Bertrice Small - Adora

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.

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.