Son of the Dragon

by Victor T Foia

  “Why, Lord Treasurer,” Dracul said, jovial, “I would’ve thought you came across one of these during your stay in Venice. It’s a chamber pot.”

  Alba dropped the bowl with a look of horror and it shattered into dozens of glittering shards that shot in all directions. The room exploded with rowdy laughter, and several of the men reached out for the pieces of porcellana. Alba’s face reddened, but he maintained a stony composure.

  “Queen Marie’s ass might require such fine treatment,” Ignatius said, wiping tears off his cheeks with his caftan sleeve, “but my own lady’s quite happy to piss and shit in a wooden bucket. You won’t catch me buying her a Chinese chamber pot.” A new wave of laughter echoed off the ceiling of the storeroom.

  “Nothing in my plan will tamper with your lady’s nightly bliss, Lord Ignatius,” Dracul said. “That’s another promise I can make.” Vlad looked at his father and thought he’d never seen him so upbeat, so taken by youthful joy.

  That moment the door to the storeroom flew open and Marcus stormed in, breathless. Vlad noticed his father’s surprise at realizing Marcus hadn’t been present at the meeting all along.

  “Terrible news, lord Father,” Marcus said.

  Dracul shot to his feet. “Not here, Son,” he said, all color drained from his face. “You’ll excuse me, my lords,” he said, and headed for the door. “We’ll resume our planning tomorrow.” Baba, Michael, and Marcus hurried after him. Vlad followed.

  CHAPTER 17: Evil in the Forest

  Dracul didn’t say a word until they reached his chambers in the castle. Only when the door closed behind them did he turn to Marcus with a pained look. “Tell me the news has nothing to do with Frederick’s envoy, Son.”

  “It’s Nestor—er, and the man from Vienna and Hunyadi’s—”

  “What are you talking about?” Dracul shouted, stepping up to Marcus. “What’s Nestor got to do with Piccolomini?” Then he bit his lip and clenched his fists. “Hunyadi sent Piccolomini under that weakling Nestor’s care, didn’t he? That miserable fucker. What happened?”

  “Nestor’s downstairs in the guardhouse. He’s got a wounded hussar with him. All others in his party have been killed in the forest.”

  Dracul shuddered at the news and appeared shaky on his feet. Baba tried to lead him to a chair but he shook himself free.

  “Get Nestor,” Dracul said to Marcus in a spent voice. “I need to hear the story from his lips.” When Marcus was gone, Dracul sat at his desk, chin resting on his fists. “This isn’t ordinary highway robbery and murder.”

  “Does this mean Hunyadi knows about your treaty with the emperor, Father?” Vlad said.

  “He might only suspect something, but that’d be good enough reason for him to order a murder,” Dracul said, preoccupied. Then, as if he’d just realized what Vlad said he cast him a suspicious, angry look. “How do you know about the treaty?”

  Vlad realized he’d blundered, showing what he knew, and lowered his gaze, embarrassed.

  Dracul shook his head, resigned. “It’s that brother of yours, isn’t it? He’s as loose with secrets as a sieve is with water. Well, you might as well be part of this. You’re old enough, and better at keeping a secret than Marcus.”

  “How could Hunyadi have found out?” Michael said.

  “He might have spies in the Vienna chancellery. Though he could’ve simply guessed what Frederick and I were up to. Hunyadi’s shrewd that way, and he knows my thinking pretty well. In either case this kills my treaty.”

  “No, Your Grace,” Michael said. “All’s not lost. We’ll send word to Frederick by one of our agents, and he’ll reissue the treaty protocol.”

  “Pour me a cup of wine,” Dracul said to Vlad. He took a long draft, then said, “What’s to say his second envoy won’t end up dead, Michael? And the third? You know we’ve got less than a year to put our defenses in order. With the time needed to recruit the soldiers, equip them, train them... every month counts.”

  “You think it was Nestor’s assignment to have Piccolomini killed, Father?” Vlad said, refilling Dracul’s wine cup. “But if so, why a forest attack? And why just a day’s journey from Targoviste? He could’ve had him murdered anywhere along the way.”

  “Piccolomini had to die in Wallachia, so Hunyadi could avoid any culpability,” Michael said. “And die in a way witnesses could testify was a random act of banditry.”

  “And Nestor didn’t want it done too deep in the forest,” Baba said. “He knew he could make it safe from the edge of Devil’s Belt to here, once he got rid of his company.”

  The superficial loathing Vlad had felt for his cousin in Eisenmarkt now pushed deeper roots. “But to stage something like this would take contacts among the robbers,” he said.

  “That’d be no challenge for a man like Nestor,” Michael said. “He speaks Romanian, knows the lay of the land, and has his own spies around here. That’s why Hunyadi entrusted the deed to him—”

  The door opened and Marcus walked in, followed by Nestor and a hussar whose uniform was torn and blood-splattered.

  Nestor’s clothes were dusty and his face begrimed, as one would expect from someone who’d been on horseback for the past ten days. There was no doubt his ordeal in the forest had left him haggard and exhausted. Yet in Vlad’s judgment, the expression on his cousin’s face wasn’t that of someone who’d just escaped death, or of one who’d lost the lives of people entrusted to his command. The way Nestor’s eyes darted around, alert, not scared, spoke of a person calculating his next move.

  “I must confess, your visit causes me surprise, Cousin Nestor,” Dracul said, with the coolness of a host receiving an uninvited guest. “And to learn that you’ve come on a simple family visit with a troop of Hunyadi’s hussars, raises my surprise to the level of wonder.” He took a candelabrum off his desk, and, holding it high, walked with slow steps around Nestor. “But then, to discover you managed to lose all but one of your men to some forest vermin and not get hurt yourself, turns my wonder into sheer astonishment.”

  “I’m not here on family business, Cousin,” Nestor said, uninhibited, “but on an official mission for King Norbert.”

  Vlad observed that his father’s remarks had the effect of raising Nestor’s level of self-confidence instead of inhibiting him. His cousin thought them all a bunch of simpletons.

  Nestor continued, rushed, “King Norbert’s asked Governor Hunyadi to provide an escort of two dozen hussars for Emperor Frederick’s ambassador to Wallachia, Ser Piccolomini. In complying, Lord Hunyadi was doing you a favor and—”

  “What ambassador?” Dracul said. He looked around him, as if left out of some secret known to all others.

  Nestor assumed a dark, threatening look. “The governor was doing you a favor protecting Ser Piccolomini, and will be devastated to learn that because of the lawlessness of your roads, his only son was killed together with—”

  “What!” Dracul shouted. He dropped the candelabrum to the floor and grabbed Nestor by the breast of his mantle with claw-like hands. “Are you saying that Hunyadi’s son was with you?” Seeing confirmation in Nestor’s face, Dracul fell back, crushed. “Why would Hunyadi let his son go on a perilous journey like this?”

  Silence descended in the room as Dracul, ashen-faced, collapsed in his chair.

  “May we have your doctor look after this wounded man, Lord Father?” Vlad said. Without waiting for an answer he turned to the hussar and asked in Hungarian, “How bad are your wounds?”

  “Just scratches, my lord,” the man answered, proud. From the pallor on the man’s face and the wet stain of blood on his shirt, Vlad knew he was braving serious injuries. “Take him to the kitchen, Jacob,” he said to Dracul’s valet, “and see to it that his wounds are cleaned and bandaged by the surgeon. Then feed him and give him a place to sleep.”

  The short break gave Dracul time to recover from his shock. “Tell us what happened, Nestor,” he said, listless.

  Nestor opened his mouth to speak and his fa
ce crumpled, overcome with emotion. “It was a last-moment decision to include László in the traveling party,” he said, choking back tears. “The governor thought that since László was fourteen he’d be ready for a trip like this.” His face crumpled and he began to sob.

  “Where did the attack take place?” Michael said. “How many bandits were there?”

  “How come you weren’t wounded at all?” Vlad said. “You tried to defend László, didn’t you?”

  “Stop sniveling, coward,” Baba said, “and tell us the whole story, from the beginning to the end. Then you can go and cry in your wine cup.”

  Nestor rubbed his eyes and the tears spread grime on his face, giving him a ghoulish look. “We had about two miles left on the forest road.”

  “And you were riding ahead of the others, right?” Baba said.

  Nestor gave him a resentful look. “I always take the point when I feel there might be danger ahead. I was responsible for Piccolomini’s and László’s safety.”

  Vlad saw Baba and Michael exchange meaningful looks, that seemed to say, “And a fine job you did.”

  “Without a warning a tree fell across the path,” Nestor said.

  “But just behind you, right?” Baba said.

  Nestor turned his body so he wouldn’t have to look at Baba, and now Vlad could see clearly hostility on his face. “I looked back and saw that several other trees were toppling over,” Nestor continued. “There was a lot of shouting, with arrows and javelins flying in all directions.”

  “There was nothing you could do,” Baba said with exaggerated understanding. “Within minutes they were all dead, and you had to get away to tell the king of the disaster.”

  Nestor’s hostility graduated to undisguised hatred. “No, not everyone,” he said, spiteful, still not looking at Baba. “One of the hussars, the one you just met, managed to break through the encirclement. He was wounded and confused. And I saved his life, didn’t I?”

  “I think I’ve heard enough for now,” Dracul said. “Marcus, take your cousin away and don’t leave him out of your sight. We’ll talk more later.”

  When Marcus and Nestor were gone, Dracul rose from his desk and began to pace, chin sunk onto his chest.

  “I’ll go after the bandits, Your Grace,” Baba said. “I’ll bring them all here and break them on the wheel in front of you.”

  Dracul stopped and looked at Baba as if he didn’t know who he was. Then he resumed pacing.

  Baba waited until Dracul was level with him again before he whispered, “Or if you want me to, I’ll take the priest to the forest to consecrate the ground and bury the poor men like Christians.”

  “The dead men aren’t Orthodox, Lord Baba,” Vlad said. “They all are Catholic. We need to ask Father Lorenzo to let his choir monk bury the men the proper way. He’s ordained as a Catholic priest.”

  Michael walked over to Baba and Vlad. “The king’s in shock,” he whispered. “Leave him in my care and go make arrangements for the funeral. Bring Piccolomini and László back here for burial in the monastery’s cemetery. It wouldn’t do to have their graves be lost somewhere in the forest.”

  “I’m coming with you, Lord Baba,” Vlad said when they were on the stairs leading to the bailey. Before Baba could protest he said, “I’m the only one who knows Piccolomini, so can recognize his corpse.”

  Baba shrugged. “But I’ll take the point, in case there is danger ahead,” he said, and they both laughed.

  Vlad ordered Gruya and Lash to ready Timur for the trip and jogged over to the monastery to speak with Father Lorenzo. By the time Baba assembled a troop of forty castle guards with supplies for three days of travel, Vlad returned with the choir monk.

  They rode all night, keeping their horses at a moderate walk. Vlad slept in the saddle for a few minutes at a time, and when dawn broke he felt alert.

  Nestor’s description of the attack scene proved accurate. No more than two miles inside Devil’s Belt they found a jumble of fallen trees blocking the road. The bodies of the fallen, all stripped of clothing and footwear, were scattered over an area of about two acres. It was the first time Vlad saw such a large number of corpses in one place, and it made him queasy. Without a word Lash handed him a wineskin, but Vlad waved it aside, and swallowed his nausea. Baba’s men set to work, carrying the corpses to a nearby clearing chosen by the monk.

  Vlad took a quick survey of the bodies assembled there, then crisscrossed the scene of the attack, trying to locate Piccolomini and László’s corpses. To his surprise, he couldn’t find them. He returned to the clearing and waited for the soldiers to collect all the bodies. When they were done, thirty corpses lay in six rows. Twenty of them could be identified as hussars, from their muscular bodies and droopy moustaches. The remaining were stable boys and mule handlers, all underfed and showing much-calloused hands.

  “Go search farther afield,” Vlad asked Gruya and Lash. “There’s got to be more bodies. We’re missing László and the emperor’s envoy, as well as three of the hussars. And I don’t know if we’ve got all the servants either. Nestor never told us how many of them there were to start with.”

  While he waited, Vlad took a closer look at the way the attack had been prepared. The trees showed deep saw cuts around their bases, and had ropes tied to the upper branches. “The bandits must’ve used mules or horses to pull at the trees and topple them over,” he said to Baba. “This was no spur-of-the-moment operation.”

  Gruya returned an hour later, empty handed. Lash took much longer yet was equally unsuccessful in locating any more bodies. But he brought some useful information on the attackers.

  “At first I found horse and mule tracks leading east, south, and west,” he said. “But then I discovered that those going east and south made a big turn once they were about three miles from here. Then they all headed west like the others.”

  “Get me thirty of the men,” Baba ordered his sergeant. “I’ll track down the bandits while you finish the work here. Then you can catch up with us.”

  “Won’t that be dangerous for Piccolomini and László if they were taken hostage, Lord Baba?” Vlad said.

  “That’s exactly why I can’t waste another moment going in their search. I’ll find them if I have to burn down the entire forest in the process.”

  Vlad suppressed a sigh. If Piccolomini wasn’t yet dead, that would surely get him killed. How could Vlad convince the sword bearer to use brains and not muscle when he couldn’t confront his enemies face to face? “If Father had a choice between killing the robbers or saving Piccolomini, he’d opt for the latter,” Vlad said. “In fact by now he’d pay anything to have him alive and with a copy of the treaty in hand.”

  “I’ll get him both, the poet alive and the bandits dead,” Baba said, and laughed. “And if Hunyadi’s brat is still alive, I’ll throw him into the bargain too.”

  The sergeant returned to report the men were assembled, and Vlad knew this was his last chance. If he couldn’t reason with Baba, perhaps he could trick him.

  “You know Father’s favored tale is that of Caesar being taken hostage by pirates, when he was eighteen,” Vlad said, trying to sound casual. Baba cocked his head and watched him, uncertain. “Oh, he told me that story half a dozen times. He was much taken with the way Caesar’s father handled the pirates. He paid the ransom first. Only then did he send his sword bearer to kill the pirates.”

  Father had no knowledge of Caesar’s life, but the story itself was mostly true. Well, if not most then much of it. It wasn’t as if Baba would ever find out.

  “I’ve known your father all my life,” Baba said, astonished, “and here I am, still learning something new about the man. I didn’t know he cared for history at all.”

  “Father will be thrilled when you tell him that by all accounts, neither Piccolomini nor László is dead. He’ll want to strategize with you on their rescue without delay.”

  “Never mind about the bandits, Sergeant,” Baba called out. “Have the men rejoin
the others on digging the graves. Then clear the road of the trees and return to town when you’re done.” He mounted his horse with great purpose. “The king needs me back at the castle.”

  CHAPTER 18: The Ransom Note

  Back in Targoviste that night, Vlad went to sleep in his monastery cell and didn’t awaken until noon the next day. Yet despite the long rest, he felt more tired than the night before. Though he couldn’t remember his dreams, he knew they’d been filled with horrors and fruitless chases that left him frustrated and feeling guilty.

  Lash brought him soup from the refectory, then went to check on news about the men who’d disappeared in the forest. Vlad tried to read Plutarch, but couldn’t muster interest. Instead he tossed on his cot all afternoon, tormented by doubts.

  What if he was wrong to interfere with Baba’s plan to track down the killers? He didn’t even know what kind of men they were. They could have connections with the Turks, and might be planning to sell them the prisoners.

  Of only one thing could Vlad be certain: if they were still alive, every hour that passed put more and more distance between the captives and a rescue party.

  He ought to go to Baba and confess his doubts. No. It was too late for that. If the bandits were determined to get away with their prize, they’d be too far to catch by now. Did that make Vlad responsible for the lives of Piccolomini and László?

  He tried to recall Piccolomini’s features, but what came to mind first were his colorful, outlandish clothes. Certainly not the typical scribe, dressed all in black like those in Father’s chancellery. Vlad recalled him dashing forward from the shadows of the Hunyadi chapel, in his velvet tunic with billowing white sleeves. Probably something Italians wore at church. “I’m not a jester, I’m a poet laureate,” he’d said. Though dressed like that, Vlad couldn’t quite blame Cardinal Cesarini for thinking otherwise. Then his purple cape. And that ridiculous hat with its yellow feather. Not a jester, indeed. But the little man had intelligent eyes.