House of War

by Victor Foia

  Gruya and Lash came in carrying Crow’s body by the hands and feet. The top of the man’s skull had been flattened by Lash’s blow.

  “This one’s dead,” Gruya said.

  Vlad turned his attention upon the leader. “Your son’s alive, and if you answer me he’ll stay that way.”

  “Do you swear by your Christian God?” the leader whispered. Life was ebbing fast out of him.

  Vlad heard hoofbeats receding in the distance and knew he could swear truthfully. “I do,” he said and kissed the crucifix dangling at his waist. “Who’s after us?”

  “A man from Edirne—an officer—he’s looking for a letter—”

  It has to be Zaganos’s man, Vlad concluded. The Third Vizier had somehow discovered Vlad’s and Gruya’s disguise. But the route? That had to be pure guess. Although, if he knew Vlad had to pass through Ragusa, the number of routes he had to keep under watch was small.

  “Where’s this officer now?”

  “Mesut—he’s just a boy,” the man cried.

  Vlad took the log that had served him for pillow and propped the leader’s head. “Your answers are the price for your son’s life.”

  The Turk seemed to be struggling with the notion of becoming an informer to the man he’d come to arrest. But paternal love prevailed. His face crumpled and he said, between sobs, “He’s gone to check up on other friars who’ve been captured half a day from here.”

  “What does this officer look like?” Vlad said.

  “Young … about twenty … comes with the highest authority … commands twenty Sipahis. The blade … please … pull it out.”

  The leader’s voice was now only a faint whisper.

  Vlad yanked at the kiliç and managed to dislodge it. “What’s his name?”

  When the man failed to reply Vlad shook him by the breast of his tunic. But the leader’s mouth went slack and he stopped breathing.

  “Go find the horses, Lash,” Vlad said. Then he sat on the ground to bind his opinci. “The boy’s going to bring that officer and his Sipahis on us.”

  “This is your share of the food we found.” Gruya handed Vlad an apple and an onion. “It’s a shame we can’t stay another day here. I’ve met a woman whose sister—”

  “We’ve got little time to put distance between us and those hounds from Edirne,” Vlad said, aggravated, “so stop yammering.”

  Gruya grumbled something about “so many lost opportunities”; then began to collect the dead men’s swords and daggers.

  “Take the bows and quivers as well,” Vlad said. “If the Sipahis catch up with us we’ll take a few of them down before they turn us into bristling porcupines.”

  70

  DANGEROUS FRONTIER

  December 1443, Macedonia, Ottoman Empire

  The horses proved to be deplorable, and Vlad’s heart sank at their sight.

  “Did you see other mounted Turks on your outing?” he said.

  Both Gruya and Lash shook their heads.

  That’s a bit of luck, Vlad thought, regretting he’d been rash to reproach Saint Christopher for abandoning him. He mounted one of the horses. “In that case we’ll ride straight through the town to save time.”

  They’d been riding at a gallop for about ten minutes when Lash’s nag collapsed. He mounted behind Gruya and they resumed their ride at a slower pace. The road followed the bed of a stream meandering amidst low, barren hills for about twenty miles. Finally, they debouched into a plain devoid of trees and shrubbery that stretched ahead of them to the horizon, where tall mountains rose in a gray haze.

  To their left they saw the north end of Lake Ohrid, mirroring the pewter clouds. Farther south, the lake was hidden under a shroud of winter mists.

  “Somewhere ahead of us is Struga,” Vlad said. “If we push on, we’ll be there in a couple of hours.”

  “My horse is just about done,” Gruya said.

  Vlad had Lash mount behind him. “If we rest now, the Sipahis will catch up with us; they’ve got good horses. As there is no place we can hide, our only hope is to cross over into Albania.”

  Two miles later, Gruya’s horse dropped to its knees, and all his attempts to coax it back to its feet failed.

  Vlad dismounted and unsaddled his horse. “Now we have no choice but to rest.”

  “You’re the only one indispensable to this mission,” Gruya said. “Ride on and save yourself. When the Turks come, Lash and I will delay them as much as we can.”

  “We aren’t splitting up,” Vlad said and sat on his saddle.

  Reluctant, Gruya removed his horse’s saddle, and, lying down, used it as a headrest.

  “I hear something,” Lash said. He shaded his eyes and squinted at the hills they’d left behind.

  Vlad rose and strung his bow.

  Gruya did the same then swore in Hungarian. “I guess the officer from Edirne didn’t want us to leave the empire without saying goodbye.”

  A bitter taste filled Vlad’s mouth, as his mind turned back to the long trip they’d just completed. Except for today, all had gone so well, despite the dearth of resources and harsh weather.

  Why must we die here, on this patch of desolate no-man’s-land, with Albania near a stone’s throw away?

  “I hear but can’t see them,” Lash said. Then, with a start, he turned around and pointed to the west. “They’re coming from Albania.”

  A sharp note of joy rang inside Vlad, and he turned to see a black blob that became imperceptibly larger with every passing second.

  Within a few minutes they could distinguish individual riders, colorful pennons fluttering above them. A squadron of at least fifty horsemen was bearing down upon them at full gallop.

  “Albanian colors,” Vlad whooped and tossed his bow in the air.

  A collective cry erupted from the riders.

  Even the Albanians, Vlad thought, can’t get that excited about running down three men on foot. He looked to the east and observed a smaller squadron approaching at high speed, the Crescent Moon flag wavering from the lance of a standard-bearer. “We might as well sit down and enjoy the show.”

  “And hope they all kill each other,” Gruya said, “so we might go about our business.”

  The Albanian band thundered past Vlad and his companions, giving no sign of having registered their presence. About a hundred yards farther they crashed into the Ottomans with a tremendous clamor of sharp cries and a clangor of metal striking metal. The mass of riders drifted about erratically like a cloud of locusts, now dispersing, now coalescing, until their ranks thinned out to a fraction of their original strength. The noise and commotion gradually died down, and finally only the cries of the wounded persisted.

  “The Turks have been outnumbered and outfought,” Vlad said. He saw a group of men on foot being herded together by riders with lances. “I think no more than half a dozen of them have survived.”

  Two riders detached themselves from the main body and rode over to Vlad’s group; they wore variegated clothes and no armor; their beards were dense and black; their eyes brown and unforgiving. One had lost the tip of his nose, and blood streamed down his mustache. The other’s ear had been partially sliced off and dangled by the skin of its lobe. Neither man seemed aware of his injuries.

  “Kush jeni ju? Who are you?” Nose said.

  “I don’t speak Albanian,” Vlad said in Greek.

  “Ata janë spiunë turq, They are Turkish spies,” Ear said. “Le të vrasin ata, Let’s kill them.”

  Both Albanians drew their swords. In an instant, Vlad aimed an arrow at Nose and said, “We are Christians from Wallachia and friends of Lord Skanderbeg.”

  Whether they understood Greek, or just registered the mention of Skanderbeg’s name, Vlad couldn’t tell. But the men saluted and returned to their companions.

  71

  DOMINUS ALBANIE

  December 1443, Albania

  Skanderbeg’s camp was a collection of huts occupying a pine forest glade. Vlad, Gruya, and Lash found themselv
es disarmed and locked up in one of these windowless huts for three days, until the general returned from somewhere in the hinterland.

  “What nonsense is this ‘Brother Methodius’ business?” Skanderbeg roared when he finally received Vlad. “You’re no stinking friar to me, my friend. You’re Prince Vlad, grandson of King Justus—the ablest king of the past—and son of King Dracul, the shrewdest king of the present.” He stood slowly from his desk, like a bear rising on his hind legs, and crushed Vlad’s hand in a steely grip. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard you’d escaped Murad’s clutches. You must’ve disappointed him deeply, seeing how much he loved you.”

  Skanderbeg had stopped shaving his head, and the spiky, month-long growth of hair gave him a somewhat crazed look. Out of Ottoman uniform and dressed in a sheepskin mantle, Skanderbeg cut an outlandish figure, a cross between a rebellious shepherd and a brazen robber.

  “Skanderbeg Pasha,” Vlad said, “the disappointment I’ve caused Sultan Murad can’t come close to the one you’ve brought him.”

  “Forget my old title, friend,” Skanderbeg said and waved his hands in protest. “Now I’m simply George Castriota.” He pointed with his thumb to a flag hanging on the wall behind him. “My sword is henceforth in the service of the double-headed eagle, not in that of the Crescent Moon.”

  Castriota, Vlad repeated mentally, rejoicing at the fortuitous number of letters in Skanderbeg’s family name. You don’t know it, Castriota, but you’re fated to help me fulfill my destiny.

  Vlad disliked Skanderbeg because of his overconfident, blustery, know-it-all personality. And the general’s decision to desert when Murad was at his weakest showed a streak of ignobility in the Albanian. But the notion that Skanderbeg might be a useful cog in his own destiny’s inscrutable works made Vlad overlook the man’s shortcomings; he even felt for him an unexpected warmth.

  “So we’ve both let down our benefactor,” Skanderbeg said. “And now he wants us back; me dead, naturally, after what I’ve done to him at Niš; but you he wants back very much alive.”

  Vlad found Skanderbeg’s observation intriguing, knowing Murad’s true intentions. “When you say ‘alive,’ are you just guessing or do you know something?”

  “Show the prince how I know Murad wants him back kicking and screaming,” Skanderbeg said to someone behind Vlad. “Oh, this is my nephew, Ameses, whom you might’ve seen among my bodyguard in Bursa.”

  Vlad turned to see a vaguely familiar young man lounging on a campaign bed in a corner of the hut. He had the same black beard and spiky hair growth as Skanderbeg.

  “I remember you,” Ameses said in Turkish with a meaningful grin. “You are Mehmed’s very intimate friend.”

  Skanderbeg barked something in Albanian, and Ameses’s grin vanished.

  “Come, I’ll show you,” Ameses said and took Vlad to a shed at the confines of the encampment. On the way Vlad saw several shaved heads stuck on top of poles planted between the huts. One of the heads was that of Mesut, the Akinci boy who’d escaped him at the farmhouse.

  “The Turks who were chasing you,” Ameses said. “There will be one more head tomorrow.”

  The shed was guarded by a surly man dressed, like Skanderbeg, in a sheepskin mantle that reached the ground. When he saw Ameses he saluted and flipped open a hand-sized shutter at the top of the door.

  Vlad peeked through the opening and saw a naked man hanging by his wrists from a ceiling beam. His body was covered with gashes and red blotches that by the next day would turn into black bruises.

  The man was Hamza, the head of Mehmed’s bodyguard.

  Vlad’s heartbeat quickened at the evidence of betrayal hatched so close to Murad. Yet, he still didn’t believe Mehmed was involved in the conspiracy to track him down. Hamza had been Zaganos’s slave before he became Mehmed’s companion, and still obeyed his old master to this day. But if the Third Vizier was the brain behind this find-and-capture mission, how had he ferreted out the secret of Vlad’s disguise and the probable route he’d be following?

  Vlad would’ve loved to extract that crucial information out of Hamza.

  “We’ll make him talk, don’t worry,” Ameses said, “and then—” He ran his index finger across his throat.

  “So you’ve had the chance to visit with an old friend?” Skanderbeg said when Vlad returned to his hut. “I wonder why a pampered youth like Hamza would make such a long and perilous journey just to capture you.”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Vlad said. “I was Murad’s hostage, have escaped, and he wants me back.”

  Skanderbeg seemed to ponder.

  “Hmm, why not send a seasoned officer to accomplish such a critical task?”

  “Hamza’s one of the few people around the sultan who could identify me by my looks, even in my monastic habit.”

  “The worm has offered to deliver thirty Akincis into my hand, if I set him free and hand you back to him.” Skanderbeg fixed his gaze on Vlad, as if to gauge his reaction. “But he’s come to the wrong place looking for a Judas who’d take his thirty pieces of silver.”

  Vlad forced himself to laugh. “I’m flattered my person should be so highly prized by the Turks; especially now when I’m only a friar sworn to poverty, celibacy, and obedience.”

  Skanderbeg gave him a questioning look. “Hamza claims your friar’s habit is but a disguise. Says you’re on your way to Buda with a secret message.”

  So torture did extract some information out of Hamza.

  For a moment, Vlad contemplated admitting he’d been impersonating a friar in order to elude his pursuers. Of course he wouldn’t reveal the secret of his mission, but it would be a relief to finally abandon the friar’s garb. But Tirendaz had warned him against this. “Expect Albania to be infiltrated by Kalıcı Cihad’s agents. Keep your disguise until Venice, then you may dress any way you wish.”

  Vlad gave Skanderbeg a self-deprecating smile. “The only secret I carry is that of my sins. And my destination is Rome, where I shall unburden my soul to Christ’s Vicar on earth.”

  Skanderbeg cocked his head and seemed to ponder Vlad’s words. After a while he extracted a bronze medallion from his sash and gave it to Vlad.

  “Show this token to anyone whose help you seek in Albania,” he said. “Before you ask for anything, say, ‘Unë jam një mik i George Castriota, I’m a friend of George Castriota.’”

  Vlad noticed the double-headed eagle from Skanderbeg’s flag on one side of the medallion. On the other side was engraved, “George Castriota, Dominus Albanie, Lord of Albania.”

  “What will happen to Hamza?” he said.

  Skanderbeg waved his hand as if swatting a fly. “By tonight he’ll no longer be with us.”

  Vlad’s debt to Skanderbeg was immense, and he vowed to himself he’d repay it one day with interest. But for now Vlad’s gratitude needed to be expressed in terms compatible with his assumed persona.

  “I’ll pray for you at Saint Peter’s tomb as thanks for saving my worthless life.”

  “My soul’s burdened by sin no less than yours, my friend,” Skanderbeg said with a dark, guilty look and an air of piety. “Remember, both of us have abjured Jesus Christ. If you have God’s ear, don’t wait to reach Rome. Pray for the forgiveness of my sins this very night.”

  72

  FLAGELLANTS

  December 1443, Albania

  Inexplicably, Vlad and his friends were kept as prisoners in their hut for another two days. Then Ameses showed up on the second evening and claimed this confinement was for their safety.

  “There have been skirmishes around here between us and the Turks,” he said. “My uncle didn’t want you exposed to Akinci raiders who might kidnap and return you to the sultan.”

  Vlad affected a calm demeanor, though he sizzled with frustration at being detained like a prisoner. “Such proximity to danger would plead for my quick departure, not for lingering in the area.”

  “We leave tomorrow morning,” Ameses said, conciliatory. “My uncle’s o
rdered me to accompany you to Debar, where I can secure provisions for your journey.”

  “Where are the weapons we took off the Akincis?” Gruya said.

  “Our fighters need them,” Ameses said. “As friars under my uncle’s protection, you don’t.”

  “I’ve told you Albanians aren’t to be trusted,” Gruya grumbled after Ameses left.

  “We’ve convinced everybody we’re genuine friars,” Vlad said. “Let’s not ruin our cover by insisting on carrying weapons.”

  They left the next day before dawn without taking their leave of Skanderbeg, who was resting after a night raid. Ameses took them by Hamza’s hut and pointed to a black, round shape atop a very tall pole.

  “He died begging for mercy, like a woman,” Ameses told them and spit on the pole. “Imagine him thinking he could bribe us with the lives of thirty Turks. I gave him thirty lashes for that presumption before I chopped off his head.”

  They walked north along the bank of the Black Drin that originated in Lake Ohrid. Well-fed and freed of the need to look over their shoulders for the Turks, they covered twenty-five miles the first day.

  Ameses, true to his claim he had connections in the region, found them comfortable lodgings for the night in a widow’s house. Next morning Gruya’s cheerful attitude told Vlad his friend had not let the unexpected opportunity for gallantry go to waste.

  In the afternoon they overtook a procession of more than a hundred flagellants that filled the valley with their singing while they scourged their backs with knotted ropes. They wore hooded scapulars like the friars, but despite the cold, wore neither cloaks nor tunics. Their bloody shirts were tied around their waists.

  “Holy men on their way to join the crusade,” said Ameses. “This is the third wave of penitents to pass through here this year.”

  Attracted by the flagellants’ noise, local peasants gathered along the road and were watching the procession with awed stares. A mother touched a rag to the bleeding back of one of the penitents, then placed it like a compress over the eyes of a small child she cradled in her arms.

  “People believe the blood of the flagellants cures blindness,” Ameses explained.