by Dan Davis
“And you have them killed?”
“Why? When one or two in the next batch would talk, also. Word always gets out, Vlad. No matter what we tried, there would always be the rumours of our bloodletting and what we did with the blood we took. Blood magic, dark magic, communing with the Devil.”
“And blood drinking.”
“Of course. What secret does any man hold alone who has servants in his house? In London, our house was often swamped in rumour. Some merchants would stop doing business with us or one or more of us might be expelled from a guild.”
“I would have such men killed. Quietly, of course.”
“That is one way. But pay a man a few coins and it is often enough to buy his silence. Or there are other secrets he might hold himself that he does not wish to be made public. We grew rather adept at bringing powerful men into our net and using them to discover even more secrets.”
“You have been doing the same here,” Vlad said. “Your man named Stephen and the woman who shares your bed. They are drinkers of your blood also? They have been made by you into one such as I am.”
I considered holding back, suspecting that he was seeking to extract information that he intended to use against us. But sometimes one must throw away caution and embrace uncertainty.
“What did my brother tell you?”
“That you have a small and pathetic company of useless commoners that you drag behind you through the centuries.”
How does William know that? He has not seen me for two hundred years.
I smiled. “Ah, you truly have spoken to him. Please, Vlad. Will you tell me about it?”
He stared through me and then up at the wooded hills, the rocky peaks and the blue sky beyond, shielding his eyes. Vlad nodded slowly, almost absentmindedly, and ambled to the far edge of the paddock which looked out at a field of green wheat and the river beyond. I followed and watched him from the corner of my eye as he locked the fingers of both hands together, rested his forearms on the top of the paddock fence and leaned on it. Were it not for his ornate clothing and muscular build, he would have looked for all the world like a peasant surveying his land.
“We were young when he first came to us. My brother Radu and I were almost alone there. The servants sent over with us had been stripped away, one by one, for spurious reasons. We were instructed in Turkish and Arabic. Taught to ride their horses, in their saddles. We ate their food and listened to sermons about their Prophet and their God. And then he came to us, big and loud and filled with movement and passions, speaking French and Latin and Greek, to talk about Christ and knights and jousting and bedding beautiful women. He brought us gifts of familiar horses and the saddles in which we had first learned to ride. This food makes me sick, he would say, come and dine with me and we will eat stews with sausages of pork. But do not tell the Turks about this, for such things go against their law and their God, it is a special thing just for us good Christians who are alone together in this strange land.”
“He has always been a snake.”
“It is so clear now that it shames me. How easy it was for him to make us love him. As easy as breathing. Mere child's play. But we were children and we were so desperate for home and for our father and so, yes, we loved him. Rejoicing at his visits. When he was absent it was as though we simply counted the days until the sudden brightness and joy of his presence.”
“You are not the first he has charmed.”
“Charm, yes. We were enchanted by him. And yet I knew something was wrong with him. The servants, the guards, our instructors and tutors, the behaviour of every other man changed when in his presence and it took some time before I recognised it for what it was. Fear. I rationalised that they were fearful of his power as a pasha of the Sultan but in fact it was something deeper than that, something deep inside them. It was terror. A terror one might feel when trapped in a cage with a hungry lion. Or the terror of finding yourself before God with a heart full of unrepentant sin. And I noticed that Zaganos Pasha enjoyed their terror. Revelled in it. He was amused by it and would draw it out further by engaging them in conversation.”
“It frightened you.”
“No. By God, no. I wanted that for myself. I wanted men to shiver as I passed them in the hall. I wanted soldiers to shake so hard when I addressed them that they dropped their spears and fumbled to pick them up again. But Radu is not like me. His enchantment turned to fear when William revealed his true nature.”
“He told you of his immortality?”
“Later, yes. Before then, he turned his attention on Radu by humiliating him in public whenever he committed the slightest error. William would instruct him in the sword in good humour until Radu made an error, at which point William would strip him and whip his bare legs bloody, all the while proclaiming him to be entirely without merit. And at night, in private, William would come to him and whisper sweet words and embrace him and cover his hair with kisses.”
“By God. He forced himself upon him?”
“Forced, perhaps or manipulated my brother into allowing it or even desiring it. I do not know for certain. Radu, in his shame, would not speak of it nor hear it spoken of. Whatever perverse delights he felt, it became clear later that William was in fact preparing Radu for Mehmed.”
“I do not understand.”
“Sultan Mehmed lies with many women. It is his duty to get sons on them. But his passion has always been for young men and the older sorts of boys. You see, my brother was always fine featured. It was often said that his face was more beautiful than that of a ripe young woman, with skin as smooth as silk, his limbs elegantly proportioned and supple as an almond sapling. Grown women and girls fell in love with Radu on sight but he was not allowed to go to them. Instead, William first made Radu his own, body and soul, and then sent him into the tent of Mehmed to win his heart.”
“To spy on Mehmed?”
“To fill Mehmed’s head with whatever William wanted, I suspect. Men are uniquely vulnerable when sated in the dark of the night, do you not think? It helped to secure William’s place by Mehmed’s side when old Murad died.”
“William had been advising a succession of Sultans already before Murad.”
“Yes and each time the transition between one lord and another was the most dangerous time for him, threatening to undo everything that he had done before.”
“He told you this?”
Dracula took a deep breath and turned away from the scene before us to look back at the village where his men lounged and laughed in the sun. “I attempted to help Radu. I urged him to resist, to fight every time, every night, to fight even if it meant his death. That is what I did to survive. When William attempted to discipline me in public, I would harangue him in turn and call him a traitor to his people and a pathetic servant who should bow down to me, who was of royal birth.” Vlad smiled to himself at the memory. “Sometimes he would make a joke of it. Other times he would strike me or beat me badly. But next time I just fought all the harder, even when William crushed the bones of my sword hand in his fist. Even when he broke my ribs one day and my jaw the next, still I fought. Radu would not. Or could not. He was younger, of course, and weaker in his heart. Always. And so I gave him up. He would not save himself and so I would not save him. How can one respect a man who does not respect himself? His weakness was contemptible.”
“Not all men will choose death over subjugation.”
Vlad replied without hesitation. “All true men would certainly choose death over dishonour. Only the slave chooses slavery over death. All slaves have chosen their slavery.”
“Is it not better at times to live so that one may take revenge?”
“If one chooses that path, he must know that he will never be whole again. He will never be a true lord.”
“Forgive me but how is that you then continued to live amongst your enemies?”
“I was a prisoner, not a slave. I was never subservient and all recognised me as a king.”
“They intende
d for you to become their king. A client king, subject to the Sultan.”
“They did. But always I knew I would fight them to the death rather than kneel and call them lord. And I wanted William’s power in order to free my people.”
“His power to fill men with terror?”
“That, and the terrible power of his limbs. When I witnessed him tear a man’s throat out with his bare hands and bathe his face in the blood, I knew that he possessed a great magic. It was unnatural. Perhaps evil. And I wanted it.”
“And you got it. How?”
Vlad looked pained and glanced at the sky. “It grows late. We shall return to Poenari and feast.”
I wanted desperately to know it all but I knew it would be a difficult thing for him to speak of. No doubt, Vlad wanted time to compose himself and to fortify his heart with wine. And as impatient as I was, I wanted that too.
“I will see you there, my lord,” I said.
When I walked back toward my horse, Rob strode over with a stiffness to his hunched shoulders that told me had important news to impart. What it might be, I could not imagine.
“Richard,” he said, keeping his voice low. “There’s a woman in this village. A very interesting woman. You should speak with her.”
“Oh?” I said. “Pretty, is she?”
He sighed. “Please, follow me.”
***
The house was tiny, out away at the edge of the village and with a small patch of woodland behind it. With a steep thatched roof and a stone wall around the lower course and plastered wattle and daube walls above, the neat garden was surrounded by a hazel fence.
Walt and Eva lounged beside the open door on a low, stone bench. Both sipped on a cup of something.
“What is this?” I asked them as I approached.
“Rob made a friend,” Walt said. “But we can’t understand a word she’s saying.”
“Why do we need to understand what she is saying? Who is she?”
Stephen stomped from the door with a scowl on his face. “She is a hardnosed old crone and we are wasting our time, Rob. She knows nothing at all.”
From inside the house came the sounds of someone banging around.
“She knows,” Rob said. “If only we could understand what she was saying.”
“Did you find Serban?” Eva asked.
“You know what he’s like,” Walt said. “Workshy old bastard sleeping it off somewhere.”
“Richard speaks the Roman tongue like a native,” Rob said. “He can question her.”
“Will one of you fools tell me what is happening here?”
An old woman appeared in the doorway. Her hair was tucked under a scarf, and she wore a vividly white shirt beneath a sort of embroidered waistcoat and a long, plain skirt down to her shoes. She scowled up at me and threw up her hands.
“So, you have come? What is wrong with you that you send these fools to me to ask their foolish questions when they will not listen to the answers? Well, I suppose you had better come inside, if you must.” She held up a bony finger. “I warn you. If you try to take my blood, or turn me into a strigoi, I shall cut off your head, do you understand?”
I dragged my eyes from her outstretched finger and looked into her dark eyes. “I understand, good woman.”
She scoffed and disappeared into the darkness.
“You could understand her fully?” Rob said.
“Of course,” I said. “You speak the same tongue as she does well enough. And Wallachian is almost the same language as Italian, which you speak like a native. It is not so far away from Latin. What is wrong with you lot?”
“But her accent is so strong to be indecipherable,” Eva said. “And there are the peculiar words these mountain folk use.”
“She refuses to speak slower,” Walt said. “Just won’t bloody do it.”
“You are all hopeless,” I said, ducking to pass through the doorway into the dark house.
I took off my hat as I entered, only to find myself whipped across the face by a great bunch of dried herbs.
“What are you doing?” I said, fending off the next blow from the old woman.
She clucked her tongue and thrashed me on the hand and arm, then on my body, sending pieces of dried plant matter into the air and onto my clothes. She muttered some sort of spell or prayer under her breath as she did so. Apparently satisfied for a moment, she threw down her bunch of herbs onto the table and grabbed a head of garlic which she crushed together in both of her hands and held up to my face, muttering the spell once more. The pungent smell filled my nose and I moved away, wafting at the stink.
“Aha!” she said, “you are strigoi. I knew it. The herbs do not lie.”
“Are you finished?” I said, looking around the room. Her house was a single room, with a table, a fire place, a sideboard, a bed, and not much else. It was spartan to say the least, but it was impeccably clean.
“No!” she said, fishing something out from beneath her waistcoat. “Not finished.”
She whipped out a small crucifix on a leather thong and dangled it before me. “Take this iron into your hand and close your fist about it.”
I sighed and did as she commanded, holding the simple little thing in my closed hand. “Is something supposed to happen?” I asked.
Eyeing me warily, she sidled over to her table and took a seat on one of the benches. “You will hold the iron cross in your hand until you leave, do you understand?”
“Fine, fine,” I said. “May I sit?”
She nodded and indicated the bench across from her. On the table was a jug and two cups. Crudely made but with a blue bird upon the jug and a pattern in the Greek style on the cups.
“My friends asked me to come here to speak with you,” I said, looking at the herbs on the table and still smelling the crushed garlic. Amongst the bunch of dried herbs I recognised the yellow flowers of wolf’s bane and the leaves of belladonna. “And I can well imagine what it is that they wish for us to speak about.” She watched me closely and said nothing. “My name is Richard.”
“I will not tell you my name.”
“Another method of protection against evil?” I asked but she only glared. “Thank you for welcoming me into your home. That was quite a welcome. Do you do the same for all of your guests?”
She grunted. “Only the ones that are dead.”
“Dead? My dear woman, I am not dead.”
“Perhaps,” she said.
“Do you receive a lot of dead visitors?”
“Not as often as I would wish,” she said, speaking quietly.
I sighed, hearing my friends muttering outside in muted conversation. A bee flew in through the window, flew around the room in one quick circuit and then flew out again. It seemed increasingly plausible that the old woman was not in the full possession of her wits but Rob had summoned me for a reason and he was not a man prone to flights of fancy.
“Do you know stories of immortal people? Those that live forever, and who are very strong, and who drink blood?” I watched her for a response as I spoke but her scowl did not waver. Her brown eyes were so dark they were almost black and her eyebrows knitted almost together above her axe-blade of a nose. But it was not an unpleasant face for all that. “You seem to know spells and herb craft to ward yourself against them. Can it be that you think me and my men are immortals? Surely, if you truly thought that was the case, you would not have let us in. So, what can you tell me?”
She lifted her small, pointed chin to look down that nose at me. “I know that you are one of great power. I see it in your eyes.” She jabbed a crooked finger at the doorway. “And I know that your friends are the lesser creatures. Yes, yes, I know this. Do not deny it.”
“What do you know of it?”
“Why do you ask what you already know?”
I tapped my fingers on the table, smiling at her scowl. “Well, how about this, then? Would you tell me how you know about these people? What tales you have heard.”
“Oh,” she s
aid, waving her hand in the air. “Everyone knows. Everyone. The tales are told to all children.”
“What are these tales?”
She reached forward and poured a cup of water for me and filled her own before drinking from it. “I was born in the west. By the Iron Gates. There were stories about the strigoi and I knew they were true because my mother and father never lied to me. But I never expected to see one.” She took a drink of her water and I noted her hand was shaking. “My husband was from here. He came with his father across the hills many times with their wool and it was a good match. My husband was a good man. A good man. We lived well. We had a daughter and I was going to have a son but he died. One summer, a man came through, claiming to be an apothecary but he had little enough to sell and we thought him nothing but a vagrant. He had a monk with him, though, so we thought he must be right enough. The vagrant asked if he could collect leeches from the pond and we saw no harm in it and both men were put up by the blacksmith and his wife.” She stopped to cross herself and then she stared past me to the open door and the colourful, sunlit world beyond.
“They were blood drinkers?” I prompted. “The leech-collector and the monk?”
She glanced at me, seeming surprised I was there for a moment before nodding and continuing. “In the morning, Rab and Maria were found dead. Their children found them, both their throats torn and bloody. Both drained of the blood.”
“And the vagrant and the monk?”
The woman nodded. “Gone.” She sighed. “So we thought.”
“They came back?”
“They never left. I do not know where they went in the day but at night, they came and they killed us. We barred our doors and we listened to them outside, knocking on the door and the shutters and laughing. Some nights would pass and everyone would be safe in the morning. But every two or three days, another would be found dead. I picked and hung herbs. We made crucifixes and placed them around. At night, we prayed together over our child. My husband wanted to fight them. He said he knew how to kill them.” She peered at me sidelong.
