The Tower of the Winds

by Elizabeth Hunter

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  THE TOWER OF THE WINDS

  When her sister died, leaving an orphaned baby son, Charity was determined to take charge of the baby, and she immediately went to Greece to sort the matter out. But the child's paternal uncle, the masterful Greek Loukos Papandreous, was equally determined that the child was going to remain in Greece—with him. And in Greece the rights of a male relative would have very much more precedence than those of a mere female! Nevertheless, Charity had no intention of giving up the fight. Yet how could she cope with this man who was constantly reminding her that she was a woman and that therefore her opinions were of no account—and yet who made her glad that she was a woman, more glad than she could say ?

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the Author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the Author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

  First published 1973 This edition 1974

  Š Elizabeth Hunter 1973

  For copyright reasons, this book may not be issued on loan or otherwise except in its original soft cover.

  ISBN o 263 71558 2

  Made and Printed in Great Britain by Cox & Wyman Ltd, London, Reading and Fakenham

  The Tower Of The Winds

  Elizabeth Hunter

  For

  FRANCES PLEASS who trod the Sacred Way to Delphi in my company and liked it best of all our travels.

  O glittering, violet-crowned, chanted in song, Bulwark of Hellas, renowned Athens, Citadel of the Gods.

  Pindar c. 474 B.C.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Athens was just awakening after the long siesta. One by one, the shops of the Plaka came reluctantly to life. The sound of a radio spilling forth the wailing notes of a typically Middle Eastern song was abruptly stilled. The black-clad women, their head-scarves dragged over the lower parts of their faces, turned away from one another, their lengthy gossip at an end, and hurried on homewards to beat the setting sun. It was four o'clock and there was only one week left now before Christmas.

  Charity Archer turned her head a little and found herself looking up at the Acropolis. It had a way of being constantly in view, unexpectedly appearing at the end of a street, or peering over the shoulder of a line of buildings, a reminder that the old gods were not yet done with the city. Charity had not yet made her pilgrimage up to the High Place, but she had every intention of going, just as soon as she had met her sister and found out exactly what was happening.

  There were three sisters, called, much to their annoyance, Faith, Hope and Charity. Charity was the youngest by many years. Her sisters had married long since, but Charity had stayed at home, first nursing their dying father, and then struggling to keep the family home going because her sisters had thought it might be useful one day when their own families grew up, for neither of them lived in England. Hope had married an American and farmed in West Virginia, loving every minute of it. Faith had rather more romantically fallen in love with a mysterious Greek and had never been seen in England again. How long was it now? It must be five years, Charity thought, since she had last seen her. Five years punctuated by occasional postcards and even more occasional letters.

  It had been a letter that had brought Charity to Athens. Charity had been quite unable to make head nor tail of it, but that had not surprised her. Faith had always liked the complicated rather than the simple, the obscure rather than clarity, in anything she had done. It was the sort of ridiculous arrangement she would make, bringing her young sister running from the other end of Europe with only a few directions, none of them clear, as to where she was to stay and where they were to meet.

  Charity, who had never been further afield than France, had flown the day before to Athens and hadn't known whether she was on her head or her heels ever since. Even the alphabet was strange and incomprehensible, meaning nothing at all to her. Nor did the language. She had had the address of the hotel she wanted written out by her sister, but nobody had seemed to know where it was. The taxi had taken her first to the Hilton, and then less hopefully to the Grande Bretagne, but Charity had shaken her head at both places, insisting on the address she had been given. The taxi-driver had shrugged and had patted her consolingly on the shoulder. Finally the light had dawned.

  'Koukaki!' he had shouted out, as if it were some magic charm. We, ne,Koukaki!' And in a few seconds they had drawn up outside the hotel.

  A good night's sleep had put new heart into her. She had spent the morning walking from the hotel to the centre of the city. There had been so much to see. She had seen the guards, magnificent and still in their white summer uniforms, outside the royal palace, and she had walked along one of the streets that joined Syntagma (or Constitution) and Omonia (or Harmony) Squares, and back again along another one.

  She had been early in getting to the Plaka. She had had lunch at one of the small tavernasthat in the evening specialize in bouzouki music and dancing, and had asked anyone who had a smattering of English where she could find

  the Tower of the Winds. Nobody had known. In the end, she had found it for herself, trying to get a better view of the Acropolis. She had known that the old Greek market had lain at the feet of the Acropolis - the agora,it was called on her map. What she had not noticed was that there was a second, smaller agora,the Roman market, contemptuously dismissed as being late and of not much interest. And there, at one side, was the Tower of the Winds.

  Charity, with a rising sense of excitement, had bought a ticket from the sleepy guardian in the booth, and had walked across the rough ground, looking upwards at the strange eight-sided building, each face decorated by the symbol of the wind it represented. They call it in Greek Oi Aeridhes,the Windy Ones, and the name has come to include the surrounding square as well. For long it was thought to be the tomb of Socrates. The Turks thought it such and preserved it as a tekkeh,or chapel, or it might have suffered the fate of many other ancient pagan buildings and been demolished. Actually it had not been a tomb but an hydraulic clock, built by a Syrian in the first century after Christ. On the east side, a small round tower had been connected to the Clepsydra spring on the Acropolis and had served as a reservoir for the clock. Once there had been a weather-vane sur-mounting the building, but now there was nothing but the conch of the North wind, the hailstones falling from a shell of the north-east, the fruit and ears of corn of the east, the urn pouring water of the squally South, the flowers of the zephyr breezes of the south-west, and the upturned vase of the dreadful north-westerly.

  Charity was so interested in the building that she forgot for a while why she was there. When she remembered, she sat down on a lump of concrete at the foot of the tower and took out her sister's letter, reading it yet again, while she waited.

  Dear Charity,

  How would you like to spend Christmas in Athens with

  me? Something has come up and I need your help. I may as well tell you that I'm leaving Nikos and taking the baby with me, so you'll understand why I can't have you here. I've booked you into a hotel for the time being. Meet me on the 19th, at the Tower of the Winds, at 4 o'clock, and I'll explain everything to you then. You'll find your ticket and everything else you need - including some money! - in the enclosed wallet. I'm relying on you to come! If anything happens to me, I want you to take my child and bring him up in England. I hate Greece and all things Greek, and I can't bear to think of him ever being one. I'll tell you all when I see you.

  God bless, Faith

  Charity immediately discounted most of the drama in the letter, but even so her sister sounded despe
rate and extremely unhappy. Charity sighed, wishing she knew more about the man Faith had married. She knew his name, Nikos Papan-dreous, and that he came from a very rich family, but she had never seen his photograph and she had certainly never been asked to meet him.

  She thought of the short, rather impersonal note she had sent back to her sister and wished that she had made it a warmer missive. She had tried not to let her personal feelings come into it, but she had not quite been able to put aside Faith's postcards that had told her nothing, perhaps especially the one that had come when she had begged her sister to come to their father's funeral. Even Hope had flown over from the States for that, looking comfortable and as fat as butter and so happy that not even death could disturb her contentment in her home.

  It was a little after four o'clock now and there was still no sign of Faith. Charity stood up, drawing her coat more closely about her. It was really quite cold, even if this was Greece of the blue skies and endless sun. She climbed down to the

  lower level of the agoraand walked briskly amongst the broken columns, trying not to worry. As if Faith was ever on time for anything! But the worry was still there. Supposing she didn't come?

  Shivering a little, not entirely with cold, some of it was anticipation of the unknown, Charity sat down again and pulled the book she was reading out of her coat pocket. She was determined to stay calm, as she always stayed calm. Faith would come in the end and she would expect to find her sister waiting for her. A hundred different things might have happened to delay her. Perhaps the baby had been sick, or perhaps her husband had come home early and had wanted her company. But no, that last seemed unlikely. I hate Greece and all things Greek,she had written, and Nikos Papandreous was certainly Greek.

  She had bought the book because it had Apollo in the title and she had been attracted by the picture of the sun-god on the cover. He was seated at his ease, with Poseidon, the Greek god of the sea, beside him, and his twin, Artimis, on his other side. He had his left hand raised, in what gesture it was impossible to see, for the hand was lost, but his other hand lightly grasped the folds of his robe. It was the beauty of the head that was the most appealing thing about it, however. His hair curled in a quite modern style; the nose was straight and Grecian, almost haughty, at variance with the smooth cheeks and the full, very nearly sulky mouth that was almost smiling but not quite. Charity saw from the note inside the cover that the illustration had been taken from the east side of the Parthenon frieze, and promised herself that she would see the original when she finally made her pilgrimage to the top of the Acropolis.

  Then she looked up and saw the original coming towards her. His hair curled black and not a honey-coloured gold, and the mouth was certainly not smiling, but the likeness was astonishing. Because of it, she stood up at his coming and stared at him, knowing that she was being most fright-

  fully rude but unable to prevent herself. The last of the sun lit up his face, showing clearly the length of his eye lashes, and the strong modelling of his jaw.

  'What is the matter?' he asked her in impeccable English.

  Perhaps he was English? But no, with looks like those he had to be Greek. He was Apollo come to life and walking the earth as if he owned it. Silendy, she handed him her book. He looked down at the cover and smiled, his teeth gleaming in the golden rays of the dying sun.

  'Is he supposed to look like me?' he inquired. She thought it would have been more fitting the other way about. After all, Apollo had come first, and perhaps he still did, haunting Parnassus and his shrine at Delphi and preaching moderation to the immoderate Hellenes.

  I think he does,' Charity said.

  He shrugged. 'Perhaps.' He pocketed the book without looking at it again. Charity watched him as he leaned against the bottom of the Tower, his upper lip caught in his teeth, and studied her with a frankness that embarrassed her.

  The Greeks are a very curious people, she reminded herself. They always ask personal questions and they like to be in tactile contact with one another, when they weren't endlessly clicking their 'worry-beads'. It didn't mean a thing. And anyway, she was in no position to complain, for she had certainly looked at him!

  'Did you come here to meet someone?' he asked suddenly.

  She jumped. 'My sister,' she admitted. 'She's late.' He waved a hand at the setting sun. 'It will soon be dark. If she does not come, what will you do then?' I shall wait,' she said.

  He looked annoyed with her, but she pretended not to notice. It was no business of his after all! He took the book out of his pocket again and opened it at the fly-leaf. 'Charity

  Archer,' he read aloud. 'This is you?' 'Y - yes.'

  'Then you are waiting for Faith Papandreous?'

  Charity turned impulsively towards him. 'You know her? How is she? Is she coming?'

  'No, she is not coming,' he said slowly.

  'Then what am I to do?' The unconscious appeal in her voice brought his dark eyes back to her face.

  'You will be very brave and accept what I have to tell you,' he said firmly. 'Then you will go back to England and not think of us again. It will be better so.'

  Better for whom? She licked her lips. 'Are you - are you Nikos?'

  He shook his head, his eyes still holding hers. 'I am afraid not. I am his brother Loukos. You have heard of me, perhaps?'

  Charity fiddled helplessly with her fingers. 'My - my sister is not a very good letter-writer.'

  'No?' He sounded surprised. 'But surely she wrote some replies to all your letters to her?'

  'A few postcards. She - she didn't like writing letters.'

  'And you do?'

  'No, but I suppose I had more reason to keep in touch,' Charity said. 'She has a husband and child, whereas I had -very little to occupy—'

  'You had your father to nurse,' he interrupted. He seemed to know a great deal about her! 'But I suppose you had less to occupy your heart. But now your father is dead. Is there still no one in your life?'

  "I have friends. I may marry—'

  'Ah, you have a boy-friend, a fiance!'

  'Well, he hasn't asked me yet. Not that it's any business of yours!' she added crossly. She didn't want to think about Colin right now, in fact she didn't often think about Colin at all, but he thought about her all right, sending her flowers and taking her out to dinner and - and boring her to death!

  'But you intend to accept him when he does ask you?' Apollo insisted, unimpressed by her rebuke. 'Yes!'

  'Good, then you will not feel what I tell you so deeply. You have mourned enough in the last year, and the English are not well adapted to tragedy.'

  'Who is?' Charity retorted defiantly.

  He smiled briefly. 'The Greeks have long understood its meaning. We have a tragic history. We know what it means to be slaves and to have our children taken away from us. What do you know of such things?'

  Charity stirred uneasily. 'What is it you want to say to me?'

  He held out his hands to her in a simple gesture of sympathy. To her surprise, for she seldom touched people she didn't know well, she found herself responding by placing her own hands in his. The warmth of the contact comforted her.

  'It is about your sister. She is dead,' he said.

  'But she couldn't be! She told me to meet her here!'

  'Perhaps she was coming here,' he said very gently. 'I know only that she quarrelled with Nikos. She got into one of their cars and drove away from his house. Naturally enough, he followed her in another car. I think perhaps he wished to frighten her, by forcing her very close to the edge of the road. She was not a - good driver and she went over the cliff. Nikos followed her. Neither of them were alive when they were found.'

  Charity stared at him, disbelief in her eyes. 'Dead? Bothof them were found dead?'

  'I'm afraid so.'

  She turned away so that he would not see the devastating effect of his words. She would not give him or anyone else the entree into her private world of desolation. The Archers had always been a proud family, and t
hat was all she had left to her now, her pride and an aching void in her middle. 'He