“Go, then, countryman!” Postivich shouted.
In a flash of hooves, the Serb raced out to pursue the retreating rider. He stood up so tall in his stirrups, he mimicked the giant, and threw his jereed spear in a high trajectory. It whistled through the air and struck the Kapikulu rider.
Postivich was on the ground now, repositioning the saddle and tightening the girth. He kept the game in the corner of his eye as the Serbian boy flattened himself against his horse’s back, avoiding his opponent’s spear.
The giant vaulted onto his horse, back into the game.
Esma Sultan could not remain in her seat. She stood at the edge of the tent, tightening her fists each time her team won a point and gasped in suspense each time Postivich avoided a jereed. The Sultan’s face grew hard and deep grooves formed down his cheeks as he watch the pure joy in his sister’s eyes.
As the giant’s team scored point after point, the crowd roared, and the plane trees shook with waving arms of common Turks who clung to their branches like a swarm of cicadas. The horn sounded to signal the end of the game and the cavus rode out and announced that the ragtag team of beggars had defeated the Sultan’s own Kapikulu. The Sultaness gave them a nod as they raced to the royal tent and bowed in unison.
“A disgrace,” said the Sultan audibly, but Esma Sultan ignored him.
“We honor you, dear brother,” she whispered, with a broad smile. “Now let us go in peace to my palace and enjoy this special day.”
Chapter 14
Ivan Postivich smelled the kitchens in the dark. He heard the thunderings of the British ambassador beyond the courtyard walls and wished he understood what the Englishman was saying.
Postivich had slept fitfully during the early evening, listening to the sounds of the fête. As a janissary and a servant, he was, of course, not allowed to attend, but he heard laughter and cries of delight from beyond the walls of the gardens and he was curious about the extent to which the tales of excess were true. As sleep evaded him, he decided to spy on the partygoers.
Avoiding the circling guards, Postivich heaved himself up into the limbs of a tree just beyond the wall. He scaled the great cypress, making the branches shake and tremble under his weight.
From this vantage point, just a few feet outside the walls, he could survey the lawns, kiosk, and gardens, lit by hanging lanterns and blazing torches.
Harem women walked arm in arm, their hair braided in pearls or drawn up in jeweled ribbons or ivory combs. They sipped champagne as if they were European royalty, comfortable with the ministers and with their wives. While none of them could speak English, many could converse in French, which delighted the Europeans who knew little or nothing about harems except for the lascivious tales that circulated about the embassies.
“Of course we do not share the Sultan’s bed!” cried one of Esma’s harem in horror, being asked to confirm a preposterous rumor. “We are Esma Sultan’s harem. We are in her protection as adopted daughters.”
“But does not the Sultan visit you—all of you—and share the pleasure?” asked a particularly drunken Russian.
“A husband having two wives in his bed at once! Is that what is done in Europe?” said Nazip, her hand flying to cover her mouth, and her laugh piercing the air. “Do tell us of your strange customs, for if a man behaved this way to us, under Islamic law we could renounce and divorce him. What rare customs do you practice in Europe? Your habits intrigue me!”
The British ambassador’s wife, as dignified as she was fat, answered. “But of course, my dear, we don’t take two lovers to our bed at once! Mercy, how you have misunderstood. We are inquiring about your customs, my dear. We are Christians, if you please!”
The Sultan himself was holding court under a large red tent, open to the summer air and scintillating with hundreds of chandeliers and candelabras. He smoked a pipe and received few if any visitors. No one approached the Sultan without being summoned first.
The Ottoman ruler sipped peevishly from his crystal goblet and nibbled reluctantly at the Beluga caviar sent to him packed in snow from the Russian frontiers. He watched his sister Esma move from one group to another, gracefully accepting praise from her guests for the day’s festivities. She insisted that the British Ambassador dance with her and the harem, which delighted the audience as he removed his jacket and tied up his shirttails to expose his enormous white belly, making the guests double over in laughter. The Russian attaché, who had consumed far too much opium and vodka, took one astonished look and exploded in mirth as spittle dribbled from his lips.
The guests then played harem games, which Esma explained in fluent French and English. One such game was “Beauty or Ugliness,” where a “judge” covers her eyes and calls out for all the players to freeze in ridiculous poses—demanding either grace and loveliness or horror or dementia.
Even the stuffiest of ambassadors was dragged into the game, and after consuming vast seas of champagne and wine, they were not so difficult to coax. Men and women froze like beautiful statues of Greek goddesses or in fiendish postures of gargoyles, their contorted features drawing gales of laughter from the spectators.
The Sultan held his goblet out for more champagne, never taking his eyes off his sister.
“I should ask her to sign a pact with the French and British ambassadors this very night,” he muttered. “Look at those men, lusting after her like old bulls. She would seduce them into signing away their sons’ inheritance for just a glimpse inside her harem walls!”
His fist grasped the crystal goblet so fiercely the stem snapped.
“Sultan! Are you injured?” cried the Vizier. He shouted to a servant, “Quick, bring a clean napkin and pack it with snow.”
Mahmud’s hand bled copiously, staining the starched white handkerchief. He glanced at his bloody hand with annoyance and then looked again at his sister and her entourage, as several eunuchs attended him.
It was Nazip’s turn at Beauty or Ugliness, and she placed her hands over her freckled face and counted to ten in chirping, Ottoman-inflected French. She recited the numbers in the wrong order and then laughed together with Esma Sultan, who kissed her cheeks and bade her try again. The Sultaness’s hand lingered on the young woman’s bare shoulders as the two of them counted “un, deux, trois, quatre…”
“Send for her!” commanded the Sultan, suddenly. “Nazip, my sister’s handmaiden. I will have her in my bedchamber this evening. Tell my sister it is—a birthday gift to myself, that I shall undo her ribbon.”
A servant approached Esma Sultan who was entertaining the Prince de Joinville with an anecdote about her harem. She threw back her long white neck to laugh, gesturing at Nazip who finally completed her arduous count.
“Jolie!” Nazip shouted, and all the players struck their most graceful or mockingly beautiful pose. The Swedish ambassador locked arms with a dignitary from Egypt, feigning flying angels. The Prince de Joinville smiled but did not laugh, his eyes riveted on Esma Sultan.
Mahmud hardened his face as he watched the prince drink in the beauty of his older sister.
“He could have the beauties of Europe, yet he sets his hungry eyes on an Ottoman woman more than a decade his senior!” said the Sultan to his Grand Vizier.
“Yes, he does seem taken with her and with her harem,” replied the Vizier. “They are all quite beautiful tonight, each like a shining star in the night sky.”
“It is disrespectful for him to stare at Esma this way, as if she were merely a woman, and not a Sultan’s sister.”
“He’s had quite a bit to drink, I should think,” said the Vizier. “I believe everyone has, my Sultan.”
At last Esma Sultan finished her story and turned to address the servant who had been waiting patiently. Her face hardened when she heard the Sultan’s demand, and she looked over to her brother. In a deliberate motion, she nodded her head “no,” in the Turkish fashion.
“Allah curse her!” said the Sultan, still peevishly wiping the blood from his cut hand.
The Vizier looked at him.
“What is it, my Sultan?”
“My sister is my enemy!”
“But good Sultan, look at the fête she has planned for you. It must have cost her a Pasha’s fortune!”
“She entertains to entertain herself and her harem. This is no celebration for me, can you not see that? She has made a fool of me the entire day, and now intends to make a fool of me tonight at Topkapi. Am I not the Sultan? Can I not choose any woman in my Empire to take as my concubine?”
He clapped his hands for the guard, wincing briefly as he struck the fresh injury.
“See that Nazip is escorted to Topkapi tonight. Do not allow my sister to defy my order. That woman will be delivered to my bedchamber, prepared with ablutions, ready to serve her Sultan. Summon the carriage, prepare to depart.”
The bewildered Vizier stared about the party and drained the last of his punch, sorry to leave before the famous sorbets were served.
Nazip had refused the Sultan’s invitation to his bed before, for it was the talk of Esma Sultan’s palace. They were proud that their freckled mistress could keep a Sultan waiting for her. She had teased that one day, when she was bored with freedom, she of course would go to his bed so that the son she would conceive might one day be an Ottoman ruler.
“I’m simply not in any hurry to become fat and pregnant,” she laughed, for despite all her freedom she still remained a virgin. “Besides, once I lie with the Sultan he will confine me to his harem. How could I abide life locked away in the Topkapi Serail after living in the harem of Esma Sultan?”
Now, as the party continued into the night, floating on gales of laughter, a Topkapi Solak approached Esma Sultan and asked her to speak with him in private. When she heard what he had to say, her eyes darted to the Sultan’s crimson tent and saw that indeed the guest of honor had departed.
“You may tell my brother, our Sultan, that Nazip is occupied in helping me entertain tonight and cannot attend him.”
The Captain of the Palace Guards raised his chin. He had been prepared for such an answer.
“My humblest apologies to your majesty. The Sultan has given me an order and I must obey.”
Esma Sultan’s eyes flashed and she put a light hand on the Solak’s arm, her jewels sliding coolly against his skin.
“Wait, Solak. Do not embarrass the Sultan, who was drunk on champagne, by causing a scene at his own party. I will speak to Nazip in private and within the next hour, I will accompany her to Topkapi under your guard. Send word to the palace that we will come, though I must first attend my guests.”
“Allah has blessed me with your kindness,” said the Solak, relieved that he did not have to carry out the command with force.
“Let’s change the game!” cried Esma Sultan, returning to the party. “Hide and seek this time. Lady Whortley, would you do the honors of being the seeker? We shall play for thirty minutes and then the sorbets and creams will be served, with more champagne!”
Her guests cheered this idea and she smiled engagingly.
As Nazip walked past her, she snatched at her arm.
“Come with me,” Esma Sultan whispered, as Lady Whortley counted in both English and French. “I must talk with you at once.”
The Sultan sobered somewhat as the eunuch helped him with his ablutions.
“Has she arrived yet?” he asked, as the man sluiced water over him.
“No, my Sultan.”
“I shall have her head on my breakfast plate if she does not appear.”
“She will come,” said the eunuch. “No woman would deny you, your majesty, as they know the punishment too well.”
The Sultan chewed at his lip, wishing the eunuch had not mentioned coercion, rather than honor and passion.
The eunuch dried his master’s back and helped him into his bed robes.
“I shall not suffer waiting much longer. Where is she?”
The eunuch twisted his hands, but then a Solak at the door gave a handsign—an essential part of the Ottoman Court vocabulary, since the early Sultans would not abide mundane human speech in their courts.
“My Sultan. Your sister pays you a visit. She waits in the foyer.”
“Is she accompanied by the fair Nazip?”
“Yes. But she wishes to speak to you before Nazip is presented.”
“Now? As I lie in my bed, prepared to receive a concubine!” roared the Sultan. “What manner is this?”
“I beg your pardon, Royal Highness. Do you wish to speak to her?”
“What matter if I wish to speak to her! She will lie on the edge of my sarcophagus and nag me after I am years dead and my body turned to dust! Send her in, but prepare the maiden as Allah mandates. Bathe her in rosewater and anoint her in sandalwood oil and then bring her to my bed!”
The Solak returned with Esma Sultan, who in contrast to what her brother expected, looked radiant, her braided pearls and lapis glittering in the light.
“My Angel brother, you are impetuous. Look at you,” she said, gesturing to his French canopied bed. “Is this how you lie as you wait for a virgin?”
“Why do you toy with me? I shall have fair Nazip this very night, and none of your wiles will prevent me! She has thrice refused me and tonight I lose patience.”
Esma sat on the edge of his bed and fingered the heavy red brocade of the spread.
“Yes, this is comfortable. It is European, though. Not at all Ottoman.”
“My first mother had it sent from Paris. I inherited it upon her death.”
“Not as fine a playing field as a divan for taking a maidenhead. Perhaps acceptable if your woman will lie under you and not move around too much, but I should think a Sultan would grow bored making love on such a high pedestal. There is no room for mistakes or you should both tumble out—and how undignified to have an Ottoman ruler injure himself falling from bed with a virgin. Better to move about on the cushions of a divan, as our ancestors have done. The Europeans are timid in their lovemaking—you can see it so well in this narrow bed.”
“What have you to say, oh sister?” said the Sultan. “You did not come here to discuss my furniture.”
“Indeed. You do know me well, Angel brother.” She took his hand and stroked it with the two fingertips she reserved for eating. He shivered at her touch despite himself.
“I shall indeed give you my favorite from my own harem, but with conditions.”
“Conditions!”
“Nazip is my own slave whom I share with you, darling brother. She is my property, for whom I have paid good money. I could consult the Ulema and cause gossip throughout the city, but you know that she is mine. And being my own, she is therefore free to make her own decision as my adopted daughter.”
She met her brother’s eyes.
“Nazip, the virgin, will lie with you on one condition—you must let her return to my harem tomorrow and every night you do not call for her.”
The Sultan laughed in astonishment.
“I cannot do this! You know that once she has lain with me, her seed is sacred. She must be guarded by eunuchs to protect her womb from other than me.”
“My dear brother—I have no male organs and am no rival for yours. Nor are the ladies of my harem.”
“If she should bear a child and it be a son, the Ottoman Empire must be assured there is no bastard, that she has not cuckolded the Sultan!”
“You will send your most vigilant eunuch to attend her in your name. He will accompany her everywhere until she gives birth and the great Ottoman Empire will give a sigh of relief to know that she is chaste and lies with no other man but you. But I will not condemn her to the Topkapi harem, where she will live a life of isolation and male domination. It is paradise to those who do not know better, but she has lived with me. I cannot let her live out her days in desolation, even if she one day becomes Valide Sultane.”
The Sultan rubbed his temples, trying to assuage the headache his once favorite sister had given him.
&nbs
p; “And she will, dear brother, give you pleasure no virgin on earth can. I know my Nazip,” she said, raising an arched eyebrow. “You will be a most fortunate man this night. But only if you agree to my terms.”
“Once again you toy with me, Esma,” said Mahmud, feeling his penis grow and push up under his white tunic. “Does it give you pleasure, my Angel sister?”
“Dearest brother,” said Esma Sultan, smiling and rising from the bed. “Consider our pact. You will have a night of passion. But Nazip remains with me after this night. Consider,” she said, tugging playfully on the sheet to uncover him. “I shall wait outside your chamber door to either escort Nazip joyfully to your bed or to accompany her back to my palace.”
Mahmud felt the cool air on his exposed skin as his sister drew down the sheets. He drank in her beauty, aged as she was now, and felt himself shiver with arousal.
“Send in Nazip immediately,” he murmured to Esma Sultan. “I must have a woman in my bed this night, this minute!”
“Then you agree, my Angel brother. By Islamic law, she became my adopted daughter when I took her as my slave. Only I can consent to your taking her to bed, you know this by the law of the Sheriat.”
The Sultan laid his hand on his sister’s arm. “She shall return to you tomorrow, and as I take her to my bed, I will remember her as your personal gift. We shall share her, dear sister.”
Esma removed her arm slowly from her brother’s grasp and stood, bowing to him. As she turned to leave she said, “Do not worry about Nazip tumbling out of your French bed. She has practiced in my own English one and is quite nimble, with a good sense of balance and grace. Enjoy, little brother, and return her to me joyful and full of stories of your prowess to share with the harem.”
As she left Nazip, she kissed her cheeks four times and whispered in her ear. Nazip laughed and the sound of birds filled the silent corridors of Topkapi.
Irena had noticed the abrupt departure of Mahmud, as did most of the guests who were not imbibing heavily or smoking opium. The clatter of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestones in the courtyard suggested the Imperial carriage was drawing away at a thunderous pace. Could there be some emergency—a declaration of war or rebellion—that would provoke such a hasty retreat from the Sultan’s own birthday party?
The Drowning Guard: A Novel of the Ottoman Empire Page 23