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

the stones and prayed, tucking the long sleeve of his janissary cap behind him. Thousands of men were roused from their blankets and a sea of turbans faced southeast towards Mecca and the rising sun.
    Postivich never thought of Mecca. Instead he thought that by facing the City of God he was able to keep his left ear towards his homeland in the north. It was then he would remember.
    “Hide him, oh God, hide him. In the pantry, behind the apple basket.”
    “He won’t fit, Mother. He’s too big!”
    “Make him fit or you shall have no brother.”
    His sister Irena hid him behind a woven reed basket and then pushed the door closed.
    The reeds stuck into his skin as she shoved him in further, trying to make the wooden latch swing down and hold the door shut.
    He stayed still, quiet and dumb with pain, his scratched limbs contorted and cramped.
    “We have come to see all the Christian boys,” said the Ottoman-accented voice.
    “They say the devshirme is no more, that the Sultan needs not gather the Christians. Why do you come to this house, janissary?”
    “You have a son. One the Sultan must see.”
    “Oh,” his mother laughed, straining to convince them. “If I had a son, I would have better fortune. I have only my daughter here to help me with so much work since my husband died.”
    From the darkness of the cabinet, the boy heard the strange pitch of the Ottoman language being spoken for the first time. Understanding nothing, he marveled at the sounds, wondering whether they could really understand one another.
    “We know of the girl,” said the corbaci. “But first, the son.”
    “I told you. I have no son.”
    “The neighbor across the way has told us that you have a boy, a giant boy of seven, unlike any in the region. We will take this one to the palace at Topkapi. He will become a great janissary some day and serve the Sultan.”
    Ivan Postivich heard his sister give a little cry. His heart beat quickly in the dark and he wondered if he would suffocate in the strong smell of ripe apples.
    “That bewitched old woman would tell the Sultan’s army anything for a loaf of bread,” said his mother. “She has visions, you understand she is a half-wit and—”
    “Search the house,” commanded the officer.
    The cabinet door was flung open and the boy heard his mother scream as he squinted in the sudden light of day.
    Ivan Postivich rose from his prayers, remembering. He rubbed his back as he straightened. He decided to forgo his morning ration at the soup pot and walk to the stables to supervise the feeding of the horses before he returned to his cot to rest.
    The cavalry stables were located just above the River Lycus, at the edge of the city. Ivan Postivich breathed in the good smell of horse, the sweet hay mingled with the salty sweat of fine animals who had carried him into battle. The cool air from the river below carried away the stench of the slaughterhouse and brought with it the freshness of the Sweet Waters beyond.
    A horse meant more than the Koran or the Bible to Ivan Postivich. It was a horse that had given him comfort when no religion could. He entered the stables as one of the faithful—here amidst the sweet smell of dried grass and the earthy musk of horse dung, he felt sanctuary.
    As a seven-year-old child, lonely for his mother, sister, and homeland, he had cried into the rough coat of his first horse, Dervish, a small Anatolian crossbreed. Young Ahmed Kadir—Ivan Postivich no more—had plenty to weep for and the shaggy Turkish pony seemed not to mind his tears.
    Only a week before, a janissary had taken the terrified boy to an immense stadium, the Hippodrome, where he had waited in the bright sun for an eternity. At last, a man in a tall turban approached him with a sharp knife. Bewildered and still not speaking either Ottoman or Turkish, Ivan was made tounderstand that he was to lie very still. The man removed the boy’s trousers and grasped his penis, stretching it thin like taffy. The