Until then, he had enjoyed the best food. As a young prince, Murad endowed on him the best training and education. For him to lose these privileges, he knew there must have been a reason. The children of those who remained loyal to Murad, he treated well. Those who did not toe the line saw their children suffer. Vlad heard the story of how Murad had ordered his guards to blind the sons of George Branković. He did this despite being married to their sister.
Vlad did not say a lot. He did not care to engage with his captors or the others held captive with him. But he was shrewd and never rested his eyes or ears. He focused all his efforts on his education and his training. For as many as six hours a day, he worked on building his physical strength and his craft with both sword and bow. And every minute he spent in a classroom he listened and learned.
His growing prowess in the art of combat did not go unnoticed. Murad even watched him practise on occasion and secretly admired his dedication and his amazing skills. Even now, as he approached his thirteenth birthday he was as able as any man. All who knew him thought he would not be one to have as an enemy when he reached maturity.
He was under no illusions in his time there and was wily enough to know his life could end at any time. Any time the sultan saw fit to end it. So it took him only a few days in the cells to realise the truth. He and his brother suffered because their father had angered Murad.
Why would our father do that? Why would he risk our safety?
Vlad could not find answers for his questions. He grew up in a loving home where his father, as well as his mother, had bestowed that love upon him and his brothers. Why then have things come to this? Does my father not care about me anymore? With Mircea as his heir, does he not want his other two sons?
He thought it over and over in his mind. In time, he came to believe that life held little value. This was apparent all around him. On a daily basis he witnessed the executions of prisoners from the window of his cell. He saw them beheaded, hanged, impaled or burned. The Turks seem to enjoy it, he thought. They made cruelty an art form. He did not see a single man die a quick death. The Turks made the executions last hours at a time. They were no doubt making a point as they forced the prisoners to watch every last one.
Vlad hated them at first the same as the others. But this soon passed and he found he began to look forward to them. He imagined it was him out there putting the Turkish scum to death. It was the cruellest of all the methods that intrigued him the most. And now he longed to see Murad and his son, Mehmed, with a pointed stake driven through their rectums.
Radu could never bear to watch. The guards would hold him there until he grew sick. He was frail in both mind and body. Most that knew him adored him for his amazing good looks. He got these from his mother and she had pampered him from birth because of it. It had left him quite timid when compared to his two older brothers.
Vlad had loathed him a long time now. His constant whining drove Vlad crazy. He had never liked how his mother favoured Radu the most of the three of them. The women in the seraglio adored him too. Vlad had often seen the results of them painting his skin or playing with his hair. They never invited Vlad to spend any time there, but they often did his little brother. But what he hated most of all was the way Radu acted when he was with Mehmed.
Vlad knew the way they behaved was very odd and very wrong. Radu was only nine years old. Mehmed, a few months younger than Vlad, was twelve. Yet any time he saw them, Mehmed had his hands on his younger brother. He despised him for it. But Radu never seemed to care about the way Mehmed touched him. And this upset Vlad even more.
They received their daily rations in that moment and it broke Vlad’s line of thought. Radu grabbed his plate and devoured the few scraps that were on it.
Vlad eyed his own plate with disdain. It was a mess of vegetables and pieces of meat all thrown together. He picked it up and held it to his nose. The meat was off again. Still, he felt so hungry, he put a piece in his mouth and chewed.
Radu retreated to a darker corner of the cell and watched him eat. His stomach rumbled with hunger. It was not long before he resorted to his usual whimpering.
“Would you be quiet?” Vlad shouted at him. “I am so tired of your whining.”
“But I am hungry,” Radu replied, his voice a whisper.
“We are all hungry,” Vlad assured him. “It is a part of our punishment.”
“Why are we being punished?” Radu moaned. “We are good.”
“Papa helped the Sultan’s enemies. That is why.”
“I hate Papa,” he said, with a rare firmness. “I wish Mama was here.”
Radu began to cry again. As hungry as he was, Vlad did not fancy his meal. The whining of his brother took away any appetite he had. He looked down at Radu and even pitied him for a moment. He was still only a child after all.
“Here,” he said, dropping his plate at Radu’s feet. “Eat mine, but stop whining.”
Several guards arrived at the cell. To Vlad, that meant the daily executions were about to start. One of them joked about how good it would be to see Vlad or Radu out there.
Vlad gave him an ugly stare. He and Radu were fluent now in the native tongue. Radu did not even look up at them. Vlad watched him grab a handful of food and stuff it all into his mouth.
“Stand up,” one of the guards said to him.
When Radu did not comply, he walked over to the young boy and kicked him hard in the thigh. “Stand up I told you!”
Radu clutched his leg and burst into tears. Vlad flew into a rage at the treatment of his brother. He struck the guard hard across the side of the jaw. The guard went down, but his comrades rushed into the cell to aid him.
Vlad had always been troublesome, and the guards hated him with a passion. They grinned at him now with evil delight. For he had given them the excuse they had needed to administer a beating.
The long hours with the bow and sword had given him strong arms and a thick neck. The time he spent in the saddle and running through swamps had done the same for his legs. But his greatest asset was his mind. Long ago, he had learned how to make his mind and body as one. He knew how to fight and, better still, how to defend himself. These men held no fear for him.
They knew it was the case and was one reason they wanted so badly to beat him. The sultan would not care, not when they told him he had struck the first blow. They eyed him as he stood his ground, bracing himself for what he knew they were going to mete out.
Vlad moved with great agility and purpose. He sidestepped the first guard to approach him. A sharp elbow to the back of the neck put him down also. He kicked the next one hard in the shin and grabbed him by the ears when he doubled over.
The guard screamed when Vlad bit hard into his nose. He struggled with all his might to break free. Vlad moved his head from side to side and continued to exert pressure with his teeth. Finally, a chunk of the cartilage came loose in his mouth.
Vlad spat the piece of nose back in the guard’s face. He allowed him to drop to the ground screaming. The fourth guard drew his sword and held it out before him. With his teeth clenched into a snarl he slowly approached the Wallachian prince.
“Go on, if you must,” Vlad urged him. “Run me through, if you can. I dare you!”
The guard considered doing just that. Three of his close friends were hurt or bleeding. Now more than ever, this miscreant needed a lesson taught him. A beating was one thing, but a serious injury or death was another. He wavered, caught in two minds, knowing there would be a price to pay should he hurt the boy. A beating he and the others could get away with. But if he should wound or kill the young son of Dracul, then he might find a stake with his name on it.
Vlad could read it in his eyes and was keen to remind him of the fact. “What are you waiting for? We both know you fear you may succeed. And what then? You would no doubt be joining those wretched souls outside in the courtyard. I would love to see you with a spike rammed up your arse. I am sure you enjoy such pleasures from your comrad
es each night after dark. Is this not so, you sodomite? I hear your kind does such things often to the young boys from my country. Is this not what you would really love to do to me?”
The guard lost all sense or reason and ran at Vlad. The boy was too slick and easily moved aside. He pushed the guard as he passed him by, knocking him off balance. Before the guard could turn, Vlad took a sword from one of those he had floored.
He dangled it for the guard to see and grinned from ear to ear. “And you are among the Sultan’s very own elite? It is a wonder he is not dead with such a group of incapable buffoons to protect him. I am but a boy and yet four of you cannot better me.”
It was clear to see what the guard was thinking. He and the others had watched Vlad in practise often and knew well his prowess. His age did not even come into it. Vlad could see a hint of fear in his eyes and decided to make use of it. He spun the sword effortlessly in his hand. The guard looked down at it, dazzled by his control and his precision and speed.
The guard took a cautious step to the right. When he felt he had a chance to escape, he ran past Vlad and out through the cell door. The other three got up from the floor and fled also. Vlad slapped one of them across the butt with the blade on his way out.
Vlad laughed out loud when they were gone, hoping they would hear him. He grabbed the hilt in both hands and pressed the tip of the sword into the stone floor. Then he dropped to a crouched position and waited. It would not take the guards long to return, and with many more at their side. The cell door remained open.
“Thank you, Vlad,” Radu whispered, stifling a sob.
“Hush,” Vlad said, his tone stern. “Stay quiet.”
“But the door is open. We can escape.”
“Oh, Radu,” Vlad groaned. “What would you know of such things? Do not be so easily fooled. We have nowhere to go.”
It was not long before they came. But this time, it was the sultan’s very own personal guard that arrived. Vlad’s heart raced in his chest, but he did not show it and remained hunched down. He knew these men were serious in all they did. They were as hard as stone and killed as a way of life. It was how they each attained such a position here. He knew that one such as he would pose no problems for their like. For them to be here, he realised Murad had returned from Varna. He wondered how the battle had transpired. Word of the event was unlikely to ever reach his ears.
The guards were all highly trained fighting men. Vlad knew they were the best of their kind. For Murad had only ever picked the best men from his army to remain with him. They never left his side, so Vlad began to wonder if the sultan was on his way to the cell too. He quietly hoped not. But for these men to be here, then word must have gone straight to Murad of the trouble he had caused. If the sultan felt troubled enough to pay him a visit, then it did not bode well for him.
The guards stood there and gazed at him with no hint of emotion on their faces. The longer they waited, the more it worried Vlad. He did not flinch while under their scrutiny. If he could be sure of one thing, it was these men admired courage. It was part of the code they lived by and what bound them to each other as a group.
Vlad’s worst fears were realised when the sultan walked into the cell. He bowed his head and held out the sword on the flats of his palms for the guards to take. One of them seized it before some of the others converged upon him. They forced him down to the floor and beat him about the head and body.
He managed to hide his head beneath his arms to shield the blows. The guards finally lifted him up again and held him before the sultan.
“What is the meaning of all this nonsense?” Murad asked him.
“They were beating on my brother,” Vlad hissed, showing his bloodied teeth. At least one blow had got through his protective guard.
“Then it was justified I am sure.”
“He is but a boy.” He did not care that it was the sultan he vented his anger on.
“You have such courage,” Murad remarked, rubbing his hand against Vlad’s cheek. “It is remarkable. You show such toughness; such grit. I do not doubt you have inherited this from your father. He is a great warrior, Vlad Dracul, but a real thorn in my side.”
“He is nobler than any member of this household!”
Murad chose to ignore the blatant lack of respect in his tone. “I would tend to agree with you, young Vlad,” he said. “But then your father is not very good at keeping his word. And, he is not here to answer for that. So I have decided you should pay the price for that in his stead.”
“Do as you will,” Vlad said, his tone as defiant as his glare. “I care nothing for my life. I would as soon be dead as remain here another day.”
“That would be the solution to a lot of my problems,” the sultan agreed. “You are such a miscreant. I would be well advised I am sure to be rid of you.”
“Then do it.”
Murad shook his head. “I am afraid you are worth more to me alive. So I shall keep you alive, for the now.”
He nodded to his guards, who dragged Vlad over to the bars. There, they stripped him to the waist and tied his hands to the strong iron.
They paraded the other hostages into the cell. These included the much older nobleman, George Konti from Kruja. He was a cousin of Vrana Konti, who served as a second to the great Skanderbeg. When Skanderbeg escaped from the Turks at Nis the year before, Konti had not managed to flee with him. Vlad had little association with him in the time they had spent there together. He rarely spoke to anyone. The other boys though, all looked up to Konti with a degree of awe.
Murad took the cat-o-nine-tails from one of his guards. He wanted to set an example to all the other boys in the cell. For that reason, he intended to deliver this flogging with his own hand.
He dangled the whip and eyed the boys. “If I see any of you look away,” he warned, holding their gazes to show he meant it, “then you shall take his place. I want you all to see how I deal with the sons of men who do not keep their word.”
ANATOLIA. A CELL BELOW THE ROYAL PALACE OF SULTAN MURAD II AT ADRIANOPLE.
THE SAME NIGHT. DECEMBER, 1444.
Vlad waited as Murad turned to him again and felt him bring the whip down hard against his back. His whole body tensed and he caught his breath. Nothing could have prepared him for the shock or the pain of the lash. It cut into his bare flesh and instantly drew blood. Despite the pain Vlad refused to cry out.
The sultan waited a moment and then withdrew the nine-tails, taking small pieces of torn flesh with it. Small fragments of skin and blood sprayed the other boys standing closest to him. Even then Vlad kept his resolve. It annoyed Murad who brought it down against his exposed back a second time, though harder than the first.
The observers all winced, amazed at his courage. They did not realise that Vlad wanted to set an example too. He wanted to show that they could stand up to this brutal Ottoman oppression.
A thick sweat formed on Murad’s brow. He was not used to such exertion. Despite putting every ounce of strength he had behind the lashes, the boy refused to cry out. Blood dripped from his offending arm and his clothing. That and Vlad’s courage was making him look foolish.
After he had taken nine lashes Vlad was a quivering wreck. The muscles all over his body trembled with the shock. The pain was near unbearable, yet he still refused to cry out. When the whip came down on him one last time the spikes struck the back of his thighs. Vlad finally gasped out loud in pain.
Murad smiled with satisfaction and then tossed it down on the floor. “Let that be a lesson to you all!” he beamed, exhausted.
Vlad’s back was on fire. Blood oozed from the welts in streams along his broken skin. Once his ordeal was over his body relaxed so much that he lost control of his bowels.
Murad laughed when he saw it. “Look! He has shit himself.”
His guards feigned laughter. No one in the cell other than Murad saw anything amusing. Konti stood there with tears in his eyes. The courage of the boy had really touched him. He knew that with
it, Vlad would make a great man and a formidable warrior.
When Vlad realised Murad was about to leave he turned his head to face the sultan. He summoned all his strength and cried out a curse in his native tongue. “Murad, you are the son of a diseased whore! One day I shall feast on your eyes. I shall burn your children. Your women shall be whores for the men in my armies!”
“What did he say?” Murad asked, looking to his guards. He had only a vague knowledge of Vlad’s native language.
They all shrugged. None of them were familiar with the dialect. Hazar stood at the open door of the cell where Murad could not see him. He knew well what Vlad had said, but opted to say nothing. The boy’s courage had reached even one as cold as he.
Murad then looked to Konti. “You know the tongue of the Romanias. You tell me what he said.”
Konti hesitated for a moment and looked at Vlad. He had no intention of signing the boy’s death warrant.
“My patience is wearing thin,” Murad advised him. “What did he say?”
“Sire,” he said, stepping forward. “The boy says you are the son of a great man. You are the light of your mother’s eyes.”
“Is that it?” he asked, knowing there was more.
“He wishes you many healthy children. He hopes one day they should ride side by side with his armies.”
“It is amazing what the whip can do. I am glad you are seeing sense at last, boy.”
The guards freed Vlad and threw him down on his blanket. They ushered the hostages out of the cell to leave a terrified Radu shaking in the corner.
Murad looked down at him. “Come, Radu. I hear Mehmed is missing you.”
Radu exited with him, the sultan taking him by the hand. They left Vlad alone in the cell, covered in blood and his clothes soiled. When Vlad was sure no one could hear, he cried long and hard.
It felt like hours that he lay there. The pain was so bad throughout his entire body that he could hardly move. Exhausted and with his spirit broken, he drifted off to sleep.
The Dracula Chronicles: For Whom The Bell Tolls Page 17