Son of the Dragon

by Victor T Foia

  “That’s great,” Gruya said. “We’re looking for a few strong men to take with us Turk-hunting. You don’t mind if we wait for them, do you?”

  “What if they’re late?” she said.

  “We’ve got all night.” Gruya stepped up to the woman and, reaching over her shoulder, pushed the door open.

  In the light of a lamp hanging from the ceiling, Vlad glimpsed a child lying in a cradle on the floor, next to a straw pallet. A three-legged stool and a tree stump served as furniture.

  Gruya put on the wolfish grin he reserved for amorous conquests and leaned against the doorjamb. “Well, until your men return, it looks like there’s no one else around here to keep you company.”

  Vlad saw the woman’s eyes widen. “You’re frightening her, Gruya,” he said. “Go fetch László. You, Lash, set up camp by the creek.”

  Vlad noticed Gruya and Lash exchange surprised glances, and knew they shared a thought. Usually Vlad was the one leaving when a pretty woman was around.

  When they were left alone, the woman measured Vlad with a curious look, as if she’d just noticed him. “Are you their master?”

  Now that he was alone with her, Vlad didn’t know what to do. He’d never been by himself in such a proximity to a young woman. And an attractive one. He found himself wondering whether his hair was in disarray, or whether he smelled too much of horse. He should just walk away. “What’s your name?”

  She hesitated, as if giving her name implied crossing some forbidden line. “Why do you need to know that?” When Vlad didn’t reply she said, “Christina.”

  “How is it you don’t have dogs to defend you?”

  “Dogs make noise and can be heard miles away. I don’t want strangers led to my doorstep by a barking dog when the men are away.”

  Vlad knew that shepherds hired themselves for long stretches of time, to take sheep to summer pastures along the Danube. “There are no brothers or husband coming home tonight, are there?”

  Christina giggled. “Well, I said that thinking you meant to hurt me. But I see now you’re good folk.”

  “With neither men nor dogs around, aren’t you worried about bears and wolves? The forest is teeming with them. Foxes too.”

  “I take the goats inside the cottage at night and shut the chickens up in the coop.”

  It felt good just being near her, and he was reluctant to leave. But he couldn’t think of anything else to ask. “We’ll be camping by the stream for the night. If you’ll give us some mushrooms and cheese, we’ll pay you and be grateful for it.”

  “Show me your money first,” she said, holding out her hand with a saucy toss of her head. “Then I’ll give you anything I have.”

  Vlad found it hard to sustain her provocative stare, and lowered his gaze. A mistake. His eyes fell on her pointy breasts, pushing their way through the coarse fabric of her gown. He swallowed hard before he could speak again. “You’re right not to trust strangers.” His voice sounded hoarse, and he was certain Christina had noticed his bashfulness. He took a few copper coins from his sash and placed them in her hand. The touch of her skin gave him a rush. “Is that enough?”

  He would have liked to give her more money, just so he could touch her hand again. But the woman closed her fist over the coins with a snap, as if afraid he’d change his mind and take the money back. Then she straightened her shoulders, making her breasts stand out even more. In the falling shadows of the evening, her eyes shone moist and playful against her tanned skin.

  “Come back later for the mushrooms and the cheese,” she said in a soft whisper. Then she added, playful, “If you aren’t afraid of the dark.” When he turned to leave, she lobbed a pinecone at him and laughed. “My husband’s been gone for a month and won’t be back until the fall.”

  He walked to the camp in a state of unfamiliar agitation, her words ringing in his ears: “Come back, come back, come back.”

  Lash, Gruya, and László were busy tending to their horses. Vlad gave Timur his customary detailed care, but his heart wasn’t in it.

  “Get the fire going, Lash,” he said, trying to hide his impatience. “I want the supper done quickly so everyone can get a good rest. We’ll be taking off early in the morning.”

  When time came to eat, Vlad barely touched his food, feeling no trace of the hunger that had gnawed at him two hours earlier. He was glad to see László was too busy stuffing himself with sausages and onions to notice he wasn’t eating. As for Gruya and Lash, they knew better than to question their master’s whims.

  Even before the others had finished eating, Vlad wrapped himself in his blanket and lay next to the fire. “I’ll take the second watch,” he said and pulled the cover over his head.

  “You may go to sleep,” Vlad heard Lash say to László. “Someone will wake you when it’s your turn for the watch.”

  Vlad waited in the dark, feeling his heart pound and his hands tingle. He knew what happened between a man and a woman; he’d spied enough couplings between servants who believed themselves unobserved. And then, there were the farm animals. Some said there was no difference between them and people. But what exactly was he supposed to do? How did it start? And how did one know when it was over?

  He felt a light tap on the shoulder.

  “They’re both asleep, Master,” Lash said in a low tone.

  Vlad threw off his cover and stood, feeling light-headed.

  Lash held out a small lantern to him. Then, with the thinnest of smiles, he produced a bouquet of flowers he’d kept hidden behind his back. “Women like this.”

  CHAPTER 23: The End of the Raid

  “I could hear the racket made by these kids a mile away,” Omar shouted above the din of crying voices. He was addressing Zekaï, who was feeding the prisoners, but his anger was directed at his other two brothers. “You should know better than to let this noise go unchecked. If I could hear it, so could anyone else passing by.”

  The Akincis’ campsite was in a gulch, with a trickle of water running at the bottom and scrubby bushes clinging to the banks.

  “Any passerby too nosy for his own good will end up like that one,” Sezaï said, pointing at what looked like a heap of rags tossed between two boulders. “An old man who got too curious. He was snooping around up there, on the lip of the ravine.”

  “I got him from down here, with the first shot,” Redjaï said, grinning proud. “By the time Sezaï loosed his arrow, the man was already tumbling down the slope. His head split like a watermelon on that rock.” He pointed at an outcrop halfway up the bank. The two brothers chuckled at the memory of the happy incident.

  Neither one of his middle brothers had much brains. Omar had tried to teach them to prevent problems, not just solve them. And now, here they sat in the middle of an open pen, letting the noise fly off in all directions.

  “You’re giving them too much food, Zekaï,” Omar said as he observed Zekaï ladling out gruel to one of the boys. Omar let a sack that lay draped over his thighs slide to the ground, and dismounted. “At this rate we’ll be out of supplies before we return to the Danube.”

  “But you said to keep the kids quiet at all costs, and I’ve been trying.” Zekaï pointed with the ladle at Sezaï and Redjaï. “Ask them. I’ve been yelling ‘Liniste, silence,’ all day long, like you taught me, but the kids won’t stop howling. They only quiet down when I fill their bellies with gruel. And even then, not for long.”

  “Take this one and chain him up with the rest,” Omar ordered Sezaï, kicking the bundle at his feet. “How many have we got so far?”

  “Twenty-nine,” Sezaï answered, untying the sack and dragging out a boy of about ten. The moment the child saw the other prisoners huddled on the ground and chained to each other, he started to wail.

  Twenty-nine was about right. Even if five were to die en route, they would still have twenty-four to sell in Edirne; that had always been Omar’s lucky number. “Good,” he said and grunted. “Then we’re done here. Tomorrow we start for home.”


  “Is it true we’re going to dress like the Wallachian Giaours?” Zekaï said. “I don’t feel good not wearing my turban. It’s haraam, forbidden, according to the Qur’an, isn’t it?”

  “We’ve got to do it, since we’ll be traveling in the daytime,” Sezaï said. “We can’t make good time at night anymore, with the moon only a crescent now.”

  “If the wagon cover’s fastened tight on all sides, no one will know what we’re transporting,” Redjaï said. “And dressed like the Giaours, everybody’ll think we’re merchants, or something like that.”

  “But people will hear the children cry, and then they’ll know,” Zekaï said, plaintive. “How long before the Giaours get the nerve to attack us?”

  The youngest brother had so much more to learn yet. “You’re right, Zekaï,” Omar said. “If we left it up to them, the children would cry. And it’s not their fault. They’re hungry, tired, scared... and they miss their parents. It’s up to us to teach them to be quiet. But that won’t happen by stuffing them with food.”

  “Liniste,” Zekaï shouted at the children, but instead of quieting they only cried louder. “See, nothing works with these spawns of Shaytan.”

  Redjaï and Sezaï snickered like two mischievous children.

  “Should we show Zekaï how we teach the brats to stay quiet?” Redjaï said.

  Omar nodded, and then slumped onto a carpet spread out next to the wagon, weary, dirty, and hungry after riding all day in search of the last prisoner. His thoughts drifted to his favorite boyhood spot in Amasya. A hot marble slab... scalding water... steam... a fresh pomegranate... sleep. This moment, he would trade any one of those kids for a day in the hamam.

  Zekaï stowed his ladle and the gruel pail in the wagon, and then joined Omar on the carpet. As if suspecting something was about to happen, the children stopped crying and fastened their eyes on the Turks.

  “Come, Brother,” Redjaï said to Sezaï, “help me select our model student.” The two brothers stepped among the children and began inspecting them minutely. They checked their limbs, teeth, eyes, and ears, with a patience that made Omar forgive them their earlier transgressions.

  Sezaï gave out a cry of delight. “Here’s one that should do,” he said, grabbing a boy by the chin. He took a plier from his pocket and cut the wire link that secured the chain to the boy’s neck. The two brothers lifted the child by his underarms and brought him to Omar.

  About eight years old. Short and skinny, but well formed. He seemed healthy. “Why him?”

  Sezaï took hold of the child’s hair and pushed his face close to Omar’s.

  “I see,” Omar said, proud of his brother’s sharpness. “Nothing escapes you, Sezaï. Now get on with your lesson, so we’ll be done in time for the Maghrib prayer.”

  “Cum te chiama, what’s your name?” Sezaï asked in Romanian, taking the child by the hand and leading him to the center of the encampment.

  The boy looked up at him, surprised, and whispered, “Petrica.”

  Redjaï stepped in front of the children, now silent in their curiosity, and began gesticulating, pointing at Petrica. Watch him, his gestures said, while Redjaï touched two fingers to his eyes, and then stretched his arm toward the child, again and again. As ordered, the children watched their colleague with expressions of fear and anticipation.

  Sezaï stepped behind the student, grabbed him by his armpits and tossed him in the air, the way a father would do to amuse his child. When he landed back in Sezaï’s arms, Petrica gave out a howl.

  “He pinched the boy,” Zekaï protested, attempting to rise.

  Omar pulled his brother down by his shirt. “It’s part of the lesson, Brother. Watch and learn.”

  Redjaï dropped to his knees in front of the children, his back to Sezaï. “Liniste Petrica,” he shouted over his shoulder, and pressed a finger to his lips. The children stared terrorized at Petrica, who was again sailing in the air, screaming in pain.

  As the boy’s shrieking got louder and louder with every new bounce, so did Redjaï’s calls for silence. Then, without warning, he yanked the bow off his shoulder and loosed an arrow that caught Petrica under his chin as he reached the zenith of his last flight.

  “What—why—?” Zekaï stammered, grabbing onto Omar’s arm, red in the face and teary-eyed. “What kind of lesson’s this?”

  “It works, Brother,” Sezaï said, holding Petrica’s limp body in his arms. The arrow had exited through the top of the boy’s skull and had flown onto the side of the ravine. “We’ve done this every year, and it never fails to teach the kids to keep quiet when they hear the word liniste.”

  “But— but,” Zekaï appeared unable to breathe.

  “You worry about the loss of one prisoner?” Redjaï said, joining the group. “We’ve got too many, as is. And this one was cross-eyed. Last time we tried to sell one such kid in Edirne, we got less for him than he cost us in food on the trip home.”

  CHAPTER 24: Sweet Basil and Honey

  As Vlad followed the meandering path to Christina’s hut, he felt his feet get heavier with each step. She’d gone to sleep by now. He should turn back and forget the whole affair. But what about the things he bought from her? She might’ve left them outside for him. He ought to check.

  The bouquet felt awkward in his hand, and as the path narrowed, the flowers kept snagging on the branches of the shrubs on the sides. He imagined someone seeing him like this and the tips of his ears began to burn. For an instant he contemplated tossing the flowers into the woods. No. It would be unfair to Lash, who troubled to pick them for Vlad. What if he left them on her doorstep?

  “So you aren’t afraid of the dark, after all?”

  Christina’s whisper came from somewhere among the trees at his right. Startled, Vlad dropped the lantern and it went out. For a few seconds he stared in her direction, blind, heart pounding. Then, slowly, his eyes adjusted to the faint starlight that broke through the branches above and dappled the forest undergrowth with a dull sheen. He saw her outline a mere five feet away. She took two steps toward him, and now he could see she’d changed her robe for a pale chemise. Her hair was untied, and it tumbled over her shoulders.

  “I brought you these,” he said, in a faint, self-conscious tone. He felt ridiculous as he held out the bouquet to her. That moment he would have given anything to be miles away. Then she took another step closer, and the knuckles of his hand brushed against her breast. He pulled his hand back as if he’d touched a hot plate.

  “Well, are the flowers for me, or are you going to keep them for yourself?”

  Christina’s voice had a warm, soft-textured tone he hadn’t noticed the evening before. It made her sound inviting and vulnerable at the same time; he wanted to hear her speak again. “They’re yours, if you want them.”

  “You’ve never done this before,” she said, taking the bouquet. “I mean, give flowers to a woman.”

  He knew that wasn’t what she meant, and her allusion to that thing aroused him. She stood close now, their faces separated only by the flowers she held pressed to her nose.

  “Their perfume makes me dizzy,” she whispered through the petals. Then she let the flowers drop to the ground and put her arms on his shoulders.

  She smelled better than any flower he knew, he wanted to say, but his lips were numb, and all he could do was sigh. He felt dizzy himself as he inhaled the fragrance of her body, a surprising mixture of sweat, smoke, whey, sweet basil, and... what was that? There was another aroma emanating from her, something he’d never smelled before: acrid, harsh, pungent, and earthy, like new wine. The odor filled his lungs and lingered on the back of his throat, raising his desire for her to an unbearable level.

  “Do you like kissing?” She pressed her lips against his and he froze, unsure of what he was expected to do. Then her tongue darted out between her teeth and found its way into his mouth, surprising him with its softness and blandness of taste. He imitated her, and as he probed her mouth with his tongue, he
discovered with a jolt of pleasure she had smeared honey on her lips.

  Her breathing had become harder and faster. “You can touch me if you want,” she said into his ear. Seeing that he remained motionless, she took his hand and placed it on her breast.

  “Oh,” he uttered, breathless, when his hand cupped the firm mound of flesh crowned by a nipple hard as an acorn. Nothing had prepared him for the delightful sensation that invaded his body through the tips of his fingers. “Oh,” he moaned again, overwhelmed and embarrassed.

  “There’s a blanket over there,” she said, stepping backward and pulling him with her. He followed her, obedient, while his hand worked its way inside her chemise.

  When he thought about Christina later, he discovered he couldn’t remember how he came to be lying on top of her, clumsy, the string of his breeches loosened. What he remembered was awakening, as if from a swoon, when her hand guided him to a place between her legs. To his wonderment, that place was warm, wet, and strangely alive; bewildered, he discovered it was also the source of that mysterious fragrance that had made him lose himself in her embrace. He feared his weight would crush her, and he tried to prop himself on his hands. But, seemingly unconcerned with being smothered, she pulled him onto her while her lower body wriggled with the determined vigor of a trapped animal.

  The next few moments flew by in a blur of sensations, new and exquisite. He tried to hold on to them but failed. All too soon, they dissolved in a torrent of contractions that traveled in waves from his loins to the top of his head, and left him quivering and lightheaded. Something told him it was over, and he attempted to roll onto his side, but Christina clung to him like a drowning person. She squealed and her pelvis writhed, making an intriguing slurping sound. Vlad felt trapped inside her as in a greedy, quivering snare. Then, with a last throaty shout, she fell limp, as if all strength had deserted her. Her chest rose and fell with her labored breathing.

  When he returned to the camp, he found Gruya and László asleep. As expected, Lash wasn’t there, having taken his watch station somewhere beyond the circle of light. Vlad blew into his cupped hands, imitating the hooting of an owl; Lash returned the signal, indicating all was well.