by Paul Doherty
“It is as follows. Tell Rhodros that I am deeply sorry about his wife and child. I had intended sending the boy a present, a small yellow dog he could sit with in the sun. I am deeply sorry I cannot now do this.” Polivar looked at me. “That is all. Is there any reply?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said after a while. “Tell the Prince that I will be with him in the New Year. Now you had better go!”
23
I never really knew why I agreed to go. Looking back, I still don’t. Perhaps it was the Prince’s kindness, a memory which cut through my grief but stirred me, shook me back into life. I took some time to gather my possessions, visit the blackened ash-strewn ruins of my house and take my leave of the brothers. They had been kind and had not intruded on my grief. They also told me that the Moldavian court had found out that I was sheltering in the monastery within a few weeks of my arrival there. The monks were still concerned at the arrival of Polivar and embarrassed at allowing him entry but I quietened their fears and gave them some of the gold I had drawn from a merchant who had acted as my banker. I left the monastery and, for the last time in my life, peace and security. I had lost all my possessions in the fire but the gold I had so carefully banked years previously now bought me a strong-legged deep-bellied war horse, a sumpter pony, clothing, arms and provisions. It was strange to be out in the world, to feel the cold and flinch at the biting wind. I must have left the monastery in the last days of January 1476. The fat clerk who visits me in this hell once asked me that if I had known what awaited me would I have turned back. The answer is No! And, perhaps, in that I have found the answer for my return to Drakulya. He kept company with Death, for whom I was seeking.
The villages and towns of Moldavia were still recovering from the plague as I passed through them to the Transylvanian border. Glaring funeral pyres, thick columns of dirty grey smoke and that sickly-sweet rotten odour I had smelt on battlefields hung over the countryside, destroying the clear brilliance of the winter days. I did not care but stopped when I was tired and ate whenever I wished. I felt like that ancient Jew of legendary fame who was doomed to wander the face of the earth until the end of time. I was impervious to death, I had survived war and plague, dying did not bother me. Nothing could stop me. There were guards on the Transylvanian border preventing people from crossing over but I knew secret paths and slipped through one evening as the mist crept among the trees.
The journey was uneventful as I made my way into Sibiu. I approached the city officials and asked them for the possible whereabouts of the Prince. The man I dealt with, a fat, pot-bellied, greasy individual let his weak, watery eyes slide over me and told me that he knew nothing. He changed his manner when I gripped his wrist and threatened to march him into the presence of the Governor of Transylvania, by whose personal invitation I was in the province. I was bluffing but that fat lump of lard did not know it and he abruptly jumped to his feet, stuttering apologies and more than effusive in his explanation that the Prince was not in Sibiu but residing in a fortified manor house near the neighbouring village of Balcaciu. I nodded thoughtfully at this news as if I was barely tolerant of its sketchiness. I had a feeling that Drakulya would not be in Sibiu, he was far too wary to trust himself to the Saxon merchants.
I left the city, following the directions the official had given me and reached Balcaciu in the late afternoon, a collection of wooden houses grouped round an enormous well and a wooden turf-thatched church. I passed through and began wending my way up a beaten dirt-track to the walls of the fortified manor and the huge iron-studded gate which could be seen from the village. I was only half-way up the hill when a group of ruffians emerged from the trees and bushes on either side of the track. They were dressed in assorted pieces of armour but were well armed and looked professional, mercenaries from the Rhinelands, for their leader, a short wiry man with red flaming hair, the blue eyes and the thin cruel face of a weasel, grabbed the bridle of my horse and barked questions at me in German while one of his companions expertly took my dagger and sword and another kept a crossbow quarrel aimed at my chest. I answered in fluent German that I was here at the personal invitation of the Voivode and wished to see him immediately. He shrugged, grabbed the bridle of my horse and led me up to the iron gates which swung open at our approach.
The manor was similar to those of the merchants of Sibiu, high walls with narrow lattice windows, sloping roofs and jutting eaves. The courtyard was dusty and ringed on either side by outhouses, smithies, stables and what looked like makeshift barracks. The courtyard was full of people, carts and horses. A great deal of shouting and directions were being issued in a number of languages which indicated that the Prince was once more on the move and preparing to leave. My guide shouted an order to a group of mercenaries who were seated in a ring around a small boy playing with crude wooden soldiers, moving them about oblivious to the turmoil around him. The man hurried off and then, before I realised it, Drakulya was beside me, his hand on my arm, his face smiling up at me. My first impression was that the years had hardly changed him. The face was lined and thinner, the eyes more hooded with that constant wary look of a hunted animal; the long black hair was streaked with grey, his thick moustache now clipped back to a firm line of hair on his lip and chin. “Rhodros,” he murmured. “You have arrived at last. Where have you been?” The question was a feeble attempt at a joke but he must have seen the pain in my eyes for he quickly added, “I am sorry, for a moment I forgot.” “I will never forget!” I answered brusquely. Drakulya looked at me, studying me closely. “No,” he replied. “I don’t suppose you ever will.” He turned and pointed to the small boy who sat playing in the dust. “My son, Mihail,” he said proudly. I looked at the boy and realised that with his shock of black hair, sallow skin and curious eyes only Drakulya could be his father. “The Princess?” I asked. “Is she here?” Drakulya patted my horse’s neck and stared lovingly at his son. “No,” he replied. “Things are not safe here. Even Sibiu has its assassins, that is why you were brought here by one of my patrols.” He pointed to young Mihail. “Tomorrow, he rejoins his mother in Hungary. They will be safe there until we have regained what is rightfully ours.” Looking at Mihail I suddenly remembered that wild ride down the slopes from the castle of Arges so many years previously and the tragedy which befell Drakulya’s other son, when he slipped from his father’s horse. Before I could stop myself I asked, “And your other son? The one who was lost?” Drakulya smiled. “No need to worry,” he reassured me. “I later found out the boy had been found wandering by a group of villagers and they had looked after him in secret ever since. That is another reason for going back into Wallachia. Anyway,” he added, “you have ridden far and there is much to discuss.”
We spent most of that night reminiscing over the past and Drakulya carefully avoided asking me any questions but concentrated instead on what had happened to him, his years of captivity in Hungary, his expeditions with the King Matthias, as he touched with hidden pride upon the growth of the legends about him. “Do you sleep well at night?” I asked, not caring about the Prince’s violent temper. “Don’t the dead we killed ever come to you? Do you ever forget?” Drakulya looked at me guardedly and only then did I realise how much he had aged. Suddenly he looked old and worn and I noticed that the nervous twitch had made its appearance, slightly distorting one side of his face. “I never forget!” He gripped me firmly by the wrist with both of his hands. “But Rhodros,” he continued, “time is passing. It is running out. This time we must succeed. I must take the kingdom and leave it safe for my heirs!” He stared at me. “You have heard or certainly found out,” he commented, “that I have given up the Orthodox faith and accepted Roman Catholicism.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter what religion I am. I will do anything to sit once more in the throne room at Tirgoviste, and accepting the Pope is a cheap way of hiring Hungarian troops.”
24
The following morning I discovered that Drakulya was as good as his word. His conversion to Roman Catholici
sm had won him the support of the Hungarian court and, at a council meeting which lasted most of the day, Drakulya outlined how Wallachia would be captured with this support. Prince Stephen would launch an invasion from Moldavia with a force of fifteen thousand men while Count Stephen Bathory, a member of the Ecsed branch of a powerful Hungarian noble family, would join the Serbian despot, Vuc Brancovic, in an attack from Southern Transylvania with a force of about twenty-five-thousand men. The situation in Wallachia was most amenable for Drakulya’s plans. His brother, Radu, had died of a fever, a fact Drakulya dismissed with the same lack of care one would crush a flea. The new usurper of the Wallachian throne, Basarab Laiota, had the support of a few Boyars and Janissaries stationed in the principal towns but otherwise his writ carried no force in the countryside. There was no doubting how carefully Drakulya had prepared for his last invasion against his rival. Janos Vites, a famous Hungarian diplomat, was working on Drakulya’s behalf in enlisting support from Brasov and other powerful mercantile communities in Transylvania, while other envoys were busy advancing the Prince’s cause in Moldavia and even in Wallachia itself.
A few days after I arrived at the manor house the Prince and his small entourage of clerks, priests and Hungarian envoys together with his own personal bodyguard of professional mercenaries moved out of town to the Transylvanian border. We all became immersed in the preparations for the approaching invasion and once again, like a hand in a well-worn glove, I slipped easily into my old role as the Prince’s chancellor. There were supply lists to be drawn up, indentures to be made with the captains of mercenaries, letters to be read and answered, the reports of the spies to be studied and commented on, and, above all, the amassing of information. Now and again, Drakulya would take time off to talk about the old days at Egrigoz and Edirne and his few years as Prince of Wallachia. He began to ruefully admit his mistakes and once in his cups solemnly promised that this time he would base his rule on conciliation rather than terror. Would he have done? I don’t really know. He was calmer, more detached, but still extremely suspicious of everyone. On one occasion he personally executed a guard he had found sleeping on duty and on another, half beat a poor servant to death who spilt red wine over one of his expensive black velvet doublets.
I knew Drakulya the leopard would never change his spots or the old wolf learn new tricks. He was a dissimulator; a soldier amongst soldiers with the mercenaries, a cordial and refined humanist with the Hungarian envoys, and a wise and thoughtful leader with his allies. But beneath this superficial facade were deep black hatred and anger, particularly against the Boyars who had betrayed him and deserted him twelve years previously. He accepted Cirstian back into his council; that old fox had served Radu but realised that Basarab’s chances of survival were not as great as those of Drakulya. Cirstian simply appeared in the Prince’s camp, cool, suave, offering his services and the vital information he brought from Wallachia. Drakulya accepted him as an old friend but now and again I shivered when I saw Drakulya watch Cirstian with his hooded eyes and I knew the Prince had not forgotten his treachery.
Now and again others joined him; the Hungarian nobleman, Count Stephen Bathory, arrived, tall, arrogant, carrying his head like a priest would carry the host at communion. Bathory was no military commander, he could hardly read a map, but he was a born leader, his very presence giving our design both assurance and optimism. Then there was Brancovic, the Serbian despot. In exile from his own kingdom, a born Turk-hater, Brancovic firmly believed in all-out war against the Ottoman Empire, and would offer his services to anyone prepared to strike a blow against Mohammed. He was short, fat, with a balding pate and a face reminiscent of those paintings of cherubs I had seen in the frescoes of Moldavian churches. Nevertheless, the fleshy lips and hard agate eyes betrayed his homicidal tendencies. He reminded me of the Greek, Theodore, though he lacked Theodore’s natural aptitude for intrigue and treachery.
All that summer of 1476, troops poured in from Hungary, Moldavia and the Rhinelands. Contingents sent by the Hungarian kingdom were financed by the Papacy, even the Geneose and Venetian Republics sent troops. The invasion was set to begin just before the harvest but Drakulya delayed the order until he received firm assurances from Prince Stephen that the Moldavian army would move. At the end of October these assurances were given and on the feast of All Saints, November 1st 1476, Drakulya, accompanied by Stephen and Brancovic, led his troops into Wallachia. Once again Drakulya’s silver dragon banner was unfurled for all to see as a clear sign that the Prince was at war, prepared to treat as traitors any person who rode against him. In actual fact the country was tired of war. Villagers sat listlessly as our armies marched south; only now could I appreciate how wearied they were of our marching and counter-marching. The invasion and counter-invasion which always benefited someone else but never them.
The country still bore the marks of Drakulya’s previous fierce fight against the Turks in the summer of 1462 and certain villages were still black charred heaps, the inhabitants either long dead or fled not bothering to return. Some of the Mosneni joined us and a few Boyars though Drakulya knew that most of the noble class had either fled or were awaiting the outcome of events.
Nobody opposed us as we marched south-east to Tirgoviste, following the Dambovita river valley past Bran and Rucar. We linked up with the Moldavian force (their King did not come) and on November 7th we approached the Wallachian capital. A group of cavalry and a few contingents of Turkish mercenaries attempted to block our path but they were cleared aside in one wild charge led by Drakulya himself. There was no quarter given. Those who threw down their arms were immediately gagged, bound and hung from nearby trees. Drakulya then approached the main city gate and sat on his horse, tossing and teasing his long black hair, as he waited to receive the submission of the city from some of its leading merchants. They came out trembling and frightened, fearful of the Prince’s reputation and wondering what would happen to them. Drakulya, true to his word, was pleasant and cordial, telling them to stand, refusing to accept their obeisances, loudly promising for all to hear that there would be no sacking or any form of persecution now he was back in his capital. Drakulya then led his troops into the city. I, however, tired and exhausted with this sight which I had seen so many times, turned my horse and picked my way among the stark trees around the city to the Valley of Shadows.
There was no guard there now, only an eerie silence made more so by the early winter darkness and the cawing of rooks. The valley had been stripped of its terrible trees and the rotting human fruit they had carried. Only shallow holes in the ground showed where the stakes had been embedded. The Turks, Radu or someone with a hint of human compassion, must have ordered their destruction. I sat on my horse while the evening darkness gathered around me; in the distance I heard the single lonely hoot of an owl. I thought of Anna, my son, and wondered if the horror that I had helped launch on to the world had led to their deaths, the price demanded by the men, women and children who had died here or elsewhere in this blood-soaked country. I felt the icy chill of winter and, turning my horse round, made my way slowly back to the capital, devoid of any elation, feeling exhausted and wondering once more why I had left the peace and security of the monastery.
Drakulya, however, was excited and as eager as any young prince claiming his throne for the first time. The following day he held a most splendid banquet in which he hosted and saluted his captains and principal allies. I sat listlessly, picking at my food or taking the occasional sip of the rich Rhenish wine which Count Stephen had contributed to the feast. I had the feeling there was something terribly wrong. Basarab had fled and the Turks, who had so insistently fought for control of the country, had left with no more than a token show of force. God knows, I tried to persuade Drakulya to listen, to send out spies, reconnaisance patrols, and so search out the Turkish troops who must still be somewhere in the country. Drakulya would not listen. He continued south along the Dambovita valley, accepting the allegiance of more of the Boyars and, on
November 16th, occupied the greatest fortress in the country, Bucharest, which gave him control of most of the main routes by land or river to the Danube border.
25
Drakulya did not seem at all concerned that his allies were leaving him. He became immersed in the politics and administration of his country. There were officials to appoint, store-rooms to check, wages to be paid, envoys to be seen and letters to be read and studied. It was almost as if he was playing a game and pleased to be part of it once again. He had sworn there would be no retribution but, as I have said, a leopard never changes its spots, and it is impossible to teach an old wolf new tricks. Drakulya was too full of hate to forget the injuries he had received during his exile. Of course, he issued letters and pardons but, at the same time, he ordered me to draw up a list of proscribed names. Most of them were Boyars who had either collaborated with Radu or, even worse, deserted him during his last great conflict against the Turks. One Boyar stupid enough to believe Drakulya’s promise was Gales, the Boyar who had commanded the cavalry during the famous night attack on Mohammed’s camp. Drakulya had always blamed him for the failure of that campaign yet he openly feted him at banquets and public meetings though even on our arrival in Wallachia I believed Drakulya considered him a dead man. Nothing dramatic occurred. There was no public arrest or bloody execution. Gales was simply found dead in his bed. Drakulya sent a court physician, who pronounced that it was simple failure of the heart. I knew better. Gales was poisoned. Not that I mourned him. He had deserted us in that night attack and in any other country with any other ruler he would have stood trial for treason and died in a more cruel and horrible fashion. Other notable enemies were not so lucky and it was more than a coincidence how many of them within the space of a few days either suffered violent accidents or were the object of violent attacks by unknown bandits or outlaws.