The Drowning Guard: A Novel of the Ottoman Empire

by Linda Lafferty

  “Allah sees all,” the oarsman said. “No Sultan or Ottoman is above his judgment.”

  “That is inconvenient for all of us then,” whispered Ivan Postivich. “For Allah seems to offer no recourse.”

  “In my heart, I seethe with loathing for the deeds I have committed. I see the men I have transported to their death in my dreams, struggling against the knotted bag at the bottom of the Bosphorus. How can Allah not answer with his own sword of revenge for the innocent? I shall have my revenge one day in a manner that will cripple the Ottoman rule.”

  “You do not speak as one who sleeps under the roof of the palace,” said Postivich, wiping his hands of the charred bits of chestnuts. “But for all I know you are a spy for the Princess, searching for those disloyal to her. So I shall say to you, oarsman with the unlucky name of Ahmed, ‘Long live the Sultan and his favorite sister.’ ”

  With that, the janissary turned to continue his walk, the oarsman protesting his innocence and agony in his wake.

  “You shall see how earnest my confession is,” hissed the oarsman from the rocks. “One day, I shall redeem my soul and that of this Empire!”

  Ivan Postivich turned and looked down at the defiant eyes of the Turkish sailor.

  “Then Allah be with you to guide your soul,” he said, registering the oath as truth. He walked on, leaving the young man at the edge of the Bosphorus.

  As Postivich returned to the barracks on the edge of the massive drilling grounds of Et Meydan, he heard the raucous laughter of Janissaries coming from a tavern. He saw a piece of parchment nailed to the door, flapping slightly in the light breeze.

  It was a crude picture of a janissary—made obvious by the exaggerated white sleevehat—and, beside him, the Sultan, attached to a leash. And below the drawing, in crude capital letters:

  YOU SEE HOW WE USE OUR DOGS. AS LONG AS THEY ARE USEFUL TO US AND SUFFER THEMSELVES TO BE LED, WE USE THEM WELL, BUT WHEN THEY CEASE TO BE OF SERVICE, WE CAST THEM INTO THE STREETS.

  Postivich knew that a similar paper had been found on the Topkapi gates and the Sultan, furious with the insult, had ordered the artist to be found and beheaded. The Aga of the Janissary Corps had summoned his troops to the Topkapi walls and made the announcement, even though it was rumored he sneered at the Sultan’s command, knowing that the loyal brotherhood of these soldiers was far stronger than an Ottoman ruler’s decree.

  Postivich avoided taverns; they were hotbeds of mutiny and defiance. The Sultan himself was known to frequent them in disguise to flush out the ringleaders and agitators who threatened his regime. It was Sultan Mahmud II who had stripped Postivich of his command after the border campaigns, suspicious of the huge soldier’s power over other men.

  The public display of scorn for the all-powerful Sultan flapped insolently on the tavern door.

  The Sultan’s procession to Friday morning prayers was an event the chestnut vendor looked forward to every week. Everyone gathered along the shores of the Golden Horn to see the great Sultan’s kayik cut through the water, accompanied by the fleet of his entourage. He sat bejeweled on cushions, his aquiline nose jutting into the wind, face immobile—imperial grandeur incarnate.

  As Mahmud’s subjects gathered to watch this convoy, the chestnut vendor’s business was good. Men and boys stood in line to buy nuts hot from his fire.

  The women stayed close to their men, but their eyes were trained on a single kayik, flying fast across the water. Near-naked men, their legs and loins wrapped in gauzy white breeches, rowed the Princess Esma Sultan across the Golden Horn to the Aya Sofya. The men’s skin was oiled and their muscles gleamed in the sun. The Princess reclined under an awning, joined by her two favorite handmaids, the freckled Nazip and always veiled Bezm-i Alem, the “Jewel of the Universe.”

  It was rumored that Bezm-i Alem was so beautiful that if any man gazed upon her unveiled, he could never love another woman. Still the other women of Esma Sultan’s harem laughed barefaced at the sun and exchanged whispers at the beauty of the oarsman, who pulled the kayik gracefully across the water.

  It was treason to criticize the Sultan or the Sultan’s favorite sister, so knowing looks and gasps at the bare faces and necks of the women sufficed to convey how the Princess’s court brazenly disregarded the word of the Prophet. Esma Sultan’s lack of morals was notorious and made clear yet again each Friday before prayers.

  But today the Princess appeared with her face covered in blue silk. Had there been a death in the Royal Family? Some favorite niece or nephew? Or had the Sultan drowned one of his once-favored wives?

  The chestnut man chewed pensively on one of his wares and wondered what the sudden change might portend.

  Ivan Postivich sat on the edge of his cot, inspecting his saber. There were nicks and scrapes that could not be repaired, and he considered each with a flash of memory.

  In the Sultan’s service, fighting the Greeks in Peloponnesus or the Russians in Wallachia, he had nicked and scored his sword a dozen times. He remembered the sound of a skull cleaved in two, the blade sinking into the brain as swiftly as a knife into a melon. He had fought off starving looters who had tried to rob the Sultan’s shipment of French champagne and fine brandy, his sword slicing into the backs of their thighs as they ran, attempting in vain to flee their death.

  Indeed, the fame of Ahmed Kadir had reached the inner court of Topkapi and inflamed the jealousy of the young prince Mahmud, long before he became Sultan. The paths of their lives ran surprisingly close. The sultan and the soldier were of the same age and the soldier was trained and educated within the palace.

  Even as a boy, Ahmed Kadir worked with the wildest of horses and won the grudging respect of the Turkish Master of the Horse. It was his skill in the war game of cirit that had won the highest praise, for despite his size Ahmed Kadir was agile as an acrobat on his horse, ducking the pointed spears that whistled over him.

  “He climbs around on a horse like a monkey hanging from a tree!” marveled Sultan Selim III, watching a cirit game. “What agility he has!”

  “Truly an ape,” muttered Mahmud.

  The Horse Master cleared his throat and addressed Selim III, turning away from the young prince Mahmud.

  “Ahmed Kadir will one day become a great cavalryman, my Sultan, and though he was born in the northlands, he is Turkish in his instincts. He will save his horse and stand on the field if he thinks there is an advantage in fighting on foot. The infantry respect him as much as the cavalry—he will inspire the Ottoman armies on the battlefield and win many battles, if Allah wills it. He is a leader, and the soldiers look to him to follow.”

  Mahmud remembered these words when his cousin Selim was butchered by rogue Janissaries who attacked the Topkapi. At that time Ahmed Kadir was only a boy himself, and his orta was on a foreign campaign in the borderlands of Wallachia, fighting the Russians. It was only a faction of the soldiers who supported Mahmud’s half brother, Mustafa IV, in the struggle for the throne and carried out the assassination. Still when Mahmud closed his eyes, he saw the Janissaries who searched the Topkapi to kill him as well. Mustafa was eager to spill the blood of any male relatives who might threaten his claim to the throne. Mahmud would never forget the terror of his narrow escape. His mother, Nakshidil, hid him in an oven as a servant distracted the Janissaries. Mahmud had trembled in fear, stifling the urge to sneeze as the ashes filled his nostrils. Outside the oven doors he heard the shouts and heavy footsteps of the Janissaries.

  Years later, soon after he became sultan, Mahmud thought hard about the power that Ahmed Kadir could one day wield over the Janissaries. He remembered his cousin’s murder and trembled at the memory of those footsteps outside the oven where he cowered in terror. By that time, Ahmed Kadir had proved himself on battlefields and campaigns far from Constantinople. Now, Mahmud’s own Grand Vizier boasted of the giant’s fearless attacks, riding his grey-dappled mare into battle as he dodged the arrows and javelins of the opposing army with breathtaking agility. And as the Horse Ma
ster had predicted, Janissary Kadir left his horse with a groom and led the infantry into the last decisive battle against the Greeks, his sword slashing through the enemy like a sharp scythe through hay.

  “Bah,” grumbled Mahmud, when the Grand Vizier came to tell him how a cavalryman had handed his reins to another man and joined the infantry. “Our Ottoman army needs reform, Vizier! A Kapikulu cavalryman joining the infantry at a whim? The man is mad! A dismounted cavalryman brings disgrace upon the Ottomans!”

  “The man is a hero, my Sultan, and it is this willingness to lead that has won him the respect of the Janissaries. The Aga of the Janissaries holds him in the highest regard.”

  The Sultan rose from his throne and paced the carpeted floors.

  “The Aga is a fool who indulges slovenly conduct on the battlefield! I shall order a complete reform of our military and their tactics,” he said. “No Topkapi-trained cavalryman shall ever again descend from his horse! We will fight in regiments, with order, not like a pack of mongrel dogs who mount and dismount capriciously.”

  The old Vizier looked aghast at the Sultan at the thought of reforming the Janissaries. The Corps was created by the first Sultan of Constantinople, Mehmed the Conqueror, and without them, there would be no Ottoman Empire. The Aga himself had a palace that rivaled the Topkapi.

  “But, my Sultan, that is exactly how your honorable cousin Selim III was murdered, instigating reform. The Janissaries will rebel and storm Topkapi, just as they have done before. You put your life in jeopardy!”

  Mahmud dismissed his remark with a wave of his hand.

  “My honorable cousin did not play his move with wisdom. He did not have the strength and will of the citizens. He tried to reform them with a timid hand—I shall crush them with my fist!” The Sultan’s fingers tightened in a ball, the knuckles white against his ruby and emerald rings.

  The Vizier bowed his head

  “You are absolutely correct, O Sultan. The Janissaries have become a barbarous lot—the merchants in the Bazaar hide their daughters from the Janissaries’ groping hands and people flee the bastinado, which they use too freely to club the innocent. But we might work within the ranks to root out corruption. If we were to infiltrate the ortas with disciplined leaders who believed in the spirit of the Corps—the tradition of honor and defenders of the Faith—we might yet stay the wave of corruption and their assault on the common people. Let us enlist those whom the men admire—this giant, for example, and lead them to more honorable ways of serving their Sultan as was the case with your ancestor Mehmed I or even Suleyman the Great!”

  “Let them lie with the Devil! The more corrupt and menacing they become, the swifter the day will arrive when the Ottoman people will stand by their Sultan to stain the Bosphorus red with janissary blood. These thugs will not suffer reform and their arrogance will bring about their own demise. I will not spend another moment considering their future, other than their death!

  “We will form regiments, not ortas, with our new corps, and we shall have more discipline like the European armies,” said Mahmud, rubbing his hands enthusiastically as he imagined the future. He looked out over the Bosphorus towards the Sweet Waters of Asia. “I shall stand proud to see an Ottoman army drilling to Western marches and wearing new uniforms that reflect our dignity and my sovereignty!”

  “But my Sultan—” began the Grand Vizier.

  “Silence! Our new army will be the pride of Constantinople. I shall speak to the English and French ambassadors this very afternoon and begin immediately to study the problem.”

  “But, Your Highness, I only wish to defend you and your harem. The Janissary Corps has existed for over three hundred years. They will resist imitating the armies of the infidels and become rebellious. The Ulema could side with them, accusing you of fraternizing with the pagan enemies of the Prophet—”

  “Enough! I shall reform these bloody brutes and we shall have discipline. Send me this Ahmed Kadir immediately.”

  The Grand Vizier left the throne room stunned. What had begun as a report of the glorious Janissaries’ feats in the Western provinces had ended in a tirade by the Sultan. What had provoked such wrath in his master? Still, he suspected Mahmud would have to obtain a fatwa from the Mufti to conspire further, for the Janissaries were protected by the Sheriat as interpreted by the highest Muslim Imam. This would take time, and perhaps the Sultan would come to his senses.

  He sent a page to run to the barracks and fetch the soldier, Ahmed Kadir. Then he hurried off to consult the military officers and the Aga on the decision the Sultan was threatening to make.

  Several hours later, Ivan Postivich entered the Topkapi Court, his skin rubbed raw by an overzealous servant in the royal hamam. His blue tunic was spotless and starched as stiff as felt. He bowed to the new Sultan, the third he had known in just three decades. This one had been a boy let out of a Topkapi cage for equestrian events and cavalry drills, an arrogant, terrified youth about the same age as Postivich.

  The Sultan asked to examine Postivich’s sword.

  The Sultan’s smooth hand ran over the blade, his fine white fingers settling momentarily into the grooves etched in battle.

  “This is the sword of a true Ottoman warrior,” the Sultan had said. “Your feats as a corbaci of the elite Kapikulu are legend.”

  “The Ottomans have made me what I am, my Sultan.”

  The Sultan narrowed his eyes. He studied the giant who stood before him. This man was becoming a leader of other men. And any leader other than the Sultan was dangerous, especially when it came to the volatile and powerful janissaries.

  “Yes. The Ottomans have made you who you are, janissary. And I will make you who you will yet be.”

  Two days later, the Sultan’s private guard arrived to escort Postivich to the Sultan’s favorite sister’s palace, stripping the janissary of his command of his cavalry orta.

  “This is your new post, Ahmed Kadir. You shall guard the honor and life of Esma Sultan. The Sultan fears for his sister’s—habits,” he said. “Already there have been insults shouted at her by a man at the Galata Bridge, a man whose head now mourns the loss of his body. A madman—a Bektashi Sufi.”

  “I am a warrior—the corbaci of the cavalry orta—not a palace servant!” protested Postivich. “I was not trained as a palace Solak! I have my horses to attend to and I must train the new recruits in cirit and polo. I shall go insane if I spend hours groveling on the floor to please a princess’s fancy. Let me fight the Russians or send me to reclaim lands in the west from the Greeks!”

  “You know what you ask is impossible. The Sultan himself has assigned you to the Princess’s guard.”

  But even the Sultan did not understand the fierce competition for the Princess’s care and trust. The established guards had barely let Postivich enter the outer courtyards of the palace, growling that the Sultan’s sister was in their care and not a janissary’s concern.

  The Sultan’s Grand Vizier—allied closely with the Aga of the Janissaries—came to check on Ahmed Kadir’s new post. He appeared murderously angry to see the giant standing guard outside the palace’s walls in the shade of lime tree.

  “Have we pulled our best soldier from the battlefield to stand and match his shadow with that of fruit trees?” he bellowed. “Why do you stand on the streets, Kadir?”

  “The choice is not mine, sir,” answered the janissary. “This is my assigned post.”

  The Vizier ordered the Solak commanding officer to present himself at once, his curses sending the harem girls and servants scurrying through the corridors.

  Within the hour, Ivan Postivich had been installed just outside the Royal Audience Chamber doors. The palace guards were forced to acknowledge that he was a member of their force, although he was not a Solak and did not belong to their orta. Even the Turkish guard, who hated all the Janissaries, was forced to accept Ahmed Kadir’s presence. The chief minister had assigned him a more respectable mission—to inspect every male visitor for weapons and to
study their faces for signs of treason or murder.

  But with time there was another duty for which he would become known—the Princess Esma Sultan’s personal murderer. Her drowning guard.

  Chapter 2

  The first light played on the wet cobblestone streets of Constantinople, fresh and cool from the early morning washing by the Jewish street sweep. This was the cypress-lined road that led to the royal palaces and the Pashas’ yalis on the Bosphorus and the Golden Horn, the one fine stretch of street meant to impress ambassadors and other foreign dignitaries visiting the capital of the vast Ottoman Empire.

  The rest of the byways of Constantinople were a maze of narrow winding passageways, hard-packed dirt that turned into mire with the seasonal rains. It was there in the tangle of alleys that the wild dogs slept in the daytime. The wood-shingled houses with their windows jutting over the streets provided shade for the pack who were desperate to escape the fierce Turkish heat. The mongrels whined and yelped for scraps and fought each other over the carcasses of dead horses or mules that died in the streets. No one carted away the dead animals, as everyone knew the dogs would pick clean the bones overnight, leaving the morning streets tidy with their scavenging.

  Ivan Postivich approached the janissary barracks at Et Meydan from this tangle of ancient roads, just as the muezzin began the call to prayer. As he entered the gates, Postivich could see the morning fires of the soup cooks flickering. White peacocks screeched in the trees in the courtyards of the Mosque of the Conqueror, mocking the messenger in the minaret, who summoned Constantinople’s faithful to begin their day by worshipping Allah.

  The winding road led into the dusty acres of Meat Square, where the military cooks toiled. Lingering in the air was the sweet metallic odor of bloody meat mingled with the stench of rotting offal, for Constantinople’s slaughterhouses were located beside the janissary soup kitchens.