been there all along? He wrapped his fingers around the frame…and then he spied the slightest of movements in the shadows behind the forge. Two shapes were there, one each side of Murad. Two of the Sultan’s archers, his special bodyguard, arrows fitted to the notch. Ion knew that one drew with his left hand, one with his right, so they could straddle their lord. He also knew they never missed.
He hesitated still…and the moment passed. Murad was walking forward and Ion could only stare at the Rock of the World. He had only seen him twice before and from a distance. Here, this close, all that Ion had heard was confirmed. He looked so…ordinary, like any laborer on the streets of Edirne. Of middling height but large in chest and shoulders and with a blacksmith’s muscled arms, he had an unkempt, gray beard, gray as the eyes in the round, unremarkable face, each feature smeared now with soot. It was said that he could walk among his people on a crowded street and never be noticed. That he often did. And that, unlike his peacock son, the clothes beneath the blacksmith’s apron would be drab at best.
Ordinary! And yet not at all. For this was the man who had summoned to Gallipoli the strongest warrior Ion had ever known—Vlad Dracul, Voivode of Wallachia—and chained him to a cart wheel for a week. This the man who, two years before at Varna, took on the strongest army the Christians had put into the field for more than a century and wiped them out. Who then, bizarrely and almost immediately, abdicated in favor of his fourteen-year-old son so he could retire to his island of Manisa and linger with his poets, his contemplation and his wine. Who’d been forced to return after two years because of Mehmet’s misrule.
This the man who now stepped forward and lowered his foot onto Vlad’s neck. For a while he did not speak. When he did, his voice was low, almost a whisper. “Dracul-a,” he said, pronouncing it as two words and in the “limba Romana”—their language; not Osmanlica, the language of his land. “Dragon’s son.” There was something in the tone that Ion, expecting savage retribution for their crime, had not expected to hear: a certain sadness.
“The agha s of the enderun kolej tell me that you are one of their finest students. That you recite the words of the Holy Qur’an beautifully—as well as the poetry of Persia, and the philosophies of Athens and Rome. That you are as skilled with threads as I am at forges, against the day of disaster. And that you excel at manly pursuits—upon the wrestling turf, on a horse with bow, with jereed .” He glanced down at the red brocade jacket of his son, and a slight smile came, then vanished. “But shall I tell you what does not please me?”
Murad paused, pressed down with his foot. And here it comes, Ion thought, swallowing. He knew Turkish punishments. Had experienced a few. Nothing, he was sure, like the retribution that would be given out for the stealing of a chosen girl.
And then Murad spoke on. “It does not please me that you are the Dragon’s son. ” The last two words were shouted. As was the subsequent, “Up!”
He was instantly obeyed, though all rose only to their knees, settled back onto haunches, waited, heads bowed; Vlad, head now free, arms still pinned, amongst them. Only the Sultan, his watchers in the shadows and Ion behind the forge doors, stood.
Murad went on, his voice soft again. “Did Dracul think that because he kept his Dragon banner furled I would not notice his eldest son, your brother, Mircea, leading Wallachians against me at Varna? Does he not know that I have spies everywhere reporting each twist he makes?” He glared down. “And they tell me that though Dracul claims to hate my bitterest enemy, Hunyadi, the accursed White Knight, even as I do, that even now he has made a pact with him. To supply him with troops, marching again under a furled banner. To speed his passage through gates that should be barred
He hesitated still…and the moment passed. Murad was walking forward and Ion could only stare at the Rock of the World. He had only seen him twice before and from a distance. Here, this close, all that Ion had heard was confirmed. He looked so…ordinary, like any laborer on the streets of Edirne. Of middling height but large in chest and shoulders and with a blacksmith’s muscled arms, he had an unkempt, gray beard, gray as the eyes in the round, unremarkable face, each feature smeared now with soot. It was said that he could walk among his people on a crowded street and never be noticed. That he often did. And that, unlike his peacock son, the clothes beneath the blacksmith’s apron would be drab at best.
Ordinary! And yet not at all. For this was the man who had summoned to Gallipoli the strongest warrior Ion had ever known—Vlad Dracul, Voivode of Wallachia—and chained him to a cart wheel for a week. This the man who, two years before at Varna, took on the strongest army the Christians had put into the field for more than a century and wiped them out. Who then, bizarrely and almost immediately, abdicated in favor of his fourteen-year-old son so he could retire to his island of Manisa and linger with his poets, his contemplation and his wine. Who’d been forced to return after two years because of Mehmet’s misrule.
This the man who now stepped forward and lowered his foot onto Vlad’s neck. For a while he did not speak. When he did, his voice was low, almost a whisper. “Dracul-a,” he said, pronouncing it as two words and in the “limba Romana”—their language; not Osmanlica, the language of his land. “Dragon’s son.” There was something in the tone that Ion, expecting savage retribution for their crime, had not expected to hear: a certain sadness.
“The agha s of the enderun kolej tell me that you are one of their finest students. That you recite the words of the Holy Qur’an beautifully—as well as the poetry of Persia, and the philosophies of Athens and Rome. That you are as skilled with threads as I am at forges, against the day of disaster. And that you excel at manly pursuits—upon the wrestling turf, on a horse with bow, with jereed .” He glanced down at the red brocade jacket of his son, and a slight smile came, then vanished. “But shall I tell you what does not please me?”
Murad paused, pressed down with his foot. And here it comes, Ion thought, swallowing. He knew Turkish punishments. Had experienced a few. Nothing, he was sure, like the retribution that would be given out for the stealing of a chosen girl.
And then Murad spoke on. “It does not please me that you are the Dragon’s son. ” The last two words were shouted. As was the subsequent, “Up!”
He was instantly obeyed, though all rose only to their knees, settled back onto haunches, waited, heads bowed; Vlad, head now free, arms still pinned, amongst them. Only the Sultan, his watchers in the shadows and Ion behind the forge doors, stood.
Murad went on, his voice soft again. “Did Dracul think that because he kept his Dragon banner furled I would not notice his eldest son, your brother, Mircea, leading Wallachians against me at Varna? Does he not know that I have spies everywhere reporting each twist he makes?” He glared down. “And they tell me that though Dracul claims to hate my bitterest enemy, Hunyadi, the accursed White Knight, even as I do, that even now he has made a pact with him. To supply him with troops, marching again under a furled banner. To speed his passage through gates that should be barred
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