|
Bucharest:
Two monks visited Vlad in his palace at Tirgoviste, and curious to see their reactions to his habit of impaling and enjoyment of horrific torture. He led them to the rows of corpses in his courtyard and asked their opinions. One of the monks responded saying "You are appointed by God to punish evil doers." The other monk, obviously more horrified at what he saw, was honest enough to express himself truly and condemned Dracula for his actions.
German stories tell of Vlad impaling the second monk and rewarding the first but the Russian story tells of Vlad impaling the first for dishonesty and rewarding the second monk for speaking his mind. Vlad, being such the lover of impalement, wouldn't have missed an opportunity to indulge his hobby and most likely impaled both, just to have something to enjoy lunch by.
Assuming that a natural place to begin our search would be modern-day Wallachia, Morgy and I flew to Bucharest, the Romanian capital. We consulted various tourist pamphlets proclaiming to give guided tours through "Castle Dracula," which isn't quite a genuine statement, as the real castle lies in ruins not far from the better preserved one that generates all the tourism dollars.
Instead, we threw money around until we secured ourselves an escort to Snagov, so we might visit the empty grave ourselves and question the monks through a translator.
As with most Romanian peasants we encountered, the monks shied away when confronted with questions about vampirism, heresy and the undead. It became clear to us that the only Dracula living in Romania was a fantastical version made famous by Bela Lugosi; it wasn't about the historical figure, but about appealing to what the typical American tourist wanted and expected to see.
Istanbul:
Turkish envoys visiting Vlad's court at Tirgoviste during his rule refused to remove their Phrygian caps. When questioned why, they said it was not the custom of their fathers to do so. Vlad ordered their hats nailed to their heads with small, iron nails so that they might never break such and excellent tradition, and he sent them on their way.
After what was a slightly disappointing visit to Romania -- we wondered what Vlad would think of it now -- we felt that, naturally, the next logical city to visit would be Istanbul, once the centre of the Byzantine empire. Perhaps part of our friend could be found there, maybe in the crypt of the Hagia Sophia or amongst the treasures of Topkapi Palace. Even if he was to be found there, security was so tight that even a wayward hand could get you removed from the palace.
A scholar in one of the libraries seemed interested in the topic himself and directed us to copies of an old archive of documents from The Order of the Dragon, which Sultan Mehmed II kept after his victory over Dracula. Within the documents lay a letter dated shortly after Dracula's death, from a monk visiting Constantinople to one that remained in meditation at Snagov. The letter traced the journey of the Prince's head through the Balkans, transported by monks. Perhaps, we thought, Dracula's body was never returned to Romania at all and was detained permanently along the way, and that these monks were going the same route in hopes of putting their master back together into one piece.
Another letter suggested that the monks never made it past Bulgaria.
Sofia:
Vlad kept many mistresses, and one particular woman was madly in love with the prince and would do anything for him. One day Vlad came to her depressed and to cheer him up and claimed to be pregnant with his child (despite knowing her lover's hatred for dishonesty). Vlad warned her that she should not joke over a matter so serious, but she stuck with her lie. Vlad determined there was only one way to find out if she was being truthful, so he slit the poor woman open from her groin to her breasts so that her innards spilled out of her. "You see?" he concluded, "You could not have been telling the truth." And so he left her to die.
Sofia yielded the least information yet, and we were discouraged -- it seemed that all the money in the world and all the best resources couldn't help us succeed in a mission that seemed increasingly insane. I was especially disappointed, because I obviously hoped deep down that my home country would supply us with... well, with a grave, a stake and a dead 531-year old.
So, feeling pretty silly, we packed our bags a prepared to go home, where a monumental Pay-Per-View awaited us.
Dimovo:
In 1459 on St. Bartholomew's Day, Vlad ordered 30,000 of the merchants and nobles of the Transylvanian city of Brasov to be impaled. In order to enjoy the entire experience, he commanded that a table be set up for him and that his boyars join him for a feast amongst the forest of impaled corpses. Whilst dining, Vlad noticed that one of his boyars was holding his nose in an effort to try and avoid some of the smell of blood and emptied bowls of the surrounding bodies, some of which festered in the hot Romanian sun for weeks, picked apart by vultures. Vlad took it upon himself to impale the man higher than all the rest so that he might be above the stench.
We decided it would be fun to see more of Bulgaria before leaving, so we hired a Bulgarian driver to take us to some main sites, like the Rila Monastery and the monastery at Haskovo.
On our way to Haskovo, we passed through the small village of Dimovo, which consisted mainly of a large church and small, shack-like houses. As we drove past the church, we noticed (and gasped) almost simultaneously at the enormous tapestry draped above the arched entranceway: it bore the insignia of The Order of the Dragon; a large, black dragon with its spiked tail looped around its body.
We screeched for the driver to let us out and tore up the hill that the church rested atop. It was called Sveti Georgi (Saint George), which meant the remains of the church's patron would logically be in its crypt. The thick, heavy front doors were unlocked, and there were no people to be seen in the main chamber.
We stumbled forward towards the altar, and to the side of it there was a gated doorway that led possibly to a church office or library or -- we hoped -- the crypt. We had no idea where we were going, but were compelled forward nonetheless, almost against our wills. Near the end of the long, dark, stone hallway, still devoid of people, there was an ancient looking staircase of grey stone that appeared blackened by the ravages of fire. A drab crucifix hung on the wall above it, and small lanterns lined the walls that descended into dungeon-like darkness.
We lurched forward again and flew down the stairs. We weren't sure what we expected to find, but the presence of the Order's insignia in modern-day Bulgaria compelled us to at least investigate.
There was one altar and sarcophagus there, which I read to say "Saint George - The Saint Who Slayed the Dragon; 275 - April 23, 303." Below that inscription was another engraving; one that looked much fresher than the words above it (as fresh as monuments that are thousands of years old can be). The same loop-tailed dragon from the tapestry outside was carved into the stone; the exact dragon that served as the emblem for The Order of the Dragon -- Dracula's Order of the Dragon.
It occurred to us how unlikely it was that one of the world's most cherished saints would be buried in Shitsville, Bulgaria, and that the second engraving had nothing to do with the first. Indirectly, perhaps, but more than a thousand years separated Saint George and that particular emblem.
And in that moment we knew that we had to open the sarcophagus. It had no nails holding it closed -- if there had at one time been anything of value with the body, it would have been taken by grave robbers long ago -- but the lid was of heavy stone. We knew we had to rush back to the car to get whatever we could to protect ourselves; our crucifixes, the small silver dagger Morgy had purchased for her slaying exploits back home, as well as a similarly styled silver pistol and bullet set that we could have sworn was meant to be sold together with the dagger and crosses as some sort of ancient vampire hunting kit.
With our driver, Stoyan, in tow -- a stocky but sturdy man who spent much of our trip reminiscing about his days in the Soviet Army -- we returned to the crypt as quickly as we could. It was late evening by that point, and we were anxious about waiting too long to open the sarcophagus.
After a few bills larger than any sum he'd made in his entire life were thrown his way, Stoyan didn't ask any more questions, and instead took the lead in removing the lid from the casket. Everyone had their price, it seemed, even when it came to desecrating national treasures.
It began to slide off with difficulty, making a gravelly screeching sound as we pushed it with all our might, until in a sudden flash of ease, it slipped off completely and clattered the the floor nearby.
And inside lay Dracula, son of the Dragon.
His face was sickly and white and his lips crimson and moist, and we almost expected him to open his eyes and laugh at us, an actor hired to carry out an elaborate prank. He was dressed immaculately, his vestments vivid in colour and surreal in their ancient style. A thick, curly brown mustache cascaded down each side of his face and blended in with his hair, which lay at his shoulders.
Inwardly, we felt stunned; frozen; terrified; too dumb to do anything, but perhaps Saint George himself gave us the strength of composure and before the very reality of what we were seeing could set in, I aimed my pistol at his heart and fired my silver bullets until there were none left. His body convulsed, and his eyes flipped open, revealing sharp, green eyes, and with a muffled shriek, Morgy plunged the dagger into the sea of wounds in his chest that neither bubbled or oozed or showed signs of blood. His eyes snapped shut again, and his body turned to dust before our very eyes. Was his brief gaze at us conscious? Did he realize he had been foiled? Did he recognize that, in a split second, his half-millenium of terror had to put to a stop?
And more importantly, we wondered -- and hoped -- was Casanova also a pile of dust somewhere across the Atlantic Ocean? Or was he a pathetic man with nothing to show for his so-called vampirism other than infection with Mr. Hwang's AIDS?
|
