The Lord Count Drakulya

by Paul Doherty

  Selim shrugged and spread his hands. “I think I already have. The Sultan became frightened after that attack. If it were not for his advisers he would have immediately fled from Wallachia and left the country for ever. The Sultan Mohammed is frightened of no man but even now, with Drakulya dead, he wakes screaming in the night after nightmares about Drakulya’s attack on his camp.” “Surely,” I interjected sardonically, “a night attack would not disturb God’s self-appointed Vicar on earth. Mohammed, the Scourge of Christendom, Conqueror of Constantinople, who rules men’s necks, frightened like a little child because we attacked his camp?” “No,” Selim replied. “It was not just the night attack. It was what came later. When Drakulya fled to his castle in the Valley of the Arges the Turkish armies continued their advance into Tirgoviste. The capital was an open city and Mohammed simply occupied it. Then, perhaps two or three days after we arrived there, we were all taken. Mohammed and his leading captains and his advisers, to see what I think you called the Valley of the Shadows. I have never,” he continued in a softer voice, “never seen anything so horrible or terrifying in my life. Miles, literally miles of impaled victims killed in a variety of ways. Most of them were Turks. A few of them Mohammed’s friends and closest advisers. We rode through that valley and came out of it different men. Sultan Mohammed’s face was as white as chalk. He did not speak but led our cavalcade back to the main Turkish camp and stayed closeted in his tent for days. Then the Sultan called a meeting of all his commanders and swore that he would have nothing more to do with Wallachia or Drakulya and ordered a general retreat.” He stopped and looked at me. “Selim,” I pointed out patiently, “it is good of you to come in and see someone you knew many years before. It is good to know that Drakulya shattered the arrogance of your Sultan but what use is that now?” Selim almost ignored my question. “You may have wondered,” he said without waiting for an answer, “you must have wondered, how Drakulya often knew what the Sultan intended? Do you remember Theodore?” I nodded and let him continue.

  “Don’t you ever wonder, Rhodros, who told Drakulya that Theodore was a traitor? Did you ever speculate on why Drakulya escaped from the castle of the Arges only for a few hours before we launched an all-out attack on the fortress? It was I,” he replied, answering his own question. “I do not have long to live. I am tired of this life. I gave the information, not because I was grateful that the Sultan had promoted me because I once knew the young Drakulya. No, it is because I have to pay a debt. Do you remember at Egrigoz, Rhodros, when the garrison commander tortured young Vlad by burying him up to his neck in mud and how Vlad took the punishment without protest or objection? I remember,” he said, “walking across to see him, bending down to remove the mud from his mouth and nose so he could breathe more easily. I could have pulled him out but I never did. I could have pleaded for him, but I never did. I walked away from a young man who had shown me nothing but friendship. I came today for two reasons. First, to tell you, Drakulya’s one and only friend, that I tried to repay the debt. The second reason is because I have been sent by my Master.” “For what?” I interrupted angrily. “To make sure I am dead? To plead for my life? To look after my comfort?” Selim shook his head. “There is nothing I can do for you,” he replied. “And there was nothing you could do for Drakulya,” I almost shouted at him, “when he was betrayed and killed near the marshes of Balteni? You must have known about it. Surely you could have sent a message to him? Warned him of the ambush. After all, they were Turkish soldiers who attacked us.” Selim shook his head again. “No, they were not, Rhodros. The soldiers who ambushed you outside Balteni were not Turks. As I have said, Mohammed is terrified of Drakulya. When the Prince launched his last invasion of Wallachia backed by so many troops from both Hungary and Moldavia, the Sultan gave the order that all Turkish forces were to withdraw across the Danube.” “Then, who were they?” I asked in astonishment. “They were Turkish uniforms. I saw Janissaries, Turkish officers, Sipahi cavalry.” “Turkish uniforms,” Selim retorted drily, “are cheap nowadays. We have left thousands of dead in Wallachia. They were easy to come by.” He leaned forward and grasped me by the wrist. “Do you remember that message I sent you, Rhodros, when we met in Radu’s tent? Do you remember the second part? The actual wording – ‘tell Drakulya that his real enemy is not the Turk’ – did you think I was playing with words and making careful distinctions? The Sultan knew that Drakulya’s real enemy was not the Turks but the Moldavian and Hungarian courts. The men who attacked you at Balteni were Hungarian and Moldavian soldiers dressed in Turkish uniforms.” “Why?” I almost shouted. “Why should they support Drakulya in an invasion and then arrange for him to be killed?” Selim pursed his lips. “It is obvious, Rhodros. They did not want a strong Wallachia. They did not want Drakulya to become the hero of Western Christendom. They also knew that the Sultan Mohammed would never again face Drakulya in battle. Can you imagine what would happen then? Drakulya was still a young man, a brilliant warrior, a superb tactician. How long before he put Wallachia on a sound footing and, when he found himself free of any menance from the Turks, turn all his military might against Moldavia and Transylvania, even Hungary itself? Drakulya,” he continued, “was a dreamer. He had the same dream as Mohammed. Conquest! To make his little country a great power in Europe. Why should we oppose him? No, Drakulya had to die, but his death had to be depicted as caused by his old enemies, the Turks.” “How many people know this?” I asked wearily. “You, me, the Sultan and one or two of his closest advisers,” Selim replied. “Now that Drakulya is dead, Matthew of Hungary and Stephen of Moldavia can rest content. In a little while they will begin to destroy Drakulya’s reputation as a warrior and simply have him depicted as a blood-thirsty homocidal maniac whose death is not to be mourned. I have come to see you because I believe you should know this.”

  Selim rose and rubbed his face wearily with his hands. Suddenly he looked very aged. There was nothing left of the arrogant Janissary officer I had known at Egrigoz, or even the sophisticated, subtle counsellor I had seen in Radu’s tent. Instead he was an old, exhausted man, tired of life, weary and cynical with the intricate politics of the time. He was as much a prisoner as I was and obviously had the same desire for death that I had.

  “Selim,” I said. “You told me there was one other reason why you came.” Selim did not answer but got up and walked across the dirt-strewn floor and knocked at the cell door for the guard to open it. He turned and suddenly smiled at me. “Ah, yes,” he said, almost as an afterthought. “Drakulya was killed at Balteni.” I nodded. “Yet,” he replied, “the Sultan Mohammed, King Matthew of Hungary and King Stephen of Moldavia would all dearly love to know what happened to him.” “He was killed. I saw him fall, the blood pouring out of him.” “Oh, we know that,” Selim commented. “But where is the body? We heard that the monks from Snagov came to collect it but now they claim they never had it! The Sultan Mohammed cannot sleep at night, Rhodros. He knows the legends and stories about Wallachia, the ones Drakulya used to tell us about the Strigoi, the living dead. Does Drakulya wait for us still? In the damp marshes and wet woods of Wallachia?” Selim pointed his hand at me. “Even dead, Rhodros, even dead, Drakulya still frightens us all.” He took a ring off his finger and tossed it to me. “A farewell present, Rhodros. Examine the jewel.” The door opened and without waiting for any reply Selim swept out.

  I know that what Selim has said is true. Since I arrived here, I have half suspected it. The news he brought has comforted me, for if Drakulya still frightens his enemies then now I can go to my death. I sit here in this darkened cell, not frightened of Death for I have lived with his dark shape for so many years that now I see him as a friend, a cool haven from the sweat, blood and toil of the world. I think of Anna, my son, and then my mind goes back to that dusty courtyard in the rocky fortress of Egrigoz. I see a young boy with his arm round a yellow-coated mongrel basking in the sun, and then I remember that terrible black figure on the brow of the hill near the marshes of Balt
eni, the Prince Drakulya dying where his father had, as the prophecy had said, his sword pointed to the skies, his face filled with a terrible rage vowing to the world that he would return. I believe he will.

  Postscript

  Johann Grantz, clerk to Matthew Corvinus, King of Hungary, health and greetings. I merely add this postscript, Your Highness, to point out that this concludes the confession of Rhodros, former friend and lieutenant of the upstart, self-proclaimed Voivode, Drakulya of Wallachia. I am sure Your Highness would have liked to see this miserable wretch pay for his crimes and abominable allegations against Your Highness with his life. I regret to inform you that he cheated the hangman’s noose. The high-ranking Janissary officer who visited him in his death cell, one Selim, left him a ring; its gemstone hid a deadly poison. Apparently Rhodros used this and the guards found him dead in his cell. As I have remarked earlier, it would appear that most of this confession is as accurate as one can expect in the circumstances. I offer my humble excuses and apologise for we have not been able to find any trace of the corpse of the dead Drakulya. Yet, and I ask this in all humility, if Drakulya is killed he can do no further damage to Your Highness or to his cause. Surely a dead man cannot return from his grave? Can he?

  Author’s Note

  Most of the incidents described in this memoir have a basis in history and can be verified in these excellent studies on Dracula by the historians T. McNally and Radu Florescu in their books Dracula – A Biography of Vlad the Impaler and In Search of Dracula.

  Most of the incidents described in Rhodros’ confession can be borne out by historical fact. Drakulya did launch a strategic attack on both the Boyars and Brasov. He did have a special torture chamber built at the monastery of Snagov. Boyar prisoners constructed his terrible castle on the Arges. He did abuse Turkish envoys and did launch his war of extermination against them.

  Perhaps even the story that Dracula would return from the dead might have a historical basis. It is alleged that monks from the monastery at Snagov took Dracula’s headless corpse and buried it in their monastery. In 1931 George Florescu and the archaeologist Rosetti were officially commissioned by the Rumanian authorities to carry out archaeological excavations in and around Snagov. One place extensively investigated by these two archaeologists was the area covered by a stone which lay before the high altar of the monastery church at Snagov. This, according to tradition, marked the burial place of Prince Dracula. However, when this stone was removed no corpse, headless or otherwise, was discovered. The tomb was empty of human remains.