Castle of the Lion

by Margaret Rome

  His manner was courteous, but the hint of impatience tinting his words called for a prompt explanation of her intrusion into urgent business affairs.

  Yet all she could do was stare dumbly, feeling completely dominated by the height and athletic physique of the man whose profile was as familiar to her as the moulded features of a statuette that was her grandfather's most cherished possession—the blade-straight nose with flared nostrils; unsmiling mouth with a full, sensuous bottom lip direct gaze, broad brow, and thick black mane of hair peculiar to Heracles, the hero worshipped throughout Greece as the personification of physical strength and as the protector and counsellor of men. A hero who was purported to have lain in wait in the house of a king for the arrival of a ferocious lion and exercised his virility meantime by lying in a single night with his host's fifty daughters. Heracles—the mighty— Hercules…!

  'Well, Miss Morrison…?' Pointedly, he glanced at his watch, rearing on a leash of impatience. 'I'm sorry to have to hurry you, but I have very little time to spare. What message do you have for me, and what is the name of our mutual friend?'

  Petra gasped, jolted back to earth from a world of myth and fantasy.

  'I… I can't tell you his name,' she stammered. 'For reasons impossible to explain at this moment, he has to remain anonymous. But believe me, he really does exist, and he is as anxious as I am to prevent a serious miscarriage of justice.'

  When he muttered an imprecation and rose to stride around the desk towards her, she felt she knew exactly how the early Christians must have felt when the first bloodthirsty lion padded into the arena.

  'I am beginning to suspect,' he confided in a menacing growl that sent a shiver chasing down the length of her spine, 'that our mutual friend is a figment of your imagination! Do you make a practice of lying to gain entry into places that are forbidden to you, Miss Morrison?'

  In spite of a consciences arguing that his anger was justified, she reacted with a flare of temper to the accusation.

  'I'd find no necessity to lie to reasonable people, but you Greeks are so implacable, so swift to condemn and punish, so deaf to argument! For almost two days now my brother has been locked up inside one of your jails, accused of trying to smuggle drugs into the country! Yet he's guilty only of being the victim of a practical joker, a fellow university student whose high spirits and misguided sense of humour led him to plant a few reefer cigarette ends in my brother's pocket during a boisterous end-of-term party. My brother can be a little irresponsible at times, I must admit, but he is not addicted to drugs, nor would he ever dream of handling the filthy stuff!' She glared, resisting a temptation to stamp her foot with rage. 'But your policemen refused to listen to reason, won't even allow him to be visited by me, his sister, the person responsible for his welfare!'

  Stelios Heracles' thick black eyebrows winged high towards his furrowed brow.

  'What age is your brother, Miss Morrison?' he snapped.

  'Almost nineteen.'

  'Old enough to be conscripted into the armed forces; old enough to be eligible to vote, and to be considered mature enough to marry and raise a family of his own. Yet apparently he willingly allows a woman to accept responsibility for his actions!'

  'I'm all the family he has,' she faltered, resenting the glint of contempt in his dark eyes. 'Since the loss of our parents, Gavin has tended to look to me for guidance. Boys don't become men overnight. Given time, he will mature into a sensible, caring adult…'

  'Greek men are men when they emerge from their mothers' wombs,' he condemned coldly. 'Perhaps your brother's progress towards maturity might have been accelerated had he not been hampered by a sister's selfish need to have someone to mother, some dependant whose love had to compensate for the lack of a husband and for the status of motherhood that all women yearn to achieve!'

  She shrank back feeling cowed, oppressed by the weight of his shadow as he bent nearer to stress:

  'Obsessional love is a dangerous self-indulgence, Miss Morrison—it deprives one of pride, of intellect, even of firmly rooted principles that have to be sacrificed without a qualm in order to protect the object of one's affections. Women who nurture that kind of passion are selfish in the extreme. The needs of their victim are not their primary consideration, they are concerned only with their own needs. The object of their obsession is allowed no flaws because such love demands perfection. It is obvious, from what little I've seen of you, thespinis, that what you need most is a husband and a brood of adoring children to mop up and spread around your abundance of potentially dangerous devotion. And what is equally obvious is your brother's urgent need of space—space to mature, to develop his own personality!'

  Petra sat as if rooted, her eyes stormy with outrage, reduced for the first time in her life to speechless anger. Her late colleagues would have found difficulty in recognising the girl who eventually trembled to her feet, so seething with passionate resentment she was barely able to croak:

  'Have you quite finished analysing my character?'

  He nodded, looking quite unperturbed. 'For the moment, yes. However,' he frowned, 'I feel obliged to investigate your accusation of injustice. My enquiries will take time. Have you some place to stay?'

  Petra's heart should have soared with triumph, but instead it slowly sank. Because of Gavin's many demands she had found it impossible to save any of her better-than-average salary. What little money she had left would be needed to tide them over until she found another job, therefore booking into a hotel was out of the question. The most obvious place for her to stay was her grandfather's home, situated in a village on the slopes of the Troodos mountains, but dared she risk living in the shadow of Buffavento Castle, the home of the Minister who was almost certain to have recruited staff from nearby villages that were hotbeds of rural gossip? Dared she take the admittedly slim risk of some member of the castle staff being acquainted with her grandfather? In spite of his inability to comprehend how it had been allowed to happen, she was aware that her grandfather boasted non-stop to his cronies about the exceptional intelligence that had gained his English granddaughter entry into the male-dominated Diplomatic Corps. Stelios Heracles, she reluctantly conceded, would be quicker than most to put two and two together, to listen, conjecture, and finally to bracket her with Sir Joseph, who had made plain his reluctance to become even remotely involved in Gavin's misfortune.

  'No,' she jerked, ashamed of being forced to lie once more, 'I did not come prepared for a long stay.'

  Predictably, his intimidating eyebrows rose. 'Why not? Did you imagine that your brother's release could easily be bought with persuasive argument? Or perhaps you envisaged a squad of Greek policemen falling immediate victims to the appeal of your incredibly blue eyes?'

  She blushed deeply, avoiding his mocking glance as she struggled to decide whether to grimace at the bitterness of the pill he had doled or to savour its sugar-coated sweetness.

  She had no way of knowing how tired and defeated she appeared to the man used to venting his anger upon men who did not hesitate to return spleen with spleen, scowl with scowl, curse with rumbustious curse. Consequently, the gentleness of his tone caused her a shock of pleasure.

  'Are you prepared to work for your keep, Miss Morrison?'

  She looked up, her expression hopeful, her eyes wide with wonder.

  'Yes, of course…' She nodded affirmation when a breath clogged her throat.

  He nodded approval, then casually, displaying the sensuous assurance of a king of beast, he returned to the carved, high-backed chair rising stately as a throne behind an equally imposing desk.

  'What sort of work are you trained to do?' His mouth twisted into an ironic smile. 'At a guess, I'd say you are either a teacher, a nurse, or a social worker.'

  Gratefully, Petra snatched the first straw he had tossed her way.

  'I'm a teacher,' she gasped, swallowing hard to suppress an impulse to confess that she was also fast becoming an accomplished liar.

  'Good!' Do you specialis
e in any particular subject?'

  'L-languages,' she stammered, opting for safety, bolstered by the knowledge that her Greek was excellent and that at one stage in her education she had considered working for a degree in Classics. 'I can teach Greek, Latin, and English, of course.'

  He had been doodling idly on a jotter, but at this admission his head jerked up to train a glance of keen interest.

  'You understand our language well enough to teach?'

  She nodded, uplifted by his obvious incredulity. 'I do.'

  'In that case, Miss Morrison, the problem of finding you work can be considered solved. Our children are not allowed to emulate the example of your brother and his fellow students who appear to favour spending their summer break lazing under the tree of idleness. Because all Greek-Cypriot parents like to boast that their children can speak and understand English well, tutors are employed to supply extra instruction outside normal school hours. However, temporary teachers are hard to find, which is why I can promise that your services will be very much appreciated by both parents and pupils of the small village school attached to my Troodos estate. I shall, of course, be pleased to offer you accommodation in my home for the duration of your employment.'

  He had spoken as if her acceptance of his proposition was a foregone conclusion. She longed to spurn his offer with a show of open distaste, but the reminder of the police escort waiting downstairs to pounce, together with the blessed relief of having all her expenses paid for as long as it took to obtain Gavin's release, caused her to hesitate.

  'What about my brother?' she husked, unconsciously pleading. 'If I were to accept the post, would you be prepared to guarantee his early release?'

  'I can promise you nothing!' he bit, bridling with impatience. 'You ought to consider yourself fortunate to have been offered a way out of your financial difficulties. My advice to you, Miss Morrison,' his upper lip curled, 'is to reach out with grateful hands and grab what little the gods seem prepared to offer!'

  CHAPTER THREE

  After the heat of the capital the air in the mountains fell like a cool caress against Petra's hot cheeks while she was being driven in an open-topped car along dirt roads curving upwards from the foothills towards pine tree forests. She caught glimpses on the way of villages nestling in valleys; clinging in layers to steep hillsides, saw the rooftops of ancient monasteries hiding behind trees, and streams glistening like silver ribbons cascading from unseen heights.

  An occasional lorry passed them on its way to the local winery where, later in the year, grapes slowly ripening in dozens of small vineyards would be collected and crushed into Cypriot Nana, the wine Cypriots swore was so ancient it had been consumed in great quantities at the springtime festivals of Aphrodite.

  She wriggled deeper into her seat to enjoy sights familiar from childhood, landscape that had remained unchanged for centuries yet which constantly presented aspects that were thrilling, beautiful, and new. Idly she played with the collar of her blouse, easing it aside so that refreshing fingers of breeze could venture within pale hollows and warm curves secreted behind crumpled, classically tailored poplin. Eyes that seemed capable of dissecting every gesture and emotion immediately spotted the small sign of discomfort.

  'Do you always wear such… er… sensible clothes, Miss Morrison?'

  She stiffened, resenting the impudent quirk of lips struggling to suppress a grin of amusement, too proud to point out that financial circumstances had denied her the pleasure of indulging in frivolous dresses that would have looked completely out of place in an office.

  'Most girls of my acquaintance,' he continued casually, 'abandon all constricting clothing at the first sign of spring, thereby supplying members of my own sex with the seasonal treat of watching their emergence from winter cocoons to flaunt as freely as butterflies flaunt colourful, transparent wings. It seems a pity,' he increased her aggravation with a mocking sideways glance, 'that one endowed with a body as shapely as yours should go to so much trouble to hide it! I'm certain modern-minded pupils would form a closer affinity to a youthfully uninhibited teacher than they would to one who clings to prudish mores that were fashionable during your Queen Victoria's reign.'

  Petra bit her lip, determined not to be riled into reckless speech by the man who seemed to take perverse pleasure in prompting signs of embarrassment, of goading her into a rise of colour so that he could stare as if fascinated by some curious phenomenon, a message of modesty expressed in some ancient forgotten language. But in spite of the bite of determined teeth, her bottom lip quivered as she asked herself what could possibly be wrong with her image to cause a man of such short acquaintance to decide that she was prim and proper, to confirm, in fact, the aptness of the hurtful title that had been bestowed by office juniors.

  'What is it about me that compels even complete strangers to label me "Miss Grundy",' she burst out impulsively, then wanted to bite off a tongue that had betrayed the weakness of her defences to an enemy.

  Fractionally, the car swerved off course. He regained control immediately, yet sounded apologetic, almost pitying, when quietly he assured her:

  'It was not my intention to hurt your feelings, Miss Morrison—to tease a little, perhaps, but not to condemn a quality, of solemn repose so treasured by the Moslem race they have coined for it a special word. Kayf—an easy silence, not meditation or daydreaming but something much more profound, a fathomless peace that demands nothing that a companion is not prepared to give, neither wit nor wisdom, questions nor answers.'

  He waited until the road was running straight as an arrow through an avenue of trees before casting an enquiring glance, but when her only response was a deepening blush he dispersed what was threatening to become an embarrassing silence by briskly changing the subject.

  'Tell me, where in Cyprus had your brother arranged to stay for the duration of his holiday? As a student he is hardly likely to be able to afford the prices charged by popular seaside hotels.'

  Involuntarily, Petra's fingers clenched around the rim of her handbag. Conversation with Stelios Heracles was comparable with negotiating a path through a treacherous bog—one moment she felt encouraged by the firmness of the ground beneath her feet, the next she was floundering in a morass of lies and deceit!

  'Gavin hadn't planned to stay long in any particular place,' she blurted when his puzzlement of her silence grew obvious. Then, recalling with relief a chance remark her brother had once made, she elaborated in a panic: 'It was his intention to tour the mountain villages, staying no longer than a couple of days in each. Far from being prepared to idle away his time, as you suggested, he came to Cyprus in search of first-hand knowledge of the subject of a thesis he has chosen to undertake concerning the manners and customs of Greek-Cypriot peasants and the way they live their lives.'

  Her heartbeats quickened when dark eyes swivelled a look that seemed to imply that for once something she had said had aroused the interest and approval of the too-youthful, too modern-minded, too blatantly virile Minister who was the complete antithesis of others she had known. Optimism about Gavin's prospects of release rose still higher when he mused thoughtfully:

  'The subject your brother has chosen to research is one that is very near to my own heart. For some time now I have been toying with the idea of engaging someone interested and able enough to chronicle the everyday doings of people who have resisted change for centuries. The villagers on my estate must be some of the few remaining who still insist upon using a distaff for spinning cotton and wool; who use a pestle and mortar to pound spices; who spin their own silk, weave their own cloth, make their own saddles, and bake bread in a communal oven. Sooner or later, without their being aware of it, civilisation will encroach even the lofty heights of Mount Olympus,' he brooded, heaving an unconscious sigh of regret. 'Unless someone takes the trouble to record for posterity manners and customs unique to this land, they will be allowed to fade away, become lost in the mists of history. Do you know, Miss Morrison,' he emerged from his abs
orption to confide with a grin, 'fathers of some village girls still insist upon exercising their prerogative to set any prospective son-in-law a test of strength. Traditionally, the young man is asked to chop a tree trunk into planks with an axe, and to make his task even harder the tree trunk chosen is usually an oak that has been left soaking in the river for forty days! Fortunately, though, one custom that has been allowed to lapse is that of parents arranging marriages for their children. These days, it is not quite so common for a couple in love to find themselves married to two other people.'

  When he fell silent to concentrate all his attention upon negotiating the purring limousine around a particularly awkward bend, Petra sat quietly, clasping her hands together in an effort to still their trembling, striving to remain rational, reminding herself that as yet there was no specific reason why optimism should be allowed to soar as high as the trills of a pair of feathered siskins who were engaging in a flirtatious dance as they circled above the trees.

  Then without prior warning the symmetry of the landscape became broken by huge boulders, an avalanche of stones which some time in antiquity must have cascaded from the heights of Mount Olympus. She leant sideways, craning her neck to follow the progress of rocks laying a petrified trail down the sloping sides of a valley towards a collection of dwellings, their ancient roofs joined together, making it possible to take a rooftop walk from one end of a street to the other.

  'The village of Sabri,' Stelios Heracles nodded briefly, 'a place where the majority of your future pupils live in houses built as solidly as the boulders utilised long ago to form their foundations. One particularly large stone that marks the entrance to the village has been named the "coupling stone" because for as long as anyone can remember it has been the custom for newlyweds to walk around it immediately after the wedding ceremony and to whisper a wish that their love will remain as strong and steady as the stone. Petra tou Androginou— "Stone of the Couple",' he translated unnecessarily, then smiled with secret amusement.