The Lake of Sorrows (28 page)

Your wisdom of the dogs, so fitting for you, is only half-wisdom. No, the dog does not bite or bark the hand that feeds it, unless he is prepared to suffer an empty stomach for his freedom. Souli has been free for generations, alone among the cities on the edge of the Ottoman empire, precisely because we are prepared to suffer for it. And suffer more than empty stomachs, at that.

Yet I never thought that God would ask of me to suffer the torture and death of my own son to safeguard Souli’s freedom, like He asked Abraham to sacrifice Isaac. I have no illusions that He will save Fotos like he did Isaac. But if my son is afraid to die - as he is so young - then he is neither Greek, nor a Souliote, and I will no longer recognize him as my son. Yet I know he is also a true warrior, so I believe he will accept his fate with no regrets.

Souli will always be defiant and free, not another ornament in the cruel Sultanate of which you dream. Your current army will meet the same fate you gave ours on the road to Argyrokastro. I know your son’s army, being your Northern and Southern forces combined, will outnumber ours five to one. But we have defeated even larger armies on our own soil and besides, your soldiers share your complete confidence in yourself, so you have handed us the powerful advantage of surprise. Make haste and raise a new army, you will need it when we come to claim our vengeance for my son.

Your ever faithful enemy, captain Zavellas of Souli

Eminee jumped to her feet. “Muhtar! In Allah’s name, you must warn him. Vajas, bring a fresh courier, tell him he will ride his horse to death, if need be. Tell him — “

“
No!
”

All stared at the Pasha, who had risen, his eyes blazing. “That Souliote scum thinks himself my master because he is willing to abandon even his own son. And he thinks his son the master of
my
son because he
can
abandon that son and trust him to be a man nonetheless.”

Eminee wailed again. “Alhi! You cannot do this, not to your own — “

“I can and I will! Muhtar will be betrayed and he will prevail with no warning from me, or he will be no son of mine. Tahir! Go throw that bastard Fotos in chains and hurl him into the dungeon at once. If the Souliote traitors really do destroy my army, that stuck-up pup will be screaming for the mercy of death before I grant it to him. I will show that Souliote filth that noone is the master of Alhi Pasha!”

Tahir fled.

Eminee sank to the floor, shrieking. The Pasha did not even look at her, he looked past Vajas and the courier and bellowed at the empty room behind them. “No! You wanted him off the leash, and now he truly is! He will become a man, or he will become dust! And if Gardiki ever falls, it will be my own decision and noone else’s. You will haunt me no more, I will never speak to you again. I abandon
you,
too. To oblivion!”

Councilor and courier both took one more look at the Pasha’s eyes and bolted from the room.

I
t was a triumph that generations of Sultans had sought in vain. Yet Muhtar Bey, commander of the army of Yannina and conqueror-to-be of proud Souli, felt only revulsion.

His army, massed within cannon range on the hills above the walls of Souli allow, did not share his sentiments. At the sight of the Souliotes marching out of the city in a loose column, to meet the Yannina army and surrender their weapons, the Bey’s men raised a thunderous roar.

“Look at those haughty brigands.”

“Have you seen, that’s Botsaris sitting there on his horse, as if he was coming out to fight.”

“We shall have those arrogant asses serving us their best wine.”

“And their most gorgeous whores.”

“Nay, I will take their
daughters!
”

Captain Zavellas, standing beside Muhtar, looked pointedly at the ground. He had ridden into Souli and come back less than half an hour later, with the curses of the Souliotes in greeting for the Bey - and with a promise that they Souliotes would march out the gates and throw down their arms before the army of Yannina.

Spitting on the ground before the Yanniote army’s half-dozen French
Griebeauval
twelve-pounders, Zavellas turned to face Muhtar, who was standing beside the commander of his artillery. The commander, French like the rest of the fifty-odd artillerymen sent by Roche to “visit” Yannina, looked bored and irritated, not being able to understand a word of the shouting around him. Zavellas’ spitting, however, was easy to understand, and the officer took a step forward. Muhtar turned his head just long enough to shoot a peremptory glance at the man, but it stopped the Frenchman in his tracks; even he had sensed that the Bey’s mood had been extraordinarily foul of late.

Zavellas smiled grimly at the sight. “Had you not brought those accursed new French cannon of yours, Botsaris would not have accepted this, you know. And still — the shame! Souli surrendering without a fight. But I made him see that submitting to your father would be less onerous than submitting to the Sultan, if only one shade so.”

“Strange as it might seem, I agree with you.”

“Strange as it might seem, I have no ill feelings towards you, Muhtar Bey. Though your men did not mean to praise you, they told me you tried to stop what was done to
my
men on the march to Argyrokastro. But I must warn you that it has never endeared anyone to Souliotes that they do not obey their fathers.”

There was little more to say, so they waited in silence while the Souliote column marched up the hill and drew up in a loose line, three men deep, facing the Yanniote army. Captain Botsaris rode up, glancing at the twelve-pounders, already trained on Souli, before dismounting. Grimly, he joined a group of his lieutenants standing in front of the Souliote line.

Muhtar followed his gaze, and called out to him. “Yes, captain. There is no dishonor in surrendering rather than wasting the fine men of your city in a hopeless battle.”

Botsaris nodded curtly at this. The young Bey inclined his head slightly, then turned to Zavellas. “Your men can stack arms as if striking camp. I see no need to put them through the humiliation of making a big pile of them, as if surrendering completely. Their weapons will be returned to them soon, I promise.”

Zavellas bowed stiffly, then marched towards his fellow Souliotes. Halfway there, he hesitated, then turned to look earnestly at Muhtar, with as much respect as a Souliote captain could show an Ottoman Bey. “You are an unusual man, Muhtar Bey. I must confess I take some pride in the rumors that the love of a Greek woman has changed you so. And I am sorry. I truly do have no ill feelings towards you. But this must be done.”

“I am afraid you I do not quite understand, captain?”

“If I am capable of killing my own son, then I should be capable of killing the son of the Beast of Hyperus.”

“You speak in riddles … ” Muhtar’s voice trailed away. Then certainty struck him like a blow. “
To arms!
”

Too late. The Souliotes’ muskets came up and belched fire and smoke and roars and the air around him was thick with the
snip-snip
of bullets and the grisly thuds of musket balls slamming into flesh and bone.

Muhtar raised his hand and let out the practiced battle-cry of a score of battles. “Soldiers of Yannina — to me! Charge!”

Or thought he did, for something was wrong. He could not hear his own voice, there was a strange stinging sensation in his chest, and the rocky ground rose up and slammed into his face. He managed to turn his head just a little, but only enough to be able to watch a trampled, shattered snail in a patch of yellowish grass beside him, while in his ears boiled the hammering of muskets, the tramp of rushing feet and the ugly rasping of steel cutting into screaming men.

The sounds receded, his mind drifting away from them. The burning-hot ground beneath him became the satin warmth of Froshenie’s skin, his face no longer lay on the rough gravel of the Souliote countryside, but on Froshenie’s breast. Darkness beckoned, her laughter echoing gently from somewhere within it, and he surrendered willingly.

T
he dungeon-keeper could not stop his laugh. Deep in the bowels of the palace, the dungeons were his home and, feeling at home, his reverence for all but the Pasha himself receded. “No, my lady, it is impossible.”

And the lady Eminee, standing before him in the flickering torch-light barely driving away the dank, chilly darkness of the dungeon, did not look like someone worthy of reverence. Indeed, she looked out of place and out of hope. Her eyes were red from desperate crying, sorrow etched into her face. Even the otherwise fearsome captain Tahir, standing beside her, looked drawn and very old in the deep shadows.

The dungeon-keeper shook his head, forcing back another laugh. “No, my lady. The Souliote youth will leave here only when the Pasha is done with him. Whatever is left of him.” He snickered, then caught himself, as the captain drew in a sharp breath. “You should leave, my lady. This place is … my domain. No place for a fine lady.” He glanced at Tahir. “Or an old man.”

Behind him, young Fotos rose in his cell, inasmuch as he could, for the cells of Yannina’s dungeons were made to torture the prisoners even before the dungeon-keeper brought out the tools of his trade; the cells’ ceilings were only four feet above the floor, the floor itself only slightly larger than the bottom of a large barrel. “Leave, my lady.” The youth’s pale face shone eerily in the torchlight, his eyes large and very white, yet there was still defiance in his voice. “My father, it is said, has killed your son. Why should you save me?”

“She will not!” The dungeon-keeper turned on the lad with a growl. “And you will not speak again, if you care to keep your tongue for a little while yet. You can scream to the Pasha’s delight with or without it, remember?”

Staring down the young Fotos, the dungeon-keeper did not see Eminee nod to the captain. And, old or not, the captain had not forgotten his skills. The edge of his dagger whispered across the dungeon-keeper’s throat so swiftly that the man only had time for one gurgling sigh before he slumped down onto the grimy stone floor.

Eminee bent down and retrieved the heavy keys from his belt, without flinching at the thick, steaming blood that oozed from the still form. Wordlessly, she handed them to captain Tahir, who found the right one to unlock the young man’s cell door.

Trembling with hope and fear, the youth staggered from his cage, painfully stretching his aching limbs, his hard-fought courage beginning to crack. “Is this some cruel jest? Why would the wife of the Pasha and the captain of his guard, release an enemy’s son?”

Eminee’s scarlet, dark-rimmed eyes bore into his. “Because I love my husband, Allah help me and so does the captain Tahir. Perhaps we really love the man he once was, or could be and not the man he now is. But we will not let him corrupt himself into a devil among men.”

Tahir nodded. “Had I met you on the battlefield, young Fotos — should I
meet
you on the battlefield one day, I shall cut you down without a second thought, out of respect for the courage that will have brought you there. But no mere boy should meet his death in this foul manner and the Pasha’s reputation should not be sullied by the deed.”

The captain stepped back and motioned towards the staircase leading to the ground level of the palace. Two shadowy forms stepped forward and Fotos flinched as the saw they were guardsmen.

With a steadying hand on Fotos’ shoulder, Tahir pushed him gently towards the men. “Do not fear. These are men I would trust with my life. They were taken as prisoners of war in one of the Pasha’s campaigns, long ago. They rose from slavery to the guard by virtue of their courage, but they have not forgotten their burnt-down homes and their hatred. It has never bothered me, as they always only fought enemies of the Pasha that were no friends of their former people. They will take you to Souli, in return for a new home for themselves there.”

Fotos lingered for a moment, gazing at the regal woman beside the captain. “I thank you both, as a respectful enemy. More I cannot do.”

The young man held out his hand and the old captain shook it firmly. “More we do not expect, lad. If you ever come to Yannina again, you and I shall cross swords. And do try to to kill me, for I will be trying to kill
you
.”

“Y
ou look even more beautiful than ever before, Froshenie. I left you young. I find you younger and more radiant.”

Dimitros’ words were a kind lie and the three of them, sitting awkwardly at the magnificently laid-out dinner table in the Vassiliou house, all knew. Froshenie, pale and quiet in her splendid dress and glittering jewels, Dimitros, sitting beside her in his gentleman’s finest and doctor Karayannis across the table, curiously shabby for the occasion, although his hosts had carefully failed to notice.

Usually, when Dimitros returned from his travels, the house would be like a flower blooming in a sudden spring after a long winter. Chryssie would putter about practically singing, the cook would rush to the kitchen to prepare the finest dinner and Froshenie would throw herself into her husband’s arms and protest laughingly against always bringing over doctor Karayannis for the homecoming dinner, claiming she wanted her husband all to herself.

Today, Chryssie had puttered about determinedly, the cook had prepared a fine dinner indeed and Froshenie had offered her customary protests against inviting Karayannis. But there had been no singing or smiles. Conversation over dinner had been desperate and only lasted through the aperitifs. Silence had reigned throughout the rest of the cook’s fine creations, until Dimitros had finally broken the spell with his tribute to his wife’s beauty.

Froshenie rose slowly from the table. “Forgive me, Dimitros, but I am very tired.”

He smiled helplessly at her. “It is my fault. I should have asked you to remain in bed. Karayannis tells me you rose valiantly when you heard I was returning home, even though you have had one of those dreadful fevers for many days.”

She could only shake her head and flee.