The Drowning Guard: A Novel of the Ottoman Empire (31 page)

The Jew on the ground suddenly felt the tension of the falaka release as Postivich slammed his fist against the janissary’s skull. The soldier’s head
snapped back like a broken doll’s and he fell unconscious next to the cafe’s hot grill.

The metal scorched his cheek, and the searing pain brought him back to consciousness.

“Allah, help me!” he cried. The restaurant owner reluctantly threw a pan of soapy dishwater over his head, regretting the waste of perfectly good suds.

The soldier who held the bastinado pulled out a knife and crouched in a defensive stance.

“You would pull a knife on a fellow member of the Corps?” said Postivich, assuming the same pose. “You are no better than a dung beetle!”

The man thrust the blade at Postivich who dodged as quickly as if he were on the cirit field. He pulled out his own dagger and feinted a reply.

The janissary appeared terrified at the Kapikulu’s great stature and reputation and jumped back, falling into a stall of spices. A huge multicolored cloud erupted over his head as he scrambled to his feet, choking as he tried to recover his knife. The paprika, saffrons, and henna covered his face and his eyes stung and teared as he coughed and floundered in the choking dust.

Ivan Postivich kicked away the knife and the boy who had brought him breakfast surreptiously grabbed it from under a counter and ran off into the recesses of the Bazaar to peddle it for a good price.

“Do you still want to fight, you dog of dogs?” screamed Postivich.

“Peace, Corbaci,” the janissary choked. “Peace!”

“There will never be peace for the Janissaries when there are rotten entrails in its Corps such as you,” spat the giant. He looked down at his clean clothes and realized they were stained red and green and brown with spices.

He clenched his teeth and kicked the janissary who lay wheezing in the paprika.

“Now I shall have to play cirit looking like a beggar,” he said, rubbing at his ripped tunic.

“That is how the Sultan wants you to play,” said a voice.

It was an old man, once fine of stature, now bent and crippled. But Ivan Postivich knew him at once.

“Aga!” he cried, gazing at the old Horse Master. “Are you a ghost?”

“I am not as near to death as the Sultan wished, Allah be praised. Come, let us sit. I never could stand well after spending my life on a horse’s back, but at this age it is simply impossible.”

They watched together as the spice-blinded janissary staggered away.

“It has been many years now, Ahmed Kadir. But I follow your adventures.”

Ivan Postivich hung his head. “Then I am embarrassed to meet your honored eyes. You must know I have been stripped of my position as corbaci of the cavalry.”

“Yes, my son. I know of that and much more, I fear.”

“Where have you been these years? We thought you were missing and dead in Macedonia. They said they searched for your body for days when your horse came back without you.”

“I have spent many years in Macedonia, but I was not dead, only banished from the Imperial City. Were you really told this?”

“It was rumored. No one recovered the body.”

“That is because this body, aged as it is, was banished from Topkapi and the Kapikulu. When Mahmud became Sultan, he made it known that I was no longer useful in the Corps and he would not provide me horses. I did leave, after an audience with him, and on the eve of the campaign found it too painful to confess. Forgive an old man his vanity.”

Postivich shook his head. He still could not believe that the Master of the Horse sat across from him, alive.

“Today you will have the opportunity to see me play cirit. This you know.”

“I know more than I can tell, else my tongue be sliced from the back of my throat.”

“What can I do, Aga? I have a ragged team of beggar children—gypsies, Anatolian Turks, all untrained. They are children of the orphanage who work in the stables of Esma Sultan.”

“What better horsemen can you find in this world, Ahmed? A team of beggar children—who ride bareback like our ancient tribes—and an aged Turkish head groom who has devoted his life horses. Perfect. As long as they have heart, you can win or at least lose honorably. Cast back to when you were a boy. Think how much you wanted the honor of riding on the cirit field. These children from hovels have the same pure hope, and they haven’t seen enough of the world to be disillusioned.”

The Master of the Horses pointed to Postivich’s stained clothes. “Remember your roots, Ahmed,” he said, his old hands shaking. “Remember your tears, for they were pure from the heart. That pureness resides only in the hearts of children.”

Postivich looked over at the spice vendor’s stall and heard his wife crying over the lost merchandise. Her keening rose to a level that caused the wild dogs in the alleys to howl.

She bent over, filling wooden boxes with precious herbs. Much they could
salvage, but some spices were mixed with the filth from the floor, stained and useless.

“Woman,” said Postivich. “I would like to buy all that you sweep off the floor.”

The vendor’s wife gaped openmouthed at the janissary, unable to speak. She waved her brilliantly powdered hands at her husband, urging him to pursue the offer.

The vendor opened his eyes wide and then squinted them again.

“Are you drunk so early in the day? We have paid our bribes, you Janissaries must leave us alone to scratch out a living.”

“No, sir, I do not jest,” Ivan Postivich said, pulling out coins and dropping them on the small counter of the stall. “Put the spices into a bag, mixed as they be, and I will take them for this price.”

The vendor’s wife muttered a sura and made a temple of her hands.

Postivich returned to his Aga.

“Bring us both coffee,” said Postivich to the boy who hovered near. He turned to the Horse Master and said, “We have some planning to do.”

W
hen Ivan Postivich arrived at Esma Sultan’s stables, the boys ran out to greet him and the old Head Groom wrung his wrinkled hands.

“The game will start in less than an hour!”

“Perfect!” exclaimed Postivich. “And look at the fine clothes our warriors wear.”

It was true. The untidy, ragged boys were transformed by new white tunics and leather boots, not as fine as the Kapikulu’s, but still garments that made the boys’ faces shine with pride.

The boys exclaimed when they saw the disheveled look of Postivich.

“What has happened to you?” they shouted. “You look like you have been in a brawl, Corbaci.”

“You look beggarly. What rags you wear!” said the Serbian boy Nicolas, his chin jutting out in disgust.

“Shut your mouth,” said the littlest one, the Gypsy, through his teeth. “This is Ahmed Kadir you address!”

“I am not insulted,” said Postivich. “In fact, I am honored. Because it is the Sultan’s wish that I look beggarly. Torn pants, torn shirt colored in filth—colorful, like a Gypsy.”

“Why does he insult me?” whispered the Gypsy boy.

Postivich overheard him, stretched out his big hand and tousled the matted curls of the boy.

“No, this is an honor. We will all look like Gypsies, like Mongols, like Turks, like Serbs, Bosnians, and Tatars, who have conquered and been conquered in
this Empire and given it the iron spine the world envies. I have a plan for today, my young cavalry. Come close, and we shall see how a team of mongrels can have victory over the Sultan’s elite cavalry.”

The drums pounded to signal the beginning of the cirit game as a crowd of several thousand lined the field. Those who were not permitted entry hung from the branches of the plane trees or scaled the cirit field walls every time the Solaks and mounted Sipahis turned their backs.

Esma Sultan looked through the peephole of her carriage, seeing no sign of Postivich or his team.

“Where is he?” she whispered to the veiled Irena.

The eyes above the veil shone bright to meet the Sultane’s worried look.

“He will appear,” she said.

The Sultan and the Grand Vizier sat on divans under the shade of the billowing tents set up at the midline of the field. They sipped champagne from crystal flutes made in Vienna, the city they had laid siege to twice.

“Descend from your carriage, darling sister, heart of my heart,” the Sultan called. “Or is it that you wish to make a quick departure since your drowning guard has not appeared?”

“Do not call him that, brother,” snapped Esma Sultan, leaning out of the carriage. “He shall never drown another man again by my oath. And he will appear!”

The Sultan chuckled and nodded to the page to pour more champagne. “Perhaps he does not have the courage to face his old orta. He knows the legend of the living giant is only that—a legend that little children like to tell.”

Esma Sultan squinted against the sun, making her fine skin wrinkle around her temples. She extended her hand to her footman who helped her out of the carriage.

“Children’s legend?” she said, suddenly smiling. “Yes, quite right. And here are the children who accompany him!”

The crowds parted as Ahmed Kadir rode onto the field at a full gallop on a black stallion. A thousand voices murmured as Constantinople took in his ripped tunic and rainbow splotched uniform.

‘“What in the name of Allah is he wearing?” said the Sultan.

The boys and aged Head Groom followed him, whipping their horses and flattening their chests against the steeds’ manes as they galloped into the
Hippodrome. They did not ride as trained cavalrymen, erect and schooled in fine equestrian technique; they galloped as passionate children who have ridden horses all their short lives.

The crowd roared with cheers at the barefooted boys in rags, who circled the field like wild savages, free and classless warriors on the backs of Esma Sultan’s fine horses.

“Did you not even give them boots, Esma?” asked her brother. “How can they play without footwear? I told you to outfit them properly. This is a disgrace! The ambassadors and dignitaries of Europe sit under the canopies—they shall think the Ottoman Empire is a rabble. These boys look like barbarian Huns!”

She shook her head in astonishment.

“I gave them boots and new white tunics. And starched turbans.”

She brought her hand to her cheek.

“A pack of wild beggars,” exclaimed the Sultan. “Look at their clothes. What the devil do they have on their tunics? What is this colored soot?”

The drums beat so loudly now that the crowd could feel it in the pit of their bellies. Ivan Postivich motioned for his boys to line up, a first line, second, and third. He took the first line.

“What strategy is that?” said the Sultan, waving his hand in disgust. “The weakest players should lead the front file. Has he lost his senses?”

Esma Sultan looked down. A ghost of a smile flickered on her lips.

“He’s mad!” said the Sultan. “Have you fed him opium? What conduct is this?”

The
cavus
rode out to the center of the field and announced the Kapikulu Orta first. It was his job to ensure that all the proud honors of each player were pronounced in front of the crowd.

One by one, he recognized each Kapikulu officer and cited battles and victories, honors and prizes each had won, from Macedonia to Egypt to the gates of Vienna.

When he turned to announce Ahmed Kadir, he hesitated.

“Ahmed Kadir is the honorable Corbaci of the Sultan’s Elite Kapikulu Cavalry,” he said, his voice wavering.

“Stop him!” shouted the Sultan, rising to his feet. He nodded to one of the Sipahis horsemen. “This man is not a member of our Kapikulu! Make him retract this statement!”

The horseman galloped onto the field.

“Why must you embarrass him this way?” said Esma Sultan, shutting her eyes.

“Because he—” Mahmud looked at her, his mouth twitching. “He is a traitor, a janissary dog!”

Again the crowd raised a bewildered buzz as the cavus was interrupted by the Sultan’s guard.

The Sipahi officer whispered to the cavus, who nodded uneasily.

“The Sultan wishes me to correct my statement. Ahmed Kadir is a janissary only, he is no longer part of the elite Kapikulu. I regret my mistake and beg the Sultan’s indulgence of my ignorance.”

The cavus looked unhappily over at the giant. Ivan Postivich smiled grimly.

“You do not dishonor me, cavus,” he said. “Only let me speak.”

Ivan Postivich raised his voice, he said to the crowd, “Because these are special circumstances and because the honorable cavus knows nothing of the repute of my teammates, I shall have the honor of introducing them to all Constantinople.”

Postivich gestured to his players, lined up on their prancing horses, as nervous as their mounts.

“First, of Gypsy blood and light fingers—”

The Gypsy boy’s jaw dropped.

“—excuse me, of
lightest
fingers on the reins and an innate sense of the horse’s nature, I introduce Abdul.”

The crowd roared as the boy galloped a circle around Postivich and his team, waving his whip in the air.

“Hamid—of mongrel descent—will play second in line.”

The boy froze, stunned. “I shall murder him,” he murmured, “and stab his dead corpse again and again in revenge!”