The Sultan, the Vampyr and the Soothsayer

by Lucille Turner

  Furthermore, when he had taken his hurried look at the Sultan’s chart, there was something particular about it, something hard to fathom. A profound shadow hung over the houses of Murad the Second. He did not know what had made it, or what it would mean, but he had every intention of finding out. The mysteries of the houses of the Babylonians were great, and the journey to understanding them was not an easy one. He would tread carefully, but he could hardly refuse the challenge. Besides which, the landholder of the caravanserai of Manisa had talked about a wager concerning the fate of Constantinople, and since the landholder had charged him two silver pieces for his bed and board, he did not like to give him the satisfaction of winning it. Thus to return in a state of ignorance would be undesirable. He threw his pipe in his bag, slung the bag across his back, and set off in the direction of the palace.

  Chapter 33

  ‘What do you mean, Vlad Dracula is dangerous?’ Mehmet shifted his position on the divan and glared at Halil Pasha.

  ‘I am only saying, Highness, that it is dangerous to allow him to…approach you too closely, to allow him too much…intimacy.’

  He studied Halil Pasha’s face. What was the Vizier getting at? He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I offered him a chance; he didn’t take it.’

  ‘That is exactly what I am talking about, Highness. A chance at what, if I may ask?’

  Mehmet hesitated. In the back room of the apartment, Radu Dracula was curled up in a corner, a poor second to his brother.

  ‘A chance to save himself, of course,’ he replied, his voice thick with irritation. ‘To be what my father would like him to be – compliant.’

  He glanced at Halil Pasha’s face and thought he saw a smile brush across his mouth. ‘I don’t see what the fuss is all about, My Lord Pasha. After all, they are only vassals, aren’t they? A vassal is…’ he searched around for the words ‘…hardly worth wasting time on.’

  ‘Really?’ said Halil Pasha. ‘Is that what you think? Then let me tell you that you have misunderstood things. The empire is built on the backs of the vassal. Without, as you rightly say, the compliance of those of influence in a country that has been conquered, the empire stands on quicksand.’

  Mehmet stiffened. Perhaps the Vizier had a point for once. He hesitated. ‘Please go on. You have something more to say; I know you have.’

  The Vizier sighed audibly. ‘Very well. I was going to mention it anyway, since now that you are regent it is important that you know exactly what is going on. And since I have the news already…’

  ‘Well, what is it?’

  ‘As you probably know, their father, Dracul, made an agreement with your father, promising his fealty against the lives of his sons…’

  ‘Yes, I do know.’ He leaned forward. ‘And…?’

  ‘And the agreement has been a little compromised,’ said the Vizier, firmly.

  ‘What do you mean, compromised?’ said Mehmet. ‘Broken? You mean their father has broken his oath? How?’

  The Vizier seemed almost unwilling to say more. ‘He has promised his support to the Greeks to protect the port of Varna. Which means that a battle will be inevitable.’

  Mehmet’s eyes shone. ‘That is good news.’

  ‘Is it?’ said Halil Pasha weakly.

  ‘Well, yes, of course.’ Mehmet stood up. ‘It means that Dracul’s sons will do exactly what we want them to.’ He paced over to the window and back. ‘They will turn their backs on their father, and on their country, and so will take our part.’

  ‘As easily as that?’ said Halil Pasha, doubtful. ‘I think, if you will permit me to say, you are taking a rather simplistic view of it.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ said Mehmet. He spun round. ‘I’ll prove it to you if you like.’

  The Vizier made no reply. Mehmet marched over to the room at the back and opened the door. He called for Radu, impelled him to come to the door then looked back over his shoulder at the Grand Vizier. ‘Aren’t you coming?’

  With Halil Pasha following, Mehmet nodded to the guards and, taking Radu firmly by the arm, made his way down to the courtyard, where Kastrioti was arguing with a guard over the right way to hold a sica. Both stopped talking at the sight of Radu Dracula. ‘Is he in his chamber?’ said Mehmet to the guard. The guard shrugged his shoulders. Mehmet brushed past, turned the iron handle, and opened the door. What he saw made him stop at the threshold and draw in his breath. Vlad Dracula was lying on the bed on his back, his body straight as an arrow. His arms, which were spread out either side of him, were covered in red marks. His face was like a death mask, but the worst of it all were his eyes. They were open, staring upwards at the ceiling, and black as two lumps of graphite.

  Halil Pasha rushed forwards. He felt the head and took up the arm.

  ‘There is a pulse; but a faint one.’ The pasha swung round for a guard. ‘Fetch me a mirror.’

  The guard returned with a small glass. The Vizier held it to Vlad Dracula’s mouth.

  ‘The breath is there. Bring water.’

  Mehmet glanced at Radu, who had left his side and was kneeling by his brother, weeping silently. He backed away through the door and went out into the courtyard. The air in the tower was stifling him. Several moments later, Halil Pasha emerged again.

  ‘It is fortunate that we got there in time,’ said the Vizier, flustered. ‘Any longer and he might have been beyond our help.’

  Mehmet’s head prickled with anger. ‘He doesn’t look dangerous now, My Lord, does he?’

  He pictured Radu kneeling at his brother’s side and a stab of envy rammed into the cavity of his chest.

  ‘Tell the guard to send Radu Dracula back to me. I need him.’

  He crossed the courtyard quickly in the company of his guards. Georg Kastrioti had gone to talk to the Vizier, evidently curious. When Mehmet looked back a final time before he climbed the stairs to his apartments, he saw the Grand Vizier re-entering Vlad Dracula’s tower with Kastrioti following close behind.

  Chapter 34

  Dracul swept into the cobbled courtyard of the palace of Targoviste. The main gate was unguarded. The servants were gossiping in the kitchens and Lela, his housekeeper, had left the hall fire untended. He had become careless; if he did not tighten things up, soon he would be opening the door to enemies. The Danesti, old contenders for the throne of Wallachia, were watching from the Transylvanian border town of Sibiu, and so was Hunyadi, now more than ever.

  He shut himself in the salon and stared at his desk. His visit to Constantinople had been the worst day of his life since the day his sons were taken. He had counted on support for the Greeks; there was no support. Hunyadi continued to prostrate himself before the altar of the Church of Rome. Varna would be a gamble, and he had no choice now but to take it. With one hand around the back of his neck, Dracul unpinned his collar, slipped it off and looked at the insignia of the Order of the Dragon engraved upon it. It had been many years now since he had taken the vow to defend the Christian cause against the Turks. He had thought that he was serving God. What a fool he had been. The dragon was his insignia, and his name was his curse. The collar was a leash of misfortune, a trinket from which the lives of his sons dangled. Constantine Palaiologos was a good man, but one good man could not save him. He had not yet had the courage to read the scrolls Constantine had given him. They lay in his basement chest, waiting.

  He could write another letter to Cardinal Cesarini, but since the last one had come to nothing, there seemed little to be gained by writing one more. Constantine was convinced that the dragon of the Book of Revelation was a reference to the Church of Rome, but even if it were, his name was tied up with it, and whatever that implied it was by no means reassuring. And then there was Saint Andrew’s Eve.

  The night had come around again. Every November his sons were another year older, and if the stories of Wallachia had any truth to them, every year the danger gr
ew stronger, particularly for boys in early adulthood. He wondered whether Vlad still walked at night; worse still, whether he knew that he did. Had the absences grown into something more dangerous? Were they the same as his own journeys into darkness; would Vlad find a way to guide himself through them, or would they invade him utterly? These thoughts were arrested as Mircea came in.

  ‘We are sending men to Varna, aren’t we?’

  ‘I am sending men,’ he corrected.

  ‘Then I am leading them.’

  He stood up in horror, and refused. Mircea did not yet understand the nature of battle. He was not ready.

  ‘I will send a message to Hunyadi. He will manage without us.’

  Mircea shook his head. ‘As it is, he will barely send a unit. We have no choice, Father. We have to hit them hard. I can do it. I know I can. I can do it for Vlad. I can do it because I am not Vlad.’

  He stopped pacing. Mircea pulled up a chair, and gestured to another. Dracul sat.

  ‘The day of Captain Hunyadi’s visit, I stopped him at the gate. I asked him why he would not help us, why he takes the side of the Catholics instead of ours.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He said that there was nothing he could do, and that you should not have made such a rash promise to the Palaiologos brothers, because it would only make things even worse with the cardinals than they were already. When I asked him why they were bad in the first place, he told me to ask a priest.’ Mircea paused. ‘So I went to see Father Popescu.’

  Somewhere outside, a bell rang for Mass. The priest would be gathering his faithful. He remembered he had not attended Mass for months.

  Mircea continued. ‘Father Popescu said he was glad to see me. He took me into the vestry and we sat down together. He poured me tuica and told me that it is not my fault that our family is the way we are. That it’s in the blood. He told me that I should warn you that he has heard about your son and that news travels fast in Wallachia. Was he talking about Vlad?’

  He pressed his hand on Mircea’s arm and wondered what to tell him.

  ‘Popescu says that the bishop is worried, and so is Cardinal Cesarini.’

  ‘Cardinal Cesarini does not know what he is talking about, and the bishop even less.’

  Mircea looked away. ‘I don’t care what people say. And I know you are only trying to do what is best, for all of us.’

  The courtyard was full of men. Recruits from the border with Bulgaria, Bohemian Hussites the Hungarian army could not keep a hold on, strong Rumani farmhands, loyal but rough. Could Mircea lead them? Did he have the strength for it? He looked at his son’s unwavering face. If Wallachia were ever to change, what better foundation was there than loyalty, the love of a brother? He mustered a smile. ‘Then you had better get out there, hadn’t you.’

  He took the stairs down into the basement. He brushed aside a beetle, put his hand into the crack, pulled out the key and swung open the door. A faint draught of air swept past him. The basement room was well ventilated. He had seen to it the previous summer. He had a fear of not being able to breathe. It was a childhood fear, but not one he expected to be rid of. He entered the room, placed the torch in the holder on the wall and pulled out the scrolls of Zalmoxis from the chest beneath the shelf. They were still wrapped in the hide that Constantine had given him. Then, taking the torch, he shut the door of the basement chamber, wound his way back up the stairs and returned to his chair. He placed the bundle on his desk and stared at it. Do not torture yourself with demons that may or may not be real. But ignoring them was not so useful either. He unrolled the scroll and moved the lamplight closer.

  The script was Cyrillic. It filled the top of the scroll in bold letters, plain and unilluminated.

  Here begins the account of the life of Zalmoxis, Eternal King of the Goths, according to the testimony of his people.

  Beside it was a drawing he knew well, the mark of his ancestors. Head of wolf, body of dragon. Winged serpent, fearless hound. Constantine had spoken of the battle of Saint George, but the dragon had always been there, waiting. Its beady eye stared up at him from the golden setting of his own collar. Do not forget the past.

  He pulled an eyeglass from the drawer of his desk and peered into the parchment. Old Greek. He drew the candle closer, straightened his back. The words slowed him; some he was not certain of, while others were barely legible, worn by time and travel.

  In the beginning the world was whole and Svarog was its father. Zalmoxis, leader of the Goths, was not yet born.

  He walked over to the window and stared out of it at the dark bulk of the palace walls and the shredded cloud above them.

  In the shadow of the mountain was the dragon snake.

  He ran his hand through his hair. On the other side of the courtyard his guard was changing at the gate.

  Svarog had two sons, Veles and Perun. One brother feared the dragon; the other one did not. Veles did not see that the claws of the beast were hidden, drawn back beneath the dragon’s iridescent hide, ready to be used.

  He closed his eyes. The wood flared in the hearth.

  Sensing that his brother was in danger, Perun set a fire to the dragon’s lair. From that day onwards, there was enmity between them.

  Two brothers. One throne.

  Svarog the father saw the rivalry that grew between the brothers, the hatred of Veles for his brother Perun who had only tried to save him. So he gave night to Veles, and day to Perun. One son must live his life in darkness, the other one in light. Into this world Zalmoxis came, and Veles was his keeper.

  Dracul rolled up the first scroll and placed it beside the amulet on his desk. The Gospel of John contained the warning of two brothers; now here it was in the stories of his ancestors. He swung his cloak over his back and looked out at the gate. A faint light was burning at the foot of the watchtower and beyond it was the Chapel of the Holy Virgin. He fastened his collar, snuffed out the candle, and left.

  ‘You told Mircea that news travels fast – how fast?’

  Popescu took him by the arm and led him inside. The chapel smelled of incense and tallow from the candles. The priest drew back the curtain of the room he used for confession, and gestured to a chair. Dracul circled round it.

  ‘Faster than you have responded to it,’ said Popescu, firmly. He lit a candle, closed a book of prayer that was open on the table and sat down. ‘I have not seen you since your sons were taken by the Turks; I am sorry for it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Dracul bitterly. ‘Not that it changes anything. But you spoke to Mircea without my authority. I forbid you to do so again. I have one son left, Father.’

  Popescu nodded. ‘I spoke to Mircea because I wanted to summon a response from you, and now I have, which I am glad about. Chances have come and gone, Dracul, but talk has not. The problem now is Giurgiu.’

  ‘Giurgiu?’ Dracul sat down. Giurgiu. Of course. He had forgotten it.

  ‘You know what Wallachia is like. Once people suspect the presence of a strigoi, they will act on it. It seems that this particular case has caused quite a stir. And it does not help that you have been seen there more than once, visiting the Dumitru family in person. Nobody in the region knows that your son married into the family, but the truth could come out, with the situation what it is.’

  ‘I saw no sign of trouble when I passed through on my return from the sultanate.’

  ‘But you did not stop?’

  ‘Not on my return; I was in a hurry,’ said Dracul, uneasy. In the face of his silence, Mircea had thought the son Popescu warned about was Vlad. Perhaps, one day, it would be.

  He ran a hand over his face. ‘Father, the boy is dead. His remains have been burned. It is over.’

  Popescu shook his head. ‘It will never be over. Not while you support the Greeks.’

  ‘Is the Bishop of Alba aware of this?’

  �
��Not just the bishop. This time a letter has been sent directly to the Pope. The cardinals, with Cardinal Cesarini at their head, have requested that the troubles of Wallachia, as they call them, be taken in hand. You should know that you are treading on thin ice. The Cardinal’s opinion of you has never been good, and if I give you my support, which I have already tried to do, I fear that they will…’

  ‘Expel you from office?’

  Popescu inclined his head.

  ‘I see. Well, it is too late for precautions. My sons are beyond my reach. Unless I obtain their release, there is nothing I can do to protect them.’

  Popescu pressed his shoulder. ‘It is I who am sorry, my friend. You are standing in a trap. How do you propose to get out of it?’

  ‘Fight my way out. Mircea is taking all I have to defend the fort at Varna.’

  ‘But Cardinal Cesarini will be at Varna. It is his diocese.’

  ‘I know it is.’

  ‘If he questions you about how you are dealing with these accusations of strigoism, be careful how you answer him.’

  ‘I will be prudent.’

  ‘And if you lose the fort?’

  ‘We won’t.’

  He stood up. By taking the battle to Varna, the tenuous peace treaty between the Turks and Western Christendom would be broken before the ink had dried, but it was agreements with Murad that had cost him his sons in the first place. In any case, he had no choice; he had given his promise to John Palaiologos. He could not go back on that.

  Chapter 35

  Halil Pasha sat at his habitual table in the dining hall, his eyes fixed on Gurani. At Egrigoz the custom was to eat early, earlier than at the Palace of Edirne, where the Sultan always ate late into the night. Halil Pasha would have preferred to take his meals later, but Egrigoz had its own rigid rhythm, and there was no changing it. None of which seemed to bother Ahmed Gurani, who was looking especially pleased with himself this evening. That in itself was unusual, since nothing pleased Gurani – not hunting, not conversation, not even women. Not that there were many of those out here, apart from the country women the guards brought in sometimes. He wished he could have retired to his quarters as Mehmet did. The day had been difficult. The double measure of Mehmet Celebi and Vlad Dracula had taken another toll on his nerves. He wondered whether Vlad Dracula would emerge from his tower to eat, but he doubted that, considering the condition in which he had left him to rest. If things did not improve by morning, perhaps he would have to call in a physician. There was one down in the village; he wasn’t much, but better him than no physician at all. It could be that a batch of leeches would do the trick.