“Well, my dear, the sooner we reach our journey’s end, the sooner you will be relieved of all present anxiety, at any rate. But we shall never do so unless we make a start. I will not mention how many years it is since I saw you on horseback, but I will say that you still cut as splendid a figure in your habit as you did then.”
This sufficed to get the party started at last, and we set off along the steep, winding path into the hills to the north.
A thought occurred to me as we jogged along, and I moved up the column to ride abreast of Wickham.
“Do we actually know where we are going?” I asked.
“A good question,” he replied. “I wish I knew the answer. So far there has been no real choice, but we cannot expect that to last forever. I have a map, the best that the Kythera garrison could provide, but maps can be unreliable, and, in these parts, particularly so. I had rather expected to find a native guide waiting for us after Mavromichalis’ letter. I should have remembered we were dealing with Greeks. Your Greek is a fine fellow. He is willing enough, and able enough, but he is never, ever ready.”
We had meanwhile come to a stretch rather less steep and considerably broader, and found ourselves joined by Mrs Morland.
“I hesitate to interrupt,” she said, “but I believe we are being watched. I am sure I saw a head disappear behind the rocks over there.”
We had barely turned our heads to view the said rocks when we heard a jingling sound from the corner ahead of us.
I cannot speak for the others, but one thought entered my head at that moment. ‘Bandits!’ I rather pride myself that the thought was at least in Greek. ‘Klephts!’
At first sight of the band of horsemen bearing down upon us I was convinced that I was right, and, indeed, I was right. But I was also wrong.
There were, it appeared, about fifty of them, swarthy villains with long hair and moustaches, swathed in many coloured shawls and sashes and hung about with long pistols and swords, while many of them carried long-barreled muskets, covered in brass or silver in their hands.
On sighting us they surged forward, in a movement that was far too random to be called a charge, waving their muskets and discharging them into the air. Then, with a loud cry, they stopped dead, making way for a tall, grey-haired figure who was obviously their leader.
“We are done for,” whispered Wickham. “I dare not make any resistance for the sake of the ladies. And yet, precisely for their sake, I must do something.”
“I suggest you give your hand to the tall rascal in the breastplate and red helmet, the one on the black horse,” I answered him, for I had heard what our assailants had been shouting, and what was more, I had understood it.
“Zito Petrobey!” I repeated back to them, “Zito Anglia, Zito Hellas!”
That I had hit upon les mots justes, might be gathered from the burst of cheering they inspired. Further communication proved more difficult, however.
“Can you understand them?” asked Wickham.
“Thus far,” I replied. “But all they have said is ‘Long live Petrobey!’ ‘Long live England!’ to which I have assented, adding ‘Long live Greece.’ I rather suspect things might become a trifle more complicated now.”
I was not disappointed in my suspicions. The comical scene that ensued, a mixture of dumb show, my Classical Greek and our new friend’s Demotic, with the odd word of Italian thrown in, might be paraphrased in English somewhat as follows.
BENNET : “I Bennettos ycleped am, of English Warleader Wickham fader in leagan. We wolde to Petrobeyes woning wenden.”
GREEK : “I Theodoros am. You to Petrobey come with.”
At least, I believe that is how we started, but things got more hesitant and more and more confused until at length my interlocutor shook his head and cried –
“Your Greek make my head ache! Why you not speak English?”
“You speak English!” it was my turn to exclaim. “Then why are we stumbling along in Greek?”
“You start, in ancient, dead Greek. Only polite to reply in Greek.”
“But, you do speak English?”
“Sure, I speak English. I speak bloody good English. Why I not speak English? Major Kolokotronis, First Greek Light Infantry, Duke of York’s Regiment, Colonel Church. I fight for English in great war, fight French, not like some who fight for French against English. I come have look at you, meet English general. You present me.”
Wickham, whose uniform coat was on one of the pack animals, looked distinctly unmartial beside the newcomer. Mr Kolokotronis evidently thought so, for he sniffed and sat up straight before holding out his hand, quite in the English manner.
Wickham grasped it firmly, evidently glad to have avoided being crushed against that steel breast in a Greek embrace, and murmured a conventional greeting.
“You bet you pleased to meet me,” was the Greek’s response. “You get lost else. Me, I know all Morea like my back hand, but even I must think to find way in miserable Mani maze. When you come properly, eh? When you bring redcoats to fight Turks?”
Wickham blinked.
“I… I am not at liberty to comment on that question,” he replied at last.
“Understand,” replied Mr K, with a broad wink. “Nod to blind horse, yes? You come to Petrobey. We talk there.”
Off we set again, this time surrounded by a mob of chattering, staring Greeks. Their stares were directed principally at the ladies, which might have given rise to some concern, had not their leader taken notice and admonished the offenders both loudly and eloquently.
“I sorry for that, Lordos Bennettos,” he said to me, “your beautiful daughters need have no fear of anything. I, Kolokotronis , say so. Ignorant Maniots never seen a sidesaddle before. I go Tripoli tomorrow, but I leave you one of my own men, batman from First Greek Light Infantry, speak English good, he look after you and tell you what sneaky Maniots saying about you behind your back.”
I feared that it would be useless to decline the favour, and I was perfectly right. From that night onwards I was to be dogged by a shadow that went by the name of Costas Mavroulas, who did, in fact, occasionally prove useful, of which more hereafter. I made no doubt, however, that his primary function was to keep his real master informed of our dealings with his rival, Mavromichalis.
It was a long, dusty, thirsty journey over twisting paths and trickling streams, now at the foot of precipitous cliffs, now edging gingerly along at their tops with a cavernous drop inches away at our sides, before we came to the small town, or rather overgrown village of Tsimova, where Mavromichalis had his seat. En route we passed so many towers, brooding on hilltops and looking impressively picturesque, that I lost count.
“To defend from pirates,” said our guide, catching me observing one rather closely. “And Turks. Maniots dirty, ignorant peasants, not like Arcadians, but they know what to do with Turks. Soon, not a Turk in the Morea, nor in the whole world, you see.”
I had not realized that anti-Turkish feelings among the mainland Greeks had run so high, and began to regret falling in with Wickham’s plan.
Our reception by Mavromichalis’ men did nothing to ease my anxiety. It was a sort of ‘confusion worse confounded’ with lots of cheering, running about, firing shots and ringing bells. Bells had been forbidden by the Turks, who compelled their Greek subjects to summon worshippers to church by beating on a wooden board called a semantron, but in the Mani this decree, like so much else Turkish, was disregarded, and bells sounded at the slightest excuse.
Petrobey greeted us on the steps of his house, where he treated us to a long speech of welcome, principally, I presume for the benefit of his supporters, for it was all in Greek.
I did not understand the half of it, although it was obvious that ‘Anglos strategos Lordos Ouikhamos’ featured largely in it, along with frequent mentions of ‘o megas stratos tis Vretanias’, and not a few of ‘megas Lordos Bennetos’, and I began to wonder what drawbacks there might be to the promotion Mrs Morland had bestowed upon me s
o long ago in Naples.
Once through the door, which we did not attain without repeated bows to the crowd outside first, things were quieter, however, with servants to relieve us of our outer garments and carry in our baggage.
Our host, a much younger man than Major Kolokotronis, but every bit as impressive, welcomed us with a bow.
“Soyez les bienvenus, mesdames et messieurs anglais,” he said. “Ma maison est à votre disposition."
“Mais vous parlez Français, monsieur !” I could not help exclaiming.
“Pourquoi pas ? Je suis ancien brigadier de la Grande Armée. Ce vieillard de la Morée-ci, lui et moi, nous étions des côtés opposés dans la guerre récente. Mais on ne parle pas de ça maintenant. Vous devrez être fatigués. On causera plus tard.”
With that we found ourselves escorted to chambers sumptuously furnished after the Turkish fashion. The feather beds were comfortable enough, with nets of fine muslim hanging over them to keep the flies off, and there was no shortage of cushions, but the chairs were uncomfortably low, and I could not help thinking that the carpets would be of more use on the cold, tiled floor than hanging on the walls.
Servants brought our bags, more servants brought hot water for washing, and yet more servants brought coffee and trays of sweet cakes and a strange, gelatinous sweetmeats covered in finely-ground sugar and flavoured with rose-petals.
The servant who had brought these introduced himself to me in perfectly understandable English.
“I am Costas, your honour. Kapetanos Kolokotronis has sent me to be your personal servant.”
“Are you sure you have come to the right room?” I enquired. “Should you not have gone to General Wickham?”
“Oh, no, your honour. Petrobey provides the General’s servants.”
“Oh. I see.”
And I believe I did see. Perhaps I am grown too untrusting in my old age.
“And who provides the servants for Doctor Morland, and the Reverend Golightly?”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know, sir. Thank you, sir, thank you kindly, would there be anything else, sir?”
“Not just now,” I replied, having resolved to wait for the answers the half-guinea I had just parted with might buy until I knew what questions to ask, “but perhaps as you leave you might open a window and let some air in. I find the room uncomfortably warm.”
“Why, Mr Bennet,”said my wife as I turned from the door. “What is this place you have brought me to? It is quite like the Arabian Nights. And these little pastries are quite delicious.”
Chapter Twenty-two : The Master of the Mani
Petros Mavromichalis, when we met him formally that evening, proved to be a very different character from the bluff Major Kolokotronis.
We found him seated on a divan with Major Kolokotronis and another Greek gentleman alongside him.
All three rose at our entrance.
“Monsieur Kolokotronis you have already met,” said our host, in his accented but perfectly understandable French. “Allow me to present another very good friend of mine, Kapetanos Yiannis Triantaphyllos.”
Enchantés all round, but when it came to my turn I felt I should do better.
“Khero poly, Kyrie Triantaphylle” I said, as I took his hand, and was rewarded with a firm grasp- a very firm grasp indeed.
“Milate Ellinika?”
“Ligo.”
“Pos kalitera; Parakalo, me lenete Makriyianni, Anglos philosmou.”
“Perhaps your friends might not object to learning a little Greek now they are among us, Lord Bennet?” asked Mavromichalis.
“Kathiste parakalo, philimou,” he continued. “Asseyez vous, mes amis, je vous prie.”
“Dis donc, Monsieur le Docteur Morland,” he continued. “I observe some doubt upon your visage. Do you not think it a good thing to know the Greek language?”
“I make no doubt but that all knowledge is a good thing, your excellency,” replied Morland, “but I took my degree in Scotland, at Edinburgh University, and I cannot help thinking that my Scottish friends would say that any language where they say ‘Nay’ when they mean ‘Yes’, and ‘Och aye’ when they mean ‘No’ is best left to the English.”
Petrobey’s brows darkened, and I wondered about the outcome, but they cleared within seconds.
“Ah, it is one of your so famous English jokes, and a fling at the English themselves, I think. I have heard of the Scotch, they are, I think, like the Maniots compared to the Roumeliots, and they, too wear the fustanella, do they not?”
We took our seats, similar short-legged stools to those in our rooms, padded with cushions and most uncomfortable to a European. Our hosts sat cross-legged on theirs, à la Turc, and seemed quite at their ease.
I know not how it happened, but somehow things arranged themselves so that the men were on one side of the central table, and the ladies on the other. Of Greek ladies there was no sign.
Petrobey clapped his hands, in quite the manner of the oriental despot, and servants entered with trays of food, all of it seemingly exotic to English tastes. There were small pies filled with cheese, and others with green leaves, which I took to be spinach. There were vine leaves, folded up and filled with rice, and many others that I do not recollect. More servants brought each of us a napkin and a bowl filled with warm water, scented with rose petals, which saw much use during the proceedings, for of cutlery there was no trace.
We needed little urging from our hosts to eat, for it had been a long day, but that did not stop them from praising the delights of one dish after another, so that I, for one, rapidly became surfeited simply from a reluctance to appear to scorn their recommendations.
“I am desolated to have to offer you such simple fare,” said our host. “Had you come in another month, we should have killed the Paschal lamb for you, and then you would have known proper hospitality. But, as it is, you see, it is Lent, when all good Christians fast, and we would not have you think us like the Mussulmans. You must stay till the Feast of the Ten Thousand Martyrs, when we go down to my house at Lemeni, and catch the tunny fish and eat them, and listen to the singers telling of Megalexandros and Digenes Akritas, and the priest preaching against the Turks.”
It seems that the rules of the Orthodox Church do not require true believers to abstain from wine during Lent. If there is any such ordinance, there must, at any rate, be an exemption for the Maniots for they applied themselves to the thin, yellow beverage, heavily flavoured with resin that goes by the name in those parts quite as assiduously as they did to the food. I dare say we should have done the same were it not for the floor-polish taste. Even so, it was necessary to give the appearance of not scorning our hosts’ offerings, and I was not sorry when the master of the household again clapped his hands and the servants withdrew the empty trays and came in with pots of coffee and tiny cups, followed by others with the long, Turkish water-pipes that one sees all over the East, and glowing coals to light the tobacco in them.
“I must beg the ladies to forgive me,” said our host. “The ladies of my household – my mother, my wife and their friends - are simply dying to meet them, and there are matters the gentlemen must discuss which perhaps it were better the ladies did not witness. If you would be so kind as to follow this lady here, mesdames, she will show you the way.”
Lydia pouted and Kitty coughed, and for one moment I feared a rebellion, but Margaret saved the day.
“Of course we should be honoured to meet Madame Mavromichalis, both Madame Mavromichalises,” she interjected, “and we always leave the gentlemen to their port, do we not? Or perhaps, hereabouts, I should say ‘to their sublime port.”
“Yes, come along dears,” echoed Mrs Bennet. “It is high time we powdered our noses.”
“What a jewel you have in your wife, Lorde Bennete,” said Mavromichalis once the door was safely closed. “So charming, so beautiful, so big, so fat, not like the skinny rakes one sees everywhere these days! And so young! One cannot believe that Madame Kitty and Madame Lydia are
her daughters and not her sisters. But why does she wish to put powder on her nose? Her nose is parfait as it is? Were I a Turk I should be asking you to sell her to me.”
Fortunately, I was reprieved from having to explain the euphemism by Triantophyllos, who now assailed our host with a burst of rapid-fire Greek.
“Our friends want to know what Madame Morland mean about the Sublime Porte,” laughed Petrobey. “They think she betray us to the Sultan.”
“It was but a pleasantry,” I hastened to explain, “or, rather, an attempt at a pleasantry. In England we are accustomed to drink Port wine, from Portugal, at the end of a meal, a sweet, red wine, rather like your Mavrodaphne or Commandaria, but much stronger. I think she meant to imply that the only port we should find around here would be the sublime one.”
Muttered explanations and exaggerated guffaws followed.
“A play on words of the most droll, Lorde Bennete, most droll. But tonight we must be serious, or else I could give you something much stronger than your Port wine to drink.”
“But we must be serious, yes, we must, for the times they are of the most solemn. General Wickham, you see before you the three most powerful Kapetani in all the Morea. Our people look to us for leadership, and there is only one thing they look for us to lead them to, and that is their freedom. For nearly four hundred years, our people have been crushed beneath the heel of the Turks. They grind our necks beneath their feet, they steal our women for their pleasures, they steal our sons for their soldiers, they leave us to starve while they grow fat, they persecute our religion, our beliefs, our customs. Their Sultan calls himself ‘Kesar I Rum’ since his ancestor stole the City of Cities, but it is we who are the Romans, the descendants of Constantine and Heraclius, of Basil and Alexius, yes, and of Augustus, and Hadrian too. He built his wall in your country, but did he not build his city in ours, at the place the Turks now call Edirne? You English are Christians, like us, you are friends of freedom everywhere, you already protect our countrymen in the Seven Islands, can you not be induced to protect us also?”
Our Neighbours' Sport Beyond the Seas Page 15
