by Paul Doherty
The following day this terrible punishment began. On foot, and under the whip of brutal overseers, the Boyars’ families were taken from Tirgoviste and began their long trek to that high lonely place I had once visited in the valley of the Arges. The whole scheme was to be under the direct supervision of Theodore and I gathered from later reports that he had force-marched the Boyar families over the entire fifty miles which separated the capital from the location Drakulya had chosen for his castle. The prisoners were made to climb the rocky hill of Poenari which lay across the valley, opposite the site of Drakulya’s castle. Here too, there were the ruins of a fortress, a relic of equally violent former times. The poor prisoners, still dressed in the remnants of their Easter finery, had to form a human chain down the hill across the valley and up to the site of Drakulya’s castle. Then the stones from the ruins of Poenari were passed along up to the summit of the Arges. Within days, the young children and old people had collapsed from exhaustion, their soft hands, backs and feet in shreds from their labour. The little ones soon died from exhaustion, their puny bodies left under a pile of rocks for the wolves and other scavengers of the night. The rest toiled on, their clothes now in tatters until they were naked both to the elements and the crueller jibes, taunts and insults of the mercenaries, who often would drag a young woman, boy or girl from the line to use for their pleasure and lust. Other Boyar prisoners were used to make bricks as the valley was rich in lime and clay; Theodore’s master masons constructed the necessary ovens and baking-kilns, whatever else was needed being transported there by barge or cart.
Theodore’s frequent reports to the council on the progress of the castle’s construction publicised all this. Naturally, when death decimated the ranks of the Boyar prisoners the work force was supplemented with criminals, prisoners of war and even itinerant gipsies whom Drakulya viewed as a threat to the security of his country with their constant crossing and recrossing of frontiers. I was particularly distressed (and I am not a compassionate man) at the plight of the women and children in the Arges Valley and I begged Drakulya to show some mercy. At first he refused but then patted me on the shoulder and smiled boyishly.
“Rhodros,” he said. “I owe you much. So, you can take one woman, one boy and one girl from the valley. You will be responsible for them.”
I left for the Arges immediately and after two days of hard riding found myself at the mouth of the valley, ahead of me on the skyline were the twin peaks of the Arges and Poenari Mountains. The place swarmed with soldiers and I discovered that there were camps at either end of the valley effectively sealing it off from the outside world, for no one could live if they tried to escape over the mountains. I passed the village of Arefu, now the headquarters of the construction of the castle, filled with wagons and stores bringing a fresh prosperity to the village. Beyond this lay the kilns and then the wooden stockades where the prisoners were penned at night. The stench was terrible here and there were rough mounds of stones covering ill-concealed bodies; the remains of an arm forlornly sprawled out from beneath one cairn of stones while village curs gnawed at the base of another. The stockades were empty but the gibbets were not. Their victims were not impaled but fastened to huge wheels which were then lifted up by poles so the victim would be fully exposed to the biting wind. A half-drunk guard informed me that these prisoners had been captured trying to escape or were guilty of some other petty misdemeanour; he then directed me further up the valley where the prisoners were working and would continue to do so until after sundown.
I remounted my horse and picked my way slowly along the valley floor. Above me, on the summit of the Arges Mountain, I could already see the half-finished outlines of towers and walls. I passed through several cordons of soldiers, sweating in their half-armour, and reached the lines of prisoners, standing in rows, waiting for a stoup of water from several large barrels mounted on carts. They looked dreadful, figures from a drunken nightmare. Most were young men and women, naked except for a loin-cloth, thin and gaunt, wide-eyed and spare-ribbed. It was then late summer; several months had passed since that ill-fated Easter day and young and weak were mostly gone. I talked to the captain of their escort and walked up and down the lines. Most of the prisoners were lack-lustre, dull-eyed, like cattle awaiting the slaughterer’s knife. Then I saw her, long black hair falling to her shoulders, a collection of rags around her thin shoulders and a body which once must have been magnificent. She had a wide-eyed look which reminded me of a frightened filly but when she stared at me I caught the plea for pity from her; at her knees stood a boy and girl, small dark figures, burnt by the sun and cowering from expected blows and curses.
I had found my people, the symbols of Drakulya’s mercy. I showed the captain my warrant, bearing the Voivode’s personal seal, and the three prisoners were freed and pushed behind me through the cordons of curious soldiers. The woman, she must have been about nineteen years, was fearful, while the two younger children clung to her in terror. I did my best to quell their fear, explaining that I meant no harm, and smiled all the time to reassure them. The young woman never spoke except to ask me where I was taking her. She was fearful that she had been chosen to be executed or abused by the guards, and when I mentioned Tirgoviste her terror seemed to increase so I thought it best to let matters rest. I used Drakulya’s warrants to secure a cart and horses to convey my pathetic little group back to the capital; on the way I bought food, instructing them to eat slowly, while at a local inn I managed to procure clothes and further necessities for our journey. On our arrival in Tirgoviste I installed the little group in one of the many houses I had bought after Drakulya’s massacre of the Boyars. It was staffed by a few servants and they were given clear instructions to look after the young woman and two children (whom I later established to be her younger brother and sister) and to serve them as they would me. Of course the court got to know; Drakulya teased me about my generosity but then confirmed their release by sending a letter to the house declaring a full amnesty for the girl and her family as well as a purse of gold from the princess. When I returned to the house, I found the letter torn up and the gold strewn on the floor.
I regularly visited the house and noticed that the young woman, whose name was Anna, had not been broken by her ordeal in the Arges valley; she was able to reassert herself and overcome the shocking events of the last few months. Her younger brother and sister, however, were not so fortunate. A court physician visited them and described them as being in a state of acute fear. The young boy sickened and died shortly after his return to Tirgoviste, while the learned doctor, after many visits and a great deal of gold, pronounced that the little girl had lost her wits. I discussed this gently with Anna and we agreed that the most suitable place for the girl was amongst caring nuns at a Catholic convent in Transylvania, far beyond the reach of Drakulya. Anna secured her sister’s departure from Wallachia and then tried to gather the tatters of her old style of life. Most of her family friends and neighbours were either dead, in exile, or dying a slow death in the Arges valley, so she confined herself to managing the household I had given her and attempted to forget her experiences by studying many of the books and manuscripts I purchased for her. Within a few months Anna had regained her strength, her looks and physical beauty but never once would she allow me to mention the name of Drakulya and studiously avoided any topic concerning the court or public life. Towards me she was affectionate, kind and understanding. I never asked for anything and she never offered. It was a relationship which afforded me some respite from the stark brutality of the Voivode’s court.
8
The destruction of the Boyars had a profound effect on Drakulya’s government of Wallachia. Any Boyar, merchant or peasant who had any guilty secret to conceal learnt the lesson of Easter Monday and either went into hiding or fled across the frontier. Drakulya had made himself master of his principality and removed at a stroke the cause of any unrest. The Boyar class had been decimated in the massacre and those who remained were quiescent,
almost fawning, in their flattery of the Prince. Drakulya’s new-found security soon made itself felt. On the one hand he ceased to be suspicious, but on the other he demanded every acknowledgment of his throne and status. His rule was totally autocratic. No one dare oppose him, Mihail began to learn the prudence of a quiet tongue and a still mouth and even envoys from distant countries learnt the need to observe and follow the obsequious etiquette of the Wallachian court, and this included the envoys from Drakulya’s public ally and friend, Matthew Corvinus.
In the January of 1459, Count Bernard de Boithor brought news and greetings from the new Hungarian king. Drakulya entertained him in the throne room at Tirgoviste. The conversation, once diplomatic protocol had been completed, was dull and boring with Drakulya gazing absent-mindedly at the table, and most of the talk being guided by the ever tactful Cirstian, who asked the Hungarian envoy a series of questions regarding both the situation in Hungary and amongst the Turks across the Danube. I knew by Drakulya’s hidden smile and secret guarded looks at de Boithor that the prince planned one of his practical jokes; Drakulya seemed to find great satisfaction in teasing poor unfortunates not fully accustomed to the intrigues of the Wallachian court and its Prince’s sudden tempers. An itinerant Catholic priest had once had the temerity, when asked by the Prince what he thought of the destruction of the Boyar class, to answer truthfully and condemn it. The unfortunate cleric, despite his status as a foreign visitor, was abused both physically and verbally by the outraged Prince and then impaled in Drakulya’s famous park in the Valley of the Shadows.
Moreover, Drakulya had been disappointed by Corvinus’ lack of military support in strengthening certain fortresses along the Danube and he also resented anyone who might have a claim over him. The Prince had not forgotten how Hunyadi had given him help but had made this conditional on Wallachia being completely subservient to the dictates of the Hungarian throne. Watching Drakulya’s expression, I knew that he fully intended to use the Hungarian envoy’s presence to gain revenge against Matthias as well as establish his own independence. Once the banquet was over Drakulya clapped his hands and two servants appeared carrying a spear carved in gold, drawing gasps of admiration from the guests, followed by a sudden silence as members of the court looked nervously at each other and wondered what their unpredictable Prince intended. The sigh of relief when the spear was set up immediately in front of the Hungarian envoy was almost audible as the guests realised that whatever was to happen did not affect them and so they sat back amused and expectant. The Prince leaned forward and in humourous tones asked:
“Tell me, de Boithor, can you think of any possible reason why this spear should be set up in front of you?”
The Hungarian’s eyes snapped with anger at being drawn into this silly yet deadly game. “Your Highness,” he answered sardonically, “it appears that one of your noblemen, some great Boyar of this noble kingdom, has had the temerity to offend you and now you are going to honour him in your usual way.”
The stark impudence of his reply and the open allusion to Drakulya’s extermination of the Boyars chilled the room and Mihail muttered that the Hungarian envoy seemed almost willing to risk sudden death. Drakulya remained impassive, lounging in his chair, his hand combing his now luxurious moustache, as he studied the envoy’s reply.
“You are right,” he eventually replied. “This lance is set up in someone’s honour. It is you I intend to honour.”
The Hungarian envoy brushed away the crumbs from the edge of his sleeve and shrugged. “Well, your Highness,” he replied, “if I have done something which demands death, then go ahead. After all, you are the best judge, and in that case you will be responsible for my death, not I.” It was a clever, witty answer which both flattered Drakulya and at the same time secretly warned him that if anything happened to his Hungarian envoy then Matthew Corvinus would hold Drakulya personally responsible.
Fortunately for de Boithor, Drakulya burst into peals of laughter and banged the table with his hand, and looking around at the assembled guests urged them to join in his appreciation of the envoy’s wit. Drakulya then lifted his goblet and toasted the envoy.
“If you had not answered me as you had,” he taunted, “I assure you, you would have been impaled on the spot. However, you are an honourable and brave man and deserve to be treated as such.”
So, amidst the peals of laughter and clapping of hands, the Hungarian envoy kept both his life and his honour.
Such incidents became quite common at the Prince’s court. Few of us dare engage Drakulya in a conversation which might suddenly wander down some path we did not want to go or provoke a response which could begin with Drakulya teasing and end with his order for immediate impalement or execution. So Drakulya spent the greater part of the year 1459 savouring his triumph over the Boyars and reasserting his autocratic rule in Wallachia. Just before the Christmas that year his wife, Althea, bore him a son, whom he christened Vlad and proclaimed as his heir in a public ceremony graced by church and state in the cathedral of Tirgoviste. Nevertheless, although Drakulya felt secure within his kingdom, he still kept a wary eye on the fluctuating fortunes of surrounding states. The Turks, now recovered from their humiliating defeat at Belgrade and their military exploits in Greece, made their presence felt with raids across the Danube and fresh demands that Drakulya come to Constantinople to kiss the hem of the Sultan’s cloak. Drakulya refused to answer such written summons. Instead he concentrated on hounding down survivors of the Danesti clan secretly supported by the Ottoman court who had been expelled from Transylvania, as well as the Saxon cities of Brasov and Sibiu. Their leader, Danicul, stole into the country and attempted to stage a revolt at Bucharest and Drakulya himself personally led his forces south. The pretender’s meagre military following soon melted away and those who were captured were immediately sent back to Tirgoviste to be impaled in the Valley of the Shadows. Danicul himself (or so report has it for I did not join the expedition) was treated more mercifully. He was brought before Drakulya, who immediately ordered him to dig his own grave and then perform his own funeral service. Once he had finished, Drakulya bestrode the grave and with his great two-handed sword cleft his unfortunate cousin from brow to chin and so crushed the revolt and its cause.
On his return to Tirgoviste Drakulya concentrated on the Turks who had financed Danicul. He had spent four years amassing a fortune which was stored at Tirgoviste, Rucar or Bucharest. He had used this to buy armour, horses, equipment and mercenaries. The freed peasants or Mosneni had been trained as a fighting militia ready for the Prince’s call to arms to meet any emergency both from within and without the country. Drakulya was also confident that when he marched against the Turks, he would receive both the backing of Matthew Corvinus and other Christian princes. On this, only Mihail opposed him, arguing that no treaty had been signed or guaranteed assurances given that Wallachia would receive help against Mohammed.
Nevertheless, Drakulya was eager for war and all we could do was persuade him to gain more time by negotiating with the Turks. Mohammed initiated this himself, sending felicitations and news about Radu (a person Drakulya refused to even meet) and an invitation to discuss the terms of a new treaty. These messages were brought by Hamza Bey, Governor of Nicopolis and Chief Court Falconer to the Sultan, and a renegade Greek, the Sultan’s personal adviser on Balkan matters, Thomas Catavolinos. Hamza Bey was a giant of a man, tall, with swarthy good looks marred by a broken nose and a black patch over the right eye, the result, so common report had it, of a hunting accident when a falcon turned on his master. Hamza always wore a pair of ostentatious leather hunting boots under his red silken robes, never bothering to remove the silver riding spurs even when he dismounted and walked about, their silver jingling acting as a proclamation of his presence. The Greek, Catavolinos, was quite a contrast, small, sallow with wispy strands of hair and protruding front teeth. He was the nearest thing I’ve seen to a human rat. He also had the cunning and rapacity of one, and was responsible for the d
eaths of more Christians than the entire Janissary corps. He knew the weaknesses of the Christian Danubian states and his accurate reports to the Sultan exposed these defects and were often the natural precursor of a Turkish invasion.
The presence of this precious pair, a leading courtier of the Sultan together with Mohammed’s personal adviser, meant the Turks intended to bring Drakulya and his strategically placed country to heel. They arrived in Tirgoviste during the winter of 1460, bearing letters from Mohammed and Radu and accompanied by a huge retinue of slaves and hangers-on. Drakulya read Mohammed’s letters, immediately destroyed those of Radu and demanded that if Hazma’s retinue or household contained any Wallachians, then they were to be released, otherwise Drakulya could not entertain the Sultan’s envoys. Hamza, his mouth tight with suppressed fury, gracelessly conceded to Drakulya’s request.
9
It was not an auspicious beginning to the negotiations. Hamza and Catavolinos wisely declined Drakulya’s offer of a residence in the city of Tirgoviste and insisted on a villa outside the city walls.