I ask your door, "Where is your lady?"
"My lady is not here, she is at the wellspring.
She's gone to bring water".
Of all this, Pericles would probably have understood the apple, though even there he might have been sorely puzzled by the pronunciation. He would surely have recognised the use of genitives instead of possessive adjectives, while deploring the clumsiness of the construction. He might have recognised those words where the initial letter had been dropped, such as me from eme and rotao from erotao, but the bulk of it would have been incomprehensible. Margaret had once asked me whether It was not reasonable to assume that those actually speaking the language might know more about its grammar and syntax than some author dead two thousand years, but I had set her down with-
“And is it reasonable to suppose that the average English ploughman knows more of the workings of his language than Shakespeare, or Milton?”
We danced on, and now the crowd’s cheering changed pitch, and round the corner of the church came the ladies, led by Madame Mavromichalis. I faltered in my step, which I was just beginning to pride myself on keeping, for following next in line and winking and nodding in lieu of waving, since her hands were fully occupied, was Mrs Bennet. Lydia, Kitty and Margaret followed her in order, all smiling broadly, and all of them dressed in the same white cotton skirts and blouses as the rest of the village women, with matching blue aprons and scarlet waistcoats, embroidered in black.
“Ha!” cried Petrobey. “I told you we had a surprise for you.”
Madame Mavromichalis grasped the other end of her husband’s handkerchief and the pair formed an arch with it and their outstretched arms.
The dance wound on, the two lines intertwining and snaking sinuously around the square. Now the bystanders joined in, tagging on to the end of our lines, or forming new circles of their own. The noise and the heat and the insistent beat of the music became quite hypnotic.
By this time I was no longer feeling quite as young as I used to be, and the crash as the church doors were flung open made a welcome break.
Silence fell. The entire crowd fell too, to their knees, with the glaring exception of eight embarrassed Britons standing sheepishly around feigning nonchalance.
The priest came forth, followed by his deacons and acolytes. No dusty, black-clad Papas this, but a stately greybeard in all the glory of the last days of Byzantium, with alb, chasuble and maniples.
Behind them came the Icon, borne aloft by the arms of the faithful. Petrobey had been very proud of it when he explained the day’s proceedings to us.
“It is a very famous icon, very ancient, very holy, painted from life by the holy Saint Luke himself, brought from Constantinople before the fall.”
I had asked how large it was, remarking that it would need to be of a certain size to accommodate all ten thousand martyrs.
“It is not an icon of the ten thousand martyrs,” he replied. “Who has an icon of the ten thousand martyrs? Where would you find room for so many? It is the Pantanassa, the Theotokos, the Mother of God. Every spring we celebrate and bring her out to see the village she protects now, as once she protected the City. She processes around the village, blessing every house. Then the women take her to the holy spring, around the bay, where they anoint her with pure water and deck her with herbs and flowers and bring her back in triumph. Then we feast on fish caught before dawn by the men, and celebrate the holy day.”
This sounded all very pagan to me, and I immediately formed a theory. My intention of testing it the following day was at first thwarted by the news that only women and priests were permitted at this ceremony, but I promised myself to have words with Margaret, the only female of our party who might be relied upon to provide an accurate relation of events.
It was, therefore, with some academic interest that I beheld this famous icon, and was intrigued by the sight. I had expected the usual Hodegetria that one sees almost everywhere, or, perhaps, a Glykophilousa, but at first I could not make out the symbolism behind the glittering overlay of gold and jewels.
She sat on Her throne, staring straight out at us with an unreadable expression on Her face. The Child sat in her lap, the same unwavering gaze in his eyes, his hand raised in blessing. On one side an angel carried the imperial orb, and on the other the scepter. I had never seen or heard described anything quite like it.
Then the crowd got to their feet, and began to sing, and I realized.
For what they were singing was Greek, of course, but it was a Greek that I could easily understand, a Greek that would have been perfectly clear to Pericles or Plato or Pythagoras. Moreover, the words were familiar.
“Τή υπερμάχω στρατηγώ τα νικητήρια
Ως λυτρωθείσα των δεινών ευχαριστήρια
Αναγράφω σοι η πόλις σου Θεοτόκε.
Αλλ' ως έχουσα το κράτος απροσμάχητον
Εκ παντίων μέ κινδύνων ελευθέρωσον
Ίνα κράζω σοι·
Χαίρε Νύμφη ανύμφευτε.”
“Ti ypermacho stratego ta nikitiria” they sang.
“Os lytrotheisa ton theinon efcharistiria
Anagrapho soi i polis sou theotoke.
All os echousa to kratos aprosmacheton
Ek panton me kinthynon eleftheroson
ina krazo soi
Xhaire Nymphe anymphefte.”
“To thee, our defender and Champion the dues of victory,
and for our deliverance from terrors, the thanksgiving,
I, thy city, acknowledge thee, o Mother of God.
But since you have might unassailable
Deliver me from all dangers
So that I may cry to thee
Rejoice o Bride unbrided.”
It was the Great Kontakion of the Akathistos, the only work in the Orthodox hymnal sung by the entire congregation. I had read the Heracleid in my time, and studied the life of Georgios Pisides, and there could be no mistaking his words written nearly twelve hundred years ago to commemorate the saving of Constantinople from the Bulgars by the miraculous icon of the Virgin.
This was not She Who Shows the Way, nor The Sweetly Kissing Mother, this was the Nikopoieia, the Bringer of Victory. With this realization, Petrobey’s words instantly came back to me, and I felt my heart begin to race.
“Very holy, very ancient, painted from life by Saint Luke himself, brought from Constantinople before the fall.”
I had assumed he meant the fall of the Empire to the Turks, in 1453, but there had been an earlier occasion when the city fell. The Venetians display what they claim to be the original Nikopoieia in Saint Mark’s, flaunting their spoils from the infamous Fourth Crusade along with the famous bronze horses on the façade, both stolen from Constantinople at the same time.
Legend has it, however, that the Venetian icon is only a copy, and the original was stolen away at the last minute and hidden somewhere in the Morea.
There are many icons said to have been painted by Saint Luke, nearly as many as those called acheiropoetos, made without hands, supposed to be of miraculous creation, but there was only one, veritable Nikopoieia. Could this be the very same icon for which Pisides had written his great hymn? Could this be the link I was looking for, not at the very beginning of Greek history, but near the end? The enthusiastic adoration with which it was received, the pagan elements of taking it to the sacred spring every year to be anointed, and bringing it back by sea were reminiscent of Venus arising from the waves, or the ancient mother goddess arriving from Asia. Cythera was not so very far away, after all.
But how was I to prove it? I could see months, if not years of further research ahead of me.
All this passed through my mind in a trice, ere I was wakened from my musings by a splash of cold water on my face. The priest had advanced upon the congregation, flailing about with his aspergillum, not so much sprinkling as drenching his
flock with holy water. The crowd hardly needed this urging to part, allowing the icon to pass through, and mount the path over the nearby hill, attended by the priests, deacons and acolytes, and every woman in the village, Greek or English.
“Now that they are gone,” said Petrobey, “and the feast is preparing on the beach, we have one more tradition to maintain.”
“What might that be?” I asked.
“Oh, it is easy,” he replied with a broad grin. “It is very easy. Now we go and get drunk.”
Chapter Twenty-five : The Terrible Turk
I was woken by distant shouting. I do not know how long I had let the assembled Greeks ply me with their vile raki, but it had induced an irresistible urge for sleep. It is a treacherous thing, raki. It is as clear as water, and tastes of nothing much, but by the third or fourth glass – for by that time one has already lost count – one’s hand begins to shake, and shortly thereafter objects become more and more difficult to see clearly and words more challenging to pronounce, until Hypnos prevails. One is not even aware of it. It just happens. So does the headache even more vile than the drink itself with which one wakes up.
The shouting grew nearer and more distinct.
“The Turks!” I made out. “The Turks are upon us!”
My headache vanished in an instant. Petrobey’s, from the look on his face, got worse, but he was on his feet before I was and shaking the messenger by the neck like a terrier with a rat.
It was one of the acolytes, perhaps the youngest, who would have been at the rear of the procession and could also run the fastest.
Between his chattering teeth and Petrobey’s strangulation I could not make out a word of his Greek, but, whatever he said, it was enough to make Petrobey bellow in Greek fit to wake the almost dead.
This was, in fact, just what was needed to arouse the villagers who had been quietly sleeping at the bar and tables of the tavern to which we had adjourned after the ceremony. What was more, it set them rushing out into the street shouting themselves, many of them waving the long-bladed yataghans without which the modern Greek, or at least the Maniot, is scarcely ever seen.
The yataghan itself is worthy of study. The word itself I take to be Turkish, but the implement, or rather, weapon can be seen on many an ancient vase, in the hands of Hector or Achilles or almost any other hero, and I take it to be the direct descendant of the ancient machaira, so much advocated by Xenophon in his Hipparchicus. But I fear I am digressing again.
“The Turks have fallen upon the procession at the holy well,” Petrobey related to us, in broken French. “We must make haste to rescue them before it is too late. And we are helpless and unarmed on this holy day! Quick, I run back to the house, for my rifle and sword. We find weapons for you there.”
Weapons of one kind or another were more common than sconces on the walls of the Mavromichalis mansion, and we were soon outfitted with long, fishtailed muskets and long-barelled pistols, and hung about with powder horns and shot cases, all covered with silver and decorated in the most execrable taste. The long, sharply curved scimitars which completed our outfits looked well enough, but I could not confide in mine. Any gentleman can handle a smallsword, but these great choppers were something else.
I could not allow myself to consider that we might not get there in time to rescue our womenfolk. The alternative was quite unthinkable. It had to be thought of, however, ten minutes later, when we came upon the scene in the next cove.
Of Turks there was nothing to be seen, but of evidence of a struggle there was plenty. The sand was churned up by many feet, and the bodies of the murdered priest and his retinue lay about the cracked wooden panel that was all that was left of their miraculous icon. Its gold and its jewels had all been roughly torn away and carried off, leaving the original image on view. I found myself marvelling at the freshness of the Virgin’s robe, where the precious ultramarine colouring, made from ground lapis lazuli, had been preserved by the gold overlay, and marking the contrast with faces of Mother and Child, blackened by so many years of candle smoke and incense.
It was all so much easier, so much less unthinkable, than contemplating the fate of my wife and daughters.
I think we each found our own way of avoiding such contemplation. Golightly fell on his knees and began to pray for the murdered men. Morland opened his medical bag and set about attending the wounded. I lost myself in art history.
Only Wickham kept his head.
“Quickly!” he cried, pointing to the tracks on the sand.” We may yet be in time.”
But we were not, as we discovered but moments later, when a villager came running through the sand and threw himself at Petrobey’s feet.
I was far too distraught to attempt to make out the Greek of the ensuing dialogue, but Petrobey did not leave us long in ignorance.
“The Turks drove our women onto boats and rowed them out to a ship waiting offshore. This man says he recognized the ship. It belongs to Orhan of Smyrna, a slave dealer, who has his warehouse in Kalamata. Unless we act quickly, our wives and children are destined for a Turkish harem.
Chapter Twenty-six : Unintended Consequences
I could not make sense of any of it.
“I thought you had a treaty with the Turks, or at least an agreement,” I cried. “Why should they do this?’
“Because it is their nature,” replied Petrobey, “and for profit. And also as a reminder, to show me that I may be Bey of the Mani, but Hursid Pasha is Governor of the Morea. Come, let us get back to town. I have messages to send. They shall pay for this, I promise you.”
“Wait, Monsieur Mavromichalis!” Wickham exclaimed. “Not so long ago you asked me for English troops. How many do you need?”
“As many as I can get, but I will settle for one, and I will make sure he is killed on the first day of fighting.”
“I think I can promise you more than that. If I set off now I can be in Cythera in two day’s time, and at Kalamata with the British garrison and a frigate of the Royal Navy in four. We will see how the Turks like a full company of British infantry and the broadsides of a frigate.”
“Will not Captain Bentley object?” I asked, “Remember the Standing Orders.”
“He may object until he is blue in the face, and have his objections recorded in writing if he wishes, but in the end he is a Captain and I am a General, and I will have him cashiered for mutiny if he refuses to obey my orders. William Price will support me, and no-one in England will blame me for rescuing English Gentlewomen from Turkish slave traders.”
“I rejoice to hear your plans, mon general,” replied Petrobey, “but may I suggest that a caique from Lemeni might get you to Cythère more expeditiously and in a more relaxed state of body and mind than a long ride up to Tsimava and down again?”
“You have the right of it, sir. Let us to it, then.”
“Leave all the arrangements to me, monsieur, and if it may ease your mind I swear to you that I do not believe that your wife and sisters are in any immediate danger, any more than my own wife is. They will know her at Kalamata, I am sure, and wish to keep her as a hostage for my good behaviour. She will make the English ladies known to their captors, and they will not dare molest them, not, at least until they have explored the possibilities of ransom. Even then, I think they would be safe. Even Turks know how long is the avenging arm of England.”
The day that followed was tedious in the extreme. We saw Wickham off, and were eager to be off ourselves, but there was so much to be done first.
Our own packing took little enough time, and our ladies’ not so much more, but there was a ceremony to go through before we could leave.
Petrobey came to consult the three of us remaining.
“We must go as soon as we can,” he said, “but I cannot go without paying my respects to the dead. How many are there, by the way?”
“Surprisingly few,” replied Morland. “Only the priest and one of his deacons. I have sewn the rest up and left instructions for their care. They
will do well, with the blessing. If they do not, it will be their own fault.”
“I am grateful to you, Doctor Morland. What we should have done without you I do not know. I am sure you have saved lives today with your great, western knowledge. I must visit the survivors, too, before we go. But the dead are the immediate concern. We cannot bury them, for there is no priest nearer than Tsimava, and he cannot get here until late tomorrow. We dare not lose the day. I was hoping that Monsieur le Curé Golaitli might say a few words over the bodies.”
“I should be honoured to do so, sir,” replied Golightly. “I almost said ‘delighted’ before I realized how inappropriate the word would be. I should be honoured to give the poor gentlemen Christian Burial according to the Anglican Rite, but if the bereaved wish to wait for their own priest, I can bless the bodies before we leave. But I fear the congregation will not understand a word, whatever I do.”
“I should not worry about your congregation, monsieur. They never understand a word of the service anyway. It is the having of a service that counts, and by a true priest, one not in the service of Rome. You fit that description, do you not.”
“Ego sum sacerdos in aeternum, secundum Melchizedech,” replied Golightly. “I regret I do not remember the Greek version. I was ordained by the Archbishop of York, whose Apostolic Succession stretches back to Saint Peter and thence to Christ Himself, and the English Church has not accepted the authority of the Pope for nearly three hundred years.”
“We are simple men here, not theologians. It is enough, I think, that you are a priest and not of the Roman communion. To our simple minds that bestows some sort of Orthodoxy upon you. I am sure the families of the bereaved will be grateful for your services, sir, and Costas may translate for you. I will consult with poor old Papa Andreas’ wife and children, but I suggest you prepare yourself for mid day at the church. In this climate it does not do to keep bodies lying around.”
So it was that before leaving Lemeni we were witness to the bizarre spectacle of an Anglican clergyman, dressed in cassock, surplice and alb, intoning the burial service from the Prayer Book, pausing between verses for a stentorian translation to be bellowed by the servant at his side, followed by a procession to the graveyard complete with mourners, weeping and wailing extravagantly, some of them even beating their breasts and tearing their cheeks. Then we had the same performance beside the grave, and the last prayer had barely been uttered when we were hurried away to our waiting horses, and rattled off on the road to Tsimava.
Our Neighbours' Sport Beyond the Seas Page 17
