was splendid. A moment later he comprehended that Hasan’s red-bearded companion had addressed him in English. All the Englishmen looked over at him at once, as if by command, while Hasan and the newcomer began laughing seemingly without reason). Their laughter must have lasted for several minutes: they would stop for a moment, and then a glance at the dumbfounded faces around them would unleash fresh outbursts. At last they calmed down. Now Hasan rapidly spoke a few words to the new arrival, which the other man translated for him at once.
‘Hasan effendi apologizes,’ he said, ‘and I add my apology to his. He tells me that he informed you he was bringing me here, but he didn’t realize that you wouldn’t know that I was the person you were supposed to meet, or that I speak your language.’
Byron suddenly realized that the man must be Isak, Ali Pasha’s physician, and he almost chuckled under his breath. To judge from his clothing and all the rest of it, the man looked quite Oriental, but Byron realized he had assumed that a doctor with knowledge of English would more closely resemble a Londoner.
At this point the main course of roast meat and fresh cheese was served, and the conversation around the table livened up quickly. First they cleared up, once and for all, all the issues they had wrangled with on the preceding day. Indeed, they were told that Ali Pasha was in the north, subduing the disobedient Ibrahim, and that this matter would soon be resolved. They said he would be very pleased to receive the English nobleman and his entourage personally; both he and his son Veli Pasha, Lord of the Morea, who was sojourning at that time in Tepelena. In the event that neither his son nor Ali Pasha himself could come to Yannina in the next few days, he requested that Byron visit them in Tepelena.
‘It is not far away,’ said Isak. ‘Just a couple of days’ ride.’
Byron and Hobhouse looked at each other. Apparently Hobhouse was quite set on getting away to Athens as soon as possible. Byron, meanwhile, was happy at the prospect of an additional excursion on horseback across unknown land; and he was also interested in what kind of man this famed Ali Pasha, nicknamed the Lion of Yannina, would turn out to be. What would he look like, he whose fame reached all the way to England? Byron looked straight into Hasan’s eyes and said that he was looking forward to meeting the Pasha and that it made no difference whether it was in Yannina or in Tepelena. Isak translated and Hasan rubbed the palms of his hands together and then stood up from the table. The two of them exchanged a few brief words and then Hasan left the room, leaving him in Isak’s company.
‘I’ll be staying with you,’ said Isak: ‘I’ve been assigned to keep you company and to make certain that you want for nothing.’
Byron made no reply.
‘Let’s drink a coffee,’ Isak continued. ‘I need one, and it won’t do you any harm.’
* * *
Byron asked himself that evening, when he retired to the quiet of his room, where Isak could have learned such good English. They had spent about three hours together after the midday meal, drinking coffee and chatting. Isak’s English was excellent: fluent, supple, and somehow bookish. Admittedly, one did notice the foreign accent, but it wasn’t definable. It was not the accent of someone from France or Spain; Byron would have recognized that readily, yet sometimes, when an English word escaped him, Isak would employ a French one. Byron wondered how many languages the fellow spoke. Their conversation today was fairly abstract and had touched only on general subjects. Neither one of them had dared to ask the other about anything at all personal. Nonetheless Isak had, at one point, asserted that he was a Turk and at the same time a Jew, and yet at the same time neither. Who is he? Byron asked himself. What is the story of his life? How old might he be? Judging from appearances, Byron thought he must be a little past thirty, but based on the amount of knowledge he possessed and the maturity that he exuded, he could well be twice that age. He liked Isak’s deep, sensual voice. The man spoke slowly and deliberately. Byron’s voice, in contrast, had something childlike or perhaps womanly in it. He had always been quick-witted, and the theatrical tone he had adopted in his early years in the salons of the aristocracy had unconsciously become a habit. Women loved the dulcet tone of his voice, calling it charming and magical, but here in the Orient, in the company of Isak, he came across, even to himself, as prolix and unworthy. He fell asleep that night with this concern on his mind.
Chapter Three: October 8, 1809
As breakfast was ending, Isak cleared his throat, seemingly to draw upon himself the attention of those present, and said: ‘Do not be frightened by the gunshots you will hear today.’
‘What shooting is that?’ One could detect the poorly concealed panic in Hobhouse’s voice, but Isak explained that it had to do with a wedding. ‘The lord of a small nearby manor, by the name of Zaim Aga, is marrying off his son. In these parts, people shoot their guns a lot, my lords,’ Isak went on with a smile. ‘But believe me, today’s shooting is only the pleasant kind.’
Byron considered this warning superfluous, for a couple of bullets would hardly disconcert them. In fact, he might now well spend the entire day in anticipation of this event. Isak seemed to have guessed his thoughts.
‘I’d like to emphasize, my lord, that you are going to be surprised by the intensity of this gunfire. It won’t be the modest popping of a few rifles,’ he continued, ‘but rather a full salvo from an arsenal worthy of a real battle. You know,’ he concluded, ‘hereabouts the prestige and reputation of a notable are measured in part by the noise and tumult that he unleashes when his son gets married.’
After breakfast, Isak sat sipping coffee again, and Byron joined him. He was slowly coming to appreciate the importance of the thick, bitter, black drink to these Orientals. It loosened their tongues, brought them closer together, raised people’s spirits, and apparently had the same effect as alcohol in the West, although it was somehow more elegant, and came with caution and wisdom both. It occurred to Byron, that after a few more rounds of coffee, he would be in a position to talk with Isak about nearly anything. Now, though, we are conversing just like two Englishmen: about the weather.
According to Isak, the day was splendid, and almost spring-like, ‘God’s gift to the wedding party,’ he said, although Byron believed he heard a trace of irony in his voice. Byron said he’d enjoyed the sun, and according to Isak it was a good thing that he’d appreciated it so much, because the autumn rains were now, unavoidably, on their way. Isak sniffed the air like a dog, looked out at the horizon like a sea captain, and declared that this weather, was going to last for two or three more days, at most, and then autumn would begin in earnest. Byron just shrugged his shoulders.
‘Indian summer, right?’ Isak said after a short pause. ‘That’s what you all call this kind of weather, right?’
Byron mumbled something in the affirmative. It was hard to remain silent over coffee, he thought, and yet silence is a greater sign of intimacy than any other form of familiarity.
After they had finished off another entire cezve of coffee, Isak explained that he was going to be unavailable until the evening meal.
‘I’m going to the wedding, my lord,’ he said. ‘I’ve been invited, and it’s a great sin to refuse hospitality when it’s offered. But unfortunately, I cannot invite you to join me, lest I abuse this offer of hospitality. It would be best if none of you went onto the street today,’ he added as he left, ‘it wouldn’t be the first time that someone got struck by a stray bullet.’
‘Well, it’s my life’, Byron mumbled under his breath, but Isak heard him nonetheless.
‘Ali Pasha entrusted you to Hasan,’ he said, ‘and Hasan entrusted you to me; woe to him who betrays Ali Pasha’s trust.’
Isak stood there thinking for a moment, before adding: ‘honour, pride, vows, promises, trust, oathes – for all of that people here have one single word, and it rolls all of these things together into one. It’s bigger than any one part and greater than the sum of all the parts: you should note this word, my lord. It is besa.’
* * *
A wedding, Byron thought, is such a silly