Mayhem in Greece

by Dennis Wheatley

  ‘He was a big, brutish chap, with very little grey matter. Anyhow, his curse took effect. Cadmus was dethroned by his own grandson, Pentheus, and finally the family ended up in an absolute welter of blood and death.’

  ‘Like the last Act in Hamlet.’

  ‘Oh, that is nothing to the goings-on in Thebes. One of Cadmus’s sisters, Ino, drowned herself, because her husband had, in a fit of madness, killed her sons. Another, Semele, had an affair with Zeus, and—’

  ‘Did that old rip never stop?’

  ‘Not often, I imagine. Poor Semele came to a very sticky end. Hera was always terribly jealous of her lord’s mistresses, so she told Semele what a lucky girl she was, and how she ought to persuade Zeus one night to show himself to her in all his glory. He didn’t like to refuse her, and, as Hera had known would be the case, the electricity that radiated from him and the lightning flashing from his head was so powerful that Semele was roasted like a chicken before she could even get out of bed.’

  ‘How absolutely frightful.’

  ‘He managed to save the son she was having by him, though. He plucked it out of her body, and put it in his own thigh till it was ready to be born; then it became the God of Revelry, Dionysus. The parties he thought up for his worshippers must have been quite something. One gathers they always ended with everyone very lit up, and the girls doing a sort of bees’ and birds’ Paul Jones with Dionysus’s Satyrs in the moonlight. Anyway, the ladies of Thebes felt that they had never had it so good, and it was that which put paid to Cadmus’s grandson, Pentheus. For those times he must have been a bit strait-laced, because he forbade the women of his household to attend these midnight hops. When they read the notice he had posted up, they held an indignation meeting and became so enraged that, led by his own mother, they ran into his room and tore him to pieces.

  ‘The heir to the throne was a young Princess, named Antiope. She must have been a good-looker, too, as Zeus had already spotted her and given her twins. They were called Amphion and Zethus. But the throne was usurped by a chap called Lycus; so Antiope hurried her boys off up into the hills, to be brought up as herdsmen. Later, she fell into the hands of Dirce, a nasty, spiteful woman, whom Lycus had made his Queen. She gave orders for Antiope to be tied to the horns of a wild bull, so that she would be gored and dragged to death. But it wasn’t Dirce’s lucky day. The two chaps to whom she had given the orders happened to be Antiope’s sons, and they recognised their old Mum. So they tied Dirce instead to the horns of the bull. Then Amphion led a revolution, killed off Lycus, and became King in his place.

  ‘Amphion at least had a pretty good innings before the curse caught up with him. He married Niobe, and she presented him with seven handsome sons and seven beautiful daughters. As they all grew into youths and maidens, their parents can’t have had much less than twenty-five years of domestic bliss. But Niobe about takes the cake for stupidity. One day, at the Women’s Institute, or somewhere of that kind, she ran into Leto and started to needle her. Putting out her tongue, she said: “Yah! You’re not much good. You’ve had only two children, and I’ve had fourteen,” or words to that effect.

  ‘Leto could have retorted: “You silly old bag, mine were by Zeus and are among the greatest of the Immortals, so they’re worth fourteen thousand of anything you could produce.” But she didn’t. She just went home, feeling a bit hurt, and next time her children came for the week-end she told them about it.

  ‘Apollo and Artemis were not the types to take an insult to their old Mum lying down; so, like a couple of rockets, they took off for Thebes. Apollo shot dead all Niobe’s sons, and Artemis put one of her deadly arrows into each of the daughters. Amphion was so upset by seeing all his boys killed that he stabbed himself through the heart and Niobe was so overcome with grief that sorrow turned her into a stone statue that still continued to weep whenever the sun or moon shone on it.’

  Stephanie rolled her blue eyes up to the blue heavens. ‘Goodness, what a massacre!—’

  ‘We’ve not half done yet,’ Robbie cheerfully assured her. ‘Amphion’s family having been wiped out, the Boeotians sent for another descendant of Cadmus to be their King. His name was Laius, and that of his wife was Jocasta. Laius was warned by an Oracle that, if he had a son, that son would kill him and be the ruin of his Queen. So, when Jocasta gave birth to a boy, there were no free cakes and ale for all and sundry at the Palace.

  ‘Laius gave the infant to a goat-herd and told him to expose it on Mount Cithaeron, so that it died of cold. But the goat-herd felt a bit squeamish when it came to the point, so he passed on the bundle to a pal of his who was going down to Corinth. At that time, a couple called Polybus and Merope were King and Queen of Corinth, and they had not managed to have any children; so, when this goat-herd turned up with a jolly healthy-looking baby boy, they promptly adopted him and gave him the name of Oedipus.

  ‘He was brought up as a Prince, and everyone might have lived happily ever after if it hadn’t been for a rude fellow who chanced to be in the secret that Oedipus was not really the son of the King and Queen. He got stinko one night at a banquet, and taunted Oedipus with being the by-blow of some tart who had left him in the gutter.

  ‘Very perturbed about this, Oedipus went to the King and Queen. They said “not to worry”, because they loved him as a son, even though it was true that they were not his real parents. Like an ass, instead of socking the drunk for six, and staying put to inherit the kingdom, Oedipus packed a grip and went off to ask the Delphic Oracle who his parents were. Even the Oracle tried to save him from himself, and said: “Forget it, son. If you ever find out, you will land yourself in one hell of a mess.” But the pig-headed clot would not be warned and, instead of home, set off on a hiking tour, in the hope of finding someone who could tell him the truth about his birth.

  ‘Fate decreed that he should head for Boeotia, and soon after he had entered that country the road became a narrow defile. From the opposite direction a chariot, in which an old gent, was being driven, was approaching, and a slave was running in front of it, shouting a bit breathlessly: “Out of the way! Out of the way for my master!“

  ‘Having been brought up as a Prince, Oedipus wasn’t standing for that sort of thing. First, he struck down the runner then, when the old man chucked a javelin at him, he gave him, too, a biff over the head, overturned his chariot and left him dead in the ditch. Only the driver of the chariot got away, and when he reached home he excused his own cowardice by saying that his master had been attacked and killed by a band of robbers. When Oedipus arrived in Thebes, he found the city in mourning for its King, and—’

  ‘Then it was his father that Oedipus had killed,’ put in Stephanie.

  ‘You’ve hit it. But, of course, he didn’t know that at the time, nor did anyone else. And their King’s death wasn’t the only thing the Thebans had to worry about just then. The Sphinx had taken up her residence outside their walls. This creature was said to be the sister of Cerberus, the monstrous hound that guarded the entrance to Hades. She had the body of a lion, the wings of an eagle and the head of a woman, and she was playing merry hell with the standing corn.’

  ‘So, of course, Oedipus went out and slew her.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t quite like that. She must have been a queer sort of creature. Before gobbling up people, it was her custom to give them a chance to save themselves by guessing a riddle; with the sporting understanding too that, if they guessed right, she would go off and play ring-a-roses with herself in the cornfields of some other city. Every day for weeks, some bold Theban had gone out and had a shot at answering her riddle, but none of them had returned; so the girls in the place were getting very gloomy about the increasing shortage of dancing partners.

  ‘Creon, Jocasta’s brother, had taken over the Government when the news of Laius’s death had reached the city, and he had sent out his own son to tackle the Sphinx. But this young hopeful hadn’t proved up to it, and Creon was getting really desperate. He had posters put up, announcin
g that anyone who could answer the riddle of the Sphinx, and rid Thebes of this awful creature, should be rewarded by being made King of Boeotia and, into the bargain, be given Jocasta as his wife.

  ‘By then, Oedipus was so down in the mouth that he hardly cared if he lived or died; so he said he didn’t mind having a crack at answering the riddle. Naturally, everyone said: “Jolly good show”, and hurried him outside the walls, just on the off-chance that he might have a lucky break. Pretty gloomily, he trudged through the bleached bones of his predecessors, until he came to the huge nest that the Sphinx had made for herself.

  ‘She blinked a bit, then asked him quite civilly: “What creature is it that alone changes the number of its feet? In the morning it goes on four feet, at midday on two and in the evening on three.” Rather generously, I think, she gave him a clue, by adding: “When it has the fewest feet, it is really at the top of its form.”

  ‘Oedipus just shrugged and replied: “That’s kindergarten stuff. The answer is Man. As a babe, he goes on all-fours, at the height of his strength he goes on two feet, and when he gets old, he needs a stick on which to lean.”

  ‘The Sphinx was very peeved at having her pet riddle guessed but she honoured her bond, and with a loud squawk, flew off to play “boomps-a-daisy” in somebody else’s corn.’

  ‘After that, the Thebans hailed Oedipus as the tops. They made him King and, as Jocasta was still a very good-looking piece of goods, he was delighted to have her for his Queen.’

  ‘I remember the story now,’ murmured Stephanie drowsily. ‘It’s the famous tragedy about the young man who fell in love with his mother, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Robbie nodded. ‘It seems he did fall for her, and she for him, although neither knew who was who at the time. They were frightfully happy together, too. Jocasta had four children by him; twin sons named Eteocles and Polynices, and two daughters, Antigone and Ismene. Everything went marvellously until the children grew up, but then an awful plague fell on the land; so Oedipus sent his brother-in-law, Creon, to Delphi to ask the Oracle how to get rid of it.

  ‘For once, the Oracle didn’t try to make a monkey out of anyone, but said right away: “The plague is a punishment sent because Laius’s murder has never been atoned for.” The local Scotland Yard was put on the job, but couldn’t discover who had done in the late King; so they sent for a famous blind seer, named Tiresias. He was very loath to do his stuff, but eventually he recalled to Oedipus the old boy in the chariot and the prophecy that Laius would be killed by his own son.

  ‘At this, Jocasta began to give a bit at the knees but she rallied sharply and declared that it could not possibly be Laius’s son who had killed him, because his only son had been left as a babe to die of exposure on Mount Cithaeron. But up popped the old goat-herd with an account of how a pal of his had taken the babe to Corinth; and then, of course, the fat was properly in the fire.

  ‘On discovering that she had been living with her son for the past twenty years, Jocasta went upstairs to her bedroom, locked herself in and hanged herself with her girdle. When they had broken down the door, Oedipus said death was too good for him; so, with the prong in the buckle of her girdle, he put out both his eyes.

  ‘The next Act concerns their children. Oedipus’s daughter, Antigone, was a very good sort of girl, and refused to desert him while he wandered about the world in this parlous state until he died. Meanwhile her twin brothers, Eteocles and Polynices, decided to take turns in ruling Boeotia year and year about; but after a bit Eteocles threw his brother out. Polynices took refuge in Argos. There he made a number of chums among the local bloods and between them they collected an army, to help him get back his kingdom. It was called the War of the Seven against Thebes, and …’

  Robbie broke off. He had just caught a gentle snore from Stephanie. Looking down, he saw that her eyes were closed, her dark eyelashes making fans upon her cheeks, and that she was clearly sound asleep.

  For a while, he continued to think about Thebes. How, eventually, the twin brothers had agreed to settle their quarrel in a duel to the death, and had killed one another. How Creon, who had taken over again, had refused to allow Polynices to be buried, because he had brought war to his mother city. How Antigone had performed the last rites for her brother at dead of night. How Creon had found out and, because she had defied him, had her walled up in a cave to die of starvation. How the people had revolted and forced him to order her release and how, when her lover Haemon broke down the wall, he found that she had strangled herself; so he had drawn his sword, stabbed himself and fallen dead upon her body.

  Even that Romeo-and-Juliet-like scene had not been the last act in the Theban tragedy. The Heirlooms—the magnificent necklace and wonderful veil that Aphrodite had given Harmonia as wedding presents—gave rise to endless quarrels. Still thinking vaguely of the welter of blood and death they had caused, Robbie, too, dropped off to sleep.

  They woke about an hour later, finished the rest of the wine, spent another hour wandering about the ruins, then started for home. They were back at the Cecil by six o’clock, after a very pleasant day; but it had been a tiring one so they decided to dine in and go early to bed.

  Next morning, they took the car out on the coast road to the east of the city, where the road ran for several miles across flat, low-lying ground and any approaching vehicle could be seen well away in the distance. There, Stephanie gave Robbie his first driving lesson. He was not very quick at picking up the use of the various controls but she found that, once he had got them fixed in his mind, he handled them firmly and she had no need to fear that he would suddenly do something that might land them in trouble. Whenever they were about to pass anything, she made him slow right down and put her hand on the wheel as a precaution; but he was not in the least troubled by nerves, so kept it perfectly steady. Moreover he proved a good pupil, in that he made no attempt to run before he could walk, and obeyed her every instruction. The willingness with which he accepted the limit of thirty miles an hour, to which she restricted him, showed that he was not of the stuff of which racing drivers are made. However, when Stephanie took over to drive them back to the hotel for lunch, she felt that he had done a good bit better than she had expected.

  Over lunch, Robbie told her that he would be out during the afternoon and could not say when he was likely to be back. He added that he might not even be back for dinner. Seeing her look of surprise he quickly averted his glance, showing that he did not wish to pursue the subject. But it struck him that, if his enquiries did give him a new lead, it might make it difficult for him to keep up a pretence with her that his business activities were no more than normal ones.

  She suggested that, if he did not want to be driven anywhere, she should take the opportunity to start reading his manuscript; so, when he went up to his room, he got it for her. Then he changed into his oldest suit, which he had brought with him for just such an occasion, slipped out of the hotel by a side door and made his way along the water-front. He had purposely left the hotel bare-headed and, when he came to the market, he found a cheap clothing store at which he bought a soft cap with a shiny peak that gave him something of the appearance of a seaman. By then it was nearly three o’clock and, when he reached the far basin, he was only just in time to see the Bratislava dock.

  As he came nearer, two Customs Officers went aboard her with two other men, the taller of whom he thought was probably Barak; but he could not be certain from that distance. After that, he had to kick his heels for an hour and a half. Several groups of men leaned over the Bratislava’s rails, idly looking down on the water-front, occasionally exchanging a remark or spitting over the side; but nothing happened.

  At last there was a stir of movement, both on the ship and ashore. The Customs men came off, a crane clanked into action, a gang of dockers came on the scene, the groups of loungers broke up and the Bratislava started to unload a part of her cargo. Some twenty big packing cases were lowered to the wharf and wheeled across it into
a Customs shed. About half-way through this proceeding the tall man, whom Robbie now definitely identified as Barak, came down the gang-plank, followed by three others, and walked over to the shed. Evidently, they were going to clear the cargo and it would then be taken off somewhere.

  Suddenly, it occurred to Robbie that his only means of finding out where the cargo went and of what it consisted was to follow it. Already three lorries had driven up, and Barak had emerged to speak to the leading driver. There was only one car in sight. It had already been parked near the Customs shed when Robbie arrived, and was a powerful-looking black six-seater; so obviously it was not a taxi. At a hurried walk, Robbie set off in the direction of the Citadel, hoping to pick up a taxi there. A quarter of an hour elapsed before he managed to find one and was driven back in it.

  As his taxi approached the wharf at which the Bratislava was lying, he saw the six-seater begin to move. Another minute and it was running swiftly past him. The face of the man who had all along been sitting at the wheel looked vaguely familiar, but Robbie had only a glimpse of it as his glance moved on to the others in the body of the car. They were Barak and three quite well-dressed men; the same, Robbie thought, as those who had accompanied Barak into the Customs shed.

  Robbie told his driver to pass the ship, run on for a hundred yards, then turn round. As the taxi came to a halt, a small, private bus appeared and pulled up opposite the gangway. From beside the driver, a big, middle-aged man scrambled down. Owing to his enormously broad shoulders, thick neck, short legs and porkpie hat, Robbie recognised him at once. He was a Sudetenlander, a German-Czech named Stoll, and had been employed by the Czech Travel Agency to take parties of tourists round Athens. He had been to the office only twice while Robbie was there, and they had never even exchanged greetings; so Robbie thought it unlikely that, if they did come face to face, Stoll would recognise him.

  Stoll had no sooner boarded the ship than he left it again followed by eight men, most of whom were wearing sweaters, or shirts without ties, under shapeless jackets. The cheap, fibre suitcases or bulging grips they carried also indicated that they were low-grade technicians or labourers. Stoll led them over to the Customs shed, but they were not inside it long. In less than ten minutes, they emerged and piled into the small bus.