Read Online The Drowning Guard: A Novel of the Ottoman Empire by Linda Lafferty - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Linda Lafferty
Tags: Historical fiction, Turkey
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the immense room, so that even the old ear of the doctor heard the wooden rakes of the gardeners outside the palace window, scratching at the fallen leaves in the courtyard.
“You dare prescribe your pagan rites to an Ottoman Princess!” said Esma Sultan, suddenly sitting up in bed, a cobra ready to strike.
Karatheodory realized he had gone too far, but he was too old and respected to fear the Sultan’s sister’s wrath.
“I have only speculated what I would prescribe were you of the Holy Byzantine faith,” replied the doctor calmly. “Since you are not of my church, I can only suggest that Allah will decide your destiny and cure you of the headaches, dreams, and sleepless nights; these visions of dead men choking the clear clean waters of the Bosphorus. I have potions that will induce sleep and a headwrap soaked in soothing lavender oils to ease your headache. But I can only treat the symptoms of your disease. There is something that haunts you that I as a man of physical healing, cannot reach.”
“You are too old to cure anyone,” pronounced Esma Sultan, turning away from the man. “You are dismissed to drink the spirits in the tavern that have polluted your mind so as to render you decrepit and useless to the Ottoman Sultans. I shall tell my Angel brother so!”
The physician nodded that he understood and a guard instantly appeared to escort him to the palace gates.
It had been days since Esma Sultan had left her bedchamber to walk in her gardens or visit her beloved library. Bezm-i Alem and the other harem womentook turns bringing the Ottoman Princess sherbets and fruitwaters, offering barley water and honeyed baklavas from the Greek cook, Maria. Nazip offered her the opium pipe, which she took at first, until she became sickened by the drug. Esma Sultan swore she smelled dead bodies, foul with rot. She retched silently into a copper bowl by her divan while Bezm-i Alem pressed damp cotton cloths to her forehead.
The harem woman gathered flowers from the Princess’s immense gardens and sent boys to the Bazaar to buy even more from the vendors, but nothing could ease her anguish. Every vase, even the most precious enamel vessels from Topkapi, burst with pungent blooms. The harem sniffed the air like dogs, trying to discern any aroma but the cloying sweet fragrance of the myriad bouquets, while Esma Sultan raged at their ineptness and pressed lemon-scented linen handkerchiefs to her nose, barely breathing.
Ivan Postivich could not bear the soft life of the palace and thought only of battle and the weight of his sword in his hand. He pictured the cirit games, staged somehow without him, and wondered how his favorite mare, Peri, fared under the hand of another rider and groom.
Mahmud was sly, thought Postivich. He preferred to kill a janissary slowly with idleness and seclusion rather than have him die in a war that would bring honor and martyrdom. Postivich sat on a cool marble bench, planning how he would change his life to make himself a soldier once again.
Every night before dinner, if he was not required to stand duty, Ivan Postivich wrestled, challenging not one, but two men at once. He did not lack opponents. Hundreds of Janissaries proved eager to fight together to defeat the renowned giant warrior. The merchants, saddlemakers, butchers, and cooks stopped work to watch the evening games, and the pistachio and chestnut vendors did brisk business among crowds of Janissaries, ravenous before their evening meal.
At first Postivich lost every match, often in less than a minute. Two men could work together to pull the giant down and pin him, as they did over and over again. He grunted, face down in the dirt, under the weight of the men, his spit turning the dust to mud under his chin.
“Kadir! You thick-headed Serb! It is impossible!” the soldiers howled. But they watched in eagerness and exchanged bets as to how long he would stand.It was the very thin chance of victory and the big heart of the
“You dare prescribe your pagan rites to an Ottoman Princess!” said Esma Sultan, suddenly sitting up in bed, a cobra ready to strike.
Karatheodory realized he had gone too far, but he was too old and respected to fear the Sultan’s sister’s wrath.
“I have only speculated what I would prescribe were you of the Holy Byzantine faith,” replied the doctor calmly. “Since you are not of my church, I can only suggest that Allah will decide your destiny and cure you of the headaches, dreams, and sleepless nights; these visions of dead men choking the clear clean waters of the Bosphorus. I have potions that will induce sleep and a headwrap soaked in soothing lavender oils to ease your headache. But I can only treat the symptoms of your disease. There is something that haunts you that I as a man of physical healing, cannot reach.”
“You are too old to cure anyone,” pronounced Esma Sultan, turning away from the man. “You are dismissed to drink the spirits in the tavern that have polluted your mind so as to render you decrepit and useless to the Ottoman Sultans. I shall tell my Angel brother so!”
The physician nodded that he understood and a guard instantly appeared to escort him to the palace gates.
It had been days since Esma Sultan had left her bedchamber to walk in her gardens or visit her beloved library. Bezm-i Alem and the other harem womentook turns bringing the Ottoman Princess sherbets and fruitwaters, offering barley water and honeyed baklavas from the Greek cook, Maria. Nazip offered her the opium pipe, which she took at first, until she became sickened by the drug. Esma Sultan swore she smelled dead bodies, foul with rot. She retched silently into a copper bowl by her divan while Bezm-i Alem pressed damp cotton cloths to her forehead.
The harem woman gathered flowers from the Princess’s immense gardens and sent boys to the Bazaar to buy even more from the vendors, but nothing could ease her anguish. Every vase, even the most precious enamel vessels from Topkapi, burst with pungent blooms. The harem sniffed the air like dogs, trying to discern any aroma but the cloying sweet fragrance of the myriad bouquets, while Esma Sultan raged at their ineptness and pressed lemon-scented linen handkerchiefs to her nose, barely breathing.
Ivan Postivich could not bear the soft life of the palace and thought only of battle and the weight of his sword in his hand. He pictured the cirit games, staged somehow without him, and wondered how his favorite mare, Peri, fared under the hand of another rider and groom.
Mahmud was sly, thought Postivich. He preferred to kill a janissary slowly with idleness and seclusion rather than have him die in a war that would bring honor and martyrdom. Postivich sat on a cool marble bench, planning how he would change his life to make himself a soldier once again.
Every night before dinner, if he was not required to stand duty, Ivan Postivich wrestled, challenging not one, but two men at once. He did not lack opponents. Hundreds of Janissaries proved eager to fight together to defeat the renowned giant warrior. The merchants, saddlemakers, butchers, and cooks stopped work to watch the evening games, and the pistachio and chestnut vendors did brisk business among crowds of Janissaries, ravenous before their evening meal.
At first Postivich lost every match, often in less than a minute. Two men could work together to pull the giant down and pin him, as they did over and over again. He grunted, face down in the dirt, under the weight of the men, his spit turning the dust to mud under his chin.
“Kadir! You thick-headed Serb! It is impossible!” the soldiers howled. But they watched in eagerness and exchanged bets as to how long he would stand.It was the very thin chance of victory and the big heart of the
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