A Matter of Taste

Chapter 15

Thus two of my trio of old and bitter enemies had been disposed of. In the days that followed, I could not help reflecting grimly on the fact that, despite my years of unrelenting hatred, of intense and bitter planning, Basarab had been destroyed by forces having nothing to do with me—call those forces Fate, Chance, or what you will.

Struggling against the feeling that much of my life over the last few decades had been completely wasted, I somewhat gloomily resumed my duties in the service of Duke Valentino. Privately, my first concern, of course, continued to be the still-surviving traitor Bogdan.

For years I had been able to hope that when I found the first of the pair of surviving traitors that man would, willingly or not, provide me with some clue to the location of the second. But Basarab had been no help at all in that regard. Bogdan might as well have vanished totally from the face of the earth.

In the most recent year of my search, I had talked to several informants who knew Bogdan or claimed to have known him, but none of them had seen or heard of him for many years. These informants were united in their opinion that the man was dead. None of them, however, had seen him fall, nor could any recall convincingly the specific circumstances of his demise. Therefore I was skeptical of the reports of his death and nursed my hopes of being able to catch him still alive.

Shortly after I saw Basarab, Cesare Borgia dispatched myself and Michelotto, together, on a type of mission that was new for me in the Duke's service, though familiar enough in my own land. We were placed in joint command of a handful of men and sent into the countryside to exterminate a nest of bandits. I should note here that in spite of his devotion to the arts of treachery, intrigue, and murder, Duke Valentino provided many of the Romagna towns the best government they had experienced in decades—not out of the goodness of his heart (if any such quality existed), but in accordance with a calculated policy to broaden his support as much as possible among the people. On this day Borgia had in mind another goal also: to test, in a comparatively minor matter, how well the pair of us, Corella and myself, could work together.

Informants had brought word of where the bandits could be found—if only a punitive force could approach their lair without alarming them. I argued for a night attack, and my colleague was willing to agree. With our squad of half a dozen chosen men, riding in full moonlight, we approached the rocky hilltop nest—I suppose the building had once been a farmhouse—where our prey, or so we hoped, awaited us.

We had timed our approach to bring us to the house at about an hour before dawn. At this time, we thought, any sentry that might have been posted was most likely to have succumbed to the lure of indoor warmth or sleep.

For me the situation was rendered more interesting by the fact that neither Corella nor any of the men with us knew I was a vampire. For all I knew, none of them were even aware that such creatures existed outside of the fearful minds of peasants. Among breathers at that time only Cesare and Lucrezia, and perhaps their father, shared my secret.

The former farmhouse was well situated to command the land around it and the winding road below. We established ourselves in the best available position to study the house, and Corella and I between us decided on our plan of attack.

I voted for posting our men to surround the house, with orders to catch the enemy as they fled or retreated, whilst my co-commander and myself alone broke in, through whatever doors or windows might offer us the opportunity. Once inside, we would deal with the bandits as we found them.

Michelotto studied me in silence for a moment or two. Estimates of our adversaries' strength ranged from six to sixteen, and although bandits were unlikely to stand and fight with the discipline and courage of well-trained soldiers, the odds were certainly enough to give a prudent commander pause. So my colleague blinked, and hesitated, but in the end he was not one to let a challenge of this type go unaccepted.

After dispatching our men as I had suggested, to take up their positions around the silent house, we two stealthily approached the building and decided on our points of entry. Each of us was carrying a short axe, as well as sword and dagger.

On the way we came upon the sentry we had been half expecting, just where we thought he should be, but asleep, wrapped in two blankets. Michelotto quietly and efficiently cut his throat. One down. Five to fifteen left.

Somewhere on the far side of the house, a dog stirred in its slumber, senses tickled subliminally by the presence of hostile strangers. Just as the beast was about to give us away, I soothed it back to sleep, exerting a certain influence silently and at a distance, without my companion or anyone else being aware of the fact. My rapport with animals had been steadily developing since the beginning of my new life.

Under slightly different conditions we might have set fire to the nest and burned the rascals out. But much of the building was stone, and the weather had been wet for some time. Therefore, having chosen our respective points of entry, Corella and I broke in simultaneously—he through a shuttered window, whilst I smashed in a door—making our separate entrances on opposite sides of the house, which was basically only a one-room shelter.

Other dogs than the one I had soothed woke up to bark at the outrageous racket. Simultaneously human voices were raised in even greater panic.

On this chill night a fire still smoldered in the house, faint coals giving enough light for the adapted eyes of breathers, my companion and our victims, to see what was happening and about to happen to them.

Breathing bodies wrapped in blankets lay everywhere, on the floor and furniture. My entry, at least, had been so swift that some were only struggling to their feet whilst others had not yet stirred. The axe in my right hand did deadly execution, whilst with my left, picking up a chair, I fended off the first blade thrust at me.

Across the large room, Corella had got in through the window. Once well inside and on his feet, he slew and parried with remorseless goodwill, displaying a formidable aptitude for the job.

It was soon obvious that the true number of our foe lay somewhere near the midrange of our intelligence estimates, and that their eagerness for combat was no greater than we had expected.

Soon the handful who had taken up arms against us were all cut down, and we changed our tactics to search-and-destroy, routing out thieves from under furniture and blankets and dispatching them on the spot. With all the doors and windows barricaded as they were for the night, escape from the house was no easy matter, requiring more time than our hosts had readily available. In the end only two or three of them got clear, to be picked off neatly by our efficient troops outside.

Of approximately a dozen occupants of the house, only a woman and a girl survived. I saw to it that they were left unmolested. Our men, when they had a chance to see the inside of the house, looked at Corella and myself in awe.

At dawn, when we were ready to leave the scene, Michelotto and I shook hands. Thus began our period of mutual respect.

By the middle of the year of Our Lord 1502, both Niccolo Machiavelli and Leonardo da Vinci had come, for different purposes, to spend considerable time in the company of Duke Valentino.

The writings of Machiavelli that were to make him famous were still in the future. At this time he was a rising Florentine politician in his early thirties. A sly, calculating man, yet filled with the desire to see his beloved Italy stand united and respected among the nations of the world. Physically he was thin and pale-faced, with high cheekbones and a piercing glance. He spoke little, but gave an impression of deep thought.

I suppose that for a time it seemed to Signore Niccolo that the Borgias might accomplish a united Italy. In any event, Machiavelli attended Cesare in the capacity of an emissary from Florence; and he was a witness to the Duke's bloody vengeance on his mutinous captains at Sinigaglia, December 31, 1502.

Leonardo da Vinci was now a graybeard about fifty years of age, serving in Valentino's train in the capacity of an engineer, with his main or exclusive job the observation and development of military projects.

On several occasions during my attendance on the younger Borgia, I was able to converse with Machiavelli. In the course of our conversations, we frequently spoke on the future of Italy, and I heard Machiavelli's hopes expressed that Cesare might be the prince destined to create a real nation out of the squabbling principalities and towns of the peninsula, or out of the central Romagna, at least.

Everyone agreed that Cesare was going to need his father's continued help if he were to have any chance of succeeding in such a grand design. Father and son together made a truly formidable team. And fortunately for the son's ambitions, there was no sign that the father was going to do anything but keep spending, intriguing, and conniving furiously in an effort to insure the success of his favorite surviving child.

I also had, during that same epoch, more than one good talk with Leonardo. We two had met once before, when he was a twelve-year-old apprentice in the studio of Verrocchio in Florence. I thought it most unlikely that the successful artist and designer would remember me now. But he did—in a way. After all, he had once sketched my face.

I seriously doubt that Leonardo truly recalled the circumstances of our previous meeting. Rather, I think, he was puzzled, and thought he remembered me from somewhere, but could not place a man of my apparent youthfulness that far in the past.

The artist was chiefly occupied in the Duke's service with studying and designing fortifications. Cesare Borgia was unfailingly interested in the subject, though rarely if ever in his brief career did fortifications do him any good. He was several times faced with the problem of attacking them.

And then there arrived the day when, by sheerest accident, in the course of my duties in the service of Duke Valentino, fate brought me face-to-face with Bogdan.

The scene, improbably enough, was a simple country road, not far from a Franciscan monastery. On that day I chanced to be engaged with Michelotto in another honorable skirmish, part of our ongoing effort in the cause of good government, suppressing bandits within the towns and territories now accepting papal rule.

Michelotto and myself, in the guise of two portly graybeard merchants—someday I must compose a treatise on disguises—had achieved the little ambush that we sought, and engaged four robbers in a spirited debate at twilight, exerting our greatest eloquence to persuade them to give up their evil trade forever. In the course of our discussions I had been clubbed from behind with a broken spear shaft, and this wooden weapon had had effect. Not too seriously, but seriously enough to cause a Franciscan monk, who I heard called Fra Francisco by one of his companions, to come to me to inspect my wound. By this time those of the enemy who were still on the field required only spiritual help.

Corella, when he saw that I had been hurt, looked first surprised, then somewhat concerned, and then relieved, to see this proof that I was not, after all—as he must have begun to think—some kind of superhuman immortal. He took a seat on the far side of the road and began to refresh himself with wine.

The hands of the elderly monk were gentle as he probed the back of my head, sponging away a minimal amount of blood, checking the swelling. I did not see his face clearly until my treatment was concluded. Then, to my amazement, I was able to recognize, despite the changes wrought by age, the countenance of Bogdan.

The remainder of my disguise was wiped away, and the murderous traitor saw my face clearly at the same time that I saw his. I saw the color drain from his cheeks and he took a step or two backward. A moment more and he sat down, upon a roadside stone, as if afflicted by a sudden attack of dizziness. The companion who had come with him, another monk, expressed concern.

"Brother Francis? What is wrong?"

The monk who was sitting on the stone only shook his head. Brother Francis.

Almost thirty years had passed since Bogdan and I had last looked upon each other, and he, at least, had undergone great visible alterations. Not that he had degenerated into a human wreck like Basarab—on the contrary, this greatest and bitterest enemy of mine looked hale and well for a man of his present age, somewhere around fifty.

My former comrade and deadly, sadistic enemy. There was nothing really so strange in my running into Bogdan by accident, after I had searched for him so many years.

The last survivor of the trio of my enemies sat for a time at the roadside as if stunned. Then he closed his eyes, bowed his head, and prayed aloud.

When he had concluded his prayers and looked up again, he saw me standing over him. He spoke to me, his hoarse voice lapsing into the language of our homeland.

"You are Drakulya—and yet you cannot be. Vlad Drakul has been in his grave for more than twenty years."

I nodded slowly. "He has been there, in his grave. He has been in many graves, but never yet to stay."

His eyes, in horror and disbelief, probed mine. "What are you saying?"

"Only what you already know, but do not wish to believe. That I am Drakulya, and you are Bogdan. Once—is it possible?—you were my trusted comrade. Then you became Bogdan, the traitor, who took great pleasure in my slow death. Bogdan, who thought he had sold the head of Drakulya to the Sultan. But that was not to be. For a quarter of a century you have escaped my vengeance. But no more."

Bogdan could only stare at me, shaking his head. It was obvious that, although he now recognized me, still he did not believe. He was searching for an explanation.

"You are Bogdan," I said to him remorselessly. "And I know, we both know, what manner of filth you are. What is this pretense of robe and tonsure?"

"I was that man, Bogdan, once," he admitted, after a long pause. Still he maintained his unbroken stare at me. "That unspeakable traitor, murderer, thief, and lecher. But Christ had mercy upon that man, mercy even in the uttermost depths of his sin and degradation. And now, for fifteen years, through the Lord's mercy, that wretched Bogdan has been no more."

My voice was as quiet and monotonous as his. No one else could hear what either of us was saying. "Say rather, that soon he will be no more upon this earth. Soon he will have been sent to hell."

Once more my enemy bowed his head and prayed.

Perhaps his prayers gave him strength, for when he raised his head and looked at me again, his gaze was less obscured with fear.

"I see who you are now," he said at last, speaking with the relief of a man who has solved a mystery. "I begin to understand. There is indeed a great resemblance, and you, young man, must be Drakulya's bastard. Perhaps you were born only after he died; in any event you must have been so young that you can never really have known your father Vlad Drakul. He can scarcely be a real memory to you at all. Others must have brought you up, taught you to spend your life in vengeance—why have you come to Italy?"

"To find you. And now I have succeeded."

My enemy, sitting on his rock, took thought. Now it seemed that he was more concerned for me than frightened for himself. "I must tell you that your father was a man who worked much evil in the world. Well, he paid for his sins heavily in this world, and it is not for us to judge his condition in the next. Daily I pray for his soul."

"You—" In my outrage, I could not speak.

"I pray daily for your father's soul," my enemy repeated simply. "He had great faults. Yet he also did much that was right and good—he could inspire such loyalty—"

The treacherous monster seemed much moved. To my great confusion and anger, I found myself increasingly at a loss for what I should say to him. This monk who sat before me was not at all the Bogdan I remembered. And yet at the same time I knew him for the same man. When he spoke the same voice sounded in my ears, only the words were different.

Now he was asking me in kindly tones: "How much of your young life have you already wasted, seeking revenge?"

"Tracking down Ronay took me only a matter of hours, once I put my mind to it. Basarab took a great deal longer, but I found him as well. You have taken a very long time to find, but you are the last, and you are still alive, and I am not too late."

He shook his head. "Ronay died almost at the same time as your father. I think someone—"

I stepped forward and seized him by the shoulders of his robe and pulled him to his feet. "Fool! Fool! Imbecile, utter and contemptible! I say to you that I am Drakulya!" I fear that at this point I must have grown somewhat incoherent, beginning to snarl and rage at my defenseless adversary, accusing him of a whole list of monstrous crimes. Perhaps he was not even guilty of them all.

By this time Michelotto had moved closer, and was watching and listening with ever greater curiosity, despite the fact that most of our argument was in a language alien to him. Obviously he was beginning to enjoy the scene hugely.

Once again Bogdan grew troubled by my behavior, but this time in a sad and thoughtful way.

Half turning his back on me, he started to pack away his medical kit, meanwhile addressing me over his shoulder. "All that you say of the fool and traitor Bogdan is true enough. He was a mighty sinner, committing all the unspeakable crimes of which you accuse him, and more. He lied, he stole, he devoted himself to piling up earthly treasures. Worse, he murdered and tortured and raped—worst of all, he forgot God.

"But for all those crimes our Heavenly Father has granted him forgiveness. Not because he possessed the least merit of his own. Rather the One who takes all sins on Himself has granted him new life, as Brother Francis."

"Hypocrite! Brother Rat! Brother Shit! I have granted you no forgiveness!"

Now my victim, alarmed, cast down his pack and turned to face me once more. "My son, in Our Savior's name I beg of you to overcome this obsession with vengeance. Not for my sake, but for your own. It is your own soul that you are now placing in great peril. Someday you too will perish."

I beg that the reader will understand me. Had this been unctuous hypocrisy on Bogdan's part, it would not have stung me so. I would have taken him in my grasp on the spot, and enjoyed his slow dismemberment. But despite the names I called him in my anger, I could not escape the conviction that the aged, gentle Brother Francis who stood before me was perfectly sincere—or as sincere as any mortal man can be. In fact, Bogdan existed no more, and this was someone else who tried to save my soul. My greatest enemy had escaped my vengeance after all, and it was that I found unbearable.

In my most monumental angers I am often quiet.

"You say that someday I will perish?" I asked him softly. "Nay, that I have already done, as thou must know."

A moment later, in the grip of uncontrollable rage, I struck him down without a moment's warning. Have I spoken yet of the augmented strength I possessed in my new life? Yes, but perhaps I have not made the matter sufficiently clear. I was a strong man in my breathing days, and my body had grown twenty times as powerful since the lust for life and vengeance had brought me back from death.

Under the impetus of a blow from my right arm, the body of Brother Francis flew tumbling into the air, came down at some distance, and only ceased to roll ten paces from where he had been standing. The Franciscan cowl, falling over the crushed skull, was already soaking red when the body came to rest. There was not, could not be, any need to strike again.

Michelotto in the background grunted his awe and admiration. This he followed with a similar sound, softer and more thoughtful, but just as easy to interpret; definitely a criticism. He had understood a few words of the argument, and if this killing was for the purpose of revenge, over some ancient wrong, it certainly lacked artistry.

But I had little thought for Michelotto then. Slowly I went to the fallen body in the monk's habit and stood over it. Bogdan's arms and legs were twitching still, but that meant nothing. Certainly he was dead. Quickly and all but painlessly. All my plans—for how many years had I been dreaming of revenge?—all gone for nothing.

The truth, and I could not escape it, was that Bogdan had escaped me many years ago. This meddling elder, who had counseled me so sincerely regarding the welfare of my soul, was someone else.

Brother Francis.

Now, when it was too late, I could think of a thousand more cunning ways in which I might have proceeded once I had found my enemy. I might have tried to find a way to revive the soul of Bogdan in my foe, and then to ensure his speedy and direct passage to hell. I might have been inspired—no doubt it would have been by the devil—to work some trick, such as a sudden disappearance, to make my enemy think that I was indeed an evil spirit.

But—to meet him, to encounter him at last, and in that moment to realize that I had no plan ready! No plan ready, of all the hundreds, thousands of revengeful schemes, each more painful than the last, that I had dreamt of through the years…

What had I really been thinking of all that time?

I could have improvised. I might have assured the traitor that I had been sent from hell to collect his soul, that he was not forgiven after all, that Brother Francis was a fraud, that he was Bogdan still, and Bogdan, after all, was going with me down to hell. I might have…

But as matters stood, I had simply killed him. I, Drakulya, legendary even in my breathing days for the symphonic fury of retaliation with which I responded to all wrongs—

And every day, for fifteen years, he had prayed for my soul.

I had my full revenge at last. All the revenge on the three traitors that I was ever going to get.

And small satisfaction have I ever had from it.