The chief white eunuch was most distressed. Damn Murad’s lust! He was so overeager for the princess that he would spoil everything. Ali Yahya had not even been aware that the sultan had crossed back over the Sea of Marmara from his minor siege of Constantinople. He had hoped to get Theadora safely back to Bursa where he could calm her fears, deal with her anger, and reason with her. With time, he could convince her of the great opportunities opening to her. Why, if she bore Murad a son, the boy might well be the next sultan!

But the grieving princess would awaken to find herself in the presence of the very man she had fled. Allah! There were times when Ali Yahya blessed the stroke of fate that had rendered him free of a man’s passion. He knew he would not be able to keep Murad from the princess long. But if he could tell the sultan-even briefly-of the princess’s unhappy sexual experiences with Orkhan, then perhaps Murad would be compassionate and alleviate Theadora’s fears. Ali Yahya had not been able to explain things properly to Murad since Theadora had fled.

Too soon they were entering the sultan’s campsite, and Ali Yahya looked down at his helpless captive. Though she still slept it was no longer a deep sleep. She would soon awaken. He had little time. The wagon stopped, and before he could move, the curtains were impatiently flung back and the sultan climbed inside.

“Is she all right? Why is she so still? Does she understand her position?”

“Please, my lord, let us go into your tent. The princess is fine, but she is still under the influence of the sleeping draught the empress gave her. I do not want her to awaken prematurely. She knows nothing of what has happened. It will all be a terrible shock to her, especially the knowledge that her sister has sold her into slavery.” He turned to the two eunuchs who had accompanied him. “Take Princess Theadora to her tent,” he commanded them. “And have someone keep watch. Send for me when she appears to be ready to awake.”

The sultan leapt from the wagon and helped Ali Yahya down. Together they entered his large, luxurious tent and settled themselves about the coffee burner. The chief eunuch reached into his voluminous robes and drew out a rolled parchment, which he handed to the sultan.

Breaking the red wax seal the sultan unrolled it and read. A slow smile lit his face. “She is mine now!” he exulted. “She belongs to me alone! No man will ever have her again but me!”

Ali Yahya looked puzzled and the sultan’s dark eyes fastened directly on his servant. “You wonder if I am mad, do you not, oh keeper of imperial secrets? Well, I shall give you another secret to hoard to yourself. One day many years ago, as I walked past the Convent of St. Catherine, I heard a cry. I looked up to see a girl falling from the wall. It was the princess, and she had been in the orchard stealing peaches. I caught her and returned her safely over the wall.

“She was alone in those days, without friends. We struck up a friendship and, may Allah have mercy, we fell in love. We dared to hope that my father with his vast harem had forgotten her and would die leaving her a virgin widow. Then I intended to make her mine. But Orkhan had not forgotten her, and she quickly yielded to his wishes, giving him a son. When my father died I told her she would have a month to mourn him, and then she would join my harem. Instead she fled me and rashly married with a Greek lord. How can I forgive her, though I still love her and desire her? I cannot! But I will have her, Ali Yahya! She’ll belong to me, and pleasure me, and by Allah she’ll give me sons. She is mine, and always will be.”

For the first time in his forty years Ali Yahya was truly surprised. This new knowledge made clear so many things that had previously puzzled him. Now he must tell the sultan of the princess’s wedding night with Orkhan so Murad would not rape the girl in his angry passion. Murad must understand how the innocent girl had been treated by her jaded husband. What had happened had not been her fault. She could not be blamed for hating the Ottomans and fleeing them. Obviously, Theadora had been too proud to tell Murad the truth about her marriage to Orkhan. Even the most intelligent woman occasionally betrayed a streak of stupidity.

“My padishah,” he began, “there is something that you should be aware of-” But he was interrupted by one of the lesser eunuchs who arrived to announce that the princess was awakening.

Sultan Murad sprang to his feet and Ali Yahya, forgetting his dignity and court protocol, cried out, “Master! Let me go to her first, I beg you! The shock will be terrible. Forgive me for saying it, but if she sees you first-” He let the unspoken words hang between them.

Murad stopped. “How long?” he demanded.

“Just a little while longer, my lord,” said Ali Yahya, and he quickly hurried from the sultan’s tent to Theadora’s quarters.

They had placed her on a wide divan within the luxurious tent. Now she was stirring restlessly. Ali Yahya drew up a chair and sat by the princess’s side. Slowly her violet eyes opened. Heavy-lidded, she looked about her. That she was at first confused was obvious, then suddenly fear began to creep into her face.

“Ali Yahya?”

“Yes, Highness. It is I.”

“Wh-where am I, Ali Yahya? I last remember visiting with my sister, Helena. I grew sleepy.”

“That was several hours ago, Highness. We are encamped on the Bursa road now. The sultan is here, and he wishes to see you.”

“No!”

“You cannot refuse him, Highness.”

“I can! I do not wish to see him ever again!” She rose from her couch and began pacing back and forth. “Oh, Ali Yahya! Why have you brought me back? I wanted to remain in Constantinople! What is there for me here?”

“The sultan loves you, Highness.”

“The sultan merely desires me,” she moaned hopelessly. “Why cannot he let another woman satisfy his lust?”

“The sultan loves you, my princess, and has from the very beginning.” She looked sharply at him, wondering how he knew. He continued. “He loves you enough that he threatened Constantinople to gain your return.”

“Had my beloved Alexander not died I should be safe in Mesembria.” She sighed, then a strange gleam. came into her eyes. “Just how did Murad gain my return, Ali Yahya? It was not my dear brother-in-law, John, who betrayed me, was it?”

“No, madame.”

“My loving sister, Helena,” said Theadora quietly. The eunuch nodded. “And what concession did she wring from the sultan? What was so important to her that she betrayed me in such a fashion? Did she convince him to lift his siege? The return of her daughter? What, Ali Yahya? What has my sister gained for this?”

This was the moment he had dreaded, the moment in which he must tell her. There was no way to soften the blow he must inflict on her proud spirit. “Highness,” he began, “do you acknowledge that your sister is the current head of the Cantacuzene family, now that your father and brother have left the public life?” She nodded, puzzled. “Then I must tell you,” he hesitated a moment, drawing a deep breath, “I must tell you that in her capacity as head of your family the empress has sold you into bondage for ten thousand gold Venetian ducats and one hundred perfectly matched Indian pearls. You are now, legally, Sultan Murad’s slave,” he finished.

She could only gape at him. Fearful for her sanity, he reached out and touched her gently. She started, then turned her beautiful eyes on him. “My sister has sold me into slavery?”

“Yes, Highness. It is all…quite legal.”

“I never realized that she hated me so much. I thought- She is my sister, flesh of my flesh, we have the same mother and father. To sell me into slavery-” A violent spasm shook her and she turned a frightened face on the eunuch. “Give me a dagger, old friend! A bit too much of the poppy!” She was begging, desperate. “Don’t make me live in shame. I loved my lord Alexander. I can never love Sultan Murad like that. He hates me, hates me for something I could not prevent. Help me, Ali Yahya! Please.”

But he was firm. She was in shock. When she regained her composure she would accept the situation and avail herself of the opportunity offered her. She might have loved the Greek lord to whom she had been married, but he also knew that, despite her denials to the contrary, she loved the young sultan. If Murad would but reassure her-and Ali Yahya would try and see to that-all would be well between them.

“There is no shame,” he said, “in being the sultan’s favorite.”

“Are you mad?” She began to sob. “I was wife to a sultan. I was wife to the despot of Mesembria. I will not be Sultan Murad’s whore!”

“You will be whatever I desire and command,” came Murad’s voice from the entry. “Leave us, Ali Yahya!” He strode forward.

“No!”

He laughed at her cruelly. “You may have been born a princess, Adora, but you are now my slave. It is time you began to behave like one. It will give me great pleasure to school you properly. Neither of your husbands did. They indulged you, but I will not.”

He turned again to the eunuch. Ali Yahya bowed and departed.

For a moment they stood surveying each other. Her heart was pounding wildly. She looked hard at him, desperately trying to find any sign of the tender young man who had once loved her. He was handsomer than he had ever been. The years he had spent as a soldier had hardened his body. His dark hair showed no sign of gray.

His jet eyes frightened her. There was no warmth in them. They surveyed her coolly, as they would any possession. And suddenly it hit her that that was exactly what she was-his property. She shuddered.

He laughed. It was a mirthless sound. “I will come to you tonight,” he said quietly.

“No,” she could barely speak, and her voice was a whisper.

“Come here to me,” he commanded coldly.

“No!” She defied him.

Suddenly he laughed gently. “In the end,” he said softly, “you will have to obey me, my dove. I can make you, you know.”

Her violet eyes were dark with fright, yet she wordlessly fought with him. Murad was both pleased and amused. Whatever happened between them, he did not want to break her spirit. But she would obey him. Her reluctance surprised him. She was no virgin. And he was not aware that she had loved either of her husbands. Why must she play the reticent widow?

Holding her gaze in his like a wolf with a lamb, he slowly narrowed the space between them. She could not move. Her legs had become paralyzed. His arm reached out and tightened about her. A strong, square hand imperiously lifted her chin up. His mouth swooped down and closed over her lips.

Deep within her he touched a familiar chord. Unable or perhaps unwilling to struggle, she let him claim momentary possession of her very soul. At first his mouth was warm and surprisingly gentle but then his kiss deepened, becoming demanding, almost brutal. With a sudden cry she struggled to escape him, and when she scratched him he swore angrily, “Little bitch! You belong to me now. You’ll soon learn that, Adora! You are mine! Mine!” And he turned furiously and left the tent.

She sank to her knees, shaking uncontrollably. How long she huddled there, clutching herself and sobbing pitifully for Alexander, she did not know. Then strong arms raised her. She saw that a large oaken tub had been brought into her quarters and filled with steaming water and fragrant oils. Her clothes were stripped away and she was lifted into the tub. The slavewomen who served her were all older than she. They treated her gently as they scrubbed the dust of her journey from her body and hair. She was then seated and a pink paste, smelling of roses, was rubbed over the haired areas of her body. Her long, dark hair was rubbed with a linen towel and then brushed and rubbed with silk until it was dry, soft, and shone with reddish-blonde lights.

The depilatory paste was rinsed from her body, her hair was pinned atop her head with jeweled pins, and she was stood in the tub while cool, scented water was sluiced over her. A warm towel was wrapped about her. She was carefully dried, then led to a bench where she was stretched prone and massaged with a pale green cream smelling of nightblooming lilies.

Theadora was weak with shock and the kindly attentions of the bath attendants when Ali Yahya entered the tent carrying a garment. She flushed under his careful scrutiny. Although she should have long been used to these maleless men viewing her nudity, she was not. At a glance from the eunuch, the slavewomen quickly departed.

Ali Yahya shook his head in disbelief as he ran a soft hand over her body. “You are perfection, Highness. Your body is without flaw. Magnificent! The sultan will be very pleased.” He bent and fastened a thin gold chain about her just above the curve of her hips. From this he hung two ankle-length pink gauze veils shot through with silver threads. One covered her buttocks, its mate covered her lower belly and thighs. Kneeling, the eunuch slipped several gold bangles about her ankles. Then he stood and nodded, satisfied.