Vlad (12 page)

The Choice

He was dressed as most Anatolian shepherds in wool
shalvari
and a sheepskin vest over a red-dyed shirt. All were swiftly stripped from him, reducing him to quivering flesh. He clasped his hands around his groin, making the students snicker. He blinked continuously, terror in his large brown eyes. He was chubby, a contrast to the men who still stood beside him and who, at a nod from Wadi, immediately forced the peasant to his knees.

“Any fool can inflict pain, prince,” the
agha
said, “but it takes a skillful man to sustain it.” He stopped beside the prone man who blinked up at him. “In that, it is like any art. A lute’s string is sounded in such a way that its harmonies vibrate in the air. We do not pluck and dampen it, cutting off its beauties. We seek to extend them.”

Wadi reached suddenly, pinching a fold of flesh on the man’s upper arm. He cried out, something in the local dialect. Wadi ignored him. “But so much depends on the instrument on which we practice. The finest lute will sustain the longest.” He released the man’s skin, turned to the students. “So study your instruments well. Note their health, their flesh, their stamina. And then begin to play.”

And Vlad heard himself speak before he thought to, his voice a croak. “What crime has he committed?”

The small man’s brow creased. “Crime? What does it matter? We are not judges. It is enough that he has been judged by others. They could have hung him from a tree. Instead, they sent him here, for they know that we are as much a part of justice as they are.”

He gestured to the two men. Immediately they pulled the peasant to his feet. One snapped manacles to his wrist, the other went to the wall and dragged a rope across, one end of which ran through a pulley, squeaking along a rail above. The other end was swiftly looped through the manacles and secured. Both men then went to the rope’s end and pulled, hoisting the naked man’s arms above him till he was standing on the tips of his toes. He dangled there, eyes now shut, lips moving in plea or prayer.

Wadi had picked up a stick. He stood before the hanging man. “I have heard that in Christian lands, torment is used to extract a confession. More, that they use it especially on those of different faiths. Barbarism!” he exclaimed. “Leaving aside the wisdom as exists in our Sultanate of Rum, that all men may keep the faith they choose without persecution—though the wisest come to Allah, praise him…”

“Praise him!”

“…What use is a confession extracted by torments? Men will say anything to escape pain. Women, too. Why, if I had the Christian saints Peter and Paul in this room for one hour I could make them deny their God, their Savior and own their love of Satan.” He looked around at all the attentive faces, his gaze finally resting on Vlad. “Tell me, princeling—in the
enderun kolej
, did you not divide your time between the practical and the philosophical? From geometry to the dialogues of Socrates? Well, it is the same in our classroom. We too have our philosophy. The philosophy of torment, which has been my lifelong study.” He nodded. “We torment for two reasons. The first is for information. In war, to discover where the ambushes are laid, or the weak point in a fortification. In peace, where stolen goods or a child may be hidden. The torment used must be fast, intense, unbearable—for what is sought is only fact. But the second reason for torment, that which, like the lute, we sustain for as long as…” He smiled. “…
Humanly
possible, is this.”

He raised his stick, gesturing for his class to speak. They did, as one.

“We torture others so they cannot torture us.”

The shout echoed around the stone room. It roused the dangling man, who looked up as if called.

Wadi nodded. “‘We torture others so they cannot torture us.’ Like all great answers, it is so simple. Why do we seek the most ingenious ways of prolonging pain? Not for pain itself. No, that would be mere cruelty. But for an example, as striking and clear as possible. For the warning: This is what happens when you oppose me. This shall be your fate.” He beamed at them. “Well,” he said, “enough philosophy. Now for the practical.”

He turned and nodded at Mahir, who had been standing quite still, making a clicking sound in his throat, then tapped his stick upon the table. “Come, my scholars,” Wadi said. “Take one each.”

All came forward eagerly, lifting something from a tray. Only Vlad remained still. “No, prince?” Wadi smiled. “Well, you will join us soon enough, trust me. When you see the fun to be had. When you realize that this…” He struck the naked body beside him hard, and the man cried out. “…Is no longer human. Not even animal. It is a concept. And, of course, an example. For your enemies. Perhaps, most particularly, for your friends.”

They’d formed a semi-circle around the peasant. Wadi opened the gate on a lantern, held it up. Mahir came forward and Vlad now saw what he held, what they all held. It was a
bastinado
—but this was not the wooden stick of chastisement from the
enderun kolej
. This was a thin rod of steel, the length of a forearm, no wider than a thumb. Mahir struck the belly with it once and the man gave a yelp, his eyes shooting wide. Then the teacher stepped back.

“Did you take note, students, of Mahir’s stroke? Not too hard, yet not too soft. A balance. You must never break the skin. Do you see the mark it left?” Wadi used his
bastinado
to point it out. “Hardly anything, is it? A tiny bruise, caused by blood vessels rupturing beneath the surface. But when joined to the next one, and the next one, when there is no clear skin left…” He struck, next to Mahir’s mark, drawing another cry, adding another welt. “Well, you will see what happens when a man is transformed to a living bruise.” He waved the students forward. “Find an area. Work on it. But remember—no blood!”

The blows came. Wadi commented, urging force or restraint. After a while the man’s cries turned to coughs. Vlad did not move, did not turn away. He wanted to, more than he’d wanted most things. But he would not show them that weakness.

A
bastinado
had been thrust at him. He had taken it without thinking. With every blow he gripped it tighter, his fingers cramping on steel.

—

In the torment, there was release.

In the darkness, there was light.

In solitude, there were companions.

They came in his dreams and stayed in his wakefulness. Each came according to his needs, which changed with the hour of the day or night.

“But how can you tell the hour, my son?”

Vlad Dracul, his father, was there, sharing his shelf of rock. He was massive of shoulder, of chest, and yet there was room for the two of them to squat, in the Turkish style, thigh to calf.

“By the type of torment,” Vlad said, ever eager to please his father. He knew the Dragon would be interested. “Winter mornings are cold. So it is when they practice the warmer styles. Those that require flame.”

“Good boy. Observant boy. Observe them closely, Vlad. Only by knowing them will you be able to defeat them.” He ran a hand, heavy with jewelled rings, through his curly black hair. “What else do you know of them?”

“I know they are obsessed by food. Are not the colonels of the janissaries known as ‘soup cooks’? They treat human flesh like they treat mutton. Boil it. Baste it. Grill it and roast it.”

“And do they eat it, too?”

“I have not seen that.”

Strangely, his father began to cry. Vlad had seen him laugh, often. Never cry. It disturbed him. “Please…don’t…”

“I failed you, boy,” Vlad Dracul wept. “I am the reason you have to see all that. The reason you are here. I couldn’t keep the balance. If I hadn’t helped Hunyadi, the Hungarians would have eaten me, spat out my bones. But the Turk found out. Punished me through you. And all for nothing. My time is done. It is too late.” He plunged his face into his hands, shouted, “Too late! I have prayed nightly—to God, to Saint Gheorghe—to protect my precious boys. Yet here you are. And Radu! Radu!”

Vlad shuddered. “My brother? What of him?”

The voice came from between fingers. “You left him. Left him to me.”

The language was different. So was the face that lifted now. Mehmet smiled, ran his tongue over his swollen lips. “And now he is mine—and far sweeter than any whore you could steal.”

“No!” Vlad screamed, leapt, hands stretched before him to grapple and rend. But he gripped nothing, slipped, his head striking stone. He felt the sticky wetness on his brow, reached up…and another hand forestalled him, touching there, caressing there. He knew it instantly for it was the only one that had touched him in that way since his mother had died.

“Ilona,” he whispered, reaching up to the hand that was not there. “Star.”

“My lord,” she murmured, leaning her face into the light.

He had long since unpinned her hair, uncurled the tight ringlets that Mehmet had ordered. It fell now in hazel waves, framing the near perfect oval of a face that bore no hint of paint and needed none.

“Are you safe, my star?”

“Safe, my lord. Safe in our land. I wait for you there.”

“Wait? No! Do not wait. You are pure, unsullied. Innocent. Do not wait for a monster.”

“You? You are my hero. My savior. My prince.”

“Monster!” he screamed, reaching forward, trying to shove her away. But his hands met air alone, and he drew them back, covered his face. “Monster,” he repeated, more quietly. “For I have become one of them.”

“How?”

He didn’t know whose voice it was who asked. It didn’t matter now. He’d tell them all—Ilona, Father, Mehmet. The others.

—

Wadi stood before the glowing furnace, Mahir in darkness behind him, the rest of the
orta
spread in a semi-circle around. The small man had a livid bruise on his cheekbone. “So, princeling,” he spat, as soon as the jailers brought Vlad into the chamber, “for months now you have taken no part in your lessons. You have merely…
observed
.” He sneered the word. “But that is not why you are here. To observe. It is not what is required of you. Nor of me.” He reached up, and fingered the bruise upon his cheekbone. “Others are becoming impatient. I am becoming impatient. So it is time for our lessons to become more…direct.”

He nodded to the jailers. They left but returned swiftly, holding another man between them and Vlad saw immediately how different he was to the poor laborers they usually practiced upon. In his middle years, he had a trimmed beard and moustache on pale skin and was dressed in clothes from the West—a green velvet doublet, hose, buckled shoes.

“A treat, scholars,” Wadi cried. “A merchant and a captain, from Rome, no less. An educated man yet stupid enough to try and smuggle spices and slaves and not pay the tariff. So he will pay now.” He smiled. “His cries and prayers will make such a change from our usual peasant gruntings, eh? It will be a pleasure to hear them. Or…not.” He turned to Vlad, his hand reaching up to the welt upon his face. “For you are educated, too. Perhaps your cries would be even more entertaining?”

Vlad swallowed. “You would not dare.”

“Would not?” Wadi’s laugh was harsh. “This is my realm, princeling, not yours. And in it, I can do anything I desire.” He turned to the
orta
. “Strip them both.”

The students lunged, stripped. In moments, Vlad and the merchant stood facing each other, naked save for a loin cloth, their arms pinned.

Wadi reached for something behind him, then stepped forward. He only came to Vlad’s chest and he peered up into his eyes. “What is the motto of our
kolej
? Say it, princeling. Say it.”

Vlad looked away, silent.

“No? Forgotten it?” Wadi looked at the students who held Vlad. “Tell him.”

Both boys shouted it. “You torture others so they cannot torture you.”

“You torture others so they cannot torture you,” Wadi repeated softly. Then he brought his hand up and laid a coldness against Vlad’s skin. Squinting down, he could see that it was a knife with a blade no longer than the small man’s palm; it curved, widened, ended in a square tip. He recognized it…for he had used one himself and recently, to cut strips of leather for Hamza
agha
’s glove.

It rested against him but a moment. Then, suddenly, Wadi thrust one corner of the tip into Vlad’s chest. Slit, slid, sliced a strip the width of the blade, the length of a finger, before Vlad’s scream was seconds old.

Wadi stepped away, turned to the others, holding the strip high. He raised his voice above the moaning. “Did you all note how easily the skin peels away? How I slipped the flat of the blade in shallowly? Used its keenness, not my strength? This technique is called flaying. And it is said that in the farthest East they can keep a man alive through a thousand cuts. Do we believe it? Can we exceed it? Shall we try?”

“Yes!” came the cry.

He threw the skin onto the brazier. It sizzled there, crisping swiftly to black, burning with a sweet, foul scent. “Let them go,” he said, to those who held both prisoners.

They were released, Vlad clutching a hand to the blood that flowed between his fingers. He kept upright despite the pain, watched as Wadi came forward, stooped and laid the knife onto the stone floor between the two unclothed men.