House of War Page 5

  “You want me to become a Hamil al-Qur’an?” Mehmed shrieked. “I’ve told you I want to be a soldier, not a—”

  “The Qur’an has six thousand, two hundred, and thirty-six ayat, verses,” Gürani said. “To meet my expectations you’ll have to recite from memory sixty-six ayat every day, without error. If you fail to do this, our agreement is terminated, and you must send your friend off to Amasya as the sultan has commanded.”

  Vlad’s initial joy at the unexpected reprieve turned to anxiety. Gürani’s target was unrealistic but for the most gifted individuals. Did Mehmed have the ability to memorize hundreds of words every day and then recite them to Gürani? Vlad caught himself chewing his thumbnail as he considered the likelihood of Mehmed’s failure.

  Mehmed seemed to read Vlad’s anguish. Slowly, his childish face took on the hardened look of someone on a mission.

  “I swear by Allah to do what you’ve requested, Mullah Gürani,” he said, with poise. Then he took Vlad by the arm and together they walked out of the madrasah.

  8

  UNDESIRED GOOD NEWS

  October 1442, Constantinople, Byzantine Empire

  For the past two years Donatella had felt time thunder by like a hound on a bloody trail. No matter how much she clung to every moment, seeking to slow it down, hours flew like minutes, days like hours, weeks like days. At the onset, when she learned that Grimaldi had promised Bianca to Murad three years hence, Donatella lied to herself: I’m not worried. A thousand days was more than she needed to squash her brother-in-law’s folly. But soon and unawares, as in a nightmare where time shrinks and crumbles, only eight hundred days remained. Then only six hundred. By the time Vlad entered her life, the time remaining to Bianca’s enslavement had dwindled to fewer than four hundred days.

  The moment Bianca escaped, Donatella began to urge time on, so news of her daughter’s arrival in Venice might come soon and ease the pain occasioned by their separation. But now time, yesterday’s panting hound, changed into an indolent crone shuffling in place. Sleepless nights wore her out with the crushing weight of longing for Bianca and Vlad. And nothing mitigated the emptiness of her daylight hours while she lacked interest in all that had given her pleasure before. She ceased going outdoors, gave up embroidering, and abandoned her daily makeup. Even her fragrant morning baths, erstwhile anticipated with delight, became a perfunctory hygienic function.

  “It’s noon, and you’re still in your nightgown,” Paola said, ten days into Donatella’s new lifestyle. She tried to brush her mistress’s hair as she lay sprawled on her rumpled sheets, but Donatella batted Paola’s hand and turned her face away.

  “So you’ve decided to let yourself go?” Paola said. “At this rate you’ll soon have no need of me.”

  There was in Paola’s tone, besides acrimonious reproach, enough tenderness to make Donatella regret the coldness she’d been showing her nurse lately. She sat up and reached out to Paola. “You know I can’t imagine life without you.”

  That moment she experienced a vague sense of nausea, and her hands tingled.

  Always observant, Paola noticed Donatella’s discomfort and embraced her.

  “You’re clammy and pale,” she said. “See what happens if you lie about all day and eat less than a sparrow?”

  “It has nothing to do with eating,” Donatella cried, impatient. “The cook is boiling cabbage again, and the smell makes me sick.”

  “That’s new,” Paola said, raising her eyebrows. “So no more cabbage leaves for your facials, I guess?”

  Donatella stifled a gagging reflex. Worried she might vomit, she dismissed Paola. Then she walked to her makeup table and watched herself in the mirror. Her forehead was beaded with sweat, though she felt chilled. What’s wrong with me? She crawled back into bed and decided the next day she’d take a walk outdoors to regain her strength.

  But the next morning she felt even weaker, so she limited her walk to the piano nobile. After twice walking the length of the portego she felt exhausted and stepped into the salon to rest. She’d avoided this room since the day Vlad was taken away, fearing the memory of his embrace would be too vivid there and wrack her with desire.

  Two maids were oiling the paneling. Donatella was about to order them out, when the scent of oil rekindled her nausea. She ran to her dressing room, where she let herself drop to her knees fighting the urge to retch. A moment later Paola was at her side.

  “It’s time you got hold of yourself,” Paola said, stern. “You know it will take Captain Andrea two months to make the round trip to Venice. So find something to keep you occupied until he returns.”

  “You’re hurting my breasts,” Donatella cried when Paola lifted her by the armpits. Once standing she pushed Paola away, and clutched her bosom. She was surprised to discover how tender her breasts were.

  “Are you having cramps, too?” Paola walked over to where Donatella’s calendar was pinned to the wall. “But of course,” she said, pointing at a red circle marking tomorrow’s date, “it’s your menses. I’ll go fetch your sponges.”

  The next day, instead of the expected flow, all Donatella noticed was light spotting. That never happened before. In fact, she couldn’t remember a time when her monthly ordeal was delayed a single day. Except when she was expecting Bianca. It’s the anxiety of the wait, she reassured herself. She decided not to confide in Paola, who was quick with jumping to conclusions.

  But when she was three days late, Donatella lost her composure.

  “What’s wrong with me?” she sobbed when her nurse undressed her for the night.

  Paola glanced at Donatella’s breasts and started. “Your areolas are darker than usual; same as when you had Bianca.”

  The notion Donatella had nurtured, that her lateness was induced by stress, evaporated. But instead of the panic she should’ve felt, an intense sweetness flooded her. Was it possible that someone she longed for and could never have, now lived inside her?

  Donatella and Paola watched each other in silence for a few moments. Then the old nurse said, with customary assertiveness, “We don’t have much time. I’ll find somebody right away.”

  The implication of what Paola had in mind stung Donatella like lemon on a fresh wound. “You can’t be thinking of—”

  “Do you have a better idea?” Paola said, acid.

  “But you’re asking me to commit a mortal sin,” Donatella said, aware that statement did nothing to solve her problem.

  “Pope Eugene was a friend of your father’s. He’s apt to grant you absolution.”

  “I won’t do it,” Donatella cried and stamped her foot.

  Paola glowered. “So what’s your plan? Hide in a nunnery until your time comes?”

  Donatella covered her face with her hands. “It’s been done thousands of times before.”

  “Then what?” Paola said. “Give the child away?”

  “Nooo!” Donatella burst into tears. “Boy or girl, I want to raise it myself.”

  “I see,” Paola said, sarcastic. “You think you can pretend you’ve adopted an orphan. Who do you think would believe such a tale?”

  “Why should I care what people believe?”

  “You’re already hated by the Italians in the city for being Venetian, and by the Venetians for having married a Genovese. Do you want to be despised by all of them as a whore, on top of that?”

  “Their scorn can’t touch me,” Donatella said, stubborn.

  Paola shrugged. “Very well, then. If your reputation means nothing to you, know that when Venice finds out you had a bastard, Bianca’s chances for a good marriage are ruined.”

  This argument wasn’t something Donatella could dismiss. A new cloud of anxiety, like the miasma of an ancient crypt, wrapped around her. “I can’t choose between the happiness of one child and the life of another.” She felt as if all strength had drained out of her.

  “Then the only thing to do is marry. Fast, before you start showing. You’ll make Grimaldi happy.”

  The u
nexpected suggestion raked up the muck of Donatella’s revulsion for the old podestà.

  Paola pinched her chin gently. “You’ve brought this upon yourself by encouraging Vlad to fall in love with you. Now you must pay the price by submitting to that old goat, unless you want to drag Bianca into the mud with you.”

  To see Bianca happy Donatella would stop at nothing. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine herself in Grimaldi’s bed, being probed in intimate places by his palsied hands. For Bianca’s sake I can handle it, she told herself, though the thought made her sick. She barely made it to her washbasin where she retched.

  Paola wiped her face and led her to the bed.

  “I know it’s ghastly to imagine lying with Grimaldi,” she said. “But you have to do it only once for your child not to be a bastard.”

  “Last time he was here I threw him out,” Donatella said. “If I go back to him now, won’t he suspect something’s behind my change of heart?”

  Paola gave a dry cackle. “You give men too much credit, Tella. They think with their pricks, not with their brains like we do. Many a bride has brought her love-child to the nuptial bed, and rare’s the groom who could tell he’s been cuckolded beforehand.”

  Donatella’s heart began to race at the thought that Vlad’s child would escape shame, albeit at the cost of growing up as another Grimaldi. Her voice quivered when she said, “I’ll go see my brother-in-law tomorrow.”

  “No, you won’t,” Paola said. “You’ll send your steward to tell the podestà you have business news for him. He’ll come, and I’ll coach you on what to say.”

  9

  SHEIK AL-MASUDI

  October 1442, Bursa, Ottoman Empire

  The first thing Omar did in Bursa was to rent a garret in the Yıldırım Quarter, two short blocks from the sultan’s palace. From his window he was able to see all who entered and left the palace grounds. One day he’d see Dracula venture into town and then his brothers’ martyrdom would be avenged. Despite Zaganos’s admonition, Omar wasn’t about to abandon his pursuit of Dracula, though he’d be most discreet about it. As for the Bektashi Dervishes, he’d start by frequenting them as an outsider, an aspirant to the brotherhood, but not commit to a long period of isolation and apprenticeship. Not before he dealt his enemy the deathblow he deserved.

  Next day he crossed the Irgandı Bridge spanning Gökdere, the Blue Stream, and wandered through the Kayhan Quarter until he located the Bektashi tekke.

  “I have a message for Sheik al-Masudi,” he told the old man who opened the gate.

  The usher seemed accustomed to this type of claim, for he said nothing and led Omar to a windowless hall lit by a single lamp. At the rear of the room was an alcove draped with a flimsy veil. Half a dozen men sat on the floor in a semicircle in front of the alcove, speaking in low tones.

  “Wait here,” the usher whispered and pushed Omar into a niche in the side wall. “Face away and don’t peek. It’s not for you to know who’s visiting Sheik al-Masudi.”

  But Omar had already recognized Zaganos Pasha among the sheik’s visitors.

  The usher shuffled toward the alcove and Omar heard a muffled exchange. Then there was a rustle of footsteps as the men filed out of the hall.

  “The sheik will hear you now,” the usher said, then he too left the hall and shut the door.

  Omar approached the alcove with a racing heart and knelt on the carpet in front of it. Then he waited for a sign inviting him to speak. Half an hour passed in near silence; only the sound of someone’s breathing behind the veil told him he wasn’t alone.

  “I have a message for you, dede al-Masudi,” Omar finally whispered.

  No reply came from the saint.

  Omar waited, while time gradually slowed and then stopped. A feeling of peace came upon him, as if all worries had been lifted off his shoulders. His body became lighter and lighter until it seemed to float above the carpet. I’m truly in the presence of a saint.

  “You may speak,” a voice finally resounded from behind the veil, low, velvety, soothing like a draft of cold water in the summer.

  Omar cleared his throat and recited in Arabic the Qur’an verse commanded by Zaganos, his tone dampened by timidity. “‘I do not ask for any reward from you; my reward is only with Allah, and I am commanded that I should be of those who submit.’”

  More time passed in silence; Omar couldn’t tell how much. Then he heard a light step behind him.

  “Leave now and you’ll be sent for in due time,” the usher said.

  At the gate, Omar turned to the man. “I live near—”

  “No need. Sheik al-Masudi knows everything that concerns you.”

  10

  UNEXPECTED NEW BEGINNING

  October 1442, Constantinople, Byzantine Empire

  “You won’t find my news pleasant, Podestà,” Donatella said.

  She couldn’t help noticing Grimaldi’s fingernails, overgrown and dirty. Only Paola’s smelling salts saved her from another nausea attack.

  This time she received him in the library, where leather-bound books and hanging maps fostered a businesslike atmosphere. To steel her courage, she sat behind a writing desk and invited Grimaldi to sit in front of her, like a subordinate.

  She was meticulously made up and wore the low-cut crimson gamurra that not long ago had fanned Grimaldi’s desire for her. “Never mind jewelry,” Paola had said. “Men notice only flesh.”

  As Paola had predicted, upon entering the room Grimaldi glanced around once, then stared unabashed at her décolletage.

  She looked him in the eye and assumed a grave mien. “The captain of a Catalan galley just returning from Athens has informed me that—”

  “Are you about to beg for another favor?” Grimaldi said, indignant. The mention of the galley seemed to have broken the spell Donatella’s breasts cast on him.

  “This captain was caught in a storm off Negroponte,” she said, “and witnessed the sinking of Captain Andrea’s ship.”

  Grimaldi half-rose and slapped the desk with both hands, sending a handful of quills flying. “What?”

  She took the old man’s hands and held them with a show of compassion. “Calm down, Podestà. Both your niece and Captain Andrea have been rescued. They’re continuing their voyage to Venice.”

  “What do I care about them?” Grimaldi blurted, spraying saliva in her direction. “What concerns me is my—how could your captain lose two galleys in the span of three weeks?”

  Seeing Grimaldi’s bloodred face and bulging eyes, Donatella feared she and Paola might’ve underestimated the shock their faux news would cause him. Don’t die on me, Podestà, now when I need you. She wished she could skip the rest of her script and get to the payload of her scheme. But Paola had been adamant. “Work Grimaldi over gradually, or he’s liable to evade your net.”

  “Poor Andrea does indeed appear to be cursed,” she said with a deep sigh. “I’m going to think hard before I entrust him again with one of my ships.”

  This statement further infuriated Grimaldi. “What ships, woman?” he said, quivering with frustration. “You have no ship and could never buy one. Your cash reserves have dwindled to near nothing through mismanagement. And your assets are hard to sell. I’m sick at heart wondering how you’ll make good on what you owe me. What a fool I was to lease you my galley without collateral.”

  Time for the hook. “Well, I wouldn’t have bothered you, Ser Grimaldi, if I didn’t have good news as well.” She forced herself to smile and waited for him to take in this new twist. “Far from being the destitute you’re describing, I’m in a position to compensate you for the loss of your galley.”

  Grimaldi let out a hoarse laugh void of gaiety. “And all you need to make this happen is borrow another galley of mine, right? Then profit from a new business venture and repay me.” He appeared poised to launch into fresh recriminations, when she stopped him with a commanding gesture.

  “Nothing like that, Ser Grimaldi. Send me your attorney next week to r
eceive cash payment for the galley and to issue me a debt satisfaction letter.”

  Anger distorted his features. “What do you think you’re accomplishing with such an outlandish—?”

  “You’re right to be skeptical about my finances,” she said with sham humility. She watched Grimaldi’s confusion for a few moments, then put on a triumphant air. “But there is someone in this city for whom my entire debt is only a trifle. That someone has asked to marry me and insists on clearing my debt before the wedding ceremony. ‘I don’t want my wife to be indebted to a Genovese,’ is what he said.”

  The moment of truth. Would Grimaldi pounce upon the opportunity to be made whole, or would he—?

  “This is outrageous,” Grimaldi hissed. “Less than a month ago you promised to think about marrying me. Who’s this secret admirer of yours who just popped up at the last moment? A Venetian, right?”

  She watched him, expressionless.

  “A Pisan, then? An Amalfitan?”

  “It doesn’t matter what my future husband is, Ser Grimaldi.” She extracted from a drawer a copy of her promissory note to him. “As long as he makes this obligation go away.”

  Grimaldi snatched the note from Donatella and waved it in her face. “How could you think to sell yourself for this pittance?”

  “You’re joking, Podestà. Without my future husband’s help I’d have to sell Ca’ Loredano to pay off this note.”

  “Then marry me and I’ll forgive your debt,” he pleaded.

  She took a deep breath, as if preparing for a difficult task. “It isn’t just about the money, Podestà.” The she lowered her eyes and assumed a bashful look.

  “What else could it be?” Grimaldi appeared torn between hope and uncertainty. “Doesn’t money solve all problems?”

  “It was you, yourself, who gave me the notion of marriage, Ser Grimaldi. I realized that I’m not too old to have more children, and my suitor’s keen on having an heir.”

  “So am I, so am I,” Grimaldi cried and jumped to his feet.