by Gavin Scott
Beside the fireplace, in a chair that might once have served a medieval warlord, sat Archbishop Damaskinos, robed and bearded with all the magnificence of Byzantium itself. Even seated, he looked huge: at least six foot six, seventeen stone if he was a pound, and adding to that already imposing appearance were a tall black headpiece like an upside-down top hat and a silver-knobbed staff of office, clutched in a large, meaty hand, its sausagelike fingers thick with wiry black hair. On his feet were stout black boots, which again reminded Forrester of an image from the cinema. It was a moment before he had it: the massive footwear sported by Boris Karloff as Frankenstein’s monster. Suppressing the lese-majesty of the image, and watched closely by the two splendidly uniformed Greek soldiers behind His Beatitude’s chair, in their traditional flounced skirts, pom-pommed shoes and red sock-like berets, Forrester bowed low.
“Welcome to Greece, Dr. Forrester,” said the Archbishop in thickly accented English. “May you and your countrymen help bring us the peace for which we hunger.”
“I hope very much that that is possible, Regent,” said Forrester. Damaskinos was currently regent of Greece because King George II was still in exile in London. During the war the king had been supported by the Allies as the country’s legitimate ruler, driven from power by the Nazis. But before the Axis invasion he’d been hand in glove with a semi-fascist dictator who had persecuted not just communists but anyone he considered liberal. Even the works of Plato, Thucydides and Xenophon had been banned. As a result of King George’s support for this fairly loathsome regime, it was not just the communists who never wanted to see him again.
As a result, to avoid setting off a firestorm after German troops withdrew, the Allies had persuaded King George to stay in London until a vote could be held about whether he was allowed to return, and in the meantime Archbishop Damaskinos was officially Head of State. But tonight His Beatitude did not apparently want to discuss politics; he wanted to defend his religion. Some disparaging remark about either himself or the Greek Orthodox faith, Forrester guessed, must have appeared in the British press.
“You British disapprove of Greek Christians,” said the Archbishop. “You regard us as insincere.”
“I’m not sure—” began Forrester. Sophie suppressed a smile, and Forrester realised His Beatitude had mistaken him for someone else.
“You think of us as worldly, as lacking a sincere belief in our maker,” said the Archbishop.
“No, Your Beatitude —”
“You think we are too close to the old pagan ways.”
“Why would people be thinking such things, Your Beatitude?” asked Sophie, innocently. Deflected, the Archbishop seemed to notice her for the first time, and his face suddenly lit up with mischief.
“Perhaps because it is true,” he said, instantly switching his position. “You see, dear lady, it was much easier to turn the old gods into saints than to try to abolish them.”
“So much easier,” said Sophie. “We did it in Norway with Thor and Odin. And I see you have a kouros yourself. A beautiful kouros.” The Archbishop beamed with pride and followed her gaze towards the niche in the wall at the far end of the room in which stood a four-foot-tall statue of a handsome, naked young man, his shoulders square, his head erect, his lips curved in a mysterious smile. Several people were gathered around it.
“Do you think he is the god?” asked the Archbishop. “Or an acolyte?”
“I think he is both,” said Sophie. “I think he is perhaps the god in man.” The Archbishop looked at her appreciatively.
“That is exactly what I think myself, dear lady,” he said. “You may touch him if you like.” He noted Sophie’s surprise. “As my other guests are doing.” And indeed, several members of the party were laying their palms flat on the head of the kouros, one after another, their eyes closed as if in prayer.
“They say that if you think of heaven when you touch him, God will ensure you a safe passage there. Which god and which heaven I leave for you to choose.” Abruptly, as if remembering his real purpose, he turned his attention back to Forrester. “What you British forget,” he said, “is that the Greek people love their church. They may laugh at the local priest, certainly, with his wife and children, but they look up to their bishop, and they revere their archbishop. What’s more, they expect him to play a part in the government of his country. Why should he not? Why should I not govern as well as bless?”
“Why not indeed, Your Beatitude?”
“But if the communists take over, where will the Church be then? That is my question for you, Dr. Forrester. I want you to think it over.”
“I will, Your Beatitude,” said Forrester. “I certainly will.” And the audience was complete.
“What a charming old man,” whispered Sophie as they made way for the next guests to pay their respects. Forrester grinned and gazed around the room where, lit by the flickering firelight, was gathered the whole panoply of the Greek political establishment. Red-faced Michaelis, peering at the assembly through his monocle like a benevolent London clubman; Constantine Papas, so theatrically political he looked as if he had been playing the part of a politician on some provincial stage; Admiral Plaxos, a garden gnome in naval uniform, and an assortment of individuals who represented most of the Greek political dynasties, the Venezelos, the Dragoumis, the Tsaldaris. Political power in Greece, Forrester knew, tended to be a hereditary business. Above them all towered the distinctive figure of General Aristotle Alexandros, as tall as the Archbishop but whip-thin, his eagle nose projecting over a nutcracker chin, his moustache bristling, his olive-black eyes flashing. As soon as he saw Forrester he abandoned the politicians, strode across the room and embraced him.
“Duncan,” he said. “Duncan the digger.”
“I never got to dig when I was with you, Ari,” said Forrester. “Too many people shooting at us.”
“And missing us,” said the General. “Because we were too quick for them. Who is this beautiful woman?”
Forrester introduced Sophie, and was amused to see that there was an immediate glint in the General’s eye.
“I am at your service, my lady,” said Alexandros, and gestured to the assembled company. “Feast your eyes on our film stars.”
“Film stars?” said Sophie, surprised, as Alexandros had clearly intended.
“The Greeks think of their politicians as the rest of the world thinks of film stars,” he said. “Or the English think of horses.”
“From which I infer that Greeks have a serious interest in politics?” said Sophie, smiling.
“Oh, yes,” said the General. “Very serious. The poorest cigarette seller has an opinion on who is about to be traded from his team, who is about to be given a starring role in the next production, who is about to be put out to pasture.”
“Which generals are going to stage a coup,” said Forrester, feeling he ought to say something to repay Lancaster for the ride from the airport.
“Oh, coups,” said Alexandros. “They are so old school. Just exchanging one team for another, with a few shots fired at half-time. I think something larger is in the air these days.”
“What’s that?” said Forrester, but before Alexandros could reply an arm was thrown around his shoulder and gripped him tight.
“What are you doing out in the sunlight, you old mole?” and Forrester turned to see the beaming face of David Venables, last glimpsed boarding an armoured ferry to cross the Channel just after D-Day, following the invading army with a microphone and a BBC Outside Broadcast van. Despite the formality of the occasion he was still carrying over his shoulder the canvas bag in which Forrester knew he kept whichever manuscript he was working on at present, which would be further encased in an odiferous oilskin pouch whose distinctive scent was discernible even here in this maelstrom of hair pomades and perfumes.
Forrester had met Venables under a table in a pub in Soho when they were caught in a raid at the height of the blitz, and been pleasantly carried away on the tide of acerbic wit tha
t flowed out of the man as the floor shuddered with each falling bomb. Venables had begun his working life as a naturalist, and looked at the human race as if they were so many ants milling about an anthill, but he had wisely disguised the cynicism under a coating of cosy wit for his weekly nature broadcasts on the BBC Home Service. “Our Friend the Vole” and “Otters I have Known” were among his most popular broadcasts. When he was in company he felt he could trust, however, he would frequently compare the passions and rituals of the human race to those of the orangutan, the parrotfish and even the amoeba, usually to the disadvantage of Homo sapiens.
“I’m digging up Crete,” said Forrester, noting out of the corner of his eye that Sophie, with some effort, was in the process of gently disengaging herself from Alexandros. “And you? What poor dumb beasts are you gunning for now?”
“Greeks,” said Venables. “Keith and I have come to write our Greek book. Or rather,” he added, tapping his canvas bag, “my Greek book – Keith will merely draw the pictures.”
“Which will be the only reason anybody ever opens it,” said the stocky young man beside him. “And once they close the book, my pictures will be all they’ll ever remember.” He shook hands with Forrester and bowed to Sophie as she joined them.
“Keith Beamish,” he said. “Be like Dad – Keep Mum.”
Sophie, joining them, looked puzzled.
“Wartime poster,” said Venables. “Advising people to keep secrets. Keith did the picture, and it went to his head.”
“Always made me laugh,” said Forrester. He turned to Sophie. “‘Keep Mum’ is colloquial English for not saying anything. It’s a pun.”
“Is it a good one?” said Sophie.
“Not very,” said Beamish, “but my picture was terrific. The lady in it, draped over a couch, was very… attractive. Very like you, in fact. What brings you here?”
If Forrester had been the jealous type, he might have resented both Beamish’s instant familiarity and the fact that Sophie seemed to reciprocate it.
“I’ve come to make sandwiches for my archaeologist,” she said, smiling, “while he digs up long-lost Minoans.”
“Perhaps I’ll tag along and draw you,” said Beamish. “It’ll be a lot more interesting than anything Venables asks me to do.”
“What’s this I hear about a bloody book?” said a loud voice behind Forrester, and he turned to see the lanky figure of Patrick Leigh Fermor. “Far too many people writing books about Greece, Venables,” said Leigh Fermor. “You have to get in line. You’re not writing one too, are you, Forrester?”
“Just a paper,” said Forrester. “About the dig. If I find anything.”
Leigh Fermor pointed an accusing finger at him. “I’ve a strong suspicion you were off looking for Minoan ruins when you were supposed to be helping me harass Germans,” he said.
“Well, harassing Germans was all very well up to a point,” said Forrester. “Looking for ancient Cretans was much more interesting.” Leigh Fermor grinned and punched him in the arm.
“Good to see you again, Duncan,” he said. “Glad you made it through.” There was real affection in his voice, and Forrester remembered again why he had been prepared to follow this man through hell and back during those desperate days in Crete.
“You too, Paddy,” he said. “I gather your lectures are bringing down the house all over the Aegean.”
Leigh Fermor leant closer. “Let me tell you a secret,” he said. “Spinning yarns about the war is considerably more fun than fighting it.”
Keith Beamish said something that provoked general laughter, particularly, Forrester noted, from Sophie, and Leigh Fermor used its cover to draw Forrester aside. As he did so he saw David Venables drawing Alexandros in the direction of the kouros.
“Ever heard of a chap called Cornelius Brandt?” said Leigh Fermor. “Dutchman. Medium height. Curly hair. He has a rather bizarre face.”
“Doesn’t ring any bells,” said Forrester. “What do you mean about his face? What’s wrong with it?”
“Well, half of it is covered by a tin mask,” said Leigh Fermor. “On which he’s painted half a mouth and an eye. Not very well, I’m sorry to say.”
“And you mention this because…?”
“He’s been looking for you.”
“What?”
“Hovering around the fringes of some of my lectures. Asking if you were one of the party.”
“Did he say why?”
“No. But I got the impression he meant you no good. I was wondering if he had a score to settle.”
“I don’t recall particularly doing any Dutchmen down during the late hostilities. They were on our side, if I recall rightly.”
“What about during one of your escapes?” Forrester knew what Leigh Fermor meant. He had indeed sheltered with several Dutch families when he had been on the run in Holland, and though as far as he knew none of them had been betrayed, the fact was that some of those who had helped British servicemen hide from the Gestapo had subsequently been turned in by their compatriots. Or by the carelessness of those they had aided.
“I don’t think so,” said Forrester. “I was never recaptured and I never told anybody who’d helped me get out.”
“Bit of a puzzle, then, isn’t it?” said Leigh Fermor.
“It is,” said Forrester. “But thanks for the tip.”
“My dear chap,” said Leigh Fermor. “I want you to stay in one piece for as long as possible. I can’t wait to see what you dig up in our old stamping ground.”
“To chamógeló tou eínai gia mena mia apólafsi kai ta matia tou—” said a deep voice from across the room. As Sophie turned her head towards the speaker, Forrester whispered in her ear.
“Jason Michaelaides,” he said. “The poet.” The Greek had displaced Venables and Alexandros from beside the kouros so he could command the room.
“What is he saying?” asked Sophie.
“His smile delights me,” said Forrester, “I think he’s speaking of the kouros – and his eyes—”
“—Lámpoun me mia chará pou den tin kséroume apo tote pou oi ánthropoi ítan paichnídia neogennithénton theón.”
“Shine with a joy we have not known since men were playthings of fresh-minted gods.”
As Michaelaides declaimed the last line his hand rested lovingly on the head of the kouros and it seemed for a moment as though the stone figure’s lips curled in pleasure.
“Fresh-minted gods,” said Sophie, savouring the words. She looked across at the long, mournful face of the poet as Alexandros led the applause that rang around the room. “That’s wonderful,” said Sophie. “Do you know him too?”
“A little,” said Forrester. “Met him in Cairo. Melancholy, as if he’s always on the point of saying goodbye to life. I’ll introduce you if you like.” But as they moved across the room, they were waylaid by a plump man in a dinner jacket decorated with an impressive row of colourful medals. Forrester recognised him as Prince Constantine Atreides, one of the leading Greek royalists. His thick black hair, usually hidden beneath a panama hat, was plastered firmly in place with copious quantities of scented pomade.
“Captain Forrester,” he said. “How splendid to see you back in Greece again.”
“Your Highness,” returned Forrester. “It seems a long time since the Shepheard Hotel.”
“To say nothing of the Ritz,” replied Atreides. “And their excellent cucumber sandwiches.” Atreides had fled Greece with King George when the Germans arrived, and had spent a considerable amount of time in Cairo and London with the government in exile, polishing up his anti-fascist credentials without having to fight any actual fascists. He was lazy, passionate and intensely romantic. Despite himself, Forrester had always liked him. There was something distinctly Ruritanian about him, as if he came out of a novel by Anthony Hope.
“May I introduce the Grevinne Sophie Arnfeldt-Laurvig, Countess of Bjornsfjord?”
Atreides clicked his heels and made a bow that would not have looked ou
t of place in a production of The Prisoner of Zenda.
“Enchanted,” he said. “I think in fact I met your husband the count once at Gstaad.”
“That sounds highly probable,” said Sophie lightly, and there was no hint in her expression of the truth about Ernst Arnfeldt-Laurvig, a drunkard and a vain, foolish gambler who had dabbled in black magic with the notorious occultist Aleister Crowley and nearly brought the estate to ruin in the 1930s. He had been killed when the Germans invaded Norway in 1940.
“I suppose you are here to prepare for the return of your king,” said Sophie politely.
Atreides looked comically rueful.
“He cannot come back without a referendum,” he said. “Who would have thought the Royal House of Greece would need to subject itself to a referendum before regaining its rightful position?”
“Will you win?” asked Forrester.
“Of course,” said the prince. “The Greeks love their monarch. But the communists will try to stop the referendum happening.”
“How?”
“I think they will renew the civil war,” said Atreides.
“And if they do, do you think they’ll win?”
Atreides glanced over towards General Alexandros, still holding court on the far side of the room. “That depends who they have on their side,” he said, darkly.
As if sensing the prince’s glance, Alexandros turned towards them – and Forrester saw his face grow pale. For a moment he was at a loss: the General’s look could not be directed at him, and Constantine Atreides had never made anyone nervous in his life. Then he realised Alexandros was looking beyond them, towards the door, where two beautiful women were entering. The shorter of the two was dark, and exuded an animal energy, her dark eyes gleaming as they flickered around the room.
“Helena Spetsos,” whispered Constantine. “She fought alongside Alexandros during the war.”
“I’ve met her,” said Forrester. “She’s a formidable woman.”
Helena was surrendering her evening wrap to a footman as though conferring a blessing.