Greek Wedding

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  ‘No. I shall stay here. Next day, I shall go to Kitries, to wait for Alexandros. I must be the first to tell him, don’t you see?’

  ‘Yes. You’re a brave girl, Oenone.’

  ‘Oh, courage.’ She dismissed it. ‘What is that? We all have it, we Greeks. I would like to be wise, like Milord Renshaw.’ She was at the doorway, and turned. ‘Sleep well, kyria, and rest well, too, tomorrow.’

  Chapter 25

  ‘There!’ Oenone stood back to survey her handiwork. ‘You’ll do. I’m sorry about your hair.’ She had cut it jaggedly and smeared it with grease, so that it hung lankly round Phyllida’s blackened face. ‘You must walk with the longest stride you can manage,’ she went on. ‘And see to it that the fustanella swings.’

  ‘Lucky I’ve been wearing trousers so much.’ Her throat hurt and her head had not stopped aching all day. It was hard to pay attention to what Oenone was saying.

  ‘The men on guard should be fast asleep by now,’ Oenone went on. ‘I told them milord had refused his wine, and they had better finish it. That way, if my uncle should enquire, he will think it was milord who drugged it.’

  ‘Clever.’ She found Oenone almost frighteningly so. What was that book of Mrs. Shelley’s? Frankenstein? About a monster who came alive? The sight of Oenone suddenly using her excellent brain suggested it, and Phyllida thought, through the pounding of her head, what a surprise she would be to Alex as a wife.

  ‘Time to go,’ Oenone said. ‘A pity there’s no glass to show you what a fine boy you make … But it’s too dark, anyway. Come, kyria, milord will be waiting.’ She blew out the lamp. ‘Lucky there’s a moon. We don’t want someone looking over from the other buildings and seeing lights moving about here. They should all be drunk asleep by now, but you can’t count on it. Follow me down the stairs. Careful: your hand on my shoulder.’

  The door below, Brett’s door, was locked, with a thin line of light showing round it. ‘Wait here a moment,’ Oenone breathed the words ‘I must make sure of the guard.’ She seemed to be away an age, while Phyllida stood shivering in her strange clothes. How much colder it was up here than down on sea level; no wonder if her throat hurt and her teeth chattered.

  ‘Good.’ Oenone appeared, soundlessly, beside her. ‘Dead to the world, both of them.’ She was feeling for the keyhole in the darkness of the door.

  ‘Both?’

  ‘There’s always one on duty outside. There.’ The key grated in the lock, and the door swung inwards with a scream of hinges that made Phyllida realise just how wise Oenone had been to make sure of the guards first.

  But here was Brett coming forward to greet them, lamp in hand. Extraordinary to have feared never to see him again and now to be greeted as casually as if they had been parted by the merest trivialities. It was almost satisfactory to see his expression change to one of amazement as she moved forward into the lamplight. ‘Good God,’ he said. ‘I’d not have known you. I congratulate you, kyria.’ To Oenone.

  ‘Yes. I think she’ll pass in the daylight. We must at least hope so. You’re ready? We’re committed now. The sooner the better.’

  ‘Of course.’ He picked up a small bundle like the one Oenone had helped Phyllida pack. ‘You promised me a weapon, kyria.’

  ‘You shall have your choice. Now, blow out the lamp, and follow me. And, not a sound.’

  For a moment, before he blew out the lamp, his eyes met Phyllida’s. This was a leap in the dark, they said: anything might happen. And, as silently, she answered him: anything was better than what they were escaping.

  Down the black stairway. Phyllida’s hand on Oenone’s shoulder, Brett’s on hers sending a convulsive shiver through her. At the bottom, a glimpse of a lighted room, two Greeks snoringly asleep on the hard earth floor. One quick glance at them and Oenone led the way out on to the moonlit plateau and straight across towards the lighted hall where Alex had entertained them.

  Instinctively, Phyllida hesitated, and felt Brett, behind her, do the same. Then, his hand, still on her shoulder for guidance, closed harder with a message of comfort. They were committed to this wild venture, to trusting Oenone. They must go through with it. A quick, impatient gesture from Oenone, in front, set them in motion again, feeling horribly exposed among the strange shadows of the moonlit plateau. Phyllida thought she had never felt so complete a silence. The only sound, their footsteps, soft-shod on quiet rock, echoed like drumbeats in her head, vying with the pulse that had been beating heavily there all day.

  Now they were at the door of the big hall. Oenone’s hand told Phyllida to stay where she was, and Brett took the message, wordlessly, from her. They stood, his hand still reassuring on her shoulder, and watched Oenone open the door of the hall, letting out a blaze of light, and no sound at all. She vanished for an endless moment, then reappeared, silhouetted against the light, and beckoned them forward.

  The hall was lit by a huge fire, blazing dangerously on the untended hearth. In front of it, a grey-haired Greek lay fast asleep, half on, half off the chair Alex had used. ‘My uncle,’ Oenone mouthed the words. ‘Nothing would rouse him.’ Her hand swept the weapon-hung hall. ‘Choose what you need. But, quietly.’

  There were fewer weapons than before. Phyllida watched Brett as he lifted two straight, short daggers from their places. Without ammunition, the few remaining muskets would be useless, not worth carrying as a bluff. She turned, at his warning touch, and saw Oenone on the far side of the fireplace, beckoning. Beside her yawned a dark hole that had not been there before. She felt Brett catch his breath in surprise, and followed him as he picked his way silently round the big table.

  Still in silence, they followed Oenone into the pitch blackness of the hole, turned instinctively to look back towards the firelight, felt her moving beside them and saw darkness close across it.

  ‘There,’ said Oenone clearly. ‘No one can say that I showed you the secret way. You could search for a thousand years and still not find it. And still less the way back.’

  ‘Secret or sacred?’ asked Brett, surprisingly.

  ‘Both, I have no doubt.’ She understood him perfectly. ‘And safe, which is more to the point. It leads down, inside the rock, to the lower plateau. No need for a light. They built well, our ancestors, it’s smooth going every inch of the way. So, follow me.’ Her hand found Phyllida’s in the darkness and placed it once more on her shoulder. ‘And you, milord, behind the kyria.’

  ‘But,’ surprisingly, Brett hesitated. ‘If it’s a sacred way, what does it lead to? Up here?’

  ‘Milord!’ No mistaking the threat in Oenone’s voice. ‘This is no time to be thinking of antiquities for your book. Follow me, and watch yourselves.’

  It was good advice. The paving was smooth and well-laid, but there were still occasional joins that might trip the unwary in that heavy, total darkness. Several times Phyllida had to pause, holding Oenone back, while Brett seemed to trip and recover himself.

  ‘Don’t dally!’ Oenone’s voice came back to them angrily. ‘We’re dead, all three of us, if you’re not away from the lower plateau before first light.’

  After that, they moved forward more swiftly, in concentrated silence. But it seemed an age before they saw light ahead and emerged through what seemed to be a crack in the rock-face on to the plateau. Away and below, moonlight glimmered on the sea. It looked terrifyingly far off, across a wild chequerboard of black and grey shadow, with here and there a lighter gleam where the moon caught a shining patch of flint.

  Oenone was looking up at the stars. ‘We’ve not done too badly after all. You’ve an hour or so before the dawn. Do you remember where the path to Kitries begins?’

  ‘I think so.’ Brett pointed. ‘Over there. And the other way?’

  ‘I’ll show you. The one to Kitries is easy to find. It’s used all the time. The other’s just a goat track, hardly that. You’ll need your wits about you, if you decide to take it.’ She was leading the way along the edge of the plateau, and went on before there was time
for them to speak. ‘For God’s sake don’t tell me which you mean to take.’

  ‘I haven’t decided,’ said Brett.

  ‘Good. There.’ She paused where the cliff came down to cut off the plateau. ‘You see?’

  ‘Yes.’ It was more than Phyllida could. ‘And you say, this way it’s two hours to the nearest house.’

  ‘Yes. About the same distance as to Kitries. But, as I told you, the people that way are no friends of ours. Now, I must leave you. If I’m not back before my uncle wakes, nothing can save me. God go with you, my friends.’ Surprisingly, she kissed Phyllida on both cheeks.

  ‘And with you.’ Brett bent to kiss her hand. ‘If I can be of service to you, ever, I am yours to command.’

  ‘The best thing you can do for me is get clear away. Goodbye.’ She vanished into the dark cleft of the rock.

  ‘Well,’ said Brett. ‘Here we are.’

  ‘Yes.’ They had moved back with Oenone and stood now at the centre of the plateau. ‘Did you mean it when you said you hadn’t decided which way to go?’

  ‘Of course not.’ He had turned, already, and was moving away from the Kitries path. ‘You heard her say that the people this way are their enemies. It’s our only hope.’

  ‘But, Brett!’ There was so much they had not had a chance to discuss. ‘Suppose they’ve gone for help, on the Helena, they’ll come to Kitries.’

  ‘Yes.’ He was at the edge of the plateau now. ‘But not by tomorrow—not by today, I should say. Phyllida, there’s no time for discussion. I’m going this way. Are you coming?’

  ‘What else can I do?’ She swallowed a helpless sob. The path up from Kitries had been bad enough, but by Oenone’s own admission, this one was worse. The throbbing in her head was louder than ever; she was almost surprised that Brett did not hear it. To look down, now, was agony.

  ‘Good.’ He had expected nothing else. ‘Keep close behind me, and for God’s sake watch your feet. A twisted ankle, and we’re lost.’

  ‘Yes.’ Tell him about her head? Tell him she could not do it? But, already, she was doing it. They were on the goat track, which was just enough of an indentation on the steep hillside to show as a shadow on the bare, moonlit rock. There was no vegetation up here, except an occasional huge cactus glittering like a sheaf of silver spears. Don’t look at them, don’t look anywhere but at Brett’s back. When had he taken her bundle and added it to his own? What would he do if she was to sit down on the path and tell him, simply, that she could not go on?

  A thousand hammers were beating out a rhythm in her head. ‘He’d go on,’ they said. ‘He’d go on and leave you.’ It was easier, a little, if she kept her head bent downwards, watching the darker shadows that meant loose stones on the path. For an endless while it went on, sideways and a little downwards, along the edge of the steep slope. Then, gradually, it turned upwards again. It made the walking a little easier, with less chance of a fall, but Phyllida’s breath came harder and harder. If she opened her mouth, her throat hurt worse. The hammers in her head were beating faster now. At each step she took, she thought she was going to stop and tell Brett she could go no farther, but each time, somehow, the other foot dragged itself forward and she went on. At last, half an hour, a million years later, Brett stopped. She had lagged a little behind him and it took her a gasping moment to catch up. Each breath hurt now, all through her.

  Brett was looking back, not at her, but beyond. ‘Thank God,’ he said. ‘At last we’re out of sight of the plateau. If the alarm should be raised, they won’t know which way we’ve gone.’

  ‘No.’ It came out as a croak and he looked at her quickly, then away.

  ‘Heartless,’ said the hammers in her head. ‘Quite heartless.’ But already he had turned and moved on, downward again now, so that she understood, through an increasingly dizzy pain, that they had rounded an escarpment of the mountain. Surely, now, if they were out of sight, they could stop for a moment and rest?

  ‘Brett!’ It hurt so much that it came our merely as a whisper and apparently he did not hear, but went steadily on ahead. ‘Brett!’ No use. She could hardly hear it herself, the whisper of a lost soul, out there on the cold mountain. She thought she had told her feet to stop, to give up and let her lie down and die there, on the bare rock, but if she had, they ignored her, and went plodding on after Brett.

  Up again. Down again. Up. Down. Slipping; sliding; stumbling. ‘Brett!’ She stopped. ‘I can’t.’

  This time he heard her, turned, his face a blank in the moonlight. ‘You must.’

  ‘I can’t, I tell you.’ She was leaning, heavily, against an outcrop of rock that jutted up by the path. ‘Couldn’t we rest, just a little?’

  ‘No.’ Ruthless. ‘If you stop, you won’t get started again. You know it as well as I do.’

  ‘I don’t care. Just leave me then. No one would hurt me, a woman.’

  ‘No?’ He looked upwards. ‘I never heard that vultures respected the sex.’ He had moved back towards her as he spoke, now pulled her upright. ‘Come on.’ Not an iota of sympathy in his tone. ‘You must see that I can’t leave you. It’s half an hour till dawn. There were horses, back on the plateau. How long do you think it will take them to find us, once they start to search? It’s not only your own life you’re risking but mine and Oenone’s.’ He was pulling her forward, awkwardly in the narrow path.

  She stumbled. ‘I hate you.’ Recovering herself, she found she was moving forward again. He had had to let go of her hand, and was plodding ahead once more as if nothing had happened. ‘Hate you … hate you … hate you,’ rang the beat in her head. ‘Not only your own life … mine and Oenone’s.’ Cruel… cruel … Alex would be better … Anything would be better … She slipped again, recovered herself and heard, above them on the mountain, an owl cry. Vultures, Brett had said. She imagined them, picking at living flesh, then bones bleaching to eternity on this bare rock. Another owl, and then, almost a miracle, the bleat of a goat, ahead and below, and not very far. And something else. Lifting her head for a moment, with an effort that hurt so much as to make even pain unreal, she saw, above them on the right, the ragged mountain edged with a thin line of brightness. Somewhere, far to the east (over Nauplia? over Jerusalem?) the sun was rising.

  And, almost another miracle, ahead of her Brett had stopped. ‘The path’s wider now. I can help you a little.’ His voice was matter-of-fact. She almost pulled away, but his arm round her was too comforting. ‘Easier now,’ said his voice, and the hammers in her head took it up. ‘Easier now … easier now … easier now.’ Her feet kept time with his, slipping and stumbling among the loose rocks of the path, because, now that she had him for guide, she need not make herself look down, but kept beside him, passively, putting one foot in front of another.

  ‘Easier now … easier now … easier now…’ When had she shut her eyes? Opening them, she was seared by pain, but saw, in the flash before they closed again, that the sun was up. Rosy-fingered dawn … rosy fingered … The hammers beat more and more slowly. She did not know that her steps were slowing to match them, that Brett, now supporting her almost entirely with his left arm, had turned to glance down at her anxiously.

  Then, for a moment, she was conscious again, aware of figures all around them and voices, hostile … challenging … And above them Brett’s. ‘Philhellenoi,’ he said. ‘Angloi…’

  She was sliding, down, down, a thousand miles down, into a blackness where only the drumbeat of pain spelt life.

  * * *

  She was warm. She was lying down. Above her, voices echoed strangely, speaking Greek, incomprehensible to her exhausted brain. One of them Brett’s? She opened her eyes. ‘I hate you,’ she said, and slept again.

  Someone was making her drink a warm, vile brew. Brett, of course. ‘Sage berries,’ said a voice. She could understand the Greek now. ‘The best sudorific. Make her drink it all.’

  She opened her eyes. Yes, it was Brett’s hand that held the unspeakable brew to her lips. ‘No!’ Feeb
ly, she tried to turn her head away.

  ‘Drink,’ said Brett’s voice. ‘They risked their lives for you, gathering the berries.’

  She drank like an angry, obedient child and instantly fell asleep again. Now she was not just warm, she was burning, sweating … Dying? Poisoned? She pushed away heavy coverings and felt them tucked firmly back round her. A hand felt her hot forehead. ‘Sweating like a pig.’ Brett’s voice of course.

  ‘Thank God.’ A Greek. Praying? It sounded like it.

  Sweating like a pig. ‘I hate…’ She was asleep again, dreaming now, the wild dreams of fever … Blood … and fire … the weapon-hung hall, the old Greek, not asleep, but lying by the fire, his throat cut, bleeding horribly … like a pig…

  ‘Drink it!’ Brett’s voice, pulling her into reluctant consciousness, the same odious concoction held to her lips. What had he said? She knew she must drink, did so and sank fathoms-down into a real sleep.

  ‘Much better,’ said a voice. The one she had heard praying? ‘Get some rest now, milord, we can look after her.’

  ‘No,’ said Brett. ‘I must be here when she wakes.’

  Phyllida opened heavy eyes. ‘I am awake.’

  ‘Speak Greek if you can.’ Brett was sitting on the floor beside her, and spoke, himself, in Greek. ‘It’s more courteous to our hosts, who have saved your life.’

  ‘So practical,’ said Phyllida, and then, in Greek: ‘I’m sorry … Thank you.’ She was asleep again.

  Next time she woke, she was hungry. When had her throat stopped hurting? No voices. Nothing. She opened her eyes … The other times, surely, it had been dark, there had been lamplight, shadows … Now it was twilight. Morning? Evening? Impossible to tell, still more so to imagine how long she had lain here.

  Lain where? A pile of sheepskins on a floor of beaten earth … A very odd-shaped room; shadows looming down on her … an attic? Suddenly, terrifyingly, she imagined herself back in the tower of the Mavromikhalis … on the very top storey now … left there to die? ‘Brett!’ Had it all been a dream? No. ‘Sweating like a pig,’ he had said. How could she have imagined that?