by Anna Harvey
“That is a very generous offer, lord Agamemnon,” Nestor replied, choosing his words carefully. “But I’m afraid that gifts alone will not be enough to compensate Achilles’ honour. Things have gone too far and it will require words as well to soothe the injury to his kleos. Let Odysseus lead a delegation, as he is most skilled with words. He can appeal to Achilles better than anyone and explain our current predicament. Let Ajax the Greater also go with him and Phoenix the healer, who tutored Achilles as a boy and who he holds in high esteem.”
Agamemnon‘s open contrition and the proposed plan to put things right had briefly alleviated Odysseus’ misgivings about the man, their leader. But the mission had been a failure. The young Achilles, of whom Odysseus had always been fond, had warmly welcomed and entertained them with food, listening respectfully to them all. Suspecting that the gifts alone were not enough for a man like Achilles, Odysseus had tried to reason with him.
“I know you have no love of the man, Achilles, and that you cannot change these feelings. But at least think of the plight of the Greek army and take pity on them. Each day, more and more of them are dying, in your absence from the battlefield, cut down by Trojan weapons. If you return to the fight, who knows you may even kill the Trojan warrior Hector, which would add to your kleos. But if these words have no effect and you are still consumed by anger, a passion that can blind men from reason, then at least remember your father’s advice who urged you to control and master your feelings.”
He had consciously omitted to mention Agamemnon’s demand to be acknowledged as Achilles’ superior. But despite the best attempts of Ajax, Phoenix and himself, still the answer had been the same. An outright “No”. And although Achilles, too swayed by his passions, held onto his grievance, he Odysseus couldn’t help ascribing the bigger portion of blame to Agamemnon, son of Atreus. He was their Anax after all, their appointed overlord and leader. Knowing Achilles’ hot temperament, Agamemnon should have been man enough to not let this quarrel get out of hand.
But it was in the very darkest hour of the conflict, when the Trojans had pushed them back all the way to the beach camp itself and were threatening to burn the ships. It was then that he had finally lost patience with the man and those doubts turned into something else. Something deeper and darker that fills a man with disgust and loathing to the bottom of his spirit.
The fighting that day had been particularly heavy. He and Agamemnon, had been forced to retire early from the battlefield nursing new wounds. Many of their best warriors were now injured and had to leave the field. Leaning on their spears, the two injured men had been ordering the able bodied men to hastily shore up the defences and haul up the boats into a defensive circle. Agamemnon was shrieking at the men to work harder, a sweat breaking out across his brow. The situation had become critical and the Greek defences were in danger of being overpowered by the Trojan swarm. It was at this point that Nestor had approached them for orders.
“What are you doing here?” snapped Agamemnon, sternly rebuking the older man. “Why are you not with the troops, fighting on? Do your eyes not see the gravity of the situation?”
“They do indeed, my lord.” The older man was panting and struggling to catch his breath. “I came to ascertain your command, as we are close to being overrun by the Trojans. What is your plan?”
It was then that Agamemnon had proposed the unthinkable. “Prepare some of the ships and let’s make a run for it,” he barked, gazing wildly around him. “Escape from this place is better than death. We can gather together the rest of the fleet at nightfall, when the fighting has died down.”
Odysseus looked at the man beside him in fury: Agamemnon, their supposed leader! “What kind of king are you?” he demanded furiously. “That you propose to quit the field. After all we have suffered and endured, you would run away like some snivelling child. For your advice will destroy us all and in the disarray of retreat we will be slaughtered to the very last man. None of us will make it back to our homelands alive. No Agamemnon. Give the men the proper leadership they deserve and the army will follow.”
“So what do you propose?” asked Agamemnon, wild-eyed with fear.
Odysseus plunged his spear upright into the ground before him. “We stand and fight,” he announced. “Enough of this talk. Nestor, go haste and rally the troops.” The older man nodded and hurried away towards the thickest of the fighting. “You there,” Odysseus pointed at one of the foot soldiers, “help me on with my armour. And Agamemnon too. We must get into battle right away. There will be time to nurse our wounds later.”
“You are right Odysseus,” replied Agamemnon, his head bowed but his cheeks blazing. “Well man,” he shouted at the common soldier, “do as your better says. Bring me a spear and sword. Quickly now.”
So they had fought on, the danger averted. But in that moment of crisis, something changed. He Odysseus could never respect the man as leader. Even after he had healed that rift between Agamemnon and Achilles, reconciling the two men in public before the army, he could not shut off the feelings roused in him. He would do his duty and serve the Greek cause, but he could no longer stomach the man.
Chapter 6
Books
A clanking of metal rattled in her ears, as Thea took the last few bites of her tyropita, cheese pie. In the labyrinth of narrow streets, the March sunlight was catching the trees and shrubs, just coming into bud. In high spring, there would be a full display of lemons, hibiscus and brightly coloured osteospermums. From somewhere, the sounds of drilling and clanking of metal came again disturbing the peace. It was workmen already hard at work, repairing the buildings damaged in last year’s earthquake. As the hum, bangs and clatter subsided, an almost beguiling sense of tranquillity returned.
Going through the library gateway, Thea admired again the neo-classical white-washed mansion from a by-gone age. The lush greenery of the garden with its olive and orange trees gave off the sense of an oasis of peace and calm tranquillity in the midst of the noise and industry of the busy town. Thea walked up the marble steps and entered the hallway, where a staff member welcomed her with the customary greeting of Kalimera.
It had been four days since that fateful evening at the taverna when Dimitri had re-emerged in her life. For four days, Thea had waged an internal battle with herself, refusing to dwell on the feelings that came crowding in or the tears that pricked her eyes. And yet she had conducted herself like a seasoned commander, carefully crafting a campaign strategy. After the departure of the team for Kalodia, each day she had set out early on her mission, before any of the other hotel guests were a foot. Holing herself up in the protective confines of the library, she had then hunkered down to her work. As the light faded, she took refuge in a small tavern, under the cover of a book and the extensive menu, while keeping watch for the final ferry departure of the day.
Against her denials, protestations and the evidence of her own eyes, she had hoped that this disciplined routine would provide some security and time to think. And yet, no matter how hard she tried, she could not dispel the knowledge that finally he had shown up: like woodworm emerging from rotten timber. After days of Mark coaxing, persuading and pressing her, it was the fear she had dreaded most when she had uttered her agreement to return to the island.
She slammed the door shut on those thoughts as she entered the reading room, a part still vigilant as she surveyed the space. The room was light and airy, with its chequerboard tiled floor and high panelled ceiling, decorated with rosettes and intricate geometric patterns. She had requisitioned one of the desks as a temporary workspace and books from the previous day were still piled there.
“Good Morning, Dr Sefton. Is there anything I can help you with today?” The question came from the only other apparent occupant in the building, the librarian, a middle-aged woman of unremarkable appearance except for her full head of jet black hair. At first Thea had judged her austere and officious but gradually through their conversations, had discovered her to be warm and generous
with her assistance. Vassiliki had positively beamed on discovering the interest being taken in her region, the home of her family’s village.
“I was hoping to look again at the old ledgers,” Thea replied, her eyes flicking over the empty tables. “I’m interested in any references to the northern villages.”
“Sto anogeton?” Vassiliki queried.
“Yes,” she confirmed, trying to relax the strained muscles of her smile, ”the villages in the upland region.” Vassiliki nodded and disappeared into the back of the library, emerging shortly afterwards with a neatly labelled box file.
“These are all the original hand-written documents,” Vassiliki said. “Not well organised I’m afraid, nor easy to decipher.”
“That’s fine,” said Thea, feeling lulled by Vassiliki’s voice and the familiar antiquated smell of decaying paper. “I was expecting that.”
The librarian still hovered over her, a questioning look on her face. “I think you must be a very educated woman for the ledgers are not easy for even Greeks to read. Let me get you a pair of gloves so you can handle the pages.”
“Thanks,” Thea replied, glad to wrap herself in the ordinary trappings of her research routine. She flicked open her laptop and switched on the screen.
Her initial plan had been to work through the old Venetian tax records to uncover the original village names on the Paliki peninsula. For place names were notoriously conservative, passed down and preserved from one generation to the next. But names like Damoulianata, Monopalata, Mantzavinata, with an -ata ending, betrayed their Venetian masters. So after many hours of searching, Thea had reluctantly concluded that any such evidence was either lost or resided somewhere in the vast archives of the Catholic Church in Rome. It could take months rather than weeks to gain access to the Vatican records.
Instead this realisation had forced Thea to improvise and adjust her strategy. Over the past few days, she had listed the current villages known from historical times, plotting them on a map. By cross referencing these to the archive ledgers, she could work out the points where the land was most fertile and might support a prehistoric palace settlement.
Thea began to read the first entry on the ledger, where the public notary had recorded in crammed writing a series of property transactions between the good island citizens: the inheritance of a farm here, the transfer of a field there or listed olive presses liable for taxation. As the hours of the day stretched out, occasionally the solitary footsteps of a fellow visitor punctuated the silence or the excited chattering of a party of school children.
The afternoon was well advanced, when finally Thea’s attention and eyesight began to fade. Despite her efforts, the tangled letters of the cursive script refused to unravel as Thea strained to read the entries. She could do with a break. She glanced at the map beside her, now heavily scored with bright yellow marker pen, her finger tracing Porto Katsiki on the creased page, where they had visited only a few days ago. At least it gave a fixed reference point, she thought as an idea suddenly struck her.
Thea approached the librarian working quietly at her desk, who looked up and smiled.
“I don’t suppose the library keeps any archaeological journals that I could take a look at?” Thea asked, already suspecting that any records would not be digitalised and she would manually have to search the paper records.
“Unfortunately we don’t have anything like that,” Vassiliki explained with a frown, shrugging her shoulders helplessly. “You could try the other library in the main town but it’s probably closed already due to austerity measures.”
“Never mind.” Thea reassured her, trying mentally to readjust her schedule. “I can visit first thing on Monday.”
“Is there any particular area you are interested in?”
“Kalodia.”
“Isn’t that where they’re conducting a field survey? It’s been in all the local press here and caused a lot of excitement. There was a very good photograph of one of your colleagues on the front page,” Vassiliki continued, obviously referring to Richard. “But I was surprised when I heard the survey was in Kalodia as I’ve never heard of anything archaeological from there. But please tell me something,” Vassiliki hesitated and looked up at Thea, wearing a puzzled expression on her face, “why aren’t you searching on the island of Ithaka itself?”
Thea ventured a smile at the familiar question. She had lost count of how many times the question had been posed to her. “We discovered evidence that the main town on Ithaka was known in historical times as Dolicha, very similar to the Doulichion, the island mentioned in Homer. It seems likely that they mistook the island in ancient times and renamed it as Ithaka.”
“You know so much about our history.” Vassiliki beamed at her, the puzzlement vanishing from her face. “But why Kalodia? I always thought that it was vine growing and wine making country.” Vassiliki glanced quickly around to check that no one else occupied the room, before continuing her chatter. “Did you know that the chairman of the Archontakis Foundation has connections with Kalodia? His maternal grandparents come from the village and the family still own a house there?”
Thea’s body stiffened, as she tried to digest this new information. “Who exactly do you mean, Vassiliki?”
“Why Mr Kampitsis of course. You know the one who married the shipping heiress and is now the head of the Archontakis Foundation. As a boy he used to spend his summers at his grandparents’ house.”
The sound of his name on Vassiliki’s lips jarred Thea’s ears. She looked askance at the other woman, willing her to take back the words as the truth gripped her. In that instance, the awful realisation of the extent of the man’s involvement hit her. For a moment, she felt barely able to hold back the torrent of emotion that had been threatening to burst through, overwhelming and engulfing her.
“You know they found Mycenean tombs in Mousatoi,” Vassiliki volunteered helpfully, not registering the effect of her previous words. At the sound of the village name, Thea raised her head, her scholarly curiosity piqued.
“Mousatoi? When?” Thea demanded, now fully alert to the conversation.
“I can’t say, as it was a long time ago, well before I was born. But you’ve heard of Karellis, the famous Greek archaeologist?”
“The one who excavated on Crete and demonstrated the destruction of a pre-historic palace by a tsunami? Of course, everyone has heard of him.”
"Well he came from the same village and as a young man excavated around the island, including his own village.”
For a moment, Thea could have swept Vassiliki off her feet and hugged her, any previous fears banished. “Thank you, thank you Vassiliki.” She grabbed the surprised woman’s hand, vigorously shaking it. “That’s a really useful lead.”
Thea checked her watch, impatient to follow up this new revelation. If she went back to the hotel now, she could check the online data bases this evening. For one night, she could risk an early finish she thought, as she felt a rush of adrenaline.
“Could you store the documents away until Monday?”
“Malista. Of course,” replied Vassiliki, still basking in the glow of Thea’s demonstrative appreciation. “The library will be closing shortly anyway.”
Thea began gathering her things together, carefully placing the ledger and the old documents back into the folder as if handling a new-born infant. When everything had been meticulously gathered up, Thea presented the neat pile to Vassiliki.
“Thanks for your help, again,” Thea smiled.
“Parakalo,” the other replied. ”You’re most welcome and have a good weekend.”
It wasn’t until Thea reached the ferry dock, that her burst of excitement at the new discovery started to waver, clouded by the gnawing fear creeping back to jangle her nerves. She paused to watch the small boat coming into view, as it plied its trade across the island straits. The breeze was strengthening and was starting to whip up the waves. Already grey rainclouds were gathering, shrouding the sky and insinuating a wet da
y for tomorrow. It was going to be a rough passage but having come this far, she wasn’t going to turn back now. She smoothed down her feelings, refusing to give into the unspoken sentiments that threatened to capsize her, and setting her jaw boarded the boat.
At the hotel, Electra as always was posted at the reception desk, ever present to the guest’s comings and goings.
Electra set down her Greek fashion magazine Gynaika, Woman, she had been reading to hand Thea her key. Her thick layer of deep cherry red lipstick offset her close-fitting gold metallic shirt.
“Good evening, Doctor Sefton. How are you today? We’ve hardly seen you these last few days. I was afraid you might feel a little bit lonely, now your colleagues have left?” The enquiry invited confidence, which Thea ignored but couldn’t help feeling her movements were being closely watched. Certainly little seemed to escape Electra’s notice.
“I’m fine thank you. Just a bit caught up with my research,” she reassured Electra, as she turned away with her key.
“Doctor Sefton?” The note in Electra’s voice made her stop.
“Yes, what is it?”
“I have to tell you something,” said Electra, firing out the words in a torrent of Greek, her voice shrill and excited. “Stelios Ioannou telephoned to speak to you less than half an hour ago. It’s the fourth time today he has called.” A conspiratorial grin lined her face. “He said you had your mobile phone switched off!”