As Postivich contemplated the politics of the Ottoman court, he heard a quick hiss from beyond a thick stand of bush. He pulled his dagger, his muscles tensed, ready.
“Who spies on Ahmed Kadir?”
“I am no spy,” whispered a voice. A blond head emerged from the bushes. “I am Abdul Recid, of the Janissary guard. I have business to discuss with you. Put away your dagger; I am one of your brothers.”
The janissary had removed his cap and had it tucked under his arm. Postivich recognized him as the soldier who refused the muezzin’s call and snored during prayers.
“The Corps wants to know if you are with them or not,” said Recid. “The New Guard—those infidels dressed up in the fancy costume of Western lackeys—were drilling in the Et Meydan military fields. The dog of a Sultan has thrown his final insult to us and Mohammed’s holy Muslim state. He swears he will reform us in the image of European swine, and the Janissaries will be no more!”
Ivan Postivich listened quietly, knowing that there certainly were palace spies. “You speak treason, janissary,” he answered. Then he whispered urgently, “Are you sure of what you say?”
“I saw the drill myself, this morning. It is the first step in the destruction of the Janissiary Corps, I swear upon Allah’s sacred word. The talk in the taverns is of rebellion—the Sultan has proclaimed the changes in our uniforms were approved in the fatwa from the Mufti, but our brothers refuse to wear them. There is talk of storming the Topkapi—”
“Silence, soldier!” hissed Postivich. “Remember where you are. These are the palace grounds of the Sultan’s favorite sister. You speak of mutiny as if there weren’t a hundred Solaks within a sentry’s call. You will lose your head for such talk.”
“I will not be silent in fear. Your orta would surely pledge their blood to defend the traditions of the Janissaries and not play the Sultan’s puppet, if they had your leadership. Without it, they may waver and ride against the Corps. Come back, Ahmed. Join us.”
Ivan Postivich’s heart leapt at the mention of the orta. His mind flashed on the days of battle, defending the kingdom of the Ottomans. This is what a janissary gives his life for—the honor of battle in the name of Allah. Not to play nursemaid to an ailing Princess.
“Surely not all the Janissary Ortas have pledged mutiny?”
“Only a handful will likely remain faithful to the Sultan. Of course the Solaks of the Sultan’s bodyguard. The rest of us who are in Constantinople, more than thirty thousand, will force the Sultan to retract his scheme to dishonor the Janissary forces with the infidels’ trappings.”
Postivich listened, but the image of the resulting slaughter made him stiffen in revulsion. Janissary against janissary; yet another Sultan slaughtered. This would be the third Sultan’s death in his lifetime and his stomach hardened at the thought.
“I must consider what you say. That path is surely a bloody course. Thousands upon thousands will die.”
“As you please, Corbaci Kadir. But remember if you are not with us, you are against us, and your head shall scream for its shoulders. I will return in a few nights for your decision, for we want to know who is the enemy of the Ottoman Janissaries.”
“I thank you for your trouble,” said Postivich. “You should return to the barracks now or your absence will be noticed.”
“One thing more,” said the soldier, pulling Postivich closer. “Beware of the white eunuch who serves you. He is more crafty than you realize.”
Ivan Postivich could smell garlic and fish on the janissary’s breath, but the words he spoke were so earnest that he did not pull away.
“An eye to him,” warned the blond soldier, touching his temple and then disappearing behind the thick hedge. In his wake, the jasmine flowers trembled, emitting a sweet scent.
Postivich stood amidst the heady flowers of Esma Sultan’s gardens. He remembered the blood and corpses in the streets of Constantinople just five years earlier in the purge of the Greeks. Many innocents had been killed who were neither soldiers nor traitors to the Empire, merely recognizable targets and easy victims of the Janissaries’ wrath. Postivich had seen Greek women and even young girls and boys defiled by the marauding soldiers, hungry for the blood and plunder of victory. He hated the baseness of the men who raped and killed. The centuries-old Ottoman army had been reduced to savagery akin to the dogs who roamed the streets of Istanbul.
Man eat man.
Kept idle without war, purpose, or honor, the Janissaries would turn on their master himself, and rip his corpse apart.
Bezm-i Alem walked the perimeter of the gardens, hoping to catch a glimpse of the drowning guard as he left the palace. Instead she saw a furtive movement from the corner of her eye. A fair-haired man moved quickly to hide behind a thick stand of calla lilies and rosebushes where the moon would not illuminate him. Bezm-i Alem acted as if she had not seen him and stopped to smell a rose in the moonlight and then passed on, her heart beating in her throat. She retreated towards the Serail in slow, measured steps, until she was beyond his vision. Then she circled back crouching in the darkness and waited for the corbaci to emerge from the palace.
When the giant stepped into the garden, the man hissed and whispered his name. Bezm-i Alem stole closer to them and knelt behind a broken fountain. Although she could not hear all of their conversation, she heard most of the fair-haired man’s words.
He spoke of treason, of revolt, of murdering the Sultan. This was the gossip that the palace kitchen pages brought back daily from the market, of another janissary revolt like the one that resulted in the murder of Esma Sultan’s cousin Selim III. This beardless man was a conspirator looking for allies.
And he meant to draw the corbaci into the plot.
She leaned her cheek against the cool smooth stone and listened. The stink of the dying water lilies and the still water made the girl fear the djinns that haunted pools of calm water, but she struggled to overcome her dread.
It wasn’t clear to her whether the giant was in favor of the revolt or not, though he had more grievances against the Sultan than most. But Bezm-i Alem knew the Janissaries demanded loyalty from their brothers; to stand against them was as dangerous as treason against Topkapi. It was not clear who was fomenting the revolt. The Janissary Corps was like a great serpent coiled tight. It was difficult to find its head.
The slave girl hated this fair-haired stranger in the darkness. He would draw the corbaci back into the fray, into the deadly plan that would seal his destiny. The Sultan would have a legitimate reason at last to hunt him down and kill him if he were to breathe even one word of treason. Perhaps Topkapi had sent this man as a spy, she thought, to have Ahmed Kadir agree to help the Corps. He would be seized by the Solaks and hanged from the great plane tree in the Hippodrome, as a warning to the rest of the Janissaries.
She was sickened by the call to war, to death. Would there never be peace, a moment for life without the smell of blood and terror in this Empire? The Empire reeked of death, of hate and revenge, of one man thirsting for the blood of another. The ground had been torn open, red and gaping with new graves, while the women wept and saw no benefit or honor in their deaths—only the abyss of a painful absence that lasted a lifetime.
The harem girl wanted to protect this giant who stood in the darkness, who would surely be pulled into the plot and, in turn, murdered.
Then she thought of the Bektashi Sufis. They spoke of peace and the union of the faithful with Allah, yet were an integral part of the Corps. If the Janissaries are plotting a revolt, the Sufis would know. They would also be in danger, as the Janissaries’ counsel and spiritual leaders.
Bezm-i Alem vowed in darkness to consult the Sufis. Perhaps these Bektashi could intervene in the kismet of the drowning guard.
The next morning was Friday, and the great majority of Istanbul attended the Friday Mosque. Ivan Postivich set off towards the reddish dome of Aya Sofya, rising high above the city.
Today the Sultan was to attend prayers in the Aya Sof
ya, instead of his preferred Fatih Mosque. The Aga of the Janissaries had called out reinforcements for this special visit. As many as two thousand Janissaries would stand guard outside the mosque as part of the royal procession. An order had been delivered to Ivan Postivich that he should join this troop. At many official occasions, he was called to stand in the front rank of soldiers, his towering presence lending prestige to the event, impressing visiting dignitaries.
The muezzin’s call echoed through the streets of Istanbul.
God is most great. I testify that there is no god but Allah. I testify that Mohammed is the Prophet of Allah. Come to Prayer! Come to salvation! There is no god but Allah!
Postivich took his position among the Jannisary ranks outside the mosque, awaiting the arrival of the royal family. Standing just outside the portals of the Aya Sofya, he could soon see the straight lines of Solaks, the Sultan’s private guard, preceding the Sultan on foot. No one could enter the mosque until the Sultan and his court had been admitted and were settled in their own private section.
The selamlik, the royal religious procession to the mosque, was a public spectacle repeated every Friday. Given the growing discontent within the Janissary ranks, this particular selamlik was laden with tension, as the Janissaries stood, silent and grim, immobile as stone outside the mosque.
The Solaks looked warily at the ranks of Janissaries, having heard the mutterings of unrest in the army that was stationed beyond the Topkapi walls. No violence was conceivable within the sacred walls of the Aya Sofya, as the sanctity of Allah was utmost. Nevertheless, the Solaks’ eyes shifted uneasily under their white-plumed hats, their hands at the ready on their sharp daggers.
The Sultan was preceded by twenty horses, led by the spahis of the feudal lord cavalry, for at these moments no one was able to ride except the Shadow of God on Earth himself. The horses wore headstalls encrusted with diamonds, sapphires, turquoise, and pearls; leather saddles were covered by rich crimson velvet. Two pages hurried ahead carrying a golden bottle of scented water and a jeweled bowl, in order that the Sultan might wash before entering the mosque.
Postivich studied the one mounted horse in the distance, the sun sparkling off the silver and gold tack. It was highly unusual for the Sultan to ride anything other than a pure white stallion, but this one was dappled. He opened his eyes wide in disbelief against the fierce Turkish sun.
The Sultan rode Postivich’s own mare, Peri.
Postivich lunged forward, but a strong hand gripped him, and then another and another. Someone grabbed him from behind, whispering harshly in his ear.
“Don’t move. The Sultan hopes to incite you to treason so he can rid himself of you. Do not fall fool to his plan. When the time is right, we will stand shoulder to shoulder. This is not the time, brother.”
Ivan Postivich nodded and the hands one by one released him. He choked back the bile in his mouth and watched the Sultan approach the mosque.
“The time shall come soon enough,” whispered the voice in his ear.
Before dismounting, Sultan Mahmud II surveyed the phalanx of Janissaries. He reined his horse savagely so that Peri reared, and he was almost thrown. Recovering his composure, he heard a few laughs from the Turks who loved the unexpected, especially in their rulers. Mahmud used his crop to slash at the mare so that she jumped and kicked out, clearing a wide space around the Sultan and causing mutterings in the crowd.
He rode up to Postivich and said, “Oh, giant. I see you have not schooled this mare well enough for a Sultan. The old Master of the Horse would look at you in shame were he still alive. She will either obey her rider or become meat for the dogs of Istanbul.”
The janissary opened his mouth to speak and shut it again.
“What is the matter, Kadir? Have you lost the command of the Ottoman tongue? The same as you have lost command of your cavalry orta, perhaps.”
The mare began to neigh wildly, looking around for the other horses of the Kapikulu Orta.
“No, my Sultan. But I am forbidden to speak while I am posted on duty. Forgive me as I perform my guard dutifully, saving you from your enemies.”
The Sultan eyed him to see if there was insolence about the man, but he stood as still as the Aya Sofya itself. Mahmud II grunted and wheeled the mare around to address the ranks of Janissaries, his dark beard shining in the morning light.
“My loyal Janissaries,” he shouted, “defenders of the Ottoman Empire, the Koran, and the Sultan himself. We come to pray to Allah for the favor of his blessings. Come, enter the holy mosque of the Aya Sofya, the site that the Great Mehmed the Conqueror did wrest from the infidels and make sacred unto Allah.
“We pray to strengthen our holy Ottoman Empire with a common cause—let us worship Allah together in peace and in the brotherhood of our faith. A curse be on the head of any man who betrays the trust of God and the divine right of your Sultan and dares to incite insurrection within the shadows of Allah’s sacred walls.”
He eyed Ivan Postivich, his lip curling under his mustache.
Mahmud dismounted, leaving the dancing mare to a groom. He performed the perfunctory ablutions, the pages holding the heavy jeweled pitcher above the Sultan’s hands and feet.
The Sultan entered his special place of worship, surrounded with latticed screens, high above the floor of the mosque. Once he was settled, the rest of the faithful entered below.
Ivan Postivich broke ranks with the call to mosque and strode up to the groom holding the mare.
“Stand back, Ahmed Kadir,” warned a solak from the Topkapi.
“I want to see my mare.”
“This mare belongs to Topkapi. You are not to approach any closer by orders of the Sultan.”
Ivan Postivich called out soothing words in Serbo-Croat. The mare twisted her head away from the groom and whinnied at him, the whites of her eyes showing.
“Leave, Kapikulu,” ordered a Solak, raising his scimitar. “Your devil Christian tongue is blasphemous in the environs of the holy mosque.”
“They were Christian hands that built this palace to God, you ignorant Turk!” growled Postivich. “You are not fit to scoop the dung of my mare. May she make your wait tedious with her excrement!”
Postivich looked down on the Sultan’s guard, a withering regard that made the soldier swallow in shame.
“I shall not pray for your miserable soul, Solak,” he said. He turned and walked back to the courtyard of the mosque.
Before entering the holy place of Allah, the soldiers removed their shoes. There were rows of fountains outside the mosque where Ivan Postivich bathed his hot feet and dusty hands and face in preparation for the morning prayers. Beyond the plashing of the fountain, he could smell the boiled meat and vegetable broth served to the poor and ailing of Istanbul, just beyond the steps of the mosque. Crowds of the poor lingered close to the soup kitchens as the Turks took care of their less fortunate citizens, serving thousands of meals a day for those who could not feed themselves.
Entering the Aya Sofya was a holy experience in itself, thought Postivich. Throngs of devoted Muslims knelt shoulder to shoulder under its roof and the universe under the enormous dome was a vortex of light, surely shining from Allah himself.
As he knelt and prostrated himself in prayer, Postivich could not help but look around the walls and see the mosque for what it had originally been—the great Byzantine cathedral of the Aya Sofya of Constantinople.
His gaze traveled up through the vast space. Though the lower walls had been painted long ago after the fall of Constantinople to the Turks, the Muslim artisans had left one small fragment of original art high up on the vaulted ceilings.
Two small winged angels offered something to a figure that he imagined might be the Virgin Mary, with only the very tip of her extended finger and a piece of gold halo still visible, the rest having been covered with a thick wash of plaster. As the janissary lowered his forehead to the floor, he considered this.
The Koran and the laws of Islam did not allow any
figure of man or beast to be depicted in art, let alone in a mosque. But somehow the Turkish craftsmen had not obscured the two angels in this holy place of worship.
Ivan Postivich thought of the generations of Christians who had knelt on these very floors, worshipping their God. It struck him as curious how a sacred place could be sacked and conquered and on the same ground, within the same walls, another place of worship could be so easily consecrated, awash in the suras of the Koran.
Were not the ghosts and saints of the past hovering above the heads of the Ottomans now? Did those spirits condemn the Muslims? Or did they allow them peace as they honored the tradition of worship, in a different tongue, another religion?
Did not the Koran call Mary a “saintly woman”? Was Jesus not called a prophet? Perhaps the relics and bones of the holy saints would rest content with these honorable references and suffer the Arabic and Ottoman words of the faithful who prayed above their dusty remains.
But then even the Byzantines had incorporated pagan art into their cathedral to their Christian God. Next to the janissary rose the worn and ancient pillar from the Temple of the Sun in Athens. Justin the Conqueror had no qualms about introducing a treasure of beauty, crowning it with an intricately carved capital, supporting Christian walls with the glory that was once Greece.
Ivan Postivich was strangely at peace with the mixing of cultures and religions. Still, as he stared at what he imagined to be an obscured image of the Virgin, he felt a stirring deep within him that had nothing to do with the chanted prayers of the Koran.
He wondered what had happened to his sister.
He knew from the Janissaries who had been posted in the outer provinces that his mother had died not long after his circumcision, though she had been in the grave for nearly two years when the news finally reached him. It was said by a neighbor that she died of grief. He wondered if his sister had lived and of her fate. His eyes blurred with a haze of tears.
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