Angel of Death (22 page)

Following Alex along the jetty Miranda felt someone staring at her; a woman in a black t-shirt and black shorts whose dyed blonde hair was tied up under a wide-brimmed black hat keeping the hot sun off her face.

It also made it difficult for Miranda to study her features, but there was something familiar about her, although Miranda couldn’t remember where she had seen her before.

The other woman obviously recognised her, too, but didn’t speak, so perhaps she wasn’t sure where she had seen Miranda, either.

One of the men in the queue shouted out, ‘Alex! Hi! How’re you? Long time, no see.’

Alex paused to stare at the middle-aged man in jeans, cut off and ragged, at the knee, a t-shirt, a crumpled blue linen hat, smiled, held out his hand. ‘Jacob, good to see you – how are things with you?’

‘Fine. I’m on holiday with my wife and daughters, a cruise around the Greek islands, they’re on the ship, they get sea-sick in small boats.’ He glanced along the jetty. ‘That one of yours? Built it yourself?’

‘Uh huh.’

‘Nice lines. You on holiday, too?’

‘My family live in the Cyclades, I’m having a few weeks with them, then I have to go back to Piraeus to work.’

‘Lucky you, sailing in these waters. I’m still sailing, myself; the boat you built me is like a bird. Won a few races this summer. It’s easy to handle, very responsive.’ He glanced towards Miranda, who was waiting, as the two of them talked. ‘Sorry, I’m holding you up.’

Alex introduced her. ‘Miranda, this is Jacob Weingarten, a client and a friend from the States.’

She shook hands, liking the man’s weatherbeaten, brown face. Easy to see he was often out in the sun and wind and he had an amiable, laid-back smile. You could tell nothing bothered him much; he was contented.

‘Do you sail, Miranda?’ he asked.

She shook her head, very conscious of the woman in the queue still watching her, even after she had been helped down into the crowded little boat which finally took off across the sea towards the cruise ship.

Who was she? Miranda searched her memory but came up empty.

Alex shook hands with his friend and turned towards her. ‘Ready? Give me the picnic basket, I’ll carry that.’

They walked away into long, rustling, sun-blanched grass among which lay marble fragments; pieces of mosaic, statues, fallen pillars, the remnants of walls. Cicadas chirped sleepily on all sides. A lazy hawk floated on thermals above them, wings spread.

‘We’ll eat our lunch somewhere around the lion terrace,’ Alex said, leading the way along a well-worn, dusty path.

‘What’s that?’

‘A row of marble lions, put up at the end of the seventh century BC. There were nine of them, but now there are only five. The others are probably lying around in bits too small to put together again.’

‘There are lots of broken statues here, aren’t there? What a shame. Isn’t there a museum on Delos that could gather up all the pieces, stick them together, and put them on display?’

‘The island itself is a museum, an open-air archaeological museum. It was a busy place three thousand years ago, when the cult of Apollo was important in Greece. There was a theatre, which you can still visit; it held an audience of five thousand. There were lots of temples to the god, full of gold and ivory. This was a rich island, so of course it attracted dangerous interest.’

‘Who from? It’s so far from anywhere else, except Greece itself, and the island must have been Greek, surely?’

‘Yes, but people got around a lot more in ancient times than you may realise. In eighty-eight BC the island was sacked by King Mithridates, who spent most of his life fighting Rome but always lost. Anything valuable and portable was stolen. All that was left was what you see in the grass; broken statues and columns. After the Mithridates incident the Romans fortified the island and made it one of their big slave markets. Slaves were shipped in here from all over Greece to be sold.’

She shuddered. ‘How horrible.’

They were close now to a row of heraldic beasts on little plinths.

‘These are the lions?’

‘Yes, they’re guarding what was once the Sacred Lake – except that the waters have all dried up, but you can see by the bullrushes where it once was. Apollo is supposed to have been born under a palm tree nearby, which is why the lake was called sacred.’

Alex chose a spot shaded by a cypress, set the picnic basket down, took out a tartan rug and spread it on the grass. They sat down and unpacked the food.

Cooked chicken legs, salad in a plastic box, pieces of feta cheese, little pies stuffed with cheese and spinach, sliced Greek sausages with a strong, rich smell, grapes, a small melon, and finally another plastic box containing
kataifi
, the rolls of shredded wheat pastry stuffed with nuts, soaked in syrup which were one of the specialities of the hotel’s restaurant.

Alex poured them both mugs of sparkling mineral water, gave Miranda a little plate, knife, fork and spoon, then they began to eat. The food was delicious in the open air, even though flies and wasps were attracted to the smell of it. Alex fanned them away with a large leaf he picked nearby.

While they ate Miranda stared about curiously. The island was largely flat, with few trees, and there were apparently no modern habitations, just the ruins of stone buildings from ancient times.

‘Does anybody live here?’

‘Only a few archaeologists and biologists in spring and summer. They go away once the autumn storms start.’

‘Is it very cold here in winter?’

‘Very.’

When she had finished eating Miranda felt so full up and drowsy that she lay back on the rug, long grass brushing her bare legs, and drifted into sleep. She woke up with a start when a hawk cried overhead, looked around in bewilderment for a second, not remembering where she was, or with whom, until she saw Alex, sitting up beside her, his face in sunburnt profile, staring across the island towards a low hill.

Confused and flushed, she sat up. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to go to sleep. It was the food, I’m afraid, it made me sleepy.’

‘Don’t worry about it. It was peaceful, I’ve been reading. Most of the other visitors have gone, to have their lunch at Mykonos I expect, it’s only a mile away. More people will come this afternoon, from other islands, or from cruise ships. They call here every day in the season, spend a couple of hours here, then sail away.’

He got up, extended a hand to her. ‘Do you feel like stretching your legs? We can walk to the house of Dionysius to see the famous mosaic floor of the god riding a leopard – or we can visit the house of the Dolphins which has a mosaic floor of the most beautiful dolphins.’

‘Can we see both?’

He laughed. ‘Why not?’

They spent the next two hours wandering around the ruins of Delos, as the sun rose higher and higher, and the afternoon heat burnt down on them. Although everything was broken and fragmentary, you received a clear idea of how wealthy and important the island culture had been before it was destroyed.

At last they came back to the jetty and got on board the boat. Miranda was relieved to scuttle under the shade of the awning again as they headed off for Mykonos. She was finding the summer heat of Greece difficult to bear and wondered how on earth she was going to be able to work a full day, even with air-conditioning in the offices. But maybe she would get used to it?

‘What will you remember of Delos?’ Alex asked her after he set the automatic pilot to take the boat on the right heading.

‘Oh. The lion terrace. The long grass full of broken bits of marble everywhere. The sound of the crickets. We do get crickets in England, in the grass, but they don’t make as much noise.’

‘Here, they’re called cicadas,’ he reminded.

‘Cicadas, yes,’ she repeated. ‘It was their singing that helped to make me so sleepy. There must be millions of them. And all those white marble pieces of broken statues and columns . . . it is a strange place. Beautiful, but very strange.’

‘Haunting, especially in the spring when the grass is full of asphodel.’

‘Asphodel, I’ve heard of that – isn’t that something to do with Greek beliefs about heaven?’

‘Yes. It’s similar to narcissus; a very pale white lily flower, looks like a ghost flower – hence the Greeks thought it grew in the Elysian fields, their idea of heaven. Although they practically invented logic and the use of reason, they were very religious, too. Delos was central to the worship of Apollo. It was forbidden to die or give birth on Delos because it was insulting to Apollo. People who were likely to die, or have a child, were taken off in a boat to Rineia, which is very close.’

She glanced around, and he pointed to another small island very near by, a blue and green smudge in the afternoon heat haze. ‘There it is. Can you imagine how it felt to be dying or about to give birth, and have to put out to sea, sometimes in terrible weather, in storms, with wind and rain lashing down. It must have been terrifying.’

‘Why was giving birth an insult to Apollo?’

‘He was born on Delos, and his priests were determined to make sure nobody else ever was, I suppose. Well, I don’t really know.’

Alex stood gracefully, feet apart, body poised, easily riding the soft swell of the sea under him, and she watched him with intense attention, couldn’t take her eyes off him.

‘We will reach Mykonos soon,’ he told her.

‘That’s inhabited, isn’t it?’

He laughed. ‘Try overcrowded, in spring and summer. Tourists flock there in season. During the winter the population shrinks away. I prefer it then. It was always a poor island until tourism started, the land is barren, very dry, and sandy. The people lived by fishing. The beaches are excellent, especially around the coast at Platys Gialos, which is why most of the hotels and restaurants are there. You must see the famous white windmills above the town, and walk round the streets, if you feel up to it. You’ll be amazed at the shops with top designer names – Versace, Dior, Cartier. American tourists can buy anything there . . .’

He went back to the wheel and Miranda drank some cold water then settled down to drowse, enjoying the rocking of the boat, the cool rush of sea wind over her hot skin.

They spent only an hour at Mykonos, walking round and round the strange, curled white streets which had the convolutions of an ear lobe, making it easy to get lost. Half-blinded by the shimmering whiteness, you followed a lane past walls over which peeped purple wisteria, here a fig tree, there olive branches, and caught glimpses of the blue, blue sea.

Suddenly they were climbing again, up a hillside, past dozens of church towers hung with bells, where Greek Orthodox priests with bushy black beards, in long black cassocks, wearing tall black hats, swung on the bellropes so that the whole town echoed with tintinabulation.

Miranda soon saw what Alex had meant about the international houses which sold goods in this little island. That was almost as bewildering as the sound of bells. What did Paris fashion, American jewellery, high Italian style, have to do with this fascinating place with its own distinct impact – the round windmills on the hill above the town, the white-painted houses, the smell of fish and the whisper of the sea curling up on the sands?

It made money for the inhabitants who had once lived by fishing, that was all. It gave Mykonos a surreal feel, Alex was right.

‘Seen enough?’ Alex asked, mouth curving in derisive amusement.

‘More than enough!’ she said grimacing back.

As they sailed back sunshine danced around them, dazzling Miranda, giving the wide sea a living allure, making her want to sail on forever. It was so tranquil out here, in this wonderful light; sunlight entered her eyes, sank through her cortex into the living brain, stimulating some chemical change which made her suddenly, unbelievably happy.

No wonder the Greeks had worshipped Apollo, god of the sun, of light, of music. Living here in these islands with the blue sky above, the blue sea stretching all around them, the air filled with this marvellous light, they must have been deeply conscious every day of how vital sunshine was to their own wellbeing. She knew she had never been so aware of the necessity of light as she was here, now.

When they got back to the hotel she and Alex went to see Pandora, to give her an olive wood bowl they had bought for her in Mykonos.

‘You could fill it with sweets, or fruit, and have it beside your bed,’ Alex suggested.

She stroked the smooth, golden, curved sides, smiling.
‘Eene oreus, Alex, efkhareesto polee,’
then she looked at Miranda and said in English, ‘It’s lovely, thank you.’

Someone knocked on the door. ‘Come in!’ Pandora called in Greek, The door opened. Miranda stared in shocked dismay at the newcomer.

‘Elena!’

So Pandora knew the other woman? Did she also know about Elena’s involvement with Charles?

Alex had got to his feet. Elena slid a sideways look at him, her eyes slanting and gleaming like polished jet. ‘Hello, Alex,’ she purred.

His voice was formal, a chill on it. ‘Elena. What are you doing here?’

‘I’m staying in the hotel.’

‘Is your husband with you?’

‘Rafe and I were divorced a month ago.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry to hear it.’

‘Are you, Alex?’ she murmured silkily and Miranda picked up an undertone but couldn’t decide what it was.

Turning to the door, Alex said flatly, ‘Excuse me, I have some work to do.’

‘I wanted a word with you, Alex.’ Elena followed him out of the room, letting the door slam.

Pandora sighed. ‘I wish she hadn’t come here! She has no heart, that one.’

Miranda watched her with uneasy sympathy. How much did Pandora know about Elena and Charles? Tentatively, she asked, ‘Is she an old friend of yours?’

‘Friend? No. She was engaged to Alex years ago. Her mother had been at school with mine, the two families wanted them to marry – but then Elena met a very rich American, here on holiday and eloped with him. It hit Alex badly.’

Alex? Not Charles? thought Miranda dazedly.

‘He was only twenty, and I think he was very much in love. You know how love hurts when you’re that age. My mother was really worried about him.’