The good minister’s memorial service was the only funeral Elena had ever attended. The hushed voices, quiet weeping, and enduring smiles had filled her with a deep, aching sorrow. But that gentle ceremony did nothing to prepare her for the Greek mourning rituals.
As they prepared and served breakfast, the wailing continued, joined by other women’s voices. The sound put Diana’s nerves on edge and her hands shook.
“I wish I could perform the miroloyi for Costas,” Sophia said in a tired voice from her bed on the sofa. She’d hardly had the strength to climb the stairs to her bedroom the night before. “You must tell me who sings.”
Hours later as the villagers followed the procession to the small churchyard, Diana glanced at Elena. The young girl wiped tears from her cheeks and walked with her head bowed. Women wailed loudly, letting out moans, but their noises did not draw a glance from the others. Elena had explained to her that since Costas was a child, the wake had lasted a few hours instead of days.
Costas was wrapped in a shroud and carried on the shoulders of men in his family. Diana hadn’t realized that he would not be buried in a coffin, but the Maniots were poor people and wood was scarce, which was why every building was constructed of stone. She saw Spiros wipe his eyes with his thumb and finger as he bore his younger brother’s body. His sister, Theodora, walked with her mother.
When they reached the cemetery, Diana hung back.
Elena shot her a questioning glance, but she motioned for the girl to continue. These were her people.
Diana stood beneath a tree at the edge of the churchyard as Father Yianni spoke; then the small figure was laid into the ground.
The mourners stood still, as if they were waiting for something.
Daphne, the boy’s mother, began to sing in a high, reedy voice. The melody was in a minor chord, and the tune, instead of offering comfort, was sung in a rhythm that left Diana feeling agitated. The words sounded harsh. She rubbed her arm as goose pimples tightened her skin.
Other women surrounded the grave and joined in the singing, adding their wails and keeping time with the unearthly beat of the music.
Diana glanced around and saw Elena and Stella weeping.
Daphne swayed back and forth as she sang, occasionally letting out a loud sob. The song’s intensity grew, as did the singer’s actions. The singing became more like shrieking. Costas’s mother raked her fingernails down her cheeks and beat at her breast.
Diana darted a look at the other mourners, thinking someone should stop her before she hurt herself.
Nobody looked alarmed at her behavior. The men stood with their heads bowed, and the women swayed with Daphne, adding their moans and cries to the song. One woman tore out a fistful of hair and dropped it into the grave. Another collapsed, writhing as she howled.
The spectacle seemed near to hysteria, and Diana could not believe the others allowed it to continue. Daphne’s cheeks bled. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and she held her scarf by the corners, pulling it from side to side behind her back, keeping time to the music in a way that made Diana think she was nearly in a trance.
The spectacle did not draw strange glances or whispers. She realized it was all part of the mourning ceremony.
Diana fought to hold back a wave of emotion. The display took her by surprise, but it was so desperately moving that her throat tightened, and she drew a jagged breath. She pressed the inside of her wrist against her chest when the pain became too strong and closed her eyes against the tears prickling.
“It is perfectly acceptable to cry, you know.”
She recognized Alexandros Metaxas’s voice but did not look up—her emotions were not yet under control. She shook her head, squeezing her eyes as she counted and calmed her breathing. Her hands were trembling as she pushed away the tears and finally raised her head.
“A miroloyi,” Alexandros continued. “Mani women are famous for their weeping songs.
“I have never seen . . . It is so incredibly sad.” Her voice quivered, but she held herself tightly and no tears escaped.
He reached out a hand toward her.
“Don’t.” She spoke more sharply than she’d intended, but her hold on her emotions was precarious and she knew one touch would make her crumble like a sandy wall holding back a river.
“I’m sorry.” He tipped his head as he studied her. “Repressing your pain does not make it disappear. It becomes poison inside you.” He glanced toward the women at the graveside. “Setting the pain free, it is therapeutic.”
Diana clung to her arms, shivering in the shade, though she was not cold.
He turned his gaze toward the graveside. “These women have seen their share of death. They know how to cope with grief.”
Tears threatened again, and Diana felt a sob choking her throat. “And you bring more grief.” She spoke sharply, using the tactic she was most familiar with, disguising sorrow with anger and pushing away anyone who came too close. “Why do you sell weapons here? To bring war? You pretend to care, but you will cause more death, and for what purpose? To turn a profit.”
She turned away and walked hurriedly, heading for the churchyard gate. She did not glance back at either Alexandros or the mourners. Elena was surrounded by friends and family. She did not need Diana to wait for her.
“Miss Snow.”
Hearing his footsteps behind her, she quickened her pace.
“Diana.”
The sound of her Christian name brought her up short. She whirled around, prepared to deliver a scathing reprimand.
He caught her arm and leaned close. “I do bring war, but I do not do it lightly.”
The intensity in his expression stopped anything she intended to say. Her pulse pounded, and she didn’t know whether it was from her rapid walking, the emotion of the weeping song, or the familiar way this man used her name and stood so close as he spoke.
“Then why?” Her question sounded foolish to her own ears, but she wanted to understand.
“Walk with me.” He skimmed his fingers down her arm, catching her wrist and tucking her hand beneath his arm.
Diana felt a trail of heat where his skin touched hers. The sensation left her breathless, and she was tempted to flee, but the unanswered question held her in place. Somehow, understanding this man had become a matter of vital importance.
Alexandros led her to a low stone wall across the square from the church. A bush with bright pink flowers offered shade from the midday sun. He spread his hand, indicating for her to sit, then joined her.
Diana felt an unexpected tinge of loss when he released her hand. The sentiment surprised her.
He turned his knees toward her, arms resting on his legs. “You asked why I bring war. I will tell you. But in order for you to fully understand, you must hear my story.”
She folded her hands in her lap, nodding her head.
Alexandros gazed across the square to the churchyard, where the sounds of the mirolóyi continued. “Do you know the word devşirme?”
Diana pulled her brows together. “Devşirme?” She said it slowly, trying to pronounce it the way he had, but her tongue could not form the sounds. “No.”
“In Turkish, it means ‘collecting.’” He clenched his jaw, and his lip curled beneath his moustache.
A heaviness filled Diana’s stomach. The look on his face made her fear what he would say. “Go on,” she said tentatively.
“The Turks collect a tax of children, young boys, mostly, to increase their armies. Though girls are taken too. For the sultan’s harem.”
Diana gasped. “No, they cannot simply steal children.” The thought of anyone taking away Sophia’s children made panic well up inside her. She needed to hear him say it would not happen. “It is only a story, Mr. Metaxas, isn’t it? A rumor.”
“Alex. Please call me Alex.” He glanced at her then turned his gaze away. The heavy sensation increased, and a foreboding accompanied it when she saw the hardness in his face.
“When I was a
child, my father owned a large vineyard outside of Nafplio. It was beautiful. My mother planted flowers and kept an herb garden by the kitchen door. She hummed as she worked. Sometimes my father let me ride on the donkey when he drove into town for market day.” A soft smile curved his lips. “In the evenings, Papa would tell us stories from the Bible. I spent my childhood running up and down the rows between vines, playing with my older brother and sister.
“My sister, Dimitria, sang to her dolls. And my brother, Michalis, he loved to read. He would stay awake late into the night with a book and a candle.”
Alex closed his eyes and tightened his shoulders. “When I was eleven, a group of men approached the farm on horseback. They were, of course, Turks. Only Turks are allowed to own horses. My father was not a stranger to the local tax collector, but something about these men frightened him. He told my mother to hide me and ran to find my brother and sister.” Alex swallowed and drew a breath, letting out slowly before continuing.
“My mother ran with me into the storehouse. She pushed me behind a pile of barrels, against the wall, and squeezed in beside me. I can still remember the smell of wood and wine. She held me against her, and I could feel her shaking.
“Outside, we heard Michalis calling for my parents in a frightened voice. Dimitria was screaming. My father yelled angrily, then was silenced by a gunshot.”
Diana pushed her fist against her breastbone. She shook her head and fought back tears when she saw Alex’s eyes were wet.
“Mitéra pressed my face against her when we heard voices enter the storehouse, but they did not discover our hiding place. We remained there for what seemed like hours. I was afraid, and she . . . I felt her teardrops in my hair.” Alex rubbed his eyes.
“Oh, Alex.” Diana’s heart hurt as she watched this man relive his pain. “I . . .” She could not think of words to comfort him and instead slid closer and placed her hand over his.
He turned his head to look at her, and Diana tried to read the jumble of expressions on his face. Pain, sorrow, resignation, anger . . . He pressed his lips tight and breathed deeply.
“What happened?” Diana whispered.
“I did not see my brother and sister again. I remember, at my father’s wake, thinking he looked like he was sleeping, except for the hole in his forehead.” He grimaced. “Mitéra and I could not maintain the orchard alone. We moved into a house in the city. She was consumed with fear that I would be taken, and finally, she sent me to school in Italy, where I would be safe. I got word a few months later that she was dead.”
“How?”
“I do not know.” He turned fully toward her and placed his other hand atop hers. “Diana, for years, anger festered inside me until revenge was my only thought. When I finished school, I traveled to Constantinople with the goal of finding my siblings and killing as many Turks as I could in the process. I concocted a terrible plan involving gunpowder, a disguise, and the sultan’s palace. Luckily, a man named Xánthos found me before I got myself killed.” His lips pulled slightly to the side. “My death would have solved nothing.”
“Xánthos had a similar history, but instead of allowing his anger to poison him, he used it to fuel his goal to free Greece. He learned all he could about the enemy, about intelligence tactics and stratagems. Then he taught me, trained me, and I found a way to make myself useful to my people instead of getting killed on a suicide mission.”
“We mean to start a war, Diana. But not for profit, not for revenge. I do not want another family destroyed the way mine was, the way so many are. I do not want another boy to hide in fear while his father is killed and his siblings stolen. I do not want another wife and mother to die of a broken heart.”
“And so you bring weapons for people to defend themselves?”
“I belong to an order—I cannot tell you more—but they have sent me to recruit others to the cause. Greeks are fiercely loyal to their clans, especially the Maniots. But if they can work together—if we can all join forces . . .” He cleared his throat.
Diana saw his actions in a new light. The way he’d spoken to Dino and Themis that night on the beach. He was not simply hoping they would be interested in his guns; he needed to win their trust. “It is dangerous. If you were discovered by the wrong people . . .” The thought brought her up short. Alex’s mission was a risk. Even among his people. Surely there were those who wanted nothing to do with his group or their plan. Some might even think to report him to the Turks.
“Which is why this undertaking is better for a lone man instead of a person with a family.”
Diana’s throat was tight, and her eyes burned. “I am sorry I accused you. I am sorry.” She could not bring herself to say more. Sobs were threatening to choke her. She felt hopeless when she thought of the pain he had suffered. She had no family and could not imagine how devastating the loss was to Alex and his mother.
“Don’t you see? The revenge was poisoning me. When I released my hatred and turned my mind to change instead of vengeance, I was free.” He took her other hand, lifting both in his. “You must let it free, Diana. You cannot hold in your pain forever. It will consume you.”
“I cannot.” She tried to pull her hands away, but he did not release his grip.
“Why?”
“I’m afraid.” She tugged and drew her hands from his, pressing her fingers against her eyes and then down her cheeks.
He tipped his head down to capture her gaze. “Afraid of what? Of judgment? Do you think I do not know what it is to weep? You worry I will think less of you?”
She wrapped her arms around herself, shaking her head. Her heart ached, and she felt as if her very soul was grieving—for Costas, for Alex, for every broken family in Greece. “I am afraid if I let it go, it will hurt.” She gasped, swallowing a sob and releasing a shaky breath as she fought down the tears. “It will hurt, and I’ll not be able to bear the pain.” Diana breathed in and out, counting the bricks in the road while her emotions calmed. She felt like she was gathering soft sand that kept slipping through her fingers faster than she could capture it.
Alex slid closer to her but remained silent, and when she was finally in possession of her self-control, she glanced up at him and saw that he studied her with a thoughtful expression.
She rose, and he rose with her.
“If you will excuse me, I should return.” Diana kept the trembling out of her voice. She turned and started toward Sophia’s house.
Without a word, Alex stepped next to her, lifting her hand into the crook of his arm.
She was grateful that he seemed to understand her need for silence as she sorted her feelings. Understanding them, analyzing them, and knowing them for what they were helped her put them away. She could not remember ever feeling so much sorrow for another person’s pain—even her own. Alexandros Metaxas’s burdens weighed on her, and it frightened her. She pushed away the pain and sorrow, and the ache she felt from watching a mother grieve for her child.
She felt guilt for her assumptions about Alex churning like acid inside her. She’d continued to assume the worst about him, even when he had explained his actions on the beach and gave her no reason to distrust him. Why did she do it? She knew the answer rested with the other feeling that she did not want to confront. The one that set her heart beating when she heard his voice and her stomach fluttering when he was near. That feeling was even more frightening than the others. Somehow, Diana’s heart had become wrapped up with Alex’s, and she knew the only way to cope was to pull it back. She did not know whether it was a matter of days or weeks, but a ship would arrive to take him away, and if she didn’t have full possession of her heart, his leaving would tear off a piece of it. And that was a pain she was certain she’d be unable to bear.
Chapter 13
The day after the funeral, Alex stopped at the roadside shrine on his way to Tsímova, making the sign of the cross and saying a prayer. He opened the door and studied the small ikon of the Most Holy Theotokos and her infant Jesus pain
ted with golden halos and trumpeting angels. Instead of continuing right away, he used the flint and steel inside the box to light a candle.
Memories of his family were close to the surface since yesterday’s conversation with Diana. He’d only related the entirety of the story one other time—to Xánthos. He studied the small flame flickering off the figures depicted in the ikon. As much as he ached for his family, he felt as though God had put Xánthos into his path just at the right time. The man had saved his life—in more ways than one, teaching him to release his hatred, instilling in him the belief that his life was not without value, and preparing him to become a member of the order. He crossed himself again, praying for the success of the Filiki Eteria and feeling blessed to be a part of something greater than himself.
He closed the door of the shrine and continued on his way with a feeling of peace. He breathed the cooling air, taking in the smell of rosemary and thyme from the wild herbs along the road. A perfect autumn evening. Patting the knapsack at his hip, he turned his mind to the purpose for his outing. He felt like his conversation yesterday with Diana had broken through some of her walls, and the thought of seeing her again made his chest feel light. An unwelcome whisper of trepidation wormed its way into his thoughts. Would she want to see him again? She had clearly been distressed during their conversation. Would she revert back to the closed-off woman from before? Had he exposed too much of himself?
He’d hoped sharing a personal piece of his history would make her comfortable enough to do the same. And even though she held her emotions close, he’d seen a young woman who’d been frightened, hurt.
He neared the outskirts of the village, admiring the beauty and simple life of its inhabitants. The rocky land made farming difficult, and it seemed like goats and sheep were the only livestock that adapted to the harsh climate. With few natural resources, the Maniot people eked out a harsh existence. They worked from dawn until dusk with little to show for it, but they were willing to share what they had. He felt grateful and a little jealous of their unpretentious lives. He would miss this place, these people. One in particular.
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