Ion still had not eaten. Now he laid his spoon down. “I do not serve King Matthias,” he said, “but Stephen of Moldavia.”
Dracula slurped. “Whom Matthias hates and loves, and fights and embraces depending on the wind from Constantinople. And now the Great and the Crow need each other again. And between them they have decided that they also need the Impaler.”
“I do not think you understand—”
“I understand everything,” Dracula shouted, his face thrust forward, green eyes bright between the dangling frames of bone-white hair. “Remember, I have been Corvinus’s prisoner for thirteen years, ever since he betrayed me, betrayed the crusade, by failing to march to my aid; since he ordered letters forged claiming that I was the betrayer. And used a man I thought was a brother in that betrayal.” He threw his spoon into the bowl. “Four years I was at Visegrad, an embarrassment, waiting for my murderer to come. But then the wind changed. Crow fought the Great, fought the Turk, and the Impaler was useful again. Not to use his speciality.” A half-smile came. “Just to threaten it, against whomsoever Corvinus chose.” He waved a hand. “My prison changed. He even gave me a companion for my cell. Kept me close—but not too close, across the river—to be trotted out, exhibited like a monster, a grotesque at a country fair.”
He rose, crossed to a chest, threw it open, delved within. “I’ll show you something.” He moved back to the table, and flung down a packet of papers. “Pamphlets,” he said. “First made by my enemies in Brasov and Sibiu after my fall. They had good reason to hate me, those Saxons, after the way I broke their hold on Wallachian trade. And the Hungarians—some of them even my brother Dragons—helped spread these pamphlets throughout the world to justify their betrayal.” He lifted one, held it under Ion’s nose. “Have you read any?”
Ion pushed the paper away. “They are in Prince Stephen’s court, as elsewhere.”
“So you know what they say of what we did. What we did, Ion.” He slapped a pamphlet down. “This tells of the thirty thousand I impaled at Brasov. Do you remember how long it takes to impale a man?”
“I rememb—”
“Thirty thousand! I’d be there now, still hefting wood.” Slap. Another pamphlet thrown down. “This talks of the mothers whose breasts I cut off, their babies’ heads thrust into the holes. Remember that?”
“No, I—”
Slap. “And this one tells how I cut off boyars’ heads and used them to grow cabbages. Cabbages!” he yelled. “I don’t even like cabbage.”
He was standing over Ion, breathing hard. Then he leaned on the table, used it to support him as he walked back to his chair. He did not sit, just rested there on his knuckles before continuing, quietly. “I know I did many…questionable things. I also know that many things were done in my name. For all I had to do was slip the leash and let the beast run free.”
“The beast?”
“‘Who is like unto the Beast? Who is able to make war with him?’” Dracula leaned forward. “The Book of Revelations. I read it constantly. For it tells us that if the Devil runs free, thousands follow him, imitate him, even seek to exceed him. The Devil…or the Devil’s son.” He pointed. “And all who have damned me with these writings for their own ends know this also to be true: when the Cross of Crusade is raised above the host, the beast comes and shelters beneath it. And then everyone does things that others might…question.”
He laughed, the sound harsh. “So I have become a tale to amuse fat burghers over their suppers, and to hush their children with terror when they will not sleep.” He lifted his goblet, drank, set it down. “All I did, all the measures I took for Wallachia, against thieves and traitors and Infidels, come to this.” He jabbed a finger at the pamphlets. “Me, reduced to a blood-sucking monster.”
Finally, he sat, stared before him. Ion watched him, uneasy now. This was not the man he remembered. Not even the one he hated. Dracula, for all his myriad sins, had been a man who justified nothing that he did and never blamed others who acted in his name. Who was this…this white-haired husk, railing against a world that didn’t understand him?
He was about to speak, to provoke, to test if there was yet some core to the man, when Dracula spoke again. “And now you have been sent to ask what my cousins the Great and the Crow have already asked and I have already refused—for the monster to be released from his chains. Again.” He picked up his spoon, began noisily to swallow soup. “For what? So they can write more lies about me to frighten their children?” He raised his white eyebrows to the room. “This is all the kingdom I need now. I read, I think, I watch my sons grow. I have five servants, two horses and one beautiful goshawk, who provides our supper this night. Everything I want, I control. Out there…I can control nothing.” He glared. “So tell me. Why would I give that up? For what?”
Ion had been warned. By Stephen before he set out; by Matthias when he arrived. The Impaler had grown old, and tired of blood. He looked down at the pile of pamphlets. They were, in the main, as Dracula had said, sensational exaggerations. But they were based on truth—the truth of innumerable sins. And sins, as both men knew, could be forgiven—if they were atoned for. One sin, especially.
So Ion leaned forward, spoke softly. “I will tell you, Vlad Dracula, why you will do this. You will do it for Ilona.”
Dracula’s eyes, which had opened wide with his questions, his justifications, now hooded. He sat back, “Ilona?” he muttered.
“I do not mean…” Ion waved a hand to the door.
“I know who you mean,” Dracula said sharply.
A silence came between them as both men stared, and remembered. It ended when a snake’s tongue, too close to flickering flame, crisped and fell from its metal branch.
Then Ion spoke again. “Do you still go to confession?”
“My confessor is here. I keep him still…nearby.” Dracula was staring down at the table. “But I only talk. I do not, cannot confess. What penance could I do? Walk barefoot to Jerusalem? I would not get a mile before someone stuck a knife in me. No, there is nothing. No forgiveness for my sins.” He met Ion’s gaze. “That one, or any other.”
Ion shook his head. “You are wrong about penance. There is one, there always has been.”
Something flickered in Dracula’s green eyes, in his voice. “What penance?”
“Crusade.”
“Oh,” said Dracula, slumping back. “I’ve tried that. It doesn’t work. To crusade is not enough. You must either win or die. I failed to do either.”
“But this time we can win.” Ion stretched out a hand. “Moldavia and Hungary are united as never before. Corvinus will come this time. More, he will lead. And Wallachia will thrive again, under the Dragon banner.”
Vlad shook his head. “You forget that it already does. For my brother rules, and he is a Dragon’s son, too.”
“But this is the news I bring, Prince.” He used the title for the first time and deliberately. “For your brother rules no longer. Your brother is dead.”
Dracula blinked. “Who killed him?”
“God.” Ion shrugged. “He had lost most of the land you ruled. To boyars, Turks, pretenders. All he had left was Guirgui, the fortress you took by stealth and courage. He drew up the drawbridge, safe from his enemies.” He swallowed. “But not from God. The disease that had been visited upon him years before ate his flesh, destroyed the beauty that had once lured a sultan. An apt punishment for the fleshly sins he committed with Mehmet. In the end, Radu the Handsome had no nose, no ears, half a jaw…”
Dracula lifted a hand. “Enough! I know you see a sinner, punished. But all I see is a brother, whom I loved, dead. Horribly dead.” He brought his half hand to his mouth, kissed the stump, whispered, “Radu.” Then he raised his eyes again. “So who rules now in Targoviste?”
“Another of your cousins, Basarab Laiota. Stephen wanted him on the throne and your brother gone. But now that has happened, the puppet refuses to dance for the puppeteer. He has signed a treaty with Mehmet. He sen
ds him gold, boys…”
Dracula tipped his head back, looked at the ceiling. “And so it goes on and on and on—the Danse Macabre. The dead join hands with the living and gambol on the grave of the Dragon.” He looked down. “And you want me to join in the dance again? To meet the same fate as all my family? Dracul beheaded, Mircea buried alive, Radu…rotted?”
“No, my prince,” Ion replied, less hesitation on the word. “This time, with this alliance, we can take and hold the Dragon’s land, expel the usurper, finish what we began. Make Wallachia safe again, strong again.”
“We, Ion?” Dracula thrust his head forward into the candle-light. “You, who hate me more than anyone, would stand again at my side? Why?”
Ion could not hold the green gaze fixed upon him. He looked down, at snakes’ tongues and cooling soup, and spoke softly. “I would do it for my land, which deserves better than to be ruled by dupes and tyrants. I would do it for the cross of Jesus, raised in triumph over His enemies. And I would do it for the expiation of innumerable sins. Mine own…and yours, too.” He breathed, deeply, “And if God can forgive so many, then perhaps…perhaps I can forgive one.”
“Forgive me for Ilona,” Dracula said clearly, loudly.
“Yes,” replied Ion, meeting his gaze again. “For Ilona.”
For a long moment the two men stared at each other. Then Dracula slumped back, reached for his wine, drank deep, finally spoke in a low voice. “Well. It is much you offer. More than any prince has done. But forgiveness? I am not sure there can be any for either of us, Ion, this side of hell.” He rubbed his eyes. “And I tell you this—even if I wanted to, how can I do what you ask? I am not the man I was.” He shook his hair forward till it almost covered his face. “Look at me! An old man should be content in his own little kingdom. Content with what he can control.” He sighed. “I fear the Dragon has slept too long to be roused now.”
“You are my age, my prince,” Ion protested, “forty-four. Why your father—”
Vlad pushed the hair back from his face. “Old,” he interrupted, picking up his spoon again, sipping soup. “Crusading is for the young.”
Ion stared at the man opposite him. He wanted to speak, to urge, to use some final, unanswerable argument. But if the man would not do it for country, for God, even ultimately, for Ilona…
Silence. Another snake tongue crisped and fell. And then the silence was ended by the loud banging of metal on wood and by shouting. Silent still, both men rose and reached for their swords.
– FORTY-SEVEN –
Invasion
They descended to the courtyard. It was bright with flame-light, for several of the strangers carried torches—apart from the huge man who stood at their center whose hands were occupied in throttling Stoica.
They stepped from the shadows under the balcony. Immediately, two crossbows were levelled. They raised their blades flat before them, in defense. “Peace,” called Dracula.
“If you want that,” yelled the big man, “then put your weapons down now. Now!”
They slid them onto the courtyard table, pommels towards them. “And now,” said Dracula, “will you release my steward?”
“Eh?” The officer—they could see his chain of office from the city of Pest hanging at his chest—looked down as if he’d forgotten what his hands were about. Still he didn’t release the gasping man. “He tried to deny me entrance. Me! Then he wouldn’t answer any questions.”
“He’s mute.”
“Oh,” grunted the officer, dropping Stoica as if he had some disease. The bald man rolled backwards under the table, clutching his throat. “Well, you’re not. Do you order your servants to deny entrance to the King’s men?”
“This is my kingdom,” Dracula replied. “It is customary to treat for admission.”
The man tipped back his head, roaring with laughter. “Kingdom, is it? You Pest merchants. Think you’re all princes.” He scratched his thick beard. “In the week I’ve been here I’ve seen more conceit than in most of the courts of Europe. And I’ve seen a few.”
“Never the less—”
“Quiet, old man!” He was very tall, with a huge chest, and he made Dracula look small as he leaned down and thrust his face close. “I am not here to ‘treat’ with you. I am here for a thief.” He straightened, looked around at his men. “Find him!”
“You must not—”
“I said, quiet!” The officer raised a gauntleted hand, and flame-light glimmered on metal studs. “Unless you want some of what your servant got.” He turned. “Search!”
Ion looked at his former prince. He had never seen anyone speak to him this way, not boyars, not Turks, not kings. Yet Dracula did nothing, showed nothing, just stared. Ion sought, as he had at supper, for some flame within the eyes; but he saw only its reflection. And its absence confirmed what he’d begun to suspect—that he had ridden hard, for four weeks, for nothing.
“Whom do you seek?” Dracula asked, as the Watch spread out among the rooms.
“Hmm?” The officer dropped into one of the courtyard chairs, laid his long, booted legs upon the table. “Oh, a notorious thief. I am doing you a favor, old man. This villain has robbed half the houses in Pest. The local law was helpless. That’s why they sent for me.” He struck his bulging chest. “Janos Varency. Thief-taker!”
“Janos Horvathy?” Dracula said softly.
“Eh? No, Varency. Are you deaf?” The officer took off his gauntlets, pressed fingers to his nose, leaned to the side and blew it. Wiping his fingers on his jerkin, he smiled up. “You must have heard of me. I am the best there is.”
“This thief,” said Dracula, staring down, “why do you think he’s here?”
“A tavern rat warned us that he was to rob the house next door tonight. We waited out there—Jesu, it’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a plaster Christ, isn’t it?—until we spotted him. But he spotted us, too, hopped onto your roof and…” He spread his arms wide. “…Here we are.”
The sounds of banging doors, opened shutters and chests came from all around. Somewhere a plate smashed, followed by laughter. “My wife and children are upstairs. I doubt they sleep now but I must go and reassure them.”
Varency brought his legs off the table. “You’ll go nowhere. They will be brought to you.”
“No,” came the soft reply. “They are not allowed to see blood spilled.”
Ion, who had been looking down, contemplating failure, now looked sharply up. So did the officer.
“There’ll be no blood,” Varency said. “Well, maybe a little. But the town wants this pig fucker alive so they can boil him in oil in the town square next Sunday as an example.”
“It was not his blood I was talking about,” said Dracula.
“Eh?” Varency’s brow wrinkled. Then the shouting began, of triumph, of despair. Two of the Watch appeared from the kitchens, a third man thrust before them.
“Gotcha!” Varency smiled, rose, as the thief was thrown at his feet. He lifted his chin with the toe of a boot. The thief wore a soiled, padded coat, thick woollen leg coverings, boots that gaped. Greasy brown hair fell around an angular face. He was not much more than a boy. “This him?” Varency’s nose wrinkled in disgust as he studied what was on his boot, as if he’d brought it in from the open sewers outside. “This worm?”
He had put his studded gauntlets back on. Now he bent, grabbing cloth, jerking the whimpering youth up till his toes barely touched the ground, pulled one hand back, made a fist, and drove it into the youth’s face. The whimpering ceased as the body sagged.
Varency dropped him. Wiping blood and skin onto his coat, he called, “Drag him out by his heels.”
Two of his men rushed forward, grabbed a boot each.
“Wait!”
No one heard Dracula, apart from Ion, who had been listening for a word, hoping for a word. So he said it again, louder, stepping forward to grip the shoulder of a crossbowman about to leave.
The man tried to shrug off the grip, was surp
rised when he couldn’t. “Sir?” he called.
The officer, who had already taken a couple of strides towards the tunnel, stopped, as did the men doing the dragging. He looked back. “What is it?” he said.
“I know your name, Janos Varency. But you do not know mine.”
“Why would I care? Oh, and let go of my man,” the officer replied, coming back, his hand going to the sword hilt at his side.
He obeyed, releasing the man, taking a step towards the table. “You should care,” he said. “For my name is Dracula.”
The other men in the courtyard paused, sucked in breath. One whistled. Varency laughed. “What, as in the Impaler?”
“That is one name I am known by, yes. But another is Prince of Wallachia.” He looked around. “And when I said that this is my kingdom, I meant exactly that. This is a piece of Wallachia while I stand upon it.” He pointed at the semi-conscious prisoner. “And he sought sanctuary here, in my country. So it is up to the prince to rule whether you may have him or not.”
“May have him?” Varency echoed in wonder. Then he bellowed. “Are you stupid as well as deaf? I am the law in Pest.”
“I have just told you. This is not Pest. This is Wallachia. I am its prince. So I am the law, here.”
Wonder had changed to fury. “Well, I wouldn’t care if you were the fucking Pope,” Varency said, stepping closer. “If you are Dracula, you’re little more than a prisoner, too, of the king I serve. Now,” he continued, jabbing his toe into the youth’s side, drawing a squeal, “when I deliver this filth to the town jail, I get a bag of silver in return. Quite a large bag. And no so-called ‘Prince of Wallachia’ is going to stop me, understand?” Turning to his men, he bellowed, “Take him out,” and as he did, he drew his sword.
“Now that,” said Dracula softly, “is an act of war.”
“Oh, go shove a stake up your arse, Impaler,” Varency said, the last thing he ever said.
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