The Age of Olympus

by Gavin Scott

  “And mine,” said Alexandros, shaking hands. “But what were you doing out on a night like this, when you were supposed to be safely in Rhodes, editing your newspaper?”

  “Tour of inspection,” said Durrell. “The paper’s a British Army rag, as you probably know, and I’m supposed to visit our correspondents in the islands from time to time.”

  “But how come everyone else is with you?” asked Forrester. “You seem to have brought half of Athens.”

  There was a brief, awkward pause before Venables spoke. “Don’t you remember, old chap? I told you Beamish and I were planning to visit Durrell for our book. And various friends insisted on coming with us.”

  Forrester turned to the editor. “I’m surprised you have a correspondent on Hydros, Larry,” he said mildly. “It seems a very far-flung outpost even for the Aegean Times.”

  Durrell smiled. “Well spotted,” he said. “In fact we were simply in the vicinity and there was a collective enthusiasm for paying Hydros a visit. The storm simply made our arrival a little more dramatic. By the way, I don’t expect you to put us all up, General. Now the boat’s tied up we can go back down and bunk there till the storm clears.”

  “Not to be thought of,” said Alexandros. “We have plenty of room here, have we not, Penelope? And we can find space in the village for those we can’t accommodate. How many are you?”

  “The tally will rise, I’m afraid,” said Charles Runcorn, coming in. “I feel like one of my Crusaders, perhaps Count Bohemond, with his stolen relics, struggling home from the Holy Land. But hopefully, more grateful for your hospitality than they ever were.”

  “Stolen relics?” said Forrester. “What relics?”

  “Perhaps the most mysterious objects ever mentioned in the Bible,” said Runcorn. “Too long a story for tonight, but I plan to lead an expedition to the ruins of his castle on the far side of the island, if you’re interested.”

  “Speaking of relics, here I am,” said Constantine Atreides, doffing his panama hat with all the elegance of the born courtier. Somehow, in the space of half an hour, he had transformed himself from a bedraggled survivor to someone who could have been presented without embarrassment to his master King George.

  “Prince Atreides!” said Alexandros, gesturing for the newcomer to approach the fire. “You turn up everywhere.”

  “Wherever Greece needs me,” said Atreides.

  “You are most welcome, Your Highness,” said Penelope, smiling graciously as Atreides bowed, but Forrester noted that the smile did not reach her eyes.

  “And as for me, I only beg to be here long enough to draw you, Mrs. Alexandros,” said Keith Beamish, who was just behind Atreides. “And hereby call on the muses to give me the talent to do you justice.”

  “He can only do pictures,” said David Venables. “It will be my privilege, if you permit it, dear lady, to immortalise you in prose,” and he tapped his ever present canvas bag. It was for adventures such as this, thought Forrester, that the oilskin pouch had been designed.

  “I can vouch for Mr. Beamish’s skill as an artist,” said a young woman from the doorway. “He has drawn me at least five times since we set out. Indeed, he never seems to stop.”

  Forrester glanced towards the woman and drew in his breath. It was Ariadne Patrou. As he looked at Alexandros, he saw the colour drain from the General’s face, followed by the expression he recognised from the Archbishop’s reception. Because if Ariadne had been on the minesweeper, she would not have been alone. Indeed, as the girl finished her sentence, she stepped aside from the doorway to let the last arrival make her entrance.

  “General Alexandros, Mrs. Alexandros: it is so kind of you to offer us your hospitality,” said Helena Spetsos. Her glance took in the earthy opulence of the room. “And such a joy to me to enter your enchanted castle. Thank you. Thank you both.” And she came forward and clasped Penelope’s hands with both of hers. Alexandros stared at her as if he had been hit with an axe.

  * * *

  When he thought about the evening afterwards, Forrester returned again and again to the poise shown by Penelope Alexandros at the arrival of the woman who had been her husband’s lover, wondering whether it was because she then knew nothing of the affair, or that she had decided to pretend she did not. Almost before she had a chance to reply, however, Lawrence Durrell shifted the direction of the conversation. “I’ve been wanting to visit Hydros for a long time, you know, because of the Maia legend.”

  “Maia of Hydros?” said Keith Beamish. “Wasn’t she one of the lesser Greek goddesses?”

  “Hardly lesser,” said Durrell. “She was the product of a sacred union between Atlas and Demeter, the goddess of growth.”

  “I stand corrected,” said Beamish. “She sounds quite formidable. So this is the island where she lived.”

  “She fled here,” said Penelope. “When Zeus fell for her.”

  “Ah,” said Runcorn, “the old, old story. Don’t tell me Zeus followed her disguised as a bull?”

  “Not exactly,” said Penelope. “She made her escape from Olympus so efficiently that no one could find her. Zeus sent several of his sons to search her out and finally Ares tracked her down to Hydros.”

  “Ares the god of war?” said Keith Beamish.

  “Ares, the god of war,” said Penelope. “When the women of the island refused to say where Maia was hiding, Ares destroyed all the trees and crops.”

  “Typical,” said Helena.

  “Didn’t Maia call on her brother Dionysus for help?” asked Constantine Atreides. “I seem to remember that as part of his story.”

  “She did,” said Durrell, “and Dionysus apparently so inflamed the women of the island with drink that they turned into maenads and tore the poor god of war to pieces.”

  “As he deserved,” said Helena Spetsos.

  “His blood replenished the fields and orchards,” said Penelope, quietly, “which is why Hydros is so fertile. You must remember that story, Ari.”

  Alexandros smiled, but to Forrester the smile looked forced. “A version of it,” he said. “There are a dozen versions of all these legends.”

  “How did yours differ?” asked Durrell, but before Alexandros was obliged to answer there was a violent knocking on the front door, and when it was repeated, Alexandros hit himself violently on the forehead with the flat of his hand.

  “Oh my God,” he said. “I had completely forgotten.”

  Penelope raised an eyebrow. “Yes,” she said, “I thought you had.” Then her hostess smile returned to her face as the living-room door opened and Archbishop Damaskinos’s twin brother walked in.

  Everyone rose, and as he did so Forrester realised his initial impression had been wrong – the man, with his huge beard, massive Frankenstein boots and dramatic clerical garb, merely resembled the Archbishop. And whereas the Archbishop had spoken softly, Abbot Vasilios Spyridon had a voice that could shake mountains. “What a gathering! What a noble gathering for a noble occasion,” he boomed, lifting his arms in a hieratic gesture. “It gladdens my heart to see so many gathered together to re-consecrate a union sundered by war.”

  “These are unexpected guests, Vasilios,” said Alexandros, “rescued from the storm. It may be best to postpone—” But the Abbot shook his head decisively.

  “Not to be thought of, my General. Penelope has waited long enough. And besides, Chrystomatos has gathered up every holy icon in the monastery and brought them all to bless the occasion.” He gestured to a rabbit-faced youth, also in clerical garb, who was carrying a tray, and with a dramatic gesture whipped off the covering cloth to reveal an extraordinary collection of painted images, tiny wooden chests and elaborate silver caskets.

  Forrester noted that the servants had slipped into the room behind the Abbot and his acolyte, and were staring in awe at the treasures.

  “The Thumb of St. Peter,” Chrystomatos said excitedly, pointing to one of them, “also the Tears of the Blessed Virgin, and St. John’s—” He stopped, leant ov
er to the Abbot and whispered loudly, “I’ve forgotten what it is of St. John’s, Father Abbot.”

  “Never mind, dear boy,” said the Abbot grandly. “All that matters is that we have all the right sacred objects to go with tonight’s ceremony, and we will perform it as promised.”

  “I hope you don’t mind me asking,” said Lawrence Durrell, “but I’m not quite up with the play here. What is this fascinating-sounding ritual we’re about to witness?”

  “That is very simple,” said Penelope Alexandros. “When Greece fell and my husband decided to join the resistance, he knew the Germans would come to this island and take their anger out on me. It was essential that in their eyes my husband and I were on opposite sides. Ari therefore arranged a theatrical event, attended by many of the leading citizens of the archipelago, including the Abbot here, during which I urged him not to join the resistance and, when he refused, appeared to try to kill him. He then fled for the mainland, where he resumed his fight to save our country. Needless to say, the murder attempt was a subterfuge, and the only casualty was a goat, which was later eaten. The story, of course, spread rapidly through the islands, and as a result people believed we were divorced. In consequence, despite Ari’s activities on the mainland, the Germans did not persecute me during the war, and the island was spared many atrocities. Now the war is over, Ari and I wish to make a public proclamation that our love for each other never faltered.”

  “My dear lady,” said Charles Runcorn. “I feel profoundly privileged to be a witness, however unexpected, to so romantic and historic a ceremony.”

  “Charles speaks for us all,” said Lawrence Durrell. “And I’m sure if there were any of his beloved Crusaders present they too would cheer you on.” As Forrester seconded his words the room burst into applause. Well, not the entire room.

  Even as he applauded, Forrester was unable to prevent himself looking over at Helena Spetsos. For her, this must be the worst possible news. She had clearly moved heaven and earth to get here and reclaim her wartime lover, and had nearly been drowned in the process – and it had all been in vain. Indeed, worse than that, she was about to become an involuntary witness to the reconfirmation of the marriage that would rob her of Ari Alexandros forever. Ferocious and elemental though she was, Forrester felt a twinge of sympathy for her. But there was nothing, he thought, the poor woman could do except bear mute witness.

  He was wrong.

  Even as the clapping died away, Helena Spetsos closed her eyes and fell, unconscious, onto the tray containing the sacred objects.

  For a moment everyone stared in unabashed horror as painted ikons, silver caskets and wooden chests crashed into the fireplace, sending coloured liquids and shrivelled saintly body parts rolling into the ashes. Then there was a mad scramble to rescue them and replace them on the tray, while Chrystomatos emitted a high-pitched wail, the servants crossed themselves in superstitious terror and the Abbot growled deep in his chest like a bear.

  Helena, still unconscious, lay ignored until Lawrence Durrell and Charles Runcorn lifted her to her feet and hurried her out of the room.

  When everything had been picked up and put back, everyone stared at the tray, which now looked like the contents of a rubbish tip. Forrester could see the effort the Abbot was making to say something that would rescue the disaster – and finding himself utterly unable to do so. Indeed, as the man’s massive chest heaved, Forrester began to fear he was going to have a heart attack, but after a long moment he regained control of himself and met the eyes of his temporary congregation.

  “It seems the saints do not regard tonight as an auspicious time for the ceremony, General,” he said at last. “Perhaps you will have your servants accompany us back to the monastery. We will revisit this matter when order has been restored.”

  And with great dignity the Abbot gestured to Chrystomatos to follow him, and left the room.

  “Well,” said Durrell confidentially to Forrester, “that was what we in the armed forces refer to as a major balls-up.” Forrester nodded but secretly he took his hat off to Helena Spetsos.

  He could see now why she had been such an effective guerrilla fighter.

  14

  THE BAY OF LIMANI SANGRI

  When Forrester woke early the next morning and opened the shutters, the storm was over and the sun was shining from a sky washed clean by the rain. Indeed, as he looked down at the village below the fortress, it felt as if the whole world had been renewed by the tempest.

  The bay itself gleamed turquoise in the morning light. The crescent of white sand around it looked as if it had been laundered. Even the caïques and minesweeper tied up at the jetty shone under their veneer of dew. But what delighted Forrester most was the village of Drakonaris itself, whose whitewashed houses, their tiled roofs glowing red in the sunshine, tumbled down towards the water below the fortress as if they had been spilt out of a box of children’s building blocks. Orange trees glowed like lamps in tiny green gardens, and swallows ducked and dived above hidden squares built around wells where villagers were already filling jugs and buckets for the day’s needs. Slender, arrow-straight wisps of aromatic smoke rose from the chimneys into the still air.

  “Do you have a sentence in English that means balancing on a bomb?” said a voice from the bed. Forrester turned to look at Sophie and thought for a moment.

  “The English phrase is ‘sitting on a powder keg’,” he said. “A keg is a small barrel and the powder in question is gunpowder.”

  Sophie smiled. “Then we are sitting on a powder keg,” she said.

  Forrester gestured out of the window. “A very beautiful powder keg,” he said. Then he came over to the bed. “And speaking of beautiful powder kegs…”

  “No,” said Sophie, taking his hand away. “We have to think what we can do to help these good people.”

  “I’m not sure there’s anything we can do. Helena Spetsos believes she has a claim on Ari. She’s come here to make trouble. As you saw last night she has some expertise in that department. But I think Penelope Alexandros can more than hold her own.”

  “Without someone being murdered?”

  “I’m sure it won’t come to that.”

  “How can you be sure of that, after what happened in Athens?”

  “We still don’t really know what happened in Athens,” Forrester said. “All we can be certain of is that somebody at the Archbishop’s reception arranged for Jason Michaelaides to be poisoned.”

  “And that General Alexandros might have had a motive because Michaelaides was having an affair with Helena Spetsos.”

  “Well—”

  “And as soon as you told Alexandros about your investigations, somebody pulled some strings and we were allowed to leave Athens and continue on to Crete.”

  “That could be just coincidence—”

  “Oh, Duncan, stop pretending. I know he’s your friend, I know all about you fighting together against the Germans, but face facts. Is there a better suspect for Jason Michaelaides’s death than General Alexandros?”

  “I don’t know. But surely that’s something we can leave to the police? You’re not seriously suggesting there’s going to be another murder, are you?” Sophie did not reply, but lay back again in the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

  “Maybe not, but if I were Penelope Alexandros, I’d be very tempted to set the maenads on Helena Spetsos as soon as the opportunity arose.”

  Forrester grinned. “I’d better make sure I never get you mad at me, then.”

  Sophie looked at him. “Yes,” she said. “You better had,” and she reached up and pulled him down towards her.

  * * *

  They were awoken from their doze by a loud impatient knocking at the front door somewhere below them. “Socrates will get it,” said Sophie sleepily. “Or maybe Theodosius.” But Forrester swung his feet out of bed, convinced, for some reason, that the knocking was for him.

  He was right, but not in the way he expected, because the early morning arrival was
Colonel Giorgios Stephanides.

  Alexandros’s wartime second in command, the man who had interposed himself between Helena Spetsos and the General at the Archbishop’s reception, was in the main room when Forrester finally found his way there along the innumerable corridors and staircases, talking in low tones to his old commander. Both men looked up with an oddly guilty air as Forrester came in, and then, with an effort, Alexandros beamed at him.

  “I have good news for you, Duncan,” he said. “You asked last night about a big motor yacht. Giorgios may have found it for you.”

  “Ari tells me you were chasing one of those fucking Nazis in a stolen boat,” said Stephanides.

  “White, wide bridge, twin engine,” said Forrester. “Notre Futur painted bow and stern.”

  Giorgios nodded. “I was over at Limani Sangri last night,” he said. “Far side of the island. There was a motor yacht in difficulty and I started to round up some of the villagers. Before we could even get the first boat out it had gone on the rocks.”

  “Did anyone get ashore?”

  “Don’t know. By the time we got there the thing was smashing itself to pieces. There was definitely nobody aboard then, and the chances of anybody getting ashore before we got there are pretty much nil. I’m guessing the body will have been washed up on Sangri beach by now.”

  “Duncan says the German had a stolen artefact, the stone he was looking for in Crete,” said Alexandros. “Any sign of that?”

  Giorgios shook his head. “Not that I saw,” he said. “But then, I wasn’t looking for a stone. It was all I could do to keep upright in the wind.”

  “Do you think the wreck will still be there this morning?” asked Forrester.

  “Probably not,” said Giorgios. “I suspect it’s so much matchwood by now.”

  “Well, we’ll see,” said Forrester. “What’s the quickest way to get to Limani Sangri?”

  * * *

  It turned out that the quickest way to Limani Sangri was to hike there across the middle of the island, so, leaving Yanni to sleep, Forrester and Sophie set off alone, secretly relieved to be away from the emotional cauldron of the kastello before all its guests had emerged.