Michael knew if Zaganos was involved, nothing good would come of it. As the Third Vizier, Zaganos was on a relentless quest to unseat the First Vizier and take his place. Only war could give him the chance to succeed. “Murad won’t violate the peace treaty, Ulfer. Muslim or not, he’s been a man of his word for as long as he’s been in power. Zaganos will have to wait for the peace treaty to expire before he can weave his intrigues against us.”
“Not if he can prove I violated the treaty myself. Tirendaz says Zaganos claims to have proof I did just that.”
Michael felt relieved. It was a false alarm, after all, since there could be no such proof. “Then you know there is nothing to fear. It seems all Murad wants is for you to go refute Zaganos’ claim in person. That should be easy.”
“Don’t forget the other small matter of Hunyadi and his designs on Wallachia. I won’t have gotten halfway to Edirne before he’d learn I was away.”
Michael reflected for a few moments. A secret trip, Tirendaz had said. “Let me think about this. I’ve got an idea how we might fool everyone to think you’re in the country when you aren’t.”
Dracul shook his head, skeptical, then let himself drop into his chair with a sigh. “Nothing’s going well of late.”
“I wouldn’t say that, Ulfer.” Michael extracted Emperor Frederick’s treaty document from his bag and put it in front of Dracul. “Sign this, and let’s find the means to send the poet laureate back to his master without getting himself ambushed again on the way.”
Dracul contemplated the sheet of paper for a few seconds with eyes growing larger, and larger still. Then giving a happy yell, he jumped over the desk, sending inkpots and drinking cups flying across the floor. “You’re a lifesaver, my musahib!” he shouted. Then he grabbed Michael by the shoulders, and led him in a clumsy dance.
CHAPTER 20: The Small Royal Council
Vlad anticipated high praise for saving Piccolomini, but had to wait two days before his father sent for him. Basking in the afterglow of his forest adventure, he passed the time secluded in his cell at the abbey, devouring Plutarch’s manuscript. Though at first he was eager to receive his father’s accolades, Alexander’s war with Darius soon edged that out of his mind. When Dracul’s call finally came, Vlad was on the battlefield of Gaugamela, leading Alexander’s left cavalry wing to a clash with Darius’ right flank. Ten thousand Thessalonian horsemen under Vlad’s command were about to mow down thirty thousand Persian infantry. Reluctant, he stowed Plutarch under his cot and went to the castle.
Vlad found his father in the small council chamber, seated at a table in the company of Michael, Baba and Marcus. All four men looked somber and preoccupied. Not the cheerful mood Vlad was anticipating, given the success of Baba’s mission.
“I can imagine what you were thinking, Son,” Dracul said, indicating an empty chair to Vlad. His tone was harsh and his eyes cold. “You’ve disobeyed my order to stay clear of Baba’s operation, but no harm came of it. In fact, you rescued Piccolomini. So how could your father have anything but praise for you?”
That’s exactly what Vlad was thinking. Trying not to sound brash he said, “And what are you thinking, Father?”
“I think that disobedience is more deserving of punishment than the happy outcome is of praise.”
This wasn’t right. Wouldn’t rescuing Piccolomini and his treaty document trump the small matter of disobedience? He looked around the table for a hint of where his father was heading, but the other three men averted their eyes.
“But as a member of my small council,” Dracul said, “you’ll soon understand that grave state matters prevent me from giving your punishment the attention it deserves.”
What? Vlad, a member of the small council? He tucked his hands in his sash to hold them still against the sudden excitement. He would’ve settled for a few words of recognition, but instead his father was giving him a real reward. Yet could he have announced the promotion in a colder and more indirect manner?
Marcus, Baba and Michael looked up, surprised. Dracul mustn’t have shared his intentions with them. Vlad glanced at Marcus and was satisfied his brother was duly impressed.
“Thank you, Father,” Vlad wanted to shout. Instead he said, “Can I be of help in those matters of state?”
“We’re facing a serious crisis,” Dracul said. “I’ve been summoned by Sultan Murad to Edirne within thirty days, and have no way of avoiding the trip. Michael will go with me.”
Vlad recalled several cases in history when a ruler lost his throne to a pretender for no other reason than he was away from his country. “If I were Hunyadi, I’d choose the time of your absence to put one of my men on your throne.”
Dracul and Michael exchanged glances, but said nothing. Vlad saw both surprise and admiration in their eyes and felt vindicated for the humiliation of the earlier chastisement over disobedience.
“Vlad claims he knows all these things from reading history books,” Marcus said. “But he forgets we now have a defense treaty with Emperor Frederick that makes it impossible for the Hungarians to interfere with us.”
Marcus’ simplemindedness amused Vlad. After seeing no value in the treaty, his brother was using it now to put Vlad in his place?
“The treaty doesn’t go into effect,” Michael said, “until the protocol with the king’s signature is recorded in the emperor’s chancellery.”
“We first have to get Piccolomini back to Vienna without Hunyadi’s being able to lay hands on him,” Baba said. “That means sending him across Serbia, Bosnia, and Croatia. It will add two weeks to his journey, so he won’t reach Vienna in less than forty-five days.”
Dracul shook his head. “You’re all worrying about the wrong thing. Vlad’s right. My absence from the country is all Hunyadi needs. Even if the treaty were in effect, without a strong garrison at Roter Turm Pass to block his troops, it’s just a piece of paper. Hunyadi would be in Targoviste to crown his candidate, and back in Eisenmarkt, before word of it got to Emperor Frederick.”
“I take umbrage, Your Grace,” Baba said. “Do you assume my people and I would be asleep while such a thing took place?”
“No, Baba,” Dracul said, allowing himself the hint of a smile. “But I do assume most of the boyars would be bribed to vote for Hunyadi’s puppet and declare you an outlaw. You know well enough how these things are done around here.”
“Isn’t there a way to prevent Hunyadi from knowing you’re away?” Vlad said. “That seems the only hope.”
“I’ve been working on a plan with these gentlemen,” Dracul said. “We’ll let you know what it is when we’ve finalized it.” Then he stood and dismissed the council.
As Vlad and Marcus were about to leave, Dracul called after them, “Give me no further proof of bad judgment for the next few days, boys.”
Vlad wanted to return to his Alexander on the Gaugamela battlefield, but Marcus wouldn’t hear of it. “Your inclusion into Father’s small council deserves a drink,” he said when they left the castle and entered the village. He locked his arm into Vlad’s and showed readiness to fight if denied his company. “It’d be bad judgment on your part not to get drunk in celebration of such an event. And you heard Father’s warning against bad judgment.” He began to drag Vlad toward a tavern at the bottom of an alley overflowing with market folks.
Before Vlad could break loose of Marcus, Nestor and László popped out from a gangway and barred their path. Vlad could tell they’d been waiting for them.
Nestor had shed his travel-worn clothes in favor of a blue silk tunic and a fur-trimmed caftan. Vlad suspected the rich garments were a gift from Treasurer Alba, at whose mansion Nestor and László were lodged. With the new clothes came a haughty new demeanor seemingly meant to prove that the humility Nestor showed the night of his arrival was a temporary affliction, now happily cured.
“Ah, there goes our hero,” Nestor said, raising both hands at Vlad in a pretense of admiration. “The man who killed a bison all by himself—or did he
? No one’s seen his trophy, I hear. Maybe I got it wrong and he killed a wolf, instead. Oh, wait a moment... has anyone witnessed that?”
Nestor’s teasing gave Vlad the urge to jostle him a bit, but he held back, knowing there was more to come from his cousin.
“One thing that isn’t in doubt, though,” Nestor said, looking into Vlad’s eyes but addressing Marcus, “is that your brother will literally fly headlong through the air to rescue a lowly poet. Imagine the courage! I venture to predict bards across Europe will be singing his praises for years.”
Perhaps jostling wasn’t enough for an arrogant parasite like Nestor. How about a good thrashing?
“Leave my brother alone, Nestor,” Marcus said. “He and I have some serious drinking to do.”
“But something Vlad won’t do,” Nestor continued, undaunted, “is kill a Turk. Even when handed to him wrapped like a gift. Can somebody tell me why’s that?”
Vlad doubted his father would see this as another instant of bad judgment, and sprang at Nestor, slamming him against the alley’s wall. “Name a single person, Cousin,” he said, “who’d mind if I snuffed the life out of you.” He squeezed Nestor’s windpipe with his right hand and held his dagger pointing at László with his left. But László made no attempt to intervene. “Certainly not your master, Hunyadi,” Vlad continued, “whose son you abandoned to save your own hide. Not Emperor Frederick, whose envoy you sold to the bandits. And not my father, who—”
“Don’t hurt him, Vlad,” Marcus said. “He’s only jesting.”
“Oh, yes,” Vlad said, and eased his grip a little, “I forgot my brother. You promised him a commanding post in Hunyadi’s crusade, so you mean something to him alive.”
The moment he said that, Vlad realized it was his envy of Marcus that made him lash at his cousin. Marcus had earned Nestor’s promise of an officer’s commission, while Vlad would be forced to join as an ordinary soldier. Feeling embarrassed at his pettiness, he let go of Nestor’s throat. His cousin crumpled to the ground gasping for air with harsh snorting sounds.
“You’ve spoiled it for yourself again, Vlad,” László said, gleeful. “Nestor was about to offer you another chance to qualify as an officer. We waited here to give you the news.”
“A conniving liar like you doesn’t deserve men risking their lives to rescue you,” Vlad said, ready to transfer his resentment to László. He turned to leave when Nestor grabbed the tail of his tunic.
“László isn’t lying,” Nestor croaked, clutching at his throat with one hand and hanging on to Vlad with the other. “I did come to offer you a new chance.”
Marcus helped Nestor to his feet and smoothed his rumpled clothes. “Come, Nestor, let’s get you a jug of wine and put this silly tussle behind us.”
“What would make you want to give me another chance?” Vlad asked, skeptical. “And don’t say something as threadbare as ‘blood is thicker than water.’”
“No, Vlad,” Nestor said, his voice and confidence restored now, “I won’t claim that love for my relatives motivates me, though I do love you and Marcus like brothers. It’s something more powerful than that. It’s self-interest.”
Now that was easier to believe. “What do you stand to gain from this?”
“As one of Lord Hunyadi’s crusade commanders with a regiment a thousand strong, it’s in my interest to officer it with men of proven skill and courage. Men like Marcus. And men like you, if you can prove yourself as he did.”
As distasteful as the prospect of fighting under Nestor’s standard felt to him, Vlad’s curiosity had been piqued. “What do you have in mind?”
“That’s better,” Marcus said. “We’re now behaving like genteel men, not like peasants fighting over scraps of food. Let’s continue this discussion in the tavern.” He took Nestor and Vlad by their arms and led them down the lane. László tailed them.
At their approach, the men crowding the tavern hall pulled aside to clear a path, and bowed. The owner shooed away patrons from a table in the middle of the room and offered it to them.
“I want to know you have something indeed to tell me, Cousin,” Vlad said, “before I get too comfortable here. I’ve got better things to do than keep you company in prattle.” He pushed aside the cup of wine Marcus filled for him. “What’s this new chance all about?”
“We’d better speak German,” Nestor said, conspiratorial. He hunched over the table and beckoned the other three men to do the same. Then he whispered, “You won’t want the castle to get wind of your plans.”
László tittered. “Assuming they have the courage to carry through with—”
“You said you had a chance for me,” Vlad said, suspicious again. “What ‘they’ is László talking about?” Was there any transaction with these two characters that didn’t take a bad turn sooner or later?
“Calm down, Cousin,” Nestor said. “The chance is yours, but you’ll need your brother’s help to seize it.” He paused, appearing to revel in the suspense his cryptic message was causing Vlad. Finally he said, “Four Akincis were seen raiding the countryside three days ago, somewhere east of here.”
“Yes,” Marcus roared, and pounded on the table with his fist so hard, those around them turned their heads to see the cause of the commotion. “I knew you’d have something good for us, Nestor. You always do.” Marcus lifted his jug of wine and emptied it in a long draft.
“Don’t be a fool to believe any of this, Marcus,” Vlad said, embarrassed for his brother’s gullibility. If not incensed at being toyed with by his cousin, Vlad would’ve laughed at his claim. But to see his ambition become the object of Nestor’s amusement pushed him close to the limit of self-control. Sure, Akincis had been sighted in years past, in various parts of Wallachia. But by the time news of a raid would get to Targoviste, weeks and months might have passed. How would an outsider like Nestor have knowledge of a raid in progress? “You of all people would know about such a thing?” he said through clenched teeth.
Nestor grinned, delighted to see Vlad’s reaction. “Get me the head of one of those raiders and I guarantee you a future in the crusade.”
“Now you understand why I said ‘they’?” László said, smug. “You can’t take on four Turks all by yourself.”
“I should’ve finished strangling you back there in the alley, Nestor,” Vlad said, and stood, fists balled tight. “And, you, László, I should’ve drowned you in Gypsy’s Twat when I had the chance. The world would be a better place without the two of you.”
“Wait, Brother,” Marcus said. “Give Nestor a chance to tell us what he knows.”
“I’m not offended you’d think I’m making up stories just to goad you, Vlad,” Nestor said. “I’d feel the same in your shoes.” He took a crumpled piece of leather from inside his caftan and tossed it on the table. “This message was meant for your father, but it’s yours now. You’ve got here the testimony of a learned man to dispel your doubts.”
Vlad recognized the leather as being a rabbit pelt, of the type people used in the countryside to record contracts. If somebody had gone to the trouble of getting a priest to write a message to the king, perhaps Nestor’s claim had some merit after all. Vlad struggled to suppress a new hope that began to rise in his breast, but it was too lively to contain. He resumed his seat and his eyes ran over the text, avid. The skin had been poorly tanned, causing the ink to bleed. Moreover, as the text approached its end, the ink became fainter until it disappeared, leaving the message unfinished.
“Look at his hands shake,” Marcus said, and slapped Vlad on the back, good-humored. “Come, Brother, this isn’t a secret love letter. Read it out loud. Show us that all that learning you’ve got is of some use.”
The writer had spent most of his ink on reminding Dracul that kings are appointed by God to look after their people. Only the last two lines contained information about the Turks, but is was too little to be of any use. “‘I, humble slave of the Lord, monk Arcadicus of Holy Mount Athos,’” Vlad read, translat
ing into German, “‘have seen with my own eyes the bloody hounds of the false prophet Mohammed preying upon Christian children on this day of our Lord.... Then the text degenerated into inkless scratches impossible to read. Vlad threw the pelt on the table, his new hope deflated.
“That’s all?” Marcus said, disappointed. “It doesn’t say where this monk saw the Turks?”
“Who gave you this pelt, Nestor?” Vlad said.
“It was a lad I met in the market this morning,” Nestor said. “He was asking for a way to get a message to the king.”
“Was it he who told you there were four Akincis nearby?” Vlad said. “The message doesn’t say that.”
“Did the man see the Turks himself?” Marcus said.
“He and the monk who wrote the message were traveling south on the road leading to Bucur’s Crossing when they saw the Turks.”
“That’s only two days from here, at a fast ride,” Marcus said. “I knew a wench once who—”
“But how far from Bucur’s Crossing were they at that time?” Vlad said, impatient with his brother’s frivolity.
Nestor scratched his chin, pensive. “Half a day, I think.”
“That would be about right,” Marcus said. “If your lad knew shortcuts through the forest, he’d manage to get here in three days on foot.”
“The four Turks were traveling in the opposite direction with a wagon half full of small boys they’d captured.”
Vlad flinched. The image of small children taken away in chains ripped into his mind like a jagged piece of glass into the flesh of his hand. If true, this was no longer just a chance to prove his valor with sword in hand. It was much more. “We need details,” he said. “Landmarks to guide us, names of villages on the way. We’ve got to talk to this man in person, Cousin.”
Nestor fidgeted and looked around the table, defensive. “How was I to know the writing on this skin would be useless? I can’t read Slavonic, and the youth assured me all the king needed to know was in there.”
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