by Victor Foia
Gruya, who’d been lying seasick on the stern deck for the past two days, rose to one elbow and shaded his eyes against the noon sun. “That rock does look like a breast with a lovely nipple pointing to the sky,” he said in a sluggish voice. “Why ‘She-Devil’?”
Hearing Gruya speak Greek for the first time took Vlad by surprise. It told him what kind of widows Gruya had been comforting in Bursa.
“That rock has killed more sailors over the ages than the plague,” the captain said. “If you’re at sea in a storm and get a glimpse of the Nipple, you’re as good as drowned. The currents around the island will suck your ship up to its shore and smash it. Nor is there a place to grip onto the rock, which is smooth like a true breast.”
Since the sea was only moderately choppy, the galley wasn’t at risk from She-Devil’s wrath. They reached the island in two hours and tied up to a floating dock on the leeward side. The dock was tethered to iron rings affixed to the vertical rock wall.
“It’s about time I stood again on solid ground,” Gruya said, “if only to be steady on my feet while I retch.”
“I don’t see a way of getting up there,” Vlad said.
Indeed, there were no steps carved into the rock; moreover, the cliff rose vertically and offered no purchase for the hands and feet of a would-be climber. The only sign of human presence on the island was a stone parapet built forty feet above the sea level.
“They aren’t visible from here,” the captain said, “but behind that parapet are chambers carved into the rock. Hermit monks lived on this island a thousand years ago. Legend has it that an angel lifted the first monk up there and he cast down a rope for his brothers. Now the sultan’s wife dwells here with a garrison of five eunuchs and three ladies-in-waiting.”
“I’d venture to guess,” Gruya said, “those three ladies are as desirous of male company as a priest of his tithe. And since I’m not in a hurry—”
“No one’s allowed access up there,” the captain said, grim. “There are stories of seafarers being shot through with arrows by the eunuchs, just for lingering around this dock without a reason. Once I unload my cargo, we’re on to Athos.”
“We’ve been spotted,” the cabin boy said.
They all looked up to see the arm of a crane swivel over the parapet, a platform suspended from it.
“That will be Demir, the chief eunuch,” the captain said. “He answers to Murad with his head if any male ever reaches the parapet.”
Next, they heard the whine of a windlass as the platform began to descend. A beardless man in red shalwar, blue sleeveless tunic, and white turban stood on the platform observing the scene below. He held a bow in his left hand and four arrows in his right. Behind him stood a cargo draped over with a canvas.
“Which one of you is Vlad of Basarab?” the eunuch shouted when he was three feet above the dock.
Vlad noted the man’s eyes were alert and suspicious. “I’m Vlad.”
The eunuch extracted a scroll from inside his tunic and tossed it at Vlad’s feet. “From Lady Mara.”
The platform alighted on the dock and the eunuch pulled aside the canvas to reveal a stack of yellow birdcages.
“Let’s swap pigeons, Captain,” he said in a commanding tone. “And make it quick. I’ve left a tavla game in progress up there and I’m set to win two aspers.”
“Certainly, Demir Pasha,” the captain said with a servile bow. Then he kicked the cabin boy in the shin and said, “Get going, you, scrofulous imp. Bring up the green cages.”
Within ten minutes the yellow cages filled with cooing pigeons were traded for an equal number of green ones, also alive with the sound of birds. Then the platform was raised, and the galley cast off into a sea sparkling under the afternoon sun.
“What,” Gruya exclaimed, “we’ve made a stop only to exchange a handful of birds?”
“Not just birds, my friend,” the captain said. “Those were messenger pigeons that cover the distance from here to Bursa or Edirne in less than a day. The birds in the yellow cages are Her Ladyship’s. The ones in the green cages are the sultan’s. The two of them write each other more messages in one month than the sultan’s chancellery writes in one year.” He glanced over his shoulder, nervous, then whispered, “They say the sultan takes Lady Mara’s advice over that of his own viziers.”
“What about provisions for Lady Mara and her retinue?” Vlad said.
“The fortress has been supplied with two years’ worth of flour, rice, and firewood,” the captain said. “They’ve got plenty of rain water, and are receiving fish, honey, fruits, and vegetables from the monks on Athos. The only thing they run out of regularly is the pigeons.”
Away from She-Devil’s shelter the sea was choppy again, and Gruya’s seasickness returned. He wrapped himself in a blanket and lay with the head in Lash’s lap. Vlad took advantage of the silence on deck to read Mara’s missive.
“Who would’ve thought that I, a devout Christian,” she wrote in Greek, without an introduction, “would one day implore the Holy Virgin to help my Muslim husband? But that’s what I’ve been doing every day since he’s confided to me his secret plan.”
51
TEST OF MANHOOD
April 1443, Athos Peninsula, Ottoman Empire
The galley headed with a following sea for Maiden’s Drowning, a small bay on the Athos peninsula, five miles west of Lady Mara’s island. When the galley’s lateen sail billowed with the wind the boatswain gave the signal for the raising of the oars. For the next hour the men chained below the deck rested where they sat, while the galley plowed jauntily through a quilt of whitecaps.
Vlad stood on the foredeck holding on to a cable that secured the mast to the prow. A salty mist carried by the breeze soothed his cheeks, hot with the excitement Mara’s letter had unleashed in him.
“Lasting peace with Christendom is on its way,” she’d written. If true, that meant his exile to this forgotten corner of the world would be short-lived.
He told himself he was grateful Mara made no mention of Donatella. Yet, somewhere in the jumble of confused feelings about his unfaithful lover, this omission added a new dimension to his concealed pain.
From two miles away, Vlad could see Maiden’s Drowning gripped by sheer cliffs, like the yawning jaws of a pincer. At the head of the bay, rising above the shoreline, stood the monastery of Theotókos, Mother of God, his new home. The hewed-stone edifice was endowed with a lookout tower, crenelated ramparts, and massive counterscarps built onto the cliff. The structure resembled a fortress more than a humble shelter for men dedicated to piety, poverty, and celibacy.
The entrance to the bay appeared obstructed by an underwater rock formation that made the sea bubble and froth like pottage in an overheated cauldron. When they were a quarter mile from the mouth of the bay, the captain stood on the prow, shaded his eyes, and peered at the looming threat.
“Trim the sail,” he ordered, then he crossed himself and shouted into the wind, “Saint Nicholas, guide us.”
The sailors on deck and the slaves below echoed his call: “Saint Nicholas.”
The boatswain struck a bell and the high-pitched tone unleashed a rattle of chains belowdecks, followed by a chorus of coughing and hawking. Next, he began to repeat his strike at regular intervals, and soon the oars were beating the water to his rhythm.
“Slooow,” the captain ordered when they were within fifty yards of the hidden barrier.
The rowing ceased and the drag of twenty-five pairs of oars slowed the ship’s speed to an imperceptible glide. Two sailors suspended the cabin boy by his ankles below the prow to serve as a lookout, while the captain took over the rudder.
Twice they failed to negotiate the passage into the bay. Both times jagged rocks, barely hidden beneath the surface, threatened to gouge the craft’s hull. Only the boy’s quick reaction saved them, as he signaled danger in time for the oarsmen to reverse direction and pull the galley back from the brink of disaster.
“This cove’s acc
ursed,” the captain hollered from his station. Then he let loose a string of oaths that did justice to all languages of the Mediterranean. “I should be demanding thrice my regular fee from the Turks for the risks I’m taking with this death trap.”
“What you should be doing,” Gruya shouted, pale and sweating despite the cold, “is taking this floating outhouse into calm waters before I puke myself to death.”
The captain seemed poised for a sharp reply, but the galley had moved into position for a third try at crossing the barrier, and he turned his attention to piloting the craft. This time the attempt was successful; the ship glided into the cove where it dropped anchor.
“Tradition has it this is the spot where the monks drowned the maiden who gave this bay its name,” the captain said. He removed his woolen cap and wiped the top of his bald head with a dirty rag. “They say the submerged rocks protecting the cove weren’t there before. They popped up the day she died, and have been harassing sailors ever since. ‘Maiden’s Teeth,’ they call them.”
“So there are women around here after all,” Gruya said, hopeful.
“That maiden was a shepherdess who’d been grazing her flock just above those cliffs,” the captain said. “The monks accused her of being an insatiable harlot.”
“My kind of maiden,” Gruya said.
The captain chuckled and nodded in happy concurrence. “She’s the reason the patriarch in Constantinople has banned all females from Athos in perpetuity.”
“His Holiness has also banned large female animals of any kind,” the cabin boy said. “Since that day there aren’t any sheep on Athos.”
“What’s your interest in sheep, degenerate mongrel?” the captain said and requited the boy’s contribution to the history of Athos with a slap.
Gruya shook his head, dejected. “Of all places in his empire, the sultan picks for us an island where women aren’t allowed. Hundreds of prowling dicks and not a single—”
“It’s not an island,” Vlad said.
Gruya ignored Vlad’s observation. “I’ve always thought the Turks were mean-spirited, but this tops it all.”
“True, you can get to Athos only by boat,” Vlad said, “on account of miles of thorny thickets barring access from the mainland. But it’s still a peninsula, not an island.”
“Of course, Murad, with his three hundred concubines, can afford to consider the absence of women a benefit. In fact, he’d be happy for a break from them among the young men on this Cock Island.”
“We’ll be happy here as well, but for different reasons,” Vlad said, without conviction. “Safe from Zaganos’s schemes and free to move about without being spied on. And remember, we’ve committed a grave sin by converting to Islam; here, we’ll have the chance to confess and get absolution.”
Gruya shrugged. “If I didn’t think we’ll soon find a way to escape from here I’d go back to being a Muslim and return to Bursa. I’ve got unfinished business there.”
“Then you might as well have the captain take you back now,” Vlad said. “I’ve given Murad my word I’ll be staying here until he recalls me.”
“You’ve told me he has the habit of forgetting people he locks away.”
“Murad’s about to sign a multi-year peace treaty with Hungary,” Vlad said. “With the threat of war lifted, he’ll no longer need me as hostage.”
A boat with a single rower detached itself from the shore below the monastery, and headed toward the galley.
“Here comes Monk Kalimakos,” the captain said. “It’s his job to make sure only men disembark here.” He let out a belly laugh. “Get ready to be fondled, boys.”
“I’ve just about given up hope for any pleasures on this forlorn ship,” Gruya said. “Now there you go lifting my spirits, Captain.”
Kalimakos was a severe-looking man in his forties whose emaciated face and dark-ringed eyes told a story of abstinence and lengthy vigils. Out of prudence against the wind he’d removed his skufia, showing a bald pate surrounded by a ring of gray hair.
“God bless you, my friends, and welcome to Holy Mount Athos,” he said in a tone that sounded anything but welcoming. He glanced at Gruya and Lash, then approached Vlad.
“Though you’re of royal blood, Prince Vlad, I’m still required by Emperor Constantin Monomachos’s chrysobull, golden bull, to—”
“Do your job, Monk Kalimakos,” Vlad said and loosened his belt.
Kalimakos slipped his hand inside Vlad’s trousers and tugged at his penis.
“No woman must ever deceive our vigilance,” he said in explanation of his obedience to this ancient ritual. “Her mere breath would pollute our sacred land with the sin of lustfulness.”
“So monks feel no lust when women aren’t around?” Gruya said.
Kalimakos cast him a disapproving look and puckered his lips as if he’d bitten into a sour fruit. “The Devil plants the seed of lust in man’s loins,” he said and dipped his hand between Gruya’s legs. “But it’s the sight of woman that makes it germinate.”
“Ouch,” Gruya cried and shoved the monk’s hand away. “Those are real testicles you’re squeezing with such relish, Monk Kalimakos.”
When it came to ascertaining Lash’s manhood, Kalimakos showed reluctance to touch him. “Drop your trousers, Gypsy,” he ordered with a show of repugnance.
Vlad struggled with the urge to slap the monk. “You’ll test my man the way you’ve tested me, Monk Kalimakos.”
“Or, you may take your sister’s word that Lash is a stud,” Gruya said.
“What?” Kalimakos spat, eyes aglow. When he received no answer, he groped Lash’s crotch through his trousers and said, “You may all disembark now.”
52
THEOTÓKOS MONASTERY
April 1443, Athos Peninsula, Ottoman Empire
From close up, Theotókos Monastery turned out to be far from the imposing fortress it let distant viewers think it was. The bell tower and the ramparts appeared on the verge of collapsing, webbed as they were with wide cracks that only an earthquake could’ve spawned. The gate, which once stood fifteen feet high and hung on giant iron hinges, had been reduced by fire to a charred frame. Behind it, the vaulted passageway leading to the courtyard gaped dark and malodorous. Throughout, masterful brickwork stood as a doleful reminder of an affluent past lost to an impecunious present.
“Who’s responsible for the upkeep of this establishment, Monk Kalimakos?” Vlad said, affronted by the neglect visited upon the monastery. “I’ve seen barns in better shape than this holy place.”
Kalimakos showed yellowed teeth emerging from receding gums in what he must’ve imagined was a withering smile. “Why, My Prince, your own illustrious father.”
Vlad felt the sting of anger at what he thought was an ill-conceived jest, but contented himself with staring his host down.
“You see,” Kalimakos said, “when Murad included Athos in his empire, all endowments that had kept the monastery in good fettle ceased. Our benefactors feared we’d be using their money to pay taxes to the Turks.”
“How’s my father involved in this?”
“He’s asked to borrow the monastery’s holiest relic against an endowment of six thousand ducats. ‘I wish to give the poor of Wallachia the chance to venerate a piece of the Holy Cross,’ he said.”
Vlad was moved to learn his father cared for the spiritual feeding of the poor who couldn’t make a pilgrimage to Athos. To bring a fragment of the True Cross to them would be an inestimable gift.
“I’m guessing you haven’t yet lent him the relic.”
Kalimakos wrinkled his nose in a disdainful grimace. “We aren’t easily deceived by promises of money, even from a king. There will be no loan until we see his gold.”
Father’s plans are always grand, Vlad thought, remembering Dracul’s idea for the restoration of Kilia as a port at the mouth of the Danube. But they always seemed to depend on money he didn’t have. Yet, who gave this bag of bones the right to be so disrespectful? Vlad’s feeli
ngs wavered between embarrassment for his father’s naiveté and anger at the monk’s smugness.
“Who burned down the gate?” Gruya said.
“Pirates, may the Devil inherit their souls,” Kalimakos said in a bitter tone. “They descend upon us two, three times per year. Let me show you the traces of their visitations.”
He led them into the church where the door to the sacristy hung open on a single hinge. Inside the sacred chamber the stone pavement had been smashed with sledgehammers in an obvious attempt to uncover something of value that might have been buried there. And the chests containing priestly vestments had been split open with ax blows.
“We’ve stopped repairing the damage they make,” Kalimakos said.
“What could they want from this den of poverty?” Gruya said.
“Silver candlesticks, incense burners, icons, cloth of gold ...”
“And relics, I suppose,” Vlad said.
“Oh, yes, most of all relics. They are worth a fortune on the European market. But we hide our treasure in the hills when Satan’s followers come.”
“Yet, they always return,” Gruya said.
“That’s because even if they fail to rob our valuables, they always manage to capture a few monks, whom they sell to Arab traders. That pays for their troubles.”
“They’d be less inclined to come if you fought them, instead of hiding in caves like bats,” Gruya said.
Kalimakos threw Gruya an affronted look, then turned his back to him. “We’re men of God, not warriors,” he shot over his shoulder.
“You have a fortress here,” Vlad said. “With a bit of planning you could hold out against the pirates for weeks.”
Kalimakos shook his head. “I’ll show you to your chamber now.”
They returned to the courtyard where Lash was waiting with the chest containing their few possessions. A dozen monks dressed in black robes and wearing cylindrical skufias had gathered there in anticipation of the Vespers hour. They stood in silence fingering their prayer beads, eyes to the ground, showing no curiosity for the new arrivals.