The Tomb of Zeus (29 page)

“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.”

O
bvious, 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.”

Eleni had entered quietly, carrying a tray laden with dishes and glasses.

“Mmm,” said Theodore, sniffing the air and miming distaste as the tray went by, “more herb-scented porridge of some sort. Sure you wouldn't prefer a slice of roast beef, my boy? I'll carve you a slice if you like? No? Well, whatever she's feeding you, I have to say it seems to be working!” He nodded at Eleni and left.

“Thank you, Eleni,” was all George said, but the three words conveyed a wealth of meaning to Letty. She'd heard him say them before—automatic words spoken from master to servant. But now she heard them—hardly able, in their simplicity, to bear the weight of affection and intimacy which suffused them. She looked a question at Gunning. Should they withdraw? Find an excuse to leave? He shook his head. At once she understood that for Eleni's sake at least they should stay. There were things she would want to convey to them.

Eleni moved to the chaise longue, leaned over, and straightened the blanket draped about his legs. “Roast beef would be a good idea, George,” she murmured, “if you feel like it. I'm sure Miss Talbot and Mr. Gunning would agree?”

They both hurried to agree.

And then, at last, the touch. Tender, proprietorial. She briefly cupped his cheek in her hand as she passed. “I know what I'll do! I'll cut off the top slice for you. The brown, crisp bit you like best, shall I?”

Letty smiled, intrigued to think that for years George had been the recipient of such little clandestine treats. He thanked her again and, with a last long look, Eleni left.

Letty had a vision of the two, no more than children, twelve years ago, half-orphans both, thrown together in this depressing house. Each looking out for the other. Eleni must have become everything for George—nurse, mother, sister, and eventually, lover. And soon to be mistress of the house?

“You're both aware of my changed circumstances?” George asked quietly when Eleni closed the door.

William went at once to his side and clasped his good hand in both his. “We are, and, believe me, old man, we couldn't be more happy for you both!”

“We've seen Andreos and Teodoro,” said Letty. “Wonderful boys! You're very blessed to have them.”

“I'm fetching them both home when the plaster comes off and I can get about a bit,” said George. “Though I don't expect they'll be happy here, away from their grandmother and their friends. They can be wherever they're comfortable. I shall be a shockingly indulgent papa, I'm afraid!”

“Quite right, too!” said Letty. “I have one such myself. I heartily recommend paternal indulgence. But now it's time for your treat, George. Prepare to be amazed! Open the box, William.”

They enjoyed George's chortle of surprise and wonder. “Ouch! Poor chap! Know just how he feels! But this man's problems were caused by malice aforethought, are we saying? This was no chariot accident.”

“Yes. We've just been present at his autopsy. Stoddart would agree—a case of murder. But tell me—what does an anthropologist make of him?”

“I'm sure you've seen it. He's not Cretan. He's a foreigner, like me! In fact he could be my brother! Quite a shock—seeing him like this…” He laughed. “
Greenery-yallery, Grosvenor Gallery, Foot-in-the-fire young man.
Give him a floppy-brimmed hat and a Charvet scarf and set him down in Bloomsbury and no one will bat an eyelid! He has northern European ancestry. Looks more like anyone's idea of Apollo, I'd say—all that sun-gold hair! Lyre player rather than javelin hurler. Definitely the arty type! He'd have appealed to the womenfolk, wouldn't you agree, Letty?”

“Oh, yes! And how! I have my own theory about who this boy is but, I wondered, George, if his bracelet might give us a clue? Do you see it? It appears undamaged.”

Gunning passed him a magnifying glass and George peered at the incised top layer of the bracelet. “Odd mixture of metals…clasped and welded together. We're in the Bronze Age but this black layer is iron, wouldn't you say? Probably viewed as rare and imbued with magical powers in those days. The top layer is silver, and when you've cleaned it up, I think you'll find it's engraved with…” He paused and peered, turned the box around for a better view, and said: “It shows a scene of epiphany. Here's a young god revealing himself in human form…long wind-blown hair…ascending to heaven. He's rising up in front of what looks like a shrine and a sacred tree…olive probably. And there's something in his right hand. A spray of wheat or barley.” He passed the glass to Gunning.

“Ah! When he first came to light, I wondered if he might be a spring god,” said Letty, encouraged. “You know—an Adonis, a Tammuz, Osiris…reigning cosseted in luxury for a year before he's destined to die. And his death ensures that the crops continue to grow, children continue to fill the cradles…”

“Aphrodite's young lover, Adonis? Letty—what a perfectly capital notion! Why, yes…it makes splendid sense.
Adon
is a Semitic word. It means lord.’ Connections between ancient Crete and the Semitic world are known to have existed…The agricultural peoples of the eastern Mediterranean believed the Corn Spirit, their lord, died to guarantee perpetual fertility. It's thought that living men died a violent death, representing the god. Their blood and their flesh fertilised, literally, the soil, and their spirits returned with the spring flowers and the sprouting wheat and barley.”

“Oh, good heavens!” said Letty, “didn't Robert Burns have something sinister to say on the subject…John Barleycorn—?”

“They wasted o'er a scorching flame/The marrow of his bones,”
Gunning remembered. “It makes grim reading!”

“And what do we see from up there in the place where he was buried?” George prompted.

“Yes, of course! At this moment of the year we see fields green with crops. Mile after mile of them—wheat, barley, vegetables, herbs, groves of olives and oranges. Stretching all the way back to Knossos. His domain. The Garden of Adonis.”

“I wonder how many young men have given up their lives in that place?” said George. And then, uneasily: “Look, shall we agree not to tell Pa about Letty's mad theory? He wouldn't want to think Zeus had slipped through his fingers again. You should have heard him this morning! He's already planning his next publication! Lecture tour of Europe and lord knows what else! I've heard him rehearsing already—ranting on about the conflation of ideas in the primitive mind or some such…His thesis appears to be that the double discovery of temple and tomb on the same site indicates a confusion and blurring of image down the ages. The worship of the god and the burial of the priestess have been stirred together and have filtered down through folk story into written history as one intriguing Divine Burial. And, inevitably, Letty—and I must warn you to prepare yourself for this—he's planning that it shall go down in the annals as Theodore Russell's great discovery. And, of course, in his scenario, the King of the Gods is firmly restored to his Cretan throne.”

George paused, apologetic and embarrassed. “Somehow, I don't think he'll be at all entertained by the notion that
his
Tomb of Zeus has, overnight, become
Letty's
Garden of Adonis.”

“Tin hats on?” suggested Gunning. And, suddenly earnest and with an uncharacteristic impatience: “Look—
must
we endure more petty squabbling? Why can't everyone see what is so obvious? That it doesn't matter a jot whether the presumed Divine Being is wearing a skirt or a codpiece! Is the goddess or god brandishing an ear of wheat or a thunderbolt? Fascinating stuff, but it oughtn't to provoke a tap on the head with a fan, let alone an all-out battle for supremacy. These ancient people were sophisticated; they had a sense of humour and proportion. They would laugh and despair if they could see the dry bones of their civilisation being snatched at and snarled over by the lapdogs of archaeology. They reached sublime heights of skill and invention. Their religious art expresses a joy, a power, and a freshness that must dazzle and humble all who see it, but more than this—it brings the Divinity down to earth.”

He glanced at the statue. “This isn't an epiphany we're being privileged to see; it's not a god revealing himself. It's the opposite of that. This beautiful young boy is
descending.
He's here with us. Close to Man. He
is
Man.”