Castle of the Lion

by Margaret Rome

  Nevertheless, fifteen minutes later, while she was drifting silently as a grey-clad, bespectacled, impeccably groomed ghost down a fan-shaped marble staircase, a long-forgotten maxim quoted by a professor to his class of Latin scholars was resurrected from memory to haunt her.

  'Carpe diem! Enjoy the day, seize the present opportunity, improve the time!'

  'That outfit you are wearing looks more formidable than a suit of armour!' Petra stumbled, almost missing her footing, when Stelios Heracles suddenly appeared striding arrogantly as an Olympian god across the hallway. 'And why have you found it necessary to hide your most appealing asset behind ugly spectacles which I'm willing to wager have lenses of plain glass and were designed solely to be used as a prop, an aid to disguise inner inadequacies!'

  He waited, completely in command of centre stage, a star performer watching a novice's flustered debut. Immediately Petra reached ground level she whipped off the offending spectacles, feeling belittled, cheapened, glaring her resentment of his ability to assess her motives as easily as she could read newsprint with or without her faked lenses.

  'Nothing,' she stormed at his relaxed, hatefully self-assured presence, 'makes a woman feel more like an inadequate sex object than a man saying take off your glasses so that I can see your beautiful blue eyes!'

  'Did I say your eyes were beautiful?' he bedevilled, tilting a wicked eyebrow. Then, displaying the satisfaction of a duellist who knows he has drawn blood, he relented kindly: 'I'm sorry. If I did not, then I most certainly should have.' Thrusting his hands deep inside the pockets of casual blue denims he surveyed her thoughtfully, paying careful attention to the wave of wild rose colour flooding her cheeks, and to white teeth digging vexedly into a bottom lip quivering with humiliation. Dark eyes flecked with the tawny glint of a jungle king pinned their quarry with a look akin to pity then, as if goaded by an inbred streak of cruelty impossible to control, he subjected her body to an appraisal so shockingly intimate that every curve, every pore, every quivering nerve, shrank from its brooding caress.

  'Petra!' he taunted softly, his need to smile seemingly almost compulsive. 'A little rock for all to lean on! Yet I suspect that basically you are a voluptuary—unawakened, as yet, to sensual pleasure.'

  Some deeply buried urge stirred, then reared up inside her, some lost chord responding to the pluck of his deep, warm voice against taut nerve-strings—a frightening desire to experience the harmonious union of extreme virtues: timidity with strength; ignorance with experience; tenderness with wild Greek passion!

  Then with the suddenness of water dousing flame she was jolted back to sanity. She gasped, appalled by the direction in which her thoughts had been allowed to stray, then without stopping to think, attempted to exorcise her personal disgust by attacking her smiling tormenter.

  'And I suspect that you have lived so long on the lofty heights of Olympus you have begun to think and act not as a mere man bound by the rules of civilised convention, but as an omnipotent deity! Is that the reason, perhaps, why you prefer to live in isolation,' she challenged, 'why you cling to the remnants of an ancient civilisation whose simple-minded, easily-manipulated peasants were responsible for turning mere mortals into gods in the first place?'

  His proud head reared, displaying an angry thrust of jaw, eyes cold as the glare of a marble statue.

  'I resent the implication that I shun modern society, and object to the slur cast upon local villagers whom you appear to have reduced to the level of primitive savages coerced into adopting myself as headman of their village! Must I contradict your argument by reminding you that I hold a ministerial post in government?' he demanded, obviously incensed, she decided contemptuously, by her lack of deferential awe.

  'Such a post is merely an extension of the analogy,' she shrugged, recklessly tilting her honey-gold head until his savage mouth appeared directly within her sights. She quaked in the shadow of a towering frame threatening instant reprisal, yet some devil of long-nurtured vexation drove her to even more dangerous lengths.

  'In the jungle of bureaucracy old rituals still flourish. Civil servants, in common with most native tribes, have a secret written, spoken, and sign language that is confined solely to male members of the higher echelons. Myths, rituals and tribal customs practised for hundreds of years determine the trappings of power accorded to a headman—a private washroom is considered obligatory by senior male warriors; venerated male elders may even be issued with a small couch or an up-market limousine. But even in these enlightened days, female members of the tribe are denied such privileges. Tarzan rules, O.K.! Wouldn't you say so, Minister?' she scathed, frightened half out of her wits by a scowl black as storm clouds gathering around a majestic peak.

  'Women must be kept in their place, certainly,' he iced, stating the sort of theory guaranteed to bring a flash of resentment to her blue eyes, a mutinous tilt to her chin. 'It puzzles me why you should be showing such concern for employees in a situation completely outside of your own province. Schoolteaching is an ideal occupation for females. Might I suggest that you concentrate your attention on the job you have been trained to do instead of coveting the status of higher offices whose burdens are best borne by men of strength and purpose, capable of making calm, unemotional decisions. Such qualities are rarely associated with your sex, as I am sure you will agree, Miss Morrison?'

  Petra pulled up sharp, stamping a brake upon an irate rush of words ready to speed from her lips. Much as she would have relished disputing the arguments of an omnipotent, typically chauvinistic Greek, she dared not risk arousing the suspicions of the man who held Gavin's fate in the palm of his hand.

  She found it hard to swallow her anger, to appear to bow meekly to his superior intellect, yet her shrug of resignation must have been reasonably convincing, because his scowl gave way to a satisfied smile and a remark so patronising she was forced to grit her teeth.

  'In order to win an argument one must start by being right,' he grinned widely. 'Try to remember in future that in an argument with a man a woman always comes off worse, however just a cause she might plead, because the worst female trait is emotionalism, and the test of a man is his ability to cope with it.'

  Inwardly seething, yet retaining sufficient control to ignore a remark that would have caused a riot among members of any university debating society, Petra accompanied him outside to a waiting car and slid into the passenger seat, determined to pander to his enormous conceit, until she judged his mood mellow enough to broach the subject of Gavin's release. She did not have to wait long. The sweet taste of victory had rendered him amiable enough, as they drove through scented morning air in the direction of the village, to point out items he considered would be of particular interest to a tourist visiting his island for the very first time.

  'Listen,' he murmured, 'can you hear the music of the mountains?' He slowed the car to a standstill to allow her to appreciate fully the way pale green grapes hanging heavy on the vines were contrasting beautifully with a deep green backdrop of forest beyond. 'Melodious birds and incessantly sighing pines blending in perfect harmony,' he continued softly. 'Sometimes, when being confined inside an office becomes unbearable, I close my eyes and take an imaginary trip into these mountains, sniffing the delightfully cool air scented with the tang of pine trees, wild herbs and, in the springtime, the intoxicating perfume of mixed fruit blossoms, cherry, apple, pear, plum and almonds, drifting in a fragrant cloud from fertile valley orchids. When we reach the village you must try some of the nectarian wine that is still being produced exactly as it was centuries ago—untouched by chemicals or mechanical means.'

  Casting a last appreciative look across his shoulder, he depressed the accelerator until the car began picking up speed.

  'How fortunate you are,' Petra sighed, 'to live on an island that's bathed in brilliant sunshine every day, even during the winter!'

  'True,' he nodded, causing a corkscrew of hair to tumble down on to his forehead, 'we take our sunshine so much for granted we
are at a loss to know what to do when it rains. Life is disrupted to such an extent that the islanders change any plans they may have made to go out and just wait at home until the shower passes and the sun brings a return to normality. Many of our daily customs are built around the frequency and intensity of the sun—the most obvious being the siesta. That is why I dared not linger too long admiring the view, for if we do not arrive at the village before lunchtime the entire morning will be wasted.'

  Shortly afterwards the village appeared in the distance like a beautiful painting framed in poplar green, with bursts of colour cascading from flower tubs propped against ancient walls; lightening dark, cool corners; set upon each step of flights leading up to balconies shaded by vine-covered trellis reaching upwards towards ceramic coloured roofs.

  'It is beautiful, don't you think?' Stelios Heracles asked her. 'But wait until you catch the scent of basil rising in the still air from pots placed on every verandah, porch, and windowsill lining village streets designed to accommodate only the width of a donkey cart.'

  He braked the car to a standstill next to a huge stone standing like a fortress guarding the entrance to the main street.

  'The coupling stone,' he indicated with a nod as courteously he held open a door to assist her out of the car. 'One day,' his lips suddenly tightened, 'I shall be forced by conscience to live up to the custom of perambulating round it with my new wife.'

  Petra's sensitive ears caught a hint of resentment, a built-up frustration that was emphasised by his violent slamming of the car door. 'How I regret the passing of the ancient Moorish custom of allowing a man concubines, a selection of beauties chosen to provide pleasure yet living side by side with the wife whose main function was to see to his comfort and to bear his legitimate sons!'

  Petra's steps faltered. She swung round to stare, outraged by the utterance of a man whose barbaric outlook was insulting to her sex.

  'It's hardly surprising that a man holding such views should be experiencing difficulty in finding a marriage partner!' she countered tartly.

  'You are right,' he acknowledged the rebuke with a wide grin, 'no Greek girl would submit to such marital indignity. I have heard, however, that many English couples favour a modernised version of the Moorish system—an "open marriage" in which each partner is free to follow his or her own sexual inclinations without any obvious detriment either to marriage or family life. I should not want that, of course,' he declared with godlike superiority. 'A man's wife should be his own private possession. But the acquisition of a nubile, placid-natured wife who asks no more of a husband than that he should provide her with a home and sire a succession of children upon whom she could lavish an abundance of love would suit me very nicely!'

  When he began strolling towards her, Petra retreated a few startled steps away, relaying a frantic message to pounding pulses, assuring a panicking heart that there was no need to feel terrorised by the mild stirring of interest in his thoughtful eyes.

  'Here is the kyrios!'

  'The kyrios has arrived, and he has brought with him our new teacher!'

  The shrill of children's voices dispersed the sense of oppression weighting Petra's spirits. In no time at all she found herself surrounded by a crowd of laughing, bright-eyed children, each eager to be introduced to the rare phenomenon—an English girl who could speak their difficult tongue like a native.

  Obediently, they obeyed Stelios Heracles' command to fall into line, then responded one by one when he called out names that could have made up a roll-call of mythical gods and goddesses.

  'Athene; Hera; Helios; Selene; Phoebe; Cronos: Minos, and even Zeus—a lively, spindly little boy whose wide grin and dancing eyes seemed to indicate a streak of mischievous fun that promised to be as troublesome as his namesake's thunderbolts.

  'Run along now!' he instructed when the last giggling girl had dropped Petra a charming curtsey. 'Inform your parents that we have arrived and will be waiting in the schoolroom to meet them.'

  Feeling happier than she had done since her arrival in Cyprus, Petra fell into step beside him, smiling at the antics of barefooted children scampering agile as mountain goats in the direction of houses that had huge boulders built into their foundations; walls made of small stones and bricks fashioned out of mud from the river bed, then baked hard in the sun.

  The schoolhouse, an exact replica of the rest of the village houses, had obviously once been a family home, she decided, and had her theory confirmed when she was ushered across the threshold into a huge ground-floor room.

  'Only the first-floor rooms of village houses are used by their inhabitants as living quarters—the largest one for sleeping in and another used as a kitchen-cum-sitting-room,' Stelios told her. 'Usually, the ground floor is also separated into two rooms, but, as you have no doubt guessed, the dividing wall in this house was removed when it was decided that it should be utilised as a schoolroom.'

  'What is the purpose of those large earthenware jars?' She puzzled over three huge jars, bulbous around the middle and having sufficient space inside to provide a hiding place for half a dozen mischievous children.

  'They're wine barrels. Even before the foundations of each house was laid a barrel had to be placed in the basement because, as they are so large, they could not be manoeuvred through doorways once the houses were built. Consequently, they cannot now be removed without either breaking them or pulling the house down. Grapes are placed in the barrels and trodden in the traditional way to produce wine juice. Some villager go further, and with the aid of stills produce a spirit known as zivania—an extremely potent brew that cannot be bought, but which you may be fortunate enough to be offered when invited into the homes of villagers whose hospitality is as warm and generous as their hearts.

  He had barely finished speaking when the first set of parents arrived—the village grocer and his wife who Was carrying a basin which she shyly pressed into Petra's hands.

  'Beccaficos, nicely boiled and sprinkled with lemon juice,' she explained. 'Before eating them, thespinis, you must cut them open and extract a tiny hard ball which is their stomach and which is not edible. Then eat the whole bird as it is, preferably with some fresh bread and a glass of wine.'

  Petra's sensitive stomach turned over, but somehow she managed to thank the woman for the basinful of tiny pickled birds that the islanders regarded as a great delicacy.

  A flood of parents followed, all carrying gifts. Homemade cream cheese from the shepherd; a tin of black olives swimming in vinegar and oil from a farmer; an oke of fresh tomatoes from the greengrocer; a bunch of grapes from a courtyard vine; a still-warm unplucked chicken from the butcher; a silvery blue, rather plump fish with a black band around its tail which the fishmonger emphasised was 'for grilling only'; together with countless offerings of fruit, bottles of local wine, vegetables, freshly baked biscuits, preserves, and bunches of flowers picked by the children as welcoming gifts for their new teacher.

  By the time the schoolroom had become filled with friendly, smiling faces, and a table was overflowing with expressions of gratitude extended by parents to the teacher whom the kyrios had managed to entice into their isolated village in order to instruct their children, Petra had been moved almost to tears, overwhelmed by kindness and generosity.

  'Efharisto!' Thank you very much…' she eventually stammered for the very last time. 'But there really was no need…!'

  To each saint his candle, thespinis.' The broadly smiling butcher had evidently been elected spokesman. 'Every one of our children nurtures an ambition to speak fluent English, but up until your arrival it had not been found possible to provide them with a frontistiria in which to receive special instruction in subjects that they find especially difficult. In spite of a six-day-a-week attendance at school and three, sometimes four and five hours of homework each night, they are keen to learn more about their most popular subject. They could barely contain their excitement when they were informed of your imminent arrival.'

  'But if they st
udy so hard and for such long hours without a break, surely they should be allowed to take full advantage of their annual holidays!' she protested.

  The butcher shrugged. 'It is all part of gaining an education in our sweet land. Students must work hard to prepare themselves for the very difficult university entrance exams.'

  Petra's only regret, as they set off on the return journey home, was that the many invitations to stay to lunch had been declined by Stelios Heracles, whose pressure-of-work excuse had been received sympathetically by the hard working villagers. Even friendly shouts of, 'Kopiaste'— 'come sit with me and share my meal'—from farmworkers sitting near the roadside spreading frugal meals of bread, cheese, olives and tomatoes on brightly checked napkins, received scant acknowledgement from the man brooding silently behind the wheel, his brow furrowed as if his mind was wrestling with some difficult, entirely absorbing problem.

  They had passed through the huge bronze gates guarding the castle drive before she managed to find sufficient courage to intrude into his thoughts.

  'Er… about my brother Gavin?'

  'What?' His startled head swung towards her, almost as if, she decided resentfully, he had just become aware of her presence. 'I beg your pardon, would you mind repeating that statement?'

  'My brother Gavin', she stressed desperately. 'I must know what's happening to him, whether he is to be released or… or…' she gulped, hardly daring to dwell upon the horrifying possibility, 'whether he is to be charged and sent for trial.'

  With increased agitation she waited for his reply. He took his time, slowing the car to a crawl to negotiate a bend in the driveway before braking outside the entrance to the castle. Silently he helped her to alight, then roved brooding eyes over her pinched, anxious face before seemingly reaching some decision.