What in heavens name is he raving about. If only I could snatch up one of the torches and make a run for it, but I am afraid to attempt anything that may startle him. He is clearly out of his right mind, and I am convinced he must be Caspar’s killer. The thought makes me shudder, and my thoughts drift to the unpleasant possibility of no one else ever finding out. I could disappear like this poor Andros, and no one will ever know what happened. The possibility is so unbearble, I force it from my mind.
Darius interrupts my thoughts and pulls me back to the present. He is standing, feet apart, in front of the skeleton. I see his profile, but the light is low and his expression again is hard to decipher.
"What will I do with her, Andros? Tell me brother, what will I do?"
Brother? Brother!
I swallow and take a small, slow step backwards. Andros is his brother. What devils are at work in this place?
"Answer me, you fool," he sounds angry now, jabbing a finger into the air. "You don’t know.
Ha,
you don’t know anything. I was always the intelligent one. I—" he pounds his chest in a primitive gesture, "I knew you would be too greedy, too selfish. You only wanted me to come along so I would help carry, so I would be impressed by you,
big brother.
I wasn’t though, was I?" He lets out a high-pitched giggle. "I got you. And now it’s all mine. Mine, mine, mine. You wanted to sell it, be rich, leave Crete. Stupid, stupid!" He swivels around, and I nearly fall back at the shock.
"Don’t think I forgot about you. I followed him and look at him now," he points at the figure of his brother. "You followed me. You are trying to steal from me. You are trying to stab me in the back. Well," he steps closer, and I instinctively shrink back, "you will not trick me, silly girl. I know the tricks. I created the tricks." His eyes are wide and mad. He runs a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. Within the stretch of an hour, a neat, dignified man has turned into a raving lunatic. Or was the lunatic only disguised as the museum curator?
Which mask fits?
"Darius, you don’t understand. I was simply curious. I do not want to take anything, I swear it. It’s all yours. All yours"
"Yes," he says slowly, like a child, "all mine." A flash of confusion appears on his face.
He narrows his eyes and strokes his chin in a gesture reminding me oddly of Daniel. If only he would come and find me. If only anyone would.
"Now," I say echoing his tone, "if you lead me out of here, we can go back to the village. Everything will be all right. This will be our little secret. I am good at keeping secrets."
Is he actually considering this? His shoulders hunch forward, and he sighs tiredly before looking at me again. His eyes meet mine.
"You do not understand," he says. "They will take it away from me. All my treasures, all taken away. Andros tried and … " he breaks off, looking over at the broken body of his brother.
"What happened?" My voice is very low, almost a whisper. I hope it calms him somehow. He turns back to me, a lone tear slides down his cheek.
"Andros, my brother … he heard some tale of a treasure in the mountain. He found it, and he took me with him. He said we would share the profits, the spoils. He said, ‘We will be rich men’. Crete had just declared union with Greece, and Andros wanted to go to Athens. ‘We will be rich men, we could begin life anew in Greece’, he told me. We could become merchants, buy a ship. I didn’t want to go. I wanted to stay. I wanted the treasure not the glory, not the rewards."
Darius is suddenly somewhere far away. He is lost in his world. Should I pity him? I need only look at the skeleton of Andros Calandra, leaning with his bony back against the wall, to know that pity for this man means closing my eyes to his deeds, and that I cannot do. Theft I could overlook, but murder … murder is unforgiveable. And irrespective of such philosophical meanderings, I may well become his next victim! No, pity is out of the question. Only survival counts now.
"All of this is mine. My heritage," he waves forlornly at the pieces placed neatly around us. "I could not let him take it, let him
sell
it." He runs a hand over the head of a small gold statue, tenderly as if he were stroking the head of a child.
"You killed him." The words come out before I can stop myself, but he doesn’t seem alarmed, not even shifting his gaze to find mine.
"I had no choice." His hand is resting on the statue’s head, as though the touch, feeling the cool gold against his skin, justifies his action. Gold and marble in exchange for a brother. Disgusted, I want to move away. I stop myself, afraid any abrupt motion will alert him and draw him back into his state of manic raving.
"What about your parents? What did you tell them?" I ask, not knowing where the words come from, grateful for the small space of clarity left in my head, keeping me from running and screaming; keeping me from joining him in madness.
"Father was at sea, and mother was visiting her sister in Chania. When they returned, I said Andros had gone to away," he chuckles. "I even wrote a letter. Everyone believed it. Andros was always talking about leaving."
I have to swallow, the lump in my throat will not move. He robbed his parents of a son, and laughs at his ingenuity in deceiving them.
"A-and Caspar," I nearly choke on the name, still I have to ask, "was he blackmailing you? Is that why you killed him?"
Darius turns his head, his expression betraying his surprise. "He blackmailed me, yes, the filth, but I did not kill him."
Now it is my turn to be shocked (though, admittedly, I must have looked rather shocked for the better part of an hour now, so the expression does not alarm Darius).
"What do you mean?" I ask. "You didn’t kill him?"
"No. I would have, probably," he shrugs as if taking a life is a trivial task. "It was a great relief someone did it for me. He was a vile man, you know." He wrinkles his nose and shakes his head again.
"I-I see. Do you know who—"
"No. Not a clue. Whoever it was did a very nice job. Poison is a good way to kill, I couldn’t use it, unfortunately. It is much better. Much cleaner."
"You used—"
"Oh, a knife. Only sensible thing. On that day I was behind him; Andros always leading the way; Andros always in charge," he grimaces. "And then," he mimicks, drawing a daggar and perfoms a high stab in the air, "done. Very quick. He did not suffer. Not much, anyway."
He did not suffer.
I am certain those few last moments of his were pure agony. If the physical pain was not horrendous, the pain of knowing his own brother, with whom he had shared his greatest secret, had stabbed him in the back, had betrayed him, would certainly have been unbearable. Darius talks so easily as if he has been waiting to tell someone. He has to get everything out. I dare not think why else he is so open with me.
"Has your family never wondered why he never returned? Why he hasn’t kept in touch?"
"No. I write the letters."
"They are not post-marked?"
"It does not matter, they believe it. Or they want to believe. I write, ‘I am very happy in Athens.’ or ‘I have found good work here,’ and they are happy."
I wonder whether they really believe him or need simply wish to? Darius has been careful thus far. There is a chance he has truly mislead even his parents. He falls silent and lets his eyes bask in the glory of what surrounds him. Does he fear it is finally over? Or does he think he can go on as he has? Oddly enough, Caspar’s death, of which he insists he is innocent, may be his undoing. A question, gnawing at me all this time, pushes again to the forefront of my mind, and I am too drained to fight it off.
"What will you do now?"
What will you do to me?
The question hangs heavy in the air, and my muscles tense awaiting his answer.
When he finally answers, he does not look at me, but at the body of his brother. "You know there is only one thing I can do." A chill runs down my spine, and I shudder.
"Please," my voice is hoarse, "Darius, I won’t say a word, please. I’ll leave. Go back to England. Truly, only—"
"No," he takes a menacing step toward me, his eyes glinting like burning embers. A predator’s eyes. It is not his eyes that make me tremble, but the smile twitching on his lips. An inhuman smile, cruel and cold.
I have to buy time. If I can somehow immobilize him, knock him over with one of his little treasures, I can try to make an escape. Anything is better than complacently waiting for execution.
"Before," I swallow, the words clinging to my throat like sticky honey, "before you do it, at least tell me whether it was you who stole the statue from the excavation." A silly last request, but I need to buy time, and this seems the only option.
His grin widens and he shows his teeth. "Of course it was me! Do you think I would let anyone else have her? Do you think I would leave her outside in the cold night? No," he shakes his head emphatically, "I saved her. I rescued her. She is with me now where she belongs." The way he speaks of the statue is unsettling. Nonetheless, it spurs me on in my quest to convince him that I am harmless.
"Is she here?" I play along, hoping he does not see through my feigned sincerity.
He is obliviously immersed in his world, nodding vigorously and rubbing his hands together. "Where else would she be? She is here, among her brothers and sisters."
I feign a smile. "I don’t know if I believe you. Perhaps you are only boasting. Perhaps, as with Caspar, someone else is responsible." His eyes grow wide and his mouth straightens into a thin line. I hope I haven’t pushed him too far. This may be the only chance I have.
"I am telling the truth! You-you," he points an angry finger at me. "You don’t know anything, English woman!"
"Show me." Two words. Simple enough, the two words my plan hinges on, my survival plan.
He wavers, narrowing his eyes at me. I try to look unaffected, all but impossible as one might imagine.
"You will not touch her!" His tone is sharp, warning a naughty child.
"I promise."
He licks his lips and nods. "Come."
Yes, turn your back on me, Darius. Trust me. He begins to lead me across the chamber. Lights flicker, casting eerie shadows on the wall, armless, headless figures like the ones I pass. He has created a strange sort of order. The pieces are striking, none very large. I keep searching for anything within my reach I might reasonably lift to hit him with before he understands what I am doing. Easier said than done. Everything is just a bit too far to touch, and I am afraid to alarm him by making any sudden moves he might sense even with his back turned. I haven’t much time, and this opportunity will pass quickly.
"Here, come, come, be careful. Don’t touch anything."
He leads me to the left side of the cave, and I see my chance. Ten steps away from me is a golden votive statue, no larger than a bottle of wine, I can easily wield it. My heartbeat races as I draw closer. Five steps, three, one—
"Look!" Just as I reach for it, he turns around, pointing upward. I drop my arm as innocently as I can, fixing an interested expression on my face. We are standing in front of a small female nude. He has set her atop a blue velvet sheet like a crown jewel. She is beautiful, that much is true.
"Very nice. Yes, very nice." I try to cover the fear in my voice.
"Nice? She is beautiful! My lady, my princess." Darius stares dotingly at the figurine, his eyes hidden behind the reflection in his glasses. This is the moment. He is in her thrall.
In one swift motion, I take a tiny step back, swipe up the votive and bring it crashing down onto the back of his neck. He makes a gurgling noise and doubles over. For a moment I stand frozen to the spot, the crumpled body of the museum curator on the ground.
Have I killed him? Oh God, I hope not!
I cannot bring my trembling fingers to touch him, to feel for a pulse. Dropping the statuette, I grab one of the neaby torches.
Out. Out, out, out,
is my only thought now.
CHAPTER 33
In quick strides, I am at the chamber’s entryway. Glancing back to reassure myself no angry lunatic is pursuing, I climb through the opening. For a second, I close my eyes, trying to remember which way to go. Right. It was right, because coming in we turned left. Good.
Holding the flickering torch in front of me, I make my way. At the next intersection of two pitchblack tunnels, I am less certain. Wavering, yet afraid to wait too long, an idea strikes. Might not Darius have left some marks to show himself the way?
Frantically, all the time awaiting his pursuit, I hold the light up to the walls, searching for a sign, a symbol to show me the way. Carefully, I run my hand over the rough stone. There is nothing unusual on its damp, cool surface.
What am I to do?
My breath is ragged and my heart frantic, ready to burst from my chest, desperate as I am for escape. Taking a few steps toward the tunnel on the right, I am almost certain it is the one we came from.
Nervously, I plunge into the darkness. The light emanating from the torch is weak and small, barely enough to guide the way, though hopefully enough to keep me from plumeting into some hidden depth.