Bertrice Small - Adora

Her daughter gone, Helena spoke urgently to her sister. “Thea, I would talk privately with you before Alexis returns!”

“Come with me,” came the reply.

And the empress of Byzantium followed the sultan’s wife to a private chamber where they both sat down at a low table, facing one another.

“Bring fruit sherbet and honey cakes,” commanded Theadora. No sooner had the slaves done her bidding than she dismissed them and, gazing at her sister, asked, “Well, Helena?”

The empress hesitated. Swallowing hard, she said, “We have not been close since childhood, my sister.”

“We were never close, my sister,” came the quick reply. “You were always too busy taunting me with the fact that you should be empress of Byzantium one day, and that I should merely be the ‘infidel’s’ concubine.”

“So now you take your revenge on me by forcing my beloved daughter into this matrimonial mockery!” burst Helena.

“You brought this on yourself, my sister!” snapped Theadora, her patience gone. “Had you not attempted to have Halil and me murdered, your daughter might well have been queen of Moscovy. My God, Helena! How could you!? Did you really think you could destroy the Ottoman by such perfidy? The empire of Constantine and Justinian is a dying old man, sister, but the empire of Osman the Turk is a young and vigorous boy. We are the future-whether you like it or not, Helena. You cannot destroy us by killing one woman and a small boy. Orkhan is nearing the end of his life, I fear, but Prince Murad will prove a strong sultan, I assure you.”

“Why should Murad be sultan, Thea? If Orkhan chose in favor of Halil-” The empress paused a moment. Then she continued. “With a Christian mother and a Christian wife, Halil could easily be converted to Christ-and with him, his entire empire! My God, Thea! We would be sainted for fostering this marriage.”

Theadora burst into laughter and laughed until she was weak and her eyes were filled with tears. Finally she said, “Helena, you have not changed. You are still a great fool! To begin with, Halil is a cripple-for which I thank the lord. Were he not, the first act his half brother would perform upon becoming sultan would be to command Halil’s death. If Halil were whole he might rule, but a physically or mentally impaired sultan is against the law. My son is a cripple, and the lady Anastatia’s is a madman. My lord Orkhan has only Murad.”

“And Murad’s son,” said Helena.

Theadora thanked God that she was sitting for she might have fainted otherwise. “Murad has no son,” she said quietly in an amazingly steady voice.

“But he does, my dear,” Helena whispered fiercely. “He got the boy on a Greek priest’s daughter in Gallipoli several years ago. The prince will not officially recognize him because the girl’s reputation is not as pure as one might expect of a holy man’s daughter. She has nerve, however. She has named the boy Cuntuz, and refuses to allow him to be baptized, saying he is a Muslim as is his father.”

Theadora was silent a moment, calming herself. Finally she asked, “Is this what you wished to speak privately to me about, Helena?”

“No! No! Who cares with whom the prince lies? It is my daughter. Please, Thea, be kind to her! I will do anything to insure your kindness toward Alexis. Do not take our quarrels out on my innocent child, I beg of you!”

“As I have often said, Helena, you are still a fool, and how little you know me. I have no intention of mistreating Alexis. She will be as my own daughter would be. I was never vindictive toward others, if you will remember.” Theadora rose. “Come, my sister, the others await our arrival to begin the feasting.” And she led Helena to the banquet hall within the harem, where Anastatia and the other women of the house waited.

There were the sultan’s daughters and their daughters. There were the sultan’s elderly sisters and cousins and their female offspring. There were his favorites and those who still hoped to catch his eye. There were the women of the Byzantine court who had accompanied the empress and her daughter. All in all, there were over a hundred females at the bride’s feast. Theadora presented her sister to those few important enough to merit an introduction to the empress of Byzantium. By the time she had finished, Alexis was being ushered into the room.

The little bride was led to her mother-in-law who kissed her on both cheeks before signaling the eunuchs to lift the child onto a table where all might see her. There, in the presence of the other women, the bride was stripped of her Byzantine clothes and dressed in Turkish fashion. Only then did the feast begin.

When it was over, several hours later, Prince Halil arrived with his father. Together with Theadora, they escorted Princess Alexis to the Convent of St. Anna where she would live for the next few years.

The following day Emperor John and his two sons Prince Andronicus and Prince Manuel knelt before Sultan Orkhan and renewed their vows of vassalage to their overlord. The Byzantines then returned to Constantinople and the Ottoman royal family went home to Bursa.

Theadora lay in the shadow world between sleep and waking. She could hear the distant sound of running feet and a pounding on her apartment doors that grew louder and louder. Then Iris was shaking her shoulder. Theadora shrugged her off, grumbling sleepily, but Iris persisted.

“My lady, wake up! You must!”

Slowly the mists cleared, and she half-woke. “What is it, Iris?”

“Ali Yahya sends word, my princess. The sultan is very ill. Ali Yahya believes, though the doctors have not said this, that Sultan Orkhan is dying.”

Theadora was fully awake now. Sitting up, she asked, “Has he sent for me?”

“No, my lady, but it would be best if you were ready should the summons come.”

With Iris’ help Theadora dressed quickly. It was still dark as she paced restlessly about her antechamber. After the slaves laid a good fire in the tiled corner fireplace, she sent them back to their beds. Theadora preferred to keep her vigil alone. At last, Ali Yahya came for her and, catching up a sable-lined red silk cloak, she followed him silently to the sultan’s chambers.

The deathchamber was filled with doctors, the mullahs, and government and military officials. She stood quietly, holding the hand of Nilufer, Murad’s mother, in an effort to comfort her. Nilufer, the sultan’s wife all these years, truly loved Orkhan.

Anastatia, bent and broken since her son Ibrahim’s suicide of only weeks past, stood by herself, her gaze vacant. The two princes stood together by their father’s bedside, Murad’s arm flung about young Halil’s shoulders.

The women were brought to the bedside. The sultan lay quietly, obviously drugged and free of pain. The once mighty Orkhan, son of Osman, had shrunk to a frail scrap of his former self. Only his black eyes were lively as they moved from one to another of his family. He looked at Anastatia and whispered, “There’s one who’ll soon be joining me in death.” The gaze moved on to the other two women. “You were the joy of my youth, Nilufer. And you, Adora, the joy of my old age.” His eyes flicked to Murad. “Guard the boy! He’s no danger to you, and he’ll soon be valuable to you.”

“I swear it, my father,” said Murad.

Orkhan struggled to sit up. Slaves propped pillows behind him. He was racked by a fit of coughing, and his voice was noticeably weaker when he said, “Do not stop until you have Constantinople! It is the key to all! And you cannot successfully hold the rest without it. Halil’s supple mind will help you. Won’t you, my boy?”

“Yes, Father! I will be Murad’s most loyal right arm…and his eyes and ears as well,” the boy declared.

The ghost of a smile flickered on Orkhan’s lips. Then his eyes moved past his family to a place across the room. “Not yet, my friend,” he said so softly that Theadora was not sure she had heard him. The lamps flickered eerily, and the smell of musk, Orkhan’s favorite perfume, was overpowering.

The chief mullah made his way to the sultan’s bedside. “You have not yet confirmed your heir, Most High. It is not right that you leave us before doing so.”

“Murad! Murad is my successor,” gasped Orkhan, and another fit of coughing racked his fragile body.

The chief mullah turned to face the assemblage and raised his hands, palms up and outward. “Sultan Orkhan, son of Osman, Sultan of the Ghazis; Ghazi, son of Ghazi, has proclaimed his son Murad as his heir.”

“Murad!” The assembled called in return. And then, as if with one mind, they all filed silently out of the room leaving the dying man with his wives and sons. The quiet was frightening. To calm her nerves, Theadora, lashes lowered, glanced about her. Poor Anastatia stood staring vacantly. Nilufer, Christian-born, prayed quietly for the man she had loved. Halil shuffled his feet with nervous boredom.

Her glance moved on to Murad, and she swayed with shock to find that he was staring straight at her. Color flooded her face, her heart pounded noisily in her ears, yet she could not tear her eyes away from his face with its faintly mocking smile.

The sudden movement of the sultan broke the electricity between them. Orkhan sat straight up in his bed and said “Azrael, I come!” and fell back, the life gone from his dark eyes.

Murad reached over and gently closed his father’s eyes. Nilufer, putting an arm about Anastatia, led her from the death chamber.

Young Halil knelt before his brother, placing his small hands in Murad’s large ones and saying, “I, Halil Beg, son of Orkhan and Theadora, am your liegeman, Sultan Murad. I pledge you my total fealty.”

The new sultan raised his sibling up and, placing the kiss of peace upon the boy’s forehead, sent him from the room. Then he turned to Theadora and she trembled beneath his burning gaze. “You have a month to mourn your husband, madame. At the end of that time you will join my harem.”