The Drowning Guard: A Novel of the Ottoman Empire (30 page)

Ivan Postivich laughed at the dervish and shook his head. He looked down into the film of boza that clung to the side of his empty glass. He snapped his finger for another.

“Dervish, you are drunk with the godliness of the white poppy.”

The dervish focused his eyes with difficulty on Postivich’s face.

“Your kismet is to love, Corbaci. That is Allah’s truth.”

“I am no longer a corbaci, and I only know the five-minute love of a whore in haste.”

“You are what you were born to be. That too, is your kismet, your destiny. Play hard tomorrow, fight hard in the days ahead. Your body is meant to fight and your heart is meant to love.”

“How do you know so much about me, Dervish? I have no contact with the Bektashi.”

The dervish sucked on his pipe. “We Sufis have ears for truth. There is a Greek doctor who begs us to keep the giant from joining a Janissary rebellion. The beat of the pilaf caldrons is imminent and this old physician fears for your life, Corbaci. Christian-born as you are, he counts you as one of his lost sheep.”

“The doctor realizes that over two hundred women were drowned, does he not?”

The dervish nodded. “He knows. He agonizes over those souls. But it does not keep him from worrying about your life.”

The Greek boy brought another boza, saying, “It is paid for by the men over there.” He lifted his chin indicating a group of Janissaries in the dark recesses of the tavern, far from the music and dancing boys. One motioned to Postivich to join them.

“My orta,” said the janissary. He smiled for the first time in months. “Boy, bring this good man a coffee, thick and strong enough to stand on the table without a cup,” he said, tossing a coin on the table. “I thank you, Dervish, for your fine company and advice. But you judge me too generously. I love to fight, yes, but I love only a fight. That is my only kismet, Sufi.”

He slapped the dreaming man on the back, almost knocking him off the wooden stool that wobbled under the unsteady weight.

“Ahmed Kadir, you Serbian swine!” said the first Kapikulu who rose to clasp his hand. “Why has it been so many weeks since we have seen you? Does Esma Sultan wrap you in chains and iron fetters?”

“The Sultaness keeps me busy,” he replied.

“So we have heard,” said a short Albanian whose thighs bulged with muscles forged in cavalry campaigns. “You know of her treachery,” he whispered. “What are you doing? Keep your distance from the witch or you will be murdered like a Christian!”

“I listen to her stories,” said Postivich, taking a sip of his boza. “That is all I do.”

“What depravities you must hear from that whore!” whispered one.

Postivich’s fist clenched and the top rider in the orta, a redheaded Tatar, Altug, noticed it, but said nothing. He reached out and laid his hand on his old corbaci’s arm. He saw the big man struggle to relax, feeling the touch of his comrade.

“You know she will kill you to please her brother,” said a Turk called Aras. “He wants your head. They say he is murderously jealous of you.”

“She and her brother are not close right now. I do not fear her.”

“Don’t be a fool, Kadir!” said Aras. “They are both Ottomans and would spill your blood just to see what color a janissary bleeds. They say Mahmud is in love with his sister, is it true?”

The Tatar raised his hand to stop the talk. He saw a light in the eyes of Postivich that he did not recognize. “Enough!” he said. “Let us raise our glasses at our reunion!”

Aras raised his glass. “To the cirit game tomorrow: we may play against you, but we are one orta!”

The cavalrymen drank deeply and begged Postivich to do the same. He made to sip from his glass of boza and stopped.

“Against me? Am I not to ride with half of our orta tomorrow against the other half? I was told the Kapikulu cavalry was to play an exhibition game.”

The Tatar, Altug, shook his head. “The Sultan saw you practicing at the cirit field today with the grooms and stableboys of Esma Sultan. He was so incensed he has declared you will only play if you keep the same teammates tomorrow.”

Ivan Postivich slammed down his glass, making the boza spray all over the fly-spotted table.

“These wretched boys know nothing of cirit! I wager they have never been allowed on the cirit field in their lives, most of them! They have been barely ripped from their mother’s suckle, the snot-nosed brats! They are beggar orphan children who muck the stalls to put stale bread in their mouths.”

“The Sultan gave his decree this very night,” said Altug. “We are to have one of the boys on our team as a token for you. You will play us tomorrow with the children and old men of Esma Sultan’s stable, by the Sultan’s command.”

The Tatar smiled at his corbaci, clapping his shoulder. “You know I will fear you, Ahmed Kadir, no matter whether you had trained monkeys on horseback
as your teammates. Come, drink, and let us remember our war campaigns and the honor of the Kapikulu!”

They all drank deeply and then the redheaded cavalryman whispered in his corbaci’s ear. “We have more serious thoughts to consider. We need to talk about this traitorous Sultan who means to disband all of us, even the Kapikulu. He will take our horses any day now, just as he has taken yours, to render us helpless against him. I am afraid many of the orta will side with him, for what are we without our horses?”

“Would you really fight against the Sultan?” asked Postivich. “Kapikulu have always been Topkapi guards, the most loyal of the ortas.”

Altug looked down into his glass. Two other men muttered but did not answer.

“We will see what path each of us chooses,” said Postivich. “Let us talk of cirit, and horses. Good cheer, my brothers.”

P
ostivich didn’t cross the Golden Horn until long past midnight. Though he drank only boza, he stayed late with his orta. Still, he wondered whether, without his leadership, the Kapikulus would stand shoulder to shoulder with the common soldiers or support the Sultan who owned and stabled their horses and bestowed upon them the honor of belonging to his elite cavalry.

The black water of the Bosphorus glittered like crushed diamonds under the light of the waxing moon. He stared up in the sky and saw how the sliver of a Sultan’s scimitar had fattened into a thick crescent, swollen with milky light. He counted the days until it would be full and then weaken, its power waning over tides and women.

It had been a month since he had carried out his hated duty for Esma Sultan. To be out after dark now on the water of the Golden Horn brought back memories of the innocent men he had murdered. He plunged his hands into the water as if to wash them, and the oarsman turned to see what caused the drag. Ivan Postivich raised his hands from the dark water, dripping, and did not meet the ferryman’s eyes.

The docks below Topkapi Palace were quiet, except for a few fishermen who were preparing to set out for the early morning catch. The dogs didn’t stir, knowing there was nothing in the darkness to eat, and a puppy howled miserably somewhere deep in the alleys when his mother snarled and refused him her teat.

Ivan Postivich jumped up onto the dock, barely rocking the boat. He tossed a coin to the ferryman and grunted a farewell. He strode quickly to the gates of the palace, prayed at the muezzin’s call, and took a few hours of rest.

When he awoke and rinsed his face, he saw that the Sultaness had provided him with a clean Kapikulu uniform, new boots that fit well, and a fresh turban for the game. He dressed and ventured into the gardens of the palace to see that everything had been transformed for the birthday celebration.

The slaves had erected tents and brought out silk divans and carpets to put under them. Tables were being set up with fine embroidered cloths and banners were flapping in red and gold. There was a raised platform for performances and another two for musicians. Chests of cedar and ivory, filled with delicate silk shawls and parasols for the ladies, were carried to the shade of the trees.

Inside, the kitchens were bursting with cooks’ creations of caviar and roe, sculpted mounds of pâtés and cold meats, and platter upon platter of pickled vegetables. There were stews and cold prawns, lamb kabobs and grilled fish,
yahla corbasi
—a yoghurt and mint soup—kettles upon kettles of different pilafs, eggplant and lentil salads, sardines and mussels swimming in oil. The cooks fussed over their breads and halva, cursing Allah for the uneven heat of their ovens and flavor of the sesame seeds that were clearly inferior because they had been bought at an Armenian’s stall.

There were huge vats of
ayran
, a drink made with whipped yoghurt and salt, and French champagnes, barrels of beer and wines—even one made from grapes grown on the Bosphorus.

Ivan Postivich drank in the rich smells of the kitchens and heard the feuding between the two head cooks, a Greek and a Turk.

“You cannot use the big oven! I must roast the lamb.”

“Lamb in my pastry oven! The taste will contaminate the baklava! Howling daughter of a mongrel dog, you will do no such thing. Meat and pastry cannot be cooked together, you infidel!”

“There is no time to waste. This lamb must be roasted now. I cannot wait while you recite your suras when there is cooking to be done! Back away, you mother of heathen goats! Esma Sultan brought me from Macedonia for my cooking skills, not to share a kitchen with a Turkish peasant!”

“Dirty whore!”

“Dog of dogs!”

“Allah curse the beard of your father, the pimp!”

“May Allah do the same to your mother who surely has as coarse a beard on her ugly face as you possess!”

There was a crash of crockery and screams in at least two languages. A group of Solaks were stationed just outside the door for this very moment, since it was the third fight in two days.

“May you burn in hell, infidel!”

“Heathen pagan, defiler of all that is sacred!”

Ivan Postivich realized it was highly unlikely that he would be served breakfast on this particular morning. He decided to walk to the Spice Bazaar where he could find a cafe that would serve him some tea and bread.

The Spice Bazaar was not as large as the Grand Bazaar, but it possessed a charm that appealed to Postivich. He loved the beautiful rich colors of the spices: the fiery red of the paprikas, the green and rust of the henna, the speckled yellow-bird brilliance of the saffrons. In the market he could hear a cacophony of languages, like a cage of parrots shrieking at each other. There was Turkish to be sure, and Persian, Arabic, French, Ladino, Serbo-Croat, and dialects of other northern countries.

There was a beauty under the awnings of the spice stalls that honored the land, a mixing of cultures and colors that reflected the Ottoman Empire’s rich tapestry of peoples and history.

Still, the predominant color was, and always would be, red. Ottoman red.

Postivich found a little table and sat down. A man approached with a huge metal tea vat strapped on his back. He wiped clean a glass and served the janissary some strong tea and clapped his hands for a boy in the pastry shop to come take his customer’s order.

The boy brought a plate of bread, some fresh feta cheese, and a few slices of cucumber—a summer breakfast. The bread was encrusted with sesame seeds, oily and roasted fresh that morning.

Ivan Postivich was aware that the people in the Bazaar were staring at him, and this he was used to because of his size. But there was a certain respect that his Kapikulu uniform afforded him, and his new leather riding boots shone under the little cafe table. He felt proud once more to be a Kapikulu, the elite corps selected from among the Janissary.

As he sipped his tea, he watched two Janissaries patrolling the market, swaggering and scowling at the public, their dark looks as hostile as jungle beasts. Both carried bastinados that they swung savagely at anything that crossed their path.

The bigger of the two, a short, thick man with a thick mustache, stopped next to the spice stalls and grabbed a merchant by the arm.

“Jew! Do you have the money you owe us?”

The man widened his eyes. “I told you, I cannot pay you any more. I must feed my family and care for my sick child.”

“You will pay me or I will pay you with a beating for your disgusting presence.”

Taking his short bow, a
falaka
, from his shoulder, he tied the string tightly around the Jew’s feet.

“Don’t beat me, sir,” cried the man. “I cannot pay you any more this week! My pockets are empty!”

The janissary sneered at him and yanked the bow so the man fell to the ground. He signaled to his companion who took his bastinado and began to club the victim’s feet until he shrieked in pain.

“Stop this!” cried Ivan Postivich leaping to his feet and overturning the little table and his breakfast. “What has this man done?”

The two Janissaries drew a collective breath when they saw Postivich approach them, but the first soldier recovered his composure quickly and said, “Stay out of this, Ahmed Kadir. This is our district to patrol, you have no business here. This man owes us money and refused to give it. He is a Jewish scoundrel, a pox on the earth.”

The man struggled on the ground his feet red from the beating.

“In Allah’s name, I do not owe the men money.”

“Release him,” growled Postivich, the sound crawling up from deep in his throat.

“I told you to stay out of this, Kapikulu. Go back to your own guard.”

“Release him now,” repeated Postivich. “You bring dishonor to the Janissary Corps with your demand for baksheesh! Collect your money from the Sultan on payday honestly and refrain from stealing from the citizens!”

“We protect this man and his dirty litter of Jews. He owes us for our work.”

“A baksheesh is a baksheesh and no citizen of Constantinople should have to pay a bribe for protection.”

“Don’t provoke them,” howled the man writhing in pain on the dirty tiles of the Bazaar. “I cannot stand another beating! Persuade them to accept payment next week and you will have done Allah’s will.”

“Listen to this citizen,” said the man wielding the bastinado. “He pleads for you to leave him in peace and us to our duty. Go back to Esma Sultan and entertain the harem, giant.”