by Tom Holland
‘The day came for our audience with the Sultan. Twenty of us, all English, suffered this excruciating privilege - my guide of three days before was with us, and so also, arriving at the last moment, was Lovelace. He saw me with my guide, and smiled, but said nothing. He stood just behind me, though, as we waited in the Sultan’s presence-chamber, and later, when the whole tedious affair was at an end, he hovered within earshot of Hobhouse and myself.
‘My guide came over to us, his eyes bright with excitement. “You had a signal effect on the Sultan,” he told me. I inclined my head politely. “Yes, yes, Byron,” he explained, “the splendour of your dress, and your striking appearance, made him single you out as a particular object of attention. Indeed . . .” - here, the man paused and giggled, then flushed.
‘“What is it?” Hobhouse asked.
‘The man giggled again, and turned back to me. He stammered, swallowed, and composed himself. “The Sultan said that you were not a man at all.”
‘My brow darkened, and I flushed cold; I glanced at Lovelace, who grinned back evilly. “Not a man,” I said slowly. “What did he mean?”
‘The man’s blush grew even more purple. “Why, Byron,” he tittered, “the Sultan thought you were a woman dressed in man’s clothes.” I breathed in deeply - then smiled with relief. My guide beamed eagerly. Lovelace’s smile, I noticed, was the broadest of all.
‘He came to me later that night, when Hobhouse was asleep. We stood together, on the roof of my house, and bathed our faces in the light of the moon. Lovelace took out his dagger. He stroked its thin, cruel blade. “The Great Turk was a maggoty pimp, do you not think?” he asked.
‘“ Why?”
‘Lovelace bared his teeth. He tested his thumb on his dagger’s edge. “To mistake you for a whore, of course.”
‘I shrugged. “Better that than to be recognised as what I am.”
‘“Why, sir, I would demand some revenge on him for his arrant impudence!”
‘I stared coldly into Lovelace’s gleaming eyes. “I am not averse to people finding me beautiful.”
‘Lovelace grinned. “Are you not, sir?” he whispered. He turned, to gaze across the waters at the Seraglio, then slid his dagger back into his belt. “Are you not?”
‘He began to hum a tune from an opera. He bent down, and drew several bottles from a bag. He uncorked one. I smelled the golden perfume of blood. “The salubrious juice,” said Lovelace, handing the bottle to me. “I have mixed it with the finest Madeira known to man. Drink well, Byron, for tonight we need all our strength.” He raised a second bottle. “A toast.” He smiled at me. “To the rare sport we shall have tonight.”
‘We grew drunk on the cocktails of wine and blood. No - not drunk - but my senses seemed richer than they had ever been, and I felt a violent joy rise like fire in my blood. I leaned on the wall, and stared at the dome-haunted skyline of the ancient city; the stars behind the Seraglio seemed to blaze with the fierceness of my own eager cruelty, and I knew that Lovelace was winning my soul. He held me in his arms, humming an aria under his breath, then speaking in my ear. “You are a creature of great power,” he whispered. “Would you care to see what you are capable of ?” I smiled faintly. “It will drain you, Byron, but you have the strength for this - young though you are in experience and blood.”
‘I stared out at the waters of the Golden Horn. “We are going to cross naked air,” I whispered. Lovelace nodded. I frowned, realising how distant my memories had become. “In my dreams, long before, I followed the Pasha. He showed me the miracles of time and space.”
‘Lovelace grinned. “A pox on the miracles of time and space.” He glanced across at the Seraglio. “I want whores.”
‘I laughed, from the depths of my stomach, helplessly. I was exhausted by my laughter. Lovelace held me, stroking the curls of my hair. He pointed across to the Seraglio. “Look at it,” he whispered, “imprison an image of it within your eye. Make it yours. Make it rise and come to you.”
‘I stopped laughing abruptly. I stared into the cold depths of Lovelace’s eyes - then did as he had said. I saw the sky bend. The minarets and domes seemed to flow like water. My brow felt the touch of the palace’s kiss. “What’s happening?” I whispered. “How am I doing this?”
‘Lovelace pressed a finger to my lips. He bent down for a final bottle, and uncorked it. “Yes, that’s good,” he nodded, “breathe in its scent. Smell its richness. All your existence is contained within this. You are a creature of blood. You can flow like it out across the sky.” Suddenly he flung the bottle upwards, and I saw blood in a crimson arc spattered over the city and the stars. “Yes, flow with it!” Lovelace cried. I rose. I felt my disembodied self leave my flesh, like blood slipping from an open wound. The air was still thick. I was moving with it. Constantinople was stained, dark as the night, crimson as the blood I could hear summoning me. I saw it all, spinning, the city, the sea and the sky - and then suddenly, ahead, there was nothing but the Seraglio, distorted and disappearing from me, as though reflected in an endless series of mirrors, and I followed it, deep into the darkening heart of the vortex, and then I felt cool air on my face, and saw that I was standing on the harem wall.
‘I turned. My movements seemed strange. I walked, and it felt to me as though I were a breeze skimming a dark-watered lake.
‘“Byron.” The voice was a stone dropped into the depths. The two syllables rippled away. Lovelace smiled at me, and his face seemed to swim and change before my eyes. I imagined he was sinking beneath the lake’s dark waters. The ghostly pallor of his face was dimmed; his body shrunk; it was as though he had the form of a negro dwarf. I laughed, and the sound in my brain was refracted and strange. “Byron.” I looked down again. Lovelace still had the shape of a dwarf. He smiled horribly, and his lips began to move. “I am the eunuch,” I heard him say, “you shall be the Sultan’s slave.” He leered at me again, and I laughed drunkenly, but there were no ripples now, for the darkness was still like a crystal pool. Suddenly, conjured up from the whorls of my memory and desire, glimmering in the crystal, I saw Haidée. I gasped, and reached out to touch her. But the image spread, escaping me, and then I felt it lapping my skin, and I could no longer see Haidée, and everything seemed to be melting away. I placed my fingers over my eyes. The strangeness seemed even more bewitching than before. When I opened my eyes again, I saw that my nails were painted gold, and my fingers slim.
‘“Beautiful,” said the dwarf. He laughed, and pointed. “This way, lovely infidel maid.”
‘I followed him. Like the shadows of a storm, we passed through the harem gates. Long passages stretched away from us, rich in amethyst, and green and yellow faience. All was silent, save for the footfalls of black dwarfs guarding elaborate doors of gold. As we passed them, they would frown and look around, but they did not see us, until, outside the most beautiful gate of all, Lovelace drew his dagger and slashed its sentry’s throat.
‘I pressed forwards eagerly at the smell of blood. Lovelace shook his head. “Why drink water when there’s champagne inside?” He held me back, and his touch on my body was sweet and strange. I looked down. I saw the truth of what I had imagined to be a dream - my body was that of a beautiful girl. I touched my breasts; raised a slim arm to stroke my long hair. I felt no surprise, only the heightening of a cruel and erotic joy. I walked forwards, and for the first time was aware of the swirl of thin silk against my legs, and heard the tinkling rustle of ankle bells. I looked around me. I was in a spacious chamber. Couches were ranged along the wall. All was silent and dark. I began to glide past the couches down the centre of the hall.
‘Women were asleep on every couch. I breathed in the dizzying scent of their blood. Lovelace stood beside me. His grin was hungry and lecherous. “Gad,” he whispered, “but this is as sweet a room of strumpets as I’ve ever seen.” He bared his teeth. “I must have ’em.” He glanced up at me. “I shall have ’em.” He moved forwards, like a mist across the sea. He stood by a girl’s bed, and
as the shadow fell across her dreams, she moaned and raised her arm as though to ward the evil away. I heard Lovelace’s soft chuckle, and then, not wanting to see any more, I turned and walked on down the centre of the hall. Ahead was another ornate door of gold. It was slightly ajar. I could hear a faint sobbing. I brushed my veil back from my ears. I heard a crack, and then the sobbing again. With a rustle of bells, I passed into the room beyond.
‘I looked about me. Cushions were spread across a marble floor. Along the room’s edge stretched a blue-watered pool. A single flame burned within a golden lamp. Standing in its wash was a naked girl. I studied her. She was wonderfully beautiful, but her bearing was imperious, and her face seemed equally voluptuous and cruel. She breathed in deeply, then raised the cane and swung it down hard. It bit into the back of the slave girl at her feet.
‘The girl sobbed, but didn’t break her posture of submission. Her mistress stared down at her handiwork, then glanced up suddenly into the shadows where I stood. Her bored, spoiled features seemed to lighten with interest; she narrowed her eyes; then the look of satiation returned to her face, and she sighed, dropping her cane onto the ground. She shouted at the girl and turned her back; the girl, still sobbing, began to pick up fragments of glass. When they had all been gathered, the slave girl bowed low in obeisance, and scurried from the room.
‘The Sultan’s Queen, for such she clearly was, threw herself onto the cushions. She held one of them tight, screwing it round and round, then hurled it violently back onto the floor. As she did so, I saw that her wrists were gashed with damp blood; the Queen stared at them, and touched a wound, then rose to her feet again. She called for her maid; there was no response. She called again, and stamped her feet; then she picked up her cane, and walked towards the door. As she did so, I stepped out from the shadows. The Queen turned to look at me. She frowned when she saw that I did not lower my eyes.
‘Slowly, the frown became a stare of surprise, and a strange tumult seemed to flash across her face. Command struggled with voluptuousness - and then she snapped her fingers, and was imperial again. She shouted something in a language I didn’t understand, then pointed to the spot where her maid had smashed the glass. “I am bleeding,” she said in Turkish, holding out her wrists. “Call the physician, girl.” I smiled slowly. The Queen flushed - and then disbelief darkened into a passion of rage. She brought the cane stinging down on my back. The pain was like fire, but I stood where I was. The Queen stared deep into my eyes - then she choked, and dropped the cane, and stumbled back from me. She sobbed noiselessly. I watched as her shoulders rose and fell. She buried her face in her hands. In the golden light, the blood on her wrists gleamed like jewellery.
‘I crossed the marble floor to her, and held her in my arms. The Queen looked up startled; I placed a finger on her lips. Her eyes and cheeks were soft now with tears; I brushed them away, then gently stroked the wounds on her wrists. The Queen flinched with pain, but when she met my eyes, her agony seemed forgotten, and she reached up to hold me and stroke my hair. Nervously, she held my breasts; then she whispered something in my ear, words I didn’t understand, and her fingers started to loosen my silk. I kneeled, kissing her hands and wrists, tasting the fresh blood that welled up from her cuts; when I was as naked as she, I kissed her on the lips, touching them with the rouge of her own blood, then leading her across to the stillness of the bath. Softly, the waters enveloped us. I felt the Queen’s gentle fingers stroke my breasts and stomach; I opened my legs. She touched me, and I reached for her; she moaned, and tossed her head back; light caught the water on her throat and made it seem flushed with gold. The Queen shook; the warm water rippled gently, and I felt my blood seem to move with its flow against my skin. I licked her breasts, then, gently, I bit; as my teeth pierced her skin, the Queen stiffened and gasped, but she did not scream, and her breathing deepened with eagerness. Suddenly, she shuddered; her body shook and she fell back against the tiles; once again, her throat was touched by gold. I seemed beyond self now, beyond consciousness, to have nothing but desire. Without thought, I slashed across my lover’s neck, and as her blood spilled out into the waters of the bath, I felt my own thighs turn to water and join with the flow.
‘Still the Queen hadn’t screamed. She lay in my arms, lapped by her own blood as her breathing grew fainter and I drank from her wounds. She died without a sigh, and the waters were cloudy with her departed life. I kissed her softly, then slipped from the bath. I stretched - my smooth limbs seemed oiled and refreshed by her blood. I stared at the Queen, floating on her purple bier, and saw how her dead lips smiled back at me.’
Lord Byron paused, and smiled himself. ‘You are disgusted?’ he asked Rebecca, noticing how she stared at him.
‘Yes, of course.’ She clenched a fist. ‘Of course I am. You enjoyed it. Even once you’d killed her, you felt no disgust.’
Lord Byron’s smile faded. ‘I am a vampire,’ he said softly.
‘Yes, but . . .’ Rebecca swallowed. ‘Before - before you had defied Lovelace.’
‘And my own nature.’
‘So he had won you?’
‘Lovelace?’
Rebecca nodded. ‘You felt no remorse?’
Lord Byron hooded his burning eyes, and said nothing for what seemed a long, long time. Slowly, he ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I found Lovelace wet with blood, squatting like an incubus on his victim’s chest. I told him that I had killed the Sultan’s Queen. His amusement was quite immoderate. I didn’t laugh with him, but no . . . I felt no remorse. Not until . . .’ His voice trailed away.
Rebecca waited. ‘Yes?’ she asked at last.
Lord Byron’s lip curled. ‘We fed until dawn - two foxes in a chicken coop. Only with the muezzin’s first call to prayers did we leave the chamber of odalisques. We passed, not into the passageway outside, but into a further room, set aside for the slave girls to adorn themselves. The walls were lined with mirrors. For the first time, I saw myself. I stopped - and froze. I was looking at Haidée - Haidée, whom I had not seen since that fatal night in the cave. But it was not Haidée. Haidée’s lips had never been wet with blood. Haidée’s eyes had never glittered so coldly. Haidée had never been a damned and loathsome vampire. I blinked - and then saw my own pale face staring back at me. I screamed. Lovelace tried to hold me, but I brushed him away. The pleasures of the night seemed suddenly transformed into horrors. They bred like maggots on my naked thoughts.
‘For three days I lay exhausted and feverish in my bed. Hobhouse nursed me. I don’t know what he heard me say in my delirium - but on the fourth day, he told me we were leaving Constantinople, and when I mentioned Lovelace’s name, his face darkened and he warned me not to ask after him again. “I have heard strange rumours,” he said, “impossible rumours. You will leave with me on the ship I have booked. It is for your own safety and good. You know that, Byron, so I will hear no arguments.” And nor did he. We sailed that day, on a ship bound for England. I left Lovelace neither message nor address.
‘But I knew that I couldn’t go back home with Hobhouse. As we neared Athens, I told him I was going to stay in the East. I had thought my friend would be furious - but he said nothing, just smiled strangely, and handed me his journal. I frowned. “Hobby, please,” I said, “save your scribblings for your audience back home. I know what we did, I was with you, if you recall.”
‘Hobhouse smiled again, a twisted smile. “Not all the time,” he said. “The entries marked Albania - study them.” He left me.
‘I read the passages at once. Then I wept - Hobhouse had changed the record of what he had done, so that it seemed as though we had never been apart - my time with Vakhel Pasha was quite obliterated. I found Hobhouse, and held him tight, and wept again. “I do love you, Hobby,” I told him. “You have so many good qualities, and so many bad ones, it is impossible to live with or without you.”
‘The next day we parted. Hobhouse divided a small nosegay of flowers with me. “Will it be the last thing we ever s
hare?” he asked. “What will happen to you, Byron?” I didn’t answer. Hobhouse turned and boarded the ship again, and I was left alone.
‘I headed on to Athens, and stayed briefly again with Widow Macri and her three lovely nymphs. But I was not made welcome, and though Teresa embraced me enthusiastically enough, I could still glimpse the fear that waited in her eyes. I began to feel the fever again, and reluctant to create a second scandal, I left Athens behind and journeyed on across Greece. Stimulation, sensation, novelty - I had to have them - the alternative was restlessness and agony. God, I was relieved that Hobhouse was gone. In Tripolitza, I stayed briefly with Veli, Ali Pasha’s son, who entertained me as though I were a long-lost friend; I could see that he wanted me in his bed. I let him take me, of course - why not? - the pleasure of being used as a whore was a momentary thrill. Then, in return for my services, Veli passed on news of Albania. It seemed that Vakhel Pasha’s castle had been burned to the ground and quite destroyed. “Would you believe it?” Veli asked, shaking his head. “The mountain people thought that the dead had risen from their graves.” He laughed at the thought of such hapless superstition. I listened with amusement - then asked about Vakhel Pasha himself. Again, Veli shook his head. “He was found near Lake Trihonida,” he said.
‘“Dead?” I asked.
‘Veli nodded. “Oh yes, very dead indeed, milord. A sword had been driven deep through his heart. We buried him by his castle on the mountainside.”
‘So he was gone. Dead in truth. I realised I had half-believed he might still be alive. But now I could be certain - and the knowledge, somehow, served to liberate me. Everything seemed changed - I was free of my creator - and, at last, I accepted the truth of what I was. Above the Gulf of Corinth, as I fed on a peasant boy, I was discovered by Lovelace. We embraced warmly, and neither of us mentioned my flight from Constantinople.