Aphrodite's Tears

by Hannah Fielding

  Stavros smiled at Oriel and laughed. ‘How could you not?’ He touched the elbow of the woman who was regarding Oriel with kind curiosity. ‘Please, let me introduce you to my wife, Rhea.’

  The petite woman shook Oriel’s hand warmly. ‘What a beautiful chitón,’ she said, admiringly. ‘You fit in very well here, Despinis.’

  ‘Thank you,’ murmured Oriel, glancing self-consciously at Damian, who was grinning like a schoolboy. His mood was infectious and she smiled brightly at Rhea. ‘Are you both here alone?’

  ‘Alone?’ Damian laughed heartily. ‘Stavros is one of five sons and has twelve cousins, so highly unlikely.’

  Stavros grinned sheepishly. ‘Yes, the whole family is here.’ He motioned behind him to a large group of islanders clustered together, laughing with their children, who were running in and out of their legs and seemed to be falling on top of each other at every opportunity.

  ‘Ah, the starving hordes!’ Anna returned with Mattias, carrying a large basket of food, and proceeded to dish out warm pita breads filled with delicious-smelling souvlaki.

  ‘If you don’t eat, you’ll have my wife to answer to,’ said Mattias, addressing them all with a wry grin. As everyone laughed, the fisherman’s wife came to stand in front of Oriel, her teeth gleaming in a broad smile as she held out the basket. ‘Despinis, come taste one. You’re thin as a reed, you need strengthening.’

  Standing at Anna’s shoulder, Damian leaned in slightly and said in a conspicuously loud voice: ‘Don’t underestimate this one, Anna. She’s as strong as they come.’ His gaze shone so sincerely at Oriel that it rivalled the glow of the full moon above. Oriel’s insides gave a somersault of pleasure.

  The aroma was so enticing that Oriel gratefully accepted the traditional fare. The walk up to the plateau had made her quite hungry and, besides, there was so much wine and ouzo flowing by now that she knew it would be unwise to drink on an empty stomach. As she gazed around the throng laughing and talking with Damian, she found it now almost impossible to believe that this was the same person who had greeted her so cynically when she had first arrived on Helios, and had seemed so forbidding. Here was a glimpse of the old Damian, the man she had met all those years ago in Aegina.

  Damian was standing a few feet away and she caught his eye. A smile lingered on his lips as he stared at her. Silent communication fluttered between them, filled with an excited awareness of each other. At that moment, somewhere beyond the bonfire, a young islander took up a lyre and began to sing a hymn to the volcano that towered menacingly over their island yet also protected the people from outside invasion – after all, the lyrics went, who would want to conquer a land that was threatened to be burned to ashes at any moment?

  One after the other, a handful of men borrowed the lyre and sang. The hymn merged into a wild drinking song one of the islanders had learnt among the people of the mountains to the north, before moving on to a song of Lesbos, where the poet Sappho had lived, until, finally, it became a martial chorus of the Spartans, which all the islanders joined in until it seemed as if the whole of Helios was echoing with song.

  Among the sea of faces, Oriel suddenly saw Yolanda surrounded by a group of besotted-looking young men, all vying for her attention. The singer was throwing back her mane of dark hair, the diamante clip glinting in the firelight, and laughing as though she was enjoying the adulation. Oriel sighed. She had never allowed herself to think too hard about Damian and Yolanda together, but now images flowed into her mind that she tried desperately to banish: of the beautiful singer wrapping her nymph-like body around his, tasting the warm sweetness of his mouth, fulfilling his needs. It was too much to bear.

  ‘You seem miles away.’

  She jumped and span around at the familiar deep rumble of his voice.

  ‘You nearly frightened me half to death!’ Oriel glared at Damian, her green eyes still flaming with the jealousy that was weighing on her so heavily.

  Damian’s eyes followed the direction in which she’d been looking. When they returned to her face, he studied her intently.

  Rather than give away that she had been brooding about the diva, Oriel quickly said: ‘I’m surprised that Yolanda hasn’t sung this evening. She has quite a voice.’

  He shrugged. ‘She may do, who knows?’ He continued to look at her as though he had guessed the reason for her interest. ‘Would it bother you if she did?’

  ‘Bother me?’ Oriel shot back. ‘Why would it bother me?’

  A faintly amused smile twitched at his mouth. ‘Yolanda may be the island’s darling but I’m guessing she isn’t yours.’

  ‘I have nothing against her,’ Oriel lied. She instantly regretted bringing up the subject of Yolanda, determined not to spoil what was still a magical evening. After sipping her wine she gazed around. ‘The atmosphere is incredible here. I’ve never experienced anything like it. Such joie de vivre.’

  Once more, Damian followed her gaze. ‘We call it képhi in Greece, the spirit of joy and passion. It’s not given to everybody and is totally spontaneous. It comes when the soul and body are overwhelmed with an exuberance that must find an outlet.’

  ‘I remember it from my Ovid. Képhi is turned on by Dionysus, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. The god of wine and debauchery, who inspires music and poetry. In ancient times, the raving maenads, the frenzied women who followed Dionysus, were probably expressing a variety of képhi. We Greeks cannot help but express what is within us, Calypso.’ He looked around at the laughing dancers as they gave great shouts of exuberance, then turned to her with a grin. There was such simple joy in his eyes that it made her heart lurch. She couldn’t help but return his smile, forgetting everything except Damian’s being there with her and the electric feeling that resonated between them, tangible as the air they breathed.

  As the hours passed and the night grew darker, with the moonlight glittering on the surface of the sea in vast yellow pools, the revelry grew louder and jollier as though Dionysus himself had been summoned by their conversation. More spit-roasted meats and vegetables, barbecued on skewers, appeared, as well as cakes and sweetmeats. Wine cups were being filled continuously as a wave of songs of thanks echoed in the night around the volcano.

  For the rest of the evening, Oriel’s gaze was often drawn to Damian. His mood was light, almost effervescent tonight; there was a boyish air about him, so different from that of masterful dictator she had witnessed on other occasions. She went along with his lightheartedness happily, sipping at the glasses of ouzo Mattias handed to her, and laughing at the joking banter that batted back and forth between the old friends. She chatted to Anna and Rhea, both of whom were charmingly voluble, and they asked Oriel all about herself, between making affectionately mocking comments about their men. Damian, she could see, was glancing at her approvingly. In fact, he hardly seemed able to take his eyes off her. At one point, Oriel had to turn her head away to avoid his gaze – there was such a naked blaze in his dark irises that she was almost afraid she might get scorched.

  At one point, as she was laughing at something he’d said to Mattias, she glanced up. It was then that she caught sight of Yolanda, standing on the other side of the bonfire. The singer’s eyes were glittering in the light of the flames as they watched Oriel’s and Damian’s every move.

  CHAPTER 7

  When Oriel woke she didn’t lie in bed for long. It was Monday and, even though she’d only had a few hours’ sleep after returning from the Epiklisi festival, she had work to do. Nonetheless, images of the day before had crept into her dreams – of the spectacular procession to Mount Helios, of Damian’s fiery gaze on her throughout the evening – and a pink hue warmed her cheeks at the memory.

  She pushed back the covers and went to her bedroom window, where she drew back the curtains. The day was bright, but there was a brisk breeze outside; she could see it fluttering the little green leaves of the olive trees so that they glinted silvery in the light. For a moment her heart sank. Damian had explaine
d how tide, wind and current could dash their chances of diving the wreck again today, and she wondered if he might call their expedition off.

  Her fears, it turned out, were well founded. When Irini came in with her breakfast tray, the maid confirmed that there would indeed be no diving and that Damian had flown to Corfu instead. He would be back later that afternoon and had asked if Oriel could be ready at four o’clock to accompany him on an outing to see the sponge divers at the harbour.

  ‘Oh, and Despinis Anderson,’ Irini added. ‘There was a telephone call for you, an English lady. She left this number.’

  Oriel took the piece of paper from the maid. Her face lit up. ‘Thank you, Irini. I’ll be down shortly. I’ll use the phone in the study, if I may.’

  After a quick breakfast of freshly baked bread rolls and a bowl of Greek yoghurt and peaches, she dressed quickly in a light-blue short-sleeved linen shirt and stone-coloured capris and made her way along the wing to Damian’s study.

  So what if they couldn’t dive today? That didn’t mean she had to be idle. The island was a treasure trove of historical ruins and, for a moment, Oriel felt like a child in a sweetshop, amazed by the array of colourful choices. She decided she would take the Volkswagen and drive to the ruins that lay around Manoli’s. She had only seen the acropolis by moonlight, and Damian had already suggested she assess the site, so now was her chance to take a closer look at what had seemed like the remains of a small settlement.

  ‘You sound chirpy,’ Cynthia Albright’s voice was warm on the other end of the line. ‘The Greek air must be suiting you.’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe the wealth of unexcavated ruins on this island, above ground and underwater,’ said Oriel. ‘It’s like every archaeologist’s dream.’

  ‘Lucky you. Just think of me here in this dark room full of dusty tomes.’

  ‘Oh really, Cynthia! You wouldn’t have it any other way.’

  Her friend from the Bodleian gave a wry laugh. ‘I suppose not. Anyway, I’ve got the information you wanted about the seal on that amphora you found. Have you got a pen?’

  ‘Yes, hold on.’ Oriel opened her notebook. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Your Roman is called Marcus Sestius. That’s what the SES stands for, and I’ve checked out his trader’s insignia and that fits, too. A trident with sea serpent. So that makes your ship third century BC.’

  ‘That’s exciting. We knew it was Roman, but somehow it doesn’t seem real until you’ve established provenance. Thank you so much for looking into it for me.’

  ‘Wait, that’s not all. I did a bit more digging around. He’s quite an interesting chap, this Sestius. He built up a sizeable shipping business in Greece and was as rich as Croesus according to one account I found. He collected works of art, including some of the finest bronzes ever made. Then everything went pear-shaped for the poor man after an earthquake destroyed his home, and records show him retiring to Delos. And guess what? When his business was thriving, he was living in Helice.’

  ‘The lost seaport! We were only discussing it the other night. Fascinating …’ Oriel’s eyes shone with excitement. It was as if a whole narrative landscape was unfurling in her mind’s eye. Now the wreck of Damian’s argosy was connected to the lost city of Helice. Had it been on a voyage from there to Helios on one of the great Roman trading routes, and sunk in a storm off the treacherous coast of the island? And Sestius being a collector of bronzes … that, surely, was a significant detail.

  Oriel thanked her friend and hung up, promising to keep in touch. As she replaced her notebook and pen in her bag she looked thoughtful. It was like following a treasure trail, laid thousands of years ago, and now that the first clue was solved she couldn’t wait to revisit the wreck. Undoubtedly there were a lot more mysteries hidden in the argosy’s watery grave.

  She ran upstairs to pack a knapsack and grab her straw hat. Ten minutes later she was at the wheel of the Volkswagen. The road to Manoli’s looked different in daylight. The coastline was rugged, with rocks of all shapes and colours, awe-inspiring in their majesty. Some formed natural arches, and she could see that in places the cliffs had been hollowed into tunnels and caves by the action of waves. Every so often there was a sheltered cove fringed by sea pines. She made a note to come and explore these little bays one day, as they would be perfect for bathing. On the other side of the road, pine forests and sand dunes stretched monotonously for a couple of miles without a break.

  Oriel drove past Manoli’s taverna, which was quiet now, and parked the car a mile or so further along the road in the shade of a crumbling barn. There was a dilapidated hut next to it, at the door of which a goat was tethered. She could see an outdoor bread oven and, from the lower branches of an olive tree, cheeses in goat bladders were hanging in the warm air to dry. Two children were playing under the tree, although it offered little shade, and a rotund woman was standing on a ladder, trimming a huge carob. They stopped and waved to Oriel as she passed by.

  The ruined acropolis was sprawled a few metres away under the baking sun. Whoever had been in charge of the excavation here had wrecked the place – that much was clear. There was something sad about the tumbled stones in the bright light of day, she reflected. It had looked much more impressive by moonlight. Damian had explained that the island’s ruins had been picked over long before his family had taken over the place. Oriel sighed. Just think what might have been recovered in the right hands, careful hands like hers.

  Part of the ground was covered with a sheath of stiff blue-and-purple spikes, a shrub that looked just like porcupine quills. Here and there, amid the tumbled stones, were bald patches of red clay, streaks of shale and areas of dune. In among the wild barley grass that had grown all over the ruins, the odd architectural gem had endured the hardship of time. As Oriel picked her way carefully around the fallen masonry, she could see tiny mosaic fragments that must once have formed a pavement. These glimpses of the past were tantalizing, yet so frustrating. Now they would never know the designs that had been wrought by the mosaicist. Think, too, what she might have been able to discover about the people who had lived, worked and worshipped here more than two thousand years ago.

  Oriel took a sip from her bottle of water. It was amazing how quickly the sun grew in heat. She could see why the inhabitants of the island all those centuries ago believed that Helios, the handsome Titan crowned with the shining aureole of the sun, drove his glittering chariot across the sky each day. Oriel thought it perfectly understandable that they would have personified such a powerful force: after all, they had no scientific explanation for natural phenomena. She glanced at her watch: ten o’clock. By midday there would be a heat haze over the landscape, scintillating and shimmery, and the sun would be bearing down mercilessly.

  Standing in the field were two Doric columns, then another three: all that was left of the settlement’s age-old temple. Further away, on the grassy margin of the road, was an ancient tomb guarded by a cypress tree, and beside it the remains of a sacrificial altar. The scale of everything was vast: the buildings, now laid low, must have been so tall, so regal in their carved splendour. Oriel looked at the immense girth of the stone columns, lying in fragments on the reddish, baked earth; it was as though some mighty god, looking down upon this island and abominating the overreaching pride of this ancient race of men, had stretched out his great hand and struck the settlement, reducing it to barely more than rubble.

  Oriel looked up at the dark bulk of Typhoeus. How many times had it erupted since those ancient days? Had this devastation been all the volcano’s work? Was this island doomed? She walked further on and started to ascend the terraced levels. She began to work in earnest now and for the next two hours photographed, measured and sketched, before pausing to rest in the shade of a carob tree. Oriel had climbed steadily, so that now she was looking over the site, seated on a stone step at the side of a ruined amphitheatre. She took a few deep gulps from her water bottle. This was thirsty work. Hungry-making too. She took off her straw
hat and sunglasses and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, then retrieved from her knapsack the bread roll and peach she had purloined from her breakfast tray earlier. As she ate, Oriel looked across at the amphitheatre’s raked steps, forced out of kilter by the shifting plates that had caused one or more earthquakes over the centuries.

  It was easy to see the scale and layout of the settlement from this vantage point. It was a large site – larger than had been evident from her moonlit view of it that night at Manoli’s. Directly below were the foundations of a substantial building: possibly a public edifice but just as likely to be a rich merchant’s villa. She stood up, hoisting her pack on her shoulders once more, and walked carefully down to it.

  Barely anything of interest remained. A trace of a mosaic floor here and there, a broken amphora and a small shattered section of an architrave carved with acanthus leaves. The only sound she could hear was the gentle soughing of the breeze in the pines. Again, she had that sense of desolation, made even more acute by the fact that she was here alone. In spite of the sun blazing directly overhead, she gave a shiver. This villa would once have been bustling with children and servants, ruled over by a wealthy man … and now everything had come to this.

  She turned to go, having had enough of the maudlin thoughts that had suddenly beset her. As she did so, her foot kicked at a shard of earthenware pottery. She bent down to pick it up, then turned it round in her hand. It was part of a beaker, the side of which was carved in a sort of crest. She rubbed it gently with her thumb, tracing the ridges and indentations. Inside the scrolled edges of the crest was a trident, the sinuous curves of a sea serpent coiled around its shaft.

  The insignia of Sestius.

  Oriel smothered an exclamation as she stared, motionless, at the reddish fragment. Never had she imagined that the calcified argosy, submerged under more than a hundred feet of seawater, would leave a mystery trail that she would pick up here and now, in the ruins of Manoli’s. How strange. The shipwreck wasn’t just carrying the trader’s cargo, this small shard of pottery placed Sestius on the island of Helios somehow. Suddenly, she couldn’t wait to share all of this with Damian.