Chapter III

LUCIFER: What are they which dwell
So humbly in their pride, as to sojourn
With worms in clay?

CAIN: And what are thou
who dwellest
So haughtily in spirit, and canst range
Nature and immortality - and yet
Seem’st sorrowful?

LUCIFER: I seem that which I am;
And therefore do I ask of thee, if thou
Wouldst be immortal?

LORD BYRON, Cain

For as long as we remained on the mountain track, our memories and imaginings together bred unmentionable fears. But we reached the Yanina road without mishap, and from then on progressed with such good speed that the superstitions we had pretended to mock amongst the mountains we now felt able to deride with quite genuine contempt - even I, who lacked my companion’s faith in scepticism, could discuss the vardoulacha as though we were back in London sipping tea. Yet our first glimpse of Yanina was enough to remind us that we were still far from Charing Cross, for the domes and minarets, glittering through gardens of lemon trees and groves of cypress, were as picturesque - and unlike London - as we could possibly have hoped. Not even the sight of a human trunk, hanging from a tree by its single arm, could dampen our spirits, for what might have seemed in a remote village a great horror, now appeared, as we galloped down towards the gates of an oriental city, merely a pleasing touch of barbarism, romantic fodder for Hobhouse’s notes.’

‘So you were made welcome?’

‘In Yanina? Yes.’

‘That must have been a relief.’

Lord Byron smiled faintly. ‘Yes, it was rather. Ali Pasha - I think I told you - had a rather ferocious reputation, but though he was off slaughtering the Serbs when we arrived, he had left orders for us to be met and entertained. Rather flattering. We were welcomed at the gates, and then led through the narrow, crowded streets, with their endless swirl of colour and noise, while over everything, in almost visible clouds, hung the stench of spices and mud and piss. Crowds of children followed us, pointing and laughing, while from shopfronts, and hashish dens, and the latticed balconies where women sat behind their veils, eyes pursued us unceasingly. It was a relief, at last, to feel the sunlight against our faces again, and a cooling breeze, as we were led along a lakefront road towards the caravanserai that Ali Pasha had set aside for us. It was open and airy, in the Turkish style, with a wide courtyard that led down to the lake. Not all the rooms around the court had been given to us; two Tartar soldiers stood on guard by an opposite gateway, and there were horses tethered in the stable yard. But there was no one else to be seen, and in the quiet of our rooms, even the hum of the city behind us seemed stilled.

‘We both slept. When I woke again, it was to the distant wail of the muezzin, summoning the faithful to evening prayers. Hobhouse, like a true infidel, snored on oblivious, but I rose and crossed to the balcony. The lake outside was dyed crimson, and beyond it, the mountains that rose abruptly from its far bank seemed washed in blood. Yanina itself lay behind me all unseen, and only a small boat, crossing from an island in the lake, reminded me that such a thing as man could still exist. I turned, shoved Hobhouse, then wandered out into the court.

‘The house and lakefront were as hushed as before. I glanced around, looking for some sign of human movement, and saw the boat, which just a few minutes previously had been in the centre of the lake, now moored and rocking gently at my feet. It must have crossed the water with almost impossible speed. I could see the pilot sitting hunched in the prow, but when I called to him, he didn’t look up. I called again, and reached out to shake him by the arm. He was swathed in black rags, greasy and damp to the touch, and when he looked up his face was that of a lunatic, flesh and eyes dead, mouth open wide. I took a step back, then heard Hobhouse thumping his way outside, and so I turned and hurried up the road towards the house. The sun’s last rays were disappearing behind the courtyard roof. I paused and glanced over my shoulder, to watch the lake, and then, at the very moment when the reds on the water shimmered and died, I saw someone else.’

Lord Byron paused. He was gripping the sides of his chair, Rebecca saw. He had closed his eyes.

There was a long silence. ‘Who was it?’ Rebecca asked.

Lord Byron shook his head. ‘I didn’t recognise him. He was standing where I had been just a minute previously, a tall man, head shaved in the Turkish style, but with a curling white moustache and neatly trimmed beard, such as an Arab might have worn. His face was thin and unnaturally pale, yet even obscured by the darkness, he excited in me an admixture of revulsion and respect that I found hard to explain, so powerfully and immediately it affected me. His nose was hooked; his lips tight; his expression mocking and predatory - yet there were suggestions as well of great wisdom and suffering in his face, not constant, but passing like the shadows of clouds across a field. His eyes, which had glittered at first like those of a snake, appeared suddenly deep and incandescent with thought; staring into them, I felt certain that this was a man of a kind I had never seen before, a compound, unbalanced, of spirit and clay. I bowed to him; the figure smiled, his lips curling sensuously to reveal his gleaming white teeth; then he answered my bow. He swept back his cloak, which had hung around him like desert robes, and walked past me towards the Tartar guards. They saluted him respectfully; he made no response. I watched him as he entered the house and disappeared.

‘At the same time, we heard men’s voices from the road, and saw a deputation approaching us. It was from the Vizier, come to greet us and bring us the flattering news that although Ali was not in residence in Yanina, we were invited to join him in Tapaleen, the town of his birth, some fifty miles further along the road. We bowed, and expressed our profoundest thanks; we swapped courtesies; we praised the beauties of Yanina. Then, having exhausted our stock of pleasantries, I asked about the man who was sharing the courtyard with us, explaining that I would like to pay him my respects. There was a sudden silence; the members of the delegation all glanced at each other, and the leader looked embarrassed. The man I had seen, he muttered, was a pasha from the southern mountains; the leader paused, and then added with sudden insistence, as though the idea had just come to him, that since the Pasha was only staying for the one night, it might perhaps be best to leave him undisturbed. Everyone else nodded and agreed, and then a sudden flood of pleasantries rolled out over us. “Near as damn drowned me,” as Hobhouse put it later. “Almost as though they’d had something to hide.”

‘Well, Hobby always had a genius for sniffing out the obvious. The next day we rode out to view the countryside, and I asked our guide, a soft, fat Greek named Athanasius, a scholar assigned to us by the Vizier, what our hosts might possibly have wanted to conceal. Athanasius had flushed slightly at the mention of the Pasha, but then he composed himself and shrugged.

‘“It is Vakhel Pasha who is staying opposite you,” he explained. “I imagine the Vizier’s servants were frightened of his reputation. They did not want any unpleasantness. If you were to make complaints against them to Ali Pasha, then, well, of course - it would be bad for them.”

‘“Why, what unpleasantness are you talking about? What is Vakhel Pasha’s reputation?”

‘“He is said to be a magician. He is said by the Turks to have sold his soul to Eblis, the Prince of Hell.”

‘“I see. And has he?”

‘Athanasius glanced at me. I noticed, to my surprise, that he hadn’t smiled. “Of course not,” he muttered. “Vakhel Pasha is a scholar, indeed a great scholar, I believe. That is rare enough amongst the Mussulmen for it to excite rumour and suspicion. They are all pigs, you see, our lords and masters, all ignorant pigs.” Athanasius glanced over his shoulder. “But if Vakhel Pasha is not ignorant - well then - it is that which makes him dangerous. Only Turks and peasants could believe he was truly a demon - but he is a strange man, all the same, and the subject of strange tales. I would do as you have been advised, My Lord, and keep away from him.”

‘“But Athanasius, you make him sound quite unmissable.”

‘“Perhaps that is why he is so dangerous, then.”

‘“You have met him yourself?”

‘Athanasius nodded.

‘“Tell me,” I asked.

‘“I have a library. He wished to consult a manuscript.”

‘“On what topic?”

‘“As I recall,” said Athanasius in a thin voice, strange from one so fleshy, “it was a treatise on the Aheron, and its role in ancient myth as the river of death.”

‘“I see.” The coincidence was enough to make me pause. “What was his interest in the Aheron, do you remember that?”

‘Athanasius didn’t answer. I looked into his face. It was waxy and pale. “Are you well?” I asked.

‘“Yes, yes.” Athanasius shook out his reins, and cantered ahead. I joined him, so that we were riding side by side again, but didn’t press my guide, who remained nervous and withdrawn. Suddenly though, he turned to me. “My Lord,” he whispered, as though confessing a secret, “if you must know, Vakhel Pasha is the ruler over all the mountains around Aheron. His castle is built on a cliff above the river. It is that, I’m sure, which explains his interest in its past - but please, do not press me on this topic any more.”

‘“No, of course not,” I said. I had already grown accustomed to the cowardice of the Greeks. Then I remembered Nikos. He had been brave. He had also hoped to flee a Turkish lord. Had the lord been Vakhel Pasha? If it had been, then I was afraid for the boy. That night at the inn - I nodded to myself - yes, Nikos had been wild and beautiful, he deserved to be free. “What is Vakhel Pasha doing in Yanina, do you know?” I asked casually.

‘Athanasius stared at me. He began to shake. “I don’t know,” he whispered, then spurred his horse on. I let him ride ahead for a while. When I rejoined him, we neither of us mentioned Vakhel Pasha again.

‘We passed the day amongst the ruins of an ancient shrine. Hobhouse prodded at stones and made interminable notes; I sat in the shade of a toppled column, poeticising. The beauty of the sky and mountains, and the mournful reminders of decay all around, were pleasantly profound; I scribbled, and dozed, and followed my thoughts. It grew increasingly hard for me to know, as day darkened into the purples of evening, whether I was awake or asleep; everything around me began to grow impossibly vivid, so that I felt that I was seeing the true stuff of life for the very first time, the beat of existence in flowers and trees, in the grass, even in the land itself. The rocks and soil, which seemed to me like flesh and bone, something like myself. A hare sat watching me; I could hear the pulsing of its heart in my ears, and feel the warmth of its blood. Its life smelled rich and beautiful. It began to run, and the pumping of its blood, through its muscles and arteries, and heart, its beating heart, washed the landscape red and stained the sky. I felt a scorching thirst in the back of my throat. I sat up, clutching at my neck, and it was then, as I stared after the disappearing hare, that I saw Vakhel Pasha.

‘He too was smelling after the animal. He was standing on a rock, against which he slowly lowered himself, so that he was crouching like some beast of the mountains, a wolf perhaps. The hare was gone; but still the Pasha lay crouched, and I realised that he was smelling after something far richer and more precious than the hare. He turned to look at me. His face was deathly pale, and smooth with an extraordinary calm. His eyes seemed to be staring at me from within my own head; they gleamed with the knowledge of all that I was and desired. He turned, and smelled the air again, and smiled, and then his features were suddenly dimmed, and where before there had been stillness, there was now only envy and despair, and yet the show of wisdom in his face was none the less remarkable for its disfigurement. I stood up to join him, and felt myself wake. When I looked at the rock, Vakhel Pasha was gone. Just a dream - yet I continued to feel troubled, and on our journey back from the ancient site, the memory of what I had seen oppressed me as though it had been somehow more than a dream.

‘Athanasius too seemed uneasy. The sun was setting. The further it sank behind the mountaintops, the more he glanced over his back to watch its descent. I asked him why he was troubled. He shook his head and laughed, but played with his reins like a nervous child. Then the sun was lost behind the mountain range, and at once we heard hoofbeats, pounding behind us down the valley road. Athanasius reined in his horse, then reached over to pull in mine, as a squadron of cavalry thundered past. The horsemen were Tartars, dressed like the guards outside Vakhel Pasha’s rooms. I looked for the Pasha amongst them, to my relief in vain. “What were they after?” I asked Athanasius, gesturing at the disappearing cavalry.

‘“What do you mean?” he answered in a hoarse whisper.

‘I shrugged. “Oh, just that they seemed to be searching for something.” Athanasius made a choking noise, and his face twitched horribly. Without saying a further word, he spurred his horse onwards down the Yanina road. Hobhouse and I were happy to follow him, for it was growing very dark.’

‘But the Pasha,’ Rebecca interrupted, ‘when you saw him on the rock - had it really been a dream?’

Lord Byron stared at her coldly. ‘We stayed in Yanina five more days,’ he said, ignoring her question. ‘So too, across the courtyard, did the Tartar guards, and I assumed that Vakhel Pasha, despite what the Vizier’s servants had told us, remained in Yanina as well. I never saw him, however; instead’ - and here he stared hard at Rebecca again - ‘I dreamed of him, not as we normally dream, but with the clarity of wakefulness, so that I could never be wholly sure that I was not awake after all. The Pasha would visit me wordlessly, a pale livid form, by my bed, in my room, or sometimes on the streets or on the mountainside, for I found now that I was sleeping at strange times, almost as though someone else were dreaming me. I would struggle against these fits of slumber, but always succumb, and it was then that the Pasha would appear, breaking through my dreams like a thief into a room.’

Lord Byron paused, and closed his eyes, as though trying to glimpse the phantom’s image again.

‘I felt the same,’ said Rebecca with a sudden nervous insistence. ‘In the crypt, when you held me in your arms. I felt that you were dreaming me.’

Lord Byron raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’ he asked.

‘And the Pasha came like that to you?’

He shrugged.

‘Or did you meet him in the end?’

Rebecca stared into the gleam of the vampire’s eyes. ‘Sleep hath its own world,’ he murmured. ‘A boundary between the things misnamed - death and existence.’ He smiled sadly, and stared into the flickering of the candle flame. ‘There was a monastery,’ he said at last. ‘We visited it on the evening before our departure. It was built on the island in the lake.’ Lord Byron looked up. ‘The same island from which, on my first night, I had seen a boat rowed across. I had wanted to see the monastery earlier, for that reason alone. According to Athanasius, however, such a visit had been impossible to arrange. One of the monks had been found dead, he explained - the monastery had had to be purified. I asked him when the monk had died. On the day of our arrival in Yanina, he replied. Then I asked what had killed the monk. But Athanasius shook his head. He didn’t know - monks were always secretive. “But at least the monastery is open now.”

‘We landed. The jetty was empty, and the village beyond it as well. We walked into the monastery, but when Athanasius called out, there was no answer, and I saw our guide frown. “In here,” he said without conviction, opening the door to a tiny side chapel. Hobhouse and I followed him; the chapel was empty, but we paused to study the walls. “The Last Judgement,” said Athanasius unnecessarily, pointing at one gruesome fresco. The representation of Satan in particular struck me; he was both beautiful and terrible, perfectly white except for a mottling of blood around his mouth. I caught Athanasius watching me as I studied it; he turned hurriedly and called out again. Hobhouse joined me. “Looks like that Pasha fellow,” he said. “This way,” said Athanasius hurriedly, as though in response. “We must go.” He led us into the main church. At first I thought that it too was empty, but then I saw, bent over a desk by the far wall, a shaven-headed figure clad in flowing robes. The figure stared round at us, then rose slowly to his feet. Light from a window illumined his face. I saw that where before I had remembered only pallor, Vakhel Pasha now had a flush of colour in his cheeks.

‘“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 well - 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.’

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.’