The Sultan, the Vampyr and the Soothsayer

by Lucille Turner

  The woman crossed her hands in her lap. Constanta rose and left the room, weeping quietly. The farmer pushed back the sleeves of his tunic, revealing his two heavily bruised arms in their entirety. Vlad noticed that his hands shook.

  ‘So I went. Back to the tomb. Once the cock had sounded. Took the farmhands with me. We carried something, every one of us: a pitchfork, a spade, a scythe. When we opened the tomb he was there alright. But not lying down. Not like we left him, and not tied up.’ The farmer stopped and ran his hands over his face. ‘Sat on the ground, legs crossed like a Turk, face like the harvest moon. Took the four of us to hold him down and three more to put an end to it. Strong as an ox once, strong as three or four of them by now he was. Angry as the Devil too. Without that scythe it would have been like trying to cut leather with a whittling knife. That’s for certain. But we did it, then burned his heart over this fire here and mixed the ashes with the same wine I served him not one month before so there would be an end to it.’ He took a deep breath. ‘And now, Highness, if you’ll permit me, I need another drink.’

  In the room at the back of the Dumitru house Radu was sleeping soundlessly, his breathing deep and steady. Vlad lay beside him, his mouth dry and his body cold. He wondered why the farmer would tell such a tale about a strigoi beneath his own roof. Did he mean to terrify them? Their father had often said that superstition was the root of evil and must be stamped out, and yet he’d listened to the tale as though he believed it.

  There was a movement at the door. Vlad pushed himself up.

  ‘I came to see that you have what you need.’ His father entered, his face discomposed, as though it had been taken to bits and thrown back together in a hurry.

  ‘Is it true?’ Vlad said, abruptly. ‘The farmer’s story?’

  His father put down the candle and glanced over at Radu. ‘The farmer is a good man; he is a Rumani. But still, a Greek would question what a Rumani believes, and we must do the same.’ He sat on the edge of the bed and clasped his hands together, his long, thin fingers reaching across his wrists.

  ‘You have not been yourself these past few days. Are you ready to tell me why?’

  He thought of the night on Snagov Island, but hesitated. Should he tell? What would his father think of him if he did? Already on their return he was to be placed under Mircea’s wing in the chamber beside him. Already Mircea was regent and he was not. He smothered the urge to confide.

  ‘When we enter the Hagia Sophia, what will happen?’

  His father’s face relaxed. ‘Only good things. The seven anointments of the Holy Unction; the blessing of the fathers. You will see.’

  ‘And then we will go back home?’

  ‘We must pay a brief call on the Sultan, but it won’t take long. We’ll be back before the month is out.’

  Vlad put his hands behind his head. ‘Why did you make Mircea regent?’

  ‘He is of age,’ said his father simply.

  ‘But why not Cazan?’

  ‘It is not only a matter of age but of blood also,’ said his father firmly. ‘Remember what I said about family.’

  For reasons he could not clearly understand, Vlad thought about the fourth son his father had spoken about. Had they come here, to this farm in the middle of the country, to find him? But the farmer had made no mention of him, so they couldn’t have done. ‘If I were not well enough for court, would you send me away?’ he said, suddenly.

  For a moment, his father did not know how to answer. ‘No,’ he replied, at last. ‘I would not.’

  Radu stirred beside them, his head in a dream. Their father pulled the fur over his shoulder, relieved, Vlad thought, to see one of them asleep.

  ‘It is better if you think no more about such things. There must be an end to these tales, or Wallachia will never be the country it is meant to be.’ His father’s face shifted back into view as he picked up the candle. It still looked tired and strained, probably because it was late and they had ridden a long way, but at least it was composed again. He settled his head back on the pillow, and thought about the bruising on the farmer’s arms. With all this talk of strigois he would not be the only one that could not sleep this night. The dead of Wallachia were more to be feared than the Turks – better to remain among the living.

  Before dawn the farmer’s house was emptied of its visitors. By the time the sun made a faint light through the tiny window of the farmer’s chamber, their travelling party had re-formed with the guards from the stable, pulling straw from their over-cloaks. Their father had left a pouch on the table by the embers of the fire. The farmer would have wood for life. Vlad looked back at the house and barns of the Dumitru farm, glad to see them disappear, and turned his face ahead. The day was full of promise. Even Radu looked better. He forgot the Dumitrus and gathered up his reins. Snagov was far away. The Danube plain had ended; the Balkan mountains, the borderlands of Bulgaria had begun. It was land the Turks had stolen. One day, said their father, with God’s help, they would win it back.

  Giurgiu fortress came into sight again. Those were the Sultan’s guards at the gate, not theirs, their father reminded them. Murad’s cavalry, his best sipahis. Their tents lined the riverbank on the Bulgar side, a wash of colour and noise. Smoke rose from fires; music spilled from the mouths of tents, broken by sounds of laughter.

  Their father galloped up. ‘There are more of them than I thought,’ he muttered.

  On the shores of the river wooden boats ferried troops across the water in broad light of day. Vlad’s stomach gave a jolt. They must suffer the indignity of being taken over the border of their own land on Turkish barges. He stole a glance at his father. Dracul sat tall on his horse, eyes fixed ahead, anxious. The weight of the night’s talk fell back on Vlad’s chest. To make matters worse, when they reached the river the mare refused to step onto the barge. She pranced on the spot, her mouth foaming. He told himself to pull the horse in, but nothing happened. He felt that he had drifted away, far from the river and his father, far from the soldiers and the barge. The world around him had stopped. Only hollow darkness took its place.

  ‘Are you alright?’ His father was at his side, gripping his arm tightly.

  As fast as it had come, the hollow darkness sank away and daylight took its place. Relieved that he was still on his horse, Vlad nodded and looked ahead at the waiting barge. Two Turkish sipahis were watching from the edge of the water.

  His father pressed his shoulder. ‘Stay with me,’ he whispered. ‘Say nothing.’

  They walked onto the barge, their bodyguards on either side. ‘Watch the horse,’ said his father to the guard in a low voice, looking at the mare.

  They crossed the river, their barges moved by the current and helped by wooden staves which men dressed in pantaloons and waistcoats planted into the water beneath them. They were greeted on the opposite bank. Turkish soil.

  ‘And your destination?’ inquired the border guard in Slavic, his eyes flitting over the faces of his guards.

  ‘Via Egnatia. We are travelling to Constantinople then on to Edirne.’

  ‘Don’t you have that in the wrong order?’

  ‘Our journey has already been arranged.’

  ‘Then it has not been arranged by the right person.’ The border guard looked straight at him, his brow drawn tight. ‘The road is dangerous. You should have a proper guard.’

  ‘I already have guards.’

  ‘A handful of men, one injured child and one troublesome horse?’

  ‘The injury has already been tended to. And if I need a larger guard I will ask for one, thank you. Now if you will stand aside, I have no wish to be delayed further.’

  Their father’s insistence had its effect and they rode through the gate.

  They broke their journey before nightfall. Their father told the servants to unload the packs. Radu was helped off his pony. There were stars, plenty of them, and the
moon was more than half-full. He dismounted, his legs aching, and waited for his father to ask him questions about what had happened at the barge, but none came. He was occupied with servants and with brushwood.

  A grey dusk gathered in the hills; soon it would draw the last of the light into shade. Radu hobbled over to find him. He too was quiet. Vlad could tell that his brother’s leg was hurting; he put an arm around him and they huddled by a stack of wood, waiting. Before long they were surrounded by fire. Their father had ordered several to be lit; they blazed around them in a circle of light. Radu smiled a little, and slipped a hand in his. Then he heard the wolf.

  It was not the first time he had heard the call of wolves. The Carpathians were full of them. But although he had heard them often enough he had never seen one close up. He peered into the dusky trees, his heart racing.

  Radu’s hand tightened in his. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing. A wolf.’

  ‘What does it want?’

  ‘Food, I think.’

  Their father stepped into the circle of fire. He picked Radu up as though he were made of feathers, and set him down on a bed beside one of the fires.

  Vlad stared through the flames, fascinated. ‘There’s something out there. Can you see it?’

  His father looked beyond the flames at the place the call had come from. ‘I see nothing. If you don’t sleep now, you will feel it in the morning, and tomorrow will be a long day.’

  Overcome by the fire and his tired legs, he lay down drowsy. The moon sailed behind a cloud. The fire shivered and spat. Every now and then the cry of the wolf pulled him back from sleep, dislodging in his mind the baleful emptiness he had felt at the river crossing; every now and then he stirred, afraid of things he could not put a name to, except for the certainty that whatever they were, his father must not learn of them. He did not stop to wonder why it was so important that he kept these worries to himself, but it was. A voice inside his head told him that his father would not understand. The wolf howled a warning. Dracul has gone deaf, it said, and picked at his arm with its paw. Your father will deceive you. He jolted up, heart pounding, and looked for what had woken him. But the sleeping bodies of the guards were as still as corpses and his father’s fires burned. He fixed his eyes on the gluttonous flame and cupped his hands over his ears.

  He must have fallen asleep late into the night, because when he woke the sun had already risen. The wolf was gone and the fires were out. In their place was a unit of the Sultan’s cavalry, together with the border guard from the river crossing. They were to be escorted to Edirne under orders from His Highness Sultan Murad the Second. The pilgrimage was over.

  Chapter 15

  It was late afternoon and Murad was sitting where he always sat at that time of day, in the pavilion well out of the way of the strong late sun and far enough away from the fourth door to avoid being disturbed by the Valide Hatun. Now that the Valide Hatun had taken herself off to Manisa there was little chance of that, but still the habit clung to him, as habits tended to. This afternoon though, he felt a little different. He was almost ready to move himself to the gallery of his private chambers, where he could look past the Gate of Felicity and watch the women washing hands and arms at the fountain, before prayers. Then he remembered that a Serb did not pray – or at least not the right way. But fate intervened with the wrong woman. The Imperial Chamberlain was seeking him out. Madam Azize wished to speak with him. He clicked his tongue. ‘Can you not put her off?’

  The Imperial Chamberlain opened his palms. ‘Can a mariner turn a wind?’

  He sighed. ‘Very well. But if she stays longer than an hour you will have to become…’ He searched for the word. The Imperial Chamberlain found it. ‘Inventive.’

  His third wife was admitted. She walked in brusquely, like an ambassador come to requisition a favour.

  ‘I have come to speak to you about something which troubles me greatly.’

  Murad tried to look concerned. She was a good woman. She had always been a good woman. What could she be now? A mother she already was, a hatun. If he had made her son the heir, would she have left him in peace? Probably not. If she would only refrain from speaking about Mehmet as though there was something wrong with him, they would both be a good deal happier.

  ‘Come and sit here,’ he said kindly. ‘What is it? Have I been neglecting you?’ He knew the answer to that, but she gave a different one, with the guile of a woman.

  Of course he had not. That was not his way. ‘How is Mehmet?’ she finished.

  He blinked. Irritation rose up. ‘He is well, as always.’

  ‘Is he? I am not so sure.’

  ‘Are you saying he is sick?’ He considered his son’s health. He was prone to indolence at times, but beneath the surface he did not doubt the presence of a smouldering volcano. Battle would bring it out. Command of an army. He knew that now. And he knew that he needed it. He did not want it. If he could change anything, it would be the need for war. If he could reach out his hand and have all the best fruits fall into his palm with no sword raised, he would be happy. But that was not the way of it. That was not God’s plan. He looked at Azize. What did the woman want?

  ‘Not sick exactly, but…’

  ‘But…?’

  ‘Not as he should be,’ she said bluntly.

  ‘And how is that?’ he replied in surprise. He asked what had happened to the pretty Georgian girl. Perhaps they should give her another chance?

  Azize sat beside him. ‘One day you will be old, too old to father children. But your sons will have sons for you. Only Mehmet will not.’

  The words came to the tip of his tongue. I have found him a wife. But he swallowed them before they found a way to his lips. He said instead, ‘I will find him a wife.’

  ‘You already have, a Serbian one. I have just been speaking to her.’ There was something in her voice he did not like.

  He waved his hand. ‘She is too old for him.’

  ‘Too old? She doesn’t look old.’

  No, he thought. She doesn’t.

  ‘A Serb will be perfect for him,’ said Azize firmly. ‘Perfect.’

  ‘I think,’ said Murad slowly, ‘that I will be the one to decide who is perfect. I will give it some thought. Now, shall we talk of other things? How is Djem?’

  ‘He is well, although you never see him, so I don’t see why you ask.’

  He leaned forward. He crossed his hands. He looked at the floor. ‘Every son is precious to me. Every son is a flower. And every woman also.’ He stood up. ‘I have work to do.’

  Azize sat there stubbornly, like a horse with no legs. ‘He prefers boys. Mehmet. I have seen it. Others have seen it too. He will give you trouble. But he won’t give you sons – so don’t expect any.’

  He looked at her for a long time in silence. ‘I do not listen to lies.’

  ‘I can prove it,’ she said.

  He stood up and called in the Imperial Chamberlain. ‘Madam Azize is leaving,’ he said drily.

  Tears washed down her face. Hurriedly, she wiped them. He saw it from the corner of his eye, but he did not see it. She found her legs and left. The Imperial Chamberlain gave him a sympathetic look.

  It was too late to eat, and anyway, he had no appetite for it. She had seen to that. He had business enough to attend to, that was certain, but instead he left the pavilion and admired the blooms of the hayat beside the third courtyard, where he had his chambers. He held one in his fingers. The woman was jealous. All women were, to some degree or another, jealous. Jealousy was what gave them breath. It was jealousy that got them up in the morning, jealousy that robed them and governed their ablutions (not God), and jealousy that took them to bed.

  Who could forget the wife who was visited by an angel? The angel told her that because she was the daughter of Eve she might have one wish. ‘Even gold, the finest silks and jewels?�
�� asked the woman.

  ‘All of these are possible,’ said the angel, ‘but know that whatever you ask for, your husband’s concubine will have in double measure.’

  The woman thought. For two days and nights she thought. When the angel returned to grant her favour, she said, ‘Take out one of my eyes.’

  He left the garden and found the attendant. ‘Please inform the Kizlar that I will see him after sundown. Or now, perhaps. Tell him to come now.’

  He pictured Azize’s face as she had turned away; the sooner he replaced it with another, the better he would feel. He had offered Mara Brankovic a ruby big enough to tempt a pharaoh’s wife. It was time to harvest the crop of generosity.

  ‘She refused it?’ Murad looked at the head eunuch in disbelief. ‘A jewel like that?’

  The Kizlar nodded in terror. Murad’s face blanched. He turned away, walked to the kiosk then walked back. She was being difficult. He frowned. ‘What did you say to her?’

  ‘Nothing, Highness. I told her she should be honoured by the gift.’

  ‘Honoured,’ he echoed. Was that the wrong sentiment? What would have been the right one? Imploring was out of the question. And demanding was not an approach that worked well with women unless it was supported by censure, and once you did that, the whole business was like chewing the parchment of an edict written in your own hand.

  ‘You did not speak well,’ he said. When he was vexed, Murad could not stay still. The palace guards judged the intensity of his anger by the number of his steps. The Kizlar watched nervously as he walked back from the kiosk.

  ‘You did not speak well,’ he repeated.

  The Kizlar crumpled into half his own size. ‘Then I beg Your Highness’ forgiveness. I tried to say what was needed, but the girl is stubborn. She puts herself too high.’