I did not know how to reply. What he said seemed to be a mixture of wisdom and vanity, blasphemy and holiness. I could not entirely accept what he said, for so much of it seemed to conflict with our Holy Church; yet it was not all folly. I have learned since that none of us has an absolute hold on the truth. It is probable that his hold was greater than mine; at any rate he appeared quite indifferent as to whether I agreed or not. I think I detected a smile behind the cowl. How I guessed at that I do not know, but for a moment he turned towards me and his bright eyes caught mine. Once more I was invaded by that haunting air of familiarity about his half concealed face. I turned away from his penetrating look to find Vlad huddled up not far away watching the scene with rapt interest.
“Was it your shadow that turned aside the Spahi on the woodland track?” I asked.
He made no reply. But I think he nodded imperceptibly.
“Father Sylvius,” I said. “We are most grateful for your hospitality. We must find our way to Castle Dracula to bring the news. We must do it quickly. We need horses.”
He then gave us instructions for leaving the wood. He told us to make our way to a certain farm. There we would find horses. If we told the farmer that we came from Sylvius, they would be saddled and given to us. Vlad said that he would leave his ring with the farmer as guarantee for payment and at this Sylvius nodded approvingly. I asked about the Turks and Sylvius replied that we would not be troubled by them on our journey, then he got up and walked out of the cave. I watched his hooded figure march down the little valley where the stream flowed and into a belt of sunlit trees. As he disappeared from sight I heard a sudden chorus of bird song. Vlad and I looked after him in silence.
“We never found out who he was,” said Vlad.
“It is of no importance,” I replied. “He is all of us.” The moment I had said this, almost without thinking, I knew that it was somehow the truth.
I went outside the cave to wash in the stone basin. Looking in the water, I caught sight of my own reflection, now heavily bearded. Then I knew why the eyes of Sylvius had been so familiar. They had been my own.
Soon we were on our way out of the wood. We found the farmer, his horses and the road which led to the Borgo Pass. We travelled swiftly without troubling to conceal ourselves. The land seemed deserted, and the few people left in the villages were frightened and unhelpful. I, for my part, rode in a dream as my mind was still with Sylvius, his words and the face which he had presented to me, half hidden, but nonetheless my own.
It was later vouchsafed to me by both Razendoringer and Vlad that the face which they had both glimpsed beneath Sylvius’s cowl had strikingly resembled their own. Mircea kept his own counsel, and I never heard him mention Sylvius. When the subject once came up in his presence he merely looked blank, as if he had forgotten all about him.
As we came to the Borgo pass we started to come across hundreds of peasants on the move, their wagons piled high with baggage. They were all escaping to the mountains away from the Turkish terror. We saw also, scattered among them, members of the cavalry of the palace guard who had somehow escaped from the battle like us. These Vlad and Mircea rallied to themselves. I asked one of them how the battle had gone after we had left.
The account he gave was confused. The attack on the camp had been a complete success from the point of view of routing the Transylvanian army, but, because of its hasty and inadequate planning, many of our men had been able to escape. I asked about Ragul. Last time he had seen him, said the man, he had been fighting valiantly at the head of a column of the guard, but what had happened then he could not say. The news gave us some hope: we had suffered a defeat, but not a massacre.
By the time we had reached the head of the Borgo pass and had taken the path which led up to Castle Dracula we had some one hundred and twenty mounted and armed men with us. About half of these were boyars who, to judge from the comparative freshness of their appearance, had taken very little part in the fighting so far. Still with us also were the toiling lines of fugitives. I wondered if they would not have done better to stay in their villages.
When we reached the gates of Castle Dracula an extraordinary scene met our eyes. The drawbridge was down and before it were ranged a strong detachment of the guard. Surrounding them was a great crowd of fugitives clamouring to be let in. A hugely built marshal of the guard, Pokok by name, was deciding who should enter and who should not. Most he rejected because they were elderly, infirm or had otherwise met with his displeasure, but those who were allowed in did not enter without some offering made to him. It was a task that he seemed to relish far beyond the profit which he earned from it: for that hour he was a monarch.
Mircea at our head spurred his horse and drove a ruthless way through the fugitives until he came to where Pokok was standing. Our men followed in close order. Pokok looked up and his flabby cheeks became suffused with self-important rage.
“Who the devil are you?” he said. “You wait your turn, like the rest of these people.” For this he received a slash across the face from Mircea’s riding whip. Pokok’s cheek went scarlet, then blood began to trickle from it. He staggered back and his guard formed a close rank behind him, presenting their pikes.
“You dog!” said the Prince. “Do you not know who I am? I am Prince Mircea escaped from the battle at Tchorlu with the remnants of Ragul’s army. Let me in. Moreover, any payment that you have received from these poor people to fill your malodorous belly will be paid in full to the King’s treasury. There it will be used for the feeding and protection of these unfortunate men and women.” These last remarks were made half turned to the crowd behind him. So saying he removed his helmet, handed it to a mounted boyar nearby, shook free his golden hair and turned to face the waiting crowd.
“If this tub of lard refuses to behave himself,” he shouted, “you are to tell me!” At this the crowd cheered.
Pokok was by this time sweating profusely and offering his humblest apologies to Mircea who ignored them and gave us the signal to ride through with him. Pokok’s guard parted before us and we were followed into the castle by prolonged cheers.
If I had been one of the crowd I might have cheered myself. This was Mircea’s great gift: like his father he was no planner but had an instinct for seizing the opportunity which the moment offered, and I could only applaud his treatment of the wretch Pokok. Two days later I heard that he had died apparently of asphyxiation. The truth was that he had taken a young girl of fourteen, as payment, from a family which wanted to be let into the castle. Pokok’s wife, a large person herself, had discovered them together. After dismissing the girl she had tied Pokok to his bed and sat on him for a day and a night until he expired in agony. This I had from Razendoringer.
Having had a little to do with armies and encampments for some months now, I was shocked on returning to Castle Dracula to find everything so ill prepared. There was indeed a frenzied air of activity; people were working on the castle’s defences, but there was no sense of coherence or rational organisation. When Xantho received us in his chamber, the room was flooded with documents and plans. A model of one of Alexander’s devices for repelling invaders was on the table and Alexander himself was standing beside him with his usual bland, senseless smile.
Mircea once more seized the situation and gave a highly coloured report of recent events, bitterly condemning Ragul for not fortifying the Turkish camp after the victory at the bridge on the first day. He ingeniously played up his own role in events without exactly lying. With a subtlety I thought beyond him, he praised me and Razendoringer who, he said, had acquitted ourselves well for men who were not soldiers. Vlad he left completely out of the account. It was a masterly piece of work and Xantho beamed at him. Pride in his son brought him welcome relief from the prospect of disaster. He turned to me and asked if I could confirm the truth of his account.
I tried to do justice to Ragul and Vlad, but Xantho merely waved me aside. He said that he was now putting Mircea in charge of the defence of
the castle, to leave himself time, he said, to deal with affairs of state.
Alexander nodded sagely, but Mircea looked dismayed: it was a heavy burden for one so young, even if he had been more worthy of it. However, before he could voice objections there was a knock at the door and Verney entered in great excitement. He had found the secret, he said, and was ready for a trial, at which Xantho’s eyes brightened.
“For the making of gold?” he said.
“No, your grace,” said Verney cautiously. “That may take some time yet. I mean for Greek Fire.” Xantho looked uncomprehending. “For the defence of your land, majesty.”
Then it was Alexander’s turn to be greatly excited and he demanded that they go and see the experiment at once. So the plans were left and we all followed the king to where Verney had set up his device.
As you know, Greek Fire — sometimes called wildfire — takes many forms. It is usually a combination of pitch, sulphur, naphtha and other combustibles thrown at the enemy by ballistic force. But the most famous form of Greek Fire was invented by one Callinicus in Constantinople during the reign of Constantine pogonatus (“The Bearded Constantine”) in the seventh century. This wildfire was expelled as a liquid by means of a tube or “siphon”. It could travel considerable distances before prolonged contact with air or water caused it to catch fire. This substance was responsible for the destruction of the Saracen fleet at Cyzicus and the art of compounding it was a deep secret, so well kept in fact that the formula was entirely lost at some time in the following century. It was this compound that Verney claimed to have rediscovered.
Verney took us to one of the outer walls where we found two of the palace guards with a great metal vessel shaped like a gourd attached to a pump and a tube which projected over the battlements at an angle of forty five degrees. It was growing dark and Xantho seemed impatient after his long walk, perhaps because the dinner hour was approaching. Alexander on the other hand was delighted and eager to examine every aspect of this curious engine, but the king cut him short and asked Verney to begin the demonstration.
The soldiers pumped and a jet of liquid was launched into the night air. It hung there for a moment, then suddenly we saw the sky filled with fiery rain, falling in great flaming drops into the ground where it blazed and smouldered for some time. In other circumstances I might have thought it a spectacle of great beauty. Xantho was entranced and demanded that another jet be launched and another, and another. A pig, strayed from the camp under the walls where some of the fugitives were informally quartered, wandered into the path of this infernal shower and caught fire. It went about squealing in a most distressing manner, jumping and rolling in the grass to quench the flames, but Xantho was delighted by this, saying with a laugh that if our supplies ran out we could always feed ourselves on roast Turk, which I thought a very poor joke indeed. Verney was at pains to point out that supplies of the deadly liquid were limited, but Xantho brushed this consideration aside. He evidently believed or wished to believe that his problems were solved.
While we were watching the flames of one last jet of fire dropping through the dark, the thunder of hooves was heard. Into the fiery glow rode a ragged figure at the head of some two hundred horsemen. He leapt from his horse and shouted up at the battlements.
“Let us through. It is I, Ragul! We have no time to lose. The entire Turkish army is only two days march behind us.”
Xantho gave us all a quick, nervous glance and then hurried away to his dinner.
XXII
Xantho’s reception of Ragul was decidedly cold and the Queen was not there to greet him. He was told that Mircea was now in command of the defences and that he was to be the prince’s subordinate. I saw no anger on Ragul’s weary face, only resignation, even a faint mocking smile. Xantho then informed us that he had vital business to discuss with Alexander, his chamberlain. With that he turned his back upon the company and the conduct of the great siege, the most momentous conflict I have ever witnessed. But he was to intervene late in the day, in a most unexpected manner.
Now events began to move rapidly. On the following day the remnants of Ragul’s shattered army began to appear at the castle gates and were taken in. Some five thousand men took refuge in the King’s fortress, but the place was so vast that they were accommodated without too much difficulty.
Of the fugitive families, most were turned away, but they camped in the woods outside the castle, hoping vainly that its proximity would somehow protect them while we began to hear a rhythmical thumping sound from the distant plains of Bistritsa: the drums of Sokolly’s approaching army. Mircea made a great show of assuming command of the defences, but he left the work to Ragul, and if he did give an order the men would wait for Ragul to confirm it. I accompanied the princes now as a guardian rather than a pedagogue so that I saw much of what was going forward.
Ragul almost instantly imposed order on the chaotic defensive plans. There were many who gave advice to which he listened without much pretence of interest, then went his own way. Alexander of Glem was particularly anxious to interfere. He even had a detachment of men manufacturing a vast crane which would be affixed to the walls and used to seize men out of the enemy ranks, lift them up and then drop them upon the enemy, thus causing terror and confusion. Ragul at once stopped all work on this probably useless engine, but the peremptoriness with which he did it caused offence. There was nothing of the politician in Ragul.
Every day the drumbeat of the Turks grew louder. One of Ragul’s men rode in to tell us that the bulk of the army was overrunning the country up to the borders of Hungary but that Sokolly in person with upwards of a hundred thousand men was coming to invest the castle.
In the last moments of freedom that were left to us, Ragul, with the princes and myself, made a tour of every corner of the castle. Grain and other preservables were stored in safe, dry conditions, animals were well housed and there were several deep wells of water. If disease could be kept at bay then the castle would hold out for a year. Sokolly on the other hand could not afford to keep a substantial army encamped around the castle for that long. The losses they would suffer, particularly in winter, would be substantial, so his army had to make a frontal assault.
We were astonished by the ramification of passages and chambers in this castle. It would have been easy to get lost but both Ragul and Vlad knew most of it well, their taste for isolation and gloom having given them an incomparable knowledge of the labyrinth that was Castle Dracula. But there were some areas, buried deep in the rock upon which the castle stood, with which even they were unfamiliar.
On our tour of inspection we were accompanied by a “keyman”. This important functionary, unique as far as I know to Castle Dracula, carried on his back a great wooden case which when opened revealed bunches of keys neatly arranged on hooks. The case was intended to contain every key to every door in the castle with the exception of a few private apartments belonging to the King and Queen.
As we were walking along a passage on the lowest level of the castle, a place where none of us had been, we encountered a door. It was a substantial oak creation, bound with rusted iron. There was a grille in the door veiled in cobwebs. Ragul pulled aside the cobwebs and thrust his torch through the grille, but we could see nothing.
“What’s in there?” he said to the keyman.
The keyman consulted a small book. “Dungeon, sir,” he said at last.
“Open it,” said Ragul.
“We don’t open that, my lord.”
“Why not?”
“It hasn’t been open in years.”
“Then open it now, you fool,” snapped Ragul.
The keyman took the case off his back, muttering all the while that it had not been open in years. Eventually he found the key and presented it to Ragul. Ragul told him to open the door himself and not waste further time, but the lock was badly rusted and the key would not turn. This seemed to afford the keyman some satisfaction.
“You see, my lord, I did with respect t
ell you. You can’t open it. It’s not been open in years.” He had a round, shiny, obstinate face, which glowed with the contented righteousness of an inferior mind.
“Then break the door down, damn you, or I’ll have you roasted over a slow fire.”
The keyman hesitated. The choice between breaking down a door which had not been open in years and being roasted over a slow fire was weighed carefully. Reluctantly choosing the former he applied a feeble kick to the door; not surprisingly it failed to budge.
“Won’t open, my lord. It’s rusted up. The lock engine, as we call it, has been corrupted by damage from rust. As I say, it hasn’t been open in—”
“Break it down, you dog, or I’ll soil my sword in your fundament!” said Ragul, drawing his weapon for this distasteful purpose. At this the keyman began to deliver a series of hearty but unscientific kicks to the door. The rest of us gave assistance, having no prejudice about the length of time that the door had not been open.
The wood, which appeared so solid, was quite rotten and it was not long before we were able to burst through to find ourselves in a wide groin-vaulted chamber whose walls were slightly damp to the touch. All around the room were ranged metal objects and instruments of every conceivable kind.
There was a rack, shackles, thumbscrews and a tall, coffin-shaped box lined with spikes which is sometimes called Our Lady of the Hundred Wounds and sometimes the Iron Maiden. In a corridor leading off this frightful place we could see at least one further door. Ragul thrust his torch into every corner of the place.
The Dracula Papers, Book I: The Scholar's Tale Page 26