Aphrodite's Tears

by Hannah Fielding

  Hassan took Oriel through the house to Damian’s terrace. Tonight, the place was not in darkness. Lanterns shone here and there, lighting mysteriously the few remnants of Greek statuary and the big terracotta pots against the balustrade, over the sides of which flowers of various hues spilled. She found Damian leaning with one shoulder propped against a trellis of roses, his head tipped backwards as he seemed to be studying the star-studded sky; a tall figure, stranded in the shadows beyond the perimeter of light being cast by the low-slung lamps. The air hung still and heavily scented, with night-time rustlings in the hedges and undergrowth. When he remained unaware of Oriel’s soft-footed approach, she paused to inhale deeply the sweet, fresh aroma of exotic flowers and greenery rising from the garden that lay in the moonlight below.

  As if becoming suddenly conscious of her presence, Damian swung round. ‘Kalispera, Calypso. I hope you had some time to rest after all the excitement of earlier.’ He looked utterly relaxed in his white silk pinstripe suit and thin, open-necked cotton shirt that showed the swing of the gleaming golden medallion she had noticed previously.

  Despite his casual words and demeanour, Oriel saw the intensity in his eyes as they dwelt on her. The truth was she’d had little inclination to keep still, let alone lie down, since they had parted but she smiled and answered: ‘Kahlee sphera. Yes, I feel very refreshed, thank you.’

  As she approached him, Damian picked up a small glass of mahogany-coloured liquid from the table next to him and held it out to her. ‘I took the liberty of pouring you some of this.’ Devilment sparked in his eyes as Oriel took it from him: Metaxa.

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Charme d’Amour again, Kyrios Lekkas?’ Yet she couldn’t help smiling shyly into her glass as she tipped it back to sip the warming, spicy brandy.

  ‘What else, Despinis Anderson?’ His cool, shuttered gaze dropped slowly to the deep V of her neckline and, suddenly tingling with self-consciousness, Oriel lifted a casual hand to her throat, where she knew a telltale vein was throbbing, her skin warming under that overtly masculine scrutiny.

  There was a disturbingly caressing note in the deep voice, which made the perfectly respectable dress she was wearing feel transparent, and once again he left her lost for words. He took her arm, the grip of his fingers firm but gentle. ‘Come, let’s sit down to dinner. I thought it might be cooler out here, it will be a hot night. What do you think?’

  ‘Lovely,’ Oriel whispered.

  ‘I’ve ordered a cold supper of seafood and salads, so we’re not disturbed.’ He gave the words a sensual meaning and warmth ran over Oriel’s skin as she wondered what he had in mind.

  The table was beautifully set, as on the night of her arrival. This time it was rectangular, a solid slab of cream-coloured marble sitting on delicately carved wrought-iron legs. Creamy candles were set in finely etched hurricane lamps and, under their flickering flames, silverware and crystal shone with rainbow lights that made the velvet petals of the spray of white tuberoses in the middle of the table seem made of gold. Beside the table stood a trolley with a huge dish piled up with shellfish of all sorts, surrounded by an array of smaller plates of delectable-looking salads. A bottle of pink champagne stood in a silver ice bucket with two flutes beside it.

  Damian pulled out a chair for Oriel and she sat down. He stood over the pale shine of her hair. She could feel him looking down on her for a moment before taking his place opposite her. His eyes held glints of moonlight that added to their brilliance in his lean face and her heart skipped a beat.

  He filled both glasses with the rosy-coloured bubbles and passed one to her. ‘What a day, eh? Here’s to our very good health and to our unique teamwork, Calypso. Yamas!’ He raised his flute to Oriel’s and she beamed back at him as their glasses clinked together.

  ‘I’ll fly to Athens as soon as I can in the morning and speak to the Minster of Culture. I may need to stay overnight as there’ll be a lot of people to talk to. Whatever this statue turns out to be, it’s big news.’

  ‘We’d best not drink too much of this, then,’ she said with a wry smile.

  ‘I’m too wired for it to make any difference. Aren’t you?’ He grinned at her and Oriel wanted to curl up in his lap and never leave. ‘I’ve given orders to close the wreck site for a while.’

  Maybe this will be the end of my work here, she thought quite suddenly, feeling as if a cold blanket had been thrown over her. She tried to ignore the prospect that her time with Damian might be running out. ‘I imagine you’ll have to bring in extra security,’ she said, picturing the mayhem news of their find would undoubtedly bring.

  ‘As I said, for the moment we’ll keep the news to ourselves,’ Damian replied. ‘That’ll be the safest thing. Otherwise we’ll be sitting ducks for every treasure hunter around.’

  ‘Yes, and if we’re right and this is a submerged seaport of some importance, then there will be a great deal more than just one wrecked ship to excavate.’

  ‘And you, Calypso, will be the one to excavate it,’ he said, his silver gaze gleaming.

  Oriel was unable to suppress the smile that flooded through her whole body at his words. She traced the rim of her glass. ‘It would be like my own personal golden apple.’

  He looked at her quizzically. ‘Golden apple?’

  She looked up. ‘Yes, you know, the Twelve Labours of Heracles. The near-impossible feats that he had to perform for Eurystheus, the king of Tiryns, I think it was. Including bringing him the golden apples that belonged to Zeus himself.’

  ‘Yes, I remember the story. The apples were kept in the garden of the Hesperides, no?’

  She nodded. ‘That’s right. They were guarded by the Hesperides, nymphs who were the daughters of Atlas. The trouble was, Heracles didn’t even know where the garden was at first.’ Her eyes shone with enthusiasm. ‘A bit like us and our search for the lost port of Helice.’

  ‘Ah yes, and Heracles was challenged by the sons of Poseidon.’

  ‘Not unlike our own struggles with those treacherous waters around Helios,’ she affirmed, warming to her theme. ‘Then he killed the eagle that tormented Prometheus, bound in chains on his rock on Mount Caucasus, in exchange for the secret of how to get the apples … which was using Atlas, the Titan, to fetch his prize.’ She gave a light shrug. ‘For me, finding Helice would be a little like Heracles completing his labours.’ Oriel paused before laughing. ‘A golden archaeological feat, don’t you think?’

  Damian grinned, his eyes roaming with enjoyment over her face. He raised his glass. ‘I’ll drink to that too. Though you are far prettier than Heracles.’

  Oriel couldn’t help smiling back shyly as she took another sip of the deliciously cool champagne.

  ‘Besides,’ Damian continued, ‘Heracles became the perfect embodiment of the Greek idea of pathos. Virtuous struggle and suffering resulting in fame and, for Heracles, immortality. I think discoveries like this are a way for us to live on, in some tiny part, by leaving our mark.’ He cocked an eyebrow. ‘But let’s hope we don’t have the struggle and suffering, eh?’

  She laughed again. ‘I agree, let’s just make sure we’re careful.’

  His expression became animated. ‘Isn’t this why we go down there? Just seeing that magnificent bronze figure lying there waiting for us to discover him … Tell me, Calypso, is there anything to rival this feeling?’

  Oriel recognized Damian’s mercurial mood. He was excited and on edge; it made him talkative and lyrical. She laughed. ‘We do it because of our love and admiration for those ancient civilizations that taught us and left us so much, and also our reluctance to see their work disappear. In your own words, Damian: you Greeks were the cradle of civilization. Now that instinct, to seek out the secrets of history, has been vindicated. This find doesn’t get any better.’

  He gave her a penetrating look of raw interest. ‘So wise, Calypso …’

  She shrugged.

  ‘I want to get to know you.’

  ‘Do you?’ She thought her
voice sounded stunned.

  ‘Well, you’re a fabulous-looking creature. Perhaps a bit tall …’ He smiled and leaned back in his chair.

  ‘I’m not that tall,’ she started to protest, and then saw he was teasing.

  Damian’s brilliant eyes raked over her vivid face. ‘How old are you, Calypso? You omitted that information on your résumé.’

  ‘I was born in 1512,’ she returned lightly. ‘This is my forth reincarnation.’

  ‘I suppose the first time they burnt you as a witch.’

  She forgot that she was supposed to remain cool and stared into the orange candle flames. ‘Throughout history, women have been persecuted, more harshly judged than men.’

  ‘I won’t deny it,’ he replied in an unexpectedly sympathetic voice. ‘No need to get so het up, we’re just having a conversation. Besides, I already know that.’

  ‘Well, you could have fooled me. You might be aware of it in theory, but not in practice,’ she told him in a voice that she hoped would sound dispassionate. ‘A woman would only have to look at you to realize you would quickly reduce her to a slave.’

  ‘On the basis of my general appearance?’ He sounded more sceptical than offended.

  ‘You’re the quintessential male, a conqueror by your very nature.’

  ‘Is that how you see me, agápi mou? You flatter me.’

  Once again, Oriel knew that he was trying to bait her and even though his arrogance was insufferable on occasion, part of her was starting to enjoy the challenge of their sparring: male against female. ‘I’m not your agápi,’ she retorted. ‘Actually, I could equally well say, I’m no man’s agápi.’

  ‘No man’s love? A woman like you? You must be!’ Damian leaned back in his chair again, staring with amused mockery into her eyes. ‘All the men here are mad about you, haven’t you noticed?’

  It was hard to keep her composure in the face of such a comment. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Damian, what are you talking about?’

  ‘Forgive me, Calypso.’ His eyes flickered as he regarded her speculatively. ‘Perhaps I’m trying to unravel you too quickly.’

  There was a moment’s silence as he paused to look up, watching the fireflies make little sparks in the air. ‘What a beautiful night,’ he murmured.

  Their gazes caught and Oriel swiftly glanced at the vase of tuberoses, her heartbeat beginning to pick up inexplicably. She took another sip of champagne, enjoying the feeling of the icy bubbles in her throat. ‘I love those flowers.’

  ‘Tuberoses are like most women,’ he said, his eyes still fixed upon her. ‘They change with the hours and are lovelier by candlelight than in the glare of sunshine.’

  ‘Most things look better by night than in the daytime, I suppose.’

  ‘Perhaps, but I said most women. You, Calypso, are not most women. Your beauty is as exceptional in daylight as it is by candlelight.’

  Oriel gave him a speaking glance and his dark brows lifted in amusement. ‘Just an honest observation.’

  She ignored the warmth that had reflexively crept up her cheeks and cleared her throat. ‘I see oysters are on the menu.’

  ‘Here, have one,’ he said, placing a few of the shellfish on a plate with a wedge of lemon. ‘They’re freshly caught today.’

  Oriel loved oysters and these were particularly plump, with a fresh delicate flavour of sea and seaweed. ‘They’re delicious,’ she said as she held the last one between her thumb and first finger and tipped the narrow side of the shell into her mouth.

  He gave a satisfied smile. ‘They taste of heaven, eh? Have some more.’ He chose another six and placed them on her plate.

  ‘That’s too much,’ she protested.

  ‘Do you know the legend attached to these delicious little molluscs, known to be a potent aphrodisiac?’ Oriel saw his eyebrows quirk as he studied her face.

  ‘You mean Aphrodite being born from the ocean waves on a shell?’

  ‘That was a scallop, not an oyster. Actually, Hesiod tells a much gorier story in his book, Theogony, about the birth of Aphrodite.’

  ‘I should have known you would have another gruesome take on Greek mythology to share,’ she said wryly, squeezing a wedge of lemon over another of the oysters.

  Damian grinned and continued. ‘According to his tale, Uranus and Gaea bore a race of deities that were hideous to look at. Uranus did not care for these children due to their monstrous appearance and banished them to the abyss beneath the underworld, known as Tartarus, the Greek equivalent of the dungeon of Hades. Gaea became angry and conspired with her children to depose their father. Then, while Uranus was bedding her, Cronus, their son, escaped from Tartarus and then castrated his father with a sickle of his mother’s creation. The testicles were thrown into the sea and they foamed into the ravishing Aphrodite.’

  ‘I knew it. Gruesome,’ responded Oriel, though it didn’t stop her defiantly eating another of the shellfish while Damian looked on, his mouth twitching with contained laughter. She added casually: ‘I didn’t know that version of the legend but I’ve heard of the oyster’s reputation as a strong aphrodisiac, of course, though I can’t say I’ve ever experienced the effect.’

  ‘Then I’m afraid the man who was with you at the time failed you.’

  Oriel read the allusion in his gaze and in his words, a message there for her if she just cared to acknowledge it. ‘Must you bring everything back to that?’

  ‘Isn’t that, as you say, what it’s been all about since the beginning of time? Adam and Eve and the sinful apple?’

  Oriel shrugged. ‘What’s the use of discussing anything with someone who’s so one-track minded?’

  His eyes flashed again and flirted. ‘How can I do otherwise in the presence of a woman that delights my eyes, makes my heart sing and fires my blood as no woman has before?’

  She gave him a cool-eyed look that belied the way she was feeling. ‘It’s not your plan to seduce me, is it?’

  To her annoyance he just laughed. ‘Why? Because I’m drawn to your beauty and your spirit? No …’ And although Damian left his negation unfinished, the look in his eyes told her he was thinking, I did that a long time ago.

  Oriel shrugged and turned her head away. ‘Just as well,’ she whispered, ‘because here’s one radical female who doesn’t care to get her wings singed.’

  He ignored the answer. ‘You’re an elusive girl, Calypso. How would you describe yourself? Yes, radical, perhaps. Gentle, tolerant … submissive? In certain situations, I’d guess.’ Damian leaned his forearms on the table and a gleam of predatory interest lit his grey eyes. He seemed mesmerized by whatever he saw in her face. ‘I think you’re the reverse of all that and it’s what attracts me to you. I’d guess you’re even more of a challenge to a man in many ways now.’

  She shot him a scathing look. ‘And I think you’re sexist and a womanizer.’

  Damian laughed. ‘I never thought that I’d enjoy having a woman call me sexist and a womanizer. Instead, I’m finding it most entertaining.’ He stood to clear away her plate of shells and served her with half a lobster and a dollop of mayonnaise. ‘What has made you so cynical, eh, koritsee mou?’

  Oriel frowned at him as she took her plate. ‘I’m not your girl,’ she said, trying to conceal the way her emotions were gradually rising as the evening progressed. She was enjoying her meal. The Metaxa had already had an effect earlier on, and now the champagne she had been sipping quite liberally made her insides feel warm and languorous. She was aware of a stirring, a vague bubble of elation.

  No one had ever talked to her with the direct audacity Damian had been doing since her arrival, and she took pleasure in the curious prickling his words created under her skin, a tingling all the way up and down her spine as the beauty of the night, the soft indolent charm of the island and the personality of the man sitting opposite her soaked into her senses. She felt trapped inside a strange dream: Damian captured her imagination even if he eluded her understanding.

  Still, that small
voice at the back of her mind appeared again: Damian didn’t love her, his hormones were the ones pulling the strings where she was concerned. His heart belonged to his childhood sweetheart, a passionate woman with the voice of a songbird and the physique of a goddess – Yolanda, the beautiful singer.

  Damian ignored Oriel’s rebellious retort and passed her another dish.

  They ate in silence for a while, finishing their main course. The night was very warm, the air a caress, the moon a slice of cantaloupe suspended high in an ebony velvet expanse of sky. Oriel loved Helios’s nights, the fragrances and sounds. The aroma of seaweed and salt surrounded them, mixed with the tang of ozone and eelgrass that mingled with the scented breath of exotic flowers – the smell was invigorating and the breeze glorious. She could hear little scuttling creatures that twittered and whispered in the flowerbeds beneath the terrace. Away down on the shore the sea sighed rhythmically. The birds were silenced, while the incessant chatter of cicadas in the tall grasses formed a backdrop to Damian and Oriel’s conversation.

  Oriel was glad that, for a while, their talk moved easily back to the Poseidon discovery, moving on to the Alexander bronze and the likelihood of its having been sculpted by the legendary Lysippos. Damian served them both with a light fruit salad and, as they finished their dessert and he was pouring them coffee from a percolator that had been slowly brewing during supper, he produced a packet of Gitanes.

  ‘I know that you don’t smoke, but may I?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, of course, go ahead.’

  Damian flicked his lighter, lit a cigarette and settled back in his chair. For a short moment he watched Oriel from under his eyelids, lightly blue-tinged smoke playing over his head. He shot her an enigmatic glance.