Adora

Chapter Sixteen

For the next few days they remained camped in the hills. Murad would allow no one but Adora to wait on him. Though the other servants might serve her and do her bidding, the sultan insisted that his beautiful royal slave do everything for him from bathing him to cooking their meals. This latter was proving a disaster, and Murad finally relieved her of that particular task after several badly cooked and burned meals.

“I cannot believe that anyone with your intelligence could be so clumsy, so inept at the cookfire,” he chuckled as he rubbed lamb fat on her latest burn.

Furiously she yanked her hand away. “I have been trained to use my mind, not my hands! Inept at the cookfire! I should hope so! I am a princess of Byzantium, not a servant!”

A slow, lazy smile lit his features. “You are my slave, Adora, and while you may not be skilled at cooking, you are becoming skilled enough in other matters to make me forget your lack of culinary ability.”

With a cry of outrage she hurled a silken pillow at him, snatching up a cloak she ran from the tent. But his deep mocking laughter followed her. She fled to a small, rocky glade set above the camp, a place she had discovered just the day before. It was lushly carpeted in thick, deep green moss, and hidden by beech and pine trees. She sat by a small natural basin hollowed out of the rock by dripping water.

She wept. She was not a slave! She was not! She was a princess born. She would not, could not, be his whore. She twisted the sodden linen handkerchief. The problem was that men treated her as a pretty plaything, a soft body upon which they could satisfy their lusts. An empty vessel, like a chamberpot, into which they could empty themselves. God! Had it always been like that? Must it continue to be?

The courtesans of ancient Greece were respected for their intellects as well as their bodies. So were the queens of ancient Egypt, who had ruled with their men as equals. But she could hardly expect that kind of thinking from a race just a generation off the steppes, who still preferred tents to palaces. These men expected their women to cook over fires and care for animals. She laughed aloud. At least she hadn’t been subjected to the indignity of pitting her wits against a herd of goats! She had an uncomfortable feeling that the goats might outwit her. She could almost hear Murad’s laughter.

On a branch beside her a wild canary sang his exquisite song, and she looked ruefully up at him. “Ah, little one,” she sighed. “At least you are free to lead your life as you choose.” A bird had more control over its life than a woman! She rose to return to the encampment, and was startled to find the sultan standing in the shadows of a large rock, watching her.

Irrational anger flooded her. She had thought of this glade as a personal retreat. “Am I allowed no privacy?” she snarled at him.

“I feared for your safety.”

“Why? What you want of me can easily be given by a thousand women far more eager to please you than I am.” She attempted to push past him, but he gripped her cruelly about the soft upper arm. “You will bruise me!” she cried at him.

“And if I do? You are mine, Adora! Mine to use as I so choose!”

“The body, yes!” she flung at him. “But unless you have all of me, you have none of me. And you will never possess my soul!” Her voice was triumphant.

A black fury engulfed him. For four days she had been spitting at him like a hellcat. He could render her helpless to desire, but when he was finished with her, her amethyst eyes mocked him, telling him that he did not really own her. His anger had become uncontrollable. Kicking her legs out from beneath her, he sent her falling to the ground.

The wind was knocked out of her, seeing the vicious look in his eyes, she was truly frightened. Slowly, deliberately, he straddled her, pulling her cloak apart, methodically ripping her garments open. She fought him, terrified. “Please, my lord, please! No! I beg of you, my lord! Not this way!”

Brutally he drove into her resisting body. She moaned with pain. He increased his tempo and suddenly his seed was spilling into her. Then he lay still. When his breathing had returned to its normal pace he stood up, pulling her roughly after him.

“Return to the camp. You are not to leave it again without my permission.”

Gathering the cloak about her, she stumbled down the path. Safely within her own tent she gave orders for a bath. When it arrived she dismissed the slaves. Carefully she gathered the shreds of her clothing and, tying them in a bundle, stuffed them into the bottom of a trunk. She could dispose of them later, and no one would know what had happened.

He had raped her! Just as brutally as any soldier would rape a battle captive! He was a brute! If she had needed further proof of how he really felt about women, this was certainly it.

Then suddenly silent tears slid down her cheeks to mingle with the bath water. She hated him, yet she loved him. She disliked admitting this to herself. But it was possible that Ali Yahya was right. If she were to conquer Murad, she might have to use her body. She would, after all, be a fool to allow some brainless girl to gain control of the sultan. She had to face the fact that at twenty-three, the mother of a half-grown youth, she was no longer in the first flush of youth.

A sob escaped her, and she looked guiltily around. It would not do for the slaves to hear her weeping. She put her face in her hands to muffle her weeping and allowed her sorrow to pour forth. Then, as she began to grow calm, she faced the realization that she had driven him to it. It was as though she had wanted to force him into acts of bestiality so that the comparison with her beloved Alexander would be greater. She must face facts. Alexander was dead. He would never return again. She would never hear his voice calling her “beauty” in that tender, half-amused way. Her fate was with the man who had first touched her heart and soul. Her fate was with Murad.

Having him to herself was an incredible opportunity. If she had not been so busy feeling sorry for herself, she would have realized this. She swore softly. After today she would not be surprised to see him order their return to Bursa-and that must not happen! She must work quickly.

Shouting for a slave, she sent for Ali Yahya. By the time the eunuch arrived she was wrapped in a mauve silk robe. Dismissing the slaves, she swiftly told the eunuch what had happened, finishing with, “I am a fool, Ali Yahya! A fool! You were right, but if the sultan orders our return to Bursa now, I may have lost my best opportunity. Will you still help me?”

The eunuch smiled broadly. “Now, Highness, you speak as a wise woman!” he enthused. “I had begun to fear that perhaps I was mistaken in my judgement of you.”

“What do you gain in all of this?” she suddenly asked.

“Power and riches,” was the equally frank reply. “What else is there for me? I will guide you, and protect you against all enemies, including your own self. When your son is safely born I will help you to plan his future so that he will one day take up the sword of Osman as did his grandfather and father.”

“And if Murad’s seed is potent?” said Theadora quietly. “Then what of his other sons by other mothers? He has told me, Ali Yahya, that he will take no wives in either the Muslim or the Christian sense, but rather he will choose favorites from a harem he intends to keep.”

“And it is I who will choose that harem, my princess. I shall choose the youngest, the loveliest, the most exquisite of creatures for the pleasure of my lord and master. Each maiden entering his bed will surpass her predecessor in beauty.” He stopped, and chuckled wickedly. “And each maiden will surpass her predecessor in stupidity. Murad may rail at you for your intelligence, Highness, but it is your mind that fascinates him, far more than he knows or is willing to admit. You will shine like the full mid-summer moon amid a group of minor, insignificant stars. Fear not the children of these other women, for there will be none. There are ancient ways of preventing conception, ways known to me.”

“And are these girls to be so free of brains that they will willingly permit you to render them sterile? Come, Ali Yahya! That is too much to believe.”

“They will never know, Highness. Eunuchs are not born, my princess, they are made. I was born free, far to the east of this land, in a place where the religion of ancient Chaldea was still practiced. And still is worshiped, even now. I was neutered by my own parents and pledged to those ancient gods. I served in our temple as apprentice to the high priest. Together we served Ishtar of Erech, the Goddess of Love and Fertility. The temple’s priestesses were trained to service the lusty male worshippers of the deity, for each maiden was Ishtar incarnated, and to couple with a priestess of Ishtar of Erech was to lie with the goddess herself. Fathers brought their sons to experience their first carnal act in the arms of Ishtar. Men with problems of impotence paid great sums to be cured by these skilled women. Bridegrooms spent the night before their wedding with priestesses in order to insure their own fertility and that of their brides.

“If precautions had not been taken, few women would have remained priestesses long. Those girls consecrated to Ishtar of Erech enter the temple school at age six for at least six years of training. Once they reach puberty they must serve the goddess for five years. Therefore, before they sacrifice their virginity to Ishtar, they are placed in a light trance by the surgeon high priest, and a pessary device is inserted within their wombs. That device is removed and replaced regularly, always when the girl is in the trance state.

“None of the girls is permitted to perform their duties without the protection of this implant, not until they have served their five years. At the end of that time the pessary is removed for the Spring Festival of Ishtar, and enough of the maidens become pregnant at that time to satisfy the worshippers of Ishtar as to her influence on fertility.

“I served ten years in the temple, beginning when I was seven. I learned the arts of putting another person into a trance, and of making and implanting these pessary devices.

“When I was seventeen a troop of Muslims rode into my remote village and destroyed our temple. The priest and high priestess were killed. The rest of us were carried off into slavery. I have used the skills taught me many times. I will use them for you, if you will agree to bear the sultan his sons.”‘

Theadora looked the eunuch over gravely. “You are indeed a powerful friend, Ali Yahya. But satisfy my curiosity in one thing. Why me? Why not some nubile, pretty, witless little thing?”

“It is your very intelligence that makes me choose you, Highness. You understand and quickly grasp situations. You will be loyal to the sultan-and to me. You are above the petty squabblings of the harem maidens and will be a stabilizing influence upon your lord. You will rear your children wisely to serve this empire well.

“A younger, stupid girl would inevitably turn out to be greedy for riches, greedy for power. She would try to play politics. We will have a certain amount of that as it is, Highness, but as long as you remain supreme in the sultan’s heart, the small influence of these girls will be like insect bites-occasionally irritating, but totally unimportant.”

She nodded. “Now,” she said worriedly, “I must consider best how to get back into Murad’s good graces.”

The eunuch’s eyes twinkled. “Why, you will weep, my princess, and you will fling yourself into his arms, sobbing your apology,” he said.

“Ali Yahya!” She was laughing. “He will never believe such softness from me. Rather, it will arouse his suspicions.”

“He will believe if you are clever, Highness. He is angry and beginning to lose patience with this battle between you. I will gently stoke the fires of his anger, telling him he did right this afternoon in asserting his mastery over you. Encouraging him to continue the lesson this evening.”

“And thus encouraged,” Adora took up the thread of the eunuch’s thought, “he will come roaring into my tent like an outraged bull. I will exhibit a momentary, small, defiant attitude before going to pieces.”

“Excellent, Highness! As I have said, you are quick to grasp the point.”

Again she laughed. “Go, then, old schemer, and rouse my lord and master to proper fury. But remember, to give me time to dress and anoint myself properly.”

“I will send two serving women immediately,” he said. Then he left her. The eunuch walked across the compound to find the sultan bathing in his tent.

“Ah, Ali Yahya,” said Murad, “there you are. Make arrangements for us to leave for Bursa by noon tomorrow. I will ride back this night.”

“I am sorry you choose to run, my lord, when victory is so near at hand. With your actions of this afternoon, I had thought you finally understood the situation and were prepared to handle Princess Theadora with firmness.”

“Understood what, Ali Yahya?” He turned to the slave. “Be careful with that hot water, fool! Do you wish to scald me?”

“I thought,” said the eunuch, “you realized that, to win the princess back, you must force her to admit your superiority. You have almost succeeded in taming her. I have just come from her, tent, where I left her in tears. She loves you! She hates you!” He chuckled broadly. “One more such lesson as this afternoon, and you will break her to your will, my lord.”

“Do you really think so, Ali Yahya? I will admit that I love her, but I can take no more of her constant defiance and wicked temper. I would have you stock me a harem of quiet, gentle girls. One spitfire in my house is more than enough!”

“That is true, my lord, but a meal without a little pepper is a bland one. Go to her again tonight. I know she will be contrite. If you do not weaken, she will admit her faults. If she does, then you must remain here several more days to reinforce your position with her. What a sweet victory, eh, my lord?” finished the eunuch, pleased with the look of longing he detected in the sultan’s dark eyes.

Murad rose up from his tub and slaves dried his big, well-muscled body. Finally Murad spoke.

“Very well,” he said. “You may delay giving the orders to return to Bursa. We will see just how obedient my lovely Adora is willing to become.” He stood, holding his arms out, allowing his slaves to clothe him in a black silk robe. It was embroidered with branches of golden mimosa and closed with delicately sewn-gold frogs. Soft black kid slippers lined in the tender fleece of unborn lamb were slipped on his feet. Then, without another word, Murad left the tent and strode across the camp toward Theadora’s tent.

Ali Yahya cast his eyes skyward and muttered under his breath, “Whoever… Let my plans succeed!”

“He comes, mistress!” whispered the slavewoman excitedly, peering from between the tent flaps.

“Get you gone! All of you! Quickly! Quickly!” commanded Adora. The women fled as Murad entered.

Allah, but she was lovely. Quickly he caught himself before he showed any sign of weakness. She wore a loose robe of pale lilac silk, similar to his but much simpler. It closed with a row of little gold knots beginning at the valley of her breasts. He noted with satisfaction that her eyes were slightly red-rimmed.

He said nothing, and she stood defiantly looking at him for a moment. Then her lower lip trembled. She caught at it with her little white teeth, hastily wiping away two large tears that slid quickly down her pale cheeks.

“My lord,” her voice was a whisper. “Oh, my lord, I do not know how- I-I ask your-” Without warning she flung herself at him, and he found his arms automatically tightening about her. She wept softly against him, wetting his robe through to his chest.

He was delighted but dared not show it. He had expected fury at his treatment of her this afternoon, yet here she was, all soft and feminine, seeking to apologize to him. “Look at me, Adora.” Without hesitation she raised her face to him. Her lovely amethyst eyes were bright with tears, the black lashes matted. Unable to restrain himself, he bent to kiss the soft, inviting red mouth. To his surprise, her arms twined about his neck and her lips opened willingly-Allah!-eagerly, beneath his. She was kissing him back, and then she was murmuring, “Oh, Murad! I have been such a fool! Please, please forgive me!”

He was at a loss for words.

“It was my pride, my lord,” she said, drawing him down onto a pile of soft cushions, “surely you understand that, for yours is as great as mine, and I have a wicked temper. And both our fathers spoiled me terribly.” Kneeling, she drew off his slippers. Then she cuddled next to him.

“Your behavior has been almost unforgivable,” he said gruffly.

She raised herself up on one elbow and leaned forward just enough that he was treated to a generous view of her breasts. “But you will forgive this humble slave,” she begged prettily. When he looked sharply at her he saw her mouth trembling with suppressed mirth.

Relieved that her spirit wasn’t completely broken, he laughed and pulled her into his arms. “I do not believe you are really repentant at all,” he teased.

Her eyes grew serious. “But I do apologize, my lord. I do! I would not blame you if you sent me away.” She held her breath.

“Do you want to go?” he asked.

There was only the briefest pause. “No. Do not send me from you, Murad. Those years I lived as your father’s wife were a living hell for me. I maintained my sanity only by believing in the promise you once made to me in a moonlit garden: that one day I should be your wife. When you told me the other night that you would take no wife, but only keep a harem…” She paused, then said, “I am only a woman, my lord, and easily hurt. You know how hard it will be for me to accept your decision. My religion views an unmarried concubine as lower than a creature of the streets.”

“But my religion puts you above all women, Adora. I did not mean to hurt you, beloved. Understand me, my dove, I did not tell you I would not take a wife to sadden or shame you. For the last several generations the Ottomans have been forced to contract political marriages to aid them with their conquests. I do not believe we need do this any longer. We are at the very gates of Constantinople. When we conquer it, we will make it our own capital before moving out into Europe itself. The virgin daughters, sisters, nieces, and wards of those in our path will not be enough to bribe us-for we are stronger.

“Perhaps we Turks do treat our woman differently from the way the Greeks treat theirs, but we revere them for the one thing that only they can do. Only the female can accept and nurture the seed of life within her body. Only the female can bear that life safely, give it nourishment and care. It is his woman who provides a man’s immortality by giving him sons.

“You have a fine son, Adora. Can you honestly tell me that you have made any greater accomplishment in your lifetime than to give Halil life?”

She was amazed at the depth of his thoughts. And then she realized how little she actually knew the man. They had never really talked as they were doing now. She wondered whether he was aware of the sweet victory this was for her. It mattered not! For now, it was enough for her.

She smiled up at him and said quietly, “I suppose Halil has been my greatest accomplishment, and my life would have been very empty without him.”

“Give me a son!” he said fiercely. Her heart quickened at the passion in his gaze.

She could not tear her eyes from his. She felt strangely weak, held a half-willing captive of those dark eyes that burned with little red and gold flames deep within. His fingers slipped the row of little gold knots that held her robe together and she felt the big hands gently stroking the swell of her breasts. For the first time she did not resist him, and a delicious, languorous feeling began to creep over her. His hands were those of a warrior, large and square, the fingernails cut short. The skin of his palms and fingers were neither rough nor smooth, but rather a combination of both, and the touch of it on her silken flesh made her shiver. He caught a hard little nipple between his finger and thumb and rubbed, delighting in her gasp of pleasure.

To his surprise, she opened his robe and placed her warm palms against him. Her slim fingers began to tease the hair on his chest, twining amid the soft, tight curls, pulling gently. Her eyes were soft with a growing desire.

He stood up and let his robe drop to the floor, pulling her after him. He drew the lilac-colored silk from her. Standing for a moment, they openly admired each other’s bodies. His hand reached out and gently caressed her. She returned the caress. Stepping forward, he gathered her up into his arms, her head nestled against his shoulder, and carried her slowly to their couch. Tenderly he placed her on the silken sheets, standing above her a moment. Then he eagerly joined her as she opened her arms to him.

His fingers removed the tortoise shell pins from her hair. Then he pulled the thick, lily-scented cloud down about the two of them. Only then did he seek her mouth, and she shivered for his kisses were sweet with remembrance, and spiced with expectation.

“You are perfection, my Adora,” he murmured softly. “And so there will never again be a misunderstanding between us, let me tell you plainly that I love you, my darling. The sultan of the Ottomans lays his heart at your slim, white feet, beloved, and humbly asks that you be the mother of his sons. I would fight with you no longer. Let me plant my seed deep within your fertile garden. Let me cherish you-and the new life that will grow within you.”

She was silent a moment. Then she asked, “And if I said ‘No’, my lord-what then?”

“I would send you from me, my dove, probably back to Constantinople. For I cannot remain near you and not want to make love to you.”

“You will not grow angry with me, as your father did, because I like to study and read?”

“No.”

“Then come, my beloved lord. The spring is almost upon us, and if we are to harvest a good crop before the year is out, we must begin.”

He was stunned by her frankness. Her laughter was mischievous. “Oh, Murad, you great fool! I love you! I admit to it, though I am not at all sure I should. I have always loved you. You were my first love, and now it seems you are to be my last. My now and forever love. And so it was written in the stars before either of us even took root in our mothers’ wombs. So Ali Yahya assures me.”

His eager lips found her equally eager ones and soon his mouth was scorching hers, then moving down her body, tasting of breast and belly. When finally he entered her she was but half-conscious: never, never had she known such sweetness. She cried with joy in his possession of her, and again as he released his seed within her. And in that single blazing moment before pleasure claimed her completely, she knew she had conceived a son.

Chapter Seventeen

After two years, the city of Adrianople had fallen to the Turks. There had been virtually no help from Constantinople. The emperor, being a vassal of the sultan, had simply not dared to send his troops.

The wealthiest of Constantinople’s merchants had raised a troop of cavalry and two troops of foot soldiers. Having outfitted them and paid them a year’s wages in advance, they sent them off to protect their vast investments in the Thracian city’s factories and export houses. Once within the city, however, the mercenaries were trapped, along with the inhabitants. The latter were not delighted by having to feed several hundred additional mouths.

Adrianople was one of the last real jewels in Byzantium’s crown. One hundred and thirty-seven miles northwest of Constantinople, it was set on the banks of the Tunja River where it met with the Maritsa River. Located in the center of the Thracian coastal plain, it was surrounded by fertile, well-watered valleys and a surprisingly barren upland. It was said to be located on the site of the ancient city of Uskadame. Certainly something had been there when Hadrian rebuilt the city in the year 125 B.C. Two hundred fifty-three years later the Roman emperor, Valens, lost the city to the Goths. They later lost it to the Bulgars, who lost it to the Byzantines, who lost it to the Crusaders, who lost it back to Byzantium. Byzantium had now lost it forever to the Turks.

There were several reasons for the desirability of possessing Adrianople. It was the marketplace for the entire agricultural region surrounding it, a region that grew fruits and vegetables of every kind, wine grapes, cotton, flax, mulberry bushes, and flowers-especially roses and poppies. The people produced silk, finished cotton cloth, linen of every grade, woolen goods, leather articles, and exquisite silk tapestries. Also produced and exported were rose water, attar of roses, wax, opium, and a red dye that was to be known as “turkey red”.

It was here that the Turks intended to move their capital from Bursa. Adrianople, soon to be renamed Edirne, was to be the Ottomans’ first capital city in Europe. Those sections of the city which had surrendered without a fight were spared the conqueror’s vengeance.

Those sections which had resisted once the Turks breached the city walls were subjected to the traditional three days of pillage and rape. The aged and useless were slaughtered or left to starve, unless they had relatives who could ransom them and remove them from the city. Pregnant and nursing women were the first to be sold into slavery, for a healthy, fertile female slave was a valuable possession. Stripped naked on the block, the way they carried their unborn was discussed knowledgeably by the interested buyers. The space between their hipbones was thought to be a good indication of how easily they would bear their young. Good breeders were welcome in a man’s house. Their unborn, especially sons, were an added bonus to the sale.

Those women who had already borne their babies and now suckled them, were examined for the heaviness of their breasts and even manually milked by the prospective buyers to check the richness of their milk. A woman with more rich milk than her own baby needed could suckle an orphan or the child of a dry mother. The weeping that issued forth from this particular slave market was piteous. But none of the crowds paid a great deal of attention. Such were the fortunes of war.

The children were the next to be sold. The prettier ones, both boys and girls, went quickly in the fast and furious bidding. Next came the young men, beauty and strength being the most obvious assets. Many young men were purchased by their relatives from other parts of the city. They were desperate to retain the young male members of their families who were responsible for breeding the next generation and keeping alive the family name. There were tragedies here too. Twin brothers were auctioned separately, and the family could only afford to retrieve one. The remaining brother was sold to an Arab trader who hoped to make a fortune on the blond boy further south. The identical brothers were torn apart to the sound of awful sobs.

The sisters and female cousins of these young men were less fortunate. Most of the young girls caught by the Turkish soldiers had been raped. Placed last on the slave block as part of the legitimate booty, their youth and their beauty brought good prices from everyone except their families, who were not eager to regain their dishonored daughters. Many a sobbing girl was led away before the stony faces of her own parents.

The sultan, of course, was offered the pick of the captives. But Ali Yahya chose the artisans and craftsmen because Murad intended building a new palace.

The site he had chosen was a large island in the Maritsa River. On one side of the island the view was toward the city, on the other toward the distant, forested mountains. The island was well-treed with a large hill upon the crest of which the palace was to be located. The design was similar to the Alhambra’s, and indeed its architect was a young Moor. There would be courts and fountains, and the entire palace would be surrounded by a carefully cultivated, terraced parkland of gardens, meadow, and woodland. There would be dockage facilities on either side of the island.

The work began immediately, for Murad hoped to have it finished in time for the birth of Adora’s child. Giant blocks of marble were quarried and brought from the Marmara islands. Other pieces were taken from nearby Roman ruins to be cleaned, polished, and recut. Great logs of oak and beech were hauled from the mountains, and several shiploads of cedar from the Mideast arrived at the mouth of the Tunja to be reloaded onto barges and taken upriver to Adrianople.

The finest craftsmen, both free and slave, were brought to work on the palace. There were simple carpenters as well as master builders and carvers. There were plumbers to lay the copper piping for the baths, kitchens, and fountains; painters and gilders; men to lay roof tiles; men to set the wall and floor tiles. In the cities of Bursa and Adrianople the weavers spent long hours at their looms turning out silks, satins, gauzes, and wools. These fabrics were then turned over to the master weavers and seamstresses to be turned into tapestries, rugs, draperies, and other hangings.

Murad drove his architect, who in turn drove his craftsmen and workers as hard as he could. But he dared not tell the sultan that the palace would not be finished in time for the child’s birth. It was finally Theadora who solved the dilemma by suggesting to the architect that he concentrate his men’s efforts into completing her part of the palace first.

Hers was one of six courts. It was to be called The Court of the Beloved.

The Court of the Sun faced southwest and was tiled in red, yellow, gold, and orange. All the flowers in this court were gaily colored. The Court of the Stars and the Moon was done in blue- and cream-colored tiles. Here were planted heavily fragrant nightblooming flowers such as sweet nicotiana, lilies, and moonflower vines. About the deep-blue tiled fountain were set twelve silver plaques, each one representing a sign of the zodiac. There would also be the Court of the Olive Trees, the Court of the Blue Dolphins, and the Court of the Jeweled Fountains.

Adora’s private court faced south and west. It contained her own kitchen and dining room, a complete bath, a nursery for her expected child, her own spacious bedroom, a small library, three reception rooms, and sleeping quarters for her slaves. The open courtyard was large and boasted several small reflecting pools and a beautiful fountain, the water spouting forth from a golden lily. There were dwarfed flowering trees-cherry, apple, almond, and peach. In the spring there would be pink and white blossoms, blue and white hyacinths, yellow, gold and white narcissus, and all varieties of Persian tulips. In the summer the garden would bloom with multicolored roses, windflowers, and lilies-Adora’s favorite. In the autumn the apple trees would offer their fruits to the inhabitants of the Court of the Beloved exclusively.

Adora told Murad that the entire palace would not be finished in time for their child’s birth. But before he could complain she explained that the baby would still be birthed in the palace, for her own court was to be finished first. The child she carried would be the first Ottoman to be born in Europe.

Adora soothed Murad gently. “You are not,” she told him, “putting up a tent, my lord. Palaces take time to build if they are built to endure. When you and I have long since disappeared from men’s memories, I would have those walking the earth then point to your palace and say, ‘and that is the Island Serai, built by Sultan Murad, son of Orkhan Ghazi. It was the first royal residence built by the Ottomans in Europe, and in it was born the first European Ottoman sultan.’ If your palace is well built, my lord, it will endure forever, a monument to you. But if you force the workmen to build quickly, your palace will not endure longer than your own life span.”

He smiled lovingly at her. “Being full with my seed has not dulled your clever Greek powers of reasoning.”

“I had not heard that carrying a child in the womb shut off the brain, my lord.” Damn! Would he never learn?

He laughed. “Your pretty tongue is as always, my dove, over-saucy.”

She laughed back. “Would you truly have me be as those vapid creatures who populate your bed these nights?” She lowered her eyes and slipped awkwardly to her knees. “Yeth, my lord,” she lisped in a brutally stunning imitation of one of his favorites, “whatever my lord sath. Each word from hith mouth ith a dewdrop of withdom, my lord.”

Murad pulled Adora up and made a wry face. “How can I fault Ali Yahya?” he asked. “Every girl in my harem is exquisite. One is lovelier than the other. But, Allah! They are as stupid as a flock of sheep!”

She teased him without mercy. “But surely that is what you want, my lord. You are always faulting me for my intelligence, saying it is not suitable to a beautiful woman. Now you fault these lovely girls because they lack brains. You are a fickle man, my lord. There is no pleasing you.”

“If you were not so fat with my son, impudent slave, I should beat you,” he growled. But his eyes were merry and his hand on her rounded belly was gentle. Then his voice roughened, and he said, “You are misshapen with the child. Your nose is too long, your mouth too small. Your hair is lank. And yet, you are the most beautiful, exciting woman I have ever seen! What sorcery is this that you practice on me, Theadora of Byzantium?”

Her violet eyes glittered, and he was not sure she wasn’t holding back tears. This touched him, for she was such a proud little creature. “I practice no sorcery, my lord,” she said softly, “unless there is something magical in my love for you.”

“Little witch,” he said low, catching her hand and kissing the palm.

Her marvelous violet eyes caught his, and for the briefest, eeriest second he believed she could read his thoughts. But then she took his hand and placed it on her belly. “The child moves, my love. Can you feel him?”

Beneath his fingers he felt first what seemed a gentle fluttering, but then suddenly the center of his palm was kicked hard. He started, staring down at his hand in wonder, almost as if he expected to see a footprint. She laughed happily.

“He is surely your headstrong son,” she said.

He tenderly drew her into his arms and stroked her swollen breasts.

“Don’t!”

He looked sharply at her, and she blushingly confessed, “It makes me hunger for you, my lord, and you know that it is now forbidden me.”

“I hunger for you too, Adora,” he answered gravely. “Be patient, my dove, and soon we will share a bed again.” And he held her close until, safe in the warmth of his arms, she fell asleep. Only then did he lower her carefully to the pillows. Rising, he pulled the coverlet over her.

He stood for a moment gazing down at her. Then he walked slowly from the room and sought the spyhole that looked down into the common room of the harem. It was early, and his maidens were still up and chattering. They were, he mused, a nice collection. He must remember to compliment Ali Yahya’s good taste. His eye fell on two girls in particular. One was a lovely, fair-skinned, little blonde from northern Greece with large sky blue eyes. Her pretty, round breasts had saucy pink nipples. The other was a tall, dark-skinned beauty from beyond the Sahara Desert.

Watching his women secretly amused him, and he wondered what they would say if they knew he observed them. Nothing, he answered himself. They would say absolutely nothing. They would giggle, pose, and preen, but they would say nothing for there was not half an intelligent thought among them. Their main aim in life was to attract his attention first, and then please him. Why that did not delight him he did not understand.

A beautiful, complacent female offered no challenge. Adora had certainly spoiled him for other women! He had, he chuckled to himself, grown quite used to being fought with-verbally, mentally, and physically-even up to the very moment of surrender. And he found it far more exciting than mere sexual skill. The maidens of his harem cared if they pleased him, fearing not to. Adora loved him, but she feared him not a whit.

He felt a familiar stirring, and acknowledged his need for a woman. No, by Allah! No simple woman but Adora satisfied him anymore. He would send for two maidens, the black maiden and the golden Greek girl. Perhaps together they could quench the fire in his aching loins.

He signaled a slave and commanded him to fetch Ali Yahya. The chief eunuch arrived quickly, and the sultan instructed him. Face impassive, the eunuch bowed low from the waist.

“It shall be as you wish, my lord,” he said. All the while he chuckled inwardly, knowing his plan to gain power was working. Murad was unhappy because the princess was denied him, and he sought to sate himself with two women. Ali Yahya entered the harem knowing full well that, above him, the sultan observed him through the spyhole.

Murad watched carefully, observing the reactions of the two women he had chosen. Their reactions would give him an indication of their characters. The blonde, as he had guessed, was shy. She blushed a pretty pink, her hands flying up to her cheeks, her small mouth making a little “O” of surprised delight, and her blue eyes widening with just a touch of fear.

The dark girl, on the other hand, looked haughtily up at Ali Yahya and smiled seductively. Flicking a scornful glance at the Greek, she said something that caused the other to flush beet red. The chief eunuch tapped the dark one lightly on the cheek in an admonishing gesture, but the black girl simply laughed.

The sultan’s lips drew back in a wolfish smile. A soft kitten and a fierce tigress, he mused to himself. Perhaps the evening would not prove disappointing after all.

The two maidens were brought to him, and the eunuch disrobed them so he might gaze upon them. Side by side they were magnificent-ebony and ivory together.

He looked to the dark girl. “Pleasure me, Leila.” Lying back among the cushions of the bed he allowed her to open his robe and fondle him. The dark girl bent her head and took him in her mouth, her tongue tracing sensual patterns until his root began to swell and fill her mouth.

“Aisha!” The little blond started. “Come!” And the Greek girl lay near him. He spoke again. Leaning over him, she placed a full breast in his open mouth. Sucking on the soft flesh, conscious of the pleasure the dark girl was giving him, he willfully pushed all thought of Theadora from his troubled mind. It was her duty and her privilege to bear his child. It was his right to sate his desires with other women. It was the way of their world, had been since the beginning of that world, and would be until the end of time.

Chapter Eighteen

The Court of the Beloved was finished, and Theadora’s bedroom was the most talked about room in the entire harem. Every woman envied the princess her quarters, her pregnancy, and the sultan’s love.

The bedchamber was paneled halfway up the wall in squares of dark wood. Above the paneling the wall was painted a deep yellow-gold color, and topped with a plaster molding of flowers painted in scarlet, blue and gold. The floors were highly-polished wide boards of dark-stained oak. The ceilings were beamed, the beams painted to match the moldings.

Centered on one wall was a large yellow-and-blue-tiled fireplace topped with an enormous conical copper hood covered in sheets of beaten gold. The tiled fireplace apron was raised and extended several feet out into the room. The walls on either side of the hearth were hung with beautiful silk hangings, one of which depicted the flowers of spring and early summer, the other the flowers of late summer and autumn.

The wall facing the fireplace contained a raised, carpeted platform holding a large bed. The bed had carved and gilded posts and was hung with coral silk hangings, all embroidered with flowers, leaves, and vines. The embroidery was done in gold thread, seed pearls, and jade. There was a matching coverlet.

To the right of the head of the bed the wall was windowed with long, tall, mullioned casement windows. The glass had been blown by six Venetian glassblowers unfortunate enough to have been in a section of Adrianople that resisted the Turks. The sultan had promised them full pardon and coveted Turkish citizenship as well if they blew the window glass and decorative glass for his palace. Until then, they remained in bondage to him. The windows in Adora’s bedroom had a very faint golden hue. They looked out onto her private garden. The draperies were the same coral silk as the bed-hangings.

The thick, luxurious rugs had gold, blue, and white medallion designs. The wardrobes that were cleverly incorporated into the walls of the room were lined with cedar and held sliding trays for her clothes.

There were large round tables of beaten brass on ebony stands; a thronelike chair with carved arms, legs, and back, and a gold brocade cushion; small ebony side tables inlaid in mother-of-pearl; and stools of velvet and of brocade. Hanging lamps swung from silver chains, casting amber, ruby, and sapphire shadows and scenting the room with perfumed oil. Pure white beeswax candles burned in gold candlesticks. It was a room of beauty and serenity-perfect for lovers.

Now, however, the time had come for Theadora Cantacuzene to give birth to Sultan Murad’s child, and before the walls of the bedchamber would hear the soft voices of lovers it would hear the agony of the childbearing woman who was restlessly pacing the floor.

“Lie down and rest, my princess,” fussed Iris. “You behave as if this were your first child.”

“Halil was important only to me, Iris. He had older brothers. This baby is very important to the entire empire. He will be the next sultan.”

“If you bear a son, my princess.”

Theadora shot her a venomous look. “It is a son I birth, old witch,” she said, gritting her teeth at the contraction that tore through her. “Fetch the midwife now!” As Iris hurried off, Theadora lay down on the bed and rubbed her belly with her fingers, using quick little circular motions. This, the midwife had told her, would ease the pain.

The midwife was a Moor, and Moors knew more about medicine than anyone else did. Theadora had personally chosen Fatima for her skill, her excellent reputation-she had never been known to lose a mother-and because she was clean. Fatima now entered the room and made her way to the bed.

“Well, my lady,” she said cheerfully. “How goes it?” And washing her hands quickly in a basin held by a slave, she pushed Theadora’s caftan above her raised knees and examined her patient. “Hmm. Yes. Yes. You’re doing very nicely. Anyone can see you’re meant to be a breeder. We have almost full dilation.”

She glanced up and saw the look of grim determination on the princess’s face. “Don’t push yet, Highness! Pant like a dog. Ah, that’s it! Now! Push! Yes! Yes! You are completely dilated, and I can see the babe’s head. Iris! Get some slaves to bring the birthing stool in-and place it in front of the windows so my patient can look out.”

Within a few short minutes Adora had had another contraction and had been settled on the birthing stool. She was soaked with perspiration and her legs trembled.

The birthing stool was of hard, aged oak, gilded with gold leaf and inlaid with semiprecious stones. It had a high, straight back with a lattice-work carving atop it, wide arms partially padded in red leather, and straight legs which ended in carved lion’s feet. The seat was flat and open so the midwife could catch the infant easily.

Now, as Adora reached the final stages of labor, the women of the harem were allowed in to witness the birth. There must be no doubt as to the child’s authenticity and parentage. They crowded about the birthing stool, their faces reflecting envy, sympathy, fear, and concern. Theadora gripped the padded arms of the chair and shut out their nervous chatter. The room was stiflingly hot, and the many scents of the women’s perfumes were overpowering and made her stomach roll with nausea.

She focused her eyes on the garden beyond the leaded golden windows. It was a brilliant afternoon with a cloudless, bright blue sky. A clear sun reflected off the blindingly white snow covering the garden. For a brief moment, a small grey-brown bird wrestling with a red berry on a nearby evergreen bush distracted Adora and she laughed at its comic antics.

The women about her were aghast. Did the princess feel no pain? What kind of creature was she that she laughed at the height of her travail? Collectively they shivered, remembering Adora’s amethyst-colored eyes. Witches were known to have odd-colored eyes.

Another contraction tore through her and, obeying Fatima’s instructions, Adora panted first and then bore down hard. She made no outcry but the pain was fierce, and perspiration poured over her body, running down her legs, making the seat slippery. Iris mopped her face with a cool, scented cloth. Fatima knelt below, her equipment spread out next to her on a clean linen towel.

“The next contraction will give us the head, princess.”

“It’s coming!” gasped Adora from between clenched teeth.

“Pant, Highness! Pant!” A pause. “Now, Highness! Now! Push! Push hard! Ah, I have the mite’s head. Very good, my princess!”

Adora sank back, exhausted, smiling gratefully as a young slavegirl held a cool, sweet drink to her lips. She sipped almost greedily, then lay her head back, breathing deeply and slowly.

“You are doing very, very well, my lady,” said Fatima encouragingly. “The shoulders next, then the rest of the little body, and we’ll soon be done.”

“You will be done,” chuckled Adora. “For me it will begin again, Fatima.”

The midwife looked up, smiling. “True, Highness,” she said, “and with your radiant beauty, I expect to be serving you on quite a regular basis if the sultan is the stallion they say he is.”

The women of the harem tittered. Adora would have laughed at the midwife’s ribald humor but for the next pain. It seemed to be ripping her in half. Pant.

Pant. Pant. Push. Push. Push.

“The shoulders! I have the shoulders, and good broad shoulders they are!” cried Fatima.

The child was beginning to whimper now, a whimper that turned into a howl of anger as the next contraction pushed it completely from its mother’s body. Laying the outraged infant on a linen, Fatima cut the cord and bound it tightly. Next, she quickly cleaned the mucus from the child’s nose, mouth, and throat. “A son!” she cried excitedly, “The princess has been delivered of a son! Praise be to Allah! Sultan Murad has a fine, strong male heir!” Standing, she lifted the bloodied, shrieking infant for its mother and the others to see.

The boy was fair with enormous dark-blue eyes and a headful of tight, damp, black curls. He was long, with big hands and feet, and his lungs were quite powerful. A slavewoman took the child from Fatima and laying it gently on a table cleaned the birthing blood from it with a soft cotton cloth and warm olive oil. This done, the baby was tightly swaddled and wrapped in a satin quilt.

Theadora had already delivered the afterbirth. Having examined, cleaned, and packed her patient’s female area, Fatima allowed Adora to be stripped of her soaking garment and sponged with warm, scented water before being toweled dry. She was then redressed in a quilted garnet-red robe and tucked into her bed. Proudly Iris brushed her mistress’s long dark hair until it glistened.

The women of the harem clustered excitedly about the foot of Adora’s bed. The sultan was coming! Here was a chance, thought the foolish younger maidens, to be noticed by the master. The more experienced women resigned themselves to being ignored. Adora and her son were powerful competition. But…another time…another place…they would be noticed.

They fell to their knees, heads touching the floor, as the sultan swept into the room. So filled were his eyes with Adora and the child she cradled, that he did not even see them. His deep voice vibrated with emotion in the hushed quiet of the room.

“Show me the child, Adora.”

She carefully unwrapped the baby’s blanket and handed him the swaddled infant. For a long moment he looked down at the child who, strangely quiet, looked back with unblinking eyes. Then a wide smile split Murad’s face. He laughed aloud. “This is indeed my son! I, Murad, son of Orkhan, recognize this child as my son and my heir. Here is your next sultan!”

“So be it! We hear and obey,” came the murmuring voices. Then, rising as one, the harem women filed from the room. Iris quickly drew up a chair for the sultan. Taking the infant from its mother, she also left.

For a moment they looked long at each other. Then he caught her hands and, looking deep into her eyes, said, “Thank you, Adora. Thank you for my first son.”

“I have only done my proper duty by you, my lord,” she answered mischievously.

His laughter had a warm sound to it. “Fresh from childbirth, and yet still impudent. Will it always be so between us, Adora?”

“Would you have me any other way, my lord?” she countered.

“No, my love, I would not,” he admitted. “Never become as the other women of my harem. Then you would bore me.”

“Never fear, my Murad. I may do many things in my lifetime, but one thing I shall never do is bore you.” And then before her words could register fully, she quickly asked, “And does your son please you, my lord? He is a fine, strong boy.”

“He pleases me beyond measure, and I have already chosen a name for him. I hope it will please you. I intend calling him Bajazet after our great general.”

“The one who beat my Byzantine ancestors so badly in battle?” Her voice was shaking with laughter as he nodded. “God in heaven, Murad, how you insult my family! John, of course, will see the humor in it. No one else will.”

“You do,” he said quietly.

“Yes,” she answered. “I do see the humor in it. I also see the implied threat. But I know that my city’s future lies with the Ottomans, not the Greeks. Since the city must eventually fall, I would just as soon it fell to you, or to our son whom I will teach to love and respect what is good in both cultures.”

His hand cupped her chin and he leaned over and gently brushed her lips. “You are wise beyond your years, my dove. How fortunate it was that I was passing that convent orchard those many years ago.”

She smiled a smile of incredible sweetness. “I love you, my lord Murad.”

“Yet you still chafe, my pet, do you not?”

She sighed deeply. “I cannot help it. It is my nature. It is simply not enough for me to be Murad’s favorite and Bajazet’s mother. If history remembers me, that is how they will remember me. But what it is I do want, even I do not know.”

He stood up and laughed. “At least you are honest, my Adora.” Then be bent and kissed her lightly. “Get some rest, my beloved. It cannot have been easy work giving birth to my son. You must be exhausted.”

She caught at the sleeve of his brocade robe. “Give me a proper kiss before you leave me, my love. I will not shatter now if you kiss me.”

He chuckled, pleased. “So you are eager for my kisses, eh? I never thought to hear you admit that.” He sat on the edge of the bed and drew her into the warm loving half-circle of his arm. Then his mouth closed over hers, and the depth and passion of his kiss left her breathless and trembling. His free hand slipped past the opening of her robe to cup a plump breast. He teasingly rubbed the nipple hard with his thumb. His voice was husky as he said, “In six weeks you will be purified. See the boy has a wet nurse by then. I will not share you, not even with my son.” Their eyes met briefly, and she felt a stab of desire race through her. She wondered at the attraction between them. She yearned for him but an hour past childbirth!

He stood suddenly and left the room. Adora lay back on her pillows. She was not one bit sleepy yet. She was far too excited for sleep. She had done it! She had given Murad his first son! She would give him other sons too, for she would have no others usurping her position. Legally she was his slave, but that mattered not. Her position now was strong. And the best part of all was that he still wanted her.

The child was beautiful with his dark hair and blue eyes, though she was sure the eyes would soon become black like his father’s. Then suddenly she thought of Alexander, and of their golden child. The tears slid down her cheeks. Why? Why should she think of him now after all these months? She could only suppose that the shock of his death followed so quickly by her sister’s treachery was finally catching up with her. She let herself cry until she could cry no more. It was, she knew, better that way.

She relaxed and finally slept, secure in her position with Murad, secure in her motherhood.

Chapter Nineteen

When the emperor John heard what his nephew had been named he saw, as Adora had predicted, the humor of it. He laughed. His wife, Helena, was not amused.

“She deliberately insults us, and you laugh!” she stormed at her husband.

“You can hardly expect her to have any love for Byzantium, my dear,” observed the emperor dryly.

“She was born here! She is a daughter of one of Byzantium’s oldest families! She is my sister! She was married to the Despot of Mesembria!”

“Whom you poisoned, my dear. After that you sold its queen, your own sister, into slavery.”

The empress looked frightened. “How do you know that? You cannot prove such terrible charges!”

John Paleaologi laughed again. “I do not have to prove them, my dear. When poor Julian Tzimisces realized whom his poison had slain he came to me and confessed all. He was afraid you might be trying to kill me also.”

Helena’s eyes were wide with fear. “Why have you said nothing to me before?” she asked. “Why have you not punished me?”

“And let Thea know how Alexander died? Let her know that her own sister killed the man she loved? No, Helena, you have hurt her enough. Understand, however, that should she ever find out the full extent of your cruelty, I will kill you. I will kill you myself and take pleasure in doing it.” He reached out and caressed her neck gently, sensually. Helena shivered. “Thea has made her peace with Murad,” continued the emperor. “She is the sultan’s wife and the mother of his only son.”

“She is no wife to Murad,” snarled Helena. “She is his slave and his concubine. He has not even elevated her to the status of kadin.”

“Neither has he elevated anyone else, my dear. He has, however, publicly acknowledged Thea’s son as his son and his heir. That, my dear, is the greatest public declaration of his love for her that he can make. She is well aware of that and is content. You have lost, Helena. By merely being herself, Theadora has won. Cease this war on your sister. You have done enough. You tried to murder her and her oldest son, Halil, but the pirates of Phocaea held them for ransom. When the sultan learned of your involvement, the ransom cost me money I could not afford. Far worse, it cost me our beloved daughter, prestige, territory, and soldiers’ lives.

“When Thea came to us after Alexander’s death you violated our family’s honor by betraying her and selling her into slavery. When will you stop? When, Helena?”

“Never! Will you not understand, John? Thea and her sons are a terrible threat to us! They can even claim your throne through her!”

The emperor laughed heartily. “No, Helena, they cannot. Nor would Murad ever resort to such a silly ploy. My empire is in its decline. I know that. But it will not fall yet, not in my lifetime. I will do whatever I must to see to its continuation. As to our sons, only time will tell their strength as rulers.

“Helena, in our lifetime together, I have rarely forbidden you anything. I have turned a blind eye to your many lovers. Now, however, I do forbid you! Cease this vendetta against your sister. I have sent our new nephew a large two-handled gold cup encrusted with diamonds and turquoises, his birthstone. I had to levy a special tax on the churches of the city in order to raise the money for it. So poor is the royal credit that the goldsmiths would not make the cup without being paid in advance.”

“It’s disgusting,” said Helena. “Poor Sultan Orkhan dead so short a time, and his grieving widow marries once, has twins, is widowed yet a second time, becomes the sultan’s whore, and spawns yet another man’s bastard.”

“At least Thea confines herself to one man at a time, my love,” said John Paleaologi softly.

Helena’s sky blue eyes widened in shock as her husband continued, “Is one young stud at a time not enough for you, Helena? Playing the bitch in heat to an entire pack of young officers, even in the privacy of your own apartments, isn’t wise. Gossip spreads faster from six mouths than from one, and you must have performed remarkably. The accolades you received were truly marvelous.”

The empress swallowed hard. And John Paleaologi chuckled at her obvious discomfort.

“Why don’t you divorce me?” she whispered.

“Because, my dear, I prefer the known quantity. Like my father, I am lazy by nature. You have all the attributes of a good empress, my dear. You’ve given me sons who I know are mine. You are beautiful. And though you nag me constantly, you do not interfere in my government. I am not a man who adapts easily to change, and so I would prefer that you remain my wife. But if you cause any further scandal, Helena, I will dispose of you. You do understand that, don’t you, my dear?”

She nodded slowly, as surprised as she always was when he was masterful with her. Still, she would have the last word. “I know you have a mistress,” she said.

“Of course I do, Helena. You can hardly deny me my little diversion. She is a nice, quiet woman whose discretion I value highly. You could learn from her, my dear. Now remember what I have told you. Stop your battles with Theadora. Murad loves her-make no mistake about that-and her new son is the joy of his life.”

Helena said nothing further, but her mind was busy. Theadora was like a damned cat, emerging whole and with another life each time Helena struck at her. The empress of Byzantium valued her position highly, and for years her dreams had been haunted by a childish voice saying, “If I marry the infidel, I shall see he brings his army to capture the city. Then I shall be its empress, not you!”

That Theadora’s threat had been made in a fit of childish pique, and had been long forgotten by its originator, did not occur to the empress. In her tortured mind she could see only that, as the boundaries of the sultan’s empire widened, the boundaries of her empire shrank. The sultan’s beloved was Thea. So Helena, who had never been particularly bright, believed that if she could destroy Theadora, the Ottoman advance would stop.

In the short time Murad had been sultan, the Turks had gained effective control of Thrace, its key fortresses, and its rich plain which spread to the very foot of the Balkan mountain range. They had spread terror of the Ottomans throughout southeastern Europe by their deliberate massacre of the Chorlu garrison, whose commandant had been publicly beheaded. Adrianople had then fallen and was now the Turkish capital.

The Ottoman armies next moved westward. They bypassed Constantinople, but their emissaries were already with the emperor. Once again, John Paleaologi was forced to sign a treaty that bound him to refrain from regaining his losses in Thrace. He could not support his fellow Christians, the Serbians and the Bulgars, in their resistance against the advancing Turks. And he must support Murad militarily against his Muslim rivals in Asia Minor.

And though his own church condemned him, his ministers wailed, and his wife raged at him, John knew that he had bought more time for his city. He realized that Murad could probably take Constantinople. By acquiescing to his brother-in-law’s demands he saved the city. The Turks now went on to tougher challenges, thus allowing John the opportunity to secretly seek help elsewhere.

But he could not seem to convince the rulers of western Europe that if Constantinople fell, they themselves would be in grave danger. The old and foolish rivalry between the Roman and the Greek churches was partly at the bottom of western Europe’s reluctance to aid Byzantium. Then too, the Latin Christians fought among themselves. The great Italian banking houses which had financed everything from trade with the East to religious crusades began to fail. Recession and social crisis followed in Europe. The peasants revolted against their landlords whether these were feudal or monastic. Workers disputed with their merchant masters. The bubonic plague appeared from the East to ravage all of Europe. Discovery of the new world turned the youth of the old world westward, leaving Europe open to the Ottoman conqueror.

Murad’s armies penetrated deeper into Europe, to Bulgaria, Macedonia, Serbia. Then, suddenly, they appeared in Hungary, a stronghold of the Roman Church. Pope Urban V made several desperate attempts to unite the various Christian powers under his banner, even going so far as to include the Greeks, in his effort to defend Christendom. A mounted force of Serbs and Hungarians foolishly crossed the Maritza River heading toward Adrianople. They were swiftly wiped out. Further combined efforts were hampered by the conflict between the Greek and the Latin Churches.

“The Osmanlis are merely enemies,” wrote Petrarch to the Pope, “but the schismatic Greeks are worse than enemies.”

“Better a sultan’s hat than a cardinal’s hat,” was the Greek reply.

Murad moved back and forth between the various battle fronts and his capital, Adrianople. He had planned his expansion carefully and had several competent generals who followed his orders to the letter-thus, he had the freedom to pursue his goal of building a carefully chosen and disciplined infantry force which would serve the sultan alone. Recruited from among his young Christian subjects, they were to become the Corp of Janissaries, began first by his father.

Murad now developed and enlarged this force, begun by Orkhan as a personal bodyguard. It became a small army designed to maintain his law and order and to defend his newly conquered European territories. They were loyal to Murad alone.

In each area held by the Ottomans the non-Muslims were offered the opportunity to convert. Those who did were granted all the privileges of Turkish citizenship, including the right to exempt their sons from military duty by the payment of a one-time head tax. Those who retained their original faith might gain Turkish citizenship, but their sons between the ages of six and twelve were liable to be drafted into the Janissaries. Twice yearly the Ottoman authorities selected Christian boys from among the available recruits. Once chosen, the boys were immediately taken away from their families and brought up as Muslims.

Hand-picked for intelligence and physical beauty, they were trained strictly and disciplined harshly.

They were heedless of hardships of any kind. Their duty was to serve the sultan alone and to depend on him personally, to dedicate their lives to his military service. Like monks, they were forbidden to marry or to own property. For all this, they were paid on a scale higher than any other military unit in any army.

The great religious sheikh, Haji Bektash, gave the Janissaries his blessing and presented them with their standard. It was the crescent moon and the double-bladed sword of Osman emblazoned on scarlet silk. Predicting the Janissaries’ future, the elderly sheikh said, “Your visage shall be bright and shining, its arm strong, its sword keen, its arrow sharp-pointed. You will be victorious in every battle and will never return except in triumph.” He then presented the new force with their white-felt caps, each of which was adorned with a wooden spoon instead of a pom-pom.

The spoon, along with a big stew pot, symbolized the higher standard of living of the Janissaries compared with other military units. The titles of their officers were taken from the kitchen. First Maker of Soup, First Cook, First Carrier of Water. The great black pot was not to be used only for cooking. In later centuries the pot was turned over and drummed upon when the elite corps was displeased with the sultan. It was also used to measure the Janissaries’ share of booty.

In western Europe there arose great indignation that the Turks would impose on their Christian subjects what in effect amounted to a blood tax. It was immoral to tear young boys from their families, forcing them to follow an alien religion and to serve a barbaric master.

Murad laughed at the outcry. His Christian counterparts were often far crueler to their Muslim or, for that matter, their Christian captives. His new contingent amounted to fewer than five hundred fighting men and perhaps that same number of young trainees. He had larger units of hired Christian mercenaries now fighting against their fellow Christians in the Balkans! At no time were his armies without large numbers of Christians fighting for him against other Christians. The Corp of Janissaries would grow, but eventually the Christian peasants would embrace Islam rather than lose their sturdy sons who were needed to help work the land.

Murad and his people were now faced with an enormous challenge. The Ottomans were a nomadic people who had come out of the dawn of time to wander the steppes of non-Muslim central Asia. As they had moved westward they had assimilated other cultures, had even been enslaved and converted to Islam under the Abbasid caliphate. In Baghdad they had been trained as soldiers and administrators, raised far above the common domestic slave. Hence they felt neither shame nor fear of slavery as did the Christians. The power of the Ottomans grew until they overthrew their masters and replaced them with a slave dynasty of their own. Still, they were nomads. And again they moved west, conquering everything in their path.

Now, however, they had begun to think of settling down. Now they must become rulers of men rather than shepherds of sheep. Other nomadic groups had tried and failed: the Avars, the Huns, the Mongols.

The mistake these others had made had been in believing that by leaving the conquered on their own land to remain economically productive they would cooperate with their conquerers. The conquered did not cooperate. They instead became unproductive parasites. This resulted in the rapid decline and fall of most nomad empires.

The Ottomans were not going to be flim-flammed by a wily peasantry. Already they had evolved the practice of training human watchdogs to keep their human cattle obedient and their enemies at bay. The enslaved Janissaries were the beginning. Now there rose a vast civil service made up of superior slaves loyal to the sultan alone. The Christian subjects of the sultan found their lives being administered by men who were almost all Christians. Those who did not produce, from the level of the peasantry on upward, were quickly replaced. And Murad was free to pursue his military conquests and enjoy his growing family.

Though he kept a harem and was not averse to using other women, his tendency was to remain relatively monogamous. He was true to Adora. She did not begrudge him his other women, provided his interest in the harem remained mild.

Five months after Bajazet’s birth, Murad’s seed again took root in the fertile soil of Adora’s womb. And when their son was but two months past his first birthday he was joined in his nursery by twin brothers, Osman and Orkhan. The sultan was jubilant. He had three healthy sons! Surely Allah had showered him with blessings.

Thrice-secure, Adora sought out Ali Yahya and asked to be free from pregnancy for a time. The master of the sultan’s household agreed with the princess that to retain Murad’s interest now she must again become more the lover and less the mother. As her sons were all outrageously strong and healthy, he saw no reason for her to bear children until she wanted to.

To amuse her lord, Adora learned the sensual oriental dances currently being done by a troupe of Egyptian dancers who were performing in the city. Each day she practiced with her teacher, Leila, a full-breasted, full-hipped woman with almond-shaped gold eyes. After a few weeks, Leila said, “You could earn your living at this, Highness, and have not one, but half a dozen sultans at your feet.”

Theadora laughed. “I desire no one but my lord Murad, Leila. For him alone will I dance.”

“He should be honored, Highness, for never have I seen anyone perform with such grace, such passion. How well you feel the music! Dance for him tomorrow as you have danced today and it is he who will be your slave! You will rouse his desire as no woman ever has! I can teach you no more.”

Theadora was pleased. On the morrow Murad would return from two months at the front, and Adora had planned his homecoming in meticulous detail. When he arrived at the nearly completed Island Serai she greeted him lovingly, her three sons about her like chicks about a hen, the twins just barely able to stand. This reminded him, should he chance to have forgotten, of her position in his life.

The children were taken by their nurses and Adora escorted her lord to his own quarters and helped remove his travel-stained garments. “Your bath awaits you, my lord,” she said. “I have prepared an evening which I hope will please you. I have a small surprise.”

Before he could answer, she was gone. And he found himself in his bath, attended by six of the most exquisite, nubile young girls he had ever seen, all completely naked. They went calmly about the job of washing and shaving him. He was gently patted dry with fluffy towels and then massaged with sweet oils. His natural lust began to exhibit itself in a delicious tingling. But, before he could take advantage of the delights around him, the skillful fingers of the pretty masseuse put him to sleep.

An hour later he awakened, delightfully refreshed, to find a fully garbed older woman offering him a tiny cup of hot sweet coffee. He gulped it down. Standing up, he was quickly surrounded by slaves who anointed his body with musk and then dressed him in a deep-blue velvet robe embroidered at the hem, wrists, and collar in silver thread, turquoises and pearls. The robe was closed with silver frogs over turquoise buttons. It was lined inside in alternating bands of silk and soft fur. The effect on his naked skin was sensuous and delightful. His slippers were of lambskin, dyed blue to match his robe and lined with lambswool. A gold chain with a jeweled medallion was put over his neck. Several rings-a large baroque pearl, a sapphire, and a turquoise-were slipped on his fingers.

The older woman who had given him the coffee seemed to be supervising, and when he was dressed she said, “If my lord will follow me, his meal and the entertainment await him.”

“Where is the Lady Theadora?”

“She will join you eventually, master. In the meantime she asks that you eat and pleasure yourself as it pleases you, my lord.”

The woman led him into his salon where a low table had been set up. He seated himself amid the brightly colored cushions and was immediately joined by two beautiful girls. One speared raw oysters and placed them in his waiting mouth. The other carefully touched the side of his mouth with a linen napkin, stopping the juices before they ran.

Never had any Ottoman been served in such a luxurious manner. These were Byzantine customs, and Murad decided he liked them very much. The girls who served him were nude from the waist up, and their pink silk trousers were so sheer that nothing was left to imagination. Both were blue-eyed blondes. Their hair had been braided into single thick braids, their heads topped with thin gold chains. A single teardrop pearl lay in the center of each of their foreheads.

A tass kebab followed the oysters: tender chunks of baby lamb with cooked onion and love apples on a bed of rice pilaf. Now the other girl fed him while the first girl plied the napkin. She mopped the juices of the meal up with pieces of soft, flat bread which she then fed him. Honeyed yogurt and coffee ended his meal. Murad was enjoying himself hugely. He was clean, warm, relaxed, and well fed. He was beginning to feel quite mellow.

The dishes were cleared away and the entertainment began. Sprawled back amid the pillows, each arm cradling a girl, he chuckled as a group of small dogs was put through their paces by their elderly trainer. He very much enjoyed the three female jugglers who also did acrobatics.

Then, from behind a carved screen, music began. Six maidens in red and gold skirts and blouses began to dance for him.

They danced well, but suddenly the tempo of the music shifted subtly and the six girls disappeared. One veiled dancer appeared, swathed in black, silver, and gold silks. She clicked her brass finger tals in a challenge to the hidden musicians. Slowly and sensually, the woman’s body weaved to the music. The sultan realized, as the woman discarded the first silk, that she was about to do the dance of the veils.

The first veil had covered her hair which was in itself a long, dark, shining veil. The second and third veils bared her back and then her breasts. Snowy, coral-tipped cones of firm flesh moved provocatively as she danced.

The sultan’s breath caught in his throat as he watched the twin temptations and he leaned forward, completely unaware that his hands were hungrily kneading a breast belonging to each of his companions. As the dancer excited him further he felt his manhood rising hard and throbbing beneath his luxurious robe. He cruelly pinched the nipples of the breasts, but the young slavegirls dared not cry out for fear of displeasing their master.

The music became more insinuating, and the dancer writhed her beautiful body in an obvious imitation of aroused passion. Beneath the shimmering veils that were falling one by one, her legs were becoming visible.

As his desire mounted, he wondered who she was and why she had never danced for him before. She must be new in the harem. Was the face as fair as the body? Releasing his two companions from his cruel grasp and sitting cross-legged, he allowed his hunger to take complete possession of him. The two maidens were dismissed with a wave of his hand, and he was alone with the mysterious dancer.

The music began to mount in intensity. The dancer whirled, the remaining silks billowing out like the petals of a flower about its stem. The woman moved nearer, teasingly brushing him with the nipples of her full breasts. He could feel the heat of her lovely body, and smell her scent. It was hauntingly familiar. Her eyes above the black veil glittered like jewels in the flickering lamplight and he reached for her. With a low laugh, she eluded him.

His black eyes narrowed dangerously, but then his mouth twisted in a smile. He would let her finish her performance. But then… The woman’s lush body weaved the taunting final movements of the dance. Suddenly all the remaining veils but the one that hid her face were gone. She stood proudly naked above him for a moment before sinking to the floor in a gesture of submission.

He rose, his whole body throbbing with lust. Walking over to the dancer, he raised her and tore the dark veil from her face.

“Adora!” His ragged voice was incredulous.

“Did I please you, my lord?”

He pushed her to the cushions and, tearing his robe open, flung himself on her. Her warm hands caught at his aching organ, and guided it home. He drove deep, his hands beneath her buttocks, kneading them. “Bitch! Sweet! Tempting! Little! Bitch!” he murmured, thrusting into her again and again.

She opened herself wide to him, reveling in the bigness, the hardness, of him. She had been too long without him, and if he were hungry for her, she easily matched his passion. From deep within her she felt the cry well up and, sobbing his name, she yielded herself totally.

Aware of her surrender but completely lost in the warmth and sweetness of her, he groaned his delight and set about to reach his peak. They were both so keyed-up that the blazing climax left them drained and shaken.

They lay, exhausted, breathing heavily. Finally Murad managed to find his voice. “Woman!” he said fiercely, “You are a never ending source of wonder to me. Is there no end to your variety, Adora? When, in Allah’s name, did you learn to dance like that?”

She laughed shakily. “There has been a troupe of Egyptian dancers in the city for some weeks now. The lead dancer, Leila, taught me here in the palace. She says I have a natural talent. Did I truly please you, my lord?”

“Allah! Could you not tell?”

“Do you ravish all the dancers who please you so?” she teased.

“No woman ever danced for me as you have, beloved. I will allow you to dance for no one else. Not even the most honored guests will ever see you perform.” He drew her into his arms and kissed her, his tongue gently thrusting between her teeth to caress, to rouse, to stoke the fires of her passion. She sighed deeply and returned the kiss, her mouth soft and yielding, provocatively sucking on his tongue.

When at last they breathlessly ceased their kissing, he murmured into her little ear, “There is no one like you in the world, Adora. You are unique among women, a priceless jewel among the many grains of worthless sand. The others I desire occasionally, for a man requires variety. But I love you, my darling. I must never be without you.”

She was trembling with joy, though she hid it from him. He must never know how vital he was to her very existence. She now loved him as she had never loved any man, even her beloved Alexander. But he must never know, lest he use that special power to control her. She rose from the tumbled pillows and held out her hand to him. “Come to bed, my lord,” she said softly. “Come to my couch, my love. The night is young.”

His dark eyes burning like live coals, he swept her up into his arms, burying his hot face in the scented tangle of her silken hair. “Woman!” he whispered huskily. He carried her through the short hallway that connected their courts. “Woman! The memory of this night will haunt me if I live to one hundred years!”

Chapter Twenty

Helena, empress of Byzantium, looked with hidden glee at the woman before her. The creature was short with large, pendulous breasts. Helena had secretly observed her in the bath and knew that beneath the rich robes were heavy thighs, a sagging belly, and enormous hips. Both the woman’s very white skin, and her dull, brown hair were coarse. And though her eyes were a rather fine topaz color they were made small and piglike by her plump cheeks which had been reddened in an attempt at youthful color. She was gowned in purple brocade, trimmed with brown martin fur at the neck and sleeves. The sleeves were slashed and cloth of gold showed through.

She was Mara, daughter of a Greek priest named Sergius. Mara was the mother of Murad’s first son, Cuntuz. It had taken Helena some time to trace Mara for, though she was the daughter of a holy man, she was also a whore-by nature and by profession. Murad had not been her first lover, though she had always maintained that he was the father of her son.

Forced from her village on the Gallipoli peninsula by her angry parents, she had become a camp follower of the Turkish army, servicing any man who would pay the price. Her child had remained with his grandparents who, though embarrassed by their daughter’s morals, housed her child.

Cuntuz had been continually reminded of his mother’s evil ways, of his wicked infidel father, and of his own bastardy. The children of the village had been merciless. His grandparents, no more thoughtful than others, were forever telling him how lucky he was to have their charity. He was forced to spend a great deal of time in the church praying that God would overlook the shame of his very existence, would burn his vile parents in eternal hellfire, and would bless his wonderful grandparents who had taken him into their home.

Cuntuz was now twelve and a half. Suddenly, his mother-richly dressed and with a full purse-appeared to claim him. He could remember seeing her only three times in his life, the last time four years ago. He barely knew her, and he didn’t like her. But faced with the choice of remaining with his carping grandparents who pleaded with him to remember his immortal soul and remain with them, or go with his mother who promised him that he would be a prince, the choice was easy. It was made especially easy, when his mother, her eyes knowing, said slyly, “Soon you will be a man, my son, and I will see that you have many fine girls to satisfy you.” He had lately felt urges and longings strange to him and had taken to spying on the village maidens when they bathed in a nearby stream.

He and his mother had gone to Constantinople where they remained for several months in a small palace, guests of the empress. Cuntuz had been coached in elementary manners, the rough, country edge worn off his tongue by a diction teacher. And he had made a friend, the first he had ever had. This was Prince Andronicus, the empress’s oldest son, fifteen.

The boys became inseparable, much to the irritation of the empress, who was forced to grit her teeth and accept the situation. Only the fact that she would soon be sending Cuntuz and his mother to his father in Adrianople prevented Helena from taking firmer action. She did not feel that Cuntuz was a fit companion for her son.

Andronicus was very much like Cuntuz. Being older, and having been brought up in the city, Andronicus had had better opportunities to develop the unpleasant side of his nature. He was nothing like his handsome and charming younger brother, Manuel, who made friends easily. Andronicus had been virtually friendless. The open admiration of the new boy won him over.

On Cuntuz’s thirteenth birthday Prince Andronicus took his new friend to an exclusive brothel. There, the boy became a man. A man who, like his royal friend, had an appetite for cruelty and perversion. The boys began spending more and more time in the whorehouses of the city. Singly, each was obnoxious; together they were dangerous, for their cruelty knew no bounds. Their arrival each evening at a house of pleasure was apt to set the madame fretting nervously, wondering if she would lose any of her girls. Andronicus and Cuntuz made life unbearable torture for the young prostitutes of Constantinople, for they never patronized the same house two nights in a row and no one ever knew where they would strike next. Fortunately, before they could kill anyone, the time came for Cuntuz to go to Adrianople.

Now he stood with his mother before the empress. He thought to himself that Helena had fine, big tits. He wondered how it would feel to suck on those breasts and then bite down hard on the nipples, causing her to scream with the terrible pain he would inflict. He stood silently, mentally stripping his royal benefactress naked, wondering if what they said about her was true. He imagined her bent over, begging for mercy while he raised red welts on her round, soft bottom with a horse crop. Then when her plump, pretty cheeks blushed rosy red for him he would ass-fuck her! Beneath his elegant robe he grew hard and erect.

Looking at the unconcealed lust on the boy’s face, Helena knew roughly what he was thinking and wondered whether he would be worth the risk. There would be hell to pay if John found out. But if she were very, very careful he would not find out. In this very palace was a secret, windowless room outfitted with a couch for such occasions. The boy and his mother would be leaving in the morning. Perhaps-No! Yes! Later this afternoon she would have the boy brought to her for a few hours. She had heard he was insatiable. She forced her mind back to what the boy’s idiot mother was saying.

“You’re sure,” Mara quavered, “that Murad will welcome us in Adrianople?”

“Of course!” snapped Helena. God, the woman was driving her crazy “How many times must I tell you he will be delighted to have Cuntuz by his side. His other sons are but babies. As a warrior, Murad is in constant danger of being killed. Do you think if that happened the Ottomans would welcome my sister’s mewling infants as Murad’s heirs? They would far prefer Cuntuz, who is virtually a grown man. Your son could then protect his own succession in the Ottoman fashion by strangling his half brothers. You, dear Mara, will be a most powerful woman when your son succeeds to his father’s throne.”

Mara licked her lips nervously. “Sultan Murad has never seen my son. When I told him I was pregnant he gave me gold, but I never saw him again. He never even acknowledged the boy.”

“Neither has he ever denied him,” said Helena. “Rest assured, my dear Mara. All will be well. If, heaven forfend, Murad sends you away, there is always a place for you among my ladies. You have my protection.” It was a promise easily given for Helena didn’t believe the sultan would send them back. If he did, it would be with an income. And the damage to Theadora would have been done. Her sister would not feel so inviolate then!

Rising, the empress smiled down on the fat woman. “I will bid you goodbye now, my friend, for you will be leaving early in the morning. Prince Cuntuz, if you will attend me in an hour’s time I will give you your final instructions on how to deal with Ottoman court customs.” And Helena glided from the room.

When she had gone, Mara turned to her son. “You know, of course, that the bitch lusts for a quick tumble with you.”

He grinned. “I’ll give her a ride she’ll not soon forget, mother dear. She’ll be groveling for mercy by the time I’m through with her. Be sure you are as kind to my friend, Andronicus. He swears you are the best piece he has ever had. He tells me your mouth does wonderful things that can drive a man mad with delight.”

“Small praise from a lad of fifteen,” returned Mara sourly. “Don’t burn all your bridges with the empress, Cuntuz. Despite what she says, we may need to return here. I do not really believe that the sultan will welcome us. I will try for your sake though, for I owe you that.”

“Am I really his son?”

“I believe so. When a man kept me as he did, I fucked only him. I even fancied myself in love with Murad. Ah, Cuntuz, you should have seen me then. I was a tiny little thing with fine breasts and skin like the best white Bursa silk! A man could span my waist with his hands!”

He looked unbelieving. He could not imagine this mountain of flesh petite and desirable. But then, she must have had something other than an open and willing hole to attract his father even for so short a time. He disliked her less now than when they had first joined forces. He realized that she had tried, even as she was trying now, to do her best for him. Awkwardly he patted the beringed hand.

“We had best go now, Mother, lest we be late for our appointments.”

A week later Sultan Murad found himself face to face with an almost-grown son and that son’s mother. He had not even remembered their existence. The peasant girl he had kept for his pleasure in the Gallipoli Peninsula had been of no importance to him. She had attracted him with her golden eyes and big breasts. She had been no stranger to men, and he hadn’t known or cared if she was faithful to him. She was simply available when he wanted her. That had been enough, for he had ached with the terrible loss of Adora to his father. When Mara announced her impending motherhood he hadn’t questioned it but had given her gold and ridden off for less involved company. He had not even known the child’s sex, or whether it had lived or died. He hadn’t cared enough to find out.

From the beginning, there was antipathy between the man and the boy. Murad looked at Cuntuz. The lad was soft, uneducated. His mouth already showed signs of dissipation. The eyes were cruel and shifty. Cuntuz looked at his “father” and saw a hard, successful man whose feats he could never hope to equal. He hated Murad for this.

The sultan would neither confirm nor deny his paternity. Nor would he make Cuntuz his legal heir. That position belonged to four-year-old Prince Bajazet, to be followed by his twin brothers. To solidify his decision, Murad called in the ulemas, the Muslim lawgivers, to debate his judgement, and to confirm or deny it. He would abide by their decision. After long and careful consideration, the ulemas agreed with the sultan. They had no wish to cast doubts upon an innocent boy’s birth, but Mara’s reputation was poor. No one, not even his mother, could be absolutely certain of Cuntuz’s paternity. And where the descent of Osman’s line was concerned, there could be no doubt whatever. Prince Bajazet was confirmed as his father’s heir.

The sultan agreed to settle an allowance on Mara-but she must return to Constantinople. There was no place for her in Adrianople. Murad laughed to himself. Adora and his harem were solidly united for the first time since he had become sultan. Adora was well aware who had sent Mara and Cuntuz to Murad. And she was outraged that her own sister would try to replace her beautiful and bright little Bajazet with that horrible boy whose eyes had undressed her on the two occasions that they had met. Adora refused to believe that Murad had fathered such a son.

The other women of the harem simply wanted no additional competition. Adora was quite enough.

Cuntuz was to remain in Adrianople. There was always the possibility that he was Murad’s son, and Murad felt he owed the boy something if that were true. Cuntuz was to be educated in both academic and martial subjects. If he had talents, then perhaps the boy could be of use to the empire.

Cuntuz did not wish to remain. He wanted to return to Constantinople and pick up his life of drinking and wenching with his friend, Prince Andronicus. His mother quickly disabused him of the notion. “With the money your father is settling on me I can open my own house of pleasure,” Mara told her son. “I know what the rich men and women of Byzantium like, and I will cater to their lusts. There is no further place for you in my life. Remain with the sultan and your fortune is made. If you do not wish to do that you may return to your grandparents. I do not think you would enjoy it.”

“I can stay with Andronicus,” replied the boy. “He is my friend.”

“Do not be a fool!” replied his mother. “Do you think the empress will allow that association to continue if you are of no use to her? You have already served her purposes by coming here. It is either stay here or return to your grandparents.”

It was no real choice. Cuntuz remained. He hated it, for the sultan had given orders that he was to be treated like any boy in the Palace School. Thus, he was beaten for his errors, which were many. There rose in the already warped boy a blazing hatred for Sultan Murad and for the sultan’s acknowledged sons.

Cuntuz was forced to bide his time. He was young. But eventually he would have his vengeance.

Chapter Twenty-One

The tsar of the Bulgars had died at a vast old age, leaving his three grown sons to squabble among themselves over his kingdom. To the northwest, Prince Lazar held sway. To the south, Prince Vukashin. Caught between them was their eldest brother, Ivan, who believed it should all belong to him.

On the other side of the Balkan mountains the sultan waited to see which of them would come to him for aid. When they all did, he carefully evaluated the positions of each and decided that when the time came for choosing he would side with the eldest, Prince Ivan. Vukashin was a poor general. Murad defeated him and quickly annexed the southern part of the late tsar’s kingdom.

Prince Lazar now found himself besieged by an army of Hungarian crusaders who, with the Pope’s blessing, sought to take over his kingdom. Two hundred thousand Bulgarians were forcibly converted by the Franciscans from the Orthodox to the Latin rite. The sultan marched and was welcomed by the persecuted Bulgarians as the savior who would restore their freedom of worship. And he did-under his usual conditions. The Bulgarians were too happy to be rid of the minions of the Latin Church to care that their sons were now open to the Janissary draft.

Tsar Ivan now found himself free of his rivals but faced with a formidable opponent. He would continue to rule-but only on Sultan Murad’s terms. Following the example of the emperors of Byzantium, Ivan became the Ottoman’s vassal. His daughter, Thamar, joined the sultan’s harem.

Knowing Murad’s devotion to Adora, Ivan took a leaf from the Byzantine’s book. Thamar’s dowry would be paid in gold, but only when the union bore fruit. There was always the possibility that his daughter might supplant Theadora. But failing that, she would at least have a child to console her.

Theadora was furious when she heard that Murad had agreed to the terms of the Bulgarian tsar, but she tried to hide her anger. The girl had the potential to become a serious rival. This was no ordinary harem maiden but a princess, like herself.

Adora looked into the Venetian glass mirror that Murad had given her when the twins were born. Her hair was still lustrously dark with its reddish-gold lights, her eyes their beautiful amethyst-purple, her fair skin clear and unlined. Still, she sighed, she was twenty-nine and the Princess Thamar was just fifteen. Dear God! Her rival was the same age as her son, Halil!

She could only hope that the girl was ill-favored. How else could she compete with youth? Adora had doubts. Murad, in his mid-forties, was approaching a dangerous age. Would he still love her after the nights he spent in the younger woman’s bed? She felt the tears splash down her cheeks.

Coming up behind her Murad saw the tears and surmised the reason. “No, my dove,” he said, turning her so that she was cradled against him. She protested faintly, trying to hide her wet face from him. “Adora,” the sound of his deep voice caressing her name sent a shiver through her. “It is a political arrangement. Tsar Ivan hopes to keep me at bay by using his daughter. I could hardly refuse the girl once she was offered.”

“Why not?” she muttered tearfully. “You have a harem full of women. Did you really need another?”

He laughed. “It would have been most ungallant of me to refuse the tsar’s daughter!”

“Is she beautiful?”

“Yes,” he said honestly. “She is very young and very lovely. But she is not to my taste, nor is she my love. You are my only love, Adora.

“Nevertheless, I shall keep my word. I will take this maiden to my bed and I will keep her there until she swells with my seed. Then I will collect her dowry. We need all the gold we can gather, Adora. Building an empire costs money.

“I will need your help too, my dove. Do not make yourself Thamar’s enemy. You need not be her friend if you do not wish it, but be in a position to watch her for me, for I do not trust the tsar. I believe he sends his daughter to spy for him.

“So there will be no doubt about your position in my life or in my house, I have prepared a decree to be released on the day I accept Thamar into my house. It elevates you to the position of bas-kadin. I have already named your sons my heirs.”

She flung her arms about his neck and kissed him passionately. “Thank you, my lord! Oh, thank you! I do love you so, Murad!”

He grinned boyishly at her. “And I love you too, my dove,” he said. And he did. He had enslaved her, yet she would not be humbled. Like a flower after a storm, she always rose to bloom anew. She was his magnificently proud princess, and he wanted no mate but her.

Still, he was the Ottoman, and he would take Thamar of Bulgaria to his bed. Though he would return to Adora, Thamar would be a delightful diversion. His mind wandered back to the day he first saw her. He had entered Tsar Ivan’s capital city of Veliko Türnovo at the head of a large force. The message to the Bulgarians was clear.

It was during that visit that Ivan offered his daughter. Murad sat with Ivan in a small room in the tsar’s castle. The room was lit by pure wax candles that gave off a soft, flattering golden light. A girl entered, followed by an old woman. At first Murad could not see her face for her head was modestly lowered. They stood silently before the two men, and the tsar nodded. The old woman reached out and drew the velvet cloak from the girl. Thamar stood naked before her father and her prospective lord.

“She is flawless,” said the tsar roughly.

Murad’s eyes widened just enough to show his interest, but he said nothing. He was surprised that the tsar would hawk his daughter’s charms in such a manner. Obviously, Ivan wanted to place her in Murad’s house very badly.

“Look up, girl, and let the sultan see your face!” snapped Ivan.

Thamar raised her head, and Murad was suitably impressed. The girl’s face was oval in shape and fair in coloring, with rose-pink cheeks. Her eyes, fringed with thick dark-gold lashes beneath delicately arched golden-brown brows, were large and brown-gold. There was no expression in them. It was as if the girl had divorced herself from all that was happening to her. The nose was small and straight. The chin had a dainty cleft. The red mouth was generous and well-shaped.

She held her head high, and he followed the swanlike neck down to the small round breasts with their little pink nipples, hard and tight in the chill of the room, like closed buds. The navel was just faintly rounded, the waist tiny, the hips broad, the legs slim and well-shaped with slender, high-arched feet. Without spoken instruction the girl now slowly turned until her back faced him. It was a beautiful, long, smooth back that ended in small, plump, dimpled buttocks.

The old crone who attended the maiden loosened the girl’s hair, and it fell down her back to the floor. Now Murad was truly impressed. Thamar’s hair was the color of April sunshine, and the sultan had never seen anything like it before. It was thick and shining and fell in rippling waves. Unable to contain himself, Murad rose and walked over to the girl. He reached out and stroked the lustrous mass. Catching it between his fingers, he felt the incredible texture of it. It was as soft as thistledown, yet not too fine.

Damn! The tsar was a sly old fox! He would certainly never love the girl, but he now lusted to possess her and that fabulous hair. He heard himself say, “The girl is a virgin?”

Smiling, the tsar nodded. Irritated by Ivan’s show of superiority, Murad said brutally, “I shall require proof of my own. Just before I bed with the girl my own Moorish physician will decide the matter. Rest assured that I can tell a real virgin. No amount of weeping and feigning pain will fool me. So be sure, Ivan, that you deal honestly with me. If you or your daughter are lying to me, I will give her to my soldiers when I have finished with her.”

The girl paled, gasped, and swayed. Catching her before she fell, Murad was unable to resist caressing a small breast. Thamar shivered first and then reddened with embarrassment. It told Murad what he wanted to know. Though he would still have the physician check, he was certain the girl was innocent.

Now the day had come for Thamar to enter the harem of Sultan Murad. Since she came as a concubine, not a wife, her arrival was a subdued one. When she stepped from her litter she was greeted, not by the sultan, as she had expected, but by a beautiful, richly clad young woman.

“Welcome to the Island Serai, Thamar of the Bulgars. I am Theadora of Byzantium, the sultan’s bas-kadin.”

“I expected the sultan to greet me,” replied Thamar ungraciously.

“And so he would have if he were a Christian prince, or if you came as his wife. Alas, Muslim sultans learn different manners and we poor Christian princesses who are sent into political concubinage must learn to cope.” Laughing, she put an arm about the girl. “Come, my dear. I will wager you are tired, hungry, and perhaps even a little frightened. You are to have a beautiful, spacious apartment of your own in the harem. But first a bath to wash the dust of your journey from you and then a hot meal and a good night’s rest.”

Thamar shook the friendly arm off. “Where is Lord Murad? When will I see him? I demand that you tell me!”

Theadora took the girl firmly by the hand and half pulled, half dragged her to the privacy of her own salon in the Court of the Beloved. Releasing Thamar’s hand, she faced her and said firmly, “I think it is time you faced your situation honestly, my dear. You are not to be the sultan’s wife. You will be one of many concubines. Sultan Murad has no wife, nor will he ever have. He has a harem of women to suit his varied moods. And he has one kadin. A kadin, Thamar, is a maiden who has borne him sons and whom the sultan wishes to honor.

“I am my lord’s kadin. His only kadin. My sons, Bajazet, Osman, and Orkhan are Murad’s heirs. I would like to be your friend, for my lord’s happiness is my first duty. Make no mistake, however, Thamar, in the harem only the sultan’s word supplants mine.

“You will see our lord Murad when he so desires and not before. You may demand nothing. Only the sultan demands. My lord thought you would be weary and has ordered that you rest tonight.”

When the girl frowned in obvious annoyance, Theadora’s patience came to an abrupt end. “I had been told you were a virgin, but I have never known a virgin to be so eager for her lord’s bed,” she said cruelly.

The girl flushed with embarrassment. “I am not eager,” she whispered. “I did not expect to be greeted in such a manner. Is it always so here?”

“What were you told of the harem?”

Again Thamar flushed. “I was told that whatever happened I must remember it was for my country. That the peasants would revere me as a saint.”

Adora swallowed her laughter. The girl would be horribly offended. “They also, I am sure, made veiled references to unbridled licentiousness and orgies. I am afraid we will disappoint you, Thamar. The sultan is a very moral man. The Christian nobleman has a legal wife, an openly flaunted mistress, several secret mistresses, and exercises the droit de seigneur on every available virgin. The sultan is far more honest. He keeps a harem of women. The mothers of his children are honored, for the Muslims revere motherhood. Girls who don’t attract his favor are married off to those the sultan wishes to favor. Older women are pensioned. Is such decency as this practiced in the Christian world?”

“Are you a Muslim, my lady?” asked the girl fearfully.

“No, Thamar, I am as faithful a member of the Eastern Church as you are. Father Lucas says the mass each day in my private chapel. You are welcome to join me in my devotions. Now, however, I suggest we return to our schedule: a bath, a meal, and a good night’s sleep.”

Adora escorted the subdued girl to the harem which was located in the Court of the Jeweled Fountains. Thamar attempted to be aloof, but the sight of a room full of beautiful women was both fascinating and unnerving. Her father had instructed her to gain the sultan’s affection so that he might confide in her. She was then to pass on to her father all the information she had gathered. How, thought Thamar ruefully, was she supposed to gain the sultan’s confidence when she would have trouble even gaining his attention?

Not only that, but her father’s information regarding the princess Theadora was obviously incorrect also. Tsar Ivan had assured his daughter that the Byzantine princess was only one of the women in the harem. She had no authority or special place in the sultan’s life. And she was a much older woman, practically elderly. Had she not been Sultan Orkhan’s wife? Thamar was already composing in her mind a strongly worded letter to her sire. Casting a final glance about the harem salon, she realized she had nothing to offer Murad that the other women didn’t have, except possibly her lovely hair.

Adora settled the girl as comfortably as possible, and then left her to her slaves. She could understand Murad’s temptation. The maiden was indeed lovely-lovely enough to hold him if she had any sense at all. Her earlier show of temperament gave Adora cause for concern. She was not sure if it stemmed from strength of character or from stubbornness. She hoped it was the latter.

Back in the main salon of the harem the other women clustered in small groups, talking. This new princess was lovely and as different from Princess Theadora as dawn is from dusk. Would she supplant the favorite? Should they become Thamar’s new friends now and thus be in line for her favors when she overcame Theadora?

A lovely Italian girl who was an occasional favorite of Murad’s laughed mockingly at the others. “You are a pack of fools,” she said, “to even contemplate choosing this new girl over the lady Theadora. Most of you have not even yet been in the sultan’s bed. I have, and I can tell you that there is no one who will ever replace Princess Theadora in our lord Murad’s heart. He is like a great lion who enjoys the company of many young lionesses but is truly mated to only one.”

“But he must give this Thamar a child or her dowry will not be paid,” said another girl. “When a man has a child by a woman he is always more attentive to her.”

“Attentive, perhaps. In love with, no,” came the Italian’s reply. “The babe will be for Princess Thamar’s amusement. And let us pray to Allah she conceives a girl child, for Prince Bajazet and his brothers are our lord Murad’s heirs and Princess Theadora will brook no interference in the succession. Choose sides if you would be so foolish. But if you do, be sure you choose the right side. At least with our princess Adora we have a predictable quantity.”

The women of the harem were strangely silent. They did not see Thamar until the next day when the entire harem, led by Theadora, participated in the ritual bridal bath. Thamar would go to the sultan’s bed that night. Seeing the Bulgarian’s nude, youthful beauty lost Thamar most of her support. The bored young beauties of the harem spent every waking hour working to entice the sultan. Here came a princess who would have no greater position than they had, yet she was being rushed to the sultan’s bed. Had it not been for Adora’s kindness, they would have turned on their new rival and torn her to pieces.

Adora, however, could afford to be generous. She was pregnant again. When she had learned that Murad intended taking the Bulgarian into his harem she had decided to forgo her previous precautions. As she knew that Murad would continue to bed with Thamar until he got her with child, Adora intended to make her own condition known quite soon. Nevertheless, she felt a stab of jealousy as she escorted the girl to Murad’s apartment in the Court of the Sun.

So frightened was Thamar that she had to be practically pushed into the room. Ali Yahya stepped from the shadows, removed her plain white silk robe, and departed. Before her loomed a large, velvet hung bed. Thamar reluctantly stumbled forward. Remembering what she had been taught that afternoon, she kissed the embroidered hem of the coverlet and then crawled up from the foot of the bed to the sultan’s side.

He watched her progress with amused, narrowed eyes. She had a deliciously provocative bottom. He sat cross-legged, his lower body hidden by the coverlet. As his chest was bare, she suspected the rest of him was too.

“Good evening, my little one. Are you well rested from your journey?” he queried pleasantly.

“Yes, my lord.”

“And Adora has made you feel comfortable, and welcome?”

“Adora?”

“My kadin Theadora,” he said. “I have always called her Adora.”

“Oh, yes,” said Thamar. She felt a twinge of resentment. She also felt very self-conscious in her nudity. She flushed and the sultan laughed low.

He reached out and pulled the pins from her hair, which tumbled down to cover her. “Exquisite,” he murmured. “Utterly exquisite.” Lifting the coverlet he invited, “Come under and be warm.”

Sliding beneath the rich robe, she saw that he was indeed nude. She lay still and straight and as far away from him as she dared. He reached over and pulled her closer. She was too afraid to protest.

“Do you know what I am going to do to you?” he asked her.

“Yes. You are to fuck me for that is how babies are made,” she answered him.

“Do you know what that means, Thamar?” He strongly suspected that she did not. These Christian girls were always so poorly prepared for a man. “Have you ever seen the animals mate?”

“No, my lord. I was raised in a castle, not a farmyard. Such indelicate sights are not meant for my eyes. My brothers’ wives did tell me that, even though I was only to be your leman, I was to submit to you in all things as if you were really my husband. They said what men and women did to make babies was called ‘fucking’, but I know not what they meant and they would not tell me. They said my husband would explain all things.”

He sighed. “You have heard of the manroot?”

“Yes.”

“Good!” He took her hand, and put it between his legs. “Touch it, sweet,” he commanded her. “Fondle it gently. That is the manroot. At the moment it is soft and at rest, but as my desire for you grows it will increase in size. Through it flows my seed.”

Hesitantly, she let her fingers close around him. For a few moments she did nothing more than hold him. Then, as her touch grew surer, she caressed him boldly. The warm touch began to rouse him, and as he grew harder and bigger in her hand, she gasped with surprise. Dropping the manroot, she drew back.

He laughed delightedly. “Fear not, little virgin, it is not yet time for us to be joined. Lesson Two involves where the manroot goes to plant my seed.” He reached down and touched the soft, sensitive area between her legs. She gasped again and tried to pull away. But the sultan held her firmly with one arm while a finger gently explored her most intimate places. “There is where I will enter you,” he said softly, then withdrew his hand. “It is too soon. First I would have a kiss from you, Thamar, and then I will explore all of your lovely body.”

He shifted her so that she was beneath him and, bending down, found the wide, generous mouth. His first taste told him that she had never been kissed. It reminded him of Adora’s lips when they had stolen kisses in the orchard of St. Catherine’s so long ago. He pressed his mouth down harder against the girl beneath him, forcing the lips to part, then plunged his tongue into her mouth. To his surprise, her tongue fenced skillfully with his, which increased his ardor.

His hands found her little breasts and he squeezed, enjoying the feel of them. Then he bent his head to cover the small globes with hot kisses. His mouth sucked each nipple long and lovingly, and Thamar moaned with a sense of growing pleasure.

Allah, but she was sweet flesh, this royal virgin! His hands slid over her satiny, trembling body. This was how it should have been with Adora, he thought. Murad let his lips wander down the smooth torso, feeling her pulse jump under his seeking mouth. She quivered and squirmed with passion.

Murad pulled himself up and found her mouth again, placing little kisses at the corners, pleased when she caught his head in her hands and forced his lips back to hers for another kiss. She sighed, whispering his name when he nuzzled at her little ear. “Thamar, my little virgin, I will not take you until you feel ready. But you must tell me,” he murmured in her golden hair.

“Oh, now, my lord! Please now.”

Pleased with her eagerness, he separated her thighs with his knee and, guiding his manhood with a hand, found her. Beneath him, Thamar tensed. The throbbing urgency between her legs was driving her almost mad with longing. She had no idea what it was she sought, but she knew it had to do with this man who was now her lord and master.

She could feel him enter her, filling her with his bulk. Then something blocked his passage. Disappointed, she moaned petulantly, “It is not enough! Not enough!”

Murad laughed in the heat of his lust. “There is more, eager, greedy one. First there will be pain, Thamar, then sweet delight. And never again will there be pain.”

“Oh, yes!” she panted, straining against him.

Slowly he moved within the girl, driving her to a fever pitch. Then suddenly Thamar felt a terrible and unbearable burning pain spreading throughout her belly. Frightened, she cried out and tried to twist away from him, but he held her firmly, driving deeper and harder into her. Then the pain began to recede, leaving only delight. It was as he had promised. No longer fearful, she moved with him until he brought her to a perfect climax. Satisfied that she was fulfilled in her first sexual encounter, he went on to find his own pleasure.

Thamar was still floating with delight as Murad sought his own perfection. The sisters had never told her how delicious this fucking really was. They had tried to frighten her, the bitches! Thamar tenderly held the man laboring over her, rubbing the small of his back with innocently skillful little fingertips, thrusting her hips up to meet his downward motion. Oh, heaven! It was sweet! Sweet!

Then suddenly the hardness of the manroot within her broke and she was flooded with warm wetness. The man above her collapsed, sobbing, “Adora! My own, sweet Adora!”

Thamar stiffened. She could not have heard it. She did not hear it! But once again Murad murmured into Thamar’s hair, “Adora, my own!” Then he rolled from her onto his side and fell into a sound sleep.

Thamar lay rigid with anger. It was bad enough to have been forced into a harem, a harem ruled by an exquisitely beautiful woman who obviously held the sultan’s heart. Here she stifled a sob. Not even to be free of that woman in the most intimate of moments! It was unforgivable! He was an unfeeling brute, and as for Theadora-the worst vengeance Thamar could think of was not enough.

Adora! Thamar felt a sour taste rise in the back of her throat. Adora! She was so beautiful, so assured, so safe in Murad’s love. There was nothing left for anyone else. The Byzantine had spoiled the sultan for anyone else. Thamar ached, for she too wanted to be loved.

The sultan would continue to bed with her until his seed found root in her womb. Then he would return to his beloved Adora, who was obviously never out of his thoughts even when he coupled with other women. A black and bitter hatred for Theadora was born in the Bulgarian girl. She knew not how she would do it, but someday she would be revenged.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Within a short time of her initial bedding Thamar was sure she was pregnant. Shortly, she was proved correct. But even here she was not to be the center of attention for Adora was also with child. This reminded Thamar that she was just one of the harem. She was resentful of the other women. At first they put this down to her nervous condition, but later they realized it was her true attitude. Those who might have been her friends faded quickly away. Thamar was left alone.

Adora understood the younger girl’s apparent misery for she had once been in a similar situation. She asked Murad to give Thamar the Court of the Blue Dolphins for her own. This was the smallest of the Island Serai’s six courts, but it would be Thamar’s own domain. Perhaps this mark of distinction would cheer her. Adora remembered well her own early days in the Bursa Palace with the unkind Anastatia sniping at her in an effort to make her miscarry Halil. She had been as frightened, unhappy, and miserable as young Thamar seemed to be.

For her show of kindness Adora was treated to a temper tantrum.

“Are you trying to isolate me?” snarled Thamar.

“I merely thought you would enjoy having your own private court, as I do,” replied Adora. “If you would prefer to remain in your apartment in the harem you are welcome to do so.”

“You need not have bothered to speak to my lord Murad on my behalf, but if this is truly my own domain then get out! I do not want you here! If this is mine I don’t have to have you here! Get out!”

The attending slaves were shocked. They waited, frightened, to see what would happen next. But Adora dismissed them with a wave of her hand. Then she turned to face her young antagonist. “Sit down, Thamar,” she commanded.

“I prefer to stand,” muttered the girl.

“Sit down!” Seeing the fury of Adora’s face, Thamar obeyed. “Now, Thamar, I think it is time we discussed this situation. From the moment you entered our lord Murad’s house I have treated you with kindness. I have offered my friendship. Perhaps there is something about me that prevents our being friends but there is no excuse for this hostility and rudeness. Tell me what it is that troubles you. Perhaps together we can ease your misery.”

“You would not understand.”

“You cannot know that unless you tell me.” Adora smiled encouragingly.

Thamar shot her an angry look, and then the words burst forth. “I was raised to be the wife of a Christian lord. To love him. To support him in all things. To bear his children. To be his only chatelaine. Instead I am sent to an infidel’s harem. Very well, I told myself, it is God’s will and I will accept it meekly as a good Christian daughter. What I cannot accept, however, is that on my wedding night, at the height of our passion Murad cried out your name! Not only once! I will never forgive either of you for that! Never!”

Oh, God! thought Adora, her heart constricting painfully. Thamar had been so needlessly hurt. And Murad was apparently still preoccupied by her virginity. That it had been lost to another man was still hurting him. She reached out and touched the girl’s arm. Wet-eyed, Thamar looked angrily at her. “It will not help,” said Adora softly, “but I am truly sorry you have suffered on my account. But you must forgive Murad, Thamar. He is, it seems, haunted by the ghost of something that cannot be changed, but he is a good man, and he would be grieved to know that he has hurt you.”

“You are right,” said Thamar bitterly. “Your words do not help. I can understand his loving you. You are so beautiful, and so assured. But why can he not love me a little also?” she wailed. “I carry his child too!”

“Perhaps if you will stop snarling at everyone, he will. Give him time, Thamar. I have known my lord Murad since I was younger than you. I was the last and the youngest of his father‘s wives. I left Byzantium when I was but a little maid. I had been married to Sultan Orkhan by proxy in Constantinople. Like you, I was not required to renounce my religion. And until I was old enough, and the sultan took me to his bed, I lived in the Convent of St. Catherine in Bursa. Murad’s younger brother, Prince Halil, is my son. After Sultan Orkhan died I was remarried to the lord of Mesembria, and when he died Sultan Murad offered me his favor.”

“Having been a wife, you became a concubine?” Thamar was incredulous.

“Yes.”

“But why? Surely if Emperor John had insisted, Sultan Murad would have married you.”

Adora laughed gently. “No, Thamar, he would not. He did not have to, you see. In the beginning the Ottomans wed legally with Christian royalty in order to further their cause. Now, however, the Ottoman is stronger than the Christians around him, and though he may take their daughters into his bed as a bribe, he feels he need no longer formally wed with them.

“My brother-in-law, Emperor John, is as much a vassal to my lord Murad as is your father, Tsar Ivan.”

Thamar looked discomfited. “How did you reconcile yourself to this situation?” she asked.

“Firstly,” answered Adora, “I love my lord Murad. Secondly, I daily practice my faith, which gives me strength. I accept the fact that I am still naught but a woman, and ‘tis the men who rule this world. I do not believe God will hold either of us responsible for the situation our families have placed us in. By obeying them, we are only being good Christian daughters. If what they have done is wrong, then it is they who will suffer-not us.”

“But should we enjoy our situation, Adora?”

“I do not see why not, Thamar. After all, if we are not pleasant and loving we will displease the sultan who is a very intuitive man. This will make him unhappy with our families who have sent us to him to please him. It is our duty to enjoy our life in our lord Murad’s house.”

If the sultan had heard Adora’s conversation with Thamar he would have laughed at first, and then he would have accused her of being a devious Greek. If there was one thing Adora did not accept it was the fact that women were the inferiors of men.

Though Murad did not hear the conversation, he did benefit from it. Thamar had taken Adora’s words very much to heart, and the young Bulgarian took on a very different attitude.

She was brighter than the harem beauties, but she had very little wit and was therefore a natural foil for the clever Murad. He delighted in teasing her just so he might see her cheeks turn rosy in pretty confusion. She took to treating the sultan as a demigod. This attitude soothed Murad, but infuriated Adora, especially when Murad began referring to Thamar as his “kitten” and to Adora as his “tigress”.

Then too, as Adora’s pregnancy advanced she became pear-shaped while Thamar barely showed her condition.

“She looks as if she has swallowed an olive,” said Adora petulantly to her son, Halil, “while I appear to have consumed a giant melon!”

He laughed. “I don’t suppose, then, that this is the time to tell you that you are to become a grandmother.”

“Halil! How could you? You are only sixteen!”

“But Alexis is almost eighteen, mother, and very eager to begin our family. She is such an adorable creature that I could not refuse her. And,” his eyes twinkled, “quite frankly, I enjoyed filling her request by filling her belly.” He ducked as she swatted at him. “Besides, I was Bajazet’s age when you were eighteen.”

Theadora winced. “Try,” she said through clenched teeth, “not to crow too loudly to your half brother about your wife’s state. Your place in life is still partially dependent on my favor with Murad. It is difficult enough to cope with a silly girl of sixteen without you telling my lord that I am to be a grandmother! My God, Halil! I am not yet thirty. My little sons are but five and three-and-a-half. Thank heavens you are in Nicea and not here in Adrianople. At least I need not be reminded daily of your perfidy.” Then, seeing her son’s woebegone expression, she relented. “Oh, very well, Halil! When is the child due?”

“Not for seven months, Mother.”

“Good! By that time I shall have borne my lord another one. I shall tell him of your child while I nurse my own. It will not seem so bad then.”

Halil laughed again. “So you carry another lad, eh?”

“Yes! I birth only sons,” she said proudly.

It was not to be, however. This time Adora gave birth on an unusually cold and rainy summer’s dawn. It was a daughter. Worse, the child came feet first, and only the skill of Fatima the Moor saved both mother and baby. The birth was, as usual, witnessed by the women of the harem. When the sex of the child finally was announced Thamar smiled triumphantly and folded her hands complacently over her belly. Weak as she was, Adora felt the strong urge to rise from her bed and rake her fingernails down her face.

Afterward, they tucked her into her bed and brought her daughter to her, but she would not even look at the baby. “Get a wetnurse for it,” she commanded. “I give suck only to princes, not female brats!” The infant whimpered as if sensing the rejection. Theadora’s face softened. Slowly she lifted the blanket and gazed on the face of her new daughter. It was a smooth, heart-shaped face with two large and beautiful blue eyes fringed in thick lashes. The child had a headful of thick, shining dark-brown curls, a rosebud mouth, and high on her left cheekbone an unusual birthmark: a tiny dark crescent above which rode a little star mole.

Iris, Fatima, and the other slaves watched Adora expectantly.

“She may have given a bit of trouble in the birthing,” said the midwife quietly, “but she’s the loveliest babe I’ve seen in many a day, my lady. Your three boys will spoil her terribly.”

“And so will her proud father.” Murad had entered the room unobserved. He bent and kissed Adora. “Once again you have done the thing that pleases me the most. I wanted a daughter!”

“But I wanted to give you a son,” she said softly.

“You have already given me three, my dove. I wanted something of you, and now I have it. My daughter will be called Janfeda. Only the noblest Muslim prince will be good enough for her when I finally bestow her hand, many years from now.”

“You are not displeased then?”

“No, my dove, I am delighted.”

When he had left she wept with relief, and there was no wetnurse for Janfeda until after her mother’s time of purification, as it had been with Theadora’s sons.

Almost three months later Thamar bore a healthy son who was named Yakub. Called from the sultan’s bed to be a witness to the birth, Adora had her small revenge on her rival. Her body had regained its youthful form and she had a delicious, flushed, and tousled look about her. Her amethyst eyes were languorous, and her mouth softly bruised from Murad’s kisses. All this was quite obvious to the women of the harem.

Thamar was not having an easy time. She was small, and her baby was big. She had refused to have the midwife, Fatima the Moor, because she was Adora’s “minion”. She could not, Thamar claimed, feel safe under such circumstances. The insult was uncalled for and Murad was angered. But Adora shrugged and sighed.

“She may be endangering not only herself but the child also, my lord. But if you force Fatima upon her, the result of the fear might be worse. She is young and healthy. She should do well.” Theadora did not believe for one minute that Thamar was afraid of her. This was probably the start of a campaign on the Bulgarian’s part.

The result of Thamar’s attitude was that, in the end, Fatima had to be called to save both mother and child. The midwife pulled the baby from the exhausted girl’s body, but the delay cost Thamar further children. She was badly torn. Only Fatima’s skill prevented her reluctant patient from bleeding to death.

Following the birth, the Court of the Blue Dolphins became an armed camp with entry practically impossible. Thamar had taken some of her bridal allowance and bought herself two dozen fighting eunuchs who allowed only the sultan free access to the Bulgarian. Those serving Thamar had either come with her from Bulgaria or were newly purchased. They were allowed no contact with the rest of the inhabitants of the Island Serai. Food for the court was purchased daily by the old crone who had been Thamar’s nurse.

Three days after the birth Adora arrived at the Court of the Blue Dolphins laden with gifts for the new mother and her child. The gifts were taken from the sultan’s bas-kadin, but Adora was refused admittance to the court. Furious, she sought out Murad. “She is attempting to make it appear that I would harm her or her child,” said Adora. “It is a terrible insult to cast such suspicion on my good name!”

The sultan agreed. There had been peace in his house until Thamar had come. He now regretted having been overcome with lust. He did not intend to allow her to harm his beloved Adora by innuendo. Taking his favorite by the hand, he walked with her to the Court of the Blue Dolphins. The eunuchs quickly opened ranks to admit them.

They found Thamar settled comfortably on a couch in her garden, the child in his cradle by her side. Her look of joy at seeing Murad quickly disappeared when she saw Adora.

“How dare you refuse admittance to the woman who rules this harem?” he thundered.

“I am your kadin too,” quavered Thamar, “and this is my court.”

“No, you are not a kadin. I have not given you that honor. I am the master in this house, and I have made Adora the mistress here. She has been more than kind, even begging this court for you. In return you attempt to slander her unjustly.”

“It is not unjust! Because of her I can have no other children. Her evil Moor saw to that! No doubt the witch would have strangled my son as well had not the entire harem been present!”

“My God!” gasped Adora, whitening. “You are mad, Thamar! The birth has addled her wits, Murad.”

“No,” said the sultan, his black eyes narrowing, “she knows exactly what she says. Now hear me, Thamar! Your own stupidity and stubbornness has rendered you sterile. It was a miracle you did not kill the child. Fatima saved your life. Your child is my fourth acknowledged son. There is very little possibility of his ever ruling. Adora has no reason to fear you or your child and is no danger to either of you. To suggest such a thing is slanderous and unforgivable. If you persist in this charade I will remove Yakub from your care. My kadin will always be allowed immediate entry to this court. Do you understand me?”

“Y-y-yes my lord.”

“Good,” said Murad firmly. “Come, Adora. We will leave Thamar to rest now.”

But the battle lines had been drawn, and Adora now faced two enemies within the house of Osman: Thamar and the evil Prince Cuntuz. For the present, she left the Bulgarian alone. She hoped a time of quiet would alleviate Thamar’s fear. Thamar was not devious, so her fear was real enough, though unjustified.

Prince Cuntuz was a different matter. He learned to read and write in the prince’s school, but higher learning escaped him. The one thing he had inherited from his father was his ability with weapons. He quickly became skilled with knife and dagger, sword and scimitar, lance and bow. He swam and wrestled well and was an excellent horseman. But his lack of intellect prevented his ever being a commander, for he could not grasp tactics. It was yet another cause for bitterness in Cuntuz, who did not mellow as the years passed.

Though he was treated like a prince, though he was reputedly the oldest of Murad’s sons, his mother’s reputation was costing him his rightful place in history. Or so be believed. If his four younger brothers were out of the way, his father would have to turn to him. There would be no other choice.

Cuntuz set about to make friends with Adora’s sons, who were now ten and nine.

Generously he helped to teach his younger siblings horsemanship and weaponry. Adora watched Bajazet, Osman, and Orkhan nervously, for some instinct warned her against Cuntuz. But as she had no proof to back up her fears, she pushed them away. Tall, slender boys with dark hair, fair skin, and black eyes like Murad’s, her sons were so handsome. If only they weren’t so enamored of Cuntuz! But with nothing to put her finger on, she had no grounds to destroy the relationship. Murad was pleased that Cuntuz finally seemed at home. The sultan even began including him in family evenings.

Here was the one area where Adora and Thamar agreed; neither liked Cuntuz. Once when Murad had been momentarily called away by a messenger, Adora turned back into her dimly lit antechamber and found Cuntuz blocking her way. When he made no move to step aside, she said quietly, “I would pass, Cuntuz.”

“You must pay me a toll,” he leered.

Adora felt the anger well up in her. “Step aside!” she hissed.

He reached out and grasped her right breast, squeezing it so tightly that she winced. Adora’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Take your hand from me,” she said coldly, forcing herself to remain still and straight, “else I tell your father of this incident.”

“Your sister, Helena, liked it when I did this to her,” he murmured low. “In fact, she liked it when I…” And here Cuntuz began a catalogue of perversions so foul that Adora almost fainted. Instead she made herself stand very still. And when he had finished, inquiring lasciviously, “Would you not like to taste such delights?” she fixed him with a cold stare. For a moment their eyes remained locked. Then Cuntuz released her.

“You will not tell my father,” he said smugly, “if you do I will deny the incident and say you seek to discredit me.”

“Rest assured, Cuntuz,” she said calmly, “that if I tell my lord Murad, he will believe me.” Then she brushed past him. Behind her, his eyes blazed hatred, but she did not see.

Several days later Adora sought for her sons late in the afternoon. They had, she was told, gone riding with Cuntuz. A prickle of apprehension ran through her, and she hurried to find Ali Yahya. A troop of Janissaries was sent after the princes. An hour into the hills they met with Cuntuz who claimed that they had been attacked by bandits. His three younger half brothers had been taken captive, though he had managed to escape. The trail was clear, he claimed, so he would return to the Island Serai to get more aid. Having no real reason to doubt him, they let him go.

The trail was clear. And because it was late spring, the light remained. At no point could the Janissaries find the tracks of more than four horses. And when they found all three of the younger princes’ horses wandering, the soldiers became suspicious.

“Do you think he’s killed them?” asked the second-in-command.

“Probably,” said the captain grimly, “but we must find them before we return. We cannot go back without the bodies as proof.”

It was growing dark, and they stopped to make torches so that they might continue to follow the trail. Eventually the flickering torchlights led them up a small hill into a rock-strewn clearing. There they found the boys. They had been stripped naked and staked out in the cold night air. Their young bodies had been lashed with a metal-tipped whip, opening several bloody stripes which eventually would have attracted wolves. They had been doused with icy water from a nearby stream.

Young Osman was dead. Orkhan, his twin, was unconscious. But Bajazet was conscious, shivering, and furious with himself for having been taken in by his older half brother.

The Janissaries built a huge fire and, finding the boys’ clothes, dressed them quickly. Bringing them to the roaring blaze, they rubbed their hands and feet in an effort to stimulate their circulation. Orkhan remained unconscious, despite their efforts. But Bajazet couldn’t stop talking, and when one Janissary remarked that the deceased prince had a bruise on the side of his head, the boy burst out, “Cuntuz kicked him there when Osman cursed him for what he was doing to us. My brother never spoke again. That accursed spawn of a Greek whore boasted that with us dead, he would next poison little Yakub, and see that our mother was blamed! He said our father would have no choice but to make him his heir. We must get back to the Island Serai!”

“Dare we move Prince Orkhan, Highness?” questioned the Janissary captain.

“We must! You cannot possibly get him warm here. He needs our mother’s touch.”

It was well past midnight when they returned to the Island Serai. Five-year-old Prince Yakub was safe: Prince Cuntuz had never returned to the palace to carry out his plans. Adora’s grief over the dead Osman had to wait while she attended to his twin. But at dawn Orkhan opened his eyes, smiled at his parents and Bajazet, and said, “I have to go now, Mother. Osman is calling me.” And before any of them could say a word, the boy died.

For a moment all was silent. Then Adora began to wail. Clutching the bodies of her twin sons, she wept until she thought she could weep no more-but wept again. Murad had never felt so helpless in his life.

They had been his sons too, but he had not nurtured them within his own body or suckled them.

“I will avenge them, I swear it,” he promised her.

“Yes,” she sobbed, “avenge them. It will not bring my babies back to me, but avenge them!”

And when he had left her she called her surviving son to her. “Listen to me, Bajazet. This tragedy could encourage Thamar to act against you, but I will see you are protected. Someday you will be sultan, and when that time comes you will not allow sentiment to overrule you. You will instantly destroy your rivals, whoever they may be. Do you understand me, Bajazet? Never again must you be threatened!”

“I understand, Mother. On the day I become sultan, Yakub will die before he can act against me. This empire will never be divided!”

Clasping the boy in her arms, Theadora began weeping afresh. Bajazet looked grimly over her shoulder at the bodies of his twin brothers. Slowly, silently, the tears ran down the boy’s face. No, he vowed silently, he would not forget.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Prince Cuntuz fled to Constantinople where he begged asylum of the empress. Her cold blue eyes took in the boy who had briefly been her lover. In the years away he had become a man, and had probably learned many an interesting trick. The Turks were known for their licentiousness.

“Why should I take you under my protection?” she demanded of him.

“Because I have done something that should please you greatly.”

“What?” She was not particularly interested.

“I have killed your sister’s sons.”

“You lie! Did you really? How could you?”

He told her, and Helena mused aloud, “The sultan will most certainly demand your return.”

“But you will not give me up,” he said, softly caressing the tender inside of her arm. “You will hide me, and protect me.”

“Why on earth would I do that, Cuntuz?”

“Because I can do things for you that no other man can. You know that well, my wicked Byzantine whore. Don’t you?”

“Tell me,” she teased provocatively, and so he did.

Smiling, she nodded and agreed to hide him.

John Paleaologi was furious. But for once, Helena correctly understood the situation. “The sultan has bigger things to do than besiege this city to obtain his wayward son,” she said. “Cuntuz has behaved badly. But his mother is my friend, and Murad would be overly harsh with the boy.”

The emperor turned purple with anger and choked. “Either I am mad,” he said, “or you are! Cuntuz has behaved badly? Cuntuz is responsible for the brutal, premeditated murders of two nine-year-old boys and the attempted murder of a ten-year-old boy. His own half brothers! If Mara is correct about her son’s paternity.”

“They are not all dead?”

“No, my dear. Bajazet, the eldest, survived. He is as filled with plans for revenge as his father. Cuntuz is not even safe within the walls of this city. I will certainly not protect him from Murad. Where is he?”

“He is under the protection of the Church,” she answered smugly. “He never gave up his religion, and his grandparents raised him in our true faith. You cannot violate the laws of sanctuary, John.”

Boxed in by the Church, the emperor wrote his overlord an apologetic letter filled with his personal sympathy, explaining the difficulty of his situation. Murad wrote back absolving his vassal, but warning him to keep Cuntuz under constant observation, and not allow him to leave Constantinople. Thus the renegade prince-drinking, gambling, and wenching about the city with his boon companion, Prince Andronicus-thought himself quite safe.

As Murad began a new western advance, Thamar’s father, Tsar Ivan, launched a campaign against him. Joining with the Serbians, he attacked the Ottoman forces and was quickly and soundly defeated at Samakov. Ivan fled to the mountains leaving the passes to the Plain of Sofia open to the Turks. And he left his unfortunate daughter, Thamar, very much in disfavor with her lord.

Murad was in no hurry to take the city of Sofia. He was no longer a tribesman on a swift raid for quick booty. He was an empire builder, and as such he moved to secure his left flank. The valleys of the Struma and the Vardar were to be occupied as quickly as possible.

The Struma River Valley was part of Serbia. The Vardar was in Macedonia. Both areas were as torn with internal troubles as Bulgaria had been. The Serbian army marched to the Maritza River to engage the Ottoman forces. They were defeated at Cernomen and three of their princes were killed.

Thus the Serbians were conquered as easily as the Thracians had been some ten years earlier. The two major cities of Serres and Drama were swiftly colonized, the main churches turned into mosques. The smaller cities and villages of the Struma Valley accepted and acknowledged the sultan’s sovereignty. The mountain chieftains became Ottoman vassals.

The following year Murad’s armies crossed the Vardar River and took the eastern end of its valley. Now Murad paused in his campaign of western expansion, and turned his eyes back to Anatolia.

By this time, John Paleaologi had decided that the time was right to seek aid from western Europe. Murad was far too occupied to notice his scholarly brother-in-law, so John traveled quietly to Italy to warn of the growing Ottoman menace.

Once before the emperor had sought aid of his western neighbors. He had made a secret visit to Hungary two years prior and, by swearing the submission of the Greek Church to the Latin, he was promised aid against the Turks. On his return home, however, he was captured and held by the Bulgarians who objected to what they considered the emperor’s betrayal. This gave a fine excuse to John’s Catholic cousin, Amedeo of Savoy, to invade Gallipoli. Having captured it, he sailed into the Black Sea to fight the Bulgarians, and gained his cousin’s release.

Freed, John Paleaologi made for Constantinople. When his cousin insisted on his acceptance to Rome, John refused. Angered, Amedeo fought the Greeks.

Now, John ventured to Rome where he once again foreswore the Orthodox faith in favor of the Roman Church. In exchange he was to receive military aid from his fellow Catholic princes. When the aid was not forthcoming, John sadly departed for home. In Venice he was detained for “debt” and forced to send to his elder son for the ransom. Andronicus had been left as regent in his father’s absence.

Helena saw an opportunity to be free of her husband, and Andronicus saw his opportunity to be emperor. He refused to aid his father. But John’s younger son, Manuel, saw his opportunity to get into his father’s favor, thus supplanting his older sibling. Manuel raised the ransom and personally brought his father home to Constantinople.

John Paleaologi faced the sad truth. The city of his ancestors was doomed to fall to the Turks. Perhaps not today, or tomorrow, but sometime in the near future the city would change hands. Those who worshiped in the Greek Church were in the minority, and would get no help from their Catholic brethren.

Wiser and wearier than he had ever been, the emperor of Byzantium reaffirmed his oath of vassalage to his brother-in-law, the sultan. Never again would he seek aid against the Ottoman whom he found to be a better friend than his Christian associates.

Though the Pope and the princes of western Christendom were not aware of it, their shabby treatment of Byzantium’s ruler would one day have far-reaching effects. It meant that each eastern-European grouping-Greek, Serb, Slav, or Bulgar-would prefer the rule of the Ottoman Muslims who offered them religious freedom to that of the western-European Catholic Christians who tried to force them to the Latin Church.

John Paleaologi settled down to what he hoped would now be a quiet life. His wife, involved as usual in her many love affairs, was being discreet and offered him no current trouble. His older son, Andronicus, in total disgrace and sulking, spent all of his time with Prince Cuntuz, following his unpleasant nature. Manuel had been elevated to the position of co-emperor as reward for his aid. John Paleaologi knew Manuel’s motives, but at least the boy had brains, really loved his father, and was eager to learn the business of ruling. Unlike Andronicus, Manuel understood that leadership involved responsibility as well as privilege.

For a short time all was quiet in the Byzantine Empire. And then one day the emperor and his younger son awoke to find that Andronicus and Cuntuz were leading a rebellion against their respective fathers. Where they had gotten the money to finance such a venture was a puzzle to everyone but the emperor.

The emperor’s spies were swift and thorough. The money had come originally from the papacy which had tithed the rulers of western Europe to pay for their meddling. It was next transferred to the Hungarians who passed it on to the two renegade princes. These two had both foresworn the Greek Church in favor of the Latin and had promised to bring their subjects to Catholicism, once they overcame their fathers.

Neither John nor Murad could believe that the leaders of the West actually expected two such inept fools as Andronicus and Cuntuz to deliver what they promised. The real reason they had been set to rebellion was probably the hope of stirring dissension between Constantinople and the sultan.

Murad’s response to the plot was characteristically swift.

He trapped the two miscreants and their ragtag army in the town of Demotika. The townspeople were hardly overjoyed to find themselves caught in the midst of this siege. They had no interest in the rebellion. They smuggled out a message to the sultan, disclaiming any responsibility for the plot and begging the sultan to free them of Andronicus and Cuntuz.

Murad quickly complied with the wishes of his loyal subjects: he took the town with a minimum of bloodshed and damage. The Greek rebels who had aided Andronicus and Cuntuz were bound together and flung living from the city walls to drown in the Maritza River below. The sultan ordered the young Turks involved to be executed by their own fathers.

Now the two rulers turned to their own offspring. Looking on Cuntuz with contempt, Murad said, “This is not the first time you have earned my anger. The last time you fled rather than face the consequences of your terrible crime. You will not flee me now, Cuntuz. If it were up to me I know the punishment I should inflict on you, but judgement belongs to the mother of my dead sons and my living heir.”

Cuntuz’s composure slipped. He could face a swift death, but the vengeance of a mother for the murder of her young sons was a frightening thing. The Byzantines were noted for particularly exquisite tortures.

From behind the sultan’s throne stepped Theadora and Bajazet. The boy had grown in the last four years. He was almost a man, and there had been talk of an alliance with the heiress-princess of Germiyan. Suddenly the sultan’s voice boomed, “Theadora of Byzantium, what sentence will you pronounce on this man for the murder of your sons, Osman and Orkhan?”

“Death, my lord, preceded by blinding,” came the reply.

“So be it,” said the sultan. “On you Cuntuz of Gallipoli I pronounce the sentence of death by beheading for your rebellion against me. First, however, your hands will be cut off, and you will be blinded for your crime of fratricide. This is my judgement.”

“A boon, my lord!”

“Yes, Theadora?”

“I would blind him myself. And my son, Bajazet, would perform the beheading.”

“The law forbids the taking of a brother’s life by another brother.”

“Do not the prophets say an eye for an eye, my lord? And, too, this man’s mother was a known whore. The mullahs and ulemas forbade his inclusion on the list of your legal heirs. I see nothing of you in him, and I do not recognize him as either your son or a half brother to Prince Bajazet. If by wildest chance your blood does flow in his veins, then his fratricide and his rebellion against you negate any relationship between the Ottoman and him. Therefore my son breaks no law.”

A very faint smile touched the sultan’s lips, and he leaned over to his brother-in-law. “Does she not reason like a Greek advocate?” he asked softly.

“She is her father’s daughter,” said John, “knowing when to press the advantage and when to retreat.”

Murad turned back to his favorite. “It will be as you wish, Adora. But are you sure you wish to blind this renegade yourself?”

Her amethyst eyes darkened and grew hard. “For four years my children have cried daily to me from their graves to avenge them. They will not rest until I do-and neither will I. Having someone else perform the deed is not enough. Bajazet and I must do it ourselves, else we condemn Osman and Orkhan to wander forever in the half-world between life and death.”

“So be it,” pronounced Murad, and the mullahs and ulemas sitting cross-legged about the judgement hall nodded their agreement. Vengeance was something they could understand. That Theadora and her son wished to perform this act of vengeance they approved. Bajazet had already shown his courage by fighting with his father against the rebels. It was good to know that his mother, female though she was, also possessed courage.

Now all eyes turned to the emperor of Byzantium to see what judgment he would pass on his own son. John could do no less than his overlord, and so Andronicus was also condemned to mutilation, blinding, and beheading. First, however, he would watch his friend die.

A small, flat brass brazier was brought forth by a slave. It glowed red with burning coals. Seeing it forced Cuntuz to reality, and he tried to run. Two young Janissaries leapt forward and dragged him back. He pulled away from them with the superhuman strength of a desperate man and threw himself at Adora’s feet.

“Mercy, lady,” he babbled. “My life I forfeit, but blind me not!”

She drew back as if his very touch would contaminate her. Her voice was icy, toneless. “Did you show my babies mercy when you brutally murdered them? They trusted you. You were a man to whom they looked up, and they were but impressionable little boys. If I had my way, Cuntuz of Gallipoli, I should have you flayed alive and then thrown to the dogs!”

A block and a kettle of boiling pitch were added to the brazier. Cuntuz was dragged screaming to his knees by the brawny Janissaries. His hands were forced onto the block and, before he could scream again, they were removed from his body by the swift blade of a sword. The stumps were thrust into the hot pitch to prevent bleeding. Shocked into silence he could only stare in horror at his arms. Now he was dragged backward, his handless arms pinioned to his sides, his body straddled, his head held in the iron grip of a large Janissary.

A slave handed Adora a small pair of iron pincers. Seeing her hand tremble slightly, the sultan moved to her side. “You do not have to do this yourself,” he said softly. Her face was very pale.

She looked up, her violet eyes tearing. “When he murdered my children he was not content to simply leave them to die on the mountain. He opened bloody wounds on them to attract wild beasts. Had the Janissaries not arrived in time, they might have been torn to pieces. What a terrible death for anyone, let alone little boys! Not satisfied, he poured icy water on them and they nearly froze in the night air. Bajazet still catches cold easily because of that.”

“My lord Murad, I cringe at the thought of causing anyone pain, but I will be revenged! My children, both living and dead, demand it!”

And before anyone realized what she was doing, Adora took a live coal from the pan with the pincers and touched it to Cuntuz’s right eye. He made no outcry for he had fainted. She repeated her action on the left eye when it was opened by the Janissary.

No sound was heard except a pitiful whimpering from the throat of Prince Andronicus. Adora lay the pincers carefully on the side of the pan. Heedless of the roomful of people, Murad put an arm about her and led her to a stool.

“You are a brave woman,” he said softly.

“I did what must be done,” she answered. Then, in a low voice, “Reprieve the death sentence and the mutilation for my nephew, my lord. Have his blinding done with boiling vinegar. That will make it only a temporary condition.”

“Why?”

“Because then Andronicus will remain capable of continuing to quarrel and scheme against his father and brother. That will keep them so well occupied that Byzantium will not bother us further. Your vengeance here has been swift and fair. We need not the death of an unimportant princeling. It accomplishes nothing.”

He nodded. “Very well, but I will not announce my clemency until after Prince Andronicus has seen his partner beheaded. Let him be thoroughly frightened by this lesson.” He rose from her side. “Revive the prisoner, Cuntuz, and prepare him for his execution. Bring a selection of well-honed swords for Prince Bajazet, and bring a lined basket. I would not have the floor bloodied.”

Conscious now, Cuntuz wept from sightless eyes as around him he heard the preparations being made for his death. The sultan turned to the other rebel. “Prince Andronicus! You will hold the basket to catch the head.” And before the terrified man could protest, he was prodded forward and forced to his knees. The basket, lined in large green leaves, was shoved into his arms.

The blind man was now led forth and helped down. His blackened eye sockets stared straight at Andronicus. “I’ll be waiting in hell for you, my friend,” he said venomously.

“Don’t talk to me!” returned Andronicus, hysteria in his voice. “This is all your fault! All I had to do was wait for my father to grow old and die. But you wanted the money those damned Hungarians offered us. We never even got to spend it! I hate you!”

“Coward,” sneered Cuntuz. Then he grew silent as he heard behind him the swish of a sword being tested. “Bajazet? Are you there, boy?”

“Yes, Cuntuz.”

“Remember what I taught you. Pick a sword that is light, but has a firm feel to it. Then strike swiftly.”

Bajazet laughed mirthlessly. “Fear not, dog! My aim will be true. Bend your neck so I may see the target.” Then he said haughtily, “You, my brave Byzantine cousin! Hold the basket higher unless you wish your friend’s head in your lap.” And Bajazet raised his sword, calling, “Farewell, dog!” He brought it down swiftly and Cuntuz’s head tumbled into the basket face up.

Prince Andronicus looked into his friend’s face and vomited before dropping the basket, fainting. Bajazet handed his sword to a Janissary and looked with disgust upon his relation. “That led a rebellion against you?” he asked his father scornfully.

Murad nodded. “Neither under nor overestimate your enemies, my son. The rankest coward has moments of bravery or defiance.” He turned to the emperor. “It is not necessary that your son die, John. His death would serve no purpose. Blind him with boiling vinegar, and what comes after is Allah’s will.”

Fully comprehending the mercy shown his son, the emperor of Byzantium knelt and kissed Murad’s hand. Then he stood and, taking a basin of the vinegar, he faced his son. “You have been granted your life. Your punishment will give you time to contemplate your sins and to reform,” he said sternly, and then he threw the contents of the basin in his son’s eyes.

Andronicus shrieked and tried to shield himself, but he was held firmly by the soldiers. “I am blind!” he cried frantically. “Papa! Papa? Where are you? Do not leave me! Do not leave your ‘Droni!’”

“I will not leave you, my son,” replied the emperor sadly, and the mullahs and ulemas seated about the room nodded, marveling at the sultan’s fairness.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The emir of Germiy was giving his eldest daughter to Prince Bajazet. Her name was Zubedya, and she was very fair. The emirs of both Karamania and Aydin had made offers for this princess. They did not, however, present the same potential threat to Germiyan as did the Ottoman sultan. In accepting Zubedya for his son, Murad also accepted the responsibility of protecting a new possession. Zubedya’s younger sister, Zenobia, would be given to one of Murad’s generals with a large dowry, ending any threat from that quarter.

The sultan had had to make a concession to the emir of Germiyan, a concession that enraged both Adora and Thamar. Nothing could make the emir send his daughter to Prince Bajazet except a formal ceremony of marriage. If Aydin and Karamania offered marriage, the royal Ottoman could do no less. Without marriage, Princess Zubedya and her sister would go elsewhere, and Murad would find himself having to go to war not only with Germiyan, but with Aydin and Karamania as well.

The emir of Germiyan loved his daughters. Eventually they might be replaced in their husbands’ affections by other women, but they would be wives and as such they would at least retain their rank and privileges. The other women would be mere concubines.

The wedding would be celebrated in Bursa, and the Ottoman court removed from their new capital in Europe back to the old one in Asia. In an effort to soothe his angry favorite, Murad ordered a small, exquisite palace known as the Mountain Serai be prepared for her, but Adora was adamant.

She stormed furiously at him, “The daughter of a half-savage Asiatic emir, got on the body of an unknown slavegirl! This is what you marry to my son? You dare to raise this chit above me? I am Theadora Cantacuzene, a princess of Byzantium! Allah in his paradise-even Thamar of the Bulgars is better bred than the Germiyan wench. And yet the girl is to wed with your heir while I, his mother, must continue to hide my shame at being nothing but your concubine!” Her face was a study in fury. But inside Adora laughed. She had waited years for this opportunity, and the look on Murad’s face told her he knew he was trapped.

“You are my beloved,” he answered her.

She looked coldly at him. “I am not a simple maiden to be swayed by romantic drivel, my lord Murad.”

“You were never a ‘simple’ maiden, my dove,” he chuckled. “I told you when I first took you that I had no need to make dynastic marriages. My antecedents needed their marriages. I do not.”

“Perhaps you had no ‘need’ once, my lord Murad, but you have a ‘need’ now,” she answered him silkenly.

He recognized the tone. It was her battle cry voice, and he asked quietly, “Explain your words, woman.”

She smiled sweetly at him. “It is quite simple, my lord. You cannot in fairness or good conscience raise Zubedya of Germiyan above Thamar and me. The girl is already overproud of her position as heiress to her father’s lands. She will have no respect for us, though we be much better bred than she. If you do not wed with Thamar and me, Bajazet will not wed with Zubedya. And think not to threaten us with Yakub for your younger son is as determined as the older that you wed with his mother.”

“I can have you beaten for this impertinence,” he threatened grimly.

“I will die before I ask your mercy,” she returned, and he knew it to be true. “You claim to love me, Murad. For years you have poured forth a torrent of words proclaiming your passion for me. I have borne you three sons and a daughter, upon whom you dote. Will you give Janfeda to some man as concubine when she is old enough, or will you see her properly wed? No, my lord Murad. You need make no dynastic marriages, but if you truly love me you will wed with me before our son takes his wife.”

“And Thamar also, Adora?”

She sighed. “Yes, Thamar also.”

“Why?” he demanded. “You don’t like each other, yet you would raise her to your level.”

“She too is the mother of your child, and though Bulgaria at its height can scarcely compare with Byzantium even at its lowest point, Thamar is still of a royal house-as I am.” She put her slender hand on his brawny arm and looked up at him. “It has not been easy for her, Murad. At least I have your love. Even as wives we would not really be equals, but it would soothe Thamar’s pride. She has given you a son, and is worthy of it.”

“I have not said I would marry either of you,” he grumbled.

“But you will, my lord, for you know what I say is true.”

“Damn me, woman, do not nag at me!”

She knelt quietly, eyes lowered, hands folded quietly. The perfect picture of the submissive wife, which he knew she was not and would never be. She had a point. A wife always commanded far more respect in the harem than did a favorite. And when he was gone a widow wielded more power than an ex-favorite.

“I will have no fanfare,” he said. “It will be done quietly. Tonight.” He clapped his hands and told the attending slave, “Have Ali Yahya fetch the chief mullah of Adrianople.” The slave departed, and the sultan turned to Adora. “My sons will witness this act. Send them to me, and tell Thamar of my decision.”

She rose from her kneeling position. “Thank you, my lord.”

“You are at least gracious in victory,” he said wryly. “Well, woman, what will you have for your bride’s price?”

“Constantinople!” she answered calmly.

He burst out laughing. “You put a high price on yourself, Adora, but damn me, you’re well worth it! For now, however, I will settle an amount of gold on you. Return it to me when I give you the city.”

“With interest, my lord, for I shall invest it with the Venetians.” She moved to the door. Then, turning, she said simply, “I love you, Murad. I always have.”

He pulled her roughly into his arms and buried his face in her hair. For a moment they stood silently, and she could feel the even beat of his heart. “I am not a romantic prince such as are spoken of by the Persian poets,” he said. “I know how I feel, but sometimes I have trouble with the words. I am a man of war, not love.”

“You are my prince of love,” she interrupted him.

He held her away from him so he might look into her face. “Woman,” he said huskily, “you are a part of me. If I lost you I should be as one half dead.”

Her violet eyes shone with joy. He was encouraged to go on. “I love you, Adora.” And then abruptly turning away from her, he said, “Send my sons to me.”

A few hours later Adora and Thamar stood quietly hidden in a small room above the sultan’s private salon. They secretly watched and listened through a carved lattice as the sultan dictated their marriage contracts to the scribes. This was followed by the brief Muslim wedding ceremony, witnessed by Prince Bajazet and his half brother, Prince Yakub. The brides did not participate in the ceremony. Murad united himself first with Theadora, then with Thamar. When it was over, neither woman said a word to the other, but went her own way back to her own court.

The following day the court began its trip to Bursa, traveling overland to the coast within sight of Constantinople. Before they embarked across the Sea of Marmara, Adora sent a verbal message to her sister, Helena, via the Byzantine guards sent by the emperor to honor his overlord. “Tell the empress that her sister, the sultan’s wife, sends her greetings.”

“She gives herself airs,” sniffed Helena after the message had been delivered.

“She only speaks the truth,” said John Paleaologi with a happy chuckle. He fingered the parchment he was holding and looked down at it again. “He married her several days ago.”

The look on his wife’s face was extremely gratifying to the emperor, and he did not temper her disappointment by telling her that Murad also had taken Thamar to wife. Let Helena stew in her own venom! And with that happy thought, the emperor left his wife and Constantinople to join the festivities in Bursa.

The emir of Germiyan’s daughter was to be wed with a pomp unlike anything yet seen in the Ottoman court. The sultan enjoyed the more elegant of Byzantine customs, and so did his sons. So while the younger Germiyan princess, Zenobia, who was but ten, was quietly wed to Murad’s loyal general and sent to live with her husband’s mother, her older sister was married amid general rejoicing and great festivities.

Throughout the city, whole sheep were roasted over open fires, and the sultan’s slaves moved through the crowds offering freshly baked cakes of chopped almonds and honey. Murad gave each of his noble visitors his own palace with a staff of well-trained servants, and a harem of half a dozen beautiful virgins. The rulers of Germiyan, Tekke, Hamid, Karamania, Sarakhan, Aydin, and Byzantium were so honored.

There were wrestlers, acrobats, and jongleurs, puppet shows and trained animals performing all about the city. Byzantium’s elegant customs and love of display were creeping into the Ottoman way of life, and the Ottomans liked it.

While Murad hosted the wedding feast for the bridegroom and his guests, Adora entertained the bride and the other women. The feasting and festivities went on for nine days. On the evening of the ninth day, Zubedya of Germiyan was carried in a closed litter to her husband’s house where she met Bajazet for the first time. She was accompanied by Adora and Thamar.

When they had prepared the girl for bed, Adora said, “I will inform your lord and master that you await his pleasure.”

“No, my lady mother,” said Zubedya. “The custom of my land is that the husband of a princess of Germiyan must wait upon her on their wedding night. The marriage contract between my father, the emir, and Prince Bajazet’s father, the sultan, permits me to retain my own customs.” Thamar looked shocked, but Adora laughed.

“I think that neither my lord Murad nor my son is aware of this custom. It is truth and not fear?”

“Truth, madame. I swear it.”

Adora laughed again. “A very good custom,” she said, “and one we shall take for our own. From this day forth it will be thus for all Ottoman princesses.” She looked at Zubedya. “You will not keep Bajazet waiting long, child? He is proud, as are all men, and I would have you happy with him. Do not begin on the wrong foot.”

The girl shook her head. Adora kissed her on the cheek. “I wish you joy,” she said. Thamar followed Adora’s example and then the two women left the bride.

“If the chit were married to my son I would not allow such a thing,” snapped Thamar as they hurried to greet the bridegroom and his party.

“But she is not married to your son. She is married to mine.”

“I don’t know why Murad could not have arranged for my Yakub to wed with Germiyan,” complained Thamar. “Then at least Yakub would have had his own kingdom when the old emir died.”

“Murad is not interested in Yakub having his own kingdom. He is building an empire for the future generations of Ottoman sultans who will follow him. One day we will rule from Constantinople to Belgrade to Baghdad.”

“You are mad!” sneered Thamar.

“No, I have vision, as did my ancestors. They were empire-builders too. But I cannot expect the daughter of a man little more than a tribal chieftain to understand such a thing.”

And before Thamar could reply, they entered the atrium of the house to greet the bridegroom and his party. Adora looked at her two sons with a feeling of amazement. Halil was a handsome replica of her own father, a tall, dark, blue-eyed man with curly black hair and a full beard. His cleverly built-up boot made the limp barely visible. He was an invaluable advisor to his half brother Murad.

At eighteen, Bajazet was his father’s son. He was a tall man, with a long prominent nose, large, expressive black eyes, and Murad’s sensual mouth. From his mother he had inherited his fair skin which he now kept smoothly shaven. As he grew older he would grow a magnificent black beard like his older half brother, Halil.

From both his parents he had inherited intelligence, and he was already showing himself to be a brilliant military commander. The soldiers had nicknamed him “Yiderim” or “thunderbolt”. Though bright, Bajazet was impulsive. His parents hoped this trait would diminish as he grew older.

Adora kissed her younger son, and he asked, “My bride awaits me?”

Adora turned to the emir of Germiyan. “Tell me, my lord emir, is there in your country a custom that permits your daughter to keep the bridegroom waiting upon her?”

For a moment the elderly ruler of Germiyan looked puzzled. Then, as comprehension dawned, he looked embarrassed. “I had forgotten!” he exclaimed. “Trust that minx Zubedya to remember the ancient custom.”

“Do you mean,” asked Murad, “that according to this custom Bajazet may not enter the bridal chamber until he is given leave?” When Adora nodded, the sultan chuckled. “It seems, my son, that you have married a spirited maiden.” When Bajazet’s face darkened with anger, his father clapped him on the shoulder and laughed. “We have promised that Zubedya may retain her own customs. Let the girl have her moment. By morning she will have no doubt about who is cock and who is hen in your household.”

“That is right, little brother,” said Prince Halil, “but be sure that the girl understands who is the real master, else your married life will be one long battle. Beat her, if necessary.”

“Halil!” Adora glowered at her older son. But the men chuckled. She turned to Bajazet and kissed him. “I wish you joy, my darling.” A tear slid down her cheek and he kissed it away, a tender smile on his lips. “You grew too fast for me,” she explained softly and then quickly left the house to return to her own serai.

“My mother has a tender heart,” observed the prince.

“Your mother is priceless above all women,” said the sultan. “There is no other woman like her in this world.”

When Bajazet finally had been admitted to the bridal chamber, Murad wished his important guests good night and rode to the Mountain Serai. He dismounted in the courtyard and was escorted to the baths. An hour later, feeling relaxed and pampered, he entered his favorite wife’s bedchamber to find her brewing him coffee. Near the little burner was a large bowl of honeyed yogurt and a plate of tiny cakes. Clad in a loose white silk robe, he stretched out on the pillows to watch her.

The girl in Adora was finally gone, but in its place was a magnificent woman who set his pulses racing. He smiled wryly to himself. His harem was full of nubile beauties. Even his second wife was not yet thirty. Yet, as always, he wanted only this beautiful woman. She was forty-one now but her hair was still dark, her eyes and skin clear.

She turned those eyes on him now. “What do you think about, my lord?”

“I think of how lovely you are. Of tonight at our son’s house how the eyes of the princelings could not keep away from you. The emir of Karamania had heard you were but a slave, and he offered me a king’s ransom for you. He was greatly disappointed to learn that you are my beloved wife. He could not resist asking if I were not tired of you, and if I might not divorce you and sell you to him!”

“And what did you tell him?”

“That all the gold in the world would be but a thousandth of your value.”

“You are extravagant, my lord,” she teased him.

“And you are irreplaceable in my heart,” he answered, drawing her into his arms.

“Your coffee,” she protested faintly, then gave herself over to his kisses.

Afterward, when they lay content beside each other, she thought it was time to speak of something she very much desired. She had rarely asked him for anything. She shifted so that she reclined on her side. Looking down on him, she said, “You have betrothed our daughter, Janfeda, to the young caliph of Baghdad. When will she go from us?”

“Shortly, my dove. I want her safe in Baghdad before the winter storms. I thought to send her by ship as far as Trebizond, and then overland from there to Baghdad.”

“And what will you do then, my lord?”

“Go off on campaign!” he said enthusiastically.

She nodded. “And what am I to do, my lord?”

“Do? What do you mean, my dove?”

“What am I to do? My sons are both grown and married. My daughter goes to wed the caliph soon. There is nothing left for me. I am not a woman content to sit idly in the harem, painting my toenails.”

He nodded gravely. “What would you do, Adora? For I know you well enough to know you have hatched a plot in that beautiful head of yours.”

“I would come with you, my lord. On campaign. Many women travel with their men in the army.”

His face registered delight. “I have never thought to ask you, my dove. Would you truly enjoy it?”

“I do not know, my lord, but I would rather be with you than left behind. Thamar will enjoy being the queen bee in the harem, but I will be with you!” She wrapped her arms about his neck and kissed him lingeringly. “Say yes, my lord! Please say yes!”

He enjoyed her pretty plea and slid his hands beneath her robe to caress the warm, silken skin. He felt her shiver with pleasure, and his own desire flamed.

“Say yes,” she whispered against his ear, biting it gently.

“Yes,” he answered, pulling her into his arms. “Yes, you deliciously sensual witch!” And he kissed her cool, soft mouth with an ardor she eagerly returned. The years had not dimmed their passion for one another.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The emperor’s younger son, Manuel, had been made governor of Salonika. Had he been content to govern, John would have been pleased, for Manuel was a skillful ruler. But Manuel’s mistress, from a wealthy Christian family in Serres, managed to involve Manuel in a plot to overthrow Murad’s government in Serres.

Manuel found himself besieged by the Ottoman troops and in a great deal of trouble with the sultan. He fled home to his parents in Constantinople. But for once John and Helena were in agreement: officially, they would not acknowledge him. When, at their weekly audience of supplicants, the chamberlain announced, “Prince Manuel Paleaologi, royal governor of Salonika,” the emperor said loudly, “We will not receive him.” Then he and Helena rose and left the hall together. There was a stunned silence, then a buzz of amazement from the hall.

They saw their son privately, however.

“Fool!” screamed the empress. “There was no harm in rutting with that she-devil of Serres, but to be led by her into direct opposition with Sultan Murad! Did you really expect to overthrow his rule?! Christos! Do not tell me you actually believed that?” She whirled about to face her husband. “This is as much your fault as his! You would place Manuel above his older brother, your rightful heir. He has done no better than Andronicus!”

Manuel Paleaologi looked at his mother with distaste. There was a pouch beneath her chin, powder clung to the wrinkles about her eyes, she dyed her hair. Yet she still attracted lovers like a bitch in heat. Her escapades had always been a source of embarrassment to him, especially as a child. His brother, who was her favorite child, found it amusing.

“Why do you stare at me like that?” she demanded of Manuel.

“I was thinking,” he said slowly, with satisfaction, “that you are getting old.” Then he fell back, reeling from the force of her blow.

“Leave us, Helena,” said the emperor sharply, and she stormed from the room. John Paleaologi turned back to his younger son. “Sit down, Manuel.” When the prince obeyed, John asked, “Why, my son? I went against custom and placed you above your brother because you deserved it. You are a natural ruler. Now you have behaved as foolishly as Andronicus. I cannot protect you from the folly you have committed. Surely you knew that when you came to me.”

Manuel nodded, shamefaced.

“Was she worth it, my son? Was this temptress of Serres worth your disgrace?”

“No, Father,” came the low reply.

The emperor let a little smile touch his lips. Then he said, “Well, Manuel, you have learned a hard lesson. I will elaborate upon it for you. Your mistress was not worth the trouble she has caused you. No woman ever is.”

“Not even a woman like my aunt Theadora?”

The emperor smiled. “Your aunt Thea would never ask the impossible of a man. She is far too wise,” said the emperor.

“What must I do, Father? Where can I go now?”

“Have you courage, my son? For you will need courage to do what must be done.”

“If I do not have it, Father, I will find it somehow.”

“You must go to Sultan Murad and throw yourself on his mercy.”

Manuel whitened. “He will kill me,” he whispered fearfully.

“No,” said the emperor, “he will not kill you, Manuel. That would defeat his purpose. I see Thea’s subtle mind in all this. Murad is playing us against each other. If he kills us off, he cannot do that any longer. Go to Bursa. He is there now. Beg his pardon. He will forgive you.”

“That is easy for you to say, Father. It is not your life you play with.”

“No!” thundered the emperor. “It is not my life, but a life far dearer to me! It is the life of my favorite son: the only man fit to rule Byzantium when I am gone. You have said you would find the courage, Manuel. You must. You have no other choice. I will not receive you publicly or privately again. Nor will I allow you sanctuary here in the city. You endanger us all, everyone from the lowliest beggar to the emperor is in danger from Murad’s vengeance if we defy him. Where is your conscience?”

“Our walls are unbreachable,” protested the prince.

“No longer, not completely. There are places where they are weakened, and when I tried to refortify them recently, the sultan forced us to tear down what we had rebuilt.”

Manuel sighed and drew a deep breath. “I will go, Father.”

“Good, my son!” said the emperor, clapping his son on his shoulder. “I will see that word is sent to Bursa ahead of you.” He stood up. The audience was at in end. The emperor clasped his son to his breast. “Go with God, my son,” he said quietly.

Manuel left the Imperial Palace to find an escort awaiting him. They rode to the yacht basin at the Boucoleon Harbor. His escort left him after putting him aboard a waiting ship. The ship arrived several hours later at the port of Scutari on the Asian side of the Marmara. The captain gave Manuel a fine stallion, which had made the voyage stabled in the stern of the ship.

“With your father‘s compliments, Highness. Godspeed.”

Manuel Paleaologi rode off alone. His fear was not of the journey, for the sultan’s roads were safe. He feared what awaited him in Bursa.

His father was sure the sultan would forgive him, but Manuel remembered the massacred garrison at Chorlu and the seige of Demotika when sons were ordered executed by their own fathers. He also remembered that the two fathers who had refused to kill their sons had been executed themselves. Manuel recalled that his cousin, Bajazet, had beheaded the rebellious Cuntuz. If the sultan could be that cold with a rebellious son, what chance did he have?

He stopped at a small caravansary that night and got drunk on fermented fruit juice. The following afternoon he rode into the palace courtyard at Bursa. His monumental headache, made worse by several hours’ ride in the bright sunlight, was punishment enough. He was escorted courteously to a small apartment and attended by soft-spoken slaves who saw to his bath and steamed and massaged his headache away. He was brought a light lunch for which he found he had appetite. But he saw no one but the slaves, and they could not answer his questions. His nerves were beginning to fail him.

Finally, after supper had been served him that evening, a palace official came to tell him that the sultan would see him in the morning. Manuel was more nervous now than he had been when he arrived. Then the thought struck him that if Murad had intended to kill him he would have been housed in the palace dungeons rather than a comfortable suite. Perhaps his father was right. He dozed fitfully throughout the night.

In the morning he was taken before his uncle. Murad looked enormously imposing sitting on a throne of black marble, clad in a jeweled robe of cloth of gold. He wore a gold turban with a pigeon’s-blood ruby in its center. Looking down on Manuel, Murad said sternly, “Well, nephew?”

Manuel flung himself flat. He was unable to stand now, for his legs were trembling terribly. “Mercy, my lord uncle! I have wronged you, but your reputation for fairness is well-known. Forgive me! I will not err again!”

The corners of the sultan’s mouth twitched. “That is an enormous vow you make, Prince Manuel. To never err again…”

“My lord, I only meant-”

“I know what you meant, you young fool! You swore to be my liegeman, and you have broken that vow. I should have you beheaded and get the matter over with.

“However, I am informed that the cause of your disgrace was a woman. I can do no more than Allah himself did when the father of us all, Adam, was led astray by the woman, Eve. So it has been, down through the ages. Normally intelligent men being led into a folly by a pretty smile and a pair of plump tits.” He laughed mirthlessly. “Your father informs me that you are ordinarily levelheaded, and that you have a talent for governing. Very well. I will spare you, this time. But betray me again, nephew…” He let the thought hang between them. Then he said, “You will return to Constantinople and co-govern again, under your father’s guidance. I have arranged a marriage for you with the young daughter of the last despot of Nicea. Her name is Julia. I am told she is virtuous and has a sweet nature. We can make sure of the first. But as for the second, nephew, you will have to take your chances like the rest of us.”

Manuel felt the sweat running down his back and legs. He was weak with relief. Slowly he pulled himself up. “Sire,” he said, and his voice broke. He gulped back his tears. “Sire, my grateful thanks. I swear I will not fail you again.”

“See you do not,” said the sultan sternly. “Now go and see your aunt and thank her for your life. She pleaded very prettily for you.”

Manuel backed from the audience chamber, and followed the slave who led him to Theadora. As he entered the room, she rose and came toward him with her hands outstretched. Giving him a hug and a kiss on his cheek, she said, “So, Manuel, you have met with the lion in his own den and you have emerged alive.”

“Barely, aunt.” God! She was lovelier than ever! Nothing at all like his mother! How could two sisters be so completely different?

“Sit down, my dear. You look exhausted. Iris, see to refreshments. My nephew appears in need of sustenance. How is your father, Manuel? And, of course, my dear sister?”

“My father is well. My mother is as usual.” He saw the twinkle in her eye. “I understand,” he continued, “that I have your silver tongue to thank for my life.”

She nodded smilingly. “An old debt I owed your father, Manuel. But now it is paid. Betray my lord Murad ever again, and I myself will wield the sword that executes you.”

“I understand, aunt. I will not be disloyal again.”

“Now, tell me what you think of your impending marriage.”

“I suppose,” he said, “it is time I settled down and bred some sons.”

“No curiosity about your bride?”

“Do I have a choice, aunt?”

“No,” she laughed, “but do not look so doleful. The maiden is lovely.”

“You have seen her?”

“Yes. She lives here in the Bursa Palace. She is a hostage for her family’s good behavior. This marriage between you two will bind them closer to us when they learn how well we have settled her. I think they expected she would be put in some emir’s harem. They did not think to see her become empress of Byzantium someday.”

“What is she like?”

“Fair, with reddish-blond hair and bright blue eyes. Her mother was a Greek. She reads, writes, and speaks Greek. And she reads and speaks Turkish as well. She is soft-spoken, has been taught all the housewifely virtues, and is faithful in her devotions. She has spent part of her time with us learning the Eastern way of pleasing a husband. I feel you will find her most accomplished.” Theadora’s eyes were sparkling mischievously.

“Am I allowed a glimpse of this paragon, aunt?”

“Go to the window, Manuel, and look out into my garden. The two maidens tossing the ball are your cousin, Janfeda, and your betrothed, Julia.”

“Janfeda, here? I had heard she was to go to Baghdad.”

“She goes soon.”

Manuel Paleaologi studied the girl who played with his pretty cousin. Julia was a pretty little thing. She laughed easily and was good-natured when she missed a catch. His good fortune suddenly overwhelmed him. He had ridden into Bursa expecting not to leave it alive. Instead, he was forgiven his sins and presented with a beautiful bride.

A lesser man might have made the mistake of considering this a sign of weakness on the sultan’s part. Manuel Paleaologi did not make that mistake. His father had been right. Murad was playing the Paleaologi family against one another. It suited him that Manuel take young Julia of Nicea for a wife. A stupid man might have resented this. But Manuel, like his father, saw that the once-great empire of Byzantium had shrunk to nothing. He knew that sooner or later what was left would fall to the Ottoman Turks. In the meantime, he and John would do what they could to preserve what remained of Byzantium. He was his father‘s son, and John Paleaologi could be proud of him. If peace with the Turks meant a wedding with that adorable creature running about the lawn, then Manuel would certainly wed with her.

“When your eyes narrow like that,” came the aunt’s voice, “you look like your father, and I know you are thinking.”

He laughed with good grace. “I was thinking I am a fortunate man. I am alive, and I have a beautiful bride. When am I to wed with the maid?”

“Tomorrow. My lord Murad has brought the metropolitan of Nicea here to Bursa, and he will perform the ceremony at noon.”

“Does the bride know yet?” asked Manuel dryly.

“She will be told this evening,” replied Adora smoothly. “And now, nephew, I will allow you to return to your own quarters. You will want to spend time in prayer and meditation prior to your marriage.”

Her tone was serious, but her eyes teased. He stood, kissed her soft cheek, and left the room. Adora sat for a few minutes, pleased with the day’s work. She liked Manuel. He was so much like his gentle father. When John Paleaologi told his son he would send word ahead, it had been to Adora he had written, not the sultan. The sultan’s favorite wife was not well-acquainted with Manuel, but John had not been half so eloquent when he had spoken of his older son. Manuel’s record as governor was a good one, and his love and loyalty to his father were genuine. Adora had been impressed enough to chance pleading for the young man. Now, having spoken with him, she believed her faith in John’s judgement had been justified.

“Ahh, you are thinking again,” teased Murad as he entered the room. “You will get wrinkles. Too much thought is not good for a woman.”

“Then your harem should be wrinkle-free,” she shot back at him. “There isn’t one whole thought among them all.”

Roaring his laughter, he scooped her up and carried her to her bed. He dumped her on it. Flinging himself down next to her, he kissed her. “Your mouth tastes of grapes, Adora,” he said, loosening her hair from its elegant coronet. The dark, silken mantle fell about her shoulders. Taking a handful, he crushed it between his fingers and sniffed its fragrance. “I have pardoned your nephew, woman. And I have given him a beautiful bride.”

She pressed her cheek against his chest and felt his strong heartbeat. “I am aware of all this, my lord Murad.”

“Am I not entitled to a reward for my most generous behavior?”

“Yes, my lord, you are. I have almost finished embroidering your new slippers with seed pearls,” she replied gravely.

“Seed pearls? On my slippers?” He was incredulous.

“Yes, my lord,” she answered demurely, but her voice held a funny tremor and her eyes were lowered. “I have pricked my poor fingers most dreadfully, but ‘tis a fine reward for my lord’s generosity.”

He pinioned her beneath him with a smothered oath. “Look at me, woman!”

His command was met by a burst of silvery laughter as she raised her lovely eyes to him. “Do you not want the slippers, my lord?” she asked innocently.

“No! I want you!” he answered fiercely.

She slid her arms around his neck. “Have me then, my lord! I await you!” And she placed a sweet, burning kiss on his mouth.

Her sheer robe melted away under his quick hands, and she was naked to his soft, sure touch.

His own brocade robe opened beneath her skillful fingers. She returned his caresses, running her hands down his long back, cupping the hard roundness of his buttocks in her warm hands.

“Woman,” he murmured against her throat, “if the houris assigned to me in Paradise have hands half as soft, half as clever as yours I shall consider myself blessed.”

She laughed softly and reached down to fondle his manhood. Gently she roused a passion in him so great that only the fierce and swift possession of her body could satisfy it.

Now it was he who was the master, leading her on, holding her back, making her cry out with pleasure. He kissed her again and again until she was almost swooning, and she returned the kisses with a depth and ardor that only increased his passion. Frantically he whispered her name against her ear. “Adora! Adora! Adora!” and she answered him softly, “Murad, my beloved!”

Then suddenly he could no longer control his desires. He felt her body reaching the same blazing climax. She shuddered violently several times. Her skin was almost burning to the touch. Groaning, he spilled his milky seed into her soft body and, in a burst of clarity, she realized again that in this constant battle between men and women, it was the woman who emerged victorious in the end. Tenderly she cradled him against her, crooning soft little love words to him.

When she awoke in the morning he was still asleep beside her, looking boyish despite his years. For a moment she lay quietly watching him. Then she dropped a kiss on his brow. The dark eyes that opened and looked upon her were for the briefest moment so filled with love that she was astounded. She knew he loved her but he was not a man given to saying so often. The emotion she had glimpsed made her feel humble. She understood why he hid it from her. Murad would always consider love a weakness. He believed that showing such weakness to a woman lessened him and gave the woman an unfair advantage.

She smothered a chuckle. Would he never trust her love for him? “Arise, my lord, my love! The sun is already up, and this is the day we wed my nephew with the little heiress of Nicea.”

How lovely she still is, he thought, gazing on her camellia-skinned nudity, her long dark hair swirling about her. “Have we not even a moment to ourselves?” he growled, kissing her round shoulder.

“No,” she teased, rising from their bed. “Would you have the marketplace gossips say that Sultan Murad has grown soft, and lingers within a woman’s arms once the sun is up?”

Laughing, he leapt from the bed and delivered a well-aimed smack to her tempting backside. He was rewarded with a shriek of outrage. “You, my lady Adora, have a wicked tongue.”

Rubbing her injured part, she pouted, “And you, my lord slug-a-bed, have a hard hand.” And catching up a gauze robe she fled to her bath, his appreciative chuckle echoing behind her.

The witch must always have the last word, he thought.

Murad left her suite for his own. He wanted young Manuel bedded as quickly as possible. Although the emperor could have no objection to the girl, he would probably be irritated to find that the sultan had usurped his paternal authority. Murad wanted the little Julia pregnant quickly so there could be no chance of annulment. The girl’s mother had been an excellent breeder. Murad hoped Julia would prove just as fecund, but the girl’s slenderness worried him somewhat.

Murad was not officially part of the religious ceremony. He stood behind a carved screen as the patnarch of Nicea united the young couple. The sultan was amused to see the wide-eyed girl sneaking looks at the stranger to whom she was being married.

Afterward, he joined the newlyweds in a small celebration in Adora’s apartments. Thamar was also there, but more to lobby for her own son than to wish the bride and groom well. Isolating Murad in a corner, she complained, “First your son, Bajazet, is wed to Zubedya of Germiyan. Now you wed your nephew, Manuel, to Julia of Nicea. What of our son, Yakub? Have you no noble bride for him? Is only Theadora’s family dear to you?”

He fixed her with a hard look. She was no longer the slender beauty with the gorgeous golden hair who had fascinated him. She was heavier, her skin had coarsened, her hair was faded. It never occurred to Murad that his absence from her life and her bed was responsible for these changes. He had never been particularly fond of her, and right now she was an irritant.

“Yakub is my younger son. He is not my choice to succeed me. Yakub’s fate rests with his older brother, Bajazet. My father‘s choice was my brother, Suleiman, and therefore I took no fertile favorites, nor spawned children until after his death. It is possible that Yakub will not survive my death by more than a few hours. If such is to be his fate, none of his sons would survive either.”

Her eyes were wide with shock. “What is it you say to me?” she whispered.

“There can be only one sultan,” he said quietly.

“But your own father made his brother Al-addin, his vizir.”

“And I deposed a half brother who was my elder, for there were those who would have put Ibrahim before me and ruled through him.”

“You would condone your own son’s murder?” She was horrified.

“Yes!” he answered her fiercely. “You are a Christian, Thamar, and were raised in a world where mounting a crusade against the ‘infidel’ Turk was daily talk. Your Christian brothers would love nothing better than to cause dissension between two heirs to my kingdom. Therefore, when I die, it is probable that Yakub will follow me shortly. There can be only one sultan. Let us have no more talk of this, or of brides for Yakub.”

“Why then was your half brother, Halil, spared when you became sultan? Was not Theadora’s son by your father a danger to you also? Or perhaps,” she suggested unpleasantly, “he is really your son and not Orkhan’s child.”

He wanted to hit her, but he would not spoil the party. Instead he fixed her with a look of intense dislike. “My half brother is a cripple. Certainly you know that deformity of any kind is not permitted an Ottoman sultan. And never again abuse Adora by foul innuendo, Thamar, else I will tear your tongue from your head. Her life with my father was an unhappy one.”

“Something like my life with you,” she taunted.

“Your own bitterness is what makes your unhappiness. You became my second wife knowing full well that Theadora claimed all my heart.”

“Did I have any choice?”

“No,” he admitted. “You were bound to obey your father.”

“And you might have refused my father’s offer, but you lusted after me!”

“You could have been happy, Thamar. Adora welcomed you as a sister and tried to smooth your way. You brushed her kindness aside and behaved like a spoiled child.”

“And at the height of your passion on our wedding night you whispered her name over and over again like a prayer!”

“I did?” He was shocked by the hatred in her eyes as well as the knowledge she had just imparted. She turned and stalked slowly from the room.

Only Theadora had witnessed the exchange. She had not, of course, heard the words spoken between them, but she had seen Thamar’s hatred. She now sent Murad a puzzled look. But he merely smiled and joined her. She soon forgot the strange scene.

Thamar, however, did not forget. The bitterness that had been growing hidden in her over the years now took a turn toward revenge. Returning to her apartments, she dismissed her women and flung herself on her bed, weeping. Suddenly she knew she was not alone. Sitting up, she saw a eunuch standing quietly in the corner.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded furiously.

“I thought I might be of service, my lady. It breaks my heart to hear you weep so.”

“Why should you care?” she muttered.

In answer he crossed the room and knelt before her. “Because I dare to love you, my lady,” he murmured.

Shocked, Thamar looked closely at the kneeling eunuch. He was unbelievably beautiful with liquid brown eyes fringed in thick dark lashes, and curly black hair. He was tall and, unlike most eunuchs, muscular and firm.

“I have not seen you before,” she said.

“Yet I was assigned to your service over a year ago,” he answered. “I have seen the look of sadness grow on you, my lady, and I have longed to erase it.”

Thamar was beginning to feel better. This outrageous young eunuch was talking to her as if he truly cared. “What is your name?” she asked at last.

“Demetrios, my lovely lady.”

She hid a smile, trying to sound bored. “Once I was lovely, Demetrios, but no longer.”

“A bit of exercise, a special rinse to return the gold to your hair…and of course, someone to love you.”

“The first two are easily done,” she said, “but the third is impossible.”

“I,” he lowered his voice, “could love you, my dearest lady.” He let his meltingly beautiful brown eyes sweep over her. Thamar felt a flush run from her toes to her head.

“You are a eunuch,” she whispered. Then, fearfully, “Aren’t you?”

“My sweet, innocent lady,” he murmured, taking her hand in his and caressing it. “There are two ways to geld a male. With little boys, all is removed-but with older boys and young men as myself only the sac containing the seeds of life are taken. The mortality rate is less that way.” He stood and dropped his pantaloons. The rod of his manhood hung flaccid. “Caress me, my lady,” he begged. Fascinated, Thamar complied.

Within moments he was as hard and as big as any normal man. Gently he pushed her back amid the pillows of her couch. “Please, sweet mistress, give your Demetrios permission to make you happy again.”

If they were caught, she thought for a brief moment, if- “Oh, yes,” she breathed eagerly. And she tore away her robe in eagerness. He caught at her hands. “Slowly, my lady. Let me.” And he carefully removed the silken underdrawers and chemises. Gazing at her longingly, he thought what a fine figure of a woman she was. A bit flabby in places now, but he would soon take care of that. Ali Yahya had been correct about her. She was eager for a lover.

Kneeling beside her couch, he took her little foot in his hands, tenderly kissing each toe, then the sole, the heel, the ankle. His lips slid up one leg and then over and down the other. Still kneeling, his mouth moved across her navel and up to her breasts. Gently he bit at her nipples, then teased them with his hot tongue. She was panting quickly, her eyes closed, a look of bliss on her face. He moved to enter her bed, and she gasped, “The door! Bolt the door!”

Returning, he mounted quickly and drove into her. She spent too quickly, sobbing with eagerness, and cursed in frustration.

“No, no, sweet lady,” Demetrios reassured her. “I am like a bull and will pleasure you long and slowly.”

It was a promise not lightly made, and it was the beginning of the most incredible night of Thamar’s life. The eunuch serviced his mistress again and again until she was so exhausted that she could not raise her head from the pillows. At this point Demetrios deemed it wise to stop, though Thamar protested.

“You will come to me tomorrow night?”

“As my princess wishes,” he replied, smiling down at her.

“Yes! God, yes!”

“Then I must obey.”

“You must become my chief eunuch,” she said.

“You have a chief eunuch.”

“Dispose of him somehow,” she murmured, and instantly fell asleep.

Demetrios slipped from the room and went immediately to Ali Yahya’s quarters. As he grew older, Ali Yahya had discovered he needed less and less sleep. Consequently, except for about three hours in the deepest part of the night, he was always awake.

“You have finally succeeded?” he asked as Demetrios entered, a look of triumph on his face.

“I have succeeded completely, master. I caught her in a weak moment. She returned from the wedding in very low spirits. She was so busy dismissing her women she did not even see me. When she thought herself alone, she wept. Making my presence known, I comforted her.”

“Fully?”

“Fully, master. I am now her lover. She has already begged me to return tomorrow. She wishes me to be her chief eunuch and has told me to dispose of Paulus.”

“Indeed,” said Ali Yahya dryly. “You must be well worth the outrageous price I paid for you. I will see that Paulus is sent to Prince Halil’s house in Nicea. You have done very well, Demetrios. Now, you must gain Princess Thamar’s complete confidence, and you must keep it. From now on your contact with me must always be a secret and made only when absolutely necessary. You know what you must do. I now give you control of Princess Thamar’s household. You will answer to no one but me.”

“I hear and obey, master,” said the young eunuch, bowing.

Ali Yahya nodded slowly, then spoke again. “Remember where your true loyalties lie, Demetrios. If you become ambitious and attempt to betray me, your death will be a very long and extremely unpleasant one. Serve me well, and you will be a rich and a free man some day.”

“I hear and obey, master,” replied Demetrios. He left the room.

Ali Yahya sat back, well-satisfied. He trusted the younger man. He had picked him most carefully.

He had observed, as the sultan ignored his second wife over the years, that the only outlet for Thamar’s love was her son. Yakub had been taken from his mother at the age of six and brought up in his own court, a strict Muslim one. He respected his mother and even harbored an affection for her, but he did not understand her. She was too intense, and her plots to advance him in the eyes of his father were embarrassing.

Ali Yahya worried about Thamar. Allah only knew what the lonely, embittered, and frustrated woman might do. He had decided to give her a new interest, one who would not only involve her attention, but who would keep him fully informed of her plots.

He had looked for several months for the right person. Thamar was suspicious by nature. He had needed a young man, but not too young. Someone moderately intelligent and trustworthy, but not ambitious.

By chance he had heard of Demetrios, the slave of a wealthy merchant. As his master had aged and grown feeble, Demetrios had taken over his business and run it at a profit for his master. Unfortunately he had also gotten involved with his master’s two bored young wives, for Demetrios hated to see a pretty woman unhappy. When one of the wives discovered that the other was also enjoying the eunuch’s services, she revenged herself by crying “rape” the next time Demetrios visited her. Demetrios was flogged and sent to the slave market by his outraged master. He was to be re-gelded, and then sold.

Fortunately, the slavemaster was taken by Demetrios’ beauty. Re-gelding was seldom successful. If the young man died, which was likely, a handsome profit would be lost. The risk was to the slavemaster, not to the slave owner. The slavemaster had remembered that his old friend, Ali Yahya, was looking for a young eunuch. Ali Yahya came, was impressed, and the bargain was made. Demetrios was so grateful for the gift of his life that he swore to obey Ali Yahya unquestioningly. The sultan’s chief eunuch knew he could trust this new addition to his staff.

Prince Bajazet must be protected at all costs for he was his father’s choice. Prince Yakub, though loyal to his father and older brother, might be tempted by his unhappy mother‘s plots. Thamar must be sidetracked. Demetrios was chosen to do the job.

Paulus was replaced by Demetrios. And, one day, the few female slaves Thamar kept were all replaced by new women. Knowing no differently, these women gave their loyalty to Demetrios.

The sultan’s second wife began to change. The extra pounds she had gained melted away, and her hair became soft and shining again. Demetrios satisfied her physical needs each night.

Though she grew calmer and more content, she could not refrain from plotting. But Demetrios managed to confine Thamar’s schemes to the talk stages. He was worried by her extreme hatred of the sultan’s favorite wife. Thamar could become completely irrational if Theadora’s name were even mentioned. She would rant on and on about her plans to make Adora suffer as she had suffered. Demetrios did not understand this, for Thamar quite frankly admitted that she had never loved Sultan Murad. Why then, this unreasonable hatred for Theadora? This was one thing Demetrios did not report to Ali Yahya.

The young eunuch was truly fond of his mistress. If a humble former fisherman from the province of Morea could dare to love a princess, then Demetrios did. Though Thamar might be her own worst enemy, she now had someone who would protect her from herself.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Prince Andronicus had been imprisoned for several years in the Marble Tower, which was located at the far western end of the city. After his temporary blinding, he had been returned there to languish. His wife was dead, and his one son, John, was being raised in the palace.

He lived comfortably, his servants were pleasant, and he was denied nothing…except women, and his freedom. His world consisted of the rooms in which he lived, though the tower windows gave him a panoramic view of the city, the countryside beyond it, and the sea of Marmara.

He was allowed no visitors for fear he would begin plotting again. No one came in any case, for none of his former friends wished to be identified with a convicted traitor. Andronicus was quite surprised, therefore, to see his mother arrive one afternoon, heavily cloaked, and paying lavish bribes to his guards.

She embraced him excitedly. “The hour of your deliverance is near, my darling son,” she gushed. “Your brother has disgraced himself at last!” And she quickly filled him in on the events of the past few months. “Your foolish father has sent Manuel to Bursa to beg Murad’s pardon. Poor Manuel will not, of course, return alive. Your father will then have to free you!”

“I shall be his co-emperor!” Then Andronicus’ eyes narrowed. “Perhaps I shall be the only emperor,” he said softly.

“Oh, yes, my darling!” cried Helena. “Whatever you want, I will help you to get. You shall have it. I swear it!”

But Prince Manuel did return from Bursa. He was forgiven his sins by the sultan, and he had a bride who was already with child. The emperor was relieved to see his favorite son, though he was at first a trifle put out that his paternal rights had been assumed by Murad. However, within a few days John had to admit that Murad’s choice of a bride for Manuel had been perfect. She was sweet-natured, obedient, and very much in love with her husband. Manuel returned her affection equally. The emperor could wish no more for his son.

The empress was not pleased. Not only was Julia everything Helena wasn’t, she was also very pretty. Quiet spoken, but firm of character, Julia moved in to fill the gap left by the empress’s constant absences. The emperor and his younger son had more of a feeling of family than they had had in years, and John prepared to name young Julia co-empress when her child was born.

The baby was a girl. It was the kind of disappointment that Manuel and his father might have borne with good grace had young Julia not sickened and died of a milk fever almost immediately thereafter.

Manuel was heartbroken. He had his infant daughter moved into his own bedroom so he might watch over her at night, and he swore never to wed again.

“Andronicus’ son, John, can follow me,” he told his father sadly. “He is a good lad, and more like us than like his father.”

So the matter was settled for the time being. Julia’s daughter was baptized Theadora, after her father’s aunt. The empress, her grandmother, was enraged.

Helena began to plot again. Though her beauty had coarsened, she was still attractive, and she exuded a primitive sensuality that attracted men.

Now Helena decided to marshall support among her influential friends in the interests of her older son, Andronicus. He should be co-emperor with his father, not Manuel. She chose as her coconspirators General Justin Dukas, one of the empire’s finest soldiers; Basil Phocas, a leading banker and merchant; and Alexius Commenus, the premier nobleman of the empire. The general would bring military support to Helena’s cause, the merchant-banker financial aid. Commenus would bring the nobility, who all followed his lead. It was often said that if Alexius Commenus shaved his head and painted it crimson, so would most of Constantinople’s noblemen.

Although Justin Dukas could guarantee certain regiments of the Byzantine army, additional support would be needed. Basil Phocas’ money bought Genoese and Ottoman troops who waited discreetly outside the city for Andronicus to join them.

In Bursa, Murad laughed ‘til his sides ached at Helena’s machinations. Adora was concerned for the safety of John and Manuel.

“They will not be harmed, my dove,” he assured her. “The banker, Phocas, is in my service. He will see that neither John nor Manuel is harmed.”

Comprehension dawned. “Then it is really you who finances the Ottoman troops Helena bought?”

“Oh, no!” chuckled Murad. “Phocas is footing the bill, but no Ottoman troops fight without my permission. It suits me to keep Byzantium in an internal uproar for now. That way they cannot plot against me while I plan my next campaign for expansion.”

“Is the city included in this new expansion?” she asked. “Do not forget that you owe me my bridal price.”

“Someday,” said Murad quietly and seriously, “we will rule our empire from there. But the time is not yet ripe. I must first conquer all of Anatolia so there is no one at my back. Germiyan has been absorbed into our family, but the emirates of Aydin and Karamania remain a threat. And there is yet one Byzantine city left near us. I must have Philadelphia!”

“Do not forget,” she reminded him, “that when you have removed the Paleaologi from your path, there are still the Commenii of Trebizond. They, too, are heirs to the Caesars.”

“If all else in Anatolia is mine, what chance has Trebizond against me? It will be surrounded by a Muslim world on three sides, and a Muslim sea on the fourth side.”

His strategy was, as always, correct. Murad securely planned his next campaign while the Paleaologi family were kept busy fighting with each other for the right to govern a dying empire.

Andronicus escaped the Marble Tower and joined his troops outside the walls. The population of Constantinople was pulled back and forth in their loyalties by daily rumors. The yearly advent of the plague was said to be God’s way of showing the people that Andronicus was in the right and John and Manuel in the wrong.

In no time at all General Dukas had swayed the remaining military units over to Andronicus’ side. The city’s Golden Gate was deliberately opened early one dawn to Andronicus and his mercenaries. They marched down the Triumphal Way to the cheers of the populace. Emperor John and his younger son, Manuel, were spared only by the intervention of Basil Phocas, who threatened to withdraw his financial support if they were harmed. Since Andronicus needed the continued financial aid of the merchant-banking community to pay his troops, he had no choice but to accede.

Basil Phocas heaved a secret sigh of relief. His continued wealth in these difficult times was due to the fact that his caravans traveled in safety throughout Asia. This was due to Ottoman protection. In return, Phocas spied for Murad and did his bidding discreetly. He had promised the sultan that neither of the deposed co-emperors would be harmed. But he had not counted on the viciousness of the empress. Helena wanted her spouse and younger son dead.

Fortunately, the other chief conspirators agreed with Phocas. John and Manuel were imprisoned in the Marble Tower that had held Andronicus. Basil Phocas personally paid the Ottoman soldiers who guarded the prisoners and the servants who waited on them. The soldiers and servants were told that Sultan Murad wanted the two men kept alive. If anyone offered them a bribe to visit the prisoners or to poison them, they were to accept the money and then immediately report to Phocas. In this manner the two men were kept safe.

Inspired by Helena’s success, Thamar decided to try her hand at intrigue. She entered into secret negotiations with the wife of Murad’s deadly enemy, the emir of Aydin. Her objective, as always, was a kingdom for her son, Prince Yakub. He, of course, knew nothing of his mother’s plans.

The emir’s fourth wife was the heiress of Tekke. She had but one child, a daughter of thirteen. It was this girl-and Tekke-that Thamar sought for her son. Even her beloved Demetrios was kept unaware of her plans and it was only by chance that he learned of the plot before it could be completed.

One night he awoke to hear her talking in her sleep. He debated shaking her awake. But he realized that, if he did so and her plans were later foiled, she would know who had betrayed her.

Having heard enough to give him an idea of what she was up to, he rose quietly and sought for the small ebony and mother-of-pearl box in which she kept her correspondence. Sure enough within he found not only copies of her letters, but the letters from Aydin’s fourth wife as well. Shaking his head at the foolishness of keeping such incriminating letters, he slipped from the room with the box.

When Ali Yahya had read the letters he said, “Return the box to its hiding place, Demetrios. Say nothing, of course, but continue to serve your lady well.” Then, he handed the younger man an exquisite sapphire ring.

Demetrios slipped the ring on his finger and did as he was bid. He wondered how Ali Yahya would circumvent Thamar’s plans. But he did not have long to wait before finding out. Several weeks later there came word that the emir of Aydin’s fourth wife and her daughter had been drowned in a boating accident.

Though Thamar kept her own council, he knew the reason for her unhappy mood and he strove harder to please her. He was touchingly tender and understood one day when, for no apparent reason, she burst into tears.

Dismissing her women, he held her in his arms while she wept. “Why do you cry, my beloved?” he encouraged her. To his surprise she admitted, “I must have a kingdom for Yakub! He will never follow Murad while Bajazet lives. And though his older brother is fond of him, he will kill him before their father’s body is cold. If I can find another kingdom for him, then he is no threat to them.”

Demetrios felt a terrible sadness sweep over him. “Oh, my dear one,” he said gently. “You do not understand, and I do not know if you ever will. There is no other kingdom for your son. The sultan means to eventually rule all of Asia and Europe. Perhaps the Ottoman will not succeed in Sultan Murad’s lifetime, but surely in the lifetime of his descendants. Your son is too fine a man and too good a soldier to remain alive when the present sultan dies. You must accept this, my beloved, though it breaks your heart. If Prince Bajazet does not die before his father does, it is he who will rule next. Your son will die. There is no other way Bajazet can be safe. You must accept it.”

“I did not bear and raise my son to be slaughtered like a sacrificial lamb!” she screamed.

“Hush, mistress,” he comforted her. “It is the way of the world. You must steel yourself. God willing, it will be many years before you lose your son. He might even die a natural death.”

She quieted, but the look in her eye warned him that she would not accept her son’s fate without a fight. He would have to watch her carefully from now on. What, he wondered, would she do?

In the meantime Andronicus had had himself crowned the fourth emperor of that name. At first he had been very popular for he talked convincingly about lifting the Turkish yoke and of restoring the city’s prosperity. He could, of course, do neither. Soon there were rumblings of discontent. Andronicus levied new taxes to pay for his diversions.

Helena, too, was disappointed in her eldest son. She was no longer accorded the respect due her position as she had been with her husband. Worse, her allowance had not been paid. When she demanded to know why, the emperor’s new bursar told her that Andronicus had given no orders that she receive money.

Angrily she sought out her son. He was, as usual, surrounded by courtesans and hangers-on. “Could we not speak privately?” she asked.

“There is nothing you cannot say in front of my friends,” he answered rudely.

Helena gritted her teeth. There was nothing for it but to speak. “The money due me to run my household this quarter has not been paid, and your bursar tells me he has no order to pay me.”

“I need all my money myself,” answered Andronicus.

“The empress always received an allowance.”

“You are not my empress, Mother. You are my father’s empress. Get your money from your lovers. Or will they not pay anymore for what has been so well used?”

The women about Andronicus giggled at the outraged look on Helena’s face; the men smirked. But she was not so easily bested.

“I cannot imagine why you need all the money, Andronicus. Women of the streets, such as these,” and she waved her hand to include those clustered about her son, “can usually be had for a few coppers. Or a crust of bread. Or nothing.” Then she turned and regally departed the room, pleased with the gasps of outrage behind her.

She was beginning to realize her mistake in favoring her elder son over her husband and Manuel. He had no real interest in the city, or the remainder of the empire. Helena had expected a share of the power when Andronicus took over. She was worse off now than she had been before.

Returning to her apartment, she found it being searched and her servants in an uproar. A young captain was in possession of her jewel cases.

“What is going on?” she demanded, trying hard to keep her voice calm.

“Orders of the emperor,” said the young officer. “We are to seize and confiscate the state jewels in your possession.”

Helena’s wild burst of laughter startled everyone in the room. “State jewels? There are no state jewels, captain! The state jewels of Byzantium were sold or stolen during the Latin reign years ago. The jewels worn by me on state occasions are paste imitations!”

“And what are these, madame?” He held out the lacquered jewel cases.

“Those are my private property, captain. Each piece of jewelry in those boxes was a gift to me. They are mine alone.”

“I must take them all, madame. The emperor’s orders made no distinctions.”

Helena stared, and her china-blue eyes widened further to see her silver and gold plate and her vessels being carried away. The captain looked away, embarrassed.

“Fetch General Dukas,” she ordered one of her maids.

The captain barred the woman’s way. “No one will be allowed to leave or enter this apartment without the emperor’s written permission,” he said. “You are under house arrest, madame.”

“How are we to get food?” Helena asked with a calm she was far from feeling.

“It will be brought to you twice daily, madame.” Then, as if it was an afterthought, he said, “I am sorry, madame.” And signaling his men to gather up the empress’s property, he left.

The evening meal turned out to be a disgusting mess of peas, beans, and lentils, a loaf of coarse, brown bread, and a pitcher of inferior wine. Helena and her servants looked at the tray with disgust. There was not enough food to feed more than three people, and the empress had fourteen servants. Angrily she shoved the tray over, and her little dogs rushed to lap up the mess. Within minutes they were all dead.

“The ungrateful bastard,” the empress said furiously. Then she announced, “All but two of you will have to go. The fairest way to decide will be to draw lots.”

“Sara and I will stay, my lady,” said her tiring woman, Irene. “It is our right, as we have been with you the longest.”

“Use the secret passage,” said Helena. “I have nothing left with which to bribe the guards in any case. That way they will not know you are gone. One of you can bring us food and drink daily.”

“Come with us, madame,” begged her chief eunuch.

“And leave my son and his friends in complete control of the palace? Never! But you, Constans, go to Basil Phocas and tell him what has happened here. Tell him-tell him-that I have made a mistake in judgement.”

The empress’ servants escaped safely, and several days later Basil Phocas arrived via the secret passage. Sara and Irene kept watch while Helena and her former lover talked.

“What exactly do you want me to do?” asked the banker.

“John and Manuel must be restored. Andronicus is utterly impossible.”

“It will take some time, my dear.”

“But it can be done?”

“I believe so.”

“Then see to it! I cannot stay penned up here forever.”

The banker smiled and departed. The empress, imprisoned in her own rooms, waited and waited. And waited. After many months word was smuggled into her that her husband and younger son had escaped and were safe in Bursa with Sultan Murad.

Murad was now confident that he could continue to manipulate both sides in the Paleaologi’s dynastic struggles. Andronicus was dethroned, pardoned, and sent to his brother’s old city of Salonika to be governor. John and Manuel were restored to Constantinople as co-emperors. The price was high. A larger annual cash tribute, a substantial contingent of Byzantine soldiers to serve in the Ottoman’s army, and the city of Philadelphia. Philadelphia had been the last remaining bastion of Byzantium in Asia Minor.

The Philadelphians objected to being ceded to the Ottoman empire. Thus Adora had her first chance to go on campaign. In this instance, Murad would lead his armies personally. Fighting in the ranks of the Ottoman army were the two Byzantine co-emperors who now openly admitted to ruling only by the grace and favor of the Turkish sultan.

The Ottoman army marched from Bursa in early spring, crossing mountains whose tops were still covered with snow. Adora did not intend being shaken to death in a heaving palanquin, so she devised a costume that was both practical and modest. Murad at first was offended at the thought of his wife riding astride. He changed his mind when she modeled her costume for him.

It was all white and consisted of wide light wool pantaloons, a high necked, long-sleeved silk shirt which was tight at the wrists, a silk sash at the waist, and a fur-lined white wool cape with a gold and turquoise buckle. She wore high boots of Cordoba leather with a low heel, and matching warm brown riding gloves. There was also a small turban with long side drapes in the manner of the tribesmen of the steppe. This could cover her face, should she choose to veil herself.

“Do you approve, my lord?” She pirouetted for him. She was so excited, so gay with the prospect of accompanying him.

He couldn’t resist smiling back at her, and he did approve her choice of clothing for her public appearance. He had never, in fact, seen her so well clothed. There was barely an inch of skin showing. Had she been younger he would not have allowed it, but maturity had given her a youthful dignity. There would be no familiarity among his men.

“I do approve, my dove. You have, as always, been clever in your choice of clothing. I understand from Ali Yahya that you have also been learning to ride. I have a surprise for you. Come!” And he led her to the windows overlooking the courtyard.

There, standing quietly with its groom, was a coal black palfrey, caparisoned with an azure and silver silken throw, and a saddle and bridle. Adora gave a squeal of excitement. “Is she mine? Oh, Murad! She is beautiful! What is her name?”

“She is called Wind Song. If I had known that such a simple gift would please you so, I could have saved a fortune in jewels all these years.”

She turned, and the sunlight lit one side of her face. He caught his breath at her beauty, astounded at how lovely she still was. Or was it because he loved her so much? Her arms slid around his neck, and standing on her toes, she kissed him.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said simply. He felt an ache in his throat he couldn’t explain.

When they rode out from Bursa, Adora rode by his side. Wind Song matched the elegant prancing steps of Murad’s great white Arabian stallion, Ivory. It was not unusual for a sultan’s wife to accompany her lord on campaign, but it was unusual for her to ride with him. The effect of Adora’s unorthodox behavior was favorable. The Ottoman troops were impressed that Prince Bajazet’s mother rode with them. It enhanced the heir’s position greatly.

When they reached Philadelphia, she watched the battle from a hillside opposite the town’s main gates. By rights the city now belonged to Murad. But the population had been stirred up by its governor, who feared to lose his place, and by its clergy, who hated the sultan. The people refused to accept the new overlord.

The emperor John entered the city under a flag of truce and pleaded with the inhabitants to accept their new master. If they accepted Murad willingly, there would be no destruction. Philadelphians would face only what other Christian inhabitants of the Ottoman Empire faced. They would pay a yearly head tax, and their sons between the ages of six and twelve would be eligible for a draft into the Corps of Janissaries. Other than that their lives would go on as before. They might, of course, convert to Islam in which case they would escape the head tax and the Janissaries.

The governor and the clergy were insulting when John suggested that they played lightly with the lives of Philadelphia’s citizens. “You cannot hope to win,” he pleaded. “You are surrounded by Islam. Have you told the people the truth, or have you filled them full of foolishness about resisting the infidel? Murad is generous, but he did not march all the way from Bursa to be denied. He will take the city.”

“Then it will be over our dead bodies,” pronounced the governor pompously.

“I never knew a governor to lead an army or to die in the fighting,” said the emperor scathingly. “Be well advised that when the sultan enters the city I will seek you out myself.”

“Our people will be martyrs in God’s holy war against the infidel,” intoned the city’s patriarch.

The emperor looked on the priest pityingly. “My poor people will suffer fire and the sword because of your vanity, Father. I do not think God will reward you for all the souls who will be on your conscience when this battle is over.”

But they would not listen. They hustled him out of the city before he could talk to the populace. Murad was disappointed. He would have preferred a peaceful entry. Now Philadelphia must be made an example, so that other cities would think twice before resisting the Ottoman.

In less than a week Philadelphia fell to Murad. The Sultan’s soldiers, both Christian and Muslim, were allowed the traditional three days of pillage before order was restored.

Those caught with weapons, soldiers and citizens alike, were immediately put to the sword. The first night the city rang with screams as every woman and girl, ferreted out by the sultan’s soldiers, was raped again and again. Neither age nor vocation nor status was any protection. Little girls as young as six suffered, as did nuns, who were dragged from their convents to satisfy the furious lust of battle-weary soldiers.

By morning of the fourth day there wasn’t a woman in the city who had escaped the sultan’s army. They and the children and the other survivors were herded into the marketplace to be sold into slavery. Eager bidders had arrived from the surrounding Muslim territories.

It was each soldier’s right to sell any captive he had caught unless that person converted to Islam. There were few conversions. Not all the captives were sold, as many of the soldiers who had fought with Murad would now bring their families to recolonize the city. They would need slaves.

A percentage of each sale went into the sultan’s coffers. The remainder was split between the soldier and the merchant who conducted the sale.

All the valuables found within the city were confiscated for the sultan’s treasury. The churches were emptied, purified, and turned into mosques. Both the governor and the religious patriarch who had so boldly defied the emperor and the sultan were beheaded for causing Murad trouble and for inciting his city to rebellion. Thus the last Christian city left in Asia Minor, except Trebizon, fell to the Ottomans.

Adora had viewed the battle for Philadelphia and the ensuing pillage with a stoic interest that fascinated Murad. Finally, unable to control his curiosity, he asked her her thoughts on the campaign. She toyed with a pillow before answering.

“You were more than fair, my lord,” she answered.

“Have you no feeling for your people, Mother?” asked Bajazet.

Murad stifled a smile at Adora’s frown of annoyance. “My dear son,” she replied, her voice dripping sarcasm, “though I am but an infidel dog, and a lowly female at that, I am still an Ottoman. Your uncle John legally ceded Philadelphia to your father for certain aid and favors. Its governor chose not to obey his overlord, and incited the people to resistance. They have only reaped the rewards of their disobedience. If we had chosen to let them defy us until they chose to stop, it would have cost many Ottoman lives in the future. Though it is not so, many people believe that to show mercy is a sign of weakness. Therefore we can rarely allow ourselves that gentle luxury. Remember, Bajazet, always strike quickly, before your enemies have a chance to think, else they defeat you.”

Murad nodded. She had learned a great deal of battle strategy from him, he thought. He was surprised and flattered. “Listen to your mother, my son,” he said, and his eyes twinkled teasingly, “for though she is but a woman, she is a clever Greek. And her words are given weight by virtue of her vast age.” And he laughed as she launched herself at him.

Prince Bajazet looked horrified as his parents wrestled together amid the pillows. He was a grown man with a pregnant wife and did not think of his mother and father as being physical with each other. To be sure, his father kept a harem, and his mother was yet young, but-they were his parents!

“Scoundrel!” hissed Adora, yanking at Murad’s thick silver-black hair.

“Witch,” murmured the sultan, “how is it you still have the ability to inflame me?”

“My vast age has given me the power to stir the watery blood of an older man!” she retorted wickedly.

He laughed again. Then he found her angry mouth and kissed it thoroughly before moving on to more interesting parts of her anatomy. Adora began to make soft, contented noises. Flushing crimson, Prince Bajazet fled the room. His parents never noticed that he had gone.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The Ottomans now ruled Asia Minor, except for the emirate of Karamania and the small Greek Christian kingdom of Trebizond. Murad now turned his eyes back to Europe. He saw that he needed three additional cities if he were to secure his position in the Balkans. These were Sofia in northern Bulgaria, which would extend his rule to the Danube; and Serbian Nish and Monastir, to establish his rule west of the Vardar River. Murad and his entire household returned to his European capital, Adrianople, from there to direct the new campaigns.

While he occupied himself with his campaigns, Adora occupied herself with their growing family. Zubedya had quickly produced four sons who were named Suleiman, Isa, Musa, and Kasim. Adora did not like the Germiyan. The closeness she had hoped would develop between them had not. The Germiyan was a proud, cold woman who gave only what she had to and no more. She did not love her husband. In fact, Adora did not believe she had any affection at all for Bajazet.

Her son was a brilliant, mercurial man very much like his maternal grandfather, John Cantacuzene, but with a dangerous streak of pride and rashness that worried Adora. He had, she knew, never felt anything but the mildest affection for any woman. Yet she knew that he had never had a man for a lover, either. There had never been any grand passion in Bajazet’s life. And Adora felt that he needed the stabilizing influence of a beloved woman. Neither Zubedya nor the few silly girls he kept in his small harem filled this need.

It seemed that, unlike his parents, Bajazet was not a sensual man. He did not seem to feel the lack of a passionate love. His life was completely taken up by the military.

This did not bother his wife. She seemed to have no interest in anything having to do with Bajazet, and that lack of interest applied to his sons. No sooner had she produced them than they were turned over to wetnurses and slaves.

Bajazet returned to Asia on his father’s orders in order to help Murad take Karamania. Germiyan had been Zubedya’s dowry. Hamid had been purchased from its ruler who preferred gold and peace of mind to the nervous strain of having the Ottoman Empire on his doorstep. To the south, the emir of Tekke had fathered a son in his old age. He fought hard with the sultan to retain his lands. The result was that Murad gained Tekke’s uplands and lake region, leaving the emir, for the present, with the southern valleys and the lowlands between the Taurus mountains and the Mediterranean.

Only Karamania stood in Murad’s way. Despite his large army, the left wing of which was under Prince Bajazet’s command, the battle of Konya ended in a draw. Both sides claimed victory. Murad had gained neither territory nor booty, tribute nor military aid. The emir of Karamania kissed his hand in a public gesture of reconciliation, but that was all Murad achieved.

Murad had fought his war on two fronts, and had been generally victorious. But he had met his match in one Muslim ruler, and could not extend his dominion any further into Asia. He had, however, gained his objective in Europe: Sofia, Nish, and Monastir, along with the city of Prilep to its north, were now Ottoman strongholds.

Back in Asia Minor, Murad had trouble with his army. In an effort not to irritate the Asian Muslims, he ordered his troops to refrain from looting the countryside about the city of Konya. The Serbian troops fighting with Prince Bajazet were furious. They considered themselves cheated, as looting and rape were a soldier’s reward. They disobeyed the sultan. Murad could not allow such a breach of discipline in his ranks. The Serbian contingent was lined up, and every sixth man executed on the spot. The rest returned to Serbia raging over what they considered unjust treatment.

Never one to miss an opportunity, Thamar’s uncle, Prince Lazar, emerged from hiding. Using the incident at Konya, Lazar fomented Serbian resistance against Murad. With the Ottomans in control of Nish, upper Serbia and Bosnia were now threatened. Lazar and the prince of Bosnia formed the Pan-Serbian Alliance.

Murad’s younger son, Yakub, had been left in charge of the Ottoman troops in Europe. His answer to Lazar was to take his army across the Vadar and invade Bosnia. Unfortunately, the majority of the Ottoman army was in Asia with the sultan. Prince Yakub, badly outnumbered, was defeated at Plochnik. He lost four-fifths of his men.

There was wild rejoicing among the Serbs, Bosnians, Albanians, Bulgarians, and Hungarians. The invincible Turks had finally been defeated! Immediately the Balkan Slavs rallied about Lazar’s banner, determined to drive the Ottomans from Europe.

Murad showed no great haste to avenge Plochnik.

“How long will they remain united?” he asked Adora. “They have never before been able to stay together. Soon one of them will be insulted by another, or else they will start fighting over religion.”

“But you cannot ignore the insult these Slavs have given us,” she fumed.

He smiled. “I shall not be idle, my dove. Thamar’s father grows old. I think before his sons get any ideas about ruling and join the Pan-Serbian alliance, I must relieve Ivan of his territory.”

At the first sign of Ottoman troops Tsar Ivan withdrew to his castle-fortress on the Danube and sued for peace. Then, suddenly, he changed his mind and attempted a last, desperate resistance. One of his two sons died in the fighting. The survivor was strangled by Janissaries at the sultan’s victory. Murad was now content to leave his father-in-law as his governor in the new territory. Ivan was a broken man, and in no position to aid his fellow Slavs in their new alliance.

Thamar, wild with grief over her brothers’ deaths, privately vowed vengeance on Murad. Over the last few years the eunuch, Demetrios, had held her complete confidence. But now she shut even him out of her thoughts. Demetrios worried. Though he reported his mistress’s actions to Ali Yahya, he loved the Bulgarian princess greatly. She was, he knew, her own worst enemy. On several occasions he had stepped in just in time to prevent her from destroying herself in some futile plot.

Thamar, with the slyness of the half-mad, managed to enter into another secret correspondence. This time it was with her uncle, Prince Lazar, head of the Pan-Serbian Alliance. The letters flew between them. Murad and Bajazet would die, assassinated by some means. Prince Yakub was to be the next sultan. Her son would, Thamar promised, be converted to Christianity. He would lead his people out of darkness and into the true faith. Islam would soon be wiped out.

The time, of course, was not right yet, Prince Lazar wrote to his demented niece. He would tell her when it was. Lazar was pleased by this chink in the sultan’s camp. He wanted the deaths of the sultan and both his sons. Leaderless, the Ottomans could be destroyed. Thamar’s madness was the key to success here. Yes, Lazar was delighted.

Thamar hugged her secret to herself, occasionally breaking into a wild laughter that frightened her slaves. Frantic, knowing that something was seriously wrong, Demetrios tried to find out what she hid. He applied to Ali Yahya for aid, but the chief eunuch was busy making preparations for Adora to accompany Murad on his campaign against the Pan-Serbian Alliance.

“Your mistress is merely suffering shock over her brothers’ deaths,” he told the anxious Demetrios.

“No! No! It is more than simply her old bitterness. She is plotting something, but I cannot find out what. She says her actions will elevate her to sainthood, and be the ruin of Islam.”

Ali Yahya made an impatient noise. “What can she possibly do, Demetrios? She never leaves her apartments except to travel between palaces. She hasn’t had a visitor in years. Rest easy. The lady Thamar babbles with frustration. She is helpless.” And he dismissed his worried slave.

Several weeks later the armies of the Pan-Serbian Alliance faced the sultan’s armies across a desolate mountain field known as the Plain of the Blackbirds. Above the tents at the western end flew the flags of Serbia, Bosnia, Albania, Hungary, Herzegovina, and Wallachia. Flags of the Papacy and of the Orthodox Churches could also be seen.

At the eastern end flew the flags of the Ottoman sultan. The sultan was outnumbered, but the morale and confidence of his men were great. Murad was so sure of victory that he gave orders that no castles, cities, or villages in the territory be destroyed. It was a rich land he was fighting over, and it was not in his interest to ravage it.

Hearing of this Prince Lazar felt his confidence draining away. He began to panic. Why, he asked himself, did Murad feel so confident when he was so badly outnumbered? There was treachery within his own camp! He sensed it. But who would betray him? His glance fell upon one of his sons-in-law, Milosh Obravitch, who had recently criticized him. Of course!

“Traitor!” Lazar shouted at the startled young man. “It is you who has betrayed us!”

Amazed, Milosh Obravitch protested his innocence. He was hustled out of Prince Lazar’s tent by his brother-in-law, Vuk Brankovitch. Brankovitch’s heart was pounding. He had come as close to fainting a few minutes back as ever in his life. When Lazar had shouted “traitor”, he had thought his game was up, but had kept his calm long enough to realize it was the hapless Milosh who was being accused. Brankovitch rushed Milosh from the tent and Lazar’s wrath before his denials could be believed. He did not want Lazar turning his suspicions elsewhere. For Brankovitch knew that tomorrow, when the battle began, he would be withdrawing his twelve thousand men from the fighting, mortally weakening the Pan-Serbian Alliance.

Vuk Brankovitch did not believe that the Pan-Serbian Alliance would prevail over the Ottoman Turks. After several years of marriage and eight daughters, Brankovitch finally had a healthy, infant son. The prearranged withdrawal of his troops would guarantee that his lands would remain his. Thus, they would pass to his son.

In the Ottoman camp the sultan worried, for the wind was blowing strongly from the west. Come morning, his troops would be at a disadvantage, fighting with dust in their eyes. He must pray to Allah for a change in the wind.

Murad sat cross-legged in his luxurious tent, eating supper with his two sons. Behind them Adora directed the slaves and nibbled a bit when she could. Three musicians played quietly. When the meal had been cleared away, the sultan motioned to his favorite wife to sit with him. Placing two small bowls of sugared almonds on nearby tables she settled herself by his side to watch the dancing.

His arm slid around her, and he leaned over to kiss her. “Your mother,” he told Bajazet and Yakub, “used to dance for me alone.” He chuckled. “She was extremely skillful, as I remember.”

Adora laughed. “I am surprised you do remember, my lord, since you rarely allowed me to finish a dance.”

“Do you still dance for Father?” Bajazet enquired politely.

“Occasionally,” she answered, and laughed at his surprised look.

Murad was slightly disgruntled. “If you would ask my harem,” growled Murad to Bajazet, “you would find out that I am not quite dead, boy!”

“Peace, my lords,” Adora interposed between them. “Bajazet, Yakub, see that your troops are comfortable for the night, and pray with them for Allah’s blessing on us. Your father and I bid you both a good night.”

The two princes rose, kissed her, bid their father a good evening, and left the tent. She dismissed the musicians and the two dancers. “Would you be alone, my lord?”

“For now, my dove. Go to our bed. I will join you later.”

She left. For a while Murad sat in silence listening to the wind howling about the tent. The lamps flickered eerily. The camp was very quiet but for that wind. He must win tomorrow! And he would! Then he would return to Asia Minor and finally subdue the irritating emir of Karamania.

Slowly Murad rose and moved to his prayer rug. Kneeling, he touched his forehead to the ground three times. He prayed for heaven’s protection of his cause and for all the men who made up his army whether they were Christian or Muslim. He prayed that those of his men who would die tomorrow would die in the true faith of Islam. Murad then stood up and joined his wife.

She awaited him with a steaming wooden bathtub. Swiftly disrobing him, she helped him into the hot water and gently bathed him. Then she wrapped him in a large, warm towel. When he was dry, she slipped a silk robe on him.

Murad stretched out on their bed and gave himself over to the pleasure of watching her as she bathed. He marveled at the firm beauty of her body. As he gazed at his beloved Adora he felt his need for her growing, though he seldom indulged in sexual games before a battle.

Clean and dry, she reached for her robe. “Don’t!” he said.

“As my lord wishes,” she answered and lay down, naked, next to him.

“Why is it woman, that you still manage to please me?” he muttered, pulling her into his arms.

“Perhaps it is my familiarity.”

“In other words, I am getting old and do not like new experiences,” he teased, nibbling on her plump shoulder.

“We both grow old, my dear lord.”

“Not that old!” he answered, taking her with a suddenness that surprised her. When she gasped softly, he stopped her mouth with a burning kiss, then murmured against her ear, “Woman of my heart, I love you. I would lose myself in you this night.”

And when he finally slept, content, she lay awake keeping watch over him, feeling strangely protective of this man who was her whole life. Only when the sky began to lighten and turn gray with the coming dawn did she fall asleep.

When she awoke the sun was up, and she could hear the battle trumpets sounding. There was great activity outside her tent. Murad was gone, and the pillow where his head had so lately lain was cold. She scrambled to her feet, calling to her slaves.

“Has the sultan gone? Is the battle begun?”

“No, and no, my lady,” said Iris. “There is time yet.”

Adora dressed quickly and hurried outside. Messengers rushed back and forth between the sections of the army. She noted that the wind was gone. The day was warm and quite clear. Catching the cloak of a young Janissary she said, “Take me to the sultan.” She was immediately led to Murad, who was with his generals.

They had all grown so used to seeing her with him on campaign that her presence was barely noticed. The sultan casually put an arm about her, and continued giving orders. He, with his cavalry guard and his Janissaries, would occupy the center position. Prince Bajazet would command the newly reorganized European troops on the right flank. Prince Yakub, reassigned to command the Asian troops, would be on the left flank.

With the other officers now dismissed, Adora wished both her son and Yakub good fortune and a safe return. Both young men knelt for her blessing. Then she and Murad were alone for a few minutes.

“The wind went with the night,” he said.

“I know. Why did you not wake me before you left the tent? I had hoped to break my fast with you. Some friendly peasants brought a basket of newly ripened peaches for us.”

He smiled. “Peaches! Always your weakness, eh, my dove?” Then he sobered. “I did not awake you, Adora, because I know how these last-minute preparations for battle always worry you. I had hoped to be away before you awoke.”

“And what, Allah forbid, if something had happened to you?” she said reproachfully.

“It is not my fate to die in battle, Adora. I shall always come home to you reeking of blood, sweat, and dirt, and you will scold me as you do our children, overlooking the fact that one cannot stay clean in battle. Am I not right, my dove?” He held her gently against him, and she could feel the sure beat of his heart beneath her hot cheek.

“You make me sound like a foolish maid,” she protested.

“Never foolish, but always my naughty maiden, stealing peaches from the convent orchard.”

She chuckled, somewhat mollified. “What on earth made you think of that?” she asked. But before he could answer, the trumpets sounded and the armorer hurried in with the sultan’s breastplate. With nimble fingers she helped him close the fastenings, then buckled on his great sword. The armorer and his assistant stood waiting with the sultan’s helmet, shield, and heavy mace.

The sultan put his arm about his wife and kissed her deeply. He held her for a moment. “May Allah guard you and bring you safely back to me, my lord,” she said softly. He smiled a quick smile at her, then walked swiftly from the tent.

For a moment she stood quietly. Then she called out, “Ali Yahya! Come! We will go and watch the battle.” The eunuch approached silently from a room within the tent. He draped a light silk cloak about her shoulders. Together they walked through the nearly deserted camp, and ascended a small hill overlooking the plain of Kossovo, the Plain of the Blackbirds.

Below them, in perfect formation and facing each other, were the armies of the Pan-Serbian Alliance and the Ottoman Empire. She saw Murad give the signal to attack, and an advance guard of two thousand archers loosed their arrows. The enemy foot soldiers raised their shield in what appeared to be a single motion. There were few casualties, and they parted to allow their cavalry through. The Serbs charged, shouting wildly, and broke through the Turks’ left flank. Prince Bajazet came to Yakub’s rescue with a massive counterstroke. He fought valiantly, using his great mace with deadly accuracy. Adora, watching from her hill, thought that her son seemed almost invincible. She was not able to see that he bled from several small wounds.

The battle remained in doubt. The hours flew by, and the Ottomans were still on the defensive. Then suddenly a great shout went up from the Serbian side as Vuk Brankovitch and his twelve thousand men withdrew from the battlefield. Badly weakened by this defection, the remaining members of the Pan-Serbian Alliance broke their ranks and fled. With a whoop of triumph the Ottoman soldiers tore after them.

Murad had been correct about the Serbs. They could not remain united, even under dire circumstances. Satisfied that his armies could finish without him, the sultan withdrew from the field. Adora and Ali Yahya hurried down the hill to meet him. As the little group returned to camp, slaves ran to meet their master. They took his armor and weapons from him and seated him to draw off his boots. They brought him a basin of warm, scented water, and he washed his hands and face.

“You see,” he grinned up at Adora, “it is not my fate to die in battle.”

“Praise Allah!” she murmured, sitting on a stool by his feet and laying her head against his knee. He reached down and stroked her hair. A slave placed a bowl of peaches at his elbow, and Murad handed her one before biting into one himself. The sultan’s aid-de-camp entered the tent, prostrated himself, and then said, “We have a deserter of high rank from the enemy side, my padishah. One of Prince Lazar‘s sons-in-law. He asks to see you.”

“My lord,” protested Adora, “the battle has exhausted you. See this princeling tomorrow.”

Murad looked irritated by the interruption. But assuming it was Vuk Brankovitch, he sighed and said, “I will see him now and get it over with. Then we will spend a few quiet hours together before my generals come to give me their reports.”

Adora got up, and moved back into the shadows of the tent. The aide-de-camp left and returned quickly with a richly dressed young man who knelt in submission before the seated Murad. The man was not Brankovitch.

“Your name?” demanded the sultan.

“Milosh Obravitch, infidel dog!” cried the young man, jumping forward, his hand raised.

Adora screamed and leapt from the shadows, flinging herself in the direction of Murad. The aide-de-camp and the guards were as quick. It was too late. Milosh Obravitch twice plunged his dagger into the sultan’s chest, so hard that both times it went through his back. The Janissaries, streaming into the tent, grabbed the assassin. Spread-eagling him, they lopped off his head. Blood from the man’s severed neck gushed onto the rugs.

Heedless, Adora cradled her husband in her arms.

“Murad! Oh, my love!” she sobbed.

He struggled to speak, his face white, the light in his eyes fading rapidly. “Forgive…the cruelties. I love you…Adora…”

“I know, my love! I know! Do not speak. The physician is coming.” Oh, God! She felt so cold! Why was she so cold?

A sad smile flickered on his face, and he shook his head. “Kiss me farewell, dove.”

She bent her wet face and touched his cooling lips with hers.

“Peaches,” he said weakly. “You smell of peaches,” and then he fell back in her arms, his black eyes open and sightless.

For a moment she thought her heart would stop and that she might be granted the mercy of following him. Then she heard her own voice saying, “The sultan is dead. Notify Prince-notify Sultan Bajazet. No one else! No one must know yet!”

The Janissary captain stepped forward. “Prince Yakub?”

“See to it immediately after the battle,” she ordered. “Prince Yakub is not to return. Do not wait for word from my son. I will not have this decision on him. It is my responsibility.”

“To hear is to obey, Highness.”

“Ali Yahya!”

“Madame?”

“No one enters this tent until my son comes. Tell them the sultan rests with his wife after a hard battle and cannot be disturbed.”

“It will be as my lady says.”

Then she was alone, still cradling Murad’s body. Gently she drew his eyelids closed. He looked so relaxed, asleep. Slowly her tears fell on him. She made no sound. In the heat of the tent she could smell the nearby bowl of peaches, and she recalled his last words to her. “Peaches! You smell of peaches.” They had begun together with peaches stolen from St. Catherine’s orchard. Now it was ended in a tent smelling of peaches on a battlefield called Kossovo.

Throughout the rest of the day Theadora of Byzantium sat on the floor of the sultan’s tent holding her husband’s dead body. And while she sat, her numbed mind remembered their years together. It had not always been as easy between them as it had been in these last years. He had not always understood the passionate, intelligent woman whom he had moved heaven and earth to possess; and she had rarely been able to hide the woman she really was. But there had always, from their first moment, been love between them. Always, even during their fierce battles.

I have been blessed, she thought, in having such love. Then she thought again, But what will I do now? Bajazet respects me, but I do not think he knows how to love, even me. Zubedya certainly does not care for me, nor do her four sons, my grandsons. Once again I am alone. Murad! Murad! Why have you left me? She wailed her grief silently, and she rocked back and forth with her precious burden.

It was thus that Bajazet found her, her eyes swollen almost shut from weeping. He silently surveyed her. Her robe was covered with dried and blackened blood, her face puffy and streaked with tears. A wave of pity swept over him. He had never seen her other than elegant and beautiful. Bajazet had not yet found love, and did not understand the emotion, but he knew how his parents had loved one another. She was going to be lost.

“Mother.”

She looked up at him. “My lord sultan?”

He was amazed at her calm, her correct behavior in the face of her tragedy. “It is time to let him go, Mother.” Bajazet held out his hand to her.

“He wanted to be buried in Bursa,” she said quietly.

“So be it,” answered Bajazet.

Slowly she released her hold on Murad’s body, and allowed her son to help her up. He led her from the tent. “Yakub?” she asked him.

“My half brother died in the battle, they tell me. He will be buried with honor, along with our father. He was a fine soldier and a good man.”

“It is good,” she said to him. “There can be only one sultan.”

“I have already avenged my father, mother. We have slain almost all of the Serbian nobility. I have allowed only one of Prince Lazar’s sons to live. The Serbs are no longer a threat to us, and it will be better if one of their own governs them. I will need their troops to defend the Danube Valley against the Hungarians.”

“Which of Prince Lazar’s sons is it, and what terms have you made with him?”

“Stephen Bulcovitz. He is but sixteen. He will pay us as an annual tribute sixty-five percent of the yearly revenues from the Serbian silver mines. He must command a contingent in my army, and send me Serbian troops whenever and wherever I need them.”

She nodded. “You have done well, my son.”

“There is more,” he said. “Stephen Bulcovitz has a sister. Her name is Despina, and I will take her to wife.”

“Prince Lazar’s daughter? Thamar’s cousin? Are you mad? You would marry the offspring of the man responsible for your father’s death?”

“I need the alliance, Mother! Zubedya binds me with Asia, but I need a European wife as well. The Serbs will trouble us no longer, and Despina will serve my purpose. Father would have approved.”

“Do not speak to me of your father! He is not cold yet, and you would wed with his murderer’s daughter!” He tried to comfort her, but she pulled away from him. “Dear God! I am surely cursed! Your father loved me, but you do not love me, and neither does your wife, or your children. Now you will wed with Thamar’s cousin, and once again I will be alone.”

“Meet with the girl, my mother. I do not have to wed with her if she displeases you. You are a fine judge of character, and I trust your opinion. If you feel that this Despina is not suitable then I will look elsewhere for a European bride. After today there will be plenty of noble Christian widows seeking to placate me with their nubile daughters.”

Prince Lazar had been married twice, and it was his second wife, a Macedonian noblewoman, who had produced his youngest son, Stephen, and his youngest daughter, Despina, who was fourteen. The girl was spirited, but she was not proud, and she had an open and sweet nature. Her features were fine. Her skin was fair, and her long hair dark auburn. She had a small waist, nicely rounded hips, and came just to Bajazet’s shoulder. Though Theadora had expected to dislike the girl, she could not.

Despina was shy with Theadora for awhile, but as her confidence grew, her concern for the older woman’s loss became paramount. “You have had your own loss,” said the sultan’s mother.

A shadow passed over the girl’s face, and then she said quietly, “I loved my father, madame. He was always good to me, and there will never be another like him in my life. However, God has blessed me in my grief by sending me your son to love. Though I am but his second wife, I shall endeavor to make him happy.”

Deeply moved, Theadora put her arms about the girl. “I think, my child, that it is my son who is blessed.”

To Adora’s delight, there was true love between the two young people. The wedding was celebrated quickly and quietly as they were all in mourning. Bajazet was content to stay with his beloved bride much of the time. And within less than a year, Despina had given him a son. He was called Mohammed.

Bajazet then went back to war. Adora approved her son’s return to the battlefield, for Murad had left his plans for conquest written down in several parchment scrolls. These were now in Bajazet’s possession. The new sultan had only to follow his father’s plans and success would be his.

Despina, with a wisdom and generosity far beyond her years, understood how desperately Theadora needed someone to love. Recognizing, too, her mother-in-law’s superior knowledge in all things involving the raising of rulers-to-be, the girl stepped aside, leaving the care of her son to Theadora.

Despina concentrated all her energies on Bajazet; Theadora gave all of herself to Mohammed.

Seeing the baby’s alert black eyes and broad brow, Theadora envisioned Murad. She saw her own renewed purpose in living. It would never be as it had been with Murad, but this life would afford her much. Theadora prayed that the boy would be the Ottoman to finally take Constantinople, and she recalled the prophecy, “And Mohammed shall take Constantinople.”

Theadora of Byzantium was delighted. She had plans again, visions of the future. She would not be just another widow, honored but entirely forgotten. She was still in the center of history.