by Tom Holland
‘Slowly, deliberately, I cocked my pistol; I glanced around again; then I walked with measured steps towards the entranceway. I stepped inside it - and waited. But nothing happened - there was no creature there - no one to stop me from walking on down the steps. I stared at what lay ahead of me - as before, the steps disappeared into darkness. I began to walk down them, and with each step I took, my grip on my pistol grew tighter, and yet more tight. The blackness seemed as close as the stale dead air; I paused, to see if my eyes could adjust to it, but I had no choice, in the end, but to feel my way on. “The underworld, milord, is only for the dead.” The Pasha’s words seemed to rise and echo in my ears. At that very moment, I felt something ahead of me; I raised my pistol; then I breathed in deeply, and lowered it again. I was by a door; I felt for the catch; I opened it. Beyond the door, the stairway wound on; but it was lit now by a dim light, flickering ruby-red, and I saw, painted on the walls, frescoes done in the Arabic style. The paintings seemed to illustrate the story of Adam and Eve; yet Eve stood on one side, pale and white as though drained of blood, while Adam was held in a second woman’s arms, and she was feeding on him, and her face, I saw, was the same as the woman’s above the kiosk door. I walked on, and the flickerings of the shadows across the stonework were growing higher now, and ever deeper red, so that I wondered if the ancients had been right, and I was indeed on steps that led to Hell. Then I saw them finish, and beyond them, there seemed to be a chamber of stone, and I realised, so deep inside the earth, that this could only be a burial place. I raised my pistol, ready to fire; then I walked through the doorway, and into the crypt.’
Lord Byron paused. Rebecca, having sat in silence for so long, was reluctant to speak, to hurry him on. So she remained motionless, watching the vampire, who seemed to be staring, not at her, but at whatever it was he had found those long years ago, in that chamber of stone. He stroked his chin with his fingertips, and his face was expressionless; yet his eyes seemed to gleam with a mysterious smile.
‘There were flames,’ he said at last. ‘Flames from a chasm at the far end of the room, and in front of the flames, an ancient altar stood, with inscriptions to Hades, the Lord of Death. Haidée was by the altar. She lay on her back, lovely and desolate, her veils ripped, her tunic torn away from her breasts, and the Pasha was feeding on them, like an infant drawing on its mother’s milk. Sometimes he would seem to pause, and stroke the girl’s breast with his cheeks and his lips, and I realised he was toying with the flow of her blood. Haidée stirred and moaned, but she couldn’t rise, for the Pasha was holding her wrists with his arms, and she was weak, of course, very weak. Yet how tenderly the Pasha drank from her; again, he stroked the side of her breast with his cheek, and he dyed her nipple red with the blood on his tongue. Haidée gasped suddenly, and her fingers tore at air; she clenched her legs around the Pasha’s own. I shook. Steadying my arm, I raised my pistol; I took a step forwards; I placed the pistol against the Pasha’s head.
‘He turned slightly, to look at me. His eyes gleamed silver; his cheeks were fat and full; dabblings of blood flecked his lips and moustache. He smiled, baring his sharp, white teeth at me, and I thought he was about to spring at my throat. Yet when I pushed the pistol harder against the side of his head, he teetered and fell, like a bloated tick being knocked off its host, and then I realised - of course - that such an image was nothing less than the literal truth. The Pasha lay on his side, ruddy, swollen, gorged on blood - and when he tried to lift himself, he could only rest his head on the altar’s base. It was as though he were drunk, I realised, so intoxicated that he could barely move.
‘“Kill him,” Haidée whispered softly. She had risen to her feet, but had to lean upon my arm. “Kill him,” she said again. “Shoot him through the heart.”
‘The Pasha laughed. “Kill me?” he said scornfully. Yet his voice sounded remarkably beautiful in my ears, and even Haidée seemed almost entranced by it. But then she crossed into the shadows, and I saw her pick up a sword. She must have left it there earlier, ready for just such a moment as this.
‘“A bullet bites deeper,” I said. “Please, Haidée - put it down.”
‘The Pasha laughed again. “You see, my pretty slave? - your dashing liberator will never kill me - he’s far too greedy for all I could reveal.”
‘“Kill him,” said Haidée. She screamed suddenly. “Kill him now!”
‘My hand on the pistol stayed as steady as before. “The basilica,” I whispered, “the ruined tower - wait for me there.”
‘Haidée stared at me. “Do not be tempted.” She reached up to stroke my cheek, then whispered in my ear. “Do not betray me, Byron, or you will be damned in Hell.” She turned, and crossed to the steps. “The ruined tower, then,” she said - and was gone. The two of us, the Pasha and I, were left alone. I crossed to him. “I will kill you,” I said, still aiming the pistol directly at his heart. “Do not delude yourself, Your Excellency, that I will not.”
‘The Pasha smiled lazily. “Delude myself?”
‘I stared at him, and my hand began to shake. I steadied it again. “What are you?” I asked. “What kind of - thing?”
‘“You know what I am.”
‘“A monster - a vardoulacha - a drinker of human blood.”
‘“I must drink blood - yes.” The Pasha nodded. “But I was a man once - much like you. And as for now, my dear Lord Byron - I own the secret of immortality - as you well know.” He smiled at me, and nodded again. “As you well know.”
‘I shook my head. “Immortality?” I stared at him with disgust. “But you’re not alive. You are a dead thing. You may feed on life, but you don’t have it yourself - don’t ever think that - you are wrong - you are wrong.”
‘“No, milord.” He raised a hand to me. “Do you not see? Immortality lies in a dimension beyond life. You must clear your body of clay, and your mind of mortal thoughts.” He brushed my fingers, and I felt the pulse of something warm and living in his touch. “Do not be afraid, milord. Be young and old; be human and divine; be beyond life, and beyond death. If you can be all these things together in your being and your thoughts, then - then, milord - you will have discovered immortality.”
‘I stared at him. His voice had the sweetness and the wisdom of an angel. My arm fell to my side. “I don’t understand,” I said helplessly. “How can this be true?”
‘“Do you doubt me?”
‘I didn’t answer him. But I continued to stare as his eyes grew deeper, and they seemed like the waters of some beautiful lake, rising to cool my revulsion and fear. “Long ago,” the Pasha said softly, “in the city of Alexandria, I was a teacher of the sciences. I studied chemistry, medicine, philosophy; I read the ancient sages, the Egyptians and the Greeks; I made myself the master of buried wisdoms and long-forgotten truths. I began to dream that death might be conquered. I dreamed of discovering the very elixir of life.” He paused. “A fateful ambition - and one that was to decide my destiny. It came on me in the three hundred and ninety-ninth year of the Muslim era, during the reign of the Khalif al-Hakim - by the Christian reckoning, in the year one thousand and twenty-one.”
‘I could feel myself drowning in his eyes. I had to cling to my scepticism. I had to believe he was lying to me. But I could not. “So you found it, then,” I said, “the elixir of life.”
‘But the Pasha shook his head. “No,” he said. “Not then, not since, although I search for it in the modern sciences as I searched for it in the old.” He shook his head again. “If it exists at all, then so far it has eluded me.”
‘I gestured at him with the pistol. “Then how . . .?” My voice trailed away.
‘“Can you not guess?”
‘I could, of course. I said nothing, but yes - I could guess.
‘The Pasha reached for my hand again. He pulled me down close beside him. “I was seduced,” he whispered. “For a year in Alexandria, the cry had been going up: ‘Lilith is come! Lilith the blood-drinker is come!’ Bodies had been found,
drained white, abandoned by the crossroads and in the fields. People had come to me - my reputation was great - they were afraid. I told them to keep up their courage, that there was no Lilith, no harlot-princess who might drink their blood. And yet even as I told them this, I knew otherwise, for I was being visited by Lilith myself - shown, as I have shown you, the heights of immortality.” He gripped my arm. “These heights, milord, they are real. If I tell you now what happened to me, it is only so you may comprehend all it is that I am offering you - the wisdom, the delight, the unearthly power. Have you heard of Lilith? Do you know who she truly is? In Jewish legend, she was Adam’s first wife - but men have worshipped her since the dawn of time. In Egypt, in Ur, amongst the Canaanites, she has been known as Queen of the Succubi, the queen of all those who - like myself - have the wisdom that comes from drinking human blood.” He stroked my throat, then ran a finger down the front of my shirt. “Understand this, then, milord - I do not offer you life - I do not offer you death - but I offer you something as ancient as the rocks themselves. Prepare yourself for it. Prepare, milord, and be grateful.”
‘He kissed me savagely. I felt his teeth against my lip, and tasted the scent of blood in his mouth. Haidée’s blood. I flinched, and the Pasha must have felt it, for he grappled me, and tried to hold me down, but I pulled myself free and rose back to my feet. The Pasha stared up at me. “Do not be afraid, milord,” he said. He reached out to stroke my boot. “I too fought my seduction - at first.” He raised his finger, slowly, up my leg; I aimed my pistol; the Pasha saw me and laughed, a cold sneer of greed and contempt. Suddenly, like a wild creature, his jaws open, he sprang at my throat. I fired, and in the confusion, I missed my aim, but the bullet caught him in the abdomen. The Pasha held his wound, watched the blood as it slipped out over his hand, then looked up at me in astonishment. I fired again; this time, I hit the Pasha in the chest, and the impact hurled him back against the altar stone. “I choose life,” I said, standing over him. “I reject your gift.” I aimed at his heart; I fired; his chest disappeared into a mess of bone and blood. The Pasha moaned and his whole body twitched; he raised his hand as though reaching for me; then the arm dropped back down and the body was still. I touched it with the edge of my boot, then brought myself to feel its pulse - there was nothing, no trace of life. I stared at the Pasha one second more, as he lay with his head against the altar to Hades; then I turned and left him - a dead thing at last in that shrine to the dead.’
Chapter VI
If I could explain at length the real causes which have contributed to increase this perhaps natural temperament of mine - this Melancholy which hath made me a bye-word - nobody would wonder - but this is impossible without doing much mischief - I do not know what other men’s lives have been - but I cannot conceive anything more strange than some of the earlier parts of mine - I have written my memoirs - but omitted all the really consequential & important parts - from deference to the dead - to the living - and to those who must be both. -
LORD BYRON, ‘Detached Thoughts’
The sky over Aheron had changed to a terrible darkness, as though in mourning for the castle’s dead lord. My horse whinnied with fear as I climbed onto him, and spurred him down the winding road. I saw guards on the battlements with flaming torches, and I heard them shout at me as I galloped through their open gates. I glanced back at them; they pointed to the village, and shouted again, what seemed words of warning, but the wind screamed across the crags, and their voices were lost. I galloped on, and had soon left the battlements behind; I reined in my horse; ahead of me, ghostly white beneath a heavy green sky, the village lay.
‘It was as deserted as ever, but for some reason, the state of my nerves perhaps, or some presentiment, I drew out my pistol again, and looked into the empty ruins, as though afraid of what I might see in them. But there was nothing - and so I spurred my horse on towards the basilica. But as I passed Petro’s house, I saw a small form standing motionless by the side of the road. “Lord Byron!” he called out, in a high, piping voice. I reined in my horse to stare at him. It was Petro’s son, the small boy with the pinched face, who had taken the coin from me that morning. “Please, Lord Byron, come inside,” he said. I shook my head, but the boy pointed to the house, and said a single word - “Haidée.” And so then, of course, I dismounted and followed him.
‘I walked into the house. All was dark inside - no candles, no fire. I heard the door swinging shut behind me, and then a bolt being drawn. I looked round, startled - but the boy stared up at me, his solemn face gleaming pale in the dark, and pointed again towards a second room. I walked towards it. “Haidée,” I called out. “Haidée!” There was no answer. But then I heard giggling, soft and high-pitched, coming from the room ahead of me. Three or four childish voices began to sing: “Haidée, Haidée, Haidée!” There was more giggling, and then silence. I pushed open the door.
‘Four wide pairs of eyes stared up at me - three girls, and a tiny boy. Their faces were as pale and solemn as their brother’s; then one of them, the prettiest of the girls, smiled at me, and her childish face seemed suddenly the cruellest and most depraved thing I had ever seen. She bared her teeth; her eyes gleamed silver; her lips, I could see now, were red and whorish. Then I realised that they were dyed with blood; all four of the children were crouched over a woman’s body, and when I took a step forward, I could see that their meal was Petro’s mother, her face frozen in a death agony of indescribable horror. Unthinkingly, I bent down beside her; I reached out to stroke her hair; and then she too suddenly stared at me, her eyes burning, and she rose up, her teeth gleaming as she hissed with thirst. All the children giggled with delight as their grandmother reached up to slash at my throat - but she was slow. I stepped back, aimed my pistol, and sent a bullet through her chest. Then I felt nails against my back - the fifth child, the one who had guided me in, was trying to climb onto me. I shook him off, and then, instinctively, as he fell against the floor, I fired a bullet into him as well. His skull was shattered, and the other children shrunk back; but then, to my horror, the grandmother began to stir again, and then the child, and all of them began to stalk me, and I didn’t know which was worse, the sight of the boy staring at me with his head half-blown away, or the hunger in the eyes of the other children, all of them still so young and beautiful. The smallest boy ran at me; I cuffed him with my hand, then stumbled back, closing the first door behind me, and then, as the vardoulachas opened it again, pushing at the door that led out onto the street. It was barred - damn it, I thought - I had forgotten about that. I struggled with the bolt, and as I fumbled with it, the children were running at me again, their tiny mouths open, a gleam of triumph in their eyes. One of them scratched me; but then the door was open at last, and I fell out through it, slamming it shut again before they could follow me. I leaned against the door, feeling their small bodies as they pushed against it; then I moved, as fast as I could, and climbed onto my horse before they could cross to me. I galloped down the road; I glanced back over my shoulder, and saw the children staring after me, sobbing, a strange animal sound of frustrated desire. I did not look round a second time - I had to reach the basilica. I had to find out if Haidée was still alive.
‘Ahead of me, I saw a glow of flame. I cantered up to the basilica arch; a figure stood in front of me, his arms uplifted, silhouetted against the orange of the fire. He laughed, a cruel sound of mockery and triumph; he stared at me, and laughed again; it was Gorgiou. He leaped at me as I passed, but my horse’s hoof caught him on the side of the head, and he was sent stumbling back. I rode as hard as I could across the basilica floor. Dark figures turned to look at me; I recognised the priest; he, like all the others, had the silver gleam of death in his eyes. The creatures were gathered in a mob at the far end of the church, around the ruined tower. I rode towards them, crushing those ahead of me, brushing away the others as they reached to pull me down.
‘“Byron!” I heard Haidée’s scream. She was standing on the highest step, dre
ssed in the costume of a servant-boy. She held a flaming torch in either hand, and in front of her blazed the fire she had lit. She ran past it down the steps; one of the monsters leaped at her, but I aimed my pistol and fired, and he staggered back, a bullet in his chest. I looked for her horse; then I saw it, dead, its blood still being drained by thirsty human leeches.
‘“Jump!” I shouted to Haidée; she leaped and almost fell, but she clutched onto my horse’s mane, and as I rode on, I was able to pull her up until she was safely in the saddle, and my arms. I couldn’t see now where we were riding; we were stumbling across rocks and past olive trees, and I knew, if we were to escape, that we had to find the road. Then suddenly, forking above the jagged mountain peaks, a crackle of lightning lit up the sky.
‘“To the right!” Haidée shouted.
‘I nodded and looked. I could see the road now, winding down from the castle, and then, in a second flash of lightning, I saw something else, an army of black wraiths, drifting aimlessly out through the battlement gates and scattering like leaves before the roar of the storm. As we reached the road, they seemed to smell our blood, and we heard their squeakings above the wind, but they were far behind us, and the road ahead was clear. We had soon lost them round the mountain bend.
