Blood of the Impaler (38 page)

Here he was now, the supposedly Catholic ruler of an Orthodox people under Moslem attack. If he was to win the battle that the morrow portended, he would again cast off this most recent religious cloak, reaffirm his Orthodoxy, and thus bind the peasants to him with bonds of icons and Slavonic chants.

Catholic, Orthodox, Moslem—it made no difference. He would become a Hussite or a Jew if policy necessitated it. He had no interest in God.

Ordogh
, he prayed silently,
put iron into the backbones of this rabble army of mine. I will need each one of them tomorrow against Torghuz Beg
.

He moved his eyes toward the center of the room and he smiled again, not grimly this time, but in anticipation.
I shall give this scum some entertainment
, he thought,
entertainment that will amuse them and that will drive home to them how terrible an enemy I can be when angered. You must fear me more than you fear the Turks, my children
.

In the center of the great hall, two tall oak stakes thrust fifteen feet up toward the high ceiling. Many years ago—long before his most recent imprisonment—the Voivode had ordered that circular holes be carved into the stone floor of this fortress to give the stakes a permanent resting place.

Tonight two terrified peasants sat on the floor, hands tied behind their backs and ankles bound together. Their simple faces were contorted by the frequent beatings they had received in recent days as they stared upward with abject fear at the sharpened tips of the wooden stakes.

The Voivode gazed down at the two peasants impassively. One of them felt the Voivode's eyes upon him, and he glanced over at the austere figure upon the dais, then immediately averted his gaze. The peasant knew that he was about to die to provide a brief amusement for his lord the Impaler, but to look into the Devil's evil eyes would be to endanger his immortal soul. He looked at his own knees with a fervid concentration, silently muttering prayers to Christ and His Mother.

The Voivode smiled.
Fear me, peasant animal
, he thought.
Your fear may be infectious, and I need my scum to fear me
. He turned and nodded curtly at his chamberlain, who immediately walked briskly forward and cried out in a loud voice, "Be still! Be still! Be still and attend! Be still and attend! The Voivode speaks! The Voivode speaks!" Then he stepped back to his position beside the throne and froze in place. The clamor subsided almost immediately.

The Voivode rose slowly to his feet and stood smiling, his pearly-white teeth clearly visible beneath his thick gray mustache. "Is all to your liking, my children?" he asked loudly.

Shouts of praise and approbation arose from the rabble who packed the great hall, shouts of devotion to their Voivode.

He raised his hands, and again the noise subsided. "Where are Jagatuik the Mongol and Yaroslav the Serb?"

Two intoxicated ruffians stumbled forward and saluted.

"It was you who captured these two miserable peasants hunting deer on my estate. I have sentenced them to death in the usual manner, a manner entirely appropriate for thieves and rebels. For your loyalty and service, I shall allow you to see to their punishment. Choose two comrades each, and attend to it immediately." He resumed his seat and smiled as the hall was suddenly filled with cheers and laughter.

The Mongol and the Serb pulled a few other drunken revelers from the ranks, and they stumbled over to the two terrified peasants. The cries of fear and pleas for mercy were lost in the din of the great hall, and the Voivode smiled as the execution commenced.

The two peasants were stripped and carried by the soldiers up the long ladders that leaned against the stakes. In their drunken lack of coordination they dropped one of the peasants, who fell the fifteen feet to floor and landed on his side. But the soldiers carried him up again, then held his legs apart as they positioned the pointed end of the stake against the pucker of his anus. The other soldiers had positioned the second peasant in the same manner, and after looking at each other so as to coordinate their actions, they counted, "ONE . . . TWO . . . THREE . . ." and shoved the peasants down. The sharp wood thrust up through their intestines and into their stomachs, to the general glee and delight of the assembled soldiery. The first peasant died immediately. The second lingered on for a few minutes, writhing upon the impalement post, his eyes bugging out and blood pouring from his mouth.

The Voivode smiled, satisfied.
Peasants may not kill my deer
, he thought.
There must be order
.

He gestured to his chamberlain, who came forward and nodded obediently at the whispered instructions. The chamberlain scurried out of the hall as the Voivode rose again from his throne and said, "We are honored tonight, my children, by the arrival of envoys from our dear friend Torghuz Beg." The soldiers shouted obscenities and curses at the mention of the name. He quieted them with a wave of his hand. "I shall confer with the Turks here and now. Let us all listen politely to their message." A ripple of laughter floated over the assembly. They knew full well how carefully their Voivode would listen.

The chamberlain returned a moment later and stood by the door to announce the envoys, who strode past him with rapid arrogance as he cried out, "The representatives of Torghuz Beg, the sultan's commander."

The Turks walked up to the foot of the throne. Two of them bowed curtly but did not remove their hats in the presence of the Voivode; the third, a younger man less aware of the significance of omissions and irregularities in diplomatic behavior, removed his plumed fez but did not bow. He looked around nervously at the drunken rabble that surrounded him.

The leader of the Turkish mission evidenced no signs of unease. He brushed a few specks of dust from his flowing silk blouse and did not even look at the Voivode as he said, "My sublime and illustrious master, Torghuz Beg, beloved of Allah and friend of the sultan, demands your immediate surrender. In his magnanimous generosity my master has condescended to allow you this opportunity to save your life and spare your people bloodshed." He then looked at the Voivode impassively, his face a study in boredom and disdain.

The Voivode smiled malevolently. "Have you Turkish pig-eaters no manners? Have you never been told that you must remove your hats in the presence of your superiors?"

The Turkish spokesman emitted an exaggerated yawn. "There is no voivode here, only a usurper who has attempted to steal a throne from his brother, the true voivode of Wallachia. The true voivode has sworn allegiance to the sultan. The usurper, whose mother, as I understand it, was an Albanian whore, is being generously offered a chance to avoid being fed to my master's dogs. My master suggests that he avail himself of it."

The Voivode laughed darkly. "My children, these pig-eaters seemed determined to keep their hats on in our presence. Well, let us be good hosts. Seize them, and nail their hats to their heads."

The two Turks who had not removed their hats sputtered stunned protests as the laughing rabble grabbed them and forced them down upon their knees. Their incredulous faces bespoke their arrogant assumption that, as envoys of Torghuz Beg, their persons were inviolate.

But of course, no one's person was inviolate to the Voivode. They realized this in their last moments of life, before those who held them drove the nails into their brains.

The Voivode motioned the third Turk forward. The young man was green with fear and nausea, and he approached with trembling steps. "You have manners, little Turk," the Voivode said. "That speaks well of your upbringing." His voice was kind and melodious.

"Th . . . thank you, Lord," the young man stammered.

"I do, however, detect a hint of arrogance in your eyes as you look at me," he went on, his voice growing increasingly cold with each successive word. "Do you look upon me with scorn, Turkish sheep lover?"

"N . . . no, My Lord! I . . ."

The Voivode nodded pensively. "Ah, but you do, I think you do indeed. I think that a lesson in manners is called for." He snapped his fingers and the young man was immediately seized by four men. The Voivode took a dagger from the sheath that hung from his leather belt and tested the blade's tip with his forefinger. A drop of blood oozed up from the prick, and the Voivode licked it off. "Now listen to me, lover of little boys, and deliver this message to the whoremonger whose ass you lick. Tell him that we shall water our crops with the blood of Turks, and that the bellies of our dogs will swell with the meat from your bodies. Tell Torghuz Beg that I shall piss on his corpse and then leave his body for the crows. Tell him all this, if you can see your way back to the Turkish camp." Then he grabbed the young man by the hair and sliced through his scalp from ear to ear around the back of his head. The Voivode reached back and grabbed the torn edge of the scalp just above the nape of the neck and wrenched it forward, pulling it over the crown of his head and down over his face. The young man screamed in pain and the soldiers cheered with delight.

The bleeding Turk stumbled from the hall as the Voivode said to his army, "Feast and enjoy yourselves. I go now to my women. Tomorrow we shall crush these Turkish insects beneath our boots and grind them into the mud." He left the hall to a cacophony of cheers and cries of loyalty.

He walked alone up the winding staircase to his private chambers, listening as the sounds of revelry faded behind him. He opened the heavy wooden door and walked into the large, silent room. It was dimly lighted by one small oil lamp, and all three of his wives were sleeping upon the wide, canopied bed. He walked over quietly, considered awakening them, but then decided to allow them to sleep a bit longer.

There would be time enough for the delights of the flesh later, before sleep overtook him, if indeed he could sleep at all. He rarely slept on the eve of battle.

He looked down at them one by one, and he smiled, enjoying their beauty, secure in their slavish, frightened devotion to him. Magda, his first and only wife recognized by the unbendable Orthodox Church, had given him his little heir, the boy Nicholae, asleep elsewhere in the castle. The second, Katarina, was a whore of such enthusiasm and expertise that he had kept her and married her, the priest's objections notwithstanding. The first priest to object to the polygamous marriage had been impaled upon a stake; likewise the second. The third had performed the ceremony willingly. Finally, Simone, the blond one, the little Frankish girl he had purchased as a slave from some Gypsies a decade ago. He had taken great pleasure with her.

None of his wives objected to the presence of the others, of course. None of them would have dared to object. There were many trees in Wallachia which could be sharpened into stakes, after all, and these women were not fools.

Taking the oil lamp with him, he left the room and descended the staircase. He did not reenter the great hall but rather continued to descend until he reached the subterranean room which served as both crypt and chapel for the castle. He placed the oil lamp into the small alcove near the doorway and walked into the dark, damp room.

The child that he had left here earlier was still in the same place, bound hand and foot and lying in trembling fear upon the surface of the coffin lid of one of the earlier voivodes. He smiled coldly at the little boy and then drew forth his dagger, still wet and red with the blood of the Turk. He placed his hand over the child's mouth and then plunged the blade for which the Voivode was grateful. The wailing and sobbing of children always annoyed him.

He turned from the corpse and whispered, "Ordogh! I am here! I have given you a gift! Come to me!"

He waited for a few moments, and then the voice said, "Your gift pleases me, Little Dragon."

"For that I am happy, Ordogh," the Voivode said.

"Why do you wish to speak to me?" the voice asked. "Do you tremble upon the eve of battle?"

"I tremble before nothing and no one," the Voivode replied evenly. "You know that, Ordogh."

"Yes, I know." The voice came from nowhere and everywhere at once—an invisible tongue, noncorporeal, formless, but present nonetheless. "Why then have you called upon me? Do you desire to know more secrets of the alchemists?"

"No, Ordogh," the Voivode said. "Tomorrow I join battle with Torghuz Beg."

"This I know."

"I have five thousand soldiers: drunken ruffians, mercenaries, and peasants. Torghuz Beg has ten thousand soldiers, seasoned veterans. His generals fought at Vaslui last year."

"This also I know."

The Voivode paused. "I may not win the battle."

"You shall not win the battle."

"I may die."

"You shall die."

The Voivode began to pace back and forth and spoke contemplatively. "If I win, I shall be the greatest of my race, and I shall unite all Dacia beneath my scepter."

"Beneath your whip," the voice corrected him.

"If I lose, then my land is lost to the Turk, and my life is lost to Torghuz Beg." He shook his head. "If I lose," he mused, "but you say
when
I
lose. Can you tell what will transpire, Ordogh? Are you omniscient?"

"No," the voice replied, "but I can count, Little Dragon. And even I, who have never needed to wield a sword or hurl a spear, know the difference between an experienced soldier and the scum you have hired to fill your depleted ranks."