The Mark of Cain

by A D Seeley

  Again, Cain laughed, the husky foreman beside him flinching with every trill. But Cain couldn’t help it. God had so obviously forsaken this sorry lot. And, if He had done so, then Cain really wouldn’t be held accountable for the atrocities he committed against them.

  Wanting to test his hypothesis, he said to the foreman, a lurid grin on his face, “Gather the slaves together. I have a gift for them.”

  When they were gathered together before him—their chins which had begun defiant now drawn to their chests, their eyes that had once held anger now muted and lifeless—he announced, “It has come to my attention that the reason you are not making ample progress on my castle is because you are too weak to work as hard as I need you to. That is why I have prepared for you a nice meal full of meat and wine, as well as the Lord’s communion.”

  Numerous pairs of eyes glanced up at him, hope in their eyes that spoke of the thoughts going through their heads that things were going to get better; that his torture of them was over. Even more eyes looked up when he clapped, telling Seneslav to bring forth the banquet he’d had prepared for them while the foreman had rounded them up from the vast acres they were working on.

  Oversized platters made of expensive silver were brought out, large chunks of meat resting on them in thick juices. Each slave’s eyes opened wide, their mouths watering akin to the sky as they licked their starved lips.

  “Come. Eat,” he commanded with a friendly smile. He then sat at a table, an open tent set up above to keep the rain off his own thick stew and heavy bread.

  The moment his men set the platters on the thick wild grass, dark green from the torrential rain, the slaves ran forward. They didn’t even seem to notice that the platters had been theirs, looted to add to his treasury when the worthless beasts had become his property.

  With a cruel leer, he dipped his bread in his wine and set it into his mouth. They weren’t even tasting the meat as they practically inhaled it. Such a shame. Many cultures would give anything to eat of the meat he had prepared for them. Many men would consider it an honor; a way to hone another man’s life force. But these filthy mongrels weren’t being respectful of the customs, instead snarling at each other like common dogs protecting their food.

  It was when they had calmed down, their stomachs full, that he stood before them.

  “Thank you for ridding myself of your husbands and wives, your daughters and sons, your mothers and fathers,” he said as he looked around the group, his smile widening with each person who seemed to understand what he was actually saying. One woman retched, spilling what could be her husband’s remains all over the ground.

  “Now that’s just disrespectful. Here I give you a marvelous feast and you disrespect me by throwing it in my face,” he said, his grin one that would frighten even Satan it was so full of nefarious glee. “I only gave you the freshest of your relatives. I didn’t want to make you ill. For ill slaves cannot work, now can they?”

  As his soldiers brought out golden chalices full of blood the color of the rubies emblazoned upon them, he added, “Perhaps you just need something to wash it down with. Or, should I say, wash them down with.”

  As the soldiers forced the liquid down the slaves’ throats, he stood and said the sacramental prayer in perfect Latin, blessing the food and drink as though they were Christ Himself. It was difficult to get out because every few words were punctuated by crazed laughter.

  Once done with that, he had the soldiers cut off the remaining rags until the people were all nude, announcing, “Peasants smell better than you lot. Your appearance is a personal offense. I will not have you clothed in such filth. You will learn what it means to be selfish. To sell yourselves as common harlots to the Turkish sultan. It is you and your struggles for power, along with thieves and robbers, who have caused Wallachia to become weak.”

  In an attempt to strengthen Wallachia, the following months were full of bloodshed. He began by ordering almost all trade between Wallachia and other countries to cease. The only items he allowed to be traded from outside of their country were the few that they couldn’t get from Wallachia itself. As he’d intended, this boosted the economy until it was actually stable.

  As he worked on the economy, he also worked on his forces, which had grown quite large, due mostly to the fact that he allowed peasants to be promoted by their hard work. It stood against everything he believed in since he despised the lower classes, but it was what was best for Wallachia. And what was best for Wallachia was best for him. He was willing to temporarily do something he didn’t agree with if it would give him more power in the end. Besides, they’d be useful to him in the now. There was no altruism in it.

  When his forces were no longer completely useless, he used them to make raids into other areas around Wallachia, mainly Transylvania, which was linked to the boyars. Also, during this time, he made plenty of examples out of anyone who committed any crime—even petty thieves and women performing sex outside of wedlock were punished with impalement. There was no trial for the accused. Instead, Cain would immediately put them to death.

  When the castle was finally finished, he took a wife: Nadia. She was beautiful. Dark. Mysterious and strong. The perfect wife for the man that he was. For the man who was the subject of so many rumors; some true, some outright lies. Though the rumors made him look worse than he was, he allowed them to circulate for, whether true or false, one thing they all had in common was that they sowed fear into the hearts of his enemies. And that was exactly what he had set out to do; to put the fear of him into all humans, as well as into God Himself.

  Usually, when presented with a situation, Cain would think about what would be the most condemnable and truly malicious response. What would prove to God that he was unredeemable? That was why, other than impalement, he had turned to many other gruesome forms of execution over the years. Methods such as boiling people alive, roasting babies over the fire, flaying a man’s skin until the victim would scream from the air hitting his sensitive muscles, the shrieks of agony getting quieter as he slowly went into shock and died, and cutting off the soles of a person’s feet then rubbing salt into the wounds and letting goats lick them clean. These were a few of these methods, though not the worst he did.

  These unspeakable horrors may have seemed to be going too far, but each act was part of a stratagem in his greater design. For maybe, if he became God’s own personal Anti-Christ—as many priests were beginning to call him despite the funds he gave them to build churches—then God would get off His “Holier-Than-Thou” pedestal and smite Cain off the face of the Earth.

  He didn’t understand why so many priests didn’t like him despite the torturous murders he committed. He had the pope’s blessing—not the one who had met him as a child because he had passed on, which was a good thing or everything would have been ruined. When it came down to it, the new pope loved Cain’s enthusiasm when it came to fighting the Ottomans. Sure, the head of the Catholic Church had much different reasons for financing the war—supposedly “holy” ones—but Cain wasn’t about to say no to gold. Besides, it was ironic that he was funding his mission to substantiate his satanic nature to God with money raised by “His” holy church. And if Cain loved anything on this God-forsaken planet, it was irony. Why else would he be fighting his own forces? Certainly not for any other reason.

  “Sire,” Seneslav said one day while Cain was busy standing over a map, perusing it to decide where to strike next.

  He had now gained the entirety of Wallachia for himself. The boyars who had been too powerful in the beginning were now either dead or slaves. Peasants who would forever remain loyal to Cain for him doing so had been given their titles. The few princes who could assassinate him and claim the throne for themselves had long been an integral part of the beautiful artwork he had created by organizing occupied stakes into geometric patterns in his fields, though he had left alone the real Vlad’s older brother, Vlad the Monk, since he’d determined the boy had no desire to rule himself. The boy was
too much like the real Vlad had been: kind, and weak. Plus, it would look odd to murder his own “brother.” The economy was strong, the crime rate non-existent. His people loved him. As a mostly Christian country, they believed he was the second coming of Christ Himself.

  “Sire,” Seneslav repeated.

  “What?” he asked, his eyes still on the map.

  “Emissaries have arrived. From the sultan,” he said in an important tone of voice that had Cain picturing him standing tall, his chest out.

  Cain looked up, a victorious grin across his visage. If the sultan had sent emissaries to speak to him—most likely under the guise of coming to collect the tribute due to him of ten thousand gold coins and five hundred boys—then it could only be because Cain’s actions were finally scaring him.

  Outside the windows were thick rainclouds, as though God was warning Cain not to feel too gleeful about the plots skipping around his mind like young princesses in ringlets. But Cain couldn’t help it. Finally, all his hard work was paying off. Finally, the sultan was threatened enough by “Vlad” to recognize the tyrant as a man on equal ground. And Cain would now prove that the sultan was incorrect in his thinking. Somehow, Cain would find a way to use the emissaries as a message to tell the sultan that he was out of his league with Cain. That Cain was much, much better than he could ever hope to be.

  “Well don’t be unkind. Show them in,” he said, putting unimportant papers over his map and walking to his throne.

  “Yes, sire.”

  With a knowing grin of his own, the man went to the large, oversized doors, telling a servant to bring the emissaries in.

  Within moments the two Turks sauntered in dressed in the typical garb. They had large white turbans wrapped around their heads, and both wore neutral clothes covered in elegant burgundy caftans with gold embroidery. The caftans swallowed their small frames, making them appear lost in all the thick fabric. As it was, they were already several inches shorter and almost a hundred pounds lighter than he was, and not even the amount of layers they wore as an attempt to appear larger—and, in turn, wealthier, since only poor men were thin—could help.

  They both had skin the color of tea with milk; similar to Cain’s skin, yet with a different undertone than he had. However, even with the rich color to their skin, one was lighter than the other by several shades. Their dark beards were full, sweat glistening in the strands as they moved. Or, perhaps, not sweat. Another Wallachian storm was brewing outside. Perhaps God’s tears had washed away their sins before Cain could murder them, as he inevitably planned to do. He only needed an excuse.

  As they walked forward, their footsteps soft and yet resounding through the great throne room, they looked at each other, confusion written all over their faces.

  “What can I do for you?” Cain asked in perfect Turkish.

  “We come with a message for the prince,” the darker one answered.

  “You’re speaking with him,” he said as pleasantly as possible.

  The darker one shook his head. “The sultan showed us a painting of the prince. You are not him.”

  “Yes, I am a much handsomer man,” he said with a grin.

  The man smiled, though it didn’t reach his fear-filled eyes. “So may we speak with the prince?”

  All charm gone along with his patience, Cain said, “I am the prince. I had a different man painted in my stead. Too many people wish me dead.”

  His face pinched as though he was getting angry himself, the emissary told Cain, “The painting we saw is how the sultan remembers the prince from his many years in captivity. That is why I am sure you are not the prince.”

  Cain glanced toward Seneslav, who was standing to his left, a fine tremor coursing through him under the thick leather armor he wore under chainmail in battle, faded blood stains marring its russet color. Like a hunting hound on a leash, he was anxious for the order to kill these men. And, though he only spoke Church Slavonic and had no idea what the conversation between Cain and the emissaries consisted of, he could read Cain’s tone and rigid posture. He knew his master was upset.

  The only other people present were the two soldiers stationed at the door, and he could tell by their faces that they had no clue of what Cain was being told either. It made it safe for Cain to say whatever he pleased.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, deciding to tell them the truth since he’d be killing them soon anyway. “You’re right. I am not the same Vlad who was a prisoner of your sultan. However, I am the prince now.”

  “I don’t understand,” the lighter one said, his voice surprisingly deep, like the roar of wind tearing through a cave.

  “When your sultan released the prince to be his proxy on the throne, I murdered him. He was weak; pathetic; not fit to rule. But I was, so I took his place.”

  The two men eyed each other, as though having a conversation about him with their eyes. It was as if they now had the answer to a question nobody had figured out. The unspoken question probably had to do with how the meek prince the sultan had known could have turned out to be so brilliant when it came to strategy, as well as so merciless.

  Hesitant, the light one spoke again. “So who do we have the pleasure of speaking to?”

  He leaned forward in his great throne made from the numerous alpines found in Wallachia, its elaborate decorations consisting of demons and skeletons. He had carved it himself when the boyars had finished the castle.

  “You would know me as Qābīl,” he said with a leer.

  Their dark eyes opened, the whites showing all around.

  “Yes,” he said, falling back into a comfortable position. “And now that you can accept that I am truly the prince, shall we move on? Please, remove your turbans and bow. Show me the respect I deserve.”

  “Sire, if you are truly Qābīl, then certainly you know our customs,” the dark one choked out, using the highest title one could be given. “We may not remove our turbans.”

  The light one looked pale as he divided his attention between his countryman and the demon on the throne.

  His fingers making a steeple, Cain relaxed even farther back so that his head rested on the throne where his back usually did, plots running through his mind as he pictured each one coming to fruition, deciding on which punishment would be the most fun. His heart pounding with excitement as though he was a wolf gaining on his prey, he made up his mind.

  “Seneslav,” he commanded, sitting back up to attention.

  The hound finally getting the go-ahead, Seneslav jumped forward to have instructions whispered into his ear. With a smile full of spaces and black teeth that did nothing to make his grin lose its luster, Seneslav walked past the two men. As though afraid he would attack them, they jumped out of his way.

  As he walked past them without paying them much attention, they relaxed, letting out deep breaths.

  “You’re right,” Cain said, pausing until he had their complete attention. “I do know your customs, for I was there when they first began.” He then gave a welcoming gesture and added, “Please, you are my guests. What message do you have for me?”

  Another collective breath from the two men.

  “The sultan wishes to make a treaty,” the light one said.

  Pretending to consider it, he said, “Hmm. What kind of treaty?”

  “You may keep the throne, uncontested, if you once again begin paying your tributes. He says that the pope’s gold, which is funding this war, will run out before the sultan’s. And the Hungarian regent, who is your ally, will soon tire as well and pull his troops. That will leave you and your small army against the full power of the Ottoman Empire.”

  “And I’m guessing that, other than my annual ‘gift,’ the sultan would wish me to turn against Hungary?”

  The dark one smiled. “You are very wise, o’ prince.”

  “Yes,” he said with a sneer.

  “He’s your enemy as well, sire,” the light one reminded him, his eyes shining like a merchant’s. It was obvious that he honestly believ
ed that Cain would side with them. “You only allied yourself with him for the resources to take power. You now have power, but you need us to keep it.”

  “Well, the enemy of your enemy is your friend,” he replied, their smiles wavering momentarily, as though they couldn’t tell if that was a yes or a no.

  A clap of thunder rattled the high windows a moment before all hell broke loose outside, heavy sleet bashing into the glass like winged demons fighting tooth and nail to get in. The fires in the numerous great stone hearths warming the chamber all began thrashing wildly, as though heretics had been thrown into them to dance and wail from excruciating torture. The emissaries both shivered, and he doubted that it was from the chill creeping over the room.

  As though the chill had been a carpet rolled out to welcome him back, the doors opened and Seneslav and a slew of soldiers marched in. They immediately grabbed hold of the two men.

  “Why are you doing this?” the light one cried as they forced him to kneel.

  Cain got up and walked toward them, saying, “I just wanted to help strengthen your customs.” He then took a large metal spike and hammer from Seneslav. “Also, I believe it will send a strong message to your sultan. I will not be his proxy.”

  With that, he lifted the first spike to the lighter one’s skull and, with all his strength, he brought the hammer down. The spike slid into his skull and gushing brains with a delightfully wet crunch, redness seeping into the fabric and marring the pureness of it. It was as if Cain had smitten God Himself.

  He turned to the darker one, whose tears were thicker than the rain outside.

  “Allah doesn’t care,” Cain told him. “Otherwise, you would never have been born.” He then brought the hammer up again as the messenger howled so loudly that it drowned out the storm.

  Once finished, Cain licked the succulent coppery liquid from his lips, wiping his blood-soaked hands and face on a corner of the lighter emissary’s caftan, doing his best to remove the bits of brain and skull that clung to him like he clung to hate. It hadn’t been too messy at first since all the large bits of anything had stayed in the turbans, but he’d made the mistake of pulling a spike loose. He’d thought it would just bleed a bit, but it was like an explosion outwards, the pressure was so great. Quickly, to stop any messes, he’d put it back, but the damage had been done. And now he was a bloody mess.