“Voivode,” said Ion, coming into Guirgui’s main hall, slipping around the scaffolding that shrouded the door; the Turks had been re-building, workmen’s tools scattered all around. “Do you want them now?”
Vlad looked down, considered. Under normal circumstances there was a decorum to such embassies, a protocol to be observed. One didn’t usually greet ambassadors with the blood and brains of their servants on one’s doublet. But that, of course, made them abnormal circumstances.
“Yes, my friend. Bring them in.”
The four were held by his sword-and-bow men, all now dressed again in their black uniforms. They were brought up to the raised dais and its table covered in maps, lists, scraps of bread and meat. Vlad studied them, noting the bruise on Hamza’s face; the extraordinary red profusion of the Greek’s hair. It was unhindered by a turban and Vlad suspected that, despite his conversion to Islam, such glorious hair was rarely concealed. Hamza’s turban had been knocked off, perhaps in the same blow that had given him the bruise. Vlad was surprised at how gray his hair had become. The other two ambassadors still wore their turbans, albeit somewhat askew.
He looked at the table before him. Because of the breeze coming through one of the great stone arches, he’d weighted down his papers with a mallet and nails abandoned by some fleeing workman. He slid one of the papers out, studied the names of those before him. Abdulaziz he half remembered, a minor official under Murad, risen now. Abdulmunsif, the younger of the two, he did not know. Taking up his quill, dipping it, he hesitated a moment, before putting a line through one of the names. Then, without looking up, he said softly, “Is it not customary to remove your hats in the presence of a prince?”
He raised his eyes. All four men were staring at him, wondering who was being addressed. He decided to specify. “Abdulmunsif. It means, ‘Servant of the Just,’ does it not?”
The man swallowed, nodded. “Yes, lord.”
“And no doubt you emulate your master. So deal justly with me. Does one not remove one’s hat in the presence of a prince?”
The man blinked. It was Hamza who replied, his voice roughened with shouting. “You know the reason they do not, Prince Dracula.”
“Because of the example of the Prophet, in the presence of Allah, most merciful.” He stepped down from the dais, stood before it, hands clasped. “But while we are certain the prince is here, how certain are we that God is? Here, now?”
Hamza licked his lips. “You blaspheme. It is a sin in your religion as in ours.”
“Ah, but I am not sure I do. Perhaps God, however we name him, is elsewhere right now. Busy with other sinners.” He stepped up to Abdulmunsif. “Would you render me justice, just one? Would you remove your hat?”
The Turk began to quiver, looking at Hamza, who had lowered his eyes again. “Effendi! Lord Prince! I…I cannot. Allah forbids it.”
Vlad nodded, smiled. “You are as brave as you are just.”
Abdulmunsif was not a small man. But Vlad lifted him easily by the collar of his robes up onto the dais before the table. Nodding to his men, two of them came forward and pinned the Turk by his arms. Vlad picked up one of the long nails. “I admire courage,” he said, “and I will help keep you steadfast in your faith.”
Then, snatching up the mallet, he placed his knee on the Turk’s neck, forced his head onto the table and, with one strike, drove the nail through the turban and into his skull. The man’s cry was short. His legs thrashed for longer as the men held him. When they finally stilled, Vlad picked up three other nails and drove them in too with single strokes. Then he stepped away. “Abdulaziz,” he called.
“No, master, no! See? See?” The smaller, older man was on his knees, the turban ripped away, revealing his baldness. “I beg you. I pray…”
Vlad nodded and two of his men grabbed the weeping man, dragging him to the table, throwing him down there. Vlad bent, spoke gently. “Abdulaziz?”
Still the man did not react, his eyes shut, babbling prayers. So Vlad tapped him lightly on the temple with the hammer. The whimpering stopped. “Good,” he said. “Now listen. It is not your kismet to die this day, but only the one of God’s choosing—if you do exactly as I say. You will be escorted across the river and a little way along the road. You will then continue to your master. You will not be quite alone for your companion, the just one’s servant, will be with you, exactly as he is now.” He stooped, laying the hammer against the man’s skull. “But listen to me well. No, Abdulaziz, open your eyes and your ears and listen to me.” The man stared up. “If you do not deliver Abdulmunsif to Mehmet exactly as he is, I will hear of it and then…” He drew back the hammer, struck with a light but distinct thok. “…Then I will find you. And at that time, you would pray for nails. Do you understand?”
“Yes, effendi. Yes, Prince. Thank you! I…yes…”
Vlad raised the hammer, halting the flow of words. “Take him,” he called. Two men lifted the Turk and half-dragged him from the hall. Two more brought the other, after a little difficulty in prising him from the table. Vlad waited till the doors closed behind them all before he spoke again. “Thomas Catavolinos?”
Swallowing, the Greek watched Vlad walk forward. “I am hatless, Prince Dracula.”
“Of course you are.” Vlad smiled. “And besides, such a joke is truly only funny the first time.” He stopped before the kneeling man. “I hear you were at Tokat?”
“A fellow graduate.”
“Yes. Though I am sure you were there willingly.” He glanced at Hamza, who did not look up, still knelt, eyes downcast as they had been since the hammer’s strike. “So I would be interested in your opinion on impalement. I believe I have made a few improvements. Sped the whole thing up. Practice, eh?” He smiled again. “Ion, take our handsome friend to the courtyard. Make sure he is in a good place to see everything.”
Ion came forward, grabbed the Greek’s hair, jerking the yelping Catavolinos to his feet. “And him?” he said, nodding at Hamza.
“Leave him with me. The rest of you, go.”
Ion frowned. “I’ll leave two guards…”
Vlad shook his head. “No, my friend. My old teacher and I have so much to talk about. Best we do it alone. And Hamza pasha is not the killing type.” He looked down. “He lies. He…corrupts. But he gets others to do his killing. Go.”
They did. Soon the hall was clear except for the two men, one kneeling, one standing. Vlad returned to the table, lifted a flagon there. “Some wine, Hamza? No, of course! You were one of the few men at Murad’s court who did not drink.”
Hamza raised his head, cleared his throat. “Men change.” He rose, joined Vlad at the table.
“They do indeed.” Vlad filled two goblets, held one out.
Hamza paused before taking it, staring at Vlad’s hand. “Not even shaking. Has it become so easy for you to kill a man that you do not even quiver at it?”
Vlad handed him the cup and gestured him into a chair that Hamza took. “Why would I? If I ever did, that time was long ago. Before my lessons began. And you were one of my first, my best teachers, Hamza agha.”
“I did not teach you that. I tried to teach you other things.”
“Such as?”
“The philosophies of love. Of compassion. As expressed in our Holy Qur’an and in your own Bible. In the verses of Jalaluddin and Hakim Omar Khayyam. Do you not remember them?”
“No,” said Vlad leaning closer, his voice soft. “All I remember now is the lesson you taught when you bent me over the cushions…”
“Stop,” said Hamza, leaning away. “It wasn’t like that, Vlad. We…shared…”
“How is my brother?”
Hamza blinked at the interruption, the sudden switch. “Radu…thrives. He is held in great estimation by the Sultan.”
“I am sure he is. Are they still lovers?”
“I…do not believe so.”
“No. Radu is twenty-five now. Mehmet would be seeking younger company.” Vlad refilled Hamza’s goblet as the
wine had been gulped down. “And how is my old schoolfellow? They call him ‘Conqueror’ now, after Constantinople. Mehmet Fatih. But conquering can be as compulsive as wine.” He raised his goblet. “Will his desire for it ever be sated?”
“I do not—”
“I hear he calls himself the new Alexander. That he will not stop until he has an empire as far-flung. And here am I. Me and my tiny country. In his way.”
“There is yet time, Prince.” Hamza set down his goblet. “Do not take him on in a war you cannot win. Submit. Send the tribute, the boy levy. Do not provoke him further.”
“I think we are beyond that, teacher,” replied Vlad, folding a piece of parchment, using it to divert a stream of ambassador’s blood that had been coming towards him. “I will cut off the noses of his people and send them to him in bags. I will burn his crops, kill his cattle. I will impale his soldiers and, if people get inured to that, I will devise new and ever better methods of slow murder.”
“But…why?” Hamza swallowed. “Why this…excess?”
“To do exactly what you say I should not—to provoke him. To make him come for me before he is fully ready.” Vlad nodded. “Do you know what they used to make us chant at Tokat? ‘You torture others so they cannot torture you.’ It was the motto of the place.” Vlad smiled. “And was not that what Mehmet had planned for me? I could have brought you all the gold in Wallachia and ten thousand prime boys and I would still have been in a cage by nightfall and the Greek would have tried to break me on the road to Constantinople. Ready for Mehmet to have…easier amusements. True?”
There seemed little point in denying it. Hamza nodded.
“Of course. You see, we understand each other, Mehmet and I. We send each other messages.” Vlad leaned across. “It sounds so glorious: the New Alexander. But history no longer tells us how many died horribly so the Macedonian could build his empire. And this Fatih—how many were slaughtered when Constantinople’s walls were breached? How many boys and girls were raped that day on the altar of Santa Sophia?” Vlad stood. “If I were to follow anyone’s example in history it would not be the Macedonian but the Carthaginian.”
Hamza stood, too. His legs felt weak and he leaned against the table. “Hannibal? Why? Wasn’t he the cruellest of all?”
“Because he was the cruellest of all. He took on Rome, a nation five times stronger, and beat it again and again. Less than a hundred years ago, a shepherd from the east, Timur-i-leng, did the same, smashing the Turks, killing their Sultan.” Vlad’s eyes glowed. “I make no claim to be Alexander. But I may be Hannibal. I may be Timur-i-leng.”
“No, Vlad,” Hamza said, stepping up, taking the younger man’s arm. “You will be what they already call you—Kaziklu Bey, ‘the Impaler Prince.’ Is that the name you wish to be remembered by?”
“Hamza,” Vlad said, lifting the other man’s hand, holding it for the moment, “if I succeed, I will only be remembered as the man who freed Wallachia.”
They stared at each other for a moment, then Vlad dropped the hand, stepped back to the table, reached for the mace that was lying there. When he turned back he was smiling. “Do you not think it strange that I am known by a skill I acquired almost at your knee? But if you have a reputation for something, you may as well preserve it.” He moved towards the door. “Come. I have something to show you.”
Hamza did not follow. “I have already seen impalement, Prince.”
“You see, you become known for one thing…” Vlad shook his head ruefully. “No, Hamza agha. I was going to show you other fruits of your teaching. You are still chief falconer, are you not?”
“I am, in title. But I have little time for birds.” Hamza began to follow. “Do you sew?”
“Alas, time is as chary with me.” He opened the door. “Do you still have that glove I made for you?”
“With me. I never travel without it.”
“Indeed?” Vlad tipped his head. “I am honored, enishte.”
They passed into the courtyard. Hamza looked around. On the western side, those of the garrison who had not been killed in the assault or managed to flee had been gathered. Wallachians, with arrows notched, watched them. Others stood by horses. Ropes were coiled. Shafts of wood leaned in bunches, like hay ricks on Wallachian farms. No one was moving. Hamza shuddered.
Vlad had not looked. He walked on, through the door of the eastern tower, up the circular stair to the room that Hamza and Thomas had lately occupied. The Turk saw that their possessions were gone. In their place was a trunk with a silver Dragon embossed on the lid.
They did not pause in the room, went straight up to the turret. “You saw my beautiful Black Prince but you did not meet him,” said Vlad. He went to the perch set up there, pulled on a glove, reached and untied the bird’s jesses, took it onto his hand.
“A beauty, indeed,” Hamza murmured, admiring the goshawk tiercel again. “Passage or eyass?”
“Passage, praise God. Taken last year. Already about five, wouldn’t you say? See the touch of red in the eyes?”
Those eyes were darting, seeking meat. Vlad reached into a pouch that hung there, passing a morsel across. “A fool had him, tried to train him. Failed. I didn’t.” He bent his head to the bird, cooing softly. “Still mostly training sakers, Hamza?” he asked, his eyes still on the bird.
“In fact I have one…” He broke off. There was something in Vlad’s eye, a flash of red, almost like the hawk’s.
“Would you like to see Kara Khan hunt?” said Vlad. “He’s a true cook’s bird. I’ve seen him take ten rabbits in a day, three hares, pigeons…”
“Pigeons are hard,” Hamza said, uneasily, though he didn’t know why.
“And uncommon this time of year. I wonder what we could…”
Vlad let out a sudden, sharp whistle. And in the gate tower along the battlements, a shutter was flung outwards. From the gap issued a bird and, from the way it flew, Hamza knew immediately it was a saker. His saker.
“Kill,” Vlad said, throwing out his fist.
It wasn’t a long chase. The saker was fresh from the mews, disoriented flying over new ground, ground the goshawk had already traversed. Yet the saker saw the other coming, in those five beats, that glide. Tried to climb higher, faster, use its larger wings. But a goshawk loves an underbelly. Five more beats, a flip onto its back, into the glide. Talons reaching, sinking in.
The two birds spiralled down. Just before the ground, the goshawk flipped again, spinning around to get on top, releasing the other bird that was possibly already dead but was certainly so when it smashed into the frozen ground before the little bridge. The Black Prince settled, one foot planted, its feathers riffling in the wind off the river. He looked around once, then plunged in his beak to rip and tear.
Hamza made sure he had control of his voice before he spoke. “He flies well. Are you not going to call him back?”
“No,” said Vlad, taking off his glove, laying it down. “Let him feed.”
He turned, crossed to the castle side of the turret. All the men there were looking up. Bound prisoners. Guards with ropes, pulleys, wood. Waiting.
The silence was complete. Vlad raised one arm…
– THIRTY-FOUR –
War
July 1462, seven months later
The twilight was affecting Ion’s eyes.
Every time he looked at one of his companions, the man’s face would shift, features sliding into other features. Black Ilie would be sitting there, then his dark features would change, his nose lengthen, his eyes sink, his hair change, lighten…and Gheorghe would be in his place. Gheorghe, who had taken an arrow through both lungs trying to halt the enemy at the ford over the Dambovnic. He’d spent three nights coughing blood yet they’d carried him as they retreated before the enemy, committing his recovery to God’s mercy. But when, on the fourth day, God had shown none, Ion had received the man’s blood-choked blessing, then slit his throat. He could not go further. And they left no one to the Turk.
Which was why he should not be here now. Why Ion had grown certain that Gheorghe had become a varcolaci, one of the undead, his black Dragon coat turning to wolf skin, his desire clear in his so-pale face: to be avenged on the one who’d slain him. Why, when Ion reached to his belt now, it was not to feel the comfort of sword but of crucifix.
He stared; the features realigned. It was Ilie sitting opposite him again, Ilie who said, “Are you well, vornic?”
Ion nodded, laid his head on his knees, closed his eyes. When had he last slept? Truly slept? When had any of them? Most nights were spent doing everything possible to slow the enemy. Burning any crop that already stood in the field in July. Emptying the farms, both peasants’ small-holdings and boyars’ estates, of anything that could be eaten or drunk. Driving the people before them with what little they could take, slaughtering the animals they could not, throwing the corpses down wells or using them to dam the streams to poison all water. At least if they did not sleep, they ate well, and drank before they poisoned. The Turks, in the hottest summer in anyone’s memory, slaughtered their dogs and camels, as well as the horses that died of thirst, and roasted the flesh without the aid of fire upon their searing breastplates.
And during the days, they fought. Not in battle, not since the Danube when they’d first tried to stop the enemy and had slain so many the river turned red. The Wallachians fought in raid, bursting out from beneath beech and oak to attack any who strayed from the column in their desperate search for drinkable water. They fought in ambush, in the gorges, rolling trunks down to crush, using arquebus to shoot, the gunpowder explosions terrifying man and beast. They fought with disease, sending the sick dressed as Turks into the enemy camp, martyrdom their reward if they died, gold if they somehow returned alive. And each of these coughing men and women Vlad kissed before they left, kissed hard on the lips as he blessed them. When Ion tried to dissuade him from the act, his prince had said but one word: “Kismet.”
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