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As far as damsel in distress stories go, the tale of Helen’s abduction by Paris, son of Priam, and the consequences must lay claim to being one of the earliest.
Although there are plenty who question whether or not she was a willing “abductee” when it came to Priam, she was a serial victim. Before she was married to Menelaus, King of Sparta, she had been abducted by Theseus, King of Athens (yes, the one that slew the minotaur) and the King of Larissa because they both wanted to make love to one of the daughters of Zeus. She had a troubled life, but maybe that‘s what you have to expect if your father rapes your mother while in the guise of a swan.
This tale is set against the same background but it’s not quite such an ambitious tale. It makes no claim to address the great themes of heroism, fate, jealousy, revenge, and lust that the Greek myths explore.
Well maybe lust.
It’s just a gallop through the Aegean word and what happens when Freddie Clegg’s comfortable Mediterranean base is disturbed by incomers.
So, as far as this story goes, the answer to the question, “Is this the face that launched a thousand ships and burned the topless towers of Ilium?” is….
“No, not really, but she has got a nice pair of tits.”
And while there is a Helen in this tale, she doesn’t get to see anything of Troy.
Needless to say the events and characters in this story are entirely fictional. No women were harmed in the production of this tale. J
Chapter 1 : Action On The Beach
“Few can argue that the island of Agoras is one of the most beautiful of the Aegean Greek islands. But the legends that surround the island speak of a past where beauty here was valued in coin. Oh, that’s no bloody good!” Bethany Howes, standing up to her knees in water, fifty feet off the beach, pushed her face into her hands shook her head and called to the group watching her from the beach. “Let’s go again!”
“Agoras is one of the most beautiful of the Aegean Greek islands,” she began once more. “But in the past, if legends are to be believed, beauty here was once valued in coin.” She stopped, put her hands on her hips and shook her head. Her long dark hair, with its tints of auburn glistening in the mid-morning sun, swung flirtatiously. It was exactly the effect she was looking for. She looked earnestly towards the beach. “And over the next few weeks, my team will be hoping to find evidence of those legends.” She strode purposefully out of the water and on to the scorching sand to join the small group of women assembled there.
As she reached them, one of them, holding a video camera, stood up. “Great, Bethany, great!” she called out. “That will be fine.”
Bethany looked sceptical. “Maybe,” she said. “We can always redo it if we have to. I just wish we could get on with the excavation. I’d rather get that under way and do these pieces to camera once we’ve got something definite to talk about.”
“Don’t worry,” the girl with the camera said. “The permits should be through today. Do you want to do the piece on the temple site now?”
Bethany looked around at the beach and over towards a rocky headland where a white villa sat perched on the low cliffs. A solitary figure was standing on the terrace of the villa looking out to sea. “No,” she said. “Let’s go back to the harbour. The ferry is due in soon. With luck our permit should be on it. If it is we can still get some work done today.” The group began to pack up their things.
On the headland, the solitary figure watched as they collected up their bags. It was too early in the season for holiday makers – not that there were many of them here even at the height of the season - and the group of five girls had intrigued him. They were obviously making a film; their equipment more than a tourist would bother with but less than a professional movie team would have. One girl had a substantial video camera, another a sound recorder and microphone. A third carried a large bag with folders, and a clip board. One other was lounging around looking bored and the fifth, evidently the focus of their endeavours, had been standing out in the bay.
Freddie Clegg had been looking through his binoculars at Bethany as she had repeated her walk out of the sea. It had taken her five attempts to get it right and Freddie had been happy to study her as she did it. All right, she was hardly Ursula Andress, or Halle Berry come to that, but she was an attractive woman in her mid thirties and, by the fifth attempt, the splashed spray from waves had made sure that her denim shorts and her tee-shirt were clinging agreeably to her figure. Freddie wasn’t keen on film makers here, especially just now, but the mermaid, as he had dubbed her, was easy on the eye at least. And the rest of her group were an attractive looking group of women too. Still, perhaps they wouldn’t be here for long. He could hardly believe he had felt that. He must be getting old, he thought.
All five of them had been down in the valley below the villa three or four days ago. Picking their way through the scrubby undergrowth, peering at the ground. At first he’d assumed that they’d lost something but then they had started sticking pegs in the ground, and picking up odd bits of rock. They had seemed quite happy when they finished. Clegg wasn’t. He valued his privacy.
As the girls left the beach Freddie decided he would go after them. They’d be going to the harbour, he decided, and he really wanted to know what they were up to.
In a dark room on Crete, fifty miles to the south west of Agoras, a helpless, twenty-one year old girl lay struggling against the ropes that bound her. Why her? Was it her own fault she kept asking herself? She should have taken more notice of the guys in the club. She shouldn’t have drunk so much. She certainly shouldn’t have taken that last drink. She didn’t know that, whatever she had done, it would have made no difference. From the moment that they’d seen her claiming her bags in the arrival hall at Iraklion Airport they’d decided on her. After that it had been simply a matter of where and when. Now though, the ropes were tight, cutting into her wrists and ankles, crushing her arms against her sides, bowing her legs up behind her. She had tried rolling this way and that. It made no difference except that at one point she had rolled off of the stinking mattress she was laying on and onto the hard floor. The cloth that filled her mouth and the tape that held it there made sure that she could make no cry. She couldn’t dislodge it. She had tried. She still didn’t know what they wanted. She hadn’t been raped. There was no reason she knew why should be kidnapped. Certainly no one was going to pay out a ransom and what other reason could there be? But then, modesty about her personal attributes was one of the things that people said was so nice about her. A vainer woman would have known. It was her breasts, her legs, her face, her figure. That was made her a saleable commodity in her captor’s eyes and that was what had led her here.
Chapter 2 : Coffee On The Quay
Freddie took a slow amble into the port of Agoras. He followed the dusty road that wound from the east of the island. It took him down from his villa, across the small valley where he’d first seen the girls and then staggered around the final bay into the clutter of white painted houses that was the island’s only real town.
It was a quiet walk for the most part. It was early in the year. Later there might be the occasional tourist revving their way past on one of the barely functional motor scooters that were for hire in the town but for now his walk was only disturbed by the raucous hooting of a single dusty lorry as it passed him heading the same way. Freddie waved to the driver as it passed him; another load of marble from the island’s one industry – the quarry.
He reached the port as the group of girls were piling their equipment in a barely ordered heap on the quayside outside Alexander’s bar. The five of them collapsed into wicker chairs. Freddie took up a place at an adjacent table. Alexander was nowhere to be seen, as usual at this time of day. His sister, Andrea, a dark haired girl that looked as if she had stepped out of the decoration of a black figure work vase, emerged from the bar. She was running things as usual. Freddie nodded. She knew he’d take his regular metrios; the tiny cup with its black thick coffee and sufficient sugar to take away the bitterness together with a cooling glass of water.
Andrea turned her attention to the girls, waiting patiently while they debated the merits of the twenty different sorts of coffees available according to the menu. Freddie that knew they were wasting their time. Unless it was a Greek coffee, brewed in its own little briki, they would be getting Nescafe with or without milk.
Eventually the hubbub of ordering came to a conclusion and Andrea disappeared inside the bar. Freddie sat staring out to sea. The daily ferry was just appearing around the northern coast. The girls chatted on.
“So, B, what will be the first steps?” the one that had been holding the camera leant forward towards the mermaid smiling eagerly.
The mermaid shaded her eyes against the sun as she peered out towards the ferry. “I’d like you and Helen to map the site before we do anything. Then a resistivity survey, ground penetrating radar too, assuming Norah got the equipment from Athens. Then, if there aren’t any other targets, I’d like to take a small trench across the edge of the enclosure and another across the centre on the seaward side to see if the enclosure was actually semi-circular or if half of it has been lost into the sea.”
The mermaid was making no attempt to talk quietly so Freddie felt quite permitted to join the conversation. He turned towards the group. “An archaeological dig?” he asked. “Here on Agoras? I didn’t think there was anything worth digging here.”
The mermaid turned towards him and smiled, unconcerned by the interruption and apparently happy for the opportunity to hold forth on her favourite subject. “You’d be surprised,” she said. “Agoras was at the cross roads in the Minoan and Mycenaean periods. Crete over there,” she gestured to the south west. Egypt over there. The Anatolian Coastal kingdoms and the Hittite empire over there.” She pointed towards the Turkish coast. “There’s not much been dug here and precious little documentary evidence but we think there are things to be discovered.”
“Well, good luck.” Freddie smiled. Andrea emerged from the back of the bar carrying Freddie’s coffee with its usual glass of water. “Ephcharisto,“ he thanked her as she put it down on his table. He turned back to the archaeologists. “Sorry, I should introduce myself. Freddie Clegg.”
“Hi,” the mermaid said. “Bethany Howes.” She seemed disappointed when Freddie didn’t react to her name but it meant nothing to him. “Maybe you saw my TV documentary on the cult of Diana at Ephesus?”
Freddie shook his head. “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t get much time for television.” Apart from which, Freddie thought, I’ve never been keen on the idea of worshipping women - quite the reverse in fact. He did, however, remember at least one thing about Diana from his history lessons at school. If you had to worship a women, one with many breasts was probably the best sort to choose. Freddie remembered fondly the adolescent banter of his fellow students when they’d found a picture of her statue. He would have been disturbed to learn that these days academic opinion favoured the idea that what appeared to be multiple breasts on the Diana statues were, in fact, representations of bull’s testicles.
Andrea reappeared with a tray of coffees before the others could introduce themselves.
“So where is this dig?” Freddie asked, returning his mind from its contemplation of a many breasted Diana and the transfer of her remembered attributes to Bethany.
The others sorted out their coffees. Sharing them around with quizzical examination as they attempted to determine which might be latte and which cappuccino. There weren’t really many clues in the cups. In the end they decided that the ones with chocolate dusting on were probably meant to be cappuccinos.
As Bethany leant forward to pick up her cup Freddie suddenly found it difficult to imagine her with more than the two rather nice breasts that she had.
Bethany, not noticing Freddie’s interest, started to explain. “Well we’ve done what we call a field walking survey at a number of possible sites and we think the best bet is down at the far end of the bay,” Bethany nodded towards the road that Freddie had just walked along. “There’s a rocky headland with a villa on it, we’re going to be digging there in the little valley that runs up beside it.”
Freddie was concerned that she was confirming his fears but he didn’t show it. “In which case we’ll be neighbours,” he said. “That’s my villa. What are you hoping to find?”
“Good pictures and some sponsorship from the Discovery Channel,” the girl with the camera laughed. “Judy Fisher,” she called across Bethany, waving her hand. Freddie nodded.
“Helen Turton,” the girl who had been handling the sound recorder added. “Hopefully something to tell us about the reasons for the island’s legends.”
“I think that’s all together too optimistic, whatever I might say to the camera,” Bethany said. “Oh and this is Danni Prospect and Stacey Jackman.” She pointed to the other two girls.
“Legends?” Freddie asked, taking a sip of his coffee and one from the glass of water that had come with it. “Apart from the fact that the Greeks, Romans, Byzantines, Venetians and Turks stomped over it in turn I didn’t think there were any real legends.”
“Long before that” Danni cut in. She pulled a battered copy of Homer’s Odyssey from her bag. She flipped it open at a marked page. “Sea-set Agoras where priceless beauty has its price.”
Freddie looked blank. Bethany explained. “Most people think of the Greeks in antiquity as the peak of civilization but they had their unpleasant aspects. Their use of slaves for example. Perhaps as much as a third of the population of Greece in classical times were slaves. Slaves in the home were well treated enough but human beings were bought and sold. There is some historical evidence to suggest that Agoras was an important slave market in early Christian times, say 200 to 300AD. Pausanias writes ‘Close by Creta, and in the direction of Lydia, lies Agoras. The most renowned exploits of the people of Agoras is the trade they make in great beauties through their market for slaves.’ He doesn’t go any further though, Pausanias is often a problem like that.” Freddie went on looking blank. It didn’t discourage Bethany at all. “But what is interesting for me – for us - is that Homer was writing much earlier – around 700BC say – and much of his narrative has been shown to have echoes in the Greek dark ages up to 400 years earlier and the Mycenaean period, back as far as 1400 / 1500 BC. We know a little bit about slavery in Mycenaean times. Slaves are mentioned on tablets from Pylos on the mainland but we want to see if there is anything here to support the suggestion that Homer’s remarks mean that there was some form of slave market for women here.”
“And you’ve got just three days to find out?” Freddie parodied the introduction of the popular TV archaeology series. “Sorry, you did sound a bit like you were doing a voice over.” Bethany smiled with slight embarrassment, aware that she had been perhaps a little too enthusiastic.
“We’ll be taking more time than that,” Danni said. “Assuming our permit has turned up.” She looked over to the harbour mouth where the ferry was just entering the port.
“I can see it could make a good programme,” Freddie said, getting to his feet and tossing down some coins beside his coffee cup. If they were to be digging here for more than a week it would be a problem but he was very much afraid that they would be.
“Drop by when we get started,” Bethany invited. “I’ll be happy to show you what we’re doing.”
“Thanks,” said Freddie glad to be given the excuse to keep an eye on what the girls were up to. “I’d like that.”
As he headed off he heard Danni call, “There’s Norah!” Freddie looked around to see a dark green Land Rover lurched down the ramp from the ferry onto the quay. All right, he thought, that makes six of them.
For the helpless girl on Crete, things had got no better. They had come to her room hours before; two men, their faces masked. They’d untied the rope between her ankles and her wrists. For a moment she thought she might be freed. But then one of the men had produced a camera. He took picture after picture, the flashes bright in her eyes. They’d forced her to stand this way and that; face to the left and then to the right. They’d torn her dress and cut off her underwear and taken more pictures. They’d photographed her face, her naked breasts, her crotch. Then they’d put the ropes back between her wrists and ankles and they’d left her lying on the mattress, the tatters of her clothes around her. They ignored the groans and cries she tried to give behind her gag. They didn’t say anything. She’d tried to struggle free but her captors just looked on in unconcerned amusement. In time she fell back exhausted. She’d had no success in loosening the ropes and besides, one or other of her captors was always with her.
Chapter 3 : Resistance Is Useless
It was towards the end of the next day that Freddie decided to take up Bethany’s invitation. He made his way down from the villa into the valley. The land rover was parked by the track. Sitting on the tail gate, Bethany was staring glumly at the screen of a laptop computer. “Bloody geo-phys,” she muttered, “useless.”
“Afternoon,” he called jovially. “I wondered how things were going.”
Bethany looked up from her PC screen. “Pretty much how I thought it would at this stage,” she said, closing the screen and getting up. “Maybe something, maybe nothing. Come on, I’ll show you.” She led the way down the track, Freddie followed enjoying the site of her backside, as it fought against the constraints of her shorts, and her legs; nut brown from months spent outdoors excavating in the Aegean and the Anatolian peninsula.
It was odd, Freddie thought, the way that she combined the bookish air of a university don with the healthy outdoors-girl look. On the other hand he wasn’t complaining.
The track led down to where the valley widened as it reached the beach. The girls had cleared a lot of scrub and vegetation. Norah was dragging a tangle of brushwood across to a pile on one side of the site. She was built more heavily than the others. She looked like she was finding it hard work. On the other hand, thought Freddie, she looks like she could do with the exercise.
Bethany strode forward into the middle of the cleared area. “This is the site we’re going to be digging,” she said.
“Doesn’t look much to me,” said Freddie.
“No,” said Bethany with a worried look. “And to be honest I’m not sure it does to me right now. The resistivity survey hasn’t been much use. Looking for rocks in a rocky soil on a subsoil of rock doesn’t give very good results. Plus there’s what is obviously a sewer pipe or something similar running right down the middle of the valley,” she gestured to a line following the track that they’d come down, “and that is completely foxing things.”
“Disappointing,” said Freddie. He wasn’t sure whether he should be pleased or not. On one hand, it made things more difficult, perhaps they’d go and find somewhere else to dig. On the other hand, he didn’t imagine that they would be put off so easily and it meant that it would all take longer.
“Well maybe. There is something though. And when we get the results from the GPR,” she pointed to Danni who, wearing a bikini that looked designed for lounging rather than working, was dragging a heavy looking, sledge like, box across the clearing, “we should get a better picture.”
“GPR?” Freddie was never good with acronyms.
“Ground Penetrating Radar. It’s another way of looking under the ground. Where the resistivity survey looks at how electrical current passes through the soil, GPR works with sound waves. You can get better results in this sort of terrain.”
“Good,” said Freddie. He looked around. “You’ve not started digging yet, then?”
“No. Not until we’ve finished this. It’s too big an area for us to try to attack without some pin-point targets.”
“You said you thought that there was something.”
“Well, yes. It’s on the edge of the resistivity survey away from the area where the sewer is distorting the readings.” She waved her arm in an arc. “We’d come to the conclusion from the field walking that there is some sort of semi-circular enclosure or structure with its edge running along that line. It’s there on the resistivity as well; just. It could be a boundary wall or the edge of a building. If you follow the arc around it dives under the edge of the headland. Obviously there’s been land slippage back towards your villa that’s buried one edge of it.”
“And the straight edge?”
“Well it runs across the valley from side to side at the seaward end just above the beach. I’m not sure if this was a circular structure and the other side has been washed out by the sea or if it was always semi-circular. That’s one of the things we want to explore first.”
“What might it be?”
“It’s hard to tell. If it’s semi-circular it could be something like a theatre or a council chamber. If it’s circular then I suppose it could be a grave circle like those at Mycenae, though it’s much smaller than that and its not in the right sort of place. It might be a temple or some sort of cult site.”
“That’s the usual cop-out for archaeologists isn’t it? If you find something you can’t understand? Ritual enclosures? Lustral basins?”
“I know what you mean. I blame Great Great Uncle Arthur.”
“Great Great Uncle Arthur?”
“Arthur Evans. He dug Knossos. Virtually discovered the Minoan culture. He was probably why I got into archaeology. Never met him of course – he died in 1941 – but of course the stories went on being told. It became a bit of a family obsession.”
Clegg nodded. He had heard of Evans, at least. He’d even been to Knossos and some of the other Minoan sites. He’d had a few days to kill on Crete when they’d come out here looking for locations in the Mediterranean. They’d ended up choosing Agoras because they’d thought it was off the beaten track. It had been up until now.
“But he was a bit keen on the whole ’ritual significance’ thing, I’d agree. Nowadays we try not to say that unless there’s pretty strong evidence for it. There’s not even a consensus that Knossos was a palace, these days. Still that’s why we dig, I guess.”
“It all sounds like a long job.”
“I’m guessing three or four weeks assuming that there’s anything at all when we start digging.”
He didn’t say so but Freddie wasn’t at all happy with that. He had rather hoped that they would all be gone before the end of the next week. He’d need to do some exploration of his own.
The girl on Crete was now in the back of a small truck. She’d been blindfolded before they took her from the room but they hadn’t bothered to dress her. She was still wearing the tattered remnants of the dress they had cut open when taking the photographs. It was night, she thought, the air had been cool on her almost naked body as they hustled her outside. She could tell from the sounds of the truck that they were driving along the road between Iraklion and Chamia or Agios Nikalaos. There weren’t many roads with tarmac this good and the chance to drive without continually stopping and starting. She wasn’t sure what use this speculation might be though. Her wrists and ankles were still locked tightly together with rope; her mouth stuffed with sound deadening cloth. And that was ignoring the fact that one of her guards was sat beside her, one hand idly toying with her breasts, the other pressing the barrel of a pistol against her neck.
© Freddie Clegg 2008
No posting or reproduction without permission
All characters fictitious.
Download PDF copies of other stories by Freddie Clegg at :
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/
freddie_clegg@yahoo.com
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