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.’
Chapter Eight: October 13, 1809
It rained the entire night. Byron slept well, waking only a couple of times in the course of the evening to the sound of raindrops. There was no storm or downpour, the wind was not whipping about, and no thunder or lightning split the heavens; it was simply a strong rain; constant, not heavy and not light. The morning nonetheless proved to be dry. The sky was grey, the ground wet, the horizon foggy, but there was no more precipitation. When Byron awoke, he opened the window. A keen, pleasant cool breeze forced its way into the room, tainted with an aromatic wisp of garlic, the way it often is after a rain. Byron noted with satisfaction that they had avoided the downpour in the most fortuitous way possible, and he envisaged that the riding today would be pleasant. He was agreeably hungry and looking forward to a feast of a breakfast; he was in a good mood as he walked to the dining room. People had already set to eating with vigour, and Byron was happy to join them. The priests and the Englishmen were in fine fettle; the two Albanians gave, as ever, the impression of indifference; only Isak gave off a worried air.
‘We slept through the rain – isn’t that perfect?’ Byron said to him.
‘I would be happy, my lord, if you prove to be right about that, but I have my doubts,’ Isak responded distractedly.
After breakfast the Abbot uttered a few sentences, and Isak nodded in agreement.
‘What did he say?’ Byron wanted to know.
Isak grinned cynically: ‘He is offering their hospitality for as long as we might want it, although yesterday I told him that we are in a hurry to move on. Nothing is sweeter than parading hospitality that you know will be declined.’
‘That’s a shame,’ Byron responded. ‘I find the monastery interesting. I’d like to stay here a while, get a better look at it. Wander through the library and chat with the priests.’ ‘Maybe on the return journey, my lord,’ answered Isak. ‘You have to return to Yannina anyway, before you travel on to Athens and Istanbul. But for now it’s best if we move as fast as we can. Believe me, my lord, I’d love it if I were wrong about this, but in a short while there is going to come a rain the likes of which you have never seen.’
Byron shook his head in disbelief. But at any rate he was aware that Isak was right about the return journey. He would by necessity come the same way again, and would then visit the monastery for a while longer. There was no need to delay things now; it would be best to put in an appearance in front of Ali Pasha as soon as possible.
‘Then let’s make a move,’ he said to Isak.
They left the building and the boys brought them their mounts. The horses had also been rested, fed, and groomed. Byron swung his leg over his black steed and patted its mane. The gate to the compound was opened, and the little troop set off into the late morning grey of an autumn day, to the accompaniment of ringing of bells.
* * *
It was probably due to a command from Isak that the Albanians moved at a furious tempo. Was it on account of their speed, the jovial mood, or the actual beauty of the landscape that led Byron to believe he had never laid eyes on lovelier views in this part of the world than here? Billows of fog, thick like foam, floated around the majestic mountain peaks like angels; the trees with their bare profiles of densely interwoven branches reminded him of shaggy paintbrushes with residual spots of paint; the diaphanous vapour rising from the river mixed with the creamy white ejaculate of the rapids. In the chiaroscuro of the gloomy mid-day, everything white gave the impression of something other-worldly. Byron enjoyed the landscape without having the desire to slow down or stop. It was the kind of beauty that hides its most profound essence behind the fact that one experiences it in leisurely, random doses; it is an unobtrusive beauty that doesn’t change your life yet also cannot be ignored. A permanent smile hovered on Byron’s face.
It seemed that no one else seemed to take as much pleasure in the journey. The two Albanians at whose backs he was staring rode along swiftly and easily, but mechanically. It took all of Hobhouse’s effort to keep pace with Byron and Isak, who looked genuinely worried. From time to time he inspected the sky, and although Byron thought that nothing had changed for the better or the worse, Isak obviously was of a different opinion. He mumbled, as if to himself: ‘maybe we should have stayed with the priests.’ It crossed Byron’s mind that Isak might be carrying on a bit theatrically: he appeared to be enjoying the role of sage, in cahoots with the mysteries of nature. Because at this moment, if they should for some reason require a drop of rain, there wouldn’t even be enough to take one’s medicine.
Byron, accustomed to the English climate, to those frequent afternoons when the rain stops suddenly, suddenly and briefly, and then starts right up again, on and on for eternity – Byron truly liked an autumn like this. Here it rained fairly hard for a couple of hours, and then it stopped, and that was it. There weren’t these boring stretches of drizzle, which looked innocuous but which in the long run left a person more soaked through than did the strongest shower; there was no constant dripping, like a curtain on the world; there was none of that cold, windy, diagonally plunging rain. It was simply thus: either it was raining, or it wasn’t. And at the moment, it was not raining; not a single drop had fallen on his cheek, the back of his hand, or the horse’s head.
All this time Isak kept his eyes riveted on the sky, and he mumbled something under his breath. He seems displeased that it isn’t raining, Byron thought; and if the burst of rain doesn’t come down for five more days, he’ll still say it’s exactly what he predicted. With a perverse sense of satisfaction, Byron stared at Isak every time he looked up. Meanwhile, Isak did not react to any of this; but he did call out, after every one of his numerous glances up at the heavens, something to the two men riding along in front of them, and they then spurred their horses on to a gallop. Byron was just about to say something, when the bottom fell out of the sky. He could not have imagined that a rain such as that could fall; as if it were not a rain consisting of drops, but a gigantic torrent cascading down from the sky, like a waterfall, like wine decanted. At first Byron didn’t consider this rain to be either an inconvenience or a danger; he cast his eyes about as if bewitched. It was raining so hard that even the summits of the mountains in the distance could not be seen clearly. Instead, he felt like a diver looking at an underwater reef, rising up from the floor of the sea. The silhouettes of the riders next to him were also blurry. Isak shouted something, but Byron co
uldn’t understand him. Finally he caught enough to know that in the vicinity somewhere was a cave.
They followed the two Albanians as they turned off the main route. The hooves of the horses sank into the muddy path, and the raindrops struck the ground with such force that the riders were spattered with dirt from underneath. Byron remembered just then that the rain had commenced when there was no sign yet of dusk, but now the clouds hung so low, and it was so dark, that the day was indistinguishable from the night. Soon lightning began, and the world lit up from one second to the next with an unreal shine; while thunder echoed like a cannonade. The horses reared up in fright more and more often. Fletcher, one of the Englishmen in Byron’s entourage, tumbled off his horse, but fortunately he sustained no injury. Isak leapt down from his mount to see what kind of help he should offer, and then climbed back into the saddle. The others paused and waited for them. At precisely that moment more lightning flashed, and Hobhouse caught sight of the entrance to the cave. As the echo of thunder rolled over the earth, the dripping horses and men made for the grotto. In the soaked earth the animals left hoof-prints as if they were walking on snow or sand.
* * *
The cave was as spacious and comfortable as a cave could be. It was split into two more or less equally large sections. The first part was approximately ten metres long, ten metres wide, and four to five metres high. Beyond it the floor dropped half a metre, forming a broad step, and then the cave continued beyond. This second section was somewhat deeper, but its natural ceiling grew gradually lower until it was barely one metre high. The group made their way into the back section, while the horses remained up front, in the antechamber, as Byron termed it. Soon they had all warmed themselves at a freshly kindled fire. The men placed it between themselves and the horses, at the base of the step, so they could share the heat and some of the smoke could make its way outside. A simple supper, without table, chairs, or eating utensils, was soon behind them.
Immediately after the meal, everyone save Isak and Byron lay down to rest. Isak stared meditatively at the wall of the cave; Byron busied himself with the fire, adding a big tree stump now and again, so that it would smoulder until morning. As the fire crackled anew, an unclear word that Isak had whispered caught Byron’s ear. What kind of plateau? Byron wondered. Did Isak mean the low flat platform in the interior of their cave, or did he mean the high plain across which they were travelling? Byron looked inquisitively at Isak, who added: ‘The parable of the cave.’
In a fraction of a second Byron realized that Isak wasn’t talking about a plateau but rather about Plato. On the wall, the horses’ shadows were clearly outlined. Byron grinned and caught Isak’s eye. Isak smiled back at him. There was something magical about the fact that two men, at midnight in a cave, with the Great Flood raging outside, would both call to mind a classical philosopher and a story he had written more than two millennia ago. This time there’s no need to tell each other stories, Byron thought; a single word had been enough to know that we’re both familiar with this story and are both thinking the same thing.
The first snores were now coming from their companions and from outside came the swooshing of falling water and the muffled reverberations of thunder; the two men remained silent and let their thoughts wander to Plato. This was, after all, more or less the territory, the region, from which Plato hailed, and it was because of Plato that Byron had set out for this part of the world. For Plato was a metaphor for Hellas, for the Iliad and the Odyssey, for Chapman’s Homer, for Achilles and Patrocles, and Hector and Paris and Priam, for Zeno and the turtle, Aristotle and Socrates, Zeus, Hera, Apollo, Athena, Dionysius, Ares, and Aphrodite. Plato was the metaphor for everything upon which his culture and identity was based. From Plato were descended Virgil and the Gospels according to John and St. Augustine. The concept of love on which Byron’s life rested was in turn derived from Plato. Without Plato, there would not be a Mary Anne Chaworth, and actually no Marias anywhere; nor would there be any Sintra or any girl from Sintra, no Helen of Troy and no Zuleiha. ‘A metaphor,’ Byron whispered. Now Isak was looking at him, but the expression on his face was puzzling.
‘Soon,’ he said, ‘you’ll be travelling on to Athens, right, my lord?’
Byron nodded his head.
‘Do you know how the Greeks use the word metaphor?’ Isak asked.
‘The same way we do,’ Byron shot back. ‘As a symbol.’
Isak laughed out loud, so loudly in fact that Hobhouse jolted out of his sleep. ‘No, my lord, there you are wrong. For the Greeks, a metaphor is the same as it was thousands of years ago,’ Isak said through his chuckle. ‘When you need a carriage in Athens, call for a “metaphor,” and you will be presented with a quite tangible carriage with horses and a driver, and not with Apollo’s team or a bridled Pegasus. In Greek, “metaphor” is still the word for a conveyance. It is still true to its etymology, without any Western literary associations.’
‘Are you being serious?’ Byron asked.
‘Very serious, my lord,’ Isak confirmed. ‘But that’s the Balkans for you: here Plato is still alive in the caves, and a metaphor is not made of paper but of solid wood and living flesh. Let’s turn in, my lord, but with the way this rain is coming down, you should not be surprised if we don’t wake up for three hundred years.’
With that Isak turned towards the fire and lay down. Judging from his breath, he fell asleep forthwith. Byron was left alone for a long time with the shadows of the horses, before he too drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Nine: October 14, 1809
Byron was awakened by the feeling that someone was looking at him. He opened his eyes to find Isak’s gaze on him.
‘Good morning,’ Isak said.
He was evidently the first one out of bed; for everyone else was still asleep. Meanwhile, as if on command, the others began to stir. It was still raining, Isak proclaimed to all; no longer so violently, but still fairly heavily.
‘So the weather is moderating,’ Byron murmured.
Isak replied that he wouldn’t quite say that. ‘This is more of a short respite. That’s why we should get moving quickly, if we don’t intend to spend several more days in this cave. If we head out now and don’t pause to rest, we can, by my calculation, reach a han by nightfall,’ Isak concluded.
His eyes scanned the room. The Albanians nodded hastily, while Byron and Hobhouse shrugged their shoulders. Hobhouse walked over to the entrance of the cave, and he came back a few seconds later: ‘It’s still raining ferociously. We should wait a few more hours, or at least eat something first,’ he said, turning to face Isak.
‘No,’ Isak said, ‘that’s not possible. We have to make use of the day and its light. It’s going to rain even harder, believe me.’
So with collars up and heads covered by caps and scarves, they all led their horses out of the cave, spurred them on, and rode off. The rain continued its intense drumming on the earth, but the thunder and wind had ceased. All around them lay evidence of nature’s fury from the night before. There were broken boughs and branches everywhere, and many smaller trees had been completely ripped out of the ground; the earth was plowed up, and the road was strewn with numerous puddles and swamp-like pools. The stubborn rain drew fleeting concentric circles on the surface of these shallow but turbid waters. Byron, riding along with his head down, watched intently as the puddles were bombarded by droplets and sent up dirty, cold spurts of water in response. They soon reached the highway, which had not been spared by the storm. The river had overflowed its banks at one point, and they literally had to ride through water for several hundred metres.
‘It’s a good thing that we got an early start,’ Isak said to Hobhouse, ‘because by this afternoon it will be a great deal more difficult to get through here, and by tomorrow it might well be impossible. We would have to make a long detour around this whole area, and it would then have taken fifteen days to get to Tepelena.’
Gradually the rain again poured down harder and harder. The roa
d was deserted: since they broke camp that morning, they had not encountered a single living creature. Now, though, Byron caught sight of a massive silhouette in the sky. An eagle, giant and solitary, flew over them. Isak looked up as well, and said: ‘That is a terrifying bird. It’s the wolf among birds. It attacks snipes but does not spare even lambs. Do you know, my lord, how Aeschylus died?’
Byron shook his head in the negative.
‘Eagles like that take hold of tortoises and smash their armour by dropping them onto rocks from high in the air. They say that an eagle mistook Aeschylus’ bald, pale head for a stone and subsequently smashed it with a tortoise, so that human brains and the meat of the animal were mixed together.’
Byron and the Beauty Page 6