1 The Assassins' Village

by Faith Mortimer

  Antigone had no mother. Sadly, she passed away one winter after succumbing to one savage beating too many. Antigone now bore the brunt of all his frustrations and ill behaviour. Of course nobody in the village knew for certain that Alexandros beat his wife senseless on occasions, but when she had been found at the bottom of a flight of steps, covered in horrible bruises, many people hurriedly crossed themselves and muttered a prayer for her soul, and of course their own. Nobody interfered. What went on between husband and wife was not their affair, the man was the boss. Even the Church turned a blind eye; O Papas was fond of Zivania also. It was a strong and altruistic priest who interfered in private family life.

  Antigone’s brother, Kristiakis, was like his father. Swaggering around the village, Kristiakis was a handsome bully taking his pick of the unattached girls on account of his looks and silver tongue. To him, Antigone was just his younger sister. Her rôle in life was to keep him and his father fed, the house clean and the courtyard swept.

  Today, Antigone’s thoughts were on anything but household chores. For the past few weeks she had been mesmerised by the influx of a group of British soldiers billeted here. According to the mukhtar, this small group were installing some sort of radio station nearby. The older villagers could not comprehend, and although friendly and polite, they watched the soldiers with covert looks and suspicious eyes. They didn’t really want strangers in their village for long, especially soldiers from a foreign land.

  Antigone surprised everyone at school. For the first time in her life she excelled at something; learning and speaking English. On occasion she was called to the mukhtar’s office where she shyly interpreted the English spoken by the officer in charge. The fine looking Captain was so impressed; he swiftly commandeered her as acting unofficial interpreter when his own man went sick.

  Taking one look at the slim handsome officer, with his smooth educated voice and even smoother smile, Antigone’s sixteen-year-old heart beat faster in her breast.

  The Englishman was delighted with her; she was an excellent stand-in for Corporal Bates. So much so, she found he was requesting her to assist him time and time again. Slowly, without Antigone realising, the time spent together became less official and of a more personal nature. The officer would question her in his velvet voice about her life in Agios Mamas; what she liked doing when not caring for her brother and father. Antigone didn’t understand. Historically, Cypriot women had very little free time to pursue individual ideas. What leisure they had was spent in a group, with the click of knitting or crotchet needles in time to a cacophony of voices. Their hands were never still. She could not comprehend idle hands or whiling away hours reading, writing or simply day-dreaming.

  Slowly, feeding her head with dreams, he impressed this unsophisticated and naïve young girl.

  As Antigone imagined a life very different from hers, she was aware of the women in their ancient, mouldy black-serge watching and clucking their rapacious tongues when she overstepped the mark, even just once. Her erstwhile friends were confused with this new and confident Antigone, and didn’t know what to make of her. Withdrawing into little groups and gathering on the corners of the lanes they chattered and giggled behind their hands whenever her name was brought up.

  Antigone was immune to their sly looks, and when the officer suggested she might like to sit and pose as he sketched her, or, if he read and taught her some of his favourite romantic poetry or classics, Antigone shyly nodded and suggested she knew of a place, quiet and unused. He possessed such a nice smile.

  Never had she been so daring. Nevertheless, knowing that no matter how innocent their meetings, they had to be circumspect and in total secret.

  Over the next few days they stole the odd hour or two; more and they would’ve been missed. Antigone gazed dreamily at his face while he talked. Despite not understanding half of what he said, she admired him above all else. Nothing untoward passed; an accidental touch or two, nothing more. Antigone felt perfectly safe with him, despite the rapid beating in her breast.

  She now tore along the stony path leading to the old house, way down by the river. Antigone was terrified her hero would become impatient with waiting and return to the village. They always travelled by different routes and different times; the Englishman insisted no one should chance upon them together.

  Nearly reaching the rough cut stone-house, Antigone paused under the shade of a pine tree catching her breath. Even for the time of year it was oppressively hot. The place was completely secluded, hidden in the bottom of the valley, nestled in tall oak and eucalyptus trees. By comparison it was always a cool and shady spot. The trees fringed the riverbanks and the overgrown house garden. Not a sound could be heard except the occasional bird or the whirring of the cicadas in the thickets. It was her special place. Feeling refreshed, she smoothed down her hair with her fingers and carried on walking with a slower more lady-like pace.

  The two-storied house was almost derelict, standing empty for years. The surrounding wild was reclaiming the land. It rose tall and silent before her. Small clumps of colourful wild flowers grew in the cracks between the crumbling stones, a couple of bright green lizards scuttled through the dry leaves carpeting the ground.

  Her heart thumping in anticipation, she stepped over the threshold of the house. A hand on her shoulder made her gasp; her eyes widened in fear and then crinkled as she smiled and relaxed in the company of the man in front of her. ‘Mr Leslie you frightened me!’ she chided.

  He chuckled as he stepped away from the sagging front door and greeted her by slipping an arm casually around her slim waist. At his touch Antigone was both pleased and surprised. Despite her innocence, she recognised that his hand excited her as a heat spread through her body.

  ‘I am sorry. I was only teasing.’ His eyes were warm and smiling. She noticed the beginnings of small crow’s feet accentuated under his deep Cyprus tan.

  ‘What is -?’ she paused, savouring the word. ‘Teasing please?’

  ‘A game.’

  ‘Oh.’ Slightly bashful and embarrassed she looked away. Staring, Leslie was again captivated by her prettiness and youth. She was an innocent in every way. He admired her charming looks; she had the most beautiful, long raven-coloured hair framing an elfin-shaped face. Her eyes were an unusual dark shade of blue and sparkled with excitement. Her body was slim, firm and unblemished.

  Antigone felt him studying her and stole a quick, shy glance at his face. His eyes lingered on her bodice and she felt her face flame. Not wanting to put her off, he turned away and beckoned her to follow by stretching out a hand towards her.

  ‘Come - let us sit down somewhere comfortable. I thought outside, maybe by the river?’

  Taking her hand in his, he led her around to the back of the building. He forced his way through the overgrown bushes, and held the worst of any thorns away from her. As Antigone stepped through the thicket she exclaimed at the sight that met her eyes. Lying upon the ground he’d placed a woollen-plaid blanket, and resting on this a picnic basket.

  Leslie grinned at her surprise.

  ‘I thought we might as well be comfortable. See, I’ve brought wine, bread and some cheese and fruit. We have fresh water from the river if we need it. Come, sit here.’

  Delighted that he had taken the trouble to spoil her, Antigone happily knelt on the blanket. She removed her shoes and sat down, her brown legs tucked underneath her skirt.

  The spot was perfect, cool and shady, and completely hidden from anyone unless they took the trouble to push their way through the almost impenetrable thorn hedge. She could hear the river beyond as it chuckled its way over the smooth rounded stones. Its downward journey would take it over twenty miles before disappearing into the sea.

  Uncorking the white wine, Leslie passed a glass to Antigone. She took a tiny sip, discovering she liked the taste. Cypriot women rarely drank alcohol. It was reserved for the men and if a woman took a drink it was usually frowned upon. A small bunch of succulent looking black gra
pes lay nestled inside a gingham napkin, local bread and cheese alongside. They talked while they drank and picked at the food. Antigone asked what Leslie had planned for today. Sometimes he read to her from one of his favourite books, or occasionally he made a few sketches with a captivated Antigone watching his slim brown hands as they flew over the paper. Today, he withdrew a slim, red volume from his trouser pocket and flicked through its pages until he found his place.

  ‘Today I’m going to read you some of Shakespeare’s sonnets. Not sonnet number eighteen as that is over-done. I think number twenty-four will suit today. He looked at Antigone with a warm smile and began to read out.

  ‘Mine eye hath play’d the painter and hath stell’d

  Thy beauty’s form in table of my heart;

  My body is the frame wherein ‘tis held,

  And perspective it is the best painter’s art.

  For through the painter must you see his skill…’

  Relaxed by the warm air and the wine, Antigone straightened her skirt modestly over her legs and lay down; her lustrous hair spilling around her as she pillowed her head on her arm. Leslie’s voice was soft and gentle, melodious as he breathed the poem to her. She didn’t understand more than one word in three, but his voice stole over her, lulling and enveloping her, finally leaving her with a warm deep longing.

  It was so hot. She couldn’t keep her eyes open. She let her mind drift and float away to dream. She wished they could always be together like this. If only he could just persuade her father. She dreamed on, fantasizing a life together; a life with a family of their own. Her eyes were closed, heavy and drowsy with somnolence. Her long eyelashes fringed upon her cheeks, a renegade sunray filtered through the tree canopy playing along her jaw.

  Her breathing was shallow as Leslie watched her slim chest rise and fall, allowing his eyes to travel down from her small pert breasts, over her flat waist to the lie of her firm thighs as her skirt fell in a blue puddle on the coarse blanket. She was exotic, exquisite and intoxicating.

  Leslie was overcome. His throat flushed and his breathing quickened as he gazed upon her. He was confident of his many practised charms. As soon as he first met her, he had been determined to make her notice him. He could not believe how easy it had been to entice her with his beguiling words and ways. Putting the book aside Leslie drew nearer to her recumbent form. Inhaling the sensual smell of her body was to him indescribably like nothing he had breathed in before. His breath became ragged and hot against her ear as he whispered her name.

  Antigone was drifting on a sea of perfumed silk. A soft, breeze played along the line of her cheek and sunbeams made traces on her eyelids. In a dream she imagined she slowly opened her eyes. It was as if she was trying to see through a gauzy cobweb as she struggled to focus on her love before her. Half asleep, half-mesmerised she lay there, as he gazed down upon her face. Drawing a finger down her nose, he gently traced around her lips and then down to her chin and throat. Catching her breath, Antigone could hardly breathe and lay still, as his finger continued on its way. Lowering his head to hers he lightly touched her lips with his own. He tasted the sun and a sweet lingering trace of wine on her mouth. With a sense of wonder she lay there, not daring to move. She had never been kissed like this before. He slipped his tongue in between her slightly parted teeth, and tasted more of the girl as he explored, becoming more adventurous as she made no move to protest. His needs becoming more urgent, he kissed her with a rising passion and was elated when she matched that of his with her own.

  His hand was in the hollow of her throat, gently caressing her velvety skin, as one would pet a kitten. He leisurely ran a hand down until he had one small perfect breast cupped beneath his fingers. Her eyes flew wide-open with surprise, and then, she let a low moan escape beneath his lips. But still she did not try to resist him; she closed her eyes again giving in to her favourite dream. She was dizzy and drunk with love and wine.

  With slow ease, he found the buttons of her shirt and began to undo them with well-practised fingers. Pushing aside the fabric Leslie slipped a hand inside to find the hard little nub of her erect nipple. He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger and then moved his mouth down from hers to cover first her shoulder and then her breast. Antigone gasped in pleasure as he nibbled and gently teased, her body quivering in anticipation.

  She knew the basics of sex from older friends in the village, but Antigone could only guess at what truly went on between a man and a woman. Without hurry, he took his time to caress and kiss her. He didn’t want to frighten her, especially now he had got so far. He was her model lover, a prince among men. He would not rush her, and she was more than willing.

  His hand travelled down her thigh, and he was thrilled to feel her tremble against him as he raised her skirt to expose her slim silky legs. He moved his hand higher and rubbed between her upper thighs, the cotton of her knickers slipping under the pressure against her pubis. When she groaned, Leslie slipped his fingers under the elastic; her skin felt smooth and cool and with a thrill of satisfaction he relished her sudden flood of wetness. With deliberate slowness he eased her knickers down to her knees. Antigone moaned against his neck and he kissed her again to keep her sweet and pliant. As his kiss lengthened he felt his own throbbing excitement mount, and with one hand he undid his trousers easing himself from the confining fabric. Taking one of her hands he guided her down until she grasped him. Whispering words of encouragement he showed her how to pleasure him until he spilled onto the blanket and down the front of her skirt.

  Baffled and anxious, Antigone lay there, wondering if she had done wrong. She attempted to pull her skirt back down over her knees and do up the buttons on her shirt. ‘No,’ he said, gently pushing her back down on the blanket. ‘We haven’t finished. Relax. Lie back, I’ll not hurt you.’

  With kisses and caresses he coaxed her until his manhood was again erect and eager; then kneeling up he straddled his legs either side of her. Antigone began to shake. Of course she had seen her goats and dogs perform the sexual act, but a terrible fear took hold of her. Was Leslie planning to mount her too? This was wrong! She adored the man in front of her, but she didn’t want to go that far. It would be against her upbringing. She was frightened.

  ‘No’, she echoed his earlier word.

  ‘What?’

  ‘No,’ she repeated pushing her hands against his chest. ‘It is wrong. I don’t want to.’

  Catching her wrists and pushing her back down against the blanket, Leslie forced her arms above her head.

  ‘Dear girl, you can’t mean no. You can’t kiss like a whore one minute and act like a virgin the next.’

  He smiled; only this time there was nothing fine in his face. No trace of gentleness, just a quiet amusement and a touch of cruelty.

  Antigone didn’t understand. Her English wasn’t that refined.

  ‘You’ve come this far,’ he said nuzzling her neck and then nibbling at her breast.

  She gave another strangled gasp, only this time it was not in excitement. Antigone struggled and Leslie took the opportunity to push her legs wider apart with his knees. He lowered himself until he was poised above her virginity. In terror Antigone gave a little shriek.

  ‘But, no, no! Oh!’ she gave a stifled scream as he clamped a hand over her mouth to quieten her cries.

  ‘Sssh. Sssh. Be quiet. It’s all right. I promise I will not hurt you.’

  Antigone was shocked; her hands dug into the coarse blanket until her nails were broken and bleeding. Her tears felt like scalds upon her face.

  Dull-eyed, Antigone sat up throwing her torn and useless knickers away into the tangled undergrowth. She straightened her skirt, not noticing the stains at the back, and rebuttoned her shirt. She felt bruised and upset; dazed to the core. What had happened? She enjoyed his earlier love-making; his kisses of infinite gentleness. But later, surely he had gone too far. She shook with dismay as she assumed what had taken place. What had they done? If anyone found out she would be ruine
d. Worthless in the marriage stakes. Thank goodness they were here, where nobody would have seen.

  She realised she had been used and betrayed. This man in front of her was not the idol she thought she knew at all. Choking back a sob, a fresh tear escaped and trickled down her nose.

  Leslie noticed her apparent misery and rolled over on to his side to look to her.

  ‘Oh, come on Antigone. It’s not that bad is it? Surely you enjoyed it? You knew where we’ve been heading for the past few weeks. Come on, I understand you might be feeling a little strange, but next time it will be better, I promise. You won’t be nervous and we can relax and really enjoy ourselves. I will teach you all you need to know.’ He gave her thigh a little pat.

  She looked at him with horror. Next time?

  ‘No, no. But not that! No, I did not know! I do not think that you …,’ she couldn’t finish.

  Exasperated, he sat up and lit a cigarette. He inhaled deeply before continuing.

  ‘Oh tosh! You’ve been leading me on for weeks. Sure, I didn’t know for certain whether you were a virgin but once you got started you enjoyed it. Fine little prick teaser in fact’ he said the last line more to himself.

  Transferring his cigarette to his mouth, Leslie stood up to button his trousers and with no apparent concern brushed away the stray bits of dead grass and burrs from his uniform. Somewhere high in a tree overhead a bird was piping a strident call of alarm.

  ‘But what am I going to do?’ she asked wide-eyed with concern and misery.

  ‘Do? Nothing’s changed. You’re still the same. Put it all down to an exciting part of life; growing up. What are you nearly eighteen?’

  She looked down at the ground in misery. ‘Sixteen’.

  He gave a low whistle as she revealed her tender age.

  ‘Sixteen! My, and what a particularly sweet sixteen you are too.’

  His face had a look of smugness that Antigone was beginning to detest. She couldn’t believe or understand him. Why was he so changed? Where had her elegant and well-mannered English officer gone? Feeling confused and utterly wretched she felt the stirrings of rage flooding through her.