Adora

Epilogue

The orchards of St. Catherine’s convent lay quiet in the cool December sun. The bare branches of the trees rustled softly in a faint breeze. Though the original convent and its orchards had been destroyed when Tamerlane the Tartar took the city some twenty-five years before, they had been rebuilt by Princess Theadora, matriarch of the Ottoman family. In the center of the new orchard there had been built a small marble tomb. This would hold the old woman when she finally released her firm grip on life.

She was now ninety years old. She had outlived Orkhan, Alexander, and Murad. She had outlived her children, all of them, and even her grandson, Mohammed. She had made peace with herself and with her memories, except for the memory of her son Bajazet. For Bajazet had, in his growing arrogance, destroyed the empire Murad had so carefully assembled. Bajazet had been responsible for many deaths, including the death of the gentle Despina and even his own at the hands of the great Tartar warlord, Tamerlane, who had conquered the young sultan and his armies.

Theadora remembered all too well the day Tamerlane and his army had entered Bursa. They pillaged, looted, raped, and burned their way through the city. They had stabled their horses in the mosques! Tamerlane had not cared for public opinion. He would show them who their new master was.

He had divided the empire as he saw fit, and had surprised Theadora by applying to her family the same logical measures Murad had once used to control the Paleaologis. The khan had laughed at her anger, saying, “Let Bajazet’s cubs fight one another for their empire. It will keep them out of real mischief, and I can return to Samarkand knowing there is no knife at my back.”

Theadora could not allow him a victory over her. “You have set the empire back fifty years,” she said, “but we will triumph in the end. In ages to come our empire will endure and thrive. But Tamerlane, if he is remembered at all, will be recalled only as one of many troublesome Mongol raiders.”

The barb found its mark.

“Woman, you have the tongue of an adder,” he said. “It is no wonder you have outlived most of your family. It is your own poison that keeps you alive.” Then, grudgingly, he admitted, “You are not like any female I have ever known. You are too strong to be a mere woman. Who are you, really?”

Theadora walked to the door of the room. Turning slowly, she said, “You have never known my like before, nor will you again.” Her glance was a proud and mocking one.

“I am Theadora Cantacuzene, a princess of Byzantium. Farewell, Tartar.”

And then she was gone.

The old woman sighed. There had been so many years of strife, of civil war. She had heartened when her grandson, Mohammed, took over and restored the government to a firm and stable one. Then he had died suddenly, and his son Murad II had been forced to meet his younger brother in battle and kill him before he could begin to organize his lands. Like his namesake, the young Murad II had brought his empire together. Peace now reigned in that empire. The fact was that, once again, the Ottomans were ready to move toward Constantinople.

Theadora was removed from the workings of government now. She had left the Bursa Palace when Mohammed died. All her old friends were long gone, including Iris and Ali Yahya. So she had returned to her little house within the walls of St. Catherine’s. She was deferred to, of course, and greatly respected, but she was lonely. There was nothing left for her but memories, and she wanted to be where those memories were strongest.

This afternoon she walked slowly through the silent orchards. Though her hair was silver, her carriage was still proud. She had shrunk a little with the years, but her violet eyes had not faded. Behind her walked two young nuns whose job it was to help care for her. She resented their presence, but the sultan had ordered it.

She would not, however, allow them to intrude on her memories. Since they were both meek creatures they spoke only when spoken to by their crusty mistress. To them, the orchards were a barren winter place. Shivering, they pulled their black cloaks about them.

To Theadora it was midsummer, and the trees were heavy with ripening golden peaches.

“Adora!”

She stopped and looked up, startled by the sound of his voice after all these years. He stood before her as she had first known him, tall and young and handsome. His black eyes twinkling, he laughed at her surprise.

“Murad!”

“Come, dove,” he smiled, holding out his hands to her. “It is time for you to go.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “I have waited so long for you to come for me,” she said. Reaching out, she took his hand.

“I know, dove. It has been a long time, but I shall never leave you again. Come now. It is not far.”

And without question she went with him, pausing only a moment to gaze back at the two nuns who, with fluttering cries, were now bent over the crumpled body of the silver-haired old woman.