Mattias was waiting for her outside the bakery in the square, as they had arranged. Seeing him, Oriel smiled, registering in that instant how exactly he resembled the classical statues of Poseidon. The robe, the beard, the beetling brows over eyes that twinkled alternately with a fierceness and a warmth – all he needed to complete the picture was a trident but instead he was sensibly furnished with his stick, on which he was leaning as he waited for her.
‘You look exactly like Aphrodite,’ Mattias said with some aplomb. ‘Ah, I see you’re wearing the Helios brooch.’ He made no other comment about the fact that Damian had lent it to her but Oriel knew the implication wasn’t lost on him.
Oriel thanked him for offering to look after her at the festival and he raised his hand to halt her protestations. ‘I should be thanking you, Despinis,’ he said. ‘My wife is tied up all day preparing the food for the evening bonfire, and my children and grandchildren have their friends here. They don’t want an lame old man like me tagging along.’ Oriel sensed this wasn’t the exact truth, but was grateful for his gallantry.
‘Please, do call me Oriel,’ she said, smiling.
He nodded, his eyes twinkling kindly. ‘Oriel it is then. I take it you got back all right, last night?’ he added. ‘I felt a little guilty when I realized how late it was. I had been talking and kept you, and you didn’t even have a car.’
‘Kyrios Lekkas picked me up halfway, he was coming back with his horse.’
‘I am sure he scolded you for walking alone after dark. In some ways, he’s a very conservative man.’
There was nothing conservative about the way he touched me later that evening, Oriel recalled, her face heating at the memory, but she kept her thoughts to herself and said: ‘Yes, he wasn’t very happy.’
Mattias laughed and took her elbow. Just then Oriel heard in the distance the sound of sporadic cheering. She looked enquiringly at him.
‘That’s up at the warehouse, where they keep the chariots. Those who have family in the procession are up there, hanging around to watch the start,’ he explained. ‘Come, it’s just a few streets away on the edge of town. That’s where we want to be, too.’
The shouts were now mingling with the sound of salpigges blaring, ancient Greek trumpets whose sound echoed through the streets, triumphant tunes joining in the buoyant hurrahs of the masses. By now the sidewalks of the square were crowded with people and Oriel felt whipped up in the tempest of their excitement.
They threaded their way through the throng as the sidewalks began to incline upwards, Mattias leading the way. Oriel noticed that his gait was surprisingly brisk despite his limp. The street widened here to little more than an earth track with compacted stones; houses were on one side, and what looked like stables on the other. People were packed in on both sides and leaning out of windows. A wooden construction akin to a large barn stood to the left, its wide doors open, and Mattias ushered Oriel as close as they could manage.
The fisherman pointed. ‘Ah, there we go!’
The first chariots began to appear, drawn by horses that looked like great carvings of burnished copper, as if equine statues had been endowed with a fiery life by the mighty sun god, Helios. Neither the chariots nor their bearers had been embellished with flowers, ribbons and bells, as seemed the norm at other southern-European festivals Oriel had attended. Here, in Helios, the two-wheeled carriages and their beautiful bay horses were elegant – positively classical – in their simplicity. A triumphant cheer went up. To Oriel it seemed as though the illustrated Greek myths, on which she had feasted her eyes as a child, had come to life in front of her. It was a procession, she could easily imagine, that might have set off from Mount Olympus itself.
‘Ah, that’s Kosta’s boy,’ Mattias gave Oriel a nudge and pointed to the armed warrior standing in the first of the two-wheeled chariots. ‘Ares, the god of war, always comes first.’
Oriel looked at the youth, whose striking black eyes and angry expression so befitted his role as the moody and chaotic god. He glared and scowled at the crowd as he passed by. Surrounding him were creatures formed out of clay: a vulture, a snake, a dog and a boar, whose tusks lent even more ferocity to the tableau.
‘He’s a fine actor,’ observed Oriel. ‘He really takes his role seriously.’
‘It’s a serious business placating Typhoeus,’ explained Mattias. ‘These fifteen gods and goddesses know what’s good for them. At any time their houses, their streets, their families could be lost in rivers of lava.’
Oriel realized as he spoke the words that Mattias, too, shared these age-old superstitions, and she quelled the ironic quip poised on her lips.
Athena’s chariot was next, at the helm of which was a woman in her forties. She was crowned with a crested helmet and armed with a shield and spear. ‘That’s Eleni, the schoolmistress,’ said Mattias. ‘Who better for the goddess of wisdom? She’s always given the role.’
Oriel could see why. The woman, bearing a goatskin shield, the aegis, over a long golden dress, surveyed the crowd calmly with large shining grey eyes, with just the shadow of a smile floating on her tanned face. She held an olive branch in her right hand and her sacred owl, crafted this time out of papier mâché, was perched on her shoulder.
As if on cue – just as Aphrodite, the goddess of beauty, love and pleasure came past, smiling charmingly to the crowd – Oriel spotted Yolanda making her way through the islanders on the sidewalk, parting the way as if it were the Red Sea.
As usual the singer was dressed with simple elegance, in the softest midnight-blue tunic dress that fell in statuesque folds. At her waist was a thin gold chain, and a diamante hair-clip in the shape of a half moon – such as Artemis the huntress was often depicted as wearing – was the only other adornment. The eyes of Yolanda’s fans momentarily left the pageant and moved to gaze at their own nightingale. Oriel, too, was transfixed. The raven-haired girl in the chariot, who had previously been enjoying herself immensely, could in no way compete with the luscious, dramatically sensual figure of the singer as she swung her hips with an exotic grace completely her own. Behind Yolanda walked her brother, Yorgos, and it was as if he were there only as her manservant, for all the attention she was giving him.
Oriel fixed her gaze back on Aphrodite’s chariot but she could see that the girl was playing her role with a little less assurance now. She was holding a scallop shell in one hand, which was posed against her breast, and a myrtle wreath in the other, but the statuesque stillness was spoilt somewhat by the darting looks she gave the figure of Yolanda as the singer cut a swathe through the crowd. If I didn’t know better, thought Oriel, I could swear Yolanda is trying to upstage the poor girl.
Just then her thoughts were cut short by Yorgos’s voice. He had grabbed Yolanda’s arm and had brought her to where Oriel and Mattias were standing. ‘Ah, Despinis Anderson, it’s easy to pick out your fair hair in the crowd! Let me introduce my sister, Yolanda,’ he said unctuously. He was dressed in an expensive-looking merchant’s costume, dark green with an excess of gold detail. His gold Rolex and the thick gold chain around his neck completed the picture of a man determined to be noticed. Oriel saw that he didn’t bother to address Mattias, whom he must have known. She sensed that Yorgos regarded the fisherman as beneath him.
‘Kaliméra.’ Yolanda’s voice was melodious, sweet and rich as treacle. She held out a hand to Oriel and the gesture was regal, as if she expected her to kiss it. Then the singer froze. For a moment Oriel wondered what had happened, and then she saw that Yolanda’s gaze had been caught by the golden Helios brooch. ‘I think we may have met,’ the singer added vaguely.
Oriel lifted her chin and smiled sweetly. ‘Yes, I believe we might have.’
Yolanda stared straight at her. ‘I hope you enjoy the day.’ She had mustered a smile but her eyes were chips of ice. ‘Yorgos, we’d better not stop. Come, we need to hurry.’
Yorgos shot her a testy look but said evenly: ‘Yes, I’m sure he’ll want you to be the first one h
e sees when he gets to the plateau.’
Oriel couldn’t help the flush that rose in her cheeks and Mattias, she was sure, was perfectly aware of the undercurrents in the exchange. He clasped Oriel’s arm in a supportive grip. ‘Yes, we must be going too, Oriel. These legs of mine will need more time to get up Mount Helios.’
Yorgos, clearly annoyed at having been chivvied away by his sister, had just enough time to say to Oriel that they would hopefully catch her later before he was brusquely hustled off. As they walked away, Oriel noticed with some satisfaction that the sultry swing of Yolanda’s hips was now more akin to a stalk, the singer’s brisk steps conveying quite clearly the change in her state of mind. A few yards off the diva turned to her brother and a cross exchange took place, Yolanda wagging her finger and Yorgos looking no less irritated, though for different reasons.
‘I think, perhaps, our nightingale is not happy,’ said Mattias sagaciously. ‘I wonder what could have caused that?’
The diva had occupied Oriel’s thoughts for so long now that she was unable to resist trying to glean more information about her hold on Damian. ‘We met the other night at Manoli’s. She was clearly put out when she discovered I was staying at Heliades.’
Mattias’s grey eyes regarded Oriel pensively. ‘Only to be expected,’ he said, after a pause. ‘For some time now, our nightingale has flitted from tree to tree and has always expected attention on her return. Maybe she wonders if her place in the nest has been taken. Men can never resist our songbird, but what if her charms no longer hold that allure? That’s what she is afraid of, like many a captivating woman.’
He broke off to scan the parade, adding on a quieter note, ‘Just watch out. Her voice may be sweet but her beak is sharp. That one could peck out your eyes as soon as look at you.’
This was said with a lightness of tone and laughter in his voice but, still, Oriel fancied there was a warning contained in Mattias’s words.
‘I have to say, I’m not sure I trust her brother either,’ she confessed wryly.
‘Ah yes, Yorgos Christodolou. I’ve known him since he was a boy and he was a sly one even then. As the Greek saying goes: “Even though the wolf got old and his fur is white, he neither changed his skin nor his head.”’ He patted her arm reassuringly. ‘I don’t trust him either, though the Kyrios has his reasons for employing him.’
Mattias looked up just then and waved at Demeter, who returned a dazzling smile. The goddess of the harvest, a middle-aged woman and obviously a friend of his, held a sheaf of wheat in one hand and a torch in the other. A snake was draped like a boa around her neck and at her feet was her other sacred animal, a clay pig.
‘Anastasia is a pillar of the community,’ he told Oriel. ‘One of the main organizers, now we no longer have Cassandra.’
‘What was she like?’ asked Oriel. ‘Cassandra, I mean.’ Curiosity had got the better of her; the mystery and scandal surrounding Damian’s dead wife seemed so inextricably bound to the strangeness of this island.
Mattias shifted uneasily and Oriel could sense that the shutters had come down. It wasn’t like her to gossip and she regretted it instantly.
‘I’m not one to speak ill of the dead,’ he said shortly. ‘She had her faults, like any of us.’ He paused, as if trying to pick the right words. ‘An energetic young lady, I can say that for her, beautiful and passionate. God rest her soul.’
Oriel could tell by the firm set of Mattias’s jaw that he had said all he was prepared to say. She turned her head back to the procession, where Zeus, the king of the gods and ruler of Mount Olympus, was passing. They had chosen a regal-looking giant of a man for the role, with a dark beard covering a jutting jaw. He held the royal sceptre in his hand and had a papier mâché eagle perched on his shoulder. At his feet lay the head of a bull. He was everything Oriel would have imagined the son of Cronus to be and yet Oriel couldn’t help thinking that Damian possessed more charisma and potency than this man had in his little finger. Then she berated herself: Oh, why does it always have to come back to Damian? I’m behaving like a woman possessed!
‘That’s Diocles, Anastasia’s husband. He’s a judge. Very fierce, just as he looks. He’s a good friend of the Kyrios.’
‘Speaking of the Kyrios,’ observed Oriel nonchalantly, ‘I thought he was part of this procession.’ Mattias glanced at her, his eyes twinkling with wry amusement. ‘Patience, my dear. You’ve heard the Greek saying, káthe prágma ston kairó tou, ki o koliós ton Ávgousto, everything in its time and mackerel in August? Things must be done in their proper time, not before. The Kyrios always makes his entrance after the other chariots have passed, it’s part of the tradition.’
With nothing else to do but look around, Oriel noticed that some of the islanders were staring at her and then talking among themselves. A few seemed wary, others only curious. She smiled at an old lady standing next to her, who returned her smile shyly and silently offered Oriel a boiled sweet from a packet she was clutching in her hand.
Oriel graciously accepted the sweet, and thanked her.
‘You are Greek?’ the old lady asked, sounding puzzled.
‘No, but I’ve studied Greek and I’ve visited your beautiful country many times.’
Their conversation was interrupted, just then, by the sight of Damian’s chariot being wheeled out, framed by two stable hands. The crowd went wild. A storm of hailing cheers and applause erupted from the islanders standing on the sidewalk as Damian appeared in all his splendour.
Unlike the fifteen men and women who had preceded him, he wasn’t dressed as a god but was still in ancient Greek attire, a deep purple cloak thrown about his shoulders. Beneath it, he was wearing a breastplate and dark-red tunic with a light-kilted loin band over boots of soft hide, strapped up the front with criss-cross ties. His helmet was of bronze, rich with gold, and held under his chin by a chain of wide golden mesh. He settled it more securely on his head and tested the tightness and strength of the chinstrap. Then he reached out and took the whip from the stable hands standing by. The sun shone brightly, casting his proud face in sharp relief. He looked regal, standing in a lightly braced stance in the chariot, his legs slightly apart, knees just relaxed.
The beaming rays set the gold buckles of the horses’ bridles, the burnished rail of the chariot, the golden ridge and strap of Damian’s helmet flashing as if they were ablaze. The polished harness looked as if light were flowing through it, and the satin glossiness of the horses’ coats seemed to reflect the intense glow of fiery strength within them. Damian lifted his hand to salute the crowd on his right and then his left. All could determine on sight that he was the scion of a great house, an aristocrat and, for some of the ignorant people, a figure approaching the status of deity. Still, for all the instinctive authority in his appearance and bearing, his countenance was rich with sensitive feeling.
‘Stand back!’ he commanded, while the chariot tilted and dropped slightly as Damian settled himself firmly again. The horses reared on to their hind legs, pawing the air, and a loud exclamation of concern lifted from the crowd. A sharp tug of the reins from Damian and the animals came thudding four-hoofed to the ground, only to use the striking of their hooves upon the earth as impetus for a great lifting leap forward. For a fearful moment, Oriel thought that the chariot would jerk away from beneath Damian’s feet but, lightly bracing his body and instinctively leaning forward, he met the pull of the vehicle. His masterly manoeuvring was met with shouts of admiration and clapping from the crowd.
Damian gave a tug on the reins, which set the great horses in motion, and the chariot sped off. Oriel saw him lift his free hand in salute as he passed her, his burning gaze fixing on hers for a brief second, but she had no time to respond. Still, she looked at him as he hurtled away and, in that instant, it was as if the whole of her body had sight – she was enveloping the magnificent picture of him standing proudly there in the chariot, the reins held lightly between his fingers, driving those two splendid great creatures on and on.
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br /> She leaned out to watch him sweeping down the street at a much speedier pace than had the others. Her heart was thumping and her emotion was such that tears welled up in her eyes as she stared after him. It seemed only a moment or two before the chariot was no more than a vague outline in the distance. A long, whirling, curved line of dust trailed out behind it as though it were indeed a thing charged with fire, sending smoke billowing away as it raced on, lifting and tilting over the unevenness of the ground. Then it was almost obscured by its trail of dust, and the thudding of the hooves and the rumble of the wheels grew slowly fainter and into nothingness, until the chariot vanished from Oriel’s view entirely.
The looming bulk of Typhoeus towered over the motley hordes of people as the parade of colourful chariots danced its way down the streets, musicians playing the exotic Thracian lyre and drum, creating a majestic, merry atmosphere. It was the grand party of the year, the one in which all the islanders participated. Looking around her as she and Mattias followed the parade down through the town, Oriel saw that it was a day when the gods blessed the island’s streets; it was the locals’ day of vacation from reality, when the extraordinary was the norm and just being alive was a riot.
Damian’s people were happy and that thought warmed Oriel’s heart. She felt the culture of the island soak into her skin. It was a place that breathed the continuity of generations, each family living out their lives in the cradle of tradition. Oriel’s pulse responded to the adventure of it all, beating with a thrilling rhythm. There was something magical about being one of the crowd, an easing of the loneliness within, she thought. This sandy-hued island of eternal azure skies, ever-changing blue sea, beaming sunshine and ancient stone temples was beginning to bewitch her.
They started for Mount Helios after a lunch of chicken and flatbread picked up from the village taverna. She and Mattias had waited until the worst of the heat had gone from the day and it was late afternoon when they finally set out for the plateau, where the evening’s celebrations were to take place. They climbed the mountain slowly, pausing every now and again for the limping fisherman to take short breaks along the way and to drink from the bottles of water they had brought with them. Happily, there was an easier path than the one taken by the young and agile: an old drover’s track that that had been improved by Damian to accommodate wheelchairs, the old and the infirm.
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