by Tom Holland
‘There were no horrors. I looked around. There was nothing but books - in shelves, on tables, in piles on the floor. I picked one up and looked at the title. It was in French: Principles of Geology. I frowned: this wasn’t what I had been expecting to find at all. I crossed to a window; there was a beautiful telescope, of a make I had never seen before, aimed at the sky. I opened a second door; it led into a further room, full of glasses and tubes. Bright-coloured liquids bubbled inside them, or flowed through glass pipes, like blood through transparent veins. Jars full of powders were ranged along shelves. There was paper everywhere; I picked up one of the sheets, and glanced at it. It was covered in scribblings which I couldn’t read; one phrase, though, written in French, I could make out: “Galvanism and the Principles of Human Life”. I smiled. So the Pasha was a natural philosopher - a student of the Enlightenment - while I - I had been wallowing in the most stupid superstitions imaginable. Vardoulachas, I thought - vampires! How could I have believed in such stuff, even for a moment? I walked to a window, shaking my head. I needed to get a hold on myself. I stared out at the clear blue sky. I would ride, I decided, get away from the castle - and see if I couldn’t somehow spring-clean the phantoms from my brain.
‘Not that I felt myself suddenly to be free from danger - far from it. A man can be a man, and not be any the less a monster - the thought that I might be the Pasha’s prisoner still filled me with doubt and rage. Yet down in the stables, there was no one to prevent me from saddling my horse; the gates in the castle walls were open; when I passed the Tartar guards whose torches I had evidently seen the night before, they stared, but they didn’t follow me. I galloped hard down the mountain road - it felt good to have the wind in my hair, the sun on my face. I rode out under the archway with its inscription to the ancient Lord of Death; as I did so, the heaviness that had been weighing down my spirits seemed to melt, and I felt the richness of life, its beauty and joy. I was almost tempted to gallop on down the mountain road, and never return; but I remembered my duty to Viscillie and Fletcher, and above all else, above all, my promise to Haidée. I only had to contemplate it, even for a second, to know how unbearable it would be to abandon her - there was my honour at stake, yes, of course, but that wasn’t it, what was honour but a word? No, I had to admit it - something I was not accustomed to admitting - I was shamelessly, painfully, cravingly in love. A slave girl’s slave - and yet how unfair that was to Haidée, for a slave must know herself to be so, or she is no such thing. I reined in my horse, and stared out at the wild beauty of the mountains, and thought how true a daughter she was of such a land. Yes, she would be free - only just now, hadn’t I left the castle without hindrance of any kind, and wasn’t it clear, after all, that the Pasha was nothing but a man? He was to be feared - but not as a vampire; no peasant dread of demons was going to hold me back. Steeled by such resolute philosophy, I would be hero enough, I was sure, to brave the Pasha’s worst. As the sun began to sink, so the more my spirits rose.
‘I remembered the promise I had made Haidée, to visit her father. We would need supplies for our escape - food, ammunition, a horse for Haidée herself. Who better to provide such things than her family? I began to make my way back to the village. I didn’t hurry - the darker it was, the less chance I stood of being seen. It was almost twilight by the time I reached the village, and rode up a track that was as empty as before; I could see eyes, though, watching me, full of suspicion and fear. There was one man, sitting amongst the wreckage of a mighty basilica, who rose when I passed; it was the priest, the one who had killed the vampire by the inn; I rode up to him, and asked for directions to Gorgiou’s house. The priest stared at me, wild-eyed, then pointed. I thanked him, but he still made no answer, and slid back at once into the shadows. I rode on up the track, and the village continued as deathly as before.
‘Outside Gorgiou’s house, though, there was a man on a bench. It was Petro. I scarcely recognised him, so drawn and preoccupied he looked. When he saw me, though, he called out and raised a hand in greeting.
‘“I need to see your father,” I said. “Is he in?”
‘Petro narrowed his eyes, then shook his head.
‘“I have news for him,” I said, “a message.” I leaned down in my saddle. “From his daughter,” I whispered.
‘Petro stared at me. “You had better come in,” he said at last. He stood holding my horse’s reins while I dismounted, then showed me into his house. He sat me down by the door, while an old woman, his mother I guessed, brought us both a cup of wine. Then Petro asked me to tell him all I had to say.
‘I did so. At the news that Haidée was still alive, Petro’s vast frame seemed to swell and become light with relief. But when I asked him for supplies, the colour drained from his cheeks again, and when his mother, overhearing me, pressed him in support of my request, he shook his head and made a gesture of despair.
‘“You must know, My Lord,” he said, “that we have nothing in this house now.”
‘I felt inside my cloak, and drew out a bag of coins. “Here,” I said, tossing it into Petro’s lap. “Go where you have to - be as secret as the grave - only get us those supplies. Otherwise, I am afraid, your sister will be damned.”
‘“We are all damned,” said Petro simply.
‘“What do you mean?”
‘Petro stared at his feet. “I had a brother,” he said at last. “We were klephti together. He was the bravest of the brave - but he was captured at last, by the Pasha’s men, and put to death.”
‘“Yes.” I nodded slowly. “I remember being told.”
‘Petro continued to stare at his feet. “We felt such agony and rage. Our attacks grew more daring. My father especially - he waged war against the whole race of the Turks. I helped him.” Petro glanced up at me, and half-smiled. “You saw an example of our handiwork yourself.” His smile faded. “But now it is finished - and we are all damned.”
‘“Yes, so you keep saying, but how?”
‘“The Pasha has decided it.”
‘“It is rumour, nothing more,” the mother interrupted.
‘“Yes, but where does the rumour come from,” Petro asked, “if not from the Pasha himself ?”
‘“He could destroy us with his horsemen if he wanted to,” the mother said, “like a boy swatting a fly. I don’t see them, though. Where are they?” She hugged her son tightly. “Be brave, Petro. Be a man.”
‘“A man? - yes! But it is not a man we are fighting against!”
‘There was a silence. “What does your father think?” I asked eventually.
‘“He has gone into the mountains,” Petro said. He looked up, staring at the peaks as they swallowed the sun. “He wouldn’t rest. His hatred for the Turks drives him on and on. He has been gone for ten days now.” Petro paused. “I wonder if we shall see him again.”
‘At that moment, the sun disappeared at last; and Petro’s eyes began to bulge. He stood up slowly, and walked to the door. He pointed; his mother joined him. “Gorgiou,” she whispered, “Gorgiou! He is back!”
‘I looked out through the doorway. It was indeed Gorgiou who was coming up the road. “May the Lord have mercy on us,” whispered Petro, staring at the old man horror-struck. Gorgiou’s face was as pale as I remembered it from the night before, his eyes as dead; he walked with the same relentless stride. He brushed us all aside as he came in through the door; then he sat down, in the darkest corner of the house, and stared at nothing, until a wolfish smile began to curl along his lips.
‘“Well,” he said, in a harsh, distant voice, “this is a fine welcome.”
‘No one answered at first. Then Petro stepped forwards. “Father,” he said, “why do you cover your neck?”
‘Slowly Gorgiou looked up at his son. “No reason,” he said at last, his voice now as dead as his eyes.
‘“Then let me see it,” said Petro, reaching down to uncover his father’s neck. Gorgiou bared his teeth suddenly, hissing, and reached up in turn for his son’s neck,
gouging his nails into the flesh of the throat, squeezing tightly so that Petro began to choke.
‘“Gorgiou!” his wife screamed, throwing herself between him and her son. Other members of the family, women, small boys, hurried into the room, and helped pull Petro from his father’s grip.
‘Petro himself breathed in deeply, staring at his father, then reaching to take his mother’s arm. “It has to be done,” he said.
‘“No!” his mother screamed.
‘“You know we have no choice.”
‘“Please, Petro, no!” His mother threw herself, sobbing, around his knees, as Gorgiou began to chuckle. Petro turned to me. “My Lord, please go!”
‘I bowed my head. “If there is anything I can do . . .”
‘“No, no, there is nothing. I will see that you have your supplies. But please, My Lord, please - you can see - just go.”
‘I nodded, and pushed my way out to the door. Mounted on my horse again, I waited. There was only a low wail coming now from inside the house. I glanced in through the door. Petro’s mother was sobbing, held in the arms of her son; Gorgiou sat motionless as before, his eyes staring at nothing. Then suddenly, he rose to his feet. He crossed to the door, and my horse backed away, up the path towards the castle gates. I reined him in with effort, then wheeled him round again. Gorgiou was walking down the pathway, back towards the village, just a silhouette now in the gathering dark. I saw Petro come out, standing on the track to watch his father leave. He began to run after him; then stopped; and his whole body seemed to slump. I watched him walk slowly back into his house.
‘I shivered. It really was getting late - I shouldn’t be out in such dark. I spurred my horse on, and rode through the gates. Slowly, they slammed shut behind me. I heard them being bolted. I was locked inside the castle walls.’
Chapter V
A change came o’er the spirit of my dream
The Wanderer was alone as heretofore,
The beings which surrounded him were gone,
Or were at war with him; he was a mark
For blight and desolation, compass’d round
With Hatred and Contention; Pain was mix’d
In all which was served up to him, until,
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,
He fed on poisons, and they had no power,
But were a kind of nutriment; he lived
Through that which had been death to many men,
And made him friends of mountains: with the stars
And the quick Spirits of the Universe
He held his dialogues; and they did teach
To him the magic of their mysteries;
To him the book of Night was open’d wide,
And voices from the deep abyss reveal’d
A marvel and a secret.
LORD BYRON, ‘The Dream’
I am trying very hard, Your Excellency,” I told the Pasha that evening, “not to feel like a prisoner here.” ‘The Pasha stared at me, his eyes wide, then slowly began to smile. “A prisoner, milord?”then
‘“My servants - where are they?”
‘The Pasha laughed. His spirits had been excellent the length of the meal. Running up his cheeks there was even a delicate red trellis of capillaries. He reached out to take my hand, and the touch of his fingers, I noticed, felt much less cold than before.
‘“Your Excellency,” I repeated, “my servants?”
‘The Pasha shook his head. “They weren’t needed here. So I sent them away.”
‘“I see.” I breathed in deeply. “To where?”
‘“To - where is it you are meeting Mr Hobhouse? - yes, to Missolonghi.”
‘“And I will find them there?”
‘The Pasha raised his hands. “Why ever would you not?”
‘I smiled mirthlessly. “And myself ? How am I to cope?”
‘“My dear Lord Byron” - the Pasha took my other hand, and stared into my eyes as though wooing me - “you are here as my guest. Whatever I have in this place, it is yours. Believe me - there is so much here for you to discover, so much to be revealed.” He leaned over, his mouth slightly parted, and kissed me softly on the neck. My blood seemed to ripple at the touch of his lips. The Pasha ran his fingers through my hair, then reclined again amongst the cushions on his couch. He waved his hand disdainfully. “Don’t fret about your servants. I have given you Yannakos.”
‘I glanced across the room. Yannakos, the creature who had brought me water the night before, stood against the far wall, quite motionless apart from the twisting of his neck, which lolled as though strung up on a hangman’s rope.
‘“He’s not - how can I put it?” - I glanced back at the Pasha - “very lively, is he?”
‘“He is a peasant.”
‘“You have others like him too, I saw.”
‘The Pasha bowed his head non-committally.
‘“In your great hall,” I continued, “they all seemed like Yannakos. Somehow mindless - dead behind their eyes.”
‘The Pasha laughed shortly. “I don’t want philosophers scrubbing my floors. Nothing would ever get done.” He laughed again, then sat in silence, and watched me through narrowed eyes. “But you must tell me, milord - what did you think of the hall?”
‘“I thought it stupendous. Stupendous - and blood-chilling.”
‘“It was I who had it built, you know.”
‘I stared at him in surprise. “Really?” I paused. “How strange. It gave me the impression of being much older.”
‘The Pasha made no answer, and his eyes were like glass. “You saw the rest of the castle too?” he asked eventually. “You saw the labyrinth?”
‘I nodded.
‘“That, milord, is truly ancient. I had it repaired, but its foundations date back to long before my time. You have heard of Thanatopolis, perhaps? - the City of Death?”
‘I frowned, and shook my head.
‘“It is not surprising,” the Pasha said. “I have found almost no reference to it in any of the ancient sources, yet that it existed - well - you have seen the evidence yourself. This mountain was believed to be the gateway to the underworld, and a temple was built here to Hades, Lord of the Dead. The labyrinth led into the sacred precinct - to symbolise in stone, I suppose, the mysteries of Death.”
‘I sat in silence. “How fascinating,” I said at last. “I have never heard of a temple to Death.”
‘“No.” The Pasha narrowed his eyes, and stared into the wash of the candle flame. “It was abandoned, you see, and forgotten. And then a Byzantine town was built here, and then a Venetian fort. You will have seen the range of architecture this castle contains. And yet neither settlement lasted here for more than a generation at most.” The Pasha smiled. “Strange, that they should both have disappeared so soon.”
‘“ What happened to them?”
‘“No one can be sure.”
‘“You have no theory yourself ?”
‘The Pasha shrugged. He looked into the candle flame again. “There are stories,” he said at last. “So far, in the ancient sources themselves, there is only one legend that I have been able to find. In that account, it is said that the damned rose back from Hades, and seized the temple for themselves. Oddly, the peasants today have a folktale that is much the same. They say that the dead inhabit this place. All who build here, all who live here, soon must join the ranks of the damned. They talk of demons - in fact, I believe you mentioned the word to me in Yanina - they talk of the vardoulacha .”
‘I smiled faintly. “Amusing.”
‘“Yes, isn’t it?” The Pasha bared his teeth into a grin. “And yet . . .”
‘“ Yet?”
‘“Yet - those settlements did collapse.”
‘“Yes,” I smiled, “but there must be a more likely reason for that than all the settlers becoming demons.” My smile broadened. “Surely?”
‘The Pasha made no answer at first. “The castle,” he said eventually, staring into the shadows, “is far vast
er than you would ever believe.”
‘I nodded. “Yes, I’ve seen something of its size.”
‘“Even so - you can have no idea. There are depths to it that even I have scarcely fathomed, miles of unlit stone, and what lives in such blackness - I would not like to say.” The Pasha leaned over, and pressed my hand again. “But there are rumours, glimpses of dark things. Can you believe that, milord?”
‘“Yes, Your Excellency - yes, I can.”
‘“Ah!” The Pasha raised an eyebrow.
‘“In the labyrinth, I can’t be sure, but I think I caught a glimpse of something.”
‘The Pasha smiled. “The vardoulacha?”
‘“I wouldn’t like to say.”
‘“What was it like?”
‘I stared straight into the Pasha’s eyes, then glanced across at Yannakos. “Very like him, Your Excellency.” The Pasha’s grip tightened, and his face, I noticed, seemed pale again. “We mentioned the slaves, who scrub in your hall. Very like them as well.”
‘The Pasha let go of my hand. He stared at me, stroking his beard, and a smile, like a livid bloom, slowly touched the paleness of his lips. “What an - imagination - you have, milord,” he whispered.
‘I bowed my head. “I have seen so many things here that really, I would have to be very dull not to wonder about them a little.”
‘“Is that so?” The Pasha’s smile faded again. He glanced at a watch on a low table by his side. “I think, perhaps, it is time we were retiring to bed.”
‘I didn’t move. “Your Excellency,” I asked, “in the great hall, I saw a kiosk. In the Arabic style. Did you build that?”
‘The Pasha stared at me. He pointed to the watch. “Milord,” he said.
‘“Why did you have it built? And in such a blasphemous way - with a woman’s head above its door?”
‘A look of anger crossed the Pasha’s face. “I have told you, milord, I am not bound by any petty laws of religion.”
‘“But why then did you build it?”
‘“If you must know” - the Pasha paused, then hissed - “to mark the most sacred spot in the ancient temple to the underworld. The point believed by the ancients to be the entranceway to Hades. I built the kiosk out of respect - for the past, and for the dead.”
