The Drowning Guard: A Novel of the Ottoman Empire

by Linda Lafferty

  Ivan Postivich hung his head. “Then I am embarrassed to meet your honored eyes. You must know I have been stripped of my position as corbaci of the cavalry.”

  “Yes, my son. I know of that and much more, I fear.”

  “Where have you been these years? We thought you were missing and dead in Macedonia. They said they searched for your body for days when your horse came back without you.”

  “I have spent many years in Macedonia, but I was not dead, only banished from the Imperial City. Were you really told this?”

  “It was rumored. No one recovered the body.”

  “That is because this body, aged as it is, was banished from Topkapi and the Kapikulu. When Mahmud became Sultan, he made it known that I was no longer useful in the Corps and he would not provide me horses. I did leave, after an audience with him, and on the eve of the campaign found it too painful to confess. Forgive an old man his vanity.”

  Postivich shook his head. He still could not believe that the Master of the Horse sat across from him, alive.

  “Today you will have the opportunity to see me play cirit. This you know.”

  “I know more than I can tell, else my tongue be sliced from the back of my throat.”

  “What can I do, Aga? I have a ragged team of beggar children—gypsies, Anatolian Turks, all untrained. They are children of the orphanage who work in the stables of Esma Sultan.”

  “What better horsemen can you find in this world, Ahmed? A team of beggar children—who ride bareback like our ancient tribes—and an aged Turkish head groom who has devoted his life horses. Perfect. As long as they have heart, you can win or at least lose honorably. Cast back to when you were a boy. Think how much you wanted the honor of riding on the cirit field. These children from hovels have the same pure hope, and they haven’t seen enough of the world to be disillusioned.”

  The Master of the Horses pointed to Postivich’s stained clothes. “Remember your roots, Ahmed,” he said, his old hands shaking. “Remember your tears, for they were pure from the heart. That pureness resides only in the hearts of children.”

  Postivich looked over at the spice vendor’s stall and heard his wife crying over the lost merchandise. Her keening rose to a level that caused the wild dogs in the alleys to howl.

  She bent over, filling wooden boxes with precious herbs. Much they could salvage, but some spices were mixed with the filth from the floor, stained and useless.

  “Woman,” said Postivich. “I would like to buy all that you sweep off the floor.”

  The vendor’s wife gaped openmouthed at the janissary, unable to speak. She waved her brilliantly powdered hands at her husband, urging him to pursue the offer.

  The vendor opened his eyes wide and then squinted them again.

  “Are you drunk so early in the day? We have paid our bribes, you Janissaries must leave us alone to scratch out a living.”

  “No, sir, I do not jest,” Ivan Postivich said, pulling out coins and dropping them on the small counter of the stall. “Put the spices into a bag, mixed as they be, and I will take them for this price.”

  The vendor’s wife muttered a sura and made a temple of her hands.

  Postivich returned to his Aga.

  “Bring us both coffee,” said Postivich to the boy who hovered near. He turned to the Horse Master and said, “We have some planning to do.”

  Chapter 13

  When Ivan Postivich arrived at Esma Sultan’s stables, the boys ran out to greet him and the old Head Groom wrung his wrinkled hands.

  “The game will start in less than an hour!”

  “Perfect!” exclaimed Postivich. “And look at the fine clothes our warriors wear.”

  It was true. The untidy, ragged boys were transformed by new white tunics and leather boots, not as fine as the Kapikulu’s, but still garments that made the boys’ faces shine with pride.

  The boys exclaimed when they saw the disheveled look of Postivich.

  “What has happened to you?” they shouted. “You look like you have been in a brawl, Corbaci.”

  “You look beggarly. What rags you wear!” said the Serbian boy Nicolas, his chin jutting out in disgust.

  “Shut your mouth,” said the littlest one, the Gypsy, through his teeth. “This is Ahmed Kadir you address!”

  “I am not insulted,” said Postivich. “In fact, I am honored. Because it is the Sultan’s wish that I look beggarly. Torn pants, torn shirt colored in filth—colorful, like a Gypsy.”

  “Why does he insult me?” whispered the Gypsy boy.

  Postivich overheard him, stretched out his big hand and tousled the matted curls of the boy.

  “No, this is an honor. We will all look like Gypsies, like Mongols, like Turks, like Serbs, Bosnians, and Tatars, who have conquered and been conquered in this Empire and given it the iron spine the world envies. I have a plan for today, my young cavalry. Come close, and we shall see how a team of mongrels can have victory over the Sultan’s elite cavalry.”

  The drums pounded to signal the beginning of the cirit game as a crowd of several thousand lined the field. Those who were not permitted entry hung from the branches of the plane trees or scaled the cirit field walls every time the Solaks and mounted Sipahis turned their backs.

  Esma Sultan looked through the peephole of her carriage, seeing no sign of Postivich or his team.

  “Where is he?” she whispered to the veiled Irena.

  The eyes above the veil shone bright to meet the Sultane’s worried look.

  “He will appear,” she said.

  The Sultan and the Grand Vizier sat on divans under the shade of the billowing tents set up at the midline of the field. They sipped champagne from crystal flutes made in Vienna, the city they had laid siege to twice.

  “Descend from your carriage, darling sister, heart of my heart,” the Sultan called. “Or is it that you wish to make a quick departure since your drowning guard has not appeared?”

  “Do not call him that, brother,” snapped Esma Sultan, leaning out of the carriage. “He shall never drown another man again by my oath. And he will appear!”

  The Sultan chuckled and nodded to the page to pour more champagne. “Perhaps he does not have the courage to face his old orta. He knows the legend of the living giant is only that—a legend that little children like to tell.”

  Esma Sultan squinted against the sun, making her fine skin wrinkle around her temples. She extended her hand to her footman who helped her out of the carriage.

  “Children’s legend?” she said, suddenly smiling. “Yes, quite right. And here are the children who accompany him!”

  The crowds parted as Ahmed Kadir rode onto the field at a full gallop on a black stallion. A thousand voices murmured as Constantinople took in his ripped tunic and rainbow splotched uniform.

  ‘“What in the name of Allah is he wearing?” said the Sultan.

  The boys and aged Head Groom followed him, whipping their horses and flattening their chests against the steeds’ manes as they galloped into the Hippodrome. They did not ride as trained cavalrymen, erect and schooled in fine equestrian technique; they galloped as passionate children who have ridden horses all their short lives.

  The crowd roared with cheers at the barefooted boys in rags, who circled the field like wild savages, free and classless warriors on the backs of Esma Sultan’s fine horses.

  “Did you not even give them boots, Esma?” asked her brother. “How can they play without footwear? I told you to outfit them properly. This is a disgrace! The ambassadors and dignitaries of Europe sit under the canopies—they shall think the Ottoman Empire is a rabble. These boys look like barbarian Huns!”

  She shook her head in astonishment.

  “I gave them boots and new white tunics. And starched turbans.”

  She brought her hand to her cheek.

  “A pack of wild beggars,” exclaimed the Sultan. “Look at their clothes. What the devil do they have on their tunics? What is this colored soot?”

  The dr
ums beat so loudly now that the crowd could feel it in the pit of their bellies. Ivan Postivich motioned for his boys to line up, a first line, second, and third. He took the first line.

  “What strategy is that?” said the Sultan, waving his hand in disgust. “The weakest players should lead the front file. Has he lost his senses?”

  Esma Sultan looked down. A ghost of a smile flickered on her lips.

  “He’s mad!” said the Sultan. “Have you fed him opium? What conduct is this?”

  The cavus rode out to the center of the field and announced the Kapikulu Orta first. It was his job to ensure that all the proud honors of each player were pronounced in front of the crowd.

  One by one, he recognized each Kapikulu officer and cited battles and victories, honors and prizes each had won, from Macedonia to Egypt to the gates of Vienna.

  When he turned to announce Ahmed Kadir, he hesitated.

  “Ahmed Kadir is the honorable Corbaci of the Sultan’s Elite Kapikulu Cavalry,” he said, his voice wavering.

  “Stop him!” shouted the Sultan, rising to his feet. He nodded to one of the Sipahis horsemen. “This man is not a member of our Kapikulu! Make him retract this statement!”

  The horseman galloped onto the field.

  “Why must you embarrass him this way?” said Esma Sultan, shutting her eyes.

  “Because he—” Mahmud looked at her, his mouth twitching. “He is a traitor, a janissary dog!”

  Again the crowd raised a bewildered buzz as the cavus was interrupted by the Sultan’s guard.

  The Sipahi officer whispered to the cavus, who nodded uneasily.

  “The Sultan wishes me to correct my statement. Ahmed Kadir is a janissary only, he is no longer part of the elite Kapikulu. I regret my mistake and beg the Sultan’s indulgence of my ignorance.”

  The cavus looked unhappily over at the giant. Ivan Postivich smiled grimly.

  “You do not dishonor me, cavus,” he said. “Only let me speak.”

  Ivan Postivich raised his voice, he said to the crowd, “Because these are special circumstances and because the honorable cavus knows nothing of the repute of my teammates, I shall have the honor of introducing them to all Constantinople.”

  Postivich gestured to his players, lined up on their prancing horses, as nervous as their mounts.

  “First, of Gypsy blood and light fingers—”

  The Gypsy boy’s jaw dropped.

  “—excuse me, of lightest fingers on the reins and an innate sense of the horse’s nature, I introduce Abdul.”

  The crowd roared as the boy galloped a circle around Postivich and his team, waving his whip in the air.

  “Hamid—of mongrel descent—will play second in line.”

  The boy froze, stunned. “I shall murder him,” he murmured, “and stab his dead corpse again and again in revenge!”

  “Did I say ‘mongrel’?” shouted Postivich. “No, by Allah’s word, a noble Mongol, the fiercest of the horse warriors and the blood stock from which Ottomans thrive! Hamid!”

  The boy smiled uncertainly as the other riders clapped him on his back. He shouted “Allah!” and raced down the front line of the crowd on one side of the field and then back along the other side. Raising his fist in the air, he stood up on the horse’s back like a circus performer.

  The crowd, who by this time had realized that they were spectators to far more than a simple cirit game, waved kerchiefs and hooted to the rider.

  “And who can forget the Anatolian horsemen of legend who gave their blood for our Sultan’s pleasures!”

  Mahmud stood up in anger. “What is he doing, Esma? What is this drivel?”

  Esma Sultan smiled but did not answer, her eyes fixed on the giant.

  “And the aged one?” Postivich said. “Does a warrior stop dreaming of war and the cirit field when he has more wrinkles than an elephant’s trunk? Not if he has an honorable heart and is a Turk!”

  The crowd erupted into a roar. The Head Groom rode at a canter to the centerline, stopped his horse, and bowed deeply.

  The Kapikulu team waited, eager to compete but proud of their corbaci’s courage. Their faces creased with smiles and they, too, cheered the motley team.

  “Start the games!” commanded the Sultan. “Start the games!”

  He wiped his brow with the embroidered handkerchief of a new concubine. “The man intends to make a fool out of his Sultan. I’ll have his head on a stake before this day is out!”

  “No, you will not.”

  “I will do as I wish, Esma. I am the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire and it pleases me to see it so, I shall feed the bloody strips of his flesh to the dogs of Constantinople!”

  She leaned close and hissed, “Then I shall have to defy you in the name of our forefathers and Ottoman honor and we will see whom the Janissaries choose, dear little brother. You know they are searching for a sultan who will support them.”

  “The Turks would never take a woman as their Sultan!”

  “No. But they would if she were married,” she said. “No matter whom she married. I have as much Ottoman blood as you.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “Shall we see? Shall we see if our father’s favorite daughter and her husband are considered fit to rule—just as the Shi’ites chose Ali, the husband of Mohammed’s daughter, Fatima, as the Prophet’s successor. Shall we see if you are strangled, just as our brother and cousin were? Shall we see, dearest brother?”

  “Start the games!” he shouted, turning away from her gaze.

  “Start the games,” echoed the cavus.

  The Gypsy boy, Abdul, rode out and threw the first spear at the cavalryman’s chest. Altug the Tatar ducked easily and laughed in disdain at the weak effort. He spurred his horse and galloped after the boy.

  But the Gypsy had learned from Postivich’s instruction and hung over the right side of the horse like a monkey. The jereed flew over the horse’s head and landed with a thud.

  Out galloped Ivan Postivich, his horse’s hooves pounding the turf. He threw his jereed so fast that the retreating rider was stunned by its blow.

  The crowd cheered as the referees indicated a point.

  A Kapikulu player—the Albanian—galloped out to pursue the giant. Postivich reined his horse up in midstride and ducked, then switched leads as he crossed back over the line, safe from his opponent’s spear.

  The Kapikulu player turned to gallop for safety, but he had scarcely taken a complete two-beat at the gallop when he was jolted by the jereed spear striking his left shoulder blade.

  Postivich, who had unexpectedly returned to the attack, turned again, galloped back over the centerline and raced back to his teammates.

  “Foul! Stop the game!” shouted the Sultan. “Egregious foul!”

  The referee blew a horn to stop the game.

  “Give me my horse,” commanded the Sultan. He pushed the stirrup bearers out of the way and pulled himself up on his horse, galloping to the center of the field.

  “What treachery is this?” demanded the Sultan. “These are not the rules of cirit! You dishonor the sport with your cheat!”

  He turned to see another horse galloping out to the midfield, the rider enveloped in billowing silks that furled and unfurled over her like heavenly wings.

  “Esma,” said the Sultan.

  She reined her horse and held up her hand, crying out for all to hear.

  “My Angel brother has misspoken.”

  A stunned silence met her words. She raised her chin in defiance and spoke clearly to the crowd.

  “The rules of cirit state only that one player advances, throws his jereed, and changes roles to become the defensive player as soon as his spear is thrown. My father, Sultan Abdulhamid explained this to me, and he let me learn even more from the Master of the Horse, sitting on his knee,” she said. “This is an unusual strategy, but not against the rules.”

  She reined her horse around to face more of the crowd. The horse pranced in excitement.

&nb
sp; “I would not correct my brother the Sultan, if any mistake did not dishonor the memory of my father, the great Abdulhamid I who honored the Janissaries and the people of Constantinople!”

  “Get off that horse, immediately,” hissed Mahmud to his sister. “It is a sin against Allah for a woman to be astride a horse!”

  “I have indulged you enough, my brother,” she whispered, her teeth clenched. “You promised me a cirit game today. You burdened Ahmed Kadir with this ragtag team in order to ridicule him and I indulged you in that. You will look the fool if you do not let the game proceed. It is a leader, a ruler, they crave. Not a coward!”

  Then she raised her voice again and called out to the crowd. “My brother the Sultan did not truly mean to question the game. Long live the Sultan and his love of the noble sport!”

  She reined her horse back to the Sultan’s tent, the crowd speechless at seeing a woman, an Ottoman princess astride a horse.

  “She looks just like Sultan Abdulhamid, Allah save his soul!” said an old pasha in the crowd. “The ghost of her father lives in that one.”

  “It is Sultan Abdulhamid incarnate!”

  “Allah, be praised.”

  Sultan Mahmud II raised his chin, his aquiline nose drawn at the nostrils in disdain.

  “Let the game continue!” he announced. He hissed to the cavus, “See that the giant crosses the line each time or he is disqualified immediately and forfeits the game!”

  The teams reformed and the game began again.

  The Kapikulu team realized that indeed their skill would be judged by the outcome of this game, and they hardened their jaws as the giant scored point after point.

  “Charge more quickly,” yelled the Tatar corbaci to his squad. “Watch his hand!”

  Ivan Postivich circled around and around, throwing the jereed and retreating. His stallion was lathered with sweat and Postivich tasted its salt in his mouth as he slid down the horse’s neck from side to side, evading the whistling spears.

  Suddenly the girth slipped on the horse’s saddle, and the giant hung precariously sideways, unable to right the saddle again.

  “Let me take your turn,” cried the Serbian boy Nicolas who had been so contemptuous. “By Allah’s name! I’ll ride the point, I swear!”