The Vampyre by Tom Holland

‘There was a monastery,’ he said at last. ‘We visited it on the evening before our departure. It was built on the island in the lake.’ Lord Byron looked up. ‘The same island from which, on my first night, I had seen a boat rowed across. I had wanted to see the monastery earlier, for that reason alone. According to Athanasius, however, such a visit had been impossible to arrange. One of the monks had been found dead, he explained - the monastery had had to be purified. I asked him when the monk had died. On the day of our arrival in Yanina, he replied. Then I asked what had killed the monk. But Athanasius shook his head. He didn’t know - monks were always secretive. “But at least the monastery is open now.”
    â€˜We landed. The jetty was empty, and the village beyond it as well. We walked into the monastery, but when Athanasius called out, there was no answer, and I saw our guide frown. “In here,” he said without conviction, opening the door to a tiny side chapel. Hobhouse and I followed him; the chapel was empty, but we paused to study the walls. “The Last Judgement,” said Athanasius unnecessarily, pointing at one gruesome fresco. The representation of Satan in particular struck me; he was both beautiful and terrible, perfectly white except for a mottling of blood around his mouth. I caught Athanasius watching me as I studied it; he turned hurriedly and called out again. Hobhouse joined me. “Looks like that Pasha fellow,” he said. “This way,” said Athanasius hurriedly, as though in response. “We must go.” He led us into the main church. At first I thought that it too was empty, but then I saw, bent over a desk by the far wall, a shaven-headed figure clad in flowing robes. The figure stared round at us, then rose slowly to his feet. Light from a window illumined his face. I saw that where before I had remembered only pallor, Vakhel Pasha now had a flush of colour in his cheeks.
    â€˜â€œ Les milords anglais? ” he asked.
    â€˜â€œI am the lord,” I told him. “This is Hobhouse. You may ignore him. He is a mere commoner.”
    â€˜The Pasha smiled slowly, then greeted us both with formal elegance. He did so in the purest French, in an accent that was impossible to place, but charmed me, for it sounded like the rustling of silver in a wind.
    â€˜Hobhouse was asking him about his French. The Pasha told us that he had visited Paris, before Napoleon, before the Revolution, a long time ago. He held up a book. “My thirst for learning,” he said, “it is that which took me to the city of light. I have never visited London. Perhaps one day I should. So great it has become. I can remember a time when it was nothing at all.”
    â€˜â€œThen your memory must be long-lived indeed.”
    â€˜The Pasha smiled and bowed his head. “The wisdom we have here, in the East, it is long-lived. Is that not so, Monsieur Greek?” He glanced at Athanasius, who stammered something unintelligible, and began to shake in rippling folds of fat. “Yes,” said the Pasha, watching him, and smiling with slow cruelty, “we in the East understand much that the West has never possessed. You must remember that, milords , as you travel in Greece. Enlightenment does not only reveal. Sometimes also, it can blot truth out.”
    â€˜â€œSuch as what, Your Excellency?” I asked.
    â€˜The Pasha held up his book. “Here is a work I have waited a long time to read. It was found for me by the monks of Meteora and brought to me here. It tells of Lilith, Adam’s first wife, the harlot princess, who seduces men in the streets and fields, then drains them of their blood. To you, I know, this is superstition, the merest nonsense. But to myself, and yes, to our Greek friend here as well - it is something more. It is a veil that both conceals and suggests the truth.”
    â€˜There was silence. In the