“What’s her name?”
“They don’t call her anything. I keep telling you, they don’t talk about her. I overheard a sentence or two, one time, that I’m pretty sure referred to her, and they mentioned the word ‘Potnia.’ That’s not a name, though. It’s a title.”
The word was vaguely familiar. Then I remembered where I had seen it. Jim didn’t pronounce it as I would have expected.
“But that’s the old word for the Minoan goddess,” I said. “It means ‘the Lady,’ or ‘the Mistress.’ Not that kind of mistress…”
“No. Not that kind.”
I looked again at the motionless figure in the plaza. The eerie light of dusk was gathering, dimming the outlines of her face and body. The evening breeze lifted the fragile folds of fabric so that their edges blended with the shadows. A little shiver ran through me. Jim’s hand tightened over mine.
“Are you cold?”
“No.” I shook myself mentally. I was getting fey, and I didn’t like the feeling. It reminded me of the moments in the museum at Herakleion. Greece was an eerie place, there were too many old traditions lingering. I forced a pragmatic tone into my voice.
“I wonder what she’s doing. Why doesn’t she go into the church, or to one of the shops?”
“I expect she’s come to see the procession,” Jim said. “After all, that’s why we’re sitting here.”
As he spoke, the church doors burst open. Light poured out of the entrance. The inside of the church was ablaze with light, quite unlike the gloomy cave I had seen; then I realized that a number of the men were carrying torches. I wouldn’t have allowed them to be used in that age-dried structure, but then I wasn’t the priest. The effect was certainly theatrical.
The torchbearers formed an aisle down the stairs and then the procession appeared, headed by the priest. He was a swarthy young man with a handsome black beard, wearing green-and-gold vestments. Following him came the shrine, supported by four husky villagers. The doors of the carved, gilded box were open, and I assumed that the saint’s statue was inside, but I couldn’t see at that distance. The villagers genuflected and knelt as the priest led the procession down the stairs. A crowd of spectators followed, forming a roughline. It wound down the stairs and around the plaza.
The priest was absorbed in his singing; he was about a quarter of the way around the circuit before he saw the woman in the center. He stopped; for a minute I was afraid the procession was going to pile up behind him like a multiple collision. But he collected himself and went on, taking a few quick skipping steps to get out of the way of the shrine, which was bearing down on him. It might have looked comical, but it didn’t. There was something rather ugly about the incident. I can’t explain why it struck me that way. Maybe it was the way the priest started, as if he were recoiling from something dirty or dangerous; or the fact that the woman was the only one in the plaza who didn’t acknowledge the saint’s passage, not even by the slightest inclination of her head. She stood there unmoving, and as the procession went on its way it almost seemed as if they were paying homage to her, the central figure in the drama.
After circling the plaza three times, the priest led the crowd off into one of the side streets. Gradually the singing died away; but the twinkling lights, twining in and out like a luminous snake, marked the saint’s passage through the fields.
I looked at Jim. He was still staring fixedly at the unmoving figure in the plaza.
“Hey,” I said. “Now that the excitement is over, how about some food? Or is it too early?”
“It’s too early.” Jim turned his head. “But if you’re hungry, maybe I can… Oh, oh. What wasthat you said about the excitement being over?”
I turned to see what he was staring at with that apprehensive expression. Frederick was heading straight for our table.
“Oh, hell,” I said.
“Don’t worry.” Jim lowered his voice. “I’m not going to lose my temper. Whatever he says, I am not going to lose my temper. You have a right to have dinner with me. Greece is the home of democracy, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh,” I said gloomily.
But our fears were groundless. As Frederick approached, I realized that he was going to be pleasant-for him. He greeted us with a nod and, without waiting for an invitation, pulled out a chair and sat down.
I thought of asking him how he felt and decided I had better not. He looked okay.
“I presume your workmen insisted on a holiday too?” he said to Jim.
Jim’s face brightened. Poor boy, he was an ingenuous soul; the slightest gesture of goodwill brought out all his kindly nature.
“That’s right, sir. All these holidays and church festivals are a nuisance, but I guess there’s no use fighting them.”
“None whatsoever. How is your work progressing?”
There was nothing ingenuous about Frederick. He wasn’t subtle, but he wasn’t ingenuous. I could see what had prompted his affability. I suppose Jim could too. He gave me an amused side-long look, and answered without reserve. He had no reason to be secretive.
“Pretty well, considering. The site seems to be a villa of considerable size. Sir Christopher is hoping for frescoes, but we haven’t hit any yet. Of course we haven’t been at it long. Tunneling is slow work.”
“And what,” said my father, with his usual indirection, “is your background?”
Poor Jim. It reminded me of the old days, when a prospective suitor was quizzed by Papa on his prospects-past, present, and future. Of course Frederick didn’t give a damn about Jim as a matrimonial prize; he cross-examined him about his training. He forgot himself once or twice, making rude comments about Jim’s professors, but on the whole he was reasonably courteous.
Finally he said, “Yes, your training is not bad. Not too bad. But you are without experience. How did you persuade Sir Christopher to hire you? He has graduate students of his own. You aren’t even British.”
Jim had kept his temper quite well. He got a little red at this last comment, but managed to smile.
“Personal connections. My mother is English. Oh, I agree, sir, I’m not especially highly qualified, but how can I become qualified without experience? I’m working my-that is, I’m working damn hard. I may have used a little pull to get the job, but I intend to deserve it.”
These noble sentiments did not impress Frederick, not so you could notice.
“As I remember Chris, he is not that difficult a taskmaster. What made him select that site? There is nothing for him there. The palace is in my area. He’ll find a few houses, that’s all.”
“You’ll have to ask him that,” said Jim politely. “I just work here.”
Frederick didn’t answer. Apparently he had found out what he wanted to know, and he was not the man to indulge in idle chitchat. I exchanged a glance with Jim. He grinned at me. The quirky eyebrows had a cocky look, as if he were saying, “See, I didn’t lose my temper, did I?”
It was almost dark now. The woman was still standing by the tree. The center of the plaza was heavily shadowed, but I could see her silhouette, shapeless as a pillar or one of those archaic Greek statues. All the café tables were filled and people were sitting in chairs in front of many of the shops. They were all men; Greek women don’t lounge around public places. I recognized one of the men; it was Nicholas, our foreman. I waved. He waved back.
“Who are you waving at?” Frederick asked suspiciously.
“Nicholas. He’s sitting over there.”
“With all the other lazy louts,” Frederick grumbled. “They had better be on the dig early tomorrow, after wasting a day.”