The Drowning Guard: A Novel of the Ottoman Empire

by Linda Lafferty

  Postivich eyed the boy and gripped his shoulder.

  “Every man takes a stand, else he is not a man at all. You have cast your lot; stand by your bet. And by Allah’s spit, do not shake with fear or I shall never believe you are a Serb!”

  The steps of the unseen visitor faltered and paused and soon a curse rang through the darkness. “May the mother’s milk fall untasted from the lips of the eldest son of the swine who carved this path!”

  The page watched a smile break across Postivich’s face.

  “It is the old Greek doctor. Go. Take a lantern and help him! I’ll drag this pig of a Solak into the shadows.”

  The boy took a lantern and ran into the darkness towards the source of the Greek oaths.

  The guard disposed of, Postivich made his way to the edge of the pool where he knelt and submerged his head in the icy water. At the third dunking he felt his scalp draw tight against his skull with cold and his cheeks flush as the blood coursed through his veins.

  “Ah, there you are, Corbaci! You look more of a drowned rat than a fighting man.”

  Ivan Postivich stood. His eyes stared red at the Greek physician.

  “I am trying to rinse the stupor from my mind. You have kept me here too long, doctor. The lethargy is eating my soul.”

  The doctor motioned to the page to bring him a cushion. He sat heavily. “The Princess’s disease has returned,” he said. “I knew it would. She sees ghosts at windows and grasping hands in her pillows that drag her to drown in the goose down. The clean air from the Bosphorus carries nothing to her but the stench of rotting corpses, her former lovers joining with the Janissaries whose blood is mixed in the salty waters.”

  “And the two hundred women and children the Sultan condemned to death,” said Ivan Postivich.

  “Such is the Ottoman rule. Indeed, blessed be your confinement in the bowels of the earth, for there is no heaven above you, Ivan Postivich.”

  The giant rubbed his eyes. “Yes. The deaths of so many drowned men haunt her.”

  “She swears she will send no more lovers to their death. But she must fight the sexual appetites she has inherited from her Sultan ancestors. And the eunuch Emerald cultivates his power over her, tempting her with pretty boys, like a serpent. But she resists. There is no cure for her ailment but the hand of God.”

  “Why does the eunuch tempt her with lovers?”

  “The devil Emerald so enjoys the murder of men.”

  The doctor looked away at the torchlight reflected off the pool with a heavenly shimmer that belied the tormented hell above the rocky ceiling.

  “And the Corps?” Postivich yearned to hear that what he already knew was somehow not true.

  “Gone. No one dares to remember them or speak their name for fear of losing his head.

  “And that is why I am here. The Bektashi Sufis are also condemned, though their punishment must still be decided by the mullahs as they are Muslims. They have decided to flee Constantinople. One convoy has offered to carry you to freedom in the northern provinces. They will leave tomorrow night and begged that I carry this message to you.

  “When the hour comes, you are to be waiting in the limbs of the plane tree at the west end of the palace. The page will take you there. You will wait until the next to last wagon passes, then descend and climb onto its bed. They will conceal you there and carry you to the Western provinces. From there you will have to make your own way further northwest towards Vienna.”

  “Vienna?”

  “You have no safety anywhere in the Ottoman Empire. The Sultan will not rest until your head is perched on a pike on the walls of Topkapi.”

  A distant wail pierced the tomb-like silence of the cavern.

  “And what will become of her?”

  “She will survive. She is an Ottoman.”

  Ivan Postivich watched the drooping eyes of the old Greek.

  “I must see her once before I go.”

  The physician cursed in a low growl. “You are as hardheaded as any of your countrymen. You will never leave the Ottoman Empire alive, you fool!”

  Some water dripped from the giant’s matted hair, meandering in a rivulet that trickled into his eye. He wiped at it with a knuckle.

  “What does it matter? A Kapikulu warrior cannot die in Europe of old age on a featherbed. I will die on Ottoman soil, where my soul can burn its way to Hades. But first I must see her—though not for the last time, for she shall meet me there in the fire.”

  Postivich listened for her screams but heard only the water splashing from rock to pool.

  The Greek eyed the giant like an ancient reptile looking up into the flickering light.

  “I thought once you could save her. I did not realize the power she would have over you.”

  “Do not speak, physician. It is too late for words to turn me.”

  “The eunuch Emerald will delight in your folly. He serves the Sultan with keen joy. Will you give him the gift of your own death? One more for him to savor. Drawn into his trap by the beauty of Esma Sultan, to die for the pleasure of the eunuch. Like her last lover, that poor Greek boy.”

  The doctor bent his neck, the loose skin relaxing in folds around his tunic collar.

  Ivan Postivich stared, bewildered. “No, physician. He didn’t die. I delivered him safe to the Asian side. He was on his way to Greece.”

  “He whom you spared was murdered nonetheless, just paces from the Bosphorus. Emerald will not spare anyone who has laid eyes on the Sultaness. The boy’s body was found facedown in the mud. Mutilated in Emerald’s special fashion. I have seen it too often not to know.”

  Postivich shook his head. “Mutilation—by the eunuch’s own hand?”

  “He has his own disease. What was done to him, the theft his manhood, has poisoned his mind. His hatred fuels his revenge, his insanity. He hates all men. And all women too. He is the real villain of Topkapi,” the old Greek said, closing his eyes.

  When he opened them again, he spoke more gently. “Tell me now, Ivan Postivich. What will you do?”

  “I must see her. After that, I do not know where I will go or how. That part of my future does not concern me.”

  The old physician rose unsteadily and beckoned to the page.

  “Then I will wish you farewell. You know how I feel about the Princess. She is an Ottoman. She is incapable of true feelings—her veins are full of jagged glass, her heart is a cold stone.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because my father, my grandfather, and my grandfather’s father were all court physicians to the Ottoman Sultans. They are a special breed, raised in cages because they pose such great danger as pretenders to the Sultanate. You cannot expect them to love like the rest of us do; their souls are made of different metal. It has always been that way.”

  Postivich looked into the old Greek’s eyes. His chest lifted and he shut his eyes, then opened them once more.

  “I will consider your generous offer of safe passage. I know how dangerous it was to arrange.”

  “My wife is dead and my children have their own families. What else is there to risk now but my life, tired and worn as it is? I only wish you to not throw away your only chance to leave Constantinople.”

  With that the physician waved the page forward and the two began to climb into the shadows, the old man grunting with exertion every step of the way.

  Postivich quickly checked the guard and tightened the bindings. He searched the man’s pockets and under his tunic, stripping him of two daggers and a gold coin. He pulled off the Solak’s boots and wedged his own huge feet into them.

  Then he made his way in the dark, following the heavy breaths of the doctor and the toc-toc-toc of his walking stick.

  Part V

  The Bektashi Sufis

  Chapter 21

  Every page and servant in Esma Sultan’s palace was called out to unload the flowers from the oxcarts. Thousands of delicate blossoms were packed between sheets of parchment, layered in precious shaved
ice from the mountains of Greece. The oxen bellowed and shook their heads in a desperate attempt to rid themselves of the ever-present flies.

  The boys’ bare arms overflowed with thick green stalks, the blooms obscuring their vision. The bees of summer buzzed in erratic circles, unwilling to leave the fragrant nectar.

  Esma Sultan sat on a cushion, her face drawn tight, her cheekbones almost biting through her skin. She wrinkled her nose in disgust.

  This time, the smell was not all in her mind and her harem shared her suffering and revulsion. Hundreds of rotting corpses—the bodies of dead Janissaries—had floated into the eddies of the Bosphorus outside her palace, bobbing in the current.

  Nazip wore a green silk kerchief over her nose. Despite her attempts to thwart conception, her belly had begun to bulge with the sultan’s child and the noxious smell of rotting flesh sent her into yet another a spasm of vomiting.

  “Help me, Bezm-i Alem,” she said feebly, pulling the kerchief off her face.

  The blond woman contorted her forehead in sympathy as she held her friend’s face over the fine porcelain bowl. Her scarred lips sagged in dismay as Nazip brought up yellow bile but nothing else.

  “You have nothing left to purge,” Irena said quietly dabbing Nazip’s face with a cool wet towel.

  “How wretched it is to be with child in the depths of August,” Nazip said, “in this a stinking cesspool of heat and putrid flesh.”

  Overhearing, the Princess stirred and leaned forward to rise.

  “Where are you going?” asked Saffron. “Lie down and let the servants bring you a soothing tea or ice.”

  “I am going to look for him,” Esma Sultan said, staggering to her feet. “He must be among the corpses clogging our docks.”

  “Oh, Princess! You must not see the carnage! Let the men untangle the bodies from the timbers and tow them offshore. Rest, I implore you!”

  “What sight do you save me from? I have seen it night after night in my dreams—do you think to see it once more will be any more horrifying?”

  By this time Esma Sultan had pushed open her garden gate and begun to descend to the grassy garden at the shoreline. Her maids and harem girls followed, though with great reluctance, knowing the specter that awaited them.

  “You must stop her, Saffron!” shouted the head Solak.

  But it was too late.

  The Princess’s eyes flew open, the dark irises ringed in stark white. For there, in the water just below her, rocked the bloated corpses of dozens of men, only partially visible under the white fluttering wings of the feasting seagulls. She recognized now the harsh cries and screeches of the birds as the sounds that awakened her in the morning.

  “You see, Princess,” said the eunuch gently, pulling her away. “There is no ‘recognizing’ to be done. These men are with Allah, and their souls have been counted in heaven.”

  “But he could be one of them!” she cried. “Ahmed Kadir could be floating in the Bosphorus without a grave or burial prayer.”

  Irena closed her eyes.

  “Do not suffer,” Saffron quickly said. “The giant lives, I am certain.”

  Esma Sultan lifted her head, provoked by the conviction in his voice.

  “What do you know, eunuch? Tell me what you know!” she screamed.

  Saffron looked about, twisting his head to see whose ear might seek his voice. Perhaps now was the time—perhaps waiting for her strength and sanity to return was fruitless.

  “He lives, Sultaness. He lives.”

  Her eyes, glazed with delirium, stared unblinking into his.

  “Show me his living face,” said Esma Sultan. “If he lives, my strength will return.” Then she collapsed into her eunuch’s arms, unconscious.

  The Princess was still unconscious as Saffron motioned the eunuch boys to make up the velvet divan. The small hands of the boys worked swiftly to tuck the corners of the sheets and smooth out any wrinkle or fold that might disturb the rest of Esma Sultan.

  Flowers were arranged by the armful around the room, and harem girls stirred the air with huge palm fronds.

  Saffron mopped his brow and stared at the Princess, though it was a great breach of etiquette. When the Princess woke, if she had any memory at all, she would demand to know the whereabouts of her drowning guard. He could possibly claim that he had said nothing, that she had fabricated a memory in her delirium. But even in her delirium, she was still an Ottoman and could not be denied.

  Why had he said anything?

  Then he remembered the dead men, their backs moving restlessly with the flapping of wings, as if the sea itself was trying to rise into the air.

  He had wanted to spare her, spare himself, the sight of each body being turned over, its bloated face inspected, the gulls rushing to peck at the newly exposed flesh.

  Now she lay on the divan, her dark hair loosened by the gentle hands of the harem girls. She seemed almost peaceful.

  “See that the Princess is given proper air so that she may sleep and not be troubled by the stench from the docks,” said the eunuch. “You who fan her—some must lift the fragrance of the flowers to her bed, the others fan away any odors from the Bosphorus.”

  Then, nodding to Nazip and Irena, he turned to leave, quickly making his way to the kitchens where he could send a message to depths of the cistern.

  Chapter 22

  The Sultan refused to meet with his ministers and was content with only the company of his eunuch Emerald who clucked in delight over the carnage and demise of the Janissary Corps.

  “You are brilliant, my Sultan. You have managed to put an end to the Janissaries and the Bektashi Sufis in one magnificent stroke. Your courage and power will be revered by all your subjects… and even more by your enemies. The world respects power and you have used it mightily! Men shall sing your praises!”

  The Sultan turned from the eunuch and squinted into the sun.

  “What is that infernal noise? Have we yet more rebellions to quell?”

  “Those are the women of the city, my son,” said Nakshidil, her voice trembling. For days she had taken to her bed, ill at the murders.

  “Glorious mother! How is it you came unannounced?” said Mahmud, motioning to a eunuch to bring a chair.

  “I asked not to be. I am pleased there is still some power left to a woman in this cursed corner of the world.” She struggled with her cane and dropped heavily into the chair, gasping for breath.

  Mahmud flicked his hand, dismissing the eunuch.

  “Whatever do you mean, Mother? We have been victorious over the enemy—the traitors who challenge our rule have been defeated.”

  “Victorious! Listen to the wails in the street. Is that the sound of victory? That, my son, is the wailing of widows, of mothers who cry for their sons, wives for their husbands, and sisters for their brothers.”

  “They were traitors!”

  “They were men who were loved by the subjects you rule! Is there never any solution to conflict other than murder and destruction? The streets are streaked in red, the holy Bektashi Sufis flee the city, even the Jewish street sweep will not come out of hiding. What has happened to our Imperial City that provided safe haven for all sects and tolerance for all?”

  Mahmud leaned out the window of Topkapi and saw a mother trying to pry her son’s head from the palace gates.

  “You there! That is property of the Ottoman Empire and your Sultan,” snarled a guard.

  “It is the property of the womb that carried it,” said the woman, wrapping the bloody head in the folds of her apron. Her tears streaked her dirty face.

  “Replace it or your head will be next.”

  “Let her have it, Solak!” shouted the Sultan. “Set her free.”

  “May you answer to Allah,” shouted back the woman from the street. “You monster!”

  Mahmud’s eyes widened at her audacity and blue veins stood out under the white skin of his neck.

  Nakshidil struggled from her chair and plucked at her son’s sleeve.
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  “Do what they ask,” she said. “In the name of God and mercy, do as they ask.”

  Mahmud raised his arm as if to strike his mother, then stared at his hand in bewilderment.

  “Forgive me, Mother,” he whispered.

  “When did you forsake your gentle nature and compassion for such brutal hatred and aggression, my son?”

  “When I became an Ottoman Sultan,” he answered, turning away from her and looking out at the Bosphorus.

  Chapter 23

  “I shall send the kitchen page to the cistern with the message,” whispered the Greek cook, Maria, to Saffron. She had been a member of the Orthodox Church of the Greek physician and shared his confidences. “He is a good Christian boy and shares the homeland of the giant. He is still faithful to his religion and our people. He would sooner die than deceive us.”

  “When does he report?”

  “Before evening prayers, I prepare the supper for the Princess and her harem. From that meal, I set aside a bit for Ahmed Kadir. The boy should be here in an hour. What exactly should I say?”

  “That the hour has come for him to see the Princess and then leave the Empire forever,” he said. “Tell him to meet me at the dockside of the harem wall.”

  The cook nodded, her eyes closing for a second as if she were learning a recipe and must not miss an ingredient.

  “All right, then. Dockside of the harem wall.”

  “I will be there when I can. He should have patience.”

  “Patience.”

  “That is all,” he said, raising his chin as he saw a hungry Solak enter the vast kitchen. “Esma Sultan needs proper attention to her diet and I will ask you to consult with the Topkapi doctor to see that her food is properly prepared—flavor her yoghurt with fresh mint,” he said, addressing her officiously.

  Then he turned on the Solak. “Have I not made it clear that this is the Royal Kitchen? You will not be begging Esma Sultan’s cook to delay her duties in order to indulge your stomach.”

  The Solak ducked his head in submission and backed out of the kitchen. Saffron darted a quick glance to the cook who nodded that the task was understood.