Stavros laughed. ‘Yes, he is that. He’s a good friend. I’ve known him all my life. Damian knows what he thinks and he doesn’t suffer fools gladly. He wants what’s best for the island. It’s beautiful and unspoilt, but it’s not easy living here sometimes. Sitting on the edge of ena ifaísteio, Helios is not regarded as a safe place. That’s what made it so easy for Damian’s ancestor to buy it from the British all those years ago.’
As if on cue, the volcano loomed into view. With the morning light on it, the form and texture of Typhoeus appeared much paler than the almost sinister dark shape of the night before. Mottled here and there with a hint of pink, it stood out in the clarity of the intense Greek light, against the two blues of sky and sea.
‘But apparently the volcano isn’t still active, isn’t that right?’
‘True, it hasn’t erupted since the end of the eighteenth century, but it takes up a significant part of Helios. Some believe that it rose from the sea, deposited its lava on one of the mountain flanks and that was how Helios was born. The islanders named the volcano Typhoeus after the fire-breathing dragon with a hundred heads that never rests. It’s part of our mythology and there’s a shrine on the way up to the smoking mountain where some of our people still deposit gifts in the hope of circumventing its fury. But even so, from time to time it grumbles.’
He caught the look in Oriel’s eye and gave a half smile. ‘I know, superstitious foolishness, that’s what you’re thinking, eh? But trust me, Despinis Anderson, when I tell you that it is not a pretty sound … freektoh, horrible … the sleeping fire.’ Stavros made a negative gesture with his hand and shook his head.
It was a different route to the one she had taken with Yorgos the afternoon before. The orange trees were in bloom and the air was drenched with the sweet and piercing scent of the blossom. Peasants in the fields, whose skins had turned to leather through long hours spent in the scorching sun, stopped working and stared with shrewd, doubting eyes as the Lekkas Jeep carrying the new foreign despinis hurtled by. Many were saddling up donkeys and leaving their baskets as a church bell sounded nearby.
‘The scene is almost biblical.’
‘This is a primitive island, riddled with myths and superstitions. Forgive me if I’m being too personal, but it is your blonde hair that makes them stare. It’s so seldom seen on the island and it points out your foreignness, which fascinates people. In Greek mythology only the nymphs, the mermaids and the gods had hair as fair as yours.’
‘Are they anti foreigners?’
‘Oyhee, no, they are only a little wary of what they don’t know. They are simple but kind people.’
They were passing through a small village and had now come up to a chapel. A bell was ringing wildly in the breeze. The pavement, the chapel and its surrounding wall were crammed full of people, while others were still arriving, and about a score of mules and donkeys that had brought workers from the fields at the top of the cliffs stood very reverently on the cliffside, their heads bowed. Beasts waited in the shade under a tree, men under another.
As the Jeep travelled through the streets, a ring of staring faces greeted them when they passed a café, shaded by plane trees, where fishermen at one table were playing cards. At another, musicians with a violin, a zither, lyres and a lute were singing mandinádhes, improvised rhymes of bittersweet love and tricks of fate. The swaying rhythms and throaty warbling of the singers had a mournful, eastern exoticism to them. Oriel would have liked to stop and listen some more to this timeless sound but they needed to get to the temple site and so the Jeep sped on.
Soon they turned off and went up a steep, dusty road, immediately after which Oriel’s eyes took in fallen pillars scattered like confetti on the flanks of a towering slab of grey rock. She raised her eyes and saw that it was crowned by a small acropolis in a semi-ruined condition.
Stavros explained that, for months, the senior archaeologist and his team had made their way to the site each morning and worked there until late afternoon. Initially, they had taken measurements and made careful drawings of every part of the acropolis, at the centre of which stood part of small Minoan temple. Then, once every detail of the construction of the buildings and the art they contained had been clearly understood and logged, the work of reconstruction had begun.
‘We’re here,’ Stavros announced as he pulled the Jeep off the road in front of the site and stopped. The landscape seemed wilder here, with the sea-bathed shores in the distance and pungent herbs scenting the air. Oriel stepped out of the car and surveyed the scene appreciatively. Everything on the site looked orderly and well run. Brightly coloured pin flags tidily marked out a couple of rectangular areas under excavation. At one of these, three men were absorbed in their tasks and she could see from the way they were working together that whoever was overseeing them must be an accomplished leader. One man with a bushy beard, his muscled arms covered in tattoos of mermaids and other mythological creatures, was on his knees in the earth, shaking dirt through a mesh screen, while a second was bagging and labelling artefacts taken from it. The third, a wiry, animated young man, was documenting the finds in an oilskin-covered field notebook, occasionally making comments and gesticulations that made the other men laugh.
Stavros explained that it was a settlement site of about 500 BC. It covered a wider area than Oriel expected. The remains of a temple and two palaces with other small residences had been uncovered but some were still in very poor condition.
‘We’ve only completed about half of it,’ he told her. ‘As you can see, the stone is so worn in places that even re-erecting the temple hasn’t been easy.’
‘It all looks very organized,’ said Oriel, turning to Stavros. ‘The archaeologist leading the team must be good.’
‘Vassilis,’ said Stavros, nodding his agreement. ‘Damian is lucky to have him. They knew each other in America. Friends from college days, I think.’
Just then, a man in his early thirties, in a blue shirt and jeans, sleeves rolled up to reveal lean forearms and an unshowy but expensive-looking watch, strode towards them. With his long legs, he covered the ground swiftly like one of the panthers Oriel had seen in Africa. He held out his hand and shook hers warmly. His black hair retreated from his forehead in a series of seductive waves, although the front flopped a little over his forehead and he pushed it away with the back of his wrist so he could survey her properly.
‘This is Despinis Anderson,’ said Stavros. ‘She’s helping with the undersea excavation of the amphora wreck. I’ve brought her to look at your site today though, if you don’t mind. We should have been out on the boat, as you know.’
‘Of course,’ said the man warmly, his dark eyes having never left Oriel’s face. ‘Vassilis Markopoulos, at your service. It will be a pleasure to show you around.’ His voice had a pleasant ring with subtle shadings in it, made even more appealing by his pronounced accent. What was it with Greek men? They exerted such sex appeal and were so devastatingly handsome, Oriel thought.
‘I’ve heard that you’re quite an accomplished young lady,’ Vassilis continued. ‘Rare in our field, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
Oriel flushed with pleasure at the tactful compliment. ‘You have a good-looking site here,’ she said as she moved to stand beside him.
‘Wait until you see some of the things we’ve found,’ he said with an engaging smile, showing a row of white teeth, bright against his tan. There was definitely something flirtatious in his manner, she noticed, but this was offset by a boyish enthusiasm that put Oriel at her ease.
She fell in step as Vassilis headed towards the remains of the small Minoan temple, Stavros following in their wake.
‘We’re reconstructing it piece by piece,’ explained Vassilis. ‘There’s a fresco that’s in surprisingly excellent condition, quite as good as the ones on Crete.’
Inside the temple they moved along a corridor that extended the width of the building but was, as yet, only walled on one side. Three rooms opened off the wal
led part, each one lined with large earthenware oil jars; then, just as they must have reached the heart of the building, Oriel’s eyes widened. At the end of the corridor was the mural. She almost gasped at the sheer power of the hunting scene laid out before her. At the centre stood a bull in its death throes, a spear and a ribbon of bright blood emanating from its flank. The reddish hue of the hunters’ muscled torsos stood out boldly against a vivid cerulean sky.
‘It’s almost as if it had been painted yesterday,’ she murmured.
‘You can see why Damian’s so excited by the site, eh?’ said Vassilis. ‘He’s poured a lot of time and money into the project.’
‘And with impressive results,’ said Oriel admiringly.
‘Ah, that’s not all, by any means. Wait till I show you something else we found.’ He led Oriel and Stavros further down the corridor to an inside portico, half of it resurrected in all its elegant glory with a row of graceful arches and stone pillars, the other half still under reconstruction, including the fallen portions of a beautiful triangular tympanum with carvings of rearing horses. Two men were bent over a large marble head and torso on the ground, working carefully with a brush and small chisel. Next to them, on a trestle table, various fragments were laid out, each one numbered and catalogued neatly. A bare-chested brawny local was in the act of loading rubble into a wheelbarrow when he saw Oriel, instantly dropping the handles and staring at her, his mouth gaping in an involuntary leer.
Oriel didn’t think to speculate on whether Damian had been right about the somewhat uncouth behaviour of his team or whether it was altogether sensible to insist on staying in the staff house. Instead, she was transfixed by the gigantic torso on the ground.
‘The Prince of Lilies!’ she gasped, kneeling to look at it more closely, her hand reverently and gently outlining the necklace of carved flowers and the curling peacock feather of his headdress.
‘This is the only marble one,’ explained Vassilis. ‘But we’ve found twelve pottery versions, too. Buried when the pediment came down. Typhoeus did a great deal of damage when it erupted, but it preserved some things that would only have been looted in time.’
‘Where are the others?’
‘They’re at the lab in Athens. This is the last, Damian wants to keep it here at the temple.’
Oriel’s mind was spinning. ‘You know, I’ve seen an ancient record of a shipment of pottery Lily Prince statues but I never thought I’d see the real thing. It must have been a veritable factory here.’
‘Exactly,’ said Vassilis. ‘Damian reckons they were probably part of a consignment bound for a festival in Crete. Then disaster struck.’
Oriel stood up, straightening her back, and looked around. The late afternoon light glowed on the walls and pillars, bathing them in gold. ‘Nothing much can have changed in the past three and a half thousand years,’ she thought wonderingly.
One of the young men who had been crouched down by the statue – a student, Oriel guessed, as he didn’t share the same weathered, rough look of his workmates – now got up and walked over to the trestle. He came back bearing something in his hand, which he held out to her shyly. It was a bronze knife, about fourteen inches long. Each side of the handle was carved in the shape of an animal head, a surreal-looking thing with the snout and tusks of a boar, ears shaped like butterfly wings and the slanted eyes of a fox. Oriel drew her thumb along the blade: it was still sharp.
‘I’ve handled one of these in a museum but this is a much finer specimen,’ she told the shy student. ‘We think they were used to kill bulls in the Minoan blood rituals but no one really knows.’
‘Probably used by a jealous husband on his wife,’ laughed Vassilis. ‘Some rather lurid family blood feuds have gone on in these parts.’ Then he caught Stavros’s eye and the laughter died on his lips. ‘You’re right, of course, Despinis Anderson. No one knows, but it’s likely to be a blood sacrifice tool. It’s good to have someone with your knowledge on board.’ At that moment, another young man appeared and asked Vassilis for help with a cataloguing problem, glancing at Oriel curiously as he did so. With that, Vassilis excused himself. ‘I hope to see you later, Despinis Anderson,’ he said, his eyes twinkling, and strode off with his colleague.
‘Come,’ said Stavros. ‘I’ll show you round and you can meet some of the team. If you’d like to join us for the day, we’d be very happy to have your help.’
‘Yes, of course, I’d be fascinated to see more of what you’ve found,’ replied Oriel.
There was an air of informality as Stavros made the introductions and, although the men couldn’t help their eyes lingering on Oriel, they were all respectful, particularly with Stavros looking sternly at them as he presented her to each one with the utmost care.
After he had shown her around, Stavros took Oriel to a long table under a shelter of woven palms, where maps and sketches were laid out. There was also a large notebook in which the team members documented any finds before marking them on the map of the site.
‘You said that one of the team left yesterday,’ Oriel said suddenly, wondering how another female archaeologist would have felt among these men. ‘Was that the Frenchwoman?’
Stavros nodded. ‘Yes, Chantal Hervé. An archaeology student.’
‘Kyrios Yorgos said it was all very sudden. Something to do with Kyrios Lekkas,’ she ventured carefully, trying to sound casual. ‘Was there a problem?’
‘That’s what Yorgos said, was it?’ Stavros lit a cigarette and snapped shut one of the notebooks with what seemed to Oriel an air of irritation. ‘I’ve no idea why she decided to go so quickly. To be honest, she was one of the best helpers we’ve had, sharp as anything.’ He dragged on the cigarette and gestured around them.
‘Some students think this is a glamorous job to enhance their CV, believing they can just turn up and coast, not do too much. Damian is an exacting boss and has no time for that. We can’t afford to carry anyone here. Chantal wasn’t like that at all, and Damian rated her highly. I don’t know why she decided to leave, it may have been that she did something to annoy him.’ Stavros gave a lopsided smile. ‘As you say, Despinis Anderson, Damian can be rather “impressive”, particularly when angered.’
She smiled at him. ‘Yes, I can see that.’
Still, Yorgos’s opaque remarks rang in Oriel’s head: Each year it’s the same … and the Kyrios responds like any man would … he’s had enough of unreliable females … they unsettle the men and then run off. Somehow, she had the impression that there was something more salacious going on than a work dispute. Of course, she was more inclined to believe the easy-going openness of Stavros than the Machiavellian air of the estate manager. Then again, was Stavros used to turning a blind eye to his old friend’s womanizing practices? They were both Greek men after all.
Stavros was looking at her as if reading her mind. ‘What else did Yorgos say about Damian, might I ask?’
‘That the islanders are afraid of him,’ she blurted out without thinking.
‘Heh,’ Stavros shrugged. ‘We have a saying here: Ópios yínetai próvato ton tróei o líkos, he who becomes a sheep is eaten by the wolf. Damian is the leader of Helios, so he does what he needs to do. I would say that the islanders respect him, rather than fear him. They know he has their best interests at heart.’
‘Yorgos seems to think he has no heart,’ Oriel murmured, turning to stare at the team of people moving back and forth across the site.
‘And do you believe that, Despinis Anderson?’
Oriel glanced back and caught him watching her thoughtfully. ‘Yorgos never told me that Damian was a widower,’ she said, not replying to his question. ‘And please, call me Oriel.’
‘Very well, and likewise you must call me Stavros.’ He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand before answering slowly. ‘Yes, Damian’s wife, Cassandra, died just a few years ago. His brother, Pericles, too. It was a dark time in his life, he’s been through a lot.’
Without elaborating further, h
e suddenly threw his cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his heel, and gave her a guarded but friendly smile. ‘So, Oriel, there’s much you can help us with today. Where would you like to start?’
* * *
Oriel was glad when they finally broke up for the day. She was terribly hot, her skin felt clammy and her hair seemed full of sand. Although she’d applied suncream earlier, she had forgotten to bring her hat and so, after lunch, Kostas, one of the Greek archaeologists, had given her his baseball cap. ‘With that fine white skin, you’ll burn under our sun,’ he had told her, dark eyes riveted on her face.
Oriel had thanked him without taking it, and now she was regretting her stubbornness as she wiped her face with a handkerchief dipped in water. Stavros needed to stay behind to check over some plans with Vassilis, so she decided to stretch her legs by walking down the arid hill to the shade of a small copse. Beside it, a few wild fig trees and moth-eaten cypresses stood beside a couple of whitewashed stone dwellings with lines of washing outside.
As she neared the cluster of trees, she came upon four little boys playing football with a ball made out of rolled rags and wool. An old woman was sitting under one of the cypresses, a large basket at her side. She lifted a withered hand and signalled to Oriel to approach. One of the boys, taller than the others, with an olive complexion and extraordinary, deep brown eyes, came up to her and, gently taking her hand, pulled her across to the old woman resting under the tree. Curious, Oriel followed him. The basket was covered with large, dark green leaves. The old woman’s lips stretched over toothless gums into a smile as she uncovered the basket full of large, freshly picked ripe figs. She motioned to the boy, pulling out a wide square scarf from under the basket and nodding encouragingly towards Oriel. Silently, the boy filled the scarf, as full as it could hold, with the luscious ripe fruit and bound it up, tying it with a knot.
‘Efharisto polý, thank you very much.’ Oriel smiled at the old woman, who nodded back.
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