Empire of the Crescent Moon Read online

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  Son of the Dragon : Book One of Dracula Chronicles (Published December 2012)

  EMPIRE OF THE

  CRESCENT MOON

  Book Two of Dracula Chronicles

  by

  Victor T. Foia

  COPYRIGHT NOTICE

  Dracula Chronicles

  Book Two: Empire of the Crescent Moon

  By: Victor T. Foia

  First Kindle Edition

  Published by: Dracula Press, LLC

  www.draculachronicles.com [email protected]

  Cover artwork by Justin T. Foia

  Editors: Arlene W. Robinson and Terry Lee Robinson

  The image of the dragon on the cover property of Bayerisches Nationalmuseum

  Reproduced with permission based on a slightly modified image of Inv. No T 3792,

  “Badge of the Order of the Dragon”

  Copyright © 2014 by Victor T. Foia

  All rights reserved

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  ISBN-13 (paperback edition only): 978-1491296400

  ISBN-10 (paperback edition only): 1491296402

  Library of Congress Control Number (paperback edition only): 2013914879

  For my sons, Justin and Timothy, artists, entrepreneurs, and my best friends

  And as always for Diane

  Table of Contents

  Maps of Dracula Chronicles

  CHAPTER 1: Mein Gott, Nimm Mich!—My God, Take Me!

  CHAPTER 2: One Blunder at a Time

  CHAPTER 3: A Forged Document

  CHAPTER 4: The Two Tower Gate

  CHAPTER 5: Sultan’s Wife

  CHAPTER 6: In the Bedestan

  CHAPTER 7: Sultan’s Musahib

  CHAPTER 8: Macedon Tower

  CHAPTER 9: Dar al-Sulh—House of Treaty

  CHAPTER 10: The Karaman Hostage

  CHAPTER 11: The Mind behind the Plot

  CHAPTER 12: A Fateful Step

  CHAPTER 13: Disobedient Servant

  CHAPTER 14: An Ancient Water Cistern

  CHAPTER 15: The Auction Block

  CHAPTER 16: An Impulsive Decision

  CHAPTER 17: Pharmacopeia

  CHAPTER 18: Caring Hands

  CHAPTER 19: Broken Loom

  CHAPTER 20: Imperial Council

  CHAPTER 21: Help from an Enemy

  CHAPTER 22: Underground Dungeon

  CHAPTER 23: The King’s Challenge

  CHAPTER 24: Gruya’s Catch

  CHAPTER 25: A Woman’s Plan

  CHAPTER 26: Mehmed’s Map Room

  CHAPTER 27: A Trial of Arms

  CHAPTER 28: At the Hamam

  CHAPTER 29: Sultan’s Gift

  CHAPTER 30: Storm on the Bosphorus

  CHAPTER 31: Podestà Grimaldi

  CHAPTER 32: A View toward Asia

  CHAPTER 33: Arrow across the Water

  CHAPTER 34: An Unplanned Adventure

  CHAPTER 35: Captain Throatcut

  CHAPTER 36: Pantelimon Monastery

  CHAPTER 37: Bounty Hunters

  CHAPTER 38: The Flight of the Hawk

  CHAPTER 39: The Price of Sin

  CHAPTER 40: Zaganos’s Judgment

  The Journey Continues

  Glossary

  Who is Who and What is What

  Story World of Dracula Chronicles

  Houses of Dracula Chronicles

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Maps of Dracula Chronicles

  Southeast Europe & Asia Minor in the time of Dracula

  Balkan Space in the time of Dracula

  Wallachia in the time of Dracula

  Transylvania in the time of Dracula

  Constantinople in the time of Dracula

  CHAPTER 1: Mein Gott, Nimm Mich!—My God, Take Me!

  June 1442, Rumelia, Ottoman Empire

  “By the Pope’s shriveled nuts, you’ve got to see this, Vlad,” Gruya whispered. “That woman there is carrying a severed head by the hair.”

  Vlad and his squire were peeking by turns through a hole in the rear flap of the wagon’s canopy. Their convoy had halted a couple of hours before, when the leading wagon’s axle broke. Now they were being overtaken by a convoy of about thirty slaves, walking chained by the neck to each other. Six overseers on horseback were driving them.

  The woman had caught Vlad’s eye from far away because of her flying blonde hair, almost white in the strong sunlight. When she approached to within twenty paces he could tell her clothes, though torn and muddy, marked her of noble rank. Her proud bearing reinforced that impression. She stood out among the other prisoners, who marched with bent necks and drooping shoulders, by walking tall, face tilted to the sky. Now and then she’d stumble, and teeter on the verge of falling, yet was kept upright by the chain that tethered her to the prisoners in front and behind. But even when she flailed her arm to regain her balance, the woman’s eyes never unfastened from whatever vision only she saw. She appeared to be talking to herself as well. When she reached the wagon, Vlad made out a phrase in German she kept repeating, “Mein Gott, nimm mich!, My God, take me!” White skin, ruby lips, blue eyes. A princess, he decided. Then he lied to himself it wasn’t her beauty that kept his attention, but the man’s head that dangled in her hand.

  “It reminds me of an incense burner,” Gruya said, “the way it swings back and forth by the tresses.” He made a grimace of disgust. “But I bet it stinks like a witch’s butt.” He pushed Vlad aside, and spat through the hole in the canvas.

  “I wonder what her story is,” Vlad said. From the woman’s looks, she was from the north. Bohemia? Poland? Lithuania? They all spoke German in those parts. How did she get far enough to the south to be captured by the Turks? So young, so beautiful, so far away from home. And now so doomed.

  “That must be her husband’s head she doesn’t want to part with.”

  “Whosoever’s head it is, she’s not carrying it by choice,” Vlad said, and resumed watching the convoy. “She’s been ordered to do it. I see two other slaves doing the same back in the convoy.”

  “Why would the slavers need the heads? Can they sell them as trophies?”

  Vlad knew the answer from Gunther’s stories. “The overseers of these convoys are only intermediaries, hired to take the slaves to the market. They sign off for a number of heads, and must deliver that number at the destination, or pay for the missing ones.”

  “Ah, so the heads serve as receipts for those who die on the way,” Gruya said. “Cruel trick on the poor survivors, but efficient for the owners.”

  The convoy moved past the wagon in a clinking of chains and a babble of wails. Two of the overseers kept prodding the prisoners with wooden rods to keep the pace. The other four brought up the rear, conversing casually in Turkish about the weather.

  “I can’t get that woman out my mind,” Vlad said, when the sounds faded.

  “And I can’t get a massive portion of sausage and cabbage out of mine,” Gruya said. “I’ve had enough prunes for a lifetime.”

  “I hope Father’s drivers fix that broken axle soon, and we catch up with the slaves.”

  “Just thinking of prunes makes me want to go.” Gruya held his belly in both hands and gave Vlad a pained look.

  “We can’t be too far from the inn,” Vlad said. “We’ll see the slaves there again.”

  “I hope we give ourselves up
tonight, so I can sit in the privy for an hour, without fear of being discovered.” Gruya moaned, and lay down in the fetal position.

  “It’s still too soon,” Vlad said. “We aren’t more than fifty miles from the Danube. At this distance, Father might turn around and boot us back across the river.”

  “Now, would it be really so bad to get back home?”

  Until the arrival of the slaves, Vlad had secretly thought like Gruya. The ride was jarring, and the air inside their hiding place either stifling, or bone-chilling. For the past two and a half days, he and Gruya had subsisted on the dried fruit they discovered in the cargo of their wagon. The first night they were able to sneak out to drink water and use the inn’s privy. But the second night, two of the muleteers set their sleeping blankets behind the wagon, and unwittingly trapped Vlad and Gruya inside. Hunger, thirst, and boredom pushed Vlad to despondency, and he fell to dwelling on the setbacks he’d suffered recently. There were Nestor’s and László’s duplicitous behaviors, Father’s unfairness, and Vlad’s own miscalculation regarding Omar. And then, more painful than all other setbacks, Gunther’s death. These all contrived to make Vlad lose interest in this trip.

  But the sight of that peculiar woman, the princess gazing at the sky, changed everything. Now he felt refreshed, energized, and purposeful. He had to see her again. And maybe do something....

  “You’d better not be thinking about getting out now,” Vlad said, alarmed at Gruya’s look of panic as the squire groaned and clutched his belly again.

  “It’s like a knife ripping through my guts.”

  “For every prune I ate, you ate ten.” Vlad looked through the peephole again. “It’ll be dark in about three hours. Then you can run to the bushes.”

  Indistinct noises rose from the front of their convoy, followed by a whistle. Vlad heard steps approaching, and felt the wagon sway as their driver climbed up onto his seat. A few moments later, they were in motion again. The wagon began to lumber over the uneven terrain, lurching from side to side.

  “Oh, no, I can’t take this,” Gruya hissed. “If you don’t let me go now something bad’s going to happen and you’ll regret it.”

  Vlad sighed, and began to undo the thong that fastened the canopy flap at the rear of the wagon. “Had I known, I’d have brought diapers along. Next time, you’re staying home.”

  Gruya sprang out of the wagon and dashed across an empty field toward a hedge, some twenty yards away. Before he could disappear behind the bushes an alert driver gave a shout, and Gruya froze. Then, concluding perhaps that secrecy had become moot, he strutted the rest of the way.

  The convoy lumbered to a halt, and incredulous voices shouted, “That’s Master Gruya,” and, “There goes the sword bearer’s son,” and, “Will Lord Michael be surprised!” Guffaws followed when Gruya’s proceedings behind the bushes became audible.

  Vlad climbed down from the wagon and stepped over to the edge of the road, so all could see him too. The drivers, who stood on their seats to gawk and laugh at Gruya, now turned their eyes on Vlad. This time, out of respect for the king perhaps, or astonishment at Vlad’s pluck, they fell to silence.

  Vlad was prepared for his father’s displeasure. He didn’t care what form it would take, verbal, physical, or both, as long as it wasn’t followed by a forcible return to Wallachia. Now he was determined to continue the trip, and find out the identity of that hapless princess.

  It didn’t take long for Dracul to emerge from his wagon, followed by a shaken Michael. The two men remained still for a while, heads leaned into each other, staring at Vlad with grave looks. They appeared to be conferring, but were too far away for Vlad to hear them. Finally, Dracul began to walk toward Vlad, leaning harder than usual on his walking stick, wincing with each step. Eight months had passed since Dracul shattered his right shinbone, because Vlad disobeyed his order to shoot an attacking wolf. The pain never left entirely, but whenever he was annoyed with Vlad, it seemed to flare up. And Dracul wore it as a silent reproach.

  Being reminded once more of the part he’d played in his father’s crippling tore at Vlad’s insides. The recollection heightened his feeling of guilt for disobeying him this time too, and in such a brazen manner. Could Vlad blame Father if he chose to humiliate him in front of everyone? He both dreaded and welcomed his father’s wrath. Perhaps the punishment would release Vlad from his guilt.

  “You have no idea what you’ve done, Son,” Dracul said when he reached Vlad. His voice was soft and controlled, not in concert with his hard face and cold eyes. Nor with the tension he betrayed as he held his walking stick with both hands, trying to flex it like the blade of a sword. “I’ve used every subterfuge I could for the past five years to avoid giving one of my sons as hostage to Murad. I temporized, I bribed, I cheated, I lied, as if I were a goddamn Hungarian. I would’ve perjured myself like one too, had that been needed.”

  As Dracul spoke, his voice gained a cutting edge, and the cypress stick in his hands began to bend despite its hardness. “I even chose to pay Murad a tribute larger than he requested, to keep you and your brothers out of his hands. You can’t imagine what he does to hostages at the slightest provocation.” The veins on Dracul’s neck bulged and he bared his teeth in the way an enraged dog does before it snaps at its tormentor. Then he snarled, “Can you?”

  The stick broke in his hands with a powerful report, but Dracul seemed unaware. His voice, freed of the shackles of self-restraint, exploded. “And now you walk into Murad’s lair of your own free will?”

  Dracul’s initial calm unnerved Vlad. But when his father succumbed to sizzling anger, Vlad knew things were under control. He surmised that Father couldn’t afford the delay of taking him back to the Danube, and felt relieved. “The sultan won’t know about me. I’m already dressed as a stable hand, and I’ll—”

  “Things never turn out the way you want them with the Turks,” Dracul shouted. “They’ve got a way to get the better of you every time.” He stared at his boots, and bit his lower lip.

  Vlad guessed his father had run out of bile. He never seemed capable of producing much of it. As if to confirm Vlad’s suspicion, Dracul assumed a calm demeanor and said, resigned, “I know something bad’s going to come of this, and there isn’t a damned thing I can do about it now.”

  “You said in Nicopolis you’ll be home in a few weeks. What could go wrong in such a short time?”

  Dracul gave Vlad a pained look. “Did I say that?” He turned his back on him and walked away, dragging his right leg. Vlad wondered how much of that limping was a show mounted for his benefit.

  “That’s the caravanserai,” Vlad told Gruya, and pointed at a substantial brick structure in the distance. The convoy had stopped to let the mules rest on the summit of a slope they’d been climbing for more than two hours. Below them opened a valley already filling with a bluish evening haze. The inn was nestled among trees on the bank of a small river. In the last sunrays bouncing off the clouds, a slender tower rose from inside the inn’s courtyard, gleaming white like a waterfall crashing down the steep face of a mountain. “There is a mosque inside the caravanserai, and what you see there is the minaret.”

  “All I can see is food.” Gruya sounded drained. “A giant flitch of bacon, and a—”

  “You’ll have food, don’t worry, but think only of boiled vegetables and rice. Get pork out of your mind for as long as we are inside the Dar al-Islam, House of Islam.”

  “It’s a true mystery how anyone could build an empire without pork,” Gruya said. “The Jews tried to, didn’t they? And look, to this day they don’t have one. If for no other reason than pork, the Ottoman Empire can’t last much longer.”

  “Oh, you’re so astute, Gruya. And to think of all the needless fuss the Pope is kicking up with his crusade. When all he’s got to do is wait for the Turks to perish for want of swine flesh.”

  The inn, with an appearance of a small fortress, was a two-story edifice built around a rectangular courtyard. It was accessibl
e through a single portal, just tall enough for camels and wide enough for wagons. Massive plank doors reinforced with iron bands protected this entrance. The windows, extant only on the upper floor, were tiny, shuttered openings. Along the perimeter of the building, a ditch four feet deep had been dug to serve as a dry moat. When Dracul’s convoy reached the caravanserai, Vlad saw the slaves in this ditch.

  “There’s your woman,” Gruya said.

  But Vlad had already spotted his princess from far away. She was still alive; God hadn’t answered her prayer yet.

  The slaves, still chained to each other, were strung in single file along the bottom of the ditch. The chains of those at either end of the file were anchored to iron rods driven into the ground, so the prisoners couldn’t bunch up together. With anxious looks, they followed the movements of an overseer who was pitching cabbage leaves and turnips at them from the rim of the ditch. He was quite adept at his job, but now and then a piece of food fell short of its target. On such occasions there was commotion in the ditch while men and women strained against their chains to reach the stray item.

  The princess seemed oblivious to the hubbub around her, and didn’t attempt to feed herself. Her male neighbors on either side took advantage of that to filch her portion. The sight gave Vlad a lump in his throat that stayed with him till late evening.

  CHAPTER 2: One Blunder at a Time

  The inn’s precinct was jammed with wagons, animals, and people. Vlad and Gruya were able to observe, in the open, the courtyard movements they only heard the two previous nights from their hiding place in the wagon.

  Despite the lateness of the day, the agitation and noise inside the caravanserai rivaled that of any small-town market. A dozen stableboys ferried stacks of animal fodder on two-wheeled carts from the rear storehouses, and piled them up at various places throughout the yard. Muleteers and camel drivers watered and fed their animals, while their masters congregated to gossip and make business deals. Fruit, sherbet, and halva vendors moved from group to group, hawking their fares with loud cries.