by Paul Doherty
“Gentlemen,” Drakulya said sweetly, “if you will not join me in a meal, then at least let us discuss matters.”
The envoys quickly nodded and Drakulya in a matter of fact voice stipulated his stark brutal terms. The cities of Brasov and Sibiu were to observe all commercial treaties, refuse to support and expel any member of the Danesti clan, and pay the costs incurred by Drakulya for his current military campaign against both cities. Brasov would be given until dawn to agree to these terms, otherwise, the Prince added, ten more prisoners would be impaled and a general attack launched against the citadel itself. The envoys hastily nodded their agreement and, just as they thought the interview was over, Drakulya rose and came round the table towards them and grasping each by the arm, took them to where the young girls sat impaled on their stakes, their long hair falling over their white bodies which still writhed and twitched as the stakes bit deeper into their entrails.
“Gentlemen,” Drakulya observed. “Do you recognise any of these fair young girls? Are they not graceful, performing a dance which would please a guest at any banquet?”
For both men the ordeal was too much. They turned away retching and vomiting and, collecting their still unconscious colleague, stumbled down into the darkness back to the city, Drakulya’s wild demonic laughter at their graceless exit still ringing in their ears.
Once they had gone, Drakulya ordered the tables to be removed and instructed Theodore to cut the throats of the impaled victims to shorten their agony. He then walked across to where the rest of the prisoners sat huddled behind their cordon and talked gently to them like a good father reassuring frightened children that nothing would happen to them if the city of Brasov agreed to his terms. I was disgusted by what I had seen and what I had taken part in. Yet I still believe Drakulya’s claim, that his impalement of those victims was not a senseless act of brutality but a calm callous act of terror to spare further bloodshed. Theodore, of course, openly applauded it. Mihail quietly observed that he hoped the ten impaled victims would understand all this, so Drakulya curtly ordered him from his presence and when the prince turned and glared at me, I looked steadily back and then followed Mihail into the darkness.
4
Of course, the city of Brasov accepted Drakulya’s terms and when the envoys from Sibiu brought a similar submission, Drakulya freed the prisoners, and ordered a gradual withdrawal back into the mountains and across the Wallachian border. There is a legend that Drakulya’s forces were unruly and disorganised. The people who utter such falsehoods do not know the prince and fail to understand the lesson he learnt from his Turkish masters. Drakulya used terror as an effective weapon, an essential part of his policy, whether dealing with friend or foe. A good example of this was one of Theodore’s captains who was sent to capture the small fortress of Godlea on the path of our withdrawal into Wallachia. He failed to carry out his appointed task and Drakulya hanged him. Nevertheless, our departure back to Tirgoviste was marked by rows and rows of impaled victims, most of them dead before this terrible punishment was carried out. A few were still alive, Drakulya’s reminder to the Saxon communities that if they failed to keep their word, then he would return.
Our forces reassembled at Rucar. Drakulya and members of his court, myself included, returned north to Tirgoviste at the beginning of the Christian feast of Holy Week. A pale-faced Princess Althea immediately demanded an audience and informed her cold, impervious husband that she was pregnant and that the child would be born shortly after Christmas. Drakulya was overjoyed, his whole manner and demeanour changed. His face broke into a rare boyish smile, he rose from his throne and publicly embraced his rather astonished wife, caressing and petting her like any fond and doting husband. I found it hard to realise that this was the man who in the last few weeks had brutally destroyed so many families and so ruthlessly abused so many hapless victims. There was other news as well. During his foray into Transylvania the Prince had left the country in the capable hands of Cirstian and this suave, detached diplomat had controlled the country through a network of carefully placed spies at the court of other cities and even in the households of the leading Boyars.
Drakulya, after greeting his wife, summoned Cirstian to a meeting attended by myself and Mihail (now returned to the prince’s favour), to give an account of his stewardship. I never discovered whether Cirstian was really frightened of Drakulya or simply a consummate actor who could conceal his feelings. He delivered his account in cold detached tones, his hard reptilian eyes never leaving those of the prince. His words, however, were quite momentous. Matthew Corvinus was now master of Hungary and had sent letters of support to Drakulya. His cousin, Stephen, had now reasserted himself in Moldavia while the Turks were demanding a formal diplomatic meeting between themselves and Drakulya with personal instructions from Sultan Mohammed that Drakulya attend his court in Constantinople to kiss the hem of his tunic. Drakulya heard all these items with his usual detached manner. The only time he showed any emotion was when Cirstian provided him with one additional piece of information. There was a growing conspiracy, Cirstian reported, amongst certain of the leading Boyars, led and organised by Drakulya’s old enemy, Albu, nicknamed the Great. They had been in correspondence with members of the Danesti clan and sent several letters to Matthew Corvinus asking him to intervene and assist them in the destruction of Drakulya and all his family.
The Prince allowed Cirstian to finish, then asked him a series of short sharp questions which clarified the nature and extent of the plot. Cirstian maintained that most of the leading Boyars were a party to the conspiracy and would stage some coup or revolt later in the year.
“They have,” Cirstian commented dryly, “finally realised that they underestimated your Excellency, your authority as well as your determination to survive. They have,” and he paused to wipe away a film of sweat which had formed on his upper lip, “even been in correspondence with Mohammed and your own brother, Radu.”
Once he had heard this, there was no restraining Drakulya. He pounded the table with his fists, sweeping aside parchment, pens and anything else within his reach. We all sat immobile as he paced the room, white-faced, eyes staring, as he sank into one of his furious rages. Tapestries were torn from the wall, furniture hurled about until eventually overcome with exhaustion, his chest heaving and his breath coming in long painful sobs, he sank to the floor, his teeth biting into one tightly clenched fist, the other scratching at his tunic as if this gesture alone would take away the furious anger which raged within him. Eventually he calmed and stared at us across the room from where he sat.
“I will,” he said slowly, “give these Boyars a lesson the world will never forget. But first we must deal with Albu!”
A few hours later a message was despatched to this leading Boyar at his residence in Curtes de Arges, inviting him to join the Prince at Snagov for the Christian ceremony of Good Friday. The message was couched in sweet diplomatic language with subtle hints that the meeting would be to Albu’s advancement and that of his entire family which, the Prince kindly hoped, Albu would bring with him for the Easter Festivities. At the same time similar messages were sent to other leading Boyar families, inviting them to great festivities to mark Easter Day, which would begin in the palace room at Tirgoviste and be completed at a great carnival held in the meadows outside the city walls. I was entrusted with all these letters and the necessary preparations for Drakulya’s meeting with Albu at Snagov on Good Friday and with the leading Boyar families on the Monday following Easter Day. No one except Drakulya’s close confidants had witnessed his terrible rage at the council meeting. The Boyars, and even many of Drakulya’s own trusted friends and confidants, believed these festivities were to celebrate the good news about Princess Althea as well as the triumph of Drakulya’s Transylvanian campaign the previous spring. It was even hinted (and Drakulya did nothing to correct the rumour) that the festivities would mark a new policy of rapport and accord between Drakulya and the leading Boyar families.
5
On Good Friday 1458, Drakulya, accompanied by a small group of hand-picked soldiers, journeyed down to Snagov. Other troops had been sent ahead and held strategic points along the lake or were concealed in the many outbuildings of the monastery. The Abbot Chesarie had sent his own barge to take us across the quiet tranquil lake and welcomed us himself when we disembarked. He had good reason to honour the Voivode. Drakulya had endowed his monastery with precious gifts and instigated major construction works to develop the monastery still further. Snagov was a picturesque sight with its tall towers rising above the trees, long cool cloisters, spacious buildings and well kept gardens. However, Chesarie, tall, thin and austere with a bald pate and long white flowing beard, always looked embarrassed in Drakulya’s company. On the one hand the Abbot was grateful for the patronage of his monastery but, on the other, ill at ease with a prince whose notoriety and savage temper were becoming so well known. He greeted Drakulya effusively enough, welcoming him to the island with the vain hope that we would join the brothers in their Good Friday celebrations. Drakulya gently pushed all this aside and asked if Albu had arrived. Chesarie nodded and gulped, his adam’s apple bobbing in his scrawny throat like a cork on the river. Chesarie was a member of the council and, whatever Albu or my invitation may have said, the good abbot knew that Drakulya had a deep personal hatred for Albu and all his type.
Drakulya sensed the abbot’s anxiety and tried to soothe him, putting an arm round his thin shoulders and leading him back up towards the main gate, telling Chesarie to ignore the military barges full of soldiers which had left the far shore and their cover of overhanging trees. Chesarie smiled wanly and led us to Drakulya’s own private apartments in the monastery. These had been refurbished by craftsmen and the smell of fresh wood and resin still hung in the air. The main room was cell-like, yet large and spacious with a small chamber leading off. The walls were covered in rich tapestries and the floor strewn with fresh smelling rushes sprinkled with herbs. Chesarie wanted to stay but Drakulya dismissed him with a look and asked for wine to be brought to us as soon as possible. I watched Drakulya closely. He was relaxed and carefree, teasing the brother who served us and inviting me to admire his new chambers as well as view the lake from the chamber’s one and only window which looked down on the water. Nevertheless, I knew that something terrible was planned but I decided not to intervene. After all, Albu was guilty of treachery and his treasonable correspondence had to be punished.
A short while after, Albu was ushered in. He was accompanied by a small blond-haired woman, whom I took to be his wife, and three daughters, the eldest about nineteen and the youngest no younger than thirteen. Drakulya advanced towards them, giving a rather shocked Albu the kiss of peace and then going on to grasp the womenfolk by their hands, complimenting them on their beauty and thanking them for coming. He then turned quickly to Albu, his voice cold and hard.
“There is one missing,” he snapped. “Your son, Petros, I believe?”
Albu swallowed nervously. “My son was unable to come,” he stammered. “He is not well, the fever. I decided to leave him in Curtea de Arges. He is staying at the palace of the Mety . . .” His voice trailed off, his eyes evading those of Drakulya. Both the prince and I knew that Albu was lying. Petros, his only heir, was too valuable to risk and could claim sanctuary if he was at the bishop’s house. After a moment’s silence, Drakulya shrugged as if it was a matter of little importance and, opening a door, called the captain of his retinue, asking him to take the ladies and show them the pleasures of the monastery.
As soon as they were gone, their silent nervousness calmed by the Prince’s charm, Drakulya asked Albu to sit, and then personally served him with wine, conversing all the time about small matters, court tittle-tattle and the shifting fortunes of the market. Albu, under the influence of the wine and gentle talk, began to relax and even asked the reason for the summons, which provoked a short laugh from Drakulya, who gently brushed the question aside. An hour must have passed while the Prince indulged for the first time ever, (at least to my knowledge), in the longest mundane conversation he had ever had, gossiping like some old courtier, now and again turning to me for confirmation of some point. Only then did I notice the feverish look in his eyes and sensed the tension of a man waiting for something to happen. At last it did. From the dungeons beneath us came a mixture of screams, yells and protests which rose and fell, sometimes sinking to a whisper, at others reaching a high pitched scream. Albu jumped to his feet, dropping his cup and stared wildly round the room.
“My wife, my daughters!” he yelled at Drakulya.
The Prince’s face was now a mask of hate, the eyes hard, the mouth and chin clenched as tight as any rat trap. He shouted an order and immediately a door opened and in came two guards, who seized the hapless Albu by each arm.
“Come, Albu, whom they call the Great,” Drakulya mocked and led him over to the corner of the room. He kicked aside the rushes, and grabbing a ring embedded in the stone, heaved and pulled up the concealed trapdoor.
Albu was forced to kneel and look in the pit below where his three daughters and unfortunate wife, now stripped of all their clothing and pride, were being ruthlessly manhandled, abused and raped by a group of mercenaries. At first it was difficult to recognise them, each naked, covered in dirt and bruises, pinned beneath the weight of some sweating soldier. Drakulya knelt beside Albu, gripping him by the hair at the back of his neck and twisting his face so it was only inches away from his own.
“How do you like it, Boyar?” he hissed. “No worse and a great deal better than what happened to my father and my elder brother, Mircea! Did you really think that I would forget?”
The only answer he received was a wild-eyed look and a long piteous moan. Drakulya then tapped Albu gently on the cheek and nodded at the scene below us.
“Do not worry, Boyar,” he chided softly. “When my soldiers are finished with them, they will cut their throats. That will be better than being buried alive, eh?”
Albu pulled his head back and spat straight into the Voivode’s face. Drakulya reacted violently, slapping him round the face and using the unfortunate Boyar’s beard to wipe the spittle from his cheek. He then seized the hapless man by his hair, dragged him off the raised trapdoor and pushed him across the room, kicking him and butting him with his knee until Albu’s face was reduced to a pulpy mass of blood.
“Drakulya!” I shouted. “For pity’s sake finish the matter!”
Drakulya looked at me, his face a white grinning death mask, and turning the man round, pushed him and the guards who held him across the room to the door. Just before they reached it, Drakulya suddenly let go and ordered the soldiers back, leaving Albu to retch and groan, his face burrowed into the once sweet smelling rushes. Drakulya then kicked him, back, side, between the legs, his face a mask of wicked glee as he repeated time and time again, “Mircea! Mircea! Mircea!” Eventually exhausted he staggered back towards the window as if to cool himself with the breeze which came in from the lake. He stood there for a few seconds, his shoulders still heaving in sobs of anger, and then pushed his hand behind a nearby tapestry and pulled something down.
If I had not turned my gaze to where Albu lay, I would have scarcely seen what happened. For, as soon as Drakulya’s hand disappeared behind the tapestry, the floor on which Albu lay suddenly opened, yawning like a pit and the Boyar’s body disappeared. A horrible scream drove me forward and, oblivious to my own safety, I went to the edge of the pit now revealed by the sliding stone. Beneath me, impaled on two sharp stakes one of which ran just beneath his neck, the other through his groin, lay Albu, his eyes already glazing over in death. The macabre scene was illuminated by the torches which blazed fiercely from their sockets in the cavern wall. I knelt down and watched the blood cascade in small drops and spurts from the Boyar’s mouth.
“A good day’s work,” I sarcastically shouted across at Drakulya. “This was all prepared, wasn’t it?”
The Prince sat slouched in
a window seat, looking like some athlete who had just won an exhausting race. “Yes,” he hoarsely whispered. His eyes blazed as he looked at some point above my head. “I have been planning it ever since that day in Edirne when I heard about Mircea.” He paused and shook his head as if attempting to get rid of some dreadful dream or nightmare. “Is he dead?” he asked softly, nodding towards the pit. “Yes,” I replied. “He is dead and probably grateful for it.” Drakulya smiled as if I had told some joke, then he quickly reasserted himself, ordering the guards to make sure the man was dead and then cut the throats of the four women. He then instructed his captain to go to Curtea de Arges, to ignore whatever the bishop said and kill Albu’s son. “And,” he shouted at the soldier’s retreating back, “bring his head. I want to see it.”