Vlad

by Humphreys, C. C.

  Yet, no matter how they fought, how many they killed, the Turk came on. It was rumored that ninety thousand had crossed the Danube. The Wallachians never numbered more than twenty thousand. And even if the enemy was reduced by battle, sickness, starvation and terror, at least half of them still marched relentlessly towards Targoviste. While Ion knew that the retreating Wallachian army now numbered less than five thousand.

  Ion looked up again, had to or he knew he would sleep. Saw the officers of that shrinking army sitting in concentric circles around the bowl of the small glade. Over its lip, the rest of the army had drawn tight, on Vlad’s orders before he’d gone out three days before. “I will return before sunset on the third night, Ion. Keep them here,” he’d said before he left, dressed as a Turk and accompanied only by Stoica. And somehow Ion had held them, in eyes forever open, with threat, with promise, with the call of loyalty to their prince and their love of the True Cross. But if Vlad did not return this night, only God would be left. And He would not be enough to hold them together.

  A voice forced his head up. “Vornic,” said another man opposite him, “the sun sets. He will not come.”

  He had spoken softly. But any sound carried in the bowl of the glade and all two hundred officers looked up. “There is still light in the sky, Gales jupan. Our Voivode deserves a little grace.”

  “Not much,” muttered Gales, loudly enough to be heard.

  Ion studied him. He was a short, round man, whose fat the privations of campaign had done little to diminish. One of his eyes was wooden, painted. He claimed he’d lost the other fighting for Dracul years before, though most believed the rumor he had lost it falling onto a fence stake when drunk. Ion often wondered why Gales had stayed, one of only two boyars to remain with the army; the second was Cazan, Dracul’s chancellor, and as loyal to son as to father. The other five had deserted quietly, leaving papers behind detailing various excuses, taking their men with them. But Gales was the brother of Stepan “Turcul”—and Stepan “the Turk,” named for his time as a war prisoner, was the greatest of the boyars, the second man in the kingdom. Ion supposed that until Vlad was completely beaten, or preferably dead, neither brother dared to defy him.

  It looked as if Gales was preparing for defiance now. And Ion knew that if he didn’t stop him, at least half the officers sitting there would leave with him. Yet exhaustion held his tongue. What words could he speak?

  And then he didn’t have to. For Black Ilie, sitting on the boyar’s right, reached over and laid a huge hand on the man’s arm, squeezing. Gales gave a little yelp, his one eye fired in pain and protest. But he didn’t speak more and Ion smiled. A few years before, any peasant who even touched a boyar would soon be hanging from the nearest branch. But Ilie was dressed in black and wore the silver dragon; he was one of Vlad’s vitesji, his chosen men. They did anything their Voivode ordered. Gales had seen what that meant, and he subsided now.

  Ion glanced up to the west and it was the first time he did not need to shade his eyes. The sun had half-sunk below the lip of the bowl. Soon it would be night. Vlad had not come.

  Then something moved in that last flash of sunlight. Ion saw a familiar silhouette there—an enemy’s turban. He was about to cry out that they were surprised by the foe, when the figure stepped out of the sunflash, below the ridgeline, and Ion saw who it was.

  “All rise for the prince,” he called.

  Men leapt up, brushing dust from their clothes, looking every way, trying to see in all the movement a particular one. The man who moved through them was not conspicuous and most were looking for their black-clad Voivode. Instead, man by man, they finally saw someone dressed in the simplest of Turkish clothing. Not a sipahi warrior, not even an akinci scout. An artisan wearing a gray turban, a stained yellow robe, baggy shalvari and rope-soled sandals. But behind him, dressed in uniform black, walked a shadow, Stoica the Silent, carrying the Dragon’s Talon. Men knew the master by the man—and the weapon.

  Ion bowed low, as did everyone when they realized. He took the proffered arm and Vlad pulled him close.

  “Still here?” Vlad whispered, taking the water skin Ion handed him, drinking deep.

  “Only just,” Ion replied.

  “Good,” Vlad said, stepping away. He reached up, removed the turban, and his long black hair cascaded down his back. Then, with arms spread wide he turned a full circle, displaying himself. “Countrymen,” he cried. “I bring good news from the Turkish camp. They all want to return home.”

  Cries of wonder, of joy. Then Vlad added, “We just have to give them a little push.”

  “How little, Voivode?” came a cry from the slopes.

  “Nothing much,” replied Vlad. “All we have to do is kill their Sultan.”

  Gasps, some laughter. The same voice came again. “Then can we get him to come here, Prince? My horse has the squits.”

  Louder laughter. “Then you’ll have to borrow one, Gregor. For we must ride to him.”

  There was no humor in Gales’s voice. “What plan have you conceived, Voivode?”

  Instead of answering, Vlad turned, passed Stoica his turban and drew the sword his servant held from its sheath, raising it high in the air. Gales stumbled back but Vlad did not move towards him. “Come close,” Vlad called, “so all may see.” Then, with the tip of his blade, he carved the circumference of a wheel in the sand of the dried-up stream bed, the diameter twice the height of a man. Then he began on the four spokes.

  By the time his men had gathered into three tight circles, the nearest and tightest being vitesji and the two boyars, Vlad had finished. Now he walked to the center of what he’d fashioned. “Mehmet,” he said quietly, driving the blade down. He stepped away from it, the twilight casting a moving crucifix upon the ground.

  “The sword is the Sultan’s tug. It is raised before his pavilion at the center of the vast camp that is made each night. Here Mehmet sits, surrounded by his army. Here he sips his sherbets while his men thirst. Here he entertains his…friends. Here, he has forty thousand reasons to believe he is safe.” Vlad looked up. “He is not safe.”

  He walked to the edge of the circle, bent and snatched up a handful of pebbles. “These lines,” he said, “are the four main roads in. Though all around is a web of ropes holding up a city of canvas, these must be kept clear. For messengers. For Mehmet, who might suddenly decide to ride out and hunt or hawk. These roads are his ways out.” He smiled. “They are also our way in.”

  He began to walk around the circumference, dropping stones. “On the outer rim dwell the conscript masses, the yaya infantry of Anatolia. Also his akinci, those scouts and raiders from the mountains of Tartary who are unleashed ahead of the army.” He smiled. “We have been slaughtering them in their thousands.” He began to walk down a line towards the center, scattering stones. “Here, the belerbeys from the provinces pitch their pavilions, surrounded by the sipahis warriors they have brought—from Anatolia, from Rumelia, from Egypt and the shores of the Red Sea.” A stone landed in each quadrant as he named them.

  Ion, seeing his prince empty-handed, fetched more. Vlad took them, continued throwing and naming. “Here, closer in, are the ortas of the janissaries, and here those who are even more select. To the right of the tug—Mehmet’s right, for his tent faces Mecca—is planted the red oriflame of the right wing of his household cavalry. To his left, the yellow standard of the left.”

  Vlad leaned now on the quillons of the Dragon’s Talon, the left one forever bent so all would note it and remember his triumph in single combat over his cousin Vladislav. He let the final stones drop now. “Here, at the very heart of the camp, surrounding the two pavilions he uses—one for sleep, one for his Council—are the Sultan’s closest men.” Drop. “The muteferrika, with their halberds.” Drop. “His peyk guards, the spleenless ones.” Drop. “Here the solaks, these who draw their bows with their right hands, here those who draw with the left, so he is always covered.” Drop. Drop. “And here, at the very center, is Mehmet.” Vlad
placed the last stone against the metal and let it slide down. “One man.”

  Vlad stepped back, waved his hand along the southern road. “We will ride in here, with the full moon at our backs. I know that the akinci here are grudging in their service. The sipahis beyond them are from the east and suffered most in the last war against the White Sheep Uzbeks. All is not well beneath the yellow oriflame of the left wing. Mehmet had their veteran commander strangled with a silken bowstring last year and his successor has tried to buy love with raki, which they drink now instead of the water they must save for their horses.”

  A murmur was building under his words, a buzz of wonder. He raised a hand to quell it. “And here stand the peyk. The removal of their spleens may have made their dispositions more conciliatory. But it has also made them less fierce. And in the end, they are all that will stand between me and Mehmet. One man.” Vlad straightened. “Does anyone wish to ask a question?”

  Gales, the boyar, stepped forward. But it was Black Ilie whose deep voice broke in first. “Voivode, some of us have visited Turkish camps. Some of us have even lived in them. But how, by the giant balls of Samson, do you know all this?”

  When the laughter died down, Vlad smiled. “That’s easily answered, Ilie. There was a tear in Mehmet’s tent wall. I repaired it.”

  Vlad let the gasps and murmurings continue longer then the laughter had, then went on. “You all know that the Turk has two camps—one that is built, one that is struck, each leaping over the other so the army can progress smoothly. This morning, I walked into the one they were building. I spent the day walking around it, talking to servants and slaves. Then I was asked to sew Mehmet’s tear.” He turned to Ion. “It seems I have not forgotten all the skills I learned in Edirne against the day of disaster. Though I did not do the work well. You never know when you might want to leave a tent by its walls instead of its door.” He looked around the circle. “Other questions?”

  It was Gales who spoke. “I am not certain I understand this, Voivode. How many men are in their camp?”

  “They will have raiders ranging wide. Forces have been detached to seize different places. I estimate they will have close to thirty thousand around the tug. More or less.”

  “More or…” The boyar’s mouth opened wide. “And you plan to ride in with the four thousand we have left?”

  “No,” said Vlad. “There will be two thousand with me from the south. And, a short while later, you will bring the other two thousand from the north.”

  “I…I…” Gales spluttered. “But even if your way to the Sultan is blocked by feckless, drunken…spleenless men, there will still be close to ten thousand of them in that quarter alone.” The thought removed his fear. “Have you lost your mind?”

  Men hissed. Vlad was not one of them. “And have you lost your heart?” he said, stepping close. They were of a height, their gazes level, locked. “You have seen what Mehmet has wrought upon our land. You know what he will still do if he is not stopped. We cannot beat him in the open field. We can only slow him with raid and destruction.” His eyes gleamed. “But we can stop him with a single sword-thrust. In the terror of the night, in the chaos of their camp, a few men who know exactly what they are doing can end the war. They can save their country. Perhaps they can save Christendom.”

  He had spoken to the boyar but every man there heard him. He turned to them now. “Crusaders,” he called, his voice ringing beyond the glade, carried by the rising slopes to the soldiers who had gathered on the far side when word of his return had spread, “our destinies hover at the point of our swords, raised under the cross of Christ. If we die in this Holy War, we die as martyrs and we go to heaven to sit at God’s right hand, all our sins forgiven. If we triumph, then we avenge Constantinople. We conquer the Conqueror.” Snatching up the sword, he held it aloft, his voice rising to a shout. “So will you follow the Dragon’s son to victory or to Paradise?”

  The cry had traveled far over the glade. Now the sound crashed down, from the officers within, from their men beyond: “Victory!”

  Vlad let it roll on for a while, then raised a commanding hand. “Go to your fires. Hone your blades. Feed your horses, eat what you can, sleep if you can. Make your peace with God and your fellow man. Gather at the eastern edge of the forest two hours beyond midnight. And prepare to ride to glory, in this world or beyond.”

  It came again, one shout: “Victory!”

  The officers turned, scrambled from the glade.

  One remained, his one eye rolling wildly. “Tonight? You attack tonight?”

  “We attack, jupan. Or must someone else lead the forces of Amlas and Fagaras?”

  The one eye centered. “I will lead them, Prince. As ever.” Then he turned and followed the others up the slope.

  Vlad and Ion watched him go.

  “He will not come,” said Ion.

  “I think he will. He knows what will become of his family and himself if I succeed and he has failed me. But if he doesn’t…” He turned, handed his sword to Stoica, who sheathed it, bowed and ran ahead. Vlad began to follow, walking slowly up the slope towards his own encampment. Ion could see how weary his friend was, now the course had been set. “If he doesn’t, then you will be there to kill him and lead his men yourself.”

  Ion stopped. “Me? I shall be guarding your back as ever.”

  Vlad halted, too, looked back. “Not this time, old friend. I need your sword in Gales’s back or through his throat. I need the second attack to happen.”

  “Then why not let me lead it?”

  “You will, truly. But Gales must be seen to lead it. The other boyars are wavering. In Targoviste especially. If Turcul jupan sees his brother still fighting by my side, they might hold firm a little longer. Then my back truly will be safe.”

  They had reached the ridge. Paths furrowed the ground within the thick oak and beech forest of Vlasia, hiding the Wallachian army from Turkish eyes. One led, in a few short steps, to Vlad’s tent.

  And to the two men standing before it. Ion could not see their faces at first, so swiftly had the gloom taken the woods. He hurried forward, preparing to shoo them away, whatever their news, for his prince must rest if he was going to lead his army into battle in a few short hours. But then he saw who they were, and he could not speak.

  – THIRTY-FIVE –

  Vows

  Vlad saw them, too. “Your Eminence,” he said, kneeling to kiss the Metropolitan’s ring, “what make you from Targoviste?”

  The churchman was tall, and lean with it, taking his spiritual role of God’s Appointee far more seriously than many who had grown fat on the profits of the position. His serious face was troubled now. “I have news, Prince. And I could trust no one else to bring it.”

  “I see. A moment.” He turned to the other man, who stood in battered armor encrusted with dust, his face so filthy it was barely distinguishable. “And you, Buriu, most loyal of my boyars? Could you trust no one with your news, either?”

  “Alas, my prince,” the man replied, “I had no one left alive to trust.”

  Ion flinched. Vlad had been forced to send Buriu east with half his army to defend the key fortress of Chilia. Not from the Turks. From his own cousin, his former fellow fugitive, Stephen of Moldavia, who had chosen this moment to betray him, and Christ, by trying to seize what he most desired. That Buriu was here again, alone…

  Vlad must have realized the same. “Inside, friends. And speak quietly, I pray you.”

  The old boyar’s news was spoken quietly enough and swiftly. There was not much to tell.

  “My scouts failed to return. I knew I must proceed with speed, lest that accursed Moldavian seize the fortress. But it must have been him who warned the Turk…” Buriu’s voice cracked. “They waited for us in reeds either side of a bridge. They let half my men across then attacked from both sides. They had five times our numbers. I…was with the rearguard. I still don’t know how I escaped, why I was spared…”

  The older man began to
weep. Vlad sat beside him, put a hand on his shoulder. “You did not die, Spatar, because I needed you beside me, Dracul’s oldest friend.”

  The man looked up, wiped his eyes. “Is it true what I heard? That you ride this night against Mehmet’s camp?”

  “It is.”

  The old boyar rose, every joint creaking. “Then I must go and knock the dents out of my armor.”

  “My lord.” Vlad rose, too. “You have done enough. Rest this night.”

  “When the Dragon banner flies against the enemy?” A little smile came. “Your father would never forgive me.”

  He stooped under the tent flap, was gone. Stoica entered, with bread, meat and wine. Vlad turned. “Will you pardon me, Eminence, if I…?”

  The priest gestured him down to his truckle bed. “You will need sustenance, Prince, for what you attempt tonight. And, alas, for what you must hear.”

  Vlad sat, drank and chewed. “Go on.”

  “You know that when you took the throne, I was uncertain of your intentions. I thought that perhaps you were just another in a line of voivode, seeking power only for your own glory.”

  “And now?”

  “I have seen what you have wrought. I may have questioned some of your methods…”—the prelate swallowed—“…but I have seen the results. A land free of brigands, where men and women can live without fear of another man taking their little. A land where the Church flourishes, for you have been a keen benefactor. And what you are about now, this crusade…”

  Vlad interrupted with a sigh. “Your Eminence, I am glad you approve. I have always tried to follow the Church’s dictates—with a few personal adaptations.” He glanced at Ion. “But in hours I will face my greatest enemy and all my work may be undone if I do not succeed. And the look in your eyes fills me with fear. I do not need that. So please, tell me why you have come.”