Vlad

by Humphreys, C. C.

  “Then perhaps I stray from the Orthodox in this point. Because I know what I am destined to do and how I must do it. I cannot do other.”

  The priest licked dry lips. Both men could see an argument on doctrine before them. And there were many rumors about Vlad and who he worshipped. The Devil was not only in his name, some said. Others whispered that his mother had been of the hated Roman faith and so he only pretended to be a good son of the Greek Church that was the faith of his land. While still others whispered of an even greater heresy—that he had been forced to come to Allah before the Turks gave him an army.

  But doctrine was not why they were there. And the Voivode was now kneeling in a Greek church. “What is your kismet then?”

  “To serve God.”

  The priest frowned. “But that is everyone’s. Every farmer believes the same, or should.”

  “True. But being born Dracula, my destiny is different from every farmer’s. I cannot just praise Him in words and till my fields. I must be God’s bright and shining sword. And to do that I must first hone my own.”

  “How?”

  “In three steps.” Vlad came up onto his feet, then squatted down in the manner of the Turk. “First I must return justice to our land. And I must begin with those who threaten me most—the boyars.”

  “Was justice what Albu cel Mare received last night?”

  “Of course. He admitted the murder of my father and brother. He deserved to die.”

  “That way?” The priest shuddered. “You choose it to humiliate, to take a man as a man takes a woman, to prolong suffering…”

  “No. Yes! But that is merely one of its purposes.”

  “What are the others?”

  Vlad leaned forward. “I was taught a phrase once, by people who knew their business: ‘You torture others so they cannot torture you.’”

  “So you dispose of an enemy horribly, before he disposes of you in the same way?”

  Vlad nodded. “Yes. And at the same time you offer people a simple choice: obey God’s Anointed or be punished. Moreover, punished in such a way that you are given a glimpse of the torments that await you for all eternity if you sin.”

  “But did our Savior not speak of love as the only sure footing on the road to salvation?”

  Vlad closed his eyes. Had to reach a hand down to the carpet to steady himself—for the last word had brought with it a vision of one who had spoken it—the only word he had spoken, with Vlad the only one to understand him, in the courtyard of Tokat, just before the stake was inserted. Vlad swallowed, opened his eyes again. “He did. But I cannot control men’s love, only their fear. Love changes. Fear is as constant as a star.”

  “So you would have your people live in fear?”

  “I would have them live in certainty. To know their place in God’s kingdom. To obey, without question, the laws I make in His name.” Vlad nodded. “And to know that if they fail to obey, they will be punished in a way that will make others pause before they sin, or not sin at all.”

  “For what crimes will you apply this punishment?”

  “All.”

  “All? What if someone steals a cow?”

  “He is impaled. You chop off his hand, you have a former thief who is now a beggar that can’t work. But for his time upon the stake, he is an example.”

  “Rapine?”

  “Impaled. Taken as you took.”

  “Coining? Conning? Riot?”

  “Impaled. Impaled. Impaled.”

  The priest came off his knees, sat and sighed. The confession had been lost somewhere. “You mean to do this?”

  “I will do it. Wallachia was once the crossroads of the world. Now the world considers us all to be brigands and takes their wealth elsewhere, impoverishing us, limiting my power to rule—for what power does a bankrupt prince possess? But see that gold chalice upon your altar? Within five years I will place one far richer, studded with jewels, upon the town well of Targoviste for the use of all…and no one will steal it.”

  “That will not happen.”

  “I vow to you, here, before Christ, that it will.”

  For a moment the priest just stared, seeking bravado, or a fanatic’s gleam, in the green eyes before him. But he only saw certainty. “And yet,” he continued, “if you have your order here, there are things—people—you cannot control. Like those beyond your borders who want you to fail. How do you deal with them?”

  “Same rule. Same punishment. A thousand times the example.”

  “You mean…”

  “I mean to confront the Saxons who control Transylvania from their walled cities there—Brasov, Sibiu and the others. If they continue to choke off our trade—impaling, by the way, any Wallachian merchant they find trading in their domain…” Vlad nodded. “Oh yes, priest. Impalement is a German punishment, part of the Law of Iglau, and applied there long before I brought it to Wallachia. The Turks learned it from our fellow Christians.”

  “Whoever practices it, it is still an abomination.”

  “True. And if the Saxons of Transylvania continue to give refuge to every rival to my throne and plot to thwart the fulfillment of my destiny, I will descend upon them like Hannibal upon Rome and ravage them with sword, fire and a thousand blunted stakes.”

  Silence again. Each man stared at the other until the priest found some moisture to speak. “And then? You have pacified your land. Restored order and law—by whatever means. Quelled the Saxons who strangle its trade. Made Wallachia wealthy again. Have you fulfilled your destiny?”

  “No,” Vlad replied, light in his eyes, “I have barely begun. The sword is honed but still sheathed. God’s sword and the Dragon’s Talon, one and the same blade. For when I finally draw it, I will make such a stroke that any sin I have committed will be cut away, leaving only redemption.” He raised a hand, forestalling the question. “I know! If my kismet is unalterable, how can my actions alter it? It is a contradiction. But then,” he said with a smile, “so am I.”

  “But the sweeping away of all sins…there is only one way for a knight to gain such total forgiveness.”

  “Yes, there is.”

  They said it together: “Crusade.”

  Vlad nodded. “Holy War. I will place Christ’s cross again on the altar of Santa Sophia in Constantinople.”

  The priest gasped. He had looked for bravado, fanaticism in the green eyes. How had he missed insanity? “It is impossible.”

  “Is it? They said Constantinople would never fall, yet Mehmet took it.”

  “But tiny Wallachia against…” He broke off. “It is said the Turk can field armies the size of our entire population.”

  “Not quite. But though you might fear it, I am not mad. Wallachia will be the tip of the spear, as ever. But all Christendom will be the shaft and the thrust.”

  “And this is your destiny?”

  “Yes.” Vlad stared at a point above the priest. “I have known it from my days as a hostage. Since I received the…blessings of their education.” Darkness didn’t quite extinguish the light in the eyes. “And I know Mehmet, the man they now call ‘Fatih’—‘the Conqueror.’ He is vain beyond imagining. Because of that, he can be beaten, as Hunyadi beat him last year at Belgrade.” The darkness deepened. “He has my brother still. But, with God’s good grace, one day I will have him a sword-length away. And then…” He broke off.

  “Then?”

  “I will die, happy in the moment of fate fulfilled. Die a crusader, with all my sins wiped clean. Die in the arms of God.”

  Silence again. Both men staring now, beyond walls and words. Then the priest leaned forward. “You came here to confess. And the purpose of that, in our faith, the one true faith, is so that you can go forward, with all your sins remitted. To cleanse you for your…purposes.” He shuddered slightly. “Perhaps when you have felt God’s grace, when you have been shriven, done penance, tasted again of the body and blood of our Savior, you will think differently about your…methods.”

  Vlad looked u
p, beyond the priest to the crucifix upon the altar, to the suffering Christ. Finally he spoke one word: “Perhaps.”

  “Remember Luke: ‘No one who puts his hand to the plough and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.’” The priest swallowed. “So let me hear of the sins you have committed. So we can look forward.”

  Vlad shook his head, a slight smile coming. “Where to begin…”

  Noise from outside, footsteps approaching the church’s door. Vlad turned towards the sound. “I am summoned.” He came again onto his knees. “But come with me, priest. You may sit in judgement on me over a flagon of wine.”

  “It is not I who sit in judgement, Vlad Dracula,” the priest said severely as he rose, “but God.”

  “True,” said Vlad, still smiling. “But I cannot drink with Him.”

  “Blasphemy, Prince?”

  “Yes.” The smile grew. “Forgive me, father, for I have sinned against heaven and before you.”

  The church door opened. Ion stood there, blinking into the gloom. At last he noticed the figure, kneeling at the altar door. “Voivode,” he said, coming forward, “it is time.”

  Vlad looked up. “I am coming, Ion. And my confessor will come, too.”

  “Confessor?”

  Vlad turned back. The deeper gloom beyond the altar screen was deserted.

  “Never mind,” said Vlad, rising. “He will be there when I need him.”

  – PART THREE –

  Crusade

  First Moloch, horrid king, besmeared with blood

  Of human sacrifice, and parents’ tears.

  —JOHN MILTON, PARADISE LOST

  – TWENTY-EIGHT –

  The Goblet

  Targoviste, December 1461, four years later

  They had walked for hours through the alleys and thoroughfares of Targoviste, leaving the city by its eastern gate, crossing the small bridge over the River Lalomita, stopping to warm themselves for a while at the caravanserai set up there for travelers and merchants who had not been able, or chosen not, to make the city before its gates were barred for the night. The innkeeper had barely noted them, beyond the richness of the clothes beneath their cloaks; and that was just business, to serve them better wine, charge them a higher price. They were not unusual, for his inn had a good reputation and many wealthy merchants stayed there. It was near full tonight, even on this chill December evening. The blessings of peace, the prosperity it brought, had made him as wealthy as many of those he served. Remembering to thank both Christ and Saint Nicolae, patron of pawnbrokers—for it was the profits from that trade he’d pursued, in the bad days before Prince Dracula, that had allowed him to invest in the tavern—the innkeeper pocketed the gold coin they left and blessed both.

  If he’d known that the two men had been discussing the best way to end that peace, he might have prayed more fervently to the Virgin.

  Vlad and Ion crossed back into the town, the gates opened for them as they would be for no one else. As they crossed the square before the cathedral, the Bisierica Domnesca, the door of one of the taverns burst open, smashing against the building’s wall. Shouts and drunken shooshing followed, then the sound of staggering. Vlad pulled Ion into the shadows of the great well.

  “The boyars, Prince,” Ion cautioned.

  “They have waited this long for us. A little longer will only make them even more…amenable. Besides, I like to hear what is said.”

  Squatting, Turkish-style, thigh to calf, backs to stone, the two men listened.

  The first voice came to them thickened with wine and by the guttural timbre typical of his land; a Bulgar, beyond doubt. “Horse dung,” the man exclaimed. “It’s just another of the many lies told of him.”

  “Truth, master.” A second man spoke, not as drunk, a higher-pitched voice and in the accent of the town. “One year since it was placed there, and there it remains.”

  “Horse dung,” the first man repeated, spat. “Where?”

  “There.”

  A moment’s silence, a fumbling. “Christ on a carthorse!” the Bulgar exclaimed.

  “Can you see it, master?”

  “Well enough, even by moonlight…” He whistled. “Solid gold, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what are these…pearls? Huh. But these others? I cannot tell what they are.”

  “There are rubies, sapphires, an emerald…”

  “An emperor’s goblet! And he leaves it here for peasants to use.” The man gasped. “Heavy, by the Mother. And not chained.”

  “Drink from it, master. The well water’s sweeter than any wine we’ve had tonight.”

  “I will.”

  The sound of slurping came to the listening men. Ion gestured for them to be gone. Vlad stayed him with a hand.

  The voice came again, softer, slightly less slurred. “I could buy a palace in Sofia for the price of this.” He grunted. “You say it has never been stolen?”

  “I said it has never been kept. It has been stolen twice. The first time, a day after the Voivode placed it here. A week later it was back on the well wall—with the thief and his entire family spitted on a dozen stakes beside it. The second time it was back in a day. His own father turned the thief in, so only one stake was required.”

  The voice dropped to a whisper. “But how would he know? I could be gone tomorrow, as soon as the gates open.”

  “Shake it, master.”

  “Eh?”

  “Shake it.”

  The man did. A faint chime came. “What’s that?”

  “There. In the stem. A silver bell in a golden cage. It is said our Voivode can hear it every time it is raised. That he could follow its sound wherever it went. And that he would bring a stake to wherever the bell led him.”

  The man shook it again, his voice awed. “Does he love impaling so much?”

  “Perhaps, master. But what is certain is that he hates crime. And so there is none in our land. All pass freely, safely. Trade and all its benefits have come again to Wallachia. It is even better than the time of his father, the Dragon. And it is why you are here, is it not?”

  The awe was still there. Gold shimmered as it was lifted into a shaft of moonlight. “Who made this?”

  “The Goldsmiths’ Guild of Brasov. It was part of the tribute the Saxon towns sent, when our Voivode forced them to a peace. They freed the Wallachian merchants they’d imprisoned and let them pass freely now. They paid a fortune for an army to guard the trade routes. And they sent this for his table.”

  “And he gave it to his people.” The man spat again. “What did the Saxons get in return?”

  The other man laughed. “He stopped impaling them by the thousand.”

  Again Ion signalled that they should go. Again, Vlad waved him down.

  The Bulgar spoke. “What if I just slipped it under my cloak? Left at dawn?”

  “You’d be looking down on it from a spike by noon.” The man laughed again. “Drink deep, my friend, of the emperor’s goblet. Then put it back for the peasants.”

  The waiting men heard the chink of metal on stone. “I want no more filthy water. Give me more wine!” His voice was angry now, as if somehow he’d been humiliated.

  “Of course, master,” said the man from Targoviste. “And perhaps over it we can discuss how I can further help you with the copper mines. The owners are notorious…”

  The voice trailed away. A door opened and the noise of the tavern spilled out once more, cut off by the door’s closing.

  Vlad and Ion rose, walked round the well. Ion lifted the cup, filled it, handed it across. “A loyal son of Wallachia. Or do you think he knew someone was listening?” he said.

  “Of course he knew.” Vlad drained the goblet, shook it. The faint chime came. “For I always am.” He set the vessel down upon the stone. “Now, Ion, to other sons of our land. Less loyal, perhaps.”

  Walking briskly, the two men crossed the square, and made for the Princely Court.

  —

  In the Great Hal
l, the fires had not been lit. The breaths of the boyars plumed the air. Despite their furs, their wool-lined boots, every member of the Sfatul Domnesc sat in their high-backed chairs and froze.

  “Perhaps I should have heated the chamber,” Vlad said, staring down through the mesh of the grille. “I cannot talk to lumps of ice.”

  “If they were warm,” Ion replied, “they might argue more. As it is, they will assent to what you say just to get before their own fires again.”

  Vlad leaned back so his friend could also look. “And who will argue most?”

  Ion squinted. “The three great jupans—Turcul, his brother Gales, and Dobrita—have most to lose if the war goes badly. They have the biggest estates.”

  “And so the most to gain if it goes well. The other senior men?”

  “Buriu, as Spatar, commands the cavalry—and what is a knight without a fight? Cazan, your chancellor, will worry about who will pay for it all…”

  “He will be relieved when I tell him of my plans for plunder. The rest?”

  “They are all your men, sworn.”

  “And him?” Vlad pointed.

  “The Metropolitan?” Ion sighed. “You promise him what a churchman should most want—Holy War. Yet he has larger estates even than Turcul jupan, and monasteries that would be sacked if the war went against us…” Ion shrugged. “Yet he is a devout man and hates the Infidel. He could lean either way.”

  “Well,” said Vlad, stepping back, “bishop or lord, they are all men. And will be bent to my will by the usual means.”

  Ion lifted Vlad’s short cloak, draped it over his shoulder. “Which are?”

  “Greed and terror.” Vlad spread his arms wide. “How do I look?”

  Vlad was wearing a black silk doublet under the cloak; light Turkish shalvari swathed his legs. Ion shivered. “You make me even colder just looking at you.”

  Vlad smiled. “Good.”

  Unlike at a certain Easter, this time Vlad did not enter his hall silently but clattered the door outwards. Ion followed. The men below started, rising hurriedly as their Voivode descended the steps and moved rapidly to his chair at the table’s end. “My lords, loyal boyars, Holy Father…I apologize for keeping you waiting. Some messengers came with hot news I needed to hear, and you must hear it, too. Please sit.”