“Unless you’re planning to make love to him,” Vlad said, “let the man drop and help get Omar.”
“That one’s trying to get away,” Lash said, pointing to the middle of the pond where Omar was churning up the water with energetic strokes. Lash picked up his dagger from where it lay on the ground and began to strip off his clothes. “I’ll get him.”
The moment Lash plunged in the water, Omar seemed to notice him; his strokes became more frantic. Vlad watched him swimming away, and guessed his intention was to escape through the reed bed at the pond’s south end. Now and then Omar would crane his head to check on his pursuer. From the ineffectual way the Turk’s arms thrashed, Vlad imagined the despair and helplessness of the unarmed man. His thoughts went back to the Turkish prisoners in Eisenmarkt that László had butchered, and all desire for the kill went out of him. “I want him alive,” he called after Lash.
Gruya joined Vlad on the shore.
“Run to the other end,” Vlad ordered him. “With evening approaching we might lose him somewhere in the ravines. Even naked the man’s dangerous.”
When Gruya left, Vlad made a funnel with his hands and shouted, “Omar! Your brothers are dead!” His voice reverberated over the expanse of water.
Omar stopped milling his arms and turned his head in Vlad’s direction, clearly confounded to hear himself addressed by name: in Turkish, no less. Lash, swimming with determined strokes, began to close in on him.
“Give yourself up, and I promise to spare your life.”
With Lash only a few yards away, Omar resumed his attempt to escape with even more determination.
Just then a shrill cry rose in the distance. A moment later, László emerged from among the reeds and advanced in knee-deep water toward Omar, brandishing his saber.
Once again Omar stopped swimming and treaded water, looking all around him. Seemingly reconciled to the hopelessness of his predicament, he began to swim toward the campsite, followed by Lash.
At Omar’s approach, the children retreated like a flock of frightened lambs to the edge of the clearing.
“I won’t let him hurt you,” Vlad said over his shoulder to them, watching Omar approach the shore. When Omar rose from the water, blue-lipped and shivering, Vlad was surprised to see how unimpressive the Akinci had become. Strip a man naked and his fierceness was gone.
Omar took in the scene of carnage with a stony face. After glancing around the campsite with a confused air, he kneeled in front of Vlad and bent his neck in a submissive gesture.
“You’re wondering who killed your brothers,” Vlad said, neutral, not wanting to sound boastful. “My two men and I did it.”
Omar gave him a look laden with rage and doubt.
“Get away from my prisoner,” László shouted, barging into the clearing, drawn saber in hand.
Gruya followed him closely, grinning. “The boy-hussar comes to claim his prize.”
“Put your toy away, László,” Vlad said, “and go fetch the horses. These children need to be fed proper food.”
László caught sight of Sezaï and Redjaï, sprawled on their backs by the fire, their mutilated heads covered in gore. That seemed to increase his determination. “You’ve got your trophies, so why can’t I get mine?”
“I promised Omar his life if he surrendered, and he did,” Vlad said. “You’ll have to wait for another chance to claim a Turk as your trophy.”
“He wouldn’t have done so had I not threatened him,” László said, edging closer to Omar, who gave him an impassive stare. “I’ve earned the right to take his head.”
“Very well,” Vlad said, feeling his patience with László reach its limit. “But I can’t let you kill yet one more unarmed prisoner.” He walked over to where Sezaï’s kiliç sword lay on the ground, still in its scabbard. “If you can take his head, it’s yours.” He kicked the kiliç over to Omar.
For a few seconds László watched Omar, seemingly paralyzed with fear. Then, taking a defensive stance with his sabre, he backed out of the campsite. Omar glanced sideways at Gruya and Lash, who stood nearby with swords in hand; after a brief hesitation, he tossed the scabbard with the kiliç back to Vlad.
Omar had taken the scene as a provocation, Vlad decided. An excuse for Gruya and Lash to cut him down. “Get dressed,” Vlad ordered, after he had Lash check Omar’s clothes for hidden weapons. “Then you may bury your brothers before the sunset.”
Puzzlement and mistrust played on Omar’s face. He looked from Vlad to Gruya, to Lash, and back to Vlad.
Vlad enjoyed the Turk’s confusion, knowing he wouldn’t have been so generous in Vlad’s place.
“Allah Ar-Raḥīm, the Exceedingly Merciful, will reward you according to your deeds,” Omar finally said in a tone devoid of color.
After he saw the children released from their chains and fed, Vlad left the campsite and sat on small rise just north of the opening. From there he could observe Omar digging his brothers’ graves. Their three corpses lay nearby, wrapped in shrouds improvised from strips cut from the wagon canopy. The sight of the lifeless bundles caused Vlad despondency and a painful emptiness in the pit of his stomach. He’d done the right thing, so why did he feel this way? What made it worse was this feeling had a dim resemblance to the one he’d experienced moments after making love to Christina. Such different things could have nothing in common. One was linked to the origin of life, the other to its end.
He wondered how Rostam felt after his first kill. But Shahnameh was silent on that account. All Vlad had gleaned was the pride King Zaal had shown at Rostam’s feat. That thought cheered him a little. Yes, this time Father would be proud of Vlad too. He wouldn’t be dwelling on the dangers of this adventure, since they were moot now. Nor would Father accuse Vlad of lack of judgment; the success of the ambush would belie such criticism. Father would have no choice but to admit that Vlad proved as skilled and courageous as any king could wish his son to be at age fourteen.
Surely, Uncle Michael would chide Vlad for keeping him in the dark about his intentions. But how could Vlad have acted otherwise? To let Uncle Michael know would’ve meant making him responsible for this risky undertaking in front of Father. Oh, well, Michael would get over it, knowing he was responsible for the fighter Vlad had proven to be.
Marcus? His brother would be relieved at first that Vlad hadn’t been killed or taken into slavery. Then he’d be envious. Finally, he’d boast of his younger brother’s exploits to all the kitchen girls he hadn’t yet seduced.
Vlad grinned, thinking of Lala Gunther’s reaction. The old monk would recite a quotation from Shahnameh, then ask for every little detail of the fight.
“One of the boys wishes to apologize to you,” Gruya said, tearing Vlad from his reverie. He was holding a stocky boy with a plucky face by the tip of his ear.
Vlad recognized the child as the leader of a group of three boys who earlier were chasing the other children around the valley, making them shriek in terror.
“I beg your pardon, Prince Vlad,” the boy said, “I didn’t mean any disrespect.”
“You seem the oldest of the bunch,” Vlad said, forcing himself to sound severe. “What’s the idea of bullying the younger ones?”
“He’s named one of his cohorts Lash,” Gruya said, smirking, “the other Gruya.”
“We’re the Wallachians and the other kids are the Turks,” the boy said. “We don’t care how many they are, we’ll kill everyone—”
“And what name have you taken for yourself?” Vlad said, amused.
The boy glanced at Gruya, and blushed.
“His name is Stan, but that’s not what he calls himself in battle,” Gruya said. “Come, boy, tell the prince who you are.”
Stan stared at the ground, his ears crimson. “I’m you, my lord, I’m Dracula,” he said, almost inaudible.
Knowing the peasants’ fondness for twisting old names into new, Vlad wasn’t surprised to see himself turned from “son of Dracul” into Dracula. What he did find int
riguing was that this nickname, though much distorted from the German “Drache” of his father’s youth, still meant “Son of the Dragon.” Theodore’s prophecy wouldn’t be thwarted, it seemed.
“Stan wanted to play you in the fight with the boys pretending to be the Turks,” Gruya said, and pulled Stan’s hair, making him wince, “but he thought ‘Vlad’ didn’t sound threatening enough.”
“Let Stan be, Gruya,” Vlad said, all his earlier feelings of dejection now gone. “Who’s ever been afraid of someone called Vlad? But ‘Dracula’? Now there’s a name with a ring to it.”
CHAPTER 27: Buried in a Foreign Land
Though the sunset was obscured by the wooded hill, Omar could tell from the light in the west the sun was only about a hand span above the horizon. The time was at hand. Just outside the campsite, three shallow holes lay in a straight line, at a right angle with the direction to Mecca. His brothers’ corpses waited by the gravesides.
The work had taken him twice as long as it should have. The Gypsy had removed one of the wagon wheels and tethered Omar to it with a ten-foot rope tied around his waist. Every time he needed to move more than ten feet away, Omar had to pick up the wheel and reposition it first.
While working, supervised in turn by one or the other of the Giaours, Omar watched the camp’s comings and goings. He expected to see Wallachian soldiers swarming about the valley. But as time went on he had to conclude there was no one else around but these four youngsters. It didn’t make sense. If there were no troops around, who killed his brothers? The one with the green eyes, whom the children call “Dracula,” claimed he and his men did it. But that couldn’t be. They could’ve taken Zekaï; he was inexperienced and too trusting. But not Sezaï and Redjaï. They’d already fought in two wars and killed many Giaours. They would never let themselves be martyred without taking a few of their enemies with them.
As the afternoon wore on it became apparent Dracula was in charge. He issued orders, and all obeyed him. Even the effeminate boy with yellow hair, called László, although he wasn’t one of them. From the few words he recognized, Omar surmised he was Hungarian.
After they ate, the children argued, laughed, cried. At first their clamor bothered Omar. Then he realized it distracted him from dwelling on his brothers’ demise, and was glad for it.
Now, when he was ready to begin the funeral invocations, the children gathered around and gawked at him as if he were a circus act. He tried to ignore them and started to perform his ablutions with water from a bucket the Gypsy had brought him. But all those hateful eyes following his every move unnerved him. When he prostrated himself on the prayer rug, facing Mecca, one of the boys kicked him in the butt. The humiliation blinded Omar. He straightened up on his knees, and shaking his fists screamed, “Get away from me, sons of a leprous whore.” But knowing him tethered emboldened the children. They jeered in a chorus and made obscene gestures at him. One of them, the boy with long hair he’d planned to take for a swim earlier, dashed at Omar and struck him across the face with a stick. Omar lunged at the children, but they fled nimbly, while the rope kept him bound to the wheel. He was like a dog chained to a post to them.
He looked around and saw it was László’s turn to watch over him. The Hungarian appeared amused by Omar’s ordeal, and joined in with taunts of his own. When Omar stared him down, László forced him back to his knees with the point of his saber. The children took that as their signal to set upon him again. While the tip of the blade immobilized Omar, they pummeled him on the head with their fists and gouged his face with their nails. How easy it would be to brain them all, those miserable sons of Shaytan. Even while that coward-boy would stab him to death. But he knew his time to die hadn’t come, so he swallowed his anger.
Dracula called out to the children from nearby and they returned to the camp. The Gypsy took over the watch from László.
Omar recited the Salah al-Janazah, the funeral prayer. Then he lowered his brothers into their graves and laid them on their right sides. He’d prepared three clay balls the size of his fist for each one of them. The balls would go behind their shoulders, heads, and under their chins, to prop the bodies in place facing Mecca. He kept his composure while handling Redjaï and Sezaï. But when Zekaï’s turn came, he could no longer contain his sorrow. Kneeling over his youngest brother’s tomb, he let out a wail that tore at his insides. Tears filled his eyes. He knew Zekaï had been martyred and would soon rejoice in the bounty of Allah. Then why did it hurt so much to see Zekaï in his grave?
Omar rose with difficulty, fighting the desire to throw himself into the tomb next to his baby brother. But even as pain clouded his mind, he began to understand Allah had spared him for a purpose. The words of the Qur’an he memorized in childhood came to him, soothing: “The punishment of those who wage war against Allah and His apostle is that they should be murdered or crucified, or their hands and their feet should be cut off on opposite sides.”
Omar sprinkled three handfuls of dirt over Redjaï, intoning, “We created you from it, and return you into it, and from it We will raise you a second time.” He repeated the ritual for Sezaï. When he grabbed the first handful of dirt for Zekaï, a pain shot through his thumb, as the sharp edge of a pottery shard cut into his flesh. He whispered, “Thank you for your gift, Allah Al-Muntaqim, Allah the Avenger.” A few minutes later, when he picked up the shovel to fill in the graves, he slipped the shard inside his shirt.
It was dark by the time the Gypsy and the blue-eyed youth he took for Dracula’s friend escorted him back to the campsite. He learned what they were called from listening to their dialogue. Gruya and Lash were reckless to walk so close to him, even though he was encumbered with the wheel he carried in his arms. He considered overpowering them before they reached the entrance to the camp. He’d drop the wheel on Gruya’s foot, then stab him through the eye with the dagger he’d snatch from Lash’s sash. Next move would be to lop off Lash’s head with Gruya’s sword, before the Gypsy knew what was happening. Nothing would then stop him from killing Dracula. That’s the reason he remained alive. But if the attack made any noise at all, Dracula would be warned.
No. It was best he kill them all while they were asleep.
The camp was quiet, with the children settled under a mountain of blankets. Dracula and László seemed asleep, wrapped in their mantles by the fire. Despite not having eaten anything since the morning, Omar felt no hunger. Nevertheless, he ate the bowl of gruel Lash gave him, knowing he’d need energy for what he planned to do that night. It was food Zekaï had prepared earlier in the day, and knowing that gave the bland mixture of flour and water a particular taste. This was the last time he’d share his little brother’s food. A painful knot rose in his gorge.
When he was done eating, Gruya and Lash tied his hands and feet and left him lying on the ground, still tethered to the wheel. Gruya went to sleep while the Gypsy took his watch post in front of the campsite.
Though the rope that bound his wrists was sturdy, the Giaours had made the mistake of tying his hands in the front. With the shard he found by Zekaï’s tomb, Omar would be able to cut through it. It was a trifle for him to extract the piece of pottery from inside his shirt. Holding the shard between his teeth, he began to saw through his wrist bindings with short, patient strokes. Two hours later, when Dracula replaced Lash on the watch, the rope had still not yielded. Only the hemp lint he inhaled with every breath told him the rope was fraying. He had to free himself by the time László’s turn at the watch came. The boy was the weakest of the four Giaours, and Omar knew he could dispatch him with ease. The thought of what he’d do once he had a sword in hand replenished his strength.
At the end of his watch, Dracula took a piece of burning wood from the fire, and, using it as a torch, looked over Omar. Lying in a fetal position with fists pressed against his face, Omar fought the urge to cough as the rope dust tickled his throat. When Dracula returned to his sleeping place, Omar heard László get up with a grumble and leave the campsi
te, dragging his feet. Omar waited for Dracula to quiet down before he resumed his work.
Another hour passed and it seemed his efforts were going to fail, after all. His teeth hurt from biting on the shard, and his lips were raw from rubbing against the coarse rope; yet the binding remained as taut as ever. Then, just as despair began to take over him, the shard cut through the last strand of the rope and the fetters became loose. He worked his wrists free and began to untie the rest of his bindings. Numbness in his hands and a pounding heart slowed him, but the fear of being discovered pushed him forward.
“Allāhu Akbar,” he whispered when the last knot was untied. Only then did he become aware his hands were wet and sticky with the blood seeping out of the cut in his thumb. Inching his way through the opening to the camp, he emerged on the other side ready to pounce on László, whom he expected to find standing guard there. The hulk of the wagon, now depleted of its canopy, stood a few feet in front of him. But the boy was nowhere in sight. Then, he heard a faint snore come from behind the wagon.
Omar threw himself at László with the ferocity of a starving hyena, pinning the boy’s thighs under his knee. He clamped a hand over László’s mouth as he clutched his windpipe with the other. The Hungarian, awakened by Omar’s attack, arched his body with a strength fueled by panic, and flailed his arms. This desperate struggle reminded Omar of a live sturgeon he’d held in his arms once, as a boy. “That’s life draining out of the fish,” his father said, laughing at Omar’s bewilderment as the fish thrashed. “And you, Son, have all the power over it.”
Life was draining out of László too fast, Omar realized with a pang of regret. Soon he’d be inert, never to move again. The boy’s skin glowed in the bluish starlight; it felt soft and moist to the touch, like that of a girl. Omar felt his loins stir with desire. He relaxed a little the grip on László’s throat and spread the fingers covering his mouth. As air rushed into László’s lungs, life returned to him and reanimated his limbs. Omar’s feeling of power and lust overwhelmed him. If he could only kill the others and keep this one for himself.
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