Adora

by Bertrice Small

  He nodded. “Very well, but I will not announce my clemency until after Prince Andronicus has seen his partner beheaded. Let him be thoroughly frightened by this lesson.” He rose from her side. “Revive the prisoner, Cuntuz, and prepare him for his execution. Bring a selection of well-honed swords for Prince Bajazet, and bring a lined basket. I would not have the floor bloodied.”

  Conscious now, Cuntuz wept from sightless eyes as around him he heard the preparations being made for his death. The sultan turned to the other rebel. “Prince Andronicus! You will hold the basket to catch the head.” And before the terrified man could protest, he was prodded forward and forced to his knees. The basket, lined in large green leaves, was shoved into his arms.

  The blind man was now led forth and helped down. His blackened eye sockets stared straight at Andronicus. “I’ll be waiting in hell for you, my friend,” he said venomously.

  “Don’t talk to me!” returned Andronicus, hysteria in his voice. “This is all your fault! All I had to do was wait for my father to grow old and die. But you wanted the money those damned Hungarians offered us. We never even got to spend it! I hate you!”

  “Coward,” sneered Cuntuz. Then he grew silent as he heard behind him the swish of a sword being tested. “Bajazet? Are you there, boy?”

  “Yes, Cuntuz.”

  “Remember what I taught you. Pick a sword that is light, but has a firm feel to it. Then strike swiftly.”

  Bajazet laughed mirthlessly. “Fear not, dog! My aim will be true. Bend your neck so I may see the target.” Then he said haughtily, “You, my brave Byzantine cousin! Hold the basket higher unless you wish your friend’s head in your lap.” And Bajazet raised his sword, calling, “Farewell, dog!” He brought it down swiftly and Cuntuz’s head tumbled into the basket face up.

  Prince Andronicus looked into his friend’s face and vomited before dropping the basket, fainting. Bajazet handed his sword to a Janissary and looked with disgust upon his relation. “That led a rebellion against you?” he asked his father scornfully.

  Murad nodded. “Neither under nor overestimate your enemies, my son. The rankest coward has moments of bravery or defiance.” He turned to the emperor. “It is not necessary that your son die, John. His death would serve no purpose. Blind him with boiling vinegar, and what comes after is Allah’s will.”

  Fully comprehending the mercy shown his son, the emperor of Byzantium knelt and kissed Murad’s hand. Then he stood and, taking a basin of the vinegar, he faced his son. “You have been granted your life. Your punishment will give you time to contemplate your sins and to reform,” he said sternly, and then he threw the contents of the basin in his son’s eyes.

  Andronicus shrieked and tried to shield himself, but he was held firmly by the soldiers. “I am blind!” he cried frantically. “Papa! Papa? Where are you? Do not leave me! Do not leave your ‘Droni!’”

  “I will not leave you, my son,” replied the emperor sadly, and the mullahs and ulemas seated about the room nodded, marveling at the sultan’s fairness.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The emir of Germiy was giving his eldest daughter to Prince Bajazet. Her name was Zubedya, and she was very fair. The emirs of both Karamania and Aydin had made offers for this princess. They did not, however, present the same potential threat to Germiyan as did the Ottoman sultan. In accepting Zubedya for his son, Murad also accepted the responsibility of protecting a new possession. Zubedya’s younger sister, Zenobia, would be given to one of Murad’s generals with a large dowry, ending any threat from that quarter.

  The sultan had had to make a concession to the emir of Germiyan, a concession that enraged both Adora and Thamar. Nothing could make the emir send his daughter to Prince Bajazet except a formal ceremony of marriage. If Aydin and Karamania offered marriage, the royal Ottoman could do no less. Without marriage, Princess Zubedya and her sister would go elsewhere, and Murad would find himself having to go to war not only with Germiyan, but with Aydin and Karamania as well.

  The emir of Germiyan loved his daughters. Eventually they might be replaced in their husbands’ affections by other women, but they would be wives and as such they would at least retain their rank and privileges. The other women would be mere concubines.

  The wedding would be celebrated in Bursa, and the Ottoman court removed from their new capital in Europe back to the old one in Asia. In an effort to soothe his angry favorite, Murad ordered a small, exquisite palace known as the Mountain Serai be prepared for her, but Adora was adamant.

  She stormed furiously at him, “The daughter of a half-savage Asiatic emir, got on the body of an unknown slavegirl! This is what you marry to my son? You dare to raise this chit above me? I am Theadora Cantacuzene, a princess of Byzantium! Allah in his paradise—even Thamar of the Bulgars is better bred than the Germiyan wench. And yet the girl is to wed with your heir while I, his mother, must continue to hide my shame at being nothing but your concubine!” Her face was a study in fury. But inside Adora laughed. She had waited years for this opportunity, and the look on Murad’s face told her he knew he was trapped.

  “You are my beloved,” he answered her.

  She looked coldly at him. “I am not a simple maiden to be swayed by romantic drivel, my lord Murad.”

  “You were never a ‘simple’ maiden, my dove,” he chuckled. “I told you when I first took you that I had no need to make dynastic marriages. My antecedents needed their marriages. I do not.”

  “Perhaps you had no ‘need’ once, my lord Murad, but you have a ‘need’ now,” she answered him silkenly.

  He recognized the tone. It was her battle cry voice, and he asked quietly, “Explain your words, woman.”

  She smiled sweetly at him. “It is quite simple, my lord. You cannot in fairness or good conscience raise Zubedya of Germiyan above Thamar and me. The girl is already overproud of her position as heiress to her father’s lands. She will have no respect for us, though we be much better bred than she. If you do not wed with Thamar and me, Bajazet will not wed with Zubedya. And think not to threaten us with Yakub for your younger son is as determined as the older that you wed with his mother.”

  “I can have you beaten for this impertinence,” he threatened grimly.

  “I will die before I ask your mercy,” she returned, and he knew it to be true. “You claim to love me, Murad. For years you have poured forth a torrent of words proclaiming your passion for me. I have borne you three sons and a daughter, upon whom you dote. Will you give Janfeda to some man as concubine when she is old enough, or will you see her properly wed? No, my lord Murad. You need make no dynastic marriages, but if you truly love me you will wed with me before our son takes his wife.”

  “And Thamar also, Adora?”

  She sighed. “Yes, Thamar also.”

  “Why?” he demanded. “You don’t like each other, yet you would raise her to your level.”

  “She too is the mother of your child, and though Bulgaria at its height can scarcely compare with Byzantium even at its lowest point, Thamar is still of a royal house—as I am.” She put her slender hand on his brawny arm and looked up at him. “It has not been easy for her, Murad. At least I have your love. Even as wives we would not really be equals, but it would soothe Thamar’s pride. She has given you a son, and is worthy of it.”

  “I have not said I would marry either of you,” he grumbled.

  “But you will, my lord, for you know what I say is true.”

  “Damn me, woman, do not nag at me!”

  She knelt quietly, eyes lowered, hands folded quietly. The perfect picture of the submissive wife, which he knew she was not and would never be. She had a point. A wife always commanded far more respect in the harem than did a favorite. And when he was gone a widow wielded more power than an ex-favorite.

  “I will have no fanfare,” he said. “It will be done quietly. Tonight.” He clapped his hands and told the attending slave, “Have Ali Yahya fetch the chief mullah of Adrianople.” The slave departed, and the su
ltan turned to Adora. “My sons will witness this act. Send them to me, and tell Thamar of my decision.”

  She rose from her kneeling position. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “You are at least gracious in victory,” he said wryly. “Well, woman, what will you have for your bride’s price?”

  “Constantinople!” she answered calmly.

  He burst out laughing. “You put a high price on yourself, Adora, but damn me, you’re well worth it! For now, however, I will settle an amount of gold on you. Return it to me when I give you the city.”

  “With interest, my lord, for I shall invest it with the Venetians.” She moved to the door. Then, turning, she said simply, “I love you, Murad. I always have.”

  He pulled her roughly into his arms and buried his face in her hair. For a moment they stood silently, and she could feel the even beat of his heart. “I am not a romantic prince such as are spoken of by the Persian poets,” he said. “I know how I feel, but sometimes I have trouble with the words. I am a man of war, not love.”

  “You are my prince of love,” she interrupted him.

  He held her away from him so he might look into her face. “Woman,” he said huskily, “you are a part of me. If I lost you I should be as one half dead.”

  Her violet eyes shone with joy. He was encouraged to go on. “I love you, Adora.” And then abruptly turning away from her, he said, “Send my sons to me.”

  A few hours later Adora and Thamar stood quietly hidden in a small room above the sultan’s private salon. They secretly watched and listened through a carved lattice as the sultan dictated their marriage contracts to the scribes. This was followed by the brief Muslim wedding ceremony, witnessed by Prince Bajazet and his half brother, Prince Yakub. The brides did not participate in the ceremony. Murad united himself first with Theadora, then with Thamar. When it was over, neither woman said a word to the other, but went her own way back to her own court.

  The following day the court began its trip to Bursa, traveling overland to the coast within sight of Constantinople. Before they embarked across the Sea of Marmara, Adora sent a verbal message to her sister, Helena, via the Byzantine guards sent by the emperor to honor his overlord. “Tell the empress that her sister, the sultan’s wife, sends her greetings.”

  “She gives herself airs,” sniffed Helena after the message had been delivered.

  “She only speaks the truth,” said John Paleaologi with a happy chuckle. He fingered the parchment he was holding and looked down at it again. “He married her several days ago.”

  The look on his wife’s face was extremely gratifying to the emperor, and he did not temper her disappointment by telling her that Murad also had taken Thamar to wife. Let Helena stew in her own venom! And with that happy thought, the emperor left his wife and Constantinople to join the festivities in Bursa.

  The emir of Germiyan’s daughter was to be wed with a pomp unlike anything yet seen in the Ottoman court. The sultan enjoyed the more elegant of Byzantine customs, and so did his sons. So while the younger Germiyan princess, Zenobia, who was but ten, was quietly wed to Murad’s loyal general and sent to live with her husband’s mother, her older sister was married amid general rejoicing and great festivities.

  Throughout the city, whole sheep were roasted over open fires, and the sultan’s slaves moved through the crowds offering freshly baked cakes of chopped almonds and honey. Murad gave each of his noble visitors his own palace with a staff of well-trained servants, and a harem of half a dozen beautiful virgins. The rulers of Germiyan, Tekke, Hamid, Karamania, Sarakhan, Aydin, and Byzantium were so honored.

  There were wrestlers, acrobats, and jongleurs, puppet shows and trained animals performing all about the city. Byzantium’s elegant customs and love of display were creeping into the Ottoman way of life, and the Ottomans liked it.

  While Murad hosted the wedding feast for the bridegroom and his guests, Adora entertained the bride and the other women. The feasting and festivities went on for nine days. On the evening of the ninth day, Zubedya of Germiyan was carried in a closed litter to her husband’s house where she met Bajazet for the first time. She was accompanied by Adora and Thamar.

  When they had prepared the girl for bed, Adora said, “I will inform your lord and master that you await his pleasure.”

  “No, my lady mother,” said Zubedya. “The custom of my land is that the husband of a princess of Germiyan must wait upon her on their wedding night. The marriage contract between my father, the emir, and Prince Bajazet’s father, the sultan, permits me to retain my own customs.” Thamar looked shocked, but Adora laughed.

  “I think that neither my lord Murad nor my son is aware of this custom. It is truth and not fear?”

  “Truth, madame. I swear it.”

  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 br
other,” 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!”