The Lake of Sorrows (12 page)

“Do not mock me, mother. I am tired to the bone.”

“What is the matter, Alhi?” Hamko sat on the edge of the bed, although this made no impression in the delicate linen. “It is hard and painful not to be able to have what you want, is it not?”

“Were I but fifteen years younger.” Alhi rubbed his burning forehead.

“If you were in your son’s shoes, you mean.” Hamko snickered like a mischievous young girl. “Still handsome and desired. Nothing would stop you then. You would not fear rejection, would you. Admit it. You are jealous of the boy, Alhi!”

“Oh, go away woman! You come only to torture me.” Alhi snapped up a stool and hurled it at the ghost; it shattered against the bedpost, chipping the priceless ivory. A chilling laughter echoed around the bedchamber, but the ghost was no more to be seen.

Alhi tore open his chamber door and barked an order to the guard outside. If a man could not sleep, he could still put the night to good use.

Y
ulebahar entered the Pasha’s chamber in awe. She could hardly believe this was no dream. Her most secret wishes had come true when least expected, right in the middle of the night.

“Come closer.” The Pasha was reclining on the bed, dressed only in a membrane-thin robe of the finest imported Chinese silk. “How long have you been here?”

“Two years.” Yulebahar was gasping. She thought her heart would pound its way out of her chest. She thought the commotion it made would annoy the Pasha. She tried to will it to stop.

“Do not be afraid.” He spoke with such a soft voice, rose off the bed and approached her like a shadow.

Afraid? If only he knew how long she had expected this moment, this
opportunity
, how many endless nights she had spent spinning her plans, how eager she was to fall in his arms.

Yet, as Alhi gently raised her veil to uncover face and reach for her soft lips, she looked into his eyes and saw that, though he looked at her, he did not see her. She remembered stories whispered in the harem. Stories of men who took to their bed a woman they owned, while seeing only one they could never possess.

And suddenly, as he drew her down onto the bed with him, she shuddered with hatred for a woman she did not even know.

T
he master of the Vassiliou house slept as soundly as his Pasha did not. But his wife had slipped out of bed and tip-toed into the gardens. Wrapped in a deep-blue robe and lost in gazing at the giant coin of the moon shining on the ink-black sky, she stood there for she knew not how long, until a familiar whisper rasped behind her.

“Look me straight in the eyes, my sweet Froshenie.”

Froshenie did not. “Go back to bed, Vaya. I did not mean to wake you.”

“You did not. Instinct did. I have been your nurse all your life. I know you better than you know yourself. Look at me, I said.” She nudged Froshenie’s elbow none too gently to make her lady turn and face her.

Froshenie did turn, but lowered her eyes, unable to do as she was asked.

Chryssie’s gentle face tightened, her eyes narrowed into slits. “So that is how it is. This Muhtar’s face simply will not leave you, will it? Only my warnings will go in one ear and out the other - if they even go in!” The Vaya collapsed onto a small garden bench, shaking her head.

Froshenie turned away to face the sky again. “Please, Vaya. Go back to bed.”

“I will, once you are honest with me and admit the truth. Instead of trying to put the burden where it is does not belong.” Chryssie was still whispering, yet rapidly losing control of the indignation in her voice.

“You took advantage of my surprise earlier in the garden. I asked you why you do not arrange with Dimitros to join him abroad. You gave me that silly excuse of a speech. That men like their independence. That you might interfere with his other life.”

Her mistress kept gazing at the moon, silent.

Chryssie jumped up from the bench. “Now I ask you — what other life, Froshenie? You and the children
are
his life. You know that better than me. It is you who wants to keep your other life, the one you do not even have yet. Should never have at all.”

Froshenie suddenly sobbed and tried to hide her head in her hands, but the Vaya grasped them and kept them away.

“Tell me the truth, Froshenie. Look at me! Tell me the truth.”

Froshenie shook her head violently, tears streaming from her eyes. The Vaya took her by the forearms and shook her back and forth. “Ever since you were a child, I was the one you told all your secrets. So speak up.
Have you fallen in love with this Antichrist?
”

Slowly, ever so slowly, Froshenie raised her head and finally looked into the Vaya’s eyes. Her face was wet and full of despair. “How can you even ask? Are you blind, Vaya?”

The Vaya was not. She began crying herself. “How can it be? How did this happen?” She found herself squeezing her mistress’ hands so hard it hurt them both.

“It was you, Vaya, who told me once that our soul is an abyss and that one should stay away from the deep. You did not tell me that the deep could be right in front of me no matter which way I fled.”

The Vaya rocked Froshenie slowly from side to side, like she used to do when, as as little girl, Froshenie had run to her for comfort whenever she got hurt or scared. “No, I did not, for I did not want you to be scared that it would devour you.” She hugged Froshenie, steadying shoulders that were now shaking with sobs. “But if you must fall into the abyss, you will not fall alone.”

“H
is excellency the chief of staff of the French General Chambaux in Corfu,
adjudant-commandant
Roche!”

Tahir the guard captain’s thunderous announcement, albeit a bit hesitant in the pronunciation of the French rank and name, carried to every corner of the palace’s grand courtyard, ringing out over the guards massed there to impress the Pasha’s distinguished guest.

The guest looked a bit hesitant himself. Despite the splendors of the wealthier quarters of Yannina, the streets leading up to the palace were narrow and gloomy to a fault, with no hint that they led to the ruler’s palace. To gain access to the palace itself, Roche and his two-man escort, a pair of tatar couriers sent from the palace, had cantered across a broad wooden gateway that led through the main gate to the courtyard, a large, irregular one sorrounded on two sides by wings of the palace and on the third side by a vast wooden stables wing.

The area was crowded with the Pasha’s guardsmen, not so much on parade as simply massed in a makeshift phalanx. As Roche dismounted, the phalanx split down the middle without any shouted commands, like the Red Sea parting before Moses, and, somewhat taken aback, the French emissary advanced through this sea of men.

Despite being used to the gaudy excesses of the very young, very proud and often very ill-bred revolutionary French officers, Roche’s eyes widened repeatedly at the sight of the Pasha’s guards. Mostly Albanians from the mountains of Alhi’s fierce youth, the men’s clothing and arms joined savage to picturesque, but they did not look anything like what the Frenchman would have called soldiers. Small red caps were worn in place of shakos, baggy and none-too-clean shirts and pants were spiced with richly adorned vests, brightly colored stockings and ornamented sandals. And their hair! Shaved off from the forehead and temples, but falling down in large masses over the shoulders; and their mustachios would have been the envy of even a veteran
sansculotte
. But soldiers they were — in each man’s broad belt, Roche noted the well-worn, if oddly-shaped, handles of a pair of pistols, and all of them held their muskets with the familiarity of a pipe.

The Frenchman, himself in the full-dress finery of a hussar colonel, marched to the end of these glittering ranks of stout soldiers with repeated appreciating nods. They, in turn, all seemed to wonder why French soldiers wore their jackets only on one shoulder.

Tahir, who had fallen in beside the guest, could not resist a chuckle. “You seem a bit surprised at our soldiers’ appearance?”

Roche cleared his throat. “You will forgive me, they are as fine a body of men as I have ever seen. War certainly seems to be their proper profession.”

“You are mistaken.” The ramrod guards captain cracked a grin of unashamed pride. “War is not a profession to the men of the Pasha’s guard.”

“It is not?”

“No. To them, it is a habit.”

At the far end of the phalanx of guardsmen, Alhi was seated on a massive gilt chair, manhandled to the courtyard by panting, sweating servants only hours before. It had been carefully placed to catch the full force of the morning sun’s rays and, as the Frenchman approached, he had to squint and rub his eyes against the halo of blinding light around his host and the assembled courtiers.

Finally standing in front of the improvised throne, the officer bowed deeply. “On behalf of the regional commander of Corfu, I greet the ruler of Hyperus. Alhi Pasha, son of Velis of Tepeleni.” Roche’s Greek was fluent, yet with a distinctive accent that made Tahir smirk behind his back.

“Not just Hyperus, your excellency.” Alhi’s reply was softened with a broad smile. “Thessaly and Sterea Ellada as well. You forgot those.” Then he laughed to show his visitor he was not offended, but amused by his ommitance.

“Forgive me, your highness.” The Frenchman bowed again. “I am well aware of all your highness’ titles and accomplishments, but they are way too many for my poor Greek.”

“Your Greek is excellent, and we believe you will improve it even further during your stay with us.” Alhi was all kindness and courtesy, and his entourage shifted their feet nervously, if only out of habit when he was in this mood.

“The year 1798 will be the year of splendid new alliances. My master will be honored to stand beside you against any enemies and — ”

A regal, yet impatient nod from Alhi cut short the Frenchman’s oratory. The Pasha rose from his throne and dismissed his courtiers with a wave of his hand. “Let us walk in the shade of the gardens, this is much too hot a day for formalities, no?”

Confused, yet impressed, the Frenchman followed Alhi to the palace garden, where they strolled to a cool spring, shaded by ancient cypress trees.

“Much more pleasant than audience chambers and parade-grounds, is it not?” Alhi clapped his hands and servants rushed up with two delicate walnut-frame chairs and a small table, then vanished just as quickly.

Once more, Alhi clapped his hands and Roche stopped breathing for a moment, as a raven-haired girl appeared as if from nowhere, carrying a tray with golden cups of steaming Turkish coffee, as well as a crystal glass and a silver decanter.

The girl set down the tray and handed Alhi a golden cup, Roche the crystal glass. He barely heard Alhi, as the Pasha spoke in an apologetic tone. “You will forgive me that I do not drink wine with you. I am the Sultan’s most Muslim servant and the Prophet forbade wine.”

Roche nodded absent-mindedly, mesmerized by the smooth, tan skin of Zoitsa from Kalamata as the young girl poured wine into his glass.

Alhi emptied a coffee cup and reached for another, forcing himself to only sip it. “I am told your master, Bonaparte, dislikes excessive decorum, too, except when necessary.”

Roche, still drinking in the splendors of Zoitsa, answered dreamily. “Great men have little time, he says, for there are so many things they need to do.”

“Then let us not waste any time. Let us be most practical and talk of dreams.”

“Dreams, your highness?” Roche was still fighting the reverie that was Zoitsa, and he was losing rapidly.

“That is the way to make them plans and then reality, is it not?”

“My master would agree completely.” Roche fought in vain to free his gaze from the girl, wondering how the Pasha could pay so little attention to a girl so splendid and wearing so little.

“I imagine your master would agree with me, yes. His dream is to rule France.”

Roche choked on his wine, finally tearing his gaze away from Zoitsa, then spoke hurriedly. “My master is but a humble sol— “

“Soldier, yes. Humble, no. Why should he be? With abilities such as his?”

“He serves the … rulers in Paris.”

“Until he is strong enough to rule in Paris himself. No, do not waste any more time with your denials. You need not fear. I understand your master completely. I myself serve a distant ruler in Constantinople - but only until I can rule my own realm.”

Roche gulped down a large mouthful of wine, sweating despite the garden’s cool. He found his gaze once again resting on Zoitsa, who had retreated a few steps and knelt down in the grass, lowering her head submissively.

Alhi graciously poured his guest more wine and then went on. “I shall be frank with you, man to man. My dream is to break away from the Ottoman Empire and create my own here, in Hyperus. Yet, like your master, I am not strong enough. Unless I have allies whom I can trust. Allies whom I understand and who understand me. Your master’s situation exactly. And he is anything but a fool.”

“Wh-what do you mean, your highness?” A gentle breeze wafted though the leafy green garden, Zoitsa heaved a contented sigh and Roche sweated even more profusely.

“I see, as clearly as your master, adjutant Roche, that he needs a new war soon. A new victorious campaign. A splendid one. But where? Italy is in his pocket already, Austria on his leash, Russia too far away and England out of his reach. But Egypt is not.”

“I … see your highness is exceedingly astute.” The servant girl had raised her gaze and for a moment the Frenchman found himself looking into almond eyes, darker than any the Frenchman had ever seen.

Alhi waved off any further flattery. “I merely looked at a map and traced with my finger the Englishmen’s trade routes from India. The English have grown rich by bleeding India of its wealth for centuries. That stream of riches goes through Egypt, then across the Mediterranean. The ‘English lake’, as those arrogant island-dwellers like to call it. But, island-dwellers that they are, they are better sailors than your countrymen. And your master is a general, not an admiral. He needs victories on land, not at sea. He will invade Egypt soon.”