Stolen Splendor (40 page)

So, he had timed it perfectly, Mustapha commended
himself, licking his lips as he peered through the partition. He sucked in his
breath, a surge of desire rippling through his trembling body. Allah could not
have fashioned a more beautiful sight!

Kassandra stood on a small, raised platform, her limp
body supported by a black eunuch, her head lolling against his shoulder, his
large hands gripping her curved waist. Her white skin, flushed with rose, stood
out in startling contrast, buffed to a glossy sheen and devoid of any offensive
hair. The two female slaves were dressing her quickly, slipping her long legs
into transparent jade-green trousers of silk damask, lifting her arms and
pulling a delicate white chemise over her head, then bringing them down to her
sides and draping a close-fitting gold tunic over her shoulders. Last
came
a pair of white slippers of soft leather.

Mustapha watched, spellbound, as they laid Kassandra
upon tasseled pillows, large and small, where she would rest in drug-induced
slumber until her chamber was prepared. His dark eyes sought the shallow rise
and fall of her full breasts, the hardened nipples pressing through her silken
garments. It was all he could do not to dash from behind the partition and
cover her prostrate body with his own, to rip off her
trousers
and delve into the perfect white softness . . .

Mustapha cursed under his ragged breath, licking the
sweat from his upper lip. He knew he could no sooner possess her than to deny
his faith. The woman belonged to Halil.

Ah, but there was no one to prevent him from watching
her, he mused with a lascivious grin. This fortress abounded in secret
passageways, hidden
closets,
holes bored into the
walls at his command, where he could spy on his harem women at their baths, in
the sanctity of their chambers, and seek his own private pleasure.

"Kassandra," he whispered, rolling her name
upon his tongue like honey. Yes, she would be a most welcome diversion from the
trying weeks to come.

Chapter 38

Stefan shielded his eyes from the late afternoon sun, his
narrowed gaze sweeping the wide perimeter of the Imperial camp. Prince Eugene
had picked their strategic position carefully, the camp stretching out across
the barren plain lying just south of Belgrade, along the Sava River, which
intersected with the Danube. Both rivers had been closed off to all water
traffic since the siege had begun more than seven weeks ago, cutting off any
possibility that food, ammunition, or fresh water would reach either the city
or the fortress overlooking it. Yet still the siege dragged on, fully a month
longer than Prince Eugene and his commanders had anticipated.

They had already surmised Mustapha Pasha and his
Janissary garrison knew well in advance of their plan to attack Belgrade. No
doubt the work of a well informed spy, Stefan considered grimly. Traitor! May
he rot in hell!

The Turks had obviously prepared for a lengthy siege.
It seemed their supply of ammunition was inexhaustible. A steady barrage of
fire from the cannons surrounding the fortress had prevented the Imperial army
from drawing any closer, virtually holding them hostage on the banks of the
Sava. Time was slipping away, lives were being lost, and still they could get
no closer to the fortress, their every attempt to storm the city thwarted by
the deadly fire.

Already the first week of August had come and gone, and
here they sat under the vicious sun baking in heat that had dropped many a man.
Now, to compound their desperate situation, Halil Pasha had arrived a few days
ago from Constantinople, come to rescue the garrison from the Imperialists. He
had brought with him a field army twice the size of their own, setting up his
colorful tents on a high plateau to the east of the city. His artillery had
soon joined in the barrage, and Prince Eugene had been forced to move the camp
back several hundred feet to escape the worst of this new threat.

"Damn!" Stefan cursed, raging at his feelings
of impotence. Before Halil Pasha had marched upon Belgrade, he and his cavalry
had managed to make some successful forays near the city under cover of
darkness, overtaking a few outlying regiments of Janissaries camped on the
other side of the Sava. But these efforts had brought them no closer to their
goal of capturing the fortress, a prospect that seemed more remote with each passing
day. Something had to be done, and soon, or the Imperial army would find itself
retreating toward Vienna in defeat.

Stefan wheeled around suddenly to face the small group
of officers standing just to his left. "See that the men are prepared to
ride out again this evening across the Sava," he barked, taking them
wholly by surprise. "I'll not sit by while these Turks gloat around their
fires wondering what became of their fierce enemy."

"Yes, Commander!" they answered as if with
one voice, exchanging shaken looks as Stefan stormed into his tent. Each man
hurried off in a different direction to do his bidding, wondering what had
happened to the stoic commander they knew from previous campaigns.

Stefan strode over to his cot and sat down heavily,
running his hand through his sweat-soaked hair. The shadowed coolness of the
tent soothed his temper somewhat and he began to think more rationally. He knew
he couldn't send his men out without express orders from Prince Eugene, orders
he had been denied since the arrival of Halil Pasha's forces. If there was to
be an attack, it must be a concerted one,
infantry
and
cavalry combined to break the Ottoman lines.

What was happening to him? Stefan wondered. Yet even as
he asked himself, he knew the answer. He had not been the same since
Kassandra's disappearance. He had become relentless, like a man possessed,
driving his men as hard as he drove himself.

"No, she is not dead! She cannot be dead!"
Stefan whispered passionately, rising from the cot to pace about the tent. They
had found no body, no clothing, nothing of Kassandra's.

The last letter he had received from Isabel, written
only three weeks ago, had stated as much. It had been delivered by swift
courier along with the rest of the post for Prince Eugene. Trembling, Stefan
had held it in his hand, until at last he had ripped it
open
,
reading desperately, his heart in his throat. After another exhaustive search,
nothing had been found. And until that day—God help him if it ever came!—he
would not believe that Kassandra was dead.

Stefan sat down on the wooden chair set near the cot,
his arms resting on his elbows, his head in his hands. He had never felt so
desolate, so haunted, in all his life, hardly the trait a soldier would wish
for in his commander. Perhaps he should relinquish his leadership, rather than
endanger the lives of his men from lack of good judgment

"Commander von Furstenberg!"

Stefan started, looking up at the young lieutenant
standing at the entrance to his tent.

"Yes?"

"Prince Eugene has called a council of war,
Commander. You are requested to come to his tent at sundown. The general also
requests you command your men to begin preparations for battle." Then he
was gone, the flap falling back into place.

A council of war. Prepare for battle. Those were the
words he had been waiting to hear for weeks . . .

Studied excitement gripped Stefan, clearing his mind of
any self-doubt. Years of battle-honed instinct took over, racing through his
blood, his emotions receding into the background. He knew they would assail him
again in a quiet moment—when he slept, when he dreamed of her—but for now,
there was much to be done.

Stefan strode from his tent, into the receding light of
the afternoon. He had not forgotten her. The vivid pain was still there, only
suppressed for a time in the face of what he was trained to do.

***

Halil Pasha waved his hand irritably, silencing the
loud bickering among his assembled generals. His piercing black eyes settled on
one after the other, the expression on his narrow, olive-skinned face brooking
no argument.

"The Imperialists are cowards," he murmured
in a low, commanding voice. "They would sooner retreat than attack. It is
clear they have felt the strength of our superior numbers, striking cold fear
into their hearts. We shall see them tear down their camp within the week, and
set out for the safety of Vienna."

"But that Savoyard, Prince Eugene, is
unpredictable,
Your
Grace," one of the generals
protested weakly in the face of such firm resolve. He looked nervously at his
peers, then back at Halil. "We cannot forget Peterwardein, or Temesvar,
last summer—"

"Enough!" Halil rose from his cross-legged
position upon the carpeted floor to stand in their midst. "There shall be
no more discussion, no argument. It has been decided. We shall continue the
heavy bombardment, deterring any movement on their part toward the fortress. We
have nothing to fear from these infidels. It has been read thus in the
astrological omens, and so it shall be done. Belgrade is ours, and shall remain
so."

He turned his back on them and strode to where a slave
was
kneeling,
head bent, eyes downcast, holding up a
silver bowl of cool water. Dipping his hands, he washed them, a signal to his
generals that their war council was at an end. One by one they rose, bowing at
the waist,
then
left the ornate tent, their flowing
caftans rustling.

Halil dried his hands on a soft linen towel offered to
him by another slave, then tossed it upon the floor. It was quickly retrieved,
and the two slaves crept silently away.

"Send in the spy," Halil commanded to his
ever-present Chief Eunuch, a black man towering well over six feet tall and of
immense girth, who had been in charge of his harem for many years. Even in war,
a powerful man traveled with his wives, his concubines. The sensory pleasures
of life could not be denied because of conflict.

"Yes, Sire," the Chief Eunuch murmured in his
strange half-tenor voice, his slippered feet belying his bulk as he padded
across the thick silk carpets to the guarded entrance to the tent. Curved
scimitars were drawn aside, allowing him to pass.

Halil settled himself on a raised sofa, arranging the
brocaded pillows comfortably behind his back. He waited, a soft breeze swirling
from waving goose feather fans. A quizzical smile lit his full lips as he
remembered Count Frederick's words of a few days ago: "
It is only my wish to remind you, Sire, of a
special gift I have brought for you from Vienna
."

"Ah, the Englishwoman," Halil answered
softly, trying to conjure an image of her in his mind.

Count Frederick had first mentioned her when he had
arrived in Constantinople. How had he described her? Oh, yes. He had said she
was very beautiful, like a white goddess, with skin of finest cream, hair the
color of fire, and eyes of purest amethyst, like crystalline violet pools.

Virgin?
he
had inquired. No,
Sire, not a virgin. But Halil had only shrugged. It was no matter to him.
Virgins could be difficult, prone to shedding tears. They brought him little
pleasure. It was a woman skilled at lovemaking who stirred his blood.

"I have not forgotten her, Count Frederick,"
he had continued, his interest piqued. But their conversation had been
interrupted by one of his generals, and he had not thought of her again. Until
now.

Perhaps it was time he summoned this "goddess"
from the fortress, he mused. He certainly felt the need of some diversion to
break the monotony of this campaign. It was more of a stalemate, until the
Imperialists turned and fled, he thought confidently, rubbing his pointed
beard, black as jet. Yes, a sensuous diversion, an Englishwoman, no less! His
first . . .

"Count Frederick Althann, Your Grace," the
Chief Eunuch announced, gliding back to stand near the tented wall. He wrapped
his thick arms about his barrel chest, a look of watchful attention on his
broad face, all-seeing, all-hearing, ready to serve his master with his very
life if need be.

Halil looked up, shrewdly studying the tall blond man
as he entered. He hated spies. They were vermin, maggots, feeding upon deceit
and avarice, the glint of gold reflected in their eyes. But they were a
necessary evil, and this one had virtually insured him a victory over the hated
Austrians, with his timely information. Now Count Frederick had a gift for him
as well. Truly he was a man who knew how to please his benefactors.

"
Your
Grace,"
Frederick said, bowing low, his hand to his chest.

"I wish to see this gift you have spoken so much
about," Halil began, before Frederick had even straightened.

Frederick inhaled softly. "As it pleases you,
Your
Grace." So the grand vizier had finally voiced a
summons, he thought fleetingly. He had begun to wonder if Kassandra might end
up with that disgusting pig, Mustapha, after all. At least with this man her
worth would be truly recognized and she would be treated accordingly, some
small consolation for the treachery he had inflicted upon her.

"Take several soldiers with you and travel with
great caution," Halil ordered. "I will not have you, or your gift,
falling into the hands of the infidels." He dismissed him with a curt nod.
"Now go."

Frederick winced as he turned and strode from the tent.
She would not fall into Stefan's hands, he amended darkly. There was no chance
of that. The Imperialists had been completely held down at their camp for the
past week, the heavy bombardment discouraging any troop movement, even routine
patrols along the Sava. Besides, to reach the secret entrance at the base of
the fortress he and Kassandra would be skirting the Danube, far from any
Austrian river blockade. He had done it many times already, carrying messages
from Halil to Mustapha.