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

warrior that they were willing to gamble on, for Ahmed Kadir embodied the legendary spirit of the Janissaries, even if he lost, time and time again.
    Young men from Postivich’s old cirit and polo squads stood before an open barrel of crude olive oil, rubbing down their former corbaci before each match. They good-naturedly sponged the oil over his skin and leather wrestling pants until he glistened in the sun like an immortal god.
    “How a jereed would slide past you now!” the young cavalrymen joked, though they knew the pain their old captain felt at being stripped of his orta command and mount. Although wrestling was one of the foremost war games, it could not compete with the noble thrill of dodging spears on a galloping horse. But being still young, they had faith in justice, and believed with one heart that a day would come when the giant would fell the two opponents on the wrestling ground, and their warrior would stand victorious. And they hoped that they would see Ahmed Kadir astride his mare again, leading them into battle.
    One day, after weeks of competitions that left Postivich’s body sore and bruised, the crowd of Janissaries erupted in a fierce roar of cheers that sent the pigeons flying in great circles over the Bosphorus and the Golden Horn. Ivan Postivich had pinned two men at once, locking his trunk-like legs around one and crushing the other in his sinewy arms. The gasping opponents writhed under him, spitting and cursing. Postivich lifted his leonine head to the crowd, his hair matted in sweat and grease, grinning through the still-rising dust.
    “Long live the Giant! May Allah protect Ahmed Kadir!”
    The cheers of hundreds of Janissaries reached the courtyards of Topkapi, where the Sultan raised his head in alarm.
    “What is that cry?” he asked the Grand Vizier who walked at his side in the inner courtyard, under the plane trees. He looked over the wall and saw the birds of Constantinople swoop overhead, still frightened by the roar.
    “Send a servant to find out why the pigeons circle the city. Is this a cry of mutiny? Secure the port and harem! Bring me my sword!”
    Shortly, a page, still gasping for breath after his run to Et Meydan, asked permission to approach the Sultan.
    His head still lowered, sweat glistening on his upper lip, the page reported:
    “The giant Ahmed Kadir of the Kapikulu cavalry defeated two other Janissaries in wrestling, pinning them for over a minute on the ground!”
    “The shouts we heard were congratulations on a victory in sport, Sultan,” said the Vizier in relief. “You can rest calmly now for there is no conspiracy!Simply strength of the giant who lifts our army’s hearts in a harmless pastime.”
    The Sultan rubbed his black beard with his thumb and index finger, pulling at it brutally as he contemplated the news.

    Postivich began walking the streets of Constantinople at all hours of the night. He filled a saddlebag with heavy rocks in order to carry more weight and tax his body, as if in battle. Each night he walked farther and farther around the Imperial City, coming back as the muezzins called the faithful for morning prayer. He found that he needed little sleep; his body thrived on the rigorous exercise, clearing his mind.
    The wild dog packs of Constantinople began to shadow him. They prowled at his side, sensing his strength and urgency. Though he threw sharp rocks at them and cursed in Serbo-Croat, they only whined and cowered, and soon were at his side again, trotting along in the darkness.
    The fishermen and prostitutes would point at the dogs as they loped down the streets to join the pack and say, “The giant must be near, looking for battle that the Sultan denies him.”
    And thus Ivan Postivich—janissary Ahmed Kadir—slowly became a legend throughout the Royal City of Constantinople.

Chapter 3
    A fter many sleepless nights, the Princess sat up straight on her divan. The two harem girls had fallen asleep beside her on the floor, their