The boy was fair with enormous dark-blue eyes and a headful of tight, damp, black curls. He was long, with big hands and feet, and his lungs were quite powerful. A slavewoman took the child from Fatima and laying it gently on a table cleaned the birthing blood from it with a soft cotton cloth and warm olive oil. This done, the baby was tightly swaddled and wrapped in a satin quilt.
Theadora had already delivered the afterbirth. Having examined, cleaned, and packed her patient’s female area, Fatima allowed Adora to be stripped of her soaking garment and sponged with warm, scented water before being toweled dry. She was then redressed in a quilted garnet-red robe and tucked into her bed. Proudly Iris brushed her mistress’s long dark hair until it glistened.
The women of the harem clustered excitedly about the foot of Adora’s bed. The sultan was coming! Here was a chance, thought the foolish younger maidens, to be noticed by the master. The more experienced women resigned themselves to being ignored. Adora and her son were powerful competition. But…another time…another place…they would be noticed.
They fell to their knees, heads touching the floor, as the sultan swept into the room. So filled were his eyes with Adora and the child she cradled, that he did not even see them. His deep voice vibrated with emotion in the hushed quiet of the room.
“Show me the child, Adora.”
She carefully unwrapped the baby’s blanket and handed him the swaddled infant. For a long moment he looked down at the child who, strangely quiet, looked back with unblinking eyes. Then a wide smile split Murad’s face. He laughed aloud. “This is indeed my son! I, Murad, son of Orkhan, recognize this child as my son and my heir. Here is your next sultan!”
“So be it! We hear and obey,” came the murmuring voices. Then, rising as one, the harem women filed from the room. Iris quickly drew up a chair for the sultan. Taking the infant from its mother, she also left.
For a moment they looked long at each other. Then he caught her hands and, looking deep into her eyes, said, “Thank you, Adora. Thank you for my first son.”
“I have only done my proper duty by you, my lord,” she answered mischievously.
His laughter had a warm sound to it. “Fresh from childbirth, and yet still impudent. Will it always be so between us, Adora?”
“Would you have me any other way, my lord?” she countered.
“No, my love, I would not,” he admitted. “Never become as the other women of my harem. Then you would bore me.”
“Never fear, my Murad. I may do many things in my lifetime, but one thing I shall never do is bore you.” And then before her words could register fully, she quickly asked, “And does your son please you, my lord? He is a fine, strong boy.”
“He pleases me beyond measure, and I have already chosen a name for him. I hope it will please you. I intend calling him Bajazet after our great general.”
“The one who beat my Byzantine ancestors so badly in battle?” Her voice was shaking with laughter as he nodded. “God in heaven, Murad, how you insult my family! John, of course, will see the humor in it. No one else will.”
“You do,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” she answered. “I do see the humor in it. I also see the implied threat. But I know that my city’s future lies with the Ottomans, not the Greeks. Since the city must eventually fall, I would just as soon it fell to you, or to our son whom I will teach to love and respect what is good in both cultures.”
His hand cupped her chin and he leaned over and gently brushed her lips. “You are wise beyond your years, my dove. How fortunate it was that I was passing that convent orchard those many years ago.”
She smiled a smile of incredible sweetness. “I love you, my lord Murad.”
“Yet you still chafe, my pet, do you not?”
She sighed deeply. “I cannot help it. It is my nature. It is simply not enough for me to be Murad’s favorite and Bajazet’s mother. If history remembers me, that is how they will remember me. But what it is I do want, even I do not know.”
He stood up and laughed. “At least you are honest, my Adora.” Then be bent and kissed her lightly. “Get some rest, my beloved. It cannot have been easy work giving birth to my son. You must be exhausted.”
She caught at the sleeve of his brocade robe. “Give me a proper kiss before you leave me, my love. I will not shatter now if you kiss me.”
He chuckled, pleased. “So you are eager for my kisses, eh? I never thought to hear you admit that.” He sat on the edge of the bed and drew her into the warm loving half-circle of his arm. Then his mouth closed over hers, and the depth and passion of his kiss left her breathless and trembling. His free hand slipped past the opening of her robe to cup a plump breast. He teasingly rubbed the nipple hard with his thumb. His voice was husky as he said, “In six weeks you will be purified. See the boy has a wet nurse by then. I will not share you, not even with my son.” Their eyes met briefly, and she felt a stab of desire race through her. She wondered at the attraction between them. She yearned for him but an hour past childbirth!
He stood suddenly and left the room. Adora lay back on her pillows. She was not one bit sleepy yet. She was far too excited for sleep. She had done it! She had given Murad his first son! She would give him other sons too, for she would have no others usurping her position. Legally she was his slave, but that mattered not. Her position now was strong. And the best part of all was that he still wanted her.
The child was beautiful with his dark hair and blue eyes, though she was sure the eyes would soon become black like his father’s. Then suddenly she thought of Alexander, and of their golden child. The tears slid down her cheeks. Why? Why should she think of him now after all these months? She could only suppose that the shock of his death followed so quickly by her sister’s treachery was finally catching up with her. She let herself cry until she could cry no more. It was, she knew, better that way.
She relaxed and finally slept, secure in her position with Murad, secure in her motherhood.
Chapter Nineteen
When the emperor John heard what his nephew had been named he saw, as Adora had predicted, the humor of it. He laughed. His wife, Helena, was not amused.
“She deliberately insults us, and you laugh!” she stormed at her husband.
“You can hardly expect her to have any love for Byzantium, my dear,” observed the emperor dryly.
“She was born here! She is a daughter of one of Byzantium’s oldest families! She is my sister! She was married to the Despot of Mesembria!”
“Whom you poisoned, my dear. After that you sold its queen, your own sister, into slavery.”
The empress looked frightened. “How do you know that? You cannot prove such terrible charges!”
John Paleaologi laughed again. “I do not have to prove them, my dear. When poor Julian Tzimisces realized whom his poison had slain he came to me and confessed all. He was afraid you might be trying to kill me also.”
Helena’s eyes were wide with fear. “Why have you said nothing to me before?” she asked. “Why have you not punished me?”
“And let Thea know how Alexander died? Let her know that her own sister killed the man she loved? No, Helena, you have hurt her enough. Understand, however, that should she ever find out the full extent of your cruelty, I will kill you. I will kill you myself and take pleasure in doing it.” He reached out and caressed her neck gently, sensually. Helena shivered. “Thea has made her peace with Murad,” continued the emperor. “She is the sultan’s wife and the mother of his only son.”