Read Online The Drowning Guard: A Novel of the Ottoman Empire by Linda Lafferty - Free Book Online

approached the Princess’s bed, he was struck with the aroma of jasmine, roses, and lilies. Every inch of the royal chamber was lined with vases of flowers in various states of bloom. Harem attendants wiped the floors with concentrated perfumes that emitted such a heady scent that the Sultan’s physician gagged.
    The doctor, an erudite man who was said to have the command of eighteen languages, shook his head at the ignorance of the Princess’s court. He sneezed into his handkerchief and cursed vehemently in Greek. Flowers, courtiers by the dozen. It was no surprise that the Princess was bedridden and failing by the minute.
    “She refuses nourishment and has not slept in three days,” pronounced Nazip, wringing her freckled hands. “We have tried preparing all of her favorite dishes, even pigeon in spices, but she will not even look upon food.”
    “What did you eat Sultane, three days past?”
    The Sultane raised her chin from her pillow. “Very little. The last I remember eating was a bite of fresh fig from the garden. Oh, by Allah’s name?! What is that hideous stench?”
    The physician raised his eyebrow and looked around.
    “I smell nothing, your Princess, but the lingering closeness of your court. On the contrary, I smell the overpowering fragrance of the flowers. Open the windows at once!”
    “She says she smells death, everywhere, sir,” whispered the slave girl. “We have brought every sweet-smelling flower of the garden to her room to ease her mind. She will not abide the breeze from the Bosphorus.”
    The physician considered her words, blinking like an old turtle.
    “I presume your tester took a bite first to ensure the figs were not poisoned?”
    The Princess turned her head back into her pillow. “I was entertaining. I fed the fruit to my guest first.”
    “And is he well now?”
    The harem girl turned away, her hair sliding across her shoulder.
    “He has since left us. I do not know his whereabouts,” muttered the Sultaness. “Do not mention him again, physician.”
    The old doctor studied her face, half turned to him. He noticed a yellowedbruise on her bare shoulder and various other welts that inflamed the white flesh along her neck. He was a wise man and did not inquire further, having heard the rumors of the immoral conduct of Princess Esma Sultan.
    He had been present at her birth, overseeing the midwife’s work. She had been a squalling infant from the first, colicky and fussy in her mother’s arms. But her standing as the favorite child of Sultan Abdulhamid allowed her education and privileges normally given only to Ottoman princes, never women. Her loyal friendship with her half brother Mahmud had sealed her position from the moment of her cousin Selim III’s death.
    Even a physician could not touch an Ottoman princess without express permission and close supervision. He asked for her to spit on a little golden plate, then to describe her symptoms and the hours of their occurrence. Her eyes were clear but haggard, shadowed by blue half-moons.
    As he studied the spittle on the plate and watched her listless eyes, he noticed a spasm along her right eyebrow, a nervous twitch.
    “I ask permission to examine you, Esma Sultan. Ready her under drapery, eunuch.”
    Stephane Karatheodory stepped beyond the drawn curtains while Esma Sultan undressed and was swathed in linens.
    “You may approach, Doctor,” said the Head Eunuch. “We will observe you.”
    Karatheodory laid his hand gently on the Princess’s arm and raised her palm to his eyes where he could better examine it.
    The doctor felt how she flinched when he touched her white hands, drawing them quickly back into her wide sleeves.
    “Greek! You must give me notice before you touch my hands,” she warned.
    “I beg your forgiveness,” said the doctor, waiting for her to return them to his outstretched palm, like a beggar supplicating. When she finally extended her left hand, he studied the white moon in her thumbnail and the