Vlad, page 16
“But how did Dracula go from this puppet,” Petru interrupted harshly, through chewed sausage, “this Turkish catamite,” he spat out the word, “to the Impaler of legend?”
“If you’ll just be quiet, Spatar,” the Count replied, furious, “I believe that is what we are about to hear.” But when Grimani did not speak, just kept cramming cheese into his mouth, Horvathy sighed and continued impatiently, “But let me at least fill in some detail, for the record, so we do not live each day of every year of Dracula’s life in the wilderness.”
Draining his goblet of wine, he set it down, returned to his chair. The Cardinal followed, scratching his head. “The wilderness? I thought he fled to his uncle?”
Horvathy faced the confessionals, raised his voice. “For the record,” he announced, and scribes began to write, “Dracula’s uncle, Prince Bogdan of Moldavia, was murdered by a brother three years after Dracula got to his court, in 1451. Vlad fled again, this time with his cousin, Bogdan’s son, Stephen.”
The Spatar smiled. At last, someone of whom there could be no doubt. “Stephen cel Mare.” He turned to the Cardinal. “It means “the Great,” Your Eminence. And he is. Hammer of the Turks. Greatest of Christian heroes.”
“Indeed?” The Count frowned. “Or just another pragmatist? For he too has treated with the Turks when he wanted to steal land from fellow Christians. I have fought beside him, against him…well!” He shrugged. “But in 1451 he was just one more pretender with a purse of gold waiting for the man who could bring his head back to Moldavia. As was Vlad—accompanied, I presume, by the man who sits before us.” He looked briefly at Ion’s confessional, then raised his voice again for the scribes. “The fugitives wandered, desperate, near penniless, warding each other’s backs from the assassin’s knife. Learned to sleep with one eye open.”
Petru shifted in his chair. “But he returned. Took back his throne as he had vowed.”
“Yes. And by this time he had learned how to keep it, too.”
“How?”
Horvathy looked at the younger man. “Do you happen to recall what happened in 1453?” he said, his voice thick with sarcasm.
The Spatar noticed the tone. “Of course,” he snapped. “Constantinople’s fall.”
“Well done! Yes, Murad had died—of apoplexy, after a drinking bout, it is said—and Mehmet was sultan again. Free to pursue his dream of being the next Alexander, the new Caesar. He prepared long and well, mustered a massive army, brought the best gunner in the world, who built the largest cannon yet seen—”
“Hungarian, wasn’t he, Count Horvathy?” the Cardinal interrupted, softly.
“Yes,” came the reply. “And the cannon was forged by Germans across the border here in Sibiu, while the Serbs sent miners to dig under Constantinople’s walls, which Wallachians scaled to the beat of the kos drum…and the Pope sent not one ship, not one company of soldiers to defend them. So what exactly is your point?”
“Oh, nothing.” The Cardinal smiled, sat back. “Please continue with your admirable summation.”
The Count grunted, went on. “There is not much more to tell of the fabled city. Mehmet besieged it, eventually brought down its walls with his cannon, stormed it, ravaged it. The Rome of the East fell. And Christian leaders, who had wrung their hands when they were not sitting on them, realized that an Alexander does not stop with one city, however fabulous. He needs to conquer the world. And that if they did not put aside their quarrels and join together, he would take them one by one.” He licked dry lips. “It was time for all haters of the Turk to unite.”
Petru leaned forward, excited now. “And no one hated Mehmet more than Vlad Dracula.”
“Yes. While the man who had stolen the throne of Wallachia, Vladislav of the Danesti, had fallen out with his mentor, Hunyadi and was now signing treaties with the Infidel. So the White Knight needed a new protégé. He needed Dracula.”
“But…but…” the Spatar stuttered. “Hunyadi had murdered Dracula’s father and brother.”
“Almost certainly.”
“I must say,” breathed the Cardinal, “that you of the Balkans show a…flexibility in your dealings that would disgrace no court in Italy.”
Ignoring him, Horvathy continued. “So Dracula swore enmity to the Turk and eternal amity with Hunyadi and his liege lord—my own Sovereign, the Bulwark of Christendom, the King of Hungary. With these men behind him, providing gold and soldiers, by 1456 Vlad was ready to try to take back his throne. And with the jackals inside Wallachia falling out over scraps again…well, I do not know those details. I was merely saving us some time.” He leaned towards the confessionals, looked at each in turn. “Who would speak now of the events of 1456?”
It did not need the Count’s raised voice for the scribes to know their cue. They put down the quill with the blue ink, waited to hear whose voice would come, whose color they would need.
The three witnesses had been eating, drinking, preparing. It had not been easy, to relive what had been hard to live once. Each also knew that, if it had not been easy, it could only grow harder. Yet each, in their own way, was ready.
Ion’s whirling mind slowed again. 1456! It was his time. Theirs. A time when he and Vlad did all they’d dreamed of during the wilderness years. Both of them twenty-five years old, with bodies hardened by suffering and trained for war. So now he leaned forward eagerly, as his mind returned to a July day, the first battle in which he’d ever fought…and a comet burning through Wallachian skies.
“I will speak of it,” he whispered. “I will.”
Black ink made shapes across the parchment.
– TWENTY-ONE –
The Comet
July 1456—eight years after Dracula’s exile began
Vlad found the weakness he was looking for, in the man, in his armor. Dropping suddenly onto his left knee, he wrenched the man’s dagger hand down, unbalancing him. At the same time he jerked his own hand free, drove his own dagger up, slipping the point into the slight rent he’d noticed in the chainmail at the man’s throat. Rivets gave, burst by tempered steel. Flesh was less resistant.
The man tried to cry out but his voice was lost to blood. Vlad, rising, held him so close that he could see eyes through the narrow visor, terror-filled. Then he looked beyond them, turning the body now this way, now that, as a ward against other enemies. He’d been taught that, when you were triumphing in your own kill, you were most likely to die. Since this was his first battle, he wasn’t going to dispute it.
Yet beyond the dying man, his comrades were fleeing. Making the choice seemingly as one, like a flock of birds suddenly turning together in the air. No one called; all realized, turned, fled.
He looked again into the visor, saw the light leave. The man was instantly heavy with death. Vlad dropped him, stepped away, dagger held before—but he had no need of it. The enemy ran down the slight slope, round or over the bodies that had filled the bowl-shaped valley in the three hours it had been fought over, up the equally slight slope opposite. The fastest were amongst their comrades there in forty heartbeats.
It wasn’t just the blood in his eyes. It had gotten harder to distinguish individual men across the narrow valley. Soon, it would be night.
He looked sharply to the north-east…and there it was. Through the reddening sky, low to the land, the twin-tailed comet burned, as it had every night since his army first set out through the passes from Transylvania. His men had hailed it as a Dragon, a sure sign that his cause was blessed. Yet Vlad was certain that his cousin, Vladislav of the Danesti clan, in the middle of his army on the opposite hill, believed exactly the same.
“Prince?”
Vlad turned to the voice. Grouped behind him, as ever, were his close companions: Black Ilie, the huge Transylvanian, hired during the fugitive years as bodyguard, though for most of them he took his wages in wine and food and often little of either; Laughing Gregor, his face now covered in blood, still split with that permanent, gap-toothed smile; and Stoica the Silent, Vlad’s body-servant, a mute who did not need a voice to react to his master’s every need. All wore mismatched armor, but it was at least black—like their prince’s.
It was Ilie who had called him, the man’s voice rumbling from a face so dark it was said he had the blood of Africa in his veins. But it was Stoica who held what he needed: the Dragon’s Talon, his father’s sword, dropped when an enemy somehow slipped inside his guard and needed to be met with a dagger. He took it, reached up to put it into the sheath he wore over his back, all the while looking all around for the one person he needed most.
“Where’s Ion?”
“Here, Prince.”
Vlad frowned as Ion pushed through. “You are hurt.” He reached out, turned his friend’s head. A wound the length of a forefinger ran a fingernail deep from cheekbone to jaw.
“I got careless,” Ion replied. “I forgot that a man’s not dead until he’s dead.”
“If I may venture, jupan,” said Ilie. “You’re not as pretty as you were.”
“Thank Christ,” laughed Gregor. “Perhaps the rest of us will have a chance with the tavern girls now.”
Vlad did not smile, his gaze on Ion. “They fled. And none of our men pursued them?”
“No, lord. I fear the fight’s gone out of them.”
“Or the money has,” Gregor added.
Vlad looked along the ridge-line. Aside from his companions, and perhaps five hundred exiled Wallachians, the rest of his army, some six thousand of them, were paid to be there by his backers—the bankers of Brasov and Sibiu, Hungary’s King and the White Knight, Janos Hunyadi, Vlad’s former enemy, now his ally. Men would fight for gold, even fight fiercely; but only for a time. Many were now taking off their helmets, squatting on the ground, swigging wine. Vlad could see that Gregor was right—they believed they had already earned the gold he’d paid them.
Ion saw the despair in his eyes. “If it’s true of ours it is also true of theirs,” he said, pointing across the valley. “Just as many mercenaries in the Danesti ranks will feel they have done enough for their wages. They will not come again.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “We can wait till nightfall, then slip away, rally in the mountains.”
Vlad had been looking above Ion, to the comet, brighter even in the few moments that they had talked. He felt that he had ridden its twin tails into the heart of his country. It was still flying towards his enemies. “Are you so anxious to be a fugitive again? For if we go back now, if we disband this force, that’s what we’ll be. And our chance may not come again.”
“But it may,” urged Ion. “While here…” He gestured to the field, its dead.
Vlad turned again to it, then looked beyond it to the standard of the Black Eagle on the hill opposite, to the south. Unlike Vlad, Vladislav had not once left its shadow to fight, just sent his men to die.
His gaze shifted to the smaller hill that made up the eastern side of the valley. Other standards flew there. Some of the boyars of Wallachia fought for the Danesti. A very few, exiles like himself, served in the ranks of the Draculesti. Many, the most important, had merely watched from that hill, taking no part; eating, drinking, commenting. Amusing themselves with the spectacle of two cousins fighting, not too concerned about the result. Whoever survived they would accept as voivode—until another, more generous leader came along.
“My sight’s blurred,” said Vlad, reaching up, wiping sweat from his eyes. “Who still sits up there?”
Gregor followed the pointing hand. “Albu the Lard…sorry, ‘the Great.’ Codrea. Gales. Udriste…”
“All the most powerful, Prince,” Ion interrupted. “Waiting, watching, not moving…”
“Wait,” said Black Ilie, stepping forward. “See who’s stirring his fat arse!”
Vlad looked. Horses were being ridden down the slope. One rider carried the bear’s head banner of Albu cel Mare. Another a simple white cloth.
“They call for parley,” Ion said.
“To arms,” called Vlad, “in case of treachery.”
His companions and a few others responded. Most ignored him. The squadron, some twenty strong, rode across the valley and up their slope in moments, then reined in ten paces before them. In the middle of the horsemen, under the two banners, sat a huge man astride an equally vast destrier. He lifted his helmet.
“Albu cel Mare himself,” Ion spat. “The man who took your army and deserted eight years ago.”
“I don’t think I’ll mention it now,” murmured Vlad.
The big man reined in. “Which one of you is Dracul’s boy,” he shouted. “I haven’t seen him since he was a puny cub.”
“Here I stand,” said Vlad, stepping forward.
“Hmm.” Albu sniffed, turned aside to a companion and, in a voice not much lowered, said, “Hasn’t grown much, has he?” Then he turned back. “Dracula jupan,” he said, addressing him as “lord” only, “it seems this day ends in stalemate.”
“The day is not yet done, Albu jupan. Why not join with me and end it?”
“Strange,” laughed the mounted man, “but that is exactly what your cousin just asked me to do.” He leaned down. “And I told him what I now tell you: it is just so hard to choose between the spawn of Mircea the Great’s line. Why should I favor one until he proves himself?”
“Is this not proof enough?” Vlad pointed at the bodies behind the horsemen.
Albu did not even turn. “Dead mercenaries? No.” He sighed. “But war is not good for our land, or our coffers. We need a voivode who has proved himself strong enough to hold the throne.”
“Why not you, Albu cel Mare?” Vlad said softly.
“You know, everyone asks me that.” He scratched his chin. “Too much responsibility. Too many…meetings. I prefer to advise, to influence…”
“To stay on my estates and fuck sheep,” muttered Gregor.
Ilie laughed. Albu heard that, not the words, but his face hardened anyway. “So which of you is the strongest. Dracula or Dan? Vlad or Vladislav? Since you could not lead your armies to prove it, perhaps you could prove it as men.” He smiled again. “Let God decide. I suggested it to your cousin and he readily agreed.”
“You wish one of us to kill the other for your amusement?”
“No.” The man’s smile vanished. “One of you should kill the other for the crown of Wallachia.”
It was not uncommon to issue a challenge to single combat to the opposing leader. It was uncommon to accept. Ion saw his friend’s hesitation. “Prince,” he said quietly, “do not—”
Vlad’s lifted hand halted the words. “Where and when, Albu jupan?”
The smile grew on the large face. “Since we are all gathered, and there is yet a little light in the sky…”—the smile came again to the large face—“how about here and now?”
Ion wanted to speak, to protest. But his friend’s hand was still raised against him.
“What weapons?” Vlad said.
“Well,” drawled the mounted man, “how about lances to commence? For form’s sake. And then, if required”—he shrugged—“what you will?”
Vlad barely paused. “Agreed. One condition.”
“Name it.”
“I will not fight him while he wears the crown my father wore. Put that on the side of the field, as prize for our endeavour.”
“Agreed. Shall we say…” He looked around. “…When the shadow of that oak there touches the stream. Should give us enough time to clear the field of the wounded and the dead, and for you both to prepare.”
“As the jupan wishes.”
“Good then.” Albu turned his horse’s head, then glanced back. “You don’t look much like your father. Have you half his skill in the lists?”
Vlad smiled. “That you will soon discover, Albu jupan.”
The boyar nodded, put spurs to his horse’s flanks. As he rode away, the white banner of parley was hoisted three times; obviously a signal, because Vladislav’s eagle was raised high once in response. Immediately, some Danesti soldiers descended to the valley floor, to collect the wounded and the dead; others spread along the crest. On their hill, shouts quickly confirmed the news that had already been whispered and Vlad’s army began to do the same—tend to fallen comrades; find a place with a better view.
Now Vlad turned, finally lowering his hand. “Well, Ion?”
“What is left for me to say?” replied his friend. “You have accepted the challenge before all. Even if you wanted to leave now…”
“I don’t.” He looked across the valley, then up. “It ends today. With my Dragon in the sky above me.” He had started to walk back, over the ridge-line; beyond it, Kalafat was tethered and Stoica was already gathering what would be needed for mounted combat. “Any thoughts, Ion,” Vlad continued, “beyond your cautions?”
“Not many,” Ion said. “Vladislav is a noted jouster, has triumphed often in the lists…” He broke off.
“While I, you were going to say, have not had time for tourneys and codes of chivalry.” He smiled, raised a hand to halt the apologies. “But this is not a decorous tilt, fought for a lady’s silken favor. We fight for the crown of Wallachia. My father’s crown.” The smile left him and he looked once more at the blazing light in the sky. “And I will take it.”
– TWENTY-TWO –
Single Combat
“The oak’s shadow touches the stream. It is time.”
Vlad rose at Ion’s voice. Groaned. He shouldn’t have knelt, not even to pray. He had fought all afternoon and though he had not been wounded his body was stiff, strained.
He twisted his trunk from side to side, bent over his straight legs, swung his arms, raised them when he was ready. Stoica came, to dress him again in his black armor. It was only slightly better fitting than that of his companions and there had only been time to hammer out the larger dents. At least Stoica had managed to clean off most of the mud. For years, Vlad had not had the coin to buy a better suit and when money came for the invasion, he had chosen to spend it on other things—more soldiers, for one. And, as he was armed, he noted again that he had none of the special equipment required for the tourney. His shield was solid, you didn’t scrimp on a shield—a rectangle of riveted, metal-faced wood, its top edge cut in a curve—but it had no recess to rest a jouster’s lance. No extra metal reinforced his armor’s left side, where the opponent’s lance would likely strike. His helmet was the same he’d worn when he’d come from Edirne to take the throne eight years before—a Turkish metal turban, the neck protected in mail, the face open, not closed as jousters’ usually were to protect from splintering lances. Stoica slipped it over his head…and then he was finished. Armed. It had not taken long. Ion looked at him and could not restrain a sigh.
