Settling herself back in the car once again, Oriel decided to drive on. She didn’t feel like returning to Heliades just yet, she felt joyous to be driving beside the sea. The terrain was wild and continuously varying as she went along, following the windings of the indented coast. Facing the sea, the countryside was carpeted with flowers and sweet-smelling herbs: marguerites, lilies of the valley, poppies, lavender, rosemary, heather. Everywhere flourished the white gum cistus, those daisy-like flowers with a purple heart, luxuriantly in bloom, the sun drawing forth their rich balsamic fragrance, which wafted through the open window of the Jeep, filling Oriel’s lungs with their aroma.
Up ahead was a small group of buildings, creating a harmonious patchwork of white and terracotta against the promontory on which they were perched. She drove slowly past a row of basic two-room stone cottages, beyond which stood a mansion-sized villa with Italianate touches. Oriel marvelled at the view it must command: endless sea and sky on three of its aspects.
It occurred to her that it would be a good idea to refill her water bottle, which she had drained an hour ago, so she parked beside the end cottage, next to the open wrought-iron gates of the villa. Behind them lay an oval lawn of emerald green, so bright it seemed fake. The house was set like a gem in a circle of cypress, pomegranate, citrus and olive trees. Facing the lawn, it was two-storeyed, the whitewash peeling here and there, with fretted stone balconies at the upper windows and a covered veranda running right round the villa on the ground floor. Purple and yellow bougainvillea and violet morning glory climbed the pillars flanking the studded wooden front door and ran riot over the rough stone walls. The villa’s name hung in large letters in an arch over the gates: I Pýli Tou Apóllona, The Gate of Apollo. A silver-and-black Bugatti was standing in the driveway.
Oriel got out of the Volkswagen, carrying her canvas knapsack, and walked to the end cottage, where a little girl sat sewing by the side of a well in a tiny patch of garden. As she was debating whether or not to knock on the door, a young woman emerged from the side of the house, carrying a little boy on her hip. She smiled at Oriel, who took her empty water bottle from her bag. The woman nodded vigorously and pointed at a bucket beside the well. Oriel thanked her in Greek and the woman took the bottle from her and ladled some water into it. Oriel wondered whether to give the woman some money to thank her for her kindness, but didn’t want to offend her. Then, putting the bottle of water back in her canvas bag, she saw a small unopened tube of mints and gave it to the child, whose big black eyes sparkled with joy. The mother tried to protest, but Oriel insisted.
A moment later she was about to climb back into the Jeep when there was the rich purr of an engine and the Bugatti glided up the gravelled driveway of the gated villa. Oriel stood watching, slightly embarrassed to have parked so near to the villa’s entrance, like some nosy tourist. Instead of turning down the coast road, however, the driver of the Bugatti seemed to have second thoughts, and the engine gave a final throb before the ignition was switched off. Next, the car door opened and a pair of gleaming, finely tapered tanned legs emerged, and Oriel had just enough time to admire a pair of beautifully manicured feet in silver sandals before she was brought face-to-face with Yolanda.
The singer was wearing a black halter-neck top and floaty, tiered skirt: understated, yet so perfectly emphasizing her leopard-like grace. Oriel could detect the softest hint of Chanel on the breeze and she was uncomfortably aware of her own dishevelled appearance, having spent the day working under the heat of an unforgiving sun.
‘You’re that intern, aren’t you? We met the other night,’ said Yolanda with a bright smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. ‘Sorry, I can’t remember your name.’
Oriel was incensed by the other woman’s complete lack of manners but she decided to ignore her obvious malice. ‘Yes, we have met before. I’m Oriel Anderson, the archaeologist Kyrios Lekkas has brought in to work on his specialist projects.’
‘Ah yes, I remember now. Very impressive,’ said Yolanda smoothly. ‘You’re staying at Heliades. Although as an employee, is it really appropriate staying at the boss’s house?’ Despite the cool smile Yolanda gave her, the singer’s eyes glinted with something akin to malevolence and Oriel couldn’t help her blood rising. If Yolanda was going to try and score points, she decided two could play at that game.
‘It’s useful to be at Heliades because we’re working together so closely,’ Oriel replied sweetly. ‘We can discuss our finds after work, sometimes over dinner. It’s also been invaluable to have the use of Damian’s study. He has an impressive collection of reference books. Academic research is an important part of the job.’
Yolanda’s dark eyes sparked but her smile remained fixed, as if in stone. ‘Damian is forever with his head in books, but there is more to life than books and old rubble.’ She waved an elegant hand dismissively. ‘He has always found that going out with a singer, an artist, is a refreshing change from having to hang around with the dull librarian types employed on his digs.’ At this, she looked Oriel up and down disdainfully, which made her even more acutely aware of her unkempt appearance.
Oriel couldn’t wait to bring this hateful dialogue to a close. What on earth was she thinking, engaging in a sparring match with Damian’s girlfriend, if that’s what she was? Yolanda would doubtless like nothing more than a catfight in order to report back to Damian that his new employee was getting above herself and behaving inappropriately. Suddenly Oriel felt angry with him. That she should have been placed in this position at all was hurtful and belittling.
Deciding to adopt a controlled, professional air, she shaded her tone with cool neutrality when she responded. ‘Yes, well, it’s a great project to be involved with. I’m grateful to Damian for the opportunity.’
Yolanda took her cue and moved back towards her Bugatti. As she slid into the car, the diva couldn’t resist having the last word. ‘Well, mind you don’t take up too much of your employer’s time. He wants to dedicate more of it to me now that I’m back.’
With that, she turned the key in the ignition, leaving Oriel standing beside her Volkswagen, seething. As she drove off, kicking up a cloud of yellow dust as she hit the accelerator, Oriel could have sworn she meant to leave her with grit in her eyes and the choking stench of exhaust fumes assailing her lungs. What an absolute bitch! she exclaimed silently to herself.
As she drove back to Heliades Oriel brooded, her recent happy mood having turned distinctly sour. The sun was still shining bright, the sea glittering with silvery wavelets, the olive leaves continuing to dance in the light breeze, but it was as if a grey pall had settled over the afternoon. She felt foolish and vulnerable once more, and fought to re-establish her equilibrium. What had happened to the self-confident, relaxed person she used to be, the girl who viewed life as an adventure and had already learnt – albeit the hard way – not to rely on men for her happiness but to put her trust in herself? Where had that Oriel gone?
Pull yourself together, my girl.
She would once again try to maintain a more formal relationship with Damian. It would be the only way this job would work and, after today’s new finds, she really wanted to see this project through to the end.
She sighed. How many times already had she vowed she would keep her distance? Then all Damian had to do was come close to her and she would go weak at the knees. This intrigue between them was a dangerous situation, drawing her in like quicksand and, if she wasn’t careful, she would be pulled into its suffocating depths. It wasn’t just that Damian’s childhood sweetheart had returned to lay claim to the man who, in turn, was clearly still obsessed with her: the truth was more complicated. Damian had come through difficult times and, on top of that, he was still preoccupied with island responsibilities and familial duties. Oriel only had to think of his cousin Helena and she’d shiver. Did she really want to be embroiled in all of that?
In a few hours she would meet him at the harbour and tell him about the Sestius find. Everything, she determi
ned, would be focused on work. Still, a part of her knew that the thrum of excitement buzzing through her at the prospect of seeing him again could not be explained entirely by professional zeal.
* * *
When Oriel reached Heliades, she went straight up to her bathroom to shower. As she felt the warm rush of water beating down on her, rinsing the reddish streaks of dust from her limbs, she also found her anger and frustration melting away with it, almost as if the steady fall of water had cleansed the singer’s words from the front of her mind, words that had stung with vitriol, the strength of which she had been quite unprepared for. As she stood, face raised, eyes closed, letting the liquid torrents run down her hair and over the soft curves of her pale-gold body, her resentment towards Damian for putting her in such an invidious and humiliating position shifted. Her mind began to wander over the events of the morning and, as they did so, a tingling excitement welled up inside her. Suddenly all Oriel wanted was to talk to him.
Well, that’s all right, she thought to herself. It’ll be an entirely professional conversation.
She had dressed in a pale-blue linen sundress and was applying the merest touch of rose lip balm when she heard the dogs bark and, a moment later, in response, the deep, commanding voice of Damian echoed through the house as he greeted his hounds. A few moments later, Irini tapped at Oriel’s door.
‘The Kyrios is ready, if you want to join him?’ the maid asked.
‘I’ll be down in a moment,’ replied Oriel, moving from the mirror, where she had just finished coiling her hair into a neat chignon, to fetch her bag and a soft white mohair cardigan in case it grew chilly later on. It was still only May, although the weather had been unseasonably scorching these past few days.
‘Are you ready to go?’ Damian was standing in the hall as she descended the stairs, his grey eyes smiling a welcome that belied the peremptory tone of his voice. Oriel reflected for an instant that he must be so used to being master of all he surveyed that he simply wasn’t aware that his voice carried such a tone of authority; it had become almost innate. ‘This farewell ritual we have every May when the sponge divers head off for North Africa is something you have to see,’ he added. ‘We should hurry, I can’t afford to be late.’
Oriel gave him an offhand smile. ‘I’m grateful to have the opportunity, I’ve read a bit about it. Do you have some role in the proceedings?’ she asked, following Damian through the front door and out to his Jeep.
‘In a way, yes,’ he replied, ‘although I have mixed feelings about the whole thing, if I’m honest. I support the islanders in their heritage and traditions where I can, but it’s hard when the whole sponge-diving industry is so rife with injury and danger.’
‘Yes, I can see that,’ she agreed, as they walked down the terrace steps. ‘Just to hear Spyros the other day boasting about sponge divers and their own rather dubious methods of warding off the bends made me realize how much pride and bravado must be wrapped up in the tradition.’
‘Exactly. It’s one of the reasons I wanted you to come today, to observe something so essential to the character of this island and its people. I think you’ll find it worth witnessing. I’m sure some of the divers you’ve worked with before in the Mediterranean might well have come from similar sponge-diving families.’
Oriel glanced at him. Despite the usual intensity in Damian’s gaze as he looked at her, gone was that particular carefree look she had seen the day before at the Epiklisi festival. She found herself wondering if he had forgotten the magic that had surrounded them last night. He appeared more reserved today and she could see that his demeanour of serious leader of Helios had returned. At least it might make it easier for her to maintain her own distance, she thought ruefully.
Keeping to her resolve, as soon as they were both in the car and Damian had pulled out of the drive on to the road, she raised the subject of her day’s recce to see the ruins around Manoli’s. She started from the beginning, filling him in on her phone conversation with Cynthia, and finished with a description of the shard of pottery she had found at the site of the villa. Oriel was maintaining a cool, scientific tone, but she could see Damian’s eyes had kindled with excitement. He started to fire questions at her, which she answered in the same deliberately methodical and measured way. Very soon, however, she was caught up in his adventurer’s zeal.
‘So you think this villa could have belonged to our shipowner?’ he asked.
‘Well, it’s not such a stretch to believe so …’ her voice trailed away, and Damian picked up the thread that she hadn’t yet expressed.
‘And the conclusion you’re coming to is that if he lived here, then his business was no doubt here as well …’
‘Perhaps …’ said Oriel tentatively.
‘Leading us to suppose that the lost port of Helice was a thriving harbour that once belonged to this very island, before it was shattered by earthquakes and engulfed by tidal waves.’ He glanced at her. ‘I presume that also occurred to you?’
‘Well, yes, it did,’ admitted Oriel, and she couldn’t help smiling.
Damian gave a slow whistle and wide grin in response.
‘The piece I found at the ruins … it’s only a piece of one beaker, of course,’ she said quickly. ‘But it did occur to me that our argosy might not have been lost in a storm en route to its destination after all. Perhaps it was simply lying at anchor in its home harbour.’
‘And that might account for there being evidence of more than one cargo, more than one ship,’ added Damian.
‘Exactly,’ said Oriel, thinking for a moment just how well their minds fitted, so that each followed the other’s train of thought without any apparent effort, it came so naturally.
‘Well, there’s only one way to find out,’ Damian said after a brief pause, during which Oriel could almost sense his mind working with laser speed. ‘The next time we dive, we’ll make sure we look for evidence of the argosy’s location having been a harbour.’ He took one hand off the wheel and ran it through his hair, his eyes alight. ‘You never know, if we’re very lucky we might actually find the massive statue of Poseidon.’
‘Now that’s wishful thinking indeed!’ laughed Oriel, although she had to admit to herself that a tiny flicker of the same hope had been lit in her as he spoke. ‘Just remember, we only have a broken beaker and an amphora seal at this stage. Don’t let your imagination run away with itself.’
‘Always the scientist,’ chuckled Damian. ‘All right, you win. We’ll go about this in the most methodical way imaginable.’ He broke off for a moment as they had just turned off the main road leading to the marina, the central part of which had been roped off. He slowed the car then parked behind the warehouse near the taverna. ‘Excellent. We haven’t far to walk.’
A big crowd had assembled near the waterside. Among the mothers, wives and children who were gathered there to wave their relatives and loved ones goodbye, Oriel couldn’t help seeing various men among them who had twisted legs that dragged as they walked, while others were leaning on sticks. One man was sitting on something that looked a little like a go-kart, fashioned from part of a door with old trolley wheels attached, which he moved along with his hands.
Oriel thought back to the other day when she had briefly entered the church at the harbour. Her attention had been attracted by the shrine of St Nicholas, with the unusual amount of flowers and gifts laid at his feet. It was here that the women of the sponge-diving families made their requests for favours, as well as giving thanks for miracles received. Until then, she’d had no idea that the islanders of Helios were taking part in such a dangerous exploit. She knew it was the tradition on Kalymnos, but thought it had largely died out elsewhere. True, no longer did one see a diver enter the sea holding a skandalopetra, the thirty-pound slab of marble the free-divers once used to take them to depths of a hundred feet. Still, the fact remained, despite the modern diving suit with breathing equipment, the skáfandro, diving for sponges, was a hazardous escapade. Oriel had been
on a couple of dives where one of her team had had decompression sickness – the ‘bends’ – and she would never forget their shrieks of pain, torsos writhing as if red-hot scorpions, rather than nitrogen bubbles, were coursing through their veins.
Damian walked beside her, his tall figure drawing the eyes of the islanders as he passed by. Oriel wondered, a little ruefully, if they were speculating on who his companion might be. He didn’t seem to care or notice the looks that passed among them, intensely engaged as he was in conversation with her – so much so that he responded with the barest gesture of a nod to their greetings.
‘When my father was a child,’ he told Oriel, ‘one of the great industries of Helios was sponge fishing. It helped with the economy. About a third of the island’s men and boys were absent all the summer, fishing or diving off the shores of Tripoli and Malta. In those days, one man in three was either dead or crippled from the bends before he reached marriageable age.’
‘That’s terrible,’ interjected Oriel, looking around her at the stoical, weatherbeaten faces of the islanders. She gave a small shiver: they may have gathered for a festival but it might as well be a funeral wake if what Damian said was true.
‘There are far fewer now that go, thankfully. In those days they would leave in a sizeable group in May, but when they returned during the autumn it was in a much reduced number. The summers on Helios were bleak. It was as if all the able-bodied men of this harbour town were away at war. The islanders carried on as best they could but never knew how many would come back.’
‘Did that mean that everything stopped for the summer?’
‘No. The island was still active as a commercial centre, and many women worked in the fields, taking on whatever jobs their husbands or sons held in winter and, of course, they were the main harvesting hands. But I remember the atmosphere, even when I was a boy. There was less bustle and merriment. The people were heavy-hearted. While other islands prospered during the summer, bringing in money via their cafés and tavernas by the sea, life here was rather grim.’
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