A Matter Of Taste by Fred Saberhagen (best reads .TXT) 📗

though rarely if ever in his brief career did fortifications do him any good. He was several times faced with the problem of attacking them.

* * *

      And then there arrived the day when, by sheerest accident, in the course of my duties in the service of Duke Valentino, fate brought me face-to-face with Bogdan.

      The scene, improbably enough, was a simple country road, not far from a Franciscan monastery. On that day I chanced to be engaged with Michelotto in another honorable skirmish, part of our ongoing effort in the cause of good government, suppressing bandits within the towns and territories now accepting papal rule.

      Michelotto and myself, in the guise of two portly graybeard merchants—someday I must compose a treatise on disguises—had achieved the little ambush that we sought, and engaged four robbers in a spirited debate at twilight, exerting our greatest eloquence to persuade them to give up their evil trade forever. In the course of our discussions I had been clubbed from behind with a broken spear shaft, and this wooden weapon had had effect. Not too seriously, but seriously enough to cause a Franciscan monk, who I heard called Fra Francisco by one of his companions, to come to me to inspect my wound. By this time those of the enemy who were still on the field required only spiritual help.

      Corella, when he saw that I had been hurt, looked first surprised, then somewhat concerned, and then relieved, to see this proof that I was not, after all—as he must have begun to think—some kind of superhuman immortal. He took a seat on the far side of the road and began to refresh himself with wine.

      The hands of the elderly monk were gentle as he probed the back of my head, sponging away a minimal amount of blood, checking the swelling. I did not see his face clearly until my treatment was concluded. Then, to my amazement, I was able to recognize, despite the changes wrought by age, the countenance of Bogdan.

      The remainder of my disguise was wiped away, and the murderous traitor saw my face clearly at the same time that I saw his. I saw the color drain from his cheeks and he took a step or two backward. A moment more and he sat down, upon a roadside stone, as if afflicted by a sudden attack of dizziness. The companion who had come with him, another monk, expressed concern.

      “Brother Francis? What is wrong?”

      The monk who was sitting on the stone only shook his head. Brother Francis.

      Almost thirty years had passed since Bogdan and I had last looked upon each other, and he, at least, had undergone great visible alterations. Not that he had degenerated into a human wreck like Basarab—on the contrary, this greatest and bitterest enemy of mine looked hale and well for a man of his present age, somewhere around fifty.

      My former comrade and deadly, sadistic enemy. There was nothing really so strange in my running into Bogdan by accident, after I had searched for him so many years.

      The last survivor of the trio of my enemies sat for a time at the roadside as if stunned. Then he closed his eyes, bowed his head, and prayed aloud.

      When he had concluded his prayers and looked up again, he saw me standing over him. He spoke to me, his hoarse voice lapsing into the language of our homeland.

      “You are Drakulya—and yet you cannot be. Vlad Drakul has been in his grave for more than twenty years.”

      I nodded slowly. “He has been there, in his grave. He has been in many graves, but never yet to stay.”

      His eyes, in horror and disbelief, probed mine. “What are you saying?”

      “Only what you already know, but do not wish to believe. That I am Drakulya, and you are Bogdan. Once—is it possible?—you were my trusted comrade. Then you became Bogdan, the traitor, who took great pleasure in my slow death. Bogdan, who thought he had sold the head of Drakulya to the Sultan. But that was not to be. For a quarter of a century you have escaped my vengeance. But no more.”

      Bogdan could only stare at me, shaking his head. It was obvious that, although he now recognized me, still he did not believe. He was searching for an explanation.

      “You are Bogdan,” I said to him remorselessly. “And I know, we both know, what manner of filth you are. What is this pretense of robe and tonsure?”

      “I was that man, Bogdan, once,” he admitted, after a long pause. Still he maintained his unbroken stare at me. “That unspeakable traitor, murderer, thief, and lecher. But Christ had mercy upon that man, mercy even in the uttermost depths of his sin and degradation. And now, for fifteen years, through the Lord’s mercy, that wretched Bogdan has been no more.”

      My voice was as quiet and monotonous as his. No one else could hear what either of us was saying. “Say rather, that soon he will be no more upon this earth. Soon he will have been sent to hell.”

      Once more my enemy bowed his head and prayed.

      Perhaps his prayers gave him strength, for when he raised his head and looked at me again, his gaze was less obscured with fear.

      “I see who you are now,” he said at last, speaking with the relief of a man who has solved a mystery. “I begin to understand. There is indeed a great resemblance, and you, young man, must be Drakulya’s bastard. Perhaps you were born only after he died; in any event you must have been so young that you can never really have known your father Vlad Drakul. He can scarcely be a real memory to you at all. Others must have brought you up, taught you to spend your life in vengeance—why have you come to Italy?”

      “To find you. And now I have succeeded.”

      My enemy, sitting on his rock, took thought. Now it seemed that he was more concerned for me than frightened for himself. “I must tell