Vlad: The Last Confession (42 page)

His name was Death, and Hell followed with him.

Gebze, Anatolia, near Constantinople, four weeks later

For the longest time the sound was indistinguishable within the low roar of a Turkish encampment settling for the night. There were even other screams—of donkeys and horses, of camels and men. Yet as the man whose trade was the sewing of leather and hides walked slowly through the thickening web of tent ropes, those other noises started to fall away. Closer to the center men were muttering to themselves, rarely to each other, glancing over their shoulders, making warding gestures as if to block the sound that grew ever louder as the man approached—the bellowing of another man in agony. Closer still and more men were facing inwards, standing or squatting, most kneeling, some silent, others whispering prayers.

No one paid him much attention, this squat
yaya
, with his patched, mud-daubed tunic, his faded turban, straggling beard and bare feet. He carried no weapon, just a small satchel across his shoulder with many of the implements of his trade stuck into the outside of it—bone needles of all sizes, spools of camel hair thread, hide ties, a steel awl. If any
had
studied him more closely they might have seen that his bag dripped some liquid. But no one did.

It was easier than the last time he had tried to reach the Sultan. He passed through the same order now as then. Through the jumbled lines of
gazis
and
akinci
raiders, between the ever more splendid pavilions of the
belerbeys
, around the small cones of hide in which the janissaries slept. He noted some of their standards—the tower, the wheel, the half-sun; even the familiar elephant of the 79th
orta
. When he saw the yellow oriflame of the left wing he knew that he was close. Though the silence of the
sipahi
warriors would have told him, too; that and the terrible screaming, so near now.

He was not the tallest of men and those he threaded between were the elite of the Turkish army and loomed over him. So he had to pass through these last before he could see what his ears had told him was there, a small, gentle sound beneath the louder, terrible one.

He stepped through the last ranks of warriors. And there they were—the bells that chimed upon the Sultan’s
tug
, beneath the six horsetails. The standard stood before a pavilion identical to the one he had burned down twenty years before.

No one stopped him as he walked up to the twin-tiered gateway, passed through it, though warriors stood around with swords unsheathed and
solak
archers held arrows notched to strings. No one moved—for every man felt that if they did, even a little, then the balance of the world would change, and their Sultan, Most Exalted, Mehmet the Conqueror would yield to the devils that tore his guts apart, and die.

Thus, unchallenged, Dracula stooped, lifted an edge of canvas and stepped inside the Sultan’s pavilion.

He entered a different world, for there was movement here, and noise, most of it coming from the divan that was at the center of the vast tent and from the man thrashing upon it. Men in white robes and the purple sashes of physicians were attempting to force some liquid into the sick man’s mouth. But the Sultan screamed, a mixture of prayer and obscenity, knocking the cup from their hands. Another was poured, lifted. Somehow some liquid slipped in, then a little more. Mehmet collapsed back, stilled somewhat, though his legs kept scything, as if he would run off the stained bed.

The screaming reduced to a low moan; the physicians stepped back, wiping sweat from their faces. A tall man, in the fine robes of a vizier—though even these were spotted yellow and brown, pulled one aside and whispered fiercely, “What more, Hekim Yakub?”

The doctor shook his head. “I do not know. I was called so late and I am not sure what my esteemed colleague, Hamiduddin al Lari, has given him?”

“Esteemed arsehole,” the vizier hissed. “I will pull the camel-fucker’s guts through his teeth until he tells me—if I can find him. Is it poison, do you think?”

The doctor shrugged. “Maybe.”

“How long?”

“I do not know.”

The vizier cursed under his breath. Then he looked up, at the faces of servants, slaves, soldiers, physicians, some twenty men who all stared back. “No one is to leave this tent. Not a word of this must get out. If his son Bayezid hears of this before I can reach Prince Cem…” His gaze flew from man to man. Then, at last, it settled on Dracula, and his eyes went wide. “Who, by the Devil…seize him!” he roared.

Vlad threw his bag aside before the four men fell on him, each grabbing a limb, hurling him to the ground. He did not resist them. There was little purpose…and it was not why he was there.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” The vizier had rushed forward. Indeed, everyone in the tent was looking at him hard, as if he could provide some distraction from the sight and sound and stench of the man dying on the bed.

“I bring the Light of the World a most rare flower, Excellency,” Dracula said, his Turkish peasant-harsh. “It is found in only one valley in the world. Across the Danube, in Wallachia.”

The vizier stared at him, mouth wide. All knew that Mehmet was a gardener, his trade against the day of disaster. But…now? Finally, he found words. “What? You…you bring him…a flower?” He looked around and then screamed, “He is either a liar, a madman or a spy. Cut him, one for each—eyes, balls and heart—and then throw his carcass to the dogs. Now!”

The soldiers jerked him upright. They began to move him to the tent entrance when the vizier remembered and bellowed after them. “Fools! I said no one was to leave. Do it there! In the corner!”

Two held him upright. Two stepped back, drew daggers. And then a voice, weak from screaming, whispered from the bed, “Wait!”

All, save the men who held Dracula, turned.

“Master!” The vizier went to the side of the divan, threw himself down. “You have returned to us.”

“Bring him here,” Mehmet whispered.

“Who, master?”

“The one with the gift.”

The vizier shrugged in puzzlement, turned, beckoned. Dracula was dragged forward, one man still clutching him tightly on either side. He looked down…

He had last seen Mehmet that night twenty years before, in another tent, in another country. Both of them were young then and held swords. He knew what the years had wrought upon himself—but they had been even less kind to the Sultan. Years or illness or both. The red hair was gone, apart from a patch above each ear. The bronze skin was sallow now, green-tinged. And the
jereed
player’s lithe body was now a soft, bloated mass that lay upon silk sheets stained with blood and excrement.

Yet his eyes were clear. He looked at the peasant before him and nodded. “What have you brought me?”

“It is there, Lord of the Horizon. In my bag.”

“Bring it.”

Dracula was still held tight. Another guard fetched it.

“Open it,” Mehmet breathed, as a spasm shook him.

The guard did, then reached in carefully—all knew their Sultan’s love of plants, and more than one guard had lost skin for carelessness—and pulled out a small canvas bag full of wet earth. In it sat a tiny flower, its mauve, spear-headed petals folded in upon itself.

“What is it?” Mehmet whispered.

“It is a crocus. It has just opened in the valley I spoke of, across the Danube. In the sun here it will open again and show you its yellow and crimson tongues. It is called, in the Latin, ‘
pallasii
.’”

The vizier and the physician both looked sharply at the peasant mouthing Latin in their midst. Mehmet stared at the plant for a long moment then again at the man who had brought it. He turned to the side, retched, a thin stream of green bile trickling down. Then he looked up again. “Leave us,” he croaked.

“Shall we still kill him before you, master?” The vizier raised a hand to gesture it done.

“Not him. All of you leave. Not him. All of…you!” Mehmet raised himself from the bed, his eyes ablaze, glaring at them, then sank back, his vast stomach convulsing.

“No one goes further than the gateway. No one,” hissed the vizier. One by one the men passed from the tent. The vizier, holding up the flap, gave one look back, shook his head, and was gone.

They were alone. Silence
beyond the tent, silence within it, save for the rumblings coming from Mehmet’s gut and his legs ceaselessly whispering across the sheets. The two men stared at each other. Then Mehmet broke the silence with a word.

“Dracula,” he said.

The prince started. He had not expected that, to be recognized. If Mehmet had changed then so had he. And he’d had no real plan, beside the crocus and Mehmet’s love of plants. He had left it all to
kismet
: his own and Mehmet’s, somehow the same. “You know me?”

“I know who you were. I know you are dead. So I know you have come back from
beyond. With a message for me.”

Dracula leaned down. “No, Mehmet Celebi,” he said using an old name, “I am alive. I bring you no messages from any of the thousands you have killed.”

“And what of those you have killed, Dracula? You matched me, did you not, in your small way, in your small country. I saw your line of stakes.” A spasm took him again; he bent over, dry-puked, lay back.

“I will meet them soon enough, Mehmet.” He leaned closer, staring. “But you will be meeting your victims before I meet mine.”

Something like a laugh came to Mehmet, transforming into a cough that wrenched him. But he recovered, looked up again. “And do you think it will be anything other than Allah’s blessing when my death comes?” He stared, shook his head. “Alive, eh? I have no time to wonder. Only to ask…why are you here, Impaler?”

Dracula smiled. “I came for the saker you owe me…Conqueror.”

“The…saker?”

“The wager of our game of
jereed
. My foreskin against your bird, Sayehzade. I won. You owe me a bird.”

“Sayehzade? Daughter of shadows. My beauty.” Mehmet’s eyes rolled in his head, his voice came on a croak. Then he focused again, and suddenly shouted, “Sayehzade’s dead these twenty years.”

“Then I will take another.”

The two men looked at each other for a long moment. Then Mehmet waved to the side. “Under the divan. A drawer. Open it.” Dracula did. “There is a black token there, of onyx, my
tugra
engraved upon it?”

“Yes.”

“Only I and my chief falconer can use this token; we give it to someone who serves us to bring us a hawk. A hawk we tell them to choose. You may take it, choose any. Yet I tell you to ask for Hama.”

“‘The bird who brings joy.’” Dracula nodded, lifting the token. “Will she?”

“She is young and fierce and still half-trained. But I think if you bend her to your will, she will kill for you as no bird has…since my Sayehzade. But it will take some bending. Do you have the skill?”

“Perhaps. If only Hamza
pasha
would return from
beyond to help me train him. For he was the finest falconer that I ever knew.”

“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.