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himself.”
    “Then twice is his suffering,” muttered the oarsman.
    “And your mistress?” said Postivich, looking out to the deep waters of the Bosphorus. “You think Allah sees her?”
    The man stared down at his frayed sandals, his own fine clothes for the Royal Barge laid out in his bedroom chamber in the outer court of the palace. He was favored by the Sultan and his sister for his beauty and strength at the oars and was rising quickly through the lower ranks of the Ottoman navy, though he still had to perform the vile task of rowing men to their death.
    “Allah sees all,” the oarsman said. “No Sultan or Ottoman is above his judgment.”
    “That is inconvenient for all of us then,” whispered Ivan Postivich. “For Allah seems to offer no recourse.”
    “In my heart, I seethe with loathing for the deeds I have committed. I see the men I have transported to their death in my dreams, struggling against the knotted bag at the bottom of the Bosphorus. How can Allah not answer with his own sword of revenge for the innocent? I shall have my revenge one day in a manner that will cripple the Ottoman rule.”
    “You do not speak as one who sleeps under the roof of the palace,” said Postivich, wiping his hands of the charred bits of chestnuts. “But for all I know you are a spy for the Princess, searching for those disloyal to her. So I shall say to you, oarsman with the unlucky name of Ahmed, ‘Long live the Sultan and his favorite sister.’ ”
    With that, the janissary turned to continue his walk, the oarsman protesting his innocence and agony in his wake.
    “You shall see how earnest my confession is,” hissed the oarsman from the rocks. “One day, I shall redeem my soul and that of this Empire!”
    Ivan Postivich turned and looked down at the defiant eyes of the Turkish sailor.
    “Then Allah be with you to guide your soul,” he said, registering the oath as truth. He walked on, leaving the young man at the edge of the Bosphorus.
    As Postivich returned to the barracks on the edge of the massive drilling grounds of Et Meydan, he heard the raucous laughter of Janissaries coming from a tavern. He saw a piece of parchment nailed to the door, flapping slightly in the light breeze.
    It was a crude picture of a janissary—made obvious by the exaggerated white sleevehat—and, beside him, the Sultan, attached to a leash. And below the drawing, in crude capital letters:
    YOU SEE HOW WE USE OUR DOGS. AS LONG AS THEY ARE USEFUL TO US AND SUFFER THEMSELVES TO BE LED, WE USE THEM WELL, BUT WHEN THEY CEASE TO BE OF SERVICE, WE CAST THEM INTO THE STREETS.
    Postivich knew that a similar paper had been found on the Topkapi gates and the Sultan, furious with the insult, had ordered the artist to be found and beheaded. The Aga of the Janissary Corps had summoned his troops to the Topkapi walls and made the announcement, even though it was rumored hesneered at the Sultan’s command, knowing that the loyal brotherhood of these soldiers was far stronger than an Ottoman ruler’s decree.
    Postivich avoided taverns; they were hotbeds of mutiny and defiance. The Sultan himself was known to frequent them in disguise to flush out the ringleaders and agitators who threatened his regime. It was Sultan Mahmud II who had stripped Postivich of his command after the border campaigns, suspicious of the huge soldier’s power over other men.
    The public display of scorn for the all-powerful Sultan flapped insolently on the tavern door.

    The Sultan’s procession to Friday morning prayers was an event the chestnut vendor looked forward to every week. Everyone gathered along the shores of the Golden Horn to see the great Sultan’s kayik cut through the water, accompanied by the fleet of his entourage. He sat bejeweled on cushions, his aquiline nose jutting into the wind, face immobile—imperial grandeur incarnate.
    As Mahmud’s subjects gathered to watch this convoy, the chestnut vendor’s business was good. Men and boys stood in