The People's Will (11 page)

‘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.

DMITRY TOOK LITTLE
part in the torture. He would not have objected, but neither would he have drawn particular enjoyment from it. If the victim had been human, it would have been a different matter, but Iuda was a vampire, and Dmitry could experience little pleasure in his pain.

Zmyeevich, on the other hand, relished the concept. And so Dmitry was happy to sit and watch – and learn; learn both the techniques of a master and whatever information Iuda might reveal.

It would be familiar territory for Iuda. The wire rope that still dug tightly into the flesh of his neck – now the only thing restraining him – was fastened at its other end to an eyelet in the ceiling of an underground cell that lay deep beneath an office that had once been the Moscow centre of the Third Section. It was the lair in which Iuda – under the name of Vasiliy Innokyentievich Yudin – had based himself for almost a decade and it was in these dungeons that he had tortured so many who had information which might protect the life of Tsar Nikolai I, along with those he tortured for reasons more personal to him.

In the subsequent years Dmitry too had made his mark in the Third Section, and so now, although the organization no longer existed, it had been easy enough to requisition these rooms beneath the Kremlin and make them a base for himself and Zmyeevich while they stayed in Moscow; and for their prisoner. Iuda had chosen the place for himself as the ideal haunt for a vampire. They would trust his judgement.

Light would have been the most effective tool in the armoury
of a vampire torturer, and yet down here it was the one thing of which they were deprived. They might have taken him up and held him close to the door above, opening out on to the Kremlin, but even if they hadn’t been seen, Iuda’s cries would have been heard. Down here it was much safer. It did not matter; Zmyeevich knew other ways to inflict suffering upon a fellow vampire – ways that Dmitry would never have dreamed of.

To cut him, to make him bleed, to sever a finger or an entire limb; these were all things that would inflict pain upon the victim, but a
voordalak
could withstand most pain – certainly one of the age and the experience of Iuda. He could easily reassure himself that he would heal – that however great the agony there would be no lasting effect, not even a scar. The worst that could happen was that the vampire would die – and that could never be to the benefit of the torturer.

Zmyeevich had tried these basics, cutting and severing. In total Iuda now had thirteen fingers and three thumbs, the excess scattered on the floor, his hands replenished by regrowth. Zmyeevich – with a little help from Dmitry – had drained Iuda of blood until he was almost dry. Normally that would bring on a light-headedness in a vampire, a mood of compliance in which the creature might reveal its darkest secrets. Iuda was made of stronger stuff. They had needed to feed him in order to be able to begin again. It had been easy to get hold of a victim – a young boy who had been impressed by Dmitry’s uniform and thrilled at the offer of a visit to the Kremlin Armoury. It was better that it was a child – less blood. They didn’t want Iuda to become too strong.

But it had all taken time. Now it was almost a day since they had arrived in Moscow, Dmitry travelling, like Iuda, in a crate. For him there was always the liberty, at least during the night, to open up the lid and step outside, but he rarely indulged himself. For most of the journey, Dmitry had been as much a prisoner as Iuda. But now things had changed.

After Iuda had fed, Zmyeevich switched to a different set of techniques in his attempts to extract the information he wanted. He made small cuts in Iuda’s body using a sharp steel knife. They would have healed rapidly and hurt little, but Zmyeevich had
quickly inserted small shards of wood – he’d brought along a whole sack of them for the purpose.

‘A wooden stake through the heart kills a vampire because the flesh cannot heal rapidly enough,’ he explained. ‘Wood in any wound will have a similar, if less terminal effect. Hawthorn is best, though it is not essential.’

Soon Iuda’s belly, back and thighs were a latticework of short, deep cuts, from every one of which protruded a twig or a stick. Iuda screamed as each one was inserted, and screamed again whenever Zmyeevich took hold of one and chose to twist it, pressing it into the wound.

‘And then there’s always this,’ he said after a little while.

He cut Iuda once again, just as he had before, and this time slipped a clove of garlic, skinned and cut in half, into the wound. He repeated the process half a dozen times, and each time Iuda screamed as the white flesh of the vegetable penetrated his own.