The People's Will

Chapter V



NOW HE WAS making progress. The boat across the Caspian had been speedy enough, but from Baku Mihail once again had travelled over dirt roads, either in creaking carriages or on the back of post horses so old that he suspected it was only his riding them that kept them from becoming a part of that evening’s stew. He’d headed north-west at first, sticking to the Caspian coast and observing how quickly it got colder as he progressed. At Petrovsk-Port the road turned inland and the journey continued by the same slow, unreliable means.

But at Vladikavkaz modernity returned – in the form of the railway. Now he travelled at thirty, sometimes even forty versts an hour. The track had turned almost due north and the change in the climate became more obvious with each passing hour. The train was slowing now, coming into Rostov-on-Don. The journey from Baku to Vladikavkaz had taken five long days. From Vladikavkaz it had taken scarcely twenty-two hours. Even so, it was now nine days since he had left Geok Tepe; twelve since Dmitry and Iuda’s departure. From here the journey would speed up, and that meant that those two might almost be in Petersburg by now. Mihail had no wish to tarry, but there wasn’t a train until the afternoon. There was little he could do but wait.

The town sat on the river Don, still a good forty versts from the Sea of Azov into which it emptied. A little way across that sea was the town of Taganrog, where Aleksandr I had died. That was the official story; Mihail knew better. Aleksei had told Tamara everything, and she had told Mihail – even down to the name that Aleksandr had chosen for his new life: Fyodor Kuzmich. It was dangerous knowledge, though less so now. Kuzmich must surely be dead – otherwise he would be over a hundred. But Tamara and Mihail both knew a way that that might be possible. Iuda, by their reckoning, was around that age.

In Rostov Mihail found a bathhouse and some lunch and returned to the station in good time for the Moscow train. On the platform he felt uneasy. He looked around him, but in the clear light of day he had no fear of vampires. He felt the same discomfort that every Russian experienced, especially when travelling. He was being watched; they all were, by the Ohrana – the secret police that had so recently taken over from the Third Section. Dmitry had been posing as one of their agents, or perhaps more than posing – he could well be a genuine operative – but his aims within that organization would be quite different from those of its more regular employees, which were to ensure that the people remained in their place.

Mihail could not despise the Third Section the way that others did. His mother had been one of their agents and had taught him much of what she had learned – anything that might help him in his quest. She believed that much of what she had done had been good work for the benefit of the nation. She loved the tsar, as a matter of principle, but in all her concern about bringing Mihail up to hate her enemies, she had neglected to make him an unquestioning royalist. He was no socialist either. Government by and large was an irrelevance; how would a change of government help him in his one goal, to destroy Iuda? Perhaps he was a nihilist, to use Turgenev’s definition – ‘a man who declines to bow to authority, or to accept any principle on trust, however sanctified it may be’. Nullius in verba – take nobody’s word for it – was another way of putting it. For a moment Mihail paused, wondering how he knew the phrase, then he gave a wry smile. They were the words that Aleksei had seen on the cover of Iuda’s notebook, years before – the motto of the Royal Society in London.

In current times, he could hardly blame the tsar for being fearful of his own people, or for sending out spies to keep an eye on them. His people had done enough over the last few years in attempting to kill him. It was less than twelve months ago that they had exploded a bomb in the Winter Palace itself, and not long before that they had blown up what they thought was the imperial train, only to discover that they had done nothing more than exterminate His Majesty’s luggage.

That was why the railway stations drew so much attention. Mihail could see two men on the platform who were obvious ohraniki, but there would be at least the same number that he hadn’t spotted. He suspected that they posted the ineffectual ones – the ones who peeped over the tops of newspapers that they never read – just to lull the terrorists into a false sense of security. It was the ones you didn’t notice that you had to worry about.

‘I beg your pardon, sir, but have you seen a porter?’

Mihail looked around and then down. She was a short woman, but pretty; the same age as Mihail, or a little older. Her blonde hair was pinned up on the back of her head. She did not look well. Her skin was pale and moist, like clay, and her green eyes, which might have been her best feature, bulged a little in their sockets. Beside her were two cases – one almost half her height, the other smaller. Perhaps it was the effort of carrying them that had caused her so much strain; perhaps not.

‘I just dismissed one,’ said Mihail. He looked around in the direction that the porter had gone, but could not see the man. He smiled. It would be a long journey, and there was no one on the platform with whom he would rather spend it. ‘I’m sure I can manage if you’ll allow me.’

Before she could agree he had picked up the larger bag and begun to lift it into the carriage, ignoring the pain in his wounded hand. It was heavy, but he tried to make it seem like a matter of no effort. He placed it at the end of the compartment, just next to where the porter had put his own trunk, and then returned to help the young lady with her other bag. She had already lifted it and was halfway up the iron steps to the second-class carriage. He reached out, but she ignored him, continuing to manhandle the bag herself and forcing him to step back.

At last she sat down. He took the seat opposite.

‘You wouldn’t prefer to sit by the window?’ he asked.

She shook her head curtly, and then raised her hand to her temple as if the action had hurt her. ‘I prefer the shade,’ she said.

His mother had always taught Mihail to be prepared, to notice the signs and be ready to act upon them. And here there were signs enough: an aversion to sunlight; the pallor of the skin. But it was only a few hours after noon and she had been standing out on the platform. Admittedly it was winter, but the sun was clear, reflecting off the piles of shovelled snow as brightly as it shone in the sky. Mihail leaned forward, pretending to flick a speck of dirt from his trousers, and breathed in through his nose. Sometimes there was an odour to them, particularly if they’d recently eaten. What Mihail smelt was quite different, and yet very familiar to him. It confirmed a quite different diagnosis of what she was.

‘Might I introduce myself?’ he asked, smiling. ‘I’m Lieutenant Mihail Konstantinovich Lukin.’

She returned his smile. ‘My name is Nikonova,’ she said. ‘Yevdokia Yegorovna. My friends call me Dusya.’

Mihail didn’t really have friends. His mother had called him Mishan and he doubted he would ever want to hear that name from anyone else. He said nothing and felt uncomfortable at the silence.

A man entered from the far end of the carriage. Mihail did not recognize him as one of the ohraniki he had seen on the platform, but in tow he had a uniformed gendarme, which somewhat gave the game away. They began questioning the passengers. Mihail glanced meaningfully at Dusya and then back in the direction of the two men. She twisted to look before turning back to face Mihail. She was even paler than before, if that were possible.

Mihail winked at her. She gave him a puzzled look but said nothing.

Soon the ohranik and the gendarme came to them.

‘Papers!’

They both handed over their passports. The ohranik examined Mihail’s first, while the gendarme swung his gaze up and down the carriage, trying to appear necessary to the whole business.

‘Name?’

‘Mihail Konstantinovich Lukin. Lieutenant – Grenadier Sappers, Pyetr Nikolayevich Battalion.’ The rank and battalion were evident from his uniform.

‘Not with your regiment?’

‘On leave.’ Mihail held up his bandaged left hand. Blood had started to seep through from the effort of moving Dusya’s bag.

‘Turkmenistan?’

‘Geok Tepe.’

The ohranik nodded approvingly. ‘That was good work Skobyelev did out there.’ He turned to Dusya, examining her papers. ‘And you?’ he asked, without looking up.

‘Yevdokia Yegorovna Nikonova.’

‘Mrs?’

‘Miss.’

He glanced between her and Mihail. ‘You two travelling together?’ he asked.

Dusya opened her lips to answer, but no sound came. Her eyes fell to the floor.

‘Yevdokia Yegorovna is a friend of my brother,’ said Mihail. He could have left her to her fate, but she was pretty and he enjoyed the thrill of taking an unnecessary risk.

Dusya looked up, her eyes fixed on him. She might have blushed, but with her sickly skin it was impossible to tell.

‘We’re engaged to be married,’ she said, a little too quickly. She was not used to this, and seemed inadequately trained.

‘She and my brother, I should say,’ explained Mihail casually. ‘Not she and myself.’ He gave a slight chuckle and Dusya joined in, more naturally this time. ‘It’s pure chance I bumped into her,’ he added, distancing himself in case his ruse proved insufficient.

‘I see. How far are you going?’

‘To Petersburg,’ said Mihail.

‘Only as far as Moscow’ was Dusya’s response. Was that a hint of apology in her eyes?

‘I’ll be returning to Moscow in time for the wedding,’ Mihail added. He said no more. It wouldn’t do to be too helpful.

The ohranik nodded and he and his henchman moved on. Mihail raised his hand to his face and as he did so slipped his thumb between his first two fingers, making the sign of the sheesh at their backs. They could not see, but the gesture was not for their benefit. Dusya saw and her face suppressed a smirk. The ohranik turned, but already Mihail’s palm was open and innocent. He watched them as they questioned the remainder of the carriage’s occupants, but they didn’t look back again. At last they were finished, and climbed down to the platform. A moment later Mihail heard a slow creak followed by a clang as the brakes were released and the train began slowly to ease its way out of the station.

Somewhere behind Mihail a man stood up and walked down the carriage in their direction. He was tall – as tall as Dmitry – and heavily built, with a thick beard. He took another seat a little way ahead of them, but Mihail noticed the glance that was exchanged between him and Dusya as he passed. Mihail, it seemed, might have done well as an extemporized guardian for the young lady, but she had never been alone.

The train was fully up to speed before she dared to look him in the face again. She seemed keen to say something, but uttered not a word. She rubbed her temple again and her eyebrows became pinched.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Mihail. ‘You don’t need to explain.’

She gave a meek, embarrassed smile and turned away again, but she had misunderstood. She didn’t need to explain because he understood perfectly well. Beyond that familiar odour – a scent that made Mihail feel almost at home – there were the symptoms: the bulging eyes, the pallid complexion, the headaches. He’d been warned about them on almost his first day at the Imperial Technical School, and he’d seen it more than once in the field, in men who were less than familiar with the tools of their trade.

They were the symptoms of prolonged exposure to nitroglycerin.

The train slowed and finally came to a halt. It was impossible for Iuda to determine where he was, but it had been twelve days since they left Geok Tepe. They’d travelled by land, then by water, and then by land again, until finally his coffin had been loaded on to a train. They had changed trains once more since then. One thing he felt sure of, although he could see nothing of the outside world, was that the nights were getting longer, which meant they were heading north.

It wasn’t the most pleasant of journeys. He’d travelled by similar means before; nailed into a crate and then shipped as freight, but usually of his own volition and to a destination of his own choice. Today, he didn’t know where he was going to end up – though he could take a good guess – and in addition to being in the crate, the other constraints that Dmitry had placed on him rendered him quite immobile. It wasn’t painful, but he despised the sensation of being unable to move his hands, and the halter at his neck really did interfere with his breathing, and the metal tongue of the scold’s bridle poking into his mouth tasted of someone else’s saliva.

He felt himself being lifted, and then carried, and then dropped on to a hard stone floor. He was picked up again and placed on a wagon, which began to trundle slowly across the snowy ground. He felt sure he was close to the end of his journey, and would soon discover his fate.

Anything would be better than the three years he had spent imprisoned in Geok Tepe. It had been his own fault. He’d overplayed his hand, and underestimated his opponent; Ibrahim Edhem Pasha was a subtle man.

After the escape from his own dungeons in 1858, Iuda had been forced to remake his life. He could no longer wander down the corridors of the Third Section, rubbing shoulders with the powerful and pretending that his every action was bent towards the protection of the tsar. For a start, he’d been doing that for too long. Soon enough, someone would notice how he never seemed to age, and then someone else would look into his history and it would all be over. He returned to his earlier way of life – the life he had led before becoming a vampire. He became a traveller, a mercenary of sorts, but always with an emphasis on persuasion rather than brute force. It wasn’t that he lacked the ability to overpower his enemies, but it always seemed like less fun – cheating almost, especially now that he was so much stronger than any mortal. He preferred to use the faculties of brain which he had been born with to those of brawn which he had acquired. That wasn’t to say he didn’t enjoy the pleasures of the flesh as much as any other voordalak, but such occasions were made far sweeter if the victim had first been manoeuvred into a situation from which death was the only escape.

But he had to be circumspect. He had his enemies, and they would recognize the signs if he left too many mysterious deaths strewn across Russia and Eastern Europe. The Romanovs were an enemy, though he felt sure they would leave him alone if he did the same for them. There was Lyosha’s daughter, Tamara, but she had vanished without trace. Perhaps she was dead; perhaps she had chosen to live out her life in quiet contemplation. But of all people, she was the one who must hate Iuda most, out of love for her father. But then shouldn’t Dmitry feel the same? Iuda had never been quite sure where Dmitry stood – he still wasn’t. But it was none of these who truly made Iuda feel afraid.

Zmyeevich was the real enemy. Once they had been allies, but they had never trusted each other. They had gone their separate ways, and Iuda had twice managed to defeat Zmyeevich, or at least thwart him in some minor way, and Zmyeevich was the sort of creature who would repay even a small inconvenience a thousandfold.

He had almost caught Iuda, in 1877. Once again Russia and Turkey had been at war, and this time Russia was winning. Iuda had allied himself with the tsar’s troops at Plevna, just south of the Danube. It was familiar territory. The city was besieged for over four months. Each night Iuda would climb its walls – walls unassailable by man, but simple for him – and feast inside the city. It helped Russia’s cause, but it was mostly Iuda’s own pleasure that brought him there.

But then the Romanians entered the fray – under Prince Carol – and among them the Romanian that Iuda feared most.

One night in September, after returning from another successful sortie, he had been summoned, along with several other Russian officers, to meet a newly arrived Romanian commander – a Colonel Flaviu Stanga. They assembled in a clearing by the light of flickering camp torches. Colonel Stanga emerged from his tent.

It was fifty-two years since Iuda had last met Zmyeevich face to face, but the great vampire had not changed. The high, domed forehead was hidden under a military cap, but was still unmistakable, as were his bushy eyebrows and arched nostrils. The iron-grey moustache was neatly trimmed. His skin was young and unwrinkled; he had eaten recently. He wandered down the line of officers, talking amiably about his plans for the siege, pausing at each man, looking him squarely in the eye and shaking him by the hand.

Until he drew level with Iuda.

He came to a halt and stopped speaking, staring intently down into Iuda’s eyes. He took Iuda’s hand, his grip firm. Iuda remained impassive, hoping that time enough had passed for Zmyeevich not to recognize him. Zmyeevich began speaking again, keeping to the subject of military tactics, and Iuda thought he had succeeded, but still he gripped Iuda’s hand. And as he moved away, Zmyeevich twisted his wrist, forcing Iuda’s hand down and revealing the back of his own and the ring that he wore – and had always worn, whenever Iuda had seen him. It was the figure of a dragon, with a body of gold, emerald eyes and red, forked tongue. He was making sure that Iuda recognized him, and knew that he in turn was recognized.

If Zmyeevich had chosen to kill him there and then, he had the strength to do it, and to slay every soldier who tried to stop him. But Zmyeevich remained calm. He continued his speech, moving on to the next man and the next. When he was finished he asked if there were any questions, but none came. Colonel Stanga dismissed the men.

Iuda fled; fled the camp, fled the army and fled the country. He lived as best he could, like vampires had done for years in these parts, sleeping in churchyards and feeding off peasants. And as he fled south so the Russians advanced south, and with them came Zmyeevich.

Finally, like most of the sultan’s army, Iuda was trapped in the south-eastern extremity of Europe. There was only one city in which he could hide: Constantinople. He went by his real name of Cain and spoke English like an Englishman. A year before, at the Constantinople Conference – the Shipyard Conference as they called it locally – Britain had been keener to do a deal favourable to Russia than to the Ottomans, and so the English were not universally popular. But at least Britain had not joined in the war on Russia’s side. And Iuda did not come empty-handed – he brought with him the gift of information.

It took only the mention of Zmyeevich’s name – not in its Russian translation, but in a form known better to the Turks – to allow Iuda access through the layers of administration of Ottoman government and into the Sublime Porte. He was granted an audience with His Imperial Majesty, the Sultan Abdülhamid II, Emperor of the Ottomans and Caliph of the Faithful, in the throne room of the Dolmabahçe Palace. The Grand Vizier – the Greek, Ibrahim Edhem Pasha – stood at his sultan’s side. He was by far the wiliest of all those in the room; apart, of course, from Iuda – or so Iuda had thought.

Ibrahim Edhem did the talking.

‘So you’re aware of our empire’s history with Ţepeş?’ Even then, they dared not use Zmyeevich’s full Romanian name, and stuck to that short epithet.

‘I know much of him – especially of his dealings with your enemy, Russia.’

‘Then you understand he is no friend of the Romanovs?’

‘He would like to be more than a friend.’

Now the sultan himself spoke. ‘You understand the blood curse he holds over them?’

Of that, Iuda knew more than anyone but Zmyeevich himself. He knew of the bargain between Zmyeevich and Pyotr the Great, and of how Pyotr had broken it. He knew that Zmyeevich had drunk Pyotr’s blood, but that the tsar had not reciprocated. And he knew how every other Romanov was thus vulnerable to the possibility that he might one day drink Zmyeevich’s blood, and die with it in his body, and become a vampire, subject to Zmyeevich’s will. And if that Romanov were to be or to become tsar, then Zmyeevich would rule Russia. And then where would these Ottomans be?

‘I know that if he takes Russia,’ said Iuda, ‘your throne will be next. He will make their armies victorious.’

Ibrahim Edhem glanced at his sultan, and then spoke again.

‘How do you know all this?’ he asked.

‘I myself took Ţepeş’s offer to Tsar Aleksandr.’

‘You have spoken to His Majesty?’ The Grand Vizier hid his surprise well.

‘To Aleksandr Pavlovich,’ Iuda explained. ‘Aleksandr I.’

There was muttering around the court, and then the sultan spoke again.

‘So you are … like him? A vampire?’

‘And so I know whereof I speak,’ confirmed Iuda.

‘And what are you offering us?’ asked the pasha.

‘I know where Ţepeş is. I know what name he is travelling under. If you move swiftly, you could take him.’

‘A trick! Intended to divert us from the tsar’s real intent.’

‘He marches with the Russians. Dealing with one is not a distraction from the other.’

‘And even if we could reach Ţepeş,’ added the sultan, ‘what would we do then? He is invincible.’

‘He can die, like any other vampire,’ said Iuda.

‘Like yourself?’ asked Edhem.

Iuda acknowledged the comment with a smile, but he felt safe. Although the guards standing on either side of the sultan were armed with sabres that could easily sever his head, there were tall windows close by that he could reach in moments, and it was dark outside. Besides, they would be fools to kill him before learning all he knew – and Iuda prided himself that he knew a lot.

‘Only by destroying Ascalon can Ţepeş be overcome,’ said the sultan.

‘And if I could deliver Ascalon to you?’ asked Iuda.

‘It’s been missing for centuries,’ said the Grand Vizier. ‘What would you know of it?’

‘I was once Ţepeş’s closest ally.’

‘So why would you betray him now?’

‘I’ve already betrayed him,’ explained Iuda. ‘That is why I fear him. That is why I would have you deal with him.’

‘He’s pursuing you?’

‘He would, if he knew where I was.’

‘You’re certain that he doesn’t?’

‘Quite certain,’ replied Iuda, hoping he spoke the truth.

Ibrahim Edhem Pasha leaned forward and whispered into the sultan’s ear. The sultan looked at him for a moment and then nodded.

‘Go now,’ said the Grand Vizier. ‘You will be summoned.’

Iuda had turned to leave, but the meeting was not quite finished. It was the sultan who had the last word.

‘And mind you don’t feed during your stay in the city. These are my people. My duty is to protect them.’

Iuda departed, fully aware of the sultan’s meaning.

Two days later he received a message from Ibrahim Edhem Pasha requesting a private meeting, ‘in the Sunken Palace, away from the sultan’s ears’.

The Sunken Palace was an ancient Roman cistern, built beneath the city by the Emperor Justinian to store drinking water. The entrance was not far from Hagia Sophia, and a safe distance from the Dolmabahçe Palace, on the other side of the Golden Horn. It was half an hour before midnight, the time for which Edhem had requested the meeting. Iuda descended the stone steps.

The space below was cool. There wasn’t much water in there now, scarcely enough to reach his knees, but beneath that were centuries of accumulated mud and silt that could suck a man down and drown him as effectively as the water above. Huge columns rose up out of the water to support the arched vaults of the roof, upon which in turn the city stood. Some had collapsed, leaving stepping stones across which the great, dark space could be traversed. A few of the pillars had oil lamps hanging from them which gave illumination in some places, but left deep shadows in others. Even with Iuda’s heightened ability to see in the dark, he could not penetrate the gloom to see the far end of the cistern. But the fact that the lamps had been lit at all showed that he was expected.

He skipped from stone to stone into the darkness. Soon he was near the centre of the vast chamber. None of the walls was visible. All was silent.

‘Edhem!’ he shouted. ‘Ibrahim Edhem Pasha!’

His voice echoed, reflecting from the water, from the walls, from the columns and from the vaults, throwing itself back at him. It seemed like a minute before all was silent again, and from the evanescent sound emerged the quiet ripple of a boat breaking through the still water. Soon a figure began to materialize out of the darkness. It was the Grand Vizier, a long pole in his hand as he pushed the low, flat boat towards Iuda. The intended impression would seem to be that of Charon taking the dead across the Styx, but Iuda was reminded more of his days at Oxford, punting on the Cherwell.

‘Have you followed His Imperial Majesty’s prohibition?’ asked the pasha.

‘Of course,’ replied Iuda. He had not consumed any blood since arriving in the city. It would have been foolish to so directly contradict the wishes of his host.

‘Then you will be hungry.’ Edhem nodded downwards and Iuda saw that in the bow of the vessel was huddled a young man, bound and gagged. He wore the uniform of a Russian ryadovoy.

‘Eat!’ the Turk commanded.

Iuda was not starving, but he did not know when he would next get the chance to feed. He wondered if the offering of a Russian soldier was a test, to see whose side he was really on, but they must know that even if Iuda were working for the tsar, he would have no qualms over the death of one of his subjects. The Grand Vizier noticed his hesitation.

‘Go ahead,’ he insisted. ‘The sultan’s protection does not extend to kafirs.’

Iuda stepped into the boat and lifted the ryadovoy up by his collars. Aside from his own hunger, he knew that it would be a breach of etiquette to refuse such hospitality. He had grown to understand how important these matters could be to some. And Edhem had done everything right. The Russian was not dead – he was not even unconscious. His eyes scoured Iuda’s face, searching for some sign of pity, some hint that Iuda might be his rescuer. Iuda bared his fangs and saw the young soldier’s hope turn to terror. It was too much to resist. He leaned forward and bit, drinking slowly, pleased that Edhem understood his needs so well. The soldier was in no position to resist.

The Grand Vizier continued to speak as Iuda indulged himself.

‘We have considered your offer,’ he explained. ‘As you are well aware, Ţepeş – Zmyeevich, as you call him – has been an enemy of our people for many years; for centuries. But we have not been constantly at war. At times we have occupied his lands, and he has tried to repel us. Currently, his nation is not part of our empire. It is Russia who threatens us, not him.’

Iuda lifted his head. The ryadovoy was scarcely conscious now, but his blood was still vibrant. Iuda began to speak, but felt dryness in his throat. He coughed. ‘Ţepeş is an opportunist,’ he said. ‘He will let Russia lead, but he will follow.’ He returned to his repast, feeling more compelled now to drink than when he began.

‘He is, but he is also a pragmatist.’ Ibrahim Edhem’s voice was louder now. ‘He knows when to fight and when to cooperate. When he sailed through the Bosphorus to join you in Taganrog, do you think we were unaware? And do you think we were unaware of your experiments in Chufut Kalye?’

‘You weren’t even born.’ Iuda noticed that his own voice was slurred.

‘I was – just – but I am only the latest of those who have protected our empire over the generations. We have known for centuries things that you have only learned recently – for all your science.’

‘And what do you know?’ Iuda spoke quickly and returned his mouth to his victim’s throat. The man was dead now, but still he felt compelled to drink.

‘We know, for example, that Ţepeş and Flaviu Stanga are one and the same. We know of the hatred between you. We know of your experiments and how your own kind despise you for them. We have even reproduced much of what you have discovered: how to kill the vampire, how to control him. We’ve learned of toxins that will render a creature such as you incapable – and we know how to administer them.’

Iuda understood in an instant, but it was too late. He spat out an unswallowed mouthful of blood, yet still yearned to drink more. His intellect prevailed, but he had already consumed enough. He felt no pain, no knotted agony in his gut. That just went to show how well Ibrahim Edhem had chosen the poison. He looked up and saw the silhouette of the pasha’s head and shoulders as a blur. He was still talking, but Iuda could make no sense of it. The image in his eyes began to collapse, as though it were a freshly painted canvas left out in the rain. He slumped forward into the boat, hearing a splash as his victim’s body fell from his grasp and into the water. Then there was nothing.

When he awoke, he had not moved far. He was still in the cistern, lying face upwards, the stone columns soaring above him. He sensed wooden walls at his sides, which made him feel secure, reminding him of a coffin. He tried to move, but found that he could not. He wondered if he might still be paralysed by the drug that he had drunk from the soldier’s body. He racked his memory for what the poison might be, but as his senses returned he realized that his immobility was due only to the fact that he was bound by heavy chains; not simply hand and foot – his whole body was wrapped in them, leaving only his head free, as though captured by some giant spider that spun a web of iron and steel instead of silk.

Ibrahim Edhem Pasha’s face leaned over him.

‘You’d have done better to have killed me,’ whispered Iuda, his voice weak.

‘I think it would be better to preserve that pleasure for someone who will really enjoy it.’

‘You’re going to ransom me? To Ţepeş?’

‘We’re going to try.’

‘You’re a fool. He will come here and take me, and you will get nothing.’

‘Here?’ There was a twinkle in the Pasha’s eye. ‘We’re not going to keep you here.’

‘Anywhere in the empire. Your people will not be safe.’

‘Then perhaps we should find you a prison outside the Ottoman Empire. We have friends. Ţepeş will not find you, unless we choose to hand you over to him.’ A pause. ‘Or you could simply tell us the whereabouts of Ascalon.’

Iuda said nothing. The Grand Vizier gave a signal to one of his men and a heavy wooden lid was placed over the crate in which Iuda lay. He’d listened to the sound of nails being hammered home, and then felt the rough shaking of being moved up the steps, on to a cart, on to a boat, and so on for many days. It was the same sensation he now felt as he was carried on the last leg of his journey away from Geok Tepe. Back then he had not known his destination, but he had been told on his arrival, as they strapped him into the chair that was to be his resting place for the next three years.

He often wondered if there was meant to be some joke in it, a connection between the name Ţepeş and Geok Tepe. But the words came from different languages. Tepe was the Turkic for hill – Geok Tepe meant ‘the Blue Hill’. Ţepeş was Romanian and meant something quite different – it meant ‘the Impaler’.

Iuda’s coffin was set down on the ground with a thump. He could hear no voices outside. Minutes passed. He tried to push away the memories of his betrayal and his three years in Geok Tepe, but he could not do so entirely.

It had been too long, and in all that time, one fact had remained. Ţepeş, or Zmyeevich, or whatever he might call himself, had not paid the ransom. He had chosen not to deal with the Ottomans and their Turcoman allies.

Iuda noticed the minutest change in air pressure within his coffin as the iron bands across its lid were unclamped. He saw a crack of light appear between the lid and the side, and feared for a moment that it would soon be the end of him, but then realized it was merely lamplight.

A hand reached inside and pushed up the lid, and as he saw it Iuda was sure of what he had previously suspected; Zmyeevich had not paid any ransom because he did not need to.

On the middle finger of the hand there was a ring; a ring in the form of a dragon, with a body of gold, emerald eyes and red, forked tongue.