Vlad Read Online Free PDF Page B

Greek, then mathematics, then some fiendish Persian poetry. When that was done, the scholars had begun to rise, assuming by the sun’s position in the sky that the day was done and they were free. But then Hamza, their agha , their tutor, had given a teasing smile and said, “Let us end the day with the words of Allah, the Merciful, the All-Encompassing. Just a short verse from the Qur’an.” The Serbian, Mardic, had actually groaned and been struck for it. Hence Ion’s inward sigh. He wanted the wooden bastinado that rested beside the tutor’s floor pillow to remain there.
    “Come, my fledglings, my young hawks. Your dullness would test the patience of the Imam of Tabriz, whose serenity was undisturbed when barbarians burned his house around him and who only asked: will someone not open the window?”
    Hamza laughed quietly and leaned over his crossed legs, gazing down from his raised dais upon the seven bent heads below. He was obviously expecting some reaction to his words. None came.
    “No one?” Now it was Hamza who sighed. “Go then, you stones. See if some of the Merciful’s clean air can clear your heads!” Over the scuffle of boys rising, the little groans as limbs too long crossed were released, he added, “But we will return to this in the morning. And there will be no tales from Herodotus until we finish it.”
    No one was faster to their feet than Ion. He would have been first through the door, too, leading his orta into the central passageway of the enderun kolej , joining the throng there of other ortas released from their studies. Now that he was standing, he could see them over the low partition walls that divided class from class in the big hall, and he ached to join them. All were silent, as was commanded, but he could see the restraint on the faces, the whoop that would erupt as soon as they cleared the doors. But he could not leave. Not when the one who sat next to him was still studying the words. Ion clicked his fingers in front of his friend’s face, the gesture obvious.
    His impatience had no effect. Hamza, who had stood and was stretching his own cramped limbs, looked down at Ion and his prone companion. He studied the bent head, the midnight-black hair falling like a veil over the face, and smiled. “Do you have it, my young man?”
    The youth’s lips moved once more in silent recitation before he looked up. “I believe so, Hamza agha ,” he said.
    “Then why didn’t you speak it before your classmates?”
    Turd, thought Ion. Wasn’t it obvious? His friend could have answered most questions if he chose. But the rest of the orta , made up of other hostages like themselves, were jealous enough already. It was often easiest, and less bruising, to keep silent.
    Hamza stepped down from the dais, into a shaft of sunlight. Beneath his black turban, his blue eyes shone in his dark face, a slight smile splitting his blond beard. Seeing him more clearly, Ion saw again that their agha was older than them, of course, but perhaps only by seven years. Until his promotion three years previously, he’d been cupbearer to the Sultan. “Well then,” Hamza said, gesturing down. “Recite it for me, Vlad Dracula. Let me hear from your mouth the wisdom of the Holy Qur’an.”
    Vlad cleared his throat, then spoke. “‘They will ask thee about intoxicants and games of chance. Say: In both there is great sin as well as some benefit for man; but the evil that they cause is greater than the benefit that they bring.’”
    “Good.” Hamza nodded. “You mispronounced perhaps three of the words. But the fact that you can pronounce Arabic at all astonishes me.” He came closer, squatted down. “How many languages is it that you speak?”
    Vlad shrugged. Ion spoke for his friend, excitedly. “Greek, Latin, Frankish…”
    Vlad gave him a look, bidding silence. Ion knew the look and obeyed.
    “And you are fluent in Osmanlica, of course. But Arabic?” Hamza whistled. “Do you strive to be a hafiz