House of War

by Victor Foia

“That’s why I sent for you.”

  They crossed themselves and recited together the Lord’s Prayer.

  Vlad had confessed regularly while living in Târgoviște, but then the sacrament felt hollow, a formality that seldom moved him. Now with every sin confessed, he felt as if he’d sloughed off a hardened layer of dirt that had encased his body for months. Envy, vanity, gluttony, mendacity, fornication … each sin a lien Satan had on his soul.

  He should’ve started with his greatest sin, as church custom required. But his dread of the abbot’s reaction was so dark he couldn’t confess his most egregious transgression until the end.

  “Can Jesus forgive any sin, Father?” His mouth felt dry, and a chill passed over him when he whispered, “Even apostasy?”

  He expected his confessor to be shocked. Instead, the abbot’s eyes shone with compassion. “If Jesus forgave Peter for thrice denying Him, why wouldn’t He forgive you for doing it once?”

  Vlad’s heart throbbed with gratitude. “God be merciful to me, a sinner.”

  With eyes closed, the abbot prescribed a list of penances then touched a crucifix to Vlad’s head.

  “‘May Our Lord and God, Jesus Christ, through the grace and bounties of His love towards mankind, forgive you, my child, all your transgressions. And I, an unworthy priest, through the power given me by Him, forgive and absolve you from all your sins.’”

  Vlad stood feeling light and clean. He was about to leave when the old man whispered, “You’re ready now to pursue your special destiny.”

  “How do you know I have a destiny, Very Reverend Abbot?” Vlad said. The old man’s pronouncement unsettled Vlad, but he remained outwardly composed.

  “God gives even the humblest of creatures a destiny.”

  “But if He preordains each man’s destiny, what’s there to pursue? Why not just wait for the destiny to take its course? There doesn’t seem to be any room for free will.”

  The abbot chuckled softly and patted Vlad’s hand.

  “Destiny isn’t a magic carpet that flies man to a place decided by God in advance. Instead, it’s a map of all possible paths a man can follow, and of all the forks in the road he might encounter. At each fork, man can choose between good and evil. That’s where free will comes into play.”

  The abbot took a deep, raspy breath, then coughed into his rag.

  “When man has met all the forks,” he continued, “and has made all his choices, he dies. It’s these choices that determine whether his soul ends up with God or with Satan.” He crossed himself with a shaky hand then closed his eyes. The corners of his mouth slackened and his breath became inaudible.

  Vlad had a moment of panic. Don’t die on me and take your secrets with you. He tugged at the abbot’s sleeve. “Why did you call my destiny ‘special’?”

  A few minutes passed before the old man gave a sign of life again. His eyes remained closed, but his lips moved soundlessly.

  Vlad leaned over and placed his ear to the old man’s mouth.

  “Because of the prophecy,” Vlad heard. His heart thumped so hard that his ears began to hum.

  “What prophecy?” The question escaped him, even though he knew the abbot meant Theodore’s vision.

  With eyes still shut, the abbot made a vague gesture, as if pointing to something behind Vlad. “It’s all written there.”

  Vlad turned but all he saw was the naked brick wall.

  “The loose brick,” the abbot whispered.

  Vlad took one of the candles and inspected the wall. It took him a while to find a brick detached from the mortar around it. He removed it to find a small cavity, from which he extracted a canvas sack.

  “Give it to me,” the abbot said in a reinvigorated voice.

  Vlad could tell the sack contained a tightly bound scroll, and felt a frisson of anticipation as he handed it to the old man.

  But, instead of opening the sack, the abbot clutched it to his bosom. “Your mother died giving you birth.”

  “Many mothers die in childbirth.”

  “And a star fell from the sky when you drew your first breath.”

  As if actuated by an external force, Vlad’s hand flew to his medallion that seemed to singe his skin. The promised token of the fallen star.

  “You’re the Son of the Dragon,” the abbot said. “Dracula, in your tongue.”

  “I’ve been called that,” Vlad said, shaken to hear his nickname from this stranger’s lips, “but only by children in a game they were playing.”

  The abbot held up an admonitory finger. “Out of the mouths of children comes truth.”

  “How do you know these things about me?”

  The abbot poked a bony finger at the scroll in the sack. “Your special destiny has been prophesied here. Only you can tread the path that leads to the lion; only you can trample the beast unto death to save the City of God.”

  “City of God?” Vlad cried, utterly taken aback. “Doesn’t that men Rome?”

  The abbot nodded.

  This was something in the prophesy no one had mentioned before: not Theodore; not Oma; not Uncle Michael. Vlad to save Rome? That sounded preposterous. But which prophesy didn’t sound preposterous to the uninitiated? The thought this was his chance to have answers to questions regarding his destiny made Vlad’s insides flutter. As in a trance, he reached for the scroll. “I need to know who the lion is, Very Reverend Abbot.”

  The old man pushed his hand aside, gently. “You aren’t ready for that.”

  Frustration made Vlad’s tone harsher than he intended when he cried, “How can I find the path on my own?”

  “You’ve got to make many good choices in your life before the lion’s revealed to you.”

  The abbot handed Vlad the sack and pointed to the wall.

  “Have I made good choices so far, Very Reverend Abbot?”

  The old man shrugged, as if to say, “Don’t ask me.”

  Vlad stuck the sack into the wall cavity and inserted the loose brick back into its place. He was about to take his leave when a new thought occurred to him. Here was someone who might know the answer to a question that had vexed him for a long time.

  “If God is omnipotent,” he said, “why must He rely on mortals like me to fight His battles? Why doesn’t He destroy Satan and put an end to all evil?”

  He expected the abbot to react in anger to this implication that God might not, after all, be omnipotent. But the old man remained impassive, as if he hadn’t heard the question. Only when Vlad opened the door to leave did he speak, authoritative and serene.

  “The greatest proof of God’s love for His children is that He entrusts the war against Satan to their hands. Be grateful He’s assigned you a key role in that fight.”

  The near-miraculous surfacing of the prophecy scroll turned Vlad’s mood euphoric. Though the old man seemed disinclined to share the precious document, Vlad was confident in time he’d persuade him to change his mind.

  Back in his room he examined the side of his medallion showing the dragon overpowering the lion. The doubts regarding his predestination for greatness, which had assailed him continually since becoming a hostage, began to recede. He’d learned through Oma that his destiny was to “trample the lion”; and now he knew that by slaying the lion he would save the City of God from him.

  True, he was no closer to knowing who the lion was than before. But the abbot said his destiny would lead him to solving that mystery, if he kept making decisions that pleased God.

  The first such decision made on the spot was to dismiss the monks’ behavior at the beach. Let them answer to God for choosing evil over good. As for him, he’d rebuild the gate and show them how to fight the pirates, whether they deserved his help or not. If they chose hiding in lieu of fighting—well, it would be on them if they were captured.

  The abbot confessed and absolved Gruya that same day. As Vlad had anticipated, the squire celebrated the event with an epic drunk in the cellar. Vlad resisted joining him for several hours. But ultimate
ly he had the apprentice fill a basket for him with bread, salted fish, and olives; then he helped Gruya put a serious dent in the monastery’s wine stock.

  56

  RIP

  May – June 1443, Athos Peninsula, Ottoman Empire

  Vlad, Gruya, and Lash worked without a break for the next few days, cutting to size planks for the new gate, then forging nails, hinges, and rivets. The monks showed no interest in the project. They kept to their routine of fishing, tending to the bees, and working in the garden. When the semantron sounded the call to prayer every few hours throughout the day and night, the monks interrupted their work or sleep and gathered in the church.

  Following the stoning on the beach Kalimakos had made himself scarce, and didn’t resurface until the day the new gate was hung. Then he showed up just as Vlad and Gruya, stretched out on the grass, were celebrating their accomplishment with a jug of wine supplied by the novice.

  “You’ve got tidings from Lady Mara, My Prince,” Kalimakos said with sham friendliness. “Brothers Cyril and Methodius brought her letter a few days ago, but I thought it would be better not to interrupt your work with such a trivial matter.”

  Vlad jumped to his feet, and his impatience made Kalimakos grin.

  “I’m sure Her Ladyship’s news will gladden your heart.”

  Vlad snatched the folded paper from the monk’s hand, barely able to contain his anger. The seal was broken, but Vlad knew if he reacted to this breach of privacy he’d only play into the monk’s hands. Besides, his anticipation at learning of Murad’s success in securing peace with Norbert muted his ill feelings for Kalimakos.

  Mara had written, “It pains me to let you know the sultan’s messenger has been murdered somewhere on the border with Albania. I’m too shaken to write more at this time – Mara.”

  With a few words Mara crushed Vlad’s recent optimism and sent him reeling into despondency. He turned his back on Kalimakos and headed for the hills with a sudden craving for solitude.

  He’d lost count of the days since his arrival at Athos, but estimated it had to be mid-June by now. If Norbert had kept to his original schedule, the crusaders would have crossed the Danube at the end of May. With war underway, Vlad’s chances of being released from his bondage anytime soon were nil.

  After an hour of hiking he came to an acacia coppice in bloom, alive with the buzzing of bees. He hadn’t noticed it before, single-minded as he’d been in the pursuit of the gate project. Now the perfume pouring forth from hundreds of trees had on him the inebriating effect of sweet wine. He grabbed a cluster of white flowers and chewed them, as he’d done countless times in childhood. The nectar’s taste transported him back to the rolling hills of Transylvania and a time rendered carefree by ignorance of his destiny and the world around him.

  He stretched on the ground, slowly regaining his calm. After a while, he reread Mara’s letter

  “… the sultan’s messenger has been murdered …”

  Freed now from the blindness of his disappointed anticipation, he realized that something she had not written about might be of capital importance. There was no mention in her note of Murad’s letter having fallen into the wrong hands. It was logical to conclude the messenger was waylaid by ordinary robbers, and Murad’s plan remained concealed from his enemies. Had it been otherwise, Kalıcı Cihad would’ve spurred the army to revolt and deposed the sultan.

  What if Murad had sent more than one messenger? It would be the sensible thing to do, considering the vicissitudes of travel through hostile territories.

  Vlad decided that had to be the case. If so, a luckier messenger might well have reached Norbert in time to prevent the war.

  These thoughts were sufficient to buoy Vlad’s spirit. For the next few days he returned daily to the acacia grove, whose fragrant air helped him pass the time in daydreaming of his impending freedom. He had a clear view of Mara’s island from there, and whenever he turned his eyes upon it, an inner voice assured him she’d soon write again.

  At the end of that week, the monks celebrated the Nativity of Saint John the Forerunner with an all-night vigil. Vlad joined them and prayed for news from Mara. He was hoping his prayer would reach Heaven sooner if launched from such a propitious venue. And indeed, the next day Cyril and Methodius returned from their delivery of fish to Mara’s island with a new note from her.

  The second of the two messengers dispatched to Hungary by the sultan has drowned in Serbia. His servant reported the poor man was set upon by two assailants asking him for the letter. Taking advantage of a moment of inattention on the part of the bandits, the messenger dashed off to a nearby bridge and threw himself into a river.

  In the first week of June, King Norbert crossed the Danube near Belgrade with an army of thirty thousand men. My father has joined the crusade in order to avenge the blinding of my two brothers. This prompted Fazullah Pasha to demand in the divan, imperial council, that I be killed as a hostage pledged by a king in breach of truce with the sultan.

  I’m grateful my husband had the foresight to hide me in this inaccessible place. But, I’m also crushed that hope for peace has died.

  May Theotókos have mercy upon you and me, helpless victims of evildoers.

  This time Vlad’s disappointment was sharper, mixed with anger against Heaven for choosing to be deaf when his need was the greatest. How was he supposed to inch his way closer and closer to fulfilling his prophecy, when all roads back home were being blocked?

  Yet, to hear the abbot, Vlad was marked by a special destiny.

  Special in the perverse way in which it continually thwarts my hopes.

  Full of spite, he decided the abbot’s claim of possessing a record of Theodore’s prophecy was a lie. “You aren’t ready to read the words of the angel,” the old man claimed. How convenient! He could’ve picked up all those details about Vlad’s background from some Wallachian pilgrim.

  That night his anger continued to grow until he no longer managed to keep it inside. He shook Gruya awake and told him the story of the sultan’s plan for peace and its dismal outcome.

  His friend chuckled. “Murad should’ve given us his stupid letter. We could’ve delivered it to Satan himself, for the right price.”

  Gruya’s quip had the effect of a thunderbolt lighting up the darkness that had overtaken Vlad: the death of the two messengers was meant to clear the way for Vlad to be the one helping Murad make peace between Christendom and Islam. The “lion” of the prophesy Vlad was supposed to slay wasn’t a living creature: it was jihād. By stopping jihād he’d save Rome from falling into the clutches of Islam.

  How blind I’ve been.

  He was dazzled by the magnificence of his discovery; but also petrified to realize how close he’d come to missing this crucial fork in the road of his destiny.

  He grabbed a lamp and dashed across the courtyard to the wing of the monastery reserved for the library. He’d discovered it by chance one day, when rain had prevented him from working outdoors. The large collection of manuscripts in the library would’ve rendered him ecstatic in other times. But under the current circumstances the ancient scrolls failed to pique his curiosity.

  In the scriptorium he found an inkpot and quills. The ink had turned to sludge and he used spittle to render it fluid enough for his use. As there were no loose velum leaves around, he pilfered one from an unbound book he found on a shelf. It already had some text on it, but enough blank space for the note he intended to send Mara.

  He was about to cross out the original text when he noticed a sentence someone had underlined: “Choice, not chance, determines your destiny.” Did this manuscript inspire the abbot’s conviction man could choose to be either the victim or the master of his destiny?

  His quill flying with revived hope, Vlad began to write.

  Most Honored and Venerated Lady Mara, learning your life’s being threatened by the partisans of jihād distresses me exceedingly. I pray to Holy Theotókos to keep you safe and hope the sultan will deal with your
enemies according to their just deserts.

  As for the sultan’s failure to contact King Norbert, all isn’t lost. I offer to take myself His Majesty’s letter to Buda. And I pledge on my honor to return with the king’s reply, or die trying. My father’s ambassador at Norbert’s court will procure me access to the king.

  I beseech you to pass my offer on to His Majesty without delay.

  May the Holy Virgin keep you in her care.

  Your humble slave,

  Vlad, son of King Dracul, House Basarab

  He returned to his chamber and quickly fell into a sleep filled with satisfying dreams. But, when he awoke in the morning, the hastily cobbled edifice of his hope collapsed. He had no means of conveying his message to Mara in confidentiality.

  “Seal your letter,” Gruya said. “The fisher monks won’t dare break your seal.”

  “No good,” Vlad said, dejected. “Everything that enters She-Devil’s Island goes through the eunuchs’ hands, and they could be Zaganos’s men. Instead of reaching Mara, my letter might betray Murad’s intentions to Kalıcı Cihad.”

  The ringing of the bell, unusual at that hour of the morning, interrupted their discussion. Just then Lash entered the room with the news the abbot had died and was to be put to rest today.

  “They say the trip he’s recently returned from has killed him,” Lash said. “He’d been gone for more than a year, acting on a dream in which God ordered him to go in search of an ancient manuscript.”

  “Theodore’s scroll,” Vlad gasped then bolted out of the room.

  He ran into the novice at the head of the stairs that led down to the abbot’s cell. The young man was carrying on his shoulder a load of bricks bundled in a fishing net.

  “We’re bricking up the abbot’s door,” he said without being asked. “He’s chosen his cell as his tomb.”

  Vlad snatched the novice’s lantern and plunged down the steps.

  “Wait for me, Prince Vlad,” the novice cried. “I can’t find my way in the dark.”

  Vlad stopped for a moment.

  “What’s the abbot’s name?” he said.