The reason for this was that the royal princes, according to a custom which I believe is widely practised in royal houses from the Escurial to the Forbidden City of Cathay, were punished vicariously. No man was allowed to lay hands on the royal person and so two young attendants, themselves sons of boyars, of roughly the same age as their masters, took their place. They attended lessons, but remained silent throughout. Now Vlad was always genuinely distressed when his attendant, a lad named Casimir, had to be birched for a misdemeanour of his own. But Mircea positively delighted in seeing some mischief of his being corrected on the body of Emeric, his whipping boy.
I found this practice cruel and absurd, so, whenever possible, avoided punishment altogether. But word reached the King — doubtless through Mircea — that I was being too lenient with my royal charges, and the floggings began again.
I would have liked it very much if Vlad had chosen to confide in me. His, however, was a secretive nature, made more so by circumstance. He spoke to me rarely, except on learned matters, but a significant event was to change this. But first I must tell of how I found my way into the Old Queen’s apartments and of what happened there.
In my slow, idle way I began to wonder if the fireplace itself might hold some clue to the hidden entrance used by Alexander. Many was the night, following my experiments with the chalk, that I watched for Alexander of Glem, but I never saw him come through the secret entrance.
The fireplace itself had a vast over-mantel which was most curiously and elaborately carved. It was the work of a most skilled craftsman, probably from Germany or the Netherlands to judge by the workmanship. The carvings seemed to tell a story and I was curious to discover which, but the events depicted followed no comprehensible order. There were six square panels in high relief — two rows of three, the one above the other — and under each an inscription in a curious stilted Latin of six words apiece. Above the panels on a carved scroll were these words in Latin: BIS TOLLE FALSUM VERO BIS STENT VERI NUMERI BIS FALSI. “Twice take the false from the true, twice let the true numbers stand and twice the false.” Under the carvings, on the lip of the fireplace itself were the Roman numerals VI IV MDXXIII, which I took to be the date of the work’s completion, the sixth day of April 1523. After the numerals a sentence was carved, of six words like the others, TORQUE AD LAEVAM O TEMERARISSIME QUAESITOR. “Twist to the left, O most rash seeker.”
Now let me describe the carvings, their inscriptions and how I unravelled the secret of the fireplace. For truly it was a man or woman of great cunning who devised it, though for what reason except vanity and mischief I would be at a loss to say.
The carvings, I say, consisted of six tableaux in high relief. The work, in Carrara marble, was excellent, but I sensed a certain tension between the high flown, not to say mysterious, subject matter and the plain, unexalted Germanic style of representation. No smooth Italianate classicism moderated the clash of violent and perplexing symbols. Faces were heavy lidded and hollow-cheeked, horror or delight stamped on their features as if their very souls were as naked as their bodies.
The first tableau took place on a bare and rocky mountain top. Three hags of frightful appearance were engaged in tearing a naked man limb from limb. One arm had already been wrenched off, leaving behind a ragged, gristly stump. The head, every feature of which was contorted in a scream of agony, had been twisted round at a hideous angle. On the ground beside him lay a fiddle and a bow. The inscription read: ADSECTARETUR VOS INFAMIA PUTRIDAE SAGAE SEMPER. “Let shame follow you, O foul witches, always.”
In the second panel a naked man, perhaps the same that was being torn apart in the first, stood with his back to us playing the fiddle. The artist had so cunningly carved the muscles of his back and thighs that his whole body seemed imbued with tension and terror. He stood before the opening of a great rocky cave, and in this hell-mouth stood a frightful three headed monster. The heads were those of dogs, two of which were sunk in a fitful and malign sleep, but the central head was still awake and protruded in sharp relief from the carving. The eyelids were heavy with exhaustion, but the eyes beneath them still glared ferociously. The inscription read: IANUAE PRIMAE CUSTOS MORTIS TERROREM OSTENTAT. “The guardian of the first gate shows forth the terror of death.”
In the third scene we were in an idyllic landscape. Far vistas of deep forests and high mountains were delicately chiselled in low relief. In the foreground, with a brake of lush vegetation behind him, sat the man playing on a violin, while at his feet, her head resting against his knee, was a young naked woman. Around her on the grass gambolled all manner of birds and beasts, apparently enchanted by the music. The artist had given this scene a kind of pastoral innocence which contrasted strangely with the horror of the preceding ones. But even here something wicked stirred.
For between the leaves of the thicket which backed the viol player one could discern the face of another man. He was peering down at the naked woman. The artist had shown his subtlety here, for the features were not creased in some crude, lascivious grin; the lust they revealed was hard and stony, bewitched by the sight of this tranquil girl. The inscription read: MANUS PERITISSIMA VATIS FATUM NON AVERTET. “The most skilful hand of the poet shall not avert fate.”
The fourth panel, below the first, showed a most terrible scene. It took place in some kind of rocky corridor. The man with the fiddle was looking over his shoulder at the woman of the scene before. She was being dragged back towards an entrance where stood the three-headed dog carved in low relief. The creatures dragging her and tearing into her naked flesh looked at first like great insects, then more like flying lizards, their claws as thin as needles, their bulging eyes empty of expression. On the face of the woman was printed supplication and despair. The inscription read: ASPECTU PRODITA AD FAUCES CANIS DETRAHITUR. “Betrayed by a glance, she is dragged back to the jaws of the dog.”
The next panel showed the lustful man we had seen in the third pursuing the woman. The scenery was similar to the third: the landscape was Arcadian, but the trees and grass were being bent by a great wind. The woman in her terrified flight from the man had turned to look behind her.
In so doing she failed to notice the snake on which she had trodden. The snake had reared its head up in indignant rage and was about to sink its sharp fangs into her ankle. But still the man bent on lust pursues. The inscription read: CAVE INFELICISSIMA CONIUNX VENENATUM CAPUT SERPENTIS. “Beware, most unhappy wife, the envenomed head of the serpent.”
The final scene showed the same landscape again, but this time even more distorted by wind and tempest. The woman, now dead, was being dragged along the ground by a tall hooded figure. Its face was obscure but the hand that gripped the woman’s ankle was sinewy and skeletal. In the distance the man with the fiddle looked on with horror. The flying robes of the hooded figure and the tripping movement of its thin feet indicated great speed. The inscription read: PRIMUM MORS RAPIT INNOCENTEM QUEMNAM SECUNDUM. “Firstly Death seizes the innocent, who pray is to be the next?”
I puzzled over these scenes and their accompanying inscriptions. Clearly they were related to one another, but how? The story they illustrated was both familiar and utterly strange. I looked again at the Roman numerals which made up the date VI IV MDXXIII. Translated into Arabic numerals that would read 6 4 1523. And then I noticed a significant thing: there were six numerals and they comprised the numbers one to six. Perhaps these numbers applied to the six inscriptions of six words each. And so I took the sixth word of the first sentence, the fourth of the second and tried to compose a sentence from them. All that I got for my pains was: SEMPER MORTIS MANUS CANIS INFELICISSIMA RAPIT. There was little sense to be had from a sentence which could only yield the information: “Always the most unhappy hand of death seizes the dogs.” No, there was more to solve before the secret was revealed. For one thing, those words about the true and false numbers must come into it.
So what was true or false about the numbers? Then I had an inspiration. Perhaps the numbers 6415
23 related to the carvings. Perhaps put into their proper order they would make sense. Perhaps the sixth scene should be the first, the fourth the second and so on. But there was no more sense in this order than before. Surely the pictures composed a story in their proper order, and the story was... I had it!
Of course, the numerals indicated in what order the panels should be, not what they were. Thus the first panel should be number six, the second four and so on. Therefore these numbers were the veri numeri, the true numbers, indicating the true order of the narrative. And at last I knew what the story was.
It was the story, referred to in Virgil’s fourth Georgic, of Orpheus who charmed all nature with his music. And in the first scene he was depicted playing to his wife Eurydice, infelicissima coniunx, the most unhappy wife. But Aristaeus, son of Apollo, lusted after her and pursued her. In her flight she trod on a serpent which bit her. She was poisoned and Death dragged her down to Hades. Orpheus followed her there and gained entrance to Hell by enchanting the three-headed canine guardian Cerberus with his music. He was given permission to take Eurydice out of Hell on condition he did not look back at her as he led her out. From a mixture of fear and carelessness he did look back and she, “betrayed by a glance” as the inscription put it, was dragged once again into the jaws of death. The final scene — first of the panels — showed Orpheus being torn to pieces by Maenads, the savage female votaries of Bacchus, who were incensed that in his grief he refused to sing to them.
Now I had made progress. The false numbers were the order in which the panels were placed; the true numbers were those of the true narrative order of the carvings. So in twice taking the false from the true, six minus one, four minus two, twice leaving the true numbers and twice the false, I was left with the numerical sequence 521556. Now, to what was I to apply that? Why, to the inscriptions of course! So, taking the fifth word of the first inscription, the second of the second and so forth I finally attained this: SAGAE PRIMAE MANUS CANIS CAPUT SECUNDUM. “The hand of the first witch, the second head of the dog.” This seemed fair nonsense too until I remembered the other inscription: TORQUE AD LAEVAM O TEMERARISSIME QUAESITOR. The whole read: “Twist to the left, O most rash seeker, the hand of the first witch, the second head of the dog.”
I almost jumped with excitement: if I were to turn to the left the hand of the first witch in the first panel, and in the second the second head of Cerberus the dog... I mounted a chair and did as the inscription told me, rash young man that I was! A barely audible rumble told me that I had succeeded. Getting off the chair I looked to find that the whole of one wall of the inglenook had slid away and a dark stone staircase leading upwards was revealed.
XII
I looked at the staircase and the more I looked the more I was filled with fear. In spite of this I very nearly ventured up those stairs, curiosity and caution at war within me; but finally caution won. My candle was burning low; I had had enough excitement for one day; I would save the exploration for a later occasion. So I climbed back onto the chair, turned the hand of the witch and head of the dog to the right and was relieved to find that the wall slid back as easily as it had opened. Evidently an elaborate and most ingenious system of counterweights was in operation.
For some days I hugged the secret to myself, wondering what I should do with it. Autumn had come and the weather, like the leaves, was golden. Timid as I was, I would often venture outside the castle with Razendoringer. I even penetrated the woods nearby in search of herbs and rare plants.
One afternoon I was looking for some scarce late-flowering blooms, but had stooped to examine a green toadstool, “Witch’s Breast” in the vulgar tongue, one bite of whose flesh, they say, is instant death. I was so absorbed that I lost all sense of time and place, but my dream was broken when a crossbow bolt thudded into the tree under which I was crouching. I looked round and there stood Vlad, a crossbow in his hands and Razendoringer beside him.
Vlad’s deep set eyes sparkled with amusement; Razendoringer’s rebukes were ignored. I was surprised at this access of mischief, for Vlad on the whole was a disciplined boy, perhaps too disciplined for one of his age.
“Beg forgiveness of the learned doctor,” said Razendoringer.
“Do you think,” said Vlad, rounding on him, “I would have done such a thing if I had not been sure of hitting the tree and not him? Nevertheless I crave your pardon if I frightened you.” I bowed to his courtesy and began to show him the plants I had found, and he was gracious enough to give a lively impression of interest, particularly in Agaricus Lamiae, Witch’s Breast.
The wind sent the leaves and the clouds overhead flying. Shafts of sunlight flashed through the wood and then were gone. As I walked with Vlad, Razendoringer trotting a few paces behind, I talked eloquently of the virtues of plants, but suspected that Vlad’s thoughts were elsewhere.
I tried to find ways of capturing his attention while, for his part, he asked questions intermittently to show he was listening. Suddenly he stopped. He lifted his head as I had often seen him do when he was listening hard to something. Indeed, I thought I heard a faint human cry.
He grasped my arm and dragged me towards the lip of a small hollow. Mircea was there with one of the kitchen maids. He had her pinned against a tree trunk with her skirts thrust up around her waist. I could see her bare legs and thighs quivering from the pressure she was sustaining. Their backs were raw and red where they had rubbed against the bark of the tree. He was working inside her roughly and his efforts were nearing their climax. She had a round face, usually bland and blank with the folly of her class, but now it was contorted and blubbering with fear. Her hands made little plucking movements at his doublet, but his strength held her in a vice. She barely seemed to have a voice to cry out and she gasped for air as she struggled vainly. I could not see Mircea’s face, only the curly back of his head and his great tongue as it licked the tears away from her livid cheeks.
All this I saw in a few seconds before I tore my eyes away. Vlad went on watching until I dragged him out of their sight, then I began to walk with great strides out of the wood, holding onto Vlad with all my strength. Razendoringer, who had seen nothing, followed mystified but uncomplaining in our wake. We stopped on the edge of the wood where it meets the road leading to Castle Dracula.
“Is that what they call the act of love?” said Vlad.
“Some call it that.”
“Is that how I came into being?”
“Not like that. No.”
“Why was there fear and hatred in it?”
I had no answer. My ignorance was almost as great as his. I looked at Vlad and saw his face unmasked for once, the child in him revealed: perplexed distressed but, against his will, fascinated.
“Should you not have stopped my brother being so cruel?” said Vlad. I had no answer to that either and I looked away. The recriminating silence was mercifully cut short by horn calls and the thunder of hooves on the road.
Into sight came a party of armed horsemen. I recognized some of them as members of Ragul’s personal guard. As they turned the bend in the road and came in sight of the castle they slowed to a trot. I doubt if they recognized either me or Prince Vladimir, but one of them gave a little salute to Razendoringer, half mocking, half respectful. Behind them rode Ragul himself, gaunter and greyer than when I had last seen him. He gave a nod of acknowledgment and I saw him stare a little longer than was necessary at Vlad. It was the first time I had noted the great similarity between the half brothers: the narrow, almost handsome features marred by that hook of a nose. But more than that, it was a kind of implacable stillness that united them in my imagination. And to think that they shared a father in Xantho, so unlike both of them.
Behind them came a party of heralds and courtiers, ruffed and velvetted and satin lined, a carnival of unnecessary colour. Among them was a man in a sky blue velvet gown trimmed with fur, large with heavy, saturnine features. This was Demetrius, Count Cantemir who had been first secretary to the Emperor Rudolph
’s chamberlain, but was now, as I discovered later, plenipotentiary envoy to His Serene Highness. I was filled with fear, remembering our escape from the palace. Would we be dragged back to waste our years with the Emperor? My eyes met his and encountered no recognition. Our escape had doubtless been one of many and not noteworthy.
Following the troupe of courtiers came a closed carriage, canopied on all sides with dark red velvet. As the carriage approached us I saw a hand pluck the curtain aside.
Within I saw three ladies all finely dressed. One was a nondescript, pleasant looking woman who seemed to have settled into a comfortable middle age. The second was the Lady Dolabella, the top of her head and her distinctive round hazel eyes peering over the side of the carriage. I looked at Razendoringer and saw his face filled with joy, but neither he nor his lady made any great movement or noise, such was their restraint. The third lady in the carriage also attracted my attention. I say lady, but she was perhaps no more than thirteen or fourteen, and though not yet at the pinnacle of her beauty she was already a person of exceptional fascination.
Her face was already well formed, the nose perhaps a little too long, the mouth a little too generous, the eyes intensely dark and lustrous; it was a perfect combination of imperfections. Hers was a face that a man could see in his dreams for the rest of his life. The hair, a deep chestnut colour, fell in wide natural curls about her face and she had on a dress of the plainest dark green velvet trimmed with lace which showed off her already exquisite figure. The shape of two perfect white breasts welled up from the confinement of her stiff bodice.
As the carriage passed us the girl leaned out. Her great eager eyes gorged themselves on the scene and her chest heaved with excitement. She saw us and as her eyes met Vlad she put out a plump white arm to wave, but just then the older woman, whom I presumed to be her mother, dragged her back into the carriage.
The Dracula Papers, Book I: The Scholar's Tale Page 13