Son of the Dragon

by Victor T Foia

  Then he turned to Marcus. “If you get the riders on the move before daylight, anyone spying on us won’t know it’s Lash and not I at the head of my troops.”

  “But when daylight comes, the soldiers will discover the ruse, won’t they?” Marcus said, sounding half-asleep.

  Marcus appeared as hung over as Vlad, despite his long-term practice at drinking. But unlike Vlad, he was dressed in ordinary riding clothes and wore his Italian knee-high boots. Father was bent on humiliating Vlad alone.

  “I handpicked the riders and swore them to secrecy,” Dracul said, “so don’t worry about them. Just make sure the local folks think I’m with you, should they happen upon the column.”

  “You expect me to ride like this, Lord Father?” Vlad said, unable to hold his peace any longer.

  The king gave Vlad an appraising look, as if he were a servant being considered for a difficult task. “You and Gruya will take those bundles to the dock side and wait for us.” Dracul pointed to a mound of burlap sacks piled in one tent corner. “Gifts for the Bey of Nicopolis.”

  Vlad felt relieved to leave his father’s presence, and tackled the sacks without further comments. If this was Father’s idea of punishment, Vlad could take it all night long.

  When he and Gruya were about to exit, Dracul stopped them. “Leave your weapons here. Not just the swords, the knives too.”

  Vlad struggled hard to contain his anger and humiliation. I hope you never come back from Edirne.

  When Dracul arrived at the dock with Michael and Marcus, he was transformed in appearance. Gone were the thigh-hugging leather boots he always fancied; gone the mail shirt he wore most of the time; gone, too, his baldric and sword, which the king was rarely seen without. Instead he was attired like an ordinary Wallachian merchant in gray woolens, a sheep’s fur cachoolah, and mid-calf felt boots. He was girded with a cloth sash from which protruded the crude wooden handle of a small knife.

  “Time’s a-wasting,” Dracul said, hopping onto a barge tied to the pier. A dozen oarsmen were already seated at their positions, ready to launch the craft into the current.

  Without waiting to be ordered, Vlad tossed the bundles he carried onto the deck, and Gruya followed suit. Then Michael and Marcus stepped aboard. In the light of torches stuck into the gunwales Vlad saw his brother had sobered up and his face showed excitement. A sharp envy took hold of him when he realized his brother was being allowed to cross over to the Ottoman side.

  “Well, get onboard already, you two,” Dracul shouted at Vlad and Gruya. “You don’t expect me to unload this cargo on the other side, do you?”

  The craft had already been released from its tethers and had begun to drift away from the dock. For an instant, Vlad thought he heard the bark of a dog behind him. So this was the ferry he’d missed in his dream. He jumped onto the barge and Gruya followed him.

  “Glad to see my little Tulip didn’t suck all vigor out of you, Dracula,” Dracul said, and everyone, including the rowers, burst into laughter.

  They sat on the prow deck, watching by the starlight the black hulk of the Nicopolis cliffs getting closer. The fortress walls and the minaret were now outlined high up against the sky. Tiny lights flickered along the ramparts.

  In the middle of the river Vlad leaned into Marcus and pinched his thigh hard. “You’re a real scoundrel, Brother.”

  “Hey, don’t take it out on me,” Marcus cried, slapping Vlad’s hand away. “Father made me do it.”

  “He told you to bring me his whore, and you saw nothing wrong with keeping me in the dark about that?”

  “I got in trouble for your drunkenness. That wasn’t part of Father’s plan. He wanted you sober for this.”

  “What, he didn’t think I could act the porter if I had a cup of wine?”

  “You’re the only one among us who speaks Turkish,” Marcus said. “He thinks as a porter, you might be able to eavesdrop on the Bey of Nicopolis, in case he says something of interest when he speaks with his advisors.”

  Ah, so that was the special mission Father had in mind for him. No wonder he got so upset with having to postpone his departure on account of him. “But Father couldn’t bring himself to saying he needed me,” he said, “so he left it to you to inform me?”

  “What do you expect? You disappointed him.” Marcus laughed and poked Vlad in the ribs. “But at least he paid you in advance for your services.”

  “If handing me to the ministrations of beautiful Gypsy girls is his notion of reconciliation, I’ll be sure to disappoint him frequently.”

  The notion he’d be able to set foot onto Ottoman land, even as only a porter and but for a brief time, made Vlad nearly giddy. The thought dispelled the last fumes of wine from his head. It also chased away all thought of Nestor’s hypocrisy, László’s treachery and Omar’s bestiality.

  Only the memory of Tulip, with its aftertaste of wine, spices, and sweat, lingered on.

  CHAPTER 32: Dar al Islam

  “No matter how many times I cross the Danube at this spot,” Michael whispered, “I always feel the same pain in my heart. You’d think near fifty years would be enough to dull the memory of the dead.”

  Vlad knew Michael was referring to the last crusade that ended badly right here on the Danube shores. The Ottomans, under Sultan Beyazid, destroyed most of the Christian army, and pushed what was left of it into the river. It was then that Gunther, squire to a Bavarian knight, was taken into slavery.

  In the past, Vlad could never get enough of Michael’s stories about Opa, Beyazid, and the Battle of Nicopolis. Now his interest flagged and he asked, only to be polite, “Of whom do you think the most?” But before Michael could answer, Vlad’s attention drifted away, his thoughts on the impending visit to Hassan Pasha’s palace and his task to spy on the man.

  The barge entered the shallows on the southern bank, and a man on the pier threw dock lines to the barge master. He dropped them onto cleats along the side of the craft and men ashore took the slack out of the lines. The barge came to a stop with a bump against the pier.

  “Is it customary for so many people to be working the dock at night?” Vlad said.

  “Hassan has orders from Edirne to receive us in the night, so we wouldn’t be spotted by Hunyadi’s spies.”

  When Vlad stepped ashore, he was gripped by anxiety mixed with excitement. He was in Dar al-Islam, the beginning of the empire that gobbled up tens of thousands of Christians every year and turned them into slaves. Being here felt as if he’d wandered into the cave of a slumbering lion. To see the deadly beast up close, to hear it breathe, to smell its exhalations? What a rush.

  And what a peril.

  From countless stories heard over the years, he knew of the unlimited power the sultan had over every living creature in his empire. How, with no need to justify it, he could take the life of the highest official at his court; his closest blood relative; even a holy man sheltered in a mosque. Not even ambassadors of foreign countries could claim immunity from the sultan’s caprices. How must it feel to hold so much power in your hand? What kind of a human would you have to be not to indulge your rages, and not to cool your anger in an offender’s blood?

  They walked up the road to the fortress, Dracul leading the way with a lantern, Michael and Marcus following. Vlad and Gruya, burdened with the sacks they carried, lagged behind.

  “A good thing your father’s gifts are just for a bey, not a sultan,” Gruya said, snorting like an overloaded donkey.

  “Murad’s peşkeş is four wagonloads of wine, furs, and dried fruits,” Vlad said, he too breathing hard. “The way Father’s been feeling about me lately, it’s a wonder he hasn’t harnessed me to one of those wagons.”

  “You might’ve been saved by the fact the king had to ferry the wagons across in daylight.” Gruya stopped to catch his breath. “That happened the day before we got here.”

  “You seem well informed for someone who never pays attention to anything that can’t be eaten, drunk, or fucked.” Vlad took
a breather as well.

  “You’ve got the list of the essential things right, but in the reversed order.”

  “Where are those wagons now?” Vlad said.

  “They’re waiting for your father and my grandfather under the Nicopolis fortress walls. A girl who’d served wine and food to the king’s muleteers told me.”

  Vlad chuckled. “There are your three essential life ingredients again, but in the proper order this time.”

  Vlad and Gruya caught up with the rest of their party at the entrance to the village of Nicopolis. There they saw a group of Janissaries, huddled on their haunches around a brazier. Vlad identified them from their distinctive caps, in the shape of a large sleeve hanging down over their backs. The sighting at close range of these reputed warriors, whom Vlad had seen only from the distance as prisoners in Eisenmarkt, gave him a shudder. Of all the Ottoman forces, Janissaries intrigued Vlad the most. Imagine taking a Christian boy and turning him into a Muslim soldier, with a fanatical allegiance to one man alone, the sultan. It seemed a stroke of genius on the part of the Ottomans. It was also a gesture of the utmost perversity.

  “These are the men we’ll fight one day,” Marcus said. He too had perked up at the sight of the dreaded soldiers.

  “That day might be today, if they understood your stupid comment,” Dracul growled under his breath. “You forget some Janissaries come from among abducted Wallachian children, and might still remember their mother tongue.”

  “Only we’d have to fight them barehanded,” Vlad said, reproachful, “since you made us leave our weapons behind.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself to think you’d stand a chance against men like these, Dracula,” the king said with a derisive chuckle. “Not even if you had two swords in hand. They aren’t like your lame Akincis, who’re good with bow and arrow only. A Janissary will cut you in two, from side to side, and re-sheath his kiliç, before the top of your body hit the ground.”

  One of the Janissaries barred their way and asked for the watchword. Michael whispered something in Dracul’s ear.

  “Behold Rostam, the Dragon,” the king said, in an atrocious Persian, but the soldier accepted the password and let them pass.

  Vlad was shocked to hear Father speak the name of his Shahnameh hero. He couldn’t imagine how such a bookish reference could’ve found its way onto the king’s lips. His father couldn’t speak or read Persian at all. Vlad was about to ask Michael about it, when the old man whispered to him, “We got the password form the sultan’s envoy.”

  Vlad had the troubling feeling that some mysterious force was beckoning him deeper into the lion’s cave.

  The village of Nicopolis, nestled against the fortress walls, was a warren of wooden shacks strung along twisted lanes and alleys. It was dark and quiet at this hour, but redolent with the smells of poverty and overcrowding. Vlad noted, as they approached the fortress, that his father’s hand kept reaching, nervous, for the place where the pommel of his sword would normally be.

  Two more sets of Janissaries stopped them and asked for the password before they reached the drawbridge. The guards there seemed to be expecting them, and led the small party into the bailey, lit by torches but deserted. A few minutes later, a short man in the black clothes of a palace clerk appeared at the top of a flight of stairs.

  “That’s Nicholas, Hassan’s private secretary,” Dracul whispered to Vlad. “When I present the diplomatic gifts, the peşkeş, you must get close to him and his master and listen to what they say to each other. As a porter, they won’t suspect you understand Turkish.”

  It felt good to hear Father acknowledge, albeit indirectly, the usefulness of Vlad’s skill with languages.

  “Welcome to Nicopolis, King Dracul,” Nicholas said in Greek. “I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing you since you paid the tribute near a year ago.”

  “You’re mistaking me for someone else, Nicholas Efendi,” Dracul said in halting Greek, glancing around the bailey, worried. “My name is Ulfer, and I’m as far from being a king as these clothes are from being royal.”

  “But of course, Ulfer Efendi, where’s my head?” Nicholas said, appearing remorseful for having breached the secret nature of Dracul’s visit. “Hassan Bey will never forgive my mistake.”

  “It’ll remain our secret, Nicholas,” Dracul said.

  “The governor’s eager to receive you, and then retire to his private quarters. As you might imagine, His Excellency’s exhausted after conducting business late into the night, then having to wait for your arrival.”

  “I hope Hassan Bey gives credit for the idea of this untimely visit to the rightful people in Edirne,” Dracul said, now sounding jocular. “Were I not eager to present my respects and the peşkeş in person to His Excellency, I’d ask you to release my travel documents and let me be on my way without troubling the governor.”

  Hassan Bey’s reception hall was a rectangular room with a low divan running along three of the four walls. Carpets covered the floor, and tiles of an intricate arabesque design clad the walls and the ceiling. A soft golden light came from copper lanterns, and the air was heavy with the scent of aromatic oils.

  Against the back wall, facing the main entrance, Vlad saw a dais on which Hassan lay sprawled, leaning against overstuffed silk cushions. He was a portly man of about forty, with a trimmed beard and bushy eyebrows. The only other people in the room were two black slaves, standing at the corners of the dais, and two boys of about ten, asleep with their heads on Hassan’s lap. The governor was playing with the boys’ golden hair.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Gruya said, from the corner of his mouth.

  “They’re the governor’s catamites, of course,” Vlad whispered, “but don’t let your tongue hang out like that. The Turk will take it a sign of disrespect, and have it cut off.”

  “This is how I’ve always imagined a Turkish whorehouse,” Gruya said. He dropped his bags to the floor and took an admiring look around the hall. “Eunuchs, silk pillows, sweet fragrances... but with girls, not boys, naturally.”

  “May Your Excellency’s vigor rival that of a young bull, and your days on earth exceed those of Methuselah, Hassan Bey,” Dracul said in Greek, with a bow. Then he waited for Nicholas to translate.

  Hassan Bey acknowledged the king’s greeting with an indifferent nod.

  “I have the honor of introducing to you my oldest son, Marcus. He’s been recently elected Regent of Wallachia by the boyars’ council.”

  Marcus bowed to Hassan Bey, awkward and blushing.

  “As regent, my son will effectively rule Wallachia on my behalf, while I’m in Edirne,” Dracul said. “He’ll be doing that with the help of trusted men I left in Targoviste. I arranged it so only a handful of people will know I’m out of the country. And should I not return, Marcus will be elected king.”

  Hassan shook his head, disapproving, and said, “But why make such inauspicious suppositions, my friend? I’m certain your visit with Sultan Murad will be short and pleasant, Insha’Allah.”

  Hassan spoke in a soft tone, perhaps so he wouldn’t awake his two minions. Vlad saw him exchange glances with Nicholas and thought the two men shared some hidden meaning.

  At a signal from his father, Vlad placed the bundles he’d been carrying in front of the dais and kneeled on the floor in a humble posture. Gruya did the same. Hassan Bey flicked a pudgy finger, and the two black slaves began to open the parcels and lift the gifts up for his inspection.

  Hassan Bey looked with glazed eyes upon the things that poured out of the burlap sacks: wheels of beeswax, silver candlesticks, mail hauberks, the occasional bejeweled drinking cup. He didn’t hide his lack of interest for these goods, which had to be common fare for any governor of a border province. Then, his face brightened. “Our friend’s more generous this time than ever before,” he said to Nicholas, while giving a new set of gifts admiring looks. “Look at those sable and ermine pelts. They must have cost him a tenth of his custom revenues. Same goes for the narw
hal ivory and the walrus tusks.... If I didn’t know better, I’d think the king’s trying to bribe me.”

  Vlad’s attention went on alert, hearing this. Father must be worried indeed about his fate and Marcus’ succession to lavish the bey with such expensive gifts.

  “Yes, it’s no doubt a bribe,” Nicholas replied. “He wants you to help his son, when the boy finds himself king. He knows this immature regent won’t be able to hold on to power by himself. Either his own boyars will topple him, or the Hungarians will put him on the run.”

  “Does this mean the king suspects what’s awaiting him in Edirne? I thought Tirendaz kept the Zaganos letter a secret from him.”

  Vlad’s stomach summersaulted. Though startled by what he was hearing—what threat awaited Father?... what secret letter?—he kept his face impassive.

  “Tirendaz told me he said nothing about the letter when he was in Targoviste,” Nicholas said. “All the same, the king must be guessing something’s wrong between him and the sultan—just not what, and how wrong. Certainly, he wouldn’t be acting so unconcerned if he knew there was a chance he was going to his death.”

  Vlad’s head got light all of a sudden and he had to lean on Gruya not to topple over. The king noticed his distress and turned to him, anxious. “What’s wrong, Son?” He spoke barely moving his lips, and the sound of his voice was drowned in the noise Hassan and Nicholas made with their continued chatter.

  “We should leave now,” Vlad said. His father’s frightened stare made his stomach churn, violent.

  “If Your Excellency doesn’t mind it,” Dracul said, advancing a step toward the dais, “I’d like to take my documents and be on my way. The sooner I leave the Danube behind, the safer it is word of my absence won’t leak out.”

  They parted from Nicholas at the bottom of the drawbridge, after the secretary gave Dracul his safe conduct. As soon as they entered the first alley, Dracul stopped and faced Vlad, frowning. Michael, Marcus, and Gruya crowded in on them with curious and concerned faces.