The Drowning Guard: A Novel of the Ottoman Empire (44 page)

“A treasure like this belongs in the Topkapi.”

“Our father bequeathed it to me. It will not return to Topkapi until my death. If you wish to visit it, you know where it hangs.”

The Sultan snorted and left his sister’s harem.

Ivan Postivich had overheard the entire conversation. His sister Irena had clothed him in tunics and veils, imploring him to sit rather than stand, as his height would surely draw the attention of Emerald, should he enter the harem.

The women of the Serail conspired to hide the giant, giggling as they dressed him in flowing robes and jewels.

“I shall escort him to the hamam myself!” whispered Nazip.

“Inappropriate talk for the expectant mother of a prince.”

“There is nothing more tedious than being pregnant,” protested the freckled maid, who had grown quite plump and even more beautiful. “Except to be pregnant with Ottoman royalty.”

“Irena, you must get me away from here,” whispered Postivich. “I cannot endure these women’s caresses without losing control of myself.”

“Perhaps you are more suited for cisterns than for a Royal Harem,” mused his sister. “They are harmless. Let them fuss over you.”

“They are harmless, but I am not. I have not had a woman in months!”

“Poor little brother. Learn abstinence and restraint. It will strengthen your character.”

“It is not my character that is strengthening.”

Irena looked down below his waist where he gestured.

“Put that away! It is most unbecoming under such fine silks. This is the only way the Sultan will not find you—he is forbidden to touch Esma Sultan’s women without express permission. Even I have been saved by this promise.”

“If he should ever touch you, I shall cut off his hand and his head.”

“Fine boasting for a fugitive who wears a woman’s veil.”

Once they had searched the palace and its grounds, Mahmud and his men galloped off to Topkapi. There were men in hiding along the way who barked insults from the shadows.

“Murderer! Traitor!”

“Blood on the hands of our Sultan!”

“Long live Ahmed Kadir!”

The Sultan sent two horsemen to locate the source of the shouts, but in the tight warren of alleyways and corridors, he knew the insults would never be punished. A pack of dogs snarled and bit at the horses’ hooves, making them bolt.

“We cannot murder every soul who hates the Sultan,” said one of the riders. He had already beheaded a dervish who had insulted the Sultan as he rode along the Golden Horn.

“Infidel Sultan!” the dervish had shouted. “You will have to answer to Allah for your crimes!”

“You must be mad, dervish, to insult your Sultan.”

“Mad? I mad? It is you who have lost your reason! You shall answer to Allah! Hail the Janissaries! Their desperate spirits clamor for justice!”

The man was executed at once, but the poor dervish was hailed as a martyr. Soon after he was buried, a legend grew of a shining light over his grave.

“Ahmed Kadir must be found and must die.” Mahmud’s orders were clear and insistent. He understood all too well how dangerous legends could be.

Sultan Mahmud’s day of misfortune had not ended. His mother, Nakshidil, had been consulting the Greek Orthodox priest again. She had openly returned to the religion of her birth and demanded the services of a priest at Topkapi.

“Mother! You are worshipping like an infidel under the Topkapi roof! Our people note your absence in the mosque.”

“Let them! I shall die soon and it will be with the blessing of a priest, you must promise me this.”

“I can deny you nothing, Mother. But you must not speak of dying. Let me tell you the news from Esma Sultan.”

At this Nakshidil smiled, for there was always something interesting and uncommon at Esma Sultan’s palace.

“How is the dear young girl?”

“She remains a painful thorn in my side and it is rumored that she harbors Ahmed Kadir somewhere in her palace.”

“The giant of the cirit field?”

“My mortal enemy, mother.”

“Is there more?”

“Esma has told me that our dear Irena is his own sister!”

“No! The fair Irena?”

“She is in Esma’s harem. She alone among the women is veiled.”

“The woman they call Bezm-i Alem?” said Nakshidil laughing. She clapped her hands together. “I know her! The giant’s sister no less! How delicious!”

“They were taken in the devshirme in the same day.”

“And how fares the sweet Irena?”

“She is not permitted to speak to me as she is one of my sister’s harem.”

“So was Nazip, who is now big with your child.”

“Irena remains protected.”

The Sultan’s mother nodded her head, suddenly quiet.

“I recall her injuries. I was one of the few who were allowed to inspect the burns. The poor child.”

“Was she really that disfigured, Mother?”

“Horribly so.”

Mahmud gazed at his mother.

“She showed more courage than all of us. I remember the determination, the spite in her eyes, that she was born free and would never surrender her spirit. The scars twisted her mouth into a perpetual smirk, as if she were scorning your father and the Ottomans for eternity.” Nakshidil sought her son’s hand and held it in hers.

“Her spirit is indomitable,” she said. “She was quite a brave girl. And woman.”

“I should love to look into her eyes again, but Esma will not permit me.”

“I understand. I am sure Irena would prefer not to be reminded of men, especially the son of the Sultan who tormented her.”

Mahmud stared at the brazier, contemplating the embers.

“I loved her, Mother.”

“Bah! You were at that tender age when even a future Sultan thinks he can love. It was very sweet, but fleeting.”

“No, you do not understand. I still love her.”

“Impossible. You do not know her. You think you love the woman you imagine she was. It is all a child’s fantasy. Besides, an Ottoman does not have the luxury of loving anyone or anything but his Empire. Leave her to your sister
who can care for an injured woman, one who has known nothing but pain from men. That is the most love you can show in your position.”

“I am going to play polo with her tonight. Under the full moon.”

Nakshidil raised her head. “Polo?”

“Yes, Esma has arranged a match between her harem and my squad. I promise I will be gentle with them. It is only for a chance to glimpse Irena.”

His mother laughed, as if the tragedy of Irena had fled her mind once again. “Oh, you must go visit your sister more often! You always amuse me with the news from Esma’s palaces. How divine! A polo game with the harem, just like the Persian princesses! I must write to my cousin Josephine—surely there is nothing so splendid as this for women in the Courts of Paris. She shall be green with envy! I shall include your pledge to allow a priest to give me my last rites when I die.” She added that thought, as if carelessly, but she gave her son a sharp look, making certain he knew his promise was being reported far and wide. Then she was carelessly gay again. “Josephine shall be so jealous she has such a bore as Napoleon for a husband when there are such goings-on in Constantinople. A harem playing polo!”

With that, Nakshidil excused herself and went back to her apartments to compose a letter to her cousin. Mahmud chewed the end of his mustache, wondering how he would approach his long-lost love Irena, and whether he could abide seeing her self-inflicted deformities.

Esma Sultan inspected the terrariums where ornamental plants for her gardens were grown. The gardeners maintained a fine stock of earthworms there to improve the soil. She selected some of the earthworms and gave careful instructions to the boy who tended them.

“Do you know where the willow balls for polo are kept?”

“Yes, my Sultane.”

“You must whitewash them and set them to dry in the sun. As we begin the match you must crush a worm and work the slime over the ball. Repeat this every few minutes so there is always a fresh supply of balls on the sidelines. You must keep the arbitrator supplied with new balls, and have him relinquish the old ones. Are my instructions understood quite clearly?”

“Yes, Sultane.”

“Good. Keep the earthworms in moist soil until they are to be sacrificed. Make certain the polo ball is slippery with the slime.”

“Yes, my Sultane.”

At ten o’clock, the torches were lit around the polo field and Esma Sultan’s horses were tacked. The head groom and the orphan boys rode them across the goal lines and weaved in and out of the torches to accustom them to the flames and the smell of burning oil. Since this was the routine every full moon, the horses only snorted once or twice and relaxed their ears and necks, drinking in the cool air of the summer night.

The Sultan arrived late, his horses rearing in the courtyard. The three Kapikulus—all former companions of Ivan Postich’s cavalry orta—who accompanied him were scornful of the prospect of playing against women and spat on the cobblestones.

“Come this way,” motioned Nazip, atop a sturdy mare.

“Nazip, you will not play!” ordered the Sultan. “You carry my child in your womb.”

“I will not play because I choose not to, with all grace and respect my Sultan,” answered Nazip. “Esma Sultan has already chosen her teammates and I am but a timekeeper. May you enjoy the match. I so regret that I will not play against you.”