Adora (11 page)

“Only a little.” But he said it so quickly that she knew it probably hurt him a great deal.

Impulsively she asked, “How would you like to take a sea voyage, my son?”

“To where, Mother?”

“Thessaly, my love. There are ancient hot springs there whose waters would aid the soreness in your foot.”

“Will you come with me?”

“If your father will allow it,” she answered him, surprised that she hadn’t considered it before.

He struggled up, tugging at her hand. “Let us go now,”

Theadora laughed at his impatience but then thought, why not? She quickly followed her small son through the winding corridors that led from the haremlik to the selamlik, which were in turn followed by several panting eunuchs. They arrived quickly at the doors to the sultan’s apartments.

“Tell my father, the sultan, that Prince Halil and his mother, Princess Theadora, seek audience with him immediately.”

A few moments later the janissary returned. “The sultan will see you both now, Your Highness.” And he flung open one of the great oak doors.

They walked through into the lush chamber where Orkhan sat cross-legged upon a pile of cushions. Several young girls sat to his left playing softly upon stringed instruments. The most current of Orkhan’s favorites, a sulky mouthed, dark-haired Italian beauty, reclined next to him. Theadora and her son moved to the foot of the dais, but when Theadora moved to kneel, her son restrained her, glowering at his father’s concubine. “On your face, woman! My mother kneels only to my father and to her God!” And when the girl had the temerity to look to the sultan for confirmation, the child was on her with a roar of outrage. Pulling her from the cushions onto the floor, he cried, “Insolent one! You beg for a beating!”

Orkhan’s laughter rumbled through the room. “You have given me a true Ottoman, my Adora. Halil, my son, go gently
with the girl. A slave such as this one is valuable merchandise.” He turned his gaze on the woman at his feet. “Leave me, Pakize. You will receive ten lashes for your lapse in manners. My wives are to be treated with the respect they deserve.”

The girl scrambled up and, body bent, backed her way out of the room.

Theadora now knelt and made a respectful obeisance to her husband while her son, Halil, bowed beautifully to his father.

“Sit next to me,” Orkhan commanded them, “and tell me why I have been honored by this visit today.”

Theadora settled herself by her husband and then said, “I wish to take Halil to Thessaly to the Springs of Apollo near Mount Ossa. The waters there are famous for healing, and though Halil will not admit it to me, I know he is in great pain. His foot and leg will never really mend properly, but at least the waters might help with his pain.”

“And you want to go with him?” asked the sultan.

“Yes, my lord, I do. He is still a little boy, and needs his mother. I know that you honor me, my lord, but you do not really need me. Halil does. Also, I would not trust our son to slaves on such a long journey.”

The sultan nodded. “You would not take him to Constantinople?”

“Never!”

Orkhan raised an amused eyebrow. “You are very vehement, my dear. Why is that?”

She hesitated, then said, “I had discussed with my sister the possibility of someday retiring to Constantinople with Halil. She made it quite clear that neither of us would be welcomed. She is an arrogant, stupid woman.”

He had known all of this, of course, for none of her private correspondence left or entered his palace that he did not read it first. Theadora was not aware of this, and she would have been
very angry if she had known. He knew her far better than she realized, and though he would never have admitted it to her—for to do so would have been a sign of weakness—he admired her strength of character. And he was genuinely fond of her. She was a proud little creature. He realized how deeply her sister had hurt her.

“Take Halil to the Springs of Apollo, my dear. You have my permission to do so. Ali Yahya will see to your travel arrangements.” He turned to the boy. “You will look after your mother, Halil, and protect her from the infidel?”

“Yes, father! I have a new scimitar with a blade of real Toledo steel that my brother, Murad, sent to me from Gallipoli.”

Orkhan smiled at the child and patted his dark head. “I will trust you to guard her well, Halil. She is most precious to me, my son.” The sultan clapped his hands for refreshments.

And while the little boy happily munched honey-and-sesame cakes, Orkhan and Theadora talked. To her surprise, he no longer treated her as an object existing solely for his sensual pleasure, but rather like a favorite daughter. She, in turn, was more relaxed with him than she had ever been.

He spoke of eventually moving his capital to Adrianople, a city on the European side of the Sea of Marmara that he now had under siege. Theadora’s dowry gift had given him the toehold he had needed in Europe.

“When Adrianople is secure,” she asked, “will you take the city?”

“I will try,” he answered her. “Perhaps you will retire to Constantinople after all, my dear.”

She laughed. “Live a thousand years, my lord Orkhan! I am as yet too young to retire anywhere.”

He chuckled. “Too young, indeed, and far too lovely. You are easily the most beautiful woman in my house.” Then, seeing the wary look spring into her eyes, he gently dismissed her and the boy.

Alone, he wondered, as he had wondered a thousand times since she had first come to him, why she did not like lovemaking. She had never known any man but him, of that he was certain. She had been a virgin. She was wildly passionate when roused, but he had always felt that she was not with him—but with some ghostly lover. He might have suspected another man, but cloistered as she had been within her convent, she could not have had another man.

It was a mystery that still intrigued him after all these years. He knew she did not dislike him. The sultan shrugged. His harem was filled with young beauties only too willing to please him. Why one young Byzantine princess should intrigue him so, he did not understand.

Chapter Eight

The sky had been a cloudless bright blue all day. Too cloudless. Too bright blue. Now the captain watched the sunset in his vessel’s wake and frowned. The colors were too bright again—and too clear. As the orange sun sank behind the purple Pindus mountains, a tiny flash of emerald green was followed by a muted lavender streak. The captain nodded, and gave curt orders. He had seen a sky like this one before. Before a great storm.

He prayed to Allah that he was wrong. He was too far out to go back, and had it been only himself, his crew, and a cargo to worry about he would not have considered it; but he carried on board the sultan’s youngest wife, Princess Theadora, and her son, Prince Halil. He had brought them to Thessaly several months earlier, and now he was taking them home.

Ahead the darkness was starless; behind him the sunset had become a wash of flame-tinged gray. The winds, which had been fresh and light all day, now blew in strong gusts from the north and the west. Captain Hassan called to his first officer, “See that all the galley slaves are fed a good hot meal, and tell the overseer that when the storm hits he is to unlock their chains. If we go down I’ll not have their souls on my conscience.”

The officer nodded his agreement. “Is the danger that great, sir?”

“Perhaps having the sultan’s wife and son aboard makes me nervous, but the last time I saw a sky like that it was followed by a great storm.”

“Aye, sir.” The mate moved off the bridge to do his captain’s bidding, while Hassan turned and made his way
down the steps into the passageway leading to his royal passengers’ quarters. He knocked and was admitted by Iris. The princess sat at a small table opposite her son. They were playing jackals-and-hares. He waited for her to grant him permission to speak.

She looked up almost at once, smiling. “Yes, captain?”

“I am expecting a severe storm tonight, Your Highness. I would prefer that you and your household remain within the safety of your quarters. If you wish hot food, please have it soon. Once the sea becomes rough, the cook has orders to close his galley and put out his fires.”

“You will keep me informed, captain?”

“Assuredly, Highness! Your safety and Prince Halil’s is of the greatest importance.”

She dismissed him with a nod and returned to her game. Captain Hassan bowed himself out and walked swiftly through his ship, checking ropes and hatches as he went. He stopped in the galley and sat down. Without ceremony the cook set before him a steaming bowl of spicy fish stew and a hunk of bread. The captain ate quickly, sopping up the gravy with the bread. Finished, he turned to the cook. “Have you all you need to feed the men, Yussef?”

“Aye, sir. I baked this morning. There’s plenty of bread. I’ve dried fish, beef, and fruit. And I can make coffee on the spirit lamp.”

Suddenly the ship lurched violently and began to pitch. Yussef began to damp down his cookfires and the captain rose to his feet, saying grimly, “Here we go, my friend. From the feel of that, we’re in for quite a ride.”

Theadora and her party had been eating when the storm began. Walking across the spacious stern cabin she gazed through the small bowed window out into the half dark. Behind them, through the sheets of rain, the sky still glowed faintly with a red sunset. The sea was now black, relieved only by the white foam of its peaks. Theadora shivered with a
premonition of danger. Then, holding down her emotions, she said, “I think we would do well to retire early.” She ruffled her small son’s hair. “This is not the time for setting up the telescope your father sent you, Halil. There’ll be no stars tonight.”

“Oh, Mother! May I not stay up and watch the storm?”

“Would you like to?” She was surprised, but pleased that he was not afraid.

“Yes! I only wish the captain would allow me on deck now.”

“Even if he would, I would not!”

“Oh, Mother!”

She laughed. “But you may stay up, my son.”

He curled contentedly into the window seat, face pressed against the small panes of glass. She sat quietly at her embroidery frame, stitching a pastoral scene. The slaves cleared the meal away and then disappeared into their own small quarters. Iris trimmed the lamps which were swaying precariously from their chains. Glancing over at Halil, Theadora saw that the boy had fallen asleep. She nodded to Iris who gathered the child up and tucked him into his bed.

“Only an innocent could sleep in this storm,” the older woman noted. “Me? I am terrified, but I suppose if it’s my fate to feed the fishes, I won’t escape it.” She plumped herself down on her mistress’s bed and began calmly to mend one of the little prince’s silk shirts.

Theadora silently continued with her embroidery. It was not particularly comforting to know that Iris was as frightened as she was—but, remembering her late mother’s words about the difference between the ruling class and the rest of the world, she again called on the deep reserve of discipline that was her heritage. She was Theadora Cantacuzene, a princess of Byzantium. She was Theadora Cantacuzene, the sultan’s wife. She must be strong for the sake of her little son and for her
slaves who were, after all, not just her property, but her responsibility as well.

She glanced instinctively toward the small bowed window as the ship gave a particularly violent lurch, and, for one terrifying moment, she felt as if her heart had stopped. There was so much water she was not sure that the ship had not sunk. Then, like a bobbing cork, the ship rose again on the angry white crest of the waves. As she regained her breath, she realized her finger was throbbing. Looking down, she saw that she had pricked it with her needle. A bright red drop of blood lay for a moment upon the white linen before soaking into the embroidery. She made an irritated sound and, picking up the carafe of fresh water near her, dribbled some of it on the stain. By rubbing vigorously she managed to remove the blood. She then put her injured finger into her mouth and sucked on it.

She discovered that she was shaking, and it suddenly occurred to Theadora that she did not want to die. She was just twenty, which was really not all that old—and, except for those few brief hours in the convent garden with Prince Murad, she had never really known any happiness. And what of her son? He had known only seven years.

The ship was pitching wildly now, and Iris moaned. Her face had taken on a sickly green tinge, and Theadora shoved a basin at the woman just in time.

When Iris had finished, Theadora took the basin and hurried out of the cabin with it in deliberate defiance of the captain’s orders. She was not, she thought grimly, going to spend the rest of the storm locked in a cabin that reeked of vomit. That would be sure to prolong Iris’ illness and possibly weaken her own fluttering stomach.

By hugging the passageway she was able to reach the exit. Standing in the hatchway, she flung the entire basin out into the storm, watching with amazement as the wild wind caught the brass vessel and held it aloft as though deciding whether it wanted it or not. After a moment, it plunged into the boiling sea. There was something so wonderfully alive about the storm
that for a moment Theadora paused where she was, and her fear temporarily gone, she laughed aloud at the fierceness and the beauty of it.

Making her way back to her cabin, she found that poor Iris had fallen asleep on her narrow couch. Theadora sat again at her embroidery. She had worked for several hours when she suddenly became aware that the sea was once again calm. She rose and stretched her cramped limbs. A knock sent her quickly to the door where the captain waited, looking very tired.

“Are you all right, Highness?”

“Yes, Captain Hassan. We are all fine.”

“I came to warn you that the storm is not yet over.”

“But the sea is as calm as a fishpond.”

“Yes, my lady, it is. We call it the ‘eye’ of the storm. A center of calm in the midst of turbulence. When we reach the other side of that calm, may Allah preserve us. Please continue to remain in your cabin.”

“How long will the calm last?”