The Drowning Guard: A Novel of the Ottoman Empire (35 page)

The physician stroked his temples, his dim eyes looking sad and hollow at the janissary.

“As the moon changes, so do we. Do you indeed hate her, the way you profess, or are these words just echoes of the past?”

A small pinecone fell at their feet and Ivan Postivich looked up into the branches of the trees, swaying in the breeze off the Bosphorus. He thought of the old doctor who sat on the ground next to him, risking his life to warn him of pending disaster. He thought of his Christian name written in European letters in the pages of the old man’s Bible, the only place it still remained on earth.

“Tell me, physician,” said Postivich, “what world is this that makes me turn my heart away from the God of my fathers and makes me ache for the arms of my enemy?”

He turned now and knelt by the old man.

“I believed in the Christian God and that same God sent me to the hands of another faith in another land. I believed in Allah and the honor of the Janissary Corps and I saw corruption and sinners, honor smeared with the filth of men’s sins. I believed in the sacred commandments carried down from the mountaintop by Moses, and I am mesmerized by a sorceress who murders her lovers. I don’t really know what I believe anymore—whenever I believe with my heart, I am made the fool.”

The Greek physician laid a shaking hand on the giant’s head and with a slow motion of his thumb, made the sign of the cross.

“You are not a fool, my son. You are a man who has been tested far more than most. When you die, you will be received into the arms of God the Almighty, be he addressed as Allah or Jehovah. Whatever you call him, he shall know your voice and give you comfort.

“Be at peace, my son.”

Ivan Postivich helped the old man to his feet and escorted him to the gates of the palace.

Ivan Postivich strode into the palace towards the Serail, the soles of his boots scuffing on the Persian rugs.

“Who goes there?” demanded the Solak, as Postivich approached the harem door.

“Ahmed Kadir.”

“Kadir? The Head Eunuch has not summoned you,” said the Solak.

“I wish to speak with Esma Sultan,” said Postivich. “Inform her of my presence.”

The Solak moved closer, squinting at him. Ivan Postivich smelt the guard’s breath, redolent of meat.

“Do as I say, Solak,” Postivich ordered. “Esma Sultan will be angry if she knows I am kept waiting here.”

The Solak curled his lip, his eyes burning with hatred. He moved past the janissary, opening the door to the harem, closing it quietly behind him.

Ivan Postivich imagined the surprise on Esma Sultan’s face. He had sent no message, no prior announcement. Even the Sultan himself would send an emissary before appearing at the door of the harem.

The door opened, releasing a waft of perfumed air, gentle as the women within. The Solak had a sprig of mint in his hand. He chewed at it sullenly.

“Her Highness Esma Sultan will see you, now,” the Solak announced.

“She could not stand your stinking breath, could she?” said Ivan Postivich.

As Ivan Postivich pushed past the Solak, the man hissed in his ear. “Who would think the great Ahmed Kadir would spend his nights in the Sultaness’s harem? You will die like all the rest them, drowned in a sack.”

Postivich shoved the man aside.

“A whole field of mint could not wash clean your filthy mouth,” he said, entering the harem and closing the door with a thud.

Esma Sultan was supping on fruit and tea. She arched one brow.

“What has brought you here, janissary?” she asked, reaching for a slice of peeled fig. “I did not summon you.”

Ivan Postivich watched her mouth work over the piece of fruit. He said nothing.

“Yes? Why are you here?”

His eyes, stormy blue, focused on her face. “Your nightmares, Sultaness. Do they no longer haunt you?”

Esma Sultan swallowed hard, her mouth tightening.

“My dreams?” Esma Sultan said, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “This is the emergency that makes a janissary break all Ottoman palace protocol?”

“Yes,” said Ivan Postivich, his eyes boring into hers. “It does.”

He saw a slight tremor shake her chin. Her left hand touched her lips, wiping away traces of the fig’s juice.

“They do not,” she said sharply. She looked away. “My nights are peaceful. I enjoy dreamless sleep now.”

Ivan Postivich was certain she was lying.

“You have cured me, I think. I thank you. You shall be rewarded.”

“I do not require gratitude,” growled Postivich. “Or rewards.”

He saw her back tense as she straightened her posture.

“I did not summon you,” repeated Esma Sultan. She flicked her wrist, returning her attention to her fruit. “You may leave now.”

“No, Esma Sultan,” said Postivich in a low voice. “I will not leave.”

Her eyes flashed at him in anger.

“No?” she said. “You dare to say ‘no’ to me, janissary?”

“There is something I must know.”

“Must? What ‘must’ is there for you that occurs in my world, Ahmed Kadir?”

Postivich flinched at his Islamic name for the first time since he was a boy. He stepped closer. Her skin was flawless, fresh from the hamam with the glow of health. Her hair shone with tints of henna, her eyes penciled in kohl. Her bearing was erect and noble, befitting an Ottoman princess.

He took another step.

“You have told me of the cruelty of men towards women in your childhood,” he said, voice low. “Now you must tell me of your own guilt.”

Esma Sultan pulled back like a cobra.

“Do not dare use that word with me!”

“Guilt!” repeated Ivan Postivich. “You weave night stories of your childhood, yet you speak not a single word of your own hand in men’s deaths!”

Esma Sultan’s mouth opened in astonishment.

“You told me of men’s cruelty in your childhood, of your suffering. Of my sister’s sacrifice. But what of your own murderous deeds?”

“Do not speak further,” said Esma Sultan, her voice venomous. “You are dismissed, Ahmed Kadir. Leave at once!”

“You know my real name,” he said, coming closer. He felt the warmth of her body, the scented oils of the hamam fresh on her skin. “Use it!”

“How dare you!” she said rising.

Ivan Postivich caught her by her wrist, his massive hand closing over her fine bones.

“You know my secrets, I know yours,” he said pulling her close. His breath spilt warm over her neck, as he whispered hoarsely into her ear.

“You seduce young men like a whore in a brothel. Perhaps it is the Sultan’s order they drown in the Bosphorus, but you condemn them. You bring them to your bed, you sorceress.”

“I shall scream if you do not release me,” spat Esma Sultan. “The Solak will slit your throat.”

Ivan Postivich pulled her close to his face. His fierce eyes burned into hers, amber meeting blue. He felt his instinct surge, akin to a racing pulse on the battlefield. For a second he could taste the tang of dust and sweat, a roar drumming in his ears.

“Scream, then!” he said, and hooking her head into his arm, he covered her mouth with a savage kiss.

Esma Sultan struggled, but the kiss endured despite muffled screams, the furious twists of her body. He tasted fruit deep in her mouth, smelt the spicy sweetness of her skin.

Then he felt something give way, just as ice in a frozen river breaks invisibly underfoot. He sensed an unseen fissure travel far beyond them both.

He stroked back her hair as his mouth moved down her neck.

“The men,” he whispered to her, as she gasped for breath.

“Yes,” she said, her neck thrown back under his hand. “I am guilty. But I cannot live without love, Ivan Postivich.”

“Love? You have never known love, Esma Sultan,” he said, his breath hot on her throat. “And your brother cannot wash clean your sins in the Bosphorus.”

They heard a knock on the door.

Esma Sultan pushed Ivan Postivich away. She combed her fingers through her hair, where his fingers had tangled the strands.

“Enter,” she said, her eyes steady on Ivan Postich’s own. She motioned for him to step away.

Saffron walked in, stopping abruptly when he saw Ivan Postivich.

“Forgive me. I did not know that the janissary had been summoned,” he said, staring at Postivich.

Esma Sultan’s fingertips touched her face, flushed red and rubbed raw from Postivich’s stubble.

“Ahmed Kadir was just leaving,” said the Princess, recovering her imperious bearing. “Please escort him from the palace to the servant barracks where he belongs.”

T
he next night, Saffron announced to Ivan Postivich that he could leave the palace grounds for the evening. Postivich hesitated to leave the gardens, longing to see Esma Sultan again. The scent of the opening jasmine reminded him of the night he had touched her cheek.

But the Head Eunuch kept a wary eye on him, urging the drowning guard to leave. Postivich was unsure of whether the man wanted him to go for his own safety or because Saffron could not bear his presence because it reminded the eunuch too keenly of the drownings.

Ivan Postivich walked to the exterior courtyard and out the palace gate. He stood on the cobblestone road and listened to the cicadas that clung tightly to the leaves above him. Through the branches he could see the moon begin to rise, the first day of its waning. It was about an hour after sunset and there were still streaks of weary pink in the darkening sky.

Postivich thought about the words of the Greek physician. He was an old man, but learned; perhaps he understood the mind as he understood the body. If he was correct, Ivan Postivich would soon be summoned to Esma Sultan’s chambers. A smile crept around the corners of the giant’s mouth as he welcomed the thought of seeing the Ottoman Princess once more—despite the danger.

To see the curve of her high cheekbones like a kilij, a Turkish sword.

The clatter of horses’ hooves pulled Postivich’s attention from his reverie. A carriage was approaching from the east.

As the moon emerged from behind a cloud, he recognized the horses
and the jingle of their jeweled harnesses. It was Esma Sultan’s black coach, returning from a late-night foray. He stood in the shadow of a plane tree and watched as the driver negotiated the turn into the palace. In the darkness, the curtains of the Sultaness’s compartment were open, a lantern illuminated her profile.

She inclined her head towards a young man, blond and most certainly a Christian. In her hand was a piece of fruit that she offered him.

The driver cursed quietly as his lead horse kicked in his traces and the other horses balked. The abrupt stop jostled the fruit from Esma Sultan’s hand. It rolled on the coach floor.

Her head emerged from the window, and Ivan Postivich could see that her eyes were darkened with heavy lines of kohl and her mouth shone in the moonlight.

“You fool,” she called to the driver. “Can you not drive these horses?”

“Forgive me, Princess,” said the driver, flicking the whip to the lead horse’s flanks. “This beast is in need of castration.”

Again the stallion kicked, and the other horses reared in their harness.

“He may not be the only one,” she retorted. “See that you do not jostle me or my companion again, or I will perform the task on you myself, by Allah’s word!”

Ivan Postivich watched the coach disappear into the palace gates. He felt a pain burn in his chest and his throat constricted.

There was no summons for the janissary that night, and the next morning came much as the others had in the last month. There was a soft dew on the grass and the flowers in the garden. If someone had drowned Esma Sultan’s lover that night, it had not been Ivan Postivich. He had stayed awake the entire night, waiting for the knock on the door. But no servant had come to send him to the docks and he heard no screams in the night, though he imagined the hard splash of a body, over and over again.

When he went to the kitchens to take his breakfast, he saw a fair-headed man barely past adolescence being escorted to the hamam by two of Esma Sultan’s handmaidens. The young man was dressed in a tunic of crimson and gold and he smiled sleepily at the girls who laughed at his side. The Head Eunuch followed, snapping orders to two pages who scurried ahead, toting towels and soaps and urns of oil.