And then he was gone, the files following. The gap was narrow between two willows, and the two men hanging there were spun opposite ways by the passing shoulders. When the last soldier had moved through, Ion stepped up, stilled the spinning, hands to naked feet. “Go with God,” he murmured. Then he set about his own tasks.
– THIRTY-ONE –
Troy
To Hamza, the scenery around Guirgui was as dull under the sun as it had been by moonlight. The endless banks of reeds still waved in the Austru, the frigid south-easterly wind. The Danube still moved, sluggish and gray, between them. On the crest of the small hill the willows and poplars were skeletal, even more barren now that their leafless branches could be seen.
At least there was some life now, some movement. On the water, boats set out ceaselessly from the Thracian shore bringing supplies and men. He had seen at least two boatloads of soldiers. Though it was yet early winter, Mehmet was already preparing for war and this frontier fort must be reinforced.
A war that might not take place if Vlad Dracula is part of the other movement, the one on the land, he thought, and wondered at the different ways that made him feel.
“Is that him?”
The voice startled, for the Greek had come on slippered feet up the stone steps to the battlements. Pulling his beard three times—a gesture he was annoyed to find had become a habit—Hamza looked at Thomas Catavolinos for a moment, then back to the party of men beginning their descent from the trees, the twelve horsemen and three carriages, the last a black-draped palanquin. “Perhaps,” he said. “The two wagons could contain the tribute. And the prince sent word he was sick, remember? So he could be in that last carriage.”
“But where are the boys?” Thomas said, leaning forward on one of the crenulations.
“They will follow. Our spies say Prince Dracula has been recruiting in every village.”
Hamza studied the man beside him. He had been about his toilet, for his hair had once more been tamed into red spirals that fell to his shoulders. And the eyes he now turned to Hamza were subtly shaded in crimson.
“You must be so excited, enishte. To be seeing your old lover again.”
Hamza grunted, looked away to the water, to the boats now docked and disgorging their cargo of soldiers. He hated that others knew of his life, especially the man beside him. But he had told the old Sultan, of course, about Dracula’s final taming. Murad had told his son and Mehmet had told the Greek. Since the fall of Constantinople, the Sultan had taken more and more of the conquered noblemen into his inner circle. It was hard these days to find anyone in the Divan who spoke fluent Osmanlican.
“Is it true that this Dracula studied for a time at Tokat?”
Hamza nodded. “He did. Reluctantly.”
“And so did I. Not reluctantly at all.” He clapped his hands delightedly. “I am sure we’ve added some refinements since his time. I shall be pleased to demonstrate them to him. On him.”
He laughed again and Hamza shuddered. He knew the commands of his Sultan must be obeyed without question. He had seen what happened to those who failed Mehmet. But it didn’t mean he had to like his role. And he still was uneasy as to its fulfillment. The Vlad he remembered was far from stupid. He would know how Mehmet still felt about him. And he had surprised them in the past. Radu had told the astonishing tale of the abduction of a concubine in the streets of Edirne.
Perhaps he would surprise them now. Perhaps he would be lying in the black-draped palanquin, fighting the fever that was said to have seized him. And in case he was…Hamza gave a final glance around the courtyard. Men were everywhere, of course, moving about their tasks. But many—his men—were still; watching and waiting. This was particularly true of the main tower of the gatehouse, almost a separate fortress within the larger one. He looked up to its battlements. Every crenel had a soldier in it. Yet Hosnick, his commander, had obviously decided to put even the arrivals to use, for a party of new men was approaching the tower from the direction of the dock.
All was ready. It was up to Dracula now to surprise them or to disappoint. Tugging his beard three times, Hamza was not certain which he would prefer.
He looked to the road. The Wallachian party had passed through the huts clustered around the approach road and were now reforming to cross the narrow bridge that led to the island fortress. Though it was not Vlad, there was something familiar about their tall commander. “Shall we go and greet our guests?” he said.
They descended the stairs, preceded and followed by their ceremonial guard of six halberdiers. They reached the floor of the castle yard, just as the first of the horsemen came through the gate. Hamza did not need to look to see that his men were ready. He could hear the slight creak as scores of arrows were notched and bow-strings pulled back. Then there was a sudden, louder noise, someone dropping armor in the tower above. Startled, he looked up…but there was Hosnick, leaning through a gap of stone, a hand raised.
The party ahead halted. All were dismounting or climbing down from the wagons. Hamza stepped forward. “May Allah, Most Exalted, be praised for your safe arrival,” he said.
The leader of the Wallachians handed his reins to one of his men. Taking off his helmet he turned and spoke. “And may the Most Holy Father bless this reunion of friends.”
Hamza halted, a half dozen paces away. “By the beard! Ion? Ion Tremblac?”
“The same, Hamza pasha. Your most stupid student,” replied Ion.
Both men made the obeisance—head to mouth to heart, hands opening in welcome.
“It is not true, Ion. Sometimes the strongest tree grows from an unpromising sapling. And look at you—a fine Wallachian oak indeed.” Hamza, who did not consider himself small, found himself looking up into Ion’s eyes. He sought Mehmet’s tugra beneath the fringe of long, fair hair, but the brand was hidden. “Forgive me. My fellow ambassador, Yunus Bey.”
The Greek made the same obeisance, then stepped closer. “Before Mehmet Fatih, most glorious, lifted the scales from my eyes and brought me to Allah, most merciful,” he said, “I was called Thomas Catavolinus. And I used to greet my fellow Christians thus.” He held out his hand. “Is it not so?”
“Indeed, sir.” Thomas took the hand, surprised by the strength in the womanly man’s grip. “I am honored.”
“As am I.”
The hands dropped. All three looked at each other for a moment in silence until Hamza spoke. “And my other student? Your prince, Dracula. Is he well?”
“Alas, enishte,” said Ion stepping back, “he is still weakened by the fit that took him. But he would not be left behind.”
“He’s here?”
“Yes.” Ion swallowed, glancing up. Then he took a step, the others following. He led them along the line of the covered wagons, past the dismounted soldiers who, Hamza noted, were armed with nothing more than the daggers agreed upon in the preliminary letters. As he walked Ion spoke. “These two wagons contain, not only the ten thousand crowns of gold but also certain gifts—for both of you and, of course, for the Sultan.”
“Most pleasing,” murmured Hamza.
“The devsirme follows. You know how slowly boys walk. Fifteen hundred of our finest youth.”
“Gratifying,” said the Greek.
They had drawn level to the palanquin. Ion began to untie the straps that held the black cloth down. Immediately there was a sound from within, a rustling. “Easy, Prince, easy,” murmured Ion. His fingers shook as he untied.
Hamza frowned at the placating tone of voice. This illness that had taken the prince? The tales from Vlad’s court had become increasingly strange. It was said that in his fits he would do the most terrible things. Indeed, many spoke of a man who had lost his mind. Yet, in the Abode of Peace, the insane were treated with respect for, having forsaken the holds of this world, they were thought to be one step closer to paradise. So, as Ion managed to undo the last of the straps, as he began to throw back the cloth, Hamza prepared himself for a vision. Not only of an old love,
but of one of God’s lost beloved.
And saw a hawk. In the center of the otherwise empty carriage was a perch. A goshawk was tied to it, a tiercel by his size. He raised his pale blue wings, fluffed out his black and white belly feathers, and let out a shriek of outrage—“Cra! Cra! Cra!”—at his sudden exposure to the light.
Ion had put on the gauntlet that rested inside. Now, making soothing sounds in his throat, he undid a latch in the palanquin’s latticed wall, opened a small door, reached in, untied the jesses and drew the bird gently onto his fist. The tiercel shot its head down, biting hard on the thick leather of the thumb. Yet despite its surprise, it settled swiftly. Beautifully trained, Hamza could instantly see.
Thomas, obviously not a falconer, had stepped away fast from the shrieking bird. Now he peered around Hamza. “What’s this,” he said.
“A goshawk. And a beauty.” He reached a hand forward and the hawk eyed it, seeking prey. Hamza withdrew it, smiled. He’d decided not to show any surprise. “No doubt a gift from Dracula to me?”
Ion did not answer. But another voice did, calling from above them. “No, enishte. The Black Prince is mine.”
The Turk, looking up, saw two things. The first was Hosnick, his throat fountaining blood, tumbling feet over head to thump into the courtyard’s floor. The second was the man who had spoken, his face hidden by a scarf, thrusting out a gauntleted fist.
Ion stepped away from the wagon and threw out his arm. Kara Khan, the Black Prince, took off fast. It took him only four beats to reach the other hand. He stayed there only a moment, though, before he was launched into the air again.
“Good hunting,” Dracula cried, as the world went mad.
– THIRTY-TWO –
The Taking
On top of the gatehouse, every crenel was now filled with a Wallachian, each drawing their bows to full stretch, the shorter men standing on the bodies of the Turks whose throats they’d slit, to get more height.
Vlad had tipped his step-stool into the courtyard. So he jumped up into the gap, balanced there, drew and shot. The halberdier to Hamza’s right was clutching an arrow in his chest as he fell backwards.
There was no need to command. Each of the vitesji knew exactly what to do. So Ion just wrapped an arm around Hamza’s throat. “Move and you die,” he hissed, resting the point of his dagger in the man’s ear.
Frozen, Hamza stared at what was happening. At other arrows felling the remainder of his guards. At the Wallachians in the courtyard running to the two wagons, ripping back covers, pulling out swords and shields. At those shields lifting over and around them, him and Thomas at the center of a barricade of rising, steel-ringed wood, their backs pressed to the palanquin. Ion, to take a shield, had to release Hamza’s throat. And the Turk knew that, if he was captured—if Dracula captured Giurgiu, for that was what was happening, it was clear—he was a dead man. Prince or sultan would see to that. So, the moment before Ion’s shield closed to cut off the world from sight and sound, he screamed, “Take them!”
The strange silence that had held for the few moments since Hosnick fell, which had only been filled by the creak and thrum of bowstring and arrow and the sigh of men suddenly dying, was shattered by the cry.
Everyone in the castle began screaming at once, everyone but the Prince of Wallachia and his men who were shooting arrow after arrow while they had the chance. Many fell. But Vlad knew it was a garrison of three hundred—and that they were Turks, the conquerors of the world. He knew their officers would have recognized the old Roman tactic of the testudo that was temporarily protecting Ion and his prize. That many would also have noted an older story—the Trojan Horse. Twenty men did not take a fortress. But they could take and hold a gatehouse until an army stormed in.
As the first Turkish arrow bounced off the crenulation before him, Vlad stepped back, moved to the side of the tower, saw there what he’d expected—officers already rallying men at the west tower along the battlements. There would be a similar rally to the east.
“Swords, to me!” he cried. Half the men joined him. “There!” Vlad pointed and his men loosed shaft after shaft at Turks beginning to run along the battlements towards them. Many fell, others tripped over the bodies. But most kept their shields high. And Vlad could also see that some held a battering ram in their midst.
The other side, another flight of arrows, another charge damaged but not stopped. It was time. Shooting a last arrow, he did not even pause to see if it had found its mark. “Now!” he shouted, and his men followed him, leaving only “the Bows,” the six best archers, to stay and harass.
He’d glanced once to the landward side. Kara Khan must have found Stoica’s hand because riders were emerging from the tree-line, moving slowly as they must so as not to turn a leg in the streams and pools hidden in the reeds. It would be some minutes before they reached galloping ground. Minutes that the drawbridge must be kept down.
The four men he’d left in the mechanism room had done the best they could. Barrels, boxes and rope coils had been piled against the barred wooden doors, east and west. Now, seven men faced each door, Vlad turning to the one from which the first thump came. From the sling at his belt he drew his mace. From its sheath his falchion. He’d been correct as to his choice of weapons for, like all such rooms, there was little space around the giant winch that would pull up the drawbridge. His bastard sword would have been unwieldy.
He glanced at his men as the second thump came. Most had made the same decision, dropped the Turkish swords that had been a part of their disguise, held small axe, short spear and dagger. Only the huge Black Ilie carried a weapon to match—the pole axe, with its cutting blade, spear-point and hook. He grinned at Vlad, and tipped the blade in a salute.
And then the eastern door fell in. It was held up for a moment by the barrels piled against it. Then it was lifted, shoved in. Vlad and his men stepped aside to avoid it as the first Turk came through the door. He stumbled on a coil of rope and Vlad drove the man’s helmet into his skull with one swift swing of the mace.
Many more waited behind him. “Allah-u-akbar,” the Turks cried, surging forward.
“St. Gheorge,” yelled the Wallachians, stepping up to meet them.
Vlad was right in the middle. It was always thus for him. Battle made everything simple, reducing the world to single, clear sounds—the scrape of steel on steel, the snap of bone, the shrieks of rage, pain, terror. He felt neither anger nor fear, only the craving to take another enemy’s life. A hundred or one, it was the same to him. Someone who wanted to prove himself stronger, failing to do so.
As these did, coming one after the other, dying one after the other. But Wallachian success—and his men were killing as many as he—was also their problem. The body mound grew but it was a moving barrier, forcing the defenders back. And then a huge Turk, roaring his fury, ran over the bodies of his comrades, knocking Ilie aside with a swung shield, bringing down his sword in an unstoppable arc towards Vlad’s head. There was nowhere to go but back. His foot hit the winch platform, the slice missed his face by a finger, the force causing the blade to bite into the floor, the wood holding it there just long enough for Vlad to punch his falchion straight through the Turk’s throat.
Yet the doorway beyond him was clear and where one had got through, three came now. “With me,” Vlad cried, sheathing his falchion, snatching up the man’s shield. He hurled it into the face of one man, ducked the swung blow of a second, smashed his mace into the knee of a third. Blades passed him on either side, driving the Turks back.
“Voivode,” came the scream from behind him. Vlad turned to see the other, western door, the two men he’d left there stepping away from it as the axes, whose thudding Vlad had heard somewhere in the mayhem, reduced the last of it to splinters and broke the crossbar in half. His two men killed the first two of the enemy who came. But others loomed in the doorway. Many others.
“Hold here!” Vlad commanded. “Gregor! Ilie! Gheorghe! With me!”
At a glan
ce he could see that his fourteen men had been reduced to ten. Five for each door. Is it over? Vlad thought, with the same clarity, the same dispassion. He snatched up another shield, looked over it at the first of his enemies, a huge bearded brute, hesitating in the western doorway. It would not be for long. The Turk never hesitated for long.
And then the man’s lips parted, his eyes opening wide—shocked, no doubt, by the arrow head sticking a hand’s breadth out of his throat. For a moment he looked down, crossing his eyes to see what protruded. Then he fell and men either side of him were leaping clear of his body, flinging themselves off the battlements before the door, preferring a fall to the arrows coming at them from the walkway behind them. Vlad saw an arrow pass through the space where a head had just been, and miss him by a nail. He turned to see an enemy trying to pull it from his eye, giving up, sinking down. Beyond him came Ion and his testudo, locked shields battering the Turks from the walkway.
Vlad felt tired. He knelt as did the men around him.
“Are you hurt, my prince?”
Ion crouched beside him. Vlad shook his head. “The castle?”
“Nearly ours. A few groups holding out; most are fleeing. Buriu’s killing them.”
“Hamza?”
“Safe. Stoica has him, and the other, the Greek.”
“And my Black Prince?”
“Back on his perch.”
He offered an arm and Vlad hauled himself up. “Good,” he said, “he’ll be hungry.”
– THIRTY-THREE –
Messages
Vlad knew it was midday because, surprisingly, the muezzin had begun to issue the call to prayer. His men had thought this inappropriate in what was now a Christian castle and had used the imam as target practice for a while. He must have died happy, despite the intrusion of arrows, a martyr assured of paradise.