The Sultan, the Vampyr and the Soothsayer

by Lucille Turner

  ‘Then why do you do it, I wonder?’ said a voice from down the table. It was Cazan’s.

  The Treasurer’s face reddened. Dracul bit his lip and stood up quickly. ‘There are some introductions I would like to make, My Lord, if you are agreeable?’

  The Turk swept out of his seat. ‘Thank you, Dracul, I do seem to have lost my appetite. Why don’t we start with your sons? I hear you have several.’

  Dracul stiffened at the mention of his sons. One of the servants had told him that there had been another incident, and he knew which of his sons it would concern without even having to ask. So far he had dismissed the reports of nightmares, the calling out by dead of night, as one of the trials of growing up. But if Vlad was leaving his bed and walking, it was more serious than he’d thought. Would his son wake up one night on the floor, spread out naked on the stones as he had? Distracted, he led the Treasurer over to the table at the side of the hall.

  It was the first time he had asked the boys in. He had hoped that the spectacle of their enemy would harden them. Mircea in particular needed hardening. He might be the eldest, but he was still too young to know what it felt like to have one sword at your back and another in your chest.

  ‘And this one is…?’ The Treasurer halted.

  ‘The middle one,’ said Dracul, moving over. ‘Vladislaus.’ He motioned to them to stand. Mircea stood up at once. Vlad took his time.

  ‘A striking resemblance to you, Dracul,’ said the Treasurer. ‘Although perhaps not quite so well mannered.’

  The Treasurer eyed Vlad cautiously. ‘If you want to make the right friends, young man, you should learn how to receive them.’

  Vlad lifted his head. ‘I would rather have the right enemies, My Lord.’

  The Treasurer ejected a laugh. ‘Ah, boys will be boys. I shall tell His Highness that you will bring your sons too. He will take great pleasure in meeting them, I am certain.’

  ‘My sons are learning their duties; they are much engaged here.’

  ‘Not all of them, surely? Anyway, the Sultan would insist on it.’ He looked round. ‘I thought you had more. Where are the others?’

  ‘One more, but he is too young for court.’

  ‘Well, don’t forget the middle one,’ said the Treasurer. He glanced at Cazan. ‘Perhaps you should keep the boy away from that officer of yours; he must be setting a bad example.’

  The hall emptied; the Treasurer and his entourage left. Cazan threw off his belt and paced the Great Hall. Dracul took off his cap and unwound the knot of hair on the top of his head. Vlad stood waiting and he turned on him. ‘Your clever gesture could have cost me a lot more than a tithe. We can count ourselves fortunate now if all they want is a visit. What did you think you were doing?’

  From the corner of his eye, he noticed Cazan move forward, his face vexed. His first guard took his son’s part too quickly; he did not like it.

  Dracul sat down and tipped his head back against the carved wooden frame of the armchair. ‘I want to talk to you alone.’

  Cazan walked out, muttering. Mircea bowed out, worried for his brother. Dracul looked at Vlad’s face. A sword in a nest of hornets. First he drew blood from his brother then he drew blood from his guest.

  ‘I heard that you walked in your sleep last night.’

  No response. He pressed a little harder, gave a half-truth. ‘There’s no shame in it.’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep, so I got up.’

  ‘I see. Do you often have trouble sleeping?’

  ‘Who said I did?’

  Dracul shook his head. ‘Not Mircea, if that’s what you’re thinking. A servant informed me.’ He paused. ‘Mircea is family and you cannot be against him. Nothing must change that. Nothing.’ He put both hands on Vlad’s shoulders. ‘Anger, hatred, envy, these are the things that turn the mind sour; I want you to grow up well. And if you are disturbed in your sleep, it is important that I know about it. What is more, I want you to tell me if at any time in the future you feel unwell in any way.’

  ‘What do you mean unwell?’

  ‘What I mean is that if you feel sick or not yourself, you must come and tell me as soon as possible. And if you have walked during the night,’ he said firmly, ‘I want you to come and tell me the next morning. Will you do that?’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘Yes is enough.’ He moved over to the window.

  Vlad followed him. ‘The Turks are our enemies. If we pay the tribute with our harvest, they will never go away.’

  Dracul turned. ‘Would you rather I paid it in blood?’

  A flurry of snow began to fall, flakes like feathers. He pressed his fingers to his brow and closed his eyes. Carpathian weather was sudden, sharp and unforgiving. The Treasurer had not been wrong when he said they had buried themselves in wilderness. The Carpathians became practically impassable in midwinter. The cloak of dark forest became a shroud of white clawed by rock and stone. It suffocated him, but it kept him safe. He envied the sanguinity of the Turk; their thirst for conquest was uncomplicated by fear. The Rumani had lived with fear since the time of the Goths. All they had was fear and mountains, and he had buried himself in both.

  ‘The Sultan’s treasurer left just in time,’ he said softly, and to change the subject. ‘Another few days and we would have been serving him wine all winter.’ He looked at Vlad’s face and his anger passed away. ‘I don’t blame you for what you said. We are a proud family, and you have your share of pride. We are all connected, a long line of the same blood, the same dreams, the same weaknesses. Princes by blood but…not perfect.’ He turned round. ‘I do not expect perfection from you, Vladislaus, but I do demand loyalty. Love Mircea as I know you love Radu. Cherish them both and they will never betray you. Not in their hearts. When I am gone, one of you will take the throne. The Saxons will want their say; you know what they are like, but I have made it clear already what their word must be. When that day comes, you and Mircea must be ready to help each other.’

  ‘But a country has only one prince.’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a long silence during which he felt his son’s mind twist and turn.

  If there was anyone well fitted to protect the throne of Wallachia, it was Vlad. Mircea was a fine boy and a mild one, but a mild man could not hold a country together. Vlad was the natural leader of the two and he knew it. The difficulty was there. Rivalry was the worst kind of evil. Brother against brother was the warning of the scriptures. He would take Vlad to the Monastery of Saint Nicholas and ask Friar Anton for counsel. Anton had studied with the Greeks; besides being a physician, he was a Manichean. The Manicheans had heard the warning of the old gods about the risk of power. They had tried to share it with the Church, but the Church had not always wanted to listen. Anton had known him since childhood. The boy on the floor was no stranger to him. Whatever else might happen next, the signs were there and something must be done. When Mircea was born, he’d thought the tide had turned, but Vlad was different and every day the gap between the two boys was widening. The time had come to close it up.

  Chapter 7

  The Treasurer had returned. Murad had sent him to Wallachia for two reasons, neither of which had much to do with tithes. His spies told him that Dracul of Wallachia was ambitious. He was grooming his sons for his seat. He had forgotten to whom his seat belonged. The Rumani thought that with a little pressure on the nobles of the region, he could keep it dangling just beyond the reach of the sultanate. He thought his seat was a family treasure that he could pass down the Draculesti line with no regard for proper tenure.

  He had dispatched the Defterdar on a mission of discovery. Take the measure of the man and take the measure of his nerve. Would it hold against the Catholics or would it hold against the Turks? He had met Dracul only once, in the early days of his reign when the prince had thought he could rule his country on his own. Then Murad had sai
d little, choosing instead to let the Rumani learn for himself that north of Bucharest there was nothing but treachery. Sooner or later Dracul would come to see that only a Muslim would let him live. That did not mean that a Catholic would kill him. Not at all. A cardinal only dirtied his hands if he had no alternative. The preferred way was to ask someone else to dirty theirs, and pay them for their trouble. A tax concession here, a pardon there, a little stretch of land in Lazio.

  ‘Come,’ he said pleasantly to the Defterdar, ‘we will take a stroll in the hayat and you can tell me your news.’

  ‘News!’ sniffed the Defterdar. ‘Is an unpleasant journey news? If it is, I will be glad to unburden myself of it. And if I am ever to cross the Danube again, it will have to be for more than ten thousand ducats. That I must insist on.’

  The Defterdar would rather stay in clover at Edirne and take advantage of any bag of gold, or woman, or gift of wine that fell into his lap than travel into a mound of snow to bring his sultan a prize. Still, he was at least not like the Grand Vizier Halil Pasha, who seemed to think that principle was more important than levies. He had tried to tell Halil Pasha that without levies principle was as valuable as a sealed pot to a man with no arms, but his Grand Vizier was the son of a judge; the father had been right; the son must be right.

  Murad placed his hand on the Defterdar’s shoulder. ‘You have survived the journey. And as you know, it is more a matter of strengthening alliances than money.’

  ‘Highness, you forget I am a man of figures. Without gold and land, what is left?’

  ‘Imperial peace. The Pax Romana of Old Rome. Forge your alliances and make them hold.’

  ‘You sound like a Catholic,’ the Defterdar complained. ‘Anyway, since you speak of alliances, what about Brankovic?’

  Murad pulled his beard. Brankovic had regretfully announced that he was unable to attend the palace after all. The man was going back on his word. More significantly, he was hiding something, a pact with Hunyadi. The Hungarians had oiled his meat.

  ‘Yes, I know. He is not coming.’

  ‘Yes, there is that, but apparently he wants to compensate.’

  ‘How?’

  The Defterdar looked round for servants. ‘He wants to send you his daughter.’

  ‘His daughter?’ Murad pursed his lips. A female was not an emissary. If Brankovic was sending her, it was for one reason only, to appease him. And if he wanted to appease him, he was planning something. What was he planning?

  ‘She is quite attractive, or so I’ve heard.’ The Treasurer stopped a eunuch and asked for meat. ‘I want it on the bone!’ he called to the disappearing youth.

  A picture passed through Murad’s mind: a fine Slavic face, cool and fresh and pure. Remote, essentially. Fate was lending him a hand. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I agree.’

  The Defterdar looked surprised. ‘I applaud your thinking. Never say no to a gift. Of course he expects that in return you will leave Belgrade alone.’ The Defterdar waited for him to respond but he didn’t. In fact he had no intention of acquiring cities so far north, partly because he did not want to spread his men so thin, and partly because he did not want to get so close to Hungary. There was something about the Hungarians he did not like. If he was honest, there was something about the whole of Western Christendom he did not like. They had as good as abandoned their Christian brothers in Constantinople. It was useful, but it was wrong – treacherous.

  ‘And what about Dracul?’

  ‘I insisted on the visit, as you asked.’

  ‘And the response?’

  ‘He will come.’

  ‘Good.’

  So, ambition had given way to necessity. The Rumani had weighed things up and had understood that it was better to sheathe one’s sword before a Turk than to fight one’s way out of a corner with a Hungarian. Clever of him.

  ‘If you will permit me to mention, looking ahead, I cannot help but think that we must shore things up before they become even worse than they are already.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, Dracul has three sons, apparently. The eldest seems easy enough to deal with. The youngest I cannot answer for. But the second son is, I apprehend, a matter of concern. He is…interesting, as is every member of that family, but somehow more…’ he rubbed his fingers together ‘…challenging.’

  Murad frowned. ‘I hope you told him to bring them?’

  ‘I did, Highness, but he insisted on bringing only two. Still, that is better than none at all, I suppose.’

  ‘Mmm. You should have insisted on three,’ he said, frowning. Dracul would leave one son behind him as regent to safeguard his seat. Cleverer still. He wished he didn’t need Dracul, but he did. Wallachia was his barrier against the Hungarians and the Holy Roman kingdoms of Western Christendom – it must be kept whole, but with the Hungarians’ new governor, Hunyadi, pushing south from Transylvania, things could only worsen. The White Knight of the Huns was a formidable opponent. Janos Hunyadi was nothing like the Crusader generals of older days, who had to be forgiven before they picked up a sword. Hunyadi made his apologies to no one, not even to God. Besides which, if they wanted to keep Constantinople in their sights, Wallachia was essential as a shield to the north.

  The servant arrived with the Defterdar’s meat.

  ‘May I, Highness?’

  Murad waved the servant away impatiently. He sighed and took a seat in the hayat. Naturally, he should eat first, but he did not have the appetite of a hundred leagues of travel and the Defterdar ate like a pig. He looked on delicately while the Treasurer chewed.

  ‘Did you know there is talk in the seraglio about Mehmet Celebi?’

  Murad looked away. The man had only been back a day. As usual, gossip had exited the fourth courtyard like piss down a hill.

  ‘If the world listened to women’s tongues it would be deaf from the noise of them.’

  ‘Yes. I know what you mean.’ The Treasurer put down his bone and dipped his hands in a bowl of rosewater. ‘Still, it doesn’t do, does it, to allow too much of it. Particularly if…’

  ‘If he is to rule after me?’

  The Defterdar bowed his head. ‘Particularly if he is to be seen worthy of the honour.’

  ‘He is worthy,’ said Murad sharply. ‘He is my son.’

  The Defterdar smiled agreement. He was one of the few in the palace who had the nerve to say what he thought. It was an admirable quality provided it didn’t get out of hand.

  ‘Perhaps if he were to take a wife?’

  Or at least a woman, Murad considered in silence, as he studied the Defterdar’s face to see if he was thinking the same. He swallowed the doubt and cleared his throat. ‘Have you not just provided one?’

  The idea of marrying his son to Brankovic’s daughter was one that had simply jumped into his head at that moment. That he had voiced it so fast took him by surprise. It was a little hasty. But then again, what was the harm in it? If Brankovic wanted them to have his daughter, they may as well give her to Mehmet. His son wouldn’t turn down a Serb. He was too ambitious for that.

  Light dawned on the Defterdar. ‘She is a little older than Mehmet, but perhaps it doesn’t matter.’

  He waved his hand. ‘Age is not so important.’

  ‘What about the Valide Hatun? Should we get her approval first?’

  ‘Must we drag her back from Manisa? You know how it is; nothing will be good enough. Anyway, we should at least have a look at the girl first.’ An anecdote came into his mind. ‘Fine feathers do not make fine birds,’ he muttered. ‘What was it, the story of the peacock and the…?’

  ‘The crane, Highness.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘The peacock mocks the crane. The crane responds by saying…’

  ‘That it can reach greater heights,’ he finished. ‘That was it.’ He looked towards the fourth door. ‘No
t that I can see it in there.’

  The Defterdar tilted his head. ‘Women. I have not yet met one that does not prize her own feathers higher than her sister’s.’

  He chuckled. ‘The crane is reputed to be the bearer of treasure. Give a woman a jewel and most disputes are resolved in a moment. Perhaps the moral lies there.’

  ‘Must there always be one – a moral?’

  Murad feigned shock. ‘The wise man learns from the miseries of others.’

  ‘Yes,’ murmured the Defterdar. ‘As long as they are others’.’

  Chapter 8

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Vlad lowered his sword. ‘You want me to stop because I’m good?’

  ‘I want you to stop because you are good enough.’

  ‘But Cazan wants me to train. He says…’

  ‘I will tell Cazan myself. You needn’t worry.’

  ‘And Mircea, must he stop too?’

  ‘Mircea can use a sword adequately; that is good enough, as it is good enough for you. As for Radu, he is too young. Does that satisfy you?’

  A venomous thought invaded Vlad’s mind. ‘And what about the other son? Have you forbidden him too?’

  His face a bedrock of stone, his father opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again.

  There was a difficult silence. Vlad was about to sheathe his sword and take his leave, when his father finally broke it. ‘You do have a half-brother. I did not bring him to court because the child was unwell and needed care I could not give him. If I have not spoken about it before, it was because I felt that it was not important. But since you have brought the matter up, so be it.’

  Vlad stared at the ground, suddenly ashamed. His father touched his arm. His father’s fingers were long and white, like a woman’s. At the feel of them he softened.

  ‘Where is Mircea?’

  ‘In the music room.’

  His father put an arm around his shoulders. ‘Come with me.’

  He lifted a torch from the wall and they took the palace stairs down to where the living quarters ended and the cellars began. The cellars ran underneath the palace grounds as far as the arena where they trained. As they walked through what was almost a tunnel of stone, Vlad tried hard not to think about the training sessions with Mircea, now forbidden. On the right was the entrance to the storerooms. They turned left and his father pushed open a heavy door into a large stone room, dry as dust and filled with books and parchment. The door breathed out an odour of wood and hide. There was no window, but the light was coming from somewhere. Vlad noticed a stone vent at eye level. So this was his father’s private room; this was where he disappeared when he did not want to talk, to this place of books and dust. There was a long wooden table in the middle of the room with benches around it. The wall was lined with ledges of wood and these were filled with rolls of parchment, and papyrus sheets. He felt a pang of disappointment.