The Murder of a Prince

“This will do,” Ilie said to his assistant, without really speaking to him. Following roughly the course of the brook in which their victim had taken his last bath, they had left the village far behind. And since Radu, as expected, did not object, Ilie brought the cart to a halt.

Here the brook joined a river. A stone the size of a wagon wheel, washed on all sides by the water but lying close enough to the surface, had a rough, gently sloping top that was perfect for giving the hides a first cleaning. Later, when they had drained, Radu would have to rub them with salt.

“Just what we need.”

Ilie jumped down from the driver’s seat and waded barefoot into the water.

“Why don’t we just dry the things after we’ve washed them?” Radu asked. “It’s warm, there’s no rain coming. Are we in a hurry?”

“Yes, I am in a hurry!” shouted Ilie, already knee-deep in the brook. He spoke over his shoulder towards the cart, taking care not to turn around, for he was busy undoing his trousers. The mixture of coffee and spirits that had made up most of his breakfasts ever since he had thought of mixing the antidote directly into that Ottoman brew that set the blood racing felt an irresistible attraction to the sound of running water.

“I’m not,” Radu called back, with a simplicity that was as deliberate as it was convincing.

“Why do you think we’re not going back to Braşov, eh? There are half a dozen tanneries there, plenty of competition, and they pay a Löwenthaler for a hundredweight of dog hide. But we two fools are going to Bistritz instead, to Boldizsár, who’ll cheat us. Do you think we enjoy it?”

“I don’t know,” came a quieter reply from the cart.

“Lisuse Cristoase, ai milă de mine!” Ilie begged for mercy. “No, prostule, we’re doing it because we have to. Because we don’t want to be impaled, because we want to keep both our hands, our eyesight too, of course, and, not to forget, the few Leu we can earn from this filthy work. That’s why we’re going north. Up there the worst we’ll meet are Saxons, perhaps a few Székelys if we’re unlucky, but no Ottomans, Bulgarians, Greeks, Croats, and above all no Tatars. Now throw down the last of those hides!”

Still struggling to fasten his trousers, with arms and legs spread wide, he waddled a little way back towards the cart, stuffed a few red berries from a bush on the bank into his mouth, and finally managed to close the entrance through which all manner of pests might find their way. He had only just finished when the bundle of hides landed with a slap on the bank.

He carried the bundle back through the water to the stone and began working with his long knife, taking care that the current carried away only what was supposed to go. A small tear in a hide could become a large hole when the skin was stretched on a frame; he had already learned that much about making parchment.

After a long while—Radu had fallen asleep by then—he spread the hides out on the bank. He went back to the brook and washed the red slime from his hands as well as the cold water allowed. Some sticky residue remained, but it would wear off in time. The stone was now covered in countless flies, more and more of which were coming his way.

“Come on, Radu, work’s calling. Get to it before the flies eat the hides!”

“Flies?” Radu woke with a start. “Ah, the flies,” he added, feeling his face without thinking. “Without them, the world would be … catching dogs wouldn’t be such a bad job, would it? And without the blood, of course, and the stink, naturally, and the heat, this murderous heat, and the bad …”

“Gura, Radu—shut your mouth, Radu!” Ilie snapped. He had settled comfortably in the grass while Radu began salting the hides.

“We’re lucky the great lords hold an assembly almost every year and haven’t thought of carving their decisions in stone. Or would you rather collect boulders, Radu, my friend?”

“Boulders? Waj! That would be bad. Anyone could do that. Only we can catch dogs.”

“Plenty of people could catch dogs. They just won’t.”

“Because of the flies?”

“Yes. That too.”

They came from the region around Temeschwar, which was firmly in Turkish hands. For weeks they had wandered first eastwards towards Kronstadt, then, as that city too became increasingly unsafe, far to the north in search of dogs. Their hunting ground was the vague, imaginary boundary in the hills between Neumarkt, the Reen region and Odorhellen, where German and Hungarian settlements stood side by side.

But the Turks were constantly on the move as well, travelling in groups that were large, and never small enough to be harmless. Rumour had it that nearby Schäßburg was now their target. If things went badly for the town between the Kokel and the Schaaser Brook, it might be there that the question of whose arbitrary rule would prevail in Transylvania was decided. But that was politics, and politics was best avoided. It brought nothing but trouble. One had to avoid encounters with Turkish soldiers altogether. They always came at a price, and hides were no use as payment. For men like Ilie and Radu, the cost could therefore be very high indeed, depending on what kind of signpost the Turks decided to make of them. It need not be a stake. A man might escape with one hand—one hand still attached to him, that is, while the other, nailed to a tree trunk, pointed travellers in the right direction. Whatever Ali Pasha’s men might have in mind, it was safer to choose a less convenient road and stay away from larger towns, where dog-catchers who were also Gypsies were doubly unwelcome.

The man who would buy their hides, however, was above both smells and rumours. This was Boldizsár the tanner, whose workshop near Bistritz was their destination. He would spread the crusted hides on a table that was already too filthy for it to matter, and examine them for defects. He would scrape off a little of the crust and hold it beneath Radu’s nose: You want money for that, you filthy Gypsy shit? Tell me, do I look stupid?

And Radu would start to stammer, while Boldizsár was already laughing and Ilie was pressing for a proper business discussion. By the end of it, they would be glad if Boldizsár had not cheated them too badly across his filthy table. With luck, they might get a Löwenthaler, enough to last until the following spring; or perhaps only a little silver, all of it gone by Christmas.

But that was still some way off. The shortest route, following the Mieresch and turning northwest only after Sächsisch Regen, was out of the question. There, as the name suggested, lived mainly Saxons, from whom they could expect little better than what they themselves had done to the dogs. The eastern route through Szentimre was too mountainous and led too far into Székely country. That left them no choice but to find a middle way between the steepest and the shortest route, hoping to unload their stinking cargo outside Boldizsár’s hut while it was still in reasonably good condition.

By the following evening they had reached the bank of the Șar, just outside Hölzeldorf. As dog-catchers always did, they filled their leather water bottles as far upstream as they could, then made a simple camp at a safe distance from their load. They ate the remains of the previous day’s flatbread, some bacon, onions and a cheese that would have caused an uproar in any enclosed room.

They set off at the first crow of a rooster, skirted the village as widely as necessary but as closely as possible, and, when their shadow had moved to the left of the cart, kept going in the same direction for another good hour. A vast field of grain opened onto a narrow path, which they followed for a further hour before another village came into view some distance away. The countryside was gently hilly, mostly grassland, cultivated on the flatter ground and crossed by lines of bushes along the otherwise bare slopes. Here and there stood a group of fruit trees, but there was no forest anywhere in sight. The track had risen slightly and now ran along a ridge, giving them a view far into the distance. Below them a broad valley stretched north; a good mile away stood another, larger village. They stopped briefly to consider how best to go around it.

By the time they heard the rider, he was already there.

Two things about him struck them at once. As he rode in a wide semicircle around their cart, searching for the wind and coming closer only when it was at his back, they could see that he was no soldier, and that he had not planned to be out riding. He had no hat or luggage worth mentioning. He wore a shirt that had probably been white when he set out but was now turning dusty beige, a light cloak, knee-length breeches and buckled shoes. He was dressed for the heat of the day, not for a night in the open or an evening downpour. His clothes were very respectable, though certainly not grand. A sabre hung conspicuously from his belt, but he did not look as though he knew how to use it. His horse was not just any old nag, yet it was nothing special either. It was plainly reluctant to come closer and would gladly have retreated from the stench. The rider had some difficulty controlling it and now urged it sideways towards the cart. Despite the heat, he wore gloves, and fine ones at that, made of soft leather and trimmed with lace. He took off the left glove and held it before his face. This made his Hungarian no easier for the men on the cart to understand. Still, it was Hungarian, though spoken with a German accent, and besides, he was alone.

“I am following a wagon. Not one like yours, though its purpose is … well, rather similar. Have you seen it?”

“No, sir.” Ilie answered truthfully, at the same time digging his elbow into Radu’s side to keep him quiet.

“We’ve come from the south, sir, and no one has passed us. What kind of wagon is it?”

“If you did not smell so bad yourselves, you would probably have noticed its smell even if it had passed you. Its cushions are stuffed with dill. They say it sharpens the dogs‘ senses.”

“That’s true!” Radu interrupted.

“What dogs, sir?” Ilie asked.

“Lord Kemény’s hunting dogs. He is our lord and, by the grace of the Habsburgs, has recently become Prince of all Transylvania. It is the wagon used to take the dogs to their work, if I may call it that. Today, however, it is carrying something quite different, something far nobler, and I must not lose sight of it!”

“May I ask what that is, sir?”

“No, you may not. I can see you’re no help. And now farewell, you …”

Already turning his horse, the stranger was considering how to finish the sentence: with a particularly apt German insult that the two men might not understand, with an exquisite insult that existed only in Hungarian, or perhaps not at all. Then a musket shot rang out to the north and made the decision for him.

“Gütiger Gott!” In his fright, he had returned to his mother tongue.

The report echoed away, and more shots followed. Faint cries could now be heard too—shouts, orders, calls for help—but nothing was clear from here.

“Dear God, that must be them!” The rider urged his horse downhill at once, towards the village and the noise. He soon disappeared from sight.

Ilie was just as quick to act. He slapped the reins, clicked his tongue, whistled, shouted and cursed to get the horse moving—as fast as possible, as far as possible, anywhere but here.

They had a choice between the village from which the shots had come and the one they had just avoided. Ilie managed to turn the cart around. Let people throw dung at them if they must; there were worse things to escape.

The village’s main street was empty.

“Is it Sunday?” Ilie asked.

“No, I think it’s Monday,” Radu guessed. “Why?”

“Look, there’s nobody here. For a moment I thought they’d all gone to church. But I suppose we’re just lucky.”

Keeping the horse at a trot, Ilie drove the creaking cart along the village’s only street, which, as in every village everywhere, seemed much too long to him. Could the people not have put in a few bends, behind which one might more easily disappear? Or planted a row of trees, so that the shade would make a man less conspicuous? Instead the houses stood side by side, lined up like stitches on a knitting needle, their entrances set behind shallow ditches and screened from the street by walls of varying height. Only cats and those remarkable flightless birds could get through—birds that were nevertheless always to be found wherever they were easy to catch. The temptation was great, but their fear of what lay behind them was greater. Where there was shooting, the sensible thing was to get away. Quickly, and without stopping for roast chicken. An old rule of the road.

The sun was almost as hot on their necks as fear itself. Only the horse was sweating more, still pulling the cart up the rising road. The village behind them had already vanished beneath the grassy slopes. A wayside cross marked a fork. To the east, and downhill besides, a muddy track led into a wide stretch of countryside, winding beside a dark line of trees—which meant a brook. An easy choice.

They stayed there until evening, losing time in the cool shade. They would be hard to find here. And who would be looking for them anyway?

“Stephan Dobelius. Before you ask. I forgot to introduce myself this morning. But now we have a little more time to talk.”

Ilie was sitting alone on the bank; Radu was behind a bush. Once again the rider had arrived without being noticed, with the last evening sunlight behind him and the thick growth along the brook partly hiding him. Ilie thought the Devil had come to fetch him. Why had Radu been so lucky as to be hiding just now?

All Ilie could see was a shape, a snorting, steaming mass that appeared to be covered in hair. He staggered as he jumped up in terror, the blood rushing into his legs.

“What is that? Who are you …?” His voice came out high and thin, even though the answer had already been given. Then he understood, coughed briefly and forced his voice back down.

“Te jóságos ég, you frightened me!”

Dobelius had dismounted. He held his horse close with his left hand.

“Where is your friend, the one who knows about dogs? And would you kindly tell me your names as well?”

“Radu,” came a quiet voice from the bushes. “And he’s Ilie.”

“Good,” Dobelius replied. “One ought to know the names of people one is going to work with. I need your help, and I need it at once.”

“Our help, sir? Now?” Ilie managed to lower his voice still further. “It’ll soon be night. We’re safe here—well, we were until you came. Are we still? And how did you find us?”

“I, at least, mean you no harm. Not even after you’ve helped me, if that’s what troubles you. Finding you was not difficult. You were travelling north when I met you. There aren’t that many roads leading that way. I only had to ride around Cozma before I found your tracks again. Your smell did the rest.

“And the coming darkness is very much to our advantage. Besides, you need not call me ‘sir’. I am not a nobleman. My name is Stephan, as I said. Do you speak German, by any chance?”

“No, sir. Stephan, sir. Do you speak Romanian?”

“Not well enough to matter. We’ll keep speaking Hungarian, then. Now come along, pack your things. There’s much to do.”

“Why us, sir, er … Stephan?” Radu, who had meanwhile emerged from the bushes fully dressed, tried to stand to attention. It looked so absurd beside his shabby appearance that Dobelius almost laughed, though he was in no mood for laughter.

“The work is dirty, and so are you. It has to do with death, and so do you. I am beginning to think it was no accident that I met you!”

“Death? Dirt?” Ilie scratched the back of his neck. “What actually happened over there this morning, when we heard the shots? What did you see?”

“Nothing good, as you can imagine. Nothing good at all. Come now, and I’ll tell you what you need to know on the way.”

“Just a moment. We can’t go with you. We’re in a hurry and have to get to …” Ilie hesitated a moment too long.

“Bistritz,” Radu supplied.

“Neumarkt,” Ilie insisted, slapping his own head because Radu’s was out of reach.

“It’s the hides. We have to …”

“Sell them for as much as you can get? Of course.” Dobelius thought for a moment. “I’ll buy them from you. Name your price.”

Ilie beckoned Radu towards him and put his hand on his shoulder, close to his ear. He looked deep into Radu’s eyes with an almost kindly smile and, just to be safe, stepped on his foot.

“Five Löwenthaler, sir,” he said, turning to Dobelius. “The hides are of the finest quality. Even the court scribes buy from our tanner. No dogs too old, none sick, everything properly sk—”

“Let’s do it differently. I’ll give you two!” Dobelius interrupted. “Two Löwenthaler. But not for the hides; you may keep those. In return, you and your cart will be at my disposal for as long as I need you. And if you do a good job, you may get something more. Agreed?”

By the time they set off, the eastern sky was already dark. The first stars shone in the deep blue overhead. The cart rattled into the red light of evening, still stinking, while Dobelius rode steadily beside it and talked. They took the same road back, and although they travelled more slowly, the journey seemed to pass much faster than it had that morning.

“We spoke earlier of our ruler, Prince Kemény, if I remember correctly. And you know that he became prince only recently. His predecessor was Barcsay, Ákos Barcsay, and I am …” Dobelius paused for a moment. “… was his personal servant.”

When no question came, he continued.

“Prince Barcsay was a peace-loving man. As far as that was possible, of course. He did not want the title, and that is precisely why the Turks forced it upon him. After years of war against his predecessor, George Rákóczi II, they wanted someone in power who would leave them in peace. The Ottomans have had their eyes on Vienna for as long as anyone can remember. They must put an end to the constant fighting in Transylvania if they are to concentrate their strength against the Habsburgs.

“Prince Kemény is no friend of the Turks. The Saxons support him in this, and lately even the Székelys. Last year Prince Barcsay’s brother Gáspár laid waste to their land when they turned against him. Since then they have hated him so much that they will accept no ruler from that family. And the country has been drained dry in any case; the constant tribute paid to the Ottoman court consumes everything.

“Kemény saw his chance. He has long been trying to push the Turks back with Habsburg help, but Vienna cannot make up its mind. Kemény needed to make a show of strength, to put himself at the centre of things. He had Barcsay arrested and himself declared prince. I do not believe it will end well for him, but we shall see.”

By now it was completely dark. Radu had lit a lantern, but it illuminated only him and Ilie, making the country around them seem darker still. Like two children listening to their grandfather tell a tale, they sat on the driver’s seat and understood, at best, half of what they heard. But they sensed that they were about to be drawn into something that an ordinary dog-catcher would do well to avoid. What did Dobelius want from them? Were they supposed to fight the Turks with him? Could a personal servant be so powerful? He had given them an enormous amount of money, by their standards, and promised them more. They would have to think carefully about the right moment to make their escape.

Dobelius went on.

“Prince Barcsay was imprisoned at Görgeny, a castle very close to Kemény’s family seat at Marosvécs. His half-brother, Sigmund Buday, was also held there. They lacked nothing, not least because I was free to come and go and could look after them.

“Officially, Prince Barcsay had disappeared. But what if he escaped? A single message about his whereabouts, getting out and reaching the Turks, could be Kemény’s downfall. He already feared that Barcsay might secretly be preparing his escape. So Barcsay had to be moved somewhere no one would think to look for him.

“Pretending that he wished to make life more comfortable for the former prince, Kemény ordered Barcsay to be moved to Kővár, the Stone Fortress, far to the north, on a bend of the Lápos River. It is a blank space on the Ottoman map; no Turk has ever been there. And none would go there. Barcsay was not that important to them.

“But sadly Kővár was only a pretext, and sadly we did not suspect it.

“A lady’s maid warned us that the journey had been arranged for this very morning. Prince Barcsay sent me away at once, so that I could follow him as a free man instead of accompanying him as a fellow prisoner. They chose the wagon used for the hunting dogs, as it would attract no suspicion, and pretended to be setting off on a hunt. But before long the hunters and the wagon separated, and soon afterwards the wagon left the road.

“When I met you, I had lost the trail. The shots led me back to it, and they meant what I had feared. Kemény did not think it safe enough merely to move Barcsay to another place. When I reached the scene of the murder, they were already burying him.”

Dobelius took a deep breath and lowered his head.

“At least, that is what I could see. I had to stay hidden, of course.”

“That is a terrible story, sir—Stephan,” Ilie said after a while.

“But now that your master is dead, what can we do?”

“What can you do?” Dobelius raised his head and looked Ilie firmly in the eye.

“You shall help me dig him up and take his corpse to the Turks!”