Daigo couldn’t believe it. Perhaps this man had even lied about being a count.
But when he looked again at the manner in which he sat—with his legs folded, precisely in the fashion of a Japanese native—Daigo reconsidered; he could not possibly be that kind of man. Sayo, on the other hand, could not stop blinking.
Finally Daigo said, “I know of this country called Turkey, but I hadn’t heard that it was presently at war.”
“Not at present. Four hundred years ago,” the count corrected emphatically.
“But… setting aside the matter of my father, do you mean to tell me that you were alive four hundred years ago?”
The question was an obvious one. That his father had crossed the ocean and had found himself not only in a foreign country but also four hundred years in the past sounded like the tallest of tall tales. And then the man in front of him claimed to have fought against his father all those years ago. Daigo would have guessed the count to be in his mid-forties and certainly no older than fifty.
“I have been alive for over four hundred years,” the count said suddenly.
Daigo felt something like a tremor deep inside his body that made him think that perhaps the count was telling the truth.
“But I know you will not believe me. So let us just say that it was my ancestor. Yes, what I am about to tell you is a story that my ancestors passed on in my family—but I swear to you, on my honor, that it is a true story.”
Whether he swore on his honor or not, Daigo wasn’t sure how much he would be able to believe, but he thought the story was at least worth hearing. His mother was already sitting up straight with both hands in her lap.
Sayo said, “Please go on.”
Perhaps it was something about the way she spoke, or even the way she was sitting, but the count smiled at her. It was a very human smile, quite unlike his former expression.
“It was four hundred years ago. Back then, my country was fighting a war against the Turkish Empire.”
For the next few hours, Daigo and Sayo listened and were drawn into the count’s story, even though they could not believe it was true.
Four hundred years ago, when Wallachia had been embroiled in a long war against Turkey, Hungary, and Austria, a rumor about a brave warrior had spread throughout the Wallachian army.
According to this rumor, the warrior had appeared suddenly several months before in Turkish territory and had displayed such awesome skill with the sword that he was made a soldier in the Turkish army.
Although he was not a large man, he had shown unbelievable skill, cutting down several brave men with his sword.
The count’s ancestor of seven generations ago— who also had the name Dracula—burned with a desire to fight this man. Dracula had been the commanding officer of the most feared fighting unit in the Wallachian army: the Order of the Dragon.
Then, in 146—, the two armies clashed just outside the Wallachian capital of Tirgoviste. It was an invasion by the Turkish army, which was commanded by Mehmed II.
“My ancestor impaled captured invaders on poles. Some were pierced from their throat to the buttocks and others from the buttocks to the throat, and their bodies were exhibited along both sides of the streets. In his greatness, my ancestor had calculated the length and thickness of the poles and how deep to drive them in order to further prolong his victims’ suffering. A victory celebration was even held beneath the stakes. If anyone complained about the foul odor of the corpses, he was told to go where the air was better and then impaled on a pole higher than all the rest.
“And the battle with the foreign warrior also took place beneath these rows of corpses.”
The count was quiet for a moment. His eyes had a faraway look. Daigo thought the unthinkable: perhaps it really had been the count himself who had stood on that battlefield four hundred years ago.
“And then?” Sayo urged the count to continue.
“According to journal accounts and letters written by my ancestor, this warrior was small and in his thirties; and, unlike the Turkish soldiers, he wielded a fine, curved sword, which he plunged into the bodies of well-armed men. His hair was tied back in a peculiar fashion, and he had a large mole on the right side of his nose.”
Sayo moaned. “That was him. I am sure.”
“My ancestor and the little warrior matched swords on three different occasions. The first time, Dracula was so astonished by the keenness and quickness of the other’s sword that he asked his name. The man’s reply: Minazuki Shôichirô—a Japanese samurai. From that moment on, the name echoed in Dracula’s mind every time he saw the gleam of a sword.”
Daigo was gripped by a strange thought. Could it really have been the count—not a long-ago ancestor—who had regarded his father with a comrade’s respect?
“And then?” Daigo asked. Now he was more interested in how the three contests had ended, rather than in the mystery of how his father could have possibly been alive four hundred years ago.
The count smiled again, though this time it was a grimace.
“Evidently, my ancestor was defeated on all three occasions,” said the count. “The first time, his right shoulder was wounded. The second time, which came half a day later, his left arm was cut off at the shoulder. The third time came after he had put himself through some hard training, and he was stabbed in the chest. He might have died the first two times had his men not interceded.”
“The first two? But what happened the third time?
“After he—that is, Minazuki Shôichirô—had stabbed him in the chest, he carried Dracula to a safe place. Then he said, in broken Turkish, ‘Live long, brave warrior,’ and returned to the battlefield. It was then my ancestor realized that your father had deliberately spared his life.