The Sultan, the Vampyr and the Soothsayer

by Lucille Turner

  Chapter 10

  Dracul closed the Gospel of John that he was reading and frowned deeply. A problem of strategy presented itself. Three sons, one seat. One son must stay behind to guard it, two must travel. But which two? The Ottoman Treasurer had demanded he take Vlad, but he did not want to. Vlad’s behaviour had singled him out. The Treasurer would report it to the Sultan and Murad would mull it over. More questions would come, harder ones.

  It was not unusual for Murad to demand the presence of the heir of a vassal. He knew why. To come alone was a sign of expediency; to bring your family was a mark of reverence. Radu would have to go, and without a doubt it would be safer to take Mircea, but he did not want to leave Vlad alone with his first officer. The Treasurer had been right on one point: Cazan was a bad influence.

  He glanced several times at his son as they rode up the hill to the monastery in silence, but Vlad’s face revealed nothing. His mind was guarded; it did not let him in. He slipped from his horse outside the monastery gate and asked for Friar Anton. The monks respected Anton, but he was not one of them. A monk finds his refuge in a church or in a monastery; a Manichean friar will always seek it in himself.

  Dracul watched his son cross in front of the small white chapel with its bell-topped tower and disappear into one of the rooms of the seminary beyond the walled garden of herbs, in the company of one of the monks.

  ‘Whosoever hateth his brother is a murderer. The Gospel of John could not be more plain about it.’

  ‘Then you have forbidden him to train?’

  ‘Yes. He drew blood. Mircea’s.’

  Dracul had not fought hand to hand for many years. It was a precaution he had taken against what he called his demons, and what Anton called his condition. It had started when he was young. The wandering by night, the restlessness. Even now he never slept well; he preferred a chair to a bed, a walk to a chair. Years of insomnia had driven him to it and now it was a habit.

  ‘There is something else. He has started to walk at night.’

  ‘In his sleep?’

  ‘If you can call it that, I suppose. I would lock him in his room, but the last time I did that he managed to acquire a key.’

  ‘Saint Andrew’s Eve?’

  Dracul nodded. ‘But he remained inside the house of course.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Anton. He gave Dracul a sharp look. ‘And what about yourself?’

  ‘I am watched closely enough, Brother Anton, you needn’t worry on my account. Father Popescu made a point of calling on me to verify in person.’

  Now the friar was wondering if he had managed to master himself. But those days were over. He would have been lying if he said that there had not been moments when he wanted to let himself go, to give in to what he called his absences, his journeys into fog. Anton called them seizures and said they were a warning, although he could not say, or did not say, what kind. He had hidden behind those absences for a long time. At the worst moments of his life he had retreated into them. Whenever rage had threatened he’d shut himself behind a stout door and let them invade him. Most potent between dusk and dawn, one day they had stopped for no reason he could think of, like a nightmare that was over. All that was left was this shadow of fear, this dread of not sleeping, or of waking like a corpse on the floor with no memory of how he came there. Or worse than any of these, the dread of not waking at all.

  ‘Have there been other signs?’

  ‘You mean absences? No, none that I know about. I have asked Mircea to keep a closer eye on him. If anything out of the ordinary happens, he will tell me.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  In a corner of the cloister two monks were debating the principle of non-contradiction in an animated tone. They were busy being Greeks.

  Frustration bit into him. ‘Certain.’

  ‘Will you let me take a closer look?’

  Dracul breathed deeply. ‘You can try.’

  The friar held a lighted candle to Vlad’s face. Passing his hand between the flame and the eyes, he moved it to and fro.

  ‘You feel nothing? No sensations?’

  ‘The heat of the candle.’

  ‘And Brother Gregori, what did he talk about?’

  ‘The fight against sin.’

  ‘And what did he say about it?’

  ‘He says that people must redeem themselves; they must not wait for God.’

  ‘And what do you think he means?’

  ‘That God cannot redeem them.’

  ‘That is not a Manichean principle, and nor is it your father’s.’

  Vlad turned his face to them. ‘No. But it’s the truth.’

  ‘If you don’t mind taking off your shirt?’

  Anton pressed Vlad’s skin and turned back to Dracul. ‘When was he born? Winter?’

  ‘Around the solstice, I think. The servants would know.’

  ‘How is his appetite?’

  ‘Strong, quickly over.’

  Anton took him aside. ‘Your son is nothing like you. He is choleric; you are sanguine. If he has inherited your condition, either he will conquer it with a Herculean will, or it will conquer him completely. There will be no half measure.’ He glanced at Vlad, who was being dressed again by the servants, his body already twice the number of his years to look at. ‘The worst of it is,’ continued Anton, ‘he is not altogether wrong. Salvation lies within; it is an ancient precept, and not a false one.’ He glanced up. ‘You have lived by it, Dracul. He sees that. You do not think he should be warned?’

  Dracul ran his hands over his face. ‘Salvation lies with God, Anton; without the Word of scripture we are nothing.’

  ‘You forget the Apocrypha. You forget what came before.’

  ‘The Apocrypha! Half of it is lost, and the rest not even written.’

  ‘Is that what you think?’ Anton folded his spectacles. ‘Then I am afraid I must disagree with you there. The hidden scrolls exist.’ He paused. ‘Along with the rest of them.’

  ‘What do you mean, the rest of them?’ He searched Anton’s face.

  ‘The rest of the Apocrypha. The scrolls of Zalmoxis that tell the history of your ancestors.’

  He shook his head. ‘The life of Zalmoxis was never recorded, Anton. It is a story passed down, that is all. Mother to daughter, father to son. A fireside tale, a rumour with no foundation.’

  Anton rubbed his eyes and placed his spectacles on the table. ‘I am sorry to say that not only do they exist, but they have been well protected in the library of Constantinople. The Manicheans themselves relate the whole story of the ancient Goths as they heard it from the Greeks. Even the Romans knew of it. Along with the Book of Revelation, the scrolls of Zalmoxis formed part of the Apocrypha; you do not want to acknowledge their existence because you fear the past that trails you, but your denial will only make you weak.’

  Dracul’s face heated up; his body froze. ‘What would you have me do, acknowledge what will only bring more trouble and more pain? No, I am tired of lies, Anton. I will not listen to them. And I will not plant them in the mind of my son.’

  ‘Very well. But if anything can be done it is in Constantinople, not here.’

  He roused himself. ‘Then I will take him to Constantinople, to the Hagia Sophia, even if it means an extra journey. The Church of the Greeks will protect him; they will give him Holy Unction. He can be anointed; the patriarch…’

  ‘The patriarch can do nothing,’ said Anton, quietly. ‘If you want to help him you must find the scrolls and read them. They will be your best hope, or at the very least, your best port of call. Zalmoxis found a way through the darkness. You can do the same. The Church that came after him did not.’

  ‘And what of your findings? Should we consult another physician?’

  ‘I do not think it will change much; the struggle is in the spirit not the body, and it runs
deeper than the humours.’ The friar put a hand on his shoulders. ‘What we see on the surface is a manifestation of something more profound. The body only bears it out.’

  ‘And if I made him regent?’

  ‘If you make him regent once, you as good as call him heir.’ Anton stopped and turned to face him. ‘Be careful, my friend. If those scrolls are one day found, I would rather that you found them first, for if they fall into the hands of someone who is not a Greek, they will use them against you. You are a good man and a loyal friend. I would not like to wake one day and hear that your enemies have found the written substance for their accusations of strigoism.’

  Dracul pressed his shoulder. ‘Rest easy. If I am in danger, you will be the first to know.’

  They walked out of the cloister into the chapel. Churches, the right ones, soothed him. As a child he had pulled away from them, unwilling to venture where he felt that he was powerless. But with time he had sought them out, found solace in them. The Hagia Sophia of Constantinople was a haven of solace, but there were other ways to hope. That was what it meant to be Greek.

  ‘I have given Vlad a gift you would approve of, the Book of Job.’

  Anton turned. ‘You have a copy?’

  ‘An old manuscript bound up as a codex. It has been in the family collection as long as I can remember.’

  ‘A wise gift,’ said Anton with a quick smile, ‘if the receiver is ready for it. Job accepts the will of God; though from what Vlad said earlier I do not think the same is true of him – at least not yet. Let us hope that with patience and with time it will be.’

  ‘Time,’ murmured Dracul. ‘The one thing we don’t have. Soon I must leave for Edirne. The Sultan is pressing me. I will cross the border at Giurgiu,’ he added. ‘My journey will take me past the farm, but it cannot be helped. I will get news of the family. The boy has been married now, or so I heard.’

  ‘How is he? Well?’

  ‘Well? If a son of mine can be well then yes, he is well.’

  He tried to recall the last time he had seen the boy. He must have been ten years old. Mircea and Vlad would never meet their brother, and that was how it had to be. Once a child was out of court, he was out of court. There might be rumours, but there would never be a revelation of the facts. He simply could not afford it. One child that suffered from the Devil’s trance was one thing; two would be unthinkable. Other than Anton, Father Popescu was the only one that knew. But he knew the priest could be trusted; his family had been Thracians. A Thracian takes care of his own.

  ‘Then pay the call,’ said Anton, ‘but make it a stop for supplies.’

  Lost in thought, Dracul barely heard him. Anton believed that the scrolls of Zalmoxis were real. If he was right, the risk of dangerous revelations was greater than he thought. But how could he be right? If a record of the scrolls existed, the Greek Emperor would already have warned him, assuming that he knew in the first place. Frustrated, Dracul thrust the thought aside and concentrated instead on what he knew was right. The Hagia Sophia. Faith. The Holy Unction. Vlad must make the journey with him. Vlad and not Mircea. The very thing he had hoped to avoid he would now have to do. To leave Vlad behind was dangerous; to take him was dangerous. But doubt was more dangerous still. Would a pilgrimage be enough to cast all aside, to start afresh? He prayed that it would be. The words he had said to his son in the basement could just as easily have fallen on deaf ears if those ears were not ready to hear them, or if they had been prevented from hearing them. Quiet resistance, prayer, faith and hope – they had worked for him, but would they work for Vlad? And if they did not, what kind of future lay ahead, and how would he ever come to grips with it?

  Chapter 11

  Mircea caught Vlad on the stairs. ‘You’ve been to the basement, haven’t you, with Father?’

  Vlad searched his brother’s face to see what was concealed in it. ‘And you haven’t?’

  ‘Only once, to help him with some scrolls.’

  He wondered if Mircea had seen the mappa mundi. ‘Which scrolls, and what did you do with them?’

  Mircea did not remember. ‘Nothing interesting – sorting. Did you know that you are to have new chambers? Father has asked me to make them ready for when you return from the pilgrimage.’

  He asked Mircea what pilgrimage he was talking about. He knew that their father had been called to see the Sultan, but that could hardly be called a pilgrimage.

  ‘You and Radu are to accompany him to the Hagia Sophia in the Golden City.’

  ‘But not you?’

  ‘No.’

  He searched for envy in Mircea’s face. He couldn’t see any.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Father wants me to stay behind as regent.’

  The envy moved to him instead. Vlad felt it invade him, and turned away from Mircea’s gaze. ‘I don’t want new chambers. I like sharing with Radu.’

  Mircea looked at him in surprise. ‘Father wants you to be closer to me, in case you are unwell in the night.’

  He studied his brother’s face again. What did Mircea know, and what did he not know? Was there a lie hidden in that throat, or was it something else – what was his brother not saying?

  ‘I’m not unwell.’

  ‘I know you aren’t,’ said his brother hurriedly. ‘Here, look. We shall be on the same landing. I’ll leave my door open. You can come in whenever you like.’ Mircea moved closer. ‘I thought I might teach you Cyrillic script, as a surprise for Father. If you would like me to, that is?’

  He pictured himself in the chamber near his brother. The door would always be open. Whenever he stepped through it, Mircea would be there. A rush of feeling flooded his chest. He wanted to step through the door, wanted it more than anything.

  He opened his mouth and thrust out the words, ‘I would.’

  The shadows of the day were lengthening. While the upper storey of the palace was bathed in sunshine, below ground level, where the basement was, the blue dark of dusk seeped upwards. It brought things with it: worries he could not put a name to, fears that came from nowhere.

  ‘If you’re to be regent while I’m gone you’ll need someone to help you,’ he said and smiled. But in the back of his mind he knew his brother couldn’t do it and the knowledge pleased him, made him strong.

  ‘Cazan will help,’ said Mircea firmly. ‘You mustn’t worry.’

  He turned away and headed towards the landing. The pot of wormwood had been freshly filled. He picked it up and hurled it down the stairs. Lela ran out to the foot of the stairwell, but he slipped away faster. Back in his chamber he leaned against the door and resisted the urge to strike something. Mircea was to have their father’s seat while he made a pilgrimage.

  He smoothed back his hair and splashed water on his face. Radu reminded him that he must dress for dinner. He straightened his tunic, fastened his collar and took Radu’s hand.

  His mind turned on his father and found Friar Anton. The friar thought that he was weak, but he was not weak. It was not Mircea who must watch over him; it was he who must direct his brother. As for the basement and the mappa mundi, neither of these would save them from the Turks. There was only one thing that would, and Mircea didn’t have it – audacity.

  ‘We are going on a journey,’ he told Radu. ‘The road will be dangerous, so you will have to do as I say.’

  They went down the stairwell together and passed by the chamber Mircea had shown him. His brother could say what he liked since he was regent now, but Mircea couldn’t open locked doors. Especially not this one; Vlad knew without trying that it would be impossible. The key to the door from Mircea’s world to his had gone because the regency had taken it. They would never get it back.

  Chapter 12

  Old wisdom and good sense told Murad that three things must be done quickly. The first was burying the dead; the second was opening the door to a stranger an
d the third was arranging a wedding. The first he had done. Aladdin’s funeral had taken place almost immediately, so immediately that when it was over he had wondered if it had even happened at all.

  The second was easy; hospitality came naturally to an Osmani. Without it there could be no conquest, since talk always came first. But the third, the founding of a dynasty for his son, was giving Murad a headache.

  Having ruled out Mara Brankovic as a candidate, there was no other contender in sight. He had tried to suggest one to Azize, but his suggestions were like the words of a mute on the ears of the deaf. Now, as he paced the first courtyard, the biggest and most imperial of the four with its pavilions, its fountains and its ministerial chambers, he saw his son arrive in the company of the guard that had followed him everywhere since his elevation to official heir of the sultanate.

  Mehmet was walking the distance to the pavilion at a remarkably slow pace. Murad debated in his mind whether he should make something of this discreet display of disrespect, or whether he should give the boy a chance, but when he looked him up and down he could not help marvelling, as he did every time he saw him, at how God could give a boy such confidence in return for so little engagement.

  He stopped pacing and sat down.

  ‘Half the day is gone. What have you been doing?’

  Mehmet entered the arbour and leaned his back against a cushion with his elbows on his knees and his fingers entwined. ‘I’ve been busy, Father.’

  ‘Busy doing what?’

  His son ignored his question, and asked one of his own instead. ‘So, what are we to talk about?’

  ‘I will talk and you will listen,’ said Murad firmly. ‘You have been working hard at your training. I have noticed. And have you been reading?’

  Mehmet said he had.

  ‘Good. I want you to be well read. I do not want an ignorant at the head of an army. Still less at the head of an empire.’