Bertrice Small - Adora

His hand moved up her back, tangling itself in her dark hair. “Be silent, my sweet Adora,” he commanded, and his mouth took possession of hers again. This time, however, he kissed her hungrily, his lips searing hers, savagely demanding her complete surrender. Helpless to control the desire welling within her, she slipped her arms up and around his neck, and drew him down among the pillows.

Time lost all meaning for her. She knew that what they did was morally wrong within the precepts of both their religions, yet so great was their need of each other that the raging hunger wiped everything else out of their minds. She knew that he had completely unbuttoned her blouse for his lips now ran riot over her throat, moving downward to her breasts, hungrily sucking on the nipples until they were sore with longing.

He found his way beneath the silk of her full pantaloons, and stroked her between her quavering thighs, finding her already wet with fierce desire. His hand teased deliciously at her, and she squirmed under his touch, a low sob escaping her as he gently thrust two fingers into her body. She arched and strained, desperately seeking a fulfillment that would not, could not, seem to come.

“Easy, my sweet Adora,” he soothed, “do not strive so hard, my love. It will happen.” He was kissing her again, but this time his lips moved to her ear, and he whispered softly, “I want you, Adora, but as a man wants a woman. I don’t want to play lover’s games any longer. I want to be deep within your sweetness, crying for joy of the beautiful thing we will do together.”

She shivered, weakening, and he nibbled at her little earlobe. “Open your legs to me, Adora. I am hot to fuck you, my lovely Byzantine whore. Let me taste the delights you have so willingly given to my besotted father and your Greek pirate lover.”

She froze, unable to believe what she had just heard.

“I shall be a better lover to you, my dove, than either of them,” he went on, heedless.

Then suddenly he howled with pain as her knee caught him in the groin. She scrambled up, eyes shooting amethyst fire, frantically buttoning her blouse, desperately striving to hold back the tears that were already pouring down her cheeks.

“Though Halil’s the joy of my life, I never went willingly to your father’s bed,” she raged at him. “And though it is none of your business, Alexander was certainly not my lover! Unlike you damned Ottomans who consider a woman’s use to be limited to a man’s bed, the Greeks admire women of intelligence. They are not afraid, as you seem to be, that a woman of learning may render them impotent. And as to my own intelligence, I am beginning to doubt its very existence. Else how could I have believed you still cared for me as you once did?” She was crying hard now, not caring how she looked. “I hate you! Get out of my tent or I shall scream. Your father’s soldiers will not hesitate to kill the rapist of the sultan’s wife!” She turned her back on him.

Slowly, he pulled himself up, using the brass tray table to brace himself. For a moment a wave of dizziness assailed him in echo of the pain, but he breathed slowly, deeply, and his head cleared. “Theadora. I am sorry, my dove.”

“Get out!”

“I have ached for you since the first moment I saw you falling from your convent wall. I was physically ill when you were made my father’s wife. And yesterday I arrived in Phocaea to find that peacock of a pirate openly solicitous of you.”

“So you assumed I had played the whore. I shall never forgive you! Never! Get out!”

“I thought you were like your sisters.”

“Get out!”

“My father is old, Adora. Soon he will join his ancestors, and I will claim you as I promised so long ago.”

“I would die before I ever yielded to you!”

He laughed harshly. “No, you won’t, my dove. You were like a bitch in heat but a few moments back. You will come when I command it.” And turning on his heel, he walked from the tent.

Theadora clenched her fists tightly. He was right! God curse him, he was right! She wanted him as much as he wanted her. And sinking to the pillows, she wept all her bitter tears.

Orkhan the sultan gazed at his third wife in anger. In anger she was especially beautiful. It made him almost sorry he could no longer function with her as a man. He kept his face impassive, though he was mightily amused. There was not another woman in his harem who would dare to shout at him, and though he would punish her for it, he admired her courage.

His hand flashed out, slapping her cheek hard enough to leave an imprint. “Be silent, Adora! Halil is my son also, but now that I have found out that your sister, Helena, is behind this kidnapping, I will not pay that Greek pirate another dinar!”

“Do you mean to abandon my son?”

“No, my dear, I do not mean to abandon Halil. And again I remind you that he is my son also. Since your sister was imprudent enough to attempt to get at me by using my wife and son, I feel that Byzantium must pay the remainder of the ransom. I should also tell you that, were Alexander the Great not so greedy, you and Halil would now be dead. Your sister wanted him to murder you, but he knew she could not pay him, and he decided that you two were more valuable to him alive than dead. A wise fellow, that pirate.”

Theadora’s eyes were wide with shock. “But why, my lord? Why does my sister wish me and her innocent nephew dead? I have never harmed her.”

Orkhan put a kindly arm about his wife and shook his head wearily. Poor Adora. She had been much too sheltered. It was past time she grew up. If she did not, he feared for her safety after his death. “Your sister,” he said, “hoped that your death and Halil’s would cause my death. Then she intended to foster dissension between Suleiman and Murad. When they had destroyed each other, only my poor, mad son, Ibrahim, would remain. Though our laws forbid a mentally or physically impaired heir, there are those who would crown Ibrahim and use him. Your sister knows this. Trouble within our Ottoman realm would suit Byzantium.”

“So you will force John Paleaologi to pay the rest of Halil’s ransom. He will have to do it, of course, as we are much stronger than he is.”

The sultan smiled, noting her use of the word “we”. Theadora continued, “But I would punish my sister for what she has attempted to do.”

“And what would you do, my dear?”

“Helena has two sons, my lord, but only one daughter-upon whom she dotes. My niece, Alexis, is the same age as our son, Halil. In her correspondence with me, Helena has often bragged of the girl’s blonde beauty. My sister hopes to marry her daughter into the House of Savoy or the royal House of Muscovy. She has also, as you know, delighted in making a mockery of our marriage because I am a Christian, and you, my lord, are a Muslim. What if we demand Princess Alexis as a bride for our son, Prince Halil? Helena dare not refuse us lest we destroy her.”

The sultan chuckled. Perhaps he would not have to worry about his little Theadora after all! Her looks were most deceptive. “You are diabolical, my dear,” he said, pleased.

She looked directly at him, her eyes hard. “We revere the same holy book, my lord. Does not the Bible say ‘an eye for an eye’“?

He nodded slowly. “It will be as you suggest, Adora, and I will even ask for your advice in this delicate negotiation since you obviously know the empress and her spouse better than I had suspected.”

So the citizens of the fast-shrinking empire of Byzantium found that their new emperor, John Paleaologi, was as much at the mercy of the sultan as the old emperor, John Cantacuzene, had been. Orkhan was quite adamant. Not only was the young emperor to pay the remaining fifty thousand gold ducats of Prince Halil’s ransom, but he was also to go to Phocaea himself to escort the boy back to Bursa.

The empress Helena shrieked her frustration and outrage. There was barely half that amount in the whole royal treasury, and then only because the taxes had just been extorted from the already overtaxed population. The jewelry that the empress had carefully been collecting from her lovers would have to be sold. The royal jewels had been mere paste imitations for many years.

Helena inveigled her put-upon spouse to besiege Phocaea instead of paying the ransom. Both Orkhan and Theadora were amused by the emperor’s action and Helena’s desperate attempt to hold on to her jewelry. They knew Halil would be safe with Alexander, and Orkhan assured Alexander that he would be paid.

The sultan used the absence of the Byzantine forces from Thrace as an invitation to invade it further. This invasion was met with virtually no resistance. Indeed, the local populace rather welcomed the Turks as liberators, having had enough of serfdom under their greedy local lords.

Alerted to this attitude by his wife, the emperor hurried back to Constantinople-only to be commanded back to Phocaea by the sultan. Weary, feeling more like a shuttlecock than a man, John Paleaologi set out for Phocaea again…only to encounter his returning fleet which had abandoned the siege and could not be persuaded to continue with it.

Desperate, the emperor begged Orkhan for mercy. The Ottoman sultan was now the recognized overlord of the hapless emperor, and he remained firm: the ransom must be paid. The year was now 1359, and John went humbly to his overlord at Scutari, a vassal asking pardon of his suzerain. He was told again that he must pay the ransom, now increased by a five-thousand-ducat fine. He had to accept the status quo in Thrace as well, and give his only daughter, Alexis, as bride to Prince Halil. Weeping bitterly, the emperor agreed. He had no choice.

But the empress was another matter. Helena screamed her palace down, tearing at her long blonde hair. She threw whatever came to hand, and beat the slaves unfortunate enough to approach her. The wits of the court said one could not be sure what the empress regretted more, the loss of her jewels or the loss of Muscovy-for the negotiations betrothing Alexis to the Tzar’s heir had almost been completed.

Those closest to the empress, however, realized that she doted upon her only daughter. Knowing this, the emperor quickly removed Alexis from her mother’s care. Helena protested. “Do not let her go to the infidel,” she begged her husband. “Oh, God! This is my bitch sister’s doing! The Ottoman’s whore has finally revenged herself on me by making my beloved child as low as she is!”

John Paleaologi’s usual good nature evaporated, and he hit his wife so hard that she fell to the floor, bleeding from the mouth. “Your sister, Theadora,” he said in low, even tones, “is a good and decent woman. She was wed according to the rites of our Church, which hardly makes her a whore. And were it not for her great sacrifice, your father would not have been able to hold out against my mother‘s forces as long as he did. And you, my dear wife, would not be the empress. Theadora practices her faith daily. She redeems Christian captives and sends them to safety. She is loyal and faithful to her husband. Frankly, Alexis will be safer at Orkhan’s court than in this one.”

“But she will have to share Prince Halil with others when they are grown enough to know what marriage is about!” wailed Helena.

A sarcastic smile lit the emperor John’s lips. “I share you with many others, my dear, and I have survived,” he said quietly.

Shocked into silence, the empress could do nothing but continue to prepare for her daughter’s wedding. The emperor returned to Phocaea and paid the fifty-five thousand gold Venetian ducats to Alexander the Great. John was further humiliated by having to stand and wait while the gold was weighed out before his nephew was turned over to him. At last he proceeded by sea and then overland to Nicea where the betrothal was to be celebrated.

The empress had attempted to avoid her daughter’s wedding, but the emperor made it quite plain that only Helena’s death would be considered a valid excuse for her absence. After all the years of mocking her sister, Helena was finally going to have to face Theadora-and on her sister’s own territory. She shivered. She didn’t expect Thea to be merciful: if their positions were reversed, she would not be.

Strangely, the little princess Alexis was delighted to be marrying her cousin, a boy her own age.

“I could have made you queen of Muscovy, or duchess of Savoy,” sighed Helena.

“But Savoy and Muscovy are so far away, Mama,” replied the child. “They say the sun rarely shines in the cold north. I should far rather wed my cousin, Halil, and be near you and Father.”

Helena hid her tears from her daughter. The little one was so sweet. Surely Thea would see that, and not wreak her vengeance upon an innocent child. Helena wondered if she would be that kindly if she were in her sister’s shoes. Knowing the answer, she shivered again.