The eight youths looked at each other. Then each became aware of the noise that had been building for a while, the vibration under their feet. Closer it came, closer. The two groups simultaneously moved two paces back, beyond the range of sudden attack. Then they all turned to look.
Before them were the equestrian grounds and sweeping across them was a cloud of dust, shapes moving within it, cries emerging from it. All wanted to move from its path, this whirling cone that only thickened as the horses that caused it were brought up onto their hind legs in a sudden halting. Dust filled with debris smashed into them, blinding, stinging, bringing tears and choking. Then it began to settle, and those who rode the whirlwind became clear.
Horsemen, of course. One, in particular, kept his superb white Arab’s front hooves flailing long after the others had dropped.
“Mehmet,” Vlad breathed, choking on the name, on the dust.
– THREE –
The Challenge
Vlad stared at the Turkish prince, who finally let his grip slacken and allowed his mount’s hooves to fall. He had not seen him for over a year, but he hadn’t changed much—at least in his looks. His beard was a little redder, thicker, better trimmed. His nose was still a parrot’s beak, thrust out over full lips. There was a definite change in his bearing, though. He had never been a modest youth. But two years before, his father, Murad, had inexplicably abdicated, making his son sultan in his place. Mehmet had been bred to power from the crib, but he was still just a fourteen-year-old ruling one of the most powerful empires in the world. He had ignored his advisers, alienated his most loyal troops, the janissaries, encouraged wild mystics from the mountains, waged foolish wars. The Divan, the Sultan’s council, had begged Murad to return, and Murad had agreed. Mehmet was a mere prince again, heir to the throne he’d occupied for two years. Humiliated by being forced to bend again to tutors, to obey rather than command. And Vlad could see how that sat in the boy-man’s face: not well.
“Dracula,” he exclaimed, returning the stare. “Two Dracula. Two sons of the Devil…and their little gang of imps.” He glanced around at the others, dismissing them, his gaze returning to Vlad. “I am glad your father still behaves like a sheep, so his lambs can live.”
“And your father rules again, Mehmet,” replied Vlad evenly, “to universal rejoicing.”
The prince’s redness deepened. He brought his horse a step closer, forcing the group to give ground. “I will be sultan again,” he hissed, “while you will still be a hostage. My hostage! And I will make you suck the dirt from my feet.”
“You’ll find it hard to walk then, missing a toe.”
Ion tensed, waiting for the explosion. But after a moment, Mehmet just smiled. “Little Dragon,” he said. “Always so bold. Easy to be when you hide behind your status as a hostage. You know I cannot touch you…for now.”
“I know you never will, Little Prince.”
“No?” Mehmet’s smile widened. “Not even with this?” Reaching over his shoulders, he pulled something from a sheath on his back. All knew it, the javelin about the length of the youth’s arm. “But you could never touch me with a jereed, could you?” He looked around. “None of you Balkan scum have the horse or weapon skill required to get even…one hit in eight?”
Ion could hear the guile in the question. Vlad must have, too. Yet still he spoke. “One in eight, eh? Those are good odds.”
“No, Vlad…”
A raised hand halted Ion’s words. “We eight against you and yours?” Vlad said softly. “I believe we could do that.”
The hiss from the hostages was drowned by the roar from the mounted Turks. Topping it, Mehmet cried, “But what is jereed without a wager?”
“What do you offer?”
“Well.” Mehmet gazed up into the sky. “They tell me you are friends with Hamza agha. That you share his love of the hawk. If you managed to score one hit, I will give you my beauty, my beloved Sayehzade.”
All gasped, mounted and standing. You could buy a house in Edirne for the price of such a bird. Even Vlad was stunned. “I…I have little to offer to compare…”
“Exactly!” crowed Mehmet. “You have a little…brother. Radu the Pretty. Wager him against my Sayehzade.”
Radu spat. “I am not a wager. And I would never…”
Vlad’s arm went around Radu’s shoulder. “My brother is not mine to give,” he said. “What else of my little would you take?”
“Well…” Mehmet’s gaze moved rather obviously from Radu’s groin to his brother’s. “You have a little piece of skin there that is yours. Such a little thing that stands between you and Allah, the Most Merciful. It is said that you read the Qur’an as well as I. So why not take the extra step? My father will arrange a great circumcision ceremony for you when you come to the true faith—once our jereed have found their eight targets.” He leaned down, smiling. “What do you say?”
Don’t, thought Ion, watching his friend, dreading the answer. Which came.
“My foreskin is mine to offer, Prince. And I do.”
Gasps again from the hostages, whoops again from the Turks.
“A deal,” yelled Mehmet, circling his horse in excitement. “If no jereed strikes us before you all are struck, I will order the leather table cloths to be made. I will sharpen the knife myself!” He wheeled back. “Fetch your mounts and join us upon the field.”
With that, whirling around, he led his men back the way they’d come, their features swiftly swallowed in dust.
“What have you done, Wallachian?” It was the elder Serbian, Gheorghes, who coughed out the words. “We cannot score one in twenty against them, let alone one in eight. He tricked you with poor odds! They have practiced since childhood while we—”
“We ride as well as them,” Vlad replied, his voice strong. “Throw as true. What we do not do is unite as them. Here, upon the jereed field. There, upon our plains, in our mountains.” Vlad gestured north, began to move that way, towards the horse lines, talking as he went. “We fight as Serb, Croat, Transylvanian, Wallachian—and Hungarian, Franks, Venetians. All the Christian lands. Separately they chop us up. But once in a while we come together. And when we do, we take Jerusalem. We just never remain together long enough to hold it.”
“Shall we start with your foreskin, Vlad, and conquer the Holy Land tomorrow?”
All laughed at Ion’s weary words. Even Vlad.
“So we fight for the Holy Foreskin, not the Holy Cross, is that it?” chortled the Croat.
“No,” said Vlad, serious again. “We fight because, however much we may hate each other, we have to hate them more. They are the enemy. Of our faith in Christ, however we see it, Orthodox or Catholic. And for our lands. Free, not under the yoke of Islam and the Turk.”
They had reached the horse lines. Grooms, who had seen them approach, were readying their mounts.
“But how will we beat them, united or not?” asked the Transylvanian, Petre.
“I have some ideas about that,” said Vlad. “Remember we need one score. Only one.”
Around him, his fellow hostages were mounting, each controlling their horses in their own way. All had strapped on spurs, jabbing in, pulling hard on the bits, mastering the beast. Vlad knew a horse could be bidden that way, with pain and cruelty. They would follow their rider’s commands. But they would not truly strive for what they did not love.
Unlike Kalafat. Every time he saw his horse there remained a trace of the wonder he’d felt at their first meeting. He’d been allowed to choose from Murad’s own stables—and been mocked for his choice, for she was a mare, not even quite grown, and of the Turcoman breed; thus far smaller and slighter than the male destriers, the huge war-horses, that other hostages chose. But it was not for her beauty that he picked her, though her coat was a dappled gray and her mane a thick white shock that gave her her name—Kalafat, the gaudiest of headdresses. He’d picked her because he recognized in her what he had sought in a horse from the moment he began riding—about a week
after he started to walk—spirit. He did not seek a dominance, but a partnership. When he climbed onto her, it was as if he merged with her, becoming Centaur, not man and horse. His hands were a whisper on her reins, his thighs a caress along her flanks. And he wore no spurs.
The others passed the racks of javelins, each leaning down to snatch one up, moving out onto the field. Vlad was about to follow, when Ion grabbed his sleeve, pulled him back. “Why are you doing this?”
Vlad stared into the distance, to where a cloud of dust showed the circling, prancing Turks. “Kismet.”
“What?”
“We spoke of it last week.”
“I remember you and Hamza talking of it. The conversation swiftly put the rest of the orta to sleep.” Ion grunted. “It’s destiny, is it not?”
“A form of it. Each of us is born with our kismet foretold. We cannot alter it. But we can prepare for it.” He pointed into the dust cloud. “Fighting Turks is the fate I was born to. And Mehmet, who is the same age as me, will lead them.”
“What has that to do with jereed?”
“I have to learn to beat him. It will always require great risk. More, some day, than a small piece of skin. I may as well begin now.”
Ion shook his head. “You are mad.”
Vlad smiled. “When did you first guess?”
He moved forward, bent low over Kalafat’s neck, snatched up a javelin. He threw it high into the air, watched its unwavering descent, raised his hand to catch…and dropped it.
Ion lifted his eyebrows. “Vlad!”
His prince smiled at him. “Just because I’m mad doesn’t mean I am not afraid.” He called out to his horse, a series of clicks in his throat. Immediately, Kalafat bent to the ground, picked the javelin up between her teeth, lifted her head. Leaning down, Vlad took it from her.
“To the field,” he said, to his horse and his friend.
– FOUR –
Jereed
They rode onto the equestrian grounds, a dusty, rough rectangle running from the walls of the kolej’s outer court to the first of Edirne’s houses. It was about a hundred and twenty paces long, half that wide. Heading back towards the kolej’s walls, they passed the red post that marked the small neutral zone, where no competitor could be struck.
The other hostages formed a semi-circle within it. Vlad rode into the middle of them. “Listen well,” he said urgently, gesturing to the far end of the field where Mehmet and his seven were gathered behind their own red post, in safety, “for I have a simple way to beat them.”
He dropped to the ground, thrust the butt end of the jereed into the dry dirt, drew the rough rectangle of the playing field, the small neutral zones slashed across their ends. “We all know the Turkish method. In jereed, as in war, they ride from their lands…” He jabbed the stick into the Turkish safety zone. “…And challenge us one at a time. And which Christian knight could refuse a challenge to single combat? So one accepts, chases the challenger, throws, usually misses…and another Turk rides out and spears him! But there is nothing in the rules to say we have to fight separately. What if we ride out as eight, call eight of them to the chase? Fight together for once? What if you, Mardics Maximus and Minor, lead us for the honor of Serbia and we others…”
“Hide behind us,” interrupted Gheorghes, “and let us take their jereed for you. Then we sit and watch you slide out to take a sneak throw and save your manhood!”
“No! Listen! Listen! This will work. A screen, yes, but armed and—”
“And you behind it,” jeered the Transylvanian. “Just as your father was when my uncle, Hunyadi, the White Knight of Christendom, needed him at Varna. Kept the Dragon standard folded, let others take all the risk, skulked—”
“Skulked?” yelled the younger Dracula, pushing his horse forward. “My father? I’ll pay you for that—”
“Listen!” shouted Vlad, to no avail. And it was too late anyway. His voice could not quell the tumult. But the sound of a hunting horn did.
They all looked. Two riders sat forty paces away. The one lowering the bugle from his lips was Abdullah-i-Raschid. He was Mehmet’s current favorite, a Greek-born slave. Ringlets dropped in well-ordered ranks down either side of his olive-colored face. “Petty princes! Low hostages! Scum!” He bowed mockingly, his voice as oiled as his hair. “Are there two men among you? Would any dare to challenge Mehmet’s warriors?”
“Wait,” warned Vlad. “Let us choose—”
“Choose for yourself!” The elder Mardic jabbed in his spurs, jerked his reins, his mount letting out a shrill neigh as it came up onto its rear hooves. As they dropped he cried, “For Serbia and St. Sava!” and kicked hard. His brother did the same. Both spurred onto the field.
The Turks were not surprised. They were ready. With a flick of reins they had turned, within three strides they were at a gallop. The Serbians’ charge had brought them close enough for a throw and the younger Mardic leaned back, jerked forward, his jereed flying hopelessly wide. He tugged his mount’s head around but one Turk turned far quicker, paralleling the desperate Serb’s sweep as he tried to get back past the red post. Not swift enough, his frantic bobbing was no distraction. The javelin took him in the side, three paces before safety.
A cry came from the far end, and from the many spectators who crowded the raised walkway above the horse lines. A cry that doubled in triumph as the elder Mardic, pursuing the weaving Abdullah, threw just as the Greek crossed into safety, missed anyway, and was immediately hit by another Turk riding out. Head drooping, he joined his brother and trotted over to the stables, trying to ignore the jeers of those who watched.
“Now,” cried Vlad, “will you listen? There are still six of us, we—”
“Too late,” said Ion, pointing.
All looked. Two other Turks had joined the one who’d thrown, galloping beside him as he leaned out of his saddle and down his horse’s side, snatching up his jereed, shaking it aloft in triumph, to more acclamation. He passed twenty paces before the hostages’ safe zone and blew his lips out in the unmistakable sound of derision.
“I’ll finish him!” cried the Croatian, Zoran.
“Mine!” yelled the Bosnian.
“No. Mine!” shouted the Transylvanian.
“Wait,” shouted Vlad.
Too late. As all three charged forward, their opponents split, two left, one right, but not at full gallop, slow enough to give hope and a target. Three jereed flew; three missed. The Christians tried to divert their horses away from the Turkish safety line, gallop back toward their own. But Mehmet, Abdullah and another rode out, not so fast, steady, the short range not requiring the extra velocity a charging horse would give them.
At least one javelin missed…by a hair. For a moment it seemed that Little Zoran would escape. But the Turk’s horses were swifter and better handled. One cut ahead of him, making his mount shy away; he had thrown the one jereed allowed, could not strike. Neither could the other, slipping to Zoran’s other side, enclosing him. But they drove him towards a man who could—Mehmet, who’d snatched up the jereed he’d missed with and held his horse unmoving in the center of the field.
There was nothing Vlad and the others could do. They could only watch as the two straddling horsemen delivered the Croatian to their prince, like hounds driving quarry to the hunter’s bow. Mehmet let him come closer, closer, then suddenly he leaned back and hurled his weapon forward. It smashed into the boy’s face. From his shriek of agony, just before he tumbled from his mount, all knew that he was badly hurt. When he reached the ground he did not move. Mehmet’s arm raised in triumph as he rode back to his line.
Slaves ran out. The game always paused for injury, so Vlad and the others urged their horses forward, reaching the fallen before the running men. In a moment Vlad had dismounted, in another he had the boy turned and his head in his lap.
“Christ save me,” he murmured, crossing himself. The face was wrecked, the nose smashed sideways across the cheek, one eye already blackening, swollen
shut. The boy was choking and Vlad sat him up, struck him square in his back. Blood and bone shot onto the dust.
“Jesu,” said Ion, dismounting, kneeling.
On his horse, Radu turned away. “How…?”
As men ran up, as several reached to lift the unconscious boy, Vlad walked a few paces, then bent down. “This is how,” he said, picking up Mehmet’s jereed. The leather, padded cap that would have prevented the worst of the damage was dangling to the side, exposing the turned poplar tip. “He’s gouged out the rivets,” he said, “He’ll deny it, of course, but—”
“The dog!” said Ion, rising, fury shaking him. “I’ll—”
“Wait!” said Vlad, remounting. “We’ll do this. But we’ll do it right.” He looked at each of them in turn. “Will Wallachians heed me at least?”
Both youths nodded. As Zoran was carried away, they rode for their own line. Glancing back, Vlad could see Mehmet, dismounted, surrounded by his seven companions. They were passing a skin bottle amongst them, already celebrating their certain victory with fermented asses’ milk. For a moment, Vlad felt a distinct tightening in his groin. Then, mastering himself, he turned to the others. “Listen carefully. We will have to do with three what I had planned for eight.”
“But brother,” Radu muttered, his voice still tearful, looking nervously to the other end of the field, “none of them has been hit. They can ride all eight against us. We won’t stand a chance.”
“Know your enemy, Radu. Mehmet will not miss a chance to show off to his people…”—he gestured to the spectators—“those he was ruling two months ago, and will no doubt, rule again. He’ll want to prove he is invincible. And he’ll want to beat me, man against man. If he could wield the knife himself, and remove what separates me from Allah, he would do so.” Vlad winced. “His weakness is his pride. If three of us ride out to challenge them, only three will take the challenge. He will be one. So this is what we must do.”
Vlad: The Last Confession Page 5