The Lord Count Drakulya

by Paul Doherty

  “After all,” Hamza sarcastically noted in his fluent Rumanian, “we understand that many such villas are no longer needed by their Boyar owners!”

  Drakulya carefully retorted, “When a man is dead, however powerful, he no longer needs possessions. Whether they be villas or,” Drakulya added, “a pair of boots!”

  “I always wear the symbols of my office,” Hamza quickly replied, stung by the hidden threat of Drakulya’s words.

  “I shall remember that!” the Prince smiled and so the negotiations began, Hamza, advised by the ever-whispering Catavolinos and a group of clerks, while on the other side Drakulya was advised by Cirstian, myself, Mihail and Theodore. Our discussions were like the play of master-swordsmen, feinting back and forth, each looking for an opening, parrying thrusts but never really getting through. By the spring of 1460 certain terms had been drawn up: Wallachia would pay the Porte an annual tribute of ten thousand gold ducats which Drakulya himself would have to bring to Constantinople, and there kiss the hem of the Sultan’s cloak. On the other hand, Drakulya would enjoy full sovereignty as well as the protection of the Porte. The Turks could not colonise the border lands or send their merchants across the Danube. On two matters there was no agreement: Drakulya refused to recognise Hamza’s definition of the Wallachian border, and Ottoman recruiting agents looking for candidates for the Janissary corps were utterly forbidden on Drakulya’s lands under pain of death.

  Hamza and Catavolinos promised to relate their discussions back to Mohammed who, Hamza arrogantly declared, would make his pleasure known as soon as it was feasible. Drakulya dryly retorted that he would study the Sultan’s replies when the ‘pressures of government’ allowed him. The negotiations ended and Hamza and his ‘Greek shadow,’ as Cirstian termed him, departed for the border. As soon as they were gone, Drakulya reconvened the council and, after listening to all our considered views, declared that he had no intentions of observing any treaty with the Turks but needed time to consolidate his forces. So, over the next few months Drakulya continued his efforts to put the country on a war footing. The fortress in the Arges valley was finished, as were similar fortifications at Tirgoviste and Bucharest. The import of weapons and mercenaries was increased, the latter being stationed in the north west of the country, far from the Danube and the prying eyes of Turkish scouts and spies. Drakulya also redoubled his efforts to gain support from the other Catholic kingdoms, especially Hungary, but, apart from sweet-sounding assurances, nothing was really promised. Mihail argued passionately that no offensive should be launched until Drakulya had signed defensive alliances with other Christian princes. Theodore on the other hand, insisted on an early offensive before the Turks could mass their forces along the Danube.

  As it was, events were taken out of our hands. In the summer of 1461, Hamza and Catavolinos sent messages to Drakulya that they wished a meeting with him at the fortress of Giurgiu to finalise an agreement on what constituted the Turko-Wallachian border. The request threw us all into consternation for if the Prince refused, then it would constitute an act of war; however, if he accepted, then he could be walking into a possible trap. Drakulya did not want to go. The country was quiet, he was infatuated with his baby boy and feared that if he went to Giurgiu he would be trapped as his father had been, and the Turks would only release him in return for acceptable sureties which might well include his wife and child.

  To Cirstian’s and Theodore’s eternal credit they resolved the matter, utilising every resource they had, spies, gold, threats and promises in order to establish the truth. Finally they did and openly declared their conclusions to Drakulya’s inner council. “It is a trap,” Theodore firmly declared. “We have managed to penetrate the secret councils of Hamza and Catavolinos; they intend to lure His Highness and his council,” he looked round slowly at all of us, “to Giurgiu and there take us prisoner.” Drakulya was furious at such treachery, though he practiced it himself with the greatest of ease. He nursed a personal spite against Hamza for the latter personified all he hated about the Ottoman while Catavolinos he despised as a renegade. The Prince vowed revenge but still played for time, while Hamza and Catavolinos urged him to come south and meet them at Giurgiu. The Sultan applied further pressure through the Bey of Remelia, Isaac Pasha, a Jewish apostate who now sent fresh letters and demands that Drakulya send five hundred Wallachian boys to Constantinople to train as recruits for the Janissary Corps.

  I had to agree with Theodore’s assessment, that the Porte was applying as much pressure on Drakulya as possible. Theodore also added that he had information that Mohammed was massing forces in great military camps outside both Constantinople and Edirne while the Turkish fleet in the Middle Sea was being deployed north. He had more ominous news. First, the Turks were buying up barges and ordering the mass construction of more which could only mean that they intended to cross the Danube. Secondly, Drakulya’s younger brother, Radu, was being publicly feted and entertained in Constantinople as the “Prince of Wallachia.” When he heard this last piece of news, Drakulya flew into a terrible rage, swearing that, brother or not, he would impale Radu at a public ceremony in Tirgoviste. Our combined efforts calmed him and we turned to the more difficult problem of reaching firm decisions. After a fierce debate, we all agreed that the Turks were preparing to invade Wallachia and foist Radu upon the throne. If they succeeded then it would mean death or exile for all of us. At the age of fifty and after the long years in Egrigoz, Edirne and Moldavia, I privately wished for a quick death rather than prolonged exile. Drakulya and the rest, Mihail, Cirstian and Theodore, were equally decisive. A quick offensive across the Danube might delay the Turks and draw into the conflict the other Christian princes, although Mihail repeated his pessimistic assessment that we could expect no help from Hungary or elsewhere. Drakulya dismissed him as a Cassandra and drew our attention to specific plans.

  At the beginning of December, Drakulya moved his court, family and household from Tirgoviste to Bucharest, and I issued writs for a levy of all able fighting men with instructions where to meet and on what date. Theodore bought herds of sturdy war-horses and sent them south to the meadows around Bucharest. Huge carts were sent after them carrying provender, supplies and arms. When we crossed the Danube, it would be as a mounted force, moving quickly and striking hard. Of course, we tried to keep this secret but the Turks had their spies. Those he caught Drakulya boiled alive, but there were others who remained undetected, and sent their messages back across the Danube.

  We arrived in Bucharest a few days before the festival of the Solstice when the Christians celebrate the feast of the Christ Child. Of course, Drakulya never observed the feast. Not really. He surrounded himself with priests both Catholic and Orthodox, but this was not a mark of his religiosity but more a symptom of his superstition, for he also went into the Forest of Vlasie to meet other devil worshippers. He did the same at Bucharest and once when we were both in our cups, told me that he had been warned “not to follow in his father’s footsteps.” He asked me if I understood what the cryptic message meant but all I could advise was that Drakulya should avoid the marshes of Balteni where his father had died. A drunken answer to a drunken question; it is a pity that neither of us took the prophecy seriously.

  The Christmas festivities of 1461 passed with Drakulya playing the public role of devoted husband and doting father. He now was secure in Bucharest with its new citadel and strong city walls and there planned his defiance of the Sultan Mohammed. Early in the new year of January 1462 the crisis point was reached when envoys from the Bey of Remelia demanded an interview with the Prince. Drakulya received them in his throne room at Bucharest. He was seated on his carved, ornate throne. Behind him were long purple drapes fringed with gold bearing his heraldic designs and around him were the principal officers of his bodyguard in our full court regalia.

  The Turkish envoys approached us as was their wont, inclining their heads as a slight mark of deference but otherwise prepared to repeat their arrogant demands that Dr
akulya send five hundred Wallachian youths to Constantinople and that he really should accompany them himself. Drakulya listened impatiently, one hand drumming on the arm of the throne, the other massaging the left side of his face. The Turkish envoys were just finishing their message when Drakulya abruptly interrupted them.

  “Why do you envoys act so arrogantly?” he shouted. “You present yourselves but then do me dishonour by not removing your turbans! Even the envoys to the Hungarian king and German emperor remove their hats in the presence of a Prince.”

  The Turkish envoys looked puzzled and answered: “Your Highness, this is a custom in our country. We never remove our turbans as a sign of honour.”

  Drakulya, however, refused to be mollified and suddenly straightened himself in his seat. “Why do you act so?” he rasped angrily. “You are mere envoys and have come to a great Prince.” He brushed aside their protests with a wave of his hand. “If,” he continued, “this is your custom, then let me help you adhere to them more rigidly.” He turned to a grinning Theodore and whispered a command. Theodore raised his hand and within seconds the envoys were seized by the Prince’s retainers. Of course, they breathlessly protested their inviolability and their status as envoys of the Porte, but Drakulya simply laughed their protests aside. “If these are your customs,” he shouted angrily, now standing, legs astride, his fists clenched at his side, “then I will teach you what your customs mean to me.” He made a sign and the Turkish envoys were dragged to the floor, each held down by a squad of soldiers. The leader of these produced small iron nails and wooden mallets and to the astonished gaze of even his closest councillors, Drakulya ordered the soldiers to hammer the nails so that the turbans of the Turks were permanently fixed on their heads. This was expertly done, the nails were hammered lightly into the skull of each of the envoys so that the blood poured down their faces. Drakulya then ordered them to be dragged to their feet and taken from the hall, shouting:

  “Go and tell your master, the Sultan, that he may be accustomed to accept indignities from his own people. We, however, the People of Wallachia, are a free people and need not accept it!”

  The bleeding and tortured Turkish envoys were thrown out of the palace and, bereft of their horses and retinue which Drakulya seized as further consolation for the insults offered to him, were turned out on the road to fend for themselves and make their way back to their master. Of course, this whole scene had been carefully rehearsed by Drakulya as an insulting declaration of war against the Turks, cunningly done because by the time these Turkish envoys returned to their master, the Bey of Remelia, Drakulya would have dealt with his enemies Hamza and Catavolinos.

  10

  Drakulya immediately sent sweet messages south to Hamza (who would be ignorant of the terrible punishment meted out to the envoys) agreeing to meet him at Giurgiu in the middle of March. At the same time, Theodore sent units of cavalry across the Danube with orders to hide in the forest surrounding the Turkish forces and, under pain of death, not to reveal themselves until the pre-arranged signal. These men were hand-picked fighters, superb horsemen who would carry out his instructions to the last letter. They were also advised that if they were captured then they were not to reveal that they were part of any design but simply on patrol along Drakulya’s border.

  Once Theodore assured him that all was well, Drakulya made his way south in the February of 1462 accompanied by Cirstian, Mihail and myself, following an almost identical route to that taken so many years before in our first invasion of Wallachia. We were met at the main Danube ford by an escort of Turkish Sipahis and transported on a number of barges across the Danube to a point on the far bank near the main gates of Giurgiu. Hamza Bey and Catavolinos met us with open arms and sweet deceitful diplomatic phrases, inviting us back into the fortress, an invitation we accepted pretending to be oblivious to the armed ring of men now surrounding us. As we made our way up from the river bank, Drakulya suddenly drew two large white cloths from the wide voluminous sleeves of his tunic and raised them high above his head like pennants. This was the pre-arranged signal. Immediately the small group of guardsmen who had accompanied us as a bodyguard turned their swords on the Turkish escort, while from the dense trees on either side of the fortress appeared lines of horsemen shouting Drakulya’s name and carrying the Wallachian war banner. Never was surprise so well and so expertly executed. True, the Turks could have killed us at a moment’s notice but so astonished were they at seeing the Wallachian force on the wrong side of the Danube border that they were immobolised by a mixture of fear, apprehension and wonder.

  Within a short while it was Hamza Bey and Catavolinos who were surrounded, their escort lying dead on the sandy shore or coughing their life blood out knowing that they had been betrayed. Hamza Bey tried to protest but Drakulya, shaking with laughter, directed the long columns of Wallachian cavalry debouching from the forests up against the now exposed fortress of Giurgiu. Surprise was complete. The gates had fallen open to receive guests and were manned only by a ceremonial guard, no match for the furious charges of the Wallachian cavalry which broke the morale of the surprised defenders and by late afternoon the fortress was ours and the Turkish dead lay heaped in piles.

  Drakulya ordered the entire place to be put to the flames and the captives, Hamza and Catavolinos amongst them, to be sent back to Tirgoviste and, as Drakulya lightly put it, their last resting place in the Valley of the Shadows. Drakulya demanded even further satisfaction. Before they were despatched north, the prisoners including Hamza Bey and Catavolinos were lined up along the river bank and from each of them an ear or nose was cut and put in a bag. The screaming, terror-struck, blood-soddened group were then pushed on to barges and poled across to the Wallachian side. Giurgiu had fallen on February 15th 1462 and three days later the main Wallachian army met on the plains outside the now black and smoking fortress a force of almost thirty thousand men fully armed, mainly mounted, and totally committed to savage and brutal war against the Turks.

  So began our most dreadful invasion of the province of Bulgaria. At Giurgiu over six thousand people had been killed and the number rose as the Voivode cut a swathe of blood and torn flesh in his march to the Black Sea. Turkish fortresses were taken, their inhabitants ruthlessly butchered and in a grisly census their corpses stripped of either an ear or a nose. Those who were taken prisoner, Drakulya immediately despatched north across the Danube to be impaled as symbols of his victories. His wild march from the Danube became a legend even before it was completed. The Prince, his silver banner displayed and dressed completely in black armour, moved like death across the Bulgarian landscape; to some he was the devil raised from his grave whilst to others he was the reincarnation of the White Knight, Janos Hunyadi.

  The Turks, however, saw him as an avenging angel for no one was spared. Turkish boy, Turkish girl, young women or old men, all were regarded as fitting opponents to be despatched immediately or brutally impaled until the Turks, demented with terror, ceased to call him Drakulya but simply ‘Kazikulu Bey’ or ‘Lord Impaler.’ Alive or dead Turkish men had the stakes thrust up into their anus and into their bowels and were then left by the roadside whilst their womenfolk had the indignity of being stripped, raped, and the long poles inserted into their vaginas and up into their stomachs before being left to writhe to death; their children, babes in arms, young boys and girls suffered similar treatment. Whole families were impaled in groups facing each other, a sardonic reminder that the links forged in life continued in death. Drakulya’s policy was one of total terror. There was no compromise, no negotiation, towns were burnt, their supplies either destroyed or seized. Our line of march became the meeting place for wolves, buzzards and other predators of the dead. Behind us were constant clouds of black smoke and rows of impaled victims, before us a fleeing terrified population expecting no quarter and getting none. The Prince himself lost touch with reality; when he heard that many Turks were now fleeing across the Bosphorous, he talked wildly of pursuing them and marching on Consta
ntinople. Yet our force was no more than thirty thousand and lacked siege equipment for our cherry-wood cannon were still at Bucharest.

  Mihail, more pragmatic, continued to send out missives and letters to the Christian princes of Europe, popes, princes and emperors, asking them to send us either financial or military assistance or, even better still, lead their armies south. To his old friend and ally, Matthew Corvinus, Drakulya sent a personal letter claiming that he had slain almost twenty-four thousand Turks and was sending with his envoy, Mihail Harma, large bags containing the heads, noses and ears of those he had killed and he ended the letter with a prayer, “If, God forbid, we now come to disaster and if our land of Wallachia perish, then it will not ease matters for your Highness and lead to the destruction of all Christendom.”

  Mihail, happy to leave the blood bath and terror of Drakulya’s march, also took messages to Pietro Tomassi (the Venetian envoy in Hungary), Casimir IV of Poland and the energetic Pope Pius II. Cirstian on his part was despatched to Stephen of Moldavia with strident letters of appeal and invitations to join Drakulya’s new crusade against the Turks. The campaign continued into the late autumn of 1462. Some of our commanders wanted us to retreat back into winter quarters in Wallachia but Drakulya refused, claiming the Turkish offensive was imminent. It never came; news and rumours did, of a massive army being prepared but these were phantoms and so Drakulya planned a new offensive for the spring, counting on being joined by other Christian armies.

  Mihail rejoined us at the end of April 1463 in our camp near Nicopolis on the red-rocked banks of the Danube. He looked old, grey with fatigue and disappointment. The news he brought from the courts of Europe was depressing; everyone applauded Drakulya’s offensive but no one seemed willing to act.