PROLOGUE
March 1844
Several wooden crates were in the process of being unloaded from the Greek merchant ship,Son of Apollo, when Ziyaeddin hurriedly made his way down to the dock on the western shore of the Aegean Sea. His guards had already made the short trip from the palace and were spread out above the water’s edge, as if they expected some threat from the ship.
“I cannot decide if I am happy to see you or not,” Ziyaeddin said as he grinned at the sight of the ship’s captain. The gray-bearded gentleman had just descended the ramp and was making his way to the front of the dock.
“I cannot believe you talked me into this,” Captain Popodopolis remarked, his gaze darting to the bundle the sultan held against one shoulder. “Although, I suppose I would be offended if you chose someone else to transport your favorite son to England.”
“Ertugrul wishes to spend a Season in London, and Mr. Bennett-Jones has agreed to be his guide,” Ziyaeddin explained. “With the construction of the two universities and the palace complete, it is time my heir be allowed a return to what he thinks is a more civilized world.” He didn’t add that it was a ploy to keep his heir out of the wars the empire was currently engaged in fighting. It seemed as if the Albanians were revolting every decade and now the Kurds in Botan were staging an uprising.
Popodopolis stepped off the dock and onto the well-worn path that led up to the sandstone palace, one of many scattered about the Ottoman Empire. “Where will they stay?” he asked as the two made their way.
“In Mayfair. The Bennett-Joneses are going to host them. I am assured by my sultana that Ertugrul will be treated like royalty, which has me the most concerned,” Ziyaeddin remarked. “I do not want him spoiled.”
Popodopolis paused in mid-step, as if the sultan’s words had reminded him of something. “Hold on a moment,” he said as he turned and shouted a command in Greek to one of his crew. The man waved in acknowledgement, and the captain shouted another command.
Assured his crew understood what to do, Popodopolis turned around and did a double-take. Sultan Ziyaeddin I, the current ruler of the Ottoman Empire, had just lifted his five-month-old son into the air and was moving him about as if the babe were a bird. Obviously enjoying the experience, the boy emitted a series of giggles and gurgles that had his father grinning ear to ear.
Ziyaeddin caught the ship captain’s look of alarm and quickly sobered. “What is it?” He lowered the babe to his shoulder, one hand cradling the boy’s bottom.
Popodopolis scoffed. “How old are you?”
Ziyaeddin frowned. “Fifty years,” he replied carefully. “Why do you ask?”
Lifting a hand to cover his mouth, the Greek worked to stifle a chuckle. “Are you quite sure? You look as if you’ve youthened since I last saw you,” he accused. “And you’re behaving like a...” He clamped his mouth shut.
“Like a what?” Ziyaeddin challenged. “A new father? A man in love?”
“I was going to say an idiot, but...” the captain shook his head. “Maybe I am merely jealous.”
“Perhaps I am an idiot,” the sultan replied with a grin, absently sniffing his son’s dark hair. “But I am enjoying my life these days. Probably more so than ever.”
Popodopolis regarded the sultan with a curious expression before he pointed to the baby. “How many does this make?” he asked.
Ziyaeddin chuckled. “Twenty-one. Number twelve as sons go,” he replied proudly. “I have named him Ahmet.”
Entrusted with the care of his newly-fed son only moments before Ziyaeddin had spotted the arrival of the Greek ship from the balcony of his private chambers, he made his way down the series of stairs to the palace’s atrium and out the front doors without anyone taking notice. Anxious to greet the captain and to show off his latest progeny, the sultan had left the palace without telling anyone of his whereabouts.
“So... you don’t regret taking an Englishwoman to wife?” Popodopolis asked, referring to Charlotte, Dowager Duchess of Chichester.
“I do not,” Ziyaeddin stated, grinning when his newest son babbled incoherently. “Sultana Charlotte is the second love of my life. She has adapted rather well to our ways. Taken on the responsibilities of a sultana in a manner befitting her station,” he explained. “Although, she is still struggling to learn the language. We mostly speak English,” he added.
“You treat her well?” Popodopolis asked, his manner more serious.
Having agreed to transport Charlotte from England to Greece for a holiday two years prior, the captain had worried about the fate of the duchess when theSon of Apollowas boarded by pirates. Taken to the sultan’s palace on the edge of the Aegean Sea, Charlotte and her lady’s maid, Parma, ended up under the protection of Ziyaeddin. Within a few days, the sultan had fallen in love with the duchess.
In the meantime, Popodopolis and his crew had been able to dispatch the pirates when theSon of Apollosailed into the harbor of Rhodes, where they met Charlotte’s son, Lord James Wainwright, and his fellow traveler, David Bennett-Jones, heir to the Bostwick viscountcy. Determined to save Charlotte, they had set off for the palace, arriving to discover the duchess was not of a mind to be saved.
She had fallen in love with the sultan.
The trip hadn’t been a waste, though. James had met and married the sultan’s favorite daughter, Sevinc, and they were now on an archaeological expedition on a Greek island.
Meanwhile, David had become fast friends with Sevinc’s twin brother, Ertugrul, the two sharing an interest in architecture. The Bostwick heir decided to remain in the Ottoman Empire, helping to oversee the construction of a new palace and the universities while studying the mosaics that decorated the sultan’s various properties.
When Popodopolis and his crew departed, the captain promised to keep in touch. Given his daughter, Elena, was the head servant in Ziyaeddin’s palaces, the captain was always welcome. As the Greek captain who had sunk Ziyaeddin’s ship during the Greek’s War for Independence, Popodopolis had earned the sultan’s respect—and ultimately his friendship—by saving him and his crew from drowning.
“Of course I treat her well,” Ziyaeddin claimed, annoyed the captain would think otherwise. “She is my sultana. I give her gifts almost every day—”
