The Lake of Sorrows (6 page)

Chryssie swung her stern gaze to her mistress. “The fever has fogged your brain and you do not know what you are talking about. Alhi is not a human being. Some say he is not even a beast, but a
daimon
in human form.”

Karayannis laughed again. “This beast you mention, Chryssie, shakes and trembles like a rabbit once it comes to illness. He has gathered around him a dozen doctors as he has grown older, myself included. But he seems to prefer me.”

The doctor paused for a moment and his merriment faded. “He kills for almost no reason, so he is well accustomed to death, I guess. That is why he trembles at the thought. He fears intensely for his own life despite the fact he has fed the eels of the lake with way too many people.”

Froshenie cowered beneath her covers. “Please do not speak like that. Chryssie was right. Those ghastly stories upset me.”

“You have nothing to worry about, Froshenie, not you. He rids himself of all enemies among men, but only the annoying ones among women. And he never found a woman of such beauty as yours annoying.” The doctor smiled again, turning away to make sure Froshenie did not see the melancholy that invaded his smile. “Assuming that there
is
any other woman of such beauty.”

W
hen the rainy season brought to Yannina storms ripe with thunder and lightning, Karayannis turned out to be right. He was summoned to the palace on the very fist night of the rains.

The Pasha’s mood was even fouler than the weather. As he spent little time in his bed even at night, being confined to it during the day put him in a mood like that of a trapped animal. “They call me lion. Yet I get sick like a child each time the seasons change.”

“You are a lion of health, my Pasha, so they call you lion rightly.”

Alhi’s answer was a petulant snort. “Then why do I need those potions and spells of yours?”

The doctor ventured a small, professional laugh. “A proper doctor never uses spells.” He rummaged through his bag and produced a small paper packet with a satisfied grunt. Bleeding the Pasha was out of the question - absolutely noone drew the blood of the Lion of Hyperus. “The potions I employ are meant to get the fever down.”

“Hah! Or to fatten your purse when you charge me for them. If I were truly a lion the fever would go down on its own.”

“True.” Karayannis poured the contents of the package, an earth-like brown powder, into a small decanter full of fresh water and shook it gently. Powder and water swirled into something resembling very thin mud. “But by then you would have killed a hundred people or more to soothe your temper.”

Alhi shot a disgusted glance at the potion the doctor was pouring into one of the Pasha’s fine golden goblets. “Your raw honesty is quite soothing, too. It amuses me. Or the way you seem to feel safe to
be
so honest. Even my captain Tahir thinks twice before speaking his mind openly to me.”

He gulped down the potion, made a most un-Pasha-like face at the taste and wiped his lips with a silken napkin the doctor handed him. “But the honesty makes you a good companion, Karayannis. I simply wonder why you are not afraid of me, like the rest of the people of your city?”

Packing his medicines and tools back into his bag, Karayannis smiled slightly. “I
am
afraid of you, my Pasha. But I am also a doctor who has studied medicine in Genoa. And my skill stands between you and the sickness that wants to consume you when the rains come.” Karayannis looked up, saw in Alhi’s gaze that he might have been
too
honest on this occasion and hastily changed the subject. “Ever since I walked in, I have had the feeling my Pasha wishes to ask me something. Am I wrong?”

“I admire your insight. No you are not. I am told that lately you also treat a lady very often.”

“A lady? Which one? There are dozens in Yannina.” Karayannis spoke casually, yet snakes of doubt and fear had already started nestling in his mind. He could see the course this conversation was likely to take. He knew Alhi all too well.

“Do not play the fool with me, Karayannis! I am talking of a special one. The one called Froshenie Vassiliou.”

The doctor snapped his bag shut, a little too firmly. “I … see. What about her? What does my Pasha need to know?”

“Everything.” Alhi’s eyes were glittering. “But first of all, what do you treat her for?”

“Nothing important, my Pasha. She is just too … young to live all alone without her husband, that is all. He is away, abroad, too often and for too long. Every now and then she will come down with one of these fevers, but it is nothing more than a normal reaction to her loneliness.”

The Pasha chuckled with all the vulgarity of a goatherd. “And she is calling upon you to cure her loneliness?”

“Not the way you think, my Pasha.” The doctor’s answer was as sharp as any man would dare to answer the Pasha of Hyperus, for no man had laid his eyes on Froshenie’s face without wanting to defend her honor. “Her husband should pay more attention to her and spend more time at home. Would you not, if she were
your
wife, my Pasha?”

But the pendulum that was Alhi’s mood had swung again, back to the gloominess that most often accompanied his fevers of the rainy season. He conceded the doctor another argument and dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

“I
think my fevers are getting worse once again, Vaya. Perhaps we should ask for Karayannis to call on us again tonight?”

Chryssie looked up, frowning. The rainy days had crept by at Froshenie’s house, and, true, her fevers had been more stubborn this season. But usually it was the Vaya who had to suggest summoning the doctor at all. And now it was ‘again’. Froshenie was curled up in her favorite chair, wrapped in a blanket against the omnipresent dampness of the rainy season, but, after all, she was not in bed, and she did not look all that bad to the Vaya’s experienced eye.

“I am afraid you will get disappointed, my sweet one. Until the Beast is back on his feet, the doctor is fully occupied at the palace.” Chryssie hid her unease by concentrating on her chores.

“Really, Vaya? I wonder what the Pasha was like when he was a young man? Same as me, perhaps, getting the fevers whenever it rains?”

“How should I know? However, they say he was a hale and hearty young brute once, but now, with that beard of his, who can tell?”

“Was he a handsome brute, Vaya? Like his son?”

Glaring at her mistress, Chryssie suddenly forgot all about her chores. “So that is what all that was about! You have again forgotten all shame!” “Listen to me, young woman. Forget about the Pasha and especially about his sons. Any of them. His second-born, Velis, is as barbaric as his father, the best thing you can say about him is that since he is in Constantinople, he is at least far away from here. As for Muhtar, his reputation with women is notorious around Yannina. And any other place he has been.”

Froshenie blushed and did not meet her Vaya’s gaze.

“So snap back to reality, Froshenie, and remember who you are - and
whose
you are. Read another book and wait for your husband to return.”

“I shall, Chryssie. Do not be cross with me. I was merely … curious.”

Chryssie sent the children to their room, tucked them in and then puttered back to her mistress. She found her sitting in the exact same position, eyes looking into eternity - and sighing. Repeatedly.

The Vaya groaned, and her voice turned ominous when she poured out a long pent-up torrent of words at Froshenie. “Listen to me! You cannot fool me, you know. I have raised you, girl. I know you inside out. This Muhtar has not taken his eyes off you ever since he first saw you at the bazaar. Oh, do not deny it. I have never known you to go to the bazaar as often as you do now. We keep meeting him there ‘by accident’.
He
keeps meeting
us
outside our church as he ‘just happens’ to be there and steps aside for you to walk by. And he is on foot, never mounted on his horse, as a proper beast Pasha’s son should be. Muhtar! Who used to grab young women from the street without ever asking for permission, from their fathers or themselves. Now he steps aside for
you
as if you were a queen. And where? Right outside a Christian church. He does not take his eyes off you and you, you smile back at him. Do you really understand what you are doing?”

“I am wasting my time with you. That is what I am doing.” Torn from her reverie, Froshenie answered in an annoyed, petulant voice. “I asked you something about the Pasha and you have started grumbling.”

Chryssie’s voice cracked with fear and concern as she tried to plead. “Be careful, my sweet. Oh, please be careful. They say that Alhi is most dangerous when he serves you honey. For that is when he entraps you. Come to your senses and remember he is Muhtar’s father. Forget your frolics with his son.”

“They are not frolics, Chryssie, for Heaven’s sake.” Froshenie sighed compliantly. “I do know Muhtar has his eye on me and soon he will find a way to talk to me. And yes, you are right, besides enjoying these repartees between us from time to time, we do need to plan ahead and decide what we are going to do once that time comes.”

Froshenie’s eyes darkened as she became grimly serious. “Dimitros is away at Genoa, what shall we do? Two helpless women alone with little children in the house? What shall we do once his messenger knocks on our door, Vaya? What shall we do?”

Chryssie hugged her gently. “Courage, little imp. At least we have each other. We will find a way.” She sounded as if she had difficulty convincing even herself. “If things come to that, we will just say you are sick, keep you in the house for a month or so. Until he forgets all about you.”

“He will not, Vaya. It cannot be.”

“It cannot be?” Chryssie eyed her suspiciously. “What do you mean it cannot be?”

“It cannot be.” There was anguish in Froshenie’s voice now. “I have a strong premonition, Vaya. I cannot tell if it is for good or bad. But something has just begun. And there is nothing we can do to control it.”

“I do not understand, my sweet.”

Froshenie sighed with anguish and confessed. “I have strange dreams at night. I am wandering around the graveyard. I am lost in the mist and there
he
is too. Always. Watching me, following me.”

“May God protect us!”

“H
ow long have you been in Yannina?”

Levandinos, the Venetian merchant, wet his lips and tried not to stutter. Summoned to Muhtar’s quarters at the palace, the merchant had spent the seemingly all-too-short carriage ride there wondering furiously how he could have offended the Pasha or the Bey.

“I have remained in this city for over a year, your highness. Just as your father wished. I swear I have not left the city. My assistants travel back and forth to bring over more silk, jewels and other treasures for your father. But I always stay here, right here in Yannina.” The merchant forced a smile. “He pays me well for my services and my continued presence, though, so no complaint. None at all. On the contrary, really. My business affairs — “

“I will pay you well, too.” Muhtar could find no more patience for trivial chatter. “As long as you do as I tell you. I want you to find a crucifix for me.”

Levandinos felt uncomfortable under the young man’s intense gaze - and even more puzzled and intrigued by the request itself. “Forgive me, your highness, but … I would like to be sure I understand correctly. For what would you need a crucifix?”

“You talk too much. A very bad habit!” Muhtar’s snapped reply and the look on his face made Levandinos gasp, for the young man’s countenance was suddenly very much like his father’s. Moreover, the merchant had heard whispers that this impetuous young Bey was in love. A crucifix for a supposedly Muslim ruler’s son would bring trouble, perhaps most for the man who supplied such a trinket for a young man who should know better. But who could talk sense to a proud and arrogant young man in love for the very first time?

“I will bring you the crucifix you ask, of course.”

“You will deliver the crucifix yourself to where I will tell you. Along with a message from me. But beware, not a soul must ever find out about this.”

“I
f I were to pass judgment on myself, Vajas, I would say Alhi of Tepeleni has made a fine tyrant.” Alhi laughed with renewed vigor. The rainy season was coming to an end, but his fevers had left early. He was puttering around his quarters, reading and re-reading a letter brought that morning by a mud-spattered courier. A courier wearing the uniform of a mounted
chasseur
of the French revolutionary army.

Alhi finally dropped the letter onto a large table already littered with maps and letters. “A fine tyrant indeed, Vajas.” He grinned boyishly. “One that evokes the interest of others.”

The young Vajas put on his most admiring smile; it was not all that hard. He had been but a street urchin of Becisht when he was caught stealing in the bazaar. It was one of those days when Alhi was present, and, for some reason, the Pasha-to-be had taken an interest in the ferret-like boy’s cunning face. He had made a simple offer. “You can lose that stealing hand, little friend - or pledge it to me.”

Vajas had been given the best teachers Alhi could conscript from conquered towns and cities and he had become a fine young man. He would, however - perhaps this was the reason for Alhi’s charity - always be an outsider to both Alhi’s men and the people of Yannina, and hence he remained utterly loyal to his benefactor.

Still, there was something uneasy about his smile that morning, even as he dutifully praised his Pasha. “And yet a tyrant who admires a brilliant mind, my Pasha, and understands the benefits of erudition. Yannina has grown mighty as a city under your rule.”

“Being Pasha of Yannina is not enough. And soon it will not have to be.” Alhi picked up the letter again and held it up like a banner.

“A letter from the French, my Pasha?”

“
The
letter from the French, Vajas! A letter from fate, that deaf scoundrel.”

Vajas tried not to cringe. “To be sure, times are changing, my Pasha. New ideas rise up and strengthen those who understand them. But in Europe, not in the Ottoman empire.”