Death of Kings, page 37
part #4 of Dracula Chronicles Series
A sense of disorder reigned in the courtyard, in contrast with the customary atmosphere: pages dashed here and there without an obvious purpose; officers shouted orders that no one obeyed; dour-looking men gathered in groups of two or three, gesticulating and speaking simultaneously.
Mehmed, dressed in his ornate garments, wandered from group to group with a pleading look; most of those he approached ignored him, too busy arguing with each other to pay attention to their immature sultan.
The ever-present Yunus and Hamza trailed Mehmed, smiling obsequiously, probably terrified of his unpredictable wrath, especially at a time like this.
“Here comes the Peace Maker,” Yunus said; people in the vicinity fell silent.
“The man who vouched for Norbert’s honesty,” Hamza said.
Mehmed ran at Vlad and hissed, “This is all your doing.” A white foam had gathered in the corners of his mouth and spittle dribbled down his chin.
“How far are the Hungarians?” Vlad said, calm.
“What are you planning to do?” Hamza said. “Ask your friend Norbert to turn back?”
“They crossed the Danube at Orshova and they’ve already reached Nicopolis,” Yunus said. “Do you still maintain you didn’t know Norbert was planning from the beginning to deceive Sultan Murad?”
Vlad turned his back at Yunus and faced Mehmed. “I assume you’re sending troops to block the passes. That will force the crusaders to go the long way around the mountains and give your father time to return from Anatolia.”
“Of course I’m blocking the passes,” Mehmed said, hateful. “But Father’s not coming: he wants to hang up his kiliç for good and live in seclusion with a handful of friends.”
“Mehmed Çelebi’s completely capable of dealing with the infidels on his own,” Yunus said.
“There can be no doubt about that,” Hamza said. “Our new sultan will prove to be a greater general than—”
“You might be able to do without your father,” Vlad said, “but you need the Anatolian Army. Don’t listen to your toadying slaves.”
“The Genovese of Galata are refusing to help me,” Mehmed said on the verge of despair. “Father paid them one ducat per head to ferry his soldiers across the Dardanelles, only a few weeks ago. But when I offered them five ducats per man and one per animal, they turned me down.”
“The cowards are afraid of retaliation from the Venetians,” Hamza said.
Khalil Pasha approached Mehmed’s group with a troubled mien. “You need to make a decision on asking Norbert for truce soon: time is of the essence.”
Zaganos too joined them. “I disagree with Khalil: asking for truce now will give Norbert the impression you’re afraid of him.”
“Of course I’m afraid, you cretin,” Mehmed shouted. “I’ve got half the number of men Father had last year.”
“Offer Norbert the territory of the old Bulgarian Kingdom in exchange for a year of truce,” Khalil said. “The Venetians will get tired of the blockade and go home; once that happens, you can bring the Anatolian Army over.”
“Be serious, Khalil,” Zaganos said with undisguised disdain. “The infidels aren’t stupid to lift the blockade knowing we would immediately ferry our troops over.” He leaned over Mehmed and said, “Forget the truce. Trust in Allah and fight his enemies with the army you have now.”
“Last year, with the full complement of our two armies,” Khalil said, “we barely managed to hold the infidels off; only the arrival of winter saved us from a total disaster. We simply can’t fight the Christians without the Anatolian contingent.”
“This is a good time to remind everyone I’ve always said we should build a navy of our own,” Zaganos said. “Then we could cross the strait back and forth at will.”
Khalil flipped his hands and made a grimace of impatience. “That’s a pointless thing to say at a time like this.”
Vlad grabbed Mehmed by the shoulders. “I must to speak with you in private.”
Yunus stuck his face close to Vlad’s. “If you’re trying to weasel your way out of culpability in this—”
With a chop across the neck, Vlad sent him rolling onto the ground. Then he took Mehmed by the arm and walked him forcibly to a corner of the courtyard.
89
Trust and Secrecy
September 1444, Edirne, Ottoman Empire
Khalil Pasha’s right: time is of the essence,” Vlad said when he and Mehmed were out of earshot. “But Zaganos is right as well: asking for a truce now would betray weakness.”
Mehmed stared at Vlad as if in a trance. “Wha-wha-what did you want to tell me in private?”
Vlad looked Mehmed in the eye and said with self-confidence, “I think I’ve found a way to ferry your Anatolian Army back to Europe.”
“You think?” Mehmed cried. He had recovered from the shock of seeing Yunus knocked to the ground and himself dragged across the courtyard. “Of what good is ‘think’ when the infidels will be on top of me within a few weeks?”
“I could’ve lied and said, ‘I’ve got a way.’ But my prospects of success are uncertain; however, my idea’s the only one you can hang your hope on.”
Mehmed looked at Vlad through narrowed eyes. “Even if I get the Anatolian troops to come back, I can’t lead them into battle. Only Father can; but he won’t.”
“What about Khalil Pasha?” Vlad said.
Mehmed spat. “He is a defeatist.”
“Zaganos?”
“A hothead who’ll charge the Christians without fear, but also without a notion of strategy; he’ll get us all killed.”
“Then don’t ask your father to come: order him.”
“Are you insane?” Mehmed cried.
“Either he is still the sultan, in which case it’s his duty to defend the empire; or you are the sultan and he must obey your order.”
A struggle seemed to take place inside Mehmed; gradually his face changed color from a sickly pale to a healthy rubicund. “You’re right: no one, not even Father may disobey me.”
“So the only matter to settle is the ferrying of the troops. And I have a plan for that.”
“What plan could possibly overcome the blockade?”
Vlad glanced behind him and, assured no one could hear him, said, “One that takes money, trust, and secrecy.”
“Money’s not of concern,” Mehmed said. “I’d pay anything to have Father and the Anatolian Army this side of the water before the unbelievers arrive.”
“I expect you’ll have trouble with the trust,” Vlad said.
“Are you asking me to trust you?” Mehmed said.
“Your back’s against the wall: what have you got to lose?”
Mehmed tugged at the reddish fuzz growing on his chin. “You’re a Christian: why help me preserve Islam’s presence in Europe?”
“It’s my honor I want to preserve, not your footprint in Europe,” Vlad said.
Mehmed nodded imperceptibly, as if finding Vlad’s assertion credible. “And the secrecy?”
A slight tremor passed through Vlad as he realized Mehmed was about to accept his initiative. “How likely is it that things you discuss in council are known to the Christians in Constantinople?”
“Zaganos claims Khalil takes bribes from them to inform on my actions.”
“Let’s hope Zaganos is right on this,” Vlad said. “Announce it as a state secret this afternoon that your father and the army will come over across the Dardanelles. Only you and I will know that’s not the case.”
Mehmed gave Vlad doubtful look. “You think just saying that will fool everyone?”
“Send five hundred men to Gallipoli tomorrow with the order to gather vast quantities of timber in the area. Then set up a shipbuilding yard on the Dardanelles shore and build two dozen transport galleys.”
Mehmed’s lips slackened into a disappointed grimace. “My shipwrights can build small boats but not large transports.”
“Your galleys don’t need to be seaworthy, just to appear so. Next, set up twenty cannons on the walls of Gallipoli and keep a steady bombardment against the blockaders’ fleet.”
“You know my cannons can’t do much damage,” Mehmed said in a bitter tone.
“Simultaneously, inform your father of this plan through someone you trust. Order him to also build ships on the Asian shore of the Dardanelles.”
“Now I understand,” Mehmed cried. “You want to draw the galleys blockading the Bosphorus down to the Dardanelles.”
“Once both shipyards are in operation, your father needs to take his army to the Bosphorus on a forced march.”
“But where are we going to find transports for him?”
“I know somebody who might not be afraid to help you,” Vlad said. “But to avoid any suspicions that I’m involved with your crossing preparations, it must look as though I’ve escaped from Edirne to join the Hungarians.”
Mehmed chortled. “That’s something people will easily believe.”
“Yes, especially when they learn I left with all my men and women.”
“What?” Mehmed said. “You want me to believe you wouldn’t run away if you took Zahra with you?”
“Give me all your trust or none at all.”
Mehmed seemed to ponder his options. “What about the money needed to pay for the galleys?”
“I’m not good at business,” Vlad said. “I’ll let you negotiate with my contact directly. Be ready to come when I notify you.”
Mehmed took Vlad’s hands into his and said, with the fervor of a pilgrim touching a holy relic, “If your plan works I’ll never mistrust you again.”
“Come incognito, while making your people believe you’re going to Gallipoli. And none of this expansive entourage; take along the smallest retinue you can.”
“Where will I meet you?” Mehmed said, now fully invested in the project.
Vlad glanced around again then whispered, “Near Galata. I’ll have Lash wait for you at the last caravanserai before the town.”
Mehmed nodded eagerly. “This is a really exciting adventure.”
“Bring your seal to formalize the agreement with the party I’ll introduce to you.”
“What do you need from me?” Mehmed said.
“One homing pigeon to notify you if my friend is interested in helping you or not.”
“I’ll give you half a dozen,” Mehmed said. “I don’t want the fate of the empire to be determined by a cat, a hawk, or a sharp archer.”
Vlad smiled at Mehmed’s overcautiousness. “I also need three horses, fourteen mules, food supplies for ten days, three tents—”
“Why tents? You’ve got the best caravanserais between here and Galata.”
Vlad shook his head. “You forget the need for secrecy; I won’t be taking the commercial road.”
“Then you’ll need a guide.” Mehmed thought for a moment. “I know you hate Yunus, but I trust him and he knows the land like the back of his—”
“Don’t worry: I can manage Yunus. If he gets on my nerves I’ll squash him. I also need a new berât to indicate I have women in my party.”
“Yunus will bring it to you.”
“Have him wait for me with the animals and the supplies, two miles outside Doğu Kapısı, East Gate, tomorrow afternoon.”
“What else?”
Vlad thought for a few moments. “Don’t ‘discover’ my departure for three days. When you do, send a party to look for me on the Nicopolis road.”
Mehmed gave him a pleading look. “Don’t let me down.” His beaked nose almost touched his upper lip, as he struggled to maintain his composure. “If you run away and leave me—”
“This should reassure you.” Vlad opened his shirt to display his medallion. “You know I’ll never part with my amulet for good. Now rip it off my neck then yell at me and point to the gate.”
Mehmed gave Vlad a flicker of a smile before he assumed an angry look. He yanked the medallion, breaking its leather tongue, then shouted, “Get out of my sight, treacherous giaour.”
“Don’t you lose my amulet,” Vlad whispered, then he retreated backward, cowering.
90
King Dracul in Nicopolis
September 1444, Nicopolis, Ottoman Empire
Let me go alone, Ulfer,” Michael pleaded, though he knew Dracul wasn’t inclined to listen. “I’ve got as good a chance of persuading Marcus to return home as you do. But unlike you, I’m not going to get into an argument with Hunyadi.”
Dracul remained lost in thought as he peered across the Danube at the cliffs of Nicopolis.
“If Marcus hadn’t taken his brother with him,” he finally said, “I’d say good riddance: let him go and get himself killed by the Turks.” He pointed with his walking stick at the charred remains of the wharf. “I should’ve had him hanged when I learned he burned down this ferry to prevent Vlad from crossing over with Norbert’s letter.”
“In hindsight, it would’ve been better if that letter never existed,” Michael said. “Marcus would’ve left for the crusade from Buda, instead of returning home and taking Radu with him.”
“Who’s ever heard of taking a nine-year old to war?” Dracul sputtered. “By the time I’m done with Marcus—”
“If you insist on crossing the Danube,” Michael said, “let’s take a couple of hundred men with us. Remember, Nestor is in Norbert’s camp and he’s got it in for you.”
“Poh,” Dracul spat, “I can easily deal with that tramp.” He drummed his fingers on the silver pommel of his walking stick. “But we might need a few strong lads to hog-tie Marcus and haul his ass home.”
When they landed on the Nicopolis side—accompanied by twenty hand-picked mounted guardsmen—they found Norbert’s camp in a state resembling a country fair. Dozens of booths had been set up, where hawkers sold clothes, armor, foodstuffs, and wine. Improvised corrals were overflowing with livestock: sheep, goats, and hogs, seemingly taken as booty in the Bulgarian countryside. Behind curtains hung on lines stretched between trees, prostitutes were servicing endless lines of rowdy soldiers.
In a large pit surrounded by a picket fence, about six hundred civilian prisoners sat on the ground; drunk soldiers pelted them from above with rocks.
“Are you on Hunyadi’s pay?” Dracul asked a sergeant wearing a raven insignia sewn onto his tunic.
The man belched, then looked Dracul up and down, insolent. “Other than about a thousand Poles, all of us are Hunyadi’s men.”
Michael scanned the crowd surrounding the pit and observed that indeed all soldiers sported the same badges: a raven holding a gold ring in its beak. “Has the Captain General authorized this treatment of the prisoners?”
“Who the fuck wants to know?” the sergeant said. Then he threw a stone into the pit, hitting an old man in the mouth.
Dracul leaned over the fence and listened to the prisoners’ subdued chatter.
“Those folks are Bulgarian peasants,” he said. “Christians, like you and me.”
“We captured them in these heathen lands, my friend,” the sergeant said. “As far as I’m concerned, that makes them Turks.”
Dracul shook his head, disgusted. “Look at their locks, man: Moslems don’t grow their hair out like that.”
“You’re supposed to free Christians from the yoke of the infidel, not use them as target practice,” Michael said.
“Let’s go,” Dracul said in Romanian, “before I crack this pig’s head and get ourselves killed.”
They located Norbert’s tent by the flag fluttering above it: a swallow-tailed streamer bearing a coat of arms in the shape of a quartered shield. One of the quarters—gules, a two-barred cross argent—stirred troubling memories in Michael: the cross was the same Norbert had used for his Order of Saint James the Greater.
The sound of people arguing came from inside the tent. As there were no guards present, Dracul and Michael entered the vestibule unannounced. Through the half open curtain to the king’s chamber, Michael saw Hunyadi, Cesarini, and Piccolomini standing in a semicircle in front of the king. Norbert was seated on an armchair, his right leg stretched out on a crate in front of him. The men, unaware of the new arrivals, continued their argument.
“Not a day longer,” Norbert said. “We take off at dawn.”
“We mustn’t abandon the siege,” Hunyadi said. “The Turks are bound to surrender in a day or to. Today I executed another hundred prisoners in front of the citadel—ten with my own hand—to show them what will happen if they don’t surrender.”
“That brings the total number of executions to five hundred and seventy-eight,” Piccolomini said.
“Aren’t we lucky to have a bookkeeper among us?” Hunyadi said and spat onto the floor.
“I agree with His Majesty,” Cesarini said. His chain mail armor was immaculately clean and free of rust. True to his calling, he held a breviary in one hand, a rosary in the other. “If we delay our departure any longer, we’re apt to be caught by the winter before we can—”
“What’s so important about the Nicopolis fortress,” Norbert said, “that we should jeopardize the entire campaign for it?”
“I don’t want to leave thousands of armed Turks on our back,” Hunyadi said. “Besides, I’ve promised my men they can plunder the citadel and sell off the men, women, and children found inside.”
“But you also promised the Turks their freedom if they surrender,” Piccolomini said.
“Shut up, Poet Laureate,” Hunyadi hissed. “Nobody keeps his word better than me. But remember: these are infidels, so promises made to them don’t count.”
“You may starve them to death,” Dracul said, “but they won’t surrender.”
The three standing men turned sharply to face him.
“Besides, why would executing Christian prisoners matter to the Turks?” he added.
“Drache,” Norbert called with a note of joy, “have you decided to join my crusade?”
