Читать книгу The Enigmatic Greek - CATHERINE GEORGE, Catherine George - Страница 6

HIS island had lain in the sun in this remote part of the Aegean Sea long before Bronze Age Minoans had sought refuge here from cataclysmic disaster on Crete. Normally Alexei Drakos relished its peace. Today, not so much. From his office in the Kastro he gazed down, frowning, and then abandoned the view of brilliant blue sea lapping at the golden beach far below to make a comprehensive check of the banks of technology across the room. But for once they failed to hold his attention. Feeling restless, and plagued by something unfamiliar he refused to identify as loneliness, he turned back to the windows to watch a ferry in the distance discharging its cargo of holiday-makers into the tavernas lining the harbour of the neighbouring island.

Tomorrow tourists like these would flock here to his island for Agios Ioannis. Bonfires would blaze on the beaches to celebrate the feast of St John and visitors would come in droves for the festival and for the highlight of its entertainment, the bull dance famed for origins which reached far back into antiquity. Those Minoans again. But it was worth the sacrifice of privacy for a single day. The islanders who made a living from fishing here on Kyrkiros had reaped big benefits from his decision to revive the festival. It brought tourists who paid them an entrance fee, ate their food and bought their crafts, sampled their olives and honey, drank the wine from the island vineyards and ordered more from the websites he’d set up. But otherwise left the island in peace.

Suddenly tired of his own company, he made the descent by the ancient, winding stairs for once to burn off some of the energy buzzing through his system and entered the big, modernised kitchen on the ground floor of the Kastro to exclamations of pleasure from the women working there.

‘You should have rung, kyrie,’ scolded his housekeeper, pouring coffee. ‘I would have come up to you.’

He shook his head as he took one of the pastries she offered. ‘I knew you would be busy, Sofia.’

The woman smiled fondly. ‘Never too busy to serve you, kyrie. And nearly all is ready now for tomorrow. A good meal is prepared for the dancers, and Angela and her daughters have done marvels.’

‘They always do.’ He smiled at the women who every year fashioned traditional costumes based on designs discovered on ancient, barely discernible frescoes during the Kastro’s restoration.

Sofia smiled lovingly as her son came hurrying in. ‘Is all in place, Yannis?’

The youth nodded eagerly. ‘You wish to check, kyrie?’

Alex downed his coffee and stood up. ‘Lead on.’

In contrast to the normal peace of the island, colourful stalls had been set up on the sweep of beach below. Higher up, on the natural shelf overlooking the terrace where the dancers would perform, a vine-wreathed pergola sheltered tables reserved in advance by the forward-thinking of the influx of visitors expected the next day. He nodded in approval to the men finishing up there. ‘Well done, everyone.’ With a reminder to check that all the necessary signs were in place, he returned to his office, but this time via the lift he’d installed years before as one of the first steps towards making the Kastro penthouse habitable. His phone rang as the doors opened and he smiled as he saw the caller ID.

‘Darling,’ said a lilting, unmistakeable voice. ‘I’m tired and thirsty and I’ve just landed at your jetty.’

His eyebrows shot to his hair. ‘What? Stay right there. I’m on my way.’

The moment the lift hit ground level again, he raced out of the Kastro and down the beach to the main jetty where a woman stood waiting, her face alight with laughter as she held out her arms.

‘Surprise!’

‘You certainly are!’ He hugged her tightly for a long moment, then held her away from him and raised a mocking eyebrow. ‘You were just passing?’

Talia Kazan’s eyes sparkled as she smiled up into the hard, handsome face. ‘Passing! I’ve been travelling for so long I hardly know what day it is!’

He motioned to the beaming Yannis to help bring the bags. ‘Give it up, Mother, the ditzy-blonde act doesn’t work with me. You know exactly what day it is.’

She shrugged, unrepentant. ‘Who better? I had a sudden desire to see my son so I packed my bags and came to do that—you are pleased, I trust?’

He kissed the hand he was holding. ‘Of course; I’m delighted! But you took a risk. I might not have been here.’

Her eyes gleamed in triumph. ‘Since I am not ditzy, I contacted your admirable Stefan to make sure you would be here for the festival and swore him to silence. He said you were coming alone, as usual.’ She shook her head in reproof. ‘You should have brought some pleasant company with you.’

‘If by pleasant you mean female, the women I know demand the sophisticated pleasures of the city, Mother. Arcane festivals on a remote island just don’t do it for them.’

‘Then invite someone with a higher cultural threshold.’ The luminous violet eyes were suddenly serious. ‘It is time you put that nonsense from Christina Mavros behind you and found a real woman.’

He shrugged that off with an impatient smile. ‘Did Takis bring you over?’

‘No; he was so busy over there with guests checking in at the taverna. A very kind young man assured me it was a pleasure to bring me to Kyrkiros and so save Takis the trouble.’

‘Who was this man?’ demanded her son sharply.

‘I did not catch his name over the noise of the boat engine. Now, lead me to Sofia so I can beg her for coffee.’

Sofia and her crew were clustered at the kitchen door, faces wreathed in smiles as they greeted ‘kyria Talia’ in rapture and pressed her to have coffee, wine, pastries or anything her heart desired that they could provide.

One of the new arrivals on the neighbouring island of Karpyros felt a rush of excitement as she focused her discreet little binoculars on the action across the water. At this distance it was hard to be sure, but the man hugging a blonde over there surely had to be the rare sight of Alexei Drakos, the boy-wonder entrepreneur famed for his hostility towards the media.

Eleanor tucked the binoculars away when her lunch arrived and with a smile thanked the young waiter in the basic Greek she’d crammed for her current assignment: a series of travel articles on lesser-known Greek islands well off the tourist trail. It was more ambitious than anything she’d worked on to date, and before grudgingly signing off on expenses her editor had dropped a bombshell by stipulating a shot at an interview with Alexei Drakos as part of the deal.

‘Since the Mavros woman did the dirty on him a few months ago, he’s kept a very low profile, but apparently he always visits his island in June. Make damn sure you get there in good time because tourists swarm there for some festival he’s put on every year since he bought the island. There’s no accommodation, so book a room somewhere else, plus a boat to get you there on the day.’ Ross McLean had flashed his bleached veneers at her. ‘And wear something sexy to beard the lion in his den.’

‘Drakos translates as dragon, not lion,’ she’d retorted. ‘And I don’t do sexy!’

On her way out Eleanor had heard him muttering about college girls who thought they knew it all and rolled her eyes. There was fat chance of getting a reporter’s job these days without a college degree, and to augment hers she’d worked her socks off to add photography to her journalism qualifications; something greatly to her advantage with Ross McLean because it saved him the expense of a photographer.

Now she was almost literally in sight of her quarry, Eleanor refused to spoil her appetite by worrying about how to achieve the scoop her boss was so hot for. But succeed she would, somehow, if only to show him just what a ‘college girl’ could do. Maybe the reclusive Mr Drakos would be in a sociable mood now the blonde had arrived to keep him company. Though Ross, drat the man, knew very well he was asking the impossible. Alexei Drakos had been famous for stonewalling journalists even before the lurid exposé by a furious ex-lover. But who had he been hugging today? No matter how hard she’d dug, Eleanor had learned frustratingly little about the man’s private life other than the woman-scorned outpourings of Christina Mavros. Her research into his professional persona had built up a picture of a wunderkind who achieved success while still at school with some kind of genius software technology, and as an adult entrepreneur went on to put his money to good use with investments in pharmaceuticals, property and more technology. But, other than his reputation for philanthropy she had no clue to the man behind the public persona.

The taverna owner’s son rushed over as Eleanor got up to leave and carried her luggage the short distance to one of the small apartments. He set her bags down on the small veranda fronting the last of the square white cubes overlooking the harbour and unlocked the blue door. Eleanor smiled in approval at the scrupulously clean, white-walled room as Petros carried her bags inside and told him she intended dining at the taverna that night.

‘Then I will reserve a table for you, kyria. Many people will be here tonight before the festival tomorrow,’ he told her, and flushed with pleasure when she thanked him and gave him a hefty tip.

Petros was right, of course. The place would be heaving with visitors ready to swarm across to Kyrkiros tomorrow. But if Alexei Drakos was such a private man why did he open his island to all and sundry, even if it was for just one day? While she dined later she could gaze across the sea and speculate to her heart’s content about the king of the Kastro on the island over there. In the meantime, she’d haul her bags up the ladder to the open mezzanine bedroom, do her usual minimum unpacking and take a short nap.

Eleanor showered later in the tiny, spotless bathroom and dressed in her usual trademark jeans and T-shirt. As a gesture to the island night-life the jeans were white and the clinging top black and scooped low enough to show a hint of suntanned cleavage; and in a practice run for dragon-slaying the next day, she brushed on mascara and lip gloss. Eleanor eyed her reflection critically. Two weeks of island-hopping in the sun had added a satisfactory bronze glow to her skin, but the effect was more healthy than sexy. She shrugged. If Ross was rat enough to fire her for failing to get the exclusive he was panting for, she would go freelance.

The taverna was buzzing with holidaymakers and locals when Petros darted out to conduct her to a tiny table which gave her a good view across the boats bobbing in the harbour to the lights just visible on the dark outline of Kyrkiros on the horizon. She was served with bread and olives to nibble on while she waited for the red mullet, which arrived sizzling, dressed with lemon juice and olive oil, and accompanied by a salad and half a carafe of local wine.

Eleanor thanked Petros warmly and asked about the festival next day. ‘Is the bull dance for men only?’

He shook his head. ‘The taurokathapsia is for both men and women. Enjoy your meal, kyria.’

Eleanor peered at the distant lights across the water, wondering about Alexei Drakos. From what little she’d learned about his personal life, it seemed unlikely he was looking forward to the invasion on his territory next day, but at least he now had the blonde to cheer him up when the hoi polloi descended on him. Her research might have turned up nothing about any current love life, but she’d made the deeply intriguing discovery that his mother had been one of the most famous photographic models of her day. Talia Kazan’s heyday had been short. Her exquisite face had never graced magazine covers again after she married Milo Drakos and produced the son who, allegedly, was estranged from his father. Eleanor’s journalistic antennae buzzed like bees with the urge to find out why.

As she left the taverna Eleanor complimented the owner about her dinner, and when she ordered lunch for next day remembered to confirm that a boat had been booked for her trip over to Kyrkiros afterwards. Once there her plan was to soak up the festival atmosphere, take lots of photographs and then sit back people-watching at her reserved table while she waited for the lord and master of the island to show. Or not.

Back in her room, Eleanor soon regretted her nap. After a while she gave up trying to sleep and switched on her laptop to do more digging. She went back to the piece about Christina Mavros, the socialite from Crete who had failed in her aim to marry Alexei Drakos and subsequently sold her vindictive, highly coloured story to the press. Stupid woman, thought Eleanor as she went on with her search, but by the time her eyes began to droop at last her only new find had been a photograph of Alexei’s father. From the cut of his hard, handsome face it seemed that Milo Drakos would make a bad enemy.

Eleanor woke late next morning and hurriedly climbed down the ladder to make coffee to kick-start the day. After her shower she followed Ross McLean’s instructions and pulled on a dress for once, instead of jeans. Not that it was remotely the kind of thing her boss had in mind. The navy-striped white Breton number was as simple and comfortable as a T-shirt, but at least it showed off legs the Greek sun had toasted to an even darker shade of bronze than her face.

Later on at the taverna, Eleanor enjoyed an entertaining lunch hour as she watched seagoing craft of all descriptions making for the other island. When Petros finally came to say her boat was waiting for her, the sun was so fierce she was glad of dark glasses and sun hat for the trip across the sea, her excitement mounting at the approach to the steep, rocky island dominated by an ancient kastro. She breathed in the familiar sage and lavender scent of the Greek maquis lining the paths winding up through sun-baked hillside; the sound of music and chattering crowds in festive mood added to her anticipation as her genial ferryman docked at a jetty.

Eleanor thanked him and settled a time for the trip back later that evening, then got straight to work to take shots of the houses which clustered around the Kastro and climbed the slopes above it to a summit crowned by the blue dome of an icing-white church. Groundwork done, she threaded her way through the chattering, animated crowds to claim the place she’d reserved at one of the tables under the pergola. Musicians were playing at the far end of the terrace, but she’d learned from Petros that the main event would be after dark when bonfires were lit for the performance of the famous bull dance. She eyed the stage with misgiving. She’d seen pictures of the frescoes on Crete, depicting dancers somersaulting over a bull, but there was no visible way to restrain an animal here if it got out of hand, which was worrying.

She promptly forgot about bulls when the doors to the Kastro opened and three people emerged to descend the steps to the terrace. Of the two men in the group, it was obvious who was king of this particular castle. Alexei Drakos was smiling down at his blonde companion, and Eleanor realised in sudden excitement that she was Talia Kazan in the flesh, from this distance as beautiful in maturity as she had been in her heyday. The blonde was no pillow-friend after all, but Alexei’s mother, in a hyacinth-blue dress of exquisite cut, a large straw hat on her gleaming hair.

The son was equally striking. His curling hair was only a few shades darker gold than his mother’s, instead of black as Eleanor had expected before she’d researched him, but his face was carved from different, utterly masculine clay, with heavy-lidded dark eyes and handsome, forceful features which bore an unmistakeable resemblance to his father. He was slim-hipped and broad shouldered, and even in conventional linen trousers and white shirt, which merely hinted at the muscles beneath, there was a powerful masculine grace about him. Alexei Drakos was a magnificent specimen of manhood by any standards.

Eleanor watched, riveted, as Alexei linked his arm through his mother’s to inspect the goods on display at each stall for a brief moment and exchange a few words with the vendors before leaving the field clear to the purchasing public. From under cover of her table’s parasol, Eleanor took a few shots of mother and son with the Kastro as backdrop then turned her lens on the festive crowd milling about in the hot sunshine.

Eventually she put her camera away and went off to browse among the stalls for presents to take home. The crafts on display were of good quality. She soon found carved worry-beads that would amuse her father and a small, exquisitely embroidered picture perfect for her mother. With regret she passed by the displays of pottery and copper pots as too difficult to transport home, but then reached a stall with goods that made her mouth water. She’d read that it was hard to find really good jewellery outside the larger towns in Greece, but the wares on sale here were the real deal and obviously came from the mainland. When enough space cleared to let her get a look, she passed over the striking pendants and earrings way out of her price range and concentrated on trays of small trinkets, one of which caught her eye and said ‘buy me’.

‘Copy of Minoan ornament,’ the man on the stall stated, but in such strongly accented Greek Eleanor barely understood. ‘You like it?’

The tiny crystal bull had a gold loop on its back; perfect to attach to her charm bracelet. She liked it a lot.

‘How much?’ she asked, but when he mentioned the sum she shook her head regretfully, which prompted an unintelligible spiel from him on the virtues of the charm. The man only broke off when space was made for someone who addressed Eleanor in Greek to ask if she needed help with the problem. Her most immediate problem, due to the sudden sight and scent of Alexei Drakos at such close quarters, was trying to muster enough breath and vocabulary to answer.

‘I don’t speak enough Greek to bargain,’ she said at last in English.

‘Ah, I see. Allow me.’ He began a rapid exchange with the stall holder and turned to Eleanor with a smile that rocked her on her heels as he named a price just within her budget.

‘Thank you so much!’ She hastily counted out money to hand over before the stall holder could change his mind, and tried to concentrate as the man said a lot more she couldn’t understand. Standing so close to Alexei Drakos was scrambling her brain!

‘He will attach it to your bracelet if you leave it with him for a while,’ he translated for her, the hint of attractive accent adding to her problem.

‘Thank you.’ Eleanor unfastened the heavy gold chain from her wrist and handed it to the vendor, pointing to a link near the lock.

‘I told him to bring it to you later,’ said Alexei. ‘Do you have a table?’

Eleanor nodded dumbly, certain by now he thought she was a total idiot.

‘Alexei mou, I heard you speaking English,’ said his mother, hurrying to join them. ‘Won’t you introduce me?’

He smiled. ‘I’ve only just met the lady myself.’

‘Then I will make the introductions. I am Talia Kazan, and this is my son, Alexei Drakos.’ Her accent was equally fascinating, but more pronounced than her son’s, the words spoken with friendly warmth that unlocked Eleanor’s tongue.

‘Eleanor Markham,’ she said, smiling. ‘How do you do?’

‘Delighted to meet you. Are you here with friends?’

‘No, I’m travelling alone.’

‘Then would you care to join me for a drink?’ said Talia.

Would she! Eleanor beamed. ‘I’d love to. Perhaps you’d come over to my table.’

‘I’ll send someone,’ said Alexei, and went off to speak to a waiter.

Talia gave Eleanor the smile that had made her famous. ‘I am so glad of some company. Alex is very busy today.’ When they reached the table, to the intense interest of people sitting nearby, she sat down with a sigh of pleasure. ‘Are you just here for the day at the festival, or are you staying on Karpyros?’

Eleanor explained about her assignment.

Talia’s violet eyes were instantly guarded. ‘You are a journalist.’

Eleanor met the look steadily. ‘Yes. But I’m not a gossip columnist. I work in features, mainly on travel, so I won’t capitalise on meeting the famous Talia Kazan.’

The slender shoulders shrugged. ‘It is a very long time since I was famous.’

‘Yet you’ve hardly changed at all.’ Eleanor spoke with such obvious sincerity the beautiful eyes warmed.

‘How kind of you to say so. You are here to write about the festival?’

Eleanor nodded, hoping she didn’t look guilty. Bad move to reveal that an interview with Alexei Drakos was her main objective.

‘I have not been here for the festival for a while,’ Talia told her. ‘But Alex always leaves his calendar clear for it, so I came on impulse to surprise him.’

‘He must have been delighted!’

‘Fortunately, he seemed to be. Not every man welcomes a surprise visit from his mother.’ Talia smiled up at the youth setting down glasses, bottles of mineral water and fruit juice. ‘Efcharisto, Yannis.’ She eyed Eleanor with gratifying interest. ‘So, tell me about your assignment.’

Eleanor described the lesser-known islands she’d visited for her series. ‘I take my own photographs, so I nearly always travel solo.’

‘But you must have someone in the UK waiting impatiently for your return?’ The blue eyes sparkled, unashamedly curious.

Eleanor shook her head, smiling. ‘The only one waiting impatiently right now is my editor. But I’m lucky enough to have good friends, and I’m close to my parents.’

‘I am most fortunate myself that way. My son may be a busy man, but he makes time for regular—if brief—visits to his mother. Do you live at home with your parents?’

Before Eleanor could reply, Alexei Drakos joined them.

Talia smiled at him warmly. ‘Sit with us for a while.’

He shook his head. ‘Stefan tells me I have calls to return. Miss Markham, has your bracelet been returned to you?’

‘No, not yet.’

‘I’ll hurry the man along.’ With an abstracted smile, he strode off again.

His mother looked after him anxiously. ‘The world does not leave him alone, even here at his retreat—though Stefan, his assistant, does his best to keep it at bay over this particular holiday.’

‘This festival is obviously important to—to your son,’ said Eleanor.

‘To me, also,’ said Talia, and looked up with an enquiring smile as a boy approached the table, holding out a package.

‘Ah, that must be for me,’ said Eleanor, and took out her bracelet, now adorned with the crystal bull. ‘Efcharisto!’ she said, pleased, and handed over a tip. She smiled guiltily as she displayed the charm. ‘Very expensive, but I couldn’t resist it after your son was kind enough to bargain the price down.’

Talia leaned closer to examine it. ‘Exquisite—and a most perfect souvenir of Kyrkiros.’

Eleanor fastened the bracelet on her wrist. ‘There. No more extravagance for me this trip.’

Alexei Drakos’ assistant came towards them, smiling respectfully. ‘Forgive me for interrupting, but Sofia says a light supper is ready, kyria Talia. She apologises it is early tonight because of the taurokathapsia.’

‘Of course,’ she said, getting up. ‘Miss Eleanor Markham, meet Stefan Petrides, Alexei’s man in Athens.’

Stefan bowed formally to Eleanor. ‘Chairo poly, kyria Markham.’

‘Pos eiste,’ she returned.

‘I am not happy leaving you alone here, my dear,’ said Talia, frowning. ‘Please join us for dinner.’

Eleanor smiled gratefully, but shook her head. ‘That’s so kind of you, but I purposely ate enough lunch to see me through the evening. Goodbye—it’s been such a pleasure to meet you.’

‘Likewise, Eleanor Markham, though the day is not over yet,’ said Talia, and with a smile went off with her escort.

Eleanor gazed after them a little wistfully, then sat down and began writing up the events of the afternoon. She was soon so deeply absorbed she jumped when someone rapped on the metal table. She looked up with a smile to find Alexei Drakos eyeing her notebook with hostility.

‘My mother is concerned about leaving you alone here,’ he said coldly. ‘But you’re obviously busy. She tells me you’re a journalist.’

Her smile died. ‘Yes, I am.’

‘And my island is providing an even richer source of material than you expected?’

Eleanor’s defences sprang to attention. ‘It is indeed.’

‘Write one word about my mother, and I will sue,’ he said with menace.

Eleanor’s chin went up. ‘I’m here solely to report on this famous festival of yours, Mr Drakos. But, since you ask so nicely, I’ll leave out my chance meeting with Talia Kazan. Though, since I would be reporting fact, suing would not be possible.’

‘Maybe not.’ His cold eyes locked on hers. ‘But believe me, Miss Markham—whatever rag you work for I can get you fired as easily as I helped you out earlier.’

He strode off, cursing at the chance that had involved his mother with Eleanor Markham. Since the notoriety Christina Mavros had brought on him, he had avoided contact with any woman other than his mother. Until today, that was, when an attractive tourist’s rueful little smile had seduced him into offering help to someone who was not only a woman but a reporter, for God’s sake!

Eleanor stared after him balefully. No chance of an interview with Talia Kazan’s baby boy, then. And no prize for guessing how Alexei Drakos had made his fortune, either. He’d probably just stepped on the necks of everyone who got in his way. Her mouth tightened. Romantic fool that she was, the chance meeting with him had been one of the major experiences of her life, whereas to him she was just a petty little problem to solve by threats.

Her eyes sparking like an angry cat’s behind her glasses, she noted that all the reserved tables were now full, other than the one adjoining hers. Everyone was eating and drinking and having a wonderful time in laughing, animated groups, which emphasized her solitary state—a common enough situation on her travels, and not one that had bothered her in the slightest up to now. Eleanor shrugged impatiently. Her blood sugars obviously needed a boost after the clash with the dragon of Kyrkiros. She walked over to the stalls, bought a couple of nut-filled honey pastries from one of them, and returned to her table to find a teenaged lad waiting there.

‘Kyria Talia sent for you,’ he informed her, indicating the tray on the table.

Eleanor smiled warmly and asked him to convey her thanks to the lady. She sat down to pour tea into a delicate china cup and smiled when she tasted an unmistakeably British blend. The pastries were doubly delicious with the tea as accompaniment. By the time Eleanor had finished her surprise treat, lamps were glowing along the terrace, the sudden darkness of the Aegean night had fallen, a singer had joined the musicians and she had almost recovered from the blow of her encounter with Alexei Drakos. She stiffened when an audible ripple of interest through the crowd heralded the arrival of the man himself as he ushered his mother to the adjoining table. One look at him revived her anger so fiercely it took an effort to smile when Talia beckoned to her.

‘Do come and join us, Eleanor. The dancing will start soon.’

Eleanor shook her head firmly; grateful it was too dark for her feelings to show. ‘It’s very kind of you but I wouldn’t dream of intruding.’

‘Nonsense! Why sit there alone? Stefan will bring your things.’

And, short of causing a scene, Eleanor was obliged to accept the chair Alexei Drakos held out for her next to his mother. She thanked him politely and smiled at Talia. ‘And thank you so much for the tea. It was just what I needed.’

‘I hoped it might be. I made it with my own fair hands.’ The radiance of Talia’s smile contrasted sharply with the expression on her son’s face. ‘Do stop looming over us and sit down, Alexei mou—you too, Stefan.’

Eleanor tensed, her stomach muscles contracting as a bull bellowed somewhere deep inside the Kastro, loud enough to be heard above the music and the noise of the chattering crowd.

‘Ah, we begin,’ said Talia with satisfaction.

Alexei eyed Eleanor sardonically. ‘Is something wrong, Miss Markham?’

‘Nothing at all,’ she lied, but sucked in a startled breath as the lights died. They were left in darkness for several tense seconds before the torches encircling the raised wooden platform burst into flame, and bonfires ignited one after the other along the outer edges of the beach.

‘How is that for Greek drama?’ crowed Talia, touching Eleanor’s hand. ‘My dear, you are so cold. What is wrong?’

‘Anticipation,’ Eleanor said brightly. With a defiant look at Alexei Drakos, she took out her camera. ‘For my article,’ she informed him.

‘You may take as many photographs of the dancers as you wish,’ he assured her, his message loud and clear. One shot of his beautiful mother and Eleanor Markham would be thrown off his island.

‘Thank you.’ She turned her attention to the stage, intrigued to see that the musicians had exchanged their modern instruments for harps and flutes which looked like museum exhibits. Along with some kind of snare drums, they began to make music so eerily unlike anything she’d ever heard before the hairs rose on the back of her neck and her blood began to pulse in time with the hypnotic beat.

With sudden drama, the great Kastro doors were flung open and a roar of applause greeted the dancers who came out two by two, moving in a slow rhythm dictated by the drum beat as they descended to the terrace. At first sight Eleanor thought they were all men after all, but when they moved into the dramatic ring of torchlight the girls among them were obvious by the bandeaux covering their breasts. Otherwise all the dancers wore loin guards under brief, gauzy kilts, glinting gold jewellery, black wigs with ringlets and soft leather sandals laced high up the leg.

Eleanor forgot Alexei Drakos’ hostility and sat entranced. The entire scene was straight off a painting on some ancient vase, except that these figures were alive and moving. The procession circled the torch-lit stage twice in hypnotic, slow-stepping rhythm before the dancers lined up in a double row to look up at the table where Alexei Drakos sat with his guests. The leader, a muscular figure with eyes painted as heavily as the girls, stepped forward to salute Alexei and Eleanor shook herself out of her trance to capture the scene on film in the instant before the lithe figures began to dance. They swayed in perfect unison, dipping and weaving in sinuous, labyrinthine patterns which gradually grew more and more complex as the beat of the music quickened. It rose faster and faster to a final crescendo as a bull bellowed off-stage, the doors burst open again and a figure out of myth and nightmare gave a great leap down into the torchlight. The crowd went wild at the sight of a black bull’s head with crystal eyes and vicious horns topping a muscular, human male body.