The Drowning Guard: A Novel of the Ottoman Empire

by Linda Lafferty

  “I suppose you have heard what has happened in the market today?”

  “I hear nothing, if it is not from you. What news?”

  “The Princess Esma Sultan has decreed that slave women shall not be inspected at random by the prospective buyers and that decorum should be afforded each one of them!”

  The janissary laughed. “They are slaves, aren’t they? Surely the buyers will want to inspect their teeth and gums, their legs and feet, their virginity—or the buyers will not know what they purchase.”

  “Exactly! But the Sultaness has declared their inspections an affront to the Koran and urged that the Ulema must declare such treatment against the teachings of Mohammed.”

  “It is true that the slavemasters treat the women like cattle,” said Postivich, glowering. He had always imagined the fate of his sister at the Muslims’ hands, the rough dirty hands that would have probed her. “She surely does rule this Empire through the Sultan’s ear.”

  Emerald smiled. “Yes, the hand of the Sultan moves under her own, and her decisions are absolute. The Janissaries patrolling the market could not contain her. She kicked over the crates upon which slave sellers display the females and bloodied a man’s eye who dared to raise his fingers above a young girl’s knees. I witnessed it all, and thanked Mohammed I was not cursed by her wrath.

  “She also bought over forty Greek slaves herself this very day and has freed them on the instant. Many have begged to stay in her harem and join the others who now wander freely about the palace.”

  “Are you saying that all those women in the Serail are not the slaves of Esma Sultan?”

  “Some are, some are not. It is impossible to remember, for so many have been given their freedom, but few ever leave. They love the freedom to wander the palace grounds without yasmaks, without husbands who demand their submission, without beatings and scorn. They indeed enjoy their lives there. You have heard the music of her female orchestra? It is said that Esma Sultan has the finest female musicians in all the world. A prince of France has argued that the beauty of Constantinople is not the Aya Sofya, but the harem of Esma Sultan and the Sultaness herself.”

  Emerald sat back, thoroughly satisfied, sipping his tea.

  “You are proud of your mistress,” observed the janissary. “Yet what say you when she orders an innocent man to be drowned?”

  The smile slid from the eunuch’s face and he set his teacup down on the porcelain saucer.

  “I cannot question the decisions of my Sultaness,” he said, stiffening. His easy manner disappeared, and Postivich was struck by the sudden transformation and the ugly mold of his fleshy face.

  In the silence, the janissary heard the hiss and creak of the steam in the pipes in the adjacent room.

  “But she has not drowned a single lover since you began your evening visits,” said the eunuch, recovering his composure. “I thank Allah for your presence.”

  “You think I am responsible for her not committing her murders?”

  The eunuch nodded.

  “You cannot dispute that the new moon is upon us and not one lover has she taken to her bed. And from the palace spies, I know that you and she are chaste.”

  The janissary snorted in astonishment.

  “Chaste! Of course! I do not crave drowning! By the Prophet’s word, why would I pronounce my own death sentence?”

  “It is not your choice, janissary. If she wanted you, she would have you.”

  “Don’t be so certain, eunuch. I know of one who refused her, though his life was not spared.”

  Emerald’s eyes bore into the janissary, the faded blue taking on a fierce glitter.

  “Who told you this?” he demanded, his voice surging with rage.

  Ivan Postivich realized too late that he had spoken imprudently. He had nearly shared the secret of his last victim’s words.

  “It is gossip in the whorehouses! The women swear that she has been refused and laugh at the insult. They say she is the woman who offered love at her cup and found a lover who was not thirsty.”

  Emerald clenched his teeth, a glint of spittle forming at the side of his mouth.

  “Tell me which brothels and they will have their wagging tongues cut from their mouths. The brothel shall be burned to the ground before morning!”

  “Come, Emerald! I don’t think the Sultaness would be charmed by the murder of women on the claims of idle gossip. After all, she is the champion of womankind, as you have it. Besides, would you want Esma Sultan to hear such stories? It would only enrage her and drive her to more murders.”

  Emerald drew in his breath and exhaled in hissing frustration.

  “You are too wise to be a mere janissary, Kadir.”

  And you are too proud and vengeful to be a eunuch, thought Postivich.

  Each night Bezm-i Alem paced in slippered feet beside the screen. When she thought she was not being observed, she pressed her eye against the filigreed carvings to watch Esma Sultan and Ahmed Kadir.

  The marble felt cool and smooth against her cheekbone. She blinked, looking through the perforations, noticing how the drowning guard sat closer to her mistress now, as a confidante would, and nodded his head.

  Bezm-i Alem began to hate her mistress and the spell she cast on the Ahmed Kadir.

  The harem women had observed the Princess’s trysts for many years now—sometimes the men were afraid and had to be tantalized to perform. Many others were aroused immediately, making quick work to take her to the mats, divan, or bed.

  But this man listened. He had grown relaxed, his big shoulders dropping low, his gaze steady on Esma Sultan’s face. She served him tea herself now, dismissing Nazip and Leyla as she herself fussed with the pot. She took time to taste to check its flavor and heat before handing it to him.

  Bezm-i Alem watched as he accepted the cup and their fingers touched. The harem woman dug her fingernails into her palms to think he might be her mistress’s next lover.

  Ahmed Kadir was a Muslim. Surely he is protected by the Sheriat. Still, the treacherous Emerald would inform the Sultan, who held his sister in legendary esteem.

  Mahmud II looks upon our corbaci with scorn, what fate would become him if the Sultan’s rage was provoked? I must warn the corbaci. I do not care if I incur the rage of Esma Sultan—I shall risk all to save him.

  Esma Sultan sent for the janissary an hour earlier than usual. Far from being agitated by her eventful day, the Princess was calm but invigorated.

  “Ah, good! You are here.”

  “You sent for me, Sultaness.”

  “Yes, but I could not be certain if you would be here or in town still. In a tavern or perhaps a brothel.”

  The janissary answered cautiously. “I avoid each lately.”

  “Wise, perhaps. The taverns are cesspools of traitorous gossip and the brothels are full of disease. Perhaps you would like one of the girls from my harem to share in your pleasure?”

  Ivan Postivich hesitated. Of course he wanted a night with one of the beauties of the Princess’s harem. But he wondered what price he would pay.

  “I hear that you disrupted commerce in the slave market this morning.”

  The Sultaness raised her head and allowed herself to smile. The janissary was suddenly overcome by the warmth of her beauty as her face was transformed by the simple smile. He marveled at how the rare blade of muscle and bone formed on a woman’s face, particularly this woman with a lineage of the most beautiful women of the Ottoman Empire.

  “I indeed did pay my respects to that illustrious place of business and the swine who wallow there, making brisk money from women’s bodies.”

  “And how many of the forty slaves have returned to their homes in Greece?”

  “Ten, I believe. There are others undecided, but at least fifteen have begged to stay in the harem.”

  The janissary snorted.

  “What troubles you, janissary?”

  “With respect, I will not bother Your Highness with my opinion.”

  “
Speak, I command you.” The smile was gone. The Sultaness had returned.

  “I find it impossible to imagine that a woman who has been taken roughly from her homeland, her own religion torn from her, would not choose to be liberated and return to her family. Why would a woman or a girl child choose to remain in the land of her captors?”

  “Because I am not a man and I am not a captor. On the contrary, I am their savior in this world of men’s abuses.”

  “You underestimate the pull of religion and homeland, Sultane.”

  “And you, Biscuit, underestimate womankind.”

  Postivich bridled under the nickname and bit his inner lip in frustration.

  “I will finish my story tomorrow night, Ahmed Kadir, and to ward away the evil perils that prey on the heart’s sadness, I shall show you a secret.”

  “Is it a good secret?”

  The Sultaness’s eyes softened and she shook her head. “You shall judge for yourself. It will be a surprise to you. But first I will finish the story of Sophie. Tonight I must attend the new women of my harem.”

  The forty slave girls crowded in Esma Sultan’s hamam. Their eyes were wide with astonishment and a few among them—the youngest girls—trembled and cried, for they were not sure what had happened to them. Who was this Ottoman Princess who had her own harem?

  Most of the women were Greek from the raid in Chios, and so the Greek-born among the harem comforted them in their own language. They bathed them and dressed them, anointing them with aromatic oils of lavender, rose, and lemon.

  The cooks, chief among them Greek Maria, worked hard to make them comforting foods from their homeland. The kitchens’ aromas spilled over and filled the entire palace with what must have been the smells of Constantinople more than four hundred years before, now confined to the Greek sections of the Galata neighborhood. Maria, ruddy with sweat and beaming with pride in her cooking, prepared a welcoming feast for the liberated slaves of Chios. She spread an exquisite table with the bounty of her kitchen. There were golden brown chickpea balls called revitha keftedes, horta or boiled greens, an assortment of savory kabobs of lamb, salads made of eggplant called melitzana salata. She filled plate after plate with different sardine dishes, pickled octopus, fish roe salads, and other seafood delicacies that she had never prepared for Esma Sultan’s table, even in the most elaborate of banquets and festive occasions. The slave women swooned over a dish of lamb and potatoes, splendidly flavored with apricots, lemon, and mint.

  But it was the almond cookies and baklava whose sugar glazed the smiles of the freed women. Clean, fed, and bewildered, they drank ouzo and rejoiced, crossing themselves so many times, it dizzied the harem to watch their arms whirl and land around their bodies, bobbing in religious devotion.

  One woman, Adelpha, spoke for the entire group.

  “We cannot believe our good fortune, freed from strange men’s groping hands and possession as slaves. We are drunk with joy and your spellbinding hospitality, O blessed Esma Sultan, may God hear your name. Esma Sultan speaks of freedom—surely a Greek cannot truly be alive without liberty, we would rather die. But more than a few of us marvel at the world Esma Sultan has created within the walls of this palace. Many of us have no home or family to whom we can return and beg that we might live amongst the women here.”

  And so more voices were added to the female orchestra, and kayiks soon crowded the shores of the Bosphorus to hear the women sing at night.

  Those who listened closely could hear hymns with a distinct accent—clearly Greek and clearly joyful.

  Ivan Postivich insisted a boy shave him the next night in the hamam, as Emerald stood by his shoulder. The young barber’s hand was unsteady, trembling at being watched by a Topkapi Palace eunuch.

  “You will not allow me to shave your face, Corbaci. Why?” asked Emerald, his hands clenched.

  “It is good to allow a boy to practice his trade. How else will he progress?”

  “Boy, put the knife closer to his skin—at a steeper angle, you are missing patches,” Emerald scolded.

  When the boy nicked the corbaci’s skin, Emerald smiled broadly.

  “You deserve a more skilled hand, Corbaci. A hand that is steady and sure.”

  “I do not know what I deserve anymore,” muttered Postivich and wiped his bleeding face with a towel.

  Esma Sultan again summoned the janissary early. She asked him to sup with her in the palace. They drank fine wines from France in cut crystal goblets and ate delicacies from Maria’s kitchen, served to them on trays by Leyla and Nazip.

  Ivan Postivich relaxed as the wine rose to his head and coursed through his veins with sweet warmth. He reclined against the cushions and admired the exquisite profile of his hostess as she poured him tea. He realized it was a face he had come to know quite well. Its lines, its moods.

  Esma Sultan smiled but did not meet his eyes. She asked for paper and a quill and quickly scribbled a note, dispatching it by hand to Nazip.

  “Tonight I will tell you the final chapter of Sophie,” she said softly. “You will finally understand a woman’s suffering.

  “Emerald had become my spy, for he smelled the prestige and privilege that my father had bestowed upon me. He was like one of the wild dogs of the city, sniffing out those who had strength. Later, when my father died, Emerald went running to my cousin Selim’s bed, seeking favor with the new sultan. But at this point in my story, Selim was in a cage, as harmless as a beetle.

  “Emerald had told me that the Sultan had taken pleasure earlier that afternoon with the Circassian beauty. She had left him exhausted, for he was an old man. That news gave me some hope that Sophie would be spared, but my hopes were dashed when I spied the lantern of the Head Eunuch flickering in the corridors of the Serail as he came for Sophie. I kissed my sister on the lips and hastened for the door.

  “ ‘I shall never desert you, kucuk,’ I whispered. ‘Though I am powerless over your fate.’

  “I buttoned my cloak at the neck and slipped out the door. Emerald was right outside.

  “ ‘Where are you going, Esma Sultan?’

  “I had no time to think up a good lie and even if I did, the eunuch would follow me.

  “ ‘I want to take air in the courtyard,’ I said. ‘You may escort me.’

  “Emerald accompanied me past the other eunuchs into the torchlight of the gardens. We walked for several minutes and sat on the mosaic benches under the moonlight.

  “ ‘You know that the first thin crescent of the new moon is called “la luna sultana” in the Spanish lands,’ said the eunuch, the moonlight making his skin glow the ghastly pale of a deadman. ‘That’s what Fatima of Cordoba called it, when the Moors ruled Spain.’

  “ ‘Fatima?’

  “ ‘She was a scholar and a Sufi, indulged even more than you are. Men traveled thousands of miles to study mysticism with her. But that was a long time ago, before men claimed the physical and spiritual world as their own and women were excluded from scholarship.’

  “ ‘Where do you collect such knowledge, eunuch?’ I asked. ‘I have never heard such tales in my studies.’

  “ ‘I study books, your Sultaness.’

  “ ‘You have big dreams for a eunuch,’ I replied, annoyed with his impudence.

  “ ‘As you wish,’ said the eunuch. ‘And you have big wishes for a female. Are we not both slaves of a kind?’

  “I whirled around to face him, shaken from my thoughts of Sophie. How dare he utter such insults, talking to me as an equal!

  “He saw my anger and spoke quickly. ‘Forgive me for my impulsive remark,’ he said. ‘I forgot my station in life.’

  “But his words had not only stirred anger, they had touched something within me.

  “ ‘Go on, eunuch,’ I said quietly. ‘Tell me how a woman is a slave.’

  “ ‘You know better than I,’ he whispered. ‘When are you free to do as you wish? Even tonight, I must escort you into the dark of this walled garden, though Solaks
crawl the perimeters to see that no one enters the sanctity of the Sultan’s harem… and that no woman ventures out. A woman cannot be trusted for her own body’s natural rhythms are the evil’s weapon over her very soul.

  “ ‘Tonight is the Sultan’s moon—the most urgent of the sexual responses curse a woman at this mark. The Sultan knows it, and he tries to double his schedule of concubine visits to ride the wave of their urges. This is when a woman is at her ripest.’

  “I scowled at him. ‘That shows how little you know. My little sister Sophie is being bathed at this very minute to lie in his bed. She is stiff with terror. She has no urge.’

  “The eunuch dismissed my remark with a slight flick of his hand, and I again contemplated having him beheaded. How saucy a gesture to make before an Ottoman!

  “ ‘Sophie is only a girl,’ he said. ‘Of course she has no womanly urge. This is an indulgence of the Sultan, for no girl should be taken before her first menses. The Ulema and Mufti look the other way to satisfy the curious urges of a Sultan. It is a sin against Allah.’

  “I gasped in spite of myself because his words could easily have cost him his life. But he had said exactly what I had been thinking all night.

  “ ‘So, why do you not show me where you were going, Esma Sultan? I shall tell no one of your destination, if you will allow me to accompany you.’

  “I realized that he would follow me no matter what.

  “ ‘I will show you if you follow me. But if you breathe a word I will say you made improper advances towards me and you will be beheaded.’

  “The eunuch drew in his breath at the threat, stretching the fabric of his garment to its capacity. He nodded his head, though his eyes began to gleam with mischief, for surely a Princess who slipped out of her bedchamber at this time of night was up to no good.

  “And without a word, I led the eunuch to the thick tangle of bushes and as he held his lantern high, we descended into the depths of the earth.”

  “I could see my father clearly from the spy hole, and smelled the piquant breath of my companion at my side. Emerald smelled of tumeric and cloves as he breathed heavily after the exertion of scrambling through the dark tunnel.