Vlad by C.C. Humphreys Read Free Book Online

stood, pulling Ion to his feet. “Hate? Why do you say that?”
    Ion brushed the dust from his shalvari . “Because he gave you, and your brother, to the Turks as hostages. Sent you away from all you loved—home, mother, sisters…”
    Vlad wiped the dust from his hands. “I hated that he did it. The way he did it.”
    “He had no choice.”
    “No,” Vlad said softly. “When you are lashed to a cart wheel, kissing the Sultan’s arse, you don’t have much control over what you do.”
    Ion instantly regretted raising that memory of five years before. The Sultan’s invitation to confer at Gallipoli. The Dragon taking his two youngest sons on the embassy. But it wasn’t an embassy. It was the bringing to heel of a vassal who had played too many games on the side of the Turk’s greatest enemy: Hunyadi, the Hungarian “White Knight.” Dracul, fettered and powerless, did what was required. Swore to pay his annual tribute in gold and in promising boys for the enderun kolej . Swore to support only the Sultan in war. Eventually he was unchained, returned to his country. But he had to leave his sons behind as hostages to his word.
    Vlad had begun walking again. Ion caught up. “I am sorry…”
    “No. It is nothing,” Vlad replied. “If I hated what he did, that is past now. I understand why he did it. He did what he had to do so he could remain free and do what was right. As we all must.” He looked back. “Hamza agha has taught me that. A glove, my labor upon it, is a small price to pay for such knowledge.”
    They had reached the limits of the gardens of the inner court. Stepping through the doorway into the outer court, the sudden increase in sound halted them. Hundreds of youths from all the ortas mingled there, raising voices and dust. Standing close to the entrance were the other students of their own orta . As one, Vlad and Ion tried to move the other way. Too late.
    “Vladia! Oh, Vladia!” More kissing sounds came. “Your nose, how brown it is! How far up the agha ’s shitter did you shove it this time?”
    Vlad stopped, so Ion had to. After years in the same orta , all the hostages knew the others’ sensitivities. Vlad’s nose was one. His relationship with Hamza was another. The Serbian, Gheorghes Mardic, had hit with both. With a sigh, Ion followed Vlad to the group, each member bearing the same mocking smile on their faces, the same excitement in their eyes. This confrontation had been building for a week, since the day at the wrestling turf when Vlad had thrown both Mardics and then everyone else, one after the other. Separately, they could not defeat him. Together…
    Vlad halted a few paces away, hands at his side. “You have something to say to me, Mardic Maximus?”
    The larger of the Serbian brothers—and they were both hefty—nodded. “You heard me, Vlad…Nares!” Laughter came at the title. “But I am happy to repeat myself. That huge thing you call your nose is covered in shit. Turkish shit.” He peered exaggeratedly. “And now you are closer I can see…brown eyebrows! Brown in your hair!” He nodded. “Did you get your whole head up the agha ’s arse?”
    Ion took a step to the side, so he could watch Vlad more clearly. When he smiled, Ion readied himself. It was a signal, of sorts.
    The others must have thought so too for they suddenly bunched together, like a spear blade—the Serbians at the front, Petre the Transylvanian to their right, the Croatian Zoran to their left, the smaller Bosnian Constantin just behind.
    “Five to two,” breathed Vlad, still smiling. “Wallachian odds.”
    “Five to three, brother.”
    The shrill voice came from the midst of another orta .
    “Radu,” Vlad said without looking, “stay back. Leave this to us.”
    “And miss the fun?” A boy stepped up beside his brother, providing an immediate contrast. For Radu was fairer than Vlad, his hair as long but dark brown not midnight black, and shot through with reds; his eyes were blue as well