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.”
She smiled a smile of incredible sweetness. “I love you, my lord Murad.”
“Yet you still chafe, my pet, do you not?”
She sighed deeply. “I cannot help it. It is my nature. It is simply not enough for me to be Murad’s favorite and Bajazet’s mother. If history remembers me, that is how they will remember me. But what it is I do want, even I do not know.”
He stood up and laughed. “At least you are honest, my Adora.” Then be bent and kissed her lightly. “Get some rest, my beloved. It cannot have been easy work giving birth to my son. You must be exhausted.”
She caught at the sleeve of his brocade robe. “Give me a proper kiss before you leave me, my love. I will not shatter now if you kiss me.”
He chuckled, pleased. “So you are eager for my kisses, eh? I never thought to hear you admit that.” He sat on the edge of the bed and drew her into the warm loving half-circle of his arm. Then his mouth closed over hers, and the depth and passion of his kiss left her breathless and trembling. His free hand slipped past the opening of her robe to cup a plump breast. He teasingly rubbed the nipple hard with his thumb. His voice was husky as he said, “In six weeks you will be purified. See the boy has a wet nurse by then. I will not share you, not even with my son.” Their eyes met briefly, and she felt a stab of desire race through her. She wondered at the attraction between them. She yearned for him but an hour past childbirth!
He stood suddenly and left the room. Adora lay back on her pillows. She was not one bit sleepy yet. She was far too excited for sleep. She had done it! She had given Murad his first son! She would give him other sons too, for she would have no others usurping her position. Legally she was his slave, but that mattered not. Her position now was strong. And the best part of all was that he still wanted her.
The child was beautiful with his dark hair and blue eyes, though she was sure the eyes would soon become black like his father’s. Then suddenly she thought of Alexander, and of their golden child. The tears slid down her cheeks. Why? Why should she think of him now after all these months? She could only suppose that the shock of his death followed so quickly by her sister’s treachery was finally catching up with her. She let herself cry until she could cry no more. It was, she knew, better that way.
She relaxed and finally slept, secure in her position with Murad, secure in her motherhood.
Chapter Nineteen
When the emperor John heard what his nephew had been named he saw, as Adora had predicted, the humor of it. He laughed. His wife, Helena, was not amused.
“She deliberately insults us, and you laugh!” she stormed at her husband.
“You can hardly expect her to have any love for Byzantium, my dear,” observed the emperor dryly.
“She was born here! She is a daughter of one of Byzantium’s oldest families! She is my sister! She was married to the Despot of Mesembria!”
“Whom you poisoned, my dear. After that you sold its queen, your own sister, into slavery.”
The empress looked frightened. “How do you know that? You cannot prove such terrible charges!”
John Paleaologi laughed again. “I do not have to prove them, my dear. When poor Julian Tzimisces realized whom his poison had slain he came to me and confessed all. He was afraid you might be trying to kill me also.”
Helena’s eyes were wide with fear. “Why have you said nothing to me before?” she asked. “Why have you not punished me?”
“And let Thea know how Alexander died? Let her know that her own sister killed the man she loved? No, Helena, you have hurt her enough. Understand, however, that should she ever find out the full extent of your cruelty, I will kill you. I will kill you myself and take pleasure in doing it.” He reached out and caressed her neck gently, sensually. Helena shivered. “Thea has made her peace with Murad,” continued the emperor. “She is the sultan’s wife and the mother of his only son.”
“She is no wife to Murad,” snarled Helena. “She is his slave and his concubine. He has not even elevated her to the status of kadin.”
“Neither has he elevated anyone else, my dear. He has, however, publicly acknowledged Thea’s son as his son and his heir. That, my dear, is the greatest public declaration of his love for her that he can make. She is well aware of that and is content. You have lost, Helena. By merely being herself, Theadora has won. Cease this war on your sister. You have done enough. You tried to murder her and her oldest son, Halil, but the pirates of Phocaea held them for ransom. When the sultan learned of your involvement, the ransom cost me money I could not afford. Far worse, it cost me our beloved daughter, prestige, territory, and soldiers’ lives.
“When Thea came to us after Alexander’s death you violated our family’s honor by betraying her and selling her into slavery. When will you stop? When, Helena?”
“Never! Will you not understand, John? Thea and her sons are a terrible threat to us! They can even claim your throne through her!”
The emperor laughed heartily. “No, Helena, they cannot. Nor would Murad ever resort to such a silly ploy. My empire is in its decline. I know that. But it will not fall yet, not in my lifetime. I will do whatever I must to see to its continuation. As to our sons, only time will tell their strength as rulers.
“Helena, in our lifetime together, I have rarely forbidden you anything. I have turned a blind eye to your many lovers. Now, however, I do forbid you! Cease this vendetta against your sister. I have sent our new nephew a large two-handled gold cup encrusted with diamonds and turquoises, his birthstone. I had to levy a special tax on the churches of the city in order to raise the money for it. So poor is the royal credit that the goldsmiths would not make the cup without being paid in advance.”
“It’s disgusting,” said Helena. “Poor Sultan Orkhan dead so short a time, and his grieving widow marries once, has twins, is widowed yet a second time, becomes the sultan’s whore, and spawns yet another man’s bastard.”
“At least Thea confines herself to one man at a time, my love,” said John Paleaologi softly.
Helena’s sky blue eyes widened in shock as her husband continued, “Is one young stud at a time not enough for you, Helena? Playing the bitch in heat to an entire pack of young officers, even in the privacy of your own apartments, isn’t wise. Gossip spreads faster from six mouths than from one, and you must have performed remarkably. The accolades you received were trul
y marvelous.”
The empress swallowed hard. And John Paleaologi chuckled at her obvious discomfort.
“Why don’t you divorce me?” she whispered.
“Because, my dear, I prefer the known quantity. Like my father, I am lazy by nature. You have all the attributes of a good empress, my dear. You’ve given me sons who I know are mine. You are beautiful. And though you nag me constantly, you do not interfere in my government. I am not a man who adapts easily to change, and so I would prefer that you remain my wife. But if you cause any further scandal, Helena, I will dispose of you. You do understand that, don’t you, my dear?”
She nodded slowly, as surprised as she always was when he was masterful with her. Still, she would have the last word. “I know you have a mistress,” she said.
“Of course I do, Helena. You can hardly deny me my little diversion. She is a nice, quiet woman whose discretion I value highly. You could learn from her, my dear. Now remember what I have told you. Stop your battles with Theadora. Murad loves her—make no mistake about that—and her new son is the joy of his life.”
Helena said nothing further, but her mind was busy. Theadora was like a damned cat, emerging whole and with another life each time Helena struck at her. The empress of Byzantium valued her position highly, and for years her dreams had been haunted by a childish voice saying, “If I marry the infidel, I shall see he brings his army to capture the city. Then I shall be its empress, not you!”
That Theadora’s threat had been made in a fit of childish pique, and had been long forgotten by its originator, did not occur to the empress. In her tortured mind she could see only that, as the boundaries of the sultan’s empire widened, the boundaries of her empire shrank. The sultan’s beloved was Thea. So Helena, who had never been particularly bright, believed that if she could destroy Theadora, the Ottoman advance would stop.
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