Bertrice Small - Adora

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.

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.”