The Bull of Mithros

by Anne Zouroudi

  ‘Where is the gun now?’ asked the fat man.

  ‘I don’t carry it as a matter of course,’ said Spiros. ‘It’s ridiculous to think I would take it to a social event such as that festival.’

  ‘It would be ridiculous if it weren’t premeditated,’ said the fat man. ‘When Manolis appeared, you took control. With a gun to his head, he was yours to command. You announced to Milto that Manolis was his father’s killer, expecting, I’m sure, that Milto at that point would immediately convert to your cause, and that years of pent-up rage at the death of his heroic father would come to your service. You expected Milto to join you as a willing accomplice to Manolis’s punishment for the death of your friend Socrates, all those years ago. But Milto surprised you, didn’t he? Milto didn’t want to play along. Milto had no illusions about what his father was, and Milto certainly didn’t want any violence in his or his father’s name. Milto walked away, and left you to it. I know you threatened him as he went, to make him keep silence. Happily Milto understands something you, I think, do not – that sometimes, a man must act on his conscience. But as it happened, the loss of Milto from your plan didn’t much matter.’

  There were footsteps on the staircase outside – the slip and click of sandals on bare feet, the heavier tread of loafers. Loskas, the bank clerk, and Makis, the butcher, came into the office.

  Spiros smiled broadly.

  ‘Pedia, yasass,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’

  But before they could answer, the fat man turned in his chair, and spoke.

  ‘Yassas. Thank you for coming. You may be surprised to see me when you were expecting to meet Vassilis Eliadis. I must be honest, and say I used a little subterfuge. I had the boy give his name instead of my own. I thought you would be more likely to respond to a request for a meeting from him than to one from me.’

  ‘Meeting?’ asked Spiros. ‘What meeting?’

  The fat man spread his arms.

  ‘This meeting, between the four of us,’ he said. ‘I thought you would think that we have no common business. But be assured that we do. Spiros, can you find chairs for your friends?’

  ‘We’ll stand,’ said Loskas. ‘Spiros, what’s this about? I’ve shut the branch to be here. I can’t stay more than a minute.’

  ‘You’re all busy men, I know,’ said the fat man. ‘Spiros and I have already covered some ground which needn’t be gone over again. We’ve been talking about the death of the man who came here calling himself Manolis Chiotis.’

  Loskas and Makis frowned, and the fat man caught a glance between the butcher and the coastguard officer.

  The fat man looked at each of them in turn, giving them opportunity to speak, but the men were silent.

  ‘We are off to an excellent start,’ said the fat man. ‘I expected at least one of you, and possibly all three, to deny any knowledge of a man by that name. But of course that would have been absurd, when the man is lying in Makis’s fridge, playing scarecrow with his customers. And you, banker, have spoken to him as a customer, and remembered him well enough the last time I mentioned him to you, whilst Spiros here is probably sick of the name, given the number of official forms he should have written it on in the past couple of days.’

  ‘Why should any of us play ignorant?’ asked Loskas. ‘The whole island has talked of nothing else since he was pulled out of that well.’

  ‘Even so,’ said the fat man, ‘you would be surprised how many men in your position begin by denying even the most obvious of facts.’

  ‘What position is that?’ asked Makis. ‘I’m not aware of being in any position, as you put it.’

  ‘I wonder,’ said the fat man, looking at Makis and Loskas, ‘if one of you two latecomers would care to offer an opinion as to how Manolis came to be down that well?’

  ‘He fell, plain and simple,’ said the banker.

  The fat man looked at the butcher.

  ‘Do you agree, Makis?’ he asked.

  Makis hesitated.

  ‘How can I agree?’ he said, at last. ‘You yourself showed me what you found on him.’

  ‘And what did you find?’ asked Loskas. ‘I spoke to the doctor myself. He told me there was no question but that the death was accidental.’

  The fat man shook his head.

  ‘Time and again we see this problem in the islands. Doctors fall into apathy, and become lazy. Given the suggestion of a simple, alcohol-induced accident – perhaps by you, Spiros? – I’m sure he was ready to concur, and get back to his chair at the kafenion. Maybe he wasn’t keen to look too closely anyway. The unfortunate Manolis makes a highly unpleasant corpse, black-faced and blinded as he is. But there are the injuries to the arms, which clearly do not fit with any theory of him having simply fallen down the well. I have already shared the logic for that conclusion with Makis, so if you want to hear the reasoning, I suggest you ask him. The reasoning is in any case academic, and there is no need, either, for me to go into any detail about how he was gagged.’

  There was a short silence. The fat man stood up.

  ‘I’ve taken up enough of your time,’ he said.

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Loskas.

  The fat man looked at him.

  ‘Is that what?’

  ‘Is that what we’ve come here to hear?’

  ‘And what have you heard?’

  ‘That you have some theory about this death not being accidental.’

  ‘Is that really all you’ve heard, Loskas?’

  The banker shrugged.

  ‘What about you, Makis? And you, Spiros? You’re a man of the law. Maritime law, admittedly, but surely you can read between the lines of what I’m saying.’

  All three remained silent. The fat man picked up his hold-all, and smiled round at them.

  ‘It appears I am going to have to spell it out. There was nothing accidental about Manolis’s death, nothing accidental at all. Everything was planned. He was the victim of a conspiracy, and the conspirators were you. All of you know exactly what happened, because you were all there.’

  Red-faced, Spiros jumped up from his chair.

  ‘What the hell are you saying?’ he shouted. ‘What bullshit is this? I’m a respected officer in the national coastguard! What you’re saying is actionable, and I’ll see you in court!’

  ‘Your threats are empty, Spiros,’ said the fat man, reasonably. ‘The truth is no libel, as you no doubt know. A gun was used to force Manolis’s compliance in his fate: your gun, in your hand. You made him kneel at the well-head, and he was told who you are, and why you were going to do what you did. I expect you named Socrates, and told of his unmarked grave on the seabed. Did you make your case poetic, with talk of crabs eating his flesh, and his white bones? You had the gun to his head, and you made him put his hands behind his back. One of you forced that stone into his mouth to stop him shouting, and two of you tipped him in. That is how it happened. Kyrie, I must leave you. Kali mera sas.’

  The butcher’s face was haggard, as if he had aged ten years in a moment.

  ‘Spiros,’ he said, ‘I think we should . . .’

  ‘Shut it,’ said Spiros, and the butcher was silent.

  The fat man took a step towards the door, but Loskas blocked his way. The blood had left his face.

  ‘Listen, friend,’ he said. ‘This is crazy talk, this is madness! You have no proof of these ridiculous allegations! The man’s death was an accident, pure and simple. The doctor has already signed the paperwork.’

  ‘I am not your friend,’ said the fat man. ‘And you are quite right about the proof. I can prove very little of what happened, and I know I’ll find no cooperation from the police, or the doctor, if I go to them. Who are they – your cousins, your brothers? What evidence I have would never persuade a court of law, but as it happens, that doesn’t matter to me. I act on behalf of higher Authorities, and when they know you have played judge and jury to Manolis, they will allow me to do the same for you.’

  ‘Who the hell are you to talk to
us like that?’ shouted Spiros. ‘You’re not above the law!’

  ‘Certainly you are not,’ said the fat man, ‘though you have acted as though you are. There will be consequences, of course, consequences which will be the same for all of you. Unless, of course, any of you would like to help complete the picture. If any of you would do that, well – we might call this your opportunity for mitigation.’

  ‘Mitigation?’ asked Makis of Loskas. ‘What does he mean, mitigation?’

  ‘Mitigation is the lessening of intensity of something unpleasant,’ said the fat man. ‘In short, a way to make your future a little easier, though I make no promises. And I do not mean by trying to push blame on to your partners in crime. It does not matter to me who did or said exactly what. You were all complicit in this. What I am looking for is regret, and remorse.’

  ‘I regret it,’ blurted the butcher. ‘We shouldn’t have . . .’

  ‘Shut up, idiot!’ shouted Spiros. ‘Why can’t you ever just shut up?’

  ‘If you have regrets, Makis,’ said the fat man, ‘then so much the better for you. Maybe you will help me understand why Socrates took the path he took in the first place. That’s one question Milto was unable to answer. He was too young at the time to understand his father’s state of mind and motivation. What was it that made Socrates an easy target for the men who robbed Vassilis? What made him betray a man who had done so much good for so many, a man so loved and admired?’

  ‘You keep your mouth shut,’ said Spiros to Makis. ‘There isn’t just you to think about here.’

  ‘I’m going to tell him,’ said Makis, defiantly. ‘What does it matter, anyway? He says he’s got no proof. He might as well be told.’

  Spiros shook his head, and sat back down in his chair, head in hands.

  ‘Socrates had big ideas,’ said Makis. ‘He had a plan. He wanted to go to America, and make his fortune. He didn’t see himself struggling all his life, scratching out a living at Kolona. But he didn’t have the money to get to America. He had not much more than the clothes he stood up in, same as we all did. How could he – how could any of us? – make that kind of money, living as we did? Those tickets were expensive, and he had nothing he could sell. So he thought Vasso was his route out of here. Vasso was going to lend me money to set up my butcher’s shop, and Socrates saw no reason he shouldn’t lend him money for his ticket to America. But old Vasso turned him down.’

  ‘Really?’ said the fat man. ‘Why?’

  ‘He made noises about family responsibilities, and the importance of origins. He told him he’d learned the hard way that there was no place like home, and how he’d save Socrates the trouble of finding it out for himself. Plus, Socrates was a married man with a family – young Milto. Vasso didn’t approve of Socrates’s plan to go off by himself, and establish himself before he sent for the family. I don’t know why he didn’t. Maybe he thought it’d be the last anyone ever saw of Socrates. Once they go from here, not many come back, in truth. But it’s common enough for men to go away, and it was even more common then. Many men from Mithros used to spend months and months away every year, on the merchant ships. But Vasso had his own ideas about that, and it was his money. So he said no, and thwarted Socrates’s plans.’

  ‘Aha,’ said the fat man. ‘I am beginning to understand the source of his resentment. And Vassilis’s reasoning seems strange, given the time he himself spent abroad. It was the route he took to making his own fortune, after all.’

  ‘Socrates was resentful,’ said Makis. ‘He was jealous, and he was angry. Vasso was a generous man, to everyone else. He seemed in Socrates’s eyes to make an exception in his case.’

  ‘I think he had good reason to be resentful,’ put in Loskas. Spiros glared at him. ‘I could see his point of view.’

  ‘Vassilis’s actions sound less to me like the actions of a philanthropist and more like those of a careful banker, analysing his risk,’ said the fat man. ‘Loskas, would your bank lend money to someone leaving the country indefinitely?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Of course not. But I suppose Socrates didn’t see it that way?’

  ‘No, he didn’t,’ said the butcher. ‘In his eyes, Vasso was picking on him, singling him out for disfavour. He thought he was the only man on this island Vasso wouldn’t lend to.’

  ‘So when Manolis and his friends came along looking for Vassilis, they found in Socrates a man only too ready to play Judas?’

  ‘They asked us all. They hung around Kolona for a while and sounded us all out. We had no way of knowing what they were about. They mentioned his name, claimed him as some relative. I don’t think they knew for certain, at first, they’d hit on the right place. But they described him, and we all knew who they meant. We had no reason not to say the man they were looking for was probably Vasso. That wasn’t the name they gave at first, though. He’d been calling himself something else, I think, whilst he was away. No doubt Socrates made some negative comment about Vasso, and then they knew they’d found the right place, and the right man. He told us they’d offered him money to show them the house, and get Vasso to open the door. They knew enough about him to know he wasn’t likely to open up for them. We tried to dissuade him; how could they be up to any good? But he had no loyalty to Vasso, only malice; he saw it as a way to take revenge for Vasso’s refusal to help him.’

  ‘So why was the outcome so tragic?’

  ‘How can we know, for sure? He took them there; we know that much. So we assume they didn’t pay him, or at least not all of what they’d agreed. They came back without him, at great speed, in a big hurry to be gone. Socrates wasn’t with them. They’d got themselves back aboard their boat and were ready to take off by the time Socrates appeared, in that old tub of the postman’s. And he was shouting, Kleftes, kleftes – thieves, thieves. So those that heard him shout – both at Kolona and in Mithros harbour – assumed he was using that term because he was a hero, because he’d witnessed the robbery at Vasso’s and was doing the right thing in chasing them. But we knew different. He was after them because they hadn’t paid him his dues; they were leaving him still without his boat fare to America, and he was mad. From the way he was shouting and waving his arms, you could tell he was mad as hell. Mad enough to drive in front of them to stop them getting away, and stealing his dream. I suppose he thought they’d stop. But they didn’t.’

  The fat man was thoughtful.

  ‘They mowed him down in cold blood, and that was despicable,’ he said. ‘And yet he was on an unpleasant mission, the betrayal of a man because he’d chosen to be careful where he lent his money. Did it never occur to you Socrates put himself in the way of danger, that he reaped a crop of his own sowing? He played with fire, surely, and got burned for it.’

  ‘But it was in cold blood,’ said the butcher, bitterly. ‘They cut him down in cold blood.’

  ‘Not so cold as the blood I’ve seen in you three,’ said the fat man, sternly. ‘Mowing Socrates down was Manolis’s reaction in stress; you, on the other hand, plotted and schemed Manolis’s horrible punishment. What you did chills the blood, the horror and the cruelty of it. If you wanted the man gone, it would have been enough to shoot him in the head; but to make him suffer that way shows coldness almost beyond belief. Have you so little imagination, you cannot put yourselves in that poor man’s shoes, and imagine his agony, and his fear?’

  ‘That’s all we intended,’ blurted the butcher. ‘We just wanted to frighten him, shake him up. We never thought he’d end up dead.’

  ‘Didn’t you?’ asked the fat man, slyly. ‘So how did you expect him to get out of the vicious trap you’d put him in?’

  There was silence. In Spiros’s bottle, the wasps and hornets buzzed with rage.

  ‘So you thought you’d leave him suffering, until someone happened along and hauled him out? Who did you think would do that?’

  ‘We thought Captain Andreadis would find him pretty quickly,’ said Loskas. ‘We miscalculated the time they’d spend
at the name day.’

  ‘So what Captain Andreadis found was a corpse,’ said the fat man. ‘And it was all of you who took that man’s life. But whatever he had done to you, or anyone else, in the past, it was not for you to exact revenge. Why did you not go to the police, and tell them your suspicions? You had your reasons, I’m sure. But by taking matters into your own hands, you have stepped across a line, into my country.’ He looked at each man in turn. ‘You’re asking yourselves what happens now, so let me tell you. At some point in the future – it may be only days, or it may be weeks, or months, or years – I shall find someone to whom Manolis mattered. He mattered to someone; it is always so. And I shall tell them of your cruelty in his death, and I shall tell them where to find you. So, from now on, be looking over your shoulders! The quiet life you have always enjoyed is at an end. You are hunted, without knowing the faces of your hunters, and every stranger coming to this place could be your nemesis. You may attempt to run, or you may remain here; believe me, it will end the same. You looked for retribution with Manolis; now his confederates will look for retribution from you.’

  ‘But we didn’t know it would kill him!’ objected Loskas. ‘That was never our intention!’

  ‘Cruelty was your intention,’ said the fat man, ‘and your cruelty went too far.’

  He put his hand on the door, and was about to leave them when he stopped.

  ‘There’s one last question remaining,’ he said, ‘though I doubt you know the answer. What is it that they stole from Vassilis?’

  ‘Who knows?’ asked Loskas. ‘He’s never said.’

  ‘Money,’ said Makis, bitterly. ‘What else does he have anyone would want to steal, but money?’

  Seventeen

  When the fat man returned from the coastguard’s office, Enrico had laid lunch on the rear deck: a frittata made with artichoke hearts and dill, a loaf of bread still warm from the baker’s oven, a Mythos beer cold enough to form condensation on the bottle’s shoulders.

  A breeze flapped the edges of the awning, and drew ripples on the waters of the bay.