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King and, yes…” he faltered, “…his fellow Dragons had not forsaken him.”
    As the Cardinal had shaken with laughter, so the Count now did with rage. But, breathing deeply, he sat back and went on more calmly. “And I will remind you why you are here, Cardinal. Why you agreed to accompany me to this ‘barbarous’ land.” He leaned forward, speaking as much for the scribes as for the Roman. “It is because a restored Order of the Dragon could once again become Christ’s cutting edge, uniting leaders in every state in the Balkans, and in landsbeyond, under our banner. And thereby—need I remind you of this?—helping to lift the scimitar that presses on Rome’s throat.”
    “My lord Horvathy,” the Cardinal replied, oil replacing ice in his voice, “I apologize. I meant no slur on your Order, which undoubtedly was once a great weapon for Christendom’s cause. But I am confused—is it not an impossible task, to whiten the name of someone so black? Surely, the whole world knows of Dracula’s infamy, his cruelty, his depravity.”
    “What the world knows”—the Count’s tone calmed also—“is the story his conquerors told. And since they controlled so many printing presses, it was their stories that were widely spread.” He gestured to the table, the pile of pamphlets there. “But if the Holy Father were to forgive…why then, are there not presses also in Rome, in Buda, ready to print other stories? A different version of the truth?”
    “Ah, truth.” The Cardinal smiled, outwardly this time. “The truth of history. I’ve often wondered what that is. Is the truth what we seek here? Or just a version of it that will suit all our ambitions?” He sighed. “But you are right, Count Horvathy. The presses are weapons as strong as your broadsword and axe. Stronger in some ways. I’ve often thought: if the Devil had a Bible in print, would he be as unpopular as he is now?” A smile came at Petru’s gasp. Then he leaned forward. “So what truth is it you would have them tell?”
    “That we will hear,” replied the Count. “What we seek may not be possible. It may be that the monster is all that will emerge from the telling. But since the Turks now have a foothold in Italy, at Otranto, and the Sultan’s standard has been raised before the walls of lost Constantinople—and who knows where he will lead his army?—is it not a tale in desperate need of hearing?”
    Grimani sat back, a conciliatory smile now on his face. When he replied, he spoke slowly, clearly. For the record. “Very well, my lord. I acknowledge that the times are perilous. You have asked me here to be a judge. So let me begin with this.” He looked at the line of confessionals. “Who waits here behind these curtains? And why have they been chosen to tell us this tale?”
    “Let them answer.” The Count motioned Petru forward.
    The Spatar rapped hard upon the first confessional. “Who are you?” he demanded.
    The knight had been listening to the voices. He heard so many in a day, it had been hard to tell if these were any more real. But he’d suddenly recognized the voice of one of the judges; more, he’d realized that he had met the man before, in the days of sight and sin. That, and the fact that he now understood just why he’d been freed from the darkness, brought his mind, which had spun in circles of insanity for long years, slowly to a stop.
    “My name is Ion Tremblac,” he said. And saying it, he remembered that it was true.
    Gasps came, one from the Count as the recognition was returned, one female and from the central confessional.
    Petru went on. “And how did you know Dracula, the former Voivode of Wallachia, whose tale we seek to hear this day?”
    “How? From boyhood, I took every stride beside him. Rode stirrup to stirrup with him to the hunt, to war. Suffered torture, shared triumph. I was his closest companion.” The man began to weep. “And I betrayed him. Betrayed him!”
    A near silence, violated