The Lake of Sorrows (25 page)

“For God’s sake, can nobody in Yannina
stop crying?
” Karayannis caught himself, and drew calm about him like an unwanted, unpleasant cloak. “Forgive me for making you cry, Alexis. But rather that than make you bleed. And if I helped you stay, I
would
make you bleed. The Pasha will find you - again, sooner rather than later. If you wanted to avenge Shouhrae, you have already done more than most.”

“What do you mean?” The youth sniffed. “I have done nothing. I am just the selfish fool that got her killed!”

“You have tortured yourself for long enough, Alexis! No, listen to me. You did not kill her, the Pasha did. Killing her was meant to put such horror into the hearts of the Yanniotes that noone would even think of opposing him ever again. Now, since you began offering flowers to Shouhrae, scores and scores of people from the city come here to do the same.”

“Scores? And there are thousands of people in the city who dare not stir.”

“And those who dare not go are picking fresh flowers at night, for their more courageous friends to bring to the lake. They are uniting against the Pasha.”

“With flowers in their hands? They should be holding blades and muskets!”

“They have neither. As you do not. But if you bring this to the rebels, they will be able to buy the weapons they need.” The doctor handed him a small, but quite heavy satchel.

Alexis took it without much interest. “What is it?”

“Money. The nerve of war, as this new French generalissimo, Bonaparte, says.”

“Why would I be the donkey carrying your money to the rebels?”

“Shouhrae’s money.”

The youth was suddenly clutching the satchel to his chest. “Is … is this the truth, doctor? How could it be? She was just a … a Pasha’s harem girl.”

Karayannis nodded. “She had Anesso sell her jewels to enable the two of you find a new life far from Yannina. But that gold can also enable the rebels to fight for a new life for the people
in
Yannina. Now it can become a weapon against the Beast that killed Shouhrae.” He looked earnestly at Alexis, man to man. “But I thought it was up to you to decide, too. So — decide.”

The young man considered this for a long time. Then, slowly he stood erect, a grim determination hardening his tear-streaked face. At length, he nodded to the doctor. “Let us go, then. But allow me … a farewell.”

He turned towards the lake, taking in the metallic surface, the rush of wind in the reeds. The doctor walked a few steps away, Constantine at his side. The tavern-keeper whispered to him, eyes moist. “I never knew a man could do such an honorable thing by lying, doctor - even if they be kind lies.”

“Not all lies, Constantine. True, it is only a handful who come to the lake and hardly more than twoscore people in Yannina who do the flower-picking. But the Pasha is a wise beast — he fears the example because he knows it can grow very fast if allowed to. Getting Alexis and the gold to the rebels will allow just such growing. And the rebels may never take Yannina, but any weakening of the Pasha is a strengthening of the
Filiki.
”

They fell silent as Alexis joined them and the three men disappeared among the reeds.

H
alfway to Argyrokastro, the armies of Yannina and Souli had found their best campsite yet. A large meadow had opened in the dense forest they were traversing, and the Bey had ordered an early halt to the day’s marching. Tents blossomed all over the rich grassland, fires glittered in the dusk and the acrid smell of none-too-dry firewood was softened by the vapors of boiling meat and freshly-brewed coffee. Mellowed by the early rest and good food, noone bothered to grumble about the Souliotes this evening. As usual, they had set up their own enclave at the edge of the Yannina army’s camp, but who missed their stuck-up company, after all?

In the midst of the Yanniotes’ camp, in the grand tent of the Bey, he and his colonels were dining on freshly-killed game and fine wine. Boisterous laughter swirled around a heavy oak table laden with fine silver plate and cups, for the officers of Alhi Pasha took pride in campaigning in style.

Their leader, however, was staring gloomily into his wine-cup, which he had emptied and refilled many a time this evening, while his meal lay untouched on its plate.

A stout colonel across the table leaned forward towards his Bey and raised a grating bass voice above the chatter. “A week’s march and not a spark of warmth or friendship from those Souliotes. Would you believe the irony, my Bey? I invited that Zavellas fellow to your table as you ordered, and do you know what he answered?”

Muhtar did not look up. “No, colonel Duvnjak, I do not. Amuse me.”

“He said: ‘I do not want to make a friend of your Bey. I might have to kill him one day.’” The colonel slapped the table-top and snorted with laughter. “The arrogance! I almost cracked up right then and there, knowing what will happen to him tonight.”

Another colonel chimed in, chuckling. “Oh, not to
him
. He will get to watch our handiwork. But it will be interesting to see if those Greek popinjays can retain their haughtiness when we wake them up and cut their throats. Had our Pasha not ordered us to take him and his son alive, I should be happy to bring you the captain’s head, my Bey.”

Colonel Duvnjak raised his wine-cup to them all. “Would we not all love to see that head smile on a stake? But tonight we will bring in the heads of all the
other
Souliotes.”

“No, you will not!”

Their Bey’s voice slashed through the merriment like an executioner’s sword. For a moment, the tent was utterly silent.

Muhtar flung his cup aside. “Allah himself would be nauseated at your jackal’s courage! There will be no attack on the Souliotes.”

The officers gasped in unison. “But … my Bey. Your father ordered it.”

“My father ordered me to command this army and he is not here. I am. You will obey me!”

Colonel Duvnjak forced a chuckle. “My Bey jests. There is not an officer or simple soldier in this army who would dare return to Yannina without having carried out your father’s orders.”

“You will obey mine, I say!”

“The wine, the exhaustion of the march has confused you, my Bey.” Duvnjak rose slowly to his feet. “Perhaps you should rest, while we take care of this sordid business with the Souliotes? I have a fine doctor among my men. He can bring you a mild opiate.”

“Let him do so and I shall have him put to the stake. With you beside him!”

Muhtar jumped to his feet and ripped his
yatagan
sword from its scabbard. His officers rose, too, gaping at each other, then at him.

Duvnjak drew a deep breath. “Word has it you have a Greek mistress at the moment, my Bey. Froshenie by name, a lady known for reading books and living in seclusion. Some manner of sorceress, surely. She must have cast a spell on you. Forgive me, but we cannot obey our orders.”

“Do not take her name in your filthy mouth!” Muhtar flailed his sword at the colonel, but lost his balance and leaned heavily against the table. “You will attack the Souliotes over my dead body. And what do you think my father will do to you when you bring my corpse back to him?”

With a sudden jerk, Duvnjak tore his cloak from his shoulders and tossed it over his slouching Bey. A moment’s shocked wavering rippled through the officers, then their cloaks, too, came off and were heaped on Muhtar, snarling him up, muffling his curses. Finally, swathed in gold-embroidered cloth, he was pulled down. A fist fell, then another, everyone carefully failing to notice from where, and the young Bey lay still.

The door flap to the tent was flung open and a half-dozen guards milled in. “What is happening? Is the Bey sick?”

Outside the tent, the officers saw the nearest men look up from their food and their fires, hands unconsciously groping for their weapons.

A rake-thin colonel stepped back hurriedly. “The Bey has many friends among the veterans — they have fought many a campaign together.”

Colonel Duvnjak shoved him aside. “We must hurry, then, before this divides our army’s loyalties.”

Rushing outside, he raised his voice to a roar. “To arms! The Souliotes have betrayed us! Kill the traitors. All but the captain Zavellas and his son!”

Dazed and confused, the Yannina soldiers hesitated. Desperately shouting twice as loudly, their colonels drew their swords and, still screaming at their men to follow them, rushed the Souliote camp. The Souliotes, equally hesitant, nevertheless began to scramble to their feet.

But now, like the snowball starting the avalanche, the colonels’ rush unleashed the attack and the army of Yannina fell on the Souliotes.

A wildfire of uncoordinated musketry and pistol fire from both sides thinned the ranks of attackers and attacked alike, then the Souliotes rallied around their captain and sword and dagger came out. And it was man to man on the soggy meadow in the forest, from which at least some Souliotes could have fled among the trees, had they been so inclined. But Souliotes were rarely inclined to run. In the chaotic, bloody melee, with hardly enough space for a man to fall, the Souliotes gave as well as they took, and more. There was not a singly cry for mercy, for who but a fool would expect mercy from Alhi Pasha?

At length, only captain Zavellas and his son were left standing, blood-soaked and sagging with exhaustion, their foes retreating a pace or two. Then the husky colonel Duvnjak that had brought down Muhtar cried out to the soldiers. “Throw your cloaks over them, like the hunter throws nets over birds! And beat them well, I am tired of this game!”

Pelted with cloaks streaked with dirt and blood, Zavellas and Fotos were brought down. Twisting, kicking, snarling, they were beaten senseless and finally chained to each other and hurled onto a cart.

A savage-looking irregular, clutching a cruelly slashed arm, walked up to the colonel Duvnjak and nodded towards the battlefield strewn with twisted dead and moaning wounded. “Some of the Souliotes still live, colonel. Do we chain them, too?”

The colonel slammed his sword back in its scabbard without bothering to wipe the blade first, sending rivulets of gore down the fine wool of his uniform coat. “We were ordered to take the captain and his brat alive. The Pasha said nothing of his men.”

The soldier’s grimy face lit up in a vindictive grin. “You mean … ?”

“I do. Slit those blackguards’ throats and leave the lot of them to the vultures. We have our hands full with our own wounded.”

Another colonel, the youngest among them, drew in a sharp breath, but Duvnjak, still burning with the fever of battle, cuffed him like a recruit. “When the Pasha learns how many men we lost tonight, at least we will be able to tell him that no enemy was spared. Except those he himself
ordered
us to spare.”

Duvnjak spat and turned to gaze furiously at Muhtar’s tent. “And release the Bey. The deed is done, we can return to Yannina. He will not have to sully his Greek-infested conscience with an attack on Argyrokastro. When his father demands an explanation for this mess, the brat can do his own explaining!”

T
he main courtyard of Yannina was sun-baked and bustling again, but sullenly so. Alhi’s army had had all of the marching of a campaign, some of the fighting - and bloody enough it had been! - and none of the plunder. Tired, dirty soldiers, dismissed by their officers, trudged towards their barracks, except for those who had been volunteered to unload from the carts the grisly cargo of wounded men, moaning under clouds of buzzing flies.

At the top of the mighty stairs before the palace’s main entrance stood the Pasha himself, dressed in brilliantly-colored silk, fanned by a slave taken in some previous war. The army’s officers, somewhat the worse for wear, were gathered beneath the stairs, heads held low. Colonel Duvnjak barked a command, and a trio of burly soldiers manhandled Zavellas and his son, still chained, from the cart and dumped them unceremoniously at the Pasha’s feet.

Muhtar stood to one side, head held demonstrably high, lips tight. It had not escaped anyone’s notice that he had not spoken a single word since the night battle against the Souliotes.

His father glanced at him. “We shall talk, my son, after my audience with the good captain Zavellas.”

He nodded regally to colonel Duvnjak. “Have the soldiers unchain our guests and bring the captain to my audience chamber. He and I have important matters to discuss.”

“L
eave us.” Alhi waved away the soldiers that had dragged the filthy, bloody Souliote captain to the audience chamber. Once the soldiers had left the two men alone, Alhi rose from his throne and descended from the dais to kneel beside the captain. The Greek had tried and failed twice to get to his feet.

All he could raise was his voice, reedy and thirst-cracked though it was. “You slimy, scheming, poisonous snake! You had no intention ever to fight Argyrokastro. You had your eyes set on Souli even before you asked for our help!”

Alhi stepped over to a small table laden with crystal decanters and golden goblets. He took his time about filling a goblet, then knelt again beside the captain and held out the goblet. “There now, my friend. I have had my eyes set on Souli ever since I became Pasha of Hyperus. Surely a cunning man like yourself could see that. Your obdurate people have been a thorn in the tender Ottoman backside for over a century. Argyrokastro, on the other hand, will be a juicy grape to pluck, but no more. But now Souli is ripe and you will help me do the plucking.”

Zavellas spat into the wine. “Oh, I see. So that was why your army turned back without even bothering to make a token gesture towards Argyrokastro. You are marching that army on Souli. I am glad we thinned out its ranks a bit.”

“You misunderstand my intentions, Zavellas.” Alhi looked at the wine-goblet with an expression of blasé distaste. “But I forgive you because you are a friend.”

“The Ottomans will rule in Souli before I become your friend!”

“Exactly. We shall solve this misunderstanding in the best possible way. I will set you free.” Alhi tossed the goblet aside, spilling its contents like splashes of blood over the white marble floor. “And behead that over-zealous colonel who rebelled against my son and slaughtered your men.”