"He has an estate here, and houses in Rome and London. He's living in Rome right now, and he can't come home."
"Why not?"
"Politics." She uttered the word like a curse. "After Greece won her independence, there was no more nobili ty left, so those families who became involved in politics were the ones who became wealthy." "That sounds pretty typical."
"Anyway, when the king decided to invade Turkey last year, my father took exception. He knew that it would end disastrously. And for speaking the truth, he was exiled."
The bitterness in her voice was reflected in the tightness of her features. "And is still in exile."
Indy knew that the results of the war with Turkey were exactly what she said. As he understood it, Greece had invaded its neighbor with the hopes of freeing Greeks living outside of Greece. Now the city was flooded with refugees, who had been forced from their homes in the conflict, and the loss of life had been extraordinary. "I guess the invasion didn't solve anything, " he said.
"What happened was a horrible mistake. We sent a hundred thousand men and they're still being butchered."
Indy nodded, unsure of what to say. He sipped his retsina and watched her.
"You'd think we would have learned from the Great War. We suffered terribly in our support of Britain and France. The Greek people are tired of fighting, and now we are at it again."
"But what does this have to do with those two men at the Acropolis?"
She rolled the stem of her glass between her fingers, gathering her thoughts. "My father warned me not to come back until things settled down. He said it would be dangerous."
"So you think they work for the king?"
"Possibly."
"Why don't they just stop you from working at the ruins?" he asked.
"The king could certainly block me from returning to Delphi, but he is not a fool. Delphi is a national treasure, and it would look bad for him if he refused to allow me to go back, especially now after the earthquake."
"So you think they're dealing with you covertly, watching you to see what you're doing?"
She handed Indy her empty glass, motioning for a refill. "If they were only watching me, I would not mind. But I believe the king's men, if not the king himself, would like to hurt my father, and if I were killed, they would succeed."
"What are you going to do?"
"Nothing. We're leaving for Delphi tomorrow morning as planned. I refuse to be intimidated."
Indy tipped the bottle, filling Dorian's glass and his own. He decided the retsina wasn't so bad after all.
He held out the glass to her, and watched as she soaped one of her thighs with a round sponge.
"Put the glasses down," she said, and slipped her hand around his neck.
"What are you doing?"
She pulled him to her, and retsina spilled on the floor and in the tub. "I think you need a bath." Her voice was husky, soft, laced with laughter. She wound her wet arms around his back, and he toppled over the side, splashing into the warm bath as Dorian's soft limbs wrapped around him.
"What about the maid?"
"Don't worry."
"And dinner?"
"It'll keep."
"I'm supposed to be the aggressive one," he sputtered, wiping his arm across his face as she tugged at his sopping clothes.
"You're too slow. Besides, you could use a few lessons."
"Okay, professor." He peeled off his wet shirt. "I guess I'm still your student."
8
Journey to Delphi
The room was dark when Dorian rose from bed. She pushed the curtain aside, and the faint gray light of predawn seeped into the room. It was after five; she had to hurry.
She moved silently across the room, glanced once at the covered form on the bed, then quickly pulled on a plaid skirt, a blouse, and a wool jersey. She was about to leave the bedroom when Jones stirred. She froze, staring at him, willing him to remain asleep. When she was certain he hadn't heard her, she turned and left.
At the side of the house, she lifted a bicycle and wheeled it across the yard. She opened the wrought iron gate, winced when it creaked, then climbed on the bicycle and pedaled off.
Three blocks from her house, Dorian veered left and coasted downhill. The morning air was cool, and she was glad she'd worn the sweater. Ahead of her, a distant, barely perceptible pink glow challenged the sullen grayness of the eastern horizon. She braked when she reached the bottom of the hill, turned right, and rode past Platia Monastirakiou. The square usually bustled with nut vendors, fruit stalls, and shoppers, but at this hour it was quiet. The tenth-century monastery church in the center of it looked gray and desolate, a lonely artifact of simpler times.
She passed the crumbling walls of Hadrian's Library and followed Eolou Street until she reached the Gate of Athena Archegetis, the entrance to the Roman Forum. Engraved on the surface of the pilaster that faced the Acropolis was an edict of Hadrian announcing the rules and taxes for the sale of oil. If Hadrian could see the place now, Dorian thought.
She walked her bicycle through the gate and into the ruins, passing ramshackle huts built atop the remains of the ancient public latrine. Thin filaments of smoke curled up from the doorways of a few of the huts, the first sign of the new morning. Throughout the ruins of the market place were makeshift homes built by some of the thou sands of refugees flooding the city. Another national disaster.
She continued on until she reached an octagonal tower where she laid the bike on its side. She wasn't sure why, but the Tower of the Winds fascinated her. It had been designed in the first century B.C. by a Syrian astronomer named Andronicos of Cyrrhos and served as compass, sundial, weather vane, and water clock powered by a stream. If the clock had still worked, she would have been able to tell that it was five-thirty by reading the level of water in the interior cylinder.
She turned her gaze upward. Each face of the tower was decorated with a relief of a mythical entity which personi fied one of the eight winds. Directly above her on the northwest side of the tower was a relief of Skiron, who held a vessel of charcoal. Next to it, Boreas, the North Wind, blew into a conch shell.
"I got your message," a voice said from behind her, and a hand touched her shoulder.
"You're here early." She dropped her gaze, and turned. In the pale light, Alex Mandraki was a dark, brooding figure, as mysterious as the mythical entities on the tower.
"Looking out for my interests." His hand strayed to her face, touching it lightly, as though he were uncertain of his right to do so. "You're a clever strategist, Dorian. You'd make a good man. A better one than most. Must be why I like you."
She brushed a hand against his cheek; his skin felt rough even though he had just shaved. "You only like me? I thought you loved me."
He grasped her hand. His features softened as much as was possible for a man whose very glance caused his men to quaver. "Of course I do, and I've missed you." He pulled her to him, and kissed her with a sudden urgency.
"I've missed you, too," she whispered, and drew back from him. "Was it horrible?"
"A slaughter. Beyond words. And there was nothing I could do to prevent it."
"All the more reason for what we must do."
He studied her for a moment, perhaps trying to read her thoughts by the intensity and sincerity of her eyes, her expression. "I know you have to become close to the Ameri can, but I hope you aren't taking your task too seriously."
She smiled at him for the first time. "Are you jealous, Alex?"
"No." He raked his fingers back through his short, kinky hair. "Not yet." He took her hand again. They started to walk. His hawk nose, silhouetted in the pale light, looked like a sharp, deadly beak. "Jealousy is like hatred: an emotion that wastes energy."