The chamberlain returned a moment later and stood by the door to announce the envoys, who strode past him with rapid arrogance as he cried out, "The representatives of Torghuz Beg, the sultan's commander."
The Turks walked up to the foot of the throne. Two of them bowed curtly but did not remove their hats in the presence of the Voivode; the third, a younger man less aware of the significance of omissions and irregularities in diplomatic behavior, removed his plumed fez but did not bow. He looked around nervously at the drunken rabble that surrounded him.
The leader of the Turkish mission evidenced no signs of unease. He brushed a few specks of dust from his flowing silk blouse and did not even look at the Voivode as he said, "My sublime and illustrious master, Torghuz Beg, beloved of Allah and friend of the sultan, demands your immediate surrender. In his magnanimous generosity my master has condescended to allow you this opportunity to save your life and spare your people bloodshed." He then looked at the Voivode impassively, his face a study in boredom and disdain.
The Voivode smiled malevolently. "Have you Turkish pig-eaters no manners? Have you never been told that you must remove your hats in the presence of your superiors?"
The Turkish spokesman emitted an exaggerated yawn. "There is no voivode here, only a usurper who has attempted to steal a throne from his brother, the true voivode of Wallachia. The true voivode has sworn allegiance to the sultan. The usurper, whose mother, as I understand it, was an Albanian whore, is being generously offered a chance to avoid being fed to my master's dogs. My master suggests that he avail himself of it."
The Voivode laughed darkly. "My children, these pig-eaters seemed determined to keep their hats on in our presence. Well, let us be good hosts. Seize them, and nail their hats to their heads."
The two Turks who had not removed their hats sputtered stunned protests as the laughing rabble grabbed them and forced them down upon their knees. Their incredulous faces bespoke their arrogant assumption that, as envoys of Torghuz Beg, their persons were inviolate.
But of course, no one's person was inviolate to the Voivode. They realized this in their last moments of life, before those who held them drove the nails into their brains.
The Voivode motioned the third Turk forward. The young man was green with fear and nausea, and he approached with trembling steps. "You have manners, little Turk," the Voivode said. "That speaks well of your upbringing." His voice was kind and melodious.
"Th … thank you, Lord," the young man stammered.
"I do, however, detect a hint of arrogance in your eyes as you look at me," he went on, his voice growing increasingly cold with each successive word. "Do you look upon me with scorn, Turkish sheep lover?"
"N … no, My Lord! I …"
The Voivode nodded pensively. "Ah, but you do, I think you do indeed. I think that a lesson in manners is called for." He snapped his fingers and the young man was immediately seized by four men. The Voivode took a dagger from the sheath that hung from his leather belt and tested the blade's tip with his forefinger. A drop of blood oozed up from the prick, and the Voivode licked it off. "Now listen to me, lover of little boys, and deliver this message to the whoremonger whose ass you lick. Tell him that we shall water our crops with the blood of Turks, and that the bellies of our dogs will swell with the meat from your bodies. Tell Torghuz Beg that I shall piss on his corpse and then leave his body for the crows. Tell him all this, if you can see your way back to the Turkish camp." Then he grabbed the young man by the hair and sliced through his scalp from ear to ear around the back of his head. The Voivode reached back and grabbed the torn edge of the scalp just above the nape of the neck and wrenched it forward, pulling it over the crown of his head and down over his face. The young man screamed in pain and the soldiers cheered with delight.
The bleeding Turk stumbled from the hall as the Voivode said to his army, "Feast and enjoy yourselves. I go now to my women. Tomorrow we shall crush these Turkish insects beneath our boots and grind them into the mud." He left the hall to a cacophony of cheers and cries of loyalty.
He walked alone up the winding staircase to his private chambers, listening as the sounds of revelry faded behind him. He opened the heavy wooden door and walked into the large, silent room. It was dimly lighted by one small oil lamp, and all three of his wives were sleeping upon the wide, canopied bed. He walked over quietly, considered awakening them, but then decided to allow them to sleep a bit longer.
There would be time enough for the delights of the flesh later, before sleep overtook him, if indeed he could sleep at all. He rarely slept on the eve of battle.
He looked down at them one by one, and he smiled, enjoying their beauty, secure in their slavish, frightened devotion to him. Magda, his first and only wife recognized by the unbendable Orthodox Church, had given him his little heir, the boy Nicholae, asleep elsewhere in the castle. The second, Katarina, was a whore of such enthusiasm and expertise that he had kept her and married her, the priest's objections notwithstanding. The first priest to object to the polygamous marriage had been impaled upon a stake; likewise the second. The third had performed the ceremony willingly. Finally, Simone, the blond one, the little Frankish girl he had purchased as a slave from some Gypsies a decade ago. He had taken great pleasure with her.
None of his wives objected to the presence of the others, of course. None of them would have dared to object. There were many trees in Wallachia which could be sharpened into stakes, after all, and these women were not fools.
Taking the oil lamp with him, he left the room and descended the staircase. He did not reenter the great hall but rather continued to descend until he reached the subterranean room which served as both crypt and chapel for the castle. He placed the oil lamp into the small alcove near the doorway and walked into the dark, damp room.
The child that he had left here earlier was still in the same place, bound hand and foot and lying in trembling fear upon the surface of the coffin lid of one of the earlier voivodes. He smiled coldly at the little boy and then drew forth his dagger, still wet and red with the blood of the Turk. He placed his hand over the child's mouth and then plunged the blade for which the Voivode was grateful. The wailing and sobbing of children always annoyed him.
He turned from the corpse and whispered, "Ordogh! I am here! I have given you a gift! Come to me!"
He waited for a few moments, and then the voice said, "Your gift pleases me, Little Dragon."
"For that I am happy, Ordogh," the Voivode said.
"Why do you wish to speak to me?" the voice asked. "Do you tremble upon the eve of battle?"
"I tremble before nothing and no one," the Voivode replied evenly. "You know that, Ordogh."
"Yes, I know." The voice came from nowhere and everywhere at once—an invisible tongue, noncorporeal, formless, but present nonetheless. "Why then have you called upon me? Do you desire to know more secrets of the alchemists?"
"No, Ordogh," the Voivode said. "Tomorrow I join battle with Torghuz Beg."
"This I know."
"I have five thousand soldiers: drunken ruffians, mercenaries, and peasants. Torghuz Beg has ten thousand soldiers, seasoned veterans. His generals fought at Vaslui last year."
"This also I know."
The Voivode paused. "I may not win the battle."
"You shall not win the battle."
"I may die."
"You shall die."
The Voivode began to pace back and forth and spoke contemplatively. "If I win, I shall be the greatest of my race, and I shall unite all Dacia beneath my scepter."
"Beneath your whip," the voice corrected him.
"If I lose, then my land is lost to the Turk, and my life is lost to Torghuz Beg." He shook his head. "If I lose," he mused, "but you say when I lose. Can you tell what will transpire, Ordogh? Are you omniscient?"
"No," the voice replied, "but I can count, Little Dragon. And even I, who have never needed to wield a sword or hurl a spear, know the difference between an experienced soldier an
d the scum you have hired to fill your depleted ranks."
"So you make a judgment," the Voivode said. "You may be wrong."
"I may be wrong," the voice agreed.
"I may win."
"The pope may become sultan," the voice said. "The king of Hungary may become a Moor, and the king of France a Hussite."
The Voivode laughed bitterly. "I shall not win the battle, and I shall die."
"Yes, horribly, at the hands of Torghuz Beg."
The Voivode began to pace up and down in the silent crypt. "It cannot end thus. I must have an alternative. I must go into battle knowing that even in defeat I shall triumph."
The voice did not respond for a long while. Then it said, "There is a way, Little Dragon, but it will entail a special damnation."
The Voivode laughed. "Do you think I fear damnation, Ordogh? I am damned already!"
"Yes," the voice agreed, "but for as long as you live, you have the option of repentance."
He spat a bitter laugh. "Sooner will the raven walk or the wolf fly."
"I know," the voice said. "You bring great joy to me, Little Dragon. You have always brought great joy to me."
"Then tell me of this way, Ordogh. Tell me how I can triumph over Torghuz Beg, even in defeat."
"If you choose the way, you will be serving me and pleasing me long after the name of Torghuz Beg is forgotten, and long after the stones of this fortress have been reduced to dust by the wind and the rain, if you choose the way, your service to me will not end with death."
"Tell me, Ordogh, What is the alternative which I have?"
The voice seemed to whisper in his ear. It whispered of strange powers, of great joy in the midst of misery and great suffering in the midst of exquisite pleasure. It spoke of life and death, of life in death and death in life, of terror and ecstasy and pain.
When the voice had finished its whispering, the Voivode stood motionless and silent. "I had not dreamed of such a thing," he muttered.
"That is the offer I make to you, Little Dragon. It is yours to accept or reject, but know that you are damned regardless."
The Voivode nodded. "But I must think, Ordogh, I must consider this carefully. Must I answer now?"
"Call upon me unto the point of death. For as long as you live and breathe, you can choose to accept my offer. But remember Little Dragon that you are damned regardless; know that you will lose the battle; know that whether you accept or reject the way I have described to you, your land is fated to be ground beneath the heels of the Turk for many years."
The Voivode thought about this. "And if I accept, then I shall be here to rule again when the Turks are gone?"
"You will be here, but you will not care about kingdoms and castles and power and glory. The centuries will change you greatly, Voivode. I shall change you greatly."
He nodded again. "I shall call upon you again, Ordogh, and give you my answer, when the outcome of tomorrow's contest has been decided."
"I await your summons, Little Dragon," the voice said, and then there was silence.
The Voivode was deep in thought as he mounted the stairs that led from the crypt to the main floor of the fortress. He ignored the salutes of the guards as he continued back up to his private chambers.
Is vengeance and victory worth such a fate? he asked himself. Yes, it is. He smiled. If the battle is lost, if I am to die at the hands of Torghuz Beg, then it will be worth such a fate to see him die in terror and pain.
He entered his chambers once again and sat down on the side of the huge bed beside the sleeping figure of Simone, the Frankish girl. He stroked her hair absently and admired her naked form, draped by her golden tresses. "Simone," he whispered.
The girl opened her eyes groggily and gazed up at him with confusion. Then, seeing who had awakened her, she became instantly alert, and she smiled at him. Her smile was both loving and wary, for this was a hard man to please, and a dangerous man to displease. "My Lord!" she said softly. "I am glad of your presence."
"Are you indeed," he said, and smiled. "Tell me, my little Teuton, do you fear death?"
Her eyes went wide with apprehension. Such questions, when asked by the Voivode, were rarely rhetorical. "I … I am but eighteen, My Lord. I pray that death will spare me for many years."
"Tomorrow I battle the Turk, Simone. If I am victorious, then all will be well. But if I am defeated, if the Turk takes this fortress, then death may be something that you welcome."
She shook her head, relieved that his question was not a prelude to something more immediately frightening. "You shall win, My Lord. Of that I have no doubt."
He smiled at her with what passed for affection. "Do you want to live forever, little Simone?"
"My Lord?" she asked, not understanding his words.
"Would you live forever, if you could?"
She shrugged slightly. "Of course I would, My Lord."
"And if it meant death and misery for others? Would you still choose to live forever?"
"Why do you ask me this, My Lord?"
But he did not hear her response. He was stroking her firm young thigh absentmindedly as he stared off at nothing. "I would still choose it," he muttered. "What do the deaths of others mean to me? What is their misery beside my desires?"
"My Lord?"
He smiled at the girl. "Go back to sleep, Simone."
"Do you wish to take pleasure with me, My Lord?"
"No," he sighed, lying back on the bed and putting his arm around her. "I save my strength for Torghuz Beg. Sleep, little German." She leaned her head down and rested it upon his chest, listening to his heartbeat and wondering what his odd discourse portended. In a few minutes she was sleeping.
To triumph over my enemies, he thought. To reach out from beyond the grave and destroy them, make them beg and plead and whimper. What was it Genghis Khan said? Life has four great joys: killing your enemies, torturing their sons, raping their daughters, and making their widows weep.
You were wrong, Mongol. He smiled. There is a fifth pleasure, one so horrible that even you could never have dreamed of it.
He dozed lightly for a few hours, and as the sun rose slowly over the mountaintops he was awakened by the sounds of bustle and voices in the great hall and out in the courtyard. A knocking on his door was followed by a nervous voice from without saying, "My Lord! The Turkish forces have been sighted near Dobresti!"
"Assemble my host!" the Voivode said as he sprang from the bed. "Tell Yaroslav to bring me my armor. Tell my generals to meet me in the great hail in fifteen minutes."
"Yes, Lord," the chamberlain said, and then hurried away from the door, shouting out the orders of his master.
"Malcolm!" he heard a distant voice saying.
The Voivode walked over to the window and looked out at the mountains.
"Malcolm! Wake up!"
Sunrise, he thought. By sunset, either I will be victorious or I will be in chains. If victorious, then tomorrow's sunrise will see me on the way to becoming lord of all Dacia. And if in chains, then I shall see no more sunrises.
Even if I accept Ordogh's offer, even if I exist for centuries to come, never again shall I see the light of day. He gazed out the window for a few more moments.
Then, as he turned to leave the room and go out to meet the Turk, a resounding slap landed on his cheek.
"Malcolm, wake up, goddamn it!" Jerry said.
"J … Jerry," he said weakly. "Wh … what …"
"Are you okay?" Jerry asked.
"Yes … another dream …"
"Shit," his friend muttered. "Why don't you sit down for a minute?"
It was only when Jerry made this suggestion that Malcolm realized that he was standing motionless, an untouched glass of sherry in his hand. He stared at it for a few moments and then impulsively poured the entire glass down his throat. The phone began ringing as he placed the glass down upon the table, and he stumbled over to it, "H … hello?"
"Malcolm?"
Her voice was like a ray
of sunlight. "Holly! I … I was going to call you."
"I have to see you, Malcolm. Can you come over right away?"
"Yes, yes, I want to come over. An awful lot has happened, and—"
"You can tell me about it when you get here. I'm home, in my apartment. Can you come over now?"
"Sure I can," he said, smiling and relieved.
"Good. Come alone."
"Holly, I'm so happy that—" But there was dead air on the other end of the line. She had hung up. Malcolm turned to Jerry and said, "Tell Rachel that I'm going over to see Holly. Either I'll be back in a little while or I'll call you from her place." He rushed out the door, without waiting for a response.
It was just after sundown.
Chapter Seventeen
Malcolm coughed nervously as he stood before the door of Holly Larsen's co-op apartment. He was alone in the narrow, dimly lighted hallway, and he glanced to his right and to his left to make certain that there were no witnesses to his unease and discomfort. How can I ask her to put us up, after everything that has happened? How can I try to impose on her? But he knew that he had to impose on her. And he knew that she would agree, knew that her decision to end their relationship had been a rational one that ran contrary to her emotions. He told himself that he knew this. In reality, he merely hoped it.
Malcolm coughed again, took a deep breath, and rang the buzzer. A long moment passed and then he heard Holly's voice say, "Come in, Malcolm." Her voice sounded somehow odd.
Malcolm found to his surprise that the door was not locked, and as he pushed it open and leaned his head into the apartment, he noticed first that all of the lights were out and all of the shades were drawn. Then an odor reached his nostrils and he crinkled his nose against the sickeningly sweet smell. "Holly?" he said into the darkness of the interior.
"Come in, Malcolm," she said again.
He stepped into the dark room, leaving the door open behind him. Attempting a bit of humor, he said, "I guess you didn't clean out your refrigerator before we left for England, right? Whew! There's one hell of a stink in here. This place is ripe!"
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