by Tom Holland
‘We reached Smyrna on the afternoon of our second day at sea. My stay there was torture. I felt a restlessness and disquietude that I had never known before, and a terror at the thought of what might be happening to me. The proofs of that, both within my body and inside my mind, seemed terrible and full - and yet still I couldn’t bear to believe the truth. And if I could not confess it to myself, then to whom else could I turn for help and advice? Hobhouse, as ever, was a devoted friend; and yet he was so solid, and generous, and down-to-earth - I couldn’t stand it. I didn’t want sympathy or reasonableness. I had darker dreams. I wanted - no - I tried not to think about it - and yet all the time, of course, I could think of nothing else.
‘So I continued silent and desperate. At last, my thirst grew so terrible, I thought I was turning mad. Hobhouse, seeing how black my mood had grown, and ever the sportsman, advised me to take some exercise’ - Lord Byron smiled - ‘as though boxing or a game of cricket would have helped me then.’ He smiled again, and shook his head. ‘Sadly, neither of those activities being ready to hand, it was agreed instead that we should make a tour. Two days’ ride away lay the ruins of Ephesus - and so we set out for them, accompanied only by a single janizary. The road was wild and desolate, surrounded by bleak marshes, from which the croaking of frogs was deafening. At last, we had left even the frogs behind; and only the odd Turkish tombstone hinted that life had ever existed in that wasteland. Otherwise, not a broken column or roofless mosque disturbed the bleakness of the wilderness - nothing at all; we were wholly alone.
‘I could feel the thirst starting to consume me now. I looked desperately across the dreary plain, searching for any glimpse of life, but there was only a cemetery ahead of us, a shattered, empty city of the dead. My breath was starting to rattle now - my lungs felt as though they were shrivelling away. I raised my hand to wipe my brow, but as I did so, I checked myself, and stared in horror at what my fingers had become - gnarled twists of blackened bone. I stared down at my arm - again, it was black and dry; felt my face - it was withered to the touch; tried to swallow - but my tongue seemed thick with fiery dust. I scratched a sound out from my throat, and Hobhouse looked round. “My God,” he whispered. I had never seen such a look of revulsion before. “Byron. My God, Byron.” He rode back to me. I was so dry. I could smell the blood in Hobhouse’s veins. It would be cool and fresh, and as moist as dew. I needed it. I had to have it. I reached out for his throat. I clutched at air. I tumbled from my horse.
‘With our janizary’s help, Hobhouse bore me to the cemetery. He laid me beneath the shade of a cypress tree, and I leaned back against one of the tombs. I stripped my shirt away. My whole body was black, I could see now, and my flesh was burning on the bone, so that I seemed a virtual skeleton. Hobhouse kneeled by my side. “Drink,” I managed to hiss, “must drink.” I raised a finger to point at our janizary, then stared greedily back at Hobhouse, trying to make him understand.
‘He nodded. “Yes, of course, old chap.” He turned to the janizary, who had been watching me, a look of terror in his eyes. “Suleiman, verban su!” Hobhouse yelled - “Fetch water!” The janizary bowed, and scampered away. I groaned with frustrated need. “Come on, old fellow,” said Hobhouse, wiping my brow, “you’ll have your water soon.” I stared at him with fury, and longing for his blood. I scraped feebly with my fingers against the tomb, but my nails flaked away, and I was afraid that my scratchings might expose the bone. I lay helplessly where I was.
‘Time went by - five minutes, ten, then quarter of an hour. I could feel my stomach collapsing in, and imagined my intestines shrivelled like dry grapes. Hobhouse was looking more and more desperate as he watched me burn away. “Damn the fellow!” he screamed suddenly. “Damn him, what the devil is he at?” He rose to his feet. “Suleiman!” he yelled. “Suleiman, that water, we need it now!” He looked back down at me. “I’m going to find him,” he said. “Byron.” He tried to smile. “Byron, just - just - don’t . . .” I thought he was about to cry, but he turned his face and started to run, hurrying through the weeds and shattered tombs, until I could see him no more. I lay as he had left me. I felt my consciousness evaporate before the black thirst in my veins.
‘I passed out - but not beyond the reach of my agony - and I woke again, and prayed for death. Then suddenly - in the desert of that pain - I felt a startling coolness. It was a hand - laid against my brow. I tried to mouth Hobhouse’s name.
‘“No. Not Hobhouse,” said a man’s voice I didn’t recognise. “Rest your tongue. We shall have time enough to talk.” I struggled to look up. I felt a second hand tilt my head. I was staring into a face of striking handsomeness. Long golden hair framed features that seemed both pale as death, and yet also light with the pleasures of life - it was an aristocrat’s face, amused, faintly cruel, touched by animal grace. The strange man smiled at me, then kissed me on the lips. “A maggoty greeting,” he said. “Kissing shall be better, I think, when you are prettier again.” He laughed with delight, but his eyes, I could see now, gleamed like sunlight on a lake of ice. They reminded me of the Pasha’s - and then, at once, I understood: I was lying in the arms of a creature like myself.
‘The vampire rose to his feet. “You have an itching inclination, I think, to drink some blood,” he said. “Obey it. For blood is the finest cordial of all. It begets wit, good humour and merriness. It restores health to our bodies when they are shrivelled like old paps. It banishes all those heavy thoughts which make existence seem unkind.” He laughed. “Sweeter than wine, sweeter than a maiden’s ambrosia - it is your only draught. So come.” He took my hand. “Come and drink.”
‘I tried, but I couldn’t rise. “Trust yourself,” hissed the vampire, a hint of scorn in his voice. He took my other hand. “You are dangerous as the plague, and evil as the Devil. Do you really think you are still the slave of your flesh? Damme sir, I tell you, you are not. Have faith in your powers - and follow me.”
‘I tried to lift myself - and suddenly, I could. To my surprise, I found that I had risen to my feet without ever seeming to move. I took a step forwards - and it was as though I were nothing but a whisper of air. I took another step, and found that I had passed across the tombs, and was standing on the road. I looked back towards the cypress tree where I had been lying. A body was still slumped there, twisted and black. It was my own.
‘“Am I dead?” I asked, and my voice, in my ears, was like the wailing of a storm.
‘My guide laughed. “Dead? No - undead! You will never be dead, so long as there is life!” He laughed again, with a libertine’s glee, and pointed down the road. “I passed him on the way,” he said. “Have him. He is yours.”
‘I moved, like a black gale, with a speed I could scarcely recognise as being speed at all. The janizary’s blood smelled wonderfully fresh. I could see him now ahead of me, galloping back to Smyrna, and his horse’s flanks were white with foam. The janizary glanced round - and I stood still where I was, a silhouette against the sky, savouring his blank-faced look of shock. His horse whinnied and stumbled. “No!” the janizary screamed, as he was thrown to the ground. “No, no, Allah, please, no!” I felt a sudden detachment from my own thirst. I watched, intrigued, as the janizary tried to recapture his horse. He didn’t have a chance - surely he understood that? The janizary was sobbing now - and suddenly the thirst was back inside me again. I moved - I leaped - the janizary screamed - my teeth bit against the skin of his neck. I felt the incisors extend from my gums - the skin gave - blood, in a soft silken spurt, filled my mouth. I felt a shuddering delirium, as the blood was pumped by the dying man’s heart, and rain flooded out across my parched skin and throat.
‘I drained my victim white. When I had finished, his gore in my blood felt heavy like a drug.
‘“Pleasant to meet a fellow drinker on the road.” I looked round. The vampire had been watching me. Amusement glittered in his eyes. “Are your thirsty veins restored?” he asked. I nodded slowly. “Excellent,” the vampire smiled. “Believe
me, sir, ’tis purple nectar. There is nothing more salutiferous than your bumper of fresh blood.” I stood up, to kiss either side of the handsome, moonstone face, then pressed my lips against the vampire’s own. He narrowed his eyes, tasting the janizary’s blood in my mouth, before breaking free to bow with an extravagant sweep. “I am Lovelace,” he said, bowing a second time. “Like yourself, I believe, an Englishman, and a peer of the realm. That is, sir, if I am correct in addressing you as the notorious Lord Byron?”
‘I raised an eyebrow. “Notorious?”
‘Why, yes sir, notorious! Did you not, at some dinner party or rout, feed in public on your Athenian whore? Do not be surprised, milord, if such scrapes provoke wonder and discussion amongst the common herd.”
‘I shrugged. “I had no intention of causing a scandal. She cut herself. I was surprised by my own desire when I saw her blood.”
‘Lovelace stared at me, intrigued. “How long, milord, have you been of the fellowship?”
‘“Fellowship?”
‘“The aristocracy, sir, the aristocracy of the blood, by which you - and I - are made doubly a peer.” He reached up to stroke my cheek. His nails were sharp, like crystal to the touch. “You are a virgin, are you not?” he asked suddenly. He gestured at the slaughtered janizary. “That was your first kill?”
‘I bowed my head coldly. “In a manner, I suppose.”
‘“A pox on’t, sir, I could tell you were a virgin from your blackened state back there.”
‘“How do you mean?”
‘“You must be young in blood indeed, to have permitted yourself to decline in such a way.”
‘I stared at him. “If I don’t drink, you mean” - I gestured back towards the cemetery - “that will happen to me again?”
‘Lovelace bowed shortly. “I do, sir. And I am mightily surprised, that you have endured for so long since Athens without blood. That is why I wished to know how long have you been of the fellowship?”
‘I tried to remember. Haidée in the cave - the Pasha’s teeth against my chest. “Five months,” I said at last.
‘Lovelace stared at me, a look of stunned surprise on his handsome face; then he narrowed his eyes. “Why, sir, if this be true, then you are like to prove the choicest drinker I have met with yet.”
‘“I don’t understand your surprise,” I said.
‘Lovelace laughed, and pressed my hand. “I once survived dry for upwards of a month. Two months has been heard of - but more than that, never. And yet you, sir, the freshest, greenest recruit to our ranks - five months, sir - five, you say.” He laughed again, and kissed me on the mouth. “Oh, milord - what entertainments we shall have, what routs and kills! How glad I am that I followed you!” He kissed me again. “Byron - let us be wicked together.”
‘I bowed my head. “There is clearly much that I need to be taught.”
‘“Yes, there is,” said Lovelace, with a simple nod of his head. “Believe me, sir - I have sampled a century and a half of libertinage. I speak as a courtier of the second King Charles. We were not a canting, mewling, puritan age - no sir, we understood what pleasure could be.” He whispered in my ear. “Whores, milord - fine wines - refreshing draughts of blood. You will find eternity a welcome thing.” He kissed me, then paused to wipe blood from my mouth. He glanced down at the janizary’s corpse. “Was it good?” he asked, tapping the dried-out body with his foot. I nodded. “There will be better,” said Lovelace shortly. He took my hand. “For now, though, milord, we must both return to our corporeal forms.”
‘“Corporeal?”
‘Lovelace nodded. “Your friend will believe you dead.”
‘I touched myself. “It seems very strange,” I said. “The pleasures I have drunk in seem bodily enough. But how do I feel them, if I am nothing now but spirit?”
‘Lovelace shrugged contemptuously. “I leave such quibbles to wranglers and diviners.”
‘“But it is not a quibble. If I have no body, then what is it that I am feeling now, here, inside my veins? Is the pleasure real? It seems unbearable to think of it as just a fantasy.”
‘Lovelace reached for my hand. He drew it inside his shirt and over his chest, so that I could feel the muscles beneath the skin. “We are in a dream,” he whispered, “one we share between us. We rule it and form it. You must understand, sir, that we have this power to make the stuff of our dreams a reality.”
‘I stared into his eyes. I could feel his nipple hardening at my touch. I glanced down at the janizary. “And him?” I asked. “Did I only dream that I fed on his blood?”
‘Lovelace smiled, a faint smile of amusement and cruelty. “Our dreams are a canopy, milord, into which we draw our prey. Your Turk is dead - and you, sir, are whole once again.” He took my hand. “Come. We must return you to your grieving friend.”
‘We went, and once we had reached the cemetery, I left Lovelace on the road, and walked back through the tombs. Ahead of me, past the turbaned gravestones, I made out Hobhouse. He was sobbing inconsolably over my blackened corpse. It was a pleasant sight. What can be finer than to know you will be missed by your friends when you are gone? And then I felt sorrow to think that I had caused my dear Hobhouse pain, and I returned, like a shiver of light, into my flesh. I opened my eyes - and felt blood start to flow through my withered veins.’ Lord Byron closed his eyes. His smile had the ecstasy of memory. ‘As though they had been freed from the grip of a vice, my limbs returned to life. Champagne after soda water; sunlight after mist; women after a monastery - all seem to offer a hint of resurrection. But they do not. There is only one true resurrection - and that is blood after a drought of the flesh.’
‘So you draw blood by dreaming?’ Rebecca asked, interrupting him. ‘That is how it happens?’
Lord Byron stared at her. ‘You should remember,’ he said softly. He stared at Rebecca’s neck. ‘You have been caught in the web of my dreams.’
Rebecca shivered, and not just from fear. ‘But you drank from Teresa,’ she said.
Lord Byron bowed his head.
‘So you don’t have to dream to drink blood?’
‘No.’ Lord Byron smiled. ‘Of course not. There are many ways of tasting it. Many arts.’
Rebecca stared at him, fascinated and appalled. ‘Arts? What do you mean?’ she asked.
‘Lovelace, that first evening, tempted me by hinting at them.’
Rebecca frowned. ‘Why tempt?’
‘Because I didn’t want to hear them. Not at first.’
‘But you said - the pleasure you’d had - you’ve been describing it.’
‘Yes.’ Lord Byron’s lip curled faintly. ‘But I was satiated on the blood I had drunk, and that evening, in the village outside Ephesus, I suffered the self-disgust that follows all great pleasures. I had killed a man - I had drained him - I was only surprised that I wasn’t more revolted with myself. But there was another reason, too, for ignoring Lovelace’s blandishments. It was the property of blood, I discovered, that it heightened all other experiences. The food and drink that night were delicious in a way I had forgotten they could be. I had no time for whisperings about secret arts or fresh victims.’
‘Lovelace wanted to kill again?’
‘Oh, yes. Very much so.’ Lord Byron paused. ‘He wanted Hobhouse.’
‘Hobhouse? ’
Lord Byron nodded, then smiled. ‘Lovelace was an admirer of breeding, you see. “I must have him,” he told me that night. “For months now, Byron, I have had nothing but peasants and vile-smelling Greeks. Faugh, sir, I am a true-bred Briton, I cannot survive on such trash. And Hobhouse, you say, is a Cambridge man? Why then, sir, he must be mine.”
‘I shook my head, but Lovelace only pressed me the more eagerly. “He must die,” he hissed. “Apart from all else, he saw you expire and resurrect.”
‘I shrugged. “Medicine isn’t Hobby’s strongest suit. He thinks it was heatstroke.”
‘Lovelace shook his head. “ ’Tis no matter.” He stroked my arm, and his eye
s were pinpricks of eager fire. I shuddered, but Lovelace mistook my disgust for thirst. “Red blood is fine,” he whispered in my ear, “but blue blood, sir - why, there is no drink on this earth which compares with that.”
‘I told him to go hang. Lovelace laughed. “You seem not to understand what you have become, milord.”
‘I stared at him again. “Not a thing like you, I hope.”
‘Lovelace gripped my arm. “Do not deceive yourself, milord,” he hissed.
‘I stared at him coldly. “I wouldn’t presume to try,” I said at last.
‘“But I think you do.” Lovelace grinned evilly. “You are a creature wicked as sin. To deny that is vile hypocrisy.” He let go of my arm, and started to walk down the moon-white path to Ephesus. “Your body has a thirst, milord,” he shouted out, as I stood watching him go. He paused, and turned round to face me. “Ask yourself, Byron - can a thing such as you afford to have friends?” He smiled, then turned again, and disappeared. I stood where I was, trying to banish the echoes of his question from my mind. I shook my head - then returned to the room where Hobhouse was asleep.
‘I kept watch over him through the night. My body stayed pure and unstained throughout. This was the first time that I had drunk blood and not sweated out filth the next night. I wondered what this portended. Had Lovelace been right? Were the changes to me now indeed irrevocable? I clung to Hobhouse’s company as though he were a charm. The next day we visited the ruins of Ephesus. Hobhouse poked at inscriptions in his usual way; I sat on the mound which had once been the temple of Diana, and listened to the mournful wailing of the jackals. It was a melancholy sound, as melancholy as my thoughts. I wondered where Lovelace had gone. I couldn’t sense him among the ruins, but my instincts and powers were dulled by the sun, and I knew that he couldn’t be far away. He would surely be back.