by Tom Holland
‘“Les milords anglais?” he asked.
‘“I am the lord,” I told him. “This is Hobhouse. You may ignore him. He is a mere commoner.”
‘The Pasha smiled slowly, then greeted us both with formal elegance. He did so in the purest French, in an accent that was impossible to place, but charmed me, for it sounded like the rustling of silver in a wind.
‘Hobhouse was asking him about his French. The Pasha told us that he had visited Paris, before Napoleon, before the Revolution, a long time ago. He held up a book. “My thirst for learning,” he said, “it is that which took me to the city of light. I have never visited London. Perhaps one day I should. So great it has become. I can remember a time when it was nothing at all.”
‘“Then your memory must be long-lived indeed.”
‘The Pasha smiled and bowed his head. “The wisdom we have here, in the East, it is long-lived. Is that not so, Monsieur Greek?” He glanced at Athanasius, who stammered something unintelligible, and began to shake in rippling folds of fat. “Yes,” said the Pasha, watching him, and smiling with slow cruelty, “we in the East understand much that the West has never possessed. You must remember that, milords, as you travel in Greece. Enlightenment does not only reveal. Sometimes also, it can blot truth out.”
‘“Such as what, Your Excellency?” I asked.
‘The Pasha held up his book. “Here is a work I have waited a long time to read. It was found for me by the monks of Meteora and brought to me here. It tells of Lilith, Adam’s first wife, the harlot princess, who seduces men in the streets and fields, then drains them of their blood. To you, I know, this is superstition, the merest nonsense. But to myself, and yes, to our Greek friend here as well - it is something more. It is a veil that both conceals and suggests the truth.”
‘There was silence. In the distance, I could hear the tolling of a bell. “I am intrigued,” I said, “to know what truth does lie in the tales of blood-drinkers we hear.”
‘“You have heard other tales?”
‘“Yes. We stayed in a village. We were told there of a creature named the vardoulacha.”
‘“ Where was this?”
‘“Near the River Aheron.”
‘“You know, perhaps, that I am the Lord of Aheron?”
‘I glanced at Athanasius. He was glistening like moist lard. I turned back to Vakhel Pasha and shook my head. “No, I didn’t know that.”
‘The Pasha stared at me. “There are many tales told of Aheron,” he said softly. “For the ancients, too, the dead were drinkers of blood.” He glanced down at his book, and held it close to his chest. He seemed on the verge of telling me something, a look of fierce desire suddenly flaming across his face, but then it froze, and the death-mask returned, and when Vakhel Pasha did speak, there was only a sullen contempt in his voice. “You must ignore anything a peasant tells you, milord. The vampire - that is the word in French, I believe? - yes, the vampire, it is man’s oldest myth. And yet in the hands of my peasants, what is it become, this vampire? - just an idiot, shuffling, a devourer of flesh. A beast, dreamed up by beasts.” He sneered, and his perfect teeth gleamed white. “You need have no fear of this peasants’ vampire, milord.”
‘I remembered Gorgiou and his sons, their friendliness. Wishing to defend them, I described our experiences at the Aheron inn. I noticed, as I told my story, that Athanasius had virtually melted into sweat.
‘The Pasha too was watching our guide, his nostrils twitching as though he could smell the fear. I finished, and the Pasha smiled mockingly. “I am glad you were so well looked after, milord. But if I am cruel, then it is only to prevent them being cruel to me.” He glanced at Athanasius. “I am not only here in Yanina, you see, to consult the manuscripts. I am also hunting a runaway. A young serf I brought up, cared for - loved - as my own. Have no worries, milord - I hunt this serf more in sorrow than in rage, no harm will befall the serf.” Again, he glanced at Athanasius. “No harm will befall the serf.”
‘“I think, My Lord,” whispered our guide, almost tugging at my sleeve, “I think perhaps that it is time to leave.”
‘“Yes, leave,” said the Pasha with sudden rudeness. He sat down again, and opened up his book. “I still have much to read. Go, please go.”
‘Hobhouse and I bowed with studied formality. “Will we see you again in Yanina, Your Excellency?” I asked.
‘The Pasha looked up. “No. I have almost achieved what I came here to do.” He stared at Athanasius. “I leave tonight.” Then he turned to me. “Perhaps, milord, we shall meet again - but in some other place.” He nodded, then returned to his book, and Hobhouse and myself, almost pushed by our guide, walked back out into the afternoon sun.
‘We turned down a narrow road. The bell was still tolling, and from a small church at the end of the track, we could hear the sound of chanting.
‘“No, My Lord,” said Athanasius when he saw that we intended to enter the church.
‘“Why not?” I asked.
‘“No, please, please,” was all that Athanasius could wail.
‘I shrugged him off, tired of his perpetual cowardice, and followed Hobhouse into the church. Through clouds of incense, I could make out a bier. A corpse lay on it, garbed in the black of a priest, but the robes drew attention, not to the dead man’s office, but to the ghastly pallor of his face and hands. I stepped forward, and saw, over the mourners’ heads, how flowers had been arranged around the dead monk’s neck.
‘“When did he die?” I asked.
‘“Today,” whispered Athanasius.
‘“So he is the second man to die here this week?”
‘Athanasius nodded. He looked around, then whispered in my ear. “My Lord, the monks are saying there is a devil loose.”
‘I stared at him in disbelief. “I thought devils were only for Turks and peasants, Athanasius.”
‘“Yes, My Lord.” Athanasius swallowed. “Even so, My Lord” - he pointed at the dead man - “they are saying that this is the work of a vardoulacha. See how white he is, drained of his blood. I think, My Lord, please - we should go.” He was almost on his knees now. “Please, My Lord.” He held the door open. “Please.”
‘Hobhouse and I smiled at each other. We shrugged, and followed our guide back out to the jetty. There was a second boat moored next to ours that I had failed to notice on our landing, but recognised now at once. A black-swathed creature sat in the prow, his idiot’s face as dead and bleached as before. I watched him growing smaller as we slipped across the lake. Athanasius was watching the creature too.
‘“The Pasha’s ferryman,” I said.
‘“Yes,” he agreed, and crossed himself.
‘I smiled. I had only mentioned the Pasha to watch our guide shake.’
Lord Byron paused. ‘Of course, I should not have been cruel. But Athanasius had saddened me. A scholar - intelligent, well read - if freedom for the Greeks was to come from anywhere, then it was from men like him. So his cowardice, although we laughed at it, also filled us with something like despair.’ Lord Byron rested his chin on his fingertips, and smiled with faint self-mockery. ‘He parted for good after our return from the monastery. We called on him before we left the next day, but he wasn’t at home. Sad.’ Lord Byron nodded his head gently. ‘Yes, very sad.’
He lapsed into silence. ‘So you went on to Tapaleen?’ asked Rebecca eventually.
Lord Byron nodded. ‘For our audience with the great and notorious Ali Pasha.’
‘I remember reading your letter,’ Rebecca said. ‘The one you wrote to your mother.’
He looked up at her. ‘Do you?’ he asked softly.
‘Yes. About the Albanians in their gold and crimson, and the two hundred horses, and the black slaves, and the couriers, and the kettle drums, and the boys calling the hour from the minaret of the mosque.’ She paused. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said at last, seeing how he stared at her. ‘But I always thought it was a wonderful letter - a wonderful description.’
‘Yes.’
Lord Byron suddenly smiled. ‘No doubt because it was a lie.’
‘A lie?’
‘A sin of omission, rather. I neglected to mention the stakes. Three of them, just outside the main gates. The sight of them, the smell - they rather polluted my memories of arrival in Tapaleen. But I had to be careful with my mother - she never could bear too much reality.’
Rebecca ran a hand through her hair. ‘Oh. I see.’
‘No, you don’t, you can’t possibly. Two of the men were dead - shredded hunks of carrion. But as we rode beneath the stakes, we saw from the third a faint stirring. We looked up; a thing - it was no longer a man - was twitching on its stake, even as the movement drove the wood higher into its guts, so that it screamed, a terrible, inhuman, degraded sound. The poor wretch saw me staring at him; he tried to speak, and then I saw the caked black filth around his mouth, and understood that he had no tongue. There was nothing I could do - I rode on through the gates. But I felt horror, knowing that I shared clay with the creatures that could do such things, and suffer them as well, without meaning, without hope. I saw that I was nothing, that I must die, a thing which would come as much without my act or choice as birth, and I wondered if perhaps we had not all sinned in some old world, so that this one was nothing but Hell after all. If that was true, then the best was that we would die - and yet still, that night in Tapaleen, I loathed my mortality, and felt its constriction tight about me as though it were a shroud.
‘That night Vakhel Pasha returned to my dreams. As when I first saw him, he was pale like death, yet also mightier, and the blaze of his eyes was both sad and stern. He beckoned me; I rose from my bed and followed him. I trod on the winds and didn’t sink; below me Tapaleen, above me the stars; all the time, around my hand, a grip of ice. His lips never moved, and yet I heard him speak. “From the star to the worm, all life is motion, leading only to the stillness of death. The comet wheels, destroying as it sweeps, and then is lost. The poor worm winds its way upon the death of other things, but still, like them, must live and die, the subject of something which has made it live and die. All things must obey the rule of fixed necessity.” He took my other hand, and I saw that we were on a mountainside, among the shattered statues and opened graves of some ancient town, now abandoned, left to silence and the pallid moon. Vakhel Pasha reached out to stroke my throat. “All things must obey, did I say? All things must live and die?” I felt his nail, which was sharp like a razor, skim my throat. A soft cravat of blood muffled my neck, and I felt a tongue lapping at it gently, as a cat would lick his mistress’s face. I heard the voice again from inside my head. “There is a knowledge which is immortality. Follow me.” Still the lapping at my throat. “Follow me. Follow me.” As the words faded, so too did the ruined town, and the stars above my head, and even the touch of lips against my skin, until at last there was nothing but the darkness of my swoon. I struggled to break free of it. “Byron, Byron!” I opened my eyes. I was still in our room. Hobhouse was leaning over me. “Byron, are you well?” I nodded. I felt my throat; there was a faint pain. But I said nothing; I felt too exhausted to speak. I closed my eyes, but as I drifted towards sleep, tried to reach for images of life with which to guard my dreams. Nikos. Our kiss - lips on lips. His slender warmth. Nikos. I dreamed, and Vakhel Pasha did not return.
‘The next morning I felt faint and unwell.
‘“God, but you look pale,” said Hobhouse. “Shouldn’t you stay in bed, old fellow?”
‘I shook my head. “We have our audience this morning. With Ali Pasha.”
‘“Can’t you miss it?”
‘“You must be joking. I don’t want to end up with my anus on a stake.”
‘“Yes,” Hobhouse nodded, “good point. Shame there’s no liquor here. That’s what you need. God, this damnable country.”
‘“I have heard that in Turkey, paleness of skin is a sign of breeding.” There was no mirror, but I knew that a pallor suited me. “Don’t worry, Hobhouse,” I said, leaning on his arm. “I’ll have the Lion of Yanina eating from my hand.”
‘And I did. Ali Pasha was delighted with me. We met in a large, marble-paved room, where we were served coffee and sweetmeats, and were profusely admired. Or rather, I was, for Hobhouse was too tanned, and his hands too large, for him to be afforded the praises that my beauty won - a beauty which, as Ali told Hobhouse endlessly, was an infallible sign of my superior rank. He announced at last that I was his son, and a most charming parent he made, for with us he had the appearance of anything but his real character, behaving throughout with the most delightful bonhomie.
‘Lunch was brought. We were joined by Ali’s courtiers and followers, but we were given no chance to meet them, for Ali kept us entirely to himself. He continued paternal, feeding us almonds and sugared fruit as though we were little boys. The lunch was finished - and still Ali kept us by his side. “Jugglers,” he ordered, “singers” - they performed. Ali turned to me. “Is there anything else you would like to see?” He didn’t wait for my answer. “Dancers!” he said. “I have a friend here - he is staying with me - and he has the most extraordinary girl. Would you like to see her perform?”
‘Of course, we both politely said that we would. Ali turned on his couch to look around the room. “My friend,” he called out, “your girl - could she be sent for now?”
‘“Naturally,” said Vakhel Pasha. I twisted round, in something like horror. The Pasha’s couch lay just behind my own - he must have been there unnoticed by us for the length of the meal. He sent a servant scurrying from the hall, then nodded politely to Hobhouse and myself.
‘Ali asked the Pasha to join us. He did so in terms of the utmost respect - I was surprised, for Ali, we had thought, respected no one but himself, yet with Vakhel Pasha, he seemed almost afraid. He was interested - and worried, I felt - to discover that we knew the Pasha already. We described to him our meeting in Yanina, and all the circumstances surrounding it. “Did you find your escaped boy?” I asked Vakhel Pasha, dreading his reply. But he smiled and shook his head. “What made you think that my serf was a boy?”
‘I blushed, as Ali collapsed into paroxysms of delight. Vakhel Pasha watched me with a lazy smile. “Yes, I caught my serf,” he said. “Indeed, it is she who will shortly be performing for us.”
‘“Beautiful she is,” said Ali with a wink, “like the peris of Heaven.”
‘Vakhel Pasha inclined his head politely. “Yes - but she is headstrong too. I almost think, if it weren’t that I loved her as my own child, I would have let her escape.” He paused, and his pale brow was shaded by an expression of sudden pain. I was surprised - but had no sooner caught the shadow than it had passed from his face. “Of course” - his lip curled faintly - “I have always enjoyed the thrill of a chase.”
‘“Chase?” I asked.
‘“Yes. Once she had broken from Yanina.”
‘“That was what you were waiting for?”
‘He stared at me, then smiled. “If you like.” He stretched out his fingers as though they were claws. “I had known all along that she was there, of course, hiding. So I had my guards patrol the roads, while I waited” - he smiled again - “studying in the monaster y.”
‘“But if you had to wait for her to break, how did you know she was there in the first place?” Hobhouse asked.
‘The Pasha’s eyes gleamed like sun on ice. “I have a nose for such things.” He reached for a grape, and delicately sucked the juices out. Then he looked up at Hobhouse again. “Your friend,” he said casually, “the fat Greek - it appears that she had been hiding in the cellar of his house.”
‘“Athanasius?” I asked in disbelief.
‘“Yes. It is strange, isn’t it? He was clearly a great coward.” The Pasha took another grape. “But it is often said that the bravest men are those who first have to conquer their fear.”
‘“Where is he now?” I asked.
‘Ali giggled with sudden delight. “Outside,” he hissed cheerfully, “on a spike. He did very wel
l - only died this morning. That was very impressive, I thought - the fat are usually the quickest to go.”
‘I glanced at Hobhouse. He had turned as white as a corpse - I was relieved that I had no more colour to lose. Ali seemed oblivious to our sense of shock, but Vakhel Pasha, I could see, was watching us with a bitter smile on his lips. “What happened?” I asked him, as lightly as I could. “I hunted them down,” Vakhel Pasha replied. “By Pindus - a rebel stronghold - so they almost got away.” Again, I saw a faint shadow cross his face. “Almost - but not quite.”
‘“The fat Greek,” said Ali, “he must have known a lot of useful stuff - about the rebels, and so on. But he wouldn’t talk. Had to rip his tongue out in the end. Annoying.” He smiled benignly. “Yes, a brave man.”
‘There was a sudden flutter of sound from the musicians. We all looked up. A girl in red silks had come running into the hall. She approached us; her face was concealed behind flowing veils, but her body was beautiful, slim and olive-brown. There was a rustle of bells from her ankles and wrists as she prostrated herself; then, at a snap of the fingers from Vakhel Pasha, she rose to her feet. She waited, in a posture to which she had clearly been trained; there was a crash of cymbals; the girl began to dance.’
Lord Byron paused, then sighed. ‘Passion is a rare and lovely thing, the true passion of youth and hope. It is a pebble dropped into a stagnant pond - it is the striking of an unheard bell. And yet just as ripples die, and echoes fade, so too is passion a fearful state - for we all know, or we soon find out, that happiness remembered is the worst unhappiness of all. What can I tell you? That the girl was as pretty as an antelope? - pretty and graceful and alive?’ The vampire shrugged faintly. ‘Yes, I can, but it means nothing. Two sleepless centuries have passed me by since I watched her dance. She was lovely, but you will never picture her as she was, while I . . .’ - he stared at Rebecca, frowning, his eyes blazing cold, and then he shook his head - ‘while I have become the thing you see.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Understand, however, that my passion was furious. I was in love before I even knew who my goddess was. Slowly, veil by veil, she revealed her face. If she had been pretty before, she now grew painfully beautiful.’ Again, he stared at Rebecca, and again he frowned, his features stamped with disbelief and desire. ‘Auburn hair, she had.’ Rebecca touched her own. Lord Byron smiled. ‘Yes,’ he murmured, ‘very like yours, but hers was braided and woven with gold; her eyes were large and black; her cheeks the colour of the setting sun; her lips red and soft. The music ended; the girl fell in a sensual movement to the floor, and her head bent low just before my feet. I felt her lips touch them - the lips that had met my own before, when we had embraced in the inn at Aheron.’
