by Tom Holland
Lord Byron stared past Rebecca into the dark. Almost, she thought, as though he were making an appeal, as though the darkness were the centuries that had borne him on their flow, far from that shiver of happiness.
‘It was Nikos?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’ He smiled. ‘Nikos - or rather, the girl who had pretended to be a boy named Nikos. She raised her head, and tossed back her hair. Her eyes met mine; there was no sign of recognition in them, only the dulled indifference of the slave. How clever she was, I thought, how brave and strong-willed! And all the time, of course, yes, all the time’ - he glanced at Rebecca again - ‘how beautiful! It was no wonder that I began to feel a tumult in my blood and turmoil in my thoughts, and feel as though I were in an Eden, being offered the fruit of a forbidden tree. This was the poetry of life I had travelled to find! A man, I thought, cannot always cling to the shores. He must follow where the ocean takes him, or what is life? - an existence without passion, sensation or variety - and therefore, of course, very much like death.’
Lord Byron paused and frowned. ‘That is what I believed, anyway.’ He laughed hollowly. ‘And it was true enough, I suppose. There can be no life without tumult or desire.’ He sighed, and glanced up at Rebecca again. ‘And if I tell you all this, it is so you can understand, both my passion for Haidée, and why I acted on it; for I knew - and even now, even here, I think I was right - that to smother an impulse is to kill the soul. And so when Vakhel Pasha, leaving Tapaleen with his serf in tow, requested us to stay with him in Aheron, I accepted. Hobhouse was furious, and swore he wouldn’t go; even Ali frowned mysteriously, and shook his head - but I wouldn’t be persuaded. And so it was agreed, that I would travel with Hobhouse down the Yanina road, and then we would separate, Hobhouse to tour Ambracia, and myself to stay in Aheron. We would meet again, after three weeks, in a town on the south coast named Missolonghi.’
Again Lord Byron frowned. ‘All most romantic, you see - and yet, if it was quite true that I was sick with passion to an extent I scarcely understood myself, that was not everything.’ He shook his head. ‘No, there was another reason for my visit to Aheron. On the night before Vakhel Pasha’s departure, I had dreamed again. For the second time, I was amongst ruins, not of a small town now, but of a great city, so that wherever I looked, there was nothing but decay, the shattered steps of thrones and temples, dim fragments cast pale by the moon, tenanted by nothing but the jackal and the owl. Even the sepulchres, I saw, lay open and bare, and I knew, amongst all this vast expanse of wreckage, there was no other living man but me.
‘I felt the Pasha’s nails across my throat again - felt his tongue as he lapped at my blood. Then I saw him ahead of me, a pale form luminous amidst the cypress and stone, and I followed him. Incredibly ancient, he seemed now - as ancient as the city he led me through, possessed of the wisdom of centuries, and the secrets of the grave. Ahead of us loomed the shadow of some titanic form. “Follow me,” I heard whispered; I approached the building; I walked inside. There were staircases, stretching and twisting impossibly; up one of them the Pasha walked, but when I ran to join him, the staircase fell away, and I was lost in a vast enclosure of space. Still the Pasha climbed, and still, in my head, I heard his call: “Follow me.” But I could not; I watched him, and felt a thirst more terrible than any longing I had ever known, to see what lay at the summit of the stairs, for I knew that it was immortality. High above my head, a dome arched, jewelled and glowing; if only I could reach that, I thought, I would understand, and my thirst would be slaked. But the Pasha was gone, and I stood abandoned to crimson shadow. “Follow me,” I could still hear as I struggled to wake, “follow me,” but I opened my eyes, and the voice bled away on the morning light.
‘I imagined sometimes, during the next few days, that I heard the whisper again. Of course, I knew it was fancy, but even so, I was left feeling restless and disturbed. I found myself desperate for Aheron.’
Chapter IV
’Tis said thou holdest converse with the things
Which are forbidden to the search of man;
That with the dwellers of the dark abodes,
The many evil and unheavenly spirits
Which walkest the valley of the shadow of death,
Thou communest.
LORD BYRON, Manfred
Hobhouse, as we had agreed, parted from me on the Yanina road. He rode on south; I turned back to the mountains, and the winding track to Aheron. We rode hard the whole day - I say we, for with Fletcher and myself came a single guard, a faithful rogue named Viscillie, lent to me, in a signal show of favour, by Ali Pasha himself. The crags and ravines were as lonely as ever; crossing through the desolate wilds a second time, I couldn’t help but remember how easily my six guards had been picked off before. Yet I never felt truly worried - not even when we passed the site of the ambush, and I caught a glint of bone in the sun. I was costumed like an Albanian pasha now, you see, all crimson and gold, very magnifique, and it’s hard to be a coward when you’re dressed like that. So I twirled my moustaches, and swaggered in my saddle, and felt myself the equal of any bandit in the world.
‘It was late when we heard the waterfall’s roar, and knew that we had reached the Aheron. Ahead of the bridge, the road forked: one path led down, towards the village where I had stayed before; the other ever up. We took the second path; it was steep and narrow, winding through crags and littered boulders, while to our right, a chasm of blackness, yawned the gorge through which the Aheron flowed. I began to feel nervous, ridiculously, wretchedly nervous, as though the waters below me were chilling my soul, and even Viscillie, I noticed, seemed ill at ease. “We must hurry,” he muttered, glancing at the red-lined mountain peaks to the west. “It will be nightfall soon.” He drew out a knife. “Wolves,” he said, nodding at me. “ Wolves - and other beasts.”
‘Ahead of us, in an unclouded blaze of light, the sun was disappearing fast. But even after it was gone, its heat remained, oppressive and thick, so that as the twilight deepened into night, the stars themselves seemed like prickles of sweat. The track began to wind more sharply upwards, through a forest of dark cypresses, their roots twisting and clutching at the rocks, their branches shadowing our path in black. Suddenly, Viscillie reined in his horse and held up his hand. I couldn’t hear anything, but then Viscillie pointed, and I saw, through a break in the trees, a gleam of something pale. I rode forwards; ahead of me was an ancient archway, its marble cast white by the moon, but crumbling, on either side of the path, into rubble and weeds. There was an inscription, barely legible, just above the arch: “This, O Lord of Death, is a place sacred to you . . .” - nothing more could be read. I glanced around: everything seemed still. “There’s nothing here,” I said to Viscillie, but he, whose eyes were trained to the night, shook his head and pointed up the path. Someone was walking there, his back to us, in the shadow of the rocks. I spurred my horse forwards, but still the figure didn’t look round, just continued walking with a relentless stride. “Who are you?” I asked, wheeling in my horse to confront the man. He said nothing, just stared ahead, and his face was shadowed by a coarse black hood. “Who are you?” I asked again, then leaned down to flick the hood back from the man’s face. I stared - and laughed. It was Gorgiou. “Why didn’t you say?” I asked. But still Gorgiou said nothing. Slowly, he looked up at me, and his eyes seemed without sight, glazed and torpid, sunk deep into his skull. No flicker of recognition crossed his face; instead, he turned, and my horse whinnied in sudden fear and backed away. Gorgiou crossed the path and went into the trees. I watched him disappear, his pace the same slow stride as before.
‘Viscillie joined me, and his horse too seemed coltish and afraid. Viscillie kissed the blade of his knife. “Come, My Lord,” he whispered. “These ancient places are haunted by ghosts.”
‘Our horses continued nervous, and it was only with an effort that we could force them to carry on. The path was widening now, as the rocks on one side began to fall away, while on the other a sheer cliff
rose high above our heads. This was a promontory, I realised, jutting out between us and the Aheron; I stared up at it, but its summit was just a line of black against the silver of the stars, blotting out the moonlight so that we could scarcely see ahead. Reluctantly, our horses picked their way along the path, until the cliff grew less sheer and the moonlight returned. Ahead of us, the path rounded its way past an outcrop of rock - we followed it, and there, built up the mountainside, were the ruins of a town. The path snaked upwards, to a castle built on the peak. It too seemed ruined, and I could see no light shining from its battlements. Nevertheless, staring at the jagged form the castle made against the stars, I was certain that we had reached our journey’s end, and that there, inside its walls, Vakhel Pasha would be expecting us.
‘We began to ride through the town. There were churches, open to the moon, and shattered pillars submerged by weeds. In one ruin, I saw a small shack, built between the columns of some abandoned hall, and then, as I rode on up the path, I saw more houses, wretched like the first, huddled like squatters amongst the wreckage of the past. This was the village, I realised, from which Haidée must have fled, but there was no sign of her now, nor of any living thing, save for a dog, which barked wildly, then came running up to us wagging its tail. I reached down to stroke it; the creature licked my hand, and followed us as we rode on up the path. Ahead was a great wall, guarding the castle, with two open gates. I paused beneath them to look back at the village. I remembered Yanina and Tapaleen, the scenes of life that had greeted us there, and I shivered now, despite the unbearable heat, to see the wretched stillness of the hovels below. As we turned and rode on through the gates, even the dog whined and slunk away.
‘The gates slammed shut - and still there was no one to be seen. There were more walls, I could see now, between us and the castle, which seemed built from the very mountain, so sheerly its battlements rose up from the cliffs. The only path to the castle was the one we were following now - and the only route of escape, I thought suddenly, as a second pair of gates swung shut behind our backs. But I could see torches now, bobbing on the walls, and I was grateful for the signs of life - I began to think of food, and a soft bed, and all those pleasures you have to be a traveller to earn. I pressed my horse forwards through a third and final gate, and as I did so, looked behind me to see that the entire road was lit by torches now. Then the third pair of gates swung shut, and all was stillness again, and we were alone. Our horses whinnied with fear, and the striking of their hooves echoed off the stone. We were in a courtyard; ahead of us, steps led up to an open doorway, very ancient, I realised, decorated with the statues of monstrous things; above us towered the castle wall. All was lit by the blazing silver of the moon. I dismounted and crossed the courtyard towards the open door.
‘“Welcome to my home,” said Vakhel Pasha. I had not seen him appear; but there he was, waiting for me, at the top of the steps. He held out his hands and took mine; he embraced me. “My dear Lord Byron,” he whispered in my ear. “I am so glad you have come.”
‘He kissed me, fully on the lips, then stood back to stare into my eyes. His own gleamed more brightly than I remembered from before; his face too was as silver as the moon, its border luminous, like crystal against the dark. He took my arm and led me. “The journey here is hard,” he said. “Come and eat, and then take your well-earned rest.”
‘I followed him through courtyards, up stairways, past countless doors. I realised that I was more tired than I had known, for the architecture of the place seemed like that of my dreams, endlessly extending and diminishing itself, full of impossible junctures and blendings of styles. “Here,” said the Pasha at last, brushing aside a curtain of gold, and beckoning me to follow him. I looked around; pillars, in the style of an ancient temple, framed the room, but above me, in a glittering mosaic of golds and blues and greens, rose a dome so airy it seemed made of glass. The light was faint, there being only two large candlesticks in the form of twining snakes, but even so, I could make out words, in Arabic, around the edge of the dome. The Pasha must have been watching me: “And Allah created man,” he whispered in my ear, “from clots of blood.” He smiled lazily. “It is a quotation from the Koran.” He took my hand, and gestured me to sit down. There were cushions and silks set around a low table of food. I took my place, and obeyed my host’s invitation to eat. An ancient servant-woman kept my glass filled with wine, and the Pasha’s too, although I noticed he swallowed it without apparent pleasure or taste. He asked me if I was surprised to see him drinking wine; when I agreed that I was, he laughed and said that he obeyed no god’s command.
‘“And you,” he asked me, his eyes glittering, “what would you dare defy for the sake of pleasure?”
‘I shrugged. “Why, what pleasures are there,” I asked, “beyond drinking wine and eating dead pig? I follow a sensible religion, which allows me to indulge in both of those pursuits.” I raised my glass, and drained it. “And so I avoid damnation.”
‘The Pasha smiled softly. “But you are young, milord, and beautiful.” He reached across the table, and took my hand. “And yet your pleasures truly end with the consumption of pork?”
‘I glanced down at the Pasha’s hand, then met his eyes again. “I may be young, Your Excellency, but I have learned already that on every joy there is a proportionate tax.”
‘“You may be right,” said the Pasha evenly. A film of blankness seemed to curtain his eyes. “I must admit,” he added, after a tired pause, “that I can scarcely remember what pleasure is, I feel so dulled by the passage of the years.”
‘I glanced at him in surprise. “Forgive me, Your Excellency,” I said, “but you do not strike me as being a voluptuary.”
‘“Do I not?” he asked. He took his hand from my own. I thought at first that he was angry, but when I looked into his face, I saw only a look of terrible melancholy, passions turned to ice like the waves of some frozen pond. “There are pleasures, milord,” he said slowly, “of which you have not even dreamed. Pleasures of the mind - and of the blood.” He looked at me, and his eyes now seemed deep as space. “Is that not why you have come here, milord? To sample these pleasures for yourself ?”
‘There was compulsion in his stare. “It is true,” I said, failing to lower my eyes before it, “that although I hardly know you, I feel already that you are as extraordinary a man as I have ever met. You will laugh at me, Your Excellency - but in Tapaleen, I had dreams of you. I imagined that you came to me, and showed me strange things, and hinted at hidden truths.” I laughed suddenly. “But what will you think of me, saying I came here at the prompting of a few strange dreams? You will be offended.”
‘“No, milord, I am not offended.” The Pasha rose to his feet, taking my hands then embracing me. “You have had a hard day. You deserve to sleep dreamlessly tonight - the sleep of the blessed.” He kissed me, and his lips felt cold to the touch. I was surprised, for they had not done so outside, in the moonlight. “Wake fresh and well, milord,” the Pasha whispered; he clapped his hands; a veiled slave girl came in through the curtain. The Pasha turned to her. “Haidée, show our guest to his bed.”
‘My thrill of surprise must have been evident. “Yes,” said the Pasha, watching me, “she is the one I brought back from Tapaleen, my pretty runaway. Haidée” - he waved with his hand - “remove your veil.” Gracefully, she did so, and her long hair spilled free. She was lovelier even than I had remembered her, and I was filled with sudden disgust to think of her serving as Vakhel Pasha’s whore. I glanced at the Pasha as he stared at his slave, and saw a look of such hunger and desire cross his face that I almost shivered, for his lips were parted and his nostrils flared, almost as though he were smelling the girl, and his desire seemed transfused with a terrible despair. He turned and saw me watching him; the same look of hunger pinched his face as he stared into my own, and then it was gone, and his expression was as frozen as it had been before. “Sleep,” he said dismissively; he waved his hand. “You need your rest - you will
have much to occupy you in the days to come. Goodnight, milord.”
‘I bowed and thanked him, then followed Haidée. She led me up a stairway; when we had reached the top, she turned round and kissed me, long and lovingly, and I, who needed no encouragement, took her in my arms, and met her lips as well as I could. “You came for me, my dear sweet Lord Byron” - she kissed me again - “You came for me.” Then she broke away from my embrace, and took me by the hand. “This way,” she said, leading me up a second flight of steps. There was no trace of the slave about her now; instead, she seemed bright with passion and excitement, prettier than ever, with a kind of fierce joy that warmed my own blood, and quickened up my spirits most entertainingly. We ended in a room that reminded me, much to my surprise, of my old bedroom in Newstead - thick pillars and heavy archways, Venetian candlesticks, all the familiar Gothic stuff. I could almost imagine myself back in England - certainly, the room was no place for Haidée, so natural was she, so loving - so Greek. I held her; she raised her lips to kiss me again, and it was as burning and sweet as that first kiss in the inn, when she had dared to believe that she might be free.
