The Janissaries’ Revenge
Chapter 18
“Kadir!” shouted a Solak, whistling the name through his rotten teeth as if it were a curse. “You are summoned. Saffron will speak with you. Come with me at once.”
Ivan Postivich ached to seize the pompous Macedonian guard and snap his neck. Instead, he followed in sullen silence. He knew that when the Head Eunuch summoned him, it concerned direct orders from Esma Sultan.
Saffron was speaking to three eunuchs about their duties for that evening. He saw the giant enter and waved him forward, dismissing the others with a flick of his hand.
“I have been told by the Princess Esma Sultan that your presence is no longer needed. She has pronounced herself cured. She has given me this purse of gold to pay you for your services.”
Saffron reached out, placing the small bag on the giant’s palm.
Ivan Postivich stared at the purse. It was crimson with a gold tassel and from the weight, he knew there was a fair sum of money inside. He felt winded as if he had been dealt a mighty blow to his chest.
“Will I not see the Princess before I leave?”
“No. She did not summon you. She is entertaining another guest and will not be disturbed. You are to return to Et Meydan, where you will be assigned new duties as a janissary. She has told me that she will continue to work to persuade her brother, our glorious Sultan, to find a place for you once more as a cavalry guard. But there is little hope of that, I am afraid.”
“Am I not to remain here as her—drowning guard?”
Saffron’s face hardened. He waved away the eunuchs who hovered near and he pulled Ivan Postivich close.
“Did you not understand what I have said? You are free to leave for the barracks and fight for the Empire. You will never have to drown an innocent man again! Praise Allah, you have been released from your duties here. Forget you have ever met Esma Sultan. Beg for a post in the far reaches of the Empire where you can find peace!”
Ivan Postivich raised his chin in defiance, although he knew the eunuch spoke wisdom.
“I cannot ever forget that I have met her,” he said. “She has poisoned my blood.”
With that, he nodded a farewell to the eunuch and turned to leave the palace of Esma Sultan.
Postivich strode towards Et Meydan. He wound his way through the streets of Constantinople, surprised to see torches burning in the night, and a curfew commanded by the Sultan blatantly ignored. Wagons rattled up the streets, loaded with provisions. The drivers wore tight expressions, their eyes moving, alert in the darkness.
Meat Square hummed with activity. Thousands of Janissaries met in their ortas, with messengers running from one to the next.
“We will stand brother to brother against the infidel Sultan and his reforms!”
“Death to the New Order. Death to their pagan officers!”
Ivan Postivich pushed his way through the crowd, until he came to where his orta should have been.
The spot was empty, the huge copper kettle gone.
“Ahmed Kadir!” shouted a soldier who saw him standing alone. “You have come to join us! Your cowardly orta has joined our enemies. They have stolen away from Et Meydan and the Honorable Corps to fight with the Sultan.”
Ivan Postivich smelled their sweat. He knew the taste and odor of battle and saw the bellicose glitter in their eyes.
“So the day has come,” he said.
“The giant comes to lead us!” shouted an artilleryman. “The only cavalryman faithful to the Corps!”
Suddenly the eyes of thousands were on him, as if they had been waiting all along. Soldiers climbed the rooftops of the wooden barracks and scaled the meat stalls to see him better.
Ivan Postivich stood uncertain amidst the throng of soldiers, their dirty faces looking up to him, anxious for leadership. He recognized faces from his boyhood, men who had been proud to join the ranks of the Janissaries, who had fought on foot while he rode astride his horse. He saw another face, the janissary who had beaten the Jew in the Bazaar, his mouth twisting as he looked at the giant with hatred.
These were the men, both good and evil, with whom he would fight against the Sultan.
Postivich’s mind was clear. His decision was made. He spoke to the men.
“Reform! Ha! When the Sultan speaks of reform, he speaks of annihilation! We can have no reform with a Sultan who despises us! There may be corruption in our ranks, yes, but it is corruption that has been forced upon us by a Sultan who corrupts everything he touches. The honor and spirit of the Janissary Corps lie in battle—not in the drills of the Europeans who come to tame our Empire so they can swallow it whole for their own pleasure!”
He took a deep breath and his voice boomed across the square.
“If there is corruption, the fish rots from the head down! Sever the head and save the Corps!”
A roar of approval filled Et Meydan Square and the night birds were shaken from their roosts. They flew blindly about the marketplace in confusion.
“May Allah bless Ahmed Kadir, the only true janissary of the cavalry!”
Another cheer went up and men embraced him, stinking with the lust of battle. As they cheered and rallied around the giant, a man in a crimson tunic embroidered in gold thread slipped out the gates of Et Meydan to tell the Sultan of the rebellion and its leader, Ahmed Kadir.
“I must have my horse,” Postivich shouted. “Send to the stables and fetch my mare.”
A young runner broke from the crowd and sprinted to his side.
“I will return with your Peri, Corbaci,” he said, bowing quickly, “if I am not captured by the traitorous members of your orta.”
“Tell me boy,” Postivich said. “When did they decide not to stand with us?”
“The Sultan took away their horses, and unless they swore a blood oath, they could not ride. The Kapikulus would never willingly fight on foot! They cast their lot with the Sultan to ensure their safety and position.”
“Go with Allah, boy,” he said. “Do not try to rein in Peri. Let her gallop and she will find her way to the Meydan gates.”
The corbaci of the artillery pushed through the crowd and embraced the giant.
“Ahmed Kadir! You come with the benediction of Allah—the men’s hearts are eager for the Sultan’s blood.”
Another roar went up in the center of the square as the Janissaries listened to impassioned speeches from other rebels. Ivan Postivich knew that the Corps fed on the stirring words of all soldiers, not just the commanders. He pressed into the heart of the mob.
“The Eskenji infidels drilled here—on this very ground!” Postivich shouted. He scooped up a handful of dirt from his feet and vaulted onto the platform above the heads of the troops. “This ground that we Janissaries hold sacred was defiled by the Sultan with the parade of infidels! It is here that the Eskenjis shed their janissary uniforms, like serpents shedding their skins, taking on the pagan cloth of the New Order.”
The mob shouted, “Death to the infidel serpents!”
Postivich’s voice boomed across the square. “The Ulema blessed their pagan rifles! What corruption leads our Sultan to persuade our holy men to his cause! The Bektashi Dervishes stand with us to the death, incorruptible!”
One after another, soldiers took their turn on the platform, shouting as loud as they could so that they might be heard. The voices rose, eager for violence and revenge, and the collective heartbeat of the Janissaries pounded hard, ready for battle.
Soon, the boy who had gone to fetch Peri returned, racing through the Et Meydan gates, riding bareback on the galloping mare. Reaching the mob, the boy reined in the horse and she reared, her hooves slashing at the air. He tried in vain to cling to her mane but she shook him off and he tumbled into the dust.
“Good work, boy!” shouted Ivan Postivich, grabbing her rope. “Settle down, mare, settle down. We will need your spirit for battle.”
“There is no saddle,” called a corbaci. “The Kapikulus have taken all th
e tack.”
“I need no saddle to fight!” shouted Ivan Postivich, slinging his long leg over the mare and righting himself on her back. “Bring me spears and I will fight the way I was trained as a boy.”
An artilleryman ran up with a pouch of spears. Postivich slung it across his chest and reined his horse to the gates.
“To Topkapi!”
The Sultan needed no spy to know the Janissaries were on the march. He heard their cries and shouted to his Vizier.
“Are the bombardiers ready?”
“Yes, sire.”
“How many are we?”
“Perhaps nine thousand, matched against perhaps twenty thousand Janissaries, though the Aga thinks many will desert before the battle.”
The Sultan pinched his beard with his immaculate fingernails.
“Are you certain of what you heard?”
“Yes. It is the Kapikulu giant Ahmed Kadir who leads the revolt.”
“May my sister be damned to hell. I warned her of his treachery! Now the serpent sinks his fangs into our very flesh!”
The Sultan paced the length of the room, his yellow tunic whipping behind him.
“The citizens have long cried out under the extortion and brutality of the Corps. They lust for revenge. Throw open the arsenals. Hand out swords, rifles, and cartridges to the faithful.”
“Yes, my Sultan. I shall send runners through the streets to spread the word.”
“Let the Sacred Banner unfurl in the pulpit of the Sultan Ahmed Mosque! We shall defend the honor of the Ottomans under the Holy Roof of Allah!” The Sultan’s voice rose to a shriek. “Either the Janissaries will be destroyed or cats will walk over the ruins of Constantinople!”
Sultan Mahmud II was ready to gamble the destruction of the Imperial City and its people to defeat the Janissaries.
The streets were teeming with citizens—some who had chosen loyalty to the Sultan, some who had cast their lot with the Corps. As the Janissaries left Et Meydan to charge Topkapi, the cry went up, “Mohammed and Haci Betash!” honoring the Prophet and the dervish patron whose spiritual guidance bolstered the Janissary Corps.
But their way to the palace was blocked by Loyalists—Greeks, Jews, and loyal Muslim citizens eager to spill Janissary blood and exact revenge. Their cry also echoed through the narrow streets. “Mohammed and Mahmud!”
At the head of the Janissary army, slashing his way through the Loyalists, was Ivan Postivich. His sword cut across the throats of his enemies and as he galloped forward, he slashed at those who fled before him.
But the thousands of soldiers behind him were soon entangled in hand-to-hand combat. As Postivich reached the Imperial Gate, the mob of fighting men moved slowly, warm blood washing over the cobblestone.
At the top of the hill at Topkapi, the Sultan commanded the forces from an apartment above the Imperial Gate. He saw the giant astride the dappled-grey mare and cursed him.
The Sultan put a hand on his sword and turned to descend to the streets.
“My Sultan! What do we do?” asked the Royal Solak.
“I shall kill this scorpion with my own sting!”
“Please, I beg of you. We cannot protect you if you engage in the battle. The Ottoman lineage will be endangered.”
The Sultan’s right fist pounded his heart.
“That would please my Angel sister! See what a fiendish enemy she has coddled in her palace!”
“Sire, you must remain in command here at the Imperial Gate. If you should be wounded or killed, there is no hope for victory. Our enemies would rejoice.”
Mahmud walked back to the window and stared down at the giant, who was engaged in battle with two Solaks.
“He must die! And it must be by my hand. Capture the traitor infidel—I shall have the delight of beheading him myself.”
Ivan Postivich slashed the Solak’s neck and the blood sprayed his horse, making her whinny and flare her nostrils. A second Solak was fatally wounded by a tremendous blow that left him shaking uncontrollably until he crumpled to the ground in agony.
“Death to the Sultan!”
The Janissary troops had reached Topkapi, although the assault on the palace was stopped by Loyalists, who fought savagely to keep the rebels from the gates.
“You will not enter the Imperial Gates!” the Sultan roared from his post far above the battle.
The giant pressed forward as a volley of gunfire roared from the palace walls. The bullets flew around him and his horse. Peri threw her head up and whinnied, a roaring neigh. He urged her into a gallop around the walls of the palace, temporarily out of range of the artillery.
He felt dampness on his left leg and looked down. His pants were soaked in blood from where a bullet had torn through his thigh and into the belly of his horse. Her dapples were now blood red.
He pulled the mare into the shadows and leapt down to examine her.
“Peri,” he cried. She shuddered and lay down, groaning. He placed his big hand on her red-stained belly. Her breath rattled in her lungs, her nostrils flared wide to take in air.
Ivan Postivich raised his sword and, with a wild cry, charged the gates of Topkapi, in a rage that erased any pain from his wound.
The Janissaries had underestimated the Loyalists. Many men were eager to take up arms against the army that had abused them, demanding bribes and beating them, often savagely, if they refused. The streets were stained red with blood and within a day, the Loyalists had pushed the Janissaries back into Et Meydan and were poised to overrun the square.
With the Janissary camp surrounded by the Sultan’s artillery, the gunners—Janissaries themselves—hesitated. Their cannons were loaded with incendiary rounds that would touch off an inferno in the wooden barracks and shops of Meat Square, dry tinder to the hungry flames. Despite choosing loyalty to the Sultan, they could not bring themselves to rain such a hideous death down on their brothers of the Corps, with whom they had shared victory and defeat on the battlefield, fighting shoulder to shoulder.
“Halt!” cried out one of the corbacis, his eyes ringed in soot and dirt. “Send in an emissary to reason with them! We cannot slaughter our brothers!”
But the Sultan wanted no reasoning. Mahmud had waited years for this moment’s reckoning and he wanted nothing less than the total annihilation of the Janissaries—he was determined that this was to be the end of the Corps. Even those who had chosen loyalty to the Sultan would never fight as Janissaries again.
As the gunners hesitated, one of the Sultan’s men, Kara Gehennem, pushed through the ranks and lit a cannon’s fuse. With a roar, the cannon sent a flaming ball into the heart of Et Meydan, setting fire to the barracks. Gehennem raced to another cannon, then another, lighting fuse after fuse, setting off a one-man barrage—and touching off an inferno.
Within minutes, the flames leapt to the sky and the Janissaries, trapped in the square that had been their home, died by the thousands. Among the roaring fire, the explosions of ammunition and the screams of the dying, no one noticed the lone soldier who had crept up behind the ranks of cannons. As quick as the silver flash of his blade, he yanked the head of Kara Gehennem tight against his massive chest and slit the traitor’s throat with a jewel-studded dagger, a gift from the Ottoman Princess. Then he disappeared again into the confusion, moving swiftly, despite the bloody wound on his leg.
By dawn, the city of Constantinople was black with smoke. The air was filled with the ashes of the barracks and the dead. Twenty thousand Janissaries had died, most in the inferno of Et Meydan. The stench of death made the inhabitants of the Imperial City gag and cover their faces in damp rags.
There was refuge at the water’s edge, where the sea breezes cleansed Constantinople’s air. The sea wall of Topkapi was washed pink with the blood of Janissaries, their bloated bodies floating white and half submerged in the saltwater.
Mahmud looked down from the parapets, surveying the carnage. He had sent out scouts to scour Constantinople for Ahmed Kadir, while the fishermen of the
Bosphorus were offered a rich reward for recovering his body from water.
It was rumored that his mare, Peri, had been wounded in battle and that the giant had attacked on foot, just as he had done in Macedonia. Mahmud had offered a reward for the mare as well, but no one could find her.
“Conspirators still choke the streets!” he screamed to his Vizier.
“My Sultan. The Janissaries are defeated. Constantinople mourns the dead of both sides and the seabirds pick at the corpses in the Bosphorus. You are victorious. Rejoice in the fidelity of your people and their sacrifice. Do not become obsessed with a single man who can no longer oppose you or give you reason to fear him.”
“I will not rest until I have Ahmed Kadir’s head on a stake on Topkapi’s walls! This is a solemn oath to Allah, by the blood of my forefathers and the Prophet’s holy word!”
The Vizier closed his weary eyes and breathed deeply. Somehow, after the horror and fatigue of the battle, he no longer feared the Sultan as he once had.
“One man cannot mean more than these all these dead souls, my Sultan. You have won your battle, Praise Allah. Let us welcome peace.”
The Sultan’s face writhed in anger and he dismissed his Vizier abruptly. Alone in the Royal Reception Room, Mahmud paced the floor, his slippered feet rasping over the intricately woven carpets.
Ivan Postivich awoke, his right leg in a fire of pain. The festering wound sent hot pulses up the leg and into his groin.
He opened his crusted eyes and saw he was swathed in imperial sheets. He shivered nevertheless and wondered why it was so cold and dank in the middle of July.
He could hear whispering in the far reaches of the room, but the voices echoed as if he were in a cavernous tomb. Perhaps he had been mistaken for dead and brought to a vault, he thought. He smelled the humidity, the coolness of the grave, and heard the drip of water somewhere in the distance.
A rustle of linens and footsteps approached him. A Greek-accented voice spoke in Serbo-Croat.
“You are safe, Ivan Postivich. Your sister has sent you here to Esma Sultan’s private cisterns where I can care for you in secrecy.”
The Drowning Guard: A Novel of the Ottoman Empire Page 27
