Vlad: The Last Confession (37 page)

“And I vow the same,” Dracula said, glancing at Ion, “for the redemption of all my sins.”

“Then go,” said Corvinus, raising all the hands, holding them high for a moment before releasing them, “take my armies, and help my enemies to their…suicides.”

The King returned to his bed. Vlad and Ion stepped outside the main gates of the palace. The east was lightening and both men looked towards it, through the mist that rose off the thawing river.

“Well, my prince,” Ion said. “Do we loose the chains of hell?”

Dracula shook his head. “No, Ion. We unfurl my father’s banner. We hoist the Cross of Christ. And we watch the beast come and crouch beneath them both.”

Danse Macabre

Bucharest, December 1476, twenty-two months later

From the battlements, Ion watched the last man ride through the gates. The Hungarian raised his arm but Ion did not remove his own from the warmth of his thick woollen cloak to return the salute. It was too cold, for one. For another, he had done everything in his power to make the man, and his soldiers, stay. He’d be damned if he’d wave him farewell!

As if sensing the displeasure, Stephen Bathory, Voivode of Transylvania, shrugged and turned his attention back to his horse, spurring him through the gates to catch up with his bodyguard. The rest of his army had set out the previous day for the mountain passes, which were still, almost miraculously, clear of snow. It was this near miracle that had decided the Hungarian to return to Buda and his king’s court for the Feast of the Savior’s birth. Why he had decided to take his army as well was unclear. Maybe he’d decided that what was good enough for Stephen cel Mare, who had departed for Moldavia a few days before with his, was good enough for him.

“You are awake early.”

The voice came from behind him. He had no need to turn to it. “As you are, my prince.”

“I?” The man stepped in beside him. “I have not slept.”

Ion turned now, saw that Dracula was dressed as he had been the night before at the farewell feast, his leather-faced clothes as black as his hair. It had been his first act of crusade, to dye it, along with his eyebrows, though the moustache would not take the color so he had shaved it off. His son had immediately emulated him and shaved off his.

The dyeing was not vanity. The prince had none. However, he was no longer merely a man, he was a leader who had to inspire, one who knew that soldiers followed graybeards reluctantly.

Ion stared. Lack of sleep made him dull, made him feel old, each reset bone and old wound pulsing. Yet Dracula appeared to be getting younger with each day. The coloring was the least obvious sign. The puffy flesh, the sunken eyes, the gray pallor had gone, sloughing off like some lizard’s skin. War did that, for those who excelled at it. And since the Dragon banner and the Holy Cross had been hoisted in Buda a year and a half before, it had been all war, the crusaders sweeping through Bosnia, slaughtering the Turk wherever he was found, with Dracula forever in the forefront. Ion had tried to caution, even to chastise, saying that it was vanity to expose himself so often to Infidel swords, that the commander’s task was more to lead than to fight. He had said it first before Srebrenica, when his prince had stood before him, folding his hair into a turban, once again donning Turkish armor, preparing to infiltrate the town and surprise its garrison. Dracula had picked up his bow, the same Turkish bow that only he could pull, and smiled. “I am in God’s hands, Ion. My
kismet
, as ever, already written.”

“I have been hunting,” Dracula said now, stepping up to lean on the battlements. “That sick goshawk we found at Kuslat? She has recovered and makes her early flights. Does so best when there is only a little light in the sky.”

Ion turned away, shivering slightly. It was not all they had taken at Kuslat, at Zwornik, at Srebrenica, and a dozen towns and battlefields since. They had taken lives, by the thousand—Turkish, Bulgar, traitorous Wallachian. The passage of the Cross was marked, as usual, in blood and stakes. Leading here, to Bucharest, a town Vlad was now favoring over Targoviste. He said it was because it was closer to the Danube and provided earlier word of the enemy. But Ion believed it was because it was a newer place and held fewer memories.

The fortress gate, which had scarcely closed, was opening again. For a moment of hope, Ion looked to see the Hungarian, Bathory, returning, acknowledging the present danger, agreeing to over-winter in Wallachia. But the hope was false. The gate admitted another Dracula. He fell through it, he and three giggling, staggering companions.

“My son is still celebrating our victory over the Turk, I see.”

Ion grunted. “We never celebrated the triumph of the Cross with whores.”

Vlad smiled. “You are getting old, my friend.”

“Well? We didn’t, did we?” Ion said, his mouth sour with words and stale wine.

“I had no need. I had my love…” He broke off. “Who did you have, Ion?”

I had your love, too, Ion thought, but didn’t say, his stomach instantly churning.

They watched the younger Dracula stagger across the courtyard. Suddenly aware that he was observed he stopped, looked up, gave an exaggerated bow, laughed, stumbled on. He had fought well, within his limitations. He was not his father and he loved his indulgences too much—but he had scars now that the elder Dracula had not inflicted. He had grown older as his father had seemed to grow younger. It was almost as if they met in the middle.

The two of them did not watch alone. She had been mentioned and, in the rare times that she was she always stood between them, bringing back a memory of love and Ion’s hate. When they were about the things they had always done together—hunting, fighting, ruling—it was as if nothing had changed between them, since their days at the
enderun kolej
, since before. And then she would come, in a word, in the shadow within an eye, and she would bring his hate with her, full force, unassuaged. Like the finger Radu had once taken from Vlad, the wound would not be staunched. Yet even that cruellest cut had eventually healed over. Ion’s wound never had.

It was as if Dracula sensed the broil within, felt her presence as Ion did. And here, now, for the first time, he chose to speak of it. “Ilona,” he said, clearing his throat. “There’s something you should know.”

“Do not…” Ion said, looking back sharply. “I have warned you. Do not try to excuse, to explain, to—”

He got no further. The gate interrupted him, banging open for the third time. This time, a single horseman was there. As they watched, he slid off his horse, leaning against it for a moment, exhausted.

“He has ridden hard,” Ion said, speaking past what blocked his throat. “He must bring urgent news of the usurper.”

Dracula stared at Ion for a moment, then looked down again before he spoke. “Let us go and hear it.”

They descended to the main hall, to hear news that was not news. The messenger reported what their spies had seen and heard—Basarab Laiota was issuing calls to the disaffected
boyars
of Wallachia to rally to him; his Turkish allies were mustering troops at the Danube to support him.

“You see?”

“It does not mean he will cross it, Ion. He threatens to keep us watchful, distracted, as I would do.”

“Never the less, we should not have allowed the Hungarians and Moldavians to go.” Ion thumped the table. “If he does come…”

“Then we will deal with him.” Dracula broke off a piece of bread, dipped it in the warm wine before him. “And how could we have kept our allies on the strength of such rumors? They would celebrate the Feast of Christ’s Birth with their own families. You should do the same. Go back to Suceava and your five daughters.”

“And you? You do not go back to Pest.”

“You know I cannot.”

“And you do not send for your family to join you here.”

“No. But…”

Ion threw himself back in his chair. “Then I am going nowhere either.”

“You know this is not the fighting season. Armies rarely attack in winter.”

Ion snorted. “Like we didn’t at Giurgiu? Like you didn’t last year in Bosnia?”

“Well…” Vlad shrugged. “We are in God’s hands, as ever.”

“Yes. But that’s no reason to sit on our own.” Ion rose. “As your
logofat
, I have much to organize. The first is to send to all the
boyars
who have sworn their loyalty to you to prove it by sending men and money, now.”

Vlad threw down the crust he’d been chewing. “I also have letters to write. The Saxons of Brasov and Sibiu are still withholding the gold they promised for crusade.” He rubbed his hands. “And then I will attend to my hawk. She’s loused, and Stoica just found a store of mercury for me to smooth onto her.”

Ion shook his head. “Is this the time for hawks, Voivode?”

Vlad smiled. “It is always time for hawks,
logofat
. Don’t you know that by now?”

—

More news came a week later. News that was news.

Ion found him, as ever, in the mews within the stables, the hawk on his fist. When Ion burst in it jerked up to the limits of its jesses, flipped upside down, wings wide, screeching.

“Easy, my jewel! My beloved, easy,” Dracula crooned.

“My prince!”

The ungauntleted, maimed hand waved Ion down. “Peace,” Dracula said, using the same tone he used to calm the bird. “And wait!”

Ion stood, hands clenching and unclenching. He glanced behind the prince…and started, as he saw Black Ilie and Stoica both there in the darkness, Dracula’s constant shadows. The big man nodded, the smaller just stared at him. The last of the
vitesji
, neither had welcomed Ion the traitor back to their prince’s side. He had not cared. Neither of them had his cause.

The bird was gentled, with soft words and raw meat. Soon, she had settled, bending to the meal and to the finger that rose up to scratch between the eyes.

“Softly, now,” Dracula said.

Ion realized he was being spoken to. “They have crossed—” he blurted.

“Softly!”

Ion closed his eyes, breathed deep, unclenched his fists. When he spoke, it was more quietly. “Basarab Laiota has crossed the Danube.”

“With how many men?”

“Reports vary. At least three thousand.”

“Not so many. And the
boyar
I set to watch and delay the enemy? Gherghina, who swore such oaths of loyalty to me at my coronation?”

“Gone over to the usurper.”

“I see. No, easy, my pretty, easy!” He did not look up. “And the other
boyars
you summoned to meet us here for the Feast of the Savior’s birth?”

“I received many assurances of their setting out. I have not heard of any who have actually done so.”

“Really?” A little smile came. “One would think I had a reputation for poor hospitality.”

Ion flushed. “You are taking all this very calmly, my prince.”

“What would you have me do?”

“What you must.” Ion dragged a stool over, sat, leaned in. “I have ordered the troops here, such as they are, to muster. We will be ready to march in an hour.”

“Where?”

Ion frowned. “Where? To Targoviste, of course. If at least some of the
boyars
rally to us there, and the usurper is not reinforced, we can defend the Princely Court until the Hungarians can be called back. If we get no more support—and I fear we will not—we can retreat further, to Poenari. You said once you could hold it with fifty men. I think we have five hundred left so…”

“Five hundred?” Dracula looked away from the bird at last. “And Laiota brings three thousand? That’s one to six. Good odds. Wallachian odds. We were one to twenty when we rode from the Vlasia forest and stormed Mehmet’s camp.”

A chill gripped Ion. “My prince…we lost that day.”

“Only just.”

“You only just lost a finger,” Ion said, loudly, brutally, “and it is still gone.”

In the shadows, Black Ilie stirred, took a step forward. Dracula calmed him with a raised hand. “So?” His voice did not rise. “It was a chance we took and we failed. Another chance and there could be another outcome.” He gestured with his hand to prevent interruption. “No, Ion. I will not crawl again along the same old, dreary route. Targoviste to Poenari to Pest. A fugitive, soon an exile, and then, once again, the poor relative of a king; a monster to be brought out to frighten the guests at banquets—until they have learned to laugh at me. No.” He looked
beyond the bird. “You know,
someone
once asked me, in such a situation, whether I would be a lion or an ass. Well, being a lion all the time is tiring.” He shook his head. “I have tried all my life to break free of the strings with which a Wallachian voivode is bound; tried not to dance to the touch of sultan or king but only to my
kismet
, as dictated by the will of God and my own actions. But I am tired of taking the throne to lose it, taking it to lose it, taking it…” He broke off. “At some time, that circle must be broken. So I will go and take a look at Basarab Laiota and his three thousand Turks. And I will kill him if I can.”

Ion’s voice was as soft as his prince’s. “And if he kills you?”

“Then I am dead. And my sorrow is ended.” Dracula clicked his tongue to lull the bird, whose feathers lifted at the sound. He loosed the jesses from his fingers, swiftly re-tied them onto the perch, took out a piece of raw meat, lifted it to the beak. “But let us not speak of my death but of his. We will send again to Bathory and Moldavia. We will urge the
boyars
to our side—and if the Cross does not draw them, the stake might, eh?” He smiled. “Believe me, I do not seek an ass’s death, only an ending to this…Danse Macabre. Will you seek it with me? For a little longer, at least?”