Adora (35 page)

Five months after Bajazet’s birth, Murad’s seed again took root in the fertile soil of Adora’s womb. And when their son was but two months past his first birthday he was joined in his nursery by twin brothers, Osman and Orkhan. The sultan was jubilant. He had three healthy sons! Surely Allah had showered him with blessings.

Thrice-secure, Adora sought out Ali Yahya and asked to be free from pregnancy for a time. The master of the sultan’s household agreed with the princess that to retain Murad’s interest now she must again become more the lover and less the mother. As her sons were all outrageously strong and healthy, he saw no reason for her to bear children until she wanted to.

To amuse her lord, Adora learned the sensual oriental dances currently being done by a troupe of Egyptian dancers who were performing in the city. Each day she practiced with her teacher, Leila, a full-breasted, full-hipped woman with almond-shaped gold eyes. After a few weeks, Leila said, “You could earn your living at this, Highness, and have not one, but half a dozen sultans at your feet.”

Theadora laughed. “I desire no one but my lord Murad, Leila. For him alone will I dance.”

“He should be honored, Highness, for never have I seen anyone perform with such grace, such passion. How well you feel the music! Dance for him tomorrow as you have danced today and it is he who will be
your
slave! You will rouse his desire as no woman ever has! I can teach you no more.”

Theadora was pleased. On the morrow Murad would return from two months at the front, and Adora had planned his homecoming in meticulous detail. When he arrived at the nearly completed Island Serai she greeted him lovingly, her three sons about her like chicks about a hen, the twins just barely able to stand. This reminded him, should he chance to have forgotten, of her position in his life.

The children were taken by their nurses and Adora escorted her lord to his own quarters and helped remove his travel-stained garments. “Your bath awaits you, my lord,” she said. “I have prepared an evening which I hope will please you. I have a small surprise.”

Before he could answer, she was gone. And he found himself in his bath, attended by six of the most exquisite, nubile
young girls he had ever seen, all completely naked. They went calmly about the job of washing and shaving him. He was gently patted dry with fluffy towels and then massaged with sweet oils. His natural lust began to exhibit itself in a delicious tingling. But, before he could take advantage of the delights around him, the skillful fingers of the pretty masseuse put him to sleep.

An hour later he awakened, delightfully refreshed, to find a fully garbed older woman offering him a tiny cup of hot sweet coffee. He gulped it down. Standing up, he was quickly surrounded by slaves who anointed his body with musk and then dressed him in a deep-blue velvet robe embroidered at the hem, wrists, and collar in silver thread, turquoises and pearls. The robe was closed with silver frogs over turquoise buttons. It was lined inside in alternating bands of silk and soft fur. The effect on his naked skin was sensuous and delightful. His slippers were of lambskin, dyed blue to match his robe and lined with lambswool. A gold chain with a jeweled medallion was put over his neck. Several rings—a large baroque pearl, a sapphire, and a turquoise—were slipped on his fingers.

The older woman who had given him the coffee seemed to be supervising, and when he was dressed she said, “If my lord will follow me, his meal and the entertainment await him.”

“Where is the Lady Theadora?”

“She will join you eventually, master. In the meantime she asks that you eat and pleasure yourself as it pleases you, my lord.”

The woman led him into his salon where a low table had been set up. He seated himself amid the brightly colored cushions and was immediately joined by two beautiful girls. One speared raw oysters and placed them in his waiting mouth. The other carefully touched the side of his mouth with a linen napkin, stopping the juices before they ran.

Never had any Ottoman been served in such a luxurious manner. These were Byzantine customs, and Murad decided he
liked them very much. The girls who served him were nude from the waist up, and their pink silk trousers were so sheer that nothing was left to imagination. Both were blue-eyed blondes. Their hair had been braided into single thick braids, their heads topped with thin gold chains. A single teardrop pearl lay in the center of each of their foreheads.

A tass kebab followed the oysters: tender chunks of baby lamb with cooked onion and love apples on a bed of rice pilaf. Now the other girl fed him while the first girl plied the napkin. She mopped the juices of the meal up with pieces of soft, flat bread which she then fed him. Honeyed yogurt and coffee ended his meal. Murad was enjoying himself hugely. He was clean, warm, relaxed, and well fed. He was beginning to feel quite mellow.

The dishes were cleared away and the entertainment began. Sprawled back amid the pillows, each arm cradling a girl, he chuckled as a group of small dogs was put through their paces by their elderly trainer. He very much enjoyed the three female jugglers who also did acrobatics.

Then, from behind a carved screen, music began. Six maidens in red and gold skirts and blouses began to dance for him.

They danced well, but suddenly the tempo of the music shifted subtly and the six girls disappeared. One veiled dancer appeared, swathed in black, silver, and gold silks. She clicked her brass finger tals in a challenge to the hidden musicians. Slowly and sensually, the woman’s body weaved to the music. The sultan realized, as the woman discarded the first silk, that she was about to do the dance of the veils.

The first veil had covered her hair which was in itself a long, dark, shining veil. The second and third veils bared her back and then her breasts. Snowy, coral-tipped cones of firm flesh moved provocatively as she danced.

The sultan’s breath caught in his throat as he watched the twin temptations and he leaned forward, completely unaware
that his hands were hungrily kneading a breast belonging to each of his companions. As the dancer excited him further he felt his manhood rising hard and throbbing beneath his luxurious robe. He cruelly pinched the nipples of the breasts, but the young slavegirls dared not cry out for fear of displeasing their master.

The music became more insinuating, and the dancer writhed her beautiful body in an obvious imitation of aroused passion. Beneath the shimmering veils that were falling one by one, her legs were becoming visible.

As his desire mounted, he wondered who she was and why she had never danced for him before. She must be new in the harem. Was the face as fair as the body? Releasing his two companions from his cruel grasp and sitting cross-legged, he allowed his hunger to take complete possession of him. The two maidens were dismissed with a wave of his hand, and he was alone with the mysterious dancer.

The music began to mount in intensity. The dancer whirled, the remaining silks billowing out like the petals of a flower about its stem. The woman moved nearer, teasingly brushing him with the nipples of her full breasts. He could feel the heat of her lovely body, and smell her scent. It was hauntingly familiar. Her eyes above the black veil glittered like jewels in the flickering lamplight and he reached for her. With a low laugh, she eluded him.

His black eyes narrowed dangerously, but then his mouth twisted in a smile. He would let her finish her performance. But then… The woman’s lush body weaved the taunting final movements of the dance. Suddenly all the remaining veils but the one that hid her face were gone. She stood proudly naked above him for a moment before sinking to the floor in a gesture of submission.

He rose, his whole body throbbing with lust. Walking over to the dancer, he raised her and tore the dark veil from her face.

“Adora!” His ragged voice was incredulous.

“Did I please you, my lord?”

He pushed her to the cushions and, tearing his robe open, flung himself on her. Her warm hands caught at his aching organ, and guided it home. He drove deep, his hands beneath her buttocks, kneading them. “Bitch! Sweet! Tempting! Little! Bitch!” he murmured, thrusting into her again and again.

She opened herself wide to him, reveling in the bigness, the hardness, of him. She had been too long without him, and if he were hungry for her, she easily matched his passion. From deep within her she felt the cry well up and, sobbing his name, she yielded herself totally.

Aware of her surrender but completely lost in the warmth and sweetness of her, he groaned his delight and set about to reach his peak. They were both so keyed-up that the blazing climax left them drained and shaken.

They lay, exhausted, breathing heavily. Finally Murad managed to find his voice. “Woman!” he said fiercely, “You are a never ending source of wonder to me. Is there no end to your variety, Adora? When, in Allah’s name, did you learn to dance like that?”

She laughed shakily. “There has been a troupe of Egyptian dancers in the city for some weeks now. The lead dancer, Leila, taught me here in the palace. She says I have a natural talent. Did I truly please you, my lord?”

“Allah! Could you not tell?”

“Do you ravish all the dancers who please you so?” she teased.

“No woman ever danced for me as you have, beloved. I will allow you to dance for no one else. Not even the most honored guests will ever see you perform.” He drew her into his arms and kissed her, his tongue gently thrusting between her teeth to caress, to rouse, to stoke the fires of her passion. She sighed deeply and returned the kiss, her mouth soft and yielding, provocatively sucking on his tongue.

When at last they breathlessly ceased their kissing, he murmured into her little ear, “There is no one like you in the world, Adora. You are unique among women, a priceless jewel among the many grains of worthless sand. The others I desire occasionally, for a man requires variety. But I love you, my darling. I must never be without you.”

She was trembling with joy, though she hid it from him. He must never know how vital he was to her very existence. She now loved him as she had never loved any man, even her beloved Alexander. But he must never know, lest he use that special power to control her. She rose from the tumbled pillows and held out her hand to him. “Come to bed, my lord,” she said softly. “Come to my couch, my love. The night is young.”

His dark eyes burning like live coals, he swept her up into his arms, burying his hot face in the scented tangle of her silken hair. “Woman!” he whispered huskily. He carried her through the short hallway that connected their courts. “Woman! The memory of this night will haunt me if I live to one hundred years!”

Chapter Twenty

Helena, empress of Byzantium, looked with hidden glee at the woman before her. The creature was short with large, pendulous breasts. Helena had secretly observed her in the bath and knew that beneath the rich robes were heavy thighs, a sagging belly, and enormous hips. Both the woman’s very white skin, and her dull, brown hair were coarse. And though her eyes were a rather fine topaz color they were made small and piglike by her plump cheeks which had been reddened in an attempt at youthful color. She was gowned in purple brocade, trimmed with brown martin fur at the neck and sleeves. The sleeves were slashed and cloth of gold showed through.

She was Mara, daughter of a Greek priest named Sergius. Mara was the mother of Murad’s first son, Cuntuz. It had taken Helena some time to trace Mara for, though she was the daughter of a holy man, she was also a whore—by nature and by profession. Murad had not been her first lover, though she had always maintained that he was the father of her son.

Forced from her village on the Gallipoli peninsula by her angry parents, she had become a camp follower of the Turkish army, servicing any man who would pay the price. Her child had remained with his grandparents who, though embarrassed by their daughter’s morals, housed her child.

Cuntuz had been continually reminded of his mother’s evil ways, of his wicked infidel father, and of his own bastardy. The children of the village had been merciless. His grandparents, no more thoughtful than others, were forever telling him how lucky he was to have their charity. He was forced to spend a great deal of time in the church praying that
God would overlook the shame of his very existence, would burn his vile parents in eternal hellfire, and would bless his wonderful grandparents who had taken him into their home.

Cuntuz was now twelve and a half. Suddenly, his mother—richly dressed and with a full purse—appeared to claim him. He could remember seeing her only three times in his life, the last time four years ago. He barely knew her, and he didn’t like her. But faced with the choice of remaining with his carping grandparents who pleaded with him to remember his immortal soul and remain with them, or go with his mother who promised him that he would be a prince, the choice was easy. It was made especially easy, when his mother, her eyes knowing, said slyly, “Soon you will be a man, my son, and I will see that you have many fine girls to satisfy you.” He had lately felt urges and longings strange to him and had taken to spying on the village maidens when they bathed in a nearby stream.

He and his mother had gone to Constantinople where they remained for several months in a small palace, guests of the empress. Cuntuz had been coached in elementary manners, the rough, country edge worn off his tongue by a diction teacher. And he had made a friend, the first he had ever had. This was Prince Andronicus, the empress’s oldest son, fifteen.

The boys became inseparable, much to the irritation of the empress, who was forced to grit her teeth and accept the situation. Only the fact that she would soon be sending Cuntuz and his mother to his father in Adrianople prevented Helena from taking firmer action. She did not feel that Cuntuz was a fit companion for her son.

Andronicus was very much like Cuntuz. Being older, and having been brought up in the city, Andronicus had had better opportunities to develop the unpleasant side of his nature. He was nothing like his handsome and charming younger brother, Manuel, who made friends easily. Andronicus had been virtually friendless. The open admiration of the new boy won him over.