Chapter Seven: October 12, 1809

At dawn the grass was wet. Byron thought that it must have rained. The sky, however, was clear and the air was chilly, and he realized slowly that it must be dew. The two Albanians were sitting by the fire, drinking coffee and smoking. Byron, still supine, looked around. Everyone else was still asleep, except for Isak, who was nowhere to be seen. Byron nearly panicked at the thought that perhaps Isak had made his way back to Yannina already, on account of Zuleiha. Scarcely a moment later, though, he saw him coming back to the camp from the trees along the river. He was adjusting his trousers, and Byron understood what he must have been doing. Meanwhile, he felt the pressure in his own bladder. After Isak had joined the two men at the fire, Byron got to his feet and staggered drowsily over to the trees. His urine coloured the sparse, dewy grass dark yellow, like stale chamomile tea. He went back to join his freshly awakened entourage. Everyone was moving now: Isak was sitting alone at the fire drinking coffee, the Englishmen were slowly rising and stretching their limbs, and the two Albanians had gone over to the horses to untie them. Byron sat down next to Isak, who poured him some coffee.

‘Did you sleep well, my lord?’

‘Very well. Thanks for asking,’ Byron replied.

Soon Hobhouse joined them, and all three began hastily eating their breakfast.

‘Yesterday,’ Isak said, ‘we lost a whole morning, so it’s best if we get started as quickly as possible. Also, the route now awaiting us is more difficult than yesterday’s.’

And so they rode along for several hours, amidst desultory chatter, until the ascent began. At first it was barely perceptible, but the road turned quickly into a steep and twisting trail. This was no longer the kind of riding that one enjoys. The horses climbed slowly and carefully, and the horsemen had to stay focused every second. They were now moving along in a column, one behind the other, in complete silence. To their left rose the tall, sheer face of the mountain while to the right gaped an ever-deeper abyss. Byron didn’t like high places. He was pointedly afraid of them, but he could not stop his eyes from roaming again and again to the right. He couldn’t look at the back of Isak’s head or at the tail of his horse, which looked like a torn banner; or at the perpendicular white-brown side of the mountain.

The path twisted around like the snake curled around the staff of Asclepius, and Byron’s head was swimming from the view into the abyss and the innumerable turns. And he again felt hungry. The ragged sunshine appeared to have dazed him. It was impossible, however, to make a stop: nowhere was there a wide spot, a flat stretch of road, big enough for the men and the animals to catch their breath. They had already been riding for hours. From the position of the sun, Byron knew that it was long past noon. He understood that the horses must also be tired, but it seemed as if they had reconciled themselves to the lack of rest. Eastern fatalism in an animal’s way, Byron thought; even in horses here you can see how greatly this country differs from England. As he was reflecting on this, he came face to face with a large curve in the road, beyond which arose the prospect of a nearly vertical ascent.

Now the path grew wider and had no more twists and turns. Byron caught up to Isak, who told him: ‘Just this climb now, my lord, and then we will rest up at the top.’

Ten minutes later a large plateau came into view. The squadron of riders stopped, although no one dismounted right away. One of the Albanians said something to Isak, who turned to face Byron.

‘It would be best, my lord, if we rested but briefly. If we hurry, we can make it to a village by nightfall, where we can spend a night fit for human beings.’

Byron exchanged brief glances with Hobhouse and then he agreed. He let himself slide off his horse and dropped into the grass.

* * *

After several more hours of riding across level ground, the first traces of human habitation became apparent. First they came upon a herd of sheep; a whole sea of dirty white animals sweeping over the meadows on both sides of the road. The old shepherd, wearing a long fur coat, sat peacefully under an isolated tree. Byron looked at him with great curiosity, but the shepherd looked about disinterestedly, as if he saw at least five such groups of mounted men every day.

‘Nothing comes as a surprise to the people around here,’ said Isak, as though he were reading Byron’s thoughts. ‘To put it better: there are things that surprise them, but they never show it. Not to be amazed by anything,’ Isak continued ‘is the best prescription for how to live and survive here.’

Byron mumbled something unintelligible. He was thinking that it was in this corner of the globe that philosophy had been born from that selfsame sense of amazement. Perhaps that is the natural sequence, from initial wonder to resignation and fatalism, Byron thought; just like in human life. If a child were sitting there in the place of that old shepherd, he would have been full of wonder and curiosity, as the orb of the sun crawled slowly but inexorably towards the west.

Soon thereafter they encountered two priests in long black cowls, mounted on small mountain horses. As they neared the band of riders, they moved over to the very edge of the road and passed by with their heads lowered.

‘Orthodox priests,’ Isak explained, ‘Serbian monks, my lord. In the village where we will be spending the night, there is a large monastery.’

‘Why are they so submissive?’ Byron wanted to know.

‘Their religion demands it,’ Isak answered with a sarcastic laugh. ‘You should know as much, my lord. Here it’s wise to bow, or stand aside, and it’s even wiser to do both at the same time. Here people don’t hold sanctimonious folk of their own faith in very high regard, much less if they are from another religion. But at least the priests in these parts are hospitable, and they are also not poor. They’ll take good care of us,’ Isak concluded, ‘and we’ll be able to eat and sleep in their building.’

Byron wondered how much of this was hospitality and how much was pure fear. He was not feeling especially chatty on this late afternoon that was melting away into dusk. The moon was already visible in the dark blue sky, although the sun had not completely set, when they saw the first scattered houses of the mountain village.

‘What’s the name of this place?’ asked Byron.

‘Zitza,’ Isak responded tersely.

They rode along the dirty village road for a good ten minutes and then caught sight of the outlines of the monastery on the far side of the village. The building, of rustic beauty, was large. Built of hard white stone, and surrounded by a high grey wall, it looked, in the purple half-darkness of impending night, both secretive and warm at the same time. Soon Byron saw the open gate, and at the exact moment that they passed it, the bells boomed forth atmospherically. When they dismounted, the bells stopped as if on command, and a reverberating echo blended with the call of an owl. The wind alternately hid the moon behind the clouds and set it free. It all left a spooky impression, and Byron felt his skin crawling.

‘Eastern Gothic, my lord,’ whispered Isak, who appeared unnoticed at Byron’s side.

From the direction of the main building an old priest made his way towards them, accompanied by two errand-boys. The priest addressed Isak, who in turn translated everything for Byron: ‘Fr. Maximilian bids us welcome.’

The two boys led their horses over to the stalls, and Isak, Hobhouse, Byron, and their retinue followed the priest to the main monastery.

* * *

The dining hall was a narrow, elongated room with a high ceiling, and immediately upon entering the refectory they were served very hot bowls of soup. A great many candles had been lit, but the flames gave off only a sickly yellow glow. In the middle of the room stood a long, rectangular table at which approximately twenty priests were seated; with the guests taking their places at the end of the table nearest the door. By sheer chance, Byron ended up sitting across from the Abbot of the monastery, Fr. Maximilian. No one broke the silence, and the soup was quickly consumed. Then fish was brought out, river trout with red dots on its smooth, silvery skin, and with soft off-white flesh and delicate bones. The morsels turned into pure poetry in Byron’s mouth. He told Isak that never before had he eaten such a delicious fish, and his words were translated to the Abbot, who in turn mumbled an answer while chewing contentedly. When the fish had also been consumed, sweets were served: almonds, fruit and sherbet.

‘I take it the fish was to your liking, my lord?’ inquired Isak.

‘It was the finest I’ve ever eaten.’

‘Fish like this are only to be found here,’ Isak continued with an air of mystery, ‘and there’s also a story about them.’

‘A story?’ Byron looked at him quizzically. What kind of story?’

Isak seemed to have been waiting for that question: ‘A long, very very long, time ago, my lord, before the Normans set sail from your island homeland, Byzantium ruled this entire country. This empire was not so different from today’s Ottoman Empire; they both had the same capital city, and, for the most part, the same territories. The difference was that the Byzantine emperor’s realm was not yet illuminated by the light of Islam. Instead, it was ruled by the religion in whose retreat we dined so deliciously this evening. And in the same way that some local notable or other is constantly rising up against the Sultan nowadays, people rebelled against the Byzantine Emperor back then. One of these strong mutineers, powerful but fly-by-night, and if I may be so bold…’ and at this point Isak’s voice trailed off to a whisper ‘…a contemporary Ali Pasha,’ and now his voice returned to its earlier volume ‘…was named Samuel. At least that’s how you Englishmen would call him. “God has heard me,” such is the meaning of this name. This Samuel wanted to be no more and no less than the Macedonian Alexander the Great. And one must admit that he started out rather well. He shook the throne of the Emperor and declared himself to be the ruler. The years went by and he ruled uncontested, but the power went to his head. In a decisive battle he tried his luck against the Emperor, but he was defeated, and his entire army was taken prisoner. Samuel himself was able to escape. Now hear me out, my lord. Listen to what the Emperor did to the prisoners, of whom there were thousands. He blinded them, all of them, my lord; he had their eyes gouged out.’

Byron stared at him in shock.

‘No, my lord, not every one of them, actually. To be precise, he left every hundredth man with one eye. Every hundredth, my lord, so that the column of blinded men could find its way back to its commander. Imagine this procession, my lord: thousands upon thousands of blind men, led by a handful of lucky one-eyed wretches. When Samuel saw them, his heart burst: but not immediately. He first sat down on the shore of a lake and shed bloody tears. It’s from his tears that the fish here got their red dots, and because of his tears their flesh is so tender.’

Having related this, Isak fell silent, but Byron continued looking at him, spellbound. ‘What a story,’ he said at last.

‘Every child here, my lord, knows it. Samuel exists in the Byzantine chronicles, and the story of the ravaged eyes is also historically attested; after all, the part with the bloody eyes is not so hard to believe.’

‘This story of sitting on the shore reminds me of something,’ Byron mused.

Isak smiled. ‘I know, my lord. Let me help you. It reminds you of Aegeus, the father of Theseus, and the black sails.’

Byron slapped his palm to his forehead: Yes, that was it!

‘It’s the same world, my lord. Then, as now, we live the mythology.’

Their conversation was interrupted by someone clearing his throat. Byron raised his eyes and saw the priests slowly getting up from the table.

‘The evening meal is ended, my lord, our hosts will retire now, and we will also be led to our quarters. Sleep soundly, for tomorrow brings more riding.’