The Drowning Guard: A Novel of the Ottoman Empire
Page 13
Without even realizing what he was doing, he rolled back on his knees from his prostrate position, glanced up again at the two angels and crossed himself.
When he realized what he had done, it was too late. The sea of men, wave upon wave, were so perfectly synchronized in their worship and he was up on his knees, his fingers touching his lips as he executed the genuflection that had been so natural until he was snatched from his village.
The janissary at his right glanced up at him. He gave an inscrutable look and then closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to the cold marble floor, praying towards the Mecca.
Postivich lowered his head to the ground again, a giant man trying to cover his mistake, pressing his palms to the floor—a heathen, among thousands of the faithful.
Esma Sultan gave Bezm-i Alem a withering look, her dark eyes scrutinizing the young woman’s face. The harem girl jutted out her chin and held her mistress’s eyes, refusing to succumb to humiliation or regret.
“What notion is this, to visit the Bektashi tekke? What plot is afoot, Bezm-i Alem?”
“I only wish to consult a Dede. Have you not said that the Sufis incorporate a universal love of mankind and womankind alike? That women worship alongside men and are regarded as equals. I want to see this order, hear their prayers. I want to learn how they are so different from the Sunnis and Shia.”
“They will not allow you this. They guard their rituals from outsiders. You will learn nothing.”
“But a Dede might speak to me. Especially were you to accompany me as the Sultan’s sister. They could not refuse me if I carried your blessing.”
Esma twisted her mouth into a knowing smile, much as an indulgent mother would do when scolding a pampered child.
“You hide the truth, Bezm-i Alem. You are searching for something else, not simply the knowledge of the Bektashi and their rituals.”
“It is the corbaci,” the harem woman admitted.
Esma Sultan drew a deep breath and let the air escape slowly.
“I suspected as much. Go on.”
“Last night another janissary spoke to him in your gardens about… a rebellion against Topkapi.”
Esma Sultan raised an eyebrow, then shifted her gaze to the windows that looked out over the Bosphorus.
“Of course. It was only a matter of time before that nightmare repeated itself. My brother does nothing to avoid a certain massacre. I suspect he welcomes the conflict. He has always hated the Janissary Corps. He will not stop until the streets of Constantinople are streaked with their blood.”
“The Janissaries are counting their allies and ortas who will stand against the Sultan. Esma Sultan—are you in danger?”
“No,” she said quietly. “I am the favorite daughter of Abdulhamid, and were I a male, the Janissaries would kill my brother and would install me immediately as Sultan. But as an Ottoman woman, all I have is my immunity to the Janissaries’ seething hate of Topkapi.”
Esma Sultan tapped a ruby ring with her fingernail and then studied her hennaed hand, twisting and turning it in the late afternoon light.
“Yes, you have my blessing. Consult the Dede,” she said at last. “See what you can discover from the Sufis.”
“O, thank you, Sultane.”
“But on one condition,” she said, watching me carefully. “Saffron must accompany you or else you may not leave the palace.”
Saffron sat erect and silent across from Bezm-i Alem in the coach. They swayed with the motion of the carriage, as it rocked and creaked over the rutted roads. He avoided the young woman’s eyes, but instead focused straight ahead.
Esma Sultan’s eunuch was known for his impeccable manners and his fierce devotion to her. Bezm-i Alem was certain that he did not approve of this expedition, to see the Bektashi tekke. His mission was ostensibly to protect Esma Sultan’s harem woman but he knew he was also to be a witness for Esma Sultan and see that Bezm-i Alem did not say or do anything untoward.
A bent old woman, her head uncovered, opened the portal of the circular tekke. She was dressed in faded blue and her grey hair was braided down her back.
“Merhaba. It is an honor to welcome emissaries of Esma Sultan to our tekke,” she said, smiling through broken, brown-stained teeth. She showed her guests the tiled footbath at the entrance and they removed their shoes, performed ablutions, and slippered their feet.
A ritual was underway in the great round courtyard, where men and women alike swayed like wheat undulating in a breeze, dancing to the musicians, who in turn moved to their own music. They seemed unaware of each other, bound only by the rhythm of the music.
“What are they doing?” Bezm-i Alem whispered to Saffron.
“They are in communion with Allah.”
Bezm-i Alem stared, her eyes drinking in the sight and marveling. She watched as their bodies rose and fell to the music, mystical in its tones.
“Come, let us follow our hostess,” said Saffron, pulling the young woman from her reverie.
Bezm-i Alem could barely tear her eyes away from the spectacle. She had seen the Sufi whirling dervishes, but this dance was different. It was a gentler, more intimate movement and the dancers’ faces emitted a glow of joy, not the frenetic frenzy of the dervishes she had seen in public.
“You will meet the Dede in the communal dining room,” said the old woman, as she bowed. “We have prepared a repast for you.”
The long table was laden with food. Whole roasted chickens, lamb kabobs, chicken pilafs, lamb cooked in eggplant, stuffed grape leaves. Luscious salads with cheese, ripe tomatoes, sweet cucumbers, and fresh mint leaves gleamed in dressings of golden-green olive oil. Sugared almonds and dried quince filled crystal glass plates.
But the dish that drew Bezm-i Alem’s eye was the raisin and pomegranate studded zerde nestled in a brass bowl. A rice dish cooked with honey, rosewater, and cinnamon, zerde was a festive dish, usually only for weddings and formal celebrations. The Sufi hostess smiled, her tanned face wrinkling in dozens of deep creases.
“We the faithful feed the poor every day in our refectory. They are served grains and soups, fruits and bread, but for you, Bezm-i Alem, we have prepared a special feast.”
“To honour our esteemed guest,” said a man’s voice. A small elderly man entered from an adjoining room. He wore a green cape, faded to a silver sheen. He was supported by a cane and hobbled slowly towards the group.
“It is a great honor to welcome you,” he said. “I am Dede Mustafa.”
“Esma Sultan sends her greetings to you, and in her name I thank you for your hospitality.” Then Bezm-i Alem whispered, “I’ve come to ask you some questions in private, Dede.”
“Of course, as you wish,” he replied, his fingertips touching each other in a peak. “But could we tempt you with some of our Bektashi delicacies? Some wine, perhaps?”
Bezm-i Alem opened her mouth behind her veil, the cloth sticking to her lips as she gasped.
Wine?
Esma Sultan’s reputation was known throughout the Empire, her indulgences and vices. But here, in the tekke, the spiritual lodge of the Bektashi, what blasphemy, offering her intoxicants, which the Prophet has expressly forbidden. This Dede must think her as the emissary of the evil himself.
Saffron moved close to Bezm-i Alem and whispered in her ear, under the folds of cloth.
“The Bektashi drink wine. He does not insult you or Esma Sultan in his offer. These are the Sufi ways.”
“Thank you for your gracious offer,” Bezm-i Alem said, recovering her composure. “Just a little barley water would be appreciated. And, of course, how could we refuse such a bountiful meal?”
Bezm-i Alem reclined on cushions, served by the unveiled woman, who smiled as she accepted small bowls of pilaf dishes and meat. The harem woman rarely ate meals in public and resented the inconvenience of pushing food up behind her veil. Too often the cloth retained the odor of the meal, scenting the air she breathed for hours later.
But she refused to remove it.
“Our tekke serves four hundred people a day,” he said. “No one is turned away hungry. Ever. And that is thanks to gracious benefactors such as Esma Sultan who support our lodge and give charitable alms to allow us to help our fellow men and women.”
Saffron nodded to Bezm-i Alem as the old woman gave her a cool glass of barley water.
“Dede, you have lived many years under the Sultans and always the Bektashi have been brothers and spiritual leaders of the Janissaries,” she began.
Saffron suddenly stiffened.
The Dede pulled himself up straight against the cushions. His relaxed, affable face tightened and he clapped his hands three times. The old woman came running from the refectory, wiping her wet hands.
“Ayla, tell Abdul to secure the entries. See that no one enters or disturbs us. Ask the musicians to continue playing until after Bezm-i Alem leaves.”
Saffron lifted his eyebrow in wary approval, but his shoulders remained tight and his eyes alert.
“Forgive me, Bezm-i Alem, for the interruption, but the mention of the Janissaries at such tense times can be quite dangerous.”
Bezm-i Alem was aware of Saffron’s deep and steady breaths as he stood next to her. He fastened his gaze at the main entry.
It was the mix of cultures and faith that made the Bektashi so appealing to the Janissaries, the Dede explained. Through the devshirme, boys from all over the far reaches of the Ottoman Empire, from Egypt to the lands of the Balkans and to the border of Russia were gathered and brought back to Constantinople to train as soldiers and serve the Sultan. Some came quiet and shaking, other shrieked and cried, some died of grief. No matter their emotional state, those who lived would all become Janissaries or be sold as slaves.
Boys were taken from their homes, their culture, language, and their faith. They longed for traditions, these Christians, of the Blessed Mother, who would love and protect them, as their mothers had. Their souls cried out for a woman.
Bektashi tradition revered Fatima, the daughter of Mohammed, as well as the Virgin Mary, giving the lonely boys the comfort of a blessed mother in a strange land.
“Many are drawn to our mysticism because of the similarities with Christianity,” the Dede said. “They find comfort in the confession of sin, drinking of wine, and sharing of bread. Dispensation from the five prayers also appeals to those who are at war and cannot face Mecca on their knees, evoking Allah’s name.”
“But then,” Bezm-i Alem ventured, “do you have influence with the Janissaries if you are their spiritual advisor?”
Dede Mustafa’s dark eyes glinted with understanding.
“If you mean do we have the power to intervene in their course of total and inevitable destruction, the answer is no. This is their kismet and the Sultan’s. We cannot intercede in fate,” he said, shrugging his shoulders and lifting his open palms up to the sky. “Even if it means great suffering for all.”
His quiet words and gesture conveyed his absolute understanding. There was no point in pursuing this line of questioning and possibly endangering the Dede and his tekke.
“Saffron, would you advise the footman that we are ready to return to the palace?” Bezm-i Alem said, rising. Then she took Dede Mustafa’s hand in hers. It felt warm and soft, much softer than her own.
Bezm-i Alem thought of her father who had died when she was an infant. She had never experienced kindness from a man.
Dede Mustafa did not draw away his hand, but she felt his fingers moving tentatively against her palm, exploring her grasp.
His eyes opened in surprise. Bezm-i Alem wondered if it was because she had touched him, or if he felt the contrast of his supple skin against her callused hands, certainly not the hands of a harem woman. Surely he would wonder what caused her to have the rough skin of a farmer, and the daring to thrust her hand in his.
He studied her face and looked deep into her eyes.
“I see you have an unusual kismet,” he said slowly. “I will not forget your visit to our tekke or your concerns. You have my word on this. May you go in peace and with Allah’s protection, blessed be in the name of the Prophet.”
That night, as he was admitted to the interior chambers of the Sultaness, Postivich sensed a brooding darkness in the mood of Esma Sultan. He remembered how she had smiled just two days before and he realized with surprise how much he craved to see her lips arch up again, lifting his heavy spirit.
But tonight was different. She was looking out the windows, her eyes searching for the first sliver of new moon. As he entered he brushed shoulders with Emerald, the eunuch, who wore a stiff mask of hatred and fury.
The little man said nothing but hurried down the corridor.
“It is the Sultan’s moon,” she murmured, as Postivich entered. “A thin-bladed scimitar carving a swath across the universe.”
Ivan remained standing, waiting for an invitation to sit.
“Walk with me in the garden, tonight,” said Esma Sultan. “I cannot bear to be confined to this room on such a beautiful night.”
The Solaks hurried ahead to take their positions at regular intervals around the garden. They whistled to the sentries on the palace walls to alert them that the Princess was now outside and they should be even more alert for assassins.
Two young girls ran ahead, lighting torches and lanterns. Servants fluttered through the corridors, carrying linen, shawls, and flasks of lemon and barley water in case any should appeal to the Sultaness. The head of the female orchestra was alerted so that music would be at the ready. The boatmen were roused from their mats, for it was entirely possible that a midnight sail would be required.
The palace was in an uproar at the whim of the Sultaness. Nothing was simple in a royal Ottoman household.
The Sultaness waved away offers of music, refreshment, and handmaidens.
“I want the Solaks to keep their distance from me,” she warned Saffron. “I want to speak to Ahmed Kadir in privacy.”
“Of course, Your Highness,” said the eunuch, bowing. “But for your protection, I shall accompany you—”
“You shall do nothing of the kind, Saffron!” she snapped.
The tall man bowed again, backing away.
“I will clap my hands if I need assistance,” she said, a little more kindly. “Please keep a distance of twenty paces or more. Come, janissary. Do not be so heavy-footed and slow.”
Postivich was surprised how long and quick her stride was.
As they descended into the gardens through an arbor of jasmine and sweet vine, Postivich said, “Forgive me, Sultane, but you seem preoccupied.”
She did not answer until they reached a large fountain, illuminated by flickering torches. Dipping her fingers into the rose-petal strewn waters, she finally replied.
“I have reason to believe that there are spies in my palace, Janissary Kadir. Spies from the Topkapi who desire your death.”
“It seems I am not considered a friend of the Ottomans,” he said, sitting across from the Princess on the rim of the fountain. He watched her chase a petal through the ripples of the water with her hand. “And why do you concern yourself with what spies tell your brother?”
The Princess looked at him through the soft light of the lanterns.
“I have promised you protection, and I will use all my power to keep my promise. Such is an Ottoman’s word.”
She hesitated.
“I do not know how I feel about you, Ahmed Kadir,” she said. “But I have placed some trust in you, for there is a curious truth to your hatred of me. You came to me in loathing and disgust. There was honesty there. I can still see it in your eyes. The moment you decide to betray me, I will see it.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Your blue eyes are the same color and depth as my mother’s. I could always judge the truth of what she said by their reflection. I could detect a lie by the way the co
lor changed quickly, like a cloud passing over the waters of the Bosphorus. Eyes like yours cannot betray me, even if they try.”
Her own eyes now sought him in the darkness, and he looked into their depths.
He reached out to her cheek, with the same impulse and instinct that had made him cross himself earlier that morning. His fingers brushed her skin and he cradled her fine chin in his palm.
She did not pull back, but closed her eyes. He gasped as a chill rushed up his spine, and seized him by the throat.
“Stop, Ahmed Kadir. Put your hand down at once,” she whispered.
“Only if you command it,” he said.
She turned away from him, leaving his hand empty in the night air.
“I do command it, if only for your sake. Your impulse is not worth your death.”
He dropped his hand to his side, struggling to keep his body under control. Once engaged in a battle, he could not easily disengage. His whole body trembled and his mind could only focus on reaching for her and pressing her soft bosom hard against his mouth. He realized he did not know how to make love, only to seize a woman and satisfy his urges quickly and violently.
“Tonight I want to tell you more of what happened to little Sophie.”
Ivan Postivich watched her hands continue to toy with the petals. He did not care about the little girl in the harem; his body was tense with lust and a woman’s words now were like nagging flies, bothersome and an unwanted distraction from his physical needs.
She lifted her chin to see that he was listening, as if she were unaware of his impulses.
He suspected she toyed with him as she moved a short distance away on the rim of the fountain.
“I did what I said I would do,” she began. “I asked my father for Sophie’s release from the Serail—to become my servant forever.”
“You cannot imagine how hard it was for me to see the Sultan, my father, in private. The women of the Serail are at his disposal and pleasure. Should he want to visit his children, he will visit the Serail himself. To request a private audience with the Royal Ottoman Sultan, as a young woman—impossible!