The Drowning Guard: A Novel of the Ottoman Empire Read online

  ALSO BY LINDA LAFFERTY

  The Bloodletter’s Daughter

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2013 Linda Lafferty

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Amazon Publishing

  PO Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN-13: 9781477805299

  ISBN-10: 147780529X

  Library of Congress Number: 2013912678

  To my first editor and the love of my life, Andy Stone

  Contents

  Note to Reader

  Prologue

  Part I Drowned Men

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Part II Sophie

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Part III Turkish Horse

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Part IV The Janissaries’ Revenge

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Part V The Bektashi Sufis

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  HISTORICAL NOTES

  AN OTTOMAN GLOSSARY

  AUTHOR’S NOTES ON The Drowning Guard

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Note to Reader: Please refer to glossary provided at the back of this book for an explanation of Ottoman and Turkish words from the nineteenth century.

  Prologue

  May 1826

  The oarsman’s lantern threw shadows against the side of the Royal Launch as he maneuvered the boat into the deepest waters of the Bosphorus, halfway between Asia and Europe.

  The wind blew warm from the west, through the Straits of the Dardanelles and up the waterway to the Imperial City of Constantinople, where Sultan Mahmud II’s favorite sister lay sleeping, her night’s lover condemned to death.

  The launch, painted bright blue to ward off the evil eye, had higher sides than any of the Sultan’s kayik fleet; it was meant to carry cargo across the Bosphorus, between Europe and Asia. Tonight its cargo consisted of three: the oarsman, a condemned man, and the janissary who must kill him.

  The janissary’s freakish size—he was the giant of the Ottoman army—meant that no other guards were needed to subdue the struggling victim. Ahmed Kadir was known to be neat and efficient, for no one could overpower him. Except for the oarsman, there was to be no witness.

  But even this early, an hour before dawn, there were a few who had seen the launch set off from docks on the the Golden Horn, heading towards deeper waters with a battered prisoner and the giant soldier. The chestnut vendor uttered a prayer to Allah and fed a whining cur a burned nut from his blackened hand, just to feel the presence of life in the dark belly of night.

  The water lapped against the hull of the boat as the prisoner pleaded for mercy, stinking of urine and fear as he invoked the name of the Virgin Mary to comfort him in his last hour.

  The janissary studied the Eastern waters that flowed from the Black Sea and saw the blood streak of dawn on the horizon. He cursed himself for allowing time to escape as the prisoner babbled prayers to the Christian God. He preferred to do his work in the dead of night and return to the harbor of the Golden Horn unnoticed.

  “There is no mercy I can give you; you are condemned to die by decree of the Princess Esma Sultan. Not to carry out this order would mean my own death.”

  The prisoner craned his neck, covered with savage bites and bruises, looking up at the guard who towered above him. The janissary noticed a series of long angry welts along the man’s back—the marks of a savage flogging.

  “In the name of Jesus Christ,” the man whispered. “Hear my confession and give me a quick death. They say that you strangle your victims rather than have them face the nightmare of drowning in a sack.”

  The janissary threw a quick look at the oarsman whose face was drained of color. This was his favorite boatman, one who clearly hated his work.

  “I am of the true faith of Islam,” pronounced the janissary loudly, a gust of wind snatching his words. “How could I absolve you of your Christian sins when I pray to the God of our Prophet Mohammed?”

  The man winced and gagged. The janissary grabbed him by the shoulders and held his head overboard as the prisoner retched up a cream-colored fruit, wrinkled purple skin still partially adhered to the meat.

  “I gave her no pleasure,” gasped the man through the dripping spittle. “That is why I was beaten, I am sure. I die a virgin as I was meant to be, a priest to the Holy Byzantine Church.”

  The janissary felt the weight of the man’s head in his hands, holding him like a tired child as he vomited one last time into the salty water. The condemned man had come from the landlocked provinces and this would be his first glimpse—and last—of the terrifying sea.

  “What was your Christian name?” whispered the prisoner, his face just inches from the water. “Before you send me to my grave, tell me your name.”

  “I was born Ivan Postivich,” said the janissary, his mouth next to the prisoner’s ear. “I forgive you only if you can forgive me for what I am about to do. But Allah will never forgive me. And your Virgin Mary spits on my soul.”

  With that, the janissary dipped his fingers in the saltwater and made the sign of the cross on the condemned man’s forehead. Looking him in the eye, Ivan Postivich placed his huge hands around his prisoner’s throat, his thumbs on either side of the man’s Adam’s apple, and snapped his neck as if it were a brittle branch.

  Without a word to the oarsman, Postivich hauled the lifeless body to the middle of the boat and stuffed it in the sack filled with stones. His hands looped a knot in the bag and pitched the body overboard, the tea-colored water parting with a heavy splash. As the depression in the water quickly healed, the bag disappeared in the depths. The guard made a quick motion to the oarsman to return to shore.

  A diminutive eunuch stood at the Imperial Docks as they reached the Golden Horn. As always, he kept his distance from the vessel, as if by proximity he would be cursed by its mission. Postivich could never quite make out the features of the eunuch’s face, recognizing him only by his crimson tunic, starched white turban, and preternaturally pale skin.

  “What news to report to the Sultaness?” the eunuch called.

  The janissary cursed under his breath, his words obscured by the waters lapping against the pylons of the dock.

  “Tell her—this one was different. He died without a word.”

  Part I

  Drowned Men

  Chapter 1

  The Bazaar of old Constantinople rang with a dozen languages and the savage barking of mongrel dogs. Amber-skinned North Africans bartered with sailors from the Far East, who cursed and spat in disgust on the azure tiles of the marketplace. Armenians cried out the virtues of their carpets and offered sweet apple tea to blue-eyed Englishmen, their northern skin burned red under the harsh sun of the
Near Orient. Portuguese and Italian merchants tried shouting to make their language more intelligible to Asian ears as yellow and green African parrots, chained to their perches, mimicked the screeching.

  The Jewish street sweep, whose family had escaped brutal persecution in Spain and fled to the relative sanctuary that the Muslim Sultans provided, leaned on his broom and smiled crookedly at all those fortunate enough to live and breathe in the most cosmopolitan city on earth.

  By now, in the late spring of 1826, the old Greek residents had grudgingly accepted a peace with the Sultan’s army of Janissaries. It had been four years since the last uprising had been savagely crushed, and the Orthodox Patriarch dragged from his pulpit, a rope around his neck, to answer for conspiracy against the Ottomans. The Greeks’ staccato voices mixed with the Serbo-Croat pidgin of the crowd, rising to the sky along with Ladino, Turkish, and the lilting strains of the Ottoman language of the elite, educated in the Topkapi Palace.

  Noisy vendors hawked their fiercely colored spices—green hennas and saffrons—their silver teapots, and lapis opium pipes. Red glass hookahs hung from rawhide tethers under the awnings. The tang of tobacco laced the air, mingling with the aroma of fish frying in olive oil and garlic.

  On the Meydan, the square in front of the Bazaar’s maze of tents and stalls, an English slavemaster was unloading his wares. Three young women—black, amber, and white-skinned—crawled awkwardly out of the donkey cart, their wrists chained together.

  “Come on, hurry up then,” grunted their master in a Cockney-accented English. He inspected their meager clothing and removed their veils, rubbing one’s cheek with a spit-moistened thumb to remove a smear of dirt.

  He tapped the girls firmly in the small of their backs with his fist to make them stand straight.

  “Smile,” he whispered. “Smile or get a good lashing from James R. Rickles.”

  A group of men gathered, leering and pointing. They rubbed their genitals as they exchanged lewd remarks in a stew of languages.

  The Englishman knew that these were not buyers. He ignored them, his eyes searching for a likely customer.

  “Is that one really a virgin?” shouted a man in a tunic and crimson sash. He wore a fine linen turban.

  The slavemaster smiled and addressed him in a guttural Turkish laced with very bad French. “This one here? The pretty white girl? She was captured in Chios during the last uprising and knows no man. Barely fourteen. She would bear strong, fine-boned children in your harem and pass along her comely looks.”

  “I want to inspect her.”

  The three women cowered as the man approached; the chains jingled with their terror.

  “Well, go ahead. See that she is still intact. Can’t do better than my goods, guaranteed!”

  The man ran his fingers slowly over the girl’s breasts, pinching them around the nipples and then dipped his hands under her tunic. He pressed his ear against her belly and groped between her legs as if he were milking a cow.

  Tears rolled down the girl’s cheeks but she said nothing.

  Suddenly she gasped.

  “You satisfied now?” said the vendor. “No more than a sample there, sir. Move your hand away. You might damage the goods with all that handling.”

  The buyer removed his hand and grasped her cheeks.

  “Tell her to open her mouth.”

  “Open your mouth, love. That’s a good girl.”

  The prospective buyer stared into the girl’s open mouth. He wrinkled his nose at her breath.

  “Her teeth are not good. They smell of rot.”

  “Too much of that honeyed baklava the Greeks cook. Feed her yoghurt and make her chew mint. Chases away the smell.”

  The buyer sniffed again at her mouth, unconvinced.

  “You could pull her teeth,” suggested the vendor. “For what you want, she doesn’t need a tooth in her head, now does she?”

  Those in the crowd who could understand him laughed.

  “How much are you asking?”

  The slavemaster smiled and whispered in his ear.

  “What?” said the Turk, outraged. “For that I could buy a Circassian!”

  “That’s my price. And not an akce less.”

  The man spat on the ground. “I waste my time with you, Englishman. I will buy my slaves elsewhere, where foreign thieves do not try to rob me.”

  With that, the Turk disappeared into the crowd.

  The Greek girl smiled sadly. The other girls kissed her wet cheeks and mumbled comforting words in a mix of languages.

  “Enough of that!” grumbled the vendor. “And you do have bad teeth, you Greek dog. You’ve cost me a sale!”

  The girls straightened their backs and looked glumly at their worn sandals and now tears trickled down all three faces, speckling the dusty cobblestones at their feet.

  A Venetian ambassador and a Russian diplomat conversed in French as they walked along the great blue Bosphorus, their ivory-inlaid walking sticks clicking against the paving stones of the one good road that led to the Bazaar.

  As they approached the slave market, the Venetian pulled at his collar and wrinkled his face in disgust.

  “They treat these poor women as if they were nothing more than cattle at a fair,” said the Russian. “Deplorable.”

  Suddenly, a black lacquered coach, with a crimson crescent moon and star emblazoned on the door, clattered over the stones. The horses’ hooves struck sparks as the turbaned driver reined them adroitly through the mob.

  The crowd knew the carriage of Esma Sultan, favorite sister of their glorious Sultan Mahmud II. They were quick to stand back and make way, staring at the fine black horses in their gold-studded harnesses. The curtains were drawn, but everyone knew the Princess reclined inside, spying on the crowd through a peephole.

  The driver tightened the reins, as the matched pair of horses pranced in excitement.

  The slavemaster opened his eyes wide as he saw a small panel slide open.

  An exquisite white hand, filigreed in twisting strands of red henna, reached out, a ring with a ruby the size of a quail’s egg glittering. In the outstretched palm lay a silken pouch that jingled with gold coins.

  The driver took the money and threw it at the vendor.

  “Send those women to Esma Sultan’s palace immediately.”

  “Which palace?”

  “On the Bosphorus. And see that they are delivered… undamaged or I will deal with you personally.”

  The vendor inspected the pouch and grunted in satisfaction.

  “Of course, guv’nor. You can count on it. Tell the—er, Sultaness—you can always count on James R. Rickles, that is.”

  Then he approached the driver and looked up with a conspirator’s glance, beckoning the driver to bend near him.

  “She want any more?” he whispered. “I can always find plenty more.”

  “Get out of the way, infidel swine!” shouted the driver. With a snap of his whip, the horses took off, leaving the Englishman coughing in the dust.

  “Fair enough,” said Rickles, straightening his coat in indignation. “It is no secret what she is up to now!” he said in a low voice. “At least I am not selling her a lamb for slaughter.”

  Like those young men she seeks, the slavemaster thought, but did not dare say.

  No one said a word. To criticize the Sultan’s favorite sister was high treason, punishable by decapitation.

  “She is hunting for young men Christian to take to her bed,” shouted a dervish, spit flecking the side of his mouth. “She is the whore of Constantinople and the Sultan is the pimp who indulges her!”

  “Shut up, man,” warned the vendor. “You want your crazy Sufi head poking off a bloody stick at Topkapi? The Sultan’s Solaks there are just waiting for an excuse to take you away!”

  “The Sultan be damned for his sins! Allah shall have his revenge!” shouted the dervish.

  The Englishman backed away as the Solaks seized the ranting Sufi and dragged him away.

 
“Why does she not take a Muslim lover, one of her own kind?” whispered the Venetian diplomat to his Russian counterpart. “Surely he would do as well and be more to her liking, circumcised and what not.”

  “You have not been amongst the Ottomans for very long, my friend. A fellow Muslim is untouchable, protected by the Sheriat and Koran. It is only the ‘infidels’ she seeks.”

  “Surely Muslim men can have sex as easily as any Christian!”

  “It’s not the tryst,” said the Russian grimly. “It’s the murder that will follow.”

  The Venetian ambassador turned to him, eyebrow raised.

  The Russian nodded solemnly.

  “By morning, the poor man will be lying at the bottom of the Bosphorus.”

  With that the Venetian ambassador made the sign of the cross and kissed his fingertips as he watched the black coach disappear into the dusty warren of roads that flanked the raucous Bazaar of Constantinople.

  The day after the drowning, Ivan Postivich was ordered to stand guard all morning and afternoon outside the Royal Audience Chamber. His muscles had grown stiff from the effort of the execution and then standing motionless on guard for hours on end. He could not understand why he had been summoned to the inner confines of the palace, when his usual post was in the gardens, watching the palace walls.

  When he prepared to leave at supper for the janissary barracks at Et Meydan, the Sultaness’s private guard told him to remain. Esma Sultan had demanded an audience with him that night.

  Ivan Postivich’s eyes widened and he challenged the Solak guard, his voice gruff and savage.

  “I am a janissary! Why would Her Highness want the stench of a soldier’s body in the Royal Audience Chamber? I will answer to her brother, our Sultan Mahmud II, who will understand a military man.”