Children of The Night

Dreams of Blood and Iron

MY life now consists almost totally of whispers and dreams. The dreams are, of days and enemies long dead; the whispers in the hall and on the stairs and in my very room, as if I were here only as a corpse, are of the recovery of the child for the Investiture Ceremony. The whispers are smug now. They speak of their cleverness in recovering the baby. They do not talk of how the child was lost or which enemies abducted him. They can not imagine or do not seem to remember what terrifying wrath would have descended on them, what terrible tolls of punishment would have been extracted, were I the Vlad of old confronted with such knowledge of my underlings' incompetence.

It does not matter. I am not the Vlad of old. The slow erosion and certain tempering of decades and centuries have seen to that.

But my dreams are memories untouched for several of those centuries, and in my dreams I am seeing myself for the first time. I listen to the whispers as the final details of the Ceremony are planned, as my Family argues amongst itself as to whether their Father can be present in his dying and detached state. But even as I eavesdrop on these whispers, it is the dreams that compel my attention.

Frederick the Ill's poet laureate, Michael Beheim, has written of my encounter in 1461 with three barefoot Benedictine monks: Brother Hans the Porter, Brother Michael, and Brother Jacob. Beheim heard the story from the third monk,

Brother Jacob, and their distorted version has been written, quoted, and retold for five centuries. Poet Beheim's impartiality might be discerned from his original title for the poem as he sang it to the Holy Roman Emperor in 1463:

Story of a Bloodthirsty Madman Called Dracula of Wallachia.

Few have ever bothered to challenge Brother Jacob's account through poet Beheim's pen. None have ever heard the entire account. Until now.

The circumstances were thus: In those days the bishop of Ljubljana, Sigismund of Lamberg, seized on the popular assumption that the monks in the Slovenian abbey of Gorrion in the city of Gornijgard had adopted the outlawed reforms of Saint Bernard, and used that excuse to drive the monks from the monastery in order to make the property his own. Three of those monksBrother Hans the Porter, Brother Michael, and Brother Jacobfled across the Danube north to a Franciscan monastery in my capital city of Tirgoviste.

Even though I was later forced to convert to Catholicism for political reasons, I hated that vile religion then, and I care nothing more for it now. The Church was merely a rival power in those daysand a ruthless onedespite its attempts to cloak its grasping, clutching machinations in the guise of piety. I doubt that it has changed. And the Franciscans were the worst. Their monastery in Tirgoviste was a thorn in my side which I tolerated because the act of plucking it out would cause more political pain than the relief the extraction merited. The common people loved their fawning, praying, fasting Franciscans even as the monks bled the people dry with their alms and tithings and ceaseless whining for more money. The Church in Wallachia thenespecially that damned Franciscan monastery which, unaccountably, despite my best efforts of the day, still stands in 7Tirgoviste todaywas a parasite growing bloated and sated on blood money which would have served my kingdom better had it come to me.

The Franciscans could not stand the Benedictines in those days, and I suspect that they sheltered the three fleeing Benedictine monks merely to further irritate me. And it did.

I encountered Brother Jacob, Brother Michael, and Brother Hans the Porter a mile or so from their monastery as I returned to my palace from a hunt. Their lessthan deferential manner irritated me and I commanded the one called Michaelthe tallest of the threeto appear at an audience in my palace that very afternoon.

Beheirn relates that I frightened the monk with a harsh interrogation, but in truth the skinny friar and I had a pleasant chat over warm ale. I was softspoken and courteous, revealing nothing of my inherent distaste for his corrupt religion. My questions were mere polite theological probings. Brother Michael warmed to his proselytizing as the ale warmed his guts, although I could see the alarmed squint of his ferret like little eyes as my questions grew personal.,

“So the burdens of this life are merely an unpleasant prelude to the promise of the next life?” I asked softly.

“Oh, yes, My Lord,” the skinny monk hurried to agree. “Our Saviour has affirmed this. “

“Then, “ I continued, pouring more ale for the man, “someone who serves to shorten that burdensome period by hurrying the suffering mortal to his reward before he can accumulate more sins might be seen as being a benefactor?”

Brother Michael could not hide a slight frown as he lowered his lips to his ale. But the slurping sound he made might have been taken as affirmation. I chose to interpret it so.

“Then, “ I went on, “some poor servant of the Lord such as myself who has sent many hundreds of soulssome say thousandson to their reward before sin couldfurther blacken their chanceswould you say that I am a savior of those souls?”

Brother Michael moistened his already moist lips. Perhaps he had heard of my sometimes mischievous sense of humor.

Or perhaps the ale was beginning to affect him. Whatever the reason, he could not quite muster a smile, although he tried. “One might suggest that possibility, Sire,” he said at last. “I am only a poor monk, unused to the rigors of logic or the demands of apologetics.”

I opened my hands and smiled. “As you say, if we accept that premise, “ I said cordially, “then it stands to reason that someone such as myself who has helped thousands of souls shrug off their earthly burdens, why, that someone would have to be considered a saint for all of the souls he has saved before sin could damn their chances. Wouldn't you agree, Brother Michael?”

The skinny friar licked his wet lips again and looked even more like a ferret who has just discovered that a cage has been lowered over him while he was distracted. “A . . . uh . . . a saint, My Lord? Certainly it might be posited, but . . . ah . . . well, My Lord, sainthood is a difficult and delicate proposition to . . . ah . . . prove, and . . . uh . . .”

I decided to take pity on the panicked man. “Tell me this then,” I said, my voice sharpening a bit. “Could someone such as I, even if not guaranteed sainthood, find salvation through Jesus Christ?”

Brother Michael almost burbled in his relief at being asked this question. “Oh, yes, Sire! Salvation is yours just as it is every man's. Our Lord and Saviour has extended his mercy through His death on the cross, and that mercy cannot be denied if the petitioner is truly penitent and wishes to change his . . . that is, Sire, if the penitent sinner wishes to walk in the grace of Our Lord's teachings and commandments. “

I nodded. “And your fellow monks, of course, would express the same opinions on my chances for salvation?”

Again the ferret squint. Finally he managed to say, “All of my fellow brothers know the teachings of Jesus and the power of God's mercy, Sire.”

I smiledsincerely this timeand ordered the skinny friar to stay put while we called for his companions.

The evening shadows were long across the stone floor when I put the questions to Brother Hans the Porter, a smaller, stouter man whose tonsure looked like it had been administered by a gardener's shears.

“Sir Monk,” ! said, “you know who I am?”

“Of course,” said the little man while his two companions looked on with some anxiety. It was obvious that this was the fanatic of the group. His eyes were unafraid and tinged with the flames of righteousness. There was no deference in his voice, none in his posture. I chose to ignore the absence of courtesy in his not using the traditional “Sire” or “My Lord” in addressing me.

“You know my reputation?” I said.

“Yes. “

“You know that it is true?”

The small monk shrugged. “If you say it is so.”

“It is true,” I said softly. From the corner of my eye I could see Brother Michael blanch. Brother Jacob, who indeed looked like a Jew, was very pale and very impassive. “It is true,” I continued in the same conversational tones, “that I have tortured and murdered thousands of people, most of them guilty of no overt act against me or my regime. Many of my victims have been womenmany of them pregnant womenand many were young children. I have tortured, beheaded, and impaled many such socalled innocent women and children. Do you know why this is so, Brother Hans the Porter?”

“No.” The portly little monk stood with his hands clasped loosely in front of him, his legs apart as if standing easily to hear some peasant's confession. There seemed only slight interest in his face.

“It is so because just as Jesus was a good shepherd, I am a good gardener,” I said. “When one must cut the weeds out of one's garden, one must not only pull the weeds at the surface. A good gardener is compelled to dig deep to eradicate the roots which grow far underground and which threaten to spawn new weeds in seasons yet to come. Is this not so, Brother Hans the Porter?”

The monk looked at me for a long moment. Despite his portly appearance, his face was strong in bone and muscle.

“I am not a gardener,” he said at last. “I am a servant of Our Lord Jesus. “

I sighed. “Then answer me this, servant of Your Lord Jesus,” I said, trying to keep the asperity out of my voice. “Given that all that is said about me is true, that thousands of innocent women and children have died at my hand or my command, I command you to tell me my fate after death.”

Brother Hans the Porter did not hesitate. His voice was calm. “You will go to Hell, “ he said. “If Hell will have you. Were I Satan, l think I could not stomach your presence, even though the screams of the tormented damned souls are said to be like music to Satan's ears. But you would understand Satan's preferences much better than I.”

It was difficult for me to hide a smile. I envisioned the talk at my court and other courts when I sent these three friars away with their donkeys laden with wealth for their abbeys. I admire courage in my enemies.

“So you think I am not a saint?” I said softly.

Then Brother Hans the Porter made a mistake. “I think you are mad,” he said in his deep, soft, somewhat sad voice. “And I take pity on the fact that madness has led you to eternal damnation.”

At this comment my good humor fled. I called my guards and had them hold Brother Hans the Porter while I took an iron stake and impaled the man. Forgoing the relative mercy of impaling him between his fat buttocks, I drove short spikes through his ears and eyes and a longer one down his throat. He was still writhing when I drove a large metal nail through his feet and had him hoisted by a cable to hang head down like a piece of market poultry. I called in my court to witness this.

Then, while Brother Michael and Brother Jacob stood pale and staring, I called for Brother Hans the Porter's donkey and had the animal impaled on a great iron stake there in the court. The operation was loud and not as simple as it sounds.

When it was finished, I turned to Brother Jacob. “You have heard your companions' opinions on the chances of my salvation,” I said. “Now, what is your opinion on this matter?”

Brother Jacob threw himself face first onto the stone floor in an attitude of total supplication. Brother Michael joined him there a second later.

“Please, My Lord,” quaked Brother Jacob, his hands extended and clasped so tightly that they were as white as virgin vellum. “Mercy, My Lord! I beg mercy, in the name of God!”

I strode over the floor until my boots touched each man's cheek. “In whose name?” I roared. Not all of the anger was feigned; I was still irked at Brother Hans the Porter's final remarks before his confidence had turned to anguished screams.

Brother Michael had the quicker wit. “In your name, My Lord! We ask mercy in the Blessed Name of Vlad Dracula! In Your Name we beseech You!”

I could hear the reverence in both voices as their pleas found a focus. I lifted my boot onto Brother Jacob's neck. “And to whom will you pray henceforth when you wish either mercy or divine intervention?”

“To Our Lord Dracula!” gasped Brother Jacob.

I shed balance and set my boot on Brother Michael's neck. “And who is the only power in the universe who has the power to answer or deny your prayers?”

“My Lord Dracula!” managed Brother Michael, the air going out of him like bad wind out of an old wine bladder as I trod more heavily on his spine.

There was a moment where there was no sound in the crowded court except for the dripping of blood from Brother Hans and his donkey. Then I lifted my boot off Brother Michael's neck and walked slowly away, finally dropping languorously onto my throne. “You will leave my city and my country tonight,” I said. “You may take your animals and as much food for the voyage as you wish. If my soldiers find you within Wallachia's or Transylvania's borders when the sun rises three mornings from now, you will pray to your new Godthat is to say, to methat you could have died as easily as Brother Hans the Porter or his braying ass. Now go! And spread the word of Vlad Dracula's infinite mercy.”

They went, but based upon the lies Brother Jacob later dictated to the alltooeagertoslander poet Michael Beheim, they had not learned their lesson adequately.

But those at court that day had. As had the Franciscan friars who stayed behind in their monastery in Tirgoviste. They were sullen in there behind their cloistered walls, but they were increasingly quiet from that day forward.

And the carefully honed legend of Vlad Dracula grew sharper, and extended its reach to the hearts of my enemies.