Son of the Dragon

by Victor T Foia

  “I’m not afraid, if that’s what you’re implying,” Zekaï said. “But what if they—?”

  “It’s not trusting the Christians that counts,” Omar said. He wagged his finger with a severe frown at Redjaï and Sezaï; the two youths stopped laughing. “It’s that they trust us. And I made sure of that with our barge master.” He stood and walked over to his horse, grazing nearby. “Time to stow the weapons away and harness the mules. The boatmen will be here any moment now.” He removed his bow case and quiver from their saddle straps, and hid them under a tarp covering the cargo inside the wagon. Then he untied his sword belt and placed the weapon next to the bow case, keeping only his dagger. His brothers did the same.

  “Take the wagon to the water’s edge,” he ordered Zekaï, when Redjaï and Sezaï had hitched the mules to the cart. “I want the barge master to see it from the distance and believe we are real merchants, as I told him yesterday.”

  “Won’t he wonder why we’re crossing the river here instead of taking the ferry at Nicopolis like other merchants?” Zekaï said.

  “Rest assured we aren’t the first smugglers he’s helping avoid paying custom taxes. Because that’s what we are to him.” Omar took a bolt of cotton from the wagon and handed it to Zekaï. “Give this to the old man, when he steps ashore. It’s the bonus I promised him if he arrived before noon.”

  Zekaï looked at the sun and shook his head. “It’s well past noon, Omar. We made our Dhuhr prayer an hour ago.”

  “Omar knows what he’s doing,” Redjaï said. “When the master gets his unearned bonus, he’ll think of us as a bunch of bunglers, eager to earn his goodwill. That’s how you handle the infidels, not by showing off your smarts.”

  That moment, Sezaï gave a whistle. They all dashed to his side and looked upstream, where they saw a black dot in the middle of the river.

  “Take this, Sezaï,” Omar said, and gave his brother a white rag. “Hop on that boulder and flag them.”

  The Danube was nearly two miles wide at this spot, as it spilled into the floodplain on the Wallachian shore. The water appeared as still as that of a lake on a windless day, and the progress of the dot was near imperceptible. Omar kept his eyes on it, nervous, willing Damyan, the barge master, to look his way. If it was he.

  Ten minutes later he could distinguish the barge’s features. A man stood on the bow, and rowers leaned back and forth over their oars. Omar’s tension grew when the craft gave no sign of turning to shore. Why the Devil was Damyan staying in the middle of the river? He should’ve had Zekaï built a fire. The bargemen couldn’t miss seeing the smoke.

  “What if that’s not our barge?” Zekaï said.

  “I see five people,” Omar lied, trying to sound confident. “It’s got to be Damyan and his men.” Maybe Zekaï was right. Omar shouldn’t have given the Bulgarian Giaour a single asper up front. He’d probably drunk himself stupid and forgot about them.

  Omar’s mind raced. It had taken him a week to find a bargeman willing to ferry them across. He’d anticipated such a delay, so had begun his search when the moon was still only a slim crescent. Now the moon had grown to almost half. How long before he found another barge? They needed ten days of bright moonlight so they could travel at night, until they reached the upcountry. Once they secured their cargo Omar didn’t care about moonlight anymore. They’d make the return journey in the daytime and fight their way through, if needed. But now, they couldn’t afford to waste a single night. He let out a sour belch and cursed the infidels under his breath.

  “They’ve seen us,” Redjaï shouted. “Look, they’re waving a white flag too.”

  Omar sighed, relieved. “I told you there was no reason to worry,” he said to Zekaï.

  His youngest brother looked at him, beaming. Omar watched him for a few moments, admiring his straight posture and broad shoulders. Zekaï had an exuberance his middle brothers lacked, and Omar felt certain in time he’d make the finest Akinci their family ever had. Then he slapped Zekaï across the face, just hard enough to hurt, but still light enough to show love. “Don’t ever question my judgment again.”

  “I had an unexpected customer this morning, Omar,” the man on the barge’s prow shouted in broken Turkish. He was a portly man in his fifties, weatherworn and grizzled but still vigorous. He wore baggy pants tucked into his boots and a soiled cape. Like all river men, he had a knife stuck in his right boot. As he spoke, the oarsmen maneuvered the barge to point the bow away from the shore. When the bottom touched gravel, the man walked to the stern and leaped onto the shore. “Just couldn’t get away on time.” His eyes darted up and down the shore, alert.

  “You’re still early enough to have earned the bonus I promised you, Master Damyan.” Omar beckoned Zekaï. “Come, Brother, give Master Damyan his due.”

  Damyan brightened at the mention of the bonus and, as Omar had expected, appeared to drop his watchfulness. “So this strapping lad’s your brother, Omar?” he said, taking the parcel from Zekaï. “What’s he? Fourteen? Fifteen? He’s about the age of my grandson Hristo, over there.” He pointed at a freckled-face boy who stood in the stern, holding an oar in his hands like a spear.

  Omar observed the other three rowers similarly grasping their oars. They were brutes with knobby fists and narrow foreheads. Not surprising. Damyan must’ve told his men to bash the Turks’ heads in at the slightest sign of danger. “And these three handsome men?” Omar said. “Your sons, Master Damyan?”

  “My nephews.”

  “Tell your men that if they get us to the other side two hours before dark, I’ll give them a bag of Syrian dates to fight over.”

  Damyan translated and the oarsmen grinned, showing missing and decayed teeth. Omar took a handful of dates from his pocket and pitched them at their feet. All four men dropped their oars and dove for the fruit, snarling and piling on top of each other like hungry dogs let loose on a wounded rabbit.

  Damyan got busy directing the installation of the ramp for loading the wagon. Omar took advantage of that to instruct Zekaï. “Stick close to Damyan at all times and listen for my signal. Are you ready to do your part?”

  “Depend on me, Omar,” Zekaï said, beaming.

  Redjaï and Sezaï drove the wagon onto the barge and secured the wheels in place with wood chocks. Then they lashed the mules’ halters with lead chains and tethered them to iron rings affixed to the deck. Omar and Zekaï did the same to their four horses.

  The oarsmen lifted the ramp and shoved it onto the deck. Wading knee-deep into the water, they set their shoulders against the stern and pushed, groaning and cursing in their tongue until the barge rocked free of the river’s bottom and began to glide away. Then they clambered aboard and took rowing positions inside wells sunk a foot below the deck.

  “Aim for that grove of cypress trees, Master Damyan,” Omar said when the barge had crossed the mid-river. He pointed at a dark-green hump rising above the swamp grass. It was one of few places on the Wallachian shore the land wasn’t too spongy for the wagon to be unloaded. From there it was a mile to the hard road.

  Damyan called out to his crew, and the four rowers stood up to see the spot. “Landing places in the swamp are kept a big secret,” he said, suspicious. “Wonder how you came to learn about this one.”

  Sooner or later they all asked this question. Omar had heard it said that river men would kill their own kin for revealing such a secret to strangers. He turned his back on Damyan and pretended to check on the horses’ tethers.

  “A fisherman showed it to our father,” Zekaï said at last.

  True, Father had managed to convince a boatman to sell him the secret of a landing spot. That was five years ago, after the sultan made peace with the Wallachians and the Akincis were abandoned to fend for themselves. It was the first time their raiding party was all family: Redjaï, Sezaï, Omar, and their father. The recollection of that May afternoon caused a lump to rise in Omar’s throat. Nothing had changed since that day. The hoots of the gulls, the smell of t
he mudflats, the mists over the reeds, they were all the same.

  But, no, one important thing had changed. Father was gone. Omar had been accustomed to following his orders, unquestioning. But now, everything depended on him. Not just the success of their raid, but their very lives. With the landing moments away, Omar began to feel the crushing weight of responsibility bearing upon his shoulders. He felt the urge to pray but the moment wasn’t right. There was still much work ahead of them.

  Satisfied Zekaï was at his post next to Damyan on the prow, Omar left to check on Redjaï and Sezaï. He found them on the starboard side, trying to communicate in sign language with two of Damyan’s nephews and laughing foolishly.

  Omar joined in the laughter. Then he patted the rowers on their cheeks, and dropped a few dates into their mouths. The men chewed, contented, and rowed with renewed vigor. “I’ve got more coming,” Omar said, pointing at his pocket. Then he turned to his brothers and spoke in a casual tone, “Don’t move from here, and keep your ears open. I can handle the other side alone.”

  The two rowers on the port side grinned at Omar, expectant, curious no doubt of what the laughter was all about. Omar tossed each one a handful of dates. The older rower stuffed the fruit into his mouth, all at once. But Hristo dropped his share inside his shirt. The kind of kid who took his prizes home to share with his mother. Omar felt a twinge of tenderness for Hristo.

  Omar admired the men’s strength and skill. They moved in perfect concert, even though Hristo couldn’t see his partner behind him. “Dobra rabota, good work,” Omar called out in Bulgarian over the men’s heads. He’d memorized those two words just for this moment, and was pleased to see both men respond with grateful nods.

  Beyond the bow, where Damyan and Zekaï stood deep in conversation, the cypress grove loomed a short distance away. No more than forty yards left. The time had come.

  “Your crew’s done a great job, Master Damyan,” Omar shouted, cheerful. “They got us here with plenty of daylight left.”

  Damyan turned to him with a proud look. “Never doubt the word of a Bulgarian river man.”

  Omar made eye contact with Zekaï, and saw his brother’s face had turned ashen. You can’t panic on me now when I need you the most, Zekaï. “Please make a note of it, Master Damyan. We’ll be back here in three weeks from today,” Omar said, keeping his eyes on Zekaï and hoping his concern was unfounded. “I’m counting on you to ferry us back, Insha’Allah, if it is God’s will!” He shouted the last words louder to make sure Redjaï and Sezaï heard him.

  Without waiting to see Zekaï spring into action, Omar spun on his heels and, grabbing Damyan’s nephew by his hair, cut his throat in one quick stroke. Hristo, unaware of what was happening, continued to row. Omar let go of the dying man’s head and took a step toward Hristo, while his mind registered a gurgling sound coming from the starboard. The sound of men drowning in their own blood. Redjaï and Sezaï had done their bit, too.

  That moment a horse whinnied, and Hristo turned his head. “Diyado! Grandfather!” he howled.

  Omar’s head jerked toward the bow to see Zekaï holding Damyan by the hair, dagger pointed at his throat.

  “Cut him!” Even as he screamed at his brother, Omar knew Zekaï was too scared to do the deed. He took three running steps toward Damyan and plunged his dagger into the man’s heart. A splash behind him told Omar Hristo had leaped overboard.

  “I’m sorry Omar,” Zekaï wailed. “I couldn’t do it.”

  Omar ignored him and ran to the wagon. “Row the barge to the landing,” he ordered Redjaï and Sezaï while removing his bow from its case and stringing it with confident moves. “We’ve got to unload before dark.” Then he chose an arrow from the quiver and dashed to the stern.

  It surprised Omar to see how far Hristo had gotten already, especially swimming dressed and wearing boots. Yet even a strong swimmer couldn’t keep that pace for long. Indeed, Hristo’s strokes were becoming slower. Perhaps at twenty yards he thought himself far enough to risk sparing his energy. Omar fished a thumb ring from inside his shirt and nocked the arrow into the bowstring, knowing he had one chance to stop the boy. If he missed, Hristo might start swimming under water for another ten, fifteen yards, and then it was over. Omar took a few deep breaths to still his nerves. He couldn’t let Hristo go. It was him, or they.

  The arrow left the bow with a twang. The white fletching described a shallow arc and came to rest with a pop on the back of Hristo’s head. It looked like a flower tucked in his hair.

  “Allāhu Akbar, God is the Greatest,” Omar shouted, and dropped to his knees. The water, where a moment ago Hristo was thrashing, frantic, settled into tiny ripples.

  “I’m sorry, Omar,” Zekaï whimpered behind him. “I—”

  “Stop sniveling, and go get the body before it floats away. No! Not fully dressed, fool. Strip naked or you’ll drown. You aren’t as good a swimmer as Hristo was.”

  Omar didn’t wait for Zekaï to comply. He dragged the other dead men’s bodies to the stern, then returned to the wagon to unload several rock-filled burlap sacks. He emptied five of the sacks by dumping their loads into the oarsmen’s wells, then stuffed the bodies into them. When Damyan’s turn came, Omar searched his pockets and sash for the two silver coins he’d paid him, but found nothing. The infidel dog went drinking and whoring the night before. That was why he was late this morning.

  The barge bumped with a creak into the shore. “Tie her up, boys, and set up the ramp,” Omar commanded, trying to control his anger at the disaster just averted. “Move fast.” A glance in Zekaï’s direction assured him his youngest brother was searching for Hristo’s body in the right place.

  While Sezaï and Redjaï installed the ramp and led the horses ashore, Omar added a few rocks to each of the body bags.

  “I found him,” Zekaï shouted. He began to swim back to the barge, one arm paddling, the other towing Hristo by his hair.

  “Don’t get out of the water,” Omar said when Zekaï reached the craft. “You’ll have to take the bodies back to the current.” He grabbed the back of Hristo’s shirt and pulled his corpse onto the barge. As the shirt came out of the boy’s trousers, the dates he’d hidden there spilled onto the deck. The arrow had come out through Hristo’s right eye; his left eye looked at Omar, indifferent. For a moment Omar thought about recovering the arrow but changed his mind, realizing the fletching would be damaged in the process. He broke the shaft and threw it into the water.

  “I’m cold, Omar,” Zekaï said. He was standing on the river bottom, the water to his chin.

  Omar knew it was shock at the mayhem he’d witnessed that made Zekaï’s teeth chatter, more than the cold. He smiled inside, remembering how surprised he’d been when his father sprang on him the secret of crossing the Danube. He pulled the last of the empty sacks over Hristo’s body and added a handful of rocks to it. Then he tied up the bag, and pushed it overboard. It sank with a splash that washed over Zekaï’s head. “Drag him back where you found him then come back for the others. The rocks will sink the bags for now, but in a couple of days the bodies will swell with gas and float just above the bottom. Then the current will carry them away. They’ll get to the Black Sea before anyone finds them.”

  “Why did we have to kill them, Omar?” Zekaï asked when he returned.

  Omar pushed the second sack overboard before replying. “We couldn’t take the chance Damyan would sell us to the Wallachians. Knowing we’d be returning here would make it too tempting for him. Besides, he didn’t like it we knew of this place.”

  Sezaï and Redjaï joined him on the stern and began to scuffle over Hristo’s dates.

  “Stop wasting time, you two,” Omar shouted, cuffing them. “Unload the wagon then come back and lash everything secure so we can flood the barge.”

  Sezaï and Redjaï had been through this a few times, but they always forgot something, and Omar had to keep an eye on them. He didn’t want to refloat the barge on their return, only to discover the
ramp or the oars had floated away.

  By the time Zekaï had finished towing the body bags to the deep, his lips turned blue and he was unable to climb onto the barge unassisted. Omar felt pity for his baby brother and his anger against him vanished. “You did well holding Damyan until I could stab him. He was a strong man, and could’ve overpowered you.” He pulled Zekaï on deck and wrapped him in Damyan’s cape.

  Zekaï looked at Omar, grateful.

  “Go start a fire while your brothers and I take care of the barge.”

  Over the next half hour, Omar and his middle brothers flooded the barge by tilting it with the help of lines towed by the mules. The craft sank under the weight of the rocks, and settled onto the bottom under four feet of water. When the last air bubbles trapped under the deck burst through to the surface, Omar felt satisfied everything was in order. He went to the wagon and changed his soiled clothes for a wool djellaba; the Bulgarians’ blood had made the old clothing najis, unfit to be worn during prayer. Without being told to, his brothers did the same. Next they all performed wudu, using water from a leather bucket and murmuring the Bismillah, “In the name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful.”

  When they finished their preparations for the Maghrib prayer, Omar turned to the west and waited for the red sliver of the dying sun to sink below the horizon. The first raid under his command had started well, despite Zekaï’s moment of panic. From now on they’d do their traveling at night, hiding in the daytime hours. And in three weeks, they’d be back here with their plunder. Insha’Allah.

  The sun finally vanished and Omar unrolled his prayer rug. As he faced Mecca, his heart glowed with gratitude for Allah’s boundless mercy.

  CHAPTER 16: The Power of Greed

  “Time we turned back,” Marcus shouted from across a narrow ravine that separated him from his brother. He and Vlad had been training their horses on jumping for the past few hours. “We absolutely can’t miss Father’s council meeting today.”