The Drowning Guard: A Novel of the Ottoman Empire

by Linda Lafferty

  “My dreams?” Esma Sultan said, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “This is the emergency that makes a janissary break all Ottoman palace protocol?”

  “Yes,” said Ivan Postivich, his eyes boring into hers. “It does.”

  He saw a slight tremor shake her chin. Her left hand touched her lips, wiping away traces of the fig’s juice.

  “They do not,” she said sharply. She looked away. “My nights are peaceful. I enjoy dreamless sleep now.”

  Ivan Postivich was certain she was lying.

  “You have cured me, I think. I thank you. You shall be rewarded.”

  “I do not require gratitude,” growled Postivich. “Or rewards.”

  He saw her back tense as she straightened her posture.

  “I did not summon you,” repeated Esma Sultan. She flicked her wrist, returning her attention to her fruit. “You may leave now.”

  “No, Esma Sultan,” said Postivich in a low voice. “I will not leave.”

  Her eyes flashed at him in anger.

  “No?” she said. “You dare to say ‘no’ to me, janissary?”

  “There is something I must know.”

  “Must? What ‘must’ is there for you that occurs in my world, Ahmed Kadir?”

  Postivich flinched at his Islamic name for the first time since he was a boy. He stepped closer. Her skin was flawless, fresh from the hamam with the glow of health. Her hair shone with tints of henna, her eyes penciled in kohl. Her bearing was erect and noble, befitting an Ottoman princess.

  He took another step.

  “You have told me of the cruelty of men towards women in your childhood,” he said, voice low. “Now you must tell me of your own guilt.”

  Esma Sultan pulled back like a cobra.

  “Do not dare use that word with me!”

  “Guilt!” repeated Ivan Postivich. “You weave night stories of your childhood, yet you speak not a single word of your own hand in men’s deaths!”

  Esma Sultan’s mouth opened in astonishment.

  “You told me of men’s cruelty in your childhood, of your suffering. Of my sister’s sacrifice. But what of your own murderous deeds?”

  “Do not speak further,” said Esma Sultan, her voice venomous. “You are dismissed, Ahmed Kadir. Leave at once!”

  “You know my real name,” he said, coming closer. He felt the warmth of her body, the scented oils of the hamam fresh on her skin. “Use it!”

  “How dare you!” she said rising.

  Ivan Postivich caught her by her wrist, his massive hand closing over her fine bones.

  “You know my secrets, I know yours,” he said pulling her close. His breath spilt warm over her neck, as he whispered hoarsely into her ear.

  “You seduce young men like a whore in a brothel. Perhaps it is the Sultan’s order they drown in the Bosphorus, but you condemn them. You bring them to your bed, you sorceress.”

  “I shall scream if you do not release me,” spat Esma Sultan. “The Solak will slit your throat.”

  Ivan Postivich pulled her close to his face. His fierce eyes burned into hers, amber meeting blue. He felt his instinct surge, akin to a racing pulse on the battlefield. For a second he could taste the tang of dust and sweat, a roar drumming in his ears.

  “Scream, then!” he said, and hooking her head into his arm, he covered her mouth with a savage kiss.

  Esma Sultan struggled, but the kiss endured despite muffled screams, the furious twists of her body. He tasted fruit deep in her mouth, smelt the spicy sweetness of her skin.

  Then he felt something give way, just as ice in a frozen river breaks invisibly underfoot. He sensed an unseen fissure travel far beyond them both.

  He stroked back her hair as his mouth moved down her neck.

  “The men,” he whispered to her, as she gasped for breath.

  “Yes,” she said, her neck thrown back under his hand. “I am guilty. But I cannot live without love, Ivan Postivich.”

  “Love? You have never known love, Esma Sultan,” he said, his breath hot on her throat. “And your brother cannot wash clean your sins in the Bosphorus.”

  They heard a knock on the door.

  Esma Sultan pushed Ivan Postivich away. She combed her fingers through her hair, where his fingers had tangled the strands.

  “Enter,” she said, her eyes steady on Ivan Postich’s own. She motioned for him to step away.

  Saffron walked in, stopping abruptly when he saw Ivan Postivich.

  “Forgive me. I did not know that the janissary had been summoned,” he said, staring at Postivich.

  Esma Sultan’s fingertips touched her face, flushed red and rubbed raw from Postivich’s stubble.

  “Ahmed Kadir was just leaving,” said the Princess, recovering her imperious bearing. “Please escort him from the palace to the servant barracks where he belongs.”

  Chapter 16

  The next night, Saffron announced to Ivan Postivich that he could leave the palace grounds for the evening. Postivich hesitated to leave the gardens, longing to see Esma Sultan again. The scent of the opening jasmine reminded him of the night he had touched her cheek.

  But the Head Eunuch kept a wary eye on him, urging the drowning guard to leave. Postivich was unsure of whether the man wanted him to go for his own safety or because Saffron could not bear his presence because it reminded the eunuch too keenly of the drownings.

  Ivan Postivich walked to the exterior courtyard and out the palace gate. He stood on the cobblestone road and listened to the cicadas that clung tightly to the leaves above him. Through the branches he could see the moon begin to rise, the first day of its waning. It was about an hour after sunset and there were still streaks of weary pink in the darkening sky.

  Postivich thought about the words of the Greek physician. He was an old man, but learned; perhaps he understood the mind as he understood the body. If he was correct, Ivan Postivich would soon be summoned to Esma Sultan’s chambers. A smile crept around the corners of the giant’s mouth as he welcomed the thought of seeing the Ottoman Princess once more—despite the danger.

  To see the curve of her high cheekbones like a kilij, a Turkish sword.

  The clatter of horses’ hooves pulled Postivich’s attention from his reverie. A carriage was approaching from the east.

  As the moon emerged from behind a cloud, he recognized the horses and the jingle of their jeweled harnesses. It was Esma Sultan’s black coach, returning from a late-night foray. He stood in the shadow of a plane tree and watched as the driver negotiated the turn into the palace. In the darkness, the curtains of the Sultaness’s compartment were open, a lantern illuminated her profile.

  She inclined her head towards a young man, blond and most certainly a Christian. In her hand was a piece of fruit that she offered him.

  The driver cursed quietly as his lead horse kicked in his traces and the other horses balked. The abrupt stop jostled the fruit from Esma Sultan’s hand. It rolled on the coach floor.

  Her head emerged from the window, and Ivan Postivich could see that her eyes were darkened with heavy lines of kohl and her mouth shone in the moonlight.

  “You fool,” she called to the driver. “Can you not drive these horses?”

  “Forgive me, Princess,” said the driver, flicking the whip to the lead horse’s flanks. “This beast is in need of castration.”

  Again the stallion kicked, and the other horses reared in their harness.

  “He may not be the only one,” she retorted. “See that you do not jostle me or my companion again, or I will perform the task on you myself, by Allah’s word!”

  Ivan Postivich watched the coach disappear into the palace gates. He felt a pain burn in his chest and his throat constricted.

  There was no summons for the janissary that night, and the next morning came much as the others had in the last month. There was a soft dew on the grass and the flowers in the garden. If someone had drowned Esma Sultan’s lover that night, it had not been Ivan Postivich. He had stayed awake the
entire night, waiting for the knock on the door. But no servant had come to send him to the docks and he heard no screams in the night, though he imagined the hard splash of a body, over and over again.

  When he went to the kitchens to take his breakfast, he saw a fair-headed man barely past adolescence being escorted to the hamam by two of Esma Sultan’s handmaidens. The young man was dressed in a tunic of crimson and gold and he smiled sleepily at the girls who laughed at his side. The Head Eunuch followed, snapping orders to two pages who scurried ahead, toting towels and soaps and urns of oil.

  Ivan Postivich strode over to Saffron, and, putting a hand on his shoulder, stopped him in midstride.

  “Is this a new lover of Esma Sultan? And if so, why does he smile?”

  Saffron’s eyes flashed at Postivich, and he motioned to the rest of the entourage to enter the hamam.

  “What business is this of yours, Kadir?”

  Postivich looked at the eunuch’s face and curled his lip. “Am I not Esma Sultan’s servant, her drowning guard? I do not choose to perform such foul sins in the light of day where I can see the tears of the condemned as they cry for mercy.”

  “You are not called upon to perform any service, Ahmed Kadir, except that of keeping your abominable lips sealed and adopting the proper silence of an Ottoman servant. This man is a guest of Esma Sultan and will remain with her for as many nights as she chooses. Her brother, the Sultan, has granted him life as long as he may please our Sultaness and remain within the confines of the palace. And if last night was any indication,” added the eunuch, “he shall have a long and happy term indeed.”

  Ivan Postivich swallowed hard.

  “Has any man visited her harem more than once and lived?”

  “Of course, Corbaci. You forget that you have had that very pleasure. I suspect this is expressly why the Sultan has granted this young man life, so that he will be your competition.”

  Ivan Postivich cursed under his breath and spat on the marble walkway. Within seconds, a young servant came running, wiping at the spittle with a scented rag.

  Postivich turned and looked back at the palace, where the thick velvet curtains were still drawn, shutting out all light.

  “A man whose passions possess him lives a short life,” hissed Saffron. “Don’t be a fool, Ahmed Kadir. Esma Sultan loves no man and unless she marries, no man will live who has loved her. Pray to Allah that she will not tire of this pretty boy for many moons, for if he leaves her palace walls, he will be condemned by the Sultan’s decree. He is mercilessly jealous of anyone who entertains his sister, even for one night. God have mercy on this Greek boy, for my mistress is never long satisfied.”

  The harem women stood outside the hamam, laughing. Nazip climbed up another woman’s strong back to peek in through the perforations of the bathhouse, and through her laughter, conveyed the scene of the ablutions.

  “He lies on the stone, on his back, Leyla. Ah, that all the riches of the Ottomans could be as sweet as what I see before my very eyes. Surely, our mistress has ridden the divine chariot to heaven, for I have seen no other who is so well endowed.”

  “You have seen no other but the Sultan, Nazip. Your imagination is limited to one night with a man and you shall have no other,” teased a blond handmaiden, who steadied Nazip’s legs as she climbed higher for a better look.

  “You do not know my secrets, Leyla. Esma Sultan has let me gaze upon her lovers, even touch them, on occasion. She guarded my virginity for her brother, but I have had the pleasure of witnessing several who were aroused. This is the finest specimen I have seen in her court and he is most relaxed, I might add!”

  The Sultan’s eunuch, who was in charge of Nazip’s every move, came racing across the gardens.

  “Mistress Nazip! Descend at once!”

  Nazip sighed and took the hand that he insistently offered to help her descend. Her hearty companion groaned and rubbed her back.

  “What could I see, good eunuch,” said Nazip, her eyes dancing, “but the clouds of mist that rise from the baths? There is nothing to report but that the man within was shrouded in vapor, an invisible ghost to mortal eye.”

  She smiled at her harem companions and whispered, “Ah, to have the freedom of a virgin! How dull and tiresome to be the concubine of a Sultan, where all my fun is spoiled in his honor!”

  As the eunuch escorted her back to the harem, Nazip caught sight of the giant. She tried to smile, but her lips abandoned the effort and she looked at him with compassion.

  “Oh gentle giant, do not grieve,” she said to him. “Esma Sultan has been cured by your company. Rejoice in her health that Allah sent you to restore!”

  Postivich stared at her, but remained silent.

  She turned towards the harem entrance and vanished into the walls of the Serail.

  Chapter 17

  Ivan Postivich left the palace of Esma Sultan, cursing all within its walls. What could he have expected? Of course she would not send for him unless it was advantageous to her. He was a fool to think otherwise, and he cursed himself to Allah that he should be weak enough to hope for more.

  What strange djinn possesses me to crave the love of an Ottoman? he thought.

  Beyond the walls of the palace, he was assaulted by the foul stench of the teeming city. The day was hot, without a breath of air, and the dust lay thick as velvet on the curled leaves of the chestnut trees withering in the pounding heat of the Turkish sun. In the markets, the savage heat ravaged the vendors’ fruits and meats, their rotting odors mingling with the stink of the dogs’ warm dung. The vendors used moist towels to protect the raw meat, coloring brown despite their efforts, and festooned with swarms of fat black flies.

  On the docks, fishermen sluiced cool saltwater over their catch. Dogs barked and snapped at the legions of seagulls that swarmed to the stench, as the fishmongers wiped their brows and cursed the breathless day.

  Postivich strode to the edge of the Bosphorus and paid an old fisherman a coin to take him up the Golden Horn towards the River Lycus where he could spy on the horses tethered in the meadows and perhaps catch a glimpse of his beloved mare, Peri.

  When the boat neared the banks, Postivich could see the Kapikulus in the fields, carrying out training drills—not cirit or polo, but military routines created by the European cavalries. In the distance, he could make out the members of his orta training in what the Europeans called “precision riding.” They worked their horses at an extended trot, a disgraceful gait for Turkish warriors, making serpentines across the trampled grass. The sight made his belly knot as if he had witnessed his orta receiving dance lessons.

  “May their beards be cursed!” said the giant at the sight. “What in the name of Allah are they wearing?”

  Ivan Postivich squinted against the cruel sun to examine the Kapikulu regiment’s new costume: Cossack trousers, black boots, and blue cloaks—the uniforms of European armies. Instead of turbans, they wore small red caps that looked like boxes perched on their heads. He cursed again and spit.

  This was the Sultan’s “new order,” the Eskenji. This was his plan to destroy the Janissaries in the name of “reform.” He had stolen their tradition, their pride, even their uniforms. He was murdering the Corps.

  The fisherman shaded his wrinkled face with his scarred hands, deep mahogany from the sun and saltwater.

  “Blasphemy!” he cried, his loose teeth slurring the word. “They dress like the infidels!”

  Postivich shook his head angrily. The fisherman grunted and scratched his testicles.

  “Damn the infidels! What use do we have for their ways?” the janissary said. “Like trained dogs—pets for our Sultan. Trotting in circles, bleeding the passion from their veins. No Turkish horse should lose its spirit in the dust of a parade ground. Those horses were bred to gallop straight to the heart of the enemy, proud and brave to their deaths!”

  “They say the Europeans feed them on hot bran mash from buckets,” the fisherman said, spitting into the sea. “My cousin
himself delivered a dozen bags of it to the Royal Stables from a British ship.”

  “Just because the Europeans are constipated fools does not mean our horses share their weakness!” said Postivich. “Keep their pabulum for their squalling brats and old men. Our horses will shit on their boots without any imported inducements!”

  The fisherman howled in laughter, slapping the tattered knees of his pants. His light brown eyes were tinged with the creeping veil of cataracts that would one day blind him and send him begging at the steps of the Aya Sofya for food. But for now, this was a Turk who had the honor of rowing the great corbaci Ahmed Kadir up the Golden Horn—and he had shared a joke at the infidels’ expense.

  The fisherman raised his oars in the blazing sun and swung the bow out towards the mouth of the Bosphorus, nodding his thanks to Allah for the fine day, and a profession that kept him on the water in the heat.

  “Keep him out of my sight!” screamed her voice.

  Ivan Postivich craned his neck towards the harem. The perforated walls let the cool breezes in—and the sounds and secrets out.

  “I will not have him approach me. Do not accept any tokens from him, and send this kerchief back to him. I shall not touch it!”

  “But your Sultaness. He begs to see you and will not take food or drink until you agree to have audience with him.”

  “Let the infidel starve, then! I should send him from the palace, but that would be his death. Is it not enough that I spare his life by letting him inhabit my court? You must smuggle him back to Galata, Saffron.”

  “Your brother, our honored Sultan, would hunt him down and kill him on the spot. He has sworn no man who has known your bed will live outside this sanctuary.”

  The Princess turned away from him and beat her temples.

  “Shall I always be haunted by my brother’s decree? Cursed man who cannot let me love and be loved without murder?”

  Saffron remained silent.

  “I cannot abide this infidel’s presence any longer!” said Esma Sultan. “The nightmares have returned. And I smell the Christian flesh of this swine-eating Greek on my sheets and in my hair. My harem girls have washed it thrice and I cannot rid myself of his stench. Burn all that he has touched.