Damian went first in order to secure the line to the seabed, which was marked at carefully calculated intervals to help them decompress in the correct stages on their ascent. A few minutes later he was up again and he waved to Oriel, who obediently dropped backwards into the sea.
She swam alongside Damian as, fathom by fathom, she let herself sink deeper into the sparkling blue water beneath her. It was uncommonly clear, so much so that it was impossible to gauge the depth. The sea dust that she stirred on her descent slowly drifted away, leaving her suspended free in space. For several seconds that seemed an eternity, she felt herself hurtling downward, conscious only of the upward rush of bubbles around her. She loved this three-dimensional world and felt as free as a bird in the sky.
The pounding of the surf grew softer and softer. The brilliant colours of the algae, sea anemones and sponges on the cliff-like formation that composed the edge of the reef were followed by bizarre bushes of gorgon coral. A startled scorpion fish withdrew its red head into a grotto, spines extended. Oriel passed through a school of blue-black sea swallows … and then suddenly she saw it.
The huge wreck loomed beneath her. She had excellent visibility; still a few metres above it, Oriel could see the entire length of the cargo vessel, which lay on its side. As she approached it was like a vast rock, not ten feet from her, covered in calcite and barnacles. Here and there its body was creviced by fissures. Everywhere it was festooned with sea vegetation – seaweed, kelp, anemones – and, together with the coral and calcite fingers, the great wreck rose up like some surreal piece of Gothic architecture. Oriel floated motionless a moment, entranced. She turned to look at Damian, who shone his torch on the coral, alive with seahorses. Their angled heads and tubular mouths bobbed and swayed in the current, transparent fins fluttering in waving motions. Each of them was clasped to the branches by a fragile tail, hardly looking more robust than a child’s finger. Magic!
The sand was loose as Oriel’s feet touched the bottom and, although she was careful not to disturb it, the particles were so fine that the silt rose up anyhow in pale grey clouds around her legs. Unknowingly, she stepped on a stingray that was the same grey colour as the sand. As her foot touched it, it lifted its long, rat-like tail, ending with a dark venomous spike, and whipped her violently. Fortunately, her soft-sole high boots were of an excellent heavy quality so the spike did not pierce them.
As she and Damian made their way to the stern of the half-buried argosy, her heart beat a little faster and her fins beat the water more urgently. She could see the pottery littering the area around the mound: amphorae – masses of them, by the looks of it. She spotted the necks of the large earthenware pots poking out from the silt, encrusted with barnacles and calcite. Definitely a large trading vessel – Roman, as Damian had surmised. He gave her the okay sign, and she returned the gesture.
Oriel felt pumped, more alive than she had ever thought possible. Every fibre of her being was vibrating with anticipation. Adrenaline was coursing through her veins. All the mundane worries of her life had been muted and all there was to know about was this moment: no worrying about Damian and the past, no anxiety about the future.
They set to work methodically, working at one end so as not to disturb the rest of the site unnecessarily. Damian was taking photographs with his Nikon, the very latest underwater model, Oriel noticed. He had stopped now and was clearing mud and sand carefully from some small artefact he had spotted. Oriel left him to it – intent on finding a good amphora specimen she could send to the surface for closer inspection. She knew well enough that the seal could provide the clue they needed to date the vessel … or vessels. As she poked among the fragments, she began to see a far more various cargo than she would have expected. Campanian dishes, bowls, oil lamps, statue fragments and differing styles of amphorae littered a fairly wide area. This could be more than one ship, she thought to herself wonderingly. It wouldn’t be too unusual if a wreck site was near dangerous rocks amid a busy trading route – plenty of ships could have sunk to their doom in storms over the centuries. But is this the case here? she pondered.
A few minutes later she had found the perfect specimen. The amphora was whole, its seal intact. She pulled a large dive balloon from the bag on her back and attached it to the pot before filling the balloon with compressed air from her tank. Minutes later the balloon, with its cargo, was floating towards the surface.
She glanced over at Damian, busy attaching his own finds to a balloon. As she waited for him to join her, she looked around wonderingly. Nearby, in among the rocks, damselfish and clownfish were playing about, swimming in and out of anemones’ tentacles as if they felt totally at home there. Just then, a shoal of silver fish obscured Oriel’s vision and for a moment she lost sight of the dive line, the wreck, and Damian too. All of a sudden she felt alone and vulnerable, before the muscular wet-suited figure was visible once more. Again he gave her the okay sign and made his way over to her, kicking long, muscular legs. Why do I feel so reassured? Oriel wondered. This strange, brooding, unpredictable Greek man was so disturbing, and yet she felt safe just knowing he was near.
She and Damian ascended slowly, holding the dive rope and stopping at regular intervals along the way, a barrage of bubbles breaking the surface as they finally rose to the top. They were helped into the boat and immediately surrounded by the other divers, who were all talking at once, everyone wanting to have a look at the antique finds. ‘Thavmahsios, thavmahsios, wonderful, wonderful!’ they cried out excitedly as they examined Damian’s Roman seaman’s knife and a perfectly intact drinking cup with a rudely fashioned face leering from its side. When Stavros saw that Oriel’s amphora had an unbroken seal, he laughed, eyes twinkling. ‘We need to celebrate, and we’ve got the wine right here!’
‘Not sure what it’ll be like after two thousand years,’ Damian observed wryly, putting down his mask. ‘I’ve heard Cousteau talk about trying some from an amphora he’d raised from a wreck near Cap Ferrat. It tasted worse than vinegar and there was no alcohol left at all. But this one might be worth a toast, I suppose,’ he added with a lopsided grin.
‘Wait a minute, everyone,’ laughed Oriel, ‘not until it’s been properly cleaned and documented. I don’t want anyone touching that seal!’
‘How’s the wreck looking?’ asked Mohammed, the keen young Algerian who was due to go down next.
‘Most of the artefacts are embedded in the calcite that’s formed around the wreck,’ answered Damian. ‘It’s going to be impossible, working underwater, to extract them without breaking them. I suggest you only pick up the smaller, accessible items for now.’ He turned to Oriel. ‘I propose we cut the wreck into blocks of about two hundred pounds apiece, which is the maximum our winches can raise.’
‘I think that’s the only course open to you,’ she agreed, ‘so long as all the necessary drawings, maps and photographs have been made first. There’s a lot to do before we can even think of carving up the argosy.’
Damian nodded and turned to Stavros, ‘This is such a big job, I think we might have to ask Vassilis and his crew to help us bring the big pieces up.’
‘Yes, he’s just bought some sophisticated equipment from America. He was boasting about it at Manoli’s last night,’ Stavros told him.
As the next pair of divers was seen off, Damian turned to Oriel. ‘I take it that Vassilis looked after you well at the temple site yesterday?’
‘Yes, he’s very thorough. I was impressed.’
Damian glanced at her. ‘Not too impressed, I hope,’ he said, devilment in his eyes. He paused, then added: ‘You did well down there. There’s something methodical in how you work. Good under pressure too, I’d guess. Not a thermokéfalos hothead like Spyros over there. He’ll need to be watched.’
Oriel glanced over at the wiry young Greek who was showing off, arms gesticulating wildly, his excitable voice rising above the laughter of his companions. She was glad to have an opportunity to turn her face away so that Damian couldn’t
see the pink hue rise in her cheeks. There was something very intoxicating about approval, and she felt a heady warmth at the remarks he’d made about her.
‘I think we’re in need of a drink,’ Damian added, glancing at his watch. ‘Plenty of time before the next divers come up.’
Oriel pulled a T-shirt out of her kit bag and followed him below deck.
The sitting area in the cabin was very wide; there were no hard edges, no corners, everything was rounded. There was an overall effect of dark mahogany and bright brass with inviting sun-yellow curtains and cushions and sea-blue fabrics covering the built-in sofas. The polished wooden shelves and cupboards were all inbuilt. It seemed fully equipped with refrigerator and ice-maker, and electric cooker. The general feel was warm, modern and luxurious without being ostentatious.
‘What would you like to drink?’ he asked, crossing over to the fridge.
‘Just a glass of water, please.’
Oriel self-consciously turned her back to him and quickly unzipped her wetsuit, pulling it down to her hips. She slipped the T-shirt over her bikini top. When she turned back, Damian’s eyes were watching her intently as she laid a dry towel on the sofa before taking a seat.
‘Ah yes, the glass of nehro of Henry Miller fame, eh?’ At Oriel’s puzzled look, Damian laughed as he opened the fridge and took out a bottle of Greek still mineral water. He poured a long glass of it, handing it to her while he drank straight from the bottle. ‘Henry Miller, the American writer, became obsessed with our water when he came to Greece. It’s true that if you knock on any door in Greece, whether it belongs to a rich or poor house, you will always be offered a glass of water accompanied by a spoonful of sweet preserve. It’s a gesture of hospitality, a Greek way of welcoming the guest.’
‘Yes, I’ve always found that a wonderful tradition. I love the water in Greece, it tastes unlike water anywhere else.’
‘It tastes of our air, and our light.’
That made her smile. ‘I love that comparison,’ Oriel told him as she sipped the icy liquid. Yes, it did have a sort of ethereal flavour, now that she came to think of it.
Damian fixed her with a look touched with amusement. ‘And most of the time, especially on the islands and in villages, the water comes from our natural springs. Mount Hymettus, just outside Athens, has a spring that is legendary because it was known to increase fertility.’ He took another swig of water, and her eyes were drawn to the masculine set of his jaw and neck as he swallowed.
‘Yes, I’ve been there.’
He gave her a calm, appraising glance. Oriel shifted awkwardly and tried to dismiss all the erotic associations of his words and the chaos of her thoughts in that direction.
Damian unzipped his own wetsuit, peeling it down to his waist, revealing his muscled torso and arms. Oriel suppressed a gasp and had to will herself not to stare. Running up the front of his abdomen was a livid scar that reached his chest, and extended across what would have been one of his nipples. Her shocked gaze moved up to his face questioningly, wondering what on earth could have inflicted such terrible damage.
He took in her obvious unease, and his level stare seemed to challenge her to look away. Then, sinking down into the chair opposite, devilment flashed in his eyes. ‘You should see the other guy.’
She ignored this flippancy and held his gaze. ‘What happened, Damian?’ she asked softly.
‘It’s a long story. Maybe one for another time.’
Oriel paused, and something told her not to push him further for now although she couldn’t help but steal one last glance. She remembered how her hands had explored that rock-hard body one night long ago when it was smooth and perfect and hadn’t been ravaged by goodness knows what; and yet she found nothing ugly in his disfigurement – it merely added to his aura of primitive masculinity.
There was a moment’s silence. ‘So,’ said Damian, clearing his throat roughly before changing the subject, ‘now you’ve had a chance to inspect your find, what does it tell you about the wreck?’ He leaned back in his seat and crossed his legs at the ankles. The stressed look of earlier had vanished, although his dark eyes were engaged, alert to her every word.
Oriel kept her eyes resolutely on his face. ‘Once I’ve managed to scrape away some of that encrustation I’ll be able to get a better look at it. I can just make out something on the seal. There is definitely a trader’s mark there, which is good. Roman, as you thought.’ Then, as an afterthought, she turned her clear green eyes to him questioningly. ‘I was interested in why you chose the pieces you did, humble everyday artefacts.’
‘I like the ordinary domestic items. Sometimes they fire my imagination the most. I suppose I must be an anthropologist at heart, not a treasure hunter after all.’ He gave a crooked smile. ‘Just think, over two thousand years ago a Roman sailor was using that knife to shuck an oyster or clean his nails. Doesn’t that thought excite you?’
‘Definitely.’ Oriel gave a warm smile, a light bringing fire to her emerald eyes. Damian’s gaze lit instantly with answering flames. They stared at each other for only a second and yet there was timelessness in it. It was as if the two of them were the only people on the boat. Oriel’s muscles tightened and she felt her body grow rigid. For an instant she thought he might make a move towards her, and her heart beat a little faster, but then he seemed to think better of it and, with some reluctance, pulled himself up out of his chair. In a moment he was the cool, efficient captain again.
‘We’d best go up and join the others.’
Mohammed and Yanni had returned to the boat when they emerged on deck; both men glanced at them fleetingly and Oriel felt distinctly self-conscious about disappearing below deck with Damian, although he himself looked as self-possessed as ever. Alexis and Spyros were up next, almost tumbling over each other in their haste to get to the water first.
‘After those two hotheads come back, we’ll break for lunch,’ announced Damian, who was eyeing the wire-mesh basket which Mohammed and Yanni had elected to take down with them, and which Stavros had hauled up to the boat with the winch. The pannier was full of large earthenware fragments covered in sea violets. Oriel had never seen these blackish creatures, which were a speciality of Mediterranean waters. They had the shape of a smallish potato with a dark and leathery exterior. The divers had also brought up a whole load of sea urchins.
Damian gave both men a slap on the back to mark his appreciation. ‘Ah! Fouska! Poli calo. We’ll have them raw as mezedes for lunch with a twist of lemon.’ He was standing next to Oriel and immediately shot her an enquiring look, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he stared at the generous curve of her pink lips. ‘Have you tasted these delicious creatures? They’re a powerful aphrodisiac.’ He had lowered his voice when he’d thrown out the flirtatious remark, but clearly not enough.
Yanni, the large tattooed giant, nudged Alexis with a snort of laughter. ‘Is someone getting the bridal chamber ready, eh? On Helios, we never fail to put a bowl of them in the bedroom to …’ here, he winked at Oriel ‘… get the bride’s juices flowing.’
The men burst out laughing but Oriel didn’t join in; instead she calmly lifted her chin, furious with Damian for starting this. She seared him with a blaze of her huge green eyes. ‘No, I’ve never tasted them before,’ she said evenly, knowing by instinct as she met the intense silver glint of Damian’s irises that he too had been rocked by Yanni’s words and regretted his insensitive quip; it seemed he had been caught at his own game.
Oriel moved away, crossing the deck to study the items Mohammed and Yanni had collected: a large clay bowl in good condition and fragments of marble statuary, as well as another oil lamp. She turned the pieces slowly in her hand. Some of the other artefacts were eroded by the water, encrusted with salt and mussels, but given careful restoration they would provide small but vital clues to the wreck’s provenance. She picked up her notebook and began to log and sketch each piece.
A while later, she was roused from her task by a shout
from the water. It was Alexis, holding aloft a large light-grey object, which Stavros almost tore from his hands. Hastily he wiped off the mud. It was a small bronze statue of a figure holding a lance. Oriel drew closer. Damian was beside her and the smile that cracked his face was like the expression of a small child with an especially large Christmas present. Stavros handed it to him and his eyes sparkled with excitement as he smeared more mud from the dull metal. ‘Do you see what it is?’
‘It’s Alexander the Great, isn’t it? Thousands of these statues were made. He was a very popular subject for many artists. This is a lovely find.’
‘Yes, but look at the detail. Surely only one man was capable of such exquisite perfection?’ There was a tremor in Damian’s voice as he spoke.
Oriel looked up at him with doubtful eyes. ‘You honestly think Lysippos, the court sculptor of Alexander, made this one?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Except for the one found near Anticythera, not one of his works has been preserved. To my knowledge, not even Roman copies survived.’
‘Well, I think this one escaped being melted down and recast into church bells or whatever other crimes they committed in the Middle Ages.’ He grinned. ‘I need to get it to Athens. You know we’re going to create quite a stir with such a find, don’t you, if I’m right?’
Although Oriel had no desire to take the wind out of his sails, she didn’t think it would be right to play along with him. The piece was definitely of a superior quality but to leap to the conclusion it was a work of Lysippos? ‘You might be right but remember, his work was much copied and there were other sculptors around, like Scopas and Praxiteles, any one of whom might have made this.’
Damian had a stubborn tilt to his chin and was about to respond when Stavros tapped his shoulder. The man’s face was creased with worry. ‘Damian, Spyros hasn’t surfaced. Alexis just told me he thought he was following behind. Spyros had stayed down to dig out another piece and apparently the lad gestured he was coming up.’
Aphrodite's Tears Page 16
