by Victor Foia
He stood in the antechamber, unsure how to proceed, his way barred by brocaded draperies.
“It’s unheard of for a Basarab prince to hesitate on a lady’s threshold,” a young woman’s playful voice said from behind the drape. She spoke the Romanian of the royal house. “Will the famed Dracula be the exception?”
The mention of the nickname he hadn’t heard since the Grand Vizier’s Imperial Council last June startled Vlad. So did learning his father had entrusted secret correspondence to a woman. How negligent of him!
“Who are you?” he said, unable to reign in his hostility. He found the opening in the drapery and barged into the next room. “And how do you know my nickname?”
The intimate enclosure he entered was whimsically decorated with colorful gossamer streamers suspended from the ceiling. An orange light suffused this diaphanous dreamscape, giving Vlad the impression of being inside a magical flower as it opened to the sun.
The room’s center was taken by a divan flanked with glowing braziers and bouquets of fresh roses. A woman wrapped in a blue satin robe reclined on the divan, weight supported on one elbow, black hair cascading over silk pillows. She smiled at him, inviting, curiosity on her face.
Vlad was about to ask how she came to have fresh flowers in December, when the woman tossed a pillow at his feet. He sat on it, obedient to her silent command.
“I was wondering,” the woman cooed, “if I made a strong enough impression on you—last time we met—to remember me after so many months.”
“I’ve seen many women lately,” he said, in a tone he wanted indifferent. But he couldn’t help the blood rushing to his face. “How could I remember a particular one?”
Oh, Tulip, he thought, as the memory of their past encounter rushed upon him like the blast of a furnace. How could I forget these ruby lips, shaped like tulip petals at half-bloom? He glanced surreptitiously at the curve of her hip. Or, your tireless, insatiable, voracious … That night on the Danube, when Marcus threw her at him, she’d acted brash, provocative. As the bear-handler she’d been irresistible in a raw, carnal way. He took control over her then and bent her to his will, as a good rider does with his mount.
But now, Tulip’s languorous posture and soft beauty intimidated him, as if she were too frail to touch.
“Your blushing’s the answer I was hoping for,” she said.
Self-conscious, he bit his lip, struggling to regain his poise. “May I have my letter?”
“For that you’ll have to rely upon my memory, Prince Vlad,” she said. “The king’s too cautious of a man to risk your safety with a written letter that could fall into the Turks’ hands.”
Vlad’s private nature rebelled at the notion his father’s words for him would be shared with a stranger. He deliberated for a moment, then—in a fit of stubbornness—decided to leave without hearing the letter.
Tulip must’ve read his intention, for she placed a hand on his knee. “I’m returning to Târgoviște tomorrow. Do you wish me to fail in my mission as the king’s messenger?”
“Why should I care?”
“The king’s sick at heart for not having heard a word from you,” she said. “What news can I bring him?”
“Don’t alarm Father by mentioning this,” he said, and pointed at his turban. “Just tell him I’m in great health and spirits.”
Tulip nodded vigorously, and her eagerness mollified him.
“Well, let me have his message.”
“His Majesty wanted to get his ill feelings out of the way first,” Tulip said. “His exact words were, ‘I haven’t forgiven your insubordination, Son, and I’m counting the days until I can lay my stick to your back.’”
“A great start to the first letter he’s ever sent me.” Vlad concealed his bitterness behind a thin smile.
“The king had a twinkle in his eyes when he spoke of your punishment,” Tulip said. “Though, he’s admonished me to describe him to you as raving mad.”
“Then describe me to him as crushed with remorse.”
They looked at each other for a moment, then broke into laughter. A feeling of intimacy replaced Vlad’s resentment of moments before.
“Now that we’re done with expressions of parental and filial affection,” Tulip said, “here’s what the king wanted you to know. ‘Nestor has broken free from prison and returned to Transylvania. Marcus has fled to Buda, where he’s been appointed as captain in Norbert’s army. The Hungarians have struck a secret bargain with the Bey of Karaman to attack Murad simultaneously on two fronts in May.’”
“Leave it to my brother to complicate my life.”
“Prince Marcus’s action has outraged the king. ‘Use the silver Gruya’s brought you,’ he said, ‘to escape from Murad, before the crusade begins. Your brainless brother’s involvement in the war will brand House Basarab a violator of the peace treaty. Then Zaganos and his clique will claim your life as the price for my alleged treason.’”
“Tell Father not to worry about me,” Vlad said. “Murad’s determined to maintain peace with Karaman at all costs. And without Karaman’s involvement King Norbert will give up on the crusade. I’ve learned this from Prince Mehmed’s very lips.”
Tulip shook her head. “If I were you, I’d take your father’s warning to heart. He’s certain Zaganos is committed to provoking war with Karaman by whatever means, regardless of Murad’s desire for peace.”
“Zaganos is a warmongering scoundrel,” Vlad said. “But even he cannot cause war against Murad’s wishes. Tell Father not to believe every rumor that comes his way.”
Tulip raised herself to a sitting position. “This is no rumor, My Prince. Your father has a spy inside Zaganos’s inner circle. Waste no time to run away, or risk death.” She spoke with more conviction than would be natural for an ordinary messenger, as if she truly was in the know.
He shuddered at the thought that by rejecting Donatella’s silver he might’ve placed his life directly into Zaganos’s hands. To cover his discomfiture, he said, “Anything else from Father?”
“He thought this would soften the bad news about your brother,” she said. “‘I’ve sent Lord Michael to Buda as ambassador to Norbert’s court,’ she continued quoting, ‘to keep an eye on your brother. If anyone can talk sense into Marcus, it’s old Michael.’”
Uncle Michael’s too old and unwell for such a mission. Vlad felt sad for his elderly tutor whose loyalty to King Dracul prevented him from turning down even the most painful assignments.
“I hate my brother,” he said with bitterness. “Not for what he’s doing to me, but for causing Lord Michael to be sent away when he needs to stay home with his ailing wife.”
Tulip dangled her legs on the side of the divan, and took Vlad’s face into her hands.
“Your father’s asked me to give you the worst news last.” She gave Vlad a look of deep tenderness. “Lady Mathilda has died.”
Though Gruya had prepared him for this event, Vlad’s heart ached to learn of his governess’s passing. The pain wasn’t sharp, as it would be with an unexpected loss, but dull and stubborn. A malaise spread to his entire body, leaving him tired and feeling empty.
Tulip removed his turban and pressed his head to her bosom. With his face hidden from her view, he allowed tears to flow unrestrained. She caressed his shaved head with a light touch and twirled the tuft of hair on his crown around her finger.
He was grateful for both her touch and her silence.
After a long interval in which his mind retreated to some faraway place devoid of thoughts, Vlad became aware of Tulip’s breathing—shallow, fast. The rising and falling of her chest had a rhythm that imparted upon him restlessness and desire. He looked up at her and found her lips parted, her eyes half closed. He traced her chin with an uncertain finger, and she cooed.
“Are you going to make love to me, or only to yourself, like last time?” she whispered into his ear.
“I-I, I thought—”
“You thought it’s one and the same
?” She laughed softly and took his hands into hers. “Most men think that way. They charge the woman with their ram, as if she were a fortress. And before she can recover from the onslaught, the siege is over.”
So his performance on the Danube, he’d been so proud of, hadn’t satisfied her. He was chagrined and betrayed his hurt feelings when he said, “How do you propose to prolong the siege?”
“Build a fire and let the flames consume the fortress gate, ever so slowly. Your patience will be rewarded by an unconditional surrender.”
His confusion delighted her and she giggled with the playfulness of one about to share a secret. Then she produced a silver bowl containing fresh figs. “Here, take one of these and warm it with your breath.”
“Where did you find fresh fruit in the middle of win—?”
“Shush.” She placed a fig to his lips and he breathed slowly on it a few times.
“Now pinch it gently. Do you see how the skin yields to your touch? How it dimples? And how it returns to its original form when you let go?”
The fig’s skin had a tackiness that reminded Vlad of the way his chin felt after a close shave.
“And how will this help me set your gate on fire?” he said, doubtful, but ready to get into her game.
“All in due time, My Prince. Now pinch the fig with both hands, just hard enough to break it open.”
He did, and the fig split, exposing a pale under-layer that surrounded the pink flesh inside.
“Probe the fruit with your tongue—nibble at it—feel its texture.”
Vlad had eaten fresh figs in Edirne, but he’d paid no attention to their texture or to what they looked like inside.
Tulip took the fig from him. “You may eat this only when the lesson’s over.” Then she reclined on the pillows and guided his hand under her robe.
The skin of the mound that rose where her legs met had the pleasing tackiness of the fig. Her earlier cues guided Vlad’s steps along the path that led to the fire she desired: squeeze, pinch, probe, nibble … The subtle taste, pliable texture, and pungent scent he discovered enthralled him with their novelty. He lost all moderation in gorging on her flesh. Yet, instead of being sated, his appetite only grew. He felt like a traveler to an enchanted land where, despite a prodigious abundance of food and drink, neither hunger nor thirst could be slaked. His temples pounded, and every inch of his body screamed for more. He was lost in this warm, fragrant, wet landscape that drew him in—tongue, lips, nose—like quicksand.
He’d surely drown. But did he care?
After an interval of time whose length he couldn’t guess, Tulip pulled his head close to hers and whispered, breathless, “Not just the gate, but the entire fortress is on fire.”
When, minutes later, only smoldering embers remained on their battlefield, they froze in a tight embrace, waiting for their hearts slow down.
“Please tell me this lesson wasn’t the king’s idea,” he said with mock severity when his heart resumed its normal beat.
She gave him a reproachful look then forced the opened fig into his mouth. “There are four more pieces you can earn, if you’re up to starting that many new fires.”
By the time he’d eaten the last of the figs the candles had guttered, leaving the chamber in near obscurity. She’d fallen asleep curled up next to him. He slipped quietly off the divan and wrapped her in two blankets against the morning chill. When he reemerged into the now deserted bazaar, he found Lash crouched in an alley, as alert as when they’d parted the evening before.
“Someone I know has killed a fattened sow in the Christian Quarter last night,” Lash said.
“I’m a Muslim, man,” Vlad said. “Have you forgotten?”
“Mincemeat sausage, blood sausage, liver sausage …”
“Stop it, Lash,” Vlad shouted with a forced anger that didn’t fool the Gypsy.
Lash grinned, and large, gleaming teeth illuminated his swarthy face. “Roasted pig’s ears and tail, as you often had back home. Then scratchings and cracklings and fatback the width of your hand.”
Uncanny how well Lash could read him. Vlad hadn’t felt this hungry in months, and this appetite called for something the palace kitchen didn’t have. “What about wine?”
“Newly arrived from Transylvania, Master.”
Just as they left the deserted bazaar, the adhān for the dawn prayer descended from the minaret of the Friday Mosque. Soon it was reprised by calls from dozens of muezzins scattered throughout Bursa.
“Just don’t mention any of this to Gruya, or he’ll gloat over my weakness for months.”
25
ROYAL CARPENTER
December 1442, Bursa, Ottoman Empire
Vlad returned to the palace at noon, dazed by the lack of sleep, but more lighthearted than he’d been in a long time. Faded now was his resentment against Donatella, replaced by the novel sensations discovered in Tulip’s arms. Even his father’s warning of impending danger couldn’t spoil Vlad’s mood. He concluded that Tulip’s claim the king had a spy inside Zaganos’s circle had to be false. He knew the men in the Third Vizier’s entourage and couldn’t imagine any one of them working for King Dracul.
Vlad’s plan to sleep off the abuses of the flesh for the rest of the day went awry when he ran into Ismail in the palace courtyard.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Tirendaz’s secretary said with surprising urgency. “Mehmed has threatened to kill all his gardening slaves. Even he can’t do that without the consent of a kadı. Come talk him out of it. He listens to you.”
Vlad followed Ismail to the rear of the palace where they entered an outbuilding crammed with potted plants. The air inside was steamy, heated by an array of hot water pipes and sunrays pouring through glass lenses that dotted the vaulted ceiling.
“It’s your last chance to give up the thief among you.” Mehmed’s excited voice rose from behind a cluster of fruit trees. “Next I open you up to find out who’s eaten my figs.”
The mention of the fruit that only hours ago had led Vlad to the discovery of new erotic delights shocked him. But of course: if anyone could produce fresh figs out of season it would be Mehmed, the consummate gardener. But how did his figs end up in Tulip’s bedchamber?
He rushed forward to find Mehmed standing under a fig tree laden with half-ripe fruit, a scimitar in hand. Four terror-stricken slaves knelt in front of him. Hamza and Yunus were watching the scene with the anticipation Vlad had come to recognize in spectators at an execution.
“I had only a handful of ripe figs,” Mehmed said when he spotted Vlad, “and one of these dogs stole them.”
“It looks like you’ll have dozens more in a few days,” Vlad said. “Why befoul this splendid oasis with the blood of these unworthy creatures?”
“Aladdin arrived last night,” Mehmed whined, “and the fruit was meant to be my gift to him.”
“The Pole was the last to work in the greenhouse before the theft was discovered, My Sultan,” one of the slaves whimpered and pointed to a blond lad next to him. “I counted five ripe figs when I left the building. The next morning, they all were gone.”
“My brother’s never seen fresh fruit in the winter,” Mehmed said, becalmed by the identification of the thief. “This gift was going to show him my accomplishments in gardening.” He stepped behind the Pole and clutched his shaggy mane.
“Wait,” Vlad cried, sickened by the senseless butchery Mehmed had in mind. “Give the man a chance to defend himself.”
“He doesn’t speak Turkish,” the Pole’s accuser said.
“Sprichst du Deutsch? Do you speak German?” Vlad said to the Pole.
The youth took the question as an unexpected lifeline, and his face collapsed into a tear-stained mess of wrinkles.
“I didn’t take the fruit, Your Lordship,” he said, between sobs.
“Who did?”
“Don’t let Vlad interfere with your justice, Mehmed,” Yunus said. The prospect of being deprived of amusement led him and Hamza to crow
d up on the Pole, as if their proximity added proof of guilt against the unfortunate slave.
“I’m afraid to tell,” the Pole said, eyeing his tormentors with the alertness of a trapped rodent.
“I’ll protect you if you don’t lie,” Vlad said.
“Well, are you done with your questioning, Vlad?” Mehmed said and placed the scimitar’s blade against the Pole’s throat.
The victim’s mouth opened in a silent scream, while his eyes appeared ready to pop. He must’ve been weighing the risk of telling the truth against the likelihood of being killed for not speaking. “Zaganos Pasha took the figs,” he finally blurted.
Mehmed let go of the Pole’s hair and took a step back. “I can’t believe that. Lala Zaganos doesn’t care for figs.”
But he cares for Tulip, Vlad thought with sudden revulsion, realizing that he and his archenemy had fed at the same trough. But his repugnance was mitigated by admiration for Tulip’s spying craft.
“You know me too well, Mehmed,” Zaganos said with a hearty laugh. He stepped out from behind an orange tree. “I actually loathe figs.” He pried the scimitar from Mehmed’s hand and with an effortless swing lopped off the Pole’s head. “As much as I loathe a liar.”
Or a slave who can’t keep a secret.
“As for your gift to Aladdin,” Zaganos said, “don’t fret over the figs. I’ve just received something from Damascus that’s certain to please your brother more than the silly fruit.”
“To judge by his pavilion, my brother’s a humble man,” Mehmed said. “Same size and color as the pavilions of his senior officers. But don’t let that fool you. Aladdin’s as vain as a peacock.”
Mehmed and Vlad were walking down the slope toward Ordu Alan. Trailing them, four slaves were struggling keep pace, burdened by a mahogany chest the size of a coffin. Overnight, thousands of white tents had sprouted in a perfect grid on the plain below Bursa, occupying half a square mile of flatland.
“Oh, you won’t spot Aladdin’s tent from here,” Mehmed said when Vlad stopped and shaded his eyes for a better view. “Even at close range, you can’t tell it apart from those of his lieutenants. The only giveaway is the two-horsetail tuğ planted in front of his tent.” He wrinkled his nose and puckered his lips in a show of bitterness, “Imagine, two horsetails … while I’m not allowed a single one.”
