Adora (36 page)

On Cuntuz’s thirteenth birthday Prince Andronicus took his new friend to an exclusive brothel. There, the boy became a man. A man who, like his royal friend, had an appetite for cruelty and perversion. The boys began spending more and more time in the whorehouses of the city. Singly, each was obnoxious; together they were dangerous, for their cruelty knew no bounds. Their arrival each evening at a house of pleasure was apt to set the madame fretting nervously, wondering if she would lose any of her girls. Andronicus and Cuntuz made life unbearable torture for the young prostitutes of Constantinople, for they never patronized the same house two nights in a row and no one ever knew where they would strike next. Fortunately, before they could kill anyone, the time came for Cuntuz to go to Adrianople.

Now he stood with his mother before the empress. He thought to himself that Helena had fine, big tits. He wondered how it would feel to suck on those breasts and then bite down hard on the nipples, causing her to scream with the terrible pain he would inflict. He stood silently, mentally stripping his royal benefactress naked, wondering if what they said about her was true. He imagined her bent over, begging for mercy while he raised red welts on her round, soft bottom with a horse crop. Then when her plump, pretty cheeks blushed rosy red for him he would ass-fuck her! Beneath his elegant robe he grew hard and erect.

Looking at the unconcealed lust on the boy’s face, Helena knew roughly what he was thinking and wondered whether he would be worth the risk. There would be hell to pay if John found out. But if she were very, very careful he would not find out. In this very palace was a secret, windowless room outfitted with a couch for such occasions. The boy and his mother would be leaving in the morning. Perhaps—No! Yes! Later this afternoon she would have the boy brought to her for a few hours. She had heard he was insatiable. She forced her mind back to what the boy’s idiot mother was saying.

“You’re sure,” Mara quavered, “that Murad will welcome us in Adrianople?”

“Of course!” snapped Helena. God, the woman was driving her crazy “How many times must I tell you he will be delighted to have Cuntuz by his side. His other sons are but babies. As a warrior, Murad is in constant danger of being killed. Do you think if that happened the Ottomans would welcome my sister’s mewling infants as Murad’s heirs? They would far prefer Cuntuz, who is virtually a grown man. Your son could then protect his own succession in the Ottoman fashion by strangling his half brothers. You, dear Mara, will be a most powerful woman when your son succeeds to his father’s throne.”

Mara licked her lips nervously. “Sultan Murad has never seen my son. When I told him I was pregnant he gave me gold, but I never saw him again. He never even acknowledged the boy.”

“Neither has he ever denied him,” said Helena. “Rest assured, my dear Mara. All will be well. If, heaven forfend, Murad sends you away, there is always a place for you among my ladies. You have my protection.” It was a promise easily given for Helena didn’t believe the sultan would send them back. If he did, it would be with an income. And the damage to Theadora would have been done. Her sister would not feel so inviolate then!

Rising, the empress smiled down on the fat woman. “I will bid you goodbye now, my friend, for you will be leaving early in the morning. Prince Cuntuz, if you will attend me in an hour’s time I will give you your final instructions on how to deal with Ottoman court customs.” And Helena glided from the room.

When she had gone, Mara turned to her son. “You know, of course, that the bitch lusts for a quick tumble with you.”

He grinned. “I’ll give her a ride she’ll not soon forget, mother dear. She’ll be groveling for mercy by the time I’m
through with her. Be sure you are as kind to my friend, Andronicus. He swears you are the best piece he has ever had. He tells me your mouth does wonderful things that can drive a man mad with delight.”

“Small praise from a lad of fifteen,” returned Mara sourly. “Don’t burn all your bridges with the empress, Cuntuz. Despite what she says, we may need to return here. I do not really believe that the sultan will welcome us. I will try for your sake though, for I owe you that.”

“Am I really his son?”

“I believe so. When a man kept me as he did, I fucked only him. I even fancied myself in love with Murad. Ah, Cuntuz, you should have seen me then. I was a tiny little thing with fine breasts and skin like the best white Bursa silk! A man could span my waist with his hands!”

He looked unbelieving. He could not imagine this mountain of flesh petite and desirable. But then, she must have had something other than an open and willing hole to attract his father even for so short a time. He disliked her less now than when they had first joined forces. He realized that she had tried, even as she was trying now, to do her best for him. Awkwardly he patted the beringed hand.

“We had best go now, Mother, lest we be late for our appointments.”

A week later Sultan Murad found himself face to face with an almost-grown son and that son’s mother. He had not even remembered their existence. The peasant girl he had kept for his pleasure in the Gallipoli Peninsula had been of no importance to him. She had attracted him with her golden eyes and big breasts. She had been no stranger to men, and he hadn’t known or cared if she was faithful to him. She was simply available when he wanted her. That had been enough, for he had ached with the terrible loss of Adora to his father. When Mara announced her impending motherhood he hadn’t questioned it but had given her gold and ridden off for less
involved company. He had not even known the child’s sex, or whether it had lived or died. He hadn’t cared enough to find out.

From the beginning, there was antipathy between the man and the boy. Murad looked at Cuntuz. The lad was soft, uneducated. His mouth already showed signs of dissipation. The eyes were cruel and shifty. Cuntuz looked at his “father” and saw a hard, successful man whose feats he could never hope to equal. He hated Murad for this.

The sultan would neither confirm nor deny his paternity. Nor would he make Cuntuz his legal heir. That position belonged to four-year-old Prince Bajazet, to be followed by his twin brothers. To solidify his decision, Murad called in the ulemas, the Muslim lawgivers, to debate his judgement, and to confirm or deny it. He would abide by their decision. After long and careful consideration, the ulemas agreed with the sultan. They had no wish to cast doubts upon an innocent boy’s birth, but Mara’s reputation was poor. No one, not even his mother, could be absolutely certain of Cuntuz’s paternity. And where the descent of Osman’s line was concerned, there could be no doubt whatever. Prince Bajazet was confirmed as his father’s heir.

The sultan agreed to settle an allowance on Mara—but she must return to Constantinople. There was no place for her in Adrianople. Murad laughed to himself. Adora and his harem were solidly united for the first time since he had become sultan. Adora was well aware who had sent Mara and Cuntuz to Murad. And she was outraged that her own sister would try to replace her beautiful and bright little Bajazet with that horrible boy whose eyes had undressed her on the two occasions that they had met. Adora refused to believe that Murad had fathered such a son.

The other women of the harem simply wanted no additional competition. Adora was quite enough.

Cuntuz was to remain in Adrianople. There was always the possibility that he was Murad’s son, and Murad felt he
owed the boy something if that were true. Cuntuz was to be educated in both academic and martial subjects. If he had talents, then perhaps the boy could be of use to the empire.

Cuntuz did not wish to remain. He wanted to return to Constantinople and pick up his life of drinking and wenching with his friend, Prince Andronicus. His mother quickly disabused him of the notion. “With the money your father is settling on me I can open my own house of pleasure,” Mara told her son. “I know what the rich men and women of Byzantium like, and I will cater to their lusts. There is no further place for you in my life. Remain with the sultan and your fortune is made. If you do not wish to do that you may return to your grandparents. I do not think you would enjoy it.”

“I can stay with Andronicus,” replied the boy. “He is my friend.”

“Do not be a fool!” replied his mother. “Do you think the empress will allow that association to continue if you are of no use to her? You have already served her purposes by coming here. It is either stay here or return to your grandparents.”

It was no real choice. Cuntuz remained. He hated it, for the sultan had given orders that he was to be treated like any boy in the Palace School. Thus, he was beaten for his errors, which were many. There rose in the already warped boy a blazing hatred for Sultan Murad and for the sultan’s acknowledged sons.

Cuntuz was forced to bide his time. He was young. But eventually he would have his vengeance.

Chapter Twenty-One

The tsar of the Bulgars had died at a vast old age, leaving his three grown sons to squabble among themselves over his kingdom. To the northwest, Prince Lazar held sway. To the south, Prince Vukashin. Caught between them was their eldest brother, Ivan, who believed it should all belong to him.

On the other side of the Balkan mountains the sultan waited to see which of them would come to him for aid. When they all did, he carefully evaluated the positions of each and decided that when the time came for choosing he would side with the eldest, Prince Ivan. Vukashin was a poor general. Murad defeated him and quickly annexed the southern part of the late tsar’s kingdom.

Prince Lazar now found himself besieged by an army of Hungarian crusaders who, with the Pope’s blessing, sought to take over his kingdom. Two hundred thousand Bulgarians were forcibly converted by the Franciscans from the Orthodox to the Latin rite. The sultan marched and was welcomed by the persecuted Bulgarians as the savior who would restore their freedom of worship. And he did—under his usual conditions. The Bulgarians were too happy to be rid of the minions of the Latin Church to care that their sons were now open to the Janissary draft.

Tsar Ivan now found himself free of his rivals but faced with a formidable opponent. He would continue to rule—but only on Sultan Murad’s terms. Following the example of the emperors of Byzantium, Ivan became the Ottoman’s vassal. His daughter, Thamar, joined the sultan’s harem.

Knowing Murad’s devotion to Adora, Ivan took a leaf from the Byzantine’s book. Thamar’s dowry would be paid in
gold, but only when the union bore fruit. There was always the possibility that his daughter might supplant Theadora. But failing that, she would at least have a child to console her.

Theadora was furious when she heard that Murad had agreed to the terms of the Bulgarian tsar, but she tried to hide her anger. The girl had the potential to become a serious rival. This was no ordinary harem maiden but a princess, like herself.

Adora looked into the Venetian glass mirror that Murad had given her when the twins were born. Her hair was still lustrously dark with its reddish-gold lights, her eyes their beautiful amethyst-purple, her fair skin clear and unlined. Still, she sighed, she was twenty-nine and the Princess Thamar was just fifteen. Dear God! Her rival was the same age as her son, Halil!

She could only hope that the girl was ill-favored. How else could she compete with youth? Adora had doubts. Murad, in his mid-forties, was approaching a dangerous age. Would he still love her after the nights he spent in the younger woman’s bed? She felt the tears splash down her cheeks.

Coming up behind her Murad saw the tears and surmised the reason. “No, my dove,” he said, turning her so that she was cradled against him. She protested faintly, trying to hide her wet face from him. “Adora,” the sound of his deep voice caressing her name sent a shiver through her. “It is a political arrangement. Tsar Ivan hopes to keep me at bay by using his daughter. I could hardly refuse the girl once she was offered.”

“Why not?” she muttered tearfully. “You have a harem full of women. Did you really need another?”

He laughed. “It would have been most ungallant of me to refuse the tsar’s daughter!”

“Is she beautiful?”

“Yes,” he said honestly. “She is very young and very lovely. But she is not to my taste, nor is she my love. You are my only love, Adora.

“Nevertheless, I shall keep my word. I will take this maiden to my bed and I will keep her there until she swells with my seed. Then I will collect her dowry. We need all the gold we can gather, Adora. Building an empire costs money.

“I will need your help too, my dove. Do not make yourself Thamar’s enemy. You need not be her friend if you do not wish it, but be in a position to watch her for me, for I do not trust the tsar. I believe he sends his daughter to spy for him.

“So there will be no doubt about your position in my life or in my house, I have prepared a decree to be released on the day I accept Thamar into my house. It elevates you to the position of bas-kadin. I have already named your sons my heirs.”

She flung her arms about his neck and kissed him passionately. “Thank you, my lord! Oh, thank you! I do love you so, Murad!”

He grinned boyishly at her. “And I love you too, my dove,” he said. And he did. He had enslaved her, yet she would not be humbled. Like a flower after a storm, she always rose to bloom anew. She was his magnificently proud princess, and he wanted no mate but her.

Still, he was the Ottoman, and he would take Thamar of Bulgaria to his bed. Though he would return to Adora, Thamar would be a delightful diversion. His mind wandered back to the day he first saw her. He had entered Tsar Ivan’s capital city of Veliko Türnovo at the head of a large force. The message to the Bulgarians was clear.

It was during that visit that Ivan offered his daughter. Murad sat with Ivan in a small room in the tsar’s castle. The room was lit by pure wax candles that gave off a soft, flattering golden light. A girl entered, followed by an old woman. At first Murad could not see her face for her head was modestly lowered. They stood silently before the two men, and the tsar nodded. The old woman reached out and drew the velvet cloak
from the girl. Thamar stood naked before her father and her prospective lord.