The abbot has been notified already and hurries to meet him under the trees. “We are honored, my lord,” he says, extending his hand. Dracula kisses his ring and the abbot makes the sign of the cross over him. “Bless you, my son,” he adds, as if in spontaneous thanksgiving. He knows that the prince’s appearance is just short of miraculous; Dracula has probably crossed Turkish holdings to get here. This is not the first time the abbot’s patron has appeared as if by divine transport. The abbot has heard that the metropolitan at Curtea de Arges will soon reinvest Dracula as ruler of Wallachia, and then, no doubt, the Dragon will at last wrest all Wallachia from the Turks. The abbot’s fingers touch his prince’s broad forehead in benediction. “We thought the worst when you did not come in the spring. God be praised.”
Dracula smiles but says nothing, giving the abbot a long look. They have argued about death before, the abbot recalls; Dracula has asked the abbot several times in confession whether he, the holy man, thinks every sinner will be admitted to paradise if he truly repents. The abbot is particularly concerned that his patron be given the last rites, when the moment comes, although he is afraid to tell him so. At the abbot’s gentle insistence, however, Dracula has had himself rebaptized in the true faith to show his repentance for his temporary conversion to the heretical Western church. The abbot has forgiven him everything, privately-everything. Has not Dracula devoted his life to holding back the infidels, the monstrous sultan who is battering down all the walls of Christendom? But he wonders just as privately what the Almighty will mete out to this strange man. He hopes Dracula will not bring up the subject of paradise and is relieved when the prince asks to see what progress they have made in his absence. They walk together around the edge of the monastery courtyard, the chickens scattering before them. Dracula surveys the newly completed buildings and the lustily sprouting vegetable gardens with a look of satisfaction, and the abbot hastens to show him the walkways they have built since his last visit.
In the abbot’s chamber they drink tea and then Dracula sets a velvet bag before the abbot. “Open it,” he says, smoothing his mustache. His muscular legs are braced far apart in his chair; the ever-present sword still hangs at his side. The abbot wishes Dracula would give his gifts with more humility, but he quietly opens the sack. “Turkish treasure,” Dracula says, his smile broadening. One of his lower teeth is missing, but the rest are strong and white. Inside the bag the abbot finds jewels of infinite beauty, large clusters of emeralds and rubies, heavy gold rings and brooches of an Ottoman make, and among them other items, including a fine cross of chased gold with dark sapphires. The abbot doesn’t want to know where these have come from. “We will furnish the sacristy and put in a new baptismal font,” Dracula says. “I want you to order artisans from wherever you want. This will easily pay for it, with enough left over for my grave.”
“Your grave, my lord?” The abbot looks respectfully at the floor.
“Yes, Eminence.” His hand goes to his sword hilt again. “I have been thinking about it and I would like to be placed before the altar, with a marble stone above. You will give me the finest sung services, of course. Bring in a second choir for that.” The abbot bows, but he is unnerved by the man’s face, the glint of calculation in the green eyes. “In addition, I have some requests, which you will remember carefully. I want my portrait painted on the gravestone, but no cross.”
The abbot looks up, startled. “No cross, my lord?”
“No cross,” the prince says firmly. He looks the abbot full in the face, and for a moment the abbot does not dare to ask more. But he is this man’s spiritual adviser, and after another moment he speaks up. “Every grave is marked with the suffering of our Savior, and yours must have the same honor.”
Dracula’s face darkens. “I do not plan to subject myself long to death,” he says in a low voice.
“There is only one way in which to escape death,” the abbot says bravely, “and that is through the Redeemer, if He grants us His grace.”
Dracula stares at him for a few minutes and the abbot tries not to look away. “Perhaps,” he says finally. “But recently I met a man, a merchant who has traveled to a monastery in the West. He said there is a place in Gaul, the oldest church in their part of the world, where some of the Latin monks have outwitted death by secret means. He offered to sell me their secrets, which he has inscribed in a book.”
The abbot shudders. “God preserve us from such heresies,” he says hastily. “I am certain, my son, that you refused this temptation.”
Dracula smiles. “You know I am fond of books.”
“There is only one true Book, and that is the one we must love with all our hearts and all our souls,” the abbot says, but at the same moment he is unable to take his eyes off the prince’s scarred hand and the inlaid hilt with which it plays. Dracula wears a ring on his little finger; the abbot well knows, without looking closer, the ferociously curling symbol on it.
“Come.” To the abbot’s relief, Dracula has apparently tired of this debate, and he stands up suddenly, vigorously. “I want to see your scribes. I will have a special job for them soon.”
They go together into the tiny scriptorium, where three of the monks sit copying manuscripts, according to the old way, and one carves letters to print a page of the life of Saint Anthony. The press itself stands in one corner. It is the first printing press in Wallachia, and Dracula runs a proud hand over it, a heavy, square hand. The oldest of the scriptorium monks stands at a table near the press, chiseling a block of wood. Dracula leans over it. “And what will this be, Father?”
“Saint Mikhail slaying the dragon, Excellency,” the old monk murmurs. The eyes he raises are cloudy, occluded by sagging white brows.
“Rather have the Dragon slaying the infidel,” Dracula says, chuckling.
The monk nods, but the abbot shudders inwardly, again.
“I have a special commission for you,” Dracula tells him. “I shall leave a sketch for it with the lord abbot.”
In the sunshine of the courtyard, he pauses. “I will stay for the service, and take communion with you.” He turns a smile on the abbot. “Do you have a bed for me in one of the cells tonight?”
“As always, my lord. This house of God is your home.”
“And now let us go up in my tower.” The abbot knows well this practice of his patron; Dracula always likes to survey the lake and surrounding shores from the highest point in the church, as if to check for enemies. He has good reason, thinks the abbot. The Ottomans seek his head from year to year, the king of Hungary bears him no small malice, his own boyars hate and fear him. Is there anyone who is not his enemy, apart from the residents of this island? The abbot follows him slowly up the winding stair, bracing himself for the ringing of the bells, which will soon begin, and which sounds very loud up here.
The dome of the tower has long openings on every side. When the abbot reaches the top, Dracula is already standing at his favorite post, staring across the water, his hands clasped behind him in a characteristic gesture of thought, of planning. The abbot has seen him stand this way in front of his warriors, directing the strategy for the next day’s raid. He looks not at all like a man in constant peril-a leader whose death could occur at any hour, who should be pondering every moment the question of his salvation. He looks instead, the abbot thinks, as if all the world is before him.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Elizabeth Kostova graduated from Yale and holds an MFA from the University of Michigan, where she won the Hopwood Award for the Novel-in-Progress.
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The Historian Page 72
