He smiled. “I shall not be idle, my dove. Thamar’s father grows old. I think before his sons get any ideas about ruling and join the Pan-Serbian alliance, I must relieve Ivan of his territory.”
At the first sign of Ottoman troops Tsar Ivan withdrew to his castle-fortress on the Danube and sued for peace. Then, suddenly, he changed his mind and attempted a last, desperate resistance. One of his two sons died in the fighting. The survivor was strangled by Janissaries at the sultan’s victory. Murad was now content to leave his father-in-law as his governor in the new territory. Ivan was a broken man, and in no position to aid his fellow Slavs in their new alliance.
Thamar, wild with grief over her brothers’ deaths, privately vowed vengeance on Murad. Over the last few years the eunuch, Demetrios, had held her complete confidence. But now she shut even him out of her thoughts. Demetrios worried. Though he reported his mistress’s actions to Ali Yahya, he loved the Bulgarian princess greatly. She was, he knew, her own worst enemy. On several occasions he had stepped in just in time to prevent her from destroying herself in some futile plot.
Thamar, with the slyness of the half-mad, managed to enter into another secret correspondence. This time it was with her uncle, Prince Lazar, head of the Pan-Serbian Alliance. The letters flew between them. Murad and Bajazet would die, assassinated by some means. Prince Yakub was to be the next sultan. Her son would, Thamar promised, be converted to Christianity. He would lead his people out of darkness and into the true faith. Islam would soon be wiped out.
The time, of course, was not right yet, Prince Lazar wrote to his demented niece. He would tell her when it was. Lazar was pleased by this chink in the sultan’s camp. He wanted the deaths of the sultan and both his sons. Leaderless, the Ottomans could be destroyed. Thamar’s madness was the key to success here. Yes, Lazar was delighted.
Thamar hugged her secret to herself, occasionally breaking into a wild laughter that frightened her slaves. Frantic, knowing that something was seriously wrong, Demetrios tried to find out what she hid. He applied to Ali Yahya for aid, but the chief eunuch was busy making preparations for Adora to accompany Murad on his campaign against the Pan-Serbian Alliance.
“Your mistress is merely suffering shock over her brothers’ deaths,” he told the anxious Demetrios.
“No! No! It is more than simply her old bitterness. She is plotting something, but I cannot find out what. She says her actions will elevate her to sainthood, and be the ruin of Islam.”
Ali Yahya made an impatient noise. “
Several weeks later the armies of the Pan-Serbian Alliance faced the sultan’s armies across a desolate mountain field known as the Plain of the Blackbirds. Above the tents at the western end flew the flags of Serbia, Bosnia, Albania, Hungary, Herzegovina, and Wallachia. Flags of the Papacy and of the Orthodox Churches could also be seen.
At the eastern end flew the flags of the Ottoman sultan. The sultan was outnumbered, but the morale and confidence of his men were great. Murad was so sure of victory that he gave orders that no castles, cities, or villages in the territory be destroyed. It was a rich land he was fighting over, and it was not in his interest to ravage it.
Hearing of this Prince Lazar felt his confidence draining away. He began to panic. Why, he asked himself, did Murad feel so confident when he was so badly outnumbered? There was treachery within his own camp! He sensed it. But who would betray him? His glance fell upon one of his sons-in-law, Milosh Obravitch, who had recently criticized him. Of course!
“Traitor!” Lazar shouted at the startled young man. “It is you who has betrayed us!”
Amazed, Milosh Obravitch protested his innocence. He was hustled out of Prince Lazar’s tent by his brother-in- law, Vuk Brankovitch. Brankovitch’s heart was pounding. He had come as close to fainting a few minutes back as ever in his life. When Lazar had shouted “traitor”, he had thought his game was up, but had kept his calm long enough to realize it was the hapless Milosh who was being accused. Brankovitch rushed Milosh from the tent and Lazar’s wrath before his denials could be believed. He did not want Lazar turning his suspicions elsewhere. For Brankovitch knew that tomorrow, when the battle began, he would be withdrawing his twelve thousand men from the fighting, mortally weakening the Pan-Serbian Alliance.
Vuk Brankovitch did not believe that the Pan-Serbian Alliance would prevail over the Ottoman Turks. After several years of marriage and eight daughters, Brankovitch finally had a healthy, infant son. The prearranged withdrawal of his troops would guarantee that his lands would remain his. Thus, they would pass to his son.
In the Ottoman camp the sultan worried, for the wind was blowing strongly from the west. Come morning, his troops would be at a disadvantage, fighting with dust in their eyes. He must pray to Allah for a change in the wind.
Murad sat cross-legged in his luxurious tent, eating supper with his two sons. Behind them Adora directed the slaves and nibbled a bit when she could. Three musicians played quietly. When the meal had been cleared away, the sultan motioned to his favorite wife to sit with him. Placing two small bowls of sugared almonds on nearby tables she settled herself by his side to watch the dancing.
His arm slid around her, and he leaned over to kiss her. “Your mother,” he told Bajazet and Yakub, “used to dance for me alone.” He chuckled. “She was extremely skillful, as I remember.”
Adora laughed. “I am surprised you do remember, my lord, since you rarely allowed me to finish a dance.”
“Do you still dance for Father?” Bajazet enquired politely.
“Occasionally,” she answered, and laughed at his surprised look.
Murad was slightly disgruntled. “If you would ask my harem,” growled Murad to Bajazet, “you would find out that I am not quite dead, boy!”
“Peace, my lords,” Adora interposed between them. “Bajazet, Yakub, see that your troops are comfortable for the night, and pray with them for Allah’s blessing on us. Your father and I bid you both a good night.”
The two princes rose, kissed her, bid their father a good evening, and left the tent. She dismissed the musicians and the two dancers. “Would you be alone, my lord?”
“For now, my dove. Go to our bed. I will join you later.”
She left. For a while Murad sat in silence listening to the wind howling about the tent. The lamps flickered eerily. The camp was very quiet but for that wind. He
Slowly Murad rose and moved to his prayer rug. Kneeling, he touched his forehead to the ground three times. He prayed for heaven’s protection of his cause and for all the men who made up his army whether they were Christian or Muslim. He prayed that those of his men who would die tomorrow would die in the true faith of Islam. Murad then stood up and joined his wife.
She awaited him with a steaming wooden bathtub. Swiftly disrobing him, she helped him into the hot water and gently bathed him. Then she wrapped him in a large, warm towel. When he was dry, she slipped a silk robe on him.
Murad stretched out on their bed and gave himself over to the pleasure of watching her as she bathed. He marveled at the firm beauty of her body. As he gazed at his beloved Adora he felt his need for her growing, though he seldom indulged in sexual games before a battle.
Clean and dry, she reached for her robe. “Don’t!” he said.
“As my lord wishes,” she answered and lay down, naked, next to him.
“Why is it woman, that you still manage to please me?” he muttered, pulling her into his arms.
“Perhaps it is my familiarity.”
“In other words, I am getting old and do not like new experiences,” he teased, nibbling on her plump shoulder.
“We both grow old, my dear lord.”
“Not
And when he finally slept, content, she lay awake keeping watch over him, feeling strangely protective of this man who was her whole life. Only when the sky began to lighten and turn gray with the coming dawn did she fall
