The Tomb of Zeus Page 30

  She called out: “What can you see, Demetrios?”

  “An eye, miss! Someone's looking up at me!”

  “Careful!” she shouted, with dire memories of her underground snake. She shot to her feet and ran over to him.

  Aristidis got there at the same time, passing him a torch. “Here, before we take the lid off, shine this through the hole.” He squinted up at the sun whose rays, almost overhead, must have struck something and been reflected back. “A snake? A lizard? Better check before we release it.”

  “Blue eyes? Never seen a snake or lizard with blue eyes,” muttered Demetrios. “Sorry I yelled—gave me quite a shock!”

  “Go on with you! What did you have for breakfast—a bucket of raki?” Aristidis teased him gently, taking back the torch and shining it down the hole in the cracked cover. The stone box, coffin-shaped, was four feet long and eighteen inches wide. He moved the beam about for a bit, then drew in a deep breath. “Come and look here, miss! He's right! It's an eye!”

  Dubiously, Letty took the torch and peered, following the beam. In her effort to restrain a female squeal of surprise she almost choked. “Heavens! Oh, I say! Yes, that's an eye all right.”

  A small almond-shaped object, silver-blue, with a crystalline appearance and a centre as black as jet, looked back at her—she was relieved to see—unwinking. “Never seen anything like it before. Has anyone?” Heads were shaken; eyes fixed her, willing her to give the order. “Right then—off with the top? Shall we?”

  It took four men to lift the lid and lower it to the ground. They stood, six figures, grouped around the cist, heads bowed, staring down at the contents.

  “You look as though you're all gathered at the graveside, waiting for the trumpet to sound the Last Post,” came Gunning's cheerful voice. “What's up, Letty?”

  “I think this may be just that, William,” said Letty. “A grave—of sorts. Designed for single occupancy, you could say. Come and look and tell us: Who do you suppose this might be?”

  Gunning looked. He caught one of the young diggers, standing by openmouthed, by the hand. “Petros, fetch Kyrie Russell, will you? Quickly!”

  He looked apologetically around at the others.

  “Oh, let Russell have his moment,” said Aristidis, comfortably. “He's waited long enough.”

  Theo came barrelling up, sweating and dishevelled in his shirt-sleeves and breeches, suspicion and anticipation warring on his face. The men took a step back to allow him to gaze into the cist by himself. Surprisingly, he was speechless. No recitation of dimensions and enumeration of artefacts came from him. He fell to his knees on the ground, making a palpable effort not to thrust eager hands into the stone container and draw out the precious contents.

  Finally, and they had to lean closer to hear his whispered words: “He's very delicate. If you so much as attempt to kiss him, Miss Talbot, I will smack your bottom!”

  Then, mastering his thoughts and aware once more of his audience: “It is he,” he intoned, claiming their attention. “We are looking on the face of Zeus. The young Greek god Zeus. And this is his tomb.”

  His eyes flicked sideways to Gunning's notebook.

  With a sardonic smile, William recorded the moment. “I say, Theo, can you be so sure of that?” He put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I mean…well…it's perfectly lovely, we'd all agree, but it's just a statue. Half life-sized. Three feet tall, would you say? Unique to date, I think. It's made of ivory, if I'm not mistaken, and carved most wonderfully. Cretan workmanship? I wonder? Brilliant…unusual…even for the artists of Minos. Do you know— I can't keep the name ‘Daedalus’ from popping into my mind.” He smiled apologetically for his flight of fancy and peered more closely into the stone box. “But I'll tell you what—whoever and whatever this is—it's been very badly damaged.”

  “It's a god,” said Letty, her certainty cancelling out his doubts. “It could perhaps be the young god the Mycenaeans brought with them to depose the Mother Goddess. But an Olympian? Straight from the Top Table? I'm not so sure of that.”

  “Are you about to upend him to check his bona fides?” Theodore could not resist the spiteful jibe.

  “His provenance is not in question,” she said tartly, annoyed at the interruption. “Do you see his hair? Whoever damaged him left his hair intact. It's spun gold. The most delicate fibres of gold thread. And his eyes are blue rock crystal. His face is lovely, pale and of the finest-grained ivory. He's a Spring God, twenty years old at the most. I would worship at his altar! His limbs…so slender-look, do you see, they're jointed onto the body like those of a modern doll. Perhaps you can move them? And look at his hands! Every vein, every fingernail is perfectly carved.”

  She fell silent, keeping her gaze and her comments above the waist, reluctant to describe the devastation below.

  It was Gunning who echoed all their thoughts: “He's been badly treated. Do you know, if this were a human body we'd dug up, I'd be sending for our friend Mariani. I'd say he'd been murdered. It's not as though he's been crushed in an earthquake or been cut to pieces in battle. His injuries are calculatedly inflicted. He's missing some of his parts,” he said delicately, with regard for his mixed audience. “And his feet are gone because they've been burned away. Do you see the signs of charring? Just to the feet. He's been held sideways over a fire, quite deliberately. Tortured to death, you'd say.”

  The respectful silence as they contemplated the young god's anguish was broken by Theodore's voice, officious and prosaic: “Tell you what I'm minded to do, William, when we've completed our recording,” he said. “I'm going to box him up again and take him in to Stoddart. For a postmortem examination. Sounds ridiculous, I know, but on this occasion, the doctor may have something interesting to tell the archaeologists.”

  Work went on until the customary hour before sunset. Exhausted but elated, Letty joined Aristidis, putting the finishing touches to the dig. Tarpaulins were being stretched over the exposed sections, the remaining crates of potsherds being carted off to the sheds. The only figure not scrambling to tidy up was moodily standing on the edge of the precipice looking out to sea, legs splayed—at the helm, you would have said, Letty thought.

  She shared the thought with Aristidis. “Ah, yes! I never forget that he was a naval man! And he never lets anyone else forget it,” he said.

  “I wonder if he's a bit unhappy that the god he's uncovered looks so unlike him? Well, I mean—he couldn't be more different, could he? Slender, youthful, blond with bright blue eyes? Not a bit like any of the representations of Zeus in the art of any age or culture! You know—heavy of muscle, shaggy of hair, thunderbolt at the ready? Poor Theo! Nothing seems ever to be what he expects. Shall we go over and congratulate him on the day's achievements? He ought to be thrilled—cracking open the champagne!”

  “He is not happy,” Aristidis agreed. “But please, Miss Laetitia, do not think of trying to improve his state of mind. I know the goodness of your heart tells you to seek the happiness of others, but sometimes all human effort is in vain.”

  Letty was surprised at his assessment of her character, and dis-believing.

  “He is as God made him.” Aristidis nodded lugubriously. “An unhappy man and a dangerous one, for he feels bound to communicate his unhappiness. He can stir up thunderclouds over everyone's head!”

  “I wonder what he's contemplating at this moment?”

  Aristidis stared, suddenly alert, at the still figure standing far too close to the crumbling rim for safety.

  Letty gave an evil grin to lighten the mood. “To jump or not to jump? Is that his question? Perhaps we could do him a favour? Help him to answer it?” She mimed giving a gentle push.

  Aristidis, for once, did not laugh with her. “A perfectly awful thought! I cannot joke about it. This is my land! Here he is my guest, though he does not acknowledge it.” He considered for a moment. “If I thought he were seriously contemplating killing himself I would, at this moment, be running over to stop him. And you, I beli
eve, would be the first at my side to restrain him! But, see—he's buckled on his spurs. He's prepared to take the conventional route down to the valley.”

  They stayed on watch, however, but to their mutual relief, Theodore didn't put them to the test. Just cutting a dramatic figure, Letty decided. Playing Poseidon. He turned and walked slowly away from the edge, calling for his horse to be brought to him.

  Stoddart was so surprised he could hardly get his words together when they arrived on his doorstep at midday on the following day.

  “A postmortem? On ancient body parts you're carrying in a finds box? Are you mad? I know you lose all track when you're out in the country but here, in town, it's a Sunday.”

  Theodore was impatient. “Just take a look, will you. One glimpse will be enough.”

  He slid the lid open a few inches to show the head of the statue.

  Stoddart opened the door at once and ushered them inside. “Laetitia…William…Good morning. Look—take that thing, whatever it is, into my examination room and put it on the table, will you?” He glanced at his watch and looked over his shoulder. “I can give you half an hour before Ollie calls me in to lunch.”

  The enticing smell of roast lamb followed them along the corridor, and they all prayed that Olivia would remain busily basting the joint and directing operations in the back quarters until their consultation was over.

  “Good lord! I've only just sent one smashed-up blond young man back to you, Theo, and here you are bringing me another,” he said as they laid out the figure on the examination table. “What have you done to poor George this time?”

  He took a few moments to stare at the figure, joviality giving way to awe as he spoke again: “Extraordinary! Exquisite!” He looked at them across the table, his face full of wonder, and spoke slowly. “Do you know, I can't think when I've been more moved by a piece of sculpture? Degas's little dancer? A clumping frivolity compared with this! ‘The Charioteer’? A mere lump of marble! There's a perfect grace in every limb.”

  He shook himself out of his state of adoration. “I shall want to know sometime where on earth you came by him but,” he looked again at his watch, “time is of the essence and all that! William— you'll find a sherry bottle in that cupboard and some glasses. Do the honours, will you? I think we'd all like one. Large dry one do you?

  “Now!” He put on a pair of spectacles, took a bracing sip of his sherry, and looked long and carefully before speaking. “Male. Young, say between eighteen and twenty-two. In perfect health before death. Good grief! I'm getting as barmy as you! The boy was never alive—hang on to that, Stoddart! Fair hair, grey-blue eyes, of a northern European racial type. If George were here, he'd specify: dolichocephalic, I'm sure. No evidence of excessive, emphatic, or imbalanced musculature. By that I mean one arm is not more developed than the other, which might have given us a clue that he was an archer or a discus thrower. His waist—normal proportions. And that's a surprise. I note he's not wearing the tight corset-belt that we see in representations of Minoan men.

  “His thighs are to be envied—rounded and well-muscled but not to the exaggerated extent we see in Greek sculptures or pictures of hoplites who walk for miles and exercise constantly. I don't think we're looking at a military man. You'd say he'd had an easy life until misfortune struck him. You'll find out more if you examine his dog tag. Yes, he's wearing an identity bracelet on his right wrist. Ah! You hadn't spotted it? You should put it under a magnifying glass. It's of silver and what could be iron, I suppose, and there are seal markings on it.

  “Moving down—had you noticed, yes, of course you had—this strand of gold wire just below the knees—binding his legs together, you'd say. And…” he prodded gently at the thin trace of gold, “this ligature was affixed after the burning of the lower limbs.

  “Which brings us to: his death. If this were a human—and it's surprisingly hard not to think of him as such—I'd say his death was long, drawn-out, and thoroughly unpleasant. He's been emasculated—had his penis sliced off with a sharp blade. I say—it wasn't in the box, was it—you did look? Pity. Testicles too, they're gone. Someone was making a strong point. He's had his feet burned away inch by inch. Held him out over a fire, most probably. Charred up almost to the knees. No damage to the eyes. Someone wanted him to witness his own suffering? Or wanted him to be eternally identifiable? The features are untouched.

  “The coup de grâce is here, you see.” He pointed with a scalpel. “They put him out of his misery with a cut to the neck. Not just a slash across the throat. They've gone for the jugular. With a…” he peered closely at the wound, “triangular-bladed, slender knife. The tip of a lance head? This is the cut administered to sacrificial victims. And exactly the type of weapon used. The victim, usually a bull of course, would be tied up on an altar—ah! tied up!—and would bleed into a bucket held under the wound by a priest, I understand. But you know all that, Theo. I'm sure it's from you I have my information! I say, how'm I doing? Is this any use?”

  “Fascinating, Harry! Quite fascinating! Certainly gives us an insight.”

  “Oh, good show! Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

  “Yes,” said Theodore. “Let me introduce you to your patient. This is Zeus. Straight from his tomb. The stripling Zeus, come over from the mainland to teach the Minoans a thing or two. It's my belief this young fellow proves the truth of the Theseus myth. Achaean warriors—were they the Peoples of the Sea of such terrible repute?—arrived in force, following on a catastrophe on the island-volcano, earthquake, tidal wave—in the mid-fifteenth century B.C. They took over and converted the indigenous population to the worship of their own male gods.

  “This could well be the idol set up for worship up there on Juktas, a religion imposed by the invaders. How long did it go on for?” He shrugged. “No idea. No way of knowing for certain, though clues—like this one—are emerging. But this chap bears the evidence on his mangled body of a turning of the tables. Someone—priests? the ordinary folk of the village? someone attached still to the Old Religion at any rate—revolted, got the upper hand again, and made an example of him. They tortured him, put him to a symbolic death, and then buried him, right there, underfoot in the temple in the very spot where he had lorded it over the local goddess.”

  The doctor was standing, hardly listening, still mesmerised by the pathetic form lying with its extraordinary aura of humanity on the crisp white sheet covering the table. Letty watched as he took his time to make the sign of the cross over the body, his eyes gleaming with tears, his nostrils quivering, and she knew he was seeing, not a small, lifeless piece of ivory, but the tormented limbs of any one of the young warriors his skilled hands had failed to save.

  He blew his nose and joined in the debate. “Seen worse in war, Russell. I'm sure you have, too. We know what men are capable of. Couldn't it have been the work of a further wave of loutish invaders, not understanding, not appreciating, raiding and wrecking? Having a bit of drunken barbaric fun?” he suggested.

  “I don't think so. The emasculation, the sacrificial aspect to what I have to think of as a calculated killing, are saying one thing very clearly to me,” said Theodore. “And it makes me shudder! I think I can guess whose malignant hand was behind this butchery.”

  Obvious, if you think about it! Our hero's been done to death by a chorus of raging women. Priestesses, probably, of the Old Religion.” He quivered with disgust. “God knows what they did to any male followers of Zeus they may have caught loitering up there!” He glowered at Letty. “And they call them the gentle sex! Malevolent, murderous maenads—and quite as capable of violence and sexual abandon as the worst of us. Never trust one, William. There's good advice for you. Wouldn't you agree, Harry?”

  Olivia's voice was heard calling at that moment, coo-eeing from the dining room. A gong sounded.

  “Um…I'll reserve my judgement on that, if you don't mind, old man,” said Harry, with a sly smile. “We'll speak of it later. Interesting theory. I shall
give it my best attention.” He strolled to the door and called back: “Just coming, my dear. Would you like me to fetch up a bottle of wine?

  “You can show yourselves out while I nip down to the cellar. Oh, and tell George when he wakes up that I'll visit again this evening.”

  Olivia's voice came again and he shouted back: “No, no, dearest! It's only Theodore come to pick up a few pills for George. He's dashing off as we're about to sit down to lunch. He sends his regards. Bye, Theo!”

  Letty chuckled when they were safely outside in the street. “Poor Harry! Can Ollie really be such a shrew?”

  “He's obviously not allowed to have friends round to play on a Sunday,” suggested William. He, like Letty, was certain that Theodore had no knowledge that he had just been standing a few inches away from his dead wife's lover. But he was equally certain that Olivia had put two and two together and extracted a confession.

  “She keeps him in line, I'd noticed,” offered Theodore. “She'd have his feet over a fire in no time if he overstepped the mark.”

  George was awake and delighted to see them. Reclining in striped pyjamas at home on a chaise longue in the drawing room, he looked pink and happy and—disregarding the plastered limbs—healthy.

  “Letty! Will!” He held out his good arm in a wide greeting. “I'm well. Be as good as new in a few weeks. There! That's all the medical chat you're going to get from me! Pa told me before you all trooped off together this morning that you have something to show me?” He eyed the box Theo and Gunning were setting down on the table at his side. “Ah! You've brought me a dolly from Hamleys?”

  “Don't let him play with it roughly, William! Things to attend to…I'll leave you young things to it,” said Theo. “Lunch will be at one. Ah, here comes Eleni bearing another of your little messes, George.”