—
Ion lay staring at the woven beauty of an orchid in the Izmerian carpet. They’d cut the thongs from his thumbs so he had not lost the use of them. Still, he could not feel them, only the new bonds that yoked his wrists to his ankles behind him.
It was quiet in the Sultan’s tent. The men who had bought him from the Tartars did not think he spoke Turkish, or did not care, for they talked openly about how their master was out hawking, not so much for the sport as for his pot. Kaziklu Bey may have devastated the earth and water of Wallachia before the advancing enemy, leaving little for the cooking pots—including the Sultan’s—but not even the Devil’s Son could lay waste to the air, and Mehmet was setting all his sakers against grouse and pigeon.
Maybe Ion slept, maybe he didn’t, but he was looking at the orchid again and acclamation was growing steadily louder. Then there was horse harness jingling, laughter at the entrance, swiftly cut off, and he was surrounded by slippers, the cuffs of the shalvari above them covered in road dust. He closed his eyes.
“Do you know him, my heart?”
The sound of Mehmet’s voice was not one Ion would ever have forgotten, strangely high for such a big man, strangely gentle for such a cruel one. But Radu’s voice had gone from boy to man since last they met.
“His name is Ion Tremblac,” Radu said, “and he is the Impaler’s right hand.”
“He needs a whole one now, since you took one of his fingers,” Mehmet laughed. “That he has lost this, too…” He bent to study. “You know, I remember this one. He studied at the enderun kolej. He rode with you at jereed.”
“Just so, beloved.”
“Wait!” Mehmet knelt, pushed the hank of sweaty hair away from Ion’s forehead. “I thought he was the same! See how he still bears my tugra?” He let the hair fall again over the branding, stood, wiping his hand on his shalvari. “So what makes he here?”
Ion craned up to meet the Sultan’s gaze. “I come to offer myself to Dracula…” He faltered. “…To Radu Dracula. Will you free me so that I may kneel before him?”
A surprised grunt from Radu. Mehmet smiled. “My great-grandfather, Murad the First, may his memory always be blessed, was killed by a Serbian in his tent after the first battle of Kossovo. I am sure there are Wallachians who would do the same. Still, you were brought in by Tartars who would have stripped you of everything pointed.” He looked up. “Cut his leg bands.”
He was obeyed. After several attempts, Ion managed to roll up onto his knees. Mehmet was now sitting on an ornate purple couch. Radu stood beside it. With eyes lowered, Ion began.
“I offer you my everything, Prince Radu. I will guide your army through the marshes the Impaler has created in your path. I will show you the pits that have been dug for your horses to fall into. I will take you past all the poisoned wells, to the hidden ones where the water is sweet. I will bring you to the gates of Targoviste. He does not plan to defend it, nor the Princely Court within. Neither is built for a siege. But if they are even closed against you I will throw them open and lead you to the cellar where he has hidden the throne of your fathers so you can be crowned upon it.”
Radu regarded him for a long moment before he spoke. “And why will you do all this, Ion Tremblac? You, who have stood beside him while he committed the worst sins—”
“Who committed them at his side, joyfully.”
“Then why? Why now? Is it because he is beaten?”
Ion shook his head. “He is not. And if he were, I would have stood beside him as ever, guarded his back as ever, taken any death meant for him on myself.”
“Well now,” said Radu, coming forward, bending, “what ever could my brother have done to forfeit such loyalty?”
Finally, Ion raised his own eyes, looked into the ones before him.
“He has murdered the woman I love.”
—
The murdered woman groaned.
A face loomed over her, one from her nightmares. Bald, soundless, he clicked in his throat and was replaced by another horror—the Roma woman with the colorful scarf who had tended her when she had lost Vlad’s first child. She lifted Ilona by the neck, raised a bottle to her lips. The liquid spilled, as the carriage lurched over a pothole. Some went down her throat. She groaned and the gypsy, thinking she cried from pain, made her swallow more of the lulling liquid before laying her carefully down.
Yet it was not the pain, reduced to dullness by the elixir, that made her groan. Nor the bleeding, which had stopped not long after the cutting was over, for he had not scored the cross too deeply anywhere in her flesh.
No, her sorrow came from memory—of a teardrop and a word.
“Goodbye,” he had said, just before the teardrop fell, before the last thrust of his stiletto.
She moaned again. Through wet eyes she saw the mute, Stoica, tap the gypsy’s shoulder, appealing with his hands; saw the shrug in response. All they could do they had done. Dressed her wounds, spirited her from the city of death towards the unknown.
Her lover was gone. He had said goodbye, in a tear, in a word, in blood. And she wept now, not from pain, but because she knew she would never see him again.
They had seen the shape of the cross from the ridge. Its perimeter had been marked by torches spaced every dozen paces. But midnight darkness shrouded the rest until they were close to it.
The akinci scouts had reported back, told of a forest of the dead before the gates, a deserted city beyond them, its gates swinging wide. But since, in such situations, they tended to speak in the language of myth, of demons and ghosts, they were hard to understand. Veteran officers of the household had ridden down and returned, white, trembling, struggling to distinguish facts from horror. Impatient as ever, Mehmet had waved away their mutterings, spurred his horse forward, Ion and Radu at his side, solak archers surrounding them. Beyond the spill of torchlight, the advanced guard of the Sultan’s army, five thousand of his fiercest warriors surrounded the crucifix five rows deep. They faced outward, weapons drawn. Ever since the night attack, the shock of an enemy so close with a blade, Mehmet had found sleep hard, and surrounded himself with men who rarely slept themselves.
The ranks parted, just enough to admit the three of them, and one archer each side. They entered at the bottom of the cross. Its sides were made up of nothing but the dead, in three ranks. Most were impaled through the front and were now bent over, arms and legs hanging. Occasionally, for variety, someone had been pierced through the back, a reverse dangling of limbs.
The torches had been placed within the cross, so torchlight could reflect in dead eyes…those who still had them. Only the ravens moved and they did so slowly, bloated from the gorge. A few cawed as the horsemen passed, their protests as listless as their movements.
It was mainly Turks who hung there, and both Mehmet and Radu gave out several groans of recognition. But Wallachians hung there, too; traitors, thieves, the luckless, some women among the men.
After initial glances left and right, Mehmet kept his gaze fixed forward, to the middle of the cross and the greater illumination there. Ion looked, counted, gave up counting. If the press was as thick upon each side then at least five thousand had been impaled upon the Field of the Ravens.
The press was less thick at the center of the cross. It consisted of just three stakes, the middle one set at the uppermost. Ion recognized the man on the right as the boyar, the deserter, Gales. To his left, he saw the frayed finery of a Greek robe. Finally, he looked at the last stake, its occupant. Like those beside him, he had been impaled in the traditional way.
The chief falconer’s eyes were open, unpecked. They did not have the glazed look of the dead but seemed to be staring at what protruded from his mouth. Yet unlike the men beside him, it was not the familiar, blunted, bloodied piece of wood but a hand, five fingers stiff with blood, that jutted out there. As if someone had reached all the way through the Turk’s body and pushed out his guts.
Ion turned to the Sultan. He knew him to be a man us
ed to cruelty, who had killed, often with his own hands. Yet now Ion saw something working within Mehmet’s usually calm face. And his voice, when it came, was as harsh as any raven’s.
“Hamza pasha,” Mehmet cried.
At the cry, the body twitched. All looked up, saw the slew of clotted blood that cascaded down the stake. Saw eyes that had been staring straight ahead, swivel down. No sound could come from that throat. None was needed.
“No!” Mehmet shrieked, spooking his horse, who danced towards the three stakes until the Sultan jerked the reins back. “No! I cannot…I will not…” He turned till he was facing Radu. “This is not just a blasphemy against your God,” he screamed. “This is a blasphemy against humanity. I cannot…will not…I will return to my palace, my sarayi, my gardens…” He was raging now. “…And if you want this terrible place so much, you can take it.”
“Beloved—”
“No!” Jabbing his heels into his horse’s flank, charging down the avenue of the dead, Mehmet was gone.
His archers followed, leaving the two Wallachians. They looked after Mehmet, then back at each other. Anywhere but up. Neither spoke. Finally, all Ion could do was raise a hand and gesture past the last three stakes, to the gates of Targoviste beyond them, gaping wide.
As they rode from the flesh crucifix towards them, a raven screamed.
– FORTY-ONE –
Last Stand
“Does Corvinus come?”
It was the question he had first asked in June on the banks of the Danube as he watched the huge Turkish army afloat and seeking a landing place. He had asked it again many times as he retreated across his country, slowing the enemy any way he could—with fire, plague, starvation, thirst, gunpowder, arrows and blades. With terror. The Turk had paid for every mile of scorched Wallachian soil, and each mile held was ten more that the Hungarian army could gain, marching to the succor of their fellow crusaders.
Now Vlad asked it again, at the end of August, in the main hall of his fortress, atop the mountain called Poenari, on the far side of his realm. From the castle he could look back at his land down the valley of the River Arges. He could also see, to the north, the Fagaras mountains. Beyond them lay another province—Transylvania, land of his birth.
Vlad looked down the long table, at the twenty men who sat at it, the debris of a simple meal before them. When he’d first asked the question he’d commanded twenty thousand men. Now he had these twenty, some of whom still wore a last few pieces of black armor. These, and thirty more soldiers above patrolling the walls, were all that remained. He’d built Poenari Castle so it could be held by fifty men. Now he was going to prove it.
If Corvinus was coming.
Every face Vlad studied was a mirror for his own. If he had scarcely slept in months, his vitesji had not slept much more. It showed in eyes sunk into holes, in flesh that was gray beneath the burn of a still-fierce summer sun. Yet he knew they would go on fighting for him, as long as he could give them a little hope. It was why he asked the question aloud that he usually only asked himself. It was not advice he sought. It was not truly a question any more. But these men, these last few at the extremity of their country and their strength, had to be roused for a last stand. Had to be asked to believe one last time.
He had built Poenari to be held by fifty men. But they had to fight.
The question, which was not one, hung there like smoke from the cooking fire. Now Vlad leaned down, resting his fists on the table. “He does. He must. He raised the banner of crusade as we did, and would be dishonored if he folded it again without striking blows. My last report placed the King at Szeged three weeks ago. Still in his own realm, yes. But my messengers would have told him of our peril. If he has acted on their word, an advance of horse could be through Transylvania and approaching the Fagaras now. He could be here within the week.”
Silence for a moment. Then a question came. “And will he, Voivode?”
Vlad was staring now at the table-top, as if through it down into the depths of the mountain. Another silence came, grew. Men began to shift in their seats, to look at each other. They had all seen their prince stare like this, for minutes at a time. Sometimes more.
“Voivode?”
“Yes, Ion?”
The big, dark man looked around uneasily. “It is Ilie, my prince. Ion’s…gone.”
Vlad’s eyes focused on the man before him. “Yes, Ilie. Corvinus will come.”
—
“Here’s to the Crow, Corvinus,” Turcul bellowed, “and his clipped wings.”
A cheer, a dozen hoisted goblets. Ion drank with the rest, laughed with the rest, carefully.
“Where was he, Voivode, at your last report?” Turcul resumed.
All looked to Radu, Prince of Wallachia, who sat at the head of the table. He smiled. “He squats on the border of Hungary yet, jupan. His side of it.”
“So if he ever intended to fight, he’s left it too late?”
“He never intended it,” Ion said, and all men stared. “He will use the Pope’s gold, not for crusade, but to buy back the crown of St. Stephen from the Emperor and secure himself upon the throne of Hungary.”
“So what will he do now, Ion Tremblac?” Radu asked.
“He will cross into Transylvania. It is his fiefdom and he will reinforce it in case we decide to push north. If we do not, he will go home to Buda and tell of how Vlad failed both him and God.”
Radu leaned forward. “How do you know he will do that?”
“Wouldn’t you, my prince? Isn’t that what all men do when a cause is lost? Distance themselves from the loser?”
“As you have?” Radu smiled as Ion colored, before going on. “And what will the Crow do then, do you think?”
“Make peace with the victor. With you, Voivode. Just as soon as you return the army the Sultan lent you to conquer your country.”
Radu frowned. “My army is Wallachian, too, Spatar.”
Ion nodded, stayed silent.
Another man spoke—Mihailoglu Ali Bey, the Turkish commander. “And Mehmet Fatih, blessed be the name of the Conqueror, only keeps us here to do God’s work. To rid our brothers’ suffering land of the beast.”
Turcul banged his goblet upon the table. “And what will we do if we take that beast alive?” he said, his eyes afire.
“His head must go to the Sultan,” said the Turk.
“Of course,” replied the jupan, grinning, “but it does not have to be separated from the body immediately.”
“That must go on a stake!” yelled another boyar.
There was universal assent to this, with further refinements added, suggestions shouted out. As each was expanded upon, Ion studied the face of the other Dracula. Its beauty revealed nothing. Radu listened to every mutilation to be visited upon his brother’s living body or ravaged corpse, and he didn’t even blink.
At last, he ended the discussion with a raised hand. “It still remains for us to capture him,” Radu said, “And it is now time to reveal how we will begin to do that, even on the morrow.”
“Surely our allies will just run at the walls and build a bridge with their bodies, as they did at Constantinople,” Turcul guffawed. “Do they not all seek a martyr’s death?”
“Yes,” said Mihailoglu Ali Bey, rising, “but not a fool’s one.” He reached across the table, picked up Turcul’s cup and tipped the contents onto the table, splashing his doublet. “And you have drunk too much if you think you can mock us and our faith.”
Turcul went white, gaped, looking up the table at Radu. “My prince, I…I object…”
“Be quiet, Turcul, before you confirm the Bey’s opinion of you.” As the jupan sank back, Radu continued. “And there is no need for martyrdom when we have betrayal.” He glanced at Ion, who looked away. “When my brother chose Poenari, he chose well, built well. The slopes are too steep, the walls too high to take by simple storm. But there is one weakness, knowledge he shared with one man. Tell us, Ion Tremblac, what that weakness is.”
/>
This was part of the punishment for his betrayal—a public acknowledgement of it. Ion accepted it, spoke. “There is only one hilltop adjacent to Poenari that might command it. There is but one path up to it, its entrance concealed by thorn bushes. The path is so steep that only goats ascend there; so thickly wooded that it would take an army to widen it into a trail.” He sighed. “But where a goat can go, a man can follow. And if enough men go there, and you don’t mind losing a few, they can drag cannon. If an army cuts a path first.”
And then, as if by command, there came the distinct sound of a single axe biting into wood. Another came, then another, until it was clear that there was an army out there, wielding axes.
“We are working by torchlight, burning some trees down, hewing others,” Radu said. “We will have cleared a trail by dawn, and a field of fire by noon. The bombardment will begin then. The walls are tall and thick, but they are, after all, just brick over spill. Only the donjon is granite, and once the outer walls are down, well…”
He broke off, smiling. It was Mihailoglu Ali Bey who finished for him. “With so much firewood chopped, we will pile it around the donjon walls and roast the Impaler alive.” The Turk stood, lifting his goblet. “By this time tomorrow night we will be looking at his charred body or hoisting him onto a stake. Perhaps both.”
Men rose, goblets in hand, cheering. Ion was one of them, though he could not find a voice, so thick was his throat. He looked across, at Radu, smiling broadly now. Raising his cup, Ion toasted him, even smiled before closing his eyes.
The cheers, the laughter, the toasts went on, the men moving away from the table, bunching into a crowd. Ion cheered with them, laughed. But something was working in his stomach, beyond the surfeit of wine he’d drunk to convince himself that he was where he should be, doing what was right, beside the right Dracula. When he was sure no one in the drunken, boisterous crowd would notice, he slipped from the tent.