The Dracula Chronicles: Bound By Blood

by Shane KP O'Neill

  The signal came. He rode out to the riverbank between the Bridge of Sant’ Angelo and the Church of Santa Maria Nuova.

  The men dragged the body down off the back of the white stallion. They removed the sack to check the identity of the body. “It is Cardinal Borgia.”

  One of the others turned to Dracula. “I shall take you to where your payment awaits you.”

  Two of the men threw the body into the Tiber.

  “Is it sinking?” one of them asked.

  They noticed a black object floating on the water a fair distance out.

  “I do not know,” another answered. “But I see something afloat.”

  They hurled stones at the object for a few minutes. Finally, it disappeared below the surface. The men dispersed quickly. It was not long until dawn, and they did not want anyone to see them there.

  The vampires could feel the dawn approaching also. They followed Cesare’s man to the basement of an old run-down house. There, they saw several chests full of gold.

  Cesare stepped out onto a balcony at the Appartamento di Borgia. He closed his eyes and sucked in the fresh morning air. Opening them again, he whispered to the gentle breeze, “So long, Brother.”

  ROME PROVINCE. THE APARTMENT OF GIOVANNI BORGIA. THE APPARTAMENTO DI BORGIA IN THE VATICAN ENCLAVE IN ROME.

  JUNE 15, 1497.

  Giovanni’s servants left it until late morning to wake him. His secretary entered his rooms when he did not respond. He found the bed of his master untouched.

  “The cardinal is not here?” he asked a servant.

  “I do not know, Monsignor. I have not seen him.”

  The monsignor made further enquiries. No one else in his employ had seen Giovanni that morning either. The young cardinal was due to leave for Naples with Cesare in the afternoon. Worried, the monsignor decided to go straight to the pope.

  He bowed and kissed the pope’s ring when he entered his private quarters. Cesare was also there. “Thank you for receiving me, Holy Father.”

  “You look worried, Monsignor. What ails you?”

  “It is the cardinal, your son.”

  “Is there something the matter with him?”

  Cesare pricked his ears for the news he longed to hear.

  “He is not here, Holy Father. He did not sleep in his bed this night past. I fear something is wrong.”

  The pope stifled a laugh. Cesare had already told him of Giovanni’s leave of absence during the night. “I imagine he has found a young lady.”

  “But he is due to leave for Napoli in the coming hours.”

  “I am sure he shall be along when he is good and ready. If you can excuse us, Monsignor, we have matters to discuss.”

  He bowed and left. The explanation offered did not satisfy him. He decided to send some people out to ask around.

  Earlier that morning, some fishermen found Antonio in the Piazza della Giudecca on their way home. He had not moved from the spot where Varkal left him. They saw at once he was very ill and took him home with them.

  “Are you well?” one of them asked.

  “What is your name?” enquired the other.

  Antonio could not answer. A layer of sweat covered his body. It made him look as though they had just fished him from the river. His skin was deathly white, and it contrasted with the darkness of his eye sockets. They saw, too, a wound on his neck. It had turned black and was badly infected. His fingers showed signs of the same.

  “You should not have brought him here,” the wife of one of the men argued.

  “We are good Christian people,” her husband responded. “I could not leave him there to die.”

  “Get him a blanket,” the other man said. “He needs warming.”

  “What if he has the plague?” the woman continued. “Have you thought of that? You shall kill us all with your foolish notions.”

  “There is no plague in Rome,” he scolded. “Go and get the poor man a blanket. Can you not see how he is shivering?”

  “Many people come into Rome,” she said. “Any one of them could bring it with them.”

  The men tried to get Antonio to drink some water. He could not. Almost at once, he threw up all over the floor by his feet.

  It did not please the woman. “Oh, look!” she said. “If that is not plague, I do not know what is. Take him outside.”

  “If we do that, he shall die.”

  “If you do not, we shall all die. I want him gone from my house!”

  “Let us take him to the Hospital of San Girolamo. They might care for him there.”

  The men each took an arm around their shoulders and escorted him back towards the river. He groaned for a short time longer, and then died.

  The people the monsignor sent out, found Giovanni’s horse. It stood alone in the streets near to the Cardinal of Parma’s palace. There was no sign of its owner. This was the proof he needed that something was amiss. News also reached him that Antonio was dead.

  He heard another story, from an unverified source, that Antonio had opened his eyes after his passing. A cry escaped his lips before he stood up and staggered across the street, his body erupting in a ball of flame. The man sent to check on this came back to report he had seen a large scorch mark on the cobbles and a pile of ash. As many as a half a dozen people claimed to have seen it.

  The monsignor reported the news at once to the pope. He did not speak of the stories circulating about Antonio, just that he was dead. Vannozza heard also that her son was missing. She headed straight to the Vatican.

  “Has anyone seen him?” Alexander shouted.

  Every face he looked at offered him a blank stare.

  “Then question everyone. Every priest, soldier, and servant. I want him found!”

  “No one has seen him, Holy Father. We have talked to everyone.”

  Cesare feigned worry. “Has anyone looked for him outside the Vatican?”

  “Yes, Eminence. We have looked everywhere your brother liked to frequent. There is no sign of him.”

  “It is not good enough!”

  The pope was beside himself. “Send every available man out into the city. I want inquiries made in every quarter. Wherever they might find out something, I want them to go.”

  By early evening, someone came forward. They rushed the man to the Vatican for an audience with the pope, informing Alexander of it before he arrived.

  “Who is this man?” he asked.

  “He is a boatman from the Schiavoni, Holy Father.”

  “He is Venetian?” Cesare asked.

  “Yes.” The monsignor nodded, as if he needed to answer that.

  Vannozza stood up. She looked as though she had aged ten years. “Does this man have a name?”

  “Yes, signora. The man is named Giorgio.”

  He arrived soon after. The Swiss Guard brought him through to the pope’s private living quarters. A fair group awaited his arrival, and it made him nervous. He removed his cap when he saw the pope.

  Alexander walked up to him. He did not care for the boatman to bow. “Straighten up, man,” he said. “We heard that you saw something late this night past?”

  “Yes, Holy Father. I saw something, yes.”

  “Then hurry up, man. Tell us!”

  Giorgio lowered his head a touch. “It was this night past, soon before the dawn.”

  “What happened? What did you see?”

  “I saw two men throw a body into the water.”

  Vannozza put her hand to her mouth, and gasped.

  “You never thought to report this?”

  “Holy Father, I have seen many bodies tossed into the river. No one has ever asked after them before this day.”

  “Where on the river was this?” Cesare asked him.

  “Between the Bridge of Sant’ Angelo and the Church of Santa Maria Nuova.”

  “And where were you?”

  “I was on my boat on the river.”

  “And you were not seen?”

  “No, Eminence. The river is dar
k, and my boat is laden with logs. I was on board to be sure my cargo was not robbed.”

  The pope resumed the questioning. “What more did you see?”

  “Well…”

  “What did you see in the first place?”

  Giorgio cast his mind back. “I saw two men come out of one of the streets.”

  “Which street was this?”

  “The one that runs past the Hospital of San Girolamo.”

  “What did they look like? Were they tramps? Beggars?”

  “No, Holy Father. They wore fine clothes.”

  “So they looked like gentlemen?”

  “Yes, Holy Father.”

  “What was it they were doing?”

  “They walked to the riverbank. It is not uncommon for folk to stand there. I oft see people throw things into the river from that point.”

  “These men threw a body into the river?”

  “Not at first. They looked up and down the river to check if anyone could see them.”

  “You are sure of this?”

  “Yes, Holy Father. I saw it all so clear.”

  Cesare eyed the man with contempt. He worried that this witness could lead the inquiry to him. The masked stranger said there would be no trail. One hundred thousand ducats for this debacle? He should have done the deed himself.

  “They saw nothing astir so they made a sign.”

  “A sign? To whom?”

  “I do not know who it was, Holy Father.”

  “But you saw him?”

  “Oh, yes, I saw him for sure.”

  “Can you describe him, then?” Cesare asked, his tone aggressive.

  Giorgio nodded. “He was a proper gentleman.”

  “By his clothes, you mean?”

  “Yes, he wore the finest and had a flowing cape.”

  “What else can you say of him?”

  “He rode a fine white stallion. Gold spurs he had on his boots.”

  “How could you see if they were gold?”

  “They were gold for sure, Eminence.”

  Cesare nodded. “Very well. Is there any more you can tell us about him?”

  “Yes, there was one thing.”

  “Out with it, man!” Alexander urged.

  “He wore a mask.”

  Vannozza gasped again, and fainted. Cesare ran to her side when she hit the floor. With help, he lifted her back into her seat. “Get some water!” he shouted.

  An attendant returned with a bowl and a cloth. Cesare wetted it and dabbed it against her brow. “Are you well, Mama?” he asked.

  She opened her eyes. “Yes, thank you, Cesare.”

  “What is wrong, Vannozza?” Alexander asked her.

  “A masked man in fine clothes and a black cape came to my house this day past.”

  “How is this?”

  “He spoke to Giovanni for a moment.” She turned to her son. “You were there, Cesare. You saw him.”

  Cesare nodded.

  “Do you know this man, Cesare?” his father asked.

  He shook his head. “No, I do not know him.”

  Alexander clenched his fists. “Does anybody know the identity of this man?”

  Giorgio shifted about. He did not like falling under the scrutiny of others. His life meant he spent much of his time alone on the river. That is how he liked it. He never much enjoyed the company of other people.

  “You have more to add?”

  “Yes, Holy Father. There is more.”

  “Pray tell us,” he implored the boatman, his hands shaking.

  “The masked man carried a body on his horse. Two others helped support it.”

  “Did you see them?”

  “Not too well. It was easy to see the rider. He was sat up high.”

  “So what happened?”

  “He turned the horse so the men at the river could take the body.”

  “That is when they threw the body into the river?”

  “Yes, Holy Father. The rider asked if they had thrown it far.”

  “And what then?”

  “They said they had, but the rider said he could see something floating in the water. So the men threw stones until it had sunk.”

  “Did you see any more?”

  “No, Holy Father. They all left after that.”

  The Pope was having difficulty keeping his composure. “Then it is good you came here and told me of this. You may go.”

  Vannozza looked ashen. “Do you think it is Giovanni?”

  “I do not know,” he said. He turned to the monsignor. “At first light, I want every inch of the riverbed searched. I need to know if it is my son.”

  The vigil had begun.

  The first light of dawn saw the Tiber filled with boatmen and fishermen. Hundreds of them crowded the river. They dragged the bed for the entire day. Several skeletons and rotted corpses came up in the nets. Men on the riverbank took each one away and threw them into a pauper’s grave.

  Alexander and Vannozza waited anxiously for any news, receiving a report every hour. The day dragged on. There was still no sign of their son from the search on the river. They both knelt and prayed there would not be.

  The search continued well into the evening.

  “I have something!” a boatman shouted.

  Everything stopped. Others climbed into his boat to help. They hauled in the net, and saw it contained a fresh body.

  The men brought it ashore and laid it on the riverbank. At once, the monsignor recognised it as Giovanni Borgia. He put his hand over his mouth and wept. The men crowded around. They removed their caps and made the Sign of the Cross.

  “Who is going to tell the Holy Father?” an archbishop asked him.

  “I should,” he said. “Have the cardinal taken back to the Vatican. I want his body cleaned and dressed before his parents see him. Do it, and lay him out in his room. I shall follow soon.”

  He waited to view the body himself before breaking the news. Just as he feared, there was no robbery. Giovanni’s purse and gloves remained attached to his belt. It contained gold and some jewels. Giovanni’s dagger, with precious stones in its hilt, still rested in its scabbard. He was fully clothed. The killers had not taken any trophies. Whatever the motive, it was an act of cold-blooded murder.

  The monsignor informed the pope. Alexander broke down, and Vannozza with him. Cesare tried to console them, to no avail.

  It was quite a time before the pope felt strong enough to ask for the details. He went to another room where the monsignor told him the grim truth.

  “Where is his body?”

  “He is laid out in his apartment, Holy Father.”

  “Does he look good enough for his mother’s eyes?”

  “Yes, Holy Father. He is clean and dressed out in his finest clothes.”

  “What of his injuries?”

  “His throat is covered. Only some minor scratches on his face are showing.”

  The pope nodded. “I should go and tell her.”

  They went together to see their son. Vannozza took one look at her boy and collapsed. Members of the Swiss Guard had to take her to another room to recover.

  Alexander stood beside his son, cupping Giovanni’s face in his hands. “Oh, my boy. My sweet boy.”

  The pope wept for a long time. Everyone but Cesare left. He put an arm around his father to comfort him.

  “We must find who did this,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Cesare nodded, but did not speak.

  “Someone has to pay. Whoever it is, I shall find him!”

  He never did.

  DRACULA soon tired of Rome. Varkal returned home to Wallachia, where he took the gold, and hid it below the ruins of his father’s castle. Dracula and Ilona travelled again without him.

  Ilona loved it. She liked nothing better than to experience new languages and cultures. Each new tongue she found, she spoke like a native, and it thrilled her. Most of all, she liked to visit the royal courts in each kingdom. She would compare them with those she had
grown up in.

  She often felt her husband was weary of it all. He never showed it if he was. His devotion to her brought them ever closer. She found that, with each night that passed, she loved him more than ever before.

  They moved through France, Portugal, and Spain. Ilona had a taste for city life. In each one they visited, they stayed for a month or more. They left a monstrous trail of corpses on their journey. It seemed to her, the more she fed, the stronger she became. The stronger she became, the greater her thirst.

  As the century drew to an end, Dracula grew restless. Although far off, he sensed something wrong at home. They set off in the last month of the year. The closer they came to home, the stronger the feeling grew.

  The Maglaks still lived in the shadow of his castle. The moment he touched down there, he knew the problem. Varkal was feeding from those who had once served him.

  His son arrived back at the castle with an ill feeling. When he retreated to his dark chamber in the tunnels below, he found them waiting. Dawn was already on the horizon. The new century had arrived.

  Varkal bowed. “Father? Ilona?”

  “Sleep,” Dracula said. “When you awaken, we will have much to discuss.”

  WALLACHIA. THE RUINS OF DRACULA’S CASTLE

  IN THE CARPATHIAN MOUNTAINS.

  JANUARY 1, 1500.

  Dracula awoke as soon as the sun went down. He looked to his left to see Ilona still asleep. His son stirred and groaned from his resting place. Dracula scanned his mind to see images of him in a brothel.

  He rose up onto one of the crumbling ramparts. This place held so many memories for him. Some came to mind of the thousands he had enslaved to build it. Most of those were men who had stood against his father, or played some part in Vlad Dracul’s downfall. They laboured to carry the stones up the side of the mountain. Most of them perished in the process, a punishment he thought fitting for their crimes. It had heralded the beginning of his most brutal reign.

  Closing his eyes, he breathed in the crisp winter air. It always seemed so much fresher up here. The idea to build this place had come to him long ago. He modelled it on the mighty fortress at Hunedoara, building over the ruins of an earlier fortress put there by his grandfather. When it was finished, he thought it would resist any attack.