House of War

by Victor Foia

Next, Vlad removed the rag that served the boy as a cap to reveal short, chestnut hair unevenly shorn. He used his comb to get the clumps of sticky dirt out of the boy’s hair before washing it.

  Throughout these proceedings the child lay in a state of stupor, his breathing inaudible.

  “Now let’s flip him over and wash his front side,” Vlad said, not relishing the thought. “Grab his feet.”

  When they lifted the boy his rags fell off him.

  “What the—?” Vlad cried.

  “A girl?” Lash gasped. “This is going to cause trouble with the monks.”

  Vlad covered the girl up to her chin with the towel. From the size of her breasts he guessed she was about thirteen.

  As if I didn’t have enough problems of my own.

  Was he supposed to guard her now around the clock against these fanatical monks? For how long? He wouldn’t put it past Kalimakos to incite the brothers to murder him, Gruya, and Lash, just to get the girl. Especially now that they had weapons and knew how to use them. And they’d feel righteous about it.

  No, he didn’t want a fight with the monks. He’d hide the girl somewhere before they became aware she existed. But first he’d put some life back into her.

  “Bring her food,” he ordered Lash. “Soup, fish, porridge, anything,”

  “You know the monks lock up the victuals after dark.”

  Vlad let out a groan. “I’ve had my fill of these monks. Break down the pantry door if you have to.”

  There was no question about his washing the girl’s front. She’d have to do that herself. But he could scrub up her face.

  He sat on the side of his cot and began to rub the girl’s cheeks with the washcloth. Before he discovered she was a girl he hadn’t looked closely at her. But now curiosity had awakened in him and he examined her features with interest.

  She had a gently domed forehead and high cheekbones. Her nose was slightly upturned, just enough to give her a playful air. A well-defined cupid’s bow and a full lower lip shaped her mouth in a permanent pout that Vlad found disquieting.

  You’re going to make man kneel at your feet with that pout, when you grow up.

  He wished he could see her eyes.

  “Fish broth is all I could find,” Lash said when he finally returned.

  Vlad took the bowl of soup and tried to force a spoonful into the girl’s mouth. Her lips wouldn’t yield, so the hot liquid ran down her chin.

  Her eyes opened and for a few moments darted back and forth, from Vlad to Lash, while she took stock of her situation. Then they settled on Vlad, with a feline stare that sent shivers down his spine.

  Round, bright, fierce … captivating. He’d never seen eyes like these. Her pupils radiated golden starbursts into green irises, fringed in turn by lapis lazuli rings.

  How long did he remain immobilized by her silent reproach that said, “What have I done to you?”

  Self-conscious, he tried to break the spell by reaching out to wipe her chin.

  “Don’t touch me,” she screamed in Persian.

  Surprised by her unexpected outburst, Vlad recoiled and inadvertently tugged at the towel, exposing her breasts. With a screech, she pounced on the towel and pulled it up to her nose, leaving her thighs uncovered.

  “Toss me a blanket,” Vlad ordered Lash. After covering her he said in Persian, “No one’s going to hurt you.”

  The fierceness of her gaze seemed to melt on hearing her own tongue being spoken. But she remained alert, clutching the blanket to her chin.

  “I’ve washed you in part only,” Vlad said. “You’ll have to do the rest.”

  She appeared confused. Then she peeked under the blanket and shrieked, “My clothes, give me my clothes.”

  He lifted the bundle of clothes off the floor with the tip of his dagger. “You want to get back into these?”

  She made a face.

  “I didn’t think so.” He tossed the rags out the window.

  Rage and despair spread over the girl’s face, but this time she remained silent.

  Vlad explained they’d taken her for a boy, or they wouldn’t have undressed her.

  “You passed out and we had to wash you before you could sleep in this room,” he said. “Now that we know you’re a girl, we’ll leave so you might finish washing yourself.”

  She gave no sign she heard him and continued to grip the blanket, white-knuckled, as if expecting him to yank it off.

  “We’ll have new clothes for you in the morning,” Vlad said. “Tonight, all we can offer you is this blanket.”

  At a sign from Vlad, Lash left the room.

  Vlad followed and, as an afterthought, turned around at the threshold. “You may call me Emirzade. What’s your name?”

  She stared at him as if deciding whether her situation could get any worse if she revealed her name. Then her defensiveness subsided and she said, “Your accent’s funny.”

  Vlad shut the door behind him. Then he heard her call out, “Zahra.”

  61

  FISHING DAY

  June 1443, Athos Peninsula, Ottoman Empire

  The thought of what to do with Zahra tormented Vlad throughout the night. He’d fall asleep for a few minutes, only to awake in a sweat. Then he’d pace the room, restless, listening to her quiet breathing, until overcome by fatigue; dazed, he’d crash back onto Gruya’s cot and sleep for few more minutes.

  He could hide her in one of the abandoned sketes. But he couldn’t bring her supplies without the monks realizing, sooner or later, that something strange was going on.

  Supposing he managed to deceive the men of Theotókos, he still couldn’t prevent monks from other monasteries from stumbling upon the hiding place.

  Even without fearing the monks, how could he leave a terrified girl of thirteen on her own in the hills? He, Gruya, and Lash could take turns keeping her company at night, but it would be nigh impossible to justify their frequent absences from the monastery.

  At dawn, Lash awoke him with the news the galley had broken up completely overnight and the bay was littered with its debris. The monks had gone to recover the timber and come across the relics chest.

  “Now those relics will become famous throughout Christendom,” Vlad said. “To think they’ll owe that to Gruya ….”

  He opened the shutters and was greeted with a stunning display. Narrow bands of crimson clouds alternating with ribbons of blue sky stretched from above Athos to She-Devil’s Island. The wind had died and the sea was a glassy sheet that reflected the show above. It’s like a bridge between me and the island, he thought, that taunts me to walk across and hand Mara my letter.

  Then he suddenly understood the purpose of this rare celestial display.

  Oh, the devious paths of destiny you’ve designed for me, Lord, he thought, skin tingling. You’ve given me one problem only so I might solve another.

  “I brought the girl a boiled egg and hot porridge,” Lash said. “And her new clothes.”

  “I know what to do with her,” Vlad cried and gave Lash a hug.

  The Gypsy, used to his master’s quirky behavior, acted as if he understood what that meant.

  Vlad tapped Zahra on the shoulder and whispered, “Your food and clothes are here.”

  She turned her face up, bewildered, not knowing where she was. Yet his voice must’ve calmed her, for she closed her eyes and smiled.

  “This isn’t a safe place for women,” he said, “so, I’ll take you to one that is.”

  He turned to Lash. “I’ll be gone for a little while to make arrangements. Stand outside the door until she dresses, then give her the food.” He broke the boiled egg in two and placed one half under her nose. This time she awoke fully and reached for the egg.

  He pulled back his hand. “I don’t know where you’re coming from, but here we don’t eat breakfast in bed. And certainly not butt-naked. My servant will guard the door so you may dress. I’ll be back to fetch you in ten minutes.”

  He found Cyril and Methodius in the chu
rch vestibule, together with other monks. They had just given thanks for the recovery of the relics and were now about to scatter to their daily duties.

  “God’s blessing to you,” he greeted the two fisher monks, jovial. “You’ve got two fishing partners today.”

  They looked at him amused, expecting a joke.

  “The little pagan boy and I will toil for our food today, if you’ll have us.”

  “Ah,” Methodius said, “you want the boy to learn something useful.”

  “A blessed idea,” Cyril said. “If he’s going to be the monastery’s slave, it’s best he be able to do a few things.”

  Back in the room, Vlad found Zahra dressed and fed. She was trying to communicate with Lash and to Vlad’s surprise, many Gypsy words were intelligible to her.

  He decided not to frighten Zahra with the truth about the monks’ phobia for women. “You’ll find out later why you can’t stay here,” he said. “What matters is that a great lady will be looking after you from now on. And she’ll find the means for you to return home.”

  A shadow passed over Zahra’s face at the mention of home.

  “Slip this scroll inside your sleeve,” he said and handed her the rolled-up velum leaf on which he’d written his letter to Mara. When she did, he fastened the sleeve over her wrist with a string. “Don’t let anybody know you have it, except the lady who’ll be receiving you. Her name is Mara.”

  When the fishing boat was about two miles offshore, the two monks stood to cast their net. Pinewood blocks tied to the top of the net acted as buoys, while stones attached to the bottom served as ballast.

  “Tell the boy to pay attention,” Methodius said. “One day he’ll be doing this alone.”

  Vlad turned to Zahra and said, “You must bawl as loud as you can now and point to that little island in the distance. Try to sound like a boy.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “No time to explain. And don’t stop until I tell you to.”

  She began to wail and scream, tugging at Vlad’s sleeve and pointing to She-Devil’s Island.

  “What’s got into him?” Methodius said.

  Cyril shook the net, exasperated. “Make him stop, Prince Vlad. He’s scaring the fish away.”

  “You may stop crying now,” Vlad said, “and talk to me. Say anything that comes to your mind. They don’t understand a word.”

  The two men watched them, slack-jawed.

  “I don’t like monks,” she said. “On the galley they sometimes wouldn’t pass the food and water back to us in the rear of the hold.”

  “Is that why the Arab men died?”

  “They were elderly and sick, but they shared their food with me. After the monks came we had much less to eat, and the old men died.”

  “Start crying again,” Vlad said. Then he turned to the monks. “He had a dream that a nice lady lived on that island.”

  The two monks crossed themselves.

  “Lady Mara came to him in a dream?” Cyril said, incredulous. “Why, that’s like a vision.”

  “It’s the doing of the holy relics,” Methodius said. “The boy was in their presence for three days on the galley.”

  “In his dream he heard Lady Mara say, ‘Come to me, Son.’”

  “Can’t you make him shut up?” Methodius said. “It’s hurting my ears.”

  “First we had the miraculous return of the relics from the sea,” Cyril said with a pensive look. “Now this boy’s vision …”

  “Let me try to talk some sense into him,” Vlad said.

  He wagged his finger at Zahra in a show of anger, and said, “You may take a break. It will be over soon.”

  “Would they drown me if they knew I was a girl?” she said. “The Arabs spoke a bit of Persian and told me the monks hate women. They kill those who get stranded on their shores.”

  “If these two discovered you were a girl,” Vlad said, “I’d drown them.”

  Zahra gave him a look that to the monks must’ve appeared cold and indifferent. But the flicker of her smile, the slight quiver of her lips, and the imperceptible narrowing of her eyes conveyed to him not gratitude, but something sweeter, something nameless.

  At a nod from Vlad, Zahra broke into a fresh wave of wailing, pointing to the island and stamping her foot.

  “I say, let’s dump him onto Lady Mara’s lap,” Vlad said, “and let her worry about his crying.”

  “You won’t hear me object,” Methodius said.

  “Nobody will miss him,” Cyril said.

  The two monks dropped their net to the bottom of the boat and began to row with laudable vigor.

  They could see from a long distance that people on the island were watching them. Even before they docked, the platform carrying a person was already being lowered.

  It was the same eunuch Vlad had met on his arrival from Bursa. He waited for the man to hop onto the dock before he shouted, in Turkish, “I’ve got something for Her Ladyship.”

  “This isn’t the day for deliveries,” the eunuch said, menacing.

  Vlad picked Zahra up from her underarms and lifted her high. “Lady Mara will be pleased with this gift and reward you with a generous baksheesh.”

  “No males are allowed on the island,” the eunuch said, hostile. He gave a signal to someone above then re-mounted the platform.

  Undeterred, Vlad hopped onto the dock. “You’re making a mistake that will anger Lady Mara.”

  The eunuch responded by pointing an arrow at Vlad’s chest.

  Vlad lowered his voice. “This is a girl whom a jinni left on our beach last night, efendi.”

  The eunuch squinted at Vlad, suspicious. “Then keep her.”

  “There was writing with tongues of fire on the sand that said, ‘Take the gift of the sea to the lady of the land.’ As you know, there are no ladies on Athos.”

  The eunuch scratched his behind, pensive. “Prove she’s a girl.”

  Vlad helped Zahra onto the dock. “Now comes the hard part. He wants to convince himself you aren’t a boy.”

  Zahra blushed then began to untie the lace that fastened her shirt.

  “That won’t do,” Vlad said.

  Zahra gave him an imploring look.

  “He’s a eunuch,” Vlad said. “He sees Lady Mara and her maids naked all the time, when they bathe.”

  The lie didn’t assuage Zahra’s concerns.

  “But you aren’t a eunuch, are you?” she whispered, blushing again.

  “I won’t look.” He stepped behind her and loosened his mantle to block the monks’ view. When he saw Zahra had frozen, he poked her in the back.

  The girl hesitantly dropped her trousers to mid-thigh.

  The eunuch glanced at her, shrugged, then made a beckoning sign with a pudgy finger. Zahra obeyed his silent command. When she had taken her place on the platform next to him, the windlass squealed, and the platform began to rise.

  As Zahra’s figure became smaller and smaller with every foot of height she gained, Vlad felt a heavier and heavier pressure on his chest. It was as if a silk cord had wrapped itself around his heart, and the windlass was making it tighter with every turn.

  Why hadn’t he asked her more questions in the time it took the boat to reach the island? Where was she from? How did she come to be a prisoner?

  Mara would undoubtedly find a way to send Zahra home, and he’d never see the girl again.

  If you wanted me to contact Mara, Lord, he thought, teeth clenched, why didn’t you just give me a pigeon?

  His anger was short-lived. Although God had given him a glimpse of something enchanting in Zahra, only to take it away in a flash, her memory would linger.

  “Take me back to the monastery,” he said to the monks. “I’ve lost my interest in fishing.”

  “I don’t blame you, Prince Vlad,” Methodius said. “That boy was a pest.”

  “Good riddance,” Cyril said.

  62

  A HUNDRED QUESTIONS

  June 1443, Athos Penins
ula, Ottoman Empire

  Cyril and Methodius weren’t due to deliver fish to Mara’s island for another week. Only on delivery day could Vlad hope to receive a letter from her. Yet he stood for hours by his window every day, watching the monks’ fishing boat ply the waters in front of Maiden’s Drowning. Who knew? They might accidentally drift close enough to She-Devil’s Island for Mara to summon them to their task of messengers, ahead of the schedule.

  With every day that passed without news, his impatience grew.

  “You really think Murad will entrust his peace plan to you?” Gruya said. “If I were you, I’d brace myself for disappointment, instead of pining for his approval like a jailbird for a petticoat.”

  With Gruya all problems could be understood in terms of getting or not getting hold of a woman.

  “I’m his only hope,” Vlad said, disingenuously letting Gruya believe his impatience had to do exclusively with Murad’s plan.

  Only Lash knew what burned inside Vlad, and was always there to take over the boat watch whenever Vlad left to attend one of the prayer services. Vlad had taken the habit of praying frequently, though even in his prayers he kept his yearning cryptic.

  “Please have Lady Mara write to me soon,” he’d implore Theotókos, whose icon he venerated above all others. The Virgin knew he hungered for a word about Zahra.

  The delivery day finally arrived, and he waited on the dock all afternoon for the fishermen’s return.

  When Methodius handed him a folded and sealed sheet of paper, Vlad acted indifferent, while his insides churned. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Her Ladyship were asking us to take back that impudent boy.”

  The monks laughed, and Cyril said, “Not before she cures him of crying, I hope.”

  The letter started with news about the war, which Vlad skipped to search for Murad’s answer to his offer. There was no word on that.

  Then he found a mention of Zahra the last paragraph, and his pulse quickened.

  One of my maids speaks Persian and through her I learned the child’s entire family has been killed in the civil war that raged recently through her native land. Zahra was captured and sold to a Mameluk merchant, who bought her as a gift for his sultan in Cairo. The merchant’s ship, with Zahra on board, was seized by the pirates you killed.