The Drowning Guard: A Novel of the Ottoman Empire

by Linda Lafferty

  Postivich met her gaze, but did not let even a flicker of a response reveal his feelings.

  “We knew that Mustafa would seize on that savage unhappiness to incite revolt. And we knew it was not really Mustafa. Not slow-witted Mustafa at the heart of plot, but his mother, Ayse, who dreamt of becoming Valide Sultan once her son ascended the throne.

  “I hid and spied on the day that fifty thousand Janissaries stood in the courtyards of the palace, immobile as stone, waiting for their pay. And when it was late, their silence turned to anger and they returned to their barracks, their hearts full of murder.

  “My cousin Selim refused to hear the din of mutiny as the Janissaries kicked over their copper pilaf caldrons and beat them with sticks. But the women of Selim’s harem knew what would come. They knew too well that their fate was tied to the Sultan’s. Their knees were worn raw from praying to Allah; their voices rasped through the night beseeching help from heaven.

  “When the rampage began and death finally came, I alone would touch the Sultan’s body. His harem women wept and trembled in fear of the djinns of death and they dared not go near the corpse. Instead, they huddled in the far reaches of the Serail, terrified of the death that they could not have escaped no matter what they did.

  “But I knew I would survive. I had seen barbarous acts and I would live through them while others suffered and died.

  “I was born an Ottoman princess.

  “Turkish blue is my favorite color, the fierce color of the sky, the color of freedom. My young eyes would seek a world beyond the gates of the Serail, my cheek flattened against the perforations of the grille, to see a slice of the heavens beyond our small world. That patch of sky was a precious jewel, but my mother or our eunuch would snap the jewelry case shut as soon as I began to reach for it.

  “ ‘Esma Sultan! You must dress for your music lesson.’ I can see my mother giving a withering look at the eunuch Jonquil as she brushed past him to the entrance of the harem. Despite the elaborate screen that blocked the passage, I had trespassed too close to the outside world. ‘Come here at once. A man might see you as he passes the courtyard to have audience with the Sultan. There will be a scandal.’

  “I lived, of course, with my mother, whose shadow was as far reaching as the tallest plane tree of the courtyard. From my birth, I had the honor of being Sultane, daughter of the Sultan, and with my passage through my mother’s loins I immediately outranked her—because Ottoman blood ran through my veins. She would never forgive me. Had I been a son, I would have moved her closer to the throne with the possibility of being queen mother or Valide. But her labor pains counted for nothing—for I was born female.

  “Some mothers counted girls as a blessing, knowing that they were much less likely to be murdered in the struggle for the throne. My mother considered me a bawling insult to her status.

  “The music lessons, I thought, were part of her revenge. The violin and I were never well matched and I cursed it as a bedeviled invention of the West, brought to us by the infidels. My fingers were clumsy, the strings bit my soft fingertips and made them bleed. Still I was made to learn—to the great frustration of the maestro—because every member of the Imperial family was obliged to master an instrument.

  “ ‘Why must I torture my hands with this wretched instrument?’ I cried. ‘I am not musical—even my father proclaimed this when he heard me at the recital.’

  “ ‘You are lucky your honorable father saw humor in your performance and not the obvious shame you brought his honor,’ my mother replied. ‘If you repeat that incompetence, he will find his own daughter disgraceful to the Serail and to his name.’

  “My mother threw back her long chestnut hair in disdain; it was the hair that had bewitched a Sultan. My own hair was much darker than hers, though not without the same glints of red. My mother had the beauty of a goddess, even now as she aged—approaching thirty. The Sultan still called for her, despite his two hundred other women.

  “I continued to be a disappointment to her. ‘You are suited neither for music nor for feminine pursuits. Your father will see this and you will be married off to some old deaf pasha who cannot hear your torturous music or see your pitiful needlework.’

  “She scowled at me as if I could not possibly be her daughter.

  “ ‘The other wives and consorts laugh at you.’

  “ ‘Let them. I don’t care that they do.’

  “ ‘No, my daughter. When they laugh at you, they are mocking me. You are my handiwork, embroidery by my own hand. I will not let you fail me.’

  “With that she made an angry gesture to shoo me back into the recesses of the harem, to our apartments where I would change into my tutorial clothes: my cloak and a yasmak, the translucent veil.

  “Jonquil escorted me to the music room where he would remain while I played my instrument. I removed my yasmak while the tutor bowed his head. The maestro was under the eunuch’s strict scrutiny as he corrected my finger position and lifted my chin.

  “ ‘You must feel the music, Sultane. It is in our Turkish souls—your brother, Prince Mahmud, can play magnificently, tempting the very birds to fly nearer and light to listen. You must not treat the instrument as if it were a mere piece of wood. It has a soul that can be touched by a skilled hand.’

  “He was right, of course. I think now that I should try playing again, after all these years. I think I understand what he meant much better now than I did standing in that music room, taking pleasure in the pain on his wrinkled face as he endured my earsplitting notes.

  “I did understand vaguely what he meant of ‘soul.’ At least I did when I heard my own brother play in the harem. His music filled the corridors with the strains of heaven.

  “Perhaps it was because he had seen his own mother, Nakshidil, die of a broken heart. He had a new mother now—foreign born, French-tongued, assigned the same name as the woman who had died. She nurtured him now, and saw that he understood the passion of music. She attended my lessons quite often and encouraged my study, as disappointing as I was.

  “One night, after a concert in the harem, my little brother found me sulking on a cushion in the corner of the great hall. He sat next to me, under the watchful eye of my mother and Nakshidil, and lifted my chin.

  “ ‘Esma, why are you so sad tonight? Didn’t you enjoy the music? I played the violin expressly for you—I thought you’d recognize my voice in the melody of the notes.’

  “I smiled and touched his hand, as it lingered on my face. He was several years my junior and loved me like a goddess.

  “ ‘My dear brother, I thought I heard your whisper in the music. But the sweet sound only made me sad. I realize that I will never, ever play the violin the way you do. You caress the strings as if they were—’

  “Here I stopped, lowered my head and blushed. Mahmud looked up at his beloved stepmother, who was hurrying towards us.

  “ ‘Your blush brings our mothers rushing to separate us,’ sighed my brother, though I could tell he was pleased that he had caused the color to rise in my face. ‘You have forfeited our few remaining minutes together but I gladly trade them to see the red blood stir in your veins.’

  “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 wit
h 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 simits, 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 y
ou 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.