Bertrice Small - Adora

“Why?”

“Because then Andronicus will remain capable of continuing to quarrel and scheme against his father and brother. That will keep them so well occupied that Byzantium will not bother us further. Your vengeance here has been swift and fair. We need not the death of an unimportant princeling. It accomplishes nothing.”

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.

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 sultan 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.”