Bertrice Small - Adora

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.

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?”

“Perhaps half an hour, my lady.”

“Then I will, with your permission, come up on deck for a few minutes, captain. My son and my servants are sleeping, but I confess that I am restless.”

“Of course, Highness. I will escort you myself.”

She closed the door quietly and, taking his arm, walked out onto the wet deck. The heavy air was still, and it appeared as if they sailed into an ink pot. Above and around them, the sky and the sea were a flat black. But then the captain pointed ahead, and in the strange half-light Theadora could see the water some distance ahead of them, roiling a foaming white

“The other side of the storm, Highness. There is no escaping it.”

“It is magnificent, Captain Hassan! Will we survive its savagery?”

“As Allah wills it, my lady,” replied the captain fatalistically, shrugging his shoulders.

They stood at the rail for some minutes. Then, sensing the captain’s impatience, Theadora said, “I will return to my quarters.” Inside again she bent over her son and kissed him gently. So deep was his slumber that he did not even stir. Iris lay on her back, snoring gently. It is better this way, thought Theadora. I can maintain my own calm more easily if no one else frightens me.

She could feel the ship beginning to pitch again as they approached the other side of the storm. Theadora sat quietly with her hands folded tightly and prayed silently for the safety of the vessel and all who sailed on it. Never, since leaving St. Catherine’s, had she immersed herself so deeply in prayer.