The unbelievers near Omar were Pavel and Joseph. He finished his prayer, then slithered to the place the two youths slept. Joseph lay on his side, facing away from his companion. Pavel was sprawled on his back, snoring. He’d have to be first.
CHAPTER 31: The King’s Deception
For the four days it took the royal convoy to reach the Danube, Dracul didn’t acknowledge Vlad once. He kept Marcus in his company at all times, and the two of them seemed immersed in perpetual discussion.
“This invitation to Edirne’s taken all the starch out of Father’s drawers,” Marcus told Vlad the first night. “I’ve never heard him this pessimistic. He doesn’t think he’s ever coming back.”
“Good thing he’s got you to take his place,” Vlad said, unable to hide his simmering resentment against his father.
“I know what he made you do,” Marcus said. “But let it pass. When he comes back, you and I are on our way to the crusade. If need be, I’ll take you under my command and promote you at the first opportunity.”
Vlad rode at the back of the convoy in Michael’s company. For the first three days, his old mentor appeared unaware of Vlad’s ill humor and chattered, easygoing, about trivial things. The fact that Vlad rode in silence didn’t seem to register with Michael. In the past, on a trip like this he’d challenge Vlad with questions on history and geography; in the process he’d also dazzle him with his memory and knowledge. Now it was all about nothing: crops, weather, Aunt Mathilda’s cooking. Still smarting from the setbacks experienced two days before, Vlad was glad to be left alone with his gloomy thoughts. Yet he was saddened by the sharp decline in Michael’s faculties. First, Gunther died, now Uncle Michael had gone soft in the head.
Then, on the fourth day, with the cliffs of Nicopolis just poking above the horizon, Michael reined in his horse and waited for Vlad to do the same. He had a mischievous smile on. “Be glad Nestor didn’t accept the proof of bravery you offered him. Your place isn’t behind the likes of Hunyadi and his son.”
“What?” The question rang much louder than Vlad would have liked it to. “How did you learn of that?” So, Uncle Michael had been playing the simpleton, just to give Vlad time to recover from László and Nestor’s act of perfidy. “How?” he repeated, louder. “No one other than—” No, he couldn’t implicate Marcus in this. “No one knew of my plans.”
“Your brother’s not great at keeping secrets, but this time he didn’t betray yours,” Michael said. “Every young man thinks his plans are too arcane for his elders to figure out. But to me you’re still an open book.”
If that claim had been made by anyone else, Vlad would’ve taken it as an insult. But Michael had proven on many an occasion he was able to guess Vlad’s most intimate thoughts. And he spoke in such a kind and self-effacing manner, it would’ve been hard for Vlad to resent him.
“How did I give myself away?” he said.
“I thought you showed too much interest in Hunyadi’s men fighting in the Eisenmarkt melee. Until, that is, I noticed Marcus wasn’t in the stand.”
“So you know he nearly got killed there?”
“When I realized Marcus got to fight the Sipahis and you didn’t, I knew you wouldn’t rest until you found a way to best him.” Michael paused, as if he wanted to give Vlad time to digest this insight. “Then I heard you spent time with Nestor, before you disappeared for a week and returned with an Akinci prisoner. It didn’t me take long to fill in the blanks.”
“Does Father know about my wanting to join the crusade?” Vlad said, with trepidation. Though his father couldn’t possibly, or he’d have Vlad in chains by now.
Michael shook his head and Vlad felt relieved. He’d decided that László’s refusal to testify on his behalf was no reason to give up on the crusade. Nor would he ride on Marcus’ coattails. While Father was on the other side of the Danube, Vlad would dash on to Eisenmarkt and enlist in Hunyadi’s army as a simple soldier. If he were meant to become an officer, he’d earn his title on the battlefield.
“I’m not saying Hunyadi’s a bad soldier,” Michael said. “In fact, he’s both skilled and fearless. It’s his character I’m leery of.”
“But at least he’s willing to fight the Turks.”
“And you’ve persuaded yourself that if you waited for your father to raise an army against them, you might grow old waiting.”
Vlad stared in silence at his tutor. This time Michael’s reading of his thoughts riled him. “You know yourself, Father would rather negotiate than fight.”
“But giving your loyalty to a man who lent his battle armor to his best friend, so the poor dupe would be killed in his place, sounds like a bad investment.”
“I’d rather die next to a daring scoundrel, than live with an honorable coward,” Vlad sputtered. Then he spurred Timur, and the horse, unaccustomed to such harsh prompting, reared with a resentful squeal, then took off at a gallop. Vlad had never before called his father a coward, and didn’t believe he was. But just now it felt good to say it.
Vlad raced all the way to the edge of the small settlement that serviced the people who were ferried across the Danube at the Nicopolis crossing. Gruya and Lash followed close but left him alone, knowing better than to disturb their master’s dark mood.
To the east of the village, Vlad saw the cavalry encampment. Two hundred elite horse guards waited there to depart for the military maneuvers that would serve as cover for his father’s secret trip to Edirne. He’d learned the details of the plan from Marcus but failed to find anything of interest in it for himself. Only a few months before, he would’ve been keen on such an operation. Staging mock attacks on various forts, and drilling with the cavalry on sorties and retreats, would’ve been exciting: the closest thing to a war experience he could hope for while the peace treaty with the Turks was in effect. But now, all he cared about was to get away to Hungary and start a new life.
“Take Timur to my father’s quarters,” he said to Lash. “I’ll come there shortly.” Then turning to Gruya, “Let’s find out if Omar’s crossed the river in good order. I need at least one thing to have gone right.”
They walked across a crowded market where food vendors, street entertainers and hawkers of all kind of wares vied for the attention of the travelers. Vlad spotted Marcus watching, openmouthed, an attractive Gypsy girl of about eighteen while she put a trained bear through its paces. Twice Vlad heard murmurs of “Dracula” behind him, but didn’t bother to see whence they came. One thing his father was right about: Vlad had given simple folks something to talk about, and he didn’t enjoy being that something.
Among the plethora of river crafts moored in the shallows Vlad spotted a ferry that had a platform wide enough to carry horses onboard. The ferryman was a middle-aged Bulgarian Muslim of an open disposition.
“I’m free this afternoon, Efendi,” the man said in heavy-accented Romanian, “and I’m willing to give you a big discount on the crossing. Two aspers for a horse, or a mule, and one asper per person. If your party is more than three people and three beasts, I—”
“I want to know if you’ve seen someone around here with a bruised nose, cut lips, and missing front teeth,” Vlad said, impatient. “A Turk, about thirty-five years old. He would’ve attempted to cross over recently.”
“I’d say it was a coincidence you should ask me that, if I didn’t believe all things are being ordained by Allah, Subhanahu Wa Ta’ala, the Most Glorified.”
“Does that mean yes?” Vlad said, a jolt of excitement passing through him. As much as he regretted having to set Omar free, knowing he made good on his promise to the Turk was precious to him.
“But there are no coincidences, my friend. Everything that happens—”
“There will be a coincidence soon between my boot and your ass,” Gruya said, stepping up to the man, “if you don’t answer my master’s question. We don’t need your philosophy lesson.”
“Yes it is then,” the ferryman said. He took a hurried step back and wiped his forehe
ad with the sleeve of his caftan. “A Turkish merchant by that description did hire me yesterday morning to ferry him over.”
Vlad felt a spark of elation that even the memory of Omar’s vicious nature couldn’t deny him. “That’s all I wanted to know,” he said, and turned his back to the man.
“You should know I didn’t give him the discount I offered you. See, mornings are always busy, so I charged full fare for him and his three horses. But, I asked nothing for his two brothers, because they were dead.”
“What brothers?” Vlad said, spinning around, stung.
“Omar had his two dead brothers with him, Efendi, and I didn’t charge him for them. Yet by rights I should have charged the full fare anyway. Dead or alive, a body weighs the same, and—”
“You say the man with the missing teeth had three horses and two dead bodies with him?” Vlad felt blood rising to his head as he cringed at what he feared he’d learn.
“A very unfortunate case,” the ferryman said, with the self-importance simple folk assume when they think their story has found an audience.
Vlad sat on the keel of an upturned boat rotting away nearby. A sticky fog seemed to have risen around him, making his breathing difficult. This happened to him often when he got overly excited. The first time he could remember fighting to breathe he was about four. He’d just caught a live mouse with his bare hands and the little creature struggled desperate in his hand. His father’s physician said Vlad had asthma, and gave him a mixture of owl blood and wine to drink.
The sound of Gruya’s voice interrogating the boatman came to him dampened and distorted.
“What was that man’s name?” Gruya said, resuming his menacing stance. “Just so we don’t waste our time talking about a person of no interest to us.”
“All Allah’s children who are in distress should be of interest—”
Before the ferryman could finish the sentence, Gruya lunged at him, grabbed him by his nape, and pointed the tip of his dagger at the man’s left eye. “I’ve often been accused of being a violent man,” he said in a breathy voice, “and always loved hearing it.”
“Omar,” the ferryman whispered. “He called himself Omar.”
The fog around Vlad became as thick as cotton and his lungs could no longer fill with air.
“What was Omar’s story?” Gruya asked, lowering his dagger but still holding the man by the back of his neck.
“He and his brothers were returning from Transylvania, with a cartload of armor they’d purchased there. Weapons merchants they were, Omar and his two brothers.”
Vlad saw Gruya look at him, inquiring. Coughing and struggling for breath, he signaled him to go on.
“They were attacked in the great forest, weren’t they?” Gruya said.
The man nodded. “Omar’s two brothers had their throats cut from ear to ear.”
“And Omar was taking them to Dar al-Islam to bury them properly, right?”
The boatman nodded, timorous, then said, “Poor Omar’s ordeal didn’t end up there, though. Something spooked the horses carrying the two corpses when we were in the middle of the river, and both bodies slipped overboard.”
“Omar must have been devastated,” Gruya said with feigned compassion. “It’s one thing to have brigands kill your brothers. It’s quite another to have the river claim their bodies.”
“You’d be surprised to learn how strong of a person Omar was. Not a muscle twitched on his face when the disaster happened.”
Vlad finally managed to draw in a mouthful of air. Lightheaded and tearing, he said, “Did Omar tell you who killed his brothers?”
The merchant leaned toward Vlad and said, conspiratorial, “A vicious bandit who roams the big forest the Wallachians call Shaytan’s Belt. Dracula is his name.”
“There is no better cure for a forlorn heart, Brother,” Marcus shouted, barging into Vlad’s tent, “than good wine and bad women. Isn’t that so, Tulip?”
Marcus had a jug in one hand and was holding on to the skirt of a woman with the other. Vlad recognized her as the Gypsy bear-handler he’d noticed earlier in the market. With a furtive glance, he observed she had golden eyes and delicate lips, the upper one arched like the flower whose name she bore.
“You’ll find there is no cure for a broken ass,” Vlad said, leaning his face into Marcus’, “if you don’t get out of here immediately.”
“Don’t mind him, Tulip,” Marcus said, retreating a step. “Dracula has learned to kill Turks but hasn’t yet learned to drink and fuck.”
“I like that name,” Tulip said. She threw Vlad an inviting look, which he caught with the corner of his eye. “Dracula.”
“Don’t think I won’t thrash you, Brother, just because you’re drunk,” Vlad said.
“He’s like a colt that hasn’t been ridden yet,” Marcus said, changing his grip from the woman’s skirt to her blouse. “Beware, Tulip, he’s bound to be frisky until you halter-break him.”
“You forget I tame bears for a living, Prince Marcus,” Tulip said. She laughed in such a mellifluous tone, Vlad’s resolve to see her leave melted away.
But he wouldn’t betray his weakness. He pried the jug out of Marcus’ hand, and pushed him toward the tent’s opening. Marcus, still clutching at Tulip’s blouse, dragged her along, but tripped and fell backward, ripping open the front of her blouse.
“Help my brother to his tent, Lash,” Vlad called out, knowing his servant would be within earshot; he nearly always was. Then he yanked the tent flap shut and turned to face the woman for the first time.
Tulip made no attempt to cover herself. The skin of her shoulders and breasts had the hue of ripe wheat, her nipples that of old copper coins. Vlad began to suspect that Marcus might have been right, after all, regarding the forlorn hearts. Except the cure must be bad women first and good wine second. He placed the jug on his travel chest, then drew Tulip to him with a hurried gesture he knew would reveal his need for her. But he no longer cared to show restraint.
Tulip fell willingly into his arms, raising her face to his with a smile that seemed to say, “How could you even think of resisting me?” He took her lower lip between his teeth and bit it almost to the point of hurting her. She moaned and wrapped her arms around him.
Free of the ignorance and bashfulness that had inhibited him the night he made love to Christina, Vlad took his time exploring Tulip’s body. How was it possible that creatures made from the same mold should feel, smell, and taste so different? This had to be the secret to man’s insatiable desire for a woman’s body.
He closed his eyes and buried his nose in the hollow of her shoulder. Her skin gave out a fragrance of unfamiliar spices that conjured for him exotic places along the Silk Road. He glided his fingers down her spine, anticipating with growing desire the moment he’d encounter the rise of her buttocks, when his hands would cup those two mounds as a prelude to his possessing the woman.
“Your brother was wrong to think you needed breaking in,” Tulip said, in a voice no longer confident, but husky and tentative. “You’re a born—”
Vlad covered her mouth with his and she let herself crumple onto the floor, pulling him down with her.
When Lash shook him by the shoulder, Vlad opened his eyes to complete darkness and couldn’t recall where he was. His hand darted to his side for the sword, but found only air.
“It’s me, Master,” Lash whispered. “The king’s sent me to fetch you.”
“You startled me,” Vlad snarled, clenching his fists, madder at himself than at Lash. So this was what it meant to be drunk. You lie in a stupor, not knowing where your weapons are, at the mercy of even the most inept assassin. He swore this would be the last time such a thing happened to him. His eyes felt gritty, and when he sat up a sharp pain shot through the top of his head.
“I didn’t think it proper to bring a lantern, Master, considering your company.”
Vlad remembered Tulip, and felt around for her. She was there, at his left, curled up and naked.
“I beg your forgiveness but the king said I’m to dress you up like an ordinary footman,” Lash said. “I’ve got the clothes here, and can outfit you in the dark.”
Did Father think, belatedly, of some humiliating punishment for his recent adventure? Or did he discover how he dealt with Omar’s “disappearance,” and was bent on retaliation? Neither possibility comforted. Recalling Omar’s latest act of savagery, for which he was responsible, threw him back into the dismal mood of the day before.
He let Lash dress him without protest, too much tormented by his regrets to care what he wore. The knee breeches felt baggy, and the loose hemp tunic had holes in the elbows. Father had chosen a strange way of getting his attention. At least the cloth Lash wrapped around his feet in lieu of socks smelled clean, and the opinch fit him well.
“It’s time we did this thing,” Dracul announced when Vlad and Lash entered his tent, “before the night is spent.”
Dracul’s tone was cold and Vlad could tell his father was out of sorts by the way he didn’t look anyone in the eye. He must have been remonstrating with Marcus, Vlad realized; his brother was staring at their father, sheepish, standing with slumped shoulders.
Dracul glanced at Vlad, and then gave Marcus a reproachful look. “You found the perfect time to get your hero brother drunk. Couldn’t you wait until I left for Edirne?”
Dracul beckoned Lash and handed him his lynx fur cachoolah and green riding mantle. “You’re about my height and build, young man. When the guards’ column sets off in the morning, you’ll ride my horse in the van, pretending you’re the king. Marcus and Vlad will accompany you, flying my standard. Until then, don’t move out of this tent.”
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