House of War

by Victor Foia

  She averted her eyes when she said, “I’m not sure that you—what I mean is what if you can’t—?”

  “Don’t you worry about that, Donatella,” he said, turning amorous. “I get harder than the Devil’s kneecap just thinking about making babies with you.”

  Time to close.

  “After the child comes I want to leave for a two-month visit with Bianca in Venice. You’ll have to care for the infant while I’m away.”

  “Anything you wish, my pigeon,” he gushed.

  She stood and extended her hand to be kissed. But Grimaldi, moist eyes and flushed cheeks, rushed to embrace her instead. She turned her head to the side and allowed him to kiss her on the temple while she fought the nausea his body odor stirred in her.

  11

  OSMAN’S QUR’AN

  October 1442, Bursa, Ottoman Empire

  Late in the evening of the day they met Gürani, Mehmed came to Vlad’s room. Yunus and Hamza followed, burdened with heavy loads. The secretary was lugging a three-foot-tall Qur’an, the bodyguard an x-shaped bookstand. Both cast Vlad hostile looks.

  Mehmed was brimming with excitement. “I need you to follow the text in the Qur’an while I recite and tell me if I make mistakes. These two can’t read Arabic, so they’re useless.” He folded his arms and struck a theatrical pose. “I’ve never before retained more than a couple of ayat. But today I’ve memorized sixty-six. Gürani must’ve chosen that sacred number to put further pressure on me.”

  His look invited comment; when Vlad failed to react, Mehmed gave him a superior smile. “Aha! So you don’t know sixty-six is the numerical value of the word Allah, do you?”

  “Are you a Bektashi?” Vlad said, surprised Mehmed would be dabbling in the cabalistic practices of that Sufi order.

  “No, but Lala Zaganos told me what sixty-six signifies. He’s a follower of al-Masudi, the sheik of the—” Mehmed stopped and pressed a hand to his lips, face crimson.

  Ah, so I’m not supposed to know Zaganos is a Bektashi.

  “I hope you keep up your performance,” Vlad said. “My remaining free for three more months rests on your memory.”

  “I’ve said I’ll do it, so you can count on me. But when I’m done, I’ll ask Father to punish Gürani for the humiliation he inflicted upon me this morning.”

  “There is no humiliation when you can laugh in your tormentor’s face.” Vlad pretended to forget Mehmed had laughed before he was caned, not after.

  “You’re right,” Mehmed said. “Not only did I laugh at him, but I’ve made him give in to my demands.”

  While Yunus and Hamza set up the Qur’an on the stand, they watched Vlad with vulpine stares. He guessed they were expecting him to commit a sacrilege in handling the Qur’an, so he’d disgrace himself with Mehmed. When they saw Vlad wash his hands prior to touching the holy book, their looks soured.

  He sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the stand and began to follow Mehmed’s recitation. The Qur’an’s exquisite calligraphy almost distracted him from noticing the boy’s errors. Each cream-colored velum page contained only ten lines of text, which accounted for the book’s enormous size. The letters had been gracefully painted in gold, then outlined in brown ink. Eight-petaled silver rosettes marked the end of each group of ten ayat. The red, blue, and green dots, meant to indicate the vocalization, were actually precious gems affixed onto the page.

  “This was Osman Khan’s Qur’an,” Hamza said when Mehmed finished the drill. “He paid fifty camels for this copy, more than one hundred years ago. It’s priceless today, so don’t damage it.”

  “No infidel has ever laid eyes upon it,” Yunus said. “I begged Mehmed not to let you touch it.”

  Mehmed beckoned Yunus with his index finger. The secretary approached him, eager, and leaned forward ready to take his master’s command.

  Mehmed smiled and whispered, “Shut your eyes.”

  When Yunus complied, Mehmed let his fist fly upward, and Yunus’s teeth turned red behind smashed lips.

  Mehmed winced and rubbed his knuckles. “Keep this Qur’an here until I have it all memorized. Gürani’s given me his own copy, as thanks for my commitment to restore the madrasah.”

  “So you’ve found the necessary funds?” Vlad said.

  “The treasurer had claimed Mehmed’s coffers were empty,” Hamza said. “But once Mehmed had him beheaded, his successor produced enough silver to undertake a full restoration.”

  “I’ve ordered the façade rebuilt in pink granite from Persia,” Mehmed said, “and the portal in ebony from Egypt.” He gave a mischievous chuckle. “That puts the madrasah off-limits to us until the spring.”

  “Mullah Gürani had no idea what he was asking for when he challenged Mehmed to act as a governor,” Hamza said.

  “While work is in progress,” Mehmed said, “we’ll have our classes here at the palace, as I wanted from the beginning. Geography tomorrow, history the next day, military matters the day after, and—”

  “You shouldn’t let Vlad learn about Ottoman war tactics,” Yunus said and licked his swollen lips. “One day he’ll be telling his giaour friends all he’s learned here.”

  Mehmed inspected his bruised knuckles and Yunus leaped backward.

  “I won’t attend your classes if Zaganos’s soldiers shadow me,” Vlad said.

  Both Yunus and Hamza perked up, anticipating perhaps that Mehmed would finally lash at Vlad.

  For a few moments Mehmed seemed to be contemplating the proper answer to Vlad’s challenge. Then he assumed a magnanimous expression. “Very well. I’ll order them to stand down, but only inside the palace premises. Outside these walls, you must be watched at all times.”

  “Unless you convert to Islam,” Yunus said, masking his provocation with an ingratiating smile.

  “Oh, yes,” Hamza added, jumping to the opportunity to exasperate Vlad without drawing Mehmed’s ire. “If you convert you’ll be free to roam around town unescorted.”

  “Not quite so,” Mehmed said. “With Zaganos being responsible for you, he’ll want to have you followed. But I could order him to keep his men out of sight.”

  “Let’s go through your recitation one more time,” Vlad said, offended Mehmed would think him capable of abandoning his faith in exchange for privileges. “You’ve made quite a few mistakes the first time around.”

  “You should really consider converting, Vlad,” Mehmed cried, carried away with enthusiasm for the idea. “Just think—you’ll be allowed to practice archery, bear weapons … even own a horse.”

  “You’ll be an old sultan before I’d consider such a thing,” Vlad snapped. “Do you think faith’s a cloak one changes with the seasons?”

  “Can we take a ride to the beach after class?” Vlad said to Mehmed as they entered the chamber where the geography class was to be held. He spoke loud enough so the other students gathered there could hear him. “I miss the sound of the sea.”

  Mehmed’s schoolmates, boys in Turkish clothing ranging in age from ten to fifteen, had already taken their seats on the floor in a semicircle. On hearing Vlad, they started to laugh but ceased when Mehmed scowled.

  “Prince Vlad’s new to Bursa,” he said. “He’s got no way of knowing how far away the sea is.”

  “We study geography,” a Genovese-accented voice said, “so we might learn such things.” An old man with flying white hair and caterpillar eyebrows stood in the doorway, a toothless grin for a greeting. “So let’s see who can tell Prince Vlad why it’s not practical to take a casual evening ride to the beach.”

  Vlad knew Bursa was situated inland and that the town of Kios served as its port on the Sea of Marmara. His feigned ignorance would help him learn how far this port was from here. Ships from all over Christendom docked in Kios to load up on goods coming off the Silk Road. One of those ships might take him away one day. All he needed was to find his way to the port.

  “The sea’s a day’s travel from here,” the youngest of the students said. “My father ma
kes the trip to Kios once a month.”

  So only twenty to thirty miles stood between Vlad and his chance for freedom.

  “My uncle does too,” an older student said. “But only in the spring, summer, and early fall. The port is closed the rest of the year because of rough seas.”

  This overlooked detail deflated Vlad’s nascent optimism. Even with Mehmed’s keeping him in Bursa for three more months, the port wouldn’t reopen before Vlad had been dragged away to his faraway prison.

  That night, after Mehmed’s recitation of the second batch of sixty-six ayat, Vlad took stock of his predicament. Passage on a ship can’t be had this time of the year. But caravans do travel overland to Europe year round. He’d have to attach himself to a Christian caravan, perhaps a German or an Italian one. Could he trust the caravan master not to sell him to the Turks? If caught in a second escape attempt Vlad couldn’t hope to be spared punishment again. Zaganos would surely mutilate him, then take him in chains to Amasya. And this time Mehmed wouldn’t intervene.

  The pain of his cracked ribs, ignored for two weeks, attacked him now with sharpened claws.

  If he could send word to Donatella she’d help him.

  Ah, Donatella …

  He took out her kerchief and inhaled its fading perfume. The memory of their embrace, woven into an airy tissue of sounds, tastes, and smells, clung to him and ignited his desire for her.

  12

  PUBLIC EXECUTION

  November 1442, Bursa, Ottoman Empire

  “Which official has displeased you this time, Governor?” Vlad said.

  Mehmed had just informed him the history class scheduled for that day had been canceled so he could preside over an execution.

  Vlad suspected Mehmed of finding excuses to avoid his studies. “At this rate you’ll soon run out of heads to lop off.”

  “Oh, it isn’t I ordering the execution this time,” Mehmed said. “Lala Zaganos is disposing of some spies who’ve confessed their guilt and are of no further use.”

  “Spies in Bursa?” Vlad said. “In Edirne, I understand, since that’s where your father’s campaigns are being planned. But nothing’s going on here other than commerce.”

  “It was in Edirne Father’s agents sniffed out the spies first, but let them be, to see what they were up to. Their trail led here, where they were finally bagged, a few days before our arrival. They’re Hungarians with a secret message for the Bey of Karaman.”

  The unexpected news prompted Vlad to react with more keenness than was his custom. “Hungarians?”

  Mehmed chuckled. “Lala Zaganos predicted you’d be interested. He said Wallachians hate Hungarians, so it should amuse you to see them die.”

  The first courtyard was crammed with officers, mullahs, palace servants and townsfolk, gathered for the execution spectacle. The officials were seated on a viewing stand while the rest of the people stood in a circle around a scaffold erected in the center of the yard.

  By the time Vlad and Mehmed took their places on the stand, two burly eunuchs had begun securing a prisoner to a trestle table set upon the scaffold. Two other prisoners stood at the foot of the scaffold, elbows tied behind their backs, heads lowered in defeat.

  “The last time I heard of an alliance between Hungary and Karaman,” Zaganos addressed Vlad over Mehmed’s head, “King Dracul was credited with masterminding it.”

  The recalled image of his father’s bloodied feet and mangled hand jolted Vlad. “He paid dearly for that calumny.” And I’m paying still.

  Zaganos grinned, as if they were sharing cherished memories. “Imagine my surprise to learn King Norbert now makes it sound as if it were his idea. Not a word about your father in this letter.”

  He produced a piece of paper folded to the size of a thumbnail and held it out to Vlad. A crude malevolence was plastered on his face. “You read Latin, don’t you?”

  Vlad reached for the letter, certain it would reveal something about the upcoming crusade. But disdain for Zaganos’s attempt to manipulate him trumped his curiosity. He dropped his hand and wrinkled his nose as if offended by an odor. “You can’t tell where that paper’s been.”

  He turned his attention to the scaffold. The eunuchs had taken positions on both sides of the table, each grasping an end of a two-person log-bucking saw and looking expectantly to the stand, where a drummer stood ready to give the signal for the execution.

  The prisoner made no sound.

  A drum roll broke the silence and the executioners set in motion.

  First they lowered the saw-blade carefully until it barely touched the victim’s naked belly. Then they slid the instrument sideways, once. The prisoner let out a prolonged howl, like an expanding bubble of shock and pain that burst over the crowd.

  The spectators murmured their appreciation.

  The second saw cut lacked the element of surprise, but raised the pain to a level beyond the victim’s capacity to endure. He gave out a scream that seemed to shear his vocal cords, then fell silent and motionless. That was the last sound he’d utter. Now the executioners moved their saw back and forth with dispatch, racing toward an event known only to them. When the blade cut into the planks, one of the eunuchs untied the leather restraints and lifted the condemned man’s upper body off the table by the armpits. The other eunuch poured wine from a costrel into the dying man’s mouth. The liquid drained onto the platform through the prisoner’s sawed-off stomach. His arms flayed, as if he were alert and enjoying the refreshment.

  The crowd expressed its approval with shouts of “Allāhu Akbar.”

  The two prisoners on the ground lifted their heads to see what was happening. The last in line tossed his long hair backward in a gesture that sent a shockwave of recognition through Vlad.

  That couldn’t be … He strained to discern known features in the swollen, grimy face, but the man let his head droop, and his unruly locks blocked Vlad’s view.

  The next prisoner maintained his composure until the eunuchs tied him down. Then he began to wail in Hungarian, again and again, piteously: “Édes anyukám, sweet mamma.” When the moment most relished by the crowd arrived, he too partook against his will of the wine, and flapped his arms in a grotesque manner.

  The blood of the two dead men had run off and pooled in front of the scaffold. The executioners tossed the four body halves to the ground, and the blood splattered over the last victim’s trousers. When the eunuchs began to descend the steps to fetch him, the man straightened his back and, once again, tossed his locks over his shoulder, defiant.

  This time Vlad felt as if he’d been kneed in the stomach.

  It’s you. “Stop! Stop!” he shouted, torn between joy and horror.

  As the people around him craned their heads to see the source of this disruption, Vlad plunged down the four rows below him, stepping on the shoulders, knees, and feet of those in his way. Once on the ground, he shoved aside the spectators blocking his progress and reached the scaffold in three great leaps. There, he threw himself between the executioners and their third prisoner.

  “What are you doing here, Gruya?” he said in Romanian and threw his arms around his friend. “How did you get mixed up with these Hungarians?”

  While holding on to Gruya, Vlad noted how much his friend had grown in the months they’d been apart.

  “I was playing the merchant, and these fellows were my drinking buddies,” Gruya said, casual, as if he and Vlad were chatting about the weather back home. “Lash is in town too, hiding in the Christian Quarter.”

  Four hands pried Vlad’s arms loose then tossed him aside like a bale of hay.

  “Did you confess to anything?” Vlad said.

  Gruya spat a mouthful of blood. “I didn’t tell them shit.”

  The sight of Gruya’s blue eyes, playful even under these dire circumstances, brought Vlad a joy incongruent with the place.

  “Look at you,” Gruya said, grinning through swollen lips, “your beard and mustache have come in.”

  “I kno
w this man,” Vlad shouted at the viewing stand, while trying unsuccessfully to interpose himself between Gruya and the eunuchs. He searched for Mehmed with his eyes. “He’s neither a Hungarian nor a spy.”

  One of the executioners elbowed Vlad in the chest, and the pain in his cracked ribs clipped his breathing. Gasping for air he said in a labored voice, “I’ll get you out of here if I have to …”

  The eunuchs began to drag Gruya up the steps of the scaffold. Vlad staggered toward the stand, waving his arms like a drowning man.

  “Don’t get yourself into trouble on my account,” Gruya called after him. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

  “This man is my squire and has been in my service all my life. He’s got nothing to do with spying.” Vlad’s breathing had recovered, and with it his composure. “He came to Bursa on legitimate business, and you’ve got no cause to kill him.” He glanced over his shoulder and saw Gruya being tied to the table. A painful stab like that of a jagged blade passed through his guts, but he kept upright, gaze fixed on Zaganos.

  “Your squire’s been unable to produce any travel documents,” Zaganos said. “That makes him a spy in my eyes.”

  “I vouch for him; please let him go,” Vlad pleaded. He tried to avoid sounding desperate, knowing that would only goad Zaganos into rejecting his request.

  Oozing hypocrisy, Zaganos turned his palms to the sky and assumed a helpless stance. “Unfortunately it’s too late for that. The kadı who signed his death sentence has left town, so the execution can’t be stopped.”

  “That’s a ridiculous excuse for carrying out a wrongful sentence,” Vlad said, addressing Mehmed. “There can’t be such blatant injustice even among the—” He checked himself in time from saying “infidels.” Such a public offense would’ve sealed not only Gruya’s fate but his own as well. “You’ve got the power to spare my friend.”

  Mehmed looked at Zaganos, who shook his head.

  “Even a Governor General can’t overrule a judge once the sentence has been passed.” Mehmed’s voice sounded uncertain, and his face appeared clouded by genuine regret.