Aphrodite's Tears

by Hannah Fielding

  She thought of Yorgos and his equally ambitious sister, who was clearly embroiled in this wholesale theft of what was rightfully Damian’s. They were like leeches, she reflected bitterly, sucking on his blood, willing to stop at nothing to shore up their own wealth and position on the island. As for Yorgos, some part of her had always sensed that he envied Damian’s power and standing, jealousy eating him up. It had been evident in every sideways glance or insidious comment he made; even his ostentatious watch seemed to broadcast what kind of a man he was.

  And now he had left her here to die. A macabre thought struck her: how deeply ironic – here she was, a woman who had forged a career sifting the dirt, hunting for hidden artefacts of long-forgotten people … and soon … she could hardly bear to think of it … soon she would be just one more nameless pile of bones for someone else to discover once all other traces of her story had been blown away by the winds of time.

  Stop thinking like that! she rebuked herself. Use your head, don’t give up!

  There was blood trickling from Oriel’s mouth where Yorgos had struck her. She swallowed hard, her jaw pounding with rhythmic throbs of pain. She tried to guess what time it must be now: probably four o’clock. Damian would be coming over to the staff house at six. In two hours … surely he would be worried if he didn’t find her? But even if he looked for her in all the obvious places, would he think to search this cave?

  Then she thought of her car, parked at the top of the cliff. True, it might take him a while to find it, but find it he would. She realized such was her trust in him – in his capabilities, as well as his love for her – that she felt instantly soothed by a warm glow of confidence. Of course he would find her!

  In the meantime she decided to do what she could to escape. First, she tried to get rid of the kerchief that was gagging her, but Yorgos had done a good job of tying it. Her wrists were bound just as strongly, as were her ankles. She shuffled across the earth floor to the stairs, the shape of which she could just make out in the near-darkness, then set about sawing the rope that bound her wrists against the edge of the bottom step. At least Yorgos hadn’t tied her hands behind her back; that was something.

  After several minutes a few threads had frayed but she hadn’t made any great progress. All she had managed to achieve was cramp in her forearms and a nasty friction burn on her wrist. She gave up and sagged against the cold stone wall. She had to admit it now: there was nothing she could do until Damian or someone else came to her rescue. So she waited, her mind a tumult of emotions … Fear for herself, anger at Yorgos and Yolanda, and – the one pure thing that kept her going – love for Damian.

  * * *

  Damian was first alerted to something being wrong by the unaccountable behaviour of his dogs. He had been sitting on the terrace, going through a pile of paperwork pertaining to the accounts of the olive factory, when both his hounds started to whine and growl. Usually they would sit: Peleus comfortably, with his head on Damian’s foot; Heracles more alert – keeping guard at the steps that led from the terrace to the garden. Now they were shifting uneasily: the former cringing against his leg, the latter pacing nervously back and forth across the stone flagstones. At first Damian barely registered the change in his dogs, so absorbed was he in working out what might have caused the factory fire.

  It had supposedly stemmed from an electrical fault in one of the offices that stored the accounts; and every last file, he had been told, was now destroyed. Damian fingered the papers thoughtfully. He could have understood it if the fire had originated in the area that housed the machines but this simply didn’t make sense. Yorgos seemed to think that this was a disaster waiting to happen because the place had badly needed rewiring but Damian’s gut told him that arson was the cause … and he wasn’t the only one who thought so.

  A week ago, he and Stavros had discussed the comings and goings of a ship that was regularly, it seemed, making its way in and out of one of the more secluded coves on the island. Damian had noticed the phantom shape on the water without its port and starboard lights and, according to Stavros, there had been other reports of the stealthy vessel. Stavros said that he had mentioned the matter to Yorgos, who had promised to take it up with Damian. But the estate manager had mentioned nothing.

  Someone was stealing from the island.

  Damian had immediately decided to get in touch with an old police contact of his in internal affairs on the mainland. His tiny local gendarmerie was insufficient to tackle a smuggling operation of any size and he had a sense that if local islanders were involved, it would be safest to keep any ongoing investigation quiet.

  Stavros didn’t actually say that he suspected Yorgos of foul play concerning the office fire but, when he had left Damian an hour before, it had been written all over his face. He’d never pretended to get on with Yorgos but he was professional and fair-minded and kept his dislike to himself. As for Damian, he had always relied on his estate manager’s efficiency – the man always seemed to run things smoothly – but in all the years he had worked with Yorgos, he had to confess that he had never grown to like him either. The man had a chip on his shoulder, which irritated Damian, but if he got the job done, he reasoned, that was the important thing.

  He had employed him, initially, out of loyalty to Pericles. Yorgos had been his brother’s friend and sidekick since childhood and that, surely, counted for something. Still, it had to be said, the lad had never been a stabilizing influence – Yorgos had always snickered at Pericles’s scrapes and excesses – and in adulthood, Yorgos had become Damian’s brother’s general fixer. This included, he strongly suspected, procuring drugs. Nonetheless, when Pericles died it had seemed only natural to see Yorgos properly provided for with a job. Residual feelings of fraternal duty made Damian feel – rightly or wrongly – that he had a brotherly debt to pay and through the years he had gone on paying it.

  Until now, there had been no sign at all that Yorgos hadn’t been entirely trustworthy when it came to the management of Damian’s various businesses. But the man led a playboy existence when he wasn’t working that, to an extent, could never have been funded by his salary. At first Damian had accepted without question Yorgos’s vague allusions to family property and business interests on Corfu, but now he had doubts … serious doubts. He was relieved that he had made a discreet phone call to Stelios at the station. At the time he’d felt guilty even mentioning Yorgos’s name as a possible suspect, having no concrete evidence of any wrongdoing. Now he was glad he had.

  Damian drummed the table in frustration as he flicked through the papers, his brow furrowed. Inside, he cursed himself for being so naïve. He’d need to question Yorgos properly about the fire, as well as filling in the police fully, because the smuggling and the factory arson could well be connected. He straightened in his chair and stretched, then glanced at his watch: it was only three-thirty – just a few hours to go before he would be with Oriel. He couldn’t wait to take her in his arms again. Tonight he would ask her to marry him.

  Just as he was imagining what her reaction might be a breeze picked up, so sudden in its strength that it almost snatched the file of papers from Damian’s hand. Peleus whined, still hunkered close to his side, and he ruffled his ears distractedly. Would Oriel accept his proposal? Might she feel that it was some kind of moonlight madness?

  Deep down, Damian still felt that tiny nagging fear that their happiness was too good to last. He worried that even though she loved him, Oriel would refuse to become his wife because she knew that the day would come – after the first euphoria had passed – when she would resent the restrictive life on the island, the heavy load that Damian carried, which she would have to share. Maybe too – although she claimed not to be superstitious – Oriel might come to fear the tragedies that had beset Damian since childhood would strike at her – at their love and their family – and who could blame her?

  Standing at the top of the steps to the garden, flanks quivering, Heracles gave a low rumbling growl. His master r
aised his head from the uneasy thoughts that had begun to circle his mind and saw dark clouds rolling across the sky, pushed on by an unseen wave, the light fading as if the island was at the centre of an eclipse. Then, as he looked out across the olive trees, their leaves shivering, a gust hit him full in the face. He found it surprisingly warm – it burned the back of his throat and nostrils like a desert wind. Then, as quickly as it had materialized, the cloud broke and the sun shone down again from a blue sky. The wind seemed to pause for a moment – everything hanging motionless, as if suspended – and then it returned with a vengeance. Black clouds shadowed Damian’s face, the like of which he had never seen before.

  He looked down into the garden. It was usually teeming with all sorts of insects and birds at this hour but now everything was unusually still. Then he heard the first crackles of thunder and the skies opened up, pouring down torrential rain. Damian hurried into the house. His first thought was of Oriel. She had said that she might go for a swim; she hadn’t said where … Damn! He’d better go and check she was back safely at the staff house.

  He called to his dogs, shut them inside the house and ran out to his Jeep, which was standing on the driveway. As he drove along the coast road he never once questioned the sense in his decision to be outside in what was gearing up to be one of the most ferocious storms he’d ever seen. By now the Jeep was being buffeted by enormous gusts of wind as thunder roared over the cliffs like captive lions. Great crashes made the ground under his wheels shake, as if the foundations of heaven were being torn apart, and sheets of lightning struck in constant waves, illuminating the island in whirling flashes. It was afternoon and it might as well have been midnight.

  When Damian reached the staff house, Oriel’s Volkswagen wasn’t there and neither was she, nor any of the men. Warring with his instinct to rush out and search for her, he decided to wait inside, afraid that if he went looking, he would only miss her. Burning with frustration, he stood at the kitchen window looking out at the haze that hung over the sea. The swell had never been so dangerously high. Hopefully, she would have left the beach at the first sign of a storm, in which case she would be there in the next few minutes, surely.

  After pacing up and down, he decided to make himself some coffee. As he was pouring the steaming liquid into his cup, his hand shook and a feeling of vertigo seemed to take him over. The movement was slight at first but it quickened, rising in a crescendo of vibrations. His knees almost gave way as he was suddenly propelled against the opposite wall, the ground lurching and bucking underneath his feet. What was happening to his legs? It couldn’t be vertigo, the sensation was too intense … He grabbed the window frame and stared out at the trees that were swaying on unsteady trunks, at the rainstorm of rocks and rubble that had come loose from the scarp and were bouncing towards the house. The window was shaking so hard that the glass seemed about to break. He looked up: the ceiling lamp was swinging back and forth.

  He had to get out of the house. If this was an earthquake, then it was probably safer to be outside, even taking into account lightning bolts and falling trees. Everything was moving – the floor, the shelves and the china, which was sliding and clattering in the cupboards until the doors finally burst open and it spilled out like a cataract. Plaster fell from the roof, powdering Damian’s head, and the heavier furniture next door groaned as it moved across the open space in the hall and living area. The whole house rocked, the wind slamming against it as he staggered to the front door. And then, just as he reached it the quake died away, as stealthily as it had begun.

  But he wasn’t staying here: he needed to be out there, doing something to help … finding Oriel …

  * * *

  Oriel had thought things couldn’t get worse but she soon realized she was wrong. Suddenly, she felt a violent rumbling and shaking of the ground beneath her. The whole cave pitched back and forth as though on a huge vibrating bed; the very earth was trembling. Next to her, a vast crack split the stairs, then rocks began to tumble down, some small, others enormous. Her wrists were still tied but she needed desperately to get up, determined not to be in the cave if the ceiling fell in.

  Then there was a loud crack above her. Looking up, she dimly saw something shift. She screwed up her eyes, trying to pierce the gloom, then realized with a sickening lurch that it must have been the lintel over the doorway at the top of the steps splitting in two because just then the entire structure caved in, collapsing in a shower of stones and earth. Chest heaving with fear, she gave a cry of horror. One escape route gone and the other – the steps back down to the original cave – almost completely blocked by boulders. She could see the dark mass of them covering what had once been a vague source of light.

  Then she realized she was slipping; the floor beneath her had tilted violently. She dug her fists into the soil and scrabbled with her bound feet for a toe-hold. But there was none, only crumbling soil that gave no purchase. Then the earth seemed to close overhead, rushing past her and raining down, carrying her with it. In endless moments of nightmare, she was crashing down, helpless, into darkness.

  Oriel lay still, only blackness around her. Above the creaking, grinding, rushing sounds of rock and earth, the sound of gasps reverberated in her ears, gasps she soon realized were her own desperate gulps of air. Flat on her face, half buried in choking clouds of dust, she moved her head to one side so that she could take a proper breath but winced as her ribs stabbed at her lungs. She became aware at that moment that her gag must have been torn loose; that was one positive, at least, in the absolute horror of it all. But the thought was quickly obscured by a blind panic that took her up and squeezed the remaining breath from her lungs. She lay still, unable to move, feeling the earth shake around her, her ears filled with the roaring and explosions erupting outside her subterranean prison.

  Oh, Damian! Where are you now when I need you?

  How long it was before a measure of sanity came back, Oriel couldn’t tell. She managed to raise her head finally and lifted her wrists to meet it. Sheer desperation, coupled with a dogged determination, kept her going and she set about gnawing and tearing at the knot that secured her wrists. After an interminably long time, it seemed, she felt it coming loose and finally she was able to pull through one of the ends of rope. Moments later, her arms were free and she wriggled them in an attempt to restore circulation. After that, it wasn’t long before she had freed her ankles, too.

  The effort of it all made her dizzy and she stopped for a moment, her eyes closed, taking painful, shallow breaths. As she did so, a thought distilled in her fractured mind and ominous waves of warning chased up her spine. Was this an earthquake? Had it cut off all escape routes to the outside world? Or, even worse, had Typhoeus, who had lain dormant for so many years, raised his monstrous head in fury?

  When things seemed to have calmed down a little, the dust and debris around her settling, Oriel attempted to move again. She did so carefully, prepared for sudden stabs of pain. There was nothing broken, she realized; her ribs were hopefully just bruised and her lung wasn’t punctured, judging by her normal breathing. There was an unpleasant stickiness on one knee as well as grazes on her arms. No doubt sundry bruises would soon make their presence felt but what else mattered, other than that she was now untied and still in one piece … safe. But was she?

  Gasping and sweating, Oriel staggered to her feet. She groped around her and then remembered that she had hidden her torch inside her peignoir. A glimmer of hope lit up in her mind and, trembling, she fumbled in her pocket, her fingers searching for the small object. There it was. She registered briefly that Yolanda’s earring had gone before dismissing the thought from her mind. What did it matter anyway? The only important thing now was to get out of there. Anyway, hopefully the torch was still working. She pushed the button. The flicker of light was like sight to a blind man and she moved the tiny beacon in a slow circle.

  Oriel noted that the falling earth had formed a soft bed, cushioning her headlong fall from the chamb
er where the bottles of olive oil were stored. She now found herself in the clammy darkness of a small, rocky, underground cave. How it fitted into the warren of tunnels and chambers that smugglers had no doubt used over the centuries she didn’t know, but it seemed to be a narrow fissure in the rock. It was almost impossible to get her bearings but what she did realize was that she had been lucky to avoid a very serious injury. A jagged spur of rock jutted from the wall, not two feet from her right hand. She shuddered, imagining herself skewered on it, forced to die a slow and agonizing death.

  By moving only a few short paces it was possible to trail her fingers round the enclosing walls of rock in a circle. She discovered that it was complete but for one narrow gap and, higher still, another, much larger opening. She looked up. There was a ragged shaft of subdued light. No sky was visible and she supposed that ferns and undergrowth would obscure any sunlight. She tried to resist the tremors of panic that assailed her. What use was it if she couldn’t climb up to reach the crack? The silence around her was remote and unfriendly and Oriel shivered. This was like the most dreadful nightmare that imagination could devise. Everything was there – the terror, the nameless danger, the throbbing darkness holding her back – so that her crawling steps towards safety seemed to measure out eternity.

  How long before Damian found her? And suppose he didn’t, suppose he had been hurt by the earthquake? She had no rope, nothing to help her climb up. She was alone … and alone she must try to get out of this place, she told herself, mustering all the courage of which she was capable.

  ‘Don’t panic,’ she encouraged aloud. ‘Think, girl, think!’

  Turning on her torch again she surveyed her prison, slowly moving around it, feeling every step carefully before trusting her weight to it. She was standing in what appeared to be a clean split in the rock itself. Whether the fissure led to any other tunnels or caves in the warren she wasn’t sure. Underfoot, the uneven surface of the floor sloped steeply downward. Was it even sensible to wander further into what might be a labyrinth deep in the heart of the cliff, the walls of which – unsettled by the earthquake – might cave in at any time? Or should she wait for help? Still, what if nobody came to rescue her? Sweat began trickling between her shoulder blades. What had the Oracle on Delos called her, Antigone? In the Greek tragedy hadn’t Antigone been buried alive? No, she couldn’t just wait there passively … she had to find a way out.