The Drowning Guard: A Novel of the Ottoman Empire (9 page)

Ivan Postivich could not bear the soft life of the palace and thought only of battle and the weight of his sword in his hand. He pictured the cirit games, staged somehow without him, and wondered how his favorite mare, Peri, fared under the hand of another rider and groom.

Mahmud was sly, thought Postivich. He preferred to kill a janissary slowly with idleness and seclusion rather than have him die in a war that would bring honor and martyrdom. Postivich sat on a cool marble bench, planning how he would change his life to make himself a soldier once again.

Every night before dinner, if he was not required to stand duty, Ivan Postivich wrestled, challenging not one, but two men at once. He did not lack opponents. Hundreds of Janissaries proved eager to fight together to defeat the renowned giant warrior. The merchants, saddlemakers, butchers, and cooks stopped work to watch the evening games, and the pistachio and chestnut vendors did brisk business among crowds of Janissaries, ravenous before their evening meal.

At first Postivich lost every match, often in less than a minute. Two men could work together to pull the giant down and pin him, as they did over and over again. He grunted, face down in the dirt, under the weight of the men, his spit turning the dust to mud under his chin.

“Kadir! You thick-headed Serb! It is impossible!” the soldiers howled. But they watched in eagerness and exchanged bets as to how long he would stand.
It was the very thin chance of victory and the big heart of the warrior that they were willing to gamble on, for Ahmed Kadir embodied the legendary spirit of the Janissaries, even if he lost, time and time again.

Young men from Postivich’s old cirit and polo squads stood before an open barrel of crude olive oil, rubbing down their former corbaci before each match. They good-naturedly sponged the oil over his skin and leather wrestling pants until he glistened in the sun like an immortal god.

“How a jereed would slide past you now!” the young cavalrymen joked, though they knew the pain their old captain felt at being stripped of his orta command and mount. Although wrestling was one of the foremost war games, it could not compete with the noble thrill of dodging spears on a galloping horse. But being still young, they had faith in justice, and believed with one heart that a day would come when the giant would fell the two opponents on the wrestling ground, and their warrior would stand victorious. And they hoped that they would see Ahmed Kadir astride his mare again, leading them into battle.

One day, after weeks of competitions that left Postivich’s body sore and bruised, the crowd of Janissaries erupted in a fierce roar of cheers that sent the pigeons flying in great circles over the Bosphorus and the Golden Horn. Ivan Postivich had pinned two men at once, locking his trunk-like legs around one and crushing the other in his sinewy arms. The gasping opponents writhed under him, spitting and cursing. Postivich lifted his leonine head to the crowd, his hair matted in sweat and grease, grinning through the still-rising dust.

“Long live the Giant! May Allah protect Ahmed Kadir!”

The cheers of hundreds of Janissaries reached the courtyards of Topkapi, where the Sultan raised his head in alarm.

“What is that cry?” he asked the Grand Vizier who walked at his side in the inner courtyard, under the plane trees. He looked over the wall and saw the birds of Constantinople swoop overhead, still frightened by the roar.

“Send a servant to find out why the pigeons circle the city. Is this a cry of mutiny? Secure the port and harem! Bring me my sword!”

Shortly, a page, still gasping for breath after his run to Et Meydan, asked permission to approach the Sultan.

His head still lowered, sweat glistening on his upper lip, the page reported:

“The giant Ahmed Kadir of the Kapikulu cavalry defeated two other Janissaries in wrestling, pinning them for over a minute on the ground!”

“The shouts we heard were congratulations on a victory in sport, Sultan,” said the Vizier in relief. “You can rest calmly now for there is no conspiracy!
Simply strength of the giant who lifts our army’s hearts in a harmless pastime.”

The Sultan rubbed his black beard with his thumb and index finger, pulling at it brutally as he contemplated the news.

Postivich began walking the streets of Constantinople at all hours of the night. He filled a saddlebag with heavy rocks in order to carry more weight and tax his body, as if in battle. Each night he walked farther and farther around the Imperial City, coming back as the muezzins called the faithful for morning prayer. He found that he needed little sleep; his body thrived on the rigorous exercise, clearing his mind.

The wild dog packs of Constantinople began to shadow him. They prowled at his side, sensing his strength and urgency. Though he threw sharp rocks at them and cursed in Serbo-Croat, they only whined and cowered, and soon were at his side again, trotting along in the darkness.

The fishermen and prostitutes would point at the dogs as they loped down the streets to join the pack and say, “The giant must be near, looking for battle that the Sultan denies him.”

And thus Ivan Postivich—janissary Ahmed Kadir—slowly became a legend throughout the Royal City of Constantinople.

A
fter many sleepless nights, the Princess sat up straight on her divan. The two harem girls had fallen asleep beside her on the floor, their heads across their folded arms, their long hair spread over them like a shawl.

The Princess stared past the flickering candles to the windows that opened onto the Bosphorus.

She could hear some incomprehensible sound, like the howl of a dog, but more human in pitch. A howl of pain, terror. As it came closer, growing louder, she watched the girls to see if they woke. Neither stirred, even as wind from the Sea of Marmara filled the open window, billowing the muslin upward towards the high ceiling.

The Princess knew she could scream. Her screams would shatter the silence and bring legions of sentries, eunuchs, and harem girls to her side in seconds. There were guards just outside her window; wouldn’t they have heard the hideous cry from the waters below?

Esma Sultan did not—would not—scream. In her veins ran Ottoman blood, shrewd and cold as it was noble. Her mother had taught her always to be in command, never to let her inferiors see weakness.

You must rid yourself of weakness, daughter. Even the subtlest whiff of doubt will send your enemies an invitation. And the handmaidens, slaves, and sentries who surround you will spread the word if they suspect hesitation or cowardice. An Ottoman is strong. Or strangled.

Esma knew now that the stench that gagged her was not detectable by anyone else in the court. The doctor had all but declared it was imaginary, a creation of her fancy. She had seen the two harem girls exchange looks, and then drop their gaze to the floor.

Fantasy. Weakness.

So they might consider these sounds to be the same. She would not permit that to happen.

The doctor had asked her of her troubles. What kind of doctor asks a sick patient of her thoughts? The doctor’s job was to cure her, not question her. She had no one to answer to but Allah himself—she was an Ottoman. Her nostrils flared in contempt at his boldness.

The strange sound over the Bosphorus grew in volume and clarity, not so much a howl now as a wail.

And now she knew that sound.

It was a drowning man’s last gasps, cursing as his fingernails clawed at the coarse hemp bag in the depths of the Bosphorus. In the candlelight, she could see a drowned man’s eyes staring cold and glassy through the billowing fold in the curtain.

Esma Sultan fought the scream that climbed to her throat.

I will not show weakness,
she told herself
. I cannot—

The entire palace was awakened by her wail, pitiful and violent, helpless in its terror.

“What is it, Your Highness?” shouted the head guard, racing into the chamber, flanked by two other sentries.

“Bring the Topkapi doctor at once!” cried the Sultaness. She covered and uncovered her mouth, touched her throat and gagged.

Nazip brought her rosewater in a golden cup, her hand trembling, splashing big drops on the bed linen.

“I want him here at my bedside before this hour is over, do you hear me?”

“Your Sultaness, he shall be here immediately,” promised the guard. “I shall send our fastest runner to the Gates of Bliss.”

“Send for Ahmed Kadir,” commanded the Turk, over his shoulder. “While I am attending the Princess, we must have all sentries and reinforcements posted outside this door.”

A fast-running boy was sent to the fort to fetch the janissary. As he raced to the gate of the barracks, a sentry called from the wall, “Ho! Who goes there?”

“I’ve come from the palace of Esma Sultan to bring the giant Ahmed Kadir,”
gasped the runner. “If you will tell me where to find him, I’ll wake him. He must come with me at once!”

“You do not know his nightmares or you would not dare to wake him,” said the gate guard. He motioned to another guard to take his position. “I’ll fetch him myself. Allah be with me!”

The guard entered the barrack, a lantern held high. Among the many sleeping men, one shadowed figure loomed huge, contorted with fitful sleep. The great body shifted restlessly, the mouth agape, dry lips moving in agitation, mumbling in Serbo-Croat, fingers digging feverishly at the straw ticking of his cot, sweat trickling across his temples.

“Wake up, Giant,” said the guard, shaking Postivich’s shoulders. “You are wanted in Esma Sultan’s palace. Immediately.”

Postivich’s eyes flew open and he lunged violently, his massive hands grabbing for the guard’s throat. The guard smacked him hard in the forehead with the hilt of his sword and Postivich fell back onto his cot, grunting in pain.

“You are not an easy man to wake,” grumbled the guard, pulling his tunic straight again on his shoulders. “Next time I’ll protect myself with the sharp blade of my sword.”

“You summoned me, Princess?” said the doctor, his face blue in the candlelight of the royal chamber. His hair curled up in grey wisps under his turban.

“I wish to speak to you in private, doctor,” said the Princess. “Guard, see that all my court stands at least ten paces from my closed door. Fatiya—close the windows and latch them. Then let the water run to all the fountains.”

The doctor watched the handmaiden hurry from one window to another, shuttering the audience room.

“Bezm-i Alem. Stay at my side. The rest of you, out of my bedchamber,” said Esma Sultan.

When the door had closed behind them, Esma Sultan addressed the doctor.

“You told me that if I were a Christian of your Church, I would need to seek confession and absolution from a priest.”

The old man sighed, closing his eyes in resignation. “Yes, Your Highness. But you rebuked me for my error. You are of course of the Holy Muslim faith. I was foolish to mention—”

“No,” said the Princess, waving her hand. “I am interested. Your faith and the prophet Jesus was a step towards the perfect word of Mohammed.” She cleared her throat and reached for a glass of lemon-scented barley water.

“We value the primitive but crucial stepping stones you placed before us to pave the road to the True Faith. Jesus was a valuable prophet and earns high regard in the Koran. But I am curious about your priests. Does it really soothe the worshippers tormented by demons, these confessions to a stranger?”

“In most cases, the priest is known to the worshipper. But it is true that a Christian can go to a priest he does not know and confess in order to obtain absolution. A cleansing of sins is extended by the power of the Church and Jesus Christ.”

The water began to trickle through the nickel pipes and spill into the fountains.

The Princess nodded, considering.

“And there is relief in speaking of such things that worry the soul?”

The old man nodded. “Yes. Absolutely.” The doctor’s watery eyes studied her as she contemplated her fingertips. He dared not speak too hastily.

“Doctor, I shall consider these things you have told me.”

“Princess,” began the doctor, “if I can help you in any way, perhaps bring the Prelate of the Ecumenical Church here—”