The youth’s lips moved once more in silent recitation before he looked up. “I believe so, Hamza agha,” he said.
“Then why didn’t you speak it before your classmates?”
Turd, thought Ion. Wasn’t it obvious? His friend could have answered most questions if he chose. But the rest of the orta, made up of other hostages like themselves, were jealous enough already. It was often easiest, and less bruising, to keep silent.
Hamza stepped down from the dais, into a shaft of sunlight. Beneath his black turban, his blue eyes shone in his dark face, a slight smile splitting his blond beard. Seeing him more clearly, Ion saw again that their agha was older than them, of course, but perhaps only by seven years. Until his promotion three years previously, he’d been cupbearer to the Sultan. “Well then,” Hamza said, gesturing down. “Recite it for me, Vlad Dracula. Let me hear from your mouth the wisdom of the Holy Qur’an.”
Vlad cleared his throat, then spoke. “‘They will ask thee about intoxicants and games of chance. Say: In both there is great sin as well as some benefit for man; but the evil that they cause is greater than the benefit that they bring.’”
“Good.” Hamza nodded. “You mispronounced perhaps three of the words. But the fact that you can pronounce Arabic at all astonishes me.” He came closer, squatted down. “How many languages is it that you speak?”
Vlad shrugged. Ion spoke for his friend, excitedly. “Greek, Latin, Frankish…”
Vlad gave him a look, bidding silence. Ion knew the look and obeyed.
“And you are fluent in Osmanlica, of course. But Arabic?” Hamza whistled. “Do you strive to be a hafiz?”
“One who can recite all of the Qur’an?” Vlad shook his head. “No.”
“And yet you can recite much more than almost…anyone else I know.” As he spoke, Hamza suddenly punched Ion on the shoulder. When he stepped out of range with a yelp of outrage, the other two laughed.
“I…admire it,” replied Vlad. “And I recite it because the words and the thoughts they hold are beautiful and are meant to be spoken aloud, as the Angel Gabriel spoke them to the Prophet, may peace be upon him. On a page they are just words. Out here…”—he waved the air before him—“…they are energy, released.”
“I think you are intoxicated with words, my young man.” Hamza rested his hand on Vlad’s shoulder, leaned in. “We are alike in that. And perhaps their truth will lead you to other truths. Even to Allah?”
“Ah, no. That is not the reason I learn and recite. I admire the words, yes, but…”
Hamza’s smile did not fade. Doubt was good, a stumble away from a fall. “But?”
Vlad looked up, listened to the last of the ortas leaving, the shouts, laughter, and challenges, as caged youth exploded into freedom. “I learn to know you,” he said. “Truly know you. For the Turk is the power shaking the tree of the world, and your faith is what drives you to do it. Unless I know about that, know everything about you, well…” He looked back, directly into the older man’s eyes. “…How am I ever going to stop you?”
Two gasps came, from both listeners. Hamza recovered first, withdrawing his hand. “Do you not fear that I will punish you for such talk?” He gestured to the bastinado, which he had left by his floor pillow.
“For what, effendi?”
“For your rebellious thoughts.”
Vlad frowned. “Why would you be surprised by them? All hostages are children of rebels. That’s why we are hostages—so that our fathers, who rule their lands by Turkish grace—continue to acknowledge their true master. Dracul, my father, gave me and my brother Radu to your…care, five years ago. Not so we’d receive the best education it is possible to have but so that, if he rebels again, you can kill us.”
Ion reached, took an elbow. “Stop…”
Vlad shrugged him off. “Why, Ion? Hamza agha knows our story. He has seen hostages come and go, live and die. He helps to give us the best of everything—food, language, philosophy, the arts of war and poetry.” He pointed to his tablet. “They expose us to their faith, one of tolerance and charity, yet they do not force us to convert, for that is against the word of the Holy Qur’an. If all goes well, they send us back to our lands to deal with all their problems there for them, to pay them tribute in gold and boys, and thank them for the privilege. If all goes badly, well…” He smiled. “Then they spill our well-educated brains upon the ground.” He turned back. “Do I speak anything but the truth, effendi? If so, beat me soundly for a liar, please.”
Hamza regarded him for a long moment, nothing in his expression. Finally, he said, “How old are you?”
“I will be seventeen in March,” came the reply.
“It is too young to have such cynical thoughts.”
“No, Hamza agha,” replied Vlad softly, “it is only too young to be able to do anything about them.”
They stared at each other for a long moment. Then both smiled again, with Ion looking between them, excluded, suddenly jealous. He would never have the intellect of his friend; and he could plainly see that Hamza and Vlad shared something he would never be a part of.
The silence held, until the Turk rose and turned away. “Go, my hawk,” he said over his shoulder. “Your companion is desperate to fly.”
Vlad rose, too, but did not go. “Effendi, do you not leave us soon?”
The tutor was stooping to collect books. He straightened. “How have you heard what has only just been decided?” When Vlad merely shrugged, he shook his head, continued. “It is true. I travel at the end of the week. On the orders of the Sultan, may Allah always send him health. You know I am not one of your ordinary aghas.”
“I know. You are also one of the finest of the Exalted One’s falconers. Is that what you are about now?”
Ion shifted. It was not usual to ask questions of an agha, only to answer them. To question was seen as impertinence—and was punishable.
Yet the Turk did not reach for the bastinado at his feet. “I go to hunt,” he said softly, “but not birds.”
Again Ion shifted, aching even more to be gone, away from the warning in the tone. All knew Hamza was a rising power in the state. His falconer’s title was real, for all men had a trade, against the day of disaster—even the Sultan himself, for Murad worked metal into horseshoes, bow-rings, arrow-heads. Yet all knew also that if Hamza was about the Sultan’s business it was work of intrigue and danger. For Vlad to be even thinking about it…
Yet his countryman did not blink. “Though perhaps you may get the chance to fly? And if you do…” He reached inside his lawn shirt, down to the line where it met the baggy red shalvari that swathed his legs, and pulled out a bundle wrapped in blue cloth. He held it out.
Hamza reached forward, took the bundle. The cerise silk ribbon gave with a slight tug and he unrolled the cloth. For a moment he studied what he held…then he slipped on the gauntlet.
“I could only guess at the measurements,” Vlad said. “I hope it…”
Hamza raised his hand, flexed his fingers. “You have a good eye, my young man. It fits…like a glove!” He smiled, made a fist, and lifted it into a sunbeam so he could study the polished leather of its top, the skin that must resist the grip of talon, thick and double-stitched. But beneath, on the softer leather that ran up the inside of the wrist…“What’s this?” he asked, peering.
Ion saw golden thread woven in patterns. His Persian was better than his Arabic and he recognized it as such; then knew the words when Hamza recited them aloud. “‘I am trapped. Held in this cage of flesh. And yet I claim to be a hawk flying free.’” The teacher looked up. “Jalaluddin. Rumi. My favorite among the poets.”
“And mine.”
The Turk read the inscription to himself again silently. “You have made free with the last line. Does not the poet say, merely, ‘bird?’”
Vlad’s only reply was a slight shrug.
“Well.” Hamza raised the glove, turning it in the light. “Exquisite work anyway. Now I know what trade you follow,
Vlad Dracula, against the day of disaster.” He took the gauntlet off carefully, then looked up and smiled. “I thank you for it. From now on, when I hunt I will wear it. And when I do, I will remember you.”
“It is all I could desire, effendi.”
Bowing slightly, Vlad turned and made for the partition door, a relieved Ion following. They were nearly through it when Hamza’s soft voice halted them. “And do you consider yourself caged, my young man? Because your body is hostage to the Sultan?”
Vlad did not turn. “You know what else is written, effendi,” he said softly. “‘I do not keep hawks. They live with me.’” He smiled, although only Ion saw it. “And I live with you,” he added, stepping through the door, “for now.”
Then he was striding down the corridor.
Ion followed, his shoulders hunched against the order to return, perhaps to the bastinado’s touch. It did not come.
– TWO –
Rivals
Vlad stood for a moment in the doorway, blinking against the light, accustoming his eyes. Thinking of Hamza. He would miss the man. For the wisdom of his teaching, nearly always delivered with words not blows. For their shared love of many things—Sufi poetry, Greek philosophy, falconry. They had flown together only once, when Hamza had taken his orta out of the kolej and into the hills. The sakers they’d borrowed from the Sultan’s mews tolerated the strangers on whose fists they sat, and three made kills of bustard, including Vlad’s. But Hamza had a shungar, a falcon as white as the snows from which it came. He flew it at fowl, at rabbit, and it killed again and again, yet always returned to the fist to nuzzle the hand for flesh. It was then Vlad had noticed his agha’s worn glove. That night, he’d begun his task while the others slept.
Mockery interrupted his memories. “‘And I live with you…for now!’” mimicked Ion in a whisper, as they marched toward the sunlight. “Do you seek to be a mystery to them?”
“I seek to keep my enemy guessing about me, yes.”
“Is Hamza your enemy?”
“Of course. He’s a Turk. But I like him anyway.”
Vlad stepped from the hall into the inner court. The noonday sun cast his shadow behind him, onto his other shadow. He could sense all the questions roiling inside Ion and he smiled, wondering which one would burst to the surface first. He glanced back, then up. Had his friend gotten taller overnight? They had both grown in their five years as hostage to the Turk but Ion’s growth had nearly all been upwards and only recently out. He still walked with the stumbling gait of a colt unused to his long limbs. Whereas he…he would never look down upon many men. Most men would have to step to the side to look past him but…he’d have liked some more height!
He stopped suddenly. Ion, trying to sort his questions, stumbled into him. “Heh,” he said, surprised, instantly wary, stepping back, looking at Vlad’s hands.
“Where are you, Ion?”
“Where?” Ion glanced around then realized what was meant. “The glove? When did you…why did you…?”
Vlad recommenced walking, both shadows following. “When did I make the glove? When you were in the tavern, drooling over Brown-Browed Aisha. Why?” He slowed. “I wonder that myself.”
“Tell me, Vlad,” Ion chuckled, “for you do nothing without a reason.”
“Do I not?” Vlad sighed. “Maybe you are right. Maybe I do think too much. Well then…” He blew out his lips. “I made it because I can, and because I delighted in the making. I gave it to Hamza because I like him.” He glanced up. “Is that reason enough?”
“No, Vlad. Because you like me. And you’ve never made me a glove, or anything else.”
“True.”
“So tell me.”
“Well then.” Vlad took a breath. “If you must know there are two reasons apart from the liking. One obvious to any but a simpleton. One less so.”
Ion ignored the jibe. “The obvious?”
“Hamza is a power in this land. He was Murad’s cupbearer, has kept rising through the court. Not bad for a cobbler’s son from Laz. This is a man to know. To respect and to earn his respect. We may have to deal with him one day.”
“We?”
“The Draculesti. My father, my brothers, and me. The Princes of Wallachia.”
“Hmm! And the other reason?”
“Does he not remind you of the Dragon?”
Ion stopped, open-mouthed. “Your father? Hah!” He grinned. “Vlad Dracul is squat, like you…”
“Squat? Have a care!”
“Devil-dark, green-eyed, brown-skinned, excessively hairy, like you…”
“Are these men you describe or monkeys?”
“While Hamza”—Ion circled a wrist before his face—“is tall, slim, fair and nearly as handsome as me.” He ran his hand through his long, golden hair, shook it. “He and I are from a race of angels, while the Draculesti…”
He shouldn’t have looked away while insulting his friend. Vlad took an arm, put hip to hip, and had him on his back in the dust in a moment. His face was a hand’s breadth from Ion’s. “What you say of my father is true. But it’s the interior I refer to. They each love life, every facet of it. And yet each would give up all of it—every pleasure, every vice—for what they believe to be right.”
A stone dug into Ion’s back. Where Vlad pinned his arm, it hurt. Provoked, he spat, “I thought you hated your father?”
Vlad’s face changed. Mockery died. He stood, pulling Ion to his feet. “Hate? Why do you say that?”
Ion brushed the dust from his shalvari. “Because he gave you, and your brother, to the Turks as hostages. Sent you away from all you loved—home, mother, sisters…”
Vlad wiped the dust from his hands. “I hated that he did it. The way he did it.”
“He had no choice.”
“No,” Vlad said softly. “When you are lashed to a cart wheel, kissing the Sultan’s arse, you don’t have much control over what you do.”
Ion instantly regretted raising that memory of five years before. The Sultan’s invitation to confer at Gallipoli. The Dragon taking his two youngest sons on the embassy. But it wasn’t an embassy. It was the bringing to heel of a vassal who had played too many games on the side of the Turk’s greatest enemy: Hunyadi, the Hungarian “White Knight.” Dracul, fettered and powerless, did what was required. Swore to pay his annual tribute in gold and in promising boys for the enderun kolej. Swore to support only the Sultan in war. Eventually he was unchained, returned to his country. But he had to leave his sons behind as hostages to his word.
Vlad had begun walking again. Ion caught up. “I am sorry…”
“No. It is nothing,” Vlad replied. “If I hated what he did, that is past now. I understand why he did it. He did what he had to do so he could remain free and do what was right. As we all must.” He looked back. “Hamza agha has taught me that. A glove, my labor upon it, is a small price to pay for such knowledge.”
They had reached the limits of the gardens of the inner court. Stepping through the doorway into the outer court, the sudden increase in sound halted them. Hundreds of youths from all the ortas mingled there, raising voices and dust. Standing close to the entrance were the other students of their own orta. As one, Vlad and Ion tried to move the other way. Too late.
“Vladia! Oh, Vladia!” More kissing sounds came. “Your nose, how brown it is! How far up the agha’s shitter did you shove it this time?”
Vlad stopped, so Ion had to. After years in the same orta, all the hostages knew the others’ sensitivities. Vlad’s nose was one. His relationship with Hamza was another. The Serbian, Gheorghes Mardic, had hit with both. With a sigh, Ion followed Vlad to the group, each member bearing the same mocking smile on their faces, the same excitement in their eyes. This confrontation had been building for a week, since the day at the wrestling turf when Vlad had thrown both Mardics and then everyone else, one after the other. Separately, they could not defeat him. Together…
Vlad halted a few paces away, hands at his side. “You hav
e something to say to me, Mardic Maximus?”
The larger of the Serbian brothers—and they were both hefty—nodded. “You heard me, Vlad…Nares!” Laughter came at the title. “But I am happy to repeat myself. That huge thing you call your nose is covered in shit. Turkish shit.” He peered exaggeratedly. “And now you are closer I can see…brown eyebrows! Brown in your hair!” He nodded. “Did you get your whole head up the agha’s arse?”
Ion took a step to the side, so he could watch Vlad more clearly. When he smiled, Ion readied himself. It was a signal, of sorts.
The others must have thought so too for they suddenly bunched together, like a spear blade—the Serbians at the front, Petre the Transylvanian to their right, the Croatian Zoran to their left, the smaller Bosnian Constantin just behind.
“Five to two,” breathed Vlad, still smiling. “Wallachian odds.”
“Five to three, brother.”
The shrill voice came from the midst of another orta.
“Radu,” Vlad said without looking, “stay back. Leave this to us.”
“And miss the fun?” A boy stepped up beside his brother, providing an immediate contrast. For Radu was fairer than Vlad, his hair as long but dark brown not midnight black, and shot through with reds; his eyes were blue as well as the Dragon’s green; while his nose was small and in proportion to a face whose skin was unblemished and rose-hued. “Besides,” he said, settling, imitating his brother’s stance, arms to the side, one leg slightly forward, weight spread, “I learned a new move yesterday—‘How to Break a Bosnian’s Back.’” He looked at Constantin. “I cannot wait to try it.”
Vlad shifted slightly. They had fought as a three before and it always came at a cost. Radu was just eleven, his body still more child than youth. And his beauty made others both desirous and envious. In a fight they would try to mar it. Vlad and Ion, defending him, often left themselves vulnerable. Yet he was also proud to have his brother there, the Draculesti united.
“Then, brother, let us see what you have learned.”
Vlad waited. The Mardic brothers shuffled their feet. It was clear they had no plan, hadn’t thought they’d need one.
Vlad: The Last Confession Page 4