by Tom Holland
‘Suddenly, someone seized my horse’s reins. I looked down, startled, and reached for my gun, but before I could cock it, the man by my stirrups had raised up both his hands and called out the Greek words of welcome. I answered him, then sat back in my saddle and laughed with relief. The man watched me patiently. He was old, with silver moustaches and a straight back, and his name, he told me, was Gorgiou. Hobhouse joined us - I explained to the old man who we were and what had happened to us. He seemed unsurprised at the news, and when I had finished talking, said nothing at all at first. Instead he whistled and two other figures stepped forwards from behind the rocks. Gorgiou introduced them as his sons, Petro and Nikos. Petro I liked at once; he was a large, weather-beaten man, with strong arms and an honest face. Nikos was clearly much younger, and seemed slight and frail beside his brother. He wore a cloak over his head, so that it was impossible for us to see his face.
‘Gorgiou told us that he and his sons were shepherds - we asked him if he had a shelter nearby. He shook his head. Then we asked if Aheron was far. He made no reply to this, but looked startled, then took Petro to one side. They began to whisper urgently. Several times we overheard the word our bodyguard had spoken, “vardoulacha, vardoulacha”. At last Gorgiou turned back to us. He explained that Aheron was dangerous; they were travelling there because Nikos was sick, but that we, if we could, should find somewhere else. We asked if there were any other villages nearby. Gorgiou shook his head. Then we asked why Aheron was dangerous. Gorgiou shrugged. Were there bandits, we asked, robbers? No, there were no bandits. Then what was the danger? Just danger, Gorgiou said with a second shrug.
‘Behind us, Fletcher sneezed. “I don’t care how dangerous it is,” he muttered, “just so long as there’s a roof over our heads.”
‘“Your valet is a philosopher,” said Hobhouse. “I absolutely agree.”
‘We told Gorgiou that we would accompany him. The old man, seeing that we were determined, did not protest. He began to head on down the path, but Petro, instead of walking with him, reached out for Nikos. Would I carry the boy on my horse? he asked. I said that I would be happy to, but Nikos, when his brother tried to lift him, flinched away. “You are ill,” Petro told him, as though reminding him, and Nikos, reluctantly, allowed himself to be lifted up onto the horse. I caught the gleam of dark girlish eyes from beneath the shadow of his hood. He wrapped his arms around me; his body against mine felt slim and soft.
‘The path began to descend. As it did so, the roaring I had heard earlier became more thunderous, and Gorgiou reached up to touch my arm. “Aheron,” he said, pointing towards a bridge ahead of us. I cantered gently down towards it. The bridge was stone and clearly centuries old. Just beneath its span, waters boiled and hissed as they spilled from a wave-worn precipice into the river far below, and then slipped black and silent between two barren cliffs. The storm had almost died, and a pale twilight was staining the sky, but no light caught the Aheron as it flowed through the gorge. All was dark, deep and dark. “In old times,” said Gorgiou, standing by my side, “it is said a ferryman carried the dead to Hell from here.”
‘I looked at him sharply. “What, this very place?”
‘Gorgiou pointed towards the gorge. “Through there.” He glanced up at me. “But now, of course, we have the Holy Church, to guard us from evil spirits.” He turned hurriedly, and walked on. I glanced again at the dead waters of the Aheron, then followed him.
‘The ground now was flattening out. The rocks were starting to be replaced by scrubby grass, and looking ahead I could see faint lights. “The village?” I asked Gorgiou. He nodded. But it was no village, our destination, scarcely even a hamlet, just a mean straggle of shacks and a tiny inn. I saw a crossroads beyond the inn.
‘“Yanina,” said Petro, pointing down the second road. There was no sign by the crossroads, but I could see a forest of stakes, very like the one our soldiers had found by the mountain road. I trotted past the inn to look at them, but Nikos, seeing the stakes, held my arms. “No,” he whispered fiercely, “no, turn back.” His voice was enchanting, musical and soft like a girl’s, and it acted on me like a charm. But before I wheeled my horse round, I was relieved to see that the stakes were unadorned.
‘Inside the inn, our rooms were wretched, but after our ordeal on the mountainside and the grim spectacle of the Aheron, I welcomed them as though they were paradise. Hobhouse grumbled, as he always did, about hard beds and rough sheets, but agreed reluctantly that it was better than a grave, and tucked in well enough when supper came. Afterwards, we went to find Gorgiou. He was sitting by the fire, sharpening his knife. It was a long, cruel blade, and at once I remembered the sight of our soldiers dead in the mud. Gorgiou, however, I liked, and Petro too, for being as stern and upright as the mountains themselves. Yet both men seemed nervous; they stayed by the fire, their knives by their sides, and though everything between us soon seemed hiccups and friendliness, their eyes kept straying to the windows. I asked them once what they were looking for; Gorgiou said nothing; Petro laughed and muttered about the Turks. I didn’t believe him - he didn’t seem the man to be scared of other men. But of what else, if not the Turks, was there to be afraid?
‘Outside in the yard, a dog began to howl. The innkeeper hurried to the door and unslid the bolts. He peered out. We could hear hooves approaching us through the mud. I left Gorgiou and walked across to the door. I watched the landlord as he hurried out into the road. Thin wisps of mist, stained in the twilight a watery green, had risen from the earth and obscured all but the outline of the mountain peaks, so that I might almost have been staring out at the dead waters of Hell, and it would not have been a surprise to see the ferryman, old Charon, piloting his bark of spectres through the descending night.
‘“You must be careful here,” said a girl’s voice from beside me.
‘I turned round. It was not a girl at all, but Nikos.’ Lord Byron paused. Again, he stared past Rebecca into the dark. He bowed his head, and then, when he looked up again, he gazed deep into Rebecca’s eyes.
‘What is it?’ she asked, disconcerted by his look.
Lord Byron shook his head.
‘Tell me.’
Lord Byron’s smile was twisted and strange. ‘I was thinking, as poets do, how beauty must always pass away.’
Rebecca stared at him. ‘Not your own, though.’
‘No.’ His smile faded. ‘But Nikos was lovelier by far than me. Looking at you just now, I remembered him, as he stood by me in that inn, with a sudden utter clarity. His hood had been thrown back, not so far that it revealed his hair, but sufficient to display the beauty of his face. His eyes, I saw, were black as death, his lashes the same hue. He lowered them, and I stared into their silk shadow, until Nikos blushed and looked away. But he stayed by my side, and when I walked out into the mist, he followed me. I could sense that he wanted to take my arm.
‘Two travellers had arrived. One was a woman, one a priest; both were dressed in black. The woman was escorted past us into the inn; her face was pale and I could see that she had been crying. The priest stayed outside, and when the innkeeper re-emerged back into the road, he shouted some orders and walked towards the crossroads. The innkeeper followed, but before he joined the priest, he untethered a goat from the side of the inn, and then carried it with him as he walked down the road towards the forest of stakes.
‘“What are they doing?” I asked.
‘“They are trying to lure the vardoulacha with the smell of fresh blood,” Nikos said.
‘“Vardoulacha - I keep hearing this word, vardoulacha . What is it?”
‘“It is a dead spirit that will not die.” Nikos glanced up at me, and for the first time since I had made him blush, our eyes met. “The vardoulacha drinks blood. It is an evil thing. You must beware of it, for it prefers to drink from a living man.”
‘Hobhouse had joined us. “Come and see this, Hobby,” I told him. “It might give you something to scribble in your journal.” Together, the
three of us walked down the road. The priest, I saw, was standing by a trench; the innkeeper held the goat over it. The animal was bleating with fear; the innkeeper, with a sudden movement of his arm, silenced the goat’s screams, and blood began to pump into the trench. “Fascinating,” said Hobhouse, “quite fascinating.” He turned to me. “Byron - the Odyssey - you remember it - Odysseus does the same thing when he wants to summon up the dead. The ghosts of the underworld can only feed on blood.”
‘“Yes.” I remembered the passage well. It had always chilled me, the thought of the hero, waiting for the ghosts of Hades to come. I peered through the mists at the road that led back to Aheron. “And he would have come to this very place, I suppose - to the river of the dead - to summon them.” I imagined the spirits, the sheeted dead, squeaking and gibbering as they flocked down the road.
‘“Why,” I asked Nikos, “if the vardoulacha is so dangerous, do they want to summon him?”
‘“It was once the woman’s husband. The priest has come to destroy it.”
‘“The woman in the inn?” asked Hobhouse. “The woman who has just arrived?”
‘Nikos nodded. “She is from a village near to ours. Her husband has been buried for months now, but he is still seen, walking as he always did when alive, and the villagers are afraid.”
‘Hobhouse laughed, but Nikos shook his head. “There can be no doubt,” he said.
‘“How?”
‘“When he was alive, his leg was withered, and now when he is seen, he limps in the same way as he used to do.”
‘“Ah, well,” said Hobhouse, “that proves it. Better kill him off quick.”
‘Nikos nodded. “They will.”
‘“But why have they come here?” I asked. “To this spot?”
‘Nikos looked at me in surprise. “Because this is Aheron,” he said simply. He pointed at the road we had come down that evening. “This is the way that the dead come from Hell.”
‘We stared into the trench. The blood had almost drained now from the corpse of the goat, and lay black and viscous inside the earth. Beside the trench, I saw, a long stake lay prepared. The priest turned to us, and gestured that we should return inside. We needed little encouragement. Gorgiou and Petro both seemed relieved when we joined them again by the fire. Petro rose to his feet and took Nikos in his arms; he spoke to him in a low urgent whisper, and seemed to be scolding him. Nikos listened impassively, then shrugged himself free. He turned to me. “Don’t mock us for what I have told you, My Lord,” he said softly. “Tonight, bar your windows.” I promised that I would. Nikos paused; then he felt inside his cloak and drew out a tiny crucifix. “Please,” he said, “for my sake - keep this by your side.”
‘I took the cross. It seemed made of gold, and was beautifully worked with precious stones. “Where did you get this from?” I asked in surprise - its value seemed far in excess of anything that might be owned by a shepherd boy.
‘Nikos brushed my hand. “Keep it, My Lord,” he whispered. “For who knows what things may be abroad tonight?” Then he turned and was gone, like a girl suddenly embarrassed that her lover might be admiring her.
‘When I retired to bed, I did as Nikos had advised, and locked the windows shut. Hobhouse chaffed me, but as I pointed out to him, he failed to open them up again. We both fell straight asleep, even Hobhouse, who usually lay in his bed waiting to complain about the sharpness of the fleas. I had placed the crucifix on the wall above our heads, hoping that it would give us a dreamless night, but the air was filthy and close, and I slept badly. Several times I woke, and I noticed that Hobhouse too was sweating and tossing on his sheets. Once I dreamed that there was scratching on the wall outside. I imagined that I woke and saw a face, bloodless and with a look of imbecilic savagery, staring in at me. I fell back to sleep and dreamed again, this time that the creature was scratching at the bars, his nails like talons making a hideous sound, but when I awoke there was nothing, and I half-smiled to think how powerfully Nikos’ tale had affected me. A third time I fell asleep, and a third time I dreamed, and now the creature’s nails were slicing through the bars, and the stench of carrion on his breath seemed to be carrying some foul pestilence into our room, so that I grew suddenly afraid that unless I opened my eyes we would never wake again. I sat up in a violent sweat. Again, the window was empty, but this time I walked across to it, and saw, to my horror, that there were gouges sliced across the bars. I gripped them, until my knuckles were white, and leaned my forehead against the central bar. The metal felt cool against my feverish skin. I stared out into the night. The mist was thick, and it was hard to see far beyond the road. Everything seemed still. Then, suddenly, I thought I saw movement - a man, or at least something resembling a man, running with extraordinary pace, but also with what seemed a lurch, as though one of the legs had been damaged in some way. I blinked, and the creature was lost. I peered desperately into the mists, but everything was still again, stiller perhaps, I thought with a grim half-smile, even than death itself.
‘I reached for the pistols that I always slept with under my pillow, and threw on my travelling cloak. I walked stealthily through the inn. To my relief, I saw that the doors were still barred; I opened them, and crept outside. In the far distance, a dog was howling; all else was silent and motionless. I walked down the road a small way, towards the clump of stakes. The crossroads was swathed in mist but everything there seemed as still as at the inn, and so I turned and made my way, as you can imagine, thoughtfully back. When I reached the inn, I barred the doors, then, as quietly as before, I crept back towards my room.
‘The door, when I reached it, was hanging open. I had left it shut, I was certain. As silently as I could, I approached it, and walked into the room. Hobhouse lay as I had left him, sweating on his filthy sheets, but bending over him, head almost touching his naked chest, was a figure muffled in an ugly black cloak. I aimed my pistol; the cocking of the weapon made the creature flinch, but before it could turn, the barrel of the pistol was buried in its back. “Outside,” I whispered. Slowly, the creature rose. I nudged it with the gun, and prodded it back into the corridor outside.
‘I pulled it round, and tore the cloak back from its face. I stared at it and then I began to laugh. I remembered what had been said to me earlier that evening. I repeated the words. “Who knows what things may be abroad tonight?”
‘Nikos did not smile. I gestured with the pistol that he should sit down. Reluctantly, he sank onto the floor.
‘I stood over him. “If you wanted to rob Hobhouse - and I presume that’s what you were doing in our room - why wait until now?”
‘Nikos frowned in puzzlement.
‘“Your father,” I explained, “your brother - they were the klephti who killed our guards yesterday?”
‘Nikos made no answer. I prodded my pistol into his back. “Did you kill my guards?” I asked again.
Slowly, Nikos nodded his head.
‘“Why?”
‘“They were Turks,” he said simply.
‘“Why not us as well?”
‘Nikos looked at me angrily. “We are soldiers,” he said, “not bandits.”
‘“Of course not. You are all honest shepherds - I was forgetting.”
‘“Yes, we are shepherds,” said Nikos with a sudden explosion of fury, “just peasants, My Lord, animals, the slaves of a Turkish vardoulacha!” The word was spat at me without irony. “I had a brother, My Lord, my father had a son - he was killed by the Turks. Do you think slaves cannot take their revenge? Do you think slaves cannot dream of freedom, and fight for it? Who knows, My Lord, perhaps the time will come when Greeks do not have to be slaves.” Nikos’ face was pale, and he was shaking, but his dark eyes gleamed with defiance. I reached out to calm him, to hold him in my arms, but he leaped to his feet and pressed himself against the wall. Suddenly, he laughed. “Of course, you are right - I am a slave, so why should I care? Have me, My Lord, and then give me the gold.” He reached up to take my cheeks. He kissed me,
his lips burning, with anger first, and then, I knew, with something more, a long, long kiss of youth and passion, when heart and soul and sense move in sudden concert, and the sum of what is felt can no longer be reckoned.
‘Yet the despairing mockery of his words stayed in my ears. Without sense of time, I still knew that I had to break from the kiss. I did so. I took Nikos by the wrist, then dragged him back into my room. Hobhouse stirred; seeing me with the boy, he groaned and turned his back on us. I reached across him for a bag of coins. “Take it,” I said, tossing the bag to Nikos. “I enjoyed your tales of vampires and ghouls. Take it as a reward for your inventiveness.” The boy stared back at me in silence. His inscrutability only made him seem all the more vulnerable. “Where will you go?” I asked him, more gently than before.
‘The boy spoke at last. “A long way off.”
‘“ Where?”
‘“To the north perhaps. There are free Greeks there.”
‘“Does your father know?”
‘“Yes. He is sad, of course. He had three children - one is dead, and I must flee, and tomorrow there will only be Petro left to him. But he knows I have no choice.”
‘I stared at the boy, as slim and frail as a beautiful girl. He was, after all, just a boy - and yet I regretted the thought of losing him. “Why do you have no choice?” I asked.
‘Nikos shook his head. “I can’t say.”
‘“Travel with us.”
‘“Two foreign lords?” Nikos laughed suddenly. “Yes, I could travel very inconspicuously with you.” He glanced down at the bag I had given him. “Thank you, My Lord, but I prefer your gold.”
‘He turned, and would have left the room had I not held his arm. I reached back to the wall and unhooked the cross. “Take this as well,” I said. “It must be valuable. I won’t need it now.”