“Hamza!” The name came on another spasm. Mehmet clutched at his stomach, something roiling beneath his fingers. “You killed him.”
“Yes. I loved him and I killed him. You loved my brother Radu and you killed him.”
“No! I didn’t. I…” Suddenly, Mehmet doubled over, crying with pain. Then, mastering himself, he reached out, grabbed Dracula’s hand, the three-fingered hand that held the token, pulled him closer, till their faces almost touched. The prince could smell the stink of the Sultan’s guts, see the torment in the eyes. “There is a price for the bird, Dragon’s son. Though you will not think so, for you have waited your whole life to pay this one. Kill me,” he hissed. “Kill me!”
Dracula stared into those eyes. He had stared into so many over the years, of those about to die. Atop a stake. Under a blade. He could usually tell how long a man had to live. And he could see that Mehmet had…just a little time yet.
“It is the other thing I came to do, Mehmet. To take your life, if I could. To die myself, happily, in that moment. And you are right, I have dreamed of doing that almost from the day we met. I nearly did take it, once before, the day I lost this.” He broke the Sultan’s grip, lifted his maimed hand, stood straight. “And yet, seeing you again…” He smiled. “I think I will only take what you owe me.”
It was hard to make out what Mehmet was screaming when his doctors and servants and officers rushed in. It was all confused, an old dead enemy’s name yelled out again and again. Hekim Yakub put that down to the opium. Still, he gave him some more, though he could see that it was starting to have less and less effect. If he doubled the dose he could kill Mehmet. It would be a mercy. But you didn’t kill a Sultan. Not if you hoped to live yourself.
It was a little while before the vizier remembered the peasant. But he was not hiding in the pavilion, and had not passed the guards at the rear. A closer search revealed a small slit in the canvas close to the ground on the western side. The vizier was going to order a search of the camp but then remembered that no one was to leave the Sultan’s pavilion; no one who knew Mehmet was dying. They would have to wait till he did.
As for the rip, someone would be found to sew it up, eventually. There was no shortage of men who practiced that trade, against the day of disaster.
—
Waiting for Dracula.
It seemed to Ion he had spent half his life doing that. Never expecting to see him again. Surprised when he did.
He did not expect to see him now. His prince had not asked him to come with him, on this last foray against the Turk. Ion had insisted. With his dungeon eyesight still poor, and his legs still weak, there was little he could do to ward his prince’s back. But he could bear witness.
The shadows were reaching ever further down the valley, from the rock he sheltered beneath. Sunset was when he said he would return. If I am not here by then, all is decided. Mehmet lives, perhaps we both are dead. “I surely will be,” he’d said. “Tell Ilona…” He’d smiled. “…That I died a lion not an ass.”
Ion squinted down the valley. But he could see little. His sight was better closer to. The town of Gebze was a shadow to the left. The Turkish war camp was a far larger one to the right. He rubbed his eyes…
And then one of the horses snorted in warning. He picked up his bow. Any akinci scout who had found him would be a blur. But he wouldn’t know that. “Who’s there?” he called.
“It is I,” said Dracula, stepping into the lee of the rock.
Ion lowered his bow. “You are back,” was all he could think to say.
“Yes,” said Dracula, squatting down.
“And Mehmet?”
“Mehmet lives.”
“Ah.” It had always been a mad dream. No one got close to a Sultan unless ordered before him, for punishment, for pleasure, to obey. He peered. This close he could see his prince’s face. The green-red eyes were expressionless. Ion supposed that in the long walk back from the camp he had buried his disappointment.
Then he noticed the shadow on Dracula’s arm.
“What’s that?” he exclaimed, though he could see.
“This,” came the reply, “this is Hama.”
“Mehmet’s falcon?”
“No. Mine.”
Ion leaned closer. Saw a dark-brown back, a breast slashed white and tan. The bird was hooded but sensed him, spreading her wings, darting her head, giving out her harsh shriek. “A beauty,” he murmured.
“Yes. Strong. Fierce. But wilful, I am told.” Dracula raised a finger to the hood and the bird jabbed its beak at it, seizing flesh. “I started to work her on the walk back up here. Hooded and re-hooded her. Turned her every way. Gave her a little meat.”
“Well, she is young, I can see.” Ion rose, groaning a little as he did. “So. You have your jereed wager from Mehmet. Stolen?”
“Given freely.”
“Oh.” There was something to learn here. But Ion did not see why it could not be learned before a caravanserai’s fire. The sun had dropped below the lip of the ridge and the cold was already finding his aches. “Shall we go?” he said, taking a step towards the horses.
Dracula did not follow. “Would you not like to see her fly first?” He reached up, removed the bird’s hood. The bird’s head swivelled as she took everything in. The men. The horses. The darkening valley below.
Dracula stepped out from the deeper shadow beneath the rock, undoing the jesses that bound the bird to his three fingers as he did.
Ion followed. “Vlad,” he said softly, “she may not come back.”
“No,” replied Dracula, “she may not.”
And then he flung out his arm.
THE END
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Abuse not the dead, for they have gone on to what they sent before them.
—from the HADITHA, or sayings of the Prophet
This was by far the hardest book I have written. That I am so proud and pleased with the final destination cannot detract from the toughness of the journey.
For a start, I was dealing with not one but two mythical figures. There was the controversial—to say the least!—fifteenth-century Wallachian warlord. And then there was the vampire.
To deal with the blood-sucker first—Bram Stoker’s wonderful gothic chiller does indeed portray a mesmeric vampire called Dracula. But it has been proven, by the brilliant Professor Elizabeth Miller, that Stoker knew very little about the real fifteenth-century Wallachian. In his original plans the villain was to be called “Count Wampyr.” Then Stoker discovered an English traveler’s account of a trip through the Carpathians taken in the 1820s. The traveler briefly mentioned a notorious figure from an earlier century, a man renowned for his barbarity. He also wrote that local slang for the name “Dracula” was “Devil’s son.” Perfect for Stoker’s vision of a good versus evil struggle. He used the name, a region renowned for its gothic folklore, and little else.
But I was not going to write about a vampire. I needed to know about the real Dracula—and once again I encountered a myth, tales of almost unbelievable depravity and horror even for a region of the world well used to both. I had to do an enormous amount of reading, talk to many people. I did not want to “abuse the dead.” Neither did I want to diminish his sins in the manner of “Yes, but after all, Hitler did like small children and German Shepherds.”
For the longest time, it didn’t come. In despair I confessed to one of my advisers, Marin Cordero, whose detailed knowledge of the period humbles me, that I feared humanizing him. “You can’t,” she responded. “He’s already human.”
“I am a man. Nothing human is alien to me,” said the Roman, Terence. Thus, Vlad’s tale may not be “alien,” but it was still a very dark place to spend my time. Being still an actor in my heart, I always approach the characters I write as an actor would—through motivation. What events and relationships shaped their lives and affected their actions? What drove them? I sought for Vlad’s motivations in the murky historical record, tried to piece toge
ther some plausible “justification” for his actions. It was the hardest thing. And then I had an epiphany, about two-thirds into the writing of the first draft—written longhand for the first time ever in an attempt to viscerally connect imagination, heart, and hand—I decided not to judge him. I decided to show what he did and stop worrying why he did it. Essentially, I let him be who he was, whatever that was, to set his actions against his recorded life and in the context of the brutal place and epoch in which he lived. I would let the reader decide.
The novel became easier to write after that decision, through each subsequent draft, as each puzzle-piece slotted into place. I didn’t write the ending till the second draft. I changed it for the subsequent three. Not because I was dithering. I just kept discovering more and more. Surprises kept coming. Shocks.
I was also keen to stick to the historical record…so far as it is known! I’ve stated before that it is in the gap between so-called facts that the historical novelist lives. And there were huge gaps here. Partly because so little was written down, partly because so much that was was propaganda, told in the main by his enemies and conquerors. They had good reason to want to blacken his name. I am not saying that he did not commit horrendous acts against the Turks, the Saxons of Transylvania, and his own people. But when he was eventually defeated it was these enemies who told his story.
Yet propaganda was not the only reason his dark fame spread. Vlad’s defeat came at a time when new technology had just become available. The printing press with movable type had essentially been invented in the 1440s. As with that other great technological leap forward, the Internet, the new technology started producing what it was thought people wanted—Bibles, religious tracts, some manuals. But, as with the Internet in the 20th century, so with the presses in the 15th—what people really want is sex and violence. Dracula’s tale supplied both, spectacularly, and his enemies flooded Europe with the viral videos of the day—pamphlets! And like all great political manipulators, Vlad’s enemies took and “spun” his tale for their own ends.
I, of course, have done the same. Yet I have tried to stick to the historical record so far as it is known. And all the following supposedly happened:
his time as hostage, first as a privileged scholar at the enderun kolej, then in the hell of Tokat
Radu’s cutting of Mehmet
the comet that heralded Vlad’s return
the impaling of the boyars at the Easter Day coup
his brother Mircea’s blinding and burial alive
his cleaning-up of lawless Wallachia and the golden cup placed on the town well
the nailing of the emissary’s head to the table
the night attack on Mehmet
the slashing of a mistress
the impalement of thousands before the gates of Targoviste
the man impaled higher to smell the sweeter air
his wife leaping from the battlements of Poenari Castle
the granting of the sheepfolds to the men of Arefu for spiriting him away
the forged letters of betrayal Vlad was supposed to have written
the killing of the officer in Pest who “invaded” his home, and calling it “suicide”
his supposed beheading in a final battle
To get to these “truths” I have had to sift through many competing agendas. Of course, I have given the tales my own “spin,” my objective being to tell a good story, rather than vilification or propaganda.
I have lost count of the books I have read, the websites I have scoured. But I should mention, specially, four most useful books: Kurt Treptow’s definitive Vlad III—The Life and Times of the Historical Dracula; M. J. Trow’s witty and wide-ranging Vlad the Impaler: In Search of the Real Dracula; the obscure, brilliant, D. C. Phillott’s Observations on Eastern Falconry; and, finally, a well-thumbed copy of Machiavelli’s The Prince, which was written about fifty years after Vlad’s death, but is filled with observations on “realpolitik” and survival the Voivode would have well understood. I pasted quotes on the wall in front of my desk.
But inspiration does not only come from books. My research trip to Romania and Istanbul was vital in this respect. I stayed first in the house of the Tomescus, Gheorghe and Maria, in the village of Arefu, close to the site of Poenari, Dracula’s real castle (forget Bran, it’s Disney-Dracula, and he probably never even went there!). The village is a wonderful place, where people still live much as they have done for centuries—driving the unpaved hilly roads in bullock carts, eating what they raise and grow; which, in April, meant all pickled vegetables and every part of the pig, washed down with home-made tuica, a wicked, plum brandy. And the five hours I spent in almost sole possession of the half-ruined Poenari Castle, fourteen hundred steps up a mountain, gave me the essential setting and atmosphere for my novel.
I went to the gorgeous walled town of Sighisoara, Transylvania, where I drank a beer in the house where Vlad was born. The next day I had Vlad’s Princely Court to myself in Targoviste so that I was able to sit where Vlad sat and channel the scene of the Easter Day coup. And I was determined to try to understand the religious impulses that drove these crusaders. In the village church of Arefu I stood and thought. And in a tiny parish church in Bucharest I listened to the beautiful chanted morning service as I studied the frescoed saints.
However, one of the greatest images came during a conversation with the time-generous, highly knowledgeable Nicolae Paduraru who has run Dracula-related tours since the 1960s. He told me how, just the previous week, the Romanian president had been impeached by parliament. The impeachment had to go to a plebiscite. Supporters were rallying for him in big demonstrations. And, instead of banners, they carried two portraits—his and Dracula’s. For the former Voivode is still regarded as a benchmark of probity, justice, and order. Romanians today long for a time when a gold cup could be placed at the town well and all could drink from it!
Istanbul, glorious Constantinople, is a stunning, sensuous place where you truly feel at the epicenter of the world. It informed all my writings about Vlad’s Turkish enemy, especially Mehmet, and showed me a little about how his life among them must have shaped the young Wallachian. I was fortunate to have as my guide there my great friend Allan Eastman, film director, travel writer, acute observer of, and indulger in, life in all its colors.
I have already mentioned Professor Elizabeth Miller, foremost scholar on all things Dracula. And Marin Cordero, who so generously—and wittily!—shared her superior knowledge of all things Turk and Draculesti and was kind enough to review the manuscript for errors. But there were many others who also helped me greatly. My wife, Aletha, who had to put up with rather more obsession in this book than in any other; more dawn starts, more disturbed nights. To an extent I always take the characters I am living with to bed with me. Not so bad if that’s Jack Absolute. Not great if it’s Dracula! I also must thank Dr. Howard McDiarmid and his son Charles McDiarmid who own and run the lovely Wickaninnish Inn, at Tofino, British Columbia, Canada. They lent me their family cabin near the inn to finish the first draft amidst some very distracting but ultimately inspiring beauty. Thanks also to the woman to whom this book is partly dedicated, Alma Lee, who not only arranged that retreat but has also given me much help and advice over the years and the considerable bonus of her friendship.
A tragedy happened just as I was finishing this novel—my superb agent, Kate Jones, died from cancer. The terrible suddenness was a huge shock for I lost not only my guide and mentor, so responsible for the direction of my career and of this novel in particular, but also a humorous, generous, and lovely friend. Her influence is clear to me on every page and I miss her every day.
Many other people have helped. My Norwegian cousins, who took me to the “Falcon Hut” in Oppland, Norway, and gave me an early idea. Rachel Leyshon, with me since my first novel, advised with her customary insight and wisdom. All at Orion, from management to marketing, sales, publicity and foreign rights have done a tremendous job. As has my Canadian
publisher, Kim McArthur, who was her usual tornado of enthusiasm and skill.
Ultimately, though, this book would not be here without its editor, Jon Wood. Over a rather indulgent lunch two years ago it was Jon who actually came up with the idea of writing about the real Dracula—and then backed his hunch with generous support and penetrating advice. His editorial touch is always light and good-humored and he admirably restrains my tendency toward the Hollywood epic. Unleash hell, indeed!
And as for Dracula himself? I make no judgement. I leave that up to those who heard his last confession…and, of course, to you, the reader.
C.C. Humphreys
Vancouver, Canada
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Dracula and Wallachia:
— Kurt Treptow: Vlad III—The Life and Times of the Historical Dracula.
— M. J. Trow: Vlad the Impaler—In Search of the Real Dracula.
— Elizabeth Miller: Dracula—Sense and Nonsense.
— Radu Florescu and Raymond McNally: Dracula, Prince of Many Faces.
— May Mackintosh: Rumania.
— Constantin Rezachevici: “Vlad Tepes and his Use of Punishments” (Essay).
— The Borgo Post, various issues (Editor: Elizabeth Miller).
— Journal of Dracula Studies, various issues (Editor: Elizabeth Miller).
The Turks:
— Franz Babinger: Mehmet the Conqueror.
— Andrew Wheatcroft: The Ottomans.
— Jason Goodwin: Lords of the Horizons.
— Godfrey Goodwin: The Janissaries.
— David Nicolle: Constantinople 1453.
— John Freely: Inside the Seraglio.
Medieval Times: