His father was sure the sultan would forgive him, but Manuel remembered the massacred garrison at Chorlu and the seige of Demotika when sons were ordered executed by their own fathers. He also remembered that the two fathers who had refused to kill their sons had been executed themselves. Manuel recalled that his cousin, Bajazet, had beheaded the rebellious Cuntuz. If the sultan could be that cold with a rebellious son, what chance did he have?

He stopped at a small caravansary that night and got drunk on fermented fruit juice. The following afternoon he rode into the palace courtyard at Bursa. His monumental headache, made worse by several hours’ ride in the bright sunlight, was punishment enough. He was escorted courteously to a small apartment and attended by soft-spoken slaves who saw to his bath and steamed and massaged his headache away. He was brought a light lunch for which he found he had appetite. But he saw no one but the slaves, and they could not answer his questions. His nerves were beginning to fail him.

Finally, after supper had been served him that evening, a palace official came to tell him that the sultan would see him in the morning. Manuel was more nervous now than he had been when he arrived. Then the thought struck him that if Murad had intended to kill him he would have been housed in the palace dungeons rather than a comfortable suite. Perhaps his father was right. He dozed fitfully throughout the night.

In the morning he was taken before his uncle. Murad looked enormously imposing sitting on a throne of black marble, clad in a jeweled robe of cloth of gold. He wore a gold turban with a pigeon’s-blood ruby in its center. Looking down on Manuel, Murad said sternly, “Well, nephew?”

Manuel flung himself flat. He was unable to stand now, for his legs were trembling terribly. “Mercy, my lord uncle! I have wronged you, but your reputation for fairness is well-known. Forgive me! I will not err again!”

The corners of the sultan’s mouth twitched. “That is an enormous vow you make, Prince Manuel. To never err again…”

“My lord, I only meant-”

“I know what you meant, you young fool! You swore to be my liegeman, and you have broken that vow. I should have you beheaded and get the matter over with.

“However, I am informed that the cause of your disgrace was a woman. I can do no more than Allah himself did when the father of us all, Adam, was led astray by the woman, Eve. So it has been, down through the ages. Normally intelligent men being led into a folly by a pretty smile and a pair of plump tits.” He laughed mirthlessly. “Your father informs me that you are ordinarily levelheaded, and that you have a talent for governing. Very well. I will spare you, this time. But betray me again, nephew…” He let the thought hang between them. Then he said, “You will return to Constantinople and co-govern again, under your father’s guidance. I have arranged a marriage for you with the young daughter of the last despot of Nicea. Her name is Julia. I am told she is virtuous and has a sweet nature. We can make sure of the first. But as for the second, nephew, you will have to take your chances like the rest of us.”

Manuel felt the sweat running down his back and legs. He was weak with relief. Slowly he pulled himself up. “Sire,” he said, and his voice broke. He gulped back his tears. “Sire, my grateful thanks. I swear I will not fail you again.”

“See you do not,” said the sultan sternly. “Now go and see your aunt and thank her for your life. She pleaded very prettily for you.”

Manuel backed from the audience chamber, and followed the slave who led him to Theadora. As he entered the room, she rose and came toward him with her hands outstretched. Giving him a hug and a kiss on his cheek, she said, “So, Manuel, you have met with the lion in his own den and you have emerged alive.”

“Barely, aunt.” God! She was lovelier than ever! Nothing at all like his mother! How could two sisters be so completely different?

“Sit down, my dear. You look exhausted. Iris, see to refreshments. My nephew appears in need of sustenance. How is your father, Manuel? And, of course, my dear sister?”

“My father is well. My mother is as usual.” He saw the twinkle in her eye. “I understand,” he continued, “that I have your silver tongue to thank for my life.”

She nodded smilingly. “An old debt I owed your father, Manuel. But now it is paid. Betray my lord Murad ever again, and I myself will wield the sword that executes you.”

“I understand, aunt. I will not be disloyal again.”

“Now, tell me what you think of your impending marriage.”

“I suppose,” he said, “it is time I settled down and bred some sons.”

“No curiosity about your bride?”

“Do I have a choice, aunt?”

“No,” she laughed, “but do not look so doleful. The maiden is lovely.”

“You have seen her?”

“Yes. She lives here in the Bursa Palace. She is a hostage for her family’s good behavior. This marriage between you two will bind them closer to us when they learn how well we have settled her. I think they expected she would be put in some emir’s harem. They did not think to see her become empress of Byzantium someday.”

“What is she like?”

“Fair, with reddish-blond hair and bright blue eyes. Her mother was a Greek. She reads, writes, and speaks Greek. And she reads and speaks Turkish as well. She is soft-spoken, has been taught all the housewifely virtues, and is faithful in her devotions. She has spent part of her time with us learning the Eastern way of pleasing a husband. I feel you will find her most accomplished.” Theadora’s eyes were sparkling mischievously.

“Am I allowed a glimpse of this paragon, aunt?”

“Go to the window, Manuel, and look out into my garden. The two maidens tossing the ball are your cousin, Janfeda, and your betrothed, Julia.”

“Janfeda, here? I had heard she was to go to Baghdad.”

“She goes soon.”

Manuel Paleaologi studied the girl who played with his pretty cousin. Julia was a pretty little thing. She laughed easily and was good-natured when she missed a catch. His good fortune suddenly overwhelmed him. He had ridden into Bursa expecting not to leave it alive. Instead, he was forgiven his sins and presented with a beautiful bride.

A lesser man might have made the mistake of considering this a sign of weakness on the sultan’s part. Manuel Paleaologi did not make that mistake. His father had been right. Murad was playing the Paleaologi family against one another. It suited him that Manuel take young Julia of Nicea for a wife. A stupid man might have resented this. But Manuel, like his father, saw that the once-great empire of Byzantium had shrunk to nothing. He knew that sooner or later what was left would fall to the Ottoman Turks. In the meantime, he and John would do what they could to preserve what remained of Byzantium. He was his father‘s son, and John Paleaologi could be proud of him. If peace with the Turks meant a wedding with that adorable creature running about the lawn, then Manuel would certainly wed with her.

“When your eyes narrow like that,” came the aunt’s voice, “you look like your father, and I know you are thinking.”

He laughed with good grace. “I was thinking I am a fortunate man. I am alive, and I have a beautiful bride. When am I to wed with the maid?”

“Tomorrow. My lord Murad has brought the metropolitan of Nicea here to Bursa, and he will perform the ceremony at noon.”

“Does the bride know yet?” asked Manuel dryly.

“She will be told this evening,” replied Adora smoothly. “And now, nephew, I will allow you to return to your own quarters. You will want to spend time in prayer and meditation prior to your marriage.”

Her tone was serious, but her eyes teased. He stood, kissed her soft cheek, and left the room. Adora sat for a few minutes, pleased with the day’s work. She liked Manuel. He was so much like his gentle father. When John Paleaologi told his son he would send word ahead, it had been to Adora he had written, not the sultan. The sultan’s favorite wife was not well-acquainted with Manuel, but John had not been half so eloquent when he had spoken of his older son. Manuel’s record as governor was a good one, and his love and loyalty to his father were genuine. Adora had been impressed enough to chance pleading for the young man. Now, having spoken with him, she believed her faith in John’s judgement had been justified.

“Ahh, you are thinking again,” teased Murad as he entered the room. “You will get wrinkles. Too much thought is not good for a woman.”

“Then your harem should be wrinkle-free,” she shot back at him. “There isn’t one whole thought among them all.”

Roaring his laughter, he scooped her up and carried her to her bed. He dumped her on it. Flinging himself down next to her, he kissed her. “Your mouth tastes of grapes, Adora,” he said, loosening her hair from its elegant coronet. The dark, silken mantle fell about her shoulders. Taking a handful, he crushed it between his fingers and sniffed its fragrance. “I have pardoned your nephew, woman. And I have given him a beautiful bride.”

She pressed her cheek against his chest and felt his strong heartbeat. “I am aware of all this, my lord Murad.”

“Am I not entitled to a reward for my most generous behavior?”

“Yes, my lord, you are. I have almost finished embroidering your new slippers with seed pearls,” she replied gravely.

“Seed pearls? On my slippers?” He was incredulous.

“Yes, my lord,” she answered demurely, but her voice held a funny tremor and her eyes were lowered. “I have pricked my poor fingers most dreadfully, but ‘tis a fine reward for my lord’s generosity.”

He pinioned her beneath him with a smothered oath. “Look at me, woman!”

His command was met by a burst of silvery laughter as she raised her lovely eyes to him. “Do you not want the slippers, my lord?” she asked innocently.

“No! I want you!” he answered fiercely.

She slid her arms around his neck. “Have me then, my lord! I await you!” And she placed a sweet, burning kiss on his mouth.

Her sheer robe melted away under his quick hands, and she was naked to his soft, sure touch.

His own brocade robe opened beneath her skillful fingers. She returned his caresses, running her hands down his long back, cupping the hard roundness of his buttocks in her warm hands.

“Woman,” he murmured against her throat, “if the houris assigned to me in Paradise have hands half as soft, half as clever as yours I shall consider myself blessed.”

She laughed softly and reached down to fondle his manhood. Gently she roused a passion in him so great that only the fierce and swift possession of her body could satisfy it.

Now it was he who was the master, leading her on, holding her back, making her cry out with pleasure. He kissed her again and again until she was almost swooning, and she returned the kisses with a depth and ardor that only increased his passion. Frantically he whispered her name against her ear. “Adora! Adora! Adora!” and she answered him softly, “Murad, my beloved!”

Then suddenly he could no longer control his desires. He felt her body reaching the same blazing climax. She shuddered violently several times. Her skin was almost burning to the touch. Groaning, he spilled his milky seed into her soft body and, in a burst of clarity, she realized again that in this constant battle between men and women, it was the woman who emerged victorious in the end. Tenderly she cradled him against her, crooning soft little love words to him.

When she awoke in the morning he was still asleep beside her, looking boyish despite his years. For a moment she lay quietly watching him. Then she dropped a kiss on his brow. The dark eyes that opened and looked upon her were for the briefest moment so filled with love that she was astounded. She knew he loved her but he was not a man given to saying so often. The emotion she had glimpsed made her feel humble. She understood why he hid it from her. Murad would always consider love a weakness. He believed that showing such weakness to a woman lessened him and gave the woman an unfair advantage.

She smothered a chuckle. Would he never trust her love for him? “Arise, my lord, my love! The sun is already up, and this is the day we wed my nephew with the little heiress of Nicea.”

How lovely she still is, he thought, gazing on her camellia-skinned nudity, her long dark hair swirling about her. “Have we not even a moment to ourselves?” he growled, kissing her round shoulder.

“No,” she teased, rising from their bed. “Would you have the marketplace gossips say that Sultan Murad has grown soft, and lingers within a woman’s arms once the sun is up?”