Chapter 10
Inside the great narthex of the Dealu Monastery
Principality of Wallachia, five miles north of Târgoviște
Matei Basarab, voivode of the Principality of Wallachia, had had fitful dreams the night before. He had dreamt of being chased by wolves through the thick forest of the Codrii Vlăsiei. He ran and ran and ran, and each time he thought he had outrun their vicious and snarling maws, they would take him down by the ankle and tear him to shreds. He’d awaken from this in sweats, breathing heavily, not clear of where he was. Eventually, he’d fall back asleep, but it would start all over again.
He could not decide if being torn to shreds by wolves was any worse than the impertinent order he was being given at this very moment.
“Sultan Murad, Commander of the Faithful, demands that you attack at once,” Stroe Leurdeanu said, letting the lengthy and overly verbose letter slip though his hands like a scroll. “You are to attack Transylvania, capture and/or kill their prince, and seize their capital of Gyulafehérvár. And in exchange, you and Voivode Vasile Lupu will be allowed to divide Transylvania as you see fit. In the name of Allah, peace be upon Him, and on and on and on.” He dropped his arms to his sides, letting the corners of the long letter scrape the floor. “This is an official communiqué, My Prince. It holds Sultan Murad’s official seal, and it was given to me by a courier in whom I have absolute trust.”
Matei turned toward Stroe Leurdeanu and smiled weakly. The man was a rising presence in the Wallachian court, one with military experience, and one in which Matei himself had absolute trust. Stroe was like the son he never had. Matei wished the letter were false, a foolish trick played upon him by some ambitious boyar wanting to embarrass the Craiovești family. Or, perhaps even better: Matei was still dreaming, and this was nothing more than wolves sinking their fangs into his tender flesh.
“Is there anything in the Sultan’s missive that indicates his financial and, more importantly, military support for this directive?”
Stroe shook his head. “No, My Prince. It is believed that any Bohemian force that would move into Transylvania in support of Prince Rákóczi’s misguided declaration of independence will not occur until late summer, early fall. Thus, Sultan Murad does not feel the need to preemptively send military support.”
“Then we must, indeed, move quickly.”
Vasile Lupu had been uncharacteristically quiet through Stroe’s recitation of the letter. The voivode of Moldavia now stepped away from one of the many burial vaults in the narthex and came forward with a wild glare in his eyes that matched the wolves of Matei’s dream. “If Sultan Murad is correct, then we have two, maybe three, months of time to act.”
Matei shook his head. “Do not think that this…invasion of Transylvania will be easy, Vasile. We are in the midst of the Carpathian Mountains. The Transylvanians understand this country as much as we do. They will be prepared.”
Vasile’s expression was one of impatience. He was a man who, Matei knew very well, owed his success and rise to power to the Ottomans, and Murad specifically. Vasile Lupu was one of the richest men in all of Eastern Christendom, and even though he had become prince of Moldavia but three short years ago, his ambition knew no bounds. Rumor suggested that Vasile considered himself a Byzantine emperor. Matei had to stop himself often from laughing in the man’s face at that notion.
“Our combined armies can sweep arrogant and rash George Rákóczi from the field. And with the time that we have—”
“We are not military men, Vasile,” Matei said, interrupting what he figured would be a long diatribe about seizing the wondrous Transylvanian plateau. “We are statesmen, administrators. We did not come to power to kill our subjects. We rule to make their lives better, or so we try.”
Vasile Lupu’s eyes flared agitation. “Do not lecture me, Matei, on what my duty is to my own people. I understand the situation completely. But the simple truth is this: Sultan Murad IV has given us an order to move upon Transylvania. The only question to be answered now is: will you comply, or will you be hanged?”
“Of course I will comply,” Matei snapped, growing weary of Vasile’s assumption that he had been the courier who had brought the message to him and not Stroe. As if the voivode of Moldavia would deliver their answer back to Murad in person. The arrogance!
“I will comply,” Matei reiterated, calming himself. “I just do not like the fact that Murad refuses to send us assistance. If and when a Bohemian force enters Transylvania, they will have those devilish up-time weapons with them. My contacts in Lithuania have been giving me reports about the utter devastation that those weapons bring to the battlefield. I doubt that anything that we can muster would match them.”
“My Prince,” Stroe said, “Sultan Murad did not say that no aid was forthcoming. He simply stated that they would not be sending aid immediately, that he needed to devote his military assets to more pressing matters: namely, the United States of Europe. If circumstances change, My Prince, surely Murad will send forces to assist.”
Matei said nothing to that, but knew enough about military operations to know that any delay—a month, a week, a day—might as well be a year. If the Bohemians entered Transylvania with a force armed with modern weaponry, those wolves he had been dreaming about would not be so easy to subdue. So, maybe Vasile was right after all. It was imperative that they move and move now, seize George’s capital and be there, entrenched, when the wolves came howling. At least then, they might have a chance.
“Thank you, Stroe,” Matei said, smiling and placing his hand on the young man’s shoulder, “for delivering, in haste, this message to us. You may go now. I will find you later to discuss our preparations.”
Stroe bowed, turned, and left the narthex.
“He’s an interesting young man,” Vasile said, as he walked beside Matei down a row of burial vaults holding the remains of some of the most important, wondrous, and dangerous voivodes of both Wallachian and Moldavian history. “I wish I had one like him at my side.”
“He is,” Matei agreed, “and I am blessed to have him in my court. But let us speak now about what truly matters.”
“Which is?”
“How can we hope to raise an army large enough, and in time, to take Transylvania? I will say again…we are not soldiers.”
Vasile sighed, shook his head. “The world has changed, Matei. This so-called Ring of Fire has interrupted our lives in ways that we are only beginning to understand. Here, in our little corner of the world, its effects have been minimal at best. But no longer. The fire is now upon us, and so we must rise to meet that threat.”
Matei shrugged. “Perhaps we should join Transylvania in its declaration. What difference does it make if we live under Ottoman or Bohemian rule?”
What a dangerous thing to suggest, especially to one like Vasile, who could so easily send word to Murad and have Matei executed and his headless body pulled through the streets of Istanbul while Janissaries pissed in his empty eye sockets. But Matei didn’t care. If the world was changing, then by the grace of God, he was going to speak his mind, and damn to hell where the pieces fell.
Vasile paused, stared at Matei, and forced a smile. A dangerous, nay, angry smile that told Matei that he needed to tread cautiously. Vasile said, “What is that up-time idiom? ‘Better to ride with the devil you know than the devil you don’t.’ Murad has been good to us. We must support his order.” He wagged a finger in Matei’s direction. “And do not forget, my friend, that you stand to lose the most in defiance of this missive. Wallachia’s border is long and directly adjacent to the empire.”
Matei deflated, sighed himself. “You are right, of course. I am just frustrated that the prince of Transylvania, our confidant and friend, has put us in such a delicate position. I have half a mind to go to Gyulafehérvár myself and string the son-of-a-whore up by his manhood.”
Vasile laughed. “And I beside you.”
That emotion was sincere. To Matei, this declaration of an alliance with Bohemia and of Transylvania’s independence, was a sincere betrayal of their friendship. Not once had George even mentioned his interest in forming a new alliance, and they had kept each other’s company several times within the past year.
“I can field perhaps four, maybe five thousand men by early July,” Matei said, refocusing his attention to military details. “I will speak with my Serbian and Levantine contacts and see what mercenary cavalry they may send. My Hungarian contacts as well.”
Vasile nodded. “And perhaps your Lithuanian friends. They may be more than happy to assist us in this endeavor. At least give us some cavalry. I suspect they are quite sore with Bohemia right now.”
“Yes, it is possible.”
“And I will muster the same,” Vasile continued. “I will speak with my boyars and direct them to levy their peasants. I will also reach out to acquire Tatar cavalry. They will be more than happy to join us, I’m sure. By early July, we will have a sizable host with which to attack our impetuous friend George Rákóczi. And I will see to the terror campaign as well.”
Matei wished he possessed Vasile’s enthusiasm, but he knew George Rákóczi. The prince of Transylvania was no novice when it came to battle. Much of his youth had been spent assisting Gabriel Bethlen against Habsburg aggression. There would be no easy march into—“Wait! What do you mean by ‘terror campaign’?”
“I mean exactly that.” Vasile halted, turned to face Matei. They stood now in the center of the narthex, one of the largest in the world. His voice echoed through the vaults. He held up his hands. “Like many of our predecessors have done, and against the Ottomans no less. You know of which Wallachian prince I speak. Like him, we will strike fear into the hearts of any Bohemian army that dares to march into Transylvania.”
Matei shook his head. “No, I do not like this idea. Innocent civilians are always harmed in such endeavors, even if you confine your strikes to just enemy forces. Villages are burned, crops destroyed, innocents killed.”
“It must be done!” Vasile said, the echo of his stomped boot moving through the narthex. “You know this. This is how war is fought in the Balkans, my friend. If we allow our enemy to move unfettered through the plateau, they will become fat and contented with the hospitality of their host. They will love the citizenry, and they will be loved back. No. We must make it difficult for them, perhaps impossible…or we have little hope of victory.”
He was right. Matei hated that fact, but it was true. It had to be done. He nodded. “Please promise me, at least, as a man promises to his priest, that you will not purposefully harm any civilians in this endeavor. I understand the nature and necessity of guerrilla warfare, Vasile. I understand the need to scorch the earth so that the enemy cannot feed in comfort. But please, show compassion for the people. If you do not, then they will rise against us in time, and no amount of combined forces will take that beauteous garden.”
He moved forward and placed his hand on Vasile’s shoulder. “And I cannot stress this enough, my friend. Do not make any attempt on the life of the prince, his wife, his children, or anyone else in his family. I must have your word on that before I agree to support this terror campaign.”
Vasile paused before answering. He rubbed his broad beard vigorously, as if he were rubbing away stubborn bread crumbs. He grimaced. “Very well. I shall take these actions against Bohemian troops only, for the sole purpose of harming them, and no others. There will be no violent actions taken against the citizenry of Transylvania, nor against any in Prince George’s family or his court. You have my word, as a Christian.”
Matei nodded and stepped back. “Very well. What else shall we discuss?”
They spent the next thirty minutes walking among the vaults, working idle banter into serious discussion about timetables, tactics, and other matters of state. Matei shot down immediate discussion about how they might divide the Transylvanian plateau between them. “Let us win the war first, Vasile,” he said, as they finished their discussion and bid each other farewell, “before we enjoy the spoils.”
The voivode of Moldavia exited the narthex, and Matei leaned heavily against the tomb of the great Radu IV. It was blasphemous, perhaps, to be so informal and loose on such sacred ground. But God had already punished Matei enough for one day. He had given him Vasile Lupu as a partner in this terrible operation.
Stroe Leurdeanu returned. “Did you and Voivode Lupu work out all the details, My Prince?”
Matei nodded. “Enough for now.” He breathed deeply and gathered his strength. “But I want you to keep your eyes and ears in the Moldavian court watching and listening, Stroe. We may have no choice but to follow this edict from our suzerain, but I want to ensure that we do it in such a way as to not bring shame to our people, to our country, and to God.”
Stroe bowed. “Yes, My Prince.”
“We have a long, bloody summer ahead of us, my friend.”
Stroe nodded. “And many sleepless nights as well.”
To that, Matei Basarab not only agreed, but welcomed.