Bertrice Small - Adora

Her amethyst eyes finally opened, and she asked, her voice soft with the wonder of it, “How can such sweetness be, my lord?”

He smiled down at her. “It is but a taste of delight, my dove. Just a taste of things to come.”

In Constantinople, the night was as dark as Emperor John Cantacuzene’s mood. His beloved wife, Zoe, was dead in a last futile attempt to give him another son. The awful irony was that she had given her last bit of strength to push twin sons from her exhausted and weakened body. Misshapen scraps of deformed humanity, they were joined at the chest and shared, so the physician claimed, a single heart. These monstrosities had been, praise God, born dead. Their mother, curse God, had followed them.

If this tragedy were not terrible enough, his daughter, Helena, wife to the co-emperor John Paleaologi, was plotting with her husband to overthrow him, to take complete control of the empire. While her mother had lived Helena had been recognized only as wife to the young Paleaologi. Her mother had been recognized as the empress. Now Helena wished to be recognized as empress.

“And if I remarry?” asked her father.

“Why on earth would you remarry?” demanded his daughter.

“To give the empire more sons.”

“My son, Andronicus, is the heir. Next comes the child I now carry.”

“There is no decree to that effect, my daughter.”

“Really Father!”

Every day Helena sounded more and more like her mother-in-law, the wretched Anna of Savoy.

“My husband,” continued Helena, “is the rightful emperor of Byzantium, and therefore our son is the true heir. Surely you must realize that by now. God has spoken quite plainly. Your eldest son is dead, and my brother, Matthew, has chosen to follow the monastic life. In the last six years Mother miscarried five times of six sons. Now God has taken her from you-in obvious disapproval. What more do you want? Must the words of God’s will be engraved in clouds of fire over the city for you to accept it?”

“The seer, Belasarius, has predicted that from my loins and my seed would spring a new empire out of Constantinople. How can this be if I do not have sons to carry on my line?”

“Perhaps through me, Father,” said Helena smugly.

“Or your sister, Theadora,” he snapped back.

Helena glared and, without another word, left the room. John Cantacuzene paced restlessly. He would have more sons, but before he could take another noble wife he must make his position more secure. John Paleaologi must be disposed of, along with his snot-nosed offspring. Remarried elsewhere, Helena would forget. Perhaps he would offer her blonde beauty to Sultan Orkhan’s heir, Prince Suleiman.

This thought reminded him of his youngest daughter, Thea. How old was she now? Thirteen? He thought so. Certainly old enough to be bedded, and to bear a child. He was going to need fresh military aid from the sultan-aid that was more likely to be given if Orkhan were enamored of his young wife. Especially a young wife who proclaimed her elderly husband’s virility with a belly full of new life.

The girl was still within her convent, and the latest miniature he had of her showed a young creature beautiful enough to rouse a stone statue. Her only failing was that she had a mind. Mother Marie Josepha was forever writing him of the girl’s intellectual accomplishments. A pity she had not been a son. Well, he would write and instruct her to behave meekly, modestly, and quietly with her husband.

He would also write to Orkhan tonight, reminding him that the marriage contract called for the consummation of the union when the girl was mature. She certainly was mature now. It meant, of course, that he would have to come up with the final third of Theadora’s dowry, and relinquish the fortress of Tzympe-but no matter. Opening the door to his private suite he summoned the monk who was his secretary.

Several weeks later, in Bursa, Sultan Orkhan chuckled over the recently received correspondence from his fellow ruler and father-in-law. He was well aware of the reason behind the Byzantine’s sudden desire for his marriage to Theadora Cantacuzene to be consummated. John Cantacuzene was expecting another fight for his shaky throne and needed the Ottoman’s support. He offered his daughter’s virginity plus the rest of the gold from her dowry. Most important, he would finally turn over Tyzmpe to the Turks.

Orkhan the Ottoman had grown sexually insatiable in his old age. Each night he was presented with a new and well-trained virgin. His appetite varied and it was rumored that he even occasionally amused himself with young boys. His young wife, Theadora, was a totally innocent girl. It would take months to train her so that she would be able to please her lord.

But there was no time. Her father wanted her with child as proof of the consummation, and Orkhan wanted Tyzmpe and the remainder of her dowry gold. When great rulers plan together, matters can be arranged.

The maiden’s moon cycle would be determined, and he would mate with her during her most fertile four days. He hoped her link with the moon would then be broken. If not, the process would be repeated again, and again-until the girl proved fruitful.

He was not the least interested in Theadora. A political pawn, she had been forgotten and was now annoyingly thrust forward.

He had experienced the emotion called love in his youth, with Nilufer, his second wife and the mother of his two favorite sons. Now that was all behind him. All that was left was the physical pleasures given him by the skilled, young slave girls and boys of his harem.

He resented having to breed the maiden as a bull breeds a cow, and this resentment would probably communicate itself to Theadora. Perhaps the girl herself had encouraged her father to suggest this, in an effort to better her position. Well, he would see that she was treated with the respect due her rank. He would impregnate her as quickly as possible, and then he would have nothing further to do with her.

And at the very moment Theadora Cantacuzene lay within the strong arms of Prince Murad. Their eyes adored one another. “I love you!” she said in a tremulous voice. “I love you!”

“And I love you, my dove! Allah! How I love you!”

“How long, my lord? How long must we wait before we dare to be wed when he is gone? I want to walk in the sunlight beneath the olive trees with you. I want the world to know that I am yours!”

“I love my father,” he said slowly. “I would wish him no less a portion than is his. In his old age he is content and seeks only more gold and the sensual pleasures offered him. He will no longer lead our armies.”

“Would you expand your kingdom?” she asked.

“Yes! I would cross the Bosphorus, and rule from the city of Constantinople itself. Would you like to return home, my dove, as queen of the city of your birth?”

“Yes!” She said it so fiercely that he laughed.

“You do not mind that I would displace your sister and her husband? What a little savage you are, Theadora Cantacuzene.”

“Before I became the sultan’s wife, my sister loved to torture me with the fact that she would rule over Constantinople some day, while I would be sent into exile in the sultan’s harem. How I would love to return to the city as the wife of its conqueror!”

“Even a Muslim conqueror?”

“Yes, my lord. Even a Muslim conqueror. We both worship the same God, do we not? l am no fool, Murad, though I be a woman. Within the bounds of this kingdom a traveler may go safely at any hour of the day or night. Non-Muslims are permitted the freedom to worship as they choose. The law is administered fairly to all who ask judgement of the kadi, be they rich or poor. I am ashamed to say that I cannot claim these virtues for the empire and its rulers. I far prefer to live under Ottoman rule, as do many non-Muslims.”

“What a marvelous creature,” he said admiringly. “Though I find it strange to talk so openly with a woman, I find your logic without flaw.”

“I am my father’s daughter,” she said proudly. “He has a great mind and is a fine scholar. He always said I should have been a son.”

The prince smiled. “He is wrong, dove. There is no more exquisite female alive than you,” and he drew her back into his arms, sighing deeply and burying his face in the cool, scented mass of her hair. “Ah, dove, how I love you!”

Above them, the stars traveled across the sky toward the morning. It was almost dawn when Theadora returned to her house and fell asleep. Too soon, Iris awoke her.

“Highness, forgive me, but the white chief eunuch is here from the palace to see you.”

Theadora was instantly awake. Never, since she had arrived in Bursa as a child and been installed in this house, had anyone important come from the palace to see her. “Tell him I shall be with him presently, Iris.”

The woman bowed out of her mistress’s presence and delivered the message to the chief eunuch. She was about to return when his voice stopped her.

“What is your name, woman?”

“Iris, master.” Her head was bowed.

“Do you deal well with your mistress?”

“Yes, master.”

“Does she confide in you?”

“Confide what, master?” Iris pretended stupidity.

“Anything. Little secrets? Girlish dreams and hopes?”

Iris raised her eyes and looked directly at the eunuch. “Master,” she said quietly, “my little mistress has been cloistered here since her childhood. The only one she ever sees is the elderly priest who is her spiritual advisor. She leaves the convent but rarely. What possible secrets could she have? She confides in no one since she has no one. The palace slaves sent to serve the princess are rotated on a three-month basis, which hardly gives her time to make friends. Most serve her only once, but I have been asked to come back several times.”

“Why?” He observed her from beneath his hooded eyelids.

“Because I would advance myself, master. I was not always a slave.”

“I will appoint you chief waiting-woman to Princess Theadora. In return, you will keep me fully informed about her life. She will go to the sultan soon. Now tell me, when was her last show of blood?”

The woman thought, then said, “Almost two weeks ago, master.”

“Exactly how many days from the first showing of blood, Iris?”

“Twelve, master.”

The eunuch frowned. “She must go today else we will be forced to wait another month,” said the chief white eunuch almost to himself. “Pack nothing for your mistress. All will be provided.”

“She is scholarly, master. She will want her books. She is not idle, like other women.”

The eunuch looked surprised. But he was not an unkind man. “Very well, Iris, I will see that the princess’s books are sent to the palace. But not today. We barely have time to do what must be done.” He reached into his voluminous robes and, drawing out two packets, thrust them at her. “Give your mistress the powders in the blue packet before you leave here. She is to have the other one at sunset.”

“Please, master,” said Iris boldly, “what are they? I would not harm her.”

“The powders are drugs to relax her and prepare her virgin body for her husband’s attentions this night. But you are presumptuous, Iris! Do not ask questions of me or I will withdraw your appointment.”

The door to the antechamber opened and Theadora entered. The eunuch quickly scrutinized her with a practiced eye. He was pleased. Her stature was regal. She was slimmer than his master liked, but the high, full, cone-shaped breasts more than made up for that. She had clear, fair skin and amethyst-colored eyes…or were they violet? The shining dark hair hung to her hips. She even had well-formed white teeth. These were all signs of excellent physical and mental health.

The eunuch bowed politely. “I am Ali Yahya, Your Royal Highness. You are the most blessed of women, my princess. Your lord husband-Sultan Orkhan, son of the sultan of the Ghazis; Ghazi, son of Ghazi; Marquis of the Hero of the World-has chosen this night to be your night of nights. Your marriage, celebrated when you were but a child, will be consummated this night. May Allah bless you, and may you be fruitful with my master’s seed.”

Theadora looked at him, blankly, for a moment. Then she turned deathly pale and crumpled to the floor. The eunuch looked down on her still form. She was very lovely. The sultan would be quite pleased. “Virgin vapors,” he pronounced to Iris who was kneeling by the girl, patting her wrists. “I will send a litter for you in one hour. Be ready.”

When Theadora came to herself she found her shoulders supported by Iris’ strong arm. A cup of wine was being forced between her lips. “Drink, my princess, and do not be afraid. Ali Yahya has appointed me your chief waiting woman. I will not leave you, and no matter what that fat slug may think, I will be loyal to you alone! Drink, my baby. It will help.”