Apollo's Seed

The waiter who had been observing her earlier had stepped into her path, and was looking down at her with evident admiration. He was a handsome young man, she had to admit, short and stocky like some Greeks, with bulging biceps visible through the sleeves of his thin cotton shirt. He was obviously well used to having success with the unmarried girls who stayed at the hotel, and the arrogance in his face reminded her painfully of that other occasion when she and her sister had accepted a similar invitation.

‘Kalimera,’ she said now, shortly, the tightness of her lips betraying her anger to more discerning eyes. ‘Me sinhorite …

‘Ah!’ The man’s eyes widened at her casual use of his language. ‘You are Greek?’

‘No. I’m English,’ retorted Martha coldly. ‘Now—if you’ll please get out of my way …’

‘Poli kala …’

The Greek spread his hands expressively, and aware that they had attracted the attention of some of the other waiters, who were watching with amused eyes, Martha walked out of the dining room with burning cheeks.

On the verandah, however, her sense of humour asserted itself. It was ridiculous to get so worked up just because a young man had made a pass at her. What did it matter if he was Greek? It should be good to know that she was still attractive enough to warrant that kind of treatment on her first morning at the hotel, and she had no reason to feel oppressed by it. All the same, it had come too close on the heels of the thoughts that had plagued her during breakfast, and she walked uneasily along the balcony, aware of an increasing state of restiveness. She would be glad when it was ten o’clock, and she could get this interview with Dion’s father over. It was a nerve-racking prospect, and not one she relished, and the determination she had felt in England to show Roger she had no qualms about meeting any of the Myconos family was rapidly waning. Not because she was afraid, she quickly told herself, but simply because she resented having to ask them for anything.

On impulse, she decided to go into town after all. She could always wander round the shops for a while, she thought reasonably. She needed some sun-tan oil. Her skin would quickly blister if she did not take the proper precautions, and that kind of discomfort she could do without.

She went back to her room first to check that her plain denim skirt and blue cotton shirt were suitable, and viewing her reflection in the mirror above the vanity unit, she wondered if her erstwhile father-in-law would notice the shadows beneath her eyes. The light make-up she wore did little to disguise the hollows where dark lashes swept the pale transparency of her cheeks, and she wished for once that she was not so slim. But the care of a five-year-old, an invalid, and a full-time job, was not designed to put flesh on her bones, and since her break-up with Dion, she had had little time to worry about her appearance. Only the heavy silken swathe of honey-coloured hair remained the same, a concession to vanity, and, confined in its single thick braid, an easy extravagance. There was seldom enough money for the luxury of a hairdresser, and Martha had grown used to washing her own hair and letting it dry naturally. Josy’s hair, which Dion had found so unacceptable, was now almost as dark as his, although she had to admit that in other ways, her daughter was much more like herself.

Riding along the coast road in the taxi, Martha was glad her hair was confined. With all the windows open, the stiff breeze would quickly have disordered any hairstyle, but the few strands that blew across her pale forehead only added to her appearance, gentling the somewhat anxious severity of her expression.

‘Mandraki?’ enquired the driver over his shoulder, and Martha gathered her thoughts and nodded.

‘Efharisto,’ she agreed with a small smile, and the driver’s brows lifted in silent approval. The smile erased the shadows from the wide grey eyes and brought an unconscious allure to features that in repose lacked that revealing candour.

Rhodes, or Rodos as the locals called it, was full of tourists. It was the start of the busiest season of the year, and the narrow streets were thronged with people. Open-air bars and tavernas were doing good business, and down by the harbour, there were the usual groups of older Greeks, gathered about the tables on the square, drinking the thick sweet Greek coffee, and arguing the politics of the day.

Martha tipped the driver and left the cab, walking across the road to where a handful of caiques were waiting to transport tourists to the tiny island of Khalki, or to Lindos, on the eastern coast of Rhodes, where the Acropolis attracted more and more visitors every year. She remembered visiting Lindos, and how she and Sarah had fallen about with laughter after jogging halfway up the hillside on donkeys.

Beyond the moorings, the harbour opened out to where the iron deer, Rhodes’ emblem, were perched on top of the harbour pillars. The mighty Colossus of Rhodes was supposed to have bestridden the entry years ago, one of the seven wonders of the ancient world, and without anything to remind one of the twentieth century, it was incredibly easy to imagine oneself back in another older time. Only a car ferry, steaming imperturbably across the horizon, destroyed the illusion, and Martha walked on to where the sea wall provided a buttress against the breeze.

It was nearing ten when she strolled back again, trying to ignore the butterflies in her stomach. She had occupied the last half hour by thinking of Josy, wondering what she was doing at playschool, and whether Sarah was coping in her absence. But now she was forced to think of her reasons for being here, and even to her ears they sounded suspect. It was going to be difficult to explain her gratitude to Roger, without Dion’s father imagining their relationship to be something it was not. How could she expect him to understand that without Roger’s friendship, she and her sister would never have been able to afford the apartment they lived in? That Sarah depended upon him? She could not tell him about Sarah’s accident; that was something too painful to contemplate. And besides, she shrank from any suggestion of appealing for sympathy. Dion must not think she wanted any charity from him or his family. All she hoped for was that Roger should be given the chance to excavate at Simos.

She had written to Aristotle Myconos deliberately. After all, the island belonged to Dion’s father, it was the family estate, and the reason why Roger, and all other archaeologists, were refused permission to work there. Not that either Aristotle, or the members of his family, spent much of their time on Mycos. His shipping concerns meant he, and his three eldest sons, travelled the world quite extensively, and when he was not visiting the Myconos offices in New York or London or Tokyo, he was living in Athens, at his villa, which had a magnificent view of the Acropolis, within easy reach of his headquarters there.

The extent and complexity of the Myconos’ wealth had always been a source of amazement to Martha. She liked money, of course she did, she liked spending it, but the extent to which money played a part in their lives had constantly bewildered her. Her needs had not been extravagant. Food to eat, clothes to wear, a car to drive—and even that had been a luxury, and not essential. It had always amused Dion that she had asked for so little, that she had been embarrassed when he offered her a trousseau from Balmain, or a necklace valued at several thousand pounds, from Tiffanys in New York. He had found it difficult to understand her apparent lack of ambition, the pride which forbade his desire to display her as his possession, and the lingering independence, which had ultimately led to their separation.

It was just as well, she acknowledged now, that she had not adapted too readily to that rarified atmosphere, that sybaritic way of life. It would have been far harder for someone without her streak of stubbornness, someone who had married for money, and not for love. Dion had never really believed that, she had realised long ago. He must always have suspected her feelings for him, been suspicious of her eagerness to become his wife. Deep inside, he had fostered jealousy and uncertainty, and she had finally come to the conclusion that he had confused love with a selfish desire for possession. His feelings had erupted on the night Josy was born, sweet innocent Josy, with that cap of russet-red hair, that had crystallised all Dion’s suspicions into a hard core of distrust.

Aristotle Myconos’s response to her letter had been brief. He refused, he said, to discuss any matter with her in a letter. If she wished to speak to him, she should come out to the islands, and much against her better judgment she had been forced to agree. Besides, she had argued, what could happen to her in Rhodes? She would meet her father-in-law, tell him of Roger’s ambitions and the debt she owed to him, and hope that he would be generous. It was not so much to ask, surely. Roger and his assistant would not bring any disruption to their way of life. And it would be such a coup for the university if he could produce new evidence of what happened to the survivors of that ancient disaster.

The market, across the road from the harbour, was a meeting place for locals and tourists alike. Looking up an alleyway, Martha could see stalls, weighted down with oranges and peaches, and the enormous red and yellow melons, that were so much juicier than the fruit they bought back home. There were toy stalls and clothes stalls, stalls selling leather goods and pottery, and the exquisitely ornamented dolls in traditional costume. She wondered if she ought to buy one of them for Josy, but she couldn’t decide. Might it promote questions she was still not yet ready to answer? Josy had accepted the fact that she did not have a father without too much curiosity so far, but her daughter was an intelligent child, and Martha was constantly aware that sooner or later some more satisfactory explanation would be demanded. That was when the strength of her decision would be tested, and she acknowledged that deep inside her she had doubts as to whether she had the right to lie about the child’s parentage. Since her agreement to speak to Aristotle Myconos on Roger’s behalf, she had wondered whether this might be her opportunity to view the situation objectively, but every time she thought of offering Dion the right to share his daughter, a sense of panic gripped her. She loved Josy so much. Surely that was the important thing—not some nameless sum of money that offered security but nothing else! But if she gave Josy into her father’s care, would the child be able to tell the difference?

She glanced at the watch on her wrist. It was after ten, she saw with some misgivings. The butterflies in her stomach responded with an increasing burst of activity, and she glanced about her anxiously, wondering whether she had mistaken the directions she had been given.

‘Martha!’

The accented masculine tones made her heart skip a beat, and as she turned to face the man who had addressed her, her knees felt ridiculously weak. The similarity to Dion’s voice was unmistakable, but to her intense relief the man confronting her was not her husband, but a stockier, younger facsimile.

‘Alex!’ Martha’s voice betrayed her agitation, and she cast a worried look about her. ‘Alex, what are you doing here?’

Dion’s youngest brother surveyed her unsmilingly. He looked much older somehow than when she had last seen him, and although she realised that five years would have wrought some changes, Alex’s transformation from an easygoing teenager into this serious-looking young man was quite startling. Gone were the jeans and sweat shirt, and in their place was an immaculate cream lounge-suit, and a matching silk shirt and tie. In her simple skirt and cotton shirt, Martha felt absurdly youthful, and she wished she had worn something more formal.

‘Martha,’ he said again, inclining his head, but making no move to kiss her, or shake her hand, or offer her any greeting other than his use of her name. ‘If you will come with me …’

He gestured towards a sleek limousine that was waiting at the kerb a few yards further on, and Martha gave him a curious glance before saying doubtfully:

‘Your father? He’s waiting in the car?’

‘Come.’ Alex spread his hands politely. ‘I will explain.’

Martha hesitated. ‘Your father said he would meet me here,’ she insisted, faint colour invading her cheeks as she realised he was not the ally he had once been. ‘Alex, what’s going on? Where is your father? Can’t you at least tell me that?’

Alex pushed his hands into the pockets of his trousers, and rocked back and forth on his heels and toes. Then, with a sigh, he said: ‘My father is not here, Martha. I am to take you to him. That is all. Now, will you come?’

Martha still resisted. ‘Where is he?’

‘Mycos. Where else?’

‘Mycos!’ Martha gasped. ‘Oh, Alex, I can’t come to Mycos!’

‘You do not wish to see him?’

‘Of course I do.’ Martha’s tongue appeared to moisten her lower lip. ‘Alex, I arranged to meet your father in Rhodes. Not Mycos. I—well, visiting the island was not what we agreed.’

Alex shrugged, the dark brows drawn together over darker eyes. ‘So you are refusing to come?’

‘Alex, Mycos is at least five hours from here!’

‘Not by air.’

‘You have a plane?’ she exclaimed, aghast.

‘A helicopter,’ he amended evenly. ‘Endaksi?’

‘No! That is …’ Martha put an uncertain hand to her forehead, ‘I would rather not meet your father at the villa.’

There was silence for a few moments after she had made this statement, a silence during which she became aware of the people going on with their lives around her, unaware of the intense upheaval she was suffering.

At last Alex spoke again. ‘That is your final word?’ he enquired. Then, after a pause: ‘Dionysus went to Amsterdam—two days ago.’

Martha expelled her breath, hardly realising until that moment that she had been holding it. So she was not to meet with her husband. It was quite a relief. Despite what she had told Roger and Sarah, she had been apprehensive of seeing him again, not least because of the rawness of the wounds he had inflicted, and their vulnerability to any kind of abrasion. They were healed, but the scars remained, and she was not yet ready to test their strength.

Alex shifted his weight from one foot to the other, glancing expressively towards the car. He was growing impatient, and she had still to come to a decision.

‘How long will your father be at the villa?’ she asked, wondering whether she ought to telephone him, but Alex was not helpful.

‘My sister Minerva is to be married in three days,’ he declared. ‘My father will be returning to Athens tomorrow for the wedding.’

‘Minerva?’ For a moment Martha was distracted. ‘Little Minerva is getting married?’ It hardly seemed possible.