House of War

by Victor Foia

  “Forgive the intrusion, Ser Benedetto,” Vlad said in Latin, and picked up a few sheets off the floor so as not to step on them.

  “I can spot a book lover from miles away,” the consul said with an easy laugh. “You are a kindred spirit, not like those crass merchants who barge in here and trample on everything like—but I’m blabbering. What can I do for you, Father?”

  “Oh, I’m only an ordinary friar, not a priest, Ser Benedetto,” Vlad said.

  Vlad remarked in passing the nine letters of the man’s given name, but attached no significance to that. In this diplomat’s office he was as far from the arcana of his prophecy as he might ever be.

  He noticed, lying on top of a crate, a sheet of paper that seemed to be the title page of a book, called “Libro de l’Arte de la Mercatura, Book on the Art of Trade”. The author was identified as Benedetto Cotrugli, the consul himself. Vlad picked up the page with the reverence one accords to religious artifacts. “I plead guilty to loving books,” he said with a self-deprecating smile, “more than a Franciscan friar should.” Then he bowed his head. “I’m called Methodius.”

  The consul took the title page with a mischievous grin. “You’ve stumbled upon my passport out of this Ottoman hellhole, Friar Methodius. When my father was consul here, before Murad took Thessaloniki from the Venetians, this city was as alive with women and drink as the Babylon of old. Now it’s no longer the place for a young man who thirsts for feminine charms and the blessings of the table.”

  “I’ve left those desires behind a while ago, Ser Benedetto.” Vlad lowered his gaze in a show of humility. “But I can see why you’d rather be in Ragusa or Venice, instead of here.”

  “Naples is where I aim to spend the rest of my life,” Benedetto said. “Ah, the Neapolitan women—the wine—the song—”

  “And your passport out of here?” Vlad said.

  “Ah, you’re speaking about my book—indeed, my passport to another world,” Benedetto said, dreamy. “The rettore, rector, of Ragusa has promised to transfer me to Naples, but only if I wrote a book on the art of being a good merchant. Hence my modest opus here, waiting for the last pages to be written.”

  “It seems your hour of deliverance is at hand, Your Excellency,” Vlad said. “My inopportune request for advice on how I might find my way to Ragusa mustn’t interfere with your writing a moment longer.” He bowed and began to retreat.

  Benedetto clapped his hands with a joyous look. “But no, friar Methodius, a book lover can never be a bother to me. And you’ve come to the right place for such advice.” With a dramatic gesture, he extracted a scroll from a cubbyhole in his desk. “This is a secret map I’ve drawn for the use of the Ragusan merchants. You’re the first foreigner I will have shown it to.”

  Vlad learned that the historical road linking Ragusa and Thessaloniki had become impracticable in the war’s aftermath. Bands of armed marauders had seized the bridges and mountain passes around Üsküp, bringing commerce to a halt. Pilgrims too, who in the past moved unmolested along that road, were now frequently robbed and killed.

  “This map shows our people a route through Albania that skirts the regions affected by the crusade.”

  For the next half an hour Vlad pored over the map and listened with keen attention to Benedetto’s description of the route. He committed to memory the names of towns, villages and hamlets, then the natural and manmade landmarks.

  On parting, Benedetto assumed a somber mien and said in a low, confidential tone, “Don’t forget, Friar Methodius, every fork in the road leads to either success or failure. Make your choices carefully.”

  This piece of trite advice unsettled Vlad; it resembled Abbott Arcadicus’s talk. Was this just a coincidence, or was Benedetto working in the service of the prophecy? He scrutinized the consul’s face for a clue, but found none.

  68

  DESERTED FARMHOUSE

  December 1443, Macedonia, Ottoman Empire

  Benedetto’s map proved to be of an astounding accuracy. Vlad surmised the consul had worked on it for years, collecting field data from dozens of informers. Using the list of landmarks he’d memorized, Vlad and his party were able to make good progress, despite the need to hide frequently from Ottoman patrols. From Thessaloniki to Edessa they averaged twenty miles a day, covering the distance in four days. They could’ve walked even faster, for the terrain was generally flat, but frequent sleet turned the roads into treacherous mud traps. From Edessa to Bitola they were forced to slow down somewhat because of the numerous hills they had to climb. Even so they made good time, considering the poor state of the roads and the inclement weather.

  They met few Ragusan merchants, walking or riding mules in small groups, for the caravan season was still months away. The rest of the travelers they encountered were local peddlers, pilgrims, beggars, or Azaps returning to their villages. Whenever a mounted patrol appeared, Vlad and his companions took refuge in a ditch, or behind roadside shrubbery.

  In towns they were able to purchase food supplies, and once even enjoyed a hot meal at an imaret. In Bitola, Lash came across a Gypsy encampment and received some intelligence on Ottoman activities in the region.

  “There has been a growing concentration of cavalry around Lake Ohrid,” Lash told Vlad and Gruya. “That’s where the Albanians have been conducting raids into the empire over the past two months.”

  “And we’re heading straight for that region?” Gruya said, bitter.

  “Any mention of Skanderbeg?” Vlad said.

  “His agents are recruiting troops from among the Albanians living this side of the border,” Lash said. “That makes the Turks suspicious of all strangers. The only people they aren’t bothering are the Gypsies, who have no dog in the fight between Muslims and Christians.”

  “We’ll be traveling late in the evening and early in the morning from now,” Vlad said, “until we cross into Albania.”

  While the off-hour travel presented improved safety from prying eyes, it hindered Vlad in spotting landmarks he needed for orientation. Twice they got lost and had to retrace their steps. Thus it took them four days to cover the distance of merely twenty miles between Bitola and Resen. The unplanned delay caused them to run out of food, and the scarcity of inhabitants in that mountainous region gave them no chance to resupply.

  They arrived in Resen just before dark: famished, drenched, and numb with cold. The only thing that saved them from utter dejection was the discovery of an abandoned farmhouse a few hundred feet off the road. The one-room structure had three walls standing and only half of its roof, but offered adequate shelter from both rain and wind.

  For the past two days Vlad had been fighting a stubborn migraine that made the left side of his brain throb. Now the moment they entered the ruin he felt dizzy and had to lean against the wall. When the ground didn’t stop swaying, he let himself slide onto the floor.

  Lash was beside him in an instant. “Are you ill, Master?”

  “We’ll make up the lost time once we reach Struga, on Lake Ohrid,” Vlad said and pushed Lash gently away. “The consul said Struga’s where Albania begins.”

  Lash touched Vlad’s left temple. “The pain’s here, isn’t it?”

  Vlad closed his eyes and nodded. Lash held his palm against Vlad’s temple, like a warm compress; this always seemed to slow down the throbbing.

  “Struga’s about thirty miles farther,” Vlad said. “From there on we’ll be under Skanderbeg’s protection and practically flying all the way to Ragusa.”

  “We won’t be able to walk another three miles if we don’t eat something,” Gruya said. “Let alone thirty.”

  “I’ll make a fire and dry your clothes, Master,” Lash said.

  “The fire’s too dangerous,” Vlad wanted to shout, but all he managed to utter was a weak groan.

  “Yes, the fire’s a good idea,” Gruya said. “My balls are frozen and my dick has shrunk to where I can’t find it when I want to piss.”

  “Sure, blame your unmanliness o
n the cold,” Vlad said. “The fire’s going to give us away.”

  Only when the flames began to blaze did he realize how cold he’d been. But the light hurt his eyes and amplified his nausea.

  Lash stripped Vlad of his wet shirt and rubbed his skin with a rag of coarse fabric. Then he removed his own shirt and helped his master put it on. Lash’s shirt was warm and dry. Vlad lay beside the fire, a log for pillow; soon he felt the front of his body glow. Shame for his weakness and gratitude toward Lash overcame him. He closed his eyes and surrendered to sleep.

  When he awoke, a dirty, humid light shimmered outside the farmhouse. He turned his head from side to side and glanced around. The fire had gone out and he was alone. He attempted to rise to one elbow, but a sharp pain behind his left eye forced his head back onto his improvised pillow.

  At least I’m not cold, he said to himself, as he became aware of the weight of two cloaks piled on top of him. Lash will let himself freeze, just to keep me alive. He closed his eyes again and dozed off.

  “I’ve got hot soup for you, Master,” Lash said, as he entered the farmhouse wearing Vlad’s shirt, now dry. He knelt beside Vlad and lifted his head gently; then he placed a clay bowl to his lips.

  The warm liquid hit the back of Vlad’s throat and he felt as if life was being pumped into him. “How did you manage this miracle? Where’s Gruya?”

  “I overheard something at the imaret that’s got me concerned,” Lash said. “It might be nothing, but again—”

  “You seldom bark at the wrong tree,” Vlad said, alarmed.

  “Gruya and I had just parted after eating at the soup kitchen when four mounted Akincis arrived.”

  “Did Gruya see them?”

  “He was lost in the market crowd by then.”

  Vlad was upset to learn Gruya and Lash had separated, at a time when they might have to get away quickly. But to say anything would’ve meant reprimanding Lash, who’d hurried back for Vlad’s sake. “What’s caught your ear in the Akincis’ talk?”

  “One said, ‘We should arrest them now, not wait for the officer from Edirne to return. Who knows when he’ll be back?’ Another said, ‘The officer told us they’re dangerous. If we spot them we’re to keep our distance.’”

  “They might’ve been talking about Albanian agents,” Vlad said. “I don’t think your Turks have anything to do with us.”

  “It’s what the third Akinci said that worried me the most: ‘How dangerous can two friars be against the four of us?’”

  Vlad sat up so abruptly, he knocked the bowl out of Lash’s hand.

  “Find Gruya, quick.” He rose wobbly to his feet. “If there is a place in the market where non-Muslim women gather, look there first.”

  Lash hesitated. “I can’t leave you alone, Master. What if the Turks—”

  “Here, take your shirt back and put on your cloak before you catch cold.” Despite his weariness, Vlad managed a commanding tone. “Then run like the Devil from holy water.”

  Alone, Vlad reflected upon the things Lash had heard and decided his alarm wasn’t warranted; he persuaded himself the friars in the Akincis’ conversation weren’t Gruya and he. It’s a mere coincidence. Some Albanian agents must’ve had the same-fashion idea we had. But when an hour had passed and his men hadn’t returned, his apprehension soared; he decided to go on their search.

  Then he heard a horse whicker nearby and realized the luck Saint Christopher had bestowed upon him until now had run out. Evidently you aren’t up to date with the ever-changing boundaries of the Ottoman Empire, Vlad thought, begrudging the saint his ignorance.

  69

  AKINCIS ON A MISSION

  December 1443, Macedonia, Ottoman Empire

  The four Akincis had left their horses somewhere out of sight and were approaching the farmhouse spread out, kiliçes drawn. Vlad saw them through the missing door and thought for a moment of escaping over the collapsed wall at the rear of the room. But the Turks had bows slung over their shoulders, and he knew that being without cover in the open field meant certain death for him.

  He stood on the threshold, crucifix held high, and said in Greek, “Welcome children of Allah.”

  The Akincis froze in their tracks.

  “If you’ve decided to embrace Jesus Christ as your savior, you’ve come to the right place.”

  All four Turks snapped their heads back, as if he’d slapped their faces.

  Ah, so you understand Greek.

  “Who gave you permission to squat here, giaour?” said the oldest of the Turks in fluent Greek; Vlad took him to be their leader.

  “In the eyes of the Lord we’re all but squatters on this earth, my friend,” Vlad said.

  “What business do you have in this part of the world?” said another Akinci, a swarthy man with a huge nose resembling a crow’s beak.

  The leader pushed Vlad back with the tip of his sword and entered the room. His comrades followed him.

  The four surveyed the surroundings with menacing looks. When they saw nothing to threaten them, they sheathed their swords.

  That’s a mistake, Vlad thought and imagined himself getting close to them. He let his cloak fall, ready to act, should the opportunity arise.

  “There is only one business a friar knows,” Vlad said, hands clasped around the crucifix, eyes raised to the sky. “Bring the word of Jesus to those who dwell in darkness.”

  “Even if this impudent giaour isn’t the one we’re looking for,” Crow said in Turkish, “I’ll still give him a thrashing to remember.”

  The other Turks laughed.

  “Search him for the letter,” the leader ordered.

  A chill passed through Vlad, and his breath became labored, as if he were breathing through a blanket. This wasn’t an incidental search for Albanian spies.

  Two of the Turks grabbed Vlad’s arms and a third one, a boy of about fifteen, began a minute search of his clothes. He felt every inch of the scapular, tunic, shirt, and trousers; he even yanked off Vlad’s opinci and shook his foot wrappers.

  “I don’t know what you’re looking for,” Vlad said, “but don’t forget my cloak. Who knows, maybe I’ve hidden my gold there.”

  The leader slapped Vlad. “Where’s your travel bag?”

  Vlad licked his lip and tasted blood.

  “Saint Francis has shown us you can reach Heaven’s gates easier without baggage.”

  The leader slapped Vlad again, harder.

  “What if he isn’t the secret messenger?” the boy said in Turkish.

  “He’s got green eyes, doesn’t he, Mesut?” growled Crow.

  The information about Vlad and his mission could have originated only at Murad’s court. Had Mehmed betrayed Tirendaz’s plan to Zaganos? That was the easiest conclusion, yet Vlad refused to accept it. Mehmed would know such a betrayal meant death for Vlad. Or, he’d given Vlad ample proof of being a true friend to him.

  If not Mehmed, then who?

  “But he’s alone, and we’re supposed to look for two monks,” Mesut said.

  From the way he spoke, unbidden, Vlad surmised he was the leader’s kin.

  “Where’s your partner, friar?” Crow said.

  Just then Vlad heard voices and realized Gruya and Lash were about to walk into a trap.

  “Praised be the Mother of God,” he said loud enough for his men to hear, but not so loud to make it obvious he was sounding the alarm.

  But the leader wasn’t fooled and punched Vlad in the stomach hard enough to knock the breath out of him.

  Vlad doubled over, gasping for air.

  “Watch him,” the leader ordered Mesut. Then he and his two companions dashed out of the house.

  Mesut pulled Vlad up by the hair and pressed a knife to his throat.

  “Look what we’ve got here,” the leader called from the outside.

  He reentered the farmhouse shoving Gruya ahead of him, and the other two Turks followed, empty-handed; Lash had managed to get away.

  “The second half of the puz
zle,” the leader purred. “And doesn’t he have pretty blue eyes, just like the officer said he would?”

  While the Turks were congratulating themselves on their catch and sheathing their weapons, Vlad and Gruya exchanged glances.

  Take the two closest to you, Vlad signaled, indicating with an arching of his eyebrows Crow and the leader. I’ll take the others. All vestiges of his migraine had vanished, and now his blood was boiling for action.

  I’ve got it, Gruya signaled back.

  Vlad was certain Lash was lurking nearby to pitch in at the right moment.

  “You must believe we are poor monks, My Sultan,” Vlad said to the leader. “You can search my brother. He doesn’t have any gold either.”

  “We’ll find out soon enough what your lover’s hiding under his skirts,” the leader said. Then he addressed Crow in Turkish. “Blue-Eyes must have the letter. Cut him open if you have to, but find it.”

  When Crow stepped up to Gruya, Vlad lunged at the leader and grabbed the hilt of his kiliç. As he yanked the weapon out of its scabbard he saw Gruya do the same with Crow’s kiliç. Vlad pivoted on one heel and swiped the blade across the throat of the Turk next to him. He didn’t wait to see his target bleed, instead he turned to Mesut, expecting to face his drawn sword. But the boy had sprung backward and was already scrambling over the ruined wall.

  “Allah,” someone cried behind Vlad. He turned to see Gruya struggling to pull his sword out of the leader’s belly.

  “It’s stuck in his backbone,” Gruya shouted.

  Crow was just dashing out of the room through the empty doorframe.

  “Catch,” Vlad screamed and tossed Gruya his kiliç.

  Gruya caught the weapon in flight and plunged toward the door.

  A loud thump came from the outside, then Lash’s shout, “I’ve got him.”

  Vlad assured himself with a glance his Turk was dying. Then he rushed to the side of the leader, who’d toppled onto the floor in the fetal position.

  “I’ll pull the blade out of you if you answer my questions.”

  The man gave Vlad an imploring look. “Where’s my son?”