by Anna Harvey
Instinctively Thea touched the smooth plastic screen of her mobile, which had been switched to silence. “Yes, I’ve been working in the library and must have forgotten to switch it back on,” Thea replied, knowing that this was not strictly true but ignored Electra’s insinuation. It had been part of her battle plan since that night at the taverna. She had scrutinised carefully all incoming calls, partly expecting Stelios’ call to come one day.
“Of course I told him you were out,” Electra continued undaunted, holding out a folded slip of pink paper. “So he asked me to give you this message.”
“Thank you, Electra,” said Thea, involuntarily flinching as she took the folded note. Climbing the stairs, she hastily scanned the note written in Electra’s spidery handwriting, partly anticipating its contents. It was not the first time Stelios had called in the last few days, seeking a meeting with his boss, the chairman of the Archontakis Foundation. She had been left in no doubt that Mr Dimitri Kampitsis was eager to make her acquaintance and discuss her role on the project.
A shudder ran through her body as she crumpled the note in her hand and tossed it into the bin, as soon as she closed her door. If only one thing was certain, she had absolutely no intention of clapping eyes on Dimitri Kampitsis ever again.
The room was as it had been left from earlier that morning: the bed hastily made; her clothes neatly folded in a pile; her books and papers stacked on the small dresser now a make-shift desk. She filled the small kettle with water to boil, before settling down in front of her laptop.
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The insistent tone of her mobile phone, startled her as it rang out in the room, demanding attention. Thea checked her watch. Nearly eight o’clock and it was dark outside, the blackened mountain side dotted with the lights of the small villages. The name of the caller flashed on the mobile screen, as she reached for her phone.
“Hello Richard. How are you?” she said, answering on the sixth ring.
“Thea, my dear. I hope I‘m not disturbing you.” The voice on the end of the line was smooth and silky.
“Not at all,” she quickly reassured him. “I’m just about finished doing an on-line search of some archaeological journals.”
“My apologies we haven’t managed to speak over the past few days,” Richard began, clearing his throat. “I wanted to check that everything was alright.” The enquiry caught her by surprise as each night she had dutifully sent an update of her progress. Clearly there wasn’t a good Wifi connection up in the village.
“It’s been disappointing really, Richard,” Thea admitted experiencing a shrinking feeling inside. “I’ve been going through the island archives all week, but there is very little left of the old tax records.” Her words were upbeat, but she paused, wondering how she could soften the disappointing news for Richard. “I think we might be on a wild goose chase there, but the property sales records look more promising.” The suppressed silence on the end of the line suggested this was not the primary purpose for Richard’s call.
“How are things holding up your end?” Thea enquired.
“It’s been a bit of an anti-climax. Quite frankly awful to survey as the terrain is rugged and heavily cultivated.” Even on the crackling line, the voice sounded tired and weary.
“Let me guess, with grape vines?” Thea asked lightly.
“Yes and olive groves. How did you know?”
“I have my sources,” Thea admitted laughingly, thinking of her earlier conversation with Vassiliki. On the island, everything was open to village gossip and public knowledge.
Richard paused as if gathering his thoughts. “I also received a call from Stelios Ioannou. I understand our benefactor, Mr Kampitsis is quite anxious to meet you, as he didn’t get an opportunity to do so the other night. I know you are very busy, but I can’t stress how important Mr Kampitsis’ personal support is to the project.” At the sound of his name, Thea could feel her fingers grip the phone, so tightly the muscles were almost in spasm. “We wouldn’t have got off the ground without him” Richard continued confident in his argument. “You’d be doing me a huge personal favour if you could give Stelios a call and set something up.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Thea finally agreed keeping her voice measured but the tone was noncommittal. “It’ll be the other side of the weekend.”
“If you can get back to him as soon as you get a chance. By the way, Dr Hughes is paying us a visit tomorrow with Matthew and bringing some things over. Do you want to join them?”
“Certainly I’m limited over the weekend as the libraries are shut. I’ve a possible lead for some Mycenean graves so I wanted to take a look at Mousatoi.“
“That’s practically on the doorstep! Just eight kilometres away on the other side of the valley. I’ll text Dr Hughes to let him know,” Richard said without giving Thea chance to respond. “Would nine o’clock suit you?”
“Okay, nine o’clock.”
Thea ended the call, watching the bling of the grey screen, her heart still racing. Since that awful evening, she had hardly seen anything of Rob or Matthew, whom she assumed like herself had both been engrossed in work. So she would spend the day in their company. It would not be the worst thing in the world, she told herself. At least being the other side of the island put her as far away as possible from the danger of encountering Dimitri or rebuffing Stelios’ phone calls.
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The book lay open on Thea’s lap, where she had reread the same sentence for the third time, but the words failed to lodge in her brain. Glancing across at the small travel clock on the bedside table, she saw the evening was getting late. The remains of a drink can and half eaten takeaway souvlaki littered the desk. Suddenly there was a sickening click and the room plunged into pitch darkness. It took seconds for Thea’s vision to acclimatise to the gloom, as the shuttered windows blocked out the streetlights. Thea reached over the bed and fumbled for her shoes. With her fingers, she could make out the smooth texture of the leather and stuffed her feet inside them. Deprived of her sense of sight, Thea groped for the edge of the bed, bruising her knee on the sharp wooden corner.
To her relief, the lights at the end of the hallway illuminated the stairwell, acting like a beacon to guide her through the dimness. The corridor was quiet, with no other signs of guests. As she approached the reception desk, she heard the phone slam down and discovered Electra with her head in her hands. She looked up startled at Thea’s approach.
“Oh Kyria Sefton, I am so sorry,” Electra gasped as tears pricked her eyes. “The electricity has gone off. I have called and called the electrician but he’s not answering his phone at this hour. He’s probably in a bar or in bed.” A scowl momentarily passed across her face. “What am I to do?” she complained, throwing up her hands up in despair.
“Is all the hotel affected?” Thea asked, looking up at the lighted stairwell.
“No, just your corridor.” The words flew out between the gasps for breath. “Two other rooms are occupied but the guests are out. What am I to do? O popoi! ” Electra threw up her hands again and looked pleadingly at Thea willing her to summon a miracle from the heavens.
Just then the lobby door swished open as Rob and Matthew strode in together chatting. Rob stopped abruptly in his tracks. “Is everything alright?” he asked, grasping the scene, a concerned look crossing his face.
“Oh, Kyrie Hughes. It’s a catastrophe!” Electra’s body heaved with sobs. “The electric power has blown and there is no electricity for my guests.” Rob turned his eyes towards Thea with a questioning look.
Thea stepped in. “All the lights on the first floor suddenly went off. The rest of the hotel seems okay.”
“What shall I tell the other guests?” Electra wailed. “Perhaps I can move them to another corridor,” and she started to flip through the room register, almost ripping the pages with her fingers.
“I don’t think that will be necessary,�
�� Rob said genially, putting out his hand to reassure her. “Sounds like one of your fuses has blown. Do you want me to take a look at the circuit box?”
“Oh please, please, would you,” Electra gushed, clasping Rob’s arm and squeezing it. “I would be so grateful.” She grabbed a tissue and blew her nose loudly.
Rob gestured to Matthew. “Can you run back to the lab and grab a screwdriver and some pieces of equipment?” He turned his attention once more to Electra. “So let’s take a look at this fuse box. Don’t worry, we’ll have it sorted in no time.” He winked at her playfully.
“You show Dr Hughes where the box is and I shall make you a drink,” Thea said, fondly stroking Electra on the shoulder.
“Okay,” she nodded, smiling thinly at Rob, the heaves of her chest diminishing.
It was not long before full power was restored and light flooded the upstairs stairwell. “Oh Dr Hughes, how can I thank you,” gushed Electra, her face beaming and her arms spread open. “You are my hero. And you too young man” she said, turning to Matthew to include him in her praise, who smiled bashfully. “You are all so kind. Please sit! Kathiste!“ Matthew was hovering awkwardly but obediently sat next to Rob at Electra’s command, as she commandeered a large bottle of ouzo and several shot glasses.
Rob sunk back into the chair and lifted his head towards Thea, a good-humoured smile playing on his lips. “Will you join us for a quick drink?” he asked expectantly, gesturing towards the unoccupied chair beside him. “Richard phoned earlier to let us know you’re joining us tomorrow.”
“No, but thank you” Thea said shaking her head, involuntarily blowing out a stream of air. Still preoccupied from the earlier conversation with Richard, her instinct was to retreat and regroup in the solitude of her room. “It’s been a long day. If you don’t mind, I’m going to turn in.”
“Of course,” Rob agreed, the smile not diminishing on his face but his shoulders deflating. “No worries. Electra and Matthew will keep me good company. See you tomorrow then. ” Thea turned to leave. As she ascended the stairs she heard the chink of glasses and good natured laughter.
Chapter 7
The Fall of Troy
It was dark and musty. The space was small and cramped, hardly room to draw breath. Odysseus could feel the pressure of Diomedes, his dear friend, squeezed up against him. It would be daylight now but in the gloom it was hard to discern anything. He could only sense the other warriors by the odour of male sweat and the moistened air as they exhaled. They were so tightly packed, like fish in a barrel, hardly room to move and impossible to shift position. They had sat like this since nightfall, man against man, body pressed against body, limb against limb, fully armoured. The only compromise to comfort being the horse plumed helmets bulky on their laps. Still, but ready primed warriors, waiting.
The air inside had already grown hot and stale with the rising heat of the day. Helios must have progressed well into the sky by then, when they heard the sound of human voices. Initially it was low murmurings, indistinct but then came chatter in the clear Asiatic accent as the talking grew louder. Beside him, the body of his companion had tensed. The fear inside was palpable and he could almost taste it inside his mouth. Any moment their hiding place might be discovered and condemn them all to a grim death.
The plan had been he Odysseus’ idea. Things had never been the same after that famous quarrel, which had set in motion the sequence of events culminating in the death of Patroklos. Achilles, mad with grief at the loss of his gentle beloved companion, had gone on a frenzied killing spree. He had murdered the noble warrior Hector, the son of Priam, hideously defiling the body and dragging it round the city ramparts. It was said that he only stopped this despoliation of the body when Priam himself had secretly come to his tent to make supplication. The old man had begged for the return of his son’s carcass, so they could make proper funeral arrangements. Even the elaborate funeral games thrown by Achilles, to honour his precious Patroklos, had been overshadowed by yet more tragedy. Ajax “The Big One” had done the unimaginable, killing himself by thrusting his sword into his own chest. He had been in the war from the outset and it was hard to imagine fighting without that wall of a man. And even the circumstances of his death were hard to comprehend: his body discovered lifeless after Odysseus had bettered him in a wrestling match. They had competed fiercely for the honour and kleos of the win. The man had been a worthy opponent, but losing was no disgrace and hadn’t merited the taking of one’s own life. Perhaps the long drawn-out war had undone the man’s spirits but it troubled Odysseus that he had missed the signs of despair. It would have been easy to relax his grip and allow the other man to win. No kleos was worth such a sacrifice.
And then quickly following, there had been the early death of Achilles himself. Fighting in the midst of the battle, he had been shot in the heel of the foot by a poisoned arrow. The bright dazzling Achilles, their most brilliant warrior, cut down by the barb of an arrow fired by some cowardly marksman cosseted away from the violence of battle. After those deaths, despondency and despair had fallen over the Greek camp, creeping into the spirits of the troops and turning everything dark, like the ink of an octopus in the clear blue sea. Odysseus had not been immune from the general gloom. Despite all those long years of fighting and self-sacrifice, the capture of the city seemed as far away as ever.
He had continued his unspoken ritual each morning of looking out at the well defended city walls, hoping that day would bring victory. An end to the stalemate. Perhaps some god had put this in his mind. But it was then it had come to him. This plan.
It had not been a straightforward business. The other leaders, including Agamemnon, had agreed readily to the idea. Perhaps they had been keen to shake off the despair and despondency that had enveloped the Greek camp. But it had been the seer Kalchas, that disruptive influence, who had come up with an unexpected obstacle. A new prophecy.
“Troy will only fall when the goddess Athene has left her temple,” the diviner had announced examining the signs of sacrifice. His brow was furrowed and stern.
“What do you mean?” Odysseus asked, sensing he would dislike the reply.
“The holy Palladion, bearing the image of the goddess Pallas Athene, must be first removed from her temple, before Troy can be taken,” had come the answer.
That night, Odysseus had sat mulling the matter over in his mind as he and the battle-weary Kephallenians gathered around the campfires. The flames were greedily licking up the tinder wood, changing the men’s features and weary limbs to partial shadows in the fire’s glow. Eurylochos, his commander, was sat beside him. He had known these men from Ithaka most of his life, but recently it had become harder to share memories of their native soil or talk about their home-coming. It was in this frame of mind that his dear friend Diomedes had joined him, sitting down in the small circle.
“What ails you, brother? I haven’t seen you looking so low-spirited.” Diomedes offered a bemused smirk, slaking his thirst with a swig of wine from one of the skins. He wiped his lips on his sleeve. “You look as if you have been to Hades and back. This mood seems to be catching, like some pestilence sent by the gods.”
“Perhaps, we are indeed being punished,” Odysseus replied. “This whole business wearies me. At last I thought we had found some way of ending this cursed deadlock of the war. I didn’t want to end my days here on this ill-starred land, my bones being picked clean by scavengers. But now Kalchas, that accursed priest, puts barriers in our path.” He scowled, clenching his jaw. “He tells me that first we must remove the sacred image of Pallas Athene from Troy before the city can be taken. Another fool idea like that of sacrificing the innocent Iphigeneia. Will this war never end? ” He had spat out those last words with anger and frustration.
“But Odysseus, is that all that stands between you and your plan!” the other man replied enthusiastically, clapping him on the back. “Then let me dispel your gloom. I think I know a way!” Odysseus looked across at his companion sceptic
ally, but listening with his full attention. Diomedes had come late to war and was the younger man. But they were like kindred spirits, well-matched in cunning, wits and boldness. And they had been through so much together. Once on a nocturnal mission, they had even laid in the blood-sodden battlefield together, hiding themselves amongst the dead and dying, hearing the wounded struggling for breath and the release of death. That had been a daring raid, when the Greeks were hard pressed against the ships, and the two men had returned victorious, slaughtering the newly arrived Thracian king Rhesos, carrying off his prized horses. That was a rare break-through in the long protracted war.
“So tell me what is this way?” he asked, grimly, not convinced that a path lay ahead.
“Well, you will recall one full moon ago, I was scouting the city walls with my men.” An easy smile now played on the younger man’s lips. “There was a small hollow, behind the city, where a clear spring comes out of the hillside. There appeared to be an entrance as the stone was all carefully hewn by the hands of men in a triangular shape. Myself and another man could easily walk through the entrance passage at head height, only stooping a little, although the water came up to our waists. We did not fully explore what we found, as we had brought no flame with us and it disappeared into pitch darkness. But -.”
“You believe it is an entrance passage to the city?” Odysseus interrupted him following the line of reasoning.
“Yes, indeed. A secret entrance to the underground cistern, which supplies Troy’s water.”
The new revelation excited Odysseus. He had always puzzled how the city had kept itself supplied with water throughout the strangle-hold siege. “So in the cold season,” his mind was quickly reasoning, “the passage is completely flooded with the waters from Mount Ida. But in the spring and summer heat, the water level falls. And the tunnel becomes traversable.”