Chapter 46 Chapter Forty-Five

my dear friend: At this moment, I have no one in the world to talk to.I would very much like to have you by my side as I am on the train heading towards Bucharest.I hadn't planned to be here, but something extraordinary brought me here.Until a few days ago, I was staying in Istanbul, doing a little secret research, and what I found there compelled me to come here. The car is slowing down, maybe I can buy breakfast-let's stop writing first, and then continue. June 20, 193 My heart is agitated, I have long since found the hotel, in simple and amazing words, I have come to find something, to pursue Dracula as a historian - the real Dracula - Fra Des III, a tyrant who lived in Transylvania and Wallachia in the fifteenth century.

I spent the better part of a week looking through a file on him in Istanbul, and it was there that I came across an unusual map.I couldn't resist copying those maps and going here to find out more about Dracula's cemetery. I always think it's best to check the obvious first, because the obvious is sometimes true.So I made up my mind to find Lake Snagov with my map, and to see for myself that the grave was not there.My map guides me like an ancient incantation, I want to find enough evidence that the tyrant lies there, and has always been there-I start tomorrow. your faithful friend,

Bartholomew Rossi June 20, 193 Afternoon in Bucharest my dear friend: I haven't seen a place to post a letter yet, and I'm still hoping to continue here. Whenever I find anyone in college who is even remotely interested in Vlad Terbis, I talk to them, and every time I mention Dracula's name, I have a feeling they cross themselves, even if Not doing so publicly. Yesterday I spotted a nice young archeology professor at school who told me that he has a colleague named Georgescu who specializes in the history of Snagov and is digging there this summer. I was of course overjoyed to hear this news.

snagov l. June 22 my dear friend: I can't help but continue this phantom correspondence between us. Today is so unusual that I must tell someone. My first knowledge of Snagov came from the driver's excited, non-stop waving.I'm not quite sure what I'm going to see.I guess I'm too caught up in a historian's curiosity, always expecting something special to happen.It was the first time I walked where Dracula walked.If I was the one who kept asking God to bless me, I probably did. We did find a man with a shovel among the great ruins behind the church.He was a middle-aged man with a friendly face, curly black hair, and a white shirt untucked into his trousers, with sleeves rolled up to the elbows.Two boys helped beside him, rummaging carefully in the dirt, and he dropped his shovel from time to time to rummage.They were only working in a small area, where they seemed to find something interesting.

The man in the white shirt came forward and looked at us with very piercing black eyes. The boatman, with the help of the driver, seemed to be giving us an introduction.The archaeologist shook my hand. "Bartholomew Rossi," he said in a thick voice. "My name is Virio Georgescu. Hello, how can I help you?" "Do you speak English?" I asked stupidly. "A little bit," said Mr. Georgescu. "Excuse me," I said hastily. "I understand that you are particularly interested in Vlad III. I would like to have a talk with you. I am a historian from Oxford University."

He nodded. "I'm glad to know you're interested. Did you come all this way to see his grave?" "Well, I was hoping—" "Ah, you are disappointed, you are disappointed," Mr. Jeorgescu patted me on the shoulder without malice, "but I have to lower your disappointment , my buddy." My heart skipped a beat—does this guy think Vlad isn't buried here too?But I decided to bide my time and listen carefully before asking questions. He looked at me oddly and laughed again. "Come on, I'll show you around." He said something quickly to his assistants, apparently telling them to stop, as they dropped what they were doing and slammed under a tree.He leaned his shovel against a half-excavated wall and motioned to me.As for me, I let the driver and the boatman know that I was safe and sound. I put a silver coin in the palm of the boatman. He touched the brim of his hat and disappeared. The driver leaned against the ruins and took out a small pot of wine.

"Very good. Let's walk around first." Mr. Georgescu waved a big hand around himself. "Do you know the history of this island? There was a church here in the fourteenth century, and the monastery was built later, also in the fourteenth century. The first church was of wood, the second of stone, but In 1453, the stone church sank directly to the bottom of the lake. In 1462 Dracula took power for the second time in Wallachia, and he had his own ideas. He liked the monastery, I believe because Islands are easy to defend—he's always looking for a place to defend against the Turks. It's a good place, don't you think?"

I agree.Virio Georgescu also looked around approvingly. "So, Vlad turned the monastery into a fortress, and built parapets, prisons, and torture chambers around it. There was also an escape route and a bridge to the shore. He's a cautious fellow, Vlad ...Of course, the bridge is long gone, and I'm digging what's left of it. We're digging the prison now. We've seen a few skeletons in there." He laughed. "So this is Vlad's church?" I pointed to a charming building nearby, its walls surrounded by soaring turrets and rattling black trees. "No," Georgescu said. "Part of the monastery was burned down by the Turks in 1462, when Vlad's brother Ladu was in power in Wallachia, and he was a puppet of the Turks. Vlad had just been buried here, and a terrible storm blew his church into the lake."

Is Vlad buried here?I longed to ask the question, but kept my mouth shut tightly. "The peasant must have thought it was God's punishment for a crime he had committed. The church was rebuilt in 1517 - it took three years, and that's the result. The outer walls of the monastery were restored, and it took only thirty years." We strolled to the edge of the church, and he patted the pastel tile walls as if he were patting the rump of a beloved horse.We were standing there when suddenly around the corner of the church came a man with a white beard, wearing a black robe and a black barrel hat.He walked with a stick, his robe tied up with a string, and a bunch of keys hanging from it.From a chain dangling from his neck hung a very delicate old-fashioned crucifix of the kind I had seen in church towers.

This ghostly person frightened me a lot.But my new acquaintance stepped forward, smiled at the friar, and bent over the large gnarled hand with a shiny gold ring on it, which Georgescu respectfully kissed.I heard my name in Georgescu's introduction, and I bowed to the monk as gracefully as I could. "This is the Abbot. He welcomes you." I bowed my thanks and the old man walked away slowly. "Do they live here all year round?" I asked Georgescu. "Oh, yes," said my guide, nodding. "Now let's go into the church." We turned and went to the front door, which was a huge carved wooden door, and from there I entered a completely strange world, very different from our Anglo churches.

In the middle of the church, he pointed up, and I saw a dim face floating on the dome "Are you familiar with our Byzantine churches? Jesus is always in the center, looking down. This candelabra" - From Jesus A huge crown hangs down from the center of the chest, occupying the main space of the church, but the candles inside are already burning—"also a typical feature." In the gloom, I struggled to make out all this, but the sombre beauty struck me.I turned to Georgescu. "Is Vlad worshiping here? I mean the old church." "Oh, of course," the archaeologist giggled. "He was a godly murderer. He built many churches and monasteries to make sure that many people prayed for his soul's salvation. Look here—that's what I want you to see." He knelt down before the altar and turned Open the carpet.I saw, just in front of the altar, a square of feldspar, smooth and austere, but certainly a tombstone.My heart started beating wildly. "Vlad's tomb?" "According to legend, yes. Some of my colleagues and I excavated here a few years ago and found only one cavity." I hold my breath. "He's not in there?" "Certainly not." Gioorgescu's teeth gleamed. "The literature says he's buried here, right in front of the altar, and says the new church was built on the site of the old one, so his tomb was left untouched. " Thinking of the hollow down there filled me with dread rather than disappointment. "However, we still decided to look around again, come here, and here we found the second stone slab, which is exactly the same as the first one." I stare down at my feet. "So we dug up this one too," Georgescu explained, patting the slate. "Then you found out—?" "Oh, a very fine skeleton," he reported with evident satisfaction. "The shroud is royal purple, embroidered with gold, and the bones in the coffin are well-preserved, richly dressed in purple brocade, with scarlet sleeves. Curiously, a small ring is embroidered on one sleeve. The ring is plain, but my A colleague believes it belongs to a greater relic, and that relic is a symbol of the Dragon's Call." Hearing this, I have to admit, my heart stopped a beat or two. "Symbol?" "Yes, with long claws and ring tails. Those involved in this group have always carried this mark somewhere, usually a brooch or button on their cloaks, and our friend Vlad was undoubtedly one of them , most likely through his father as an adult." Georgescu looked up at me and smiled. "But I feel that you already know that, Professor." I tossed between regret and relief, "So, this is his grave, the legends just got the exact location wrong." "Oh, I don't think so." He rolled the rug back on the flagstones. "My colleagues somewhat disagree with me, but I think the evidence suggests the opposite." I couldn't help but stare at him in surprise. "But wouldn't that have royal clothes and little rings?" Georgescu shook his head. "This guy was probably also a member of the Dragon's Order - a nobleman of high standing - maybe he dressed in Dracula's best for the occasion, maybe died in his place so that Bodies were placed in the grave—who knows exactly when." "Have you reburied the remains?" I had to ask that question.That rock was too close to our feet. "Oh no - we packed him up and shipped him to the History Museum in Bucharest. You won't see him there though - they locked him up and his nice clothes, which is a pity." Georgescu didn't look sorry, as if the skeleton, though attractive, wasn't important, at least compared to what he was actually digging. "I don't understand," I said, glaring at him. "With all the evidence, why do you think he's not Vlad Dracula?" "Easy," Georgescu retorted to me. "The guy's head is still there. Dracula's head was chopped off by the Turks and sent to Istanbul as a trophy." I have too many questions to ask Georgescu, but I don't know how to ask him. He stands up and stretches. "Where do you live?" I honestly don't know yet, "I have a lot more to talk to you about," I added. "Me too," he agreed. "We can talk over dinner." I had to talk to the driver, so we went back to the prison ruins. It turned out that the archaeologist had left a small boat under the church, we could take it back, and he could convince the restaurant owner to find us a place to stay locally. Georgescu launched the boat and sent the assistants away, and we returned to the church just in time to see the abbot and his three monks entering the church from the sanctuary, all of them in black robes.Two of the monks are very old, but one has just grown a beard and his back is still straight.They walked forward slowly, facing the altar, and the dean walked in front, holding a cross and a ball in his hand.A coat of purple and gold hung over his curved shoulders, glinting now and then in the candlelight. The monks bowed before the altar and sprawled for a moment on the stone floor—over the empty grave, I noticed. For a while I had a terrible feeling that they were saluting not the altar but the grave of the impaler. "This ceremony will last a long time," Georgescu whispered to me. "We'll walk away quietly, they won't mind." He took a candle from his pocket, lit it on a burning wick from the row of candle holders by the entrance, and stuck it in the sand below. I took the book out of the bag and handed it to him.He flipped through it carefully, staring at the woodcut in the middle of the book for a long time. "Yes," he said to me thoughtfully. "It's very similar to a lot of the images that have to do with Dragon's Call. I've seen a dragon like that in jewelry - like that little ring. I've never seen a book like that, don't know it's Where did it come from?" "Don't know," I admit. "I'd like to have an expert come in one day to verify the verification, maybe in London." "An extraordinary book," Georgescu handed it back to me gently. "Now that you've met Snagov, where are you going? Back to Istanbul?" "No, actually, I have to go back to Greece for an excavation in a few weeks, but I think I'll have to see Targoviste first, since that's Vlad's main capital. Have you been there? " "Ah, yes, sure, it's a meaningful place to go after Dracula, but the real significance is his castle." "His castle? Is the castle still there?" "Well, it's a ruin, but a nice ruin, a ruined fortress." He rummaged in his pockets, found a small earthen pipe, and began filling it with fragrant tobacco.I handed him the fire. "Thanks, buddy. I'll tell you—I'll go there with you. I'll only be there for a few days, but I can help you find the fort. You'll be much better off with a guide." I thank him sincerely, and I have to admit, I feel uneasy at the thought of breaking into the heart of Romania alone, without an interpreter. We decided that we would start tomorrow if my driver would take us to Targoviste. your most beloved, Bartholomew night of june 22