The Drowning Guard: A Novel of the Ottoman Empire

by Linda Lafferty

  The words were delicately smeared, as if a damp finger had traced their calligraphy often. He read the words, but though he had studied the suras for many years, these were nothing he had seen before.

  In the name of Allah, the compassionate, the merciful,

  By the Star when it setteth,

  Your companion Mohammed erreth not, nor is he led astray,

  Neither speaketh he from mere impulse.

  The Koran is no other than a revelation revealed to him:

  Do ye see Al-Lat and Al-Uzza,

  And Manat the third idol besides?

  These are the exalted Females, sublime cranes,

  Mounting nearer and nearer to Allah.

  These are the exalted Females, and verily their intercession is to be hoped for.

  Chapter 25

  The little French clock, a present from Nakshidil, sounded the hour. Ivan Postivich and Esma Sultan still lay as one, moving as one wave upon the sand.

  Saffron cleared his throat and rang a little bell made of silver.

  “I call on you, Ahmed Kadir, to remember your oath.”

  The giant pulled his lips from the sweet mouth of Esma Sultan.

  “It is the Sultaness I protect, not you,” added the eunuch. “You have pledged to protect her too. Come with me.”

  Ivan Postivich sought his lover’s eyes and nodded his head.

  “I shall do as I promised. Give me five minutes farewell and I shall be at your side.”

  Saffron answered. “No more than five minutes. I shall take you at knifepoint if I must, but I will not endanger my mistress’s life another second.”

  With that, he disappeared behind the porphyry screen.

  “Those suras in your brother’s blood? I have never seen the word of the Prophet in such a fashion.”

  “They are the ‘Forgotten Women’s Verses A’—spoken by the Prophet. We hold to those suras, and praise Allah for sharing them with the Prophet. They are as true as any other words he ever spoke.”

  She turned away from Ivan Postivich and looked at the painting of the Royal Persian Harem playing polo.

  “The legend is that Mohammed later said that it was Satan who had spoken such gentle words and that they must be struck forever from the Holy Koran. But we feel it was Man and the politics of Medina that altered the holy words of our Lord, and revoked the Prophet’s compassion. Al-ilah was the Moon God, married to the Sun Goddess Diana. Al-Lat, Al-Ozza, and Manat are their daughters. It was so in the days before Mohammed and even if we dare not speak these words, the symbol of the Ottoman Empire embraces the image still.

  “The crescent moon always accompanied by the gentle daughter star. What is so demonic about womankind, that men should fear their intercession?”

  “What the Holy Prophet and Allah gave in infinite wisdom, should never be erased,” said Ivan Postivich, stroking her bare shoulder. “And men who seek to bury these words, know not the infinite compassion of Allah.”

  Saffron burst into the bedchamber. He grabbed Ivan Postivich by the shoulder, yanking him from the bed.

  “Come with me, now!” he insisted. “They are within the palace walls.”

  But before Postivich had a chance to react, a small white figure in a flowing caftan raced into the room.

  “I arrest you in the name of Sultan Mahmud!” shouted a high-pitched voice.

  Postivich leapt to his feet at the sound of the voice and found the room filling with Topkapi soldiers, led by the short figure of the eunuch Emerald.

  Two Solaks immediately tried to wrestle the giant to the ground. He roared and with a twist of his massive shoulders, pinned the two under him before anyone could intercede. He seized a guard’s scimitar and began slashing his way through the troops that stood between him and the door.

  “Come, Esma!” he shouted.

  “There is no place for me to run. I am an Ottoman Sultane!”

  When he realized that she would not follow him, Postivich dropped his arms to his side. He was seized by a Solak and swiftly bound in ropes.

  “Put some clothes on the beast,” ordered Emerald, his lips curling upward. “And take him to the Sultan for execution.”

  Mahmud lost no time in commanding that the hanging ground be made ready. He sent his Solaks to spread the word in the taverns, Bazaar, and docks that the traitorous Ahmed Kadir had been captured and would die at sundown in the Hippodrome, as had thousands of other Janissaries. The whole of Constantinople would witness his death.

  Esma Sultan curled her fingers around the quill, wincing in pain. Her hands were raw from beating on the Topkapi doors. The sultan had refused to see her.

  Dear Brother Blessed Sultan Mahmud II,

  If you have ever truly loved me, you will spare Ahmed Kadir’s life. The people of Constantinople honor him in their Friday prayers, whisper his praises in the marketplace, streets, and taverns. Let him live, and your subjects will see you as merciful and strong.

  Your loving sister who shares your father’s blood,

  Esma Sultan

  She pressed the wax seal with her ring and sent the messenger running to speed the letter to Topkapi. He was not to return without a reply.

  “He will answer me,” Esma Sultan said, speaking to Irena.

  Irena shook her head.

  “It will not be the answer you hope for. I cannot put faith in a letter. Come, I have another plan.”

  Irena led her mistress into the gardens.

  “Open the taps,” Esma Sultan commanded a eunuch. “See that we are not disturbed.”

  “Hear me out before you speak,” began Irena. “What I propose is as fantastic as any game we ever played as children in the Serail of Topkapi. Except we will be playing for lives.”

  “What have you concocted, sweet Irena?” said Esma Sultan, looking at the young woman sadly. “There is nothing that can negate a Sultan’s command.”

  “Are you truly untouchable?”

  Esma Sultan raised her chin proudly.

  “My father Sultan Abdulhamid decreed I was his favorite daughter. I am as royal as my brother himself.”

  “The Sultan would not dare harm you?”

  “Of course not. He would kill anyone who did.”

  Irena smiled. “Then listen to my plan.”

  An hour later, the messenger returned, his head bowed low.

  Esma Sultan rose from a bench where she sat forehead to forehead with Irena, whispering.

  “A reply from the Sultan,” he announced, looking at the grass under his feet.

  He delivered the letter to Esma Sultan’s hands, and backed up bowing.

  “What does he say? What does he say?” said Irena.

  Esma Sultan unfolded the parchment. Her hand flew to her mouth.

  “Be there to see the giant die.”

  The Sultan’s chief Solak led Ivan Postivich from the stench and darkness of the Topkapi dungeon. The prisoner’s hands were bound with rope behind him. Feeling had long since left his arms and fingers.

  The helpless giant blinked his eyes against the sunlight. He sucked in the fresh air of the courtyard, like a drowning man. He halted midbreath, detecting a familiar odor, spicy and welcoming.

  Horse.

  He heard a whinny before he had time to recognize her.

  “Peri,” he whispered. “Peri, my beauty.”

  The bridled mare moved towards her master, but was abruptly yanked back by the attendant. Postivich noticed that there was no saddle on the mare.

  “The Sultan has decreed that you be hanged from the plane tree,” said the Solak. “You will be mounted on your horse. The noose shall be put around your neck. At the Sultan’s command, your horse will be whipped forward into a gallop. You will be left hanging.”

  Ivan Postivich did not answer. He stumbled towards his beloved Peri, his eyes scanning the indentation deep in her shoulder where she had been wounded.

  “The Stable Master did well tending her injuries,” he said, his hands longing to stroke the newly formed flesh. Hi
s eyes brimmed with tears—the first emotion he had shown since the Solaks had taken him prisoner.

  The chief Solak jerked his hand upward.

  “Place the prisoner atop the horse,” he said.

  Two men seized Postivich, heaving him onto the mare. They led the prisoner to the Hippodrome and his execution.

  When the afternoon dust and heat had settled and the cicadas’ buzz was quieted by the Bosphorus breeze, the population of Constantinople gathered in the Hippodrome. A stout rope had been tied in a noose around a branch on the old plane tree, its bark stripped from the weight and friction of so many hangings.

  The man Constantinople called Ahmed Kadir was brought into the area, his head, shoulders, and torso covered with a cloth sack, much like the sacks in which he had drowned his victims.

  “Look!” said the ropemaker, humiliated his handiwork would be the death of Ahmed Kadir. “The giant rides his own mare, Peri.”

  “The horse appears to have recovered from her wounds,” said man at the ropemaker’s elbow. “Now she is pressed into service as her master’s executioner.”

  “How’s that?” said another, listening to the conversation.

  “Once the noose is around the giant’s neck, the Sultan will give the command to whip the mare into a gallop, leaving Ahmed Kadir swinging from the noose.”

  The New Order of Topkapi, dressed in their European uniforms, watched uncomfortably, for the death of a brave soldier was never the desire of an honorable military man. There were calls from the crowd, and jeers and curses from Sufis who had the courage to shout their insults to the Sultan.

  As Peri was led to the plane tree and the sack was removed from Postivich’s head, the executioner whispered a prayer to Allah and asked his victim’s forgiveness.

  “You must serve your Sultan,” was the giant’s reply. “Go ahead and perform your duty bravely.”

  The thick rope was placed around Postivich’s neck and underneath his chin and gently tightened as if his mother were straightening his collar before sending him off to school.

  “Thank you for your kindness,” said Postivich.

  The Sultan watched the executioner’s tenderness, scowling.

  Where was Esma Sultan? Why was she not here to witness the death of this traitor?

  The crowd looked up at the Sultan, waiting for his order to proceed.

  Where is my sister?

  As the Sultan raised his hand to initiate the execution, a murmur rippled through the crowd.

  Two veiled women galloped into the Hippodrome, their cloaks flying behind them.

  The crowd watched motionless.

  One approached the Sultan, grasping his hand in midair and yanking him off his feet before he could signal for the execution. The other raced towards Peri and the groom who held the reins. With a cry from the battlefields of the Serbian plains, she swung a scimitar, the blade slicing through the rope and then sinking deep into the chest of the fat white eunuch, who stood beside the executioner.

  “Esma!” the Sultan screamed. “Treason!”

  The only answer was her laugh, ringing in the air as the women galloped their horses out of the Hippodrome with Peri in pursuit, her rider swaying, hands tied behind his back.

  Mahmud hesitated. The Kapikulu captain spoke, “Your orders, my Sultan?”

  “Capture the women and bring them back alive. Do not harm them in any way or you shall be executed. Do not forget for an instant that my sister is an Ottoman Sultane.”

  “And Ahmed Kadir?”

  “Kill him on the spot.”

  It was nearing sundown, and the women rode hard for the hills east of the city. Their horses’ shoes clattered on cobblestones and then thundered on hard-packed dirt. Wild dogs tried to pursue them, but were quickly outrun. The orphan boys cheered as the three riders raced past the stables—and the boys upset a melon cart to slow the Kapikulu who pursued them.

  A Serbian boy climbed onto a horse and bade two other boys to do the same. They rode along the riverside and doubled back to the stable, their beardless faces gleaming in the setting sun. The Solaks saw their silhouettes and followed them, while the trio of fugitives plunged into the River Lycus and rode off to the hills beyond.

  When the Kapikulu captain finally realized his mistake, he cursed the boys and their heaving steeds, and raised his scimitar over his head.

  The old Head Groom rode out, breathless from the chase.

  “Sir, we are required to exercise the polo and cirit horses at top speed every day,” he said. “Why do you pursue us? Do you have a fatwa for these orphan boys of the charity of Aya Sofya and Esma Sultan?”

  Three days later, there was still no sign of the women or Ahmed Kadir. There were many citizens who hated the Sultan for the massacre of the Janissaries and considered it a bad omen. There were humble homes and shepherds’ huts that were open to a hero who had escaped the Sultan’s wrath.

  At Topkapi, as the sun set on the third day, the ailing Valide Sultan, Nakshidil, begged to receive her last rites. The city mourned the imminent loss of a woman who was known for her charity to the poor.

  A eunuch accompanied Dr. Stephane Karatheodory and his female assistant into the Valide’s room. Once the room was secured and the eunuch sent to guard the entryway, the nurse stripped off her veil to show Nakshidil her pearl-glazed mouth and twisted grin.

  “You have returned at last, Bezm-i Alem!”

  “Irena. I am your Irena. And you shall rest in the peace of the arms of the Holy Virgin.”

  “A woman’s embrace I would welcome,” Nakshidil said. “Forgive my son. He has too much of the Al-ilah in him and not enough of Diana.”

  “His sons will not,” said Irena.

  “You will bear his sons?”

  “If you wish it so. Perhaps then I can stanch this bloodshed and curse upon Constantinople.”

  Nakshidil coughed weakly.

  “Lie back, Valide Sultane. You tire yourself with such emotion,” counseled the physician, signaling Irena to keep silence.

  “No, no! Let her speak!” cried the dying woman, her hands clenched in fists of pain. “Where is Esma?”

  “She has returned to her palace in Ortakoy. She is meeting with her brother to negotiate peace between them. He cannot forget that they have loved one another all their lives. As part of the agreement, I shall return to Topkapi as his wife and bear his children. And I shall be the Sultan Valide after you pass.”

  Nakshidil grasped Irena’s hand. “Ah, my daughter! My grandsons shall have compassion.”

  “That much I swear. They shall learn compassion and mercy, and the essence of the Women’s Verses.”

  Nakshidil smiled blindly at the ceiling.

  “If only I could write to my cousin Josephine,” she whispered.

  Irena bent over the dying woman and kissed her forehead tenderly.

  “Close your eyes, my Sultane. May you rest in peace.”

  Chapter 26

  Pirot, Serbia

  March 1831

  Five years after the Massacre of the Janissaries, an old friend set out in search of Esma Sultan’s drowning guard. The road to the north was hard and frozen and the wind cracked ice from the branches of the plane trees, frightening the horse. The rider whispered soothing words, “Kus, Kus,” to his mount, wishing there had been an early spring rather than this hard frost on a strange road at the farthest fringe of the Empire.

  There was no one to point out the way, but Ahmed the oarsman, now four years an officer with the Ottoman navy, was skilled at navigation. He blinked up at the North Star, clearly visible in the night of the new moon, and heard again the words the Sufi had spoken in the hushed and hurried conversation that had sent Ahmed riding into the night. Go north, the Sufi had whispered. The giant lives.

  And now he was here, on this cold lonely road on the Serbian frontier. In the black of night, he was keenly aware of the breath and heartbeat of his horse, the sweat and warmth beneath his legs as the horse walked mile after mile through the e
mpty countryside.

  The village must be near, he thought. The Sufi’s hastily sketched map was stuffed in his saddlebag, but Ahmed had memorized the route and the landmarks.

  The mare, as if she shared his thoughts, broke into a trot and whinnied, the shrill sound startling Ahmed, sending a violent shiver up his spine.

  In the same moment, a black coach caught up with him from behind, the clatter of its wheels emerging from the echo of the horse’s whinny, its side lanterns illuminating the patchwork of hoarfrost on the trees along the road.

  Ahmed saluted, seeing the red crescent and star on the side of the coach, knowing that this was an Ottoman convoy. The turbaned driver didn’t acknowledge him, barely reining the horses wide enough to keep from clipping the rider. He sat grimly, eyes straining ahead, weary from the ten-day trip from Constantinople. His turban was grimy, splattered by the frozen mud churned up by the carriage wheels.

  As the coach brushed by, the crimson velvet curtains parted and Ahmed saw an aquiline profile of a woman. He pulled his wool cloak around his face with one hand, keeping his horse in check with the other. He had no wish to be recognized.

  When the Royal Coach had passed, he urged his horse into a canter, taking care not to follow too closely.

  As he crested the hill, Ahmed surveyed the village below. A simple hamlet beside a stream, bordered by an orchard. The trees were bleached skeletons, frosted and glowing in the dancing light from the coach lantern.

  Ahmed stopped his horse and watched the coach until it stopped in front of a thatched-roof hut at the edge of the trees. The coachman rubbed his freezing hands hard before descending to help his passengers.

  A beam of light broke from the hut’s open door, and a giant of a man emerged. He stopped just outside the door and stood erect.

  Two women emerged from the coach, the first wore a diaphanous veil. She turned, gazing at the little house, the stream, and the orchard. The huge man met her halfway to the coach, tenderly removing the yasmak and kissing her face, as a brother would. Her face glowed with pearl-like incandescence in the lantern light.

  A moment later, the second woman emerged, taking the driver’s offered hand. She walked a few steps with imperious elegance towards the man and her traveling companion. Then she broke and ran to her lover and he to her. He swept her up in an embrace that hid them both from Ahmed’s view as they merged into a single figure. The coachman and the other woman turned away as well. It was a passionate moment that no other should witness, meant for no eyes but the lovers themselves.