“But the brig you weren’t so sure about?” He snatched an envelope from beneath the counter and shoved it toward me. “You know the drill: name, address, and cabin number, please.”
I quickly filled in the information, then dropped my film into the envelope and handed it back to him, but made no move to leave.
“Yes, Miss Fletcher?” he asked. “Do you have any questions?”
“Only one,” I said. “What does ‘ELAS’ mean?”
“Where did you hear that?” Markos grabbed a rag from underneath the counter and began wiping down the already spotless surface; I suspected it was more to avoid looking me in the eye than out of any concern for cleanliness.
“I didn’t hear it; I saw it,” I said. “Twice, in fact.” I darted a quick glance around to make sure no other passengers were within earshot, then explained quickly about the tattoo on Devos’s arm and the circumstances that had led to my seeing it.
Markos seemed to consider for a long moment before explaining. “ELAS—it is an acronym in Greek, although it doesn’t translate into English—stands for the Greek People’s Liberation Army. It was a resistance movement during World War II.”
“Really?” That was the last thing I’d expected to hear. “I knew the French had an organized resistance movement, but I didn’t know the Greeks had one.”
“Actually, we had several, but the main two were ELAS and EDES. Probably both would have done better if they hadn’t spent almost as much time and energy fighting each other as they did the Nazi occupation. ELAS did have some success, though; they even managed to liberate part of the mainland from the Nazis.”
“But—but that would mean Devos is a hero, not a villain!”
Markos frowned. “It’s a strange sort of hero who attacks young women in Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar.”
“Yes, but you know what I mean.”
“Let me finish before you go all gushy—that is correct? Gushy?” He must have read the indignation on my face as affirmation, for he continued with no change in adjective. “Before you go all gushy over Devos’s wartime heroics. As I was saying, ELAS had some success against the Germans, and in a rare cooperative effort, they and EDES blew up a bridge that prevented Italian reinforcements from arriving. They won a lot of popular support as a result. The only trouble was that they were a bit too chummy with the Communists. Before the war was even over, my country was embroiled in a civil war of its own.”
“I’m assuming ELAS must have lost that one, since Greece isn’t a communist country today.”
“Yes, but there’s still a lot of bitterness from those former freedom fighters who were defeated by their own countrymen—with support from the British, I might add. Be very careful around Devos, Robin. Avoid him altogether, if you can. There are few things more dangerous than a revolutionary with a grudge. Now, Miss Fletcher,” he added brightly, “what are your plans for seeing Athens tomorrow?”
I blinked at his sudden change of tone, until I saw out of the corner of my eye two more passengers approaching the photo counter. “I—I expect I’ll be taking a bus tour with my aunt,” I stammered. “And you?” He’d once offered to show me the city, but there was nothing in his manner now to indicate that he even remembered, much less intended to make good on his offer.
“I’ll probably spend the day running errands, but I hope you’ll enjoy your visit to Athens,” he said noncommittally. “Yes, sir, how can I help you?”
“Do you have flashbulbs to fit a Kodak camera?” the man asked.
“Yes, sir. How many do you need?” Markos turned away to fetch them, and I was gently but firmly dismissed.
* * *
Maggie, Paul, and I reached Athens after a short bus ride from the port city of Piraeus, and bought tickets for a bus tour just as we had in Rome—minus, of course, the company of Sylvia Duprée, but I wasn’t going to think about that, not now, anyway. Our first stop was at the Panathenaic Stadium, built for the 1896 Olympic Games—the first modern Olympics—on the site of the original stadium, which dated to around 330 B.C. To my delight, we could turn our backs to the stadium and see the Parthenon in the distance, looking down over the city from the Acropolis. I hadn’t realized how huge, or how high, it was, and was ashamed to feel a pang of something like resentment that Maggie’s foot injury prevented me from getting a closer look.
We finally ended up at the National Archaeological Museum, a massive neo-classical building that housed one of the most extensive collections of antiquities in the world. As I wandered from room to room admiring the statues and peering into the glass cases, I remembered the story Markos had told me of artifacts being found on his family’s property on Mykonos, and wondered if any of them were on display here. In fact, I thought, strolling past a door that led not to further exhibits but to what appeared to be a corridor of offices, it was almost as if I could hear Markos’s voice—
Suddenly one of the office doors opened, and the sound came to me more clearly. He was speaking in Greek, so I didn’t understand a word, but I would have recognized the voice anywhere. Sure enough, there was Markos, not dressed in his starched white uniform, or even in the casual clothes he had worn on Mykonos and in Florence, but in a dark blue suit and striped tie. He shook hands with a second, older man, also dressed in business clothes, then turned away as the other man closed the door behind him, effectively ending the interview.
The interview. It occurred to me that Markos looked like—like—
Like a job applicant. Apparently our little escapade on Mykonos had cost him more than he’d let on.
“Markos?”
He flinched at the sight of me, and I had the distinct impression that if he could have escaped without speaking to me, he would’ve done it in a heartbeat.
“Miss Fletcher—Robin!” he exclaimed with a bright smile that didn’t fool me for a minute. “What a pleasant surprise!”
“Don’t give me that! You’re applying for a job here, aren’t you?” It was an accusation, not a question. “Did the captain fire you, or just make you miserable enough that you were forced to quit?”
His dark eyes opened wide. “But I thought you would be pleased! You said I was wasting my education on the Oceanus!”
“Yes, but there’s a difference between choosing to find a new job and being forced to. And the fact that it’s my fault—”
“Your fault? How do you figure that?”
“You were with me on Mykonos, and I—” I was already speaking softly, but I lowered my voice still further, and glanced around to make sure no one, least of all my aunt, could hear what I had to say. “I led you on. I let you—let you take certain liberties—” There I was again, talking like a Jane Austen heroine.
“Yes, it was very wrong of you to pin me down and force yourself on me that way,” he said with mock severity. “Robin, don’t be ridiculous! I was an equal participant, you know. In fact, you could argue that I started the whole thing. After all, I’d wanted to kiss you ever since you boarded the ship in Barcelona.”
“Oh,” I said in a very small voice. There was no reason, no reason at all, for that revelation to warm my heart so. I was probably the only person on the ship under the age of forty, not counting the crew, so if it was a shipboard romance Markos was looking for, it wasn’t as if he had a vast selection of women to choose from. Still, there was something wrong with this assertion—and suddenly I knew what it was. “You had not! Until the night Sylvia—fell—you thought I was involved with Devos!”
“Well, yes, but one does not preclude the other, you know.”
I regarded him quizzically. “What would you have done if I was?”
He shook his head, suddenly and unexpectedly serious. “Don’t ask me that, Robin. I’ve asked myself a thousand times, and never have found an answer.”
All at once the air in the corridor seemed very thick and still, as if the air conditioning had gone out, although I was vaguely aware of it humming somewhere in the background. Before I could form an intelligen
t reply, I heard the click-click-click of footsteps on the hardwood floors, and Maggie burst through the doorway with Paul in her wake.
“There you are, Robin! We’ve been looking everywhere!” Recognizing my companion, she exclaimed, “Why, Markos! Don’t you look handsome!”
“Mrs. Watson.” He nodded in greeting, and offered his hand to Paul. “Dr. Hurley.”
“So you have a day off from the ship?” my aunt continued. “But you don’t look like you’re dressed for sightseeing.”
“No, I’m in Athens today on business,” Markos told her.
“Markos is applying for a job here at the museum,” I explained.
“Really?” Maggie turned to Markos for confirmation, and he gave her a pleasant smile. “Well, I’m sure the Oceanus’s loss will be the museum’s gain.”
“It’s very kind of you to say so, Mrs. Watson, but I’m sure you’ll understand when I say I don’t want word to get around the ship just yet.”
“Wise man,” Paul said.
“Your secret is safe with me, cross my heart,” Maggie declared, sketching a big “X” across her chest with one hand. “Are you finished here? Can you join us for lunch? We’ll even let you choose the place, if you know of a good one nearby.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Watson, I would be glad to. As for a restaurant, I think I can suggest one. It is unknown to most tourists, so the food is more authentic. Cheaper, too.”
“You’re singing my song,” Maggie declared, looping her arm through his. “Lead the way!”
Paul and I fell in behind them, but by the time we exited the museum, we had somehow switched partners. Markos hailed a taxi and we all piled in, Markos sitting in front to give the driver directions in his native tongue while Maggie, Paul and I squeezed into the back. Markos was as good as his word, and soon we were deposited in front of a small restaurant, where we were shown to a table in the window and served a plate piled high with fresh pita bread, which we tore into pieces and dipped into a communal bowl of hummus.
“I have to hand it to you, Markos, I never would have found this place on my own,” Paul said, leaning forward slightly to scoop a blob of hummus onto the soft pita bread. “Are you very familiar with Athens?”
He nodded. “I have a small flat in the city.”
“Do you?” Paul’s salt-and-pepper eyebrows rose in mild surprise. “I should have thought it would be more convenient to stay in Barcelona or Venice.”
To my amazement, this simple observation rendered Markos more flustered than our adventure on Mykonos or even Sylvia’s death had done.
“Yes, well, there’s—there’s something about one’s own country, you know,” he stammered, adding, “Besides, I don’t live here year ’round, only during the off-season. Tell me, Mrs. Watson, have you ever tried moussaka?”
And if that isn’t an attempt to change the subject, I don’t know what is, I thought, wondering why Markos’s living arrangements should be such a mystery. Still, it served its purpose, for Maggie denied any knowledge of moussaka and began plying him with questions regarding the various items on the menu.
“Everything seems to be lamb,” she remarked. “Why no beef, or even mutton? Couldn’t you at least let those poor little lambs grow up before you slaughter them?”
“Some must be allowed to grow up, in order to replenish the flocks,” Markos assured her. “But on the whole, the ground is too stony to support grazing for large animals—certainly not cattle, and few fully grown sheep. So you have lamb. If you don’t like it, there is always chicken, or seafood,” he added apologetically, as if he were personally responsible for the lack of red meat on offer.
“No, no, it all sounds delicious,” Maggie assured him. “What would you suggest?”
Since we would be eating a large meal on the ship that night, Markos suggested gyros (which he pronounced “YEE-rohs,” in spite of its spelling), a sort of Greek sandwich of pita bread stuffed with lettuce, cucumber, tomato, and the ubiquitous lamb, all topped with tzatziki sauce, a creamy white mixture of yogurt and cucumber seasoned with garlic.
“Delicious!” Paul declared after the food was served and he’d taken a big bite.
“It is,” Maggie agreed, dabbing a bit of tzatziki sauce from the corner of her mouth. “It was lucky for us that we ran across you in the museum, Markos. It’s just a pity we couldn’t have found you first thing this morning. We’d have had our very own Greek tour guide.”
“And I would have been happy to oblige,” Markos said. “Tell me, have you visited the Parthenon yet?”
“Only from a distance,” my aunt said. “This damned foot won’t let me make the climb.”
He turned to me. “What about you, Robin?”
I shook my head. “I’m spending the day with Maggie and Paul, and since she can’t—”
“Don’t miss it on my account,” Maggie protested. “After all, when are you going to have another chance? Markos, if you would take Robin to see the Parthenon, I would consider it a personal favor.”
“Maggie!” I wished my aunt would stop throwing me at men—although I was forced to admit that, given a choice, I would rather be thrown at Markos than at Devos any day.
“I would be glad to, but as a favor to Paul,” Markos told Maggie’s beau, grinning. “Robin is an enchanting young lady, but don’t tell me she hasn’t been just the least bit superfluous. I am familiar with the English proverb that says ‘two is company, but three is too crowded.’ ”
“That’s ‘two’s company, three’s a crowd,’ so maybe you’re not quite as familiar with it as you think,” I retorted, only slightly mollified by that “enchanting” remark.
“There’s another proverb that says ‘a friend in need is a friend indeed,’ ” Paul told him. “If you ever need a favor, Markos, I owe you one.”
Maggie beamed at both of them, and I gave in gracefully for her sake. I couldn’t help wondering what would happen when we reached Venice, and she and Paul parted ways. I would hate to see her come to terms with Uncle Herman’s death only to be left heartbroken a second time. For that matter, I wondered what would happen to me. Could Gene and I ever go back to the way we were before? Did I even want us to?
But there would be time to think of that later. For now, I was going to climb the path up the Acropolis to see the Parthenon. While Maggie and Paul hailed a taxi to take them back to the ship, Markos and I scrambled into a second cab and were soon set down near the foot of a broad paved path lined with olive trees. Markos purchased our tickets from a nearby booth, and we started to climb. It was easy going at first, gently sloping ramps interspersed with wide, shallow steps. As we climbed, however, the slope became steeper and the path narrower and more rugged. It was also crowded, and at one point I was jostled by a large school group on their way down. I pitched heavily into Markos, and he caught me against his chest, glaring at the noisy ten-year-olds barreling down the path oblivious to the havoc they’d caused. When we resumed our climb, he insisted on holding me firmly by the arm—not that I fought him very hard on the issue.
“I would put you on the inside, but the view is better from the outside,” he explained.
“Just promise me you won’t let me go over the edge,” I said, glancing warily down at the steep drop.
“An onerous assignment, but I think I can manage,” he said, and pulled me a bit closer to his side. “See the rock there, to the northwest?”
I hadn’t any idea which way was northwest, but I looked down and to the left in the direction he indicated, and saw a dome of bare rock jutting up over the tops of the surrounding cypress trees. A dozen or so people milled about on its bald surface, and from this angle it was impossible to tell how they’d gotten up there. “The one with all the people on it?”
“Yes, that’s the one. That is the Aeropagus, where murderers were tried in ancient times. The first part of the name is said to be derived from Ares, who according to myth was tried there by the gods for the murder of Poseidon’s son.”
“And t
he second part of the name?”
He grinned broadly. “ ‘Pagos’ is Greek for ‘big piece of rock.’ ”
“A practical lot, those Greeks.”
“We can be. But the Romans had another name for the Aeropagus. They called it Mars Hill.”
I gasped, thinking of the Hollises. “The Mars Hill? The one where Paul preached?”
He nodded. “The very same.”
I stopped climbing and stepped back out of the way to dig in my bag without blocking the tourists coming up behind us. “Oh, I hope the Hollises are able to see it! But I’ll take a couple of photos just in case, and if they missed it, I’ll send them one.”
I snapped three shots, just to be sure of getting a good one, then I put away my camera and we resumed our climb. At last we reached the Beulé Gate—a curiously French name for a Greek structure, I thought, but Markos told me it was named for the French archaeologist who had identified it in the middle of the nineteenth century.
“It’s newer than the rest of the ruins here,” he added, puffing slightly from the climb, “if something dating from the third century can be called new.”
“Architectural styles must have changed, and not for the better,” I said, eyeing the gate with disfavor. “It isn’t nearly as beautiful as the pictures I’ve seen of the Parthenon.”
“Being Greek myself, I will take that as a compliment, for the Beulé Gate was not built by the Greeks, but by the Romans. We may have been conquered by Rome in the second century before Christ, but the Romans tried to emulate our culture in some ways.” He grinned. “The playground bully may beat up the class egghead and take his lunch money, but he secretly envies the boy he knows is smarter than himself.”
This sounded so much like the junior high dynamics I saw every day that I had to smile. But life had a way of evening things out, and I’d also seen the other side of the equation: college athletes begging for tutoring from the same young men they had tormented only a few years earlier.
“As for the gate’s lack of beauty,” Markos continued, “there is a reason for that. Unlike the temples on the Acropolis that were built to please the gods, this gate was built purely for defensive purposes, using fragments of earlier buildings destroyed by the Goths. If you know where to look, you can even see some of the carved inscriptions from the original structures.”
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