Bertrice Small - Adora

She nodded. “And what am I to do, my lord?”

“Do? What do you mean, my dove?”

“What am I to do? My sons are both grown and married. My daughter goes to wed the caliph soon. There is nothing left for me. I am not a woman content to sit idly in the harem, painting my toenails.”

He nodded gravely. “What would you do, Adora? For I know you well enough to know you have hatched a plot in that beautiful head of yours.”

“I would come with you, my lord. On campaign. Many women travel with their men in the army.”

His face registered delight. “I have never thought to ask you, my dove. Would you truly enjoy it?”

“I do not know, my lord, but I would rather be with you than left behind. Thamar will enjoy being the queen bee in the harem, but I will be with you!” She wrapped her arms about his neck and kissed him lingeringly. “Say yes, my lord! Please say yes!”

He enjoyed her pretty plea and slid his hands beneath her robe to caress the warm, silken skin. He felt her shiver with pleasure, and his own desire flamed.

“Say yes,” she whispered against his ear, biting it gently.

“Yes,” he answered, pulling her into his arms. “Yes, you deliciously sensual witch!” And he kissed her cool, soft mouth with an ardor she eagerly returned. The years had not dimmed their passion for one another.

The emperor’s younger son, Manuel, had been made governor of Salonika. Had he been content to govern, John would have been pleased, for Manuel was a skillful ruler. But Manuel’s mistress, from a wealthy Christian family in Serres, managed to involve Manuel in a plot to overthrow Murad’s government in Serres.

Manuel found himself besieged by the Ottoman troops and in a great deal of trouble with the sultan. He fled home to his parents in Constantinople. But for once John and Helena were in agreement: officially, they would not acknowledge him. When, at their weekly audience of supplicants, the chamberlain announced, “Prince Manuel Paleaologi, royal governor of Salonika,” the emperor said loudly, “We will not receive him.” Then he and Helena rose and left the hall together. There was a stunned silence, then a buzz of amazement from the hall.

They saw their son privately, however.

“Fool!” screamed the empress. “There was no harm in rutting with that she-devil of Serres, but to be led by her into direct opposition with Sultan Murad! Did you really expect to overthrow his rule?! Christos! Do not tell me you actually believed that?” She whirled about to face her husband. “This is as much your fault as his! You would place Manuel above his older brother, your rightful heir. He has done no better than Andronicus!”

Manuel Paleaologi looked at his mother with distaste. There was a pouch beneath her chin, powder clung to the wrinkles about her eyes, she dyed her hair. Yet she still attracted lovers like a bitch in heat. Her escapades had always been a source of embarrassment to him, especially as a child. His brother, who was her favorite child, found it amusing.

“Why do you stare at me like that?” she demanded of Manuel.

“I was thinking,” he said slowly, with satisfaction, “that you are getting old.” Then he fell back, reeling from the force of her blow.

“Leave us, Helena,” said the emperor sharply, and she stormed from the room. John Paleaologi turned back to his younger son. “Sit down, Manuel.” When the prince obeyed, John asked, “Why, my son? I went against custom and placed you above your brother because you deserved it. You are a natural ruler. Now you have behaved as foolishly as Andronicus. I cannot protect you from the folly you have committed. Surely you knew that when you came to me.”

Manuel nodded, shamefaced.

“Was she worth it, my son? Was this temptress of Serres worth your disgrace?”

“No, Father,” came the low reply.

The emperor let a little smile touch his lips. Then he said, “Well, Manuel, you have learned a hard lesson. I will elaborate upon it for you. Your mistress was not worth the trouble she has caused you. No woman ever is.”

“Not even a woman like my aunt Theadora?”

The emperor smiled. “Your aunt Thea would never ask the impossible of a man. She is far too wise,” said the emperor.

“What must I do, Father? Where can I go now?”

“Have you courage, my son? For you will need courage to do what must be done.”

“If I do not have it, Father, I will find it somehow.”

“You must go to Sultan Murad and throw yourself on his mercy.”

Manuel whitened. “He will kill me,” he whispered fearfully.

“No,” said the emperor, “he will not kill you, Manuel. That would defeat his purpose. I see Thea’s subtle mind in all this. Murad is playing us against each other. If he kills us off, he cannot do that any longer. Go to Bursa. He is there now. Beg his pardon. He will forgive you.”

“That is easy for you to say, Father. It is not your life you play with.”

“No!” thundered the emperor. “It is not my life, but a life far dearer to me! It is the life of my favorite son: the only man fit to rule Byzantium when I am gone. You have said you would find the courage, Manuel. You must. You have no other choice. I will not receive you publicly or privately again. Nor will I allow you sanctuary here in the city. You endanger us all, everyone from the lowliest beggar to the emperor is in danger from Murad’s vengeance if we defy him. Where is your conscience?”

“Our walls are unbreachable,” protested the prince.

“No longer, not completely. There are places where they are weakened, and when I tried to refortify them recently, the sultan forced us to tear down what we had rebuilt.”

Manuel sighed and drew a deep breath. “I will go, Father.”

“Good, my son!” said the emperor, clapping his son on his shoulder. “I will see that word is sent to Bursa ahead of you.” He stood up. The audience was at in end. The emperor clasped his son to his breast. “Go with God, my son,” he said quietly.

Manuel left the Imperial Palace to find an escort awaiting him. They rode to the yacht basin at the Boucoleon Harbor. His escort left him after putting him aboard a waiting ship. The ship arrived several hours later at the port of Scutari on the Asian side of the Marmara. The captain gave Manuel a fine stallion, which had made the voyage stabled in the stern of the ship.

“With your father‘s compliments, Highness. Godspeed.”

Manuel Paleaologi rode off alone. His fear was not of the journey, for the sultan’s roads were safe. He feared what awaited him in Bursa.

His father was sure the sultan would forgive him, but Manuel remembered the massacred garrison at Chorlu and the seige of Demotika when sons were ordered executed by their own fathers. He also remembered that the two fathers who had refused to kill their sons had been executed themselves. Manuel recalled that his cousin, Bajazet, had beheaded the rebellious Cuntuz. If the sultan could be that cold with a rebellious son, what chance did he have?

He stopped at a small caravansary that night and got drunk on fermented fruit juice. The following afternoon he rode into the palace courtyard at Bursa. His monumental headache, made worse by several hours’ ride in the bright sunlight, was punishment enough. He was escorted courteously to a small apartment and attended by soft-spoken slaves who saw to his bath and steamed and massaged his headache away. He was brought a light lunch for which he found he had appetite. But he saw no one but the slaves, and they could not answer his questions. His nerves were beginning to fail him.

Finally, after supper had been served him that evening, a palace official came to tell him that the sultan would see him in the morning. Manuel was more nervous now than he had been when he arrived. Then the thought struck him that if Murad had intended to kill him he would have been housed in the palace dungeons rather than a comfortable suite. Perhaps his father was right. He dozed fitfully throughout the night.

In the morning he was taken before his uncle. Murad looked enormously imposing sitting on a throne of black marble, clad in a jeweled robe of cloth of gold. He wore a gold turban with a pigeon’s-blood ruby in its center. Looking down on Manuel, Murad said sternly, “Well, nephew?”

Manuel flung himself flat. He was unable to stand now, for his legs were trembling terribly. “Mercy, my lord uncle! I have wronged you, but your reputation for fairness is well-known. Forgive me! I will not err again!”

The corners of the sultan’s mouth twitched. “That is an enormous vow you make, Prince Manuel. To never err again…”

“My lord, I only meant-”

“I know what you meant, you young fool! You swore to be my liegeman, and you have broken that vow. I should have you beheaded and get the matter over with.

“However, I am informed that the cause of your disgrace was a woman. I can do no more than Allah himself did when the father of us all, Adam, was led astray by the woman, Eve. So it has been, down through the ages. Normally intelligent men being led into a folly by a pretty smile and a pair of plump tits.” He laughed mirthlessly. “Your father informs me that you are ordinarily levelheaded, and that you have a talent for governing. Very well. I will spare you, this time. But betray me again, nephew…” He let the thought hang between them. Then he said, “You will return to Constantinople and co-govern again, under your father’s guidance. I have arranged a marriage for you with the young daughter of the last despot of Nicea. Her name is Julia. I am told she is virtuous and has a sweet nature. We can make sure of the first. But as for the second, nephew, you will have to take your chances like the rest of us.”

Manuel felt the sweat running down his back and legs. He was weak with relief. Slowly he pulled himself up. “Sire,” he said, and his voice broke. He gulped back his tears. “Sire, my grateful thanks. I swear I will not fail you again.”