The Drowning Guard: A Novel of the Ottoman Empire

by Linda Lafferty

  “Irena remains protected.”

  The Sultan’s mother nodded her head, suddenly quiet.

  “I recall her injuries. I was one of the few who were allowed to inspect the burns. The poor child.”

  “Was she really that disfigured, Mother?”

  “Horribly so.”

  Mahmud gazed at his mother.

  “She showed more courage than all of us. I remember the determination, the spite in her eyes, that she was born free and would never surrender her spirit. The scars twisted her mouth into a perpetual smirk, as if she were scorning your father and the Ottomans for eternity.” Nakshidil sought her son’s hand and held it in hers.

  “Her spirit is indomitable,” she said. “She was quite a brave girl. And woman.”

  “I should love to look into her eyes again, but Esma will not permit me.”

  “I understand. I am sure Irena would prefer not to be reminded of men, especially the son of the Sultan who tormented her.”

  Mahmud stared at the brazier, contemplating the embers.

  “I loved her, Mother.”

  “Bah! You were at that tender age when even a future Sultan thinks he can love. It was very sweet, but fleeting.”

  “No, you do not understand. I still love her.”

  “Impossible. You do not know her. You think you love the woman you imagine she was. It is all a child’s fantasy. Besides, an Ottoman does not have the luxury of loving anyone or anything but his Empire. Leave her to your sister who can care for an injured woman, one who has known nothing but pain from men. That is the most love you can show in your position.”

  “I am going to play polo with her tonight. Under the full moon.”

  Nakshidil raised her head. “Polo?”

  “Yes, Esma has arranged a match between her harem and my squad. I promise I will be gentle with them. It is only for a chance to glimpse Irena.”

  His mother laughed, as if the tragedy of Irena had fled her mind once again. “Oh, you must go visit your sister more often! You always amuse me with the news from Esma’s palaces. How divine! A polo game with the harem, just like the Persian princesses! I must write to my cousin Josephine—surely there is nothing so splendid as this for women in the Courts of Paris. She shall be green with envy! I shall include your pledge to allow a priest to give me my last rites when I die.” She added that thought, as if carelessly, but she gave her son a sharp look, making certain he knew his promise was being reported far and wide. Then she was carelessly gay again. “Josephine shall be so jealous she has such a bore as Napoleon for a husband when there are such goings-on in Constantinople. A harem playing polo!”

  With that, Nakshidil excused herself and went back to her apartments to compose a letter to her cousin. Mahmud chewed the end of his mustache, wondering how he would approach his long-lost love Irena, and whether he could abide seeing her self-inflicted deformities.

  Esma Sultan inspected the terrariums where ornamental plants for her gardens were grown. The gardeners maintained a fine stock of earthworms there to improve the soil. She selected some of the earthworms and gave careful instructions to the boy who tended them.

  “Do you know where the willow balls for polo are kept?”

  “Yes, my Sultane.”

  “You must whitewash them and set them to dry in the sun. As we begin the match you must crush a worm and work the slime over the ball. Repeat this every few minutes so there is always a fresh supply of balls on the sidelines. You must keep the arbitrator supplied with new balls, and have him relinquish the old ones. Are my instructions understood quite clearly?”

  “Yes, Sultane.”

  “Good. Keep the earthworms in moist soil until they are to be sacrificed. Make certain the polo ball is slippery with the slime.”

  “Yes, my Sultane.”

  At ten o’clock, the torches were lit around the polo field and Esma Sultan’s horses were tacked. The head groom and the orphan boys rode them across the goal lines and weaved in and out of the torches to accustom them to the flames and the smell of burning oil. Since this was the routine every full moon, the horses only snorted once or twice and relaxed their ears and necks, drinking in the cool air of the summer night.

  The Sultan arrived late, his horses rearing in the courtyard. The three Kapikulus—all former companions of Ivan Postich’s cavalry orta—who accompanied him were scornful of the prospect of playing against women and spat on the cobblestones.

  “Come this way,” motioned Nazip, atop a sturdy mare.

  “Nazip, you will not play!” ordered the Sultan. “You carry my child in your womb.”

  “I will not play because I choose not to, with all grace and respect my Sultan,” answered Nazip. “Esma Sultan has already chosen her teammates and I am but a timekeeper. May you enjoy the match. I so regret that I will not play against you.”

  The Kapikulus groaned at her insubordination but admired her beautiful face and full figure, which was not obscured by a veil or the cumbersome clothing required at Topkapi.

  “Come,” said Nazip. “Follow Saffron to the field. I shall remain in the stands and cheer you on.”

  With that, Nazip turned and disappeared into the darkness. Saffron appeared and opened a gate to allow the mounted Kapikulus, their spare horses, and their grooms to enter the gardens.

  Mahmud had not seen these interior gardens since he was a small boy. When they were both children, Esma had invited him for visits when her cousin Sultan Selim allowed him outings from the princes’ cage under the careful watch of the guards. He wondered now at the perfect polo field she had cultivated, the spectator stands for her harem and female orchestra, and the officials’ stand that rose at the edge of the field like a colossal gazebo.

  The sidelines were marked in a chalk solution concocted in Esma Sultan’s laboratories. They reflected the moon and torchlight with an incandescent glow.

  The Sultan’s horses snorted at the leaping flames of the torches, rearing on the soft manicured turf.

  “Kus!” shouted Mahmud. “Our horses are not accustomed to fire.”

  The horses’ nostrils flared and quivered, taking in the strange surroundings. Their flanks trembled and they pawed the ground, eager to break loose from the riders’ grip on the reins.

  “Ah, this is to your disadvantage, I fear,” said the turbaned Esma, atop her stallion. She dropped a polo ball on the turf and struck it with her mallet. The ball exploded in a blue light.

  The Kapikulus’ horses reared and backed away from the field.

  “My God! What witchcraft is this?” said one, trying to rein in his horse.

  A veiled woman rode up to them. “You will have to make your horses behave better or you will be disqualified. Is that not right, arbitrator?”

  Another woman in a red tunic approached them.

  “Absolutely. Your horses pose a danger to both teams—you must get them under control. I suggest you calm them down by riding them about the field.”

  “But the light—”

  “It is one of Esma Sultan’s discoveries. A combination of material from our own Turkish earthworms and a solution of coral from the sea. When you strike the ball, it glows with blue fire. Quite beautiful, really.”

  The cavalrymen looked at each other, uttering a quick prayer against sorcery and begging the protection of Allah against such strange women.

  “You should not be so terrorized by knowledge,” the veiled woman said. “Come, accustom your horses. We are eager for a match.”

  “Do as she says,” Mahmud commanded. He himself was the first male player to gallop onto the field, demonstrating the horsemanship he had learned many years ago from the Horse Master.

  The Kapikulu followed, though their horses bucked madly at the strange sights and smells, shying away from the glowing white sidelines and leaping into the air at the smell of camphor and burning oil.

  “Line up,” shouted yet another umpire. She, like Irena, was veiled, and her voice was deep.

  The red-haired T
atar Altug urged his horse against the shoulder of a horse ridden by a raven-tressed woman, her dark hair escaping from her turban in tendrils. He could smell the scent of jasmine in her hair and was so distracted he missed the moment when the umpire tossed the ball into play.

  The dark-haired woman did not. She tapped the ball clear of the milling horses and smacked it across the field. The veiled player deftly controlled the ball with a quick tap of her mallet and sent it flying towards the goal.

  Esma Sultan had already fought off her opposing player and was in position to follow the pass. Her turban and flowing tunic cut through the night air as she galloped unopposed and smacked the ball through the uprights.

  “Esma Sultan 1!” shouted the referee.

  “Play, men!” roared the Sultan. “You disgrace me with your performance.”

  Within seconds, Esma Sultan’s team was ready in the midfield lineup, even as the Kapikulu were sorting themselves out.

  “Play!” shouted the referee. The ball was thrown into play while the Kapikulus were still in confusion. Esma Sultan rapped the ball with her mallet, passing it towards her veiled teammate. As the ball was struck, it glittered with the eerie blue light.

  Mahmud drove his horse’s shoulder hard against his veiled opponent as she raced for the ball. Though shaken by the impact, Irena gave her mare its rein and they slipped past the Sultan’s horse. She stood up out of the saddle and leaned far up the horse’s neck, striking the ball into the goal before Mahmud could reach it.

  As she cantered around the uprights, Irena let loose a cry that the Sultan had only heard on the battlefield when ambushed by Serbian rebels.

  “She rides like a goddess,” he muttered.

  Again, Esma Sultan’s team beat the Kapikulus back to midfield when the referee called, “Time! First period!”

  The women rode off the field, and without dismounting, vaulted from one horse to another, as the grooms held the reins.

  The referee blew the whistle.

  As Mahmud galloped back onto the field with his fresh mount, he chastised his teammates. “You are playing women, Kapikulu! What excuses do you have?”

  “My horse leaps at each torch!”

  “The referee throws in the ball too hastily.”

  “The ball glows white, then blue,” shouted the bandy-legged Albanian. “I cannot rein my horse close enough to strike it!”

  Mahmud heard a muffled chuckle from beneath the veil of the woman who rode beside him.

  “And you, Irena? Are you enjoying this?”

  “Most certainly, my Sultan.”

  He gazed at her eyes as the torch illuminated their beauty—green with sparks that mocked him, just as they had as a little girl. There, reflected in those eyes, lay the power to mesmerize and defy a sultan, his own father. He held their gaze as long as he could, but was the first to look away, as if the enchantment would sear his eyes.

  “Sultan!” shouted one of his men, shattering the spell.

  The ball was thrown in and Mahmud reined his horse into his veiled opponent’s shoulder. Each rider fought for the advantage, pushing and grunting, trying to get an edge. The ball lay on the turf between them and they bent over their horses’ necks, their turbans pressed together and they breathed each other’s exhaled air as they fought for the ball.

  With a surge, Irena controlled the ball, driving it down the field and following at a gallop. Mahmud cast an angry, but admiring, look in her direction. He tried desperately to ride past her far enough to gain position and force her away from the ball, but could not gallop his horse fast enough. Instead, riding beside her, he watched the wind pick up her veil and pull it away from her face. There in the torchlight he saw the sneering smile that permanently contorted her face—the injury she had inflected on her own beauty to protect her from men’s admiration for all time.

  And with that glance he fell in love with her again—fell in love with her scars, with her disfigured face. He had hundreds of women in his harem, all beautiful and perfectly formed. But in the twisted smile of Irena was the mark of their common hatred for his father—and…? Courage. It was the sign of the rebellious girl who had been his first love and who possessed more courage than all the sultans he had ever known.

  “Great Sultan! Hook her!”

  “Hook her!”

  They were closing on the goal and she was ready for a fierce shot that would drive the ball through the uprights. Mahmud came to his senses and thrust out his mallet to hook hers and block the shot. Her flexible mallet bent around his in a “U” and slammed in a hammerblow against the side of the Sultan’s head.

  He tumbled from his horse, unconscious.

  The game was stopped as Irena jumped off her mount, calling to him as he lay on the turf.

  “Mahmud! Oh, Mahmud, do not die!”

  Esma Sultan rode over to her brother. “Rise, oh great Sultan! Surely a slight knock on your royal head by a woman will not be the death of you. It is hardly befitting an Ottoman.”

  Mahmud’s eyes flickered open at the insult. He reached up and pulled the veil from Irena’s face. He could not help himself. He blurted, “You are still beautiful, Irena. Your eyes are stars of beauty, your face a map of courage.”

  “We are not here to discuss beauty, my brother,” snapped Esma Sultan. “Mount your horse and let us finish our match.”

  The Kapikulus and the Sultan were disgraced that night. They lost the match 4-2, though there were no witnesses other than the players and the amused Horse Master, who had been the umpire, dressed in a woman’s guise. Ivan Postivich watched from the observation tower, scowling as he watched his sister bend over his mortal enemy in worry.

  “I shall kill him before he has the chance to take her to his bed,” he swore aloud. The ladies of the harem exchanged looks and hastened to warn Esma Sultan.

  “You are to jump onto the cart an hour before dawn,” said Saffron. He stood looking almost eye to eye with the giant, his great ebony arms folded across his chest. “You have endangered Esma Sultan and this household long enough. The dervishes shall convey you out of Constantinople to the sea, where you can find passage to another country.”

  “Constantinople is my home now. I will not leave the Empire.”

  “Oh, yes, you will, Ahmed Kadir. If you do not leave this morning, I will personally report your whereabouts to Topkapi. I will not risk my Sultane’s life with your selfish whims.”

  “I must see her.”

  “She is still entertaining her brother, the Sultan.”

  “Find a way that I might see her and I will do what you ask.”

  “Swear it so.”

  “I swear on my mother’s holy grave. Only give me time with the Sultaness.”

  Saffron exhaled nosily and disappeared down the corridor. Ivan Postivich could hear the singing of the harem girls and the accompaniment of the female orchestra. The strong scent of sandalwood wafted out from the harem, where the women lay on their pillows eating dried fruits and smoking opium.

  The eunuch returned.

  “She will see you. But you must wait until her brother leaves.”

  Ivan Postivich knelt at his feet. “May Allah reward you for your kindness.”

  “You have your sister and the Bektashi to thank,” he said. Then Saffron nodded and turned to leave, his white robes billowing as he strode down the corridor.

  The clock struck two when Saffron returned. He led Ivan Postivich into the inner chambers of Esma Sultan’s apartments. The bed he had once seen through the filmy gauze was unmade and the princess lay naked upon her pillows.

  Ivan Postivich found he couldn’t breathe. She beckoned him with an outstretched arm and it was then Saffron whispered in his ear.

  “The dervishes come in two hours. Remember your oath or you are a dead man.”

  The janissary stood, gazing at the naked woman. He swallowed hard, taking in the sight he had waited so long to see.

  “Now, Biscuit,” she murmured. “Come to me.”

  Postiv
ich stripped off his clothes pulling his tunic over his head and pressing his bare flesh against hers. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Koran opened, the brown-red suras, written in blood on the parchment.

  He reached out to close it.

  “Do not touch anything,” commanded Esma, “but me, O Corbaci.”

  He pressed his mouth against hers, sucking at her tongue. His hands wandered to her breasts, the nipples still a rosy pink. His mouth followed where his fingers led.

  “Give me pleasure,” she sighed.

  His mouth moved down to the wet spot between her legs and he sucked its juices. Her harem girls had plucked every hair from her body, save for her head, and the skin in the folds between her legs was soft and scented with rose essence.

  He shifted his weight onto his arms, hovering over her, his eyes riveted on hers. She held his gaze, unblinking. His arms trembled—not from lack of strength, but from emotion. She saw the tremor in his arms and smiled.

  “Ivan Postivich,” she said.

  He kissed the lips that whispered his true name. Then he kissed her breast tenderly again, his hand caressing the soft damp skin between her thighs.

  He entered her. She closed her eyes in ecstasy.

  He arched his back to drive his pelvis against hers and for a moment his eye was caught by the sura written in her brother’s blood. What madness, he thought.

  He thrust against her, making her groan, as his mind turned from the Koran to the woman beneath him.

  He closed his eyes and moved his hips against hers, and opened his eyes to see her soft brown eyes seeking his. He rolled her over and pressed against her from behind. His fingers sought her genitals and she guided his penis into the wet spot.

  They rocked hard against each other with a ferocity perhaps born of hatred and now transformed into the lust of a coupling too long delayed—and perhaps something more. The rhythm grew faster and harder until there was an explosion and one of them screamed as they fell back, exhausted.

  The room spun and, again, Ivan Postivich found he couldn’t remember how to breathe.

  The drowning guard was drowning.

  Time passed and he opened his eyes to see the Koran written in the Sultan’s blood.