Vlad, page 36
They watched the younger Dracula stagger across the courtyard. Suddenly aware that he was observed he stopped, looked up, gave an exaggerated bow, laughed, stumbled on. He had fought well, within his limitations. He was not his father and he loved his indulgences too much—but he had scars now that the elder Dracula had not inflicted. He had grown older as his father had seemed to grow younger. It was almost as if they met in the middle.
The two of them did not watch alone. She had been mentioned and, in the rare times that she was she always stood between them, bringing back a memory of love and Ion’s hate. When they were about the things they had always done together—hunting, fighting, ruling—it was as if nothing had changed between them, since their days at the enderun kolej, since before. And then she would come, in a word, in the shadow within an eye, and she would bring his hate with her, full force, unassuaged. Like the finger Radu had once taken from Vlad, the wound would not be staunched. Yet even that cruellest cut had eventually healed over. Ion’s wound never had.
It was as if Dracula sensed the broil within, felt her presence as Ion did. And here, now, for the first time, he chose to speak of it. “Ilona,” he said, clearing his throat. “There’s something you should know.”
“Do not…” Ion said, looking back sharply. “I have warned you. Do not try to excuse, to explain, to—”
He got no further. The gate interrupted him, banging open for the third time. This time, a single horseman was there. As they watched, he slid off his horse, leaning against it for a moment, exhausted.
“He has ridden hard,” Ion said, speaking past what blocked his throat. “He must bring urgent news of the usurper.”
Dracula stared at Ion for a moment, then looked down again before he spoke. “Let us go and hear it.”
They descended to the main hall, to hear news that was not news. The messenger reported what their spies had seen and heard—Basarab Laiota was issuing calls to the disaffected boyars of Wallachia to rally to him; his Turkish allies were mustering troops at the Danube to support him.
“You see?”
“It does not mean he will cross it, Ion. He threatens to keep us watchful, distracted, as I would do.”
“Never the less, we should not have allowed the Hungarians and Moldavians to go.” Ion thumped the table. “If he does come…”
“Then we will deal with him.” Dracula broke off a piece of bread, dipped it in the warm wine before him. “And how could we have kept our allies on the strength of such rumors? They would celebrate the Feast of Christ’s Birth with their own families. You should do the same. Go back to Suceava and your five daughters.”
“And you? You do not go back to Pest.”
“You know I cannot.”
“And you do not send for your family to join you here.”
“No. But…”
Ion threw himself back in his chair. “Then I am going nowhere either.”
“You know this is not the fighting season. Armies rarely attack in winter.”
Ion snorted. “Like we didn’t at Giurgiu? Like you didn’t last year in Bosnia?”
“Well…” Vlad shrugged. “We are in God’s hands, as ever.”
“Yes. But that’s no reason to sit on our own.” Ion rose. “As your logofat, I have much to organize. The first is to send to all the boyars who have sworn their loyalty to you to prove it by sending men and money, now.”
Vlad threw down the crust he’d been chewing. “I also have letters to write. The Saxons of Brasov and Sibiu are still withholding the gold they promised for crusade.” He rubbed his hands. “And then I will attend to my hawk. She’s loused, and Stoica just found a store of mercury for me to smooth onto her.”
Ion shook his head. “Is this the time for hawks, Voivode?”
Vlad smiled. “It is always time for hawks, logofat. Don’t you know that by now?”
—
More news came a week later. News that was news.
Ion found him, as ever, in the mews within the stables, the hawk on his fist. When Ion burst in it jerked up to the limits of its jesses, flipped upside down, wings wide, screeching.
“Easy, my jewel! My beloved, easy,” Dracula crooned.
“My prince!”
The ungauntleted, maimed hand waved Ion down. “Peace,” Dracula said, using the same tone he used to calm the bird. “And wait!”
Ion stood, hands clenching and unclenching. He glanced behind the prince…and started, as he saw Black Ilie and Stoica both there in the darkness, Dracula’s constant shadows. The big man nodded, the smaller just stared at him. The last of the vitesji, neither had welcomed Ion the traitor back to their prince’s side. He had not cared. Neither of them had his cause.
The bird was gentled, with soft words and raw meat. Soon, she had settled, bending to the meal and to the finger that rose up to scratch between the eyes.
“Softly, now,” Dracula said.
Ion realized he was being spoken to. “They have crossed—” he blurted.
“Softly!”
Ion closed his eyes, breathed deep, unclenched his fists. When he spoke, it was more quietly. “Basarab Laiota has crossed the Danube.”
“With how many men?”
“Reports vary. At least three thousand.”
“Not so many. And the boyar I set to watch and delay the enemy? Gherghina, who swore such oaths of loyalty to me at my coronation?”
“Gone over to the usurper.”
“I see. No, easy, my pretty, easy!” He did not look up. “And the other boyars you summoned to meet us here for the Feast of the Savior’s birth?”
“I received many assurances of their setting out. I have not heard of any who have actually done so.”
“Really?” A little smile came. “One would think I had a reputation for poor hospitality.”
Ion flushed. “You are taking all this very calmly, my prince.”
“What would you have me do?”
“What you must.” Ion dragged a stool over, sat, leaned in. “I have ordered the troops here, such as they are, to muster. We will be ready to march in an hour.”
“Where?”
Ion frowned. “Where? To Targoviste, of course. If at least some of the boyars rally to us there, and the usurper is not reinforced, we can defend the Princely Court until the Hungarians can be called back. If we get no more support—and I fear we will not—we can retreat further, to Poenari. You said once you could hold it with fifty men. I think we have five hundred left so…”
“Five hundred?” Dracula looked away from the bird at last. “And Laiota brings three thousand? That’s one to six. Good odds. Wallachian odds. We were one to twenty when we rode from the Vlasia forest and stormed Mehmet’s camp.”
A chill gripped Ion. “My prince…we lost that day.”
“Only just.”
“You only just lost a finger,” Ion said, loudly, brutally, “and it is still gone.”
In the shadows, Black Ilie stirred, took a step forward. Dracula calmed him with a raised hand. “So?” His voice did not rise. “It was a chance we took and we failed. Another chance and there could be another outcome.” He gestured with his hand to prevent interruption. “No, Ion. I will not crawl again along the same old, dreary route. Targoviste to Poenari to Pest. A fugitive, soon an exile, and then, once again, the poor relative of a king; a monster to be brought out to frighten the guests at banquets—until they have learned to laugh at me. No.” He looked beyond the bird. “You know, someone once asked me, in such a situation, whether I would be a lion or an ass. Well, being a lion all the time is tiring.” He shook his head. “I have tried all my life to break free of the strings with which a Wallachian voivode is bound; tried not to dance to the touch of sultan or king but only to my kismet, as dictated by the will of God and my own actions. But I am tired of taking the throne to lose it, taking it to lose it, taking it…” He broke off. “At some time, that circle must be broken. So I will go and take a look at Basarab Laiota and his three thousand Turks. And I will kill him if I can.”
Ion’s voice was as soft as his prince’s. “And if he kills you?”
“Then I am dead. And my sorrow is ended.” Dracula clicked his tongue to lull the bird, whose feathers lifted at the sound. He loosed the jesses from his fingers, swiftly re-tied them onto the perch, took out a piece of raw meat, lifted it to the beak. “But let us not speak of my death but of his. We will send again to Bathory and Moldavia. We will urge the boyars to our side—and if the Cross does not draw them, the stake might, eh?” He smiled. “Believe me, I do not seek an ass’s death, only an ending to this…Danse Macabre. Will you seek it with me? For a little longer, at least?”
“Do I have a choice?”
Dracula, who had turned and beckoned Stoica forward, turned back, something else in his eyes. “A choice?” he said, handing the bird over. He looked up. “Do you remember, that time in Edirne, when I offered Ilona a choice?”
The name burned him. The fury, as ever, was instant. “What choice did she ever have?” he shouted.
“The same one we all have, Ion,” Dracula replied. “To stay or to go. The same one you have now.” The green eyes darkened. “That you took once before, remember?”
Her name, her fate, the memory Dracula drew up now of his treason. The reason for that betrayal ever between them.
Something shifted in him, rising in bile and blood, and he reached, grabbed the other man by the collar of his coat, jerked him close. Behind Dracula, Black Ilie stepped forward with an oath but the prince instantly halted him with a raised hand. “Wait!” he said, then looked straight into Ion’s eyes. “What is it,” he said softly. “What is it you want to say that you have always wanted to say?”
For a moment, Ion couldn’t speak. Then he did. “I vowed to you once that I would kill the man that ever hurt her. It is yet another oath I have broken. But I tell you now, Vlad…” He coughed, found his voice again. “Never…never speak of her to me again, you…fucking…whoreson,” he whispered. “Never talk of her, or try to claim you ever loved her. For if you do, I will leave you again. This time, forever!” He pressed his face even closer, till nose touched nose. “But before I go, I will watch you die!”
He threw Dracula back and he stumbled, Ilie moving to halt his fall. They hit the perch and the bird upon it lurched and began to scream, wings spread wide. Ion turned and ran from the stable, slamming the door. But it did not shut out the shriek of the hawk, nor block the green gaze that bored into his back.
– FORTY-NINE –
The Last Stake
Ion stumbled up the hill, snow-blind. The storm, with winds that swirled now this way, now that, had taken most of his senses. His horse had refused to move; he’d had to blinker and lead her, one hand trailing on the bridle, the other flapping, feeling with a frozen hand for the smooth trunks of beeches, whose leafless limbs provided no shelter to the white onslaught. Sight was useless; he’d long since wound his scarf completely over his face from the helmet down. His only hope was that the trees still delineated the path that Dracula had brought him up on a clear, sunny, snow-free morning five days before to peep at the enemy camped on the opposite hill.
Laiota’s army had been there a week, obviously awaiting reinforcements before making the final push on Bucharest. Ion had been dispatched in one last attempt to rally reinforcements of their own. He’d failed. All he’d brought back was his frozen self.
And then his only other working sense warned him of danger. The crack of a stick and his own horse’s sudden snort had him drawing his sword. He’d been gone three days and the enemy could well have moved onto this hill as well. If they’d discovered he was there, Dracula did not have enough men to hold it.
He ripped the scarf clear, peered into whiteness. “Friend?” he called, but the wind shredded the soft word. Shrinking to place his back against a trunk, he tried it louder.
“Friend of whom?” came a deep-voiced reply and he started, wondered what to say. When he’d left the skies had been clear, the air warm for December. They had not thought to arrange words of recognition for the blind. Ion lowered himself to a squat, his blade raised in a square guard above his head. “Friend of the Dragon?” he said, wincing against a blow.
“Logofat?” It was a voice he recognized, a Moldavian called Roman, one of the two hundred Stephen cel Mare had deigned to leave.
“Yes. It is I,” Ion said, rising. “Is the Voivode still here?”
“I’ll take you to him. Give me your hand.”
He sheathed his sword, reached, clasped. With one hand stretched behind him still pulling his horse, he was led between the trees, up the hill. His sight cleared a little and he realized that here, higher up, there were pines among the beeches and they blocked some of the snow. Then the ground flattened suddenly and he stumbled to his knees, losing the guiding hand. Looking up, he saw the flicker of firelight.
“Come, logofat,” came the voice. “Dracula is within.”
It was a cave, a big one Ion could see straight away, for at least half a dozen fire-pits crackled into the distance and their flames reflected off walls at least twenty strides apart. The roof he could not see at all, only columns of smoke spiralling to some natural fissures or holes. A dozen paces in and his face was warm, the snow on his eyebrows melting. He realized, as he followed Roman deeper, that it was not just the fires that caused the heat. He had to watch where he placed his feet, such was the press of men lying on either side. He knew that the Wallachian army consisted of no more than five hundred. Most of them had to be crammed into this cavern. And there, on a raised shelf, like a dais above the cavern’s floor, before his own fire, crouched Dracula.
He rose. “Welcome,” he said, then held up his hand when Ion made to speak. “No words yet. Sit, eat, drink. Get warm.”
Gratefully, Ion sank down. Stoica came forward with two bowls, dipping one into each of the small cauldrons that swung from the metal trellis. He handed the first across and Ion gulped hot wine, choked, gulped more. The second bowl contained some kind of game stew, and Ion swallowed it with a sigh. “My prince…” he began, but Dracula raised his hand, halting the words.
“Eat. Drink. Get warm,” he repeated.
Gradually, the rest of him thawed and he was able to use fingers that worked again to unclasp his cloak, undo his helmet, lay both down beside him. When his bowls were empty, Dracula hushed him with a finger, then rose, beckoning him to follow. They withdrew beyond the circle of firelight, to crouch under the sloping walls at the furthest extremity of the cave. A draught came down here from one of the hidden fissures and Ion started shivering again.
It was simply, swiftly told. Dracula nodded. “And so not one of my boyars will come.” It was not a question.
“They send messages that they will, Prince. They even make a show of mustering, it is said. But none had ridden from their halls when I left Bucharest.” Ion sighed. “And with this foul storm, our messengers may not even have caught up with the Hungarians, nor yet have made the court at Suceava.”
“The storm is passing with the night,” said Dracula. “Can’t you smell it?” He raised his nose, sniffed. “And we are on our own, as ever.” He looked back into the cavern. “Good.”
Ion followed the gaze. “You do not think to fight?”
A low laugh came. “I never think of anything else.”
Ion turned back. “But if they get their reinforcements—”
“They already have. Two thousand more Turks crossed the Danube two days ago. We caught a few, killed a few. Most made it here, to their rendezvous. They will set out today, for Bucharest.”
“And we?” said Ion faintly, already knowing.
“We will stop them.”
It was probably useless but he had to try. “Prince, they have five thousand men now. We have five hundred…”
“Four hundred and ninety-nine.”
“What do you mean?”
“Black Ilie’s gone.”
“Dead?”
“Deserted.”
“Ilie?” Ion stopped. The big Transylvanian was the first of the vitesji, he and Stoica. And the last. He was the standard bearer, had stayed through it all, through the worst of everything. Ion looked at Dracula. “What did you do to him?”
“I gave him a choice. Stay and die. Go back to his wife in Pest and live. He chose life.”
Ion looked back towards the fire, to the small, silent man. “And Stoica?”
“Stoica has no one to go to. But you do.” Dracula leaned in. “You should do the same.”
Before Ion could reply, Dracula stood. “See who comes.”
It was the younger Dracula who was hurrying towards them, his cloak and helm covered in melting snow. “You asked to be told.”
“Yes?”
“The enemy have started to break camp. And the storm’s clearing.” He flicked slush from his brow, smiled. “Do we attack, Father?”
“We shall go and take a look at them. Tell my captains to rouse the men.” A salute and he was gone, calling loudly, excitedly.
“He is mad,” Ion said.
“Of course,” said Dracula, striding away. “It’s in the blood.”
—
They stood just inside the forest’s fringe, shadows within its shadows. The dawn sky loured gray, full of the snow to come, the snow it had given shrouding every bush and tree stump on the slope to the valley floor. There, the enemy were assembling for their march: akinci, the Tartar ravagers, wrapped in camel hide, their heads huge globes of wool; sipahis, armored but with thick quilted coats over their plate and mail. Yet most of the men who gathered on the snow-concealed Bucharest road were not Turk. Bulgars, Serbs, Montenegrins, Croats—and Wallachians, dressed like the Wallachians who watched them, with wool, leather and cloth thrust into any gap that might admit the wind flowing from the distant, frozen Danube.
