He left the room quickly, leaving her wanting to scream out a protest.
No matter what happiness they seemed to share, beneath it was a torment that hounded him, and which he could not bring himself to share with her. Everything she’d longed for was an illusion. She was still shut out from his deepest heart. She buried her face, and the pillow was wet with her tears.
CHAPTER EIGHT
PETRA wondered how Lysandros would be when they met again at breakfast, whether he would show any awareness of what had happened. But he greeted her cheerfully, with a kiss on the cheek. They might have been any couple enjoying a few days vacation without a care in the world.
‘Is there anything you’d like to do?’ he asked.
‘I’d love to go to Gastouri.’
She was referring to the tiny village where the Achilleion Palace had been built.
‘Have you never been before?’ he asked in surprise.
‘Yes, but it was a hurried visit to get material. Now I’ll have time to explore properly.’
And perhaps, she thought, it would help her cope with the sadness of being rejected again.
The village lay about seven miles to the south, built on a slope, with the Palace at the top, overlooking the sea. This was the place that the Empress Elizabeth had built to indulge her passion for the Greek hero, who seemed to have reached out to her over thousands of years. His courage, his complex character, his terrible fate, all were remembered here.
As soon as they entered the gates Petra was aware of the atmosphere-powerful, vital, yet melancholy, much as Achilles himself must have been.
Just outside the house was the statue of the Empress herself, a tiny figure, looking down with a sad expression, as though all hope had left her.
‘She used to annoy my father,’ Lysandros said. ‘He said she was a silly woman who couldn’t pull herself together.’
‘Charming.’
‘When my mother brought me here he’d insist on coming too, and showing me the things
He led the way to a tall bronze statue showing Achilles as a magnificent young warrior, wearing a metal helmet mounted with a great feathered crest. On his lower legs was armour, embossed at the kneecaps with snarling lions.
From one arm hung a shield while the other hand held a spear. He stood on a sixteen-foot plinth, looming over all-comers, staring out into the distance.
‘Disdainful,’ Petra said thoughtfully. ‘Standing so far above, he’d never notice ordinary mortals like us, coming and going down here.’
‘Perhaps that’s how Sisi liked to picture him,’ Lysandros suggested with a touch of mischief.
‘Sisi knew nothing about it,’ Petra said at once. ‘After her death the Palace was sold to a man, and
He grinned. ‘I might have guessed you’d know that.’
‘So that’s who your father wanted you to be,’ she reflected, straining her head back to look up high to Achilles’ face.
‘Nothing less would do for him. There’s also the picture inside which he admired.’
The main hall was dominated by a great staircase, at the top of which was a gigantic painting depicting a man in a racing chariot, galloping at full speed, dragging the lifeless body of his enemy in the dirt behind.
‘Achilles in triumph,’ Petra said, ‘parading his defeated enemy around the walls of Troy.’
‘That was how a man ought to be,’ Lysandros mused. ‘Because if you didn’t do it to them, they would do it to you. So I was raised being taught how to do it to them.’
‘And do you?’
‘Yes,’ he replied simply. ‘If I have to, otherwise I wouldn’t survive, and nor would the people who work for me.’
‘Parading lifeless bodies?’ she queried.
‘Not literally. My enemies are still walking about on earth, trying to destroy me. But if you’ve won, people have to know you’ve won, and the lengths you were prepared to go to. That way they learn the lesson.’
For a moment his face frightened her, not because it displayed harshness or cruelty, but because it displayed nothing at all. He was simply stating a fact. Victory had to be flaunted or it was less effective, and she could see that he didn’t really understand why this troubled her.
They moved on through the building, looking at the friezes and murals, the paintings and statues all telling of another world, yet one that still reached out to touch this one. Lysandros might speak wryly of his mother’s fascination with the legendary Achilles, yet even he felt the story’s power over him.
Heroism was no longer simple as in those days, but he’d been born into a society that expected him to conquer his enemies and drag them behind his chariot wheels. The past laid its weight on him, almost expecting him to live two lives at once, and he knew it. Fight it as he might, there were times when the expectations almost crushed him.
If she’d doubted that, she had the proof when they moved back into the garden and went to stand before the great statue depicting Achilles’ last moments. He lay on the ground, trying to draw the arrow from his heel, although in his heart he knew it was hopeless. His head was raised to the heavens and on his face was a look of despair.
‘He’s resigned,’ Lysandros said. ‘He knows there’s no escaping his destiny.’
‘Then perhaps he shouldn’t be so resigned,’ Petra said at once. ‘You should never accept bad luck as inevitable. That’s just giving in.’
‘How could he help it? He knew his fate was written on the day he was born. It was always there on his mind, the hidden vulnerability. Except that in the end it wasn’t hidden, because someone had known all the time. None of us hide our weaknesses as well as we think we do.’
‘But perhaps,’ she began tentatively, ‘if the other person was someone we didn’t have to be afraid of, someone who wouldn’t use it against us-’
‘That would be paradise indeed,’ Lysandros agreed. ‘But how would you know, until it was too late?’
They strolled for a while in the grounds before he said, ‘Is there any more you need to see here, or shall we go?’
On the way home his mood seemed to lighten. They had a cheerful supper, enlivened by an argument about a trivial point that he seemed unable to let go of, until he covered his eyes with his hands, in despair at himself.
‘It doesn’t matter, does it?’ he groaned. ‘I know it doesn’t matter and yet-’
‘You’re a mess,’ she said tenderly. ‘You don’t know how to deal with people-unless they’re enemies. You deal with
‘What’s that?’
‘Me. To put you on a straight line and keep you there.’
‘Where does this line lead?’
‘Back to me, every time. So make up your mind to it; I’m taking charge.’
He regarded her for a moment, frowning, and she wondered if she’d pushed his dictatorial nature too far. But then the frown vanished, replaced by a tender smile.
‘That’s all right, then,’ he said.
She smiled in a way that she could see he found mystifying. Good. That suited her perfectly.
Quickly she reached into her pocket, drew out a small notebook and pencil that never left her, then began counting on her fingers and making notes.
‘What are you doing?’ he demanded.
‘Calculating. Do you know it’s exactly eighteen hours and twenty-three minutes since you made love to me?’
