European armies. Instead of turbans, they wore small red caps that looked like boxes perched on their heads. He cursed again and spit.

This was the Sultan’s “new order,” the Eskenji. This was his plan to destroy the Janissaries in the name of “reform.” He had stolen their tradition, their pride, even their uniforms. He was murdering the Corps.

The fisherman shaded his wrinkled face with his scarred hands, deep mahogany from the sun and saltwater.

“Blasphemy!” he cried, his loose teeth slurring the word. “They dress like the infidels!”

Postivich shook his head angrily. The fisherman grunted and scratched his testicles.

“Damn the infidels! What use do we have for their ways?” the janissary said. “Like trained dogs—pets for our Sultan. Trotting in circles, bleeding the passion from their veins. No Turkish horse should lose its spirit in the dust of a parade ground. Those horses were bred to gallop straight to the heart of the enemy, proud and brave to their deaths!”

“They say the Europeans feed them on hot bran mash from buckets,” the fisherman said, spitting into the sea. “My cousin himself delivered a dozen bags of it to the Royal Stables from a British ship.”

“Just because the Europeans are constipated fools does not mean our horses share their weakness!” said Postivich. “Keep their pabulum for their squalling brats and old men. Our horses will shit on their boots without any imported inducements!”

The fisherman howled in laughter, slapping the tattered knees of his pants. His light brown eyes were tinged with the creeping veil of cataracts that would one day blind him and send him begging at the steps of the Aya Sofya for food. But for now, this was a Turk who had the honor of rowing the great corbaci Ahmed Kadir up the Golden Horn—and he had shared a joke at the infidels’ expense.

The fisherman raised his oars in the blazing sun and swung the bow out towards the mouth of the Bosphorus, nodding his thanks to Allah for the fine day, and a profession that kept him on the water in the heat.

“Keep him out of my sight!” screamed her voice.

Ivan Postivich craned his neck towards the harem. The perforated walls let the cool breezes in—and the sounds and secrets out.

“I will not have him approach me. Do not accept any tokens from him, and send this kerchief back to him. I shall not touch it!”

“But your Sultaness. He begs to see you and will not take food or drink until you agree to have audience with him.”

“Let the infidel starve, then! I should send him from the palace, but that would be his death. Is it not enough that I spare his life by letting him inhabit my court? You must smuggle him back to Galata, Saffron.”

“Your brother, our honored Sultan, would hunt him down and kill him on the spot. He has sworn no man who has known your bed will live outside this sanctuary.”

The Princess turned away from him and beat her temples.

“Shall I always be haunted by my brother’s decree? Cursed man who cannot let me love and be loved without murder?”

Saffron remained silent.

“I cannot abide this infidel’s presence any longer!” said Esma Sultan. “The nightmares have returned. And I smell the Christian flesh of this swine-eating Greek on my sheets and in my hair. My harem girls have washed it thrice and I cannot rid myself of his stench. Burn all that he has touched.

“You must take him from this place, Saffron. Ferry him across the Bosphorus. Smuggle him to the White Sea where he can breed with his own kind. We shall tell my brother that we were taking a midnight sail when the boat capsized and he was drowned.”

“But my Princess, surely he will return to Galata and the Sultan will send his Solaks to murder him.”

The Princess leapt to her feet and clenched her hands. She shook her fists at her servant, like a child in a tirade.

“That would be his own kismet! Am I not the daughter of Sultan Abdulhamid? Will I not have the right to decide who resides within my
palace walls or will we harbor a man whom I loathe? See that he is dispatched tonight! What happens to him is in Allah’s hands. Send for the drowning guard, and see that the Greek is dispatched to another shore, I command you!”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Leave me. I must rest. I have not slept a minute in three nights.”

When the eunuch emerged from the harem, he found Postivich and a Solak on the edge of violence.

“You! Ahmed Kadir—move on!” the Solak shouted. “You are no longer needed here.”

“Since when does a Solak give me orders!” the janissary shouted back. “You miserable dog, you forget yourself.”

“I give you orders because we have no need for you! Should I see you near the entrance of the harem again, I shall slice your throat.”

Ivan Postivich made a lewd sign with his hand, gesturing towards his genitals. “You should try now to see if that is wise, you cowardly Albanian. Come, let’s have that discussion now so that I might wring your wretched neck like a sick pullet!”

“Ahmed Kadir!” shouted Saffron. “Stop! You, Solak! You take your orders from me. You, Corbaci. Wait for me at your quarters. I bring a message from the Sultaness for your ears only.”