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!”