Son of the Dragon

by Victor T Foia

  Vlad jumped Timur over to Marcus’ side. “I’ve got plans to study at the monastery,” he said. Father Lorenzo had promised Vlad a new manuscript if he resumed his Latin studies and passed an advanced grammar test. On his return from Eisenmarkt Vlad had done just that, and today Plutarch’s Life of Alexander the Great was awaiting him. “I’d rather learn how Alexander was able to defeat armies ten times the size of his, than listen to a bunch of whiners complain about Father’s policies.”

  “The boyars are still resisting Father’s request for a loan. He’s in a foul mood and apt to lash us if we don’t show up there.”

  “He can use my lands as collateral for his loan,” Vlad said, remembering a hint on this subject he’d gotten from Michael a few days before. “What else can I do to help him, anyway?”

  “He’s pledged everything already. His personal lands, mine, Radu’s, and yours. But the boyars say times are uncertain, and they’d rather hold on to gold than to land they couldn’t sell.”

  “He’ll bring them around, by and by. What’s the big hurry?”

  Marcus took on a conspiratorial look and dropped his tone, though there was no one around to overhear them. “Father’s working on a mutual defense treaty with Emperor Frederick, aimed at Hungary. I think Father’s wrong to make allies against the Hungarians, when they’re the only ones willing to fight the Ottomans. But I didn’t dare tell him that. He’s too determined to see it through.”

  “What do the members of his council think of that?” Vlad said.

  “They don’t know anything yet. Father wants to keep it a secret until the treaty goes into effect. Only his small council is to know. That’s Michael, Baba, and me.” Marcus paused, appearing to gauge the effect of his own exalted status on Vlad. “Father needs the pledge of the loan before he can sign the treaty, and doesn’t have much time to get it. Frederick’s ambassador is supposed to arrive here tonight.”

  Vlad remembered the hushed conversation his father had with the emperor’s poet Piccolomini in Hunyadi’s chapel. That was when the treaty was put into motion! “The Hungarians let the ambassador pass through their kingdom unimpeded? You’d think they’d guess what his mission was all about, and do everything they could to scuttle the treaty.”

  “Father might be misguided about choosing his allies, but he’s good at pulling strings. He advised Frederick to tell the Hungarians that Austria would join the crusade if Wallachia did. Now Hunyadi and Norbert think Frederick’s ambassador is coming here to cajole Father. So, they not only let him pass through, they gave him a two-dozen hussar escort to bring him here safe. Father learned that through fire signals from the hill watchers.”

  “Which is what Father was counting on,” Vlad said, admiring the tactic. Manipulate the Hungarians into providing an escort for Frederick’s envoy. Great move on Father’s part. But admiration for his father’s ingenuity didn’t prevent Vlad from resenting him. Dracul hadn’t included Vlad in the small council because he was still angry over the argument about Oma and the prophecy. It also peeved Vlad to see Marcus lord his status of an insider over him. “This does explain the urgency of Father’s need for a loan,” he said, to show Marcus he too was in the know. “He must station a few thousand men at Roter Turm Pass to convince Frederick he’s a worthy treaty partner, and that takes a lot of gold.”

  Marcus appeared taken aback by Vlad’s insight. “Did Father tell you that?”

  “Read enough history books, and you’ll be surprised how things become predictable.”

  “Am I to believe you guessed a key treaty provision from reading some musty old scrolls?” Marcus laughed. “Then tell me why Father thinks he needs Frederick in the first place.”

  Vlad sighed. “You don’t just read history books. You listen to people around you, too. Father’s afraid that when the crusading army sets off next year, Hungary will occupy Wallachia first.” That’s what Father had said to King George in Eisenmarkt. “Hunyadi won’t have difficulties convincing the Pope an Orthodox country that refuses to fight the Turks is a legitimate target. But Father’s treaty with Austria will make it impossible for Hungary to move against us, without risking an attack from the rear.”

  “And what’s in it for Frederick, if you’re so knowledgeable?” Marcus said. Envy for his brother’s more-than-casual understanding made his lips curl into a snarl.

  “What’s Frederick to gain? A pretext to pounce on Hungary without risking the Pope’s disapproval.”

  Marcus was crestfallen. “You’ve figured all this out by reading history, you say? Do you think it’s too late for me to read some of your books?”

  “Learning to read at your age might be a problem,” Vlad said, assuming the grave demeanor of a physician giving a patient bad news.

  “I’ll show you a problem,” Marcus said. He lunged at his brother and tried to unhorse him. But Vlad ducked the attack, laughing, and took off at a gallop.

  When they reached the bailey, Vlad handed Timur’s reins to Lash and headed for the monastery. Marcus ran after him.

  “I can’t figure you out, Vlad,” he said with uncharacteristic earnestness. “You couldn’t wait to be admitted among men, and now when Father needs our moral support, you’d rather go back to playing the learned monk. Don’t you know what’s expected of us, princes of the blood?”

  Vlad hadn’t known Marcus to take his princely duties so seriously. Perhaps the bump in the head he’d received in Eisenmarkt changed his perspective. Well, Plutarch could wait a bit. He followed Marcus, resigned. “Why here?” he said when he noticed Marcus had led him to the steps of the cellars. “Is Father taking the councilors to a place that might remind them how Opa used to deal with uncooperative boyars?” If Father had finally decided to appeal to the boyars’ fear instead of their greed, it was something worth watching.

  “All I know is, Father vowed to convince them to part with their gold,” Marcus said.

  At the bottom of the stairs they took torches from wall sconces and followed the sound of voices coming from deep underground. When they reached the storage room where the councilors were assembled, they saw the boyars seated around an empty table. There were no carafes of wine or drinking mugs, as was the custom in the council chamber. And instead of their comfortable chairs, the boyars were awkwardly perched on wine casks. Except for Baba Novak, they all seemed unsettled, if not worried, in such unfamiliar surroundings. Vlad and Marcus chose to stand.

  Dracul appeared soon, in Michael’s company. He acknowledged Vlad and Marcus with a pleasant nod, then turned a cold look onto the assembly of councilors. “I promise to let you all return to your comfortable manses, as soon as you agree to my loan request,” he said, and sat at the head of the table. Michael sat at his right. The boyars greeted Dracul with forced, nervous laughter.

  Vlad observed Marcus shuffling imperceptibly toward the door. “You dragged me here, and now dare sneak away?” Vlad hissed at him. “Where’re you going, prince of the blood?”

  Caught, but not embarrassed, Marcus whispered, “I needed you to cover for me a few minutes. Alba’s got a beautiful daughter who takes a walk in her garden every day at this hour.” He rolled his eyes and sighed. “Esmeralda. I love to spy on her.”

  The mention of the girl Vlad had seen at Peter Alba’s mansion in February startled him. In his animosity for the Alba clan, Vlad didn’t admit to himself that Esmeralda’s memory preyed upon his mind too.

  “I’ll be back before the end of the meeting,” Marcus said, and disappeared into the shadows of the vaulted passage leading out of the room.

  For a moment Vlad toyed with the idea of also leaving, to join Alexander in his battle of Gaugamela. Now that Father had registered Vlad’s presence, he’d probably ignore him for the rest of the meeting. But just then Dracul handed him a long, heavy scroll, and all thought of Alexander vanished from Vlad’s mind.

  “We know Your Highness is jesting about holding us hostage,” Archbishop Varlaam said, plaintive. “But, joking aside, the Church doesn’t h
ave enough gold for its own needs, let alone lending it to the crown.” A few councilors mumbled their assent. “And what little gold the church does have, belongs only to God.”

  “I’d also remind Your Grace,” Alba said, “that the boyars’ property is inviolable under ancient laws. No king has the right to—”

  “Except in cases of treason,” Vlad blurted, before he considered what he was saying. Like one, the councilors, except Baba and Michael, turned to him with open mouths. Baba just chuckled, amused. Michael’s look seemed to say, “I knew this was coming.” Dracul showed no reaction.

  “As I was saying,” Alba resumed, “no king has the right to force a boyar to lend him money.” He looked around the table with pursed lips, defiant.

  This animated the other councilors more than the bishop’s lament. Dracul allowed them time to settle, then stood and pointed at the scroll Vlad held. “Once you understand how I plan to repay your gold, you’ll lend it to me of your own accord. It isn’t often you have the chance to double your investment in a scant five years.”

  So it was greed, not fear, that Father decided to tickle today. Vlad was disappointed.

  The words had barely escaped Dracul before the councilors broke into an excited chatter. “A doubling in five years? Impossible,” Alba said. “That would mean fifteen percent interest.”

  Several other councilors said, “Unheard of.”

  “Even the Jews don’t get such interest,” another boyar added.

  “I wouldn’t mind making more from my gold than a Jew, for a change,” someone said, “if I thought it possible.”

  “Your Highness guarantees such a return?” a wizened old boyar said, rubbing his hands together. A trickle of saliva flowed from the corner of his mouth.

  “Yes, Lord Todor,” Dracul said, raising his voice above the hubbub. “Until the loan is repaid with interest, you’ll be the ones collecting all the gold my plan will generate.”

  “After expenses,” Michael said.

  The councilors looked at him, suspicious.

  “There will be plenty left after expenses,” Dracul said. “Unfurl that scroll, Vlad, and hold it high so all the councilors can see it.”

  The scroll, made of a number of velum patches stitched together, turned out to be a crude map of Europe. Vlad removed the scabbard of his sword and wrapped the top of the map around it to hold it straight. The councilors became quiet, all squinting at the map, curious and intrigued.

  “At the present, the Genovese control commerce across the Black Sea. It’s practically a Genovese lake.” Dracul took out his dagger and using it as a pointer said, “They buy goods from the caravans of the Silk Road here.” He stabbed at Trebizond on the southeast shore of the Black Sea. “They warehouse them in Caffa.” He tapped on the Crimean Peninsula. “From Caffa, they ship all merchandise through the Bosphorus,” tap, “the Sea of Marmara,” tap, “the Dardanelles,” tap, “around Greece, around Sicily, and along the west coast of Italy. Finally they unload it here.” A last tap on the port of Genoa. Dracul waited for his words to sink in before he said, “What happens to those goods after that?”

  Vlad watched the councilors and saw in their bewildered looks a total lack of understanding for the geography of this long itinerary. He guessed the answer his father was looking for.

  “Some of those goods are taken overland to Vienna and Buda,” he said, when the councilors’ silence had lasted a few awkward minutes. “Even to Transylvania. To Klausenburg, Hermannstadt, Kronstadt, Eisenmarkt. That’s practically back to where they started from two months earlier on the Black Sea.” Dracul glanced up to him with a playful look in his eyes. Vlad felt encouraged.

  “So what’s that to us, Prince Vlad?” Archbishop Varlaam said, and gave Vlad a sour look. “We aren’t in the business of worrying about where the Germans and the Hungarians get their goods, are we?”

  Vlad thought about not answering. Even though ignorant, the archbishop wouldn’t welcome explanations from a young man. But a glance at his father told him he ought to continue.

  “I believe that’s precisely the point Lord Father’s trying to make, Your Excellency,” he said, feeling more and more confident. “Wallachia should make its business to bring the goods of the East to Europe, and become prosperous in the process.”

  “You don’t seem convinced, Lord Ignatius,” Dracul said to a portly man who was shaking his head. Ignatius was master of the horse, and a man known for being opposed to any kind of change.

  “What makes Your Grace believe the Genovese would welcome our involvement in their commerce?” Ignatius said. “They’ve been doing well without our help for hundreds of years. Why should they change now?”

  “Tell the master of the horse,” Dracul said, turning his eyes on Vlad, “how much shorter our route would be than the one the Genovese are using now.”

  Vlad glanced at the map and made a quick calculation. “Our route’s about a quarter of theirs.”

  “The difference in distance is not the only thing that matters,” Michael said. “Their route is also besieged with dangers from pirates and storms.”

  “And lately threatened by Ottoman encroachments upon the waterways,” Dracul said. “To learn of a short and safe route to the heart of Europe will prove irresistible to the Genovese.”

  “If you can convince the Genovese that our roads are safer than the waters of the sea,” the archbishop said, “Your Highness deserves to get an interest-free loan.”

  All the councilors laughed at this, and even Dracul allowed himself a chuckle.

  “I wouldn’t start by telling them that, Father Varlaam,” Dracul said, turning serious. “But with your loan, I’ll make the roads safer than the path from the altar to the vestibule in your cathedral church. And once the gold starts coming in, I’ll build you a church five times the size of the one you’ve got now.”

  It was the first time Vlad observed a note of optimism around the council table. Dracul’s confidence in this opportunity was proving contagious. Only Alba retained a skeptical frown.

  “We’ll start by building a fortress at the mouth of the Danube, at Kilia,” Dracul said. “Then we’ll add a port there, with proper wharves and warehouses.”

  Vlad noted the change from “I” to “we” in his father’s speech. Apparently so did the councilors, who began to nod with growing interest.

  “We’ll need inns along the road, too,” Michael said, “every thirty miles or so, like the Ottomans have throughout their empire.”

  “All defended by armed guards,” Dracul said. “Imagine a commercial road free of bandits, and you collecting taxes on it.”

  “But what are these mysterious goods we’re supposed to get rich on?” Ignatius said. “Why don’t we just sell the Hungarians and the Germans what we’ve got already? Timber, cattle, salt, wax, furs. We don’t need any fortresses or wharves for those things.”

  “But the Germans and the Hungarians already have such things,” Vlad said, barely able to control his disdain at the boyar’s imbecility.

  “The things that sell for the most profit,” Dracul said, patient, “are goods coming from China and other places in the East only the Arab traders know the names of.”

  He beckoned a footman standing at the back of the room. The man brought over a wooden casket and placed it in front of Dracul. When he flipped open the lid, a pleasant fragrance wafted from the box. Vlad saw that it was filled with black wooden slivers, each the length of a thumbnail.

  “This comes from the cargo of a Genovese shipwreck near Kilia,” Dracul said. He pointed at the back wall, where hundreds of such caskets were stacked to the ceiling. Then he took a fistful of the black slivers and tossed them onto the table. “Who among you can tell me what these are?”

  The men reached out, cautious, and picked up the tiny objects. Like curious children, they held them to the candlelight and twirled them between their fingers.

  “They seem to be wooden nails,” one of the councilors said. “Like a cobbler would
use to mend boots.”

  Several councilors grunted in agreement.

  “That’s exactly what the French call them: clous, meaning nails. To the Germans they are Gewürznelken. Nails like these will travel for more than a year, over thousands of miles, just to make the food of rich people in Europe taste better. By the time Emperor Frederick’s pheasant is spiced with Gewürznelken, some lucky merchant will have made a fortune from selling them to the steward of the imperial kitchens.”

  Vlad noticed that except for Baba and Michael, the other councilors stuck the clous into their pockets.

  “I’ve lived a long life, Your Grace,” Theo said, “but never heard of pheasants needing any clous to taste good. I hang my pheasant in the pantry like everyone else until it falls off the hook, and it tastes just fine.”

  “No, I don’t expect you’ve heard of clous, Lord Theo,” Dracul said, with an understanding air, “just like you haven’t heard of cinnamon, sandalwood, hyssop, galingale, saffron, cubebs, or cardamom. But you will, soon.”

  Next, the servant brought a crate packed with straw, from which Dracul extracted a bowl made of a substance hard and shiny like glass, decorated with blue flowers and birds on a white background. “No one understands this material,” Dracul said, tapping the pot and making it ring, like a bell. “The Italians called it porcellana. I was told master potters all over Europe have been trying for decades to reproduce this material, without success. And because of that, this pot is worth its weight in silver to the Italians, the Germans, and the French. They say King Charles of France has bought a dozen pots like this for his queen, Marie of Anjou.”

  Dracul gave the bowl a shove and it glided on the table, then stopped in front of Ignatius.

  “There, master of the horse,” Dracul said with a mischievous smile, “tell us what you think of this vessel.”

  “Oh, that’s something for the master of the royal pantry, Your Grace, not for me” Ignatius said, breaking into a wheezy laughter. “What do I know about pots and pans?”

  “I’ve seen tiles made of this material in Venice,” Lord Alba said. He lifted the bowl and stuck his nose into it. Then he sniffed noisily, feigning exaggerated interest in the unusual object. “What’s it for, to be treated with such esteem by kings and queens?”