Master Campania: Dark Vampire

Romance (Masters of the Consulate

Book 7) Sylvia Black
Visit to download the full and correct content document:
https://ebookmass.com/product/master-campania-dark-vampire-romance-masters-of-t
he-consulate-book-7-sylvia-black/
Master Campania
Masters of the Consulate
Book 7
Sylvia Black
Book World Ink
 Contents

1. Campania
2. Willow
3. Campania
4. Willow
5. Campania
6. Willow
7. Campania
8. Willow
9. Campania
10. Willow
11. Campania
12. Willow
13. Campania
14. Willow
15. Campania
16. Willow
17. Campania
18. Willow
19. Campania
20. Willow
21. Campania
22. Willow
23. Campania
24. Willow
25. Campania

Thank you!
About Sylvia Black
Acknowledgments
Do You Want More?
 Copyright © 2023 Master Campania by Sylvia Black

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted or shared in any form, including, but not limited to printing,
photocopying, faxing, or emailing without prior written permission from the author. Sylvia Black retains moral rights as author of this
work.

This book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters,
places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living
or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. This book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language
and may be considered offensive to some readers.

Cover by Cassandra Fear, C&N Design

Editing by Silla Webb | Masque of the Red Pen

Published by Book World Ink

Chapter 1
 Campania

MY JAW LOCKS TIGHT WITH IRRITATION AS THE MILES GO BY OVER THE HIGHWAYS OF ITALY.
Overmaster Descallia has felt the impending danger of our enemies for quite some time. Now, it’s
finally clear to all the vampire masters who we must defeat before we can ever hope to get a trail of
the rogues. First, we must find the pesky witches and make them tell us what they know about the
rogues they’re working for and divulge the names of the other traitors wreaking havoc in our world.
Then, and only then, will we be able to end the rogue vampires for good.
So many traitors among us it’s hard to fathom. Dragos, Corcius, and other warriors we have
trusted for centuries. No one would have ever suspected Vince who devoted his entire life working
for the police just to provide us inside information, or Isala, Overmaster’s trusted consigliere, a
woman who swore allegiance to him and stood by his side as he picked himself up from the ashes and
built the very empire all the vampires enjoy today, yet every single one of them and more turned
against us.
Any number of people could have joined the rogues: a fellow vampire master, a lord, a warrior;
our fearless leader did not say who else dared to betray us. There is no doubt, though, that someone
we trust is feeding information to the witches for the rogues. I have every intention of finding out
exactly who it is and make them pay. They picked the wrong location to hide out when they selected
the nightclubs of my region. They won’t be able to blend into the nightlife for long because my hunt
for the evil little creatures begins tonight.
I know the Southern Italy region like the back of my hand. The nightlife activity is a good place to
disappear and blend. Our enemies aren’t as smart as they think they are, though. The sneaky witches
are about to learn just what a big mistake it was coming to one of the cities under my watch to hide.
No place in the region of Campania is a safe haven for them when all of the community members are
loyal to me, a trusted vampire master known for taking care of his flock.
The wheels of the black Maserati Ghibli hug the corners of the winding roads, snaking around the
province of Campania as my driver rounds the bends high above the sea. The lights of houses set into
the hill, and those shimmering from boats across the water shine against an otherwise pitch-black
night as we set out on our search for the pesky witches.
We may have dealt with the rogue vampires time and time again, but there are more out there now.
The rogues, or the orchestrators as they used to refer to themselves centuries ago, are stirring and
growing in numbers. Overmaster Descallia and Lucianna have exceptional powers and have felt them
for some time, but now, it’s not just the two of them who feel the presence of our enemies.
Even the twelve masters of the vampire consulate feel it, including me. Even the lords who work
beneath us in the regions sense the tides of trouble swirling in the wind. Every time the orchestrators
rear their ugly heads, we face a never-ending battle to control the destiny of the vampires and
preserve the life that we’ve worked so hard to build for the vampires today.
Not once have we come close to losing that centuries old war. While the purebloods under
Overmaster Descallia’s direction have chosen the path of blending, learning, and adapting to new
ways of doing things, the rogues are still stuck in the ways of years ago. We’ve always managed to
send the rogue vampires who want to revert us back to the blood-sucking creatures we were of years
past, back to the dark ages where they belong, but every time they regroup, arm themselves, and come
at us with a different method of attack. Even still, we’ve always prevailed.
But that could all change now.
The witches have always remained neutral in the war between the rogue vampires and the
purebloods of today. The pesky witches are always making trouble, especially about our land in
Romania. However, in the greatest battles between the rogues and us, they’ve never taken a side,
always taking to their havens until trouble has passed.
Until now…
I plan to find out exactly why this group of witches has aligned with an enemy from the dark ages,
even going against their own coven leaders. Why they would want us to revert back to a time when
vampires roamed the streets, snatching humans for snacks is beyond me. Even the witches are safer
these days as a result of our power. No longer sought out by the same enemies they seek to protect.
My jaw locks with irritation. It makes no sense whatsoever for the witches to side with the
rogues. Witches have been oppressed, openly burnt alive for having the gift of magic and to heal. If
anything, they should be taking the side of the Vampire Masters who have the power to go up against
the rogues and even the humans if needed.
Whatever the reason, the witches we’re after now should never have gotten involved with the
rogues, or left the safety of Devora’s coven. That’s a line even they can’t cross and come out
unscathed, and I and the other vampire masters will see to it that they pay for their outright betrayal.
Just because they’ve blended in with the humans and other underworld dwellers who like the
lights and action of the city, doesn’t mean that I won’t find them. My region may be vast, but my driver
knows exactly where to go for some of the best nightlife in Italy. We continue searching city after city
in my region. When we find them, we will get the answers we want and make them pay if it takes all
night or all day.
We reach the outskirts of Salerno, weaving the luxury sedan through the main roads and back alley
areas the tourists never stray into. Although almost midnight, the pulsing music from the club not too
far up the street drifts over the quietness of the city. My keen ears hear the distinct little cackle of a
pesky witch as the sound floats onto the wind along with the rhythmic beat. I gesture to the side of the
road. “Pull over here and let me out.”
I step from the black sedan and tug on the ends of my dress shirt, adjusting my cuff links and suit
jacket before walking the short cobblestoned distance to the club just a half a block away.
The big burly guy at the entrance gives me a nod of recognition. “Evening, Master Campania. Go
right in.” He unhooks the red rope and lets me through the red wood double door. Earlier in the night,
he probably had to keep the crowd of club goers at bay as they waited until opening time.
A strand of multi-colored light flashes across the room, blinking in time with the rhythm of the
song. I make my way through the throng of small tables filled with people talking and drinking their
favorite concoctions while watching a multitude of people on the dance floor who are moving to a
popular beat.
My eyes scan the room, taking in the humans, vampires, and other under dwellers of the night.
Everyone mingling under the same roof, as it should be. Divisions that still exist in other regions,
even today, do not exist here. The humans and vampires may not see eye to eye on everything, but they
respect each other, and the power the other faction holds. At least in most of the clubs.
I recognize the dark suited syndicate man in the corner and give him a chin nod as I pass by his
table. Even the syndicate fucks mingle with us all in Campania. They watch the pretty dancing girls
strategically located throughout the club just like all the rest of the red-blooded beasts.
The syndicate know exactly how the division of power is distributed in south Italy. They know
they need the vampires as much as we need the humans. We may not agree on the division of
territories, division of product or profits, and other minor things, but all in all we accept the other as
a necessary and essential part of doing business in the world today.
But the witches, are a totally different thing all together. I have no doubt that one of Nick Molena’s
men from the syndicate has no idea he’s hanging out in a club entrenched with the witches the humans
and vampires hate.
A tinkling sound, although soft, captures my attention amid all the other noise in the club. My eyes
home in on the shoulder-length dark-haired woman with big green eyes sitting in the center of a
horseshoe shaped leather seating arrangement with a tall drink on the table in front of her and others
lined up in front of her friends. She laughs again at something her friend says.
Found you…
Every single one of the ladies drinking and laughing at the table in the back are probably trying to
blend into the surroundings as though they are human and not of wiccan descent. Probably born with
no other intent than to cause the vampires aggravation and grief, any chance they can.
My eyes track the sway of her perfect heart shaped ass adorned in a short cobalt blue skirt that
leaves a long expanse of creamy thighs and slender calves displayed as she makes her way to the
center of the room with her friends. Her silver shorty boots click against the wood of the dance floor
as she and her friends begin dancing to the ultra-contemporary beat. She spins and raises her hands in
the air, her eyes closed, soaking in the moment, allowing me an unfettered view of her perfectly sized
breasts which bounce sweetly with each movement she makes under the thin material of her clingy
white leotard top.
It’s hard to believe that such an evil little creature can come in such a beautifully wrapped
package, but the witches have always had the uncanny ability to lure and ensnare even the most
careful of males with their female wiles. She absorbs the music and moves seductively with the beat,
causing my dick to shift against the inside seam of my pants. Seductress, enchantress, beguiling little
witch.
The group of four females eventually tire. They make their way back to the horseshoe seating
arrangement in the back corner where an overzealous waiter meets them to take their refreshment
order. The minute he leaves the table, she turns to her friends, and they begin laughing. They won’t
find the rest of their evening as enjoyable as it’s been up to this point.
I stalk forward, intent on catching the pesky witch by surprise, but her eyes suddenly shift,
opening wide as she realizes exactly who I am.
Chapter 2
 Willow

I TAKE A SIP OF WINE AFTER A LONG SWIM IN THE POOL AND OUTDOOR SHOWER, FASCINATED AS THE
bright orb of the sun begins to descend over the Gulf of Naples. This far south the colorful mass falls
fast into the darkening arm of the Tyrrhenian Sea that surrounds the Campania region in the southwest
portion of Italy. Sipping a wine from one of the local vineyards and watching it from our balcony high
above the vastness of the turquoise blue never grows old.
Darkness will approach quickly, and the breeze from the sea will cool the city which has become
heat sutured by the beating sun of the day. I set my glass on the small wrought iron table and pat
myself dry with the cashmere towel, watching the sun from my balcony, before tucking it around my
waist and heading inside through the French doors to get ready for the night.
The porcelain tile feels cool against the bottoms of my feet as I make my way across the dark
green flooring of the shared living space with leather couches and recliners in the large open concept
space. The adjacent kitchen is pristine with all the amenities four woman who are crazy enough to
live together could have hoped to find. I pad past my friend’s rooms and down the hall to my bedroom
at the very end of the house.
The lights of the boats on the sea are visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows. They’re just
beginning to twinkle, making me thankful that I spent the extra rent for the larger bedroom of the house
and that I declined the afternoon shopping spree with friends in exchange for an afternoon of solitude
soaking up the beauty of the Italian Coast.
A quick glance at the clock on the wall spurs me into action because after a day of voracious
shopping my friends are bound to be hungry. It’s not likely they will wait for the likes of me if I’m late
for the early dinner planned in town.
I know the rules of the academy. No using your witchy powers outside the academy walls unless
it’s an emergency. A small smile breaks over my face because the last few months have been all about
breaking the rules. A twist of my hand dresses me in lacy dainties while another twist causes the fitted
blue skirt and white fitted bodice to float through the air. I step into the five-inch silver heels and lace
the ankle straps with another twist of my wrist.
I glance in the mirror and grin, satisfied with the results and with our decision to part ways with
the coven in search for a freedom that until recently was never ours to enjoy. Life is short, and living
under the thumb of the head witches of the academy was never going to change. Get up each day, go to
class, learn about the evil vampires, how to make more potions and drum up hexes and all the other
mundane stuff that a witch must do. All in the name of protecting ourselves from monsters who would
like nothing but to watch us burn at the stake.
I pull out the blow dryer and smooth the jet-black hair into a sheen, letting it curl slightly as it
rests on my shoulders before putting the silver hoops with the hex sign in the middle on for the
evening. Pure silver, a gift from my mother long, long ago. My cell buzzes on the counter. I read the
message and smile. My zealous friends have no patience for waiting, not when it comes to a planned
night of fun in the city. My heels click across the tile floor as I gather a few belongings and toss them
into my purse, before one last twist of my hand takes me downtown city center.
A woman walking at a good pace almost jumps out of her skin as she looks up in surprise. “I’m so
sorry,” she says, momentarily confused.
I laugh. “No apologies necessary. You never know when someone is just going to appear out of
thin air around these parts.” She adjusts her purse, gives me another puzzled look, but then keeps
moving. I really should refrain from such childish parlor tricks, but once in a while it’s nice to slip
into witch mode, especially on a night out with your friends.
The greeter lets me through the red ropes the minute I flash my VIP card, one of the many
amenities of renting our house from owners of the club. My friends are already at the bar as I walk in,
settled into the very back table that allows us to see all the comings and goings of the club with easy
access to the dance floor.
They raise their half empty glasses to me as I get to the table, and Belinda slides out and lets me
into the horseshoe shaped booth. “Slide into the middle.” She grins at me as I slide into the booth.
“Easier for the handsome men to come by and pick me up for a dance.”
I roll my eyes at our vivacious friend, who’s always got one man or another on her mind, until one
shows any kind of interest. Then she tucks tail and runs for the hills. No doubt from all the mindless
drivel the head witches at the academy have been drumming into our heads for years upon years.
Imagine my surprise when I signed up for college and learned the other sex weren’t after our spells
and magic at all but something much more fun and sinful.
I put down my purse and get comfortable in between my friends, and an attentive server stops by
to find out my drink of choice. A tall, dark man in a suit saunters into the club, prowling with the
grace of a panther on the track of his prey. I drag my eyes away before he locks those dark souled
eyes on me because I know exactly who and what he is. Master Campania. A pureblooded vampire,
one of the most powerful vampire masters of all. I don’t even chance a glance up because nothing
good ever comes of running into one of them, especially with no safety of the coven and head witches
to protect us.
The over six foot in height dark vampire blends into the crowd, and my attention reverts back to
my friends who are talking a mile a minute about their day. They’ve barely had time to fill me in on
all their day’s excitement while out shopping for bargains before a popular song comes over the
loudspeakers of the club. Belinda grabs my hand and pulls me off of the sofa. Our other two friends
follow us to the dance floor, and we all meld with another group of women clearly out for a good
time too.
The feel of eyes watching me from across the room causes my skin to heat. I inhale deeply,
keeping my focus on the music and friends in front of me. I already know intuitively that it’s the dark
vampire master causing my blood to race. It takes effort not to let my eyes be drawn to the tall dark-
haired male sitting in the shadows of the corner who should know better than to toy with a witch. He
may blend into the club just like all the other humans, but I would know one of our lifelong enemies
from anywhere after all the pictures the head witches loved to share. Master Campania, the
pureblooded vampire who rules the entire southern region of Italy, and any vampire who originated in
this area no matter where they roam or settle afterward reports directly up to him. A powerful beast
who could have any female he wants, but yet his eyes haven’t left me for more than a few seconds
since walking into the club.
The heat of his eyes stops warming my skin for a moment. I venture a peek, but quickly avert my
gaze before his attention turns back to me. I don’t have to look up to know when his eyes rake over
me, because I can feel the intensity of their heat on my exposed skin. It sends tingles of desire down
the length of my spine and straight to my core.
I may not want to admit it, but every traitorous bone in my body is putting on a show just for him.
Every step of the dance feels as though it’s in slow motion and under intense scrutiny from the
powerful and well-dressed beast. His eyes don’t leave me for a second; instead, heating my body and
spurring my energy, and my nipples pebble against the thin material of the bodice that hugs my skin so
closely. I close my eyes, slowly turning away from his six-foot-four frame as the song comes to an
end, and my friends and I head back to our table.
The young man who stops at our table is attentive and quick to fill our drinks. I’ve barely taken a
small sip when the heat of the master vampire’s eyes draws me toward him again. This time, the
magnetic intensity is undeniable and too strong for even me to resist. His mind is racing with thoughts,
though, and if they were pure thoughts, perhaps I’d give him the benefit of the doubt.
Instead, all my psychic powers can focus on is the thoughts racing through his head. The evil little
seductress will pay for toying with me but not until the vampires get what we want from her.
My head snaps up, and my eyes meet his. He stalks forward as though he owns the club and isn’t
just a paying patron like the rest of us, or someone I can send back to the dark nether regions he rose
from in a blink of an eye and a wave of my wand.
I take a deep breath and summon every bit of force that comes with my power, readying myself to
do battle with the formidable beast.
Chapter 3
 Campania

THE WITCH’ S BRIGHT GREEN AND PURPLE EYES BEGIN TO SWIRL AS SHE RAISES HER RIGHT HAND . I
don’t need more than those two clues to realize she’s recognized me or that I have very little time to
intercept before she unleashes whatever hex is in store for me.
I raise my hand and stop walking, hoping to buy myself time. I could sear the witch with the heat
of my eyes right where she stands, but that won’t get me closer to what I need. Instead, I try
connecting since most witches are telepathic on some level or another. I don’t mean you any harm,
but I do need information.
Liar, she mouths back, taking me by surprise at how clearly she and I connect. A psychic witch,
one with exceptional telekinetic powers that perhaps may match my own.
I shrug. “The vampires intend to get the information we need. That is all. A truce, for the
moment?”
Her eyes narrow, but the beating of her heart stays steady as she contemplates my suggestion.
Hopefully, a sign that I’m not about to be turned into a toad or any other parlor shop tricks these
cackling hags love to play on vampires and other dwellers of the underworld.
The evil but sexy little witch averts her attention and turns to her friends. I stand impatiently
waiting in the middle of the club as people walk around me, with no idea that a vampire master has
been stopped dead in his tracks by a persnickety little witch.
One that will pay for her audacity the minute that I have what I want, but for now, I’ll let her think
she has the upper hand, until the very minute that I don’t.
The foursome breaks up, three of them leaving the enchantress on her own as they walk to the bar
and perch onto the empty barstools for a front row view of our conversation, still cackling softly to
themselves. They’ll see who’s laughing when they’re hanging from the cross above a fiery pit of
flames for helping the rogues try to get the upper hand of the vampires.
I gesture to the curved red leather booth as I approach the witch who dares to allow herself to be
drawn out by a vampire. An unusual move sends her friends away, one that I can’t help to find
exceptionally intriguing given our obvious physical attraction. “Do you mind if I sit? I promise not to
bite.”
Her pretty lips purse, not at all amused with my attempt to bring levity to an otherwise tense
situation or to simply deescalate whatever fear she has of me, at least for now.
I set both of my hands on the table. “I need information, that’s all.” I already know she and her
friends aren’t the ones I’m after, but they can sure as hell lead me to the ones who are.
She grasps her glass and brings it to her lips. Her long, creamy fingers with pointed green
fingernails are adorned with multiple silver rings. I watch mesmerized as her bow shaped lips caress
the glass and her throat constricts, leaving it a little emptier than it was before and a red lip shaped
design on the glass when she’s done.
Evil little enchantress…
She smiles. “The name is Willow. Enchantress is usually saved for someone with far greater
powers than me.”
I smirk… Damn, she’s hot, and she can clearly read my mind.
The waiter stops by and takes my order of a scotch, although I’d prefer the calming blend of a
Descallia Red. A mixture of wine and pureblood created locally from the vineyards thriving in the
region. I turn to her after he’s left to get my drink. “So, let’s forget the games. You can read minds,
turn me into a frog or some other such nonsense, causing me to have to go to our healer to get it
sorted. I can scorch you, burn you to ashes where you sit without any warning. Let’s forget all of that.
I have a proposition for you, Willow.”
Her eyebrow turns up in an arch as she draws on the long straw from her drink. She keeps me
waiting as she swallows, twirling the peach-colored tube between two fingers. “I don’t make deals
with vampires, Master Campania.”
The fact that she already knows who I am could work to my advantage. If she hasn’t figured it out
yet, she should be very afraid, because my patience with these games is growing thin. We have a job
to do and not very much time to get it done. “The witches we hunt helped Isala. Overmaster
Descallia’s previous consigliere turned even more witches against Devora’s coven and intends to
harm the head witches and high priestess…”
Willow raises a hand. “You want me to help you find my sister witches?”
“I don’t simply want you to—I expect it, if you and your cackling friends know what’s good for
you. Did you not hear a word I said? They have sided with the rogues and your head witches,
including Devora, are their targets. Surely you don’t want to help them with that?”
Her eyes begin that swirling thing, and she raises her hand.
My fangs descend, and a low growl barrels from the back of my throat. “Don’t do something you
or I will both regret. Paybacks are hell, Willow. I promise to make your payment doubly hard if I
waste needless time having some hex you place on me reversed. Do we understand each other, witch?
I am not the vampire you want to mess around with. I have no time or patience for it.”
Her eyes continue to swirl, but she relents with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. What do you want to
know? Maybe I’ll tell you and maybe I won’t, pureblood!”
“All you have to do is tell me where they are. We will do the rest.”
Willow averts her eyes, continuing to toy with her straw. I watch fascinated as her eyes stop
swirling and turn the brightest of blue-greens, just like the Tyrrhenian Sea far beyond. “It’s hard to
believe that Devora is sanctioning the vampires to find my sisters. How do I know what you say is
true? What proof do you have, vampire?”
I gesture to the bauble hanging around her pretty little neck. “Summon her and ask her yourself, but
make it quick. The longer it takes convincing you to help, the longer your group of rogue witches have
to harm the rest of the witches and vampires too.”
She strokes the purplish glass bauble hanging from her neck with two fingers, but she’s no more
going to summon Devora than I would. She has whatever magic it holds turned off for a reason, and
we both know what that is. She strokes it again and overplays her hand.
I go to stand up. “We’re done here. I’ll inform Devora that you and your friends were far from
cooperative and let her know exactly where to find you. Perhaps even the owner of this club and the
man who rents his house to you already knows you and your friends are witches, yes?”
 Her eyes flash with gold streaks. “Don’t you dare tell him one word of that, pureblood!”
I glance at my watch. “I have places to be, witch. Tell me what I want to know and quit toying
with me if you want to keep any of the semblance of the life you’ve built here in Campania intact.”
Fucker…
I shrug… “It’s Master Fucker to you.”
The pulse on the side of her neck is beating wildly, a sign that pushing her further is probably not
in my best interest, but still, that’s exactly what I do.
“You have moments before I take the deal off the table.”
“Some deal,” she mutters.
I arch my eyebrows.
She pushes her drink away from her as though that will make her concession easier. “Fine. I don’t
know exactly who you’re looking for, but I’ve heard the rogue witch rumors. I believe they’re
frequenting a place on the other side of town, a place called the Caposso.”
Now we’re getting somewhere; although, still, I watch her carefully for any vestige of deceit
before trusting what she’s said. “I know where that is. Do you know where they’re staying when not
in the clubs?”
Willow shakes her head and takes a small sip of her drink. “I’ve told you more than any self-
respecting witch should have said. That’s all you’ll get from me, vampire. Go bother someone else
now, and leave us alone.”
I toss some bills on the table and stand. “Thanks for your help.” I turn on the heel of my dress shoe
and make my way out of the club and toward my car as it approaches. The backdoor unlocks as it
reaches the curb in front of me, and I slide into the luxurious grey leather seats.
My eyes meet my drivers in the rearview mirror. He gives me a head nod. “Where to, boss?”
“Caposso.”
He arches one brow. “You know who owns that, boss?
I nod at his worried reflection in the mirror. “I know it well. At least we’ll have the element of
surprise on our side. It had to be the fucking syndicate hang out.” That right there should confirm what
I’ve suspected for a very long time. Overmaster Descallia may want to believe that only a few of the
syndicate elders were responsible for the issues the vampires have faced recently. I, on the other
hand, bet every single one of the no-good fuckers is in on the plot to run the vampires into the ground.
Try telling Descallia that when he and the new Don seem to be in sync.
This encounter could get messy, and even though I couldn’t ascertain any deceit in Willow’s
voice, she is a witch, a cunning and evil little enchantress. I send a text and pocket my cell. “I sent for
back up; they’ll meet us there. Let’s roll.”
Chapter 4
 Willow

THE MINUTE CAMPANIA WALKS OUT THE DOOR, MY FRIENDS FLOCK TO MY SIDE. GLENDA’ S EYES SWIRL
with excitement. “Spill! All the deets! Don’t you dare leave a thing out.” She slides in beside me as
the others join us, piling in around the table.
“Master Campania isn’t after us; he’s after the rogues.” They all let out dramatic sighs of relief,
but my guess is that this night is far from over. I hate to ruin their night with what I have to say, but
they need to know. “The vampire led me to believe that Devora sanctioned his seeking us out to get
information about the witches who defected from the coven with Isala.”
Glenda almost chokes on her drink. “Bullshit!” The others turn to me with wide eyes. “You can’t
be serious. From where we were sitting it looked like you were getting a little googly eyed for the
pureblood.”
I narrow my eyes at Glenda. “After three horrible relationships? You think I’d spend one minute
contemplating a fourth, especially with the likes of him? A pureblood who wants nothing more than to
torch our souls. No, not any man. I can survive on my own just fine, thanks. No relationships, no
headaches, and no broken hearts especially with the likes of a dark souled vampire who would like
nothing more than to send us to a fiery hell.”
She leans in and pats my hand. “I’m sorry; I was just kidding, but seriously, Devora allowed him
to come after us? I thought we had finally gotten ourselves free of that controlling witch.”
It is harder for Glenda than it is for any of us. I feel horrible that now she has this worry on top of
everything else she’s been through. “It’s true. Campania knew about the bauble and our ability to
communicate with it. He pretty much told me to call her and confirm it. How has she strayed so off
course that she would sell her own out for those bloodsucking beasts?”
Glenda tips her glass and lets the rest of the fruity concoction she’s been drinking run down the
back of her throat as if gaining courage to say what’s on her mind. “Well, it just confirms what we
already knew about Devora. Her interests aren’t all that pure. Better that we left the academy when
we could and that she hasn’t wanted to go head-to-head with the vampires and syndicate in this town
in order to drag us home. Not that they would protect us from her, but they’re not willingly going to let
her and a coven of witches come trapsing into town with the bad blood between the two of our
groups.”
Letty, usually the quiet one, pipes in. “It was a damn smart move hiding in enemy territory where
no one knows who we are.” She looks around the club and then leans in. “Maybe we should just get
out of here and go home. At least we’re all safe there.”
I shift in my seat uneasily. “About that…” I silently curse the vampire for ruining our short-lived
freedom. Now it means starting all over, just after we’ve been settled. At least none of us have found
jobs yet. Damn that vampire!
All three pairs of eyes stare at me as I try to find the words. “Master Campania knows. Who we
are, where we’re staying, who we’re renting from and worst of all—that the owner hates witches.
The vampire held everything over my head to get information about the witches who joined Isala. He
didn’t give me a choice but to tell him something to get him off my back and out of the club.”
Glenda’s eyes swirl. “Son of a b!”
I sigh, resigned in the fact that we need to move yet again. “Yeah. It’s not safe here anymore. I
don’t trust that vampire as far as I can throw him. He comes in sanctioned to find us by Devora?
Something smells to high heaven, worse than the bloodsucking beast himself.”
Belinda takes a long swallow of her drink. “How does Devora even know we’re here? We were
so careful to cut off all the pathways, our baubles, and not tell a soul outside of us.”
It’s not like I haven’t been racking my brain, trying to figure out the same thing. I shake my head, at
a loss for the answers. “I honestly don’t know. Maybe Devora has known where we were the entire
summer and just hasn’t tried to force us back for other reasons? Who really knows what’s up the
crafty and controlling witch’s sleeves.”
All three sets of eyes are spinning with a gazillion unasked questions as they watch me. I don’t
have any explanation for them yet. “I don’t know, okay? If Master Campania knows where we are and
is on speaking terms with Devora, we need to move. Like pay next month’s rent, pack up, and leave
by tomorrow night. We can’t get caught up in a vampire war. Agreed?”
My friends don’t answer. I think they’re in shock, half buzzed, and still trying to make sense of it
all. Same as me. I tap my fingernails on the table to get their attention. “Are you not listening to me?
The minute that pureblood finds out that I’ve sent him on a wild goose chase, he’s coming after me,
and he knows exactly where we live. I could throttle Devora for giving that beast permission to come
after us! How could she turn on her own like this?”
Belinda’s creamy complexion turns splotchy red. Most people think she’s the quiet one, but her
close friends know the truth. “I hate that witch! All we ever heard from Devora was evil vampires
this and evil vampires that for years at the academy, and now she’s in bed with the master of the
Campania region. What the fuck is her end game? There has to be a way she’s benefiting from all of
this. Don’t tell me she’s suddenly done a one-eighty with the vamps.”
The waiter stops by to see if we need a top off, but not one of us takes him up on his offer. Each of
us reach for some bills and toss them on the table. Belinda scoops them up and hands the young man
whose had his eye on her all night the money. “Thanks, but we’re going to call it a night.”
He moves on to help another patron, and a tall shadow across the club catches my attention. I
watch as the well-suited man saunters to the syndicate table as if he owns the place. The man folds
himself into an empty seat at their almost full table, lowers his head, and begins to talk to his men.
That’s our cue to get the hell out of here because all we need is to draw his attention, especially after
the stunt I’ve just pulled with the vampire.
I slide my empty glass to the middle of the table and grab my purse. “Nick Mancino just walked
through that door. We need to get out of this region fast. I saw those syndicate goons watching me and
the pureblood talk while he was at our table. Now their new don walks in a short time later. This
can’t be coincidence. “Bathroom, ladies.” My friends grab their purses before following me among
the throngs of tables, until we reach the door at the back of the lounge.
One lady exits as we enter the otherwise empty bathroom. I turn to my friends after I lock the
door. “We don’t have a lot of time. Maybe an hour at most before Campania learns that he’s been
tricked. Damn it all to hell. Why did I send them to the Caposso of all places. If rumors are true, Nick
Mancino is someone you do not want to get on the bad side of, and I’ve just sent the vampires to his
crew’s hangout. It was the first place that came to mind. Damn that vampire for throwing me off my
game! Now we’ll have the vamps and syndicate after our asses for sure.”
My friend’s eyes swirl with color, and I curse my stupidity for causing them angst. There’s no
time to dwell on it now, though. A rattle of the doorknob outside the bathroom spins us into action.
As much as Devora hates it, my tricks without the wand can come in pretty damn handy at times.
One wave of a well jeweled hand and all four of us are back in the sanctity of our house overlooking
the sea. At least what was a sanctuary before learning the vampire who rules this region knows
exactly where we are and how to get us kicked out. “Let’s grab our stuff and get out of here as quickly
as we can. The vampire was in no mood for games, but I wasn’t about to give our sisters up to a
vampire no matter the reason. The rumors floating around about those witches may not even be true.
For all we know it’s a story the vampires made up so they can get their hands on us and more of our
coven sisters.”
I grab this and that from the living room, tossing it in a bag before moving onto the bedroom as my
friends do the same. All while the eerie feeling of running out of time no matter how fast we move
sends a streak of fear racing down the length of my spine.
Chapter 5
 Campania

THE CITY STREETS ARE QUIET UNTIL WE GET CLOSE TO CAPOSSO . A CLUB RENOWNED FOR ITS HIGH- END
female dancers, and where many of the syndicate fucks, along with the shifters they’ve recruited away
from Sheba to do their dirty work hang out. I gesture to an empty parking spot on the side of the road a
little way ahead. “Park there. Let’s wait for Descallia and the rest of the crew.” Walking into the last
club was one thing, but entering this one without warning could send a buzz throughout the syndicate
world without intention and could start an all-out war.
A brief rap on the window pulls my attention from the front of the club where a crowd of people
are still lined up trying to get inside the popular nightclub. Descallia opens the door and slides into
the back seat and turns to me. “I’m glad you got a hold of me. I got word to the others and sent a
message to Nick. I would expect him to pay me the same courtesy if he and his crew were heading
into the Descallia.”
I give him a nod, respecting the gesture of giving a heads-up to the syndicate don. Although not
quite understanding this sudden truce with the men constantly encroaching in our territory,
undermining our profits, and plain annoying the fuck out of us every chance they get. He has to
negotiate everything differently now that Master Trentino and Nick’s baby sister are a thing. I turn to
face him. “Did you ask Master Trentino and Romano to come with us; they may be useful?”
He gives a grunt as he finishes pounding out a message. “Yes, and Trentino will bring Angel.” No
one wants to admit it, but Trentino turning Nick’s baby sister and taking her for a mate has had its
advantages for the vampires. The less time we spend fighting with the syndicate, the more time we
have to focus on what really matters—the rogue bastards who want to bury us under a pile of ashes so
deep that we’ll never return to stand in their way of taking over.
Overmaster Descallia’s not wrong in his collaboration with the don, but it’s a fine balance
working with them while trying to keep the fuckers from dipping their fingers into what doesn’t
belong to them. “Are you having Romano bring Raven too?”
He nods. “Yes, she’s proven herself loyal and committed.”
My jaw locks tight. Everything turns to shit when Devora is involved. Raven may have proven
herself loyal, but she’s still the niece of one of the evilest head witches around. No matter what
anyone else thinks, including our leader. I remain quiet, my thoughts kept to myself.
Overmaster doesn’t have to hear me speak to know what I’m thinking. His eyes blaze red and then
darken in color. “Devora has many faults, but she sees what the defection of her witches to the rogues
can do not only to the vampires, but her entire coven as well. Raven will come with Romano and can
help provide a buffer between us and the witches we’re looking for.”
I should keep a lid on it, but of course I don’t. “No disrespect, but it can’t be coincidence that the
very witches we’re trying to find end up hanging out in the syndicate club. Everyone knows this is
where they hang out to do business, even Devora and her witches. Why would they come here unless
they’re working for the fucking syndicate and being protected?”
His eyes redden again, and this time his fangs descend. “If the syndicate is protecting the witches
and Nick wasn’t up front with me when I spoke with him, then he and I will have a problem. Until
then, I’m going to assume it’s a coincidence or another reason that we don’t fully understand yet. He
may be a new leader, but he knows the value of product distribution and collaboration with the right
people. He’s not going to jeopardize that especially being new to the role. He’s not going to rock the
boat; more likely he’s going to try to keep the peace.”
My jaw locks tight. Overmaster Descallia clearly puts more trust into Nick and his syndicate
fucks than I do. He’s a shrewd overmaster, though, the only reason I don’t continue in this line of
questioning. His wisdom and ability to see far into the future has kept the vampires at the top of the
hierarchy in the underworld, even if sometimes it’s hard to understand his train of thought.
Descallia gestures out the window at the group approaching, then opens the door as the others
walk toward us. “Thanks for coming,” he says as Trentino, Angel, Romano, Raven, Embry, Lucas, and
Lucianna join us.
Overmaster Descallia’s eyebrows raise at his mate who looks somewhat sheepish. Lucianna’s
eyes begin to glow bright crystalline green. “I’m not staying home while everyone else helps. Silver,
Clay, and Terrence should be here shortly. Silver’s power of sight is becoming stronger every day,
and Clay and Terrence are always willing to help if things get out of hand.”
Embry laughs. “Translation: we’re not staying home while there is shifter and syndicate ass to
kick with a bonus of witch. Clay and Terrence get a wee bit cranky when they get left out of a good
fight. Besides, we can’t let Master Campania have all the fun with the bitches.”
Raven’s head snaps around, and her eyes swirl before pinning Embry with their ire.
Embry swallows hard, looking as guilty as she should, given the company. “Sorry, Raven. Slip of
the tongue. I know you’re not all like that, but it is hard to put aside the differences. The witches have
been after the vampires for decades, doing everything they can to discredit us. Now we learn they’re
working with the rogues who want to end us. It never seems to stop. I shouldn’t have said it, though. I
really am sorry. You’ve taught me a lot about all the good you do too.”
Raven’s eyes still haven’t stopped swirling, though. I watch her hand because the witches are
never too far away from their fucking wands. Always a surprise, out of nowhere and bam, they either
disappear or turn your life upside down with some fucking trick or another.
The witch surprises me, though, and her eyes begin to settle. That doesn’t stop her from saying her
piece. “The witches and vampires have come to an amiable agreement. As a senior head witch, my
own aunt Devora has given Overmaster Descallia and our team permission to find the witches who
are responsible for helping the rogues. It wasn’t sanctioned by us. The witches are not all against the
vampires, but it will take time and continued effort on all of our parts to mend the fences of centuries
of hate for the other.”
Lucianna nods and puts her arm around Raven. The pulse at the side of Raven’s neck begins to
calm, and the electricity flickering at her fingertips goes out. “Well said,” she tells Raven.
Embry nods in seeming agreement as a young vampire with spiky silver hair and piercings walks
around the corner with two others. Lucianna introduces the small crew. “Silver, Terrence, and Clay, I
think you know everyone except Master Campania.”
I extend a hand in greeting. “I hear you’ve proven valuable on many an occasion. I’m glad
Lucianna asked you to join us. I ran into a group of witches earlier in the evening. One of the witches
told us the ones we’re looking for who are helping the rogues frequent this club. Club Caposso is a
known hangout for the syndicate in these parts, so Overmaster Descallia thought it best to have a few
reinforcements as we go in and take a look around.”
Descallia nods. “I’ve contacted Nick, head of the family, and smoothed the way. He knows we’re
only after the witches. He did not have any knowledge of witches consorting with his men here at the
club or any other alliance. He’s given us the okay to go in and ask around, but tread softly, my friends.
He hasn’t been the don for very long, and allegiances to him have not had time to cement. Not all of
the syndicate want him in power, and the many who don’t are not vampire friendly. They would much
rather take over running things and keep the better profit margins for themselves.
Trey and Clarence nod. “We’ll trail behind and keep an eye on everything in case you need help,”
Trey says.
Descallia pockets his cell phone. “Very good.” He turns to Raven. “Perhaps you could find out
where the witches are and talk with them. Feel them out for us, see if there’s a way to bring them back
from the rogues? It would be far better than making them an enemy, no?”
Raven beams. “I’d be happy to, Overmaster.” She glances up at Romano with a smile as his arm
slides around her shoulder. Descallia certainly seems to trust Raven. It’s hard to believe next year
when her probation is up that he won’t vote for allowing Trentino to take the witch as a mate
regardless of the apparent division within the ranks on the matter.
The bald-headed greeter gives us the onceover but gestures us through the set of red double doors.
“Nick called and said to welcome you to the club,” he grunts.
The club is dimly lit, filled with smoke and small round tables, each with four chairs scattered
throughout. Embry pokes me with her finger. “Good thing for night vision.” I scan the entire club in
less than a few minutes, taking in each and every one of the patrons before turning to Raven. “Do you
recognize anyone? I’m not seeing anyone that trips any alarms.”
Raven shakes her head. “No.” she sighs. “I was afraid of this when Overmaster Descallia called
Romano. The witches would never hang out here.” She lowers her voice. “Seriously, here and the
Descallia clubs are the last places any witch would voluntarily go. I thought maybe somehow they
had coerced her and her friends into coming here.”
My jaw tightens with irritation. The lying little enchantress back at the club. “Clay, Terrence, and
Silver, come with me. We’re going to go round up some deceitful little witches,” I tell the group
before transporting into the night and leaving them to follow in my wake.
The lights are still on in the living room of the house the witches have rented. “Silver, when we
go in, do that thing of yours and make sure the witches can’t escape. I don’t want to give them time to
flee or pull some magic prank. We transport into the room, our eyes flaming red and fangs descended
if nothing for the effect of scaring the crafty, deceitful little creatures.
Shrill screams permeate the room so high pitched that it sends jolts of pain through my ears.
Silver is quick, though. He uses his powers to move socks from the witches half-packed bags that lay
strewn across the floor. They float through the air with impressive speed, landing into their mouths as
cable ties are snapped onto their wrists, effectively silencing the enraged witches, and ensuring they
can’t get to their wands. Rule number one: always disarm the witches from those trusty wands they
carry everywhere they go.
Willow’s eyes are swirling, afire with golden bolts of anger. I gesture to the door. “Take the
others to the warehouse.” I keep my eyes on the enraged enchantress to ensure she doesn’t get that
sock out of her mouth and cast a spell. Their little games may not be deadly, but they always take time
to get reversed by the healers, and that’s something we have little of right now.
 The deceitful witch may not like it, but she’s coming with me.
I walk toward her, and she backs up. The swirling fades as her eyes burn bright green, filling with
fear and causing me to pause mid stride. The female who not hours ago was dancing just for me,
taunting me with her seductive beauty, whether I wanted to admit the attraction or not, now barely
breaths as I invade her space.
Instead, she stands shivering as she looks up at me with terror. All of her bravado of the evening
gone in a minute as the reality of her situation sets in. No more is she the sassy enchantress, but now
the captured prey of one of the purebloods she’s been conditioned over centuries to hate.
Taking advantage of her fear to get a quick confession should be easy. She’s a witch, one of the
many cackling females who has given the vampires nothing but trouble since the beginning of time.
But yet the fear in her eyes causes an unfamiliar emotion, and I change my tactic altogether.
That doesn’t mean I’m soft; it just means I’ll get it in a much different way…
Chapter 6
 Willow

I WATCH AS THE VAMPIRES GATHER MY FRIENDS . THEY FROG MARCH THEM FROM OUR HOUSE OVER THE
sea and down the steps that will eventually lead them to the garage on the lower side of the hill.
We’re far too outnumbered now to fight; besides, I have what the master vampire wants.
Information, maybe it’s important enough to trade us out of our situation, and maybe it’s not. But
we’ll never know unless I try. Then I can get to my friends, and we can be out of this region before
Devora is the wiser, because running into her is the last thing any of us want or need.
The vampire master’s dark eyes rake over me as the others close the door behind them. “This
could have been easy, and you made it hard. So now the rules have changed. Instead of telling me
where the rogue witches are, you’re going to personally take me there.”
My mind swirls with every curse word in the dictionary, and he hears every single one.
“Manners, enchantress, or you’ll find yourself draped over my lap getting the spanking you so rightly
deserve.”
The rolled-up pair of ankle socks render using my mouth completely useless. I avert my eyes and
suck in a breath through my nose. That doesn’t stop the unwanted image of the muscular vampire
master taking me to task over his knee with my dress flipped up over my bright red cheeks to swirl
through my mind, causing my cheeks and center to heat.
The intensity of his eyes draws mine toward him, causing my heart to beat faster. His eyes
shimmer with red, and his fangs slowly descend. The way he looks at me sends a delicious warmth
throughout my entire body. I swallow hard and drag my eyes away from the vampire to hide my
arousal, because everyone knows that vampires and witches are forbidden.
Campania smirks at me as though he has the upper hand. Maybe he does at this particular moment,
but as soon as I have the opportunity the bastard will be sorry he ever put me in this position or that
he ever thought to challenge a witch.
His thick dark eyebrows raise, and he tries to hide a smirk, but I see the hint of his upturned lips
just the same.
I pull at the restraints of my wrists, just itching to get to my wand and turn him into a fucking toad.
“Do your best, vampire. You have me at an advantage now, but it won’t be for long.”
The vampire master stalks toward me. I shrink into the comforting coolness of the wall. He glares
down at me. “Enough with the mind games, enchantress. Where are the witches we’re looking for
hiding?”
“I’m not telling you a damn thing until you take this gag out of my mouth!”
His eyes flash a deeper red, but he smirks outright. “And have you turn me into a toad? I think not,
enchantress. Better that I take you with me to meet the other vampire masters perhaps?”
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
fancy that the explanation of the miracle lies in the hypothesis I have
suggested, the long wall on which the minarets are built having
probably settled, and so, having no communication with the side
walls, being no miracle, but merely bad building. We saw the
miracle, expressed our wonder, thanked “the hereditary functionary,”
and went home sadder and wiser than we came.
Vaccination is now happily appreciated in Persia. On my first
arrival it was unknown, and inoculation was regularly practised.
Another plan, too, was common, and the future native pastor of the
Protestant Armenians lost a child by its practice. He put his own child
in bed with a child having small-pox, that it might take the disease in
a benign form; confluent small-pox of the most virulent type resulted,
and the poor child died, to the great grief of the parent, a most
deserving and honest fellow.
This man and one other are the only teetotalers of Julfa, which
may dispute the palm with any Scotch town for capability of
swallowing liquor on a Sunday.
So common is drunkenness here, that an old cook of mine, an
English-speaking Armenian, used to say to me on Sunday night—
“Dinner finished, sir; if you no orders, I go get drunk with my
priest.” Needless to add, that they both did get drunk, and that it was
at the cook’s expense. Happily, there are some few exceptions
among the Julfa priests, for all India, Persia, and Batavia are
supplied with priests for their Armenian communities from Julfa.
Spirits are supposed to deaden pain, and a Yezdi, a guebre (fire-
worshipper), who had lodged some slugs and iron in his hand, prior
to my removing them, swallowed a quart of strong spirit without my
knowledge. I supposed him to become suddenly delirious, but he
was only suddenly drunk.
Our first care was to make a road for our little dog-cart. The gates
separating the parishes were mostly too narrow to let it pass, and we
finally made one six feet wide at the narrowest, having three bridges
without parapets (which we widened), and one was at a sharp angle,
and a deep ditch the whole way on one side, and a wall on the other.
This was capital for a small two-wheel thing, as long as the horse
didn’t jib or shy, or we didn’t meet any one. Happily, it did not in our
time, but when we got a bigger trap, a park phaeton, with a pair of
horses, the pleasure of our drive was somewhat damped by the
possibility of a capsize at night in the dark! But the cherub that
always keeps a watch over poor Jack must have been on duty, for
we never did have an accident. It was Hobson’s choice, that road or
none.
Crossing the river at Marnūn became our favourite ride, and here
one could canter for miles on a good road, the greater part of which
was shaded by the gardens and orchards on either side. A great
deal of firewood, too, is grown in this neighbourhood, water is
plentiful, and so firewood is a staple crop. Getting out beyond the
gardens, on a small mountain standing by itself on the plain, was the
ruin of an ancient fire-temple. It was merely built of mud bricks, but
here at Ispahan these remain for centuries, and it was only on
climbing up to it that one perceived that it was not all quite modern,
and a small portion built of very large bricks on an ancient wall. A
grand view was got from it, as it commanded the entire plain.
Several large plane-trees are to be seen in the villages, many with
platforms built round them, where the villagers sit and smoke in the
evenings. A sort of semi-sacred character is attached to some of
them, particularly to one which is called the “plane of Mortaza Ali.”
A striking feature at Julfa is the so-called racecourse at Ferhabad.
A couple of walls enclose a straight run of over a mile. These walls,
which are in ruins, and of mud, have at intervals various pavilions,
some of the rooms of which are still almost perfect. At the end is a
large square, having many rooms round it in a still better state. The
road turned at a right angle towards the village of Julfa; but as this is
intersected by wells and watercourses, it is not used as a cantering
ground. The place is supposed to have been the summer palace of
the Afghan conquerors.
Ruins and ancient buildings, when built of burnt bricks, rapidly
disappear in Persia. It is for a very simple reason. It is cheaper to
demolish an old building, and carry off the good seasoned bricks by
donkey-loads, than to make and burn new ones, which often
crumble.
In my own time a large and handsome college near the Char Bagh
of Ispahan has utterly disappeared, the prince having given an order
for its demolition, and that the material be used in making the new
one he has now completed. The very foundations were grubbed up.
In Ispahan itself every third house is a ruin, and in Julfa the walls of
gardens and orchards often contain the bare inner walls of ancient
houses, which retain the brightness of their painting and gilding in
the dry and pure air.
Donkeys, as beasts of burden, are much employed in a country
where there are no carts or wheeled vehicles; save in the capital, the
donkeys do all the ordinary work of vehicles. Earth, manure,
produce, firewood, charcoal, grain, are all carried on these beasts or
on mules. Each animal has his pack-saddle, in which he lives and
sleeps. It is only removed when the donkey gets a rare and very
occasional curry-combing from a very primitive sort of instrument,
having jangling rings, which produce a music supposed to be
soothing to a donkey’s soul. Every villager has his donkey; if more
than one he is well-to-do. The ordinary wage of a man is one keran,
a man and donkey one keran and a half, and each additional donkey
half a keran. They work from sunrise to sunset, with an hour’s
interval for feeding.
Julfa is a particularly healthy place, for the cesspools are
constantly kept clean by the market-gardeners, who pay for the
privilege of removing the manure. By mixing the contents of the
cesspools with ashes, a dry and portable manure is produced of the
highest efficacy, and odourless. It is removed on donkeys, and
stored in the fields until required.
In the very depth of the winter, when snow and ice had rendered
the ride to the town highly dangerous for horses, I was summoned in
haste to see my old patient the Zil-es-Sultan, now the most important
man in the kingdom next to the king. I went, though risking my
horse’s knees, and was rather disgusted to find that I was sent for to
see if he was ill or not, as he was not sure. I found him in a hot room,
temperature eighty (by the thermometer), wrapped in furs, being
shampooed by three attendants, while a fourth was reading poetry to
him. He was, I told him, in a fair way to get ill, and that air and
exercise were all he needed. He took my advice, and returned to his
usual very active life.
He showed me an armoury of some eight hundred rifles, with a
proportionate amount of fowling-pieces and pistols. I expressed the
desired amount of admiration. I suppose the time will come when his
Royal Highness will make an effort for the throne, probably on the
present Shah’s death. It will be a lucky day for Persia if he succeeds,
as he is clever, tolerant, and a good governor. His personal
popularity is very great, and his luck as a governor proverbial. He
has a dislike to deeds of blood, but is a severe governor, like his
uncle, the late Hissam-u-Sultaneh, whose virtues he emulates.
The Valliāt, or heir-apparent, on the contrary, is physically weak,
and mentally imbecile, being a bigot in the hands of a few holy men,
and as impracticable as he is obstinate. No doubt if he ever does
reign a black time will set in for the country, for religious persecution
on a gigantic scale will commence, and the future of Iran be very
sad.
The Zil-es-Sultan had just got two bull-terriers from England. He
was convinced of their ferocity; and certainly the dog, very short-
faced, and almost a bull-dog, was of terrific appearance. His Royal
Highness caused them to be let into the courtyard, cautioning me to
be very still, as not knowing me they might attack me, and providing
me with a lump of sugar to appease them. Of course nothing of the
sort took place, but the dogs ran about and smelt the various
grandees, to their great disgust. The prince made great pets of them,
feeding them with sugar. I was surprised to find that though these
dogs had not seen an Englishman for months, yet on my speaking to
them in English they followed me about, fawning on me, and
neglecting the prince, and the dog-man who was their valet.
Since this time the prince has procured two huge half-bred Dutch
mastiffs, in which he greatly rejoices, and these animals, though not
fierce, are certainly very powerful dogs. Strange that the love of
animals in a man like the Zil-es-Sultan should so overcome the
Mussulman dislike of the unclean beast. The dogs were in the habit
of licking the prince’s hand.
This particular winter was an unusually severe one. There was
much snow, and it was impossible to get out for rides for a fortnight;
and two store-rooms of my huge house fell in, from the heavy mud
roofs being soaked with water, and breaking their supports by the
enormous increase of weight.
On one occasion in the early spring we had ridden out to the
garden palace of Haft Dust, and were preparing to take tea, when
with great noise the Zil-es-Sultan rode into the place with some fifty
horsemen. No sooner did he see and recognise my servants than he
asked if I was alone. On hearing that my wife (“my house,” as my
man put it) was with me, he rode out, taking all his followers with
him, and sending me a message to “go on with my tea, that he
trusted I should enjoy my visit, that the place was mine as long as I
pleased,” etc.
Europeans avoid the Persians when with ladies, as very ridiculous
scenes are at times the result. One gentleman, whose wife was not
in her first youth, on meeting the prince when riding with her, instead
of avoiding him, stopped to speak.
It was one of his rude days, for he calmly asked, in defiance of the
rules of Persian politeness, which demand the ignoring of the
existence of any female:
“Is that your wife?”
“Yes, my wife.”
“Well, I wouldn’t have a wife so old and ugly as that. Get a young
one.”
The situation for both lady and gentleman was embarrassing.
 CHAPTER XXXIV.
JOURNEY TO AND FROM TEHERAN.

Proceed to Teheran—Takhtrowan—Duties—Gulhaek—Lawn-tennis—Guebre
gardener—A good road—The Shah—Custom of the Kūrūk—M. Gersteiger—
Cossack regiments—Austrian officers—New coinage—Count Monteforte—
New police—Boulevard des Ambassadeurs—English Embassy—Tile gates—
Summer palaces—Bazaars—Russian goods—Demarvend—Drive to Ispahan
—Difficulties of the journey—Accidents—Danger of sunstroke—Turkeys—
Keeping peacocks—Armenian tribute of poultry—Burmese and Japanese
embassies—Entertainment and fireworks—Cruel treatment of Jews—Oil
paintings—Bahram and his queen—Practice makes perfect—Pharaoh and the
Red Sea—Pharaoh and the magicians.

After an eighteen months’ stay in Julfa (Ispahan) I received orders

to proceed to Teheran “to act” (for my chief).
We started, my wife travelling in a “takhtrowan” (moving bed). This
consists of a box with doors and windows, six feet long, three feet
wide, and four feet high. A thick mattress is placed in it, and plenty of
pillows. Where the road is fairly level, as from Ispahan to Teheran, it
is not a bad way of travelling for a lady. The great cause of
satisfaction to her was that she had her baby with her. Water was
kept out of the machine by a waterproof sheet being tacked to the
top, and a thick carpet was lashed over the roof when travelling in
strong sun. At each end of the box are shafts, and between each
pair a mule. The movement is at first rather sickening, but this is
soon got over, and the traveller sleeps the greater portion of the
stage.
Although we travelled as lightly as possible, we were forced to
take twenty-four mules, and were heartily glad when our journey,
which was twelve long stages, and without incident of any kind, was
over. I hired a little house at Gulhaek, the village where are situated
the summer quarters of the English Embassy, and where lives the
chief of my Department, in the summer.
In addition to my own work I was in charge of the staff of the Indo-
European Telegraph Company’s line who lived in Teheran. Our own
signalling staff too lived in the town. As however we had an
exceptionally healthy summer, the duties were very light.
I was also placed in medical charge of the Russian Embassy by
the Russian Ambassador, M. Zenoview, for the greater part of my six
months’ stay, their own physician having gone to Russia for a time
on private business.
Gulhaek is one of the villages at the foot of the mountains
bounding the Teheran valley, and by prescriptive right the English
Legation go to Gulhaek, the Russians to the next village, Zergendeh,
and the French to another a couple of miles higher, called Tejreesh.
These places are delightfully cool, and if the signallers of the
Department and of the Company could be moved to them, it would
be a great boon to the men, for it is terribly hot and unhealthy in the
town, and the expense would not be great: in fact it ought to be
done.
Lawn-tennis, when we arrived, was in high vogue, and was played
every afternoon on a level ground (a lawn in Persia is nearly
impossible) mudded over with what is termed “kah gil,” a mixture of
“kah” (cut straw) and “gil” (mud). This forms a sort of sheet of smooth
and springy ground, which gives a good foothold, and dries rapidly.
The tennis was justly popular, and was the most pleasant means of
obtaining exercise, and consequently health.
Our own comfort was increased by the arrival of an English nurse,
whom we had engaged to come out for a certain three years.
I was enabled to buy a small park-phaeton and a pair of well-
broken horses from a German, the master of the Shah’s mint, who
was leaving because he declined to debase the coinage, which was
contrary to the terms of his agreement.
In the garden next to ours lived a Guebre. A few of these men
have been under the protection of the English Embassy time out of
mind. He kept us supplied with strawberries at tenpence a plateful;
and as we had not tasted them since leaving England, they were a
great luxury, particularly in a warm climate.
The greater part of the road from Gulhaek to Teheran, being the
way to the Shah’s favourite summer residences, is planted on both
sides with trees and shrubs. These give a grateful shade; and as the
road is in good order, it is pleasant driving; but, when thronged, the
dust rises and covers everything, so that it is like a very dusty return
from the Derby, but with no excitement, and hotter. Still, a good road
in nearly roadless Persia was a thing to be taken advantage of.
Several times when out driving we met the Shah, and invariably
drew on one side to allow him to pass. His Majesty was always very
polite, and returned our salutes. On our passing the first time he sent
a man to inquire who we were. The Prime minister, too, was
particular in behaving in a civilised manner, but the ragamuffin
attendants on the royal ladies always used to shout “Begone,” “Be
off,” and their postilions would always drive as close as possible, and
pass one as if they wished a collision, or to take a wheel off.
The custom of the kūrūk is dying out. It used to be death for any
man to be in the neighbourhood of the royal wives when on their
numerous outings. The people always fled, or stood with faces to the
wall; and Europeans, when they saw the eunuchs’ procession
approaching, and heard the cry of “Gitchen” (Turkish “Begone”), to
avoid unpleasantness and possible rows, used to turn down the first
street. A very eccentric Austrian, the Baron Gersteiger Khan (the
latter title being, of course, a Persian dignity; for many years
instructor to the Persian army, and at last general; principal officer of
engineers, and constructor of roads, in which latter work he has
really left some striking marks of his success), on meeting the ladies
when he was on foot, turned his face to the wall like a native, and as
each carriage passed, deliberately saluted from the back of his head.
This delighted the ladies, and they informed the Shah. The Shah
sent for Gersteiger, and made him repeat his salutes, and after
laughing a good deal, gave him a handsome present.
 The king generally travelled in a carriage very like a sheriff’s, with
eight pairs of horses harnessed to it, with postilions. They went at a
fair pace, were always preceded by the royal runners (“shatirs”), clad
in their ancient Persian dress of red, with the curious turreted hat,
like a fool’s cap and bells, and each bearing a gold baton. These
men were all good runners, and some six or eight ran in front, while
one or two always kept at his Majesty’s side.
When we were in Teheran a number of Russian officers were
engaged in forming some so-called Cossack regiments. They
engaged horsemen, whom they regularly paid, and seemed to be
teaching these men their drill successfully. These so-called
Cossacks were the Shah’s favourite toy of the moment, and he was
never tired of reviewing them. They were well but plainly dressed,
well horsed and well armed, and the Russian officers were very
popular both with Shah and soldiers.
A large contingent of Austrian officers had also arrived to instruct
the infantry and artillery; but though these gentlemen were well paid,
they did not find Persia the El Dorado they expected. Some of them
resigned while I was there. They also fought among themselves; and
all have now, I fancy, left the country. The capital was ever rather a
rowdy place; murders and burglaries were common; and, as in other
towns of Persia, the “darogas,” or police-masters, and their
dependants were so mercenary, that the townspeople preferred
being robbed to complaining to them, on the principle of two evils to
choose the less.
The manufacture of false money had become a national evil, and
forgeries of the royal seals were frequent. The first evil was sought to
be got over by calling in the old rough coinage, which was hammer-
struck, and substituting a handsome series of medals in gold and
silver, having milled edges. These were introduced with great
success, and the new coinage was handsome and popular. But it
was soon counterfeited, and when the nuisance had attained its
height the Count Monteforte arrived with special credentials from the
Emperor of Austria, and was installed as head of police. This
gentleman seemed to be exactly the right man in the right place. He
got on with the natives, in a few weeks established a character for
honesty and shrewdness, detected many offenders, recovered much
stolen property, and established a regiment of policemen, well
drilled, well dressed, honest, polite, and who refused bribes. As
bribes are to the Persian what beef is to the Englishman, these
phenomena have probably ere this been either shelved or corrupted;
but when we were in Teheran in 1880, they were in full swing, and
the wonder and admiration of foreigners and natives.
Just one street in Teheran is very much Europeanised; it is fairly
paved, and lighted by lamp-posts containing candles. It is called the
Boulevard des Ambassadeurs, and as it is a wide street, the view
from the bottom is somewhat striking, ending as it does in the green
hills and black mountains covered on their tops with snow.
At the top, approached by an ornamental gate of great size, is the
palace of the English Ambassador. This has been recently erected at
enormous cost, partly from designs by the late Major Pierson, R.E. It
is surrounded by trees, and the edifice meets the requirements of the
country, and is very original in appearance. It stands in a magnificent
garden of great size, in which are placed the houses of the
secretaries, built like English villas of the better class. The interior of
the Embassy is furnished with great splendour with English furniture,
and our ambassador to the Court of Persia is lodged as he should
be, en prince.
The rest of the town is wholly Oriental. Dead walls of mud and
brick are seen in every direction. The streets are mud in winter and
dust in summer.
The principal feature in Teheran is the numerous tiled gates.
These structures, covered with floridly-coloured tiles in elaborate
patterns, mostly geometrical, having centre-pieces of
representations of scenes from the mythology of Persia, were
certainly novel and curious. As a rule, the modern tile-work is in
striking contrast to the ancient, which is much chaster, and in better
taste.
Of the many palaces none were worth description, of those that I
visited, which were all mere summer retreats. They were gaudy,
much painted and gilt, and the white plaster-work, decorated with
mirrors, was the only kind of ornamentation having the slightest
pretence to be artistic. The dry climate, however, enables this
effective style of decoration to be used for exteriors, and it retains its
pristine whiteness in the clear air for many years. Many large
buildings seen from a distance in Teheran have a great appearance
of magnificence, and it does not strike the beholder at first that they
are merely plaster-of-Paris over mud bricks. To them the term
“whitened sepulchre” is particularly appropriate; but the insecurity of
property must be considered, and a man would be unwise to build an
expensive edifice which would expose him to jealousy.
The bazaars are good, and sufficiently curious; of course much
inferior in size and richness to those of Stamboul (Constantinople).
Most of the goods exposed, not of native manufacture, are Russian.
[36]

The Russian goods are liked in the Eastern market. They are very
cheap, and very strong; in fact, are suited to the country; they are
also, alas! very ugly. The tremendous land journey from Trebizonde,
or that from the Persian Gulf, or the alternative from Baghdad viâ
Kermanshah, closes the Persian market at Teheran to the English.
Fortunes, however, are made there, an importer of French goods
(which are particularly appreciated by the Persians) having retired
with a large one. About four hundred per cent. is generally charged,
which covers the heavy freight and the duty, and leaves about cent.
per cent. profit.
We found a great deal of gaiety at Teheran. A weekly dinner at the
Embassy, generally a daily drive, and the society of many Europeans
of different nationalities, was of course a great break in the
monotony of our life in Persia. But our pleasures after four months
were interrupted by the serious illness of my wife. Our second little
boy was born, and we were lucky in having a reliable nurse.
The view of Teheran is made very unique by the great semi-extinct
volcano, Demarvend, in the distance, which gives it great grandeur,
towering, as it does, over the valley, with its top covered in eternal
snows, and taking innumerable lovely tints at the rising and setting of
the sun.
 We came to Teheran by the longer way of Natanz, thus avoiding
the great Kohrūd pass, a particularly unpleasant stage when there is
much snow; and as my wife was really an invalid, we determined to
return to Ispahan driving—a thing no one has done before, and I
fancy no one will do again. I had a new set of wheels made specially
strong and heavy, and with very strong tyres. I succeeded in buying
a second pair of half-broken horses, in case my own pair came to
grief, and we left in the autumn for Ispahan, the nurse and babies
occupying the takhtrowan, while my wife and I went in the trap.
We drove through the town with some trouble, and as soon as we
were clear of the fortifications the road became broad and level, and
we reached Hadjiabad, a garden, where we stopped the night.
The next day we crossed a rocky mountain, having to drag the
phaeton by hand some miles, and then, locking the wheels with
ropes, we got it down a very steep place. The rest was plain sailing;
the roads were generally fairly good. My wife had to get out only
some four times on a fifteen days’ journey, and it was only on getting
into or out of villages, where there were at times deep ditches, but
plenty of willing helpers, that we had any difficulty.
On our last stage but three we mistook the road, and came forty-
eight miles instead of twenty-four. We, however, only used our
second pair once, as they were very unsafe; and our horses, strange
to say, did the whole journey well, and arrived in fair condition.
At the last stage but two a ridiculous accident occurred. We had
frequently snapped the heads of bolts, and even the bolts
themselves, by going over very rough places, the jolt breaking the
heads off, as they were steel. These we generally detected and
replaced by others, which we had caused to be made in Teheran.
But Mūrchicah is a big village, with numerous twists and turns
between dead walls ere one gets to the post-house. We had come a
long stage, were very tired, and very anxious to get in, and, instead
of going over a deep dry ditch which we had to pass, and which was
very narrow, in a careful way, I was foolish enough to try to pass it
quickly. The result was a snap of all three bolts that fixed the trap to
what is, I fancy, technically termed the fore-carriage. The thing hung
together till we had got the hind wheels out of the ditch, and then the
horses, pole, and two front wheels went on, the carriage itself
remaining behind and falling forward; and, had not the apron been
up, we should have been shot out. Fortunately the reins were long,
and the horses easily pulled up. They were probably unaware of the
accident. Though we were in the village there was no one about. The
servants were either in front with the bedding, or behind with the
loads, yet in five minutes the bolts were replaced by fresh ones, and
we were proceeding on our way.
At this stage our little boy was taken very ill, and we both felt that
another march in the sun in the “kajawehs,” with his man-nurse,
might be fatal to him. So next morning we started very early, and
taking him in the trap, which had a hood and an opening with a cut
leather curtain behind, that made it very cool: we hurried over the
twenty-two miles, and did it in two hours and twenty minutes through
deep sand.
The next day’s stage was a very bad one, as, though short, we
had to pass through the town, and had to take the horses out twice,
and I dreaded our own very narrow and dangerous road to the
house. However, we got in without accident, by starting at dawn,
before ten; and the child, by rest and nursing, was soon himself
again.
The sun in Persia is a very insidious enemy. Many cases of sun-
apoplexy each year are seen, and I had a fixed rule that, except for
evening rides, my wife and I always wore an Elwood’s sun-helmet,
and this is the only real way to preserve oneself. All other things but
the topi are valueless, unless one uses the hideous pith hat, or
resorts to the turban. Of course in India these precautions are still
more necessary. I don’t know if these sun hats are made for children.
They are very necessary if children are allowed to go at all in the
sun, and they will go, and natives will let them. But really good-
looking riding-hats are turned out for ladies. My wife had a solar
riding-hat à la Gainsborough, that was almost becoming; so that
ladies at least have no excuse. I was constantly warning those under
my care of the danger of little caps, billycocks, etc., but in many
cases I was looked on as a “Molly,” though I felt it my duty to press
my warnings. Of another thing I am convinced, that the powerful
effect of the sun is much lost sight of in Europe, and I look on a
bright helmet of metal, unless air-chambered, as an invention of the
devil, and pity the poor Life Guards, etc.; the horsehair, however,
happily saves them a little.
On our journey down, at a place called Sinsin, we saw a big
turkey, and succeeded in buying a pair for fifty kerans, supposing
them to be the only pair. We found afterwards that the head-man of
the neighbouring village had a hundred birds, and the price
afterwards fell to eight shillings a bird.
We were very successful in the rearing of the young turkeys, the
hens sitting on their own eggs, and proving good mothers. So many
poults did we have, that, when we left Ispahan eighteen months
afterwards, we ate two a week for nearly six months. The turkeys
were of two varieties, the ordinary black ones, as seen in Europe,
and of large size, and a smaller bird, of lighter colour, and more
delicate, some of which latter were almost pure white.
Peacocks are much valued in Persia, and supposed only to be
kept by royalty: the English Minister has several fine birds, and the
privilege of keeping them is jealously guarded.
We brought a quantity of tame ducks down from Teheran; these
increased and multiplied amazingly, and bred with some wild ducks
of the common kind. We brought also three geese. Geese, ducks,
and turkeys were common long ago in Julfa when Ispahan was the
capital, but the Armenians, finding that they had to pay a yearly
tribute of fat birds, allowed them to die out, and so escaped the
exaction. However, when we left Julfa, all the Europeans had turkeys
and ducks, and there were plenty of geese at Soh, three stages off:
so, doubtless, by now (two years) they are plentiful.
We were glad to get back to our own home, for though Teheran
gave us most of the joys of civilisation, still we felt that our home was
in our big house at Julfa. And how we did enjoy not having to start as
usual the next morning!
 Our stay in Ispahan was not chequered by any very exciting
events, save those personal to ourselves.
During our sojourn, two ambassadors passed through it. One, the
Burmese, an old and cheery man with huge ears, accompanied by a
staff of attachés, one of whom spoke English well, and had been
educated at King’s College. He was supposed to be carrying rubies
for disposal through Europe. He had a ring with him as a present
from the King of Burmah to the Shah. Hoop, collet, and all, were cut
out of one solid and perfect ruby of the first water—a truly barbarous
present. These Burmese all wore the national apology for
unmentionables—a handsome sheet of silk, termed a “langouti.” This
is wrapped around the waist, and depends nearly to the feet; their
heads were bound with fillets of muslin. The Zil-es-Sultan gave an
entertainment in their honour, to which we were all invited. A fair
dinner was followed by fireworks; these in Persia are always fairly
good, the only thing being that Persians do not understand coloured
fireworks, otherwise their displays are very good. One very good
feature is, that the public are always freely admitted. All the walls are
marked out with clay oil-lamps, and festoons of the same hang from
wires affixed to high poles: these are lighted after sunset, as soon as
it is dark. Music of a promiscuous character is played, all the
musicians and singers joining in to different airs. The military bands
strike up, each man playing his loudest at his own sweet will. A gun
is fired, and the huge golden rains from earthen cones light up the
whole scene, disclosing the shouting throng of good-tempered
Persians of the lower orders; all people of condition having been
provided with rooms and seats. All the roofs are thronged with
crowds of veiled women, flights of rockets are continually let off, and
the set-pieces soon commence. These are supplied in great
profusion, and, save for the want of colour, they are quite equal to
any effort of European pyrotechny.
A row of wretched Jews are now pushed into the tank—a
proceeding which always accompanies any official display of
fireworks. I know not why, unless it is to let the poor Jews feel, even
in times of rejoicing, the wretchedness of their position. Dancing
boys dressed as girls twirl and tumble, buffoons dance and pose
grotesquely, the noise of music and singing is at its loudest.
“Kūrbāghah” (frogs), a kind of water firework, are thrown in the tanks
in every direction, and, as the set-pieces are fading, the whole
concludes with a tremendous bouquet of fire as in Europe.
The Japanese ambassador, or rather commissioner, was received
with less ceremony, as he was proceeding incog. on his way to
Europe, having a mission to introduce Japanese goods to the notice
of Europeans generally. His attachés, too, spoke French and
English, and were funny little fellows; but, as the Persians put it, “too
ugly to have any value, even as slaves!”
We patronised art in Ispahan by having oil-paintings, executed by
native artists, of incidents in Persian life; some of these were
sufficiently curious. Among the subjects illustrated were “The Sticks,”
a very tragic picture indeed, where the expressions of pain, terror,
supplication, and ferocity were well shown.
Another amusing series were five pictures representing the history
of Bahram and his queen. The monarch is shown as pinning, with a
master-shot from his bow, the foot of an antelope to its side while it
was scratching itself.
“What do you think of that?” says the exulting king.
“Oh, practice makes perfect,” coolly remarked the lady.
They naturally separate; for it is a dangerous thing for a wife to
disparage her husband’s shooting. And here a curious parody of an
ancient classical legend occurs. Bahram hears of a lady of great
strength, who is in the habit of carrying a full-sized bull to the top of a
tower!
He goes to see the prodigy, and sees a lovely woman perform the
feat (scene depicted); his astonishment is manifested by his placing
his finger to his mouth—the typical gesture for this sensation in
Eastern art.
“Oh, that is nothing,” says the triumphant queen, “practice makes
perfect.” She then explains that she had commenced her feat when
the bull was a little calf. The king smiled, and took her back.
 Many of the subjects illustrated were the histories from the Koran.
Thus the passage of the Egyptians, and their subsequent fate in the
Red Sea, is shown; Pharaoh and his host drowning, while a green-
winged angel exhibits to the sinking monarch a divine scroll, on
which his sentence is written. The expiring Egyptians are good, and
the look of horror on the face of Pharaoh is well done. But a small
steamer is seen in the distance! Another picture was “The staff of
Aaron changed to a serpent, having devoured the serpents of the
magicians of Egypt.” Here the winged dragon (or serpent) of Aaron is
so tremendous, that Wagner would have been glad of him at
Bayreuth: he is vomiting fire, and is a bogey of the first water.
Pharaoh, his eyes starting from his head, is depicted in horror, while
Moses has the satisfied expression of a conjurer after a successful
tour de force. Another represents Iskender (Alexander the Great),
who, having conquered the world, proceeds to the regions of eternal
night, as according to Persian legend he did in fact. The conqueror
and his warriors are well and carefully drawn, many of the figures
carrying torches and cressets; but the eternal night is shown by
painting the whole of the figures, trees, etc., on a black ground, and
a curious effect is thus produced.
Solomon in all his glory (see Frontispiece) is a favourite subject.
Solomon, who had the power of speaking the languages of animals
and all created things, and who could command the spirits of the
earth and air, is seen seated on his throne. Above his head is the
fabulous bird, the simūrgh; to his right, on a perch, is his favourite
the hoopöe, below this are two tiny efreet. The Queen of Sheba is
seated in a chair of state, behind her are her female servants and
slaves, and two gigantic jinns (genii). To the king’s left, are his Vizier
Asaph (the author of the Psalms of Asaph, or possibly the person to
whom they were dedicated), and Rūstam, the Persian Hercules,
armed with his bull-headed mace. Behind them are four jinns of
terrible aspect. The air is full of birds; and the foreground of beasts,
reptiles, and insects. The tiny figures with crowns are angels,
servants of Solomon; the turbaned figures are courtiers and
servants.
 CHAPTER XXXV.
WE RETURN VIÂ THE CASPIAN.

New Year’s presents—Shiraz custom—Our cook’s weaknesses—He takes the

pledge—And becomes an opium-eater—Decide to go home—Dispose of kit—
Start for Europe—Our own arrangements—Diary of our journey home—
Arrival.

A severe winter, diversified with occasional fine weather, when the

days were even hot in the sun, brought the No Rūz (or Persian New
Year) and the commencement of spring. Our servants brought their
plates of sweetmeats to mark the day, and duly received a month’s
pay, or clothes to that amount. The woman-servant Bēbē brought her
mistress an earthen water-bottle, around the ledge of which was
sown barley, the grains being held on by a bandage, and the porous
jar keeping them constantly wet; the result was a number of rings of
bright grass, the whole forming a very pretty and original, if useless,
present. It is a common custom to do this in Shiraz at the New Year,
and even the poorest has his water-pot covered with brilliant green.
Our cook is giving some trouble just now; for though a capital chef,
and though he has been with me fourteen years—having begun at
eight shillings a month, and arrived for the last five years at forty and
the spending of all the money—yet he has his vices. When he was
first with me as a youth of nineteen, he was perpetually getting
married, and as frequently getting divorced; then he took to getting
continually arrested for debt; next drink became his foible, and this
endured for about four years; dismissal, the bastinado (by the
authorities), fining, were all tried without avail: at length, in despair, I
sent him to the head of religion in Ispahan, with a note to the Sheikh,
in which I apologised for troubling him, but stated that the man was a
very old servant in whom I had a great interest, and would he make
him take the pledge? The cook, who took the note himself, had no
idea of the contents. He told me that the Sheikh read it and told him
to wait; when the large assembly that always throngs the Sheikh’s
house had disappeared, the old gentleman produced a Koran, and
proposed that the cook should take the pledge. He dared not refuse.
After swearing to take no wine or spirits, a formal document was
drawn up, to which the cook attached his seal. The Sheikh wrote me
a very polite note, and assured me that the man would keep the
pledge.
It appeared that he exhibited a tremendous “taziana,” or cat-o’-
nine-tails, to my man, as what pledge-breakers are punished with.
The cook now was for weeks as sober as a judge, but he was
becoming a fool; the dinners were spoiled, or incongruous, or both:
in fact, as he must do something, he had become an opium-eater.
Opium, though habitually used by the aged of both sexes, is seldom
taken to excess, save by “lutis,” or confirmed debauchees.
At last, finding it impossible to cure this determined offender, I
gave my reluctant consent to his proceeding to Kermanshah, his
native place, where he wished to stay at least a year. I never saw
him again.
I don’t know if the last straw was the loss of our cook, or if we had
come to the conclusion that definitely Persia was not the place for a
lady, but we decided to go home on two years’ leave, to which I was
now entitled; and as we felt that it was very probable we should
never return, we determined to sell off our entire kit. We accordingly
drew out a catalogue of our worldly goods in Persia, and distributed
it among the telegraph officials. By a couple of months everything
was disposed of but the rubbish. This was sold by auction, and
produced a keen competition among the Armenians.
I was enabled to get rid of our phaeton without loss, for a Persian
of wealth, the “Mūllavi,” gave me within forty pounds of what I gave
for it and the horses; and the severe work we had had out of trap
and horses for two years was well worth the difference.
Captain W⸺, who was expecting his sisters out, viâ Russia, took
all our road kit and saddlery, and my wife’s mare and the
“takhtrowan,” all to be given over at Resht, on the Caspian, so we
were quite free to start.

OUR JOURNEY HOME.

March 28th, 1881.—Ispahan Julfa.—At last I hear that a muleteer
is found who will go direct to Resht, by way of Kūm, Hajeeb, and
Kasvin, avoiding the capital. I go to the house of a Baghdad
merchant in Julfa, and find the muleteer, who is being regaled with
pipes; he is the head-man of the neighbouring village of Se Deh
(three villages), and the proprietor of a hundred mules. I am told that
his son-in-law will go with the mules, and am introduced to a young
fellow some six feet high and thickly built, who is a Tabrizi, and
speaks good Turkish and bad Persian. He is wearing the large heavy
sheepskin cap of Tabriz, with the wool long. The merchant informs
me that he thinks the hire should be sixty kerans per mule. This is
said in English, and he then turns to the elder man and says:
“You will, of course, give this sahib mules at forty kerans per
mule?”
The old man replies: “I have, after much persuasion, got Jaffer
Kūli, my son-in-law, to agree to eighty.”
The young man, with many vows, raises his hands to heaven and
demands eighty-five. “Why do you throw words into air, Jaffer Kūli?
as I am this merchant’s friend let us say eighty, and the sahib will
have had mules for nothing. Of course we get a present?”
I here get up, saying, “These fellows are quite mad; let us talk to
men.”
They in turn rise and say, “Our last word is seventy-five.”
So we talk for an hour. Then, and not till then, the ceremony of
agreement is gone through, and the articles strictly drawn up by the
merchant, after much chaffering. At last he begins to read in a sing-
song drawl, for our mutual edification, the following: