by Tom Holland
‘And so it proved to be. Hemmed in by the enemy as we were, the Greeks seemed more interested in fighting one another than the Turks. Money flowed like water through my hands, but to little purpose that I could see, beyond funding the squabbles of which the Greeks were so fond. I sought to reconcile the various leaders, and discipline the troops - I had the money, after all, and the power of compulsion in my eye - but any order I imposed was fragile and brief. And all the time, the rains fell and fell, so that even if we had been ready to attack, we could have done nothing, so dismal and hopeless the conditions had become. Mud was everywhere - swamp mists hung over the town - the lagoon waters began to rise - the roads were soon nothing but an oozing morass. And still it rained. I might just as well have been back to London.
‘As a cause, then, liberty began to lose its gloss. For a long time, since arriving in Greece, I had reduced my number of killings to a minimum - now I began to feed wantonly again. Each day, through the cold winter rains, I would leave the town. I would ride the oozing path along the edge of the lagoon. I would kill, and drink, and leave my victim’s corpse amongst the filth and reeds. The rain would wash the corpse into the mud of the lagoon. Before, I had tried not to prey on the Greeks - the same people I had come to save - but now I did it unthinkingly. If I hadn’t killed them, after all, the Turks would have done.
‘Then one afternoon, as I was riding by the lake, I saw a figure muffled in rags by the path. The person, whoever it was, seemed to be waiting for me. I was thirsty - I had not yet killed - I spurred my horse on. Suddenly though, the horse rose up and whinnied with fear - it was only with an effort I could bring him under control.
‘The figure in rags had stepped onto the path. “Lord Byron.” The voice was a woman’s - cracked, hoarse, but with a hint of something strange, so that I shivered, caught between horror and delight. “Lord Byron,” she called again. I saw the glint of bright eyes beneath her hood. She pointed a bony hand at me. It was bunched and gnarled. “A death for Greece!” The words sliced through me.
‘“Who are you?” I shouted, above the drumming of the rain. I saw the woman smile - suddenly, my heart seemed to stop - her lips had reminded me - though I knew not how - of Haidée. “Stop!” I shouted. I rode towards her - but the woman was gone. The lagoon bank was empty. There was no sound but the pelting of the rain upon the lake.
‘That night I was seized by a convulsion. I felt a terrible horror come on me - I foamed at the mouth - I gnashed my teeth - all my senses seemed to fall away. After several minutes, I recovered, but I was afraid, for I had felt, during my fit, a state of self-revulsion such as I had never known before. It had been heralded, I knew, by the woman who had met me on the path by the lagoon. Memories of Haidée - torments of guilt - longings for what was impossible - all had risen like a sudden storm. I recovered. Weeks passed - I continued to marshal my troops - we even launched a brief attack across the lake. But all the time, I remained tense - filled with a strange foreboding - waiting to glimpse the strange woman again. I knew she would come. Her demand echoed in my brain: “A death for Greece!”’ Lord Byron paused. He stared into the dark, and Rebecca heard - or did she imagine it? - the sound of something from behind her again. Lord Byron too seemed to have heard the noise. He repeated his words, as though to silence it. His words hung like the pronouncement of a doom. ‘“A death for Greece.”’
He looked away from the darkness, back into Rebecca’s eyes. ‘And she did indeed come again - two months later. I was riding with companions, reconnoitring the ground. Some miles from the town, we were overtaken by heavy rain, slanting down in sheets of grey. I saw her, squatting in a pool of mud. Slowly, as before, she pointed at me. I shuddered. “Do you see her?” I asked. My companions looked - but the road was empty. We returned to Missolonghi. By now, we were soaked. I had a violent perspiration, and a fever in my bones. That evening, I lay on my sofa, restless and melancholy. Images of my past life seemed to float before my eyes. Dimly, I heard soldiers squabbling in the street outside, shouting violently as they always did. I had no time for them. I had no time for anything but memories and regrets.
‘The next morning, I tried to shake off my misery. I rode again. It was April now - the weather, for a change, was fine - I joked with my companions, as we galloped down the road. But then, in an olive grove, she appeared to me again, a phantom huddle of dirty rags. “Ahasver?” I screamed. “Ahasver, is it you?” Then I swallowed. My mouth was dry. The syllables hurt my throat to pronounce. “Haidée?” I stared. Whatever she had been, she had vanished now. My companions led me back to the town. I was raving, calling after her. The fit of horror and self-disgust returned. I was taken to my bed. “A death for Greece. A death for Greece.” The words seemed to beat in my ears with my blood. Death - yes - but I could not die. I was immortal - or at least - for as long as I fed on living blood. I imagined I saw Haidée. She stood by my bed. Her lips were parted - her eyes bright - on her face, intermingled, were love and disgust. “Haidée?” I asked. I reached for her. “Are you truly not dead?” I tried to touch her - she melted away - I was alone, after all. I took a vow. I would drink no more. I would defy all agonies, defy all thirst. A death for Greece? Yes. My death would achieve far more than my life. And for myself? Release - extinction - nothingness. If I could have it indeed, I would welcome it.
‘I kept to my bed. The days passed. I was feverish already - now my pain grew infinitely worse. I fought it, though - even when my blood began to burn - when it seemed that my limbs were shrivelling up - when I felt my brain, like a drying sponge, glue to my skull. The doctors gathered - flies on rotting meat. Watching them buzz and fuss, I longed for their blood, to drain them all. I fought the temptation - I banished them instead - my strength and health continued to decline. Slowly, the doctors began to buzz back. Soon, I lacked the energy to keep them away. I had been worried that they might save me - but hearing them now, talking amongst themselves, I knew I had been wrong - with something like relief, I encouraged them. The pain now was terrible - blackness was starting to burn up my skin - my mind was drifting. Still, though, I would not die. It seemed not even the doctors could finish me off. And then they asked to bleed me again.
‘I had refused a first request. What blood I had in me was already almost gone - to be drained would have made the agony worse - I hadn’t been able to face the pain. Now though, I was desperate. Weakly, I agreed. I felt the leeches being applied to my brow. Each one burned like a drop of fire. I screamed. Surely such agony couldn’t be borne?
‘The doctor, seeing my pain, held my hand. “Do not worry, My Lord,” he whispered in my ear. “We will soon have you well.”
‘I laughed. I imagined the doctor had Haidée’s face. In my delirium, I screamed at her. I must have fainted. When I came to, I was staring at the doctor’s face again. He was cutting my wrist. A tiny trickle of blood flowed out. I wanted Haidée. But she was dead. I screamed out her name. The world began to swirl away. I called out other names - Hobhouse, Caro, Bell, Shelley. “I will die,” I shouted, as darkness lapped out from the leeches on my brow. I imagined my friends were gathered round my bed. “I will be as you are,” I told them, “mortal again. I shall be mortal. I shall die.” I began to sob. Still the darkness spread. It dimmed my pain. It dimmed the world. Is this death? I wondered - and then, like a final candle in a universe of black, the thought was snuffed out. There was nothing else. Darkness was all.
‘I woke to moonlight. It was bright against my face. I moved my arm. I felt no pain. I stroked my brow. There were craters where the leeches had been. I lowered my hand, and the moonlight shone upon the wounds again. When I touched them a second time, the craters seemed less deep - a third time, and the wounds were entirely healed. I stretched my limbs. I rose to my feet. Against the stars, I could see a mountain peak.
‘“There is no physic, My Lord, like Our Lady the moon.”
‘I stared round. Lovelace smiled at me. “Are you not glad, Byron, I have saved you from those coz
ening Missolonghi quacks?”
‘I stared at him hard. “No, damn you,” I said at last, “I had been trusting in their skills to finish me.”
‘Lovelace laughed. “Not the poxiest mountebank could kill you off.”
‘I nodded slowly. “So I find.”
‘“You are in need of a good restorative.” He gestured. I saw two horses. Behind them, a man had been bound to a tree. He struggled as I looked at him. “A dainty dish,” said Lovelace. “I thought - bold Greek warrior that you are - you might appreciate the blood of a Mussulman.” He grinned at me. Slowly, I crossed to the tree. The Turk began to writhe and twist. He moaned beneath his gag. I killed him with a single slash across the throat. The blood - after so long - yes, I had to admit - it tasted good. I drained my victim empty. Then, with a faint smile, I thanked Lovelace for his thoughtfulness.
‘He stared into my eyes. “Do you think I would have left you in agony?” He paused. “I am vicious and cruel, a most accomplished villain, but I love you well enough.”
‘I smiled. I believed him. I kissed him on his lips. Then I glanced around. “How did you get me here?” I asked.
Lovelace jigged a purse of coins in his hand. He grinned. “There is no one like your Greek for the taking of a bribe.”
‘“And where have you brought me?”
‘Lovelace bowed his head. He made no reply.
‘I looked around. We were in a hollow of rocks and trees. I stared up at the mountain peak again. That shape - the silhouette against the stars . . .
‘“Where are we?” I asked again.
‘Slowly, Lovelace looked up at me. The moonlight burned on the pallor of his face. “Why, Byron,” he asked, “do you truly not remember it?”
‘For a moment, I stood frozen - then I moved through the trees. Ahead of me, I saw a glint of silver. I left the trees behind. Below me, a lake - moon-stained - its waters breathed on by the faintest of breezes. Above - the mountain - that familiar silhouette. Behind . . . I turned - and there it was. Slowly, I walked to the entrance of the cave. Lovelace had come and was standing by my side. “Why?” I whispered. Fury and despair must have blazed up in my eyes, for Lovelace staggered back, as though appalled, covering his face. I pulled away his arm, forcing him to meet my stare. “Why, Lovelace?” My grip tightened. “Why?”
‘“Leave him.”
‘The voice that spoke from the cave was faint - almost inaudible. But I recognised it - recognised it at once - and I realised, hearing it now, that its echoes had never truly faded from my mind. No - they had always been with me. I loosened my grip. Lovelace shrank back. “It is him,” I whispered. I didn’t ask - merely stated a fact - but Lovelace nodded. I reached for his belt - I slipped out his pistol - I cocked it.
‘“Hear him,” Lovelace said. “Hear what he has to say to you.”
‘I made no answer. I stared about me, at the moon and the mountain, the lake and the stars. How well I remembered them. My grip tightened round the pistol butt. I turned and walked into the darkness of the cave.
‘“Vakhel Pasha.” My voice echoed. “They told me you had been buried in your grave.”
‘“And so I was, milord. So I was.” The voice, still faint, came from the back of the cave. I looked into the shadows. A figure, prostrate, was huddled there. I walked towards it. “Do not look at me,” the Pasha said. “Do not come any nearer.”
‘I laughed contemptuously. “It was you who had me brought here. It is too late now to give out such commands.” I stood above the Pasha. He was pressed against the rocks. Slowly, he turned to look up at me.
‘Despite myself, I breathed in. The bones beneath his cheeks had collapsed - his skin was yellow - pain was stamped on his every look - but it was not his face which horrified me. No - it was his body - which was naked - do you understand? - naked - stripped of clothing, yes - but of skin too - in places, even of muscle and nerve. The wound to his heart was still open and unhealed. Blood, like water from a tiny spring, bubbled faintly with each tortured breath he took. His flesh was blue with rottenness. I watched as he brushed at a gash to his leg. A worm, white and bloated, dropped from the wound. The Pasha crushed it between his fingers. He wiped his hand across a rock.
‘“You see, milord, what a thing of beauty you have made of me.”
‘I am sorry,” I said at last. “I had thought to kill you.”
‘The Pasha laughed, then choked, as blood in a froth swelled up between his lips. He spat it, so that it dribbled down his chin. “You wanted revenge,” the Pasha said at last. “Well - see what you have achieved - a horror much worse than any death.”
‘There was a long silence. “Again,” I said eventually, “I am sorry. I did not intend it.”
‘“Such pain.” The Pasha stared at me. “Such pain, stabbing into my heart, on the point of your sword. Such pain, milord.”
‘“You seemed dead. When I left you there, in the ravine, you seemed dead.”
‘“And so I nearly was, milord.” He paused. “But I was greater than you knew.”
‘I frowned. “How?”
‘“The greatest of the vampires - such as I, milord” - he paused - “and you - cannot be killed so easily.”
‘My knuckles whitened as I gripped the pistol. “But there is a way, then?”
‘The Pasha struggled to smile. His effort collapsed in a grimace of pain. When he spoke again, it was not to answer me. “I have lain years, milord, in the dirt of the grave. My flesh melting into sludge - my fingers ringed with worms - every foul thing that the soil can breed leaving their tracks of slime across my face. And yet - I could not move - such was the weight of earth above my limbs, between me and the healing light of the moon, and all those living creatures which might have restored me with their blood. Oh yes, milord, the wound you gave me was grievous indeed. A long time it took me, to recover my strength, to pull myself at last from the embrace of the grave. And even now - you see” - he gestured at himself - “how far a way I have still to go.” He clasped his heart. Blood, in soft bubbles, seeped across his hand. “The wound you struck still flows, milord.”
‘I stayed frozen. The pistol seemed melted into my hand. “You are recovering, then?” I asked.
‘The Pasha inclined his head a fraction.
‘“And you will be whole again, eventually?”
‘“Eventually.” The Pasha smiled. “Unless - the way that I mentioned . . .” His voice trailed away. Still I didn’t move. The Pasha reached up to take my hand. I let him hold it. Slowly, I bent, and kneeled beside his head. He turned to stare into my eyes. “Still beautiful,” he whispered, “after all these years.” His lips twisted.
“Older, though. What would you not give to have your former loveliness restored?”
‘“Less than to have back my mortality.”
‘The Pasha smiled. I would have struck him then, had it not been for the ache of sadness in his eyes. “I am sorry,” he whispered, “but that can never be.”
‘“Why?” I asked, with a sudden sense of rage. “Why me? Why did you choose me for your - for your . . .”
‘“Love.”
‘“For your curse.”
‘Again he smiled. Again, I saw the sadness in his eyes. “Because, milord . . .” The Pasha reached up to stroke my cheek. The effort made his whole body shake. His finger, against my flesh, felt bloody and raw. “Because, milord” - he swallowed, and unexpectedly his face seemed lit up with desire and hope - “because I saw the greatness in you.” He choked violently, but not even the pain could dim his sudden desperate passion. “When we first met, even then, I recognised what you might become. My faith has not been misplaced - already you are a creature more powerful than me - the greatest, surely, of all our breed. My wait is over. I have an heir - to take up the burden, and continue the search. And where I have failed, milord - you will succeed .”
‘His arm dropped. His whole body shook again, as though with the pain of the effort of his speech. I stared at him in astonishment. �
�Search?” I asked. “What search?”
‘“You spoke of a curse. Yes. You are right. We are cursed. Our need - our thirst - it is that which makes us an abomination - loathed, and feared. And yet, milord, I believe” - he swallowed - “we have a certain greatness . . . If only . . . If only . . .” He choked again, so that blood was spattered across his beard.
‘I stared at the crimson flecks, and nodded. “If only,” I whispered, completing his words, “we did not have our thirst.” I remembered Shelley. I closed my eyes. “Without thirst, what then could we not achieve?”
‘I felt the Pasha squeeze my hand. “Lovelace tells me that Ahasver came to you.”
‘“Yes.” I looked at him with sudden wonderment. “You know of him?”
‘“He has had many names. The Wandering Jew - the man who mocked Christ on His way to Calvary, and was sentenced for his crime to eternal restlessness. But Ahasver was already ancient when Jesus was slain. Ancient, and eternal, as all his kind are.”
‘“His kind?”
‘“Immortals, milord. Not like us - not vampires . . . True immortals.”
‘“And what,” I asked, “is true immortality?”
‘The Pasha’s eyes burned very bright. “Freedom, milord, from the need to drink blood.”
‘“It exists?”
‘The Pasha smiled faintly. “We must believe so.”
‘“So you have never met these immortals, then?”
‘“Not as you have done.”