The Drowning Guard: A Novel of the Ottoman Empire by Linda Lafferty Page A

said. “The love of the horse is in our Turkish blood. Don’t look so astonished, it shows your ignorance of our history—you bring shame to our Topkapi tutors who educated you. Before the Prophet, Turkish women were known for their horsemanship, praised in art and legend. This is the work of a Persian master who painted the Sultan’s harem at play. It is believed to be Princess Shirin and her ladies.”
    “It is truly magnificent,” said Ivan Postivich.
    “It is a treasure,” murmured the Princess. “Nothing less.”
    She regarded him again. “It is perhaps my most prized possession. Curious you would notice it among all the treasures in this room.”
    She gestured to the exquisite Chinese vases and fine English porcelain, the jewel-studded snuffboxes, pure gold sabers, ivory chests, inlaid tables and the solid gold spittoon she kept near for special visitors.
    “Horses,” he said, turning back to the painting. “That is what I know best.”
    She nodded. “It is good to know one true thing.”
    The Princess rang a small gold bell. Immediately the doors were open to the Head Eunuch who rubbed the sleep from his eyes and straightened his tunic to greet his mistress.
    “Escort the janissary to the barracks, Saffron. See that he is treated first to breakfast in the gardens and then relieved of all duties except to be at this veryplace at a quarter to midnight tonight. Assign him a eunuch to serve him with a company of pages.”
    “Yes, my Sultaness.”
    “And open all the shutters to my bedchamber but bring me a dark veil to shade the light from my eyes. I am ready to sleep.”
    Without another word, the Princess clapped and Ivan Postivich was led out of the chamber and through the grand hall to the garden.

    Saffron received Postivich in the courtyard adjacent to the fountain. The janissary studied the eunuch’s face and saw none of the hostility of their first meeting, but no sign that the man liked or respected him. Still the janissary had made his mistress eager for rest for the first moment in over a week, and for this, the servant was immensely grateful. This showed in the relaxed folds around his lips and eyes. Still, he did not utter a word.
    What was missing in the eunuch’s demeanor was more than compensated for by the sumptuous service lavished upon the soldier. A young mulatto eunuch brought a gold encrusted pitcher and poured lemon-scented water over his hands, splashing into a mother-of-pearl bowl. A small parade of servants—the tablakars—entered the courtyard, balancing the wooden trays on their heads. The plates were laden with palace delicacies. The Princess’s own dining maids served the food, their waists adorned with white napkins, the ends tasseled in gold embroidery.
    The significance of such service was not lost on Ivan; nor was it on the serving girls. This treatment was reserved for members of the royal court or the most esteemed guests.
    Ivan dined on
kaymak
, the thick rich cream spread over
simit
s, a bread baked in a ring. An exquisite salted white cheese was laid out on fine china, covered with a linen cloth perfumed in rosemary and lemon. Stuffed mussels, blue-silver caviar that mimicked the White Sea in its translucence and small fish cooked in pools of golden olive oil were arrayed in dishes with silver edges, covered in white cloths embroidered in gold thread.
    Plates of
tursu
, pickled vegetables, were arrayed in front of him to tempt his appetite. There was no beverage served, and the meal gave him a great thirst. A servant brought water from a palace cistern, icy cold in a silver goblet.
    “Have you eaten your fill?”
    Ivan Postivich turned to see a pale ghost of a man in a white turban and scarlet tunic addressing him. He was short and somewhat flabby, with rounded breasts that strained at his starched tunic like those of a fat woman.
    Ivan Postivich’s gut tightened as if someone had punched him. He recognized this white eunuch who waited on the docks after the