Chapter 4: Rules and Risks
"What is better than wisdom? Woman. And what is better than a good woman? Nothing." —Geoffrey Chaucer
There were rules, Țepeș told Lisa early on.
There were rules they would both have to agree to.
"I will give you the knowledge you seek—but I must also forewarn you."
She was off wandering, entranced, among the large glass domes, trying to piece together what purpose they served. Her fingers trailed over the surface of the long apothecary's counter: glass tubes, containers, and small tins had been lined up, ready for that evening's lesson. In the background, a set of pistons pumped rhythmically.
"To seek knowledge, regardless of your aim, is always an enterprise fraught with danger," he continued, his eyes trailing after her.
She lowered her head as she listened to him speak. Țepeș' voice reminded her of a shadowy rustle: velvety and enveloping. Although he maintained a guarded and serious façade in her presence, his voice betrayed him: there was an intensity, a spiritedness she detected in him. She wouldn't go as far as saying that the aloofness his often displayed was affected; she had already surmised that within him were hidden depths, an alluring complexity, a—
"Are you listening?" he scolded her.
"I—No," she admitted, stirring from her thoughts. "I grew distracted for a moment. I am sorry." She turned to face him and found him at the opposite end of the apothecary's counter, his arms folded, his expression filled with censure.
"You should be. I am not in the habit of repeating myself."
"Knowledge is a dangerous endeavor, yes…But, Țepeș: isn't living itself a dangerous endeavor? Our chances of having a better life, of assessing those dangers and risks improve if we are armed with knowledge." She raised a container filled with a viscous green solution against the light.
He remained silent and she basked in her small triumph: she had grown to recognize those moments when she succeeded in giving him some pause for thought.
"I believe that's the very purpose of life. To seek… clarity. Even creation stories are imbued with that directive—'Let there be Light,'" she continued, squinting at the opaque solution and beginning to swirl it.
She startled when he appeared to materialize beside her and his hand stilled over her wrist, halting her swirling motion.
How does he move so lithely. She caught a flash of the dark crimson sash tied over his fine tunic, his black cloak parted to offer her a glimpse of his regal, broad frame. He always dressed as if he were about to hold court with his vassals.
"Yes—but don't forget how those stories end: they are cautionary tales, Lisa. They are stories of excessive pride, of unforgivable transgressions. It must be said: not all truths warrant knowing." He placed the container back on the countertop.
She worried for a moment that he was trying to convey something to her—explaining in a veiled manner that perhaps he no longer wished to be her teacher?
"What would you have me fill the gaps in my knowledge with, then? Superstition? Blind faith?" she challenged him, tilting her head.
"There is no such dichotomy, Lisa. It is far more complex than that."
He might tire of this. He might find it dull not to speak about these matters with a learned equal. And for a moment, the multitude of books surrounding her felt oppressive rather than thrilling.
The sleeve of her coarse dress caught her eye. She'd brought along two dresses, three blouses, one skirt. Her leather boots were new: the one item she had gladly splurged on once she had sold her possessions back in Lupu in order to afford that impulsive trip. Compared to him, she was well aware she cut a shabby figure. He was a Wallachian noble, a warlord, a man who despite his reclusiveness possessed an understanding of the universe she could only scrape the surface of.
But I am here to learn. What do I care?I did not come here to parade or display myself coquettishly, she consoled herself.
"Those dangers…Those are a risk worth undertaking," she told him bluntly.
"I would expect no less of you…And in undertaking such risk, you ask too much of me: I would not see you in danger," he told her in a quieter tone.
She braced herself.
I've come this far.
"Tell me what I can do better, so that you will agree to continue teaching me."
His eyes shone, wine hued, warm, as he contemplated her.
"You are dedicated and you are intelligent. I am not casting any doubt over your competency. And at no moment did I say I was ready to conclude our…apprenticeship."
She visibly relaxed at his words.
"I do want you to know there are subjects and arts I will not delve into with you."
"Such as?" She couldn't resist asking. He looked askance at her before replying.
"I will teach you about the natural world. I will reveal to you all that I know—the laws that bind and rule nature and matter. You may explore those topics as deeply as you please. But nothing more," he warned.
"But, Țepeș: what else is there? You are offering me everything I could possibly want!" she cried delightedly.
He appeared almost amused at her widened eyes.
Although she was far from being ignorant, he envied her for a brief moment.
Once, I, too, could close my eyes and merely sleep, he lamented.
He'd pursued threads of knowledge with the lofty ideal of unraveling mysteries. Instead, the man he had once been was unraveled by them.
I regret nothing.
He often wondered when Lisa would take pause, when she would take proper notice and admit how there was so much about him that defied the realm of the natural world. That was not to say that the arcane, more hermetic forces he commanded were any less of a science and not bound by laws or properties; the chthonian realm he ruled was orderly: tediously so.
But his wisdom and immortality had been achieved at a bitter, costly price. Nevertheless, he had forged himself to endure it and how it had transformed him. He wielded his power with strength and mastery.
With unapologetic pride.
There will come a time when you will run out of excuses to justify all you see here, Lisa. When no rationalization will stand up to me. I will have to breach the divide between us when that time comes, he realized, and it might untether you enough so that you will flee from me… But you will not course down the same dark roads I followed, he promised.
You, my Lisa, belong in the light, he thought tenderly, watching her move in his laboratory with such conviction, such enthusiasm.
Lisa leaned over the ancient book, her finger marking her place on the yellowed page. She wracked her brain for the word's meaning. Her knowledge of Greek had been the Greek of the New Testament that she had been taught at the convent. The book Țepeș had placed before her that evening was in Classical Greek: a dense, archaic piece by a man called Democritus on how everything in the universe consisted of a minuscule element called atomos.
When she raised her eyes tiredly from the difficult text, she found Țepeș sitting across the table, appraising her.
"I trust the value of this text will be revealed soon?" she asked, blowing away strands of hair that had spilled over her cheek.
His laugh was silken.
"The world's greatest scholars believe the text you hold between your hands destroyed. Your eyes have the privilege of unlocking words—and knowledge—long thought lost to humanity," he explained. "If you wish to understand the natural world, then you must understand the concepts of its basic composition."
He steepled his hands before him.
"I am sure it is of value," she proceeded cautiously. "If you insist on it being so, how could I, who have only begun my initiation into such arts, contradict you?"
A pleased grin emerged over his lips.
"At least, not for the next…" She leafed through the next few pages. "Five pages. I will give this book five more pages before I surrender."
The grin faded.
"Lisa, the concepts I wish to show you next are better grasped if you have a foundation in the early philosophy of materialism—"
She gently pushed the book toward him.
"And I do not object to that. But perhaps you would kindly translate this for me?"
Despite the disapproving stare, she rotated the book so that the text was facing him.
"After all, you already know Classical Greek, and can thus spare me. It would far more expedient. I trust you are familiar with the old adage: O khronos éinai akrivos."
Time is precious, she remembered from one of the primers she had copied over and over at the convent.
He inhaled deeply, his eyes narrowing before he took the edge of the book and pushed it slowly right back toward her.
"Indeed, I am quite familiar with the saying," he stated with strained patience. "And as long as we are on the subject, allow me to introduce you to another saying, one I am fond of: Akamátis néos géros diakoniáris."
The flush of embarrassment rose as far as to the tips of her ears.
Lazy youth begging of old age.
Țepeș must have noticed how disconcerted she was, she surmised, given his self-satisfied expression. She could sense his pleasure over lording his impressive knowledge over her. Despite the sting of his reproach, she boldly leaned forward and to his utter disbelief, pushed the book—less delicately this time—back toward him.
"Kakoú kórakos kakón oón!" she stated rebelliously.
A bad egg comes from a bad crow —she was certain he would recognize the reference to the tale of Corax of Syracuse and his student, Tisias: in essence, the quote meant poor students had poor teachers.
His sole reaction was to glare alternatively at her and at the old book. She did not waver and clasped her hands before her, expectantly.
I do not know how to read Classical Greek well and I can't do it expediently simply because he wills it!
For a moment she thought he would relent; she could have sworn he had suppressed a grin. Instead, he pushed his chair away from the table, and rose. Her heart sank at seeing him lean over the table in her direction, as if incensed, as if he were about to sentence her for her crimes.
"Ópou spérnei i orgí, therízei i metánoia," he uttered.
She blinked nervously, clasping her hands tighter.
"Where…something is sown…" She repeated the phrase, staring down at the table. "Orgí…" She sighed in frustration. "Dander?"
He flashed a wolfish smile and gripped the back of his chair, dragging it noisily to her side of the table. He sat down beside her and reached across the table for the wretched book, his arm brushing over hers. The brief touch sent a jolt through her.
"Rage," he corrected, in a more appeasing tone. "Where rage is sown—"
"—Repentance is reaped," she completed, deflated she had failed the test.
"It is good advice: if you are going to exhibit a bad temper, make sure you are immune to regret," he provoked.
He positioned the book before them, scanning over the lines. "Here." He tapped over the sentence in tight, faded letters. If she was having trouble deciphering the text earlier, his proximity was making it nearly impossible to focus.
"Aphtartos," he read. "Even if you don't know exactly what it is, you can use what you know of prefixes to make a guess at the meaning."
"The 'a' is usually contrary to the word it precedes…So, something contrary to phtartos," she concluded. "But that doesn't help me much if I don't know what phtartos means to begin with!"
"It is not a wrong guess. Only an incomplete one."
She glanced at him, finding his attention completely turned on her. They locked gazes for a moment.
She cleared her throat and began to read slowly. Halfway through the halting sentence, his hand brushed her braid off her shoulder, his fingers lightly grazing over her neck.
Lisa raised her eyes to him questioningly.
"I can't see your face with all your hair in the way," he explained in a hushed voice. "Go on," he encouraged her. "You may yet infer the meaning by reading the rest of the passage."
"You are far more generous than my teachers at the convent. The nuns were ruthless instructors. They never would have forgiven me such a lapse," she joked gamely, trying to steer the conversation away from the turmoil he was stirring in her.
His lips parted in another smile.
"And who says I have?"
She refocused her gaze on the Greek words, feigning serious concentration while trying to calm her racing heart. He startled her with a chuckle.
"Ah, Lisa from Lupu… Only you would dare compare me, Vlad Dracula Țepeș, to one of your nuns!" he mused, shaking his head in mild astonishment. "And on top of everything else, you would have me become your Greek tutor!"
She sniffed affectedly.
"Alas, this Greek grows more ancient by the minute, the longer you take to tell me its meaning." She tapped her finger over the text.
"Here," he murmured at last, taking her hand and guiding it over the elusive word. "Aphartos," he repeated more seriously. She held her breath at his touch, afraid to betray how his closeness was affecting her. "It means 'indestructible.'"
He let his gaze wander over her face, her tousled golden hair, those luminous blue eyes. Had he a pure soul to wager, he would have gladly traded his for endless nights by her side. The hearth crackled nearby, bathing the room in a warm glow. It had been so long since he'd had the pleasure of sharing and speaking of the knowledge he'd so jealously acquired over years and years. Lisa was dedicated, eager, and profoundly intelligent. She learned quickly. He appreciated her perceptiveness, her cleverness. And he enjoyed her sharp wit—especially when it was directed at him.
"You see, Democritus was convinced the atomos never perished and could never be divided."
"Was he right?" She rested her elbow over the table and leaned her head against her fist.
"In some ways." He glanced at the old text—the last copy known to exist in the world—in a tome carefully transcribed from ancient scrolls from the permanent collection of the Royal Library of Alexandria long before its catastrophic destruction. It had been one of his first acquisitions…many, many years ago, before he had accepted his inevitable descent, believing his thirst for knowledge something virtuous. "Certain bonds, connections…are inviolable."
She had, from the moment she had crossed his threshold, faced him with an undauntedness that seduced him as much as it worried him. He recognized, beneath all that he had become over time, the original spark that had ignited his own fire: an intrinsic need to know. To decipher. To understand.
To master.
Except I did not know when to stop.
He recognized in Lisa an earlier version of himself. Perhaps a version of what I could have been. Though as kindred as he found them to be, he wondered at an aspect of hers he could never have claimed to possess. Why was it that she cared so deeply for others whose lives were meaningless and insignificant? Why did she seek so keenly and devotedly to end their suffering?…That was not something he had ever aspired to.
He had sought for power only conferred to those who successfully unveiled secrets, breached boundaries, courted the forbidden. He was certain Lisa would bear the burden such an undertaking would unleash: and not for her gain directly, but as a boon to bestow upon others.
To make the world better.
Hers was a futile crusade.
And yet…she has made my world better.
It pleased him to observe her fascination, the complete, devoted attention she gave him when he spoke of science to her.
Infinitely better.
"But everything must change," she argued. He noticed how her eyes grew heavier, fighting the inevitable pull of sleep. He could feel the ache of dawn in his bones and knew they would have to end their lesson soon.
"I never said it wouldn't," he reasoned, closing the tome slowly. "I merely said the atomos cannot be destroyed. The atomos can be changed, shifted… But despite any transformations, it remains whole in essence—it endures."
He contemplated her as he rose from his seat and offered her his arm, an unspoken offer to escort her back to her room.
"So they would be aidios?" she risked. "Eternal?"
"Athánatoi," he suggested.
"Deathless?" she puzzled. She rose and slipped her hand around his arm. He liked holding her close as they walked together, well aware that despite all his power, he had become hopelessly enthralled by a mortal woman.
"Immortal," he completed.
Few things were truly immortal in the world anymore: atomos, God, the devil…
Himself.
And perhaps, he thought, as he basked in Lisa's attention while he squired her up the stairs, her hand firmly gripping his arm, if he were to believe the poets:
Love.