In my new novel, Aphrodite’s Tears, the heroine Oriel has come to stay on the small Greek island of Helios in order to carry out archaeological work. The island is out of step with the modern era and steeped in ancient traditions, and the people are not used to newcomers. Oriel is very much the outsider; even her looks set her apart. She is told:

‘This is a primitive island, riddled with myths and superstitions. Forgive me if I’m being too personal, but it is your blonde hair that makes them stare. It’s so seldom seen on the island and it points out your foreignness, which fascinates people. In Greek mythology only the nymphs, the mermaids and the gods had hair as fair as yours.’

Most of the people Oriel encounters on the island are polite and hospitable. They follow the Greek custom of philoxenia, paying careful attention to the needs of strangers. But as the days pass, it becomes clear to Oriel that someone on the island does not welcome her presence there at all.

Oriel placed her canvas bag on the table and was about to head to the bathroom when something caught her eye: a wavering white line on the terracotta floor tiles snaked its way along the side of her bed. At first she thought it was white sand and she bent to touch the fine grains. Salt, she realized, and her forehead creased for a moment in puzzlement.

It was only when she followed the trail around the side of her bed that she took in its significance. There, the white line became a series of whorls, almost like the rings of a dartboard. She stood there a moment, hypnotized by the pattern on the floor. Then she realized with a sickening lurch what it was: the evil eye.

Oriel is familiar with ‘the mati’, because she has seen it often enough in the talismans that hang over thresholds and are worn as jewellery to ward off any malign matiasma: the curse of the evil eye laid on a person by jealous enemies. These are the talismans, called nazars, to which I refer in the book:

The evil eye crops up in cultures over the world, especially in the Mediterranean, and it dates all the way back to Classical times. The Ancient Greeks believed that one could cause misfortune to befall another by fixing that person with a malevolent glare (or, according to some sources, a stare of envy).

To protect against the evil eye, Greeks then (and now) used the blue-eyed talismans; they recited secret incantations passed down in families; they threw salt over one shoulder; they spat, having said, ‘I spit so that I won’t give you the evil eye.’

Customs also developed to detect when someone was under the influence of the evil eye and to cast off the harmful curse. One custom involves prayer, and the curse is reveal by yawning; another involves dropping olive oil into water (a sinking drop indicates the evil eye at work). Another involves holding a clove over a flame and assessing how nosily it burns (silently means no evil eye at work; noisily means a curse is active); once the clove explodes, the curse is broken.

Whatever the means of prevention or cure, the evil eye is taken very seriously in Greece. And if Oriel is to flourish in her time on the island, she would do well to be mindful of this ancient belief and take it seriously too. For she is now a matiasmenos – one who has had the evil eye cast upon them – and even if she doesn’t believe in the power of the curse, there is no doubting the fact that someone on Helios wishes Oriel harm.