“I must take them all, madame. The emperor’s orders made no distinctions.”
Helena stared, and her china-blue eyes widened further to see her silver and gold plate and her vessels being carried away. The captain looked away, embarrassed.
“Fetch General Dukas,” she ordered one of her maids.
The captain barred the woman’s way. “No one will be allowed to leave or enter this apartment without the emperor’s written permission,” he said. “You are under house arrest, madame.”
“How are we to get food?” Helena asked with a calm she was far from feeling.
“It will be brought to you twice daily, madame.” Then, as if it was an afterthought, he said, “I am sorry, madame.” And signaling his men to gather up the empress’s property, he left.
The evening meal turned out to be a disgusting mess of peas, beans, and lentils, a loaf of coarse, brown bread, and a pitcher of inferior wine. Helena and her servants looked at the tray with disgust. There was not enough food to feed more than three people, and the empress had fourteen servants. Angrily she shoved the tray over, and her little dogs rushed to lap up the mess. Within minutes they were all dead.
“The ungrateful bastard,” the empress said furiously. Then she announced, “All but two of you will have to go. The fairest way to decide will be to draw lots.”
“Sara and I will stay, my lady,” said her tiring woman, Irene. “It is our right, as we have been with you the longest.”
“Use the secret passage,” said Helena. “I have nothing left with which to bribe the guards in any case. That way they will not know you are gone. One of you can bring us food and drink daily.”
“Come with us, madame,” begged her chief eunuch.
“And leave my son and his friends in complete control of the palace? Never! But you, Constans, go to Basil Phocas and tell him what has happened here. Tell him-tell him-that I have made a mistake in judgement.”
The empress’ servants escaped safely, and several days later Basil Phocas arrived via the secret passage. Sara and Irene kept watch while Helena and her former lover talked.
“What exactly do you want me to do?” asked the banker.
“John and Manuel must be restored. Andronicus is utterly impossible.”
“It will take some time, my dear.”
“But it can be done?”
“I believe so.”
“Then see to it! I cannot stay penned up here forever.”
The banker smiled and departed. The empress, imprisoned in her own rooms, waited and waited. And waited. After many months word was smuggled into her that her husband and younger son had escaped and were safe in Bursa with Sultan Murad.
Murad was now confident that he could continue to manipulate both sides in the Paleaologi’s dynastic struggles. Andronicus was dethroned, pardoned, and sent to his brother’s old city of Salonika to be governor. John and Manuel were restored to Constantinople as co-emperors. The price was high. A larger annual cash tribute, a substantial contingent of Byzantine soldiers to serve in the Ottoman’s army, and the city of Philadelphia. Philadelphia had been the last remaining bastion of Byzantium in Asia Minor.
The Philadelphians objected to being ceded to the Ottoman empire. Thus Adora had her first chance to go on campaign. In this instance, Murad would lead his armies personally. Fighting in the ranks of the Ottoman army were the two Byzantine co-emperors who now openly admitted to ruling only by the grace and favor of the Turkish sultan.
The Ottoman army marched from Bursa in early spring, crossing mountains whose tops were still covered with snow. Adora did not intend being shaken to death in a heaving palanquin, so she devised a costume that was both practical and modest. Murad at first was offended at the thought of his wife riding astride. He changed his mind when she modeled her costume for him.
It was all white and consisted of wide light wool pantaloons, a high necked, long-sleeved silk shirt which was tight at the wrists, a silk sash at the waist, and a fur-lined white wool cape with a gold and turquoise buckle. She wore high boots of Cordoba leather with a low heel, and matching warm brown riding gloves. There was also a small turban with long side drapes in the manner of the tribesmen of the steppe. This could cover her face, should she choose to veil herself.
“Do you approve, my lord?” She pirouetted for him. She was so excited, so gay with the prospect of accompanying him.
He couldn’t resist smiling back at her, and he did approve her choice of clothing for her public appearance. He had never, in fact, seen her so well clothed. There was barely an inch of skin showing. Had she been younger he would not have allowed it, but maturity had given her a youthful dignity. There would be no familiarity among his men.
“I do approve, my dove. You have, as always, been clever in your choice of clothing. I understand from Ali Yahya that you have also been learning to ride. I have a surprise for you. Come!” And he led her to the windows overlooking the courtyard.
There, standing quietly with its groom, was a coal black palfrey, caparisoned with an azure and silver silken throw, and a saddle and bridle. Adora gave a squeal of excitement. “Is she mine? Oh, Murad! She is beautiful! What is her name?”
“She is called Wind Song. If I had known that such a simple gift would please you so, I could have saved a fortune in jewels all these years.”
She turned, and the sunlight lit one side of her face. He caught his breath at her beauty, astounded at how lovely she still was. Or was it because he loved her so much? Her arms slid around his neck, and standing on her toes, she kissed him.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said simply. He felt an ache in his throat he couldn’t explain.
When they rode out from Bursa, Adora rode by his side. Wind Song matched the elegant prancing steps of Murad’s great white Arabian stallion, Ivory. It was not unusual for a sultan’s wife to accompany her lord on campaign, but it was unusual for her to ride with him. The effect of Adora’s unorthodox behavior was favorable. The Ottoman troops were impressed that Prince Bajazet’s mother rode with them. It enhanced the heir’s position greatly.
When they reached Philadelphia, she watched the battle from a hillside opposite the town’s main gates. By rights the city now belonged to Murad. But the population had been stirred up by its governor, who feared to lose his place, and by its clergy, who hated the sultan. The people refused to accept the new overlord.
The emperor John entered the city under a flag of truce and pleaded with the inhabitants to accept their new master. If they accepted Murad willingly, there would be no destruction. Philadelphians would face only what other Christian inhabitants of the Ottoman Empire faced. They would pay a yearly head tax, and their sons between the ages of six and twelve would be eligible for a draft into the Corps of Janissaries. Other than that their lives would go on as before. They might, of course, convert to Islam in which case they would escape the head tax and the Janissaries.
The governor and the clergy were insulting when John suggested that they played lightly with the lives of Philadelphia’s citizens. “You cannot hope to win,” he pleaded. “You are surrounded by Islam. Have you told the people the truth, or have you filled them full of foolishness about resisting the infidel? Murad is generous, but he did not march all the way from Bursa to be denied. He will take the city.”
“Then it will be over our dead bodies,” pronounced the governor pompously.
“I never knew a governor to lead an army or to die in the fighting,” said the emperor scathingly. “Be well advised that when the sultan enters the city I will seek you out myself.”
“Our people will be martyrs in God’s holy war against the infidel,” intoned the city’s patriarch.
The emperor looked on the priest pityingly. “My poor people will suffer fire and the sword because of your vanity, Father. I do not think God will reward you for all the souls who will be on your conscience when this battle is over.”
But they would not listen. They hustled him out of the city before he could talk to the populace. Murad was disappointed. He would have preferred a peaceful entry. Now Philadelphia must be made an example, so that other cities would think twice before resisting the Ottoman.
In less than a week Philadelphia fell to Murad. The Sultan’s soldiers, both Christian and Muslim, were allowed the traditional three days of pillage before order was restored.
