Son of the Dragon

by Victor T Foia

  Dracul narrowed his eyes and pierced him with a cold stare. Vlad knew this wasn’t a subject his father would enjoy discussing in a moment like this.

  “You don’t get it, do you?” Dracul said, and shook his head in disbelief. “By the time the story gets to the sultan’s ears, these dirtbags won’t be Akincis anymore, but upstanding Turkish merchants murdered in cold blood on my land.” Dracul launched into pacing the floor but seemed to find the space too confining and stopped. “And the story won’t end there. It’ll grow day by day. Soon everyone will be talking about my son killing Turks up and down the land.”

  “But there were only three Turks killed.”

  “Did you want to become famous, so every shit-assed, root-chomping peasant would say, enraptured, ‘Dracula did this... Dracula did that’?”

  “I thought of all people, you’d be the happiest to learn that three Akincis were killed and one taken alive,” Vlad said. “The prisoner’s in my cell, if you wanted to see him.”

  “That’s the last thing on earth I want to do. You get rid of that pile of offal, and never speak to anyone about it again. I’ll try to quell the rumors of killings and prisoner taking before the sultan gets wind of them.”

  “I’ll get rid of him, Father,” Vlad said, glad to see there was an easy way out of this confrontation. “I was planning anyway to send him off to Hungary with Nestor and László, as a gift for Governor Hunyadi.” He thought disclosing that part of his plan was safe.

  “What?” Dracul croaked. “A gift for Hunyadi?” His eyes bulged, and his mouth seemed to struggle with the words he was trying to utter. Vlad anticipated a discourse on the Hungarians’ duplicity and the meaningless nature of such a gift. Instead Dracul resumed his composure and said in an icy tone, “I’ll have none of that. You’ll take the Turk into the woods, slit his throat, and bury him without a trace.”

  The words hit Vlad in the pit of the stomach like a mule kick. “I promised the man his life. How can I go back on my word?”

  “If you’re so keen on keeping your promises, why don’t you think before you make them?” Dracul turned his back to Vlad and headed for the door. “If you won’t do it my men will. Luckily they aren’t bound by any foolish promise.”

  “Don’t make me do such a dishonorable thing, Father,” Vlad implored. He felt the top of his head getting hot, as he scrambled to think of a way to persuade his father to change his mind. When he realized that was impossible, he slumped onto the cot. “I’ll make him disappear,” he said, defeated. “Let me have two men to help me.”

  Dracul stopped and measured Vlad with cold, suspicious eyes. “Not a trace of him, understand? Not even his horse, his saddle, or his clothes.” He turned to a pair of young soldiers, who were peering in with open mouths. “Curious, you two, aren’t you? Well, the prince will satisfy your curiosity soon. Do whatever he orders you and don’t ask questions.”

  With that, Dracul stalked out of the cell and down the colonnade, his spurs jangling, the studs of his boots grinding against the stone tiles.

  “Get your horses and meet me behind the monastery,” Vlad said to the two guards, who were smirking like children about to play the truant. Vlad judged them to be about seventeen.

  “Do you need Timur, Master?” Lash asked, stepping out from behind a column.

  “No. But saddle Omar’s horse and bring it to the rear.”

  Vlad took a last look at Gunther’s cell, then shut the door, resigned. He felt as if he were saying goodbye not only to a mentor, but to his own past.

  When Vlad returned to his cell, he found Gruya asleep on the floor, wrapped in his riding mantle. Omar lay stretched on his back on the cot, each limb secured with ropes to one of the cot’s legs. The Turk watched Vlad in silence, glum and bleary-eyed. Vlad observed, without pity, how the man’s swollen lips and nose had turned from the glistening red of the past two days to a sickly greenish-blue.

  “What was your plan, had you succeeded to escape, back there, where—” Vlad finished the sentence in his mind, “where we killed your brothers?”

  “I need to shit and piss,” Omar said.

  “He kept me up all night with his mumbling,” Gruya said, stirring inside his mantle.

  “He was praying. In his place you’d do the same.”

  Vlad cut Omar’s tethers with his dagger. “Take him to the latrine then to the fountain,” he said to Gruya. “And bring some milk and gruel for the three of us on the way back.”

  Omar gave Vlad’s knife suspicious glances as he shuffled out of the cell, walking backward behind Gruya.

  “You may wash outside,” Vlad called after him, “but I want you to do your prayer inside here. I can’t guarantee your safety from the monks otherwise.”

  An hour later he and Gruya escorted Omar to the back of the monastery. They passed through the same postern door Vlad had used a week ago on his way to pursue the Akincis. The memory of that day should have been exhilarating, in light of his success. But his father’s order to murder Omar robbed Vlad of any such feeling. When Omar stepped outside the walls and saw the two guards, he blanched. Vlad observed him dart covert glances in all directions. The man still hoped to escape.

  Aside from Lash and the two soldiers, there was no one else around. The monks assigned to outdoors work must have been tending to the vegetable garden or vineyard.

  “Take off your caftan, vest, and turban,” Vlad ordered Omar. Then he turned to Lash. “Give him your jerkin, your mantle, and your cap.”

  Deprived of his colorful clothes and dressed in the Gypsy’s drab garments, Omar lost his exotic appearance and blended into the small group of Wallachians.

  “Now get on your horse,” Vlad said.

  Omar didn’t budge. “You promised me my life,” he said in a choked voice. “I know what you’re planning.”

  “What were you going to do if you escaped?” Vlad asked for the second time, determined to get some sense of Omar’s thinking.

  Omar’s face had broken into a sweat. “You intend to have these men take me into the forest and make it look like I tried to escape. Then kill me. That way you can claim to yourself you’ve kept your promise.”

  Vlad was surprised to see fear in Omar’s eyes. He’d thought the man was made of stone. “You would’ve gathered a new band of killers and returned to Wallachia for more slaves, wouldn’t you?”

  A sudden realization seemed to occur to Omar. His face relaxed nearly imperceptibly, and his shoulders straightened. “I prayed to Allah to spare my life and give me freedom, so I might return to Dar al-Islam and join a dervish brotherhood.”

  There was something in Omar’s voice that made Vlad believe he meant what he said.

  “Never to step on this land again? Nor on any other Christian land?”

  Omar turned his palms to the sky and raised his eyes. His face looked almost beatific, the icon of a suffering martyr, as he said, “Yes, merciful lord, I swear on my—”

  “I’m sending you back across the Danube.” Against my better judgment.

  Omar dropped to his knees and grabbed Vlad’s hand. Before he could yank it away, the Turk pressed his lips to it.

  “You’ll be riding your own horse, and your hands will remain unbound,” Vlad said. He shook himself free of Omar and rubbed the back of his hand against his trousers. “But know that if you try to run away, these men have orders to hunt you down and slaughter you without mercy.”

  Omar rose and vaulted with ease onto his horse. Gruya and the guards, who didn’t understand what Vlad and Omar had discussed, drew their swords and pointed them at the Turk with cries of alarm.

  “Stand down,” Vlad shouted. Then pointing at the two soldiers he said, “You’ll take the prisoner to the Danube, near Nicopolis. Once you come into view of the river, you may return. Omar knows his way from there.”

  The soldiers looked at each other mystified, and appeared poised to ask questions.

  “Ride without stopping, except for the darkest hours of the night. And, if
you ever speak of this to anyone, I’ll personally hunt you down and sell you off to the Turks.” Vlad turned to Lash. “Give them a handful of coins.”

  Lash fished inside his sash and handed out ten copper coins to each soldier.

  “Don’t stop in the market for supplies,” Vlad instructed the guardsmen. “Buy them off peasants on your way.”

  Vlad turned to leave, and Gruya said, “Are you sure this is the right thing to do? It brings to mind the proverb, ‘Do no good deed to an evil man.’”

  “It’s a good deed I wish I could avoid doing,” Vlad said. “But I can’t.”

  “What about Nestor and your place in the crusade? Don’t you need Omar for that?”

  “I’ve still got the other two dead Turks to my account,” Vlad said, hiding his disappointment at losing Omar. A live trophy impressed more thoroughly than two corpses.

  Vlad had been prey to doubts regarding his decision to free Omar. Now Gruya’s proverb raised a dark premonition in him. For a few trying moments, he contemplated reversing his decision to let Omar go. But what was the alternative? Killing him was out of the question. What was meant to happen would happen. He shrugged off his misgivings and ducked through the postern door back into the cloister yard.

  Vlad’s spirits revived when he saw Nestor and László waiting in front of his cell.

  “Came to see your trophy and say goodbye, Cousin,” Nestor said, jovial. László, on the other hand, appeared sullen and distant. “It seems the king wants to take you and Marcus on a trip around the country,” Nestor continued. “Without you two, what would László and I be doing here?”

  “I’m planning to follow you soon,” Vlad said. “But as far as the trophy’s concerned, there isn’t any here. All I’ve got is two Akincis who are buried where I killed them.”

  “What about my trophy?” László screeched. “What have you done with Omar? You promised I can have him after Nestor—”

  “Something’s come up,” Vlad said, “and Omar’s no longer around.”

  Nestor and László gave each other dumbfounded looks. Then László said, with deep loathing, “You have no honor, Vlad. Once again you made a promise you aren’t going to keep.”

  Vlad felt trapped between this senseless accusation and a truth he couldn’t share. He turned to Nestor. “You wanted proof I can kill enemies in a fight. László has seen the bodies of the two Akincis I killed. That should be enough for you.”

  “Yes, I saw the bodies, but didn’t see you killing anybody,” László said, vindictive. “For what I know, the Turks might’ve been killed by your squire or your servant.”

  “Some people seem to have bad luck with proving their valor,” Nestor mused. Whether it’s about a bison, or a wolf, or a Turk... something always gets in the way of conclusive proof.”

  Vlad’s desire to smack Nestor was held in check only by the knowledge his cousin held sway over his future with the crusade. He bit his lower lip till the pain made his eyes tear. “Gruya and Lash saw what I did,” he said. But he knew he’d already lost his case to László’s vengeful deviousness.

  “It’s my fault,” Nestor said, with false contrition. “I should’ve known you aren’t Marcus.” Then he showed his repugnant teeth in a mocking grin that tested the limits of Vlad’s self-control. “When the crusade starts, your brother will be earning the reputation of an officer of Christ. You, on the other hand, will still be trying to prove you’re no longer a child but a man. Sadly, by the time you’ll catch up with Marcus, the Ottomans will have been wiped off the face of Europe.”

  László gave Vlad a triumphant look and said, “Let’s go, Nestor. Consider yourself lucky you didn’t end up with Dracula wearing your colors. It would have turned into a big embarrassment on the battlefield.”

  While Nestor and László sauntered down the colonnade, Vlad struggled against the impulse to leap after them with sword in hand. Reason won over desire, but only barely. He returned to his cell, where he let himself drop to his knees. A swell of hatred, such as he’d never known before, rose in his chest, higher and higher, until all became black in front of his eyes. Then a howl like that of a wounded wolf’s escaped his throat, reverberating throughout the cloisters.

  CHAPTER 30: Friends and Enemies

  Throughout the entire first day of travel, Omar kept looking over his shoulder at the two young men riding behind him. Despite Dracula’s assurances, he was convinced they had been instructed to murder him. He understood why the son of the Shaytan with the burning green eyes would want him dead. He’d feel the same way in his place. But why such a long ride first? Omar thought he understood the Giaours well, and now here they went, behaving in such an unpredictable manner. Given the choice, he would’ve finished Dracula off the moment he laid hands on him.

  Then, that evening by the fire, Omar’s outlook changed. Watching the two soldiers’ innocent horseplay reminded him of Zekaï tussling with Sezaï and Redjaï. These boys might not yet be ready for murder.

  With sign language, Omar bid the soldiers to wrestle with him. To his surprise, they accepted. That might be an opportunity to overpower them and get away. Especially if he could entice them both to take him on at one time. But the youngsters took turns wrestling, one of them always holding his sword at the ready. Omar let each of the youths win, although he could have tied them into knots like a prayer rope, if he wanted to.

  Later that night the soldiers asked him, again by sign language, to teach them Turkish obscenities. They pointed at their crotches and behinds, and when Omar spoke out the words, they laughed and repeated them over and over with relish. Signs for vagina, breasts, and copulation followed, each producing another round of merriment.

  Omar let them have their fun. Then he raised his hand to draw their attention. “My name is Omar,” he said.

  The soldiers gave him dumb looks. He repeated the introduction, this time tapping his chest with his index finger. Both men perked up and started to speak simultaneously. Omar silenced them, pressing a finger to his lips. Then, facing one of the men and pointing again at himself, he said: “Omar.”

  “Pavel,” the man replied, slapping his own chest repeatedly and grinning. “Pavel.”

  The other soldier turned out to be named Joseph.

  Omar was no longer afraid. Though he couldn’t understand why, Dracula did appear intent on restoring his freedom; otherwise he wouldn’t have placed his prized prisoner in the hands of such unseasoned and openhearted men.

  All fear gone, he went to sleep with a new perspective on the unbelievers. He found it curious that Allah made some of the Giaours kind and caring to His people. Why, even that detestable Dracula had let him bury his brothers the proper way, when Omar expected to see the Wallachians defile their corpses. Then, the same Dracula fed him and allowed him to make his five daily prayers at the proper times.

  It was perhaps the Shaytan who made the Giaours act that way, to mislead the true believers. If so, why would Allah allow such a thing?

  On the evening of the third day, they sighted Nicopolis in the distance. Seeing the land of Dar al-Islam again, after he’d believed himself fallen into slavery, made Omar’s eyes mist over. He thanked Allah silently for his deliverance. Then he renewed his vow to join the Bektashi Dervish Order and seek true knowledge of Allah.

  Pavel and Joseph let him understand this was as far as they were supposed to accompany him. Next morning he was to ride alone to the ferry and cross over to the Turkish side.

  The youths appeared saddened by their impending separation from him. They kept hugging him and slapping him on the back, as they would an older brother leaving for lands unknown. Omar had come to like his two companions, and wished he could tell them that. But the only Turkish words they understood were the obscenities he’d taught them earlier.

  That night, Omar’s mind was in a great turmoil. On the one hand his feelings for these Giaours gave him an inner peace he hadn’t known in a long time. On the other hand, he wondered whether these feeling weren’
t planted in his heart by the Shaytan. He knew Allah didn’t want His people to treat Giaours as friends, and he tried to remember what he’d learned about that in his madrasah, twenty-five years before. At first, he couldn’t recall any of the ayat, the Qur’an verses, he’d once memorized. Then, after praying and straining his memory, fragments of his old mullah’s teachings began to come into focus, one by one. “Let not the believers take the unbelievers for friends.” Surely that spoke to the foolishness he’d shown letting his guard down. Then this one drove the point home: “The unbelievers are your open enemy.”

  If the Qur’an said these things, no one could disregard them and still hope to be lifted to the heavens after his death.

  Just before drifting off to sleep, Omar saw himself again as a boy of ten, seated cross-legged in front of his Qur’an stand. He recalled the green tiles on the walls of the Yıldırım Beyazid Mosque in Amasya, where he grew up. He thought he could even hear the humming of children’s voices reciting the Qur’an in Arabic. When he looked up from his stand he saw Mullah Sivasi’s frowning face bent over him, and heard him say, “How stupid you are, Omar, to think you can have Giaours as friends.”

  Not realizing he was more than half-asleep, Omar wondered how Mullah Sivasi knew what he was thinking. Without waiting to be told, he stuck out his hand to receive his rightful punishment. The mullah’s rod fell hard on Omar’s palm. “Now, recite ayah 2.90 for me.” Omar closed his eyes and the text appeared in bright letters in front of him: “Whoever is the enemy of Allah and His apostles, so surely Allah is his enemy.”

  Omar awoke before dawn to make his preparations for the Fajr prayer. He saw that both Pavel and Joseph were using their saddles as headrests. Not wanting to awake them by searching for the water skin in their saddlebags, he performed his purification by rubbing himself with the soil of the plain. He waited for the daylight to advance until he could distinguish a white thread from a black one. Then he turned to Mecca and began to pray. But when he tried to recite the Fatihah, the first chapter of the Qur’an, ayah 9.123 sprang unbidden in his mind instead: “Oh you who believe, fight the unbelievers who are near you and let them learn of your firmness. Know that Allah rewards those who fight against evil.”