Chapter 37 #2
“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.
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 at least two 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 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 and hid 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 at the 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.