The Sword of Fate (47 page)

There was a noise up at the door. Somebody was pulling back the wooden staple. Springing to my feet, I drew my gun, thinking it was von Hentzen coming back; but as the door opened I saw that it was the little hunchback. I had forgotten all about him.

He came crabwise down the stairs, carrying a dead chicken by the neck. His eyes were wide but not frightened as he saw the great splash of blood that had seeped up through the white wool covering, and I knew that unless von Hentzen had removed it the boy must also have seen Mondragora’s body upstairs.

Suddenly my heart flamed with new hope. Unexpectedly he had freed us. “A doctor!” I cried. “We must get a doctor at once! D’you know where one lives?”

“No, master,” he said in a voice which I now realised was low and musical. He looked sadly towards the corner where Daphnis lay. “The town is empty. Everyone is either killed or gone.”

“I’ve got the car,” I said swiftly. “You must stay here while I drive off and find one.” My thoughts were racing again. I might have to drive some distance, but sooner or later I should meet German troops and they would be certain to have army doctors with them. Even if I had to tell the truth and surrender myself as a prisoner, what did that matter if only I could save Daphnis’ life? All through these past agonising minutes I had known that, unless I could secure professional help, she would certainly be dead from loss of blood before morning.

But as I started towards the stairs she called to me, and her voice was stronger than it had been.

“Julian—don’t go—don’t leave me! You may be away for hours—and by the time you get back …”

I turned and stared at her in miserable hesitation. She nodded
slowly. “It’s no good, darling. He got me through the middle—as well as through the legs. A doctor couldn’t save me. I haven’t very long to live.”

Desperately I tried to persuade myself that she was wrong, but I knew that she was right. Still worse, I had the horrible suspicion that she also had bullets in her lower stomach, which meant that she would have a very painful death; but there was one way in which I could make things easier for her. With my uniform, under the seat of the car, I had my first-aid pack, and in it I had always carried triple the ordinary issue of morphia.

The little hunchback had knelt down beside her and was holding her hand.

“This is Tino,” she said slowly. “He—he’s been very good to me and he’s very, very brave. He wouldn’t go when they—when they evacuated the other children; and—and when the people who had survived the blitz ran off into the woods he came back—to help the wounded. That’s how we found him.”

“Stay there a moment, Tino,” I said. “I’m going to get something from the car.” Running upstairs and out of the house, I collected my first-aid kit, then before returning to the cellar I got a bowl of water and some towels from the kitchen.

When I got back, Daphnis was lying silent with her eyes closed and Tino was still kneeling beside her.

There was always a chance that a German unit, arriving by night, might take over the remaining houses in the town for billets, so I told Tino to go upstairs, put all the lights out in the house, and remain on watch in the hall so that he could warn me if anyone was approaching. Without a word he shuffled quickly sideways up the steps and I took his place.

Daphnis opened her eyes again and said, “How did you manage to—find me, Julian?”

I gave her an outline of all that had happened since I had learned from Cozelli that he had sent her to Greece, and afterwards she said with a little smile:

“Poor darling, I—I’m so sorry I’ve got to die. It’s—it’s so hard on you.”

I had to turn my face away because the tears were streaming down my cheeks.

For a little time she was silent, then she began to groan and I gave her some of the morphia. I knew now that the time to say good-bye was very near. To save her from her agony I must dope her into unconsciousness, and once the drug had taken full effect she would never be able to speak to me any more.

After the morphia had eased her pain, she rallied a little and said quite suddenly:

“I hate the half of me that is Italian now. I’ve seen—seen the things that the Axis have done to Greece. It—it’s been simply terrible, Julian. They’ve no mercy—none at all. You were right. Some—somehow you must finish the Dictators—otherwise there’ll never be free people, or—or laughter, in the world any more.”

Soon her poor mouth was twisting again, and great beads of sweat were standing out on her broad forehead. The black curls were damp with it and clung to her temples. As I wiped away the sweat and laid a towel soaked in cold water across her head I swore that I’d devote my life not only to seeking vengeance against von Hentzen for the frightful thing he had done, but to killing or breaking the brutal spirit of his countrymen wherever I might find them.

Daphnis’ groans grew louder, and at last she moaned, “Can—can I have some more of the morphia?”

Without replying I gave her some. Her breathing gradually grew less laboured, and with an effort she spoke again. “You never told me what happened to the Count—after you traced him.”

I gave a mirthless laugh and said: “He’s upstairs in the kitchen. I’ve filled the swine full of lead.”

The grip of her damp hand suddenly tightened on mine. She opened her eyes and stared at me as she whispered, “You—you killed him?”

I nodded. “Yes. For the past hour he’s been stone-dead.”

“The fortune-teller was right,” she murmured. “A sword—the Sword of Fate—lay between us. We—were never meant to marry. Even if—if von Hentzen hadn’t shot me we couldn’t have, after that.”

“Why?” I asked in a puzzled voice.

“Perhaps—perhaps I should have told you. Count Emilo was—my father.”

“But, darling!” I exclaimed, aghast. “He wasn’t an Italian—but a Portuguese.”

She shook her head very slowly. “He took—took Portuguese nationality ten—years—ago; at—at Mussolini’s orders. So that in the event of—of a war he could serve Italy better as—as a neutral.”

Fate had indeed dealt harshly with us. I knew that Daphnis could only be one of the thousands of men and women who must be dying in Greece that night; yet that did not make the death of
this young and lovely girl who was on the threshold of life one whit less tragic; and for me it was the irony of ironies that this, the one woman I had ever really loved, should be the daughter of my mortal enemy. The Sword of Fate
had
lain between us.

The second dose of morphia had still proved insufficient to more than temporarily dull her pain. After another ten minutes had passed I had to steel myself to give her a third and larger dose, which I knew must prove fatal.

Her pitiful whimpering gradually died away and I could see that she was getting drowsy. The heavy lids were drooping over her eyes, though she strove to keep them open. A few more precious minutes went by in silence; then she rallied for the last time.

“Darling,” she muttered with a great effort. “I was ready to betray my father—to save you from prison. And—and—you risked disgrace to come and find me. We must have loved each other—very dearly.”

There was a little pause before she whispered, “Kiss me, darling.”

I kissed her very gently on the mouth. Then she fell asleep.

How long I remained crouched there on the ground beside her I’ve no idea, but eventually the hunchback boy roused me by coming to the door at the top of the stairs to ask if there was anything that he could get for us. I found then that the clasp of Daphnis’ fingers was already stiffening round my own. I felt her heart for a long moment, and there was not a flutter beneath my hand. She was quite dead.

I crossed her hands upon her breast and drew the coverlet up over them; but I did not cover her lovely face, which now had a calm serene beauty. Kissing her for the last time, I picked up the lamp from the table and followed the hunchback upstairs.

After routing round in the kitchen for a bit, where Mondragora’s dead body still lay, I found a hammer and some nails. With them I nailed up the cellar door. I had no means of securing Daphnis’ proper burial and nothing would have induced me to consign her to the bare earth; but I knew that now the Germans had completed the conquest of Greece some form of order would soon be restored. Nailing up the door would prevent any casual looters from disturbing Daphnis’ body to see if she had any jewels concealed on her. In due course the townsfolk would return and I felt certain that they would find a priest to bury her in the churchyard.

Tino asked me if there was anything that he could do for me, but I told him ‘No’, and that he had better go upstairs to get some sleep. Going into the front room, I left the door open so that I should hear anyone who might approach along the street, and sitting down there I tried to think.

Four years before Fate had dealt me one blow, wrecking my career and making me an outcast on account of what was no more than an excess of zeal to serve my country and youthful lack of judgment. Now Fate had hit me again by robbing me of the one woman for whom I had ever really cared. It was just over a year since I had met Daphnis, and during all that time there had not been a day or a night that I had not thought of her with love and longing, and in these latter months with pride and joy and thanksgiving. When we had at last become engaged I had considered the old business more than made good by the gods, and myself the most fortunate fellow in the whole world. Now it was all dust and ashes. I had nothing—nothing—nothing left to live for.

I must have sat there for about half an hour slowly but logically making up my mind. I no longer wanted vengeance on von Hentzen, and the death of a million Germans could not compensate me for what I had lost. I knew that now. There was only one thing that I wanted. That was to be done with it all—to get out.

I took out my pistol and looked at it. There were still four bullets in the magazine. I clicked one up into the chamber and raised the gun until it pointed at my right temple.

Suddenly something came at me through the half-open door like a whirlwind, dashing the pistol from my hand. It was the hunchback boy. He must have been crouching there watching me. He now stood beside me, panting slightly and gripping my arm with all his strength.

“What the hell!” I exclaimed, coming to my feet.

He twisted his little puckered face up towards me as he cried: “You can’t do that! You can’t do that, master! You’re an Englishman—you told me so. You must go on fighting the Germans—killing them and killing them and killing them, until you drive them out of Greece.”

I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Tino, but I don’t suppose you know. It hasn’t been altogether our fault, and we’ve done our best—but we British aren’t quite as strong as your statesmen told you we were; so it’s the Germans who’ve driven us out of Greece. We killed a lot of the enemy, but they killed a lot of our men, and for the last few nights the rest have been leaving Greece in the ships sent to fetch them.”

For a moment he stared up at me quite stupefied; then he said, “But you haven’t given in, have you?”

“No,” I said. “We haven’t given in and we never shall give in. We’ll beat the Germans one day, but maybe not for quite a long time yet.”

“Then you can’t kill yourself,” he argued. “If the fighting’s still going on it doesn’t matter where it is. It’s a pity that your soldiers have had to leave Greece, but that’s all the more reason you should go and help them, because they must need every man they can get.”

“There’s something in that,” I agreed doubtfully. “But getting here took me much longer than I expected, so I should think that nearly all our men who could manage to get away have gone by now. Before I could get back to the coast they certainly will have, and I’d probably find it impossible to get off. I’ve got nothing to live for now in any case; and I’d rather be dead than a prisoner of the Germans.”

“You got here through the Germans, so why can’t you get back again?” he demanded. “If you could get us to Keramidi in your car I could find you a boat to take you off.”

“Could you?” I said in surprise.

“Yes. My father was a fisherman until he married a farmer’s daughter; but he used to take me to Keramidi to see Grandpa once a year, and I’ve often been sailing with the fishermen in their boats.”

“Where is Keramidi?” I asked.

“Do you know Volo?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, it’s near the coast, about twenty-five kilos north of Volo.”

All this time he had been staring at me with those strange compelling lustrous eyes, and there is no doubt about it that they did something to me. Of course he was right—right every time—about its being my duty to get back somehow, if I possibly could, and fight on until Britain had broken the Nazis. It was too early for me to see my private grief in due proportion to the agony that was afflicting the world; but I did realise now that it would have been a frightful act of cowardice to take my own life. How I don’t quite know, but I raised a smile for this extraordinary little fellow who seemed to have powers out of all proportion to his size, his age and his poor twisted little body.

“All right, Tino,” I said. “Let’s go to Keramidi.”

It wasn’t far off dawn when, having provisioned the car from
a secret store that Tino had accumulated during the past week, we set off. We drove east through the mountains by such side-roads as I could find on my map for most of the Sunday until the late afternoon, when I pulled up in a quiet spot and roused Tino, who had been asleep. I told him that it was my turn to sleep now, and, giving him my watch, asked him to wake me again at midnight. Then I settled down to get a little badly-needed rest.

At midnight we had a snack, then drove on and got ourselves hopelessly lost. I no longer had any fear of the Germans from having found that, whenever we were stopped, von Hentzen’s pass always aroused in them immediate respect. The next lot we happened on went to quite a lot of trouble to put us right.

At about three o’clock on the Monday morning we reached Keramidi; but only to find the village a burnt-out wreck. The little harbour, too, which lay a mile or so below it on the coast, was a blasted ruin, from the waters of which the masts of a dozen fishing smacks protruded where they had been sunk. Poor Tino wept a bit to think that his grandfather and most of his friends among the fishermen must be dead. It was my turn to try to forget my own agony in order to comfort him.