He spoke quickly, need driving him. And it was a simple enough plan. His father had once told him that, on the battlefield with all its infinite complications, simplicity was usually best. He could only hope the same applied on the field of jereed.
“They are mounting,” Ion said.
“And we already are,” replied Vlad. “Let’s seize the ground.” And, with a touch of heels on Kalafat’s flanks, Vlad led his countrymen forward.
Mehmet rose in his stirrups. “Do you feel, Dragon’s son?” he called, clutching himself at the groin. “Trust me, everything is so much better without the excess flap.”
“I know you are skilled at cutting things off, Mehmet. I have seen the proof of that.” Vlad threw the Turkish prince’s jereed up in the air and the leather cap flipped back. “But I don’t think I will give you that chance.”
The jereed dropped into his hand. In one motion he leaned back and threw. Mehmet ducked, letting out a squeal of rage. “You are not allowed to hit us behind the post,” he yelled.
“And I didn’t,” said Vlad, wheeling Kalafat away. Outrage held Mehmet still, allowing the three Wallachians to get halfway down the field before the Turks burst forward.
“Here,” said Ion, handing him another javelin, looking back. “Now?”
“Wait…now!”
Radu cried, “Yah,” kicked his heels, swung his horse in an arc to the left. A Turk followed, hurled, missed, turned towards his line. Radu surged in pursuit.
Everyone was riding flat out. Mehmet and Abdullah were thirty paces away, a long throw but one a good jereed player could make. But Vlad was counting on Mehmet’s fury, his need for the certain kill. So he crouched low over Kalafat’s neck and rode stirrup to stirrup with Ion, his friend’s tall body a barrier between the enemy and himself.
They were being forced west, towards the horse lines. They could ride out of bounds there, to their shame. Or…
“Now,” Vlad shouted, and Ion swung his mount’s head hard left, back into the pursuit, Vlad paralleling him, still sheltered. Then, at twenty paces and closing, Vlad swung slightly clear and stood tall.
The sudden closed gap, the sudden target; both Turks leaned back. The slave threw first, leaning out to the side, his javelin flying low and hard and taking Ion in the side. Vlad heard the thump, his friend’s harsh cry. But his eyes were on Mehmet, all the way back in his saddle, hurtling forward.
Everything slowed, sound receded, as if the spectators were now whispering their cheers, the horses holding their grunts, the men their cries of pain or triumph. All Vlad could hear clearly was the coming of Mehmet’s jereed, the wind whistling in the leather pad that flipped back and forth on the tip. Vlad let his own javelin slip from his fingers…
Then all was moving fast again. The weapon arriving at his head, his sudden stoop, his arm shooting up to pluck the jereed from the empty space above him. It was a move many strived for and few achieved, drawing cheers, even from Mehmet’s team. Not from the prince himself, as he was so engaged in swinging his horse’s head away from Vlad, turning it back to his own end of the field and the safety of his line.
But he was turning. Vlad was still moving straight forward, closer, closer, till he was three horse lengths away; not so close that it would be thought unbecoming. Close enough not to miss.
A twitch on the reins moved Kalafat’s head to the right. Then, using the full momentum of the charging horse and his own body bent back, he snapped suddenly forward and, just before the Turk crossed to safety, hurled his jereed straight into the center of Mehmet’s spine.
Vlad was pleased to hear wood snap, so he must have hurled it hard enough. Mehmet must have thought so, too, because he gave a great cry and appeared to fly out of the saddle, to roll over and over in the dirt. Looking back, Vlad was relieved to see the body moving—he did not think it was either of their destinies for Mehmet to die, by a hostage’s hand, this day. But he was even more relieved, as he rode towards the horse lines, to reach down and squeeze himself at the groin.
“Still there,” he murmured. And smiled.
– FIVE –
The Concubine
Most of the crowd were rushing forward to stare at that rarest of sights—a fallen prince. Only a few delayed them, hands reaching to clasp their hands, slap their backs. Christian slaves mostly, temporarily freed by this rare triumph. But Ion pushed through, knowing they must not linger. Soon they were passing those who had been too far back to see, who did not know them.
They mounted stairs to the raised walkway above the equestrian grounds, part battlement to defend the inner city, part passageway above the crowded streets. There were stalls up there, and they settled into the shadows of a juice-seller’s awning, half-hidden by a latticed palanquin that had been abandoned there, its bearers no doubt among the crowd that chattered its wonder and speculation as it looked down upon the field. Sipping pomegranate juice, they looked, too, watched Mehmet being rolled onto his back, then lifted slowly to his feet. He stayed bent over, hands on knees, talking continuously. His men were looking around—Vlad knew who for—shrugging, stooping to report. They saw him strike at one, then draw his hand back slowly in obvious pain.
“It is his slaves I feel sorry for,” said Ion. “There will be some beating at his saray tonight.”
“And fucking,” said Radu excitedly. “The men he’ll beat, the women he’ll fuck. Though it could be the other way around.” He flushed suddenly, remembering how he was nearly the principal in a wager.
“All that fucking!” groaned Ion. “They say he already has five concubines. And he’s only sixteen, like us!” He gave out a moan. “While I can’t even get Brown-Browed Aisha of the tavern to roll over for me once.”
Vlad smiled. “At least you are discriminating, Ion. Mehmet doesn’t need men or women. He’d fuck a wooden post if it had stood long enough in the sun.”
The laugh—deep, rich, from the belly—startled them. Not because it came from the palanquin they’d assumed was empty. Not because it came from a woman. They were startled because they’d been speaking in their native tongue, the “limba Romana” of Wallachia, their language of secrets, and they’d never met anyone in Edirne who spoke it. Until now.
The palanquin was a latticed closet on poles, a seat within, its sides depicting scenes from life—hunting, hawking, feasting. Peering closer now, Vlad could see what he’d missed before—a person within. He looked beyond, to the pole-bearers, one trying to urge the others back to their duties. But they resisted, still drawn to the scene below.
“Who are you?” he whispered, leaning close.
Silence, for an age. Finally, a low, unexpected reply in their tongue. “I am a concubine.”
“Whose?” said Vlad.
Again, the reply was long in coming. “The man who the crowd tells me now rolls disgraced in the dirt.”
“Mehmet?”
“Yes. I am his new godze. Or will be tomorrow night. You know this word?”
“Chosen girl.”
“Yes.”
Ion had been growing more alarmed as the whispered conversation progressed. “Come away,” he said, gripping an arm. “Do you know the whipping you’ll get if you are caught talking to a concubine. Especially Mehmet’s. Come away now before—”
Vlad pulled his arm free, leaned closer to the lattice-work. “You speak our tongue. Where are you from?”
“A village near Curtea de Arges. It is—”
“I know where it is,” said Vlad. “My family has lands nearby.”
“And you are?”
“Dracula,” Vlad whispered. “Vlad—”
Her gasp interrupted him. “The Dragon’s son!”
“Yes.”
A huge shout came from the horse grounds. More people pressed to the edge of the walkway, blocking the view. “Radu, go and see what is happening.”
Reluctantly, he rose. “Yes, brother.”
Vlad turned back to the palanquin. “What is your name?”
“My slave
name is Lama.”
“‘Darkness of Lips,’” whispered Ion.
“Yes. But I was christened Ilona.”
“Ilona,” repeated Vlad. “It is Hungarian. It means ‘Star.’”
“You speak the tongue?”
“Enough.”
“My father was Hungarian. My mother, Wallachian.”
“And you were taken?”
“In a Turkish raid. I was ten. Sold to a merchant to clean his house. Then the merchant’s wife thought I was pretty…too pretty…and I was sold to a former concubine of the old Sultan. She raised me, taught me…to dance, to sing, to please with poetry and the lute.” Her voice came more softly, a husk to it. “And a hundred other ways to delight a man.”
Despite his unease, Ion shifted, drew a little closer.
“Have you…have you known many men?” Vlad asked.
There was a trace of sadness in the question. It brought a second laugh. “None, lord—though you’d be surprised at the toys to be found on the Street of Potters!” The laughter faded. “And you do not give away what men will pay extra for. My owner will tell you that. So I am yet a virgin. Till tomorrow night at Mehmet’s sarayi.”
Sadness had not replaced the laughter. Nothing had. And that made Vlad sad. “Do you want this?”
“Want?” came the echo. “I do not…want. I exist for other people’s wants. That is my kismet. I must accept it.”
“Kismet?” said Vlad. He looked around at the shifting, excited crowd, bent still nearer, until his lips were almost touching the lattice. “What if you had a different one? What if you were given a choice?”
An irritated sniff. “I’ve never had a choice. How could one come now?”
“Because I could offer you one.”
Beside him, Ion threw himself back. For a few moments, he’d been lost in the girl’s voice, in his imagining of the lips she was named for. But then he realized that Vlad was moving beyond even the danger of conversation. Far beyond! He grabbed an arm again. “No!” This time Vlad did not shrug him off. He just turned and looked at him. Wordless, Ion dropped his hand away.
Her voice came faintly, as Vlad looked back. “What is this choice you offer me?”
He smiled. “It is that one between everyone’s decision for you and your own.”
Silence again in the palanquin, while around them, the crowd’s murmur began to build. “Mehmet! Mehmet!” came the cry, closer and closer. Men were backing up the stairs. The prince and his retinue had to be climbing towards them. Radu, returning, confirmed it with a raised thumb.
“I have a friend here,” Vlad continued, low-voiced, “a merchant from our land. His barge stands at the docks. He hates the Turks and loves silver. Silver my father will give him if he gets you home.”
“Home?” she asked, as if the word were unknown to her. Then she continued in a stronger voice, touched with anger, “But if we speak of choice, this is still yours, isn’t it? You will choose to do it or not?”
Both pairs of lips were pressed to the lattice now. Only thin wood separated them. “I have already chosen,” Vlad whispered. “It’s your turn.”
“What’s he doing now?” Radu asked, nervously.
Ion just shook his head.
The surging crowd burst onto the parapet. Many threw themselves onto the ground as Mehmet crested it. His face was distorted by pain. Abdullah supported him on his right side. With his left hand he used a bastinado on those who pressed closest. “Dogs!” he cried. “Jackals.”
The crowd passed along the walkway; blows, curses and prayers receded. The palanquin’s bare chested pole-bearers were approaching. Vlad had stepped into the awning’s shadows as Mehmet passed. Now he came forward again. “Choose,” he said.
The servants bent to their poles. Their leader shoved his stick into Vlad’s chest. He just leaned into it as the palanquin was lifted, straining for words. Then, just as the men lifted, he heard them.
“Come for me.”
And she was gone. They watched the litter’s slow progress through the still-thick crowd. When Vlad took a step after it, Ion caught his sleeve. “You cannot…” he said.
Vlad looked at his friend, his green eyes expressionless. “Why?”
“To beat Mehmet at jereed is one thing. All saw it was fair. To kidnap his concubine…” The eyes did not change. “Vlad, this is the man who so loves his garden that when one of his prize cucumbers disappeared, he personally slit open the stomachs of seven gardeners to find it.”
“And did find it, I am told. So?”
“So? So he is not a man to have as an enemy!”
“He is already that. Nothing I can do will make him more or less so. And do you know?” He turned to stare, where men were still following, crying the name of Mehmet. “I truly believe that one day, one of us will be the death of the other.” He reached back, lifted the beaker of pomegranate juice, drained it. The red liquid glimmered, staining his teeth in the smile that came. “But forget all that, my friend, because…didn’t you hear her laugh?”
Before Ion could reply, Vlad had laid the cup down. “Come on,” he said, “we must follow. We have to know where she lives if we are going to steal her.”
Vlad set off. For a moment, Ion and Radu did not move, just looked at each other. “We?” they each said, faintly.
– SIX –
The Chosen Girl
It was not all unpleasant, the preparation for her deflowering.
True, they had woken her early, just as the muezzin was calling the most faithful to first prayers. Ilona would have slept through that, easily, as she always did. But not this day.
The air was chill when they fetched her from the bed she shared with Afaf, who just grunted and fell back asleep. A cloak covered her but she was not allowed to dress for they needed to consider every part of her. She was led to the stone slab at the entrance to the house’s small hamam, mounted it. The cloak was pulled away and she stood there and tried not to shiver, her eyes downcast, her expression bland, her hands open-palmed to the side, her weight on her right foot which was turned out so all of her was exposed. The servants moved around, pinching here, prodding there. They were trying to be calm—a girl was often sent out, to be the concubine of some victorious general or provincial governor. Sometimes, rarely, a wife to a state official. But today was different and Ilona could sense the excitement. Within minutes, even the most reticent of servants was chattering.
Today, a girl was being sent to the Sultan.
Or was he the Sultan? Ilona frowned, then relaxed at a snapped command. He had been two months before. And now it was said he wasn’t but would be again, with Allah’s grace. It confused her but it didn’t truly matter. All that did was that he had picked her for some reason, some facet of herself she did not understand. Twenty girls had been paraded before the screen in Mehmet’s saray. She had not seen him, of course, but he had seen her. Now she was godze, the chosen girl.
Hence the excitement as the servants walked round her, and the attention to her every detail. She had been told what this could mean—there may have been five concubines already in Mehmet’s saray but none had yet borne him a son. If she pleased him enough, and thus drew him often enough to her divan so that he got her with child—with male child…well! Concubines who bore sons often became wives. Wives were given freedom and power.
Freedom. She kept the sigh within. What was that?
She looked through her lowered lashes as the kahya kadin, Hibah herself, came in. Mistress of the house on the Street of Nectar, she rarely bothered with the little details. But now the woman stopped, folded her arms over her enormous stomachs, tipped her head. Then she clapped two fat hands together, her gold bracelets jangling. “Begin!” she called. “Bathe her. Bring her.”
It was not all unpleasant, the life of a slave. In the first ten years of her life, when they called her free, she had never had a bath. In the house on Rahiq Street, she had one daily and loved it: the delicious heat of one plunge, the exhilarating shock
of another; the steam that enveloped her and opened every pore; the chilled water they rinsed her with before they wrapped her in softest, warmed sheets. Today they took even more time and care. Rubbed longer with the kese mitts, the scented soaps; scraped every part of her, opened and explored every crevice. Her thick, hazel hair was washed in lavender water and coiled down her back. Then she lay on a divan while small women with strong hands rubbed and stroked and pressed to the point of pain, and back, slowly, to delicacy. Finally, the oils were applied. It had been some concern, the scent whose trace must linger into the night. And then a janissary of Hibah’s acquaintance had told her that he’d wrestled with Mehmet the week before and the youth had smelled of ginger and sandalwood, a combination that was straight-forward, masculine. Hibah had gambled that what pleased in one form of wrestling would please in another and ordered a jar from the Sultan’s own perfumers.
Eventually, Ilona sat in another chair, still naked but not cold, for the room was heated by braziers and the press of women, both those who tended and those who urged the tenders on. These lounged on divans, eating sweetmeats and drinking apple tea, though Ilona was only allowed a sparrow’s share of each. Her hair was rubbed dry, then managed into ringlets. Apparently, Mehmet’s current favorite, Abdulraschid, wore his hair just so. And there was much debate as to which couplet from which poet would be inked onto the skin in a swirl that ran from the nape of her neck, over the swell of breast and belly, and down to climax on the pubis, the redness there from the caustic creams that had removed all hair two days before having finally faded. The woman calligrapher stood awaiting the decision patiently. When they settled on Jalaluddin—something about flight, Ilona did not understand Persian—she tried not to laugh as the brush danced across her skin.
It took the whole day, the preparation for her deflowering. A day of laughter and music, for the ney was played throughout, the reed pipe’s notes rising now in joy, now with a wistful air. At one point she was commanded to dance. Just enough to remind that she was one of the best that they had ever had. Not enough to raise a sweat.