Saffron nodded stiffly as if this was quite clear.
“He has brought this story of your collaboration with the Janissary plot as evidence for your arrest. It will be commanded that you be imprisoned and beheaded.”
Ivan Postivich nodded and rubbed a towel over his perspiring neck.
“If the Sultan calls for my death, there is nothing I can do.”
“You can flee, Ahmed Kadir. Back to your homeland! Sail to Venice or cross the Danube to Vienna where they will protect you from the Ottomans.”
Ivan Postivich threw the towel down on the wet tiles of the hamam.
“I am a janissary, whether or not I ever chose to be. A janissary never runs away, especially when his life is threatened. That is all I have learned in my life and all I have ever needed to learn.”
Postivich felt the eunuch’s eyes steady, studying him.
“And you. Why have you not escaped, Saffron?” said Ivan Postivich. “Surely Esma Sultan would accept it if you were to leave and return to your homeland.”
“My homeland is forever lost to me. Not only did I give up my manhood, I gave up my Christian faith. There is no going back home. It is a place that does not exist for the man I have become.”
“Then we are brothers,” said Ivan Postivich. “For my faith has been scratched from my heart, the host snatched from my open mouth. I miss the compassion of my mother’s faith. There was the home I longed to return to, but it lies buried under the embers and ashes of my childhood. Gone.”
Ivan Postivich stared down at the floor, his eyes glittering. He slowly raised his head and clenched his fist.
“But I rejoice now in my knowledge of the Koran, for it is with a man’s voice and janissary’s heart that I answer to Allah and cry blasphemy on the deeds of our Sultan. The words of the Prophet stir my heart and demand revenge.”
“Would that you remember the forgiveness and love of our stolen faith,” said Saffron quietly, “your kismet would be sweeter than the taste of certain death.”
With that, the Head Eunuch turned to leave and give specific instructions to the servant who waited in the tepidarium.
Never had there been a more miserable sound than the mourning wail from Esma Sultan’s palace for the drowned women of her dead brother’s harem. The Solaks gazed with horror at the walls of the harem, their weapons hanging useless at their sides.
At dusk Esma Sultan led the keening women, her harem of over a hundred, to the banks of the Bosphorus across from the deepest channel where their sisters had been murdered. Each lit a candle to honor the memory and soul of the dead women, and they knelt on their prayer rugs, chanting sura after sura of the Koran in their grief.
When the women finally returned to the palace, Esma Sultan strode to her chambers, and threw herself on the crimson divan, weeping, pounding her fists on the silken cushions. Her eyes were so swollen, she could hardly see the white eunuch who approached her.
“Forgive me, my Sultane. Will you be requiring Ahmed Kadir’s presence this evening?”
Esma Sultan pulled herself up from the divan and wiped her eyes with a handkerchief stained black with kohl.
“How dare you approach me in my privacy, eunuch! You were not announced, nor permission granted to enter my chamber. I shall have you flogged.”
Emerald did not register any fear but instead drew his short body up as tall as he could and twisted his face in a sneer.
“You seem not to be inclined to see any man this evening. I shall tell him he is to go.”
“No, stop! “the Princess commanded. “Tell him—I will see Ahmed Kadir later. I must see him.”
Emerald tightened his lips at her remark. Then he opened his small polished hands to her, in invitation.
“You know I can foresee your desires,” he whispered urgently. “It is not Ahmed Kadir you seek, for he is untouchable as a Muslim. A new Christian man from Galata would serve your needs better. Shall I fetch the carriage? I have heard of a young man whose hair is as fair as wheat and whose body is hard and taut as rope. His hands are large as a horse’s hooves, but with elegant fingers, tapered like French candles.”
Esma Sultan sat up, gathering her strength. “I shall not be tempted again, Emerald! I have just cried for my women companions, there in the water just beyond our palace walls. I want no more death on my hands.”
“But these would be men, your Sultaness,” coaxed the eunuch. “They are the beastly gender. You can have your revenge another night, the moon is still waxing and I know the rhythm of your urges.” His voice was hypnotic, as liquid as precious oil. “Think of the wet kisses of those young lips on your restless body, dry from this heat, the weight of him over you, again and again, in pursuit of your love and his life.”
“Enough!” screamed the Sultaness, her body involuntarily surging towards the image, like the pull of the tide. “Your venom shall not infect me again. It is your own revenge you seek and you have coaxed my royal hand to murderous deeds.
“I shall not add more carnage to these waters. Your lustful ideas have corrupted my soul!”
She took a deep breath.
“And tell me now what happened to the last one. I begged my brother to spare him. I left him chaste so that he might be released. But the janissary admits he drowned him. And I have heard rumors from the docks that he was covered in bruises and bites before he was sent to Bosphorus. That is your vile indulgence, Emerald! Your vile hatred killed him and poisons my brother’s mind to insist on this bloodlust!”
Emerald returned her stare and the corner of his lips quivered, stifling a smile.
Her eyes bore into the eunuch. “You lied, Emerald! The boy was killed, virgin that he was. There was no cause!”
“I serve my master, the Sultan. It was his wish.”
“He swore to drown those who had shared my bed. My brother had no right to take this man’s life, you had no right! I left him untouched, to return to his village to become a priest.”
“And what tales he could have carried to the northlands—the weakness of the Ottomans, a Princess who cannot even seduce a lover from the lowest class. What shame you would bring your brother and the Ottoman name!”
“I allowed him to leave! He told me of his being a priest and I never touched him. There was no seduction by my choice, not his!”
“Your brother commanded the death, my Sultaness. I am put on this earth to follow his orders.”
The Princess grabbed a jewel-encrusted hairbrush and hurled it at the eunuch.
“If I could have you murdered, I would sing at your death.”
“May my Master Mahmud II live a long life and protect me from your eager hand.”
“Send in Ahmed Kadir.”
“But, my mistress—”
“Send in the janissary, I say, and trouble me no more with your evil counsel!”
The skin of the eunuch’s face pulled tight and he stared at the Sultaness.
“You will still call for me, Esma Sultan. Your appetite will never be satisfied, not even with the help of Ahmed Kadir. And if he should ever become your lover, I shall escort him, like all the others, to his death. And that day shall make me smile.”
Ivan Postivich entered the room and saw the red eyes of the Sultaness. Silently, he nodded, to show his understanding.
“There was nothing I could do,” she said.
“But why?” he asked. “Why now?”
“My brother suspects another coup. He says the Janissaries are mutinous and he must be sure there is no trace of his brother’s seed, no concubine who will suddenly produce a hidden heir that the Janissaries can seize and place on the throne.”
“Where is Irena?”
“She is with the other women in the garden. Her grief has consumed her. Let her have this time with the women who can console her.”
Ivan Postivich nodded.
“But you must go to my stables in the morning and select your horses for Friday’s games.”
The janissary looked at her, astonished.
“The celebration, your brother’s birthday? This is to come to pass with the air still filled with the dying screams of women and children?”
Esma Sultan smiled savagely. “Do you think I would call off a fête in my palace and disappoint my guests? I have planned for months for this day. My brother shall have to appear on Friday and he will see you compete. Tonight I will mourn my sisters and their children. I will keep vigil with the women of my harem. You must rest and be at the stables early to select your horses for the match. I shall send a servant to alert the head groom of your visit.”
“Thank you, Sultaness.”
Esma Sultan’s mouth hardened. “I have never looked so forward to a cirit game in all my life.”
Part III
Turkish Horse
Chapter 10
The next morning, Ivan Postivich walked along the Bosphorus to where the horses of Esma Sultan were kept. Her stable was adjacent the Sultan’s own, where he kept more than four thousand horses, with nearly two thousand grooms who scurried about with the dedication of priests.
The Head Groom greeted the janissary.
“Ahmed Kadir! What an honor it is to have you ride the horses of Esma Sultan. I shall help you select the best for tomorrow’s game.”
The Royal Stables were familiar to Postivich. He had spent many days working there as a boy as part of the apprenticeship to the cavalry. He knew the feel of the pitchfork in his hand, the combs used for grooming the Sultan’s horse, the ritual of tacking the horse early in the morning for the Sultan’s ride to morning prayers.
At the far end of the stables, there was a special building where the Sultan’s ceremonial saddles and jewel-encrusted bridles hung. More than a hundred Solaks stood guard, their yataghans and scimitars glinting in the sun, protecting the priceless trappings.
The grooms all peered out from the stalls to catch a glimpse of the legendary rider.
“Abdul! He is as big as they say! Look at his arms! As thick as the branches of the plane tree.”
“Have you not seen him walking the streets or in the Spice Bazaar?”
“I swear by Allah’s name, never until today. But the Head Groom has promised me that I can watch the games at the Princess’s palace.”
The barefooted boys dressed in rags pressed their cheeks against the stable door to peek out at the janissary.
“You boys there! To your duties!” shouted the Head Groom.
The faces vanished into the recesses of the stables.
“Come, Ahmed Kadir. Look at this stallion I have for you. Never have you seen a horse more nimble footed.”
Ahmed Kadir pressed his lips together in doubt, but followed the groom to the stall.
“There, look at the mighty brute. He comes from a line of horses from the English, bigger than our Turkish breeds.”
Ahmed Kadir entered the paddock and approached the stallion, looking him in the eye.
“Calm yourself,” he said in Serbo-Croat, as the horse snorted noisily and backed away. He repeated the phrase, over and over, like a chant, and extended his hand, putting firm pressure on the horses neck. The stallion stood still, but his withers quivered as Ahmed Kadir smoothed his flat palm over the animal’s back, counting the vertebrae with his fingers.
“A long-backed horse,” said Postivich. “You say he is agile?”
“I have trained him myself. I must do so when the Sultan is not present, or he would add this mount to his stables,” laughed the groom. “He was a special present to Esma Sultan from the British Ambassador, the night after a fête.” The groom winked. “I believe he enjoyed himself mightily.”
Postivich ignored the comment. His hand continued to inspect the stallion, slipping over the horse’s fetlocks and measuring the angle of his leg.
“I shall try him. But I find stallions unpredictable and missing the heart of a mare when a competition requires stamina.”
“This horse will not let you down, Ahmed. I can swear to this for I have trained him well.”
“Heart is not something that comes with training, but I shall respect your opinion.”
“If it is a mare you require, let me show you others. I have acquired many foreign horses as gifts from diplomats. I have crossbred them with our Turkish horses and have many strong, big-hearted horses, including mares. But I will tell you now, there is no horse in the Empire who will carry more honor on the cirit field than this stallion—except your own mare, Peri.”
The janissary’s heart fell when he heard his horse’s name.
“This stallion is called, ‘Sultan’s Choice,’ ” continued the groom.
“Sultan’s Choice? What name is that for a horse?”
The Head Groom spat on the stone floor, leaving a glistening spot in the dust.
“This horse was named before he reached Stamboul. It is a British name, and the Sultane has ordered us to use it so as not to offend the ambassador. Here, come! I shall show you some Turkish horses with more appropriate names, horses you can fight on without shame.”
After inspecting over thirty horses, Ivan Postivich settled on three, the stallion Sultan’s Choice, and two crossbreed mares as reserves.
“Tack them up,” he said. “I shall test their agility and temperament. Send your best grooms to the field and we will set up a practice so that I may put this beast to the test.”
The grooms, who stood listening in different corners of the stables, descended upon their master, begging for a chance to ride with or against the giant.
“By all that is good and right under Allah, you should choose me!”
“No, me! I have dreamt of the chance to play with the giant. I have followed all his games since I was a babe in the arms of my mother.”
“No, me! Who devotes more time to the horses than I?”
The Head Groom ignored their pleas and chose ten grooms. Six on each team would suffice to test the horses, with Ahmed Kadir being one captain and he the other.
The Head Groom rode the stallion first, in a trot around the stable grounds. With a firm seat and hand he engaged the horse, ensuring that the animal knew that he was expected to perform and not to lose his head to the mares who would accompany him to the field. When the mares and geldings were tacked and also circled the stable field, Ahmed saw the great beast lower a callused black penis at the mares who neighed wildly to him.
“This is the test,” he said and watched the horseman’s reaction.
The stallion bunched up his neck and kicked out in frustration at the rider’s grip on the reins. His nostrils flared and a bellowing snort spreaded wet mucus in a fine spray. He kicked sideways and threw his powerful neck in the direction of the nearest mare who whinnied hysterically in his direction. His penis began to quicken and soon stuck straight out like an iron rod.
Ivan Postivich shouted, “Let me ride him now.”
The stallion was quivering with excitement. The Head Groom called to Postivich, “Let me ride him a minute more to settle him down.”
“Get down!” shouted the janissary.
The groom nodded and took a deep breath.
“Kus! Kus!” he shouted, trying to get the horse to stop. As he dismounted the stallion reared and pulled back, fighting desperately to get to the mares who circled the pasture. His sharp hooves flew out at the men who held him, but they jumped away from the deadly front feet.
“Give me your whip,” said Postivich. “Hold this brute long enough for me to throw my leg over him.”
The groom handed him the whip and held the reins. The stallion’s eyes were ringed in white and he twisted his powerful neck to keep his eye on the mares, ignoring the men who pulled at his head, cursing him as they struggled.
“It is too dangerous when he is in this state,” shouted the Head Groom.
“Leave him in my hands,” said Postivich. “Stallions are all cursed.”
The janissary threw his leg over the horse and the stallion reared straight up. Postivich had to cling to the horse’s long mane to pull
himself into the saddle.
“Allah curse you,” he shouted as the stallion tried to buck. Postivich yanked the reins high in the air, pulling the horse’s head up so he could not lift his hindquarters to throw his rider. “This is why I hate stallions!”
Postivich raised his whip high in the air and brought it down hard against the horse’s flanks. The stallion bolted. Instead of reining him in, the janissary sliced the whip through the air again, stinging the stallion’s rump with the leather cord and giving him his head.
The grooms on the mares watched the stallion fly across the pasture, his rider leaning forward, grinning into the wind, bellowing curses and praising Allah in a mix of Turkish and Serbo-Croat, as he raced the horse faster and faster across the field.
At last Postivich pulled the stallion into small cantering circles and motioned to the others to follow him to the cirit field below the walls of the Topkapi.
“His attention will not be diverted now,” he called to the others. “The lustiest mare in the Ottoman Empire could raise her tail to him and his organ would remain as tight in its sheath as a eunuch in winter.”
The grooms roared in laughter and reined their horses towards the field, carrying the jereeds in their hands and feigning battle cries. The cypress and plane trees that lined the road were powdered in their dust as they galloped.
By the time they reached the cirit field, the stallion had lathered up so hot from his excitement and the gallop that white stockings laced his black legs in sweaty foam.
The bunched neck and tense muscles were relaxed now, but Postivich took the precaution of riding him to the far end of the green field, away from the mares. He tied the stallion to the branches of a plane tree, the animal still bellowing.
A barefooted groom came running across the immaculate turf, his ragged clothes flapping.
“Ahmed Kadir, I will attend to your horse,” he said, gasping for air.
Postivich nodded. He wanted to inspect the grounds on foot. Cirit called for quick turns at a gallop, a rider needed to know the condition of the turf and footing.
The field was clipped and freshly irrigated. The loam would be moist but not wet for tomorrow’s games. Servants were walking the field, hunting for holes and hidden stones that might bruise the hoof of a valuable horse.
The Drowning Guard: A Novel of the Ottoman Empire Page 19
