The Vampyre (11 page)

‘We began to ride through the town. There were churches, open to the moon, and shattered pillars submerged by weeds. In one ruin, I saw a small shack, built between the columns of some abandoned hall, and then, as I rode on up the path, I saw more houses, wretched like the first, huddled like squatters amongst the wreckage of the past. This was the village, I realised, from which Haidée must have fled, but there was no sign of her now, nor of any living thing, save for a dog, which barked wildly, then came running up to us wagging its tail. I reached down to stroke it; the creature licked my hand, and followed us as we rode on up the path. Ahead was a great wall, guarding the castle, with two open gates. I paused beneath them to look back at the village. I remembered Yanina and Tapaleen, the scenes of life that had greeted us there, and I shivered now, despite the unbearable heat, to see the wretched stillness of the hovels below. As we turned and rode on through the gates, even the dog whined and slunk away.

‘The gates slammed shut - and still there was no one to be seen. There were more walls, I could see now, between us and the castle, which seemed built from the very mountain, so sheerly its battlements rose up from the cliffs. The only path to the castle was the one we were following now - and the only route of escape, I thought suddenly, as a second pair of gates swung shut behind our backs. But I could see torches now, bobbing on the walls, and I was grateful for the signs of life - I began to think of food, and a soft bed, and all those pleasures you have to be a traveller to earn. I pressed my horse forwards through a third and final gate, and as I did so, looked behind me to see that the entire road was lit by torches now. Then the third pair of gates swung shut, and all was stillness again, and we were alone. Our horses whinnied with fear, and the striking of their hooves echoed off the stone. We were in a courtyard; ahead of us, steps led up to an open doorway, very ancient, I realised, decorated with the statues of monstrous things; above us towered the castle wall. All was lit by the blazing silver of the moon. I dismounted and crossed the courtyard towards the open door.

‘“Welcome to my home,” said Vakhel Pasha. I had not seen him appear; but there he was, waiting for me, at the top of the steps. He held out his hands and took mine; he embraced me. “My dear Lord Byron,” he whispered in my ear. “I am so glad you have come.”

‘He kissed me, fully on the lips, then stood back to stare into my eyes. His own gleamed more brightly than I remembered from before; his face too was as silver as the moon, its border luminous, like crystal against the dark. He took my arm and led me. “The journey here is hard,” he said. “Come and eat, and then take your well-earned rest.”

‘I followed him through courtyards, up stairways, past countless doors. I realised that I was more tired than I had known, for the architecture of the place seemed like that of my dreams, endlessly extending and diminishing itself, full of impossible junctures and blendings of styles. “Here,” said the Pasha at last, brushing aside a curtain of gold, and beckoning me to follow him. I looked around; pillars, in the style of an ancient temple, framed the room, but above me, in a glittering mosaic of golds and blues and greens, rose a dome so airy it seemed made of glass. The light was faint, there being only two large candlesticks in the form of twining snakes, but even so, I could make out words, in Arabic, around the edge of the dome. The Pasha must have been watching me: “And Allah created man,” he whispered in my ear, “from clots of blood.” He smiled lazily. “It is a quotation from the Koran.” He took my hand, and gestured me to sit down. There were cushions and silks set around a low table of food. I took my place, and obeyed my host's invitation to eat. An ancient servant-woman kept my glass filled with wine, and the Pasha's too, although I noticed he swallowed it without apparent pleasure or taste. He asked me if I was surprised to see him drinking wine; when I agreed that I was, he laughed and said that he obeyed no god's command.

‘“And you,” he asked me, his eyes glittering, “what would you dare defy for the sake of pleasure?”

‘I shrugged. “Why, what pleasures are there,” I asked, “beyond drinking wine and eating dead pig? I follow a sensible religion, which allows me to indulge in both of those pursuits.” I raised my glass, and drained it. “And so I avoid damnation.”

‘The Pasha smiled softly. “But you are young,
milord
, and beautiful.” He reached across the table, and took my hand. “And yet your pleasures truly end with the consumption of pork?”

‘I glanced down at the Pasha's hand, then met his eyes again. “I may be young, Your Excellency, but I have learned already that on every joy there is a proportionate tax.”

‘“You may be right,” said the Pasha evenly. A film of blankness seemed to curtain his eyes. “I must admit,” he added, after a tired pause, “that I can scarcely remember what pleasure is, I feel so dulled by the passage of the years.”

‘I glanced at him in surprise. “Forgive me, Your Excellency,” I said, “but you do not strike me as being a voluptuary.”

‘“Do I not?” he asked. He took his hand from my own. I thought at first that he was angry, but when I looked into his face, I saw only a look of terrible melancholy, passions turned to ice like the waves of some frozen pond. “There are pleasures,
milord
,” he said slowly, “of which you have not even dreamed. Pleasures of the mind - and of the blood.” He looked at me, and his eyes now seemed deep as space. “Is that not why you have come here,
milord
? To sample these pleasures for yourself ?”

‘There was compulsion in his stare. “It is true,” I said, failing to lower my eyes before it, “that although I hardly know you, I feel already that you are as extraordinary a man as I have ever met. You will laugh at me, Your Excellency - but in Tapaleen, I had dreams of you. I imagined that you came to me, and showed me strange things, and hinted at hidden truths.” I laughed suddenly. “But what will you think of me, saying I came here at the prompting of a few strange dreams? You will be offended.”

‘“No,
milord
, I am not offended.” The Pasha rose to his feet, taking my hands then embracing me. “You have had a hard day. You deserve to sleep dreamlessly tonight - the sleep of the blessed.” He kissed me, and his lips felt cold to the touch. I was surprised, for they had not done so outside, in the moonlight. “Wake fresh and well,
milord
,” the Pasha whispered; he clapped his hands; a veiled slave girl came in through the curtain. The Pasha turned to her. “Haidée, show our guest to his bed.”

‘My thrill of surprise must have been evident. “Yes,” said the Pasha, watching me, “she is the one I brought back from Tapaleen, my pretty runaway. Haidée” - he waved with his hand - “remove your veil.” Gracefully, she did so, and her long hair spilled free. She was lovelier even than I had remembered her, and I was filled with sudden disgust to think of her serving as Vakhel Pasha's whore. I glanced at the Pasha as he stared at his slave, and saw a look of such hunger and desire cross his face that I almost shivered, for his lips were parted and his nostrils flared, almost as though he were smelling the girl, and his desire seemed transfused with a terrible despair. He turned and saw me watching him; the same look of hunger pinched his face as he stared into my own, and then it was gone, and his expression was as frozen as it had been before. “Sleep,” he said dismissively; he waved his hand. “You need your rest - you will have much to occupy you in the days to come. Goodnight,
milord
.”

‘I bowed and thanked him, then followed Haidée. She led me up a stairway; when we had reached the top, she turned round and kissed me, long and lovingly, and I, who needed no encouragement, took her in my arms, and met her lips as well as I could. “You came for me, my dear sweet Lord Byron” - she kissed me again - “You came for me.” Then she broke away from my embrace, and took me by the hand. “This way,” she said, leading me up a second flight of steps. There was no trace of the slave about her now; instead, she seemed bright with passion and excitement, prettier than ever, with a kind of fierce joy that warmed my own blood, and quickened up my spirits most entertainingly. We ended in a room that reminded me, much to my surprise, of my old bedroom in Newstead - thick pillars and heavy archways, Venetian candlesticks, all the familiar Gothic stuff. I could almost imagine myself back in England - certainly, the room was no place for Haidée, so natural was she, so loving - so Greek. I held her; she raised her lips to kiss me again, and it was as burning and sweet as that first kiss in the inn, when she had dared to believe that she might be free.

‘And then, of course, I remembered she was not. Slowly, I parted my lips from hers. “Why has the Pasha left us alone?” I asked.

‘Haidée stared up at me, her eyes wide. “Because he hopes that you will deflower me,” she said simply.

‘“Deflower?” - and then, after a pause - “
Hoping?
”

‘“Yes.” Her brow darkened with sudden bitterness. “I was unlocked tonight, you see.”

‘“From where?”

‘“From nowhere.” Despite herself, Haidée laughed. She crossed her hands chastely in front of her. “Here,” she said. “What lies here - it is my master's, after all, not mine. His to do with as he pleases.” She raised her hands, then lifted up her skirts - around both her wrists and ankles were delicate rings of steel, not bracelets as I had thought before, but fettering bands. Haidée clasped her hands again. “The chains can be fitted to lock up my thighs.”

‘I paused. “I see.”

‘She stared at me, her wide eyes unblinking, then pulled me tight against her. “Do you, though?” she asked, reaching up to comb the curls of my hair. “I cannot - will not - be a slave, My Lord - and not
his
slave, no, not
his
.” She kissed me softly. “Dear Byron - help me - please help me.” Her eyes blazed suddenly, with fury and tortured pride. “I
must
be free,” she whispered on a single breath. “
I must
.”

‘“I know.” I held her tight. “I know.”

‘“Do you swear?” I could feel her shaking as she pressed against me. “Do you swear you will help me?” I nodded. Such passion, like a tigress's, combined with the prettiness of a goddess of love - how could I fail to be stirred? How, indeed? I glanced across at the bed. And yet, as before, the same uneasy prompting in my mind -
why
had we been left alone? - the Pasha scarcely seemed the man who would take kindly to the bedding of his favourite slave by a guest. And I was high in the mountains, in a strange land, virtually alone.

‘I remembered what Haidée had said before. “The Pasha,” I asked slowly, “he truly hasn't made love to you?”

‘She looked up at me, and then away. “No, never.” There was distaste in her voice, but also, unmistakably, a sudden hint of fear. “He has never used me for - that.”

‘“Then for what?”

‘She shook her head gently, and closed her eyes.

‘I pulled her round to face me again. “But why, Haidée - I still don't understand - why has he left you unchained with me?”

‘“You really don't see?” She looked up at me with sudden doubt in her eyes. “Surely you do? How can a slave have love? - slaves are whores, my Byron. Do you want me to be your whore, my Byron, my sweet Lord Byron, is that what you want me to become?” God, I thought, she's going to cry, and I almost took her there and then, but no, she had the strength and passion of a mountain storm, and I couldn't do it. If she'd been some drab, some London bitch, well - I was rake enough already to know that a woman cried generally just to lubricate herself - I would have pressed her. But Haidée - she had the beauty of her land - but she also had more, something of the spirit of old Greece, which I had waited for so long to find, and now, in this slave girl, I held it, rays of that light which had led the Argonauts, and inspired her ancestors at Thermopylae. So beautiful, so wild - a creature of the mountains, restless almost to death in her cage. “Yes,” I whispered in her ear, “you will be free, I promise it.” Then, under my breath: “And I won't even make love to you until you want me to.”

‘She led me across to a balcony. “So we are agreed, then?” she asked. “We will escape together from this place?”

‘I nodded.

‘Haidée smiled happily, then pointed up at the sky. “We must wait,” she said. “We cannot leave while the moon is full.”

‘I looked at her in surprise. “Whyever not?”

‘“Because it isn't safe.”

‘“Yes, but why not?”

‘She raised a finger to my lips. “Byron, trust me.” She shivered, despite the heat. “I know what has to be done.” She shivered again, and glanced over her shoulder. I followed her stare, and saw a tower jagged against the moon, a red light glowing from its very top. I crossed to the balcony edge, and saw how the tower rose sheer from the promontory edge. Far below flowed the Aheron, its thick waters unstained by the moon; I peered over my own balcony's side, and saw that the drop into the chasm below was as sheer as that along the rest of the walls. Haidée held me, and pointed; I looked up again; the red light from the tower had disappeared. “I must go,” she said.

‘At that moment, there was a knock on the door. Haidée fell on her knees to unlace my boots. “Yes,” I called.

‘The door opened, and a creature came in. I say creature, for although the thing had the form of a man, there was no sign of intelligence in its face, and its eyes were more dead than a lunatic's. Its skin was leathery, covered in tufts of hair; its nose was rotted; its fingernails curved like claws. Then I remembered that I had seen it before, the same creature, slumped at the oars of the Pasha's boat. It was dressed now as then, in greasy black, and it held a tub of water in its hands.