Stolen Splendor

by Miriam Minger

  Kassandra felt an anguished scream rise up in her throat, stifled only by the filthy gag in her mouth. Deep in her heart, she knew the reason. It was as old as time itself. Jealousy. Sophia loved Stefan . . . and would stop at nothing to have him.

  Had she succeeded? Kassandra wondered wildly, tears stinging her eyes beneath the blindfold. Would Stefan forget her so easily, to find solace in the arms of the woman who had plotted her death? Sophia had been his mistress; he must have some feelings for her. Oh God, please tell her he hadn't forgotten her!

  Kassandra drew in her breath, her roiling thoughts shoved rudely into the recesses of her mind as a moist hand, smelling of sweet perfume, glided across her cheek. A silken garment whispered about her arm and shoulder. Mustapha Pasha! Would this nightmare never end?

  "Is her tongue like a serpent's, sharp and tinged with venom, that you have her mouth bound so?" Mustapha asked, standing in front of Frederick once again. "Are her eyes, like Medusa's, able to turn a man to stone? I think not." He sniffed delicately, lifting his hand to his nose. "She is unclean, but from what I can see, that is her only true fault. Yes?"

  Frederick studied him shrewdly. He nodded. "Yes, Sire, her only fault."

  Mustapha clapped his hands together, and two female slaves appeared as if from nowhere. They prostrated themselves on the floor before him.

  "See that this woman is bathed, her body completely shaved as is our custom, and dress her in something more befitting of her beauty," he commanded. The two women sprang from the floor and gently seized Kassandra's arms, pulling her to her feet. She stood there shakily, voicing a muffled objection, trying futilely to wrench her arms free.

  "She may . . . protest such treatment," Frederick murmured.

  Mustapha chuckled with amusement, his eyes alighting on the flaring red scratches on Frederick's cheeks. "So I see," he commented dryly. He turned to the slaves. "A little opium in a goblet of chilled water or in a bite of baklava," he suggested. They nodded solemnly, their faces expressionless.

  He turned back to Frederick as they hurried her away. "She will give us no trouble." Then he bowed with his hand to his heart. "I am honored, Count Althann, to harbor such a prize for my esteemed cousin, Halil." He straightened, a look of understanding passing between them. Then he gestured to a low table set by a marble fountain, plump brocaded pillows placed around it on the floor. "Come, let us eat. We have much of importance to discuss."

  Frederick followed him to the table, glancing one last time over his shoulder. But Kassandra was gone, the great carved doors leading from the pillared reception hall slamming shut behind her and the two slave women. The fierce guards with flashing scimitars held crosswise against their chests returned to their places on either side of the doors, staring coldly back at him. He turned away, a hard lump in his throat.

  He had sealed her fate. By voicing his intent to Mustapha, it could not be undone. It was sacred, inviolable. Kassandra now belonged to Halil Pasha, her protector . . . her master.

  Frederick sat down at the table across from Mustapha, his appetite no match for the forty elaborate dishes served on plates of gold by silent slaves. The meal dragged on for several hours, punctuated by their talk of war, strategy, when the Imperial army could be expected at the fortified ramparts of Belgrade—most likely within a month's time, mid-June—and how there was no doubt but that Halil's field army would prove victorious, his advantage lying in strength of numbers. The message Hasan was delivering to the Sultan had included information on the probable size of Prince Eugene's forces; the grand vizier would bring an army twice, three times that size to ensure his enemy's defeat.

  At last, after sherbet had been served in delicate china bowls, followed by ink-black coffee, fragrant with cinnamon, pipes had been smoked, and silence was hovering over them, the pasha reclining heavily upon his pillows, Frederick rose to take his leave without fear of offending his host. The final amenities were observed, then he was escorted from the reception hall, his thoughts already on the long journey ahead.

  Mustapha watched through half-closed lids, waiting, his arms stretched languidly across his protruding belly, until Frederick disappeared through another set of massive doors. As soon as they closed behind him, he clapped his hands sharply together. Four slaves rushed forward, lifting him with barely concealed effort to his feet. He waved them away, straightening his gown and pelisse as he hurried across the floor to the great doors leading to his harem, which were opened wide.

  He made his way swiftly along shadowed corridors, and down winding stairs, his short legs propelling his unwieldy bulk forward with great speed. His panting breaths were accompanied by a guttural wheezing from deep in his throat, but he did not stop until he reached the room he was seeking. He entered quietly, hiding behind a latticed partition, his fingers hooking in the crisscrossing wood strips, his sweating face illuminated by diamond patterns of light.

  So, he had timed it perfectly, Mustapha commended himself, licking his lips as he peered through the partition. He sucked in his breath, a surge of desire rippling through his trembling body. Allah could not have fashioned a more beautiful sight!

  Kassandra stood on a small, raised platform, her limp body supported by a black eunuch, her head lolling against his shoulder, his large hands gripping her curved waist. Her white skin, flushed with rose, stood out in startling contrast, buffed to a glossy sheen and devoid of any offensive hair. The two female slaves were dressing her quickly, slipping her long legs into transparent jade-green trousers of silk damask, lifting her arms and pulling a delicate white chemise over her head, then bringing them down to her sides and draping a close-fitting gold tunic over her shoulders. Last came a pair of white slippers of soft leather.

  Mustapha watched, spellbound, as they laid Kassandra upon tasseled pillows, large and small, where she would rest in drug-induced slumber until her chamber was prepared. His dark eyes sought the shallow rise and fall of her full breasts, the hardened nipples pressing through her silken garments. It was all he could do not to dash from behind the partition and cover her prostrate body with his own, to rip off her trousers and delve into the perfect white softness . . .

  Mustapha cursed under his ragged breath, licking the sweat from his upper lip. He knew he could no sooner possess her than to deny his faith. The woman belonged to Halil.

  Ah, but there was no one to prevent him from watching her, he mused with a lascivious grin. This fortress abounded in secret passageways, hidden closets, holes bored into the walls at his command, where he could spy on his harem women at their baths, in the sanctity of their chambers, and seek his own private pleasure.

  "Kassandra," he whispered, rolling her name upon his tongue like honey. Yes, she would be a most welcome diversion from the trying weeks to come.

  Chapter 38

  Stefan shielded his eyes from the late afternoon sun, his narrowed gaze sweeping the wide perimeter of the Imperial camp. Prince Eugene had picked their strategic position carefully, the camp stretching out across the barren plain lying just south of Belgrade, along the Sava River, which intersected with the Danube. Both rivers had been closed off to all water traffic since the siege had begun more than seven weeks ago, cutting off any possibility that food, ammunition, or fresh water would reach either the city or the fortress overlooking it. Yet still the siege dragged on, fully a month longer than Prince Eugene and his commanders had anticipated.

  They had already surmised Mustapha Pasha and his Janissary garrison knew well in advance of their plan to attack Belgrade. No doubt the work of a well informed spy, Stefan considered grimly. Traitor! May he rot in hell!

  The Turks had obviously prepared for a lengthy siege. It seemed their supply of ammunition was inexhaustible. A steady barrage of fire from the cannons surrounding the fortress had prevented the Imperial army from drawing any closer, virtually holding them hostage on the banks of the Sava. Time was slipping away, lives were being lost, and still they could get no closer to the fortress, their every attempt to s
torm the city thwarted by the deadly fire.

  Already the first week of August had come and gone, and here they sat under the vicious sun baking in heat that had dropped many a man. Now, to compound their desperate situation, Halil Pasha had arrived a few days ago from Constantinople, come to rescue the garrison from the Imperialists. He had brought with him a field army twice the size of their own, setting up his colorful tents on a high plateau to the east of the city. His artillery had soon joined in the barrage, and Prince Eugene had been forced to move the camp back several hundred feet to escape the worst of this new threat.

  "Damn!" Stefan cursed, raging at his feelings of impotence. Before Halil Pasha had marched upon Belgrade, he and his cavalry had managed to make some successful forays near the city under cover of darkness, overtaking a few outlying regiments of Janissaries camped on the other side of the Sava. But these efforts had brought them no closer to their goal of capturing the fortress, a prospect that seemed more remote with each passing day. Something had to be done, and soon, or the Imperial army would find itself retreating toward Vienna in defeat.

  Stefan wheeled around suddenly to face the small group of officers standing just to his left. "See that the men are prepared to ride out again this evening across the Sava," he barked, taking them wholly by surprise. "I'll not sit by while these Turks gloat around their fires wondering what became of their fierce enemy."

  "Yes, Commander!" they answered as if with one voice, exchanging shaken looks as Stefan stormed into his tent. Each man hurried off in a different direction to do his bidding, wondering what had happened to the stoic commander they knew from previous campaigns.

  Stefan strode over to his cot and sat down heavily, running his hand through his sweat-soaked hair. The shadowed coolness of the tent soothed his temper somewhat and he began to think more rationally. He knew he couldn't send his men out without express orders from Prince Eugene, orders he had been denied since the arrival of Halil Pasha's forces. If there was to be an attack, it must be a concerted one, infantry and cavalry combined to break the Ottoman lines.

  What was happening to him? Stefan wondered. Yet even as he asked himself, he knew the answer. He had not been the same since Kassandra's disappearance. He had become relentless, like a man possessed, driving his men as hard as he drove himself.

  "No, she is not dead! She cannot be dead!" Stefan whispered passionately, rising from the cot to pace about the tent. They had found no body, no clothing, nothing of Kassandra's.

  The last letter he had received from Isabel, written only three weeks ago, had stated as much. It had been delivered by swift courier along with the rest of the post for Prince Eugene. Trembling, Stefan had held it in his hand, until at last he had ripped it open, reading desperately, his heart in his throat. After another exhaustive search, nothing had been found. And until that day—God help him if it ever came!—he would not believe that Kassandra was dead.

  Stefan sat down on the wooden chair set near the cot, his arms resting on his elbows, his head in his hands. He had never felt so desolate, so haunted, in all his life, hardly the trait a soldier would wish for in his commander. Perhaps he should relinquish his leadership, rather than endanger the lives of his men from lack of good judgment

  "Commander von Furstenberg!"

  Stefan started, looking up at the young lieutenant standing at the entrance to his tent.

  "Yes?"

  "Prince Eugene has called a council of war, Commander. You are requested to come to his tent at sundown. The general also requests you command your men to begin preparations for battle." Then he was gone, the flap falling back into place.

  A council of war. Prepare for battle. Those were the words he had been waiting to hear for weeks . . .

  Studied excitement gripped Stefan, clearing his mind of any self-doubt. Years of battle-honed instinct took over, racing through his blood, his emotions receding into the background. He knew they would assail him again in a quiet moment—when he slept, when he dreamed of her—but for now, there was much to be done.

  Stefan strode from his tent, into the receding light of the afternoon. He had not forgotten her. The vivid pain was still there, only suppressed for a time in the face of what he was trained to do.

  ***

  Halil Pasha waved his hand irritably, silencing the loud bickering among his assembled generals. His piercing black eyes settled on one after the other, the expression on his narrow, olive-skinned face brooking no argument.

  "The Imperialists are cowards," he murmured in a low, commanding voice. "They would sooner retreat than attack. It is clear they have felt the strength of our superior numbers, striking cold fear into their hearts. We shall see them tear down their camp within the week, and set out for the safety of Vienna."

  "But that Savoyard, Prince Eugene, is unpredictable, Your Grace," one of the generals protested weakly in the face of such firm resolve. He looked nervously at his peers, then back at Halil. "We cannot forget Peterwardein, or Temesvar, last summer—"

  "Enough!" Halil rose from his cross-legged position upon the carpeted floor to stand in their midst. "There shall be no more discussion, no argument. It has been decided. We shall continue the heavy bombardment, deterring any movement on their part toward the fortress. We have nothing to fear from these infidels. It has been read thus in the astrological omens, and so it shall be done. Belgrade is ours, and shall remain so."

  He turned his back on them and strode to where a slave was kneeling, head bent, eyes downcast, holding up a silver bowl of cool water. Dipping his hands, he washed them, a signal to his generals that their war council was at an end. One by one they rose, bowing at the waist, then left the ornate tent, their flowing caftans rustling.

  Halil dried his hands on a soft linen towel offered to him by another slave, then tossed it upon the floor. It was quickly retrieved, and the two slaves crept silently away.

  "Send in the spy," Halil commanded to his ever-present Chief Eunuch, a black man towering well over six feet tall and of immense girth, who had been in charge of his harem for many years. Even in war, a powerful man traveled with his wives, his concubines. The sensory pleasures of life could not be denied because of conflict.

  "Yes, Sire," the Chief Eunuch murmured in his strange half-tenor voice, his slippered feet belying his bulk as he padded across the thick silk carpets to the guarded entrance to the tent. Curved scimitars were drawn aside, allowing him to pass.

  Halil settled himself on a raised sofa, arranging the brocaded pillows comfortably behind his back. He waited, a soft breeze swirling from waving goose feather fans. A quizzical smile lit his full lips as he remembered Count Frederick's words of a few days ago: "It is only my wish to remind you, Sire, of a special gift I have brought for you from Vienna."

  "Ah, the Englishwoman," Halil answered softly, trying to conjure an image of her in his mind.

  Count Frederick had first mentioned her when he had arrived in Constantinople. How had he described her? Oh, yes. He had said she was very beautiful, like a white goddess, with skin of finest cream, hair the color of fire, and eyes of purest amethyst, like crystalline violet pools.

  Virgin? he had inquired. No, Sire, not a virgin. But Halil had only shrugged. It was no matter to him. Virgins could be difficult, prone to shedding tears. They brought him little pleasure. It was a woman skilled at lovemaking who stirred his blood.

  "I have not forgotten her, Count Frederick," he had continued, his interest piqued. But their conversation had been interrupted by one of his generals, and he had not thought of her again. Until now.

  Perhaps it was time he summoned this "goddess" from the fortress, he mused. He certainly felt the need of some diversion to break the monotony of this campaign. It was more of a stalemate, until the Imperialists turned and fled, he thought confidently, rubbing his pointed beard, black as jet. Yes, a sensuous diversion, an Englishwoman, no less! His first . . .

  "Count Frederick Althann, Your Grace," the Chief Eunuch announced, gliding back to stan
d near the tented wall. He wrapped his thick arms about his barrel chest, a look of watchful attention on his broad face, all-seeing, all-hearing, ready to serve his master with his very life if need be.

  Halil looked up, shrewdly studying the tall blond man as he entered. He hated spies. They were vermin, maggots, feeding upon deceit and avarice, the glint of gold reflected in their eyes. But they were a necessary evil, and this one had virtually insured him a victory over the hated Austrians, with his timely information. Now Count Frederick had a gift for him as well. Truly he was a man who knew how to please his benefactors.

  "Your Grace," Frederick said, bowing low, his hand to his chest.

  "I wish to see this gift you have spoken so much about," Halil began, before Frederick had even straightened.

  Frederick inhaled softly. "As it pleases you, Your Grace." So the grand vizier had finally voiced a summons, he thought fleetingly. He had begun to wonder if Kassandra might end up with that disgusting pig, Mustapha, after all. At least with this man her worth would be truly recognized and she would be treated accordingly, some small consolation for the treachery he had inflicted upon her.

  "Take several soldiers with you and travel with great caution," Halil ordered. "I will not have you, or your gift, falling into the hands of the infidels." He dismissed him with a curt nod. "Now go."

  Frederick winced as he turned and strode from the tent. She would not fall into Stefan's hands, he amended darkly. There was no chance of that. The Imperialists had been completely held down at their camp for the past week, the heavy bombardment discouraging any troop movement, even routine patrols along the Sava. Besides, to reach the secret entrance at the base of the fortress he and Kassandra would be skirting the Danube, far from any Austrian river blockade. He had done it many times already, carrying messages from Halil to Mustapha.