The Drowning Guard: A Novel of the Ottoman Empire Read Online Free PDF

dried gourd.”
    The Princess cocked her head.
    “Have you not tasted the fresh figs from my own garden?”
    “I have no appetite,” answered the man, his eyes fixed firmly on the floor. He looked up briefly, imploring help from the slave girl, but she stared blankly back at his pleading eyes.
    The Princess studied his face. It was finely molded, an almost noble look on the head of a peasant. He had been acquired five days before. His sisters, both beautiful and fair, had been sold to a Pasha for a good sum.
    “You are not as fair as your sisters. But you are comely.” Her finger stroked his cheek. She turned his head with a pivot of her wrist, as if she were examining a pet.
    The man raised his head suddenly. “You have news of my sisters?”
    “Of course. But I will only exchange news for something of value to me.”
    “What do you want?”
    “You will take a bite of the fig I offer you from my own hand and I will tell you of your sisters.”
    She nodded to Emerald who disappeared down the hall.
    “They are alive, then.”
    “Wait. I will tell you after you are refreshed. You must also drink some tea. Then you will hear all I have to tell on the subject.”
    The Princess clapped her hands, her eyes never leaving her guest’s face.
    Emerald reappeared with a harem girl, each bearing a tray. One contained three large purple and green figs, along with a silver knife. The other held an ornate silver tea service.
    “Now admire the beauty of the most magnificent fruit in all Constantinople.” Esma Sultan cupped her right hand and placed the fig in her palm. With her left hand she slowly turned the fruit by the stem, making it pirouette.
    “See the marvelous fig, how the skin begs to wrinkle from its own weight, so ripe for eating.” The Princess sliced the fig into quarters, the creamy rose-color flesh exposed against the dark skin.
    She flicked a look at her red-haired handmaid and nodded, initiating a secret ritual between them.
    “Take this,” said the Princess, holding a piece between her delicate white fingers. “Open your mouth.”
    The man hesitated and then dropped open his jaw. She tucked the fruit inside and then, before he could draw back, slipped a finger into his mouth, and let it linger against his tongue, before she slipped it out, slippery with the juice of the fruit.
    “Good,” she murmured and the freckled harem girl who had delivered the tea tray laughed.
    The man looked around stunned. He stared at his slippered feet and the rich silk tunic in which the eunuch had dressed him. The billowing white pants were sashed at the waist with a maroon and gold corded belt.
    “Your sisters were sold to a dear friend of mine, Pasha Mustafa Efendi. He will treat them well and their lives will be much easier than what they knew in their village. I suspect they will become fat and content within a year’s time and bear him strong Muslim children.”
    “They are a part of his harem?”
    “Yes, of course. They will convert to Islam and learn the Koran. He will see that they are taught calligraphy and embroidery. They are still young enough to learn well. They will speak Ottoman and learn verses well enough to recite to the Sultan, my Angel brother.”
    “And my mother?”
    The Princess frowned. “I told you I would give you news of your sisters. You must satisfy other wishes to hear of your mother’s destiny.”

    Ivan Postivich had lied to the Greek cook. He found it more and more difficult to sleep and this particular night was the worst he could remember.
    The room was fetid with the smell of sleeping men. Their bodies gave off the odors of sweat and passion, five having stopped at a brothel just before curfew. Despite the Koran’s commandment to wash before and after sex, the Janissaries, native to Wallachia, Greece, and the Baltic territories, were sometimes too drunk and exhausted to carry out the ritual ablutions. Their snores carried the stench of rotting teeth, and a stifling acrid odor