Stolen Splendor (39 page)

Kassandra dropped back onto the bed, staring blindly at
the planked ceiling and the lamp, swinging back and forth, back and forth. She
could have cried, but she had already spent her tears. There was nothing inside
her but a desolate emptiness, and one word searing into her mind.

Belgrade. So at last she had learned her destination.
And she knew her fate was sealed. Belgrade was in the hands of the Turks. God
only knew what Frederick was planning to do with her there.

Chapter 37

Belgrade, Serbia

Frederick's eyes narrowed as a gilt and painted
carriage, covered with scarlet cloth fitted over a frame and harnessed to a
matched set of silver-gray oxen, came to a halt along the teeming riverfront
wharf, not far from where the fishing boat had docked only an hour before. The
carriage was flanked by a motley group of twenty Janissary soldiers on foot,
ten on each side, a tiny fraction of the large garrison assigned to protect the
city. Yet they looked more like outlaws in their mismatched uniforms, the white
cotton turbans on their heads the only item that distinguished them as members
of the Sultan's elite corps of infantry soldiers.

And, indeed, they were outlaws. Renegades, protecting a
distant military outpost far from the control of Sultan Achmet. Hasan had told him
how they had murdered the last pasha of Belgrade, cutting him into small pieces
with their scimitars for no reason other than that he restrained them from
plundering the surrounding countryside.

Now Mustapha Pasha was general here, commanded by his
own Janissaries. He had not dared to punish them for his predecessor's murder,
for fear of his own life. On the contrary, he had applauded their action,
showering them with gold and blessing their fierce raids into Hungary, where
they raped and pillaged, burning everything in their destructive wake.

It was to this man, a ruthless coward, that Frederick
was entrusting Kassandra's care and protection while he traveled on to meet the
grand vizier.

Frederick shrugged. He had no choice but to leave her
here in Belgrade. There was simply too much at stake to do otherwise. He could
not have her slowing him down on his journey toward Constantinople, a journey
that would be treacherous enough for him and his Janissary escort.

Frederick's lips thinned into a tight line. He only
hoped Mustapha nursed a healthy fear of his powerful cousin, Halil, as well,
and would think twice before touching Kassandra while she was in his
safekeeping. He would have to make it very clear she was destined as a gift to
the man who was second in command only to the Sultan himself . . . a man who
could end his life, cousin or no, with the flick of his hand or a simple nod if
Mustapha sampled what did not belong to him.

Frederick watched silently as the driver of the
carriage and the accompanying servant jumped from their high seats to the
ground. The driver flung open a corner of the rich cloth to reveal the silken
interior, while the servant rushed along the length of the boat. When he spied
Frederick standing near the prow he stopped abruptly, raising his voice as he
bowed numerous times.

"His Grace, Mustapha Pasha, welcomes you to
Belgrade, Count Althann." He bowed again, sweeping his arm toward the
carriage. "Please, His Grace awaits you anxiously at the fortress."

Frederick's expression remained impassive as he bowed
his head ever so slightly in acknowledgment of the well-dressed slave. He
turned to the two sailors standing just behind him, and spoke to them in
Serbo-Croatian, their native language.

"Fetch the woman. But first see that her hands are
tied and she is blindfolded."

They nodded, ducking their heads as they clattered down
the wooden steps into the hold. A few moments later they returned, a subdued
Kassandra stumbling between them.

Frederick could not suppress a wry smile, noting they
had also gagged her. He had not heard
her this
quiet
since they left Vienna. But his smile quickly faded as he studied her more
closely. This was the first time he had seen her since the night she had tried
to escape.

Her cheeks were very pale, her hair unwashed and
stringy, her cotton gown hopelessly wrinkled. He had held good to his threat,
and she had spent the last week below deck, confined to her cabin. Obviously
the lack of sunshine and fresh air had dampened her spirits, though it had done
little to mar her beauty. She was as lovely as ever.

He had taken her impassioned oath to heart as well. It
had shaken him deeply. Never before had a woman vowed to take her life if he so
much as touched her. And that was one thing he did not want to have on his conscience.
It was bad enough he couldn't sleep at night, thinking about the fate that soon
would be hers. Yet it was not enough to sway him. He was as much of a coward as
Mustapha, fearful of his own wretched life above all else . . .

Damn Sophia to hell!
he
raged,
his fists clenching as he willed the disturbing thoughts from his mind. One day
he would repay her for what he had been forced to do to this innocent girl!

"Take her to the carriage," he said gruffly,
following the two sailors as they hurried down the plank and onto the wharf,
carrying Kassandra between them.

Like a lamb to the slaughter, Frederick could not help
thinking, climbing into the silken interior of the carriage and settling
himself on the plush cushions piled upon the lacquered floor. He watched grimly
as Kassandra was propped up beside him, then the scarlet curtain was closed.

But this lamb would know her fate, he decided suddenly,
and who had so drastically altered the course of her life. At least he could
give her that. Perhaps her hate for him, for Sophia, would give her courage to
face what was to come.

The carriage jerked into motion, the sound of the
Janissaries' boots striking up a measured cadence as they began the long ascent
up the rocky hill to the massive fortress overlooking the city.

***

"Welcome, Count Althann," Mustapha Pasha
exclaimed, clapping his pudgy hands, his gold rings, encrusted with precious
jewels, glittering from every finger. "Your reputation of excellent
service to Our Most Supreme Sovereign, the Sultan Achmet, precedes you."

His wide smile suddenly faded and he clucked his tongue
in agitation. "Hasan Aziz was here only six days past, with such news,
such news. The Imperialist dogs! He is well on his way to Constantinople by
now, to alert the Sultan . . ." He paused, waving away the unsettling news
as if he were swatting a pestering fly. "Ah, but we can talk of this
later. You are most welcome."

He stepped closer, his slippered feet making no sound
on the polished marble floor that shone like glass. "But who is
this?" he asked softly, studying with veiled curiosity the gagged and
blindfolded woman kneeling beside Frederick.

"She is a gift for His Grace, Halil Pasha, upon
his arrival in Belgrade," Frederick replied pointedly, stressing the grand
vizier's name. "I have brought her to you for safekeeping, until she may
be presented to him. Her name is Kassandra."

"Ah . . ." Mustapha breathed, his hands
forming a triangle as he rested his index fingers on his broad lips. Frederick
watched as he walked around both of them very slowly, his gown of purple silk
stretching taut over his vast stomach and falling into swirling folds around
his short legs, the ermine hem of his white pelisse brushing along the floor.

Kassandra started at the sound of her name. Once again
she did not understand the language being spoken, but she knew it was Turkish.
As she now knew Frederick was a spy for the Turks.

And that it was Archduchess Sophia von Starenberg who
had brought such wretched injustice upon her . . .

She winced, shifting uncomfortably, her knees aching
from the cold, hard floor. Yet she was grateful for the pain. It was the only
thing that made her feel half-alive, the numbing shock of everything Frederick
had told her during the carriage ride to the fortress becoming stark reality in
her mind.

It had spilled from him like a flood, like a wild
confession—Sophia discovering he was a spy through her dwarf, Adolph, who was
probably the same little man she had seen at the theater, in the carriage, and after
her fall; Sophia's demand that Kassandra be killed if Frederick wanted to
preserve his secret; the drowning hoax; on and on. And now she knew her life
had been spared for a fate perhaps crueler than death. She was to remain in
Belgrade under constant guard until she was presented to the grand vizier as a
slave for his harem!

Frederick had told her about everything, his cowardice,
his
greed,
as if he believed she would never be able
to use such knowledge against him. As if she
were
to
disappear from the face of the earth. The only thing he hadn't told her was why
Sophia had done this to her . . . why?

Kassandra felt an anguished scream rise up in her
throat, stifled only by the filthy gag in her mouth. Deep in her heart, she
knew the reason. It was as old as time itself. Jealousy. Sophia loved Stefan .
. . and would stop at nothing to have him.

Had she succeeded? Kassandra wondered wildly, tears
stinging her eyes beneath the blindfold. Would Stefan forget her so easily, to
find solace in the arms of the woman who had plotted her death? Sophia had been
his mistress; he must have some feelings for her. Oh God, please tell her he
hadn't forgotten her!

Kassandra drew in her breath, her roiling thoughts
shoved rudely into the recesses of her mind as a moist hand, smelling of sweet
perfume, glided across her cheek. A silken garment whispered about her arm and
shoulder. Mustapha Pasha! Would this nightmare never end?

"Is her tongue like a serpent's, sharp and tinged
with venom, that you have her mouth bound so?" Mustapha asked, standing in
front of Frederick once again. "Are her eyes, like Medusa's, able to turn
a man to stone? I think not." He sniffed delicately, lifting his hand to
his nose. "She is unclean, but from what I can see, that is her only true
fault. Yes?"

Frederick studied him shrewdly. He nodded. "Yes,
Sire, her only fault."

Mustapha clapped his hands together, and two female
slaves appeared as if from nowhere. They prostrated themselves on the floor
before him.

"See that this woman is bathed, her body
completely shaved as is our custom, and dress her in something more befitting
of her beauty," he commanded. The two women sprang from the floor and
gently seized Kassandra's arms, pulling her to her feet. She stood there
shakily, voicing a muffled objection, trying futilely to wrench her arms free.

"She may . . . protest such treatment,"
Frederick murmured.

Mustapha chuckled with amusement, his eyes alighting on
the flaring red scratches on Frederick's cheeks. "So I see," he
commented dryly. He turned to the slaves. "A little opium in a goblet of
chilled water or in a bite of baklava," he suggested. They nodded
solemnly, their faces expressionless.

He turned back to Frederick as they hurried her away.
"She will give us no trouble." Then he bowed with his hand to his
heart. "I am honored, Count Althann, to harbor such a prize for my
esteemed cousin, Halil." He straightened, a look of understanding passing
between them. Then he gestured to a low table set by a marble fountain, plump
brocaded pillows placed around it on the floor. "Come, let us eat. We have
much of importance to discuss."

Frederick followed him to the table, glancing one last
time over his shoulder. But Kassandra was gone, the great carved doors leading
from the pillared reception hall slamming shut behind her and the two slave
women. The fierce guards with flashing scimitars held crosswise against their
chests returned to their places on either side of the doors, staring coldly
back at him. He turned away, a hard lump in his throat.

He had sealed her fate. By voicing his intent to
Mustapha, it could not be undone. It was sacred, inviolable. Kassandra now
belonged to Halil Pasha, her protector . . . her master.

Frederick sat down at the table across from Mustapha,
his appetite no match for the forty elaborate dishes served on plates of gold
by silent slaves. The meal dragged on for several hours, punctuated by their
talk of war, strategy, when the Imperial army could be expected at the
fortified ramparts of Belgrade—most likely within a month's time, mid-June—and
how there was no doubt but that Halil's field army would prove victorious, his
advantage lying in strength of numbers. The message Hasan was delivering to the
Sultan had included information on the probable size of Prince Eugene's forces;
the grand vizier would bring an army twice, three times that size to ensure his
enemy's defeat.

At last, after sherbet had been served in delicate
china bowls, followed by ink-black coffee, fragrant with cinnamon, pipes had
been smoked, and silence was hovering over them, the pasha reclining heavily
upon his pillows, Frederick rose to take his leave without fear of offending
his host. The final amenities were observed,
then
he
was escorted from the reception hall, his thoughts already on the long journey
ahead.

Mustapha watched through half-closed lids, waiting, his
arms stretched languidly across his protruding belly, until Frederick
disappeared through another set of massive doors. As soon as they closed behind
him, he clapped his hands sharply together. Four slaves rushed forward, lifting
him with barely concealed effort to his feet. He waved them away, straightening
his gown and pelisse as he hurried across the floor to the great doors leading
to his harem, which were opened wide.

He made his way swiftly along shadowed corridors, and
down winding stairs, his short legs propelling his unwieldy bulk forward with
great speed. His panting breaths were accompanied by a guttural wheezing from
deep in his throat, but he did not stop until he reached the room he was
seeking. He entered quietly, hiding behind a latticed partition, his fingers
hooking in the crisscrossing wood strips, his sweating face illuminated by
diamond patterns of light.