THE IMPALER'S WIFE

17 ~ VLAD ~

1447

Sultan's Palace in Edirne, Anatolia

Dracul's betrayal changed everything.

A stained robe, an illegible Arabic character, a mispronunciation, foul breath, an arrogant glare, all these errors resulted in beatings, missed meals, and humiliating chores for Vlad and Radu.

Radu became submissive. Vlad, more callous.

One morning a janissary walked through the door. "Come with me. Today you learn the art of torture."

Radu burst into tears and ran from the room. Vlad swallowed his fear and followed the janissary to a private courtyard.

"Impalement," said the janissary, "is a punishment used since before the time of Sargon the Second. You will master its subtleties. You will learn where to place the stake for a merciful quick death or a torturous prolonged one."

Vlad reeled back, blood draining from his face. "Am I— ?"

"No, not today." The janissary shoved Vlad forward. "Today you observe. Pay attention. Look at this criminal and see your own fate, boy."

Vlad stared instead at the executioner, who was applying a substance to the pointed tip.

"A little grease ensures a smooth entry," the janissary explained as the executioner pounded the tapered shaft into the spine of the screaming victim.

Vlad swallowed the bile in his throat but still he watched. "Who is he?"

"A thief, a maggot whose only noble act in life is reminding others of the penalty for stealing from the sultan." The janissary pushed Vlad toward the thief. "This maggot will take several days to die. See how the stake follows the base of the spine?"

Vlad gagged, willed himself not to vomit.

The janissary pointed to a shady spot under a nearby tree. "Sit here until sundown, brave little prince. Mark the stages of dying. Return tomorrow and do the same. Until the maggot dies. Pray the sultan in his mercy does not kill you in this manner."

The thief took four days to die. The first day, he begged for death, cried for Allah, and cursed the sultan. On the second, Vlad wrapped a scarf around his own face, the stench of piss, shit, and putrid flesh made him vomit too often. By the third day the thief's face was coated in a roiling mass of flies.

Vlad heard the thief's every moan, plea, and prayer. Each one was a spike to his heart. But later, his heart detached from his mind. He had no choice. His manliness was being tested.

On the fourth day, Vlad was able to gaze at the lump of flesh without emotion. Neither pity nor revulsion pierced his heart. The janissary's lesson proved effective. He had dulled Vlad's senses, hardened him, and set him on the path to becoming a warrior.

Vlad's next lesson in torture came the following week.

The janissary pushed the wooden pole and grease pot at Vlad. "Your turn."

At first, Vlad's hands trembled as he smeared grease on the pole. But as he aimed the point at the victim all his pent-up rage gushed forth. Mehmed, the Turks, his humiliations, their punishments—these wrongs formed a cold vengeful mass inside of him. With steely resolve, his mind fixed on the injustices endured by his people, Vlad calmly rammed the pole into the man's backside.

The man screamed, scattering the birds on the roof, but to Vlad it was a victory song. For the first time in his life, he felt a rush of power flood through his body, and this deluge submerged his soul.

"Bring the pole through his spine and out his chest," said the janissary. "There are many ways to impale. Many ways to torture. You will learn them all."