Realm of the Pagans

by Anne Hampson

  Luke added, watching her in some curiosity, 'What's wrong? Why the hesitation? Don't you want me with you?'

  'Of course I want you,' she replied unhesitatingly. 'It will be nice to have company. And you can tell me all about it—the true history and the legendary.'

  'I expect you read it all before you came.' He moved and she fell into step beside him, happier than she had been for some days.

  'I did read about it, naturally, when I knew I was coming here. But the stories vary so much that it's difficult to get hold of the authentic one.'

  'There's no authentic one; historians have not yet established the origin of the legend of Olympia. All that is known is that it began as a purely religious sanctuary, just as so many of our ancient sites did.' They had left the terrace and were walking slowly through the gardens, keeping to a path between a bank of cerise bougainvillaea on one side and a bed of roses on the other. When they left the garden proper the extensive grounds of the villa unrolled before them in ever-changing design and colour; the little stream, tributary of the Cladeos, cascaded over the stones in its bed, its waters glistening, brilliant and blue; the oleanders were pink and white and sweetly-perfumed. They bordered the bed of the stream, while beneath them wild poppies splashed colour, flaunting their bright crimson flowers against the emerald green of the undergrowth.

  Luke spoke after a pause, explaining that the Sanctuary had originally been dedicated to the earth goddess, Gaea, wife of Uranos, god of the sky. 'Later power was seized by Kronos, after whom Mt. Kronion is named, and he and his wife, Rhea, were worshipped at Olympia, but even at that time we have no record of the Olympic legend.'

  'The Games began much later, then?'

  'Some historians credit Heracles with organizing the first Olympic Games. However, it would appear that the real revival was around 900 B.C. when a sacred truce was entered into by three kings, and Parliament had the power to punish offenders against that truce.'

  'So it was because of this sacred truce that the Olympic Games really got under way?'

  'That's right. The Greeks were always warring with one another, the various tribes engaging continuously in civil strife. But the Games brought this to an end periodically when heralds travelled through the country announcing the Games and that the truce had to be observed.'

  'So everyone laid down their arms.' Martine shook her head. 'But it was only a temporary cessation of hostilities.' It was a statement, not a question, for Martine knew, of course, that once the Games came to an end fighting automatically began again. 'The Games didn't really do any good at all.'

  'Oh, yes, they did, in a way,' argued Luke thoughtfully. He and Martine were in the wood-ed lane leading down towards the site and as the surface of the road became stony he reached down to take hold of her hand. She felt her whole body glow as the warmth of his grasp penetrated. He glanced down at the precise moment when she closed her eyes, as if in ecstasy at her quivering emotions. His eyes were oddly wide and questioning when she opened hers and met his gaze.

  Her smile was forced as she said, 'What good did the Games do, then?' It was a question asked only to end an uneasy silence on her part, for she was baffled by her husband's manner and expression; she wondered a little fearfully if he had made a guess as to her feelings for him.

  'They brought the entire Hellenic race together, a fraternity bent on national unity for the period of the Games.'

  Martine shrugged her shoulders. 'It was such a short truce, though,' she said, and as Luke made no comment they strolled on in companionable silence until they reached the gate leading to the Sanctuary.

  Luke paid the entrance fee and they went in. There were only a few tourists so all was quiet except for the occasional bit of chatter mingling with the chirping of crickets and the sound of sheep-bells drifting down from the hills. The Sanctuary lay before them, the once flourishing centre of art and culture and great athletic achievement, a tranquil world where now only the sacred ashes of a magnificent civilisation remained, ashes in the form of ruined temples and fallen columns. Yet something mysteriously revealing in the atmosphere brought clear visions of the grace and glory of ancient Greece, the country which brought civilisation to the Western world. Martine, affected as always by the magic, captured by the beauty, experienced the gap of time between then and now… and yet she was reminded that in terms of geological time the centuries were as a mere snap of the fingers.

  'I can picture it all,' she murmured, speaking softly because to speak more loudly seemed like sacrilege. 'The graceful competitors, nude and of perfect physique, competing in various forms of combat.'

  'The foot and horse-racing, the discus and the javelin, the wrestling and the jumping…' Luke's voice trailed off meditatively and it seemed that he, too, was lost in the magic of those far off days which had somehow left unfathomable images behind to linger over the sacred precincts like some profound yet hauntingly intangible shadows of a past so great and glorious that even the ruthless forces of nature had not been able to erase them.

  'I suppose,' commented Luke at last, 'that you've been all over this site many times?' His voice was cool all at once, and he seemed to frown within himself.

  She said quietly, 'Kelvin and I have certainly done a good deal of work here.'

  'It's all been done before,' shortly and with a sidelong glance which told her plainly that he was deriding Kelvin's work.

  'Perhaps, but a travel book on Greece must include something about Olympia.'

  'When is he expecting to finish?'

  'I have no idea. I think he is almost finished here, though.'

  'And where does he go then?'

  'He wants to go next to Mykonos, in order to visit Delos.' Martine had no wish to talk about Kelvin and she changed the subject as they reached the remains of the Temple of Zeus. 'The statue by Pheidias must have been marvellous. What a shame it was destroyed.'

  'It was only one of thousands of treasures that were either lost or destroyed. Many found their way to Constantinople and the statue of Zeus was one of the most precious. It's a shame it did not survive.'

  Martine was silent as they stood by the base of the Temple. She tried to picture that wonder of the world, the first of seven. Almost forty-two feet high even though the god was seated on his throne, it was done mostly in solid gold and ivory embellished with precious stones and ebony. The god's hair was of gold, and so were his cloak and sandals. Martine could not even begin to estimate the value in money; the aesthetic value was the saddest loss, though, and it was believed that the statue had been lost in a fire in Constantinople after it had been stolen and taken there by one of the plunderers who had descended on the Sanctuary as it began to decline.

  'Nothing lasts,' murmured Martine and she thought about life and people—those who had gone before her and those who would come after. Everything must perish—even the earth itself one day in the distant future. A sigh escaped her and was noticed by Luke.

  'What's wrong?' he demanded and she realized he had concluded that her thoughts were with Kelvin, with whom she had spent so much time here, among the precious ruins.

  'I feel depressed at the knowledge that everything will one day disappear. Nothing, no miracle, can preserve the treasures man creates.'

  'All is transitory,' he agreed in solemn tones. 'It pays us to grasp what pleasure we can, my dear.' He sent her a measuring look. 'I believe I have already advised you not to ask too much but to take what is there, what is real and tangible.'

  'Because life is so short?'

  'Yes, for that reason, Martine.'

  'You mention pleasure—not happiness.' She stared down at the massive base that had once supported the columns which had long since disappeared, toppled by earthquakes or broken by wind and rain to become small pieces that could be carried away by the overflowing rivers or buried in the sediment left behind when the waters had subsided. Some of the stonework would have been carried off by villagers over the centuries and would no doubt be found in someone's rockery
or even forming part of a building.

  'There is only a fine line between pleasure and happiness,' began Luke when Martine interrupted him.

  'No, I can't agree. Happiness covers time but pleasure is fleeting.'

  'Have it your own way,' he returned indifferently. 'I find my life pleasurable and am satisfied with it that way. You, my wife, want more.'

  'Love,' she said, though she had not meant to say it aloud.

  'Forget it,' he almost snapped, but strangely turned from her just as if he would conceal his expression… Why?

  Could he still be brooding on the loss of the girl he had once been engaged to? Could he be admitting that it was love—real love—he had felt for Odette? But why, then, had he not taken her back after her divorce? He had deliberately married another woman just for spite—or perhaps because he had been determined to guard himself against the weakness of falling in love with Odette again. Yes, mused Martine, he would certainly consider it weakness if he had allowed himself to fall victim to the girl's charms a second time.

  And that was why he had married someone else.

  'Love is essential in marriage,' she could not help saying as they moved away, towards the path leading to the museum which was located not far from the archaeological site. 'I shouldn't have married you.'

  'It was the best thing you ever did.'

  'I always said you were pompous and self-opinionated!'

  'And you are dishonest, mainly with yourself. You will only admit to needing me when you're in the ecstatic throes of passionate lovemaking.'

  'Oh—what a thing to say!' Her protest only served to make him laugh. Martine would have derived considerable satisfaction from hitting him.

  'Come, child, let us go and take a look at the museum.'

  'You can't want to go there. You've seen the exhibits many times.'

  But I am always happy to see them again.' He surprised her by tucking her arm into his as he quickened his pace a little. He glanced around, saw that there was no one in the immediate vicinity and bent his head and kissed her cheek. It was an unexpected action and one which Martine sensed was done on impulse. She smiled up at him and he responded; she searched his face but suddenly it became a mask, fixed, unreadable.

  Complex man, with that unfathomable way of changing his manner!

  A good deal of what was in the museum was Roman, but by common consent they made then-way to the room housing the world-famous statue of Hermes by Praxiteles, done in the 4th century B.C.

  'Hermes… messenger of the gods,' murmured Martine softly. 'Isn't he beautiful!' And yet, she thought, his body could not possibly excel that of her husband.

  'It must be one of the most beautiful statues ever executed,' agreed Luke. 'You know of course who the baby is?'

  She nodded. Hermes was carrying the infant Dionysos, the god of wine, to be cared for by the nymphs of Boiotia.

  'The baby was the illegitimate son of Zeus and Semele, and as Zeus was afraid his wife would have the child killed he told Hermes to carry it off to the nymphs.' She was half laughing as she finished, and she shook her head. 'You know, Luke, it always seems true to me.'

  'Yet it's all fairytales.'

  'I know, but as you once said, it was all real to the ancients.'

  'Paganism.' He seemed a long way off, remote as the people about whom they were talking. Martine glanced upwards, noting the classical lines and curves of his face, the straight nose of the ancient Greeks, both men and gods, the mouth with its full, sensuous lips, the deep-set eyes beneath a stern dark brow. 'Yet, today, most Greeks are devout, and in the villages few of them would miss church on a Sunday.'

  'But they kiss the ikons; that's a form of paganism still.' She was glad her husband did not have ikons about the house. Most Greeks did, and some—mainly women—would light candles every night and leave them there, lighting up the faces of the saints. Yes, saints now, not gods carved in stone. What was the difference? Paintings on canvas, carvings in stone… all to be revered, worshipped… Dejection spread through Martine again and she shivered.

  I wish I could be happy, she thought silently. This dejection will pull me right down in the end.

  Chapter Nine

  A sky of translucent silver and a softly-gliding moon, the quivering lustre of amethyst and pearl on the hillsides, the drowsy gardens with their pools of black onyx beneath clumps of trees or flowering bushes all lent their beauty to the villa. Unreal as the perfumed breeze sweeping in from the north, soft as velvet on your face, unreal yet beautiful beyond description, they stood.

  Martine stood on the verandah of her bedroom, her long flowing dress clinging to her shapely legs, its folds captured by the breeze. She lifted her face to the light and the gentle rush of air; she breathed deeply and wondered why she could be unhappy in such magical surroundings. She had everything… almost. There was the house, elegant and showing every sign of wealth and good taste; there wasn't a thing she wanted to change. There was the glorious setting, the servants and there was her handsome husband…

  'Dreaming, my dear?' His voice behind her was edged with sardonic amusement; his hands on her throat were as warm and gentle as the lips that caressed her naked shoulder. She quivered and turned, reaching up to press her hands' against his shoulders. She felt his muscles ripple, knew his instant need as he brought her slender body close so that she would feel the granite hardness of his thighs. He could hurt, and she thrilled to the pleasure-pain, just as she did when his lips became merciless, as they often did, or his possessive fingers found the places that were the most sensitive and the most delicate. Yet on the whole he was gentle with her; it was only when carried to the primordial stages that he forgot his own strength and she had to cry out to make him remember that she was soft and feminine and vulnerable.

  'You're the loveliest thing I have ever owned…' His breath was cool and fresh against her softly-parted lips, his hand on her hair light as the caress of a summer breeze. 'It was a fortunate moment in my life when I stopped up there on that hilly road to offer you assistance.'

  'I thought you were Kelvin and threw myself into your arms.'

  'I was stunned—'

  '—but not for long! And then it was I who was stunned.'

  'Obviously Kelvin kisses differently.'

  'Gentler!'

  'But not as satisfying.'

  She laughed against the smooth linen of his evening jacket, then lifted her face, offering her lips, tempting him, flirting with him, but just when he was about to accept the invitation she said saucily, 'It's time we were going down for dinner.'

  'Wretch!' She was slapped, then kissed soundly and not released until she began fighting for breath. 'Let that be a lesson to you, my girl!' He lifted her and carried her into the bedroom then set her on her feet. 'I suppose,' he remarked dryly, 'that you've transferred your lip rouge to me.'

  'A little,' she laughed and produced a tissue from the box on the dressing-table. She offered it to him but he made her dab his lips herself. 'Are mine smudged? Really, Luke, you ought not to kiss me at this time of the day!'

  'I shall kiss you whenever I like,' was his smooth rejoinder as he nodded his head in answer to her question. 'Yes, it's smudged.'

  Dinner was somehow different that evening, more intimate, but perhaps it was because of the candles and the flowers and the sparkling champagne that Luke had decided to have with the meal. Martine was not really up to the quality wines her husband had in his cellar and after a glass and a half she was soaring on a cloud. But she realised Luke was behaving differently, not so coolly impersonal before the servants, not quite so reserved when speaking to her in their presence. He smiled a little more often, too, and listened to her more interestedly when she was telling him something.

  Perhaps, she thought much later as she walked with him in the garden, he might one day come to love her… But no—it was impossible!

  The following day Martine came upon Sophia when she was in the village doing some shop-ping. Sophia's attitude was wit
hout doubt hostile and so Martine was instantly on her guard.

  'I thought you'd have decided to go back to Kelvin before now.' There was a dark and antagonistic expression on the younger girl's face, marring its exquisite beauty.

  'I happen to be married, Sophia,' returned Martine crisply, 'and, therefore, my place is with my husband.'

  'But you're in love with Kelvin.'

  Martine's eyes opened wide. 'Am I? You apparently know more than I do, Sophia.'

  There was an audible gritting of teeth before Sophia said, 'Sarcasm's the lowest form of wit!' Her tone was sharp, her words more noticeably accented than usual.

  'Don't be trite!' Martine's expression held contempt and the other girl began to colour up. Martine paused a moment in indecision, but eventually she said curiously, 'What did Kelvin say to make you change your mind about telling Luke of what you saw?'

  'Kelvin didn't tell you himself?' Sophia's voice was equally as curious as Martine's had been.

  'No—and I feel there is some mystery, Sophia.' Another pause before Martine added, glancing along the street, 'Perhaps you'd join me for coffee and tell me all about it?'

  'About what?' Sophia looked away as she spoke. 'I don't know what you mean about a mystery.'

  'I think you do,' with a sort of gentle persuasion. 'What about that coffee?'

  Sophia looked at her, a hint of defiance mingling with the hostility which was still there in her manner. But she said at last, 'All right, I'll have some refreshment with you—but as for there being anything to tell—'

  'Let us go along to the cafeneion, then,' suggested Martine and moved on in the direction of the little pavement cafe where the usual scene was being enacted—dark-skinned men lounging at the tables, legs sprawled and open—Martine had always thought that every move and posture of Greek men portrayed their interest in sex— while their hands were occupied either in playing tavli or clicking their brightly-coloured strings of worry beads. The waiter was busy serving ouzo and mezes or tiny cups of the black and syrupy Turkish coffee. One or two tourists were sitting, watching all that was going on with interest.