by Paul Doherty
Once the soldiers were gone, Drakulya crossed the room, gently lowered the trapdoor and then returned to play with the mechanism behind the tapestry and so seal Albu’s death chamber. He poured two goblets of wine and sat next to me on the floor, ordering me to drink. I took the cup and drained it in one long gulp, feeling its hot sticky sweetness seep through my body, bringing its own warmth to fend off the terrible chill and coldness I felt. I looked at Drakulya’s face, still a deathly pallor, although the eyelids now drooped and the mouth hung slack like a man under the influence of some opiate.
“Was that necessary?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“The daughters and the wife?” I replied.
Drakulya lowered his head and sipped thoughtfully from his own goblet. “I think so.” He cleared his throat. “I know it is. They all deserved to die. For two reasons. First, for Mircea, and then for my own son. Do you think either he or I would be ever safe if Albu’s descendants were allowed to live?”
I thought for a while and agreed. Not because Drakulya was right but because that was the way of the world. Above all, I remembered that long forgotten, dusty, sunlit courtyard with a boy cradling the neck of a small yellow mongrel. If Albu and the other Boyars had not forgotten that small innocent boy, then the events of that terrible Good Friday would never have happened.
A few hours later we left Snagov. Drakulya gave a bag of gold for the safe repose, as he caustically put it, of the bodies and souls of Albu and his family. The abbot, Chesarie, let the gold fall from his hands and simply stared into Drakulya’s eyes. “You have desecrated,” he muttered angrily, “sacred ground. We do not need your gold!” Drakulya stared at him and then patted him on the shoulder, kicked the bag of gold aside and walked down to the waiting barges. Once we had returned to the mainland Drakulya made every possible haste and we were back behind the walls of Tirgoviste shortly after daybreak. He remained silent throughout the long ride. Only once did he talk, mentioning that he would have to do ‘something for our good abbot, Chesarie.’ A few weeks later I realised what this ‘something’ was. A distraught monk brought the news to the capital that the good abbot, Chesarie, was no more. He had died quickly but rather unfortunately in a boating accident.
6
After our return to the palace Drakulya ordered me to remain silent about what had happened at Snagov, instructing his entourage to put it about that Albu was still at the monastery and would join the court for the great festivities on the Monday after Easter. Drakulya then dismissed us to be closeted with his wife and the ever ubiquitous Theodore. Easter Day, which meant nothing to me, and despite appearances still less to Drakulya, came and peacefully went though I knew from Drakulya’s air of expectancy and Theodore’s controlled excitement that something was about to happen. On Easter Monday the court moved out to the meadows which lay cradled by a low range of hills with vineyards spilling down their sides. The night before most of the court and leading Boyars had attended the Easter services, one of the last important religious celebrations of the Christian year. A period of fast was now ended and the tables set up in the meadows were cluttered with platters of roast lambs, sweetened cakes, bread, bowls of olives and trays of stuffed delicacies with casks and flagons of wine, a sumptuous banquet supplied out of the Prince’s own purse.
As soon as day broke the Boyars came out to these meadows on foot or on finely caparisoned horses, their wives riding in their intricately carved wooden carriages. All were dressed in their best, and from where I stood on the town walls, it looked as if the green meadows were being overun by a host of beautiful peacocks, each Boyar vying with his neighbour to outdo him in ostentatious display, the most prominent being their ornate head-dresses with long ostrich feathers held by a cluster of sparkling diamonds. Their wives and daughters looked equally splendid in sweeping, beautifully embroidered dresses, their long hair adorned with jewellery, fingers and throats covered with rich jewels and stones which sparkled and flashed in the early morning sun. The Boyars had brought Persian carpets to rest on which covered the green fields in ever growing flashes of lush velvet colours. Each Boyar chose his place and groups collected together, their servants laying the carpets and then attending to their masters’ every need. The court, too, was prepared for the feast; Drakulya’s retainers had set up a silken canopy under which the Prince and his leading Boyars could sit, talk, eat and be at their ease. The only disconcerting aspect of the celebrations were the groups of soldiers scattered along the brows of the surrounding hills or massing beneath me in the palace courtyard. I knew that something was going to happen and looked anxiously away from the fields to seek some sign of what Drakulya really intended.
I was still wondering when Mihail joined me on the battlements. “Are you coming, Rhodros?” he asked. “Or are you going to sulk there all day?”
“I am admiring the scene,” I replied, “and wondering what the day will bring.”
“I know, I know,” sighed Mihail. “Anyway,” he said, nodding towards the distant soldiers, “it is a better scene than that we could see from the other side of the city,” a reference to the ill-reputed Valley of the Shadows, where the rotting bodies of Drakulya’s previous victims still remained impaled. Mihail tapped me gently on the arm; “Come, Rhodros. Whatever happens will happen. There is nothing we can do.”
The day was beautiful. The sun shone as if it was mid-summer and after a cup or two of wine, you could half close your eyes and swear you could hear the hum of the bees. The grass was greener than it should have been, the flowers smelling sweeter and the meadow a far better place than it really was. By mid-day the banquet was over and the dancing and other festivities began. The children shrieked and danced round the swings and various games provided for their amusement. The old folk sat and rested on their long carpets while the younger and more energetic joined in traditional dances to the wild uncontrolled music of the gipsy fiddlers. In every part of the field jugglers and jesters entertained the crowd while minstrels circulated, offering to sing favourite love songs or ditties. Mihail and I joined Drakulya under his broad silken canopy. The Prince had sat there all day on his cushioned divan watching the festivities through half-closed eyes, now and again smiling and gently bowing to the occasional Boyar. Theodore was close by him, frequently whispering in his ear and nodding with his head at a particular Boyar or his family. Drakulya would sit and listen like a lover does to his mistress’s endearments, his face tense as if already savouring some secret pleasure.
Late in the afternoon Drakulya entertained the leading Boyars. They sat around him in a semi-circle, all flushed with wine and excited by what the Prince might have to say. I had moved amongst them earlier in the day and knew that many of them saw the feast and banquet prepared by Drakulya as a sign of weakness on the Prince’s part. “He wishes to please us” was the most common remark, together with “He tries to buy off our favour with sweetmeats and wine. Well, he will have to try harder, but it is a worthy start.” Now they sat around the Prince, expecting their earlier predictions to be borne out by pleas of concessions on Drakulya’s part. They should not have drunk so much. Already I had noticed the soldiers had begun to descend from the brow of the hill, no longer bothering to conceal themselves in the vineyards there, while Drakulya’s own personal bodyguard quietly surrounded the back of his open tent.
Drakulya began the conversation with a few pleasantries, asking them how they had enjoyed the day, and how pleased he was that they had all found time to attend. Eventually he sat back and picked up a bowl of black juicy grapes and began to pick them carefully, scrupulously examining each one before popping it into his mouth. The Prince, quietly eating, seemed lost in his own reverie. The silence grew so long that it became forbidding and some of the Boyars, more alert than the rest, looked inquisitively round and plucked nervously at their clothing.
“Tell me,” Drakulya eventually said, “how many princes of Wallachia have you, the most worthy of Boyars, known?”
&nbs
p; There were exclamations of surprise and a little nervous laughter.
“Come,” Drakulya said, now staring along the row of expectant faces. “How many? You are all survivors. Men of experience.”
“Well,” replied one Boyar. “I have known two but I am rather young.”
Drakulya smiled and the Boyars relaxed as they began to vie with each other in telling the Prince how many rulers of Wallachia they had served. Drakulya listened to their replies, his head nodding gently as if their answers meant everything to him. Then the laughter stopped as he suddenly barked at them.
“Then explain to me, gentlemen. Why have you had so many rulers?” This time the question was blunt, callous in both content and delivery, and I saw a number of the Boyars feel slowly for the sharp knives they carried tucked into their belts. Yet, if they thought of resistance then it was too little and far too late, for Drakulya sent the bowl of grapes crashing to the ground as he rose up and towered above them, legs astride, hands on hips, his face white with anger.
“It is you!” he shouted accusingly. “You have been the cause of so many rulers! You raise them up and you dash them down. You care nothing for your country, or your Prince, or your People! You gather what you do not sow, you reap a harvest that does not belong to you. You intrigue with one Prince and then betray him for another. You prattle your prayers but do not think twice before kissing the hem of the Sultan’s cloak!”
Drakulya’s eyes now glittered with anger and the edge of his moustache was flecked with a fine white foam and, sitting behind him, I could see that the Prince was also fully armed with fine chain mail beneath his courtly cape and white cambric shirt.
The Boyars sat stunned, too overcome with drink, exhaustion and their own fear to react in any other way but stare at Drakulya like trapped rabbits would at the approaching fox. The Prince now flung wide his hand holding a long stiletto which he jabbed menacingly towards the Boyars.
“You traitors!” he shouted. “You exploiters of men! You betrayers of princes, priests and peasants! You betrayed and killed my father and I know that there are many amongst you whose hands carry the sacred blood of my elder brother. He was a prince and yet you buried him alive, leaving him to writhe and turn and rot alive in his own grave.”
I noticed that Drakulya’s screaming was beginning to affect the dancers and revellers beyond the semi-circle of Boyars, while the more quick-witted amongst the latter were beginning to rouse themselves. I leaned over behind the still cursing Drakulya to where Theodore sat and urged him to act before Drakulya’s tirade of hatred provided the Boyars with an opportunity to react. Theodore agreed and hastily leapt to his feet, shouting out orders. He grasped one of the cresset torches which illuminated the inside of the tent, and waved it a few times in front of his face as a signal to the troops waiting on the hillside. The Boyars, now aware of their terrible danger, began jumping to their feet, some drew daggers and others hurled curses and imprecations at Drakulya, while a few slipped away under the cover of darkness in the hope of finding their families and fleeing from the capital. All such reactions proved fruitless for Theodore had been most precise. A circle of steel-clad soldiers quickly surrounded the Boyars while above their heads I could see that other troops had slipped into the meadows and were beginning to cordon off the Boyars and their families. Those asleep or lying drunk on their carpets were ruthlessly awakened with blows, kicks and curses and hauled to their feet. The early spring darkness was fended off by scores of spears being pushed into the ground with thick fiery torches strapped to the top. These allowed the troops and their commanders a full view of the festive area and few, if any, of the Boyars managed to escape.
The night air so recently filled with sounds of song and music and revelry was now filled with cries of pain, groans and the anguished shrieking of mothers concerned about their children or their menfolk. Drakulya came out from beneath his canopy and began to move from group to group, looking intently at the faces like a man would stare at pictures in a gallery or strange animals in cages. The meadows had been cleared of all servants, gipsies and other hangers-on, only the Boyars and their families remained. Some sat impassively, wailing and begging for mercy from the impassive Voivode who paced like a shadow past them. Once Drakulya had completed his circuit of the field, he returned to his tent and muttered a few words to Theodore and the main business of the evening began. Drakulya and Theodore went from each cordoned group to another. Some individuals were freed and, on quite a few occasions, entire families. A similar group was detached and taken under guard to the castle, Drakulya tersely informing me as his Chancellor that these Boyars would pay a heavy fine and nothing else. I remembered appealing to Mihail and asking him if the rest of the capital knew what was going on.
“I don’t know,” he replied wearily. “But one of Theodore’s commanders has just told me that no one can leave or enter the city without Drakulya’s explicit permission.”
The rest of the Boyars were now collected together and escorted from the meadows and enclosed, almost three hundred in number, in a prepared paddock as if they were a herd of cattle or a group of wild horses. Men, women and children were then manacled to each other and left there for the night. The next morning the terrible separation began. The leading Boyars and noblemen were detached from their families and were not even allowed to embrace them or leave messages with their loved ones. They were marched off across the fields past the main city gate and into the Valley of the Shadows. There they were impaled alive, about eighty in number, in two neat rows, Drakulya himself going down to see them later in the day. I begged to be excused and hastened back to the capital where I spent the rest of the day drinking myself into a drunken stupor in my own chambers.
7
I was awakened by one of Drakulya’s commanders, who told me the Prince wished me to attend a council meeting in the throne room below. I went down to find the usual group there, the Voivode himself, an ashen-faced Mihail, the impervious Cirstian and the ever-smiling Theodore. Drakulya seemed relaxed, the same reaction which I had noticed after the death of Albu, like a man under the influence of a heavy opiate. He was warm and affable, almost lazy in his good nature, like a lover just risen from his bed or a man who had enjoyed a splendid banquet rather than a Prince fresh from the mass execution of most of his leading nobility. He was joking and teasing Theodore and I was affably invited into the conversation. Evidently the source of their humour was their visit to that dreadful valley beyond the city walls. Drakulya, on inspecting his rows of victims, cynically asked them how they felt and gently reminded them that their treatment of his brother Mircea had brought about their most terrible end. He had invited some of the other Boyars from the city to the spectacle and one of these, either overcome by terror or concern for Drakulya’s health, had complained about the terrible smell and begged the Prince to remove himself from the pestilential atmosphere.
“What do you mean?” Drakulya had asked. “Are you saying it stinks?”
“Yes, Your Highness,” the man had replied, “and you would do us all good if you left this place which is detrimental to your health as well as everybody elses.”
Only God knows what had made the poor man answer like this for Drakulya immediately detected sarcasm and fell into one of his terrible rages.
“Theodore!” he had shouted. “Tell one of your commanders to bring a stake three times as long as any that are here. Set it up immediately and impale this Boyar so high that he will not be able to smell the stench from below.”
The hapless man had then begged for his life on his knees, scrabbling at Drakulya’s ankles, but to no avail. He was seized, stripped and within a short time stretched naked on the long stake pushed up into his bowels high above those of his equally unfortunate colleagues.
On his journey back to the palace Theodore had apparently persuaded Drakulya to see the funny side of this macabre story and the Prince was now relaxed, smugly amused at his own witticism. I also had the wit to smile faintly at the story
for Drakulya, in the middle of this blood orgy, was beyond reason, contemplating terrible revenge to settle hatreds and grudges which had festered for decades. I looked at his thin sallow face, tight lips and guarded eyes, and began to wonder if the man I knew and served had veered completely into the abyss of insanity. He seemed calm enough and I know those who will read this will say that Prince Drakulya was a madman or just evil. I don’t think this is true. There is a streak of madness and evil in each of us. The only difference is whether these dark depths are stirred and brought to the surface. Drakulya may not have performed a good deed on that terrible Easter Monday in the green fields of Tirgoviste but I cannot doubt that he had good reason and at the council meeting held that evening he showed us the cause.
It was the first time that Drakulya had ever attempted to justify what he had done but once every councillor had entered the throne room and the meeting began, the Prince, through Cirstian, began to circulate documents, letters and reports regarding the executed Boyars. Even as chancellor I was surprised as I had not seen these and I muttered reproachfully at Cirstian, who simply shrugged and passed the matter off as of little import.
Even a superficial reading of these documents revealed that most of the country’s leading Boyars had been engaged in treasonable correspondence, not only with Ladislaw of Hungary, but also with an exiled prince of the Danesti clan and, even worse, with Drakulya’s own estranged brother, Radu, and the Sultan Mohammed in Constantinople. The Boyars had begged the Turk to make as much haste as possible to invade Wallachia, dethrone Drakulya and put in his place “any whom the Sultan thought fit.” Of course, Drakulya had his own private grievances to settle, but I think that in any country such treasonable correspondence would have brought the most terrible of punishments. Drakulya, now calm and composed, promised that soon he would personally deal with Radu’s ambitions and teach Sultan Mohammed a lesson he would never forget. He then returned to the matter of the families of the impaled Boyars, tersely announcing that they would be marched north into the Transylvanian mountains and, aided by local peasant levies, would rebuild the castle on the banks of the Arges.