#manea udriște

[coffeewithcutcaffeine]

— in which the newly appointed voivode emphasises that the old times have come to an end. A rewrite of the dregătorii scenes from the Romanian historical film Vlad Țepeș (1979).

word count: 3,551 words

warnings: mild references to violence

a/n: The 1979 film was one of the main driving forces behind writing Voievod in its current form. It redirected my focus towards what I wanted to explore about Vlad’s character and history. At the end of the 1970s, Romanian filmmakers completely knocked out Dracula’s vampire teeth and presented the Wallachian voivode as he was instead — tough and cruel, the project of his times, but fair. Of course, the film plays on a nationalistic note (we are tackling Ceaușescu’s regime here, after all…), but the viewer does not mind as it does not feel so blatant. And Ștefan Sileanu’s portrayal (despite the age difference between him and the figure he portrayed) was a great choice — he carries a kind of charisma that fits Vlad’s character perfectly. (This gem opens new perspectives if you are fed up with encountering numerous portrayals of Vlad as a cruel tyrant or mortal-turned-vampire, and multiple contemporary historians worked on the consults for the script to make the story accurate, so go check it out on YouTube in case you have not seen this film! It is available with English subtitles.) I have always adored these two short scenes in which Vlad gets in an open confrontation with the boyars as both moments are powerful and charged with great emotional range — I may have decided to tweak the dialogue and setting a little to make it fit into my take on Vlad’s character and life, but the scenes are so good, I could not resist including them into the story. This is my little homage to the film’s greatness while trying to tweak it into its own thing. I hope you enjoy it! ❤️️

➨ also available on AO3

August 1456, Curtea Domnească, Târgoviște, Wallachia

“Where are the dregătorii?”

Manea’s snow-white head emerges from behind one of the stone pillars.

“They come at noon, măria-ta. Such is the custom,” the man informs Vlad, his voice calm.

The words strike like flint on steel. Manea catches the sharp clench of the voivode’s jaw.

“The custom?” Vlad’s deep voice cuts through the silence of the throne hall, echoing like thunder off those empty white walls. “I called upon them hours ago! Take the guards and bring them here immediately!”

He watches as Manea snaps into a bow without saying another word and turns on his heel. The heavy doors swing shut with a resounding thud, sealing the space behind him. Silence rushes in like a tide — with that, Vlad is left alone.

The roll of parchment clenched in his calloused fingers crinkles under the pressure. He looks at it again, studying the script that unfolds pressing demands. He has read it so many times that the words must have seared into his mind by now. It anchors him, gives him something — anything — to focus on. His mind cannot grow idle. His body cannot stay still. The day ahead demands action, yet action is precisely what he is deprived of. His eyes trace the lines with the same fixation as before, but his thoughts are elsewhere, scattered.

Noon. Of course. They will come with the arrogance of believing that time itself bends to their will.

Hours have slipped by since the first light of dawn when he stormed back from his morning ride, muscles loosened and pulse alive, the wind still clinging to his skin. He devoured a hearty breakfast with the same intensity, to sate the hunger gnawing at him. His private indulgences have become the greatest form of luxury. It has been a week since he was crowned by the metropolitan, and there has been no pause since, no mercy in the march of time. Duties demand him to be everywhere, all at once. This country is a living, breathing force. He must keep pace with it — or be devoured.

But what was once a land of promise now staggers beneath the weight of neglect.

His grip tightens. The edges of the parchment press into his skin. It grounds him. Just barely so. Impatience burns through him like wildfire, igniting every vein with an aggravation that spews like venom. He paces before the throne, fervent steps threatening to erode the very stone beneath his booted feet. Movement is the only thing holding his fury shackled. Then he stops for a second, eyes drawn to the window where the sun blazes high in the sky. It mocks him.

He has been left to wait for hours, like some idiot. They think they can break him with time, humiliate him into submission. It sharpens him instead. Fools. They have no clue what is about to come.

He glances at the throne beside him and weighs the option of sitting and waiting. He decides against it. Time wasted is time lost. Purpose drives him as he walks through the archway leading to the cancelarie. With eyes wide with panic, the grămătic fumbles to his feet as soon as the door bursts open.

“Please, sit,” he sends the flustered scribe back to his seat with a wave of his hand, catching the papers and parchments the nobleman has knocked over in haste.

He would never wish to disrupt a diligent man during his work.

Besides, he has tortured him enough already. Eight years prior, when he was grappling with the magnitude of his predicament, Vlad demanded to be walked through every minute detail of the cancelarie, mapping out where each document was stored. His request was as much about understanding the court’s inner workings as it was about satisfying a childhood curiosity, a desire to explore the places he had once been barred from. Now, eight years on, a new voivode arrived, tenfold more demanding than that seventeen-year-old youth. The night after the coronation, he did not let the poor scribe leave the palace until they went through all the important documents together, each one dissected until Vlad’s knowledge of the state of affairs was as thorough as possible.

Not a single fragment of vital information will ever elude him. He will see to it.

He walks past the massive desk and puts the roll of parchment back in its place.

“Can I see the documents on our tax revenues?” he asks. “I want to see if the money serves any purpose beyond lining a few greedy pouches.”

“Of course, măria-ta. I shall have them delivered to your rooms this evening.”

“I want to see every last detail scrutinised, no matter how insignificant it may seem.”

“Certainly, măria-ta.”

“And where is the letter from the—”

The sound of footsteps multiplies in the hall. Another priority demands his attention; studies and evaluations vanish into the corners of his mind. He lunges from the working area, walks across the room and towards the throne with a speed that leaves no space for doubts. He does not spare a glance at the boyars who pour into the hall, some of them frantic and scurrying towards their seats. His eyes remain fixed ahead, only the shimmer of steel from the guards’ weapons glints in his periphery — silent but always present. Then he faces them, his eyes drilling into the richly dressed assembly before him.

“This land must advance with the speed of a decade’s progress in just one year if we are to measure up against others. And you dare come at noon? First, you chase your own comfort, and only then think of the rest?”

His hand moves on its own accord, and the index finger hovers over them in accusation. Irritation flows through him, his tone no longer contained but spilling over. He dares them to retort or challenge him. No one does — except for one. The tall and bearded one, thick with flesh, his smile curled into mockery. He sinks into his seat with deliberate slowness, choosing the one on Vlad’s right side. Albu cel Mare. The Great. First among equals still. A festering sore still rotting on this land.

Vlad does not stir. His gaze holds steady, tethered to Albu’s with a dark, almost mischievous glint, a ripple of indulgence beneath the surface. The insult hangs in the air between them, only to wither before it takes root. With a flicker of intent, he gives energy to his words and releases them without a second thought.

“Do you find this amusing?” he asks with lightness in his voice. “It is good to see you still retain your sense of humour. You will have need of it.”

In that instant, the mockery crumbles, sliding off Albu’s face.

Vlad drops onto the throne, body hitting the seat with a fluid ease. The narrow space does not allow much comfort, but he owns it still — he drapes one leg over the other, ankle perched on his knee. The sharp angles of the wood dig into his spine, but he leans back in the seat and claims its discomfort nonetheless. His thumb idly twists the thick, worn band of his father’s ring. The metal is warm against his skin, familiar, weighty. It circles slowly, a measured movement. He does not look down. He does not have to. That ring holds more than memory.

Was that perhaps a beginner’s mistake? the thought stirs in him beneath the weight of his own misjudgment. His spirit — so quick, so volatile — threatens to flare again. He tamps it down. No, he tells himself. No more of that. He can see his father in his mind, that stern face shaded with disappointment, head shaking in slow, deliberate disapproval. He recalls the words Dracul often repeated to him. Temper your fire, boy. A man who cannot rule himself is no ruler at all. But this is no error of youth or inexperience. This is calculation. Power, after all, is not a sword swung in every fit of rage, not a storm that ravages without thought. Power is restraint. It is the slow tightening of the hand before the crushing blow. To hold. To wait. Until the moment arrives. And now, the moment is here.

He knows the games the boyars play. He can play them just as well. An eye for an eye. If they choose to act like spoiled children, he will discipline them as such. Gone are the days when voivodes bowed their heads, their power nothing more than a fragile illusion borrowed from those who sat in this darkened hall. Someone should have taught them this lesson long ago. Fear, that most ancient of chains, has snapped with him.

He watches the boyars, eyes sharp, heart steady — or so he wills it to be. He has tried to approach them with measured patience, understanding well that their support is crucial, all the more now when the crown’s weight is still fresh on his brow. He knows that these times demand unity. Let the reckoning come later. For now, the country must function and the balance must hold. Yet these men take the truce offered to them for weakness, his mercy for softness.

But unlike his late father and elder brother, the young voivode has never truly excelled in the art of diplomacy. If it is war they want, he will give it to them. That is a domain in which he has honed his skills to absolute perfection.

“This country does not belong to you, dear boyars,” he speaks into the murmur with a more controlled tone. “You belong to this country, just as I am its servant. We say Ladislaus of Hungary, not Hungary of Ladislaus. Casimir of Poland, not Poland of Casimir. Were it not this way, the countries would perish with their rulers… and their nobility.”

“What happened, măria-ta?” one of the boyars asks with hardly feigned concern.

“Nothing at all,” Vlad waves his hand dismissively. “This is a typical working day. I would like us to discuss the state of affairs, see what needs to be done, and do it.”

While discontented mutterings swirl in the hall, Albu uses the moment to study the little dragon. His first surprise comes quick — he does not wear the crown. Then the memories resurface and bring clarity with them. Neither did his father. Albu’s gaze traces the golden embroidery on his clothes — all blood-red, the voivode’s colour. So this is his way of branding their memories to ensure no one dares forget whom they have placed on the throne. A grin crawls across his broad face, malicious, patronising. He lets it sit there just long enough for the sharp-eyed youth to catch it before it vanishes into the folds of his expression.

Pathetic.

In truth, he almost feels pity for Drăculea. He is merely an inexperienced young man playing at being a voivode. His every move and every display of bravado reek of desperation, yet he believes he can make them cower by sheer will alone. The arrogance of youth is so predictable, so easy to manipulate. Let him play his little game, let him believe he has control. Soon enough, he will be exactly where Albu needs him.

He recalls the words he shared with his comrades after they elected Drăculea. He is like a foal harnessed for the first time — kicking, neighing, getting up on two legs. He will go at it for a while. Then he will get used to the harness, the carriage, and the coachman. No one wants him here, but a young spirit is pliable, mouldable… He will pull the carriage. He will answer to the whip.

Oh, the fool has no clue what is about to come.

Another head falls, easily.

“You have seen many voivodes pass through these halls since my grandfather Mircea died. Tell me, boyars, how many now?” Vlad rises to his feet after he lets them simmer in their useless complaints long enough.

As he walks past the seats with hands behind his back, various answers come to him.

“Six…”

“Seven? Eight?”

“Must be more, măria-ta. Ten.”

The hall becomes a tomb choked in stillness as the voivode ponders their answers. He lets it stretch further. Every breath feels stolen. He can feel the boyars squirm under the weight of it, eyes flicking nervously between one another. No one dares predict what comes next. And there he stands, watching, waiting, like a goshawk stalking its prey.

Some of the boyars catch the gleam of viciousness flicker in the voivode’s smile, white teeth slashing like a blade under the shadow of his black moustache. He holds each man’s glance just a moment too long. A few meet his stare, unyielding, eyes locked in defiance. Most falter. Their gaze slips away from the venomous green of his eyes as though the weight of the silent accusation burns too hot to bear.

“Not even you can remember,” he says only when the tension in the room reaches its peak. “You have set them against one another. You have urged them to look for the costly help abroad!”

Half a dozen pairs of eyes draw toward him, their surprise threading beneath their skin like an unwelcome chill. His tone is more accusatory and biting than they previously expected. His voice slices through the air with a sharpness they never foresaw.

They have draped him in velvet, set him in the seat of power, placed the crown upon his brow. And yet here he stands — daring, no less — throwing their courtesy back in their faces? Is this how he repays them, for the splendour they have so generously handed him?

But Vlad resumes his steps, and familiar words seep from his lips — whispers from a grave thick with the weight of years, of life buried but not forgotten. Each man in the hall recognises them. “‘Io Mircea, the great voievod and domn of God’s mercy, and the gift of God, ruling and reigning over all the land of Ungrovlahia and the parts above the mountains, Duke of the Tartar parts and of Amlaș and Făgăraș, and the ruler of the Banat of Severin, and on both sides throughout Podunavia, even to the great sea, and ruler of Dârstor’s fortress.’ What happened to his legacy? Where are those territories above the mountains? And Amlaș and Făgăraș? Where is the great sea?

“Not even forty years have passed since he was laid to his grave, and the voivodes have become the vassals of Hungary and tributaries to the Turks. Servants of two masters! The blood of our ancestors has soaked this soil, yet you,” his gaze rakes over the boyars, “you would see it sold for a few more years of luxury. Look at the ruin your reckless strife has brought upon this land!”

The weight of his words settles over the dregătorii. Brows knit, hands tighten in silent rage, yet he does not retreat. His accusations scatter like lightning through a storm and warp the air between them. The councilmen hardly flinch, but behind their stillness lies the birth of something that begins to writhe and breathe. It coils in the dark, festering, preparing to strike. It feeds on every small display of insult, on the thin line between respect and humiliation he has now crossed.

The silence expands, breathless, waiting for the crack. Albu sees the tightness in the young voivode’s clenched fist, the rigid set of his jaw. He rises, each step like a move on the chessboard that already forecasts victory. He stands close, close enough to feel the heat of the youth’s fury. A faint smile twists at Albu’s lips.

“Măria-ta, but did you not come to this land with the same intent? To kill the voivode and take his place?” his voice comes low, smooth as a dagger sliding between ribs.

The fire in Vlad’s eyes flickers. “This country is a shadow of what it used to be. When I crossed the mountains, I did not come to claim a country but a shadow. I did not come to kill a voivode but to kill the shadow of a shadow—”

“The voivodes were feeble—” one of the dregătorii begins to speak with caution but falters mid-sentence, the breath caught in his throat.

“You were the ones who ruled after Mircea’s death! You were deposing and enthroning voivodes at your whim!” Vlad’s voice cracks like a whip, reverberating through the hall and crashing into the boyar’s weathered face. “They did not know how to stop you while there was still time.”

“Then perhaps you should do it, măria-ta.”

The mockery douses the flames burning in Vlad’s chest. The outrage in his eyes flickers and dims until only the smoke of what was remains. His gaze shifts and pauses on Albu, sizing him up with a keenness that lingers in the silence. Remains of his former glory — when calling him The Great carried weight beyond the bitter aftertaste of faded power — persist in his bearing, shoulders thrust back with pride. But time has sunk its teeth into him, leaving only fragments of the man he must have been. Sharpness has given way to the fat and sagging flesh of age, eyes sunken deep in their sockets beneath the wrinkles. Sweat glistens on his ample forehead and betrays a weakness he tries to hide.

Vlad’s response is one Albu hardly expects. A smile stretches across his lips, reckless and unsettling in its excess, too full of mirth for the moment. It carves shallow ridges into his youthful cheeks.

“No. I will not judge you now,” Vlad slips into a near whisper. “Too many heads would fall.”

After that, he offers the boyar nothing, not even the weight of a lingering gaze. Vlad turns his body away from Albu, dismissing the man with indifference, and strides toward the throne. The fabric of his coat sweeps in time with the motion. He lets himself melt into the embrace of the seat, the wood groaning softly beneath him. The pause is barely there, marked only by the subtle lift of his chest. Then, without delay, he squares his shoulders, his eyes once more locking onto the men in front of him, hard and unreadable, as if the brief flicker of humanness never existed.

“I am asking one thing of you. You have brought this land to its knees. You shall help me lift it where it should be.”

“Let us do that, măria-ta. What are your orders?”

“A new administration. Armașia. To ensure the fulfilment of the royal orders.”

“Anything else, măria-ta?”

The taste of Vlad’s following words — bitter and metallic, like blood pooling behind clenched teeth — haunts him. “I wish to allocate money for the construction of a church in honour of my cousin, the illustrious Vladislav Voievod. It shall be built near the site of his final moments in Târgșor.”

To offer praise to a man he despised, a man whose death brought him the kind of satisfaction only a dog gets from tearing apart its prey, feels like desecrating his own tongue. He has been a poor liar his whole life — that much he has always known, and these lies come slow, like jagged rocks grinding their way up his throat. The memory of Vladislav’s throat opening under his blade flashes across his mind, of blood pouring in cataracts all over him.

The boyars watch, suspicious of and unmoved by his fumbling words. They, too, are liars. Their faces bear masks as thin and brittle as his own, a court of men circling lies like vultures. He tastes the bitterness again, lingering, the way the stench of blood lingers long after a wound is sealed.

Vlad’s eyes sweep the hall, finding nothing but the polished glint of half-hidden smiles and the dull gleam of contempt. The air is heavy, too thick to breathe, weighed down by the scent of damp stone and sweat.

“That will be all for today.”

“And who will have the honour of being the armaș?”

“You will learn in due time.”

His words are final, immutable. A single courteous nod of his head is enough. The dregătorii rise from their seats, their movements stiff. Beneath their robes rises a rush of hidden breath, the quiet release of men delivered from an unseen noose. They walk towards the grand doors, their backs straight yet trembling, sensing that the shadow behind them stretches farther than the room itself.

On the steps leading out of the palace, a rough pair of hands grab the side of Albu’s coat. “This is not a foal like you said. This is a wild horse. If we let him, he will wreck the harness and the carriage.”

Albu straightens his coat, brushes off the hands as though it were a stain. He stands still on the steps, the sun’s light beginning to cast shadows over the palace’s walls. No, the man within those walls is not the eager young pretender they thought they would bring to heel. Power, it seems, has seeped into him faster than he thought. How long before this youth, who owes everything to them, believes he owes nothing?

“A wild horse, indeed,” Albu pats the cheek of the concerned nobleman and walks away.

“Novus rex, nova lex” is a Latin saying that translates as “new king, new law”. We could also easily apply something along the lines of “new sheriff in town”. There couldn’t possibly be anything more suitable for a man who stormed in and turned all the previous customs upside-down.

I purposefully included a brief peek into the world of the voivodal chancellery as this place used to work almost like a separate universe in its own right. While a new voivode sooner or later replaced the previously serving councilmen with his own people chosen by his own set of preferences, men working in the chancellery (which was usually divided into two main workspaces — one for Old Chruch Slavonic and the other for Latin) were “inherited” and remained in their positions. They were learned people who knew foreign languages and writing standards of the day, and so their skills were valued. In this work, I mention a grămătic, a title used for a secretary or scribe of the chancellery. (There were around 4-5 grămătici working in Vlad Dracula’s chancellery.) Their supervisor, the head of the voivodal chancellery, was called a mare logofăt. The logofăt was a member of the voivode’s council (it was, in fact, one of the most prominent positions within the sfatul) and even had his own “deputy”. I am certain there will be more mentions of and glimpses into the Cancelarie Domnească in the future, but in case you find the topic interesting and want to learn more about the processes and workings of this place, I highly recommend checking out this video by Corpus Draculianum.

Becoming a Wallachian voivode was no simple feat. The process required two crucial steps. The Sfatul Domnesc (Princely Council) played a significant role in selecting the voivode as the boyars in this council often had influence over the succession, and it was common for them to elect or approve the ruler. After the official approval, the candidate could be crowned by the head of the Orthodox Church, the Metropolitan of Wallachia. However, the voivode’s position was never fully secure after these formal steps — although the voivode held the title of supreme ruler in theory, the boyars often wielded more actual power in Wallachian society. Their control over land, military forces, political alliances, and influence within the Sfatul Domnesc made them a formidable force capable of dictating or challenging any ruler’s authority. This power imbalance and the power to elect or remove rulers often resulted in voivodes being disposed of when they started to become inconvenient. The boyars’ preference? More compliant and passive voivodes.

[vladdocs]

Vlad Tepes and his internal politics Abstract: When he came for the second time at the helm of Wallachia, Vlad the Impaler took a series of measures aimed at strengthening the central authority. Seeking to annihilate the anarchic tendencies of the great boyars, the vindictive descendant of the Bessarabians “from the beginning set up a regime of terror”, inaugurating his new reign by massacring those opposed to the political line promoted by him. Thus, the consolidation of the central power and the economic development, carried out by Vlad the Impaler, allowed the mobilization of all the forces available to Wallachia in order to stop the Ottoman expansion and prevent the disappearance of the Romanian South-Carpathian statehood, and not only (because his reckless deeds of arms saved from extinction the other two Romanian countries, Transylvania and Moldova, as well as the whole central and western European Christianity), a goal successfully achieved by the vigorous descent of the Dracula Bessarabians, who proved to be the right man at the right place, and providentially appeared just then, when there was greater need of him, as God made it possible whenever the Romanians faced great difficulties in their long and troubled existence. ___________ When Vlad Țepeș(1) came to the helm of the Romanian Country for the second time, he took a series of measures that aimed at strengthening central authority(2). Seeking to curb the anarchic tendencies of the great nobility (tendencies which were, in practice, the cause of the instability of the reigning power and, implicitly, of the weakening of the medieval Romanian state south of the Carpathians), the noble descendant of the Basarab "installed from the beginning a regime of terror "(3) (Dracula "being, moreover, very familiar with the models of oriental despotism " (4) ), inaugurating his new reign by massacring those opposed to the political line he promoted.To implement his audacious projects, Vlad Țepeș formed his ruling council (the composition of which, moreover, he would constantly change, a measure that was a "specific feature " (5) during his reign, since, having had to cooperate 'with the [mostly] cunning, wicked and self-interested landlords, Dracula showed prudence and wisdom' (6) ) from among his closest friends, most of whom came from the ranks of the small landlords or even from among the commoners (7) , who had distinguished themselves by qualities dear to the harsh lord, who particularly valued loyalty and bravery. It is significant in this respect that the four royal deeds which mention the names of the members of his Divan (issued on 16 April 1457, 5 March 1458, 20 September 1459 and 10 February 1461) (8 ) show that only approx. 23 noblemen enjoyed this honour. "Of these, only three managed to hold office during the entire government of the tumultuous and unpredictable Vlad Voda" namely: the wise Voico Dobrița, Iova (commiss [great commiss] and vistier [great vistier]) and Cazan of Sahac. All the others were removed and replaced from their positions in the council under more or less clear conditions " (9). Another relevant aspect is that only Manea Udriște (who was related to the prince) and commissioner Gherghina were representatives of the great Boierimi, the majority of Vlad Țepeș's advisors being recruited from among the natives belonging to other social categories (10). Other names on the list of Dracula's officials include Linart the stolid (actually "Leonardus notarius Brasoviensis" [i.e. "Leonard, the notary of Brasov" or "the notary of Brasov"], who had been Vlad Draco's trusted man and whom Vlad the Impaler thus rewarded for the faith he had shown to his father (11), then Moldovan the backbender and Bratul of Milcov (who joined Vlad Țepeș when he was a wanderer in Moldavia) (12). Therefore, "it is worth noting that in this period in which the self-consciousness of our people was formed, the consciousness of continuity, of the unity of origin and culture of all the inhabitants of the three principalities (Romanian -

n.n.T.C.), in the Kingdom Council (of the Romanian Country - n.n.T.C.) entered - symbol of the unity of the nation - and Transylvanian or Moldavians (like those mentioned above - n.n.T.C.), people who had proved their faith in the family and ideal of the Draculists " (13). If in 1457, in the supreme forum of the Romanian Country, there were six boyars who held a specific dignity and six who were not entrusted with a specific function, in 1461 eight had a rank and only two did not (14). Of course, this evolution of the composition of the ruling council of Targoviste, shows us, in practice, an obvious consolidation of the authority of Vlad Țepeș, who, not being forced to make any concession to the great nobles, will keep with him only those who were necessary (15). In fact, "apart from a loyal group of the great Boierie, the lord sought to gather around him a number of 'braves' (16) , a social category he had raised among the Boierie for military merits " (17). The famous punishments ordered by the uncompromising Dracula were carried out with the help of a special body of servants set up around 1460 (18 ). The members of this new institution ("armășia") were called "armășei" and were headed by a armaș (great armourer), the first known dregător to hold this position being Stoica (19). Because Dracula relied mainly on the small nobility, the free peasantry and the townspeople (20) to achieve his objectives, he took (in favour of the representatives of these social categories and, implicitly, in order to ensure the economic development of the South-Carpathian Romanian state) some measures that had an obvious protectionist tinge, among them the establishment of border fairs (21), which, in the unyielding vision of the Romanian voivode, were to become fixed, unique and obligatory points in the conduct of commercial transactions with the merchants of Transylvania, an initiative that resulted in the outbreak of a veritable war between Dracula and the truculent patriciate (22) of the prosperous Saxon towns of Brasov and Sibiu (23). The special interest shown in the flourishing of the social-economic life of his country is also demonstrated by the fact that Vlad Țepeș encouraged and supported an intense activity of clearing of secular forests (such as Codrii Vlăsiei (24) ), in order to increase the arable area of the medieval Romanian South-Carpathian state, knowing that "the greatest weight in the economy of those times belonged to agricultural production " (25). As a consequence, the number of human settlements in his era would increase significantly (the majority of the village population now lived in the plains), the measures taken by Vlad Țepeș in this respect being aimed at strengthening the rural environment, as this was the main source of the armed forces of the time (26). The policy promoted internally by Vlad Țepeș also boosted the development of fairs and commercial settlements in Wallachia (27). Under Vlad Țepeș's rule, mining, crafts and trade also flourished, thanks in particular to the climate of security established, the particularly harsh punishments applied to offenders under his command resulting in an increase in the movement of goods and a remarkable development of trade routes (28). It is also known that Dracula, in order to boost trade with a view to the economic development of his country (which would have resulted in the financial resources needed to fight the anti-Ottoman war), also minted coins (29). The first monetary issue of his time is an anepigraphic (i.e. without any inscription) silver "ban", the reverse of which shows a tailed star in the shape of the letter "S", i.e. a comet (30). The fact that, according to astronomical data, on 8 June 1456, the famous Halley's comet appeared in the sky of Europe (which could be seen for a whole month) led specialists to conclude that Vlad Țepeș was influenced in the choice of the image for the reverse of the coin issued by his command, at the very beginning of the second of his reign, precisely by this rare and interesting astronomical phenomenon, "a

disturbing image, apparently unique in European numismatics of the time " (31). Thinking of Dracula's uniqueness in our history, but also in the universal one, we cannot but notice the amazing link between the evolution of his political-military career and the mentioned astral phenomenon, which, while at that time instilled a terrible horror in the population of Europe, for him represented a "celestial" sign under which he managed to defeat (and kill) his rival (Vladislav II) (32), and to ascend to the throne of his ancestors (33). The second monetary issue due to Vlad Tepes is a ducat (34) minted, in all probability, between 1459 and 1461(35). The only example of this coin issue discovered to date (36) is inscribed on both sides with images inspired by the Byzantine iconographic tradition. On the obverse, the image of Vlad the Impaler with a beard, seen from the front, is standing, wearing a crown and holding a long cross in his right hand, and in the left hand the crucifix " (37), basically "the representation typical of the Byzantine emperor, in his double role of defender of Christianity and holder of the power of universal aspiration " (38). On the reverse is depicted 'the bust of Jesus Christ, seen [again] from the front, blessing with his right hand and holding the Gospel to his breast with his left' (39). In practice "this image was also taken from the Byzantine iconographic tradition, being the representation on coins of the rex regnantium, i.e. the hierarchical head of all Christian sovereigns " (40). The placing together on the same coin of the two effigies, certainly on Vlad Tepes' initiative, leads to the conclusion that we are dealing with "a crusading dukedom, the Romanian lord considering himself the direct heir of the old Byzantine crusading traditions and, therefore, the main Christian adversary of the Semiluna, after the disappearance of Iancu de Hunedoara " (41). If from the point of view of foreign policy, Vlad Țepeș did nothing more than act in accordance with the line drawn by his ancestors, his anti-Ottoman stance was a traditional one (the son of Vlad Dracul being particularly noteworthy due to the exceptional international conjuncture [but, of course, also as a result of his extraordinary personality], which led to the emergence of an oversized legend that quickly spread beyond the borders of his country), On the domestic front, this valuable nephew of the great Mircea was a trailblazer, clearly stating the content of his political programme right from the beginning of his second reign, which he exercised over the Romanian Country, when in a letter sent to the people of Brasov on 10 September 1456, he wrote to them that "think that when a man or a lord is strong and strong, he can make peace as he wishes; but when he is powerless, another stronger will come upon him and do with him as he will "(42). Thus, while before him Romanian rulers sought to achieve a balance by promoting collaboration with the representatives of the ruling class or even accepting its tutelage, "Drăculea" promoted a totalitarian rule, subordinating his programme of government to the anarchic and cunning boierime through a series of extremely harsh measures. Thus, the consolidation of the central power achieved by Vlad Țepeș allowed the mobilisation of all the forces available to Wallachia in order to stop the Ottoman expansion and prevent the disappearance of the Romanian statehood in the South Carpathians, and not only (because his daring deeds of arms saved the other two Romanian countries, Transylvania and Moldova, from extinction, and even the whole of Central and Western European Christianity), an objective successfully achieved by the valiant descendant of the Basarabes of Dracula, who proved to be the right man in the right place, providentially appearing precisely when he was most needed, just as God made this possible whenever the Romanians faced great difficulties in their long and troubled existence. The restriction of the privileges of the nobility in the mountains did not go unchallenged by the latter,

as Vlad Tepes was confronted throughout his rule with a series of of plots and even armed revolts of varying degrees of magnitude, initiated by the fickle representatives of the ruling class south of the Carpathians. In particular, the application of the "prădalicii " (43) provoked real rebellions of some great lords, such as that of Albu "the Great " (44), which took place in the spring of 1459 (45). He was the son of Albu Toxabă, who had been "the first royal advisor and the real political leader of the country in the time of Alexandru Aldea " (46) and, therefore, an adversary of Vlad Dracul, father of Țepeș (for which the villages of Glodul and Hința were confiscated) (47), Albu the Great (and his relatives), dissatisfied with the implementation of the severe measure mentioned above, rose up to fight against Vlad Țepeș, who, however, will drown this rebellion in blood (48), after 23 April 1459 (49). The participants in the plot hatched by Albu cel Mare, led by him, were sentenced to death and their possessions were confiscated (50). It seems that this rising up of the nobility was closely linked to the "outbreak of the crisis with Brașov, in the winter of 1458-1459, and the reappearance of Dan (the Younger - n.n.T.C.) at the border " (51), because "it seems that Vlad Țepeș decided to liquidate the potential candidates to the throne who were in the country, among whom was Stanciul, uncle of Nicolaus Olahus (52), "caught in the trap" of "Dracula" and killed with an axe " (53). Of course, "some of those targeted, such as Stefan (Stoian), Olahus' father, escaped with their lives, while others - such as Albu "the Great" - took up arms " (54). About the "uprising" of the boyars, which broke out and took place in 1459, we also learn from a hrisov, dated 1 April 1551 (55), in which it is recorded that "in the days of Vlad Voda, there was a boyar named Albul cel Mare (...), who rose to be lord over the head of Vlad Voda, and Vlad Voda went out with an army against him and seized him and cut him and all his lineage " (56). The specification that "the boyar Albu cel Mare "rose to be lord" implies a kinship of his ancestors with the royal house of Wallachia, the only legal basis for his claim " (57). However, "it is difficult to accept such a hypothesis in the absence of conclusive documents, Albu cel Mare not being the only boyar who tried to usurp the power of the lord without being descended from the legitimate lineage, so the logical argument is not sufficient and convincing " (58). The partisans of the Danes (the other main branch of the Basarab dynasty), like all those dissatisfied with the policies promoted by Țepeș, who managed to escape with their lives, took refuge in Transylvania, from where they continued to work against him. As we have seen, however, a good number of the nobles collaborated with Dracula, even if only a few of them turned out to be his sincere followers.Basically, in 1459, Vlad Țepeș decisively defeated the great nobility of the mountain nobility, which was necessary "in order to be able to (. ...) to face the Muslim fury " (59), because for this "it was necessary at least that order and peace reign in his country, so that only a thought and a heart could rise against the pagan. And indeed, Vlad (Vlad the Impaler - n. n. T. C.) had now reached his goal, and with some haste " (60). Vlad the Impaler's domestic policy was, moreover, very well characterized (even if sometimes with exaggerations when referring to certain aspects) by the Byzantine historian Laonic Chalcocondil (61), who said of Dracula that after "he came to the reign, he first made a personal guard, not separated from him; afterwards, summoning one of his lords, whom he might have thought capable of taking part in the treason for the change of lords, he would slander and impale him and all his household, himself, children, wife and servants, so that I have heard that he alone of all men, as many as we know, came to make a great slaughter of men. In order to strengthen his reign (it seems) to have killed in a short time as many as twenty

thousand men, women and children; for surrounding himself with a number of chosen and devoted soldiers and trabantis (mercenaries - n.T.C.), he gave them money and wealth with all the wealth and situation of those killed, so that in a short time he came to a radical change and this man completely overthrew the organization of Dacia (62) (Romanian Country - n. n. T. C.). And the peons (63), not a few of whom he thought to have some interference in public affairs, not ruthlessly killing any of them, he killed them in very great numbers " (64). Apparently not exactly favourable to Vlad Țepeș, this portrait painted by the Greek chronicler is, in practice, no different from that of a typical monarch even for Western Europe at that time, when princes, kings and emperors sought in every way to strengthen the central power of their states by restricting the privileges of the ruling class (65). Also Chalcocondyl is the one who captures in his work the real reasons behind the "atrocities" committed by the fierce Romanian prince, noting that when "he thought he had his rule of Dacia (Romanian Country - n.n. T.C.) fully consolidated, he was thinking of renouncing the emperor (the sultan - n.n. T.C.) " (66). The reasons were therefore political, "this cruelty [having] also a reason of state, for when he felt in control of the situation, Vlad the Impaler unleashed the anti-Ottoman war " (67). As we have already stated (in footnote 63), "by peons, the Byzantine chronicler refers to the Hungarians, [which is probably] also proof that some of them held important positions in Wallachia, a fact that can be explained by the political condition of this state at the time. The rather obscure style of the same author shows that 'Vlad' punished the Peons 'with the knowledge of the emperor', i.e. of the Turkish sultan, in order to gain his confidence, but also out of the desire 'that only in this way would he strengthen his rule, so that he would not be in trouble when the leading men of Dacia (the Romanian Country - n.n.T.C.) revolted again and brought the Peons to his aid as allies'. It is possible that the peons in this context were in fact the Saxon merchants with whom the viceroy was in conflict. Since they were also from Transylvania, and the author was a long way from the events, the confusion is explainable "(68). In conclusion, Dracula, "a stranger to pity and worship "(69), put all his ability, as well as "his terrible nature, at the service of his country and, after cleansing it of its inner evils (...), he set himself against the degradation into which the Romanian Country had fallen " (70). ______________________ 1) Also known as Dracula, Ladislau The Magnificent, Vlad the Third, Vlad III the Impaler was the son of Vlad II the Dragon (in turn the illegitimate son of Mircea the Elder [who ruled the medieval Romanian state of South-Carpathia between 1386-1418], he ruled Wallachia between 1436-1442 and from 1443 to 1447 [History of the World in Dates, Romanian Encyclopedic Publishing House, Bucharest, 1972, p. 567]) and, therefore, grandson of the great Mircea, he reigned over "Ungrovlahiei" (the name of Wallachia in internal documents written in Slavonic) on three occasions, namely from October (before 17-19) to early November (certainly after 31 October) 1448; from July (before 3) 1456 to November (before 26) 1462 and from October (after 7)/November (before 📷 to the end of December 1476, possibly even to the beginning of January (certainly before 10) 1477 (Constantin Rezachevici, Encyclopedia of Romanian Lords. Cronologia critica a domnilor din Țara Românească și Moldova, vol. I [XIV-XVI centuries], Editura Enciclopedică, Bucharest, 2001, p. 101, 103, 115, 117, 801, 802). 2) This 'objective was also present in the minds of other European monarchs of the time, such as Matthias Corvinus, King of Hungary, or Louis XI, King of France' (Istoria Românilor, vol. IV, Editura Enciclopedică, Bucharest, 2001, p. 350). Matthias Corvin ruled the Hungarian Kingdom between 1458-1490 (History of the World in Dates, p. 564), and Louis XI of

Valois ruled the French Kingdom from 1461-1483 (Ibid, p. 558). 3) History of the Romanians, vol. IV, p. 351. 4) Ibid. 5) Radu Ștefan Ciobanu, In the footsteps of Vlad Țepeș, Sport-Turism Publishing House, Bucharest, 1979, p. 137. 6) Ibid. 7) Ibid, p. 137-138. 8 ) Documenta Romaniae Historica B. Romanian Country, vol. I, Editura Academiei R.S.R., București, 1966, no. CXV, p. 199 and 200; no. CXVII, p. 202; no. CXVIII, p. 203-204; no. CXX, p. 205 and 206. Divan = term of Turkish origin, which in the Ottoman Empire designated a council with political, administrative, military and legal powers, made up of the highest dignitaries of the state; this term is also found in Wallachia and Moldavia, where it referred to a council made up of representatives of the great landed gentry and high dignitaries who took part, alongside the ruler, in the running of the country (syn: Sfat domnesc); by extension, meeting of the divan; by generalization, hall in which the members of the divan gathered (dexonline. ro/definition/divan) 9) Radu Ștefan Ciobanu, op. cit. p. 137. 10) Ibid. Among the members of the ruling council of Vlad Țepeș's time, who were not part of the top feudal lords, we can mention the following: "Ștefan or Stepan Turcul, Codrea vornic, Galeș vornic, Dragomir Țacal, Pătru stratornic (or postelnic - n. n.T.C.), Stan of Negru vornic, Radul stratornic, Tocsaba stolnic, Burcea stolnic, Burciu spătar, Oprișa paharnic, Sava comis and vistier etc.". (Ibid.). 11) Ibid. 12) Ștefan Andreescu, Un moldovean printre dregătorii lui Țepeș, in "Magazin istoric", no. 6, Bucharest, 1972, p. 84. 13) Istoria militară a popolo român, vol. II, Editura Militară, Bucharest, 1986, p. 260-261; G. D. Florescu, The State Divans of Wallachia. I. (1381-1495), Bucharest, 1943, p. 165-175; Nicolae Stoicescu, Vlad Țepeș, Editura Academiei R.S.R., Bucharest, 1976, p. 52-53. 14) Radu Ștefan Ciobanu, op. cit. p. 137. Hrisov of 16 April 1457: 'Codrea vornic, Oprea logofăt, Moldovan spătar, Buda stolnic, Milea paharnic and Iova comis, Manea Udriște, Dragomir Țacal, Voico Dobrița, Stan al lui Negru, jupan Duca, Cazan al lui Sahac' (Documenta Romaniae Historica B. Țara Românească, vol. I, no. CXV, p. 199 and 200). Hrisov of 10 February 1461: 'jupan Galeș vornic, jupan Cazan logofăt, Buriu spătar, Iova vistier, Oprișa paharnic, Linart stolnic, Gherghina comisic and Radul stratornic, jupan Voico Dobrița, jupan Stepan The Turk" (ibid., no. CXX, pp. 205 and 206). Among the advisers of Țepeș were also the cupbearer Stoica and the stolnic Tocsaba 15) Radu Ștefan Ciobanu, op. cit., p. 137-138. Regarding Vlad Țepeș's relations with the nobility, see the entire subchapter (entitled The Boers) of Ibidem (p. 127-139), as well as the subchapter Vlad Țepeș and the Boirs, in chapter II of Ștefan Andreescu, Vlad Țepeș Dracula between legend and historical truth, 2nd edition, Editura Enciclopedică, Bucharest, 1994, p. 86-96. 16) In the Middle Ages, in the Romanian Countries, the term "valiaz" was used to designate a person who belonged to a category of landowners, similar to the knights of Western Europe and having special military duties. Our voivodes raised many of their soldiers, who distinguished themselves on the battlefield, among the ranks of the valiant, particularly from the second half of the 15th century and, especially, by Stephen the Great and Vlad the Impaler (Tiberiu Ciobanu, Glossary, in Ștefan cel Mare și Sfânt și sa strălucita victorie de Vaslui obținută împotriva turcilor otomani, Editura Eurostampa, Timișoara, 2015, p. 633). 17) Ștefan Andreescu, op. cit. p. 95. 18) Now the armaș is mentioned for the first time in Wallachia, in Moldavia this dregătoria being attested for the first time on 13 March 1489 (Istoria României in data, Editura Enciclopedică Română, Bucharest, 1971, p. 99). 19) Radu Ștefan Ciobanu, op. cit., p. 138.20 Istoria militară a popolo român, vol. II, p. 260. 21) Ibid, p. 258. 22) Here with the meaning of the ruling class of the Saxon towns in Transylvania (Tiberiu Ciobanu, op. cit., p. 536). 23) Military History of the Romanian

People, vol. II, pp. 258-259. 24) Name of the forests that once covered a vast region in southern Romania, including the territory of Bucharest and today's Ilfov County (en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Codrii_Vlăsiei). 25) Radu Ștefan Ciobanu, op. cit., p. 102-103. 26) Ibid. 27) Ibid, p. 103-105, 113, 123-126; Ștefan Andreescu, op. cit., p. 97. 28) Radu Ștefan Ciobanu, op. cit., p. 113-119. 29) Ștefan Andreescu, op. cit., p. 63. 30) Ibid. 31) Ibid. 32) He ruled Wallachia from December (after 4) 1447 until 1456 (between 15 April and 3 July), with a brief interruption between October (before 17-19) and early November (after 31 October) 1448, when the throne was occupied by Vlad Țepeș in his first reign (Constantin Rezachevici, op. cit., p. 801). 33) Ștefan Andreescu, op. cit., p. 63; Jean Delumeau, Fear in the West (14th-18th century). O cetate asediată, vol. I, Editura Meridiane, Bucharest, 1986, p. 118-119. 34) In the Middle Ages, in Wallachia, the 'ducat' was a silver coin, weighing about one gram and worth three 'bani'. (the name given to coins that circulated in the present-day territory of Romania over time and whose value varied according to the ages and regions; a small coin, initially of silver, then of brass, having the lowest value [Tiberiu Ciobanu, op. cit.366]), whose prototype (model) was the Venetian silver ducats, minted since 1202 (Ibidem, p. 431). 35) Ștefan Andreescu, op. cit., p. 99. 36) At Târgșor (in Prahova county), 'i.e. in the place where Vlad the Vodka built a church (...) and where there was, in the 15th century, a royal court' (Ibidem). 37) Ibid. The term 'cruciferous globe' refers to a Christian symbol of authority, which was used in the Middle Ages but is still found on some coins and in iconography today. It represents a globe on which a cross is placed, used as a royal insignia for coronation in several monarchies in Europe. This was particularly the case in the Holy Roman Empire of the Germanic German Nation, where it was designated as the "imperial globe". The cross on the globe symbolises God's dominion over the whole world. The globe, in the hand of the emperor, also signifies the divine origin of the power he wielded. Even more symbolically, in medieval iconography, the size of the objects represented their relative importance in this respect, with the cross being huge and the orb really small, all symbolising God's priority over human affairs. The term derives from the Latin phrase "globus cruciger" (made up of the words "globus", i.e. "sphere, globe", and "cruciger" [in turn made up of the noun "crux, crucis", i.e. "cross", and the verb "gero, gerere, gessi, gestum", i.e. "to bear"], a word meaning "cross-bearer") and has the meaning of "cross-bearing globe" (en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Globus_cruci-ger). 38) Ștefan Andreescu, op. cit., p. 99. 39) Ibid. 40) Ibid. 41) Ibid; Octavian Iliescu, "Ducații necunoscu��i emiși de doi voievozi ai Țării Românești în secolul al XV-lea", in "Buletinul Societății Numismatice Române", years LXXVII-LXXIX (1983-1985), Bucharest, 1987, p. 268-278. Crescent = part of the disc Moon, in the shape of a semicircle, illuminated by the Sun during one of the phases of the star; Moon seen in the phase of the first and last square; symbolic sign of Islam, representing the Moon in the growth phase, in the shape of a "sickle"; figurative, Ottoman Empire; Turks, Muslims; Islam, Mohammedanism (dexonline.ro/definition/-semiluna). 42) Documenta Romaniae Historica D. Relations between The Romanian Countries, vol. I, Editura Academiei R.S.R., Bucharest, 1977, p. 458-459; Eudoxiu de Hurmuzaki, Documente privitoare la istoria românilor, vol. XV/1, Bucharest, 1911, p. 46. 43) In the Middle Ages, in Wallachia, the right of the lordship to take the property of those who died without male descendants; landed property passed to the lordship on the extinction of male descent of the owner (dexonline.ro/definition/prádalică). This old legal provision ("by which the estate of the Hicleni nobles could be taken" [Radu Ștefan Ciobanu, op. cit, p. 128]) is, however, documented as being

applied only in the time of Țepeș, references to it appearing in the hrisov issued on 20 September 1459 (Documenta Romaniae Historica B. Țara Românească, vol. I, no. CXVIII, p. 203-204). 44) He was so named in order not to be confused with his younger brother Albu the Vizier, who had taken refuge in Brasov and was in the entourage of the pretender to the reign Dan III the Younger (Radu Ștefan Ciobanu, op. cit, p. 129-130; Pavel Chihaia, Ctitorii ale voievozilor Drăculești, in Din cetățile de scaun ale Țării Românești, Bucharest, 1974, p. 73). 45) For the dating of the rebellion of Albu "cel Mare" in 1459, see Pavel Chihaia, op. cit. 46) Ștefan Andreescu, op. cit., p. 91. Alexandru I. Aldea was one of the sons of Mircea the Elder and ruled the Country Romanian between February-March 1431 and December 1436 (Constantin C. Giurescu, Dinu C. Giurescu, Scurtă istorie a românilor, Editura Științifică și Enciclopedică, Bucharest, 1977, p. 392; Istoria României in data, p. 454). 47) Ștefan Andreescu, op. cit., p. 91. 48) This revolt against Țepeș "cannot, however, be considered a bohemian uprising, with massive participation, but only an action of an isolated group that did not manage to attract enough adherents" (Radu Ștefan Ciobanu, op. cit., p. 128-129). 49) Ibid, p. 299. This fact emerges from a letter bearing this date, from which we learn about a series of nobles who were executed following the rebellion led by Albu "the Great". Among them was Codrea, a great mountain nobleman who had been a vornic in Vlad the Impaler's Council and who had, as the above-mentioned letter shows, valuable objects in Brasov, estimated at 3,000 gold florins, which were claimed by the King of Hungary, Matthias Corvinus (Eudoxiu de Hurmuzaki, op. cit., vol. XV/1, doc. no. XCI, p. 52). In the official act, issued on 16 April 1457, Codrea still appears among the members of the prince's divan (Documenta Romaniae Historica B. Țara Românească, vol. I, CXV, p. 199 and 200), but in the one drawn up on 5 March 1458 he is no longer on the list of the dregătorilor (Ibidem, no. CXVII, p. 202), "which proves that he had probably already fallen into disgrace at that time" (Ștefan Andreescu, op. cit., p. 92). 50) According to the Germanic Histories, the punishment was Vlad Țepeș ordered "that a great nation be destroyed, from the smallest to the most important - children, friends, brothers, sisters - and he had them all impaled" (Ioan Bogdan, Vlad Țepeș and the German and Russian narratives about him. Critical study with five portraits, Bucharest, 1896, p. 91-92; Constantin I. Karadja, Incunabule* povestind despre cruelimile lui Vlad Țepeș, in the volume Inchinare lui Nicolae Iorga cu acclejul occasione dell'împliniatura di età di 60 anni, Editura Cartea The term "incunabulum" refers to a copy of a book printed in the early years of the introduction of printing (invented in 1440 by the German printer Johann Gutenberg [1400-1468]), more precisely before 31 December 1500. By extension, the term is used to designate a copy that is one of the earliest printed copies; a very old and precious book. It comes from the Latin incunabulum, meaning 'cradle, beginning, origin, place of origin, place where someone was born', here meaning 'book of beginning' (en.wi-kipedia.org/wiki/Incunabulum; dexonline. ro/definition/incunabul; dexonline.ro/definition/Gutenberg). 51) Ștefan Andreescu, op. cit. p. 91. 52) Nicolaus Olahus was a high Catholic prelate (he held, successively or even simultaneously, the following ecclesiastical offices: bishop of Zagreb, bishop of Eger, archbishop of Strigonium and primate of Hungary, cardinal), statesman (he held, successively or even simultaneously, the following political-administrative offices: Royal Secretary and Counsellor, Chancellor, Regent and Governor General of Habsburg Hungary], great feudal nobleman, invested by Charles V (Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation between 1519-1556 [History of the World in Dates, p. 561], with the title of baron) and scholar (theologian, historian, philosopher and writer) of

Romanian origin, who lived between 1493-1568 (Encyclopedic Dictionary, vol. V, Editura Enciclopedică, Bucharest, 2004, p. 36). 53) Ștefan Andreescu, op. cit. 54) Ibid. Nicolaus Olahus "equated his father's name (Stoian - n.n.T.C.) with that of Stephen, who was highly honoured in Hungarian society" (Istoria Românilor, vol. IV, p. 351), because the founder of the Hungarian Kingdom and its first king was called Stephen. This is Stephen I the Holy, who reigned between 1000/1001-1038 (History of the World in Dates, p. 564). 55) Stefan Andreescu, op. cit. p. 90. 56) Documents on the History of Romania, B. Țara Românească, veacul al XVI-lea, vol. III, Editura Academiei R.P.R., București, 1952, doc. no. III, p. 4; Documenta Romaniae Historica B. Țara Românească, vol. V, Editura Academiei R.S.R., București, 1983, doc. no. III, p. 6. 57) Ștefan Andreescu, op. cit. 58) Radu Ștefan Ciobanu, op. cit., p. 129 59) Ibid., p. 169; Alexandru D. Xenopol, Istoria românilor din Dacia Traiană, 3rd edition (edited by I. Vlădescu), vol. IV, Cartea românească Publishing House, Bucharest, 1924. 60) Ibidem; Radu Ștefan Ciobanu, op. cit., p. 169. 61) Laonic Chalcocondil lived between 1423 and 1470 or, according to other specialists, he died "much later, only around 1490" Ștefan Andreescu, op. cit. p. 197). 62) Reference to Wallachia, because the Byzantine chronicler constantly used the ancient name "Dacia" to name the Romanian South-Carpathian state (Radu Ștefan Ciobanu, op. cit., p. 172). 63) "Peoni" is the name given to the Hungarians by the Greek-Byzantine historian Laonic Chalcocondil, in his work Historical Expositions. The Rise of Turkish Power, the Fall of the Byzantine Kingdom. Hungary also calls it 'Peony' and Transylvania 'Peonodacia' or 'Dacia of the Peons', proving himself to be very knowledgeable about both ethnic realities (i.e. the fact that the predominant population of this country was and is the Romanian one, which he calls "if"), as well as the political status of Transylvania, under the rule of the Hungarian Kingdom, i.e. the "peons" (Tiberiu Ciobanu, Glossary, in op. cit., p. 538). 64) Laonic Chalcocondil, Expuneri istorice. The rise of Turkish power, the fall of the Byzantine kingdom (Romanian edition by Vasile Grecu), Editura Academiei R.P.R., Bucharest, 1958, p. 283. 65) Istoria Românilor, vol. IV, p. 350.66 Laonic Chalcocondil, op. cit. 67) Istoria Românilor, vol. IV, p. 351.68 Ibid. 69) Alexandru D. Xenopol, op. cit., edition I, vol. II, part II, Tipo-Litografia "H. Goldner", Iași, 1889, p. 293. 70) Ibid.

[coffeewithcutcaffeine]

— in which Vlad Dracula asserts his rightful claim amidst the bloodbath of the battlefield.

word count: 5,839 words

warnings: scenes of war, violence related to warfare, gore, physical violence, blood and injuries, murder [18+; MDNI]

a/n: After writing several works that try to fill the gaps in Vlad’s story and show the more intimate side of him, I am proud to finally tackle one of the most crucial moments in Vlad’s journey as a voivode, specifically one of the most important and decisive moments that always stands out in his biography — the battle of summer 1456 that marks the beginning of his second rule. This was a huge responsibility, not only because it was such a pivotal moment in his life, but also because this is my first attempt at writing a battle scene. My own blood, sweat, and tears went into this piece. I sincerely hope you will enjoy every gory moment of this (as much as the pain and suffering allow)! ❤️️

➨ also available on AO3

August 1456, plains near Târgșor, Wallachia

A figure charges at him, stripped of armour, clad only in a gambeson and chain mail. One of the cneji, perhaps, or one of their men. His sword arcs through the air, aimed to unleash a fatal blow. Vlad remains in place. His stance is firm, feet anchored to the ground and spaced shoulder-width apart, a stable base to meet the attack. His knees are bent, ready to spring into motion as soon as the man draws near enough to strike. Every muscle coils. The clash of steel is inevitable, imminent. The world shrinks to the beat of breath.

He soon detects the soldier’s vulnerability. His neck is bare, a thin line of flesh left exposed above the protective gear. With a swift and decisive thrust, the curved blade of Vlad’s kılıç cuts the air. Steel bites into the soft tendons and tears them apart like frayed silk. Blood gushes forth, thick and fast, painting the man’s chest in a violent rush of red. The body jerks, staggers, then, heavy with death, topples to the ground.

Throughout the years of being educated in the art of warfare, his instincts have sharpened, the lessons carving their mark in his body. The glory of one’s own kill is a poison one must learn to resist. Pride dulls the edge, exposes weaknesses, leaves defences strained and vulnerable. An opponent is never dead until he lies cold and lifeless on the ground. In the chaos of the battle, one must hold steadfast to his objectives to steer oneself clear of death’s grip. Distraction is fatal. Hesitation brings doom. The soldiers before him falter, their eyes locked in terror on the corpse of their comrade at their feet. He finds his two marks with deadly precision. In a heartbeat, his blade finds ribs, slashes through guts — swift, silent. The man crumples, lifeless. Without pause, the weapon arcs again, cleaving through the flesh of the other.

The once verdant fields lay ravaged around the carnage, torn apart by war. Blades of grass are ripped from the earth in rugged clumps. The ground heaves under the weight of hundreds of feet that have carved ridges upon the soil with every step. Banners whip through the skies, their colours catching the last rays of the sun’s harsh glare. The stench of sweat, blood, and smoke suffocate the heat-heavy air. Steel meets steel, the sound as sharp as a scream, mingling with the cries of the wounded. Time snaps tight, breathless, as fate circles overhead, waiting to strike. Life and death wrestle in the fading light, one moment away from collision.

As the sun slants lower in the sky, the battle rages on unabated, denying any hope of resolution. Weariness grips Vlad’s men and settles over them like a shroud. Despite their unwavering loyalty, their previous ferociousness wanes as drowsy defences replace their once swift strikes. The exiles, fierce in loyalty and bearing courage that matches his own, now begin to falter. The resilience of the Hungarian and Saxon mercenaries that hinges on the glint of gold florins within their grasp loses its edge. Limbs heavy with fatigue ache under the weight of steel. The air thick with blood and dust echoes the sounds of men fighting against their own limits.

Vlad himself feels the weight of exhaustion dragging him down like shackles of lead clamped to his neck. His knees almost threaten to surrender to the earth as fatigue creeps into his bones. Every parry, every strike, is a battle against the enemy standing before him and the darkness that claws at the edges of his vision. Dust and blood sting in his eyes and obscure his view, blurring the world into a dark smear around him. The night looms over him, ready to descend like a blade and cut across the grasslands.

Vlad’s eyes seize another crack amidst the enemy’s ranks. The first blows of a melee tear through the battlefield. The troops on the opposing side crumble into chaos, their discipline melting into a raw frenzy. Voivode Vladislav snarls at the sight of his own men as the once orderly ranks of his soldiers have devolved into a rabid mob. They wield their weapons recklessly, wild swings clashing without aim. His voice thunders over the roar, but the men have become deaf to command, hacking away with savage abandon. His grip tightens on his blade as his towering figure forces his way through, desperate to stem the tide. The soldiers begin to scatter in all directions instead.

There lies Vlad’s opportunity to turn the tides in his favour. All it requires is for his men to maintain their resolve while Vladislav’s forces crumble under the weight of disorder. All could be decided in mere minutes.

“Hold!” Vlad roars his command, hoping his voice will not be lost amidst the clamour of swords.

Somehow, against all odds, it works. Though his men cling to a fragile thread, they refuse to yield their positions.

Just a moment...

The horn’s blare slices through the battlefield, silencing the clash of blades and the pounding of the hooves upon the fields. The interruption brings a temporary standstill, allowing Vladislav’s soldiers to catch their breath. Dust hangs in the air, thick and heavy, as the chaos of the battle subsides. Vlad’s meticulous plans snap like taut wires. The opponent’s troops retreat from the forefront of the bloodstained ground like shadows in that fading light, their broken will gathering force, reshaping itself for the next strike.

With clenched teeth, Vlad fights to keep his emotions hidden behind a mask of impassiveness, fury coiled tight beneath a layer of self-control. He cannot betray anything in front of the men who look to him for his command, his steel-cold resolution. There is no time to falter. Yet inside him, blood boils and rises in his veins in blazing torrents. He sheathes his sword and yanks the helmet off his head, freeing the sweat-drenched face from its suffocating grip. Sweat trickles down his temples and stings his skin. It sprays around his face like a grim halo when he shakes his soaked curls. That damned dog, he thinks to himself with gritted teeth, spitting onto the dusty ground. His sharp whistle pierces the air as he calls for his horse. The beast is waiting just beyond the clash, nostrils flared, impatient like him, ready for blood.

The black turkoman thunders to a halt, and before his hooves even settle, Vlad slides off the saddle. He strides towards his most loyal men, already gathered in one place. Dracea welcomes him with a grin, his teeth gleaming on the blood-sprayed face like bones protruding from a mass of festering muscle. The stench of death clings to their armour. Blood drips from their blades. They all look like they have crawled out of Hell itself, back to the earth’s surface. When Vlad glances down at his own gloved hands — filthy, bloodstained — he recognises that he looks no different.

“The mercenaries are growing dissatisfied. A second break and hours of fighting… Yet no progress is being made,” Manea states when he offers Vlad a waterskin to drink from.

“He wants to wear down our morale.”

“If he continues like this, he might as well succeed,” Dumitru’s words linger like a heavy weight pressing upon Vlad’s shoulders.

He does not need to be reminded of the signs. Those risks are already etched in the hardened faces of the mercenaries, their eyes swallowed by shadows. Men driven by the desire for gold will always be ready to fight, but only while the price is right. Their resolve is crumbling, the initial enthusiasm disappears with every minute. No fortune is worth this much blood. As the sun begins its descent, they have been engaged in combat for hours. Too many hours.

Vlad falls into a momentary silence, cracked and aching lips welcoming the water that touches them. He gulps on its freshness, then swishes it in his mouth with slow deliberation. He lowers his head and spits it out, and the rivulet pounds over the dry earth at his feet.

“Change of plans,” he finally says, beckoning a young soldier to his side. “Go to the voivode and tell him I require to speak with him at once.”

“What plan do you have in mind?” Dracea asks, his voice filled with anticipation. The battle-weary soldiers draw nearer, their eyes riveted on Vlad, hanging on the forthcoming words of their leader.

“We will fight on my terms now. Let us see how well Vladislav fares.”

He watches the young soldier hoist himself up onto his horse. He is flanked on either side by two mercenaries, their hardened faces and battle-worn armour a stark contrast to the boy’s youthful exuberance. They do not speak; they do not need to. With a sharp command, they charge forward. The horses’ hooves tear into the earth, and dust spirals in their wake. They do not pause until they reach the voivode, and their arrival is marked by the air crackling with hurried words, hands gesturing towards their commander. Vlad barely acknowledges the insistent inquiries begging him to clarify his intentions. He stands unmoving, too absorbed in the silhouettes merging with the horizon. The questions hang unanswered.

In those moments of uncertainty, a glimmer of hope presents itself as the voivode, after what seems like an eternity of persuasion, breaks ranks and charges forward to meet his opponent in the middle ground. Vlad wastes no time. With a sharp gesture, his open palm commands Dracea to follow. With a newfound resolve coursing through his veins, he drags his body to sit upright in the saddle. His black stallion, spurred by the firm strike of his heel, bolts ahead. His world narrows to the pounding of hooves around him, and they stop only when Vladislav and his men loom before them.

Meeting his long-time rival face-to-face stirs less emotion in Vlad than he initially anticipated.

It has been a while since Vlad faced him, yet the traits Vladislav bears are as familiar to him as the back of his hand. The tall and lean Dănești have always stood in stark contrast to the shorter and bulkier statures of the Drăculești. One would hardly guess that the two family branches share the same ancestors. He is roughly the same age as Vlad’s father would have been, yet the silver shimmer in his dark beard barely shows. When he removes his helmet, a mass of shorter, wavy hair tumbles free, much lighter in colour than the Drăculești’s raven tresses. Yet, above all, what catches Vlad’s eye is how rested he seems. Certainly more rested than he, who slouches forward, saddle creaking, shoulders weighed down by an ache that keeps pulling him down.

He has always detested any sneers of superiority falling upon his head, but now, he wears his dishevelled state like a second skin. He hopes the black shadows haunting his eyes, the foul stench that clings to him, and the dented and mismatched armour will serve their purpose. He hopes that Vladislav takes the bait and sees weakness where there is none. Let him misjudge. Let him think that this ruin in front of him is all that is left.

The disdainful smirk the voivode greets him with conveys a thousand unspoken words.

“Well, if it isn’t Dracul’s boy,” he proclaims, his voice echoing loud enough to stir a chorus of laughter from the surrounding men. “You appear no more than the scrawny cub you were when we last met.”

A rush of adrenaline pulses through Vlad as his eyes lock on his opponent, and he feels his fingers tighten around the sword’s hilt. “I expected many things from you, dear cousin, but I never expected you to be so spineless. The day is nearly gone. Stop wasting time and let us end it once and for all.”

“My sword is still sharp, as are those of my men. You and your fellows can prove yourselves if you dare.”

Vlad points at the corpses piling behind the horsemen. “Is all that not proof enough to you?”

He catches a flicker of hesitation in the voivode’s dark gaze. There is a precise way to wound a man’s pride. Vlad knows it well.

“Your reputation’s at stake if you cowardly hide behind them,” his words come with a mocking snark that stabs like a knife.

“Prince, do not—” Dracea’s voice reaches his ears, but Vlad’s words drown it out as he speaks over his old friend.

“Let’s settle it now, man on man. The survivor takes the crown.”

Vladislav leans forward in his saddle. “What, are you challenging me to a duel?”

“Do you fear your sword arm has grown weak with age?”

Eyes, hundreds of them, lock onto the ruler’s back. A tense silence grips the fields, choking the air. The voivode’s smile holds, but something cracks — barely visible, a fault line snaking through the mask. Beneath the stillness, something stirs, waiting to strike.

“Age hasn’t dulled my senses enough to fall for your petty taunts,” Vladislav says through gritted teeth after a long pause. “But I will indulge you one last time before I gut you like a pig.”

“When and where?”

“Here. One of my men will sound the horn after the wounded and the dead are carried away.”

“Weapons?”

“Daggers only.”

“Very well, then.” With a sharp pull of the reins, Vlad guides his horse around.

The baritone of Vladislav’s voice trails like a phantom echo behind Vlad’s retreating silhouette. “May the winner prove his worth.”

Vlad lifts his hand in a parting salute. The turkoman beneath him trembles, his nostrils flaring at the stench of war. With eyes narrowed against the coming storm, he digs his heels into the horse’s flanks. Hooves spur into a full gallop, muscles grow tense. In a flash, he vanishes in the distance and toward his men, their faces hard with waiting.

His head bursts through the surface. He sucks in the air with a jagged breath, droplets scattering around his face. The kiss of water against his weary flesh graces it like a soothing balm. He forgoes the cloth offered to him and lets the rivulets trace paths down his burning face, falling to the surface below. He cups the liquid from the barrel in his hands and drinks it, presses the wet palms against the nape of his neck, stiff from hours of fighting. Salt crystals etch patterns upon his skin and sting in his eyes as the sweat on his face mingles with the dripping water.

As dusk settled over the fields, a breeze began to sweep through them. It offers no relief. The summer heat grips them all like iron shackles. It is a dense, sticky vapour that clings to Vlad’s skin in a way that feels alive in its persistence. The air hangs heavy with the scent of putrefaction. He can smell it on himself. The blood that was wiped off his breastplate had already begun to decay after being exposed for hours to the sweltering heat, filling his nostrils with the sickly sweet stench. Sweat has soaked through everything. He can feel the drenched fabric of his linen shirt that sticks to his flesh beneath the protective gear, every movement grinding the cloth against his skin. The heat lives inside him, searing, insidious. Each breath tastes like ash. His pulse throbs with its weight, mind sagging under the strain, thoughts slowing down to necessities. It feels as though it might consume him whole, inch by inch, a relentless, blistering hunger, burning him from the inside out, mocking every breath.

He has never felt more alive than when roaming the lands of death. He becomes unanchored, reliant solely on instincts. Every second is survival. His mind sharpens, free from burdens, stripped to its core. The only thing that matters is staying alive. Kill or be killed. This is his essence. This is his truth.

Something feels different this time.

One of them shall not survive the night.

He sinks to his knees and utters a brief prayer in silence. He regrets the motion as soon as he feels the strain in his knees. It becomes difficult to rise again. He stumbles and groans, fingers digging into the earth for leverage. The soil feels rough against the palms of his hands. He waves off the outstretched hand willing to help him.

He throws his arms wide, then stands still and lets his men dress him for battle. The dents in the armour were hammered out in haste, but the plates still bear the scars of previous wars. They were wars he did not fight. The marks were already present when he purchased the armour second-hand. A fine Saxon work, the steel solid even when worn out. He refused to waste a coin on useless displays of power when it was needed elsewhere. He pulls on the gloves while the leather straps bite into his muscles as they tighten, the buckles closing with a snap. Plates of metal encase his legs again. Rough hands reach out once more to tug at the pauldrons and lock them in place. A string of questions cuts through the air. Comfortable? Can you move? Any pressure?

A pair of blue eyes observes it all from the distance, watching as each question is cut down by the same swift shake of the head. They do not blink, do not waver, staying fixed on the Wallachian pretender. Everyone steps back as if afraid of brushing against the man fate already has her claws on. They grant him the final moments of peace. He tries to warm up the stiff muscles, tilts his head to one side and the other. A faint crack breaks the silence. Lifts his arms, drops them. Twists his torso to the side. Bends low, legs stretching as much as the armour will allow. His face betrays him. The strain bleeds through the tightening of his jaw.

Dracea sighs and walks forward. His legs move of their own accord, pulling him towards his friend without a thought. The sight of that body, full of fire despite the exhaustion, pierces him with dread. His mouth feels dry, but it has little to do with the thirst that fills it. Dust seems to rise in his throat, suffocating him. That man is young, not yet twenty-five, still standing in his prime, future stretching before him like an open road, waiting. So much left undone, yet the threat of death looms over him. Dracea’s fists clench. No. Not today. Not ever. This life cannot slip away with the dark.

“Are you prepared?”

Dracea stops inches from him. Although the blonde-haired giant towers over him, Vlad dominates the space. A light smirk flickers beneath the dark moustache, almost imperceptible if only the man opposite him did not know that face better than he knew his own.

“As I can be.”

Dracea’s guts clench at the calmness in the man’s face — or is it a sign of sheer recklessness? His eyes narrow, arms folding tight against his chest now that his body has been freed from armour. He sucks in a sharp breath and blows out his cheeks, gaze flicking towards the sky.

The words shoot out of him before the lack of courage can throttle them. “I do urge you to reconsider. We can wait until the night falls, then retreat to—”

“No.”

He studies him again, noting the faint slouch in his shoulders. His mind darts back to the voivode on the far side of the field, a man twice Drăculea’s age, yet looking fresher, sharper. He has been holding back, conserving his strength. He did not charge headlong into the fight, did not bleed with his men, did not throw himself into the chaos as if he were just another soldier. Vlad did — always first into the fray, relentless.

“Dan’s army is exhausted just the same. His mercenaries likely believe they have done more than enough to earn their wages. We can wait and use the opportunity when—”

The green of Vlad’s eyes morphs into molten fire. His gloved hand snaps forward and seizes Dracea’s arm, yanking him forward. He forces him to face the northern border. Behind the plains, the terrain slopes upward into the mountainous forests. The edge of Wallachia, where Ardeal begins. The land of the exiles.

“Are you so eager to live like an outcast again? Because that is all we will be should we go back,” a hiss creeps into Vlad’s voice, his finger stabbing the air as it points to the peaks that loom in the distance.

Dracea tries to wrench himself free, but his grip is unforgiving around his shoulder, iron on bone. Vlad lets go only when he catches the first signs of panic flooding the blue eyes.

“I will not—” Vlad shakes his head, searching for words. “I am not running again, not for a second more. Not when I have his throat within reach of my hand—”

Vlad’s hand shoots up in front of Dracea’s face. His fingers coil, tightening as if he were already closing them around Vladislav’s windpipe. Dracea lays the palm of his hand across the tense fist, feeling the leather creak beneath his skin.

“We might get another chance later. There will be no second chances if you die today.”

The fields fill with the sharp blow of the horn. Everything changes, Vlad’s countenance most of all. All words are in vain. Dracea stands frozen, awaiting a response he knows he will not receive. Vlad turns away. His back becomes a wall, impenetrable and unyielding, as he strides away from his companion. His voice rings out, summoning the horse with a mane as dark as midnight, mirroring the locks of his master.

“At least let someone else fight in the duel, someone less weary,” Dracea grunts, making one last attempt to reason.

The smile that spreads on Vlad’s face is hardly reassuring. “No, Dracea. It is my throne to take. I ought to be the one to fight for it.”

He swings up into the saddle, patting the side of the turkoman’s neck. A man rushes towards him, holding Vlad’s helmet. He hesitates for a second, then reaches for it. His fingers curl around the familiar weight. He glares at it, at the dents, the scratches, then puts it on. His eyes dart to the safely hidden dagger — simple and practical, double-edged, good for thrusting as well as slashing. The key that will open the doors to the throne. His throne.

“Any final advice?” he says as he clasps Dracea’s hand in a farewell grip.

“Go with God and fight like the Devil. You shall dine in Târgovişte tomorrow.”

The troops have settled into the role of a crowd with ease. Armour lies discarded, bodies sprawl themselves across the grass still soaked in the blood of their dead comrades. The men’s eyes flicker toward the fighters poised on the precipice of glory or ruin. Coins change hands with sharp clinks as bets are sealed in low grumbles. Warm wine sloshes down the parched throats. All of it fades into a dull hum beneath the pounding of blood in Vlad’s ears.

Two banners fly in the air. The green and gold of the Dan snap on one side. The night sky with the day’s red and gold of the Drăculea on the other. Only one will stand in the end. The other will topple to the ground the moment the body of its defender lies dead in the dirt.

He quickly reevalues the odds. Vladislav is older. Taller. More experienced. Armoured in steel no one among the sea of men filling these plains has even dreamed of wearing.

The crowd’s laughter bites through the evening air. A shiver runs down his spine.

The horn blares again. Sharp and final. It is time.

Vladislav unsheathes his blade with a decisive motion. Its edge catches the fading light, glinting menacingly. Vlad mirrors his actions. A violent shout tears from the voivode’s throat as he charges. Heavy footfalls meet Vlad in a few strides. The old man’s movements are slow, mechanical, seeking balance. Predictable. Vlad bides his time. His muscles tense, poised to strike. His stance is ready — knees bent, feet grounded for quick movement. He watches the approach. Every twitch. Every breath. Come. Make your move.

In a flash, two bodies swathed in metal collide. Steel meets steel with a shriek that splits the air. Vlad grips the dagger loosely, hand ready to adjust swiftly. His sharp eyes hunt for any opening, any weakness. He holds, waits — until Vladislav is nearly upon him. Then he leans into the blow and twists his torso as the impact erupts.

Vladislav lunges forward, too close for a clean strike. His blade whips down, hunting for exposed flesh. Nothing. The blade scrapes against the breastplate with a sharp screech and skids off, leaving a pitiful scratch. His eyes widen as the young man’s gauntleted hand claws at him, tugging at the plates, yanking him closer. Vlad grinds his teeth as he finds the target he is looking for. With a brutal snap, the top of his helmet smashes into Vladislav’s visor. The man staggers back, gasping, vision swimming and exploding. He blinks, tries to clear the haze from his eyes. The world around him narrows into a tunnel of blurred shapes and sounds, his breath a ragged storm inside the helmet.

Sensing the advantage, Vlad charges with teeth bared in a snarl. Vladislav reacts on instinct. His body snaps into a defensive stance, blade up, hand tired yet steady. The enemy’s weapon slashes through the air. The steel whizzes past, grazing his armour but not finding flesh. Vlad presses on, but the fatigue begins to slow him down. Vladislav spots his hesitation, the aggression in the young man waning. He surges forward, no thought, only the sharp glint of the dagger seeking out a sliver of exposed skin between those steel plates. Cold. Merciless. The moment to strike is now.

He finds no opening. Instead, blade bites into blade as Vlad deflects at the last second. With a swift strike, he flicks his dagger to the side, sending Vladislav’s weapon flying from his grip and to the ground. But where exhaustion drags one down, fury drives the other forward. Vladislav waits until the youth makes one small mistake, succumbs to a moment of carelessness. It comes. Swift and sloppy. Vladislav seizes him as if he weighed nothing. His grip on Vlad’s left arm is iron-like, relentless. The strength catches him off guard. Before he can free himself, the older man wrenches the arm back. The shoulder yields with a sickening pop.

The pain rips his breath out of him. It tears through his shoulder like a jagged knife, jolting upward, stabbing into his neck. His arm falls limp, dangling by his side at a grotesque angle. The agony that floods him is sharp and relentless. A howl drags its way out of his constricted throat. The world collapses into silence and haze. Strong hands grip his waist and send him toppling to the ground. He does not blink, does not shut his eyes. He sees everything. Faces frozen in shock. Mouths twisted in screams. The hills looming behind them. Above him, the sky darkens. His back slams into the dry earth, and he feels it moving beneath him. The dagger flies out of his hand and falls next to him. Everything around him spirals without control. His arm. Fire. Searing every tendon. Every muscle ablaze.

A shadow comes between him and the sky. Vladislav moves fast. Too fast. In one savage motion, he tears the helmet from Vlad’s head. Green eyes flash wide as the voivode’s large hands close in. Vlad tries to roll to the side and escape the grip he knows is coming. His shoulder flares with pain and pins him to the ground. Vladislav kneels over him and straddles him. The hands hover, closer, threatening. They lock around the exposed neck—

And squeeze.

The first sensation Vlad feels is the tightening around his neck, constricting him like iron jaws. Pain scorches through his throat, molten, as if he swallowed fire. His lungs rebel and claw for air that will not come, every breath blocked by the unforgiving grip. His body spasms. Instincts kick in, meeting with nothing. Resistance. His eyes throb in their sockets, the world dimming. Vladislav’s fingers dig deeper. The pressure on his windpipe makes him gag. A ragged sound escapes his parted lips. Raw and choking. Barely human. Fueled by rage, the voivode heaves him up like dead weight and hurls his skull into the ground.

Vlad’s vision begins to blur. The edges of his consciousness fray, fading everything into a faraway smoke. He tries to fight the primal urge to thrash, to gasp for breath. He forces stillness into his limbs. Breathing shallow. No rash movement. The dagger flashes in his mind. A lifeline. Vladislav fails to notice that the right hand twitches to life, fingers crawling over the dirt with purpose. They find what they are looking for. The cold metal hilt. They close around it, pulling the weapon closer to the body lying in the dirt.

“Die!” Vladislav screams into his face.

Before the world begins to darken, Vlad’s eyes lock on the opening. A sliver of pale skin just above the breastplate, the flesh so tender and welcoming. He does not hesitate. He grinds his teeth as he raises his right arm. It drives the dagger up, thrusting into the small space of the unguarded neck that reveals itself to him. The grip around his throat slackens. The air floods back. Vlad pulls the blade hard to the side. The gaping hole rips wide open in front of him. The voivode tries to scream, but his voice is strangled. The once smooth throat becomes a ragged ruin, with dark red blood pooling and seeping from the severed vessels. He shuts his eyes as it gushes forth. It is warm, spilling over him like waterfalls, cascading across his face. A few drops seep into his lips, filling his mouth with a metallic taste. It runs down into his hair, binding it into a wet, sticky mass.

Behind the visor, the light in Vladislav’s eyes flickers, then dies. His body grows heavy with death. The armoured corpse crashes forward. Vlad barely manages to turn his head before it slams onto him, the weight of metal crushing against his chest, burying him beneath it. The heat of the summer sun still clings to the body.

From the distance, it was impossible to catch every detail. The voivode is dead. That much is clear. One soldier stands up and brushes the dust off his thighs. He walks over to the banner of the Dănești and yanks it from the ground. The colourful cloth falls discarded. But Drăculea does not move. Not a muscle twitches beneath the dead body. The hand that delivered the blow fell to the side with the blade slick with blood… and now lies there, unmoving.

The field is silent, save for the shriek of circling birds that have come to feast on the fallen. The faces of hundreds of men remain unmoving, breath caught in their throats. They wait for a sign. Any sign. But Drăculea does not move. He lies there, a body abandoned by life, giving nothing.

Dracea scans the swarm of bodies in the crowd, searching for familiar faces. There. Manea’s bone-white head. Dumitru is stumbling to his feet. Stan, frozen, shock carved into his pale face. Stoica. Buriu. Iova. Their tension mounts, second by second. Each man readies himself to drag the body of their fallen prince — their leader, their friend — from the dirt and carry it away to lay him to rest.

And then the body stirs.

“He is alive!” Dumitru cries out as he bolts past the others to get to him.

With a grimace of pain, Vlad uses the last dregs of his strength to force the corpse off him. He twists, bracing his legs, his torso, anything he can use against the dead weight. The dislocated shoulder throbs with each push, but he grits his teeth and shoves. Other hands reach down from above, rough and sudden. Men standing over him yank the body aside to free him from the crushing burden.

Vlad rolls over and, with a laboured grunt, pushes against the soil. A violent coughing fit overpowers him, lungs wheezing, gulping on the air. The blood on his face mixes with the dirt scraping him as he claws at the ground, the dust forming a hard crust over his skin. His fingers dig into the earth, anchoring him as he hauls himself up. His legs quiver, and he curls them beneath him as much as the armour allows, forcing himself up. His breath comes in ragged bursts, but he steadies himself, every muscle protesting the strain.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dumitru’s hands reach for him, helping him stand up. He lets the motion carry him, legs dragging as he is hauled to his feet. An arm wraps around his shoulders and yanks him into an embrace. The mangled joint flares with pain again. He pays it little attention. He looks around. The troops from both sides are now standing in front of him. A few of the men walk away quietly, slipping off into the shadows to find their horses. Another pretender waits. The rest begins chanting. His name. Over and over. Vlad. Vlad. Vlad. Vlad. Vlad. The cry crashes into him in the form of hundreds of voices.

Now that name truly stands for something.

Now that name represents something bigger than himself.

He pushes Dumitru’s arm aside. He screams from the bottom of his lungs. The roar he lets out is guttural, overwhelming. It bursts out and shakes the air, and the depth of the sound carries itself across the Wallachian plains. The mouth open wide reveals the glimmer of white teeth, the contrast striking in the face smeared with blackened grime. He screams until the burning in his bruised throat stops him. His voice cracks, then breaks completely.

The men keep looking at him, unable to tear their gaze off him. They see what a voivode could be. Should be. Voievod. He who leads the warriors. He who stands at the front. Fighting. Bleeding. Burning. Who better to lead them than the one who suffers with them, bleeds with them?

Vlad.

Vlad. Vlad.

Vlad. Vlad. Vlad.

In a single triumphant moment, the years of exile scatter like dust. Only the pulse of a man on the verge of his fate remains. Eight years of turmoil have led to this place. The future Voivode of Wallachia. Ready to shape the new future of his land.

It is there. A breath away. All it waits for is to be claimed by his determined hand.

Phew. What a writing journey this has been. I started working on the initial draft sometime in February and only now managed to finally mould the piece into what I hoped it could offer.

With this little work of mine, I try to establish a more detailed picture of Vlad’s character and circumstances that hint at what kind of ruler he will be. While I still try to show him as the badass he indisputably was, my biggest priority is to show him as a man first, one whose body aches and betrays him, one who does not always execute things with perfect precision. At the time of this legendary battle, Vlad certainly did not lack military experience — but it was still the first truly big armed confrontation he led himself, and I found it crucial to show that such beginnings and first times hardly go smoothly.

Worry not. Many bold and impressive moments will come. Vlad was a big fan of duels, after all. Was he a military genius? Correct. Are military geniuses just born like that? Certainly not. And so he has to go through his trials to become that formidable warrior commander. I personally think that witnessing these struggles and setbacks makes his final victory (and the future successes) all the more impactful. I will let you be the judge of that.

Moving onto the facts now!

We know that Vlad’s second rule began after he killed Voivode Vladislav II in 1456, but the exact dates vary. I have stumbled upon three different months — April, July, and August 1456. I decided to settle with August as it made the most sense given the circumstances that led to this battle. From 1454 to 1456, Vlad was appointed by Hunyadi to guard the southern Transylvanian border against any possible attacks, and Vlad’s invasion of Wallachia largely depended on Hunyadi’s help and resources. Because we know that Hunyadi led the Hungarian defenders during the Siege of Belgrade (which took place from July 4–22), it would make a lot of sense for Vlad to meanwhile stay in Transylvania in case the Ottomans won and made their way north towards Hungary. Hunyadi died on August 11, therefore, the most logical solution was to wedge Vlad’s invasion into early August.

Vladislav II’s gravestone is marked with the date of August 22, 1456. However, it is estimated that this was the date of the engraving, not the date of his death. By August 22, Vlad must have already replaced Vladislav on the Wallachian throne.

Cneaz (pl. cneji) was a title borrowed from Old Church Slavonic. It was initially used as a title for the early Wallachian leaders (before the formation of the Principality of Wallachia), but I also found it as a title used for Wallachian petty nobility. Either way, the fact is that only higher nobility or important people could afford full armour, hence why Vlad fights a man who wears only gambeson (a padded defensive jacket worn as armour separately or beneath armour) and chain mail.

As you may have noticed, Vlad’s weapon of choice is a kılıç. It is a type of one-handed, single-edged and curved sword used by the Ottomans (among others). I will elaborate on this a great deal more in future works as I have prepared a whole lore around his weapons but, essentially, while I have him do fabulously with a wide range of weapons, he has a personal preference for the Ottoman ones, simply because he underwent more rigorous military training during his hostage years. Also, he rides a turkoman — this four-legged friend will also make frequent appearances in the future, so I will not spoil much!

Ardeal is one of the names for Transylvania in Romanian.

[coffeewithcutcaffeine]

THE DRĂCULEȘTI

— Vlad Drăculea.

— Vlad Dracul.

— Vasilisa of Moldavia.

— Mircea Drăculea.

— Alexandra of Wallachia.

— Radu Drăculea.

— Vlad Călugărul.

— Mircea.

— Mihnea.

THE DĂNEȘTI

— Vladislav II.

— Dan the Pretender.

THE WALLACHIANS

— Cătălina Costescu.

— Dracea de Măneşti.

— Dumitu Costescu.

— Neagoe Craiovescu.

— Manea Udriște.

— Voico Dobrița.

— Albu cel Mare.

THE MOLDAVIANS

— Ștefan cel Mare.

— Bogdan II.

— Oltea.

— Maria.

THE OTTOMANS

— Mehmed the Conqueror.

— Murad II.

— Hamza Pasha.

— Thomas Katavolinos.

THE HUNGARIANS

— János Hunyadi.

— Erzsébet Szilágyi.

— Mihály Szilágyi.

— László Hunyadi.

— Matthias Corvinus.

— Ladislaus the Posthumous.