The Lost Sisterhood

by Anne Fortier

  Just then, the door opened, and Rebecca—who didn’t have my early training in cloak-and-dagger dealings—recoiled with a gasp. Nick took a long look at her, then came over and closed the laptop. “Bedtime.”

  AS I CURLED UP with Rebecca that night, I found myself unable to fall asleep. The events of the evening kept swirling around in my head, and I felt a strange, giddy excitement that didn’t make sense at all. I had been through a hellish ordeal, and my forehead throbbed so badly I could hardly lie down. And yet … I had survived. I had held my own against my attacker, and had managed to stubbornly claw my way out of the underworld. As delayed reactions went, my perplexing giddiness was tinged with triumph.

  Maybe, I thought, I was wired differently than most people. It could be due to Granny’s indoctrination, of course, and her obsession with the toughness of the Amazons … or it could be that I had inherited some genetic condition of hers; perhaps a whole cluster of nerves was simply missing from my brain. It was not the first time I had nursed this suspicion, but it was the first time I had happily embraced the possibility that I was, in some respects, more like my grandmother and less like everyone else.

  WE HAD BRUNCH WITH Nick at the Pasiphae Taverna. After a misty morning, the sun was finally peeking out through the haze, and the brightness did much to dispel the remaining night shadows. Clearly, none of us was in a hurry to reopen the subject of my misadventure in the labyrinth; Nick glanced once or twice at my bruise but didn’t actually ask me how I felt.

  He was dressed in a loose white outfit consisting of a collarless shirt and drawstring trousers, all of which my mother—in her infinite in-sensitivity to the customs of others—would have been swift to classify as a nice pair of pajamas. I took this as a sign that he was heading back to Algeria or perhaps Dubai on the next plane and knew I should be relieved to see him go.

  “So.” He looked at me with a knowing smile. “What does the pancake say? I know you’ve deciphered it.”

  I hesitated. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Rebecca tensing, but decided the subject was harmless enough that I didn’t have to lie. I had indeed spent the early morning deciphering the tablet by the aid of my paper transcript and Granny’s notebook, but had found no mention of golden treasures or anything else that the likes of Mr. al-Aqrab could conceivably be after. “It seems to be a treaty,” I replied, truthfully, “or at least a proposed treaty, between a queen and—I am guessing—the ruler here at Knossos.”

  “Do you see any connection between this tablet and the inscription in Algeria—apart from the language?” asked Nick, his eyes locked on mine.

  “Possibly.” I was a little unnerved by his intensity. “The name of the queen is identical to the name of a priestess mentioned on the temple wall, and the treaty also explicitly describes the enemy as having ‘black ships.’ I’m not sure what to make of these similarities, except—”

  I broke off, aware that the narrative I had nourished in my own mind—a tale of violated women looking for revenge—was too wild, too embarrassingly fanciful.

  “All right.” Nick studied me with those dark eyes of his—eyes that kept making me feel I was the double-dealer, not he. “How did you do it? You deciphered the text in Algeria in five days. And now this. What’s the trick?”

  I felt a prickle of anxiety. Although I had not made any great effort to hide Granny’s notebook from him, I had not exactly made him aware of its importance either. For all Nick knew, I was simply a gifted code breaker who could find patterns and connections where others drew a blank.

  “Don’t put perfection on the spot!” exclaimed Rebecca, erupting from her chair to ruffle my hair. “She can’t help it. She’s a decryptomaniac.”

  Just then, her cellphone rang, and she excused herself to take the call. While she was gone, the waiter returned with our food and I started eating, only too aware of Nick studying me across the table. “What?” I said at last, unable to stand his scrutiny any longer.

  But he merely shook his head and kept looking at me. Although the wooden tavern chairs were rather square and rigid, Nick had managed to make himself comfortable—a specialty of his, it seemed. With one arm draped over the back of his own chair and a beach sandal casually up on Rebecca’s, he would have looked like a man completely and utterly at ease, had it not been for the speculative expression on his face.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” said Rebecca, returning to the table in a flurry of nervous energy, “but I have to go. The team leader has something for me, which apparently”—she grimaced and took a quick sip of coffee—”can’t wait.”

  And then she was off, leaving us with heaps of delicious food—all of which suddenly turned my stomach. For despite my good intentions, this little detour to Crete had been an unmitigated disaster. I had a bump on my forehead the size of Sicily, bitter memories of ten thousand dollars lost, a power cord but no laptop, and, without a doubt, back at Oxford, the Larkin lectureship was imploding in my absence. As if that were not enough, I had managed to get myself tangled up with the wrong kind of people—one of whom was presently looking at me with a suspicious squint, apparently forgetting that he was the bad guy, not I.

  “Curious to know,” I eventually said, poking at my scrambled eggs, “whether you ever managed to find someone back at the office who could explain the Amazon connection?”

  Nick shifted abruptly in his chair. He still hadn’t touched the food—was merely nursing a glass of orange juice. “Remind me of the connection?”

  “Well.” I felt a little flare-up of irritation. “Evidently someone you work with decided you needed me in Algeria—probably the same someone who sent Mr. Ludwig to Oxford to woo me with talk of the Amazons. Now, as it turns out, you did need me … and yet I am left wondering what is so bloody important about those priestesses in the temple. Were they Amazons? If so, how on earth did that idea get into Mr. Ludwig’s head in the first place? And while you’re at it”—I pointed at the bruise on my temple—”ask your lovely Mr. al-Aqrab why I keep getting hurt!”

  We sat in silence for a while, until Nick finally pushed aside his plate as if our conversation required his undivided attention. “That night at the bonfire,” he said at last, leaning on the table, “I heard you talk about a legendary hero who stole Medusa’s head. You said it reminded you of the goddess Athena, who could have been a North African import. Any further thoughts on that?”

  The question threw me off completely. “No, why?”

  Nick shrugged. “I’m just trying to solve the mystery. Who were these women … where did they go next … how did they end up as Amazons in John Ludwig’s head? I think it all hangs together. And here is the fun part”—he picked up his fork at last, stabbed a cherry tomato, and pointed it at me—”I think you already know the answer.”

  I was so astounded I couldn’t even think of a snappy retort.

  “Help me out here,” Nick went on, eating the tomato. “The priestesses left Algeria and sailed to Crete. Where did they go next?” When he saw my speechless incredulity, he held out his arms appealingly, fork and all. “Come on! Give me something to tell the boss. Anything.”

  “I have absolutely no idea what it is you want—” I began.

  Nick shook his head and leaned back on the chair once more. “You’ve never worked in a big corporation, have you? Corporations can be like governments: All the little drones have a budget to spend. And because you’re just managing other people’s money”—he reached out and stabbed another tomato—”deep down you really don’t give a shit. It’s just a job. And all they want to hear at the big meeting is that you’ve met your quota.”

  I was so shocked by his prosaic speech, I wasn’t immediately able to determine whether he was lying or at last telling the truth. “So, that’s what you are?” I asked. “A drone with a travel budget?”

  Nick smiled as if he was quite comfortable with the label. “An overworked drone, in fact. Nice to be on vacation.” He looked around at the other tavern guests as if he genuinely enjoyed
being there. “I’ve always liked Crete. People are nicer here.”

  Nicer than where? I wondered. Was this really the man who had yelled at me because I wouldn’t touch his sarcophagus and get things moving? The man who had confiscated my cellphone with the manners of a prison guard? What could possibly have turned such a hell-bent workaholic into a slug ready to bullshit his way to a paid holiday? It simply didn’t compute. Yes, Nick could be convincing in his role as al-Aqrab’s gofer, making a big show of his slipshod attire and cereal-box wristwatch, but this time I wasn’t fooled. I had spent enough time with him to see that it was just another disguise and that, underneath it all, there was a savvy manipulator whose sole responsibility—at least lately—seemed to be to keep an eye on me.

  “Fair enough.” I watched him across the table as he finally embarked upon his toast. “You’re on vacation. I suppose it’s wonderfully relaxing to see other people getting beaten up.”

  “Yes,” said Nick, frowning, “I’m sorry I forced you to go down into the labyrinth all by yourself. How can I make it up to you?” He pretended to think about it, then said, “Here’s an idea: You tell me what to write in my report, and I give you a check to cover your losses. Sound good?”

  I was sure I had misheard him. “You’re offering to give me another ten thousand dollars?”

  He nodded. “And pay for a new laptop.”

  It was all I could do not to laugh out loud. “Right. What’s the catch?”

  “No catch. Just answer my question. Who were the men on the black ships? Where did the priestesses go next?”

  I stared at him, trying—as I had so often—to figure out his game. “All right,” I said, ignoring the little voice in my head warning me it was all a trap—that somehow, underneath Nick’s playful repartee, a bomb was ticking. “You can write in your report that all the arrows point to Greece. The hero Perseus who stole Medusa’s head, the goddess Athena”—I counted on my fingers—”but most importantly: the black ships, which we know from Homer…. I’m not saying I’m right, but if I am, and if we allow ourselves to believe that the ancient myths contain a core of truth, then the pirates who raided the Temple of the Moon Goddess were Greeks. In ancient times, the Greeks were a power to be reckoned with—an empire, if you will, consisting of many small states, the strongest of which was called Mycenae. Mycenae, of course, was the home of King Agamemnon who, as you know, launched a fleet of a thousand ships and started the Trojan War. Why? Because the Trojans had—rather stupidly I might add—abducted the beautiful Helen of Sparta … and since Helen’s husband was great King Agamemnon’s brother, let’s just say it would have behooved Prince Paris of Troy to be slightly more discriminating in his choice of female abductee. Am I earning my ten thousand dollars?”

  Nick nodded, not unimpressed. “Close. Where do the Amazons fit in?”

  His sudden interest in a topic that had, until recently, seemed to excite few people but me, was too much of a temptation. “Well, according to myth,” I went on, only too aware that my fanciful string of speculation would have made most of my academic colleagues roll over in their leather club chairs, “Medusa’s killer, Perseus, was held to be the founder of Mycenae, that is, the capital of the Greek empire in Homeric times. In other words, there just might be a long-forgotten historical link between North Africa and Greece. As for the Amazons, legend tells us they were ardent enemies of the Greeks, to the point of siding with the Trojans in the Trojan War.”

  “I don’t remember seeing them there.”

  “True. Even Hollywood, for all its female superheroes, has never embraced the Amazons. I’ve often wondered why. Maybe there is a cartel of modern-day Amazons putting the brakes on all such efforts.” I glanced at Nick to see his reaction, but he merely frowned.

  “Back to the Greeks. Any other links?”

  “Well.” I felt my pulse speeding up. Perhaps it was my imagination, but it seemed to me his dismissal of the subject of modern-day Amazons was a little too abrupt. “Interestingly enough, one of the highlights of Amazon lore is their attack on Athens—a sore spot for the Greeks ever after. This was what earned the Amazons their place on the famous Parthenon frieze—”

  “I think you mean Room Eighteen at the British Museum.”

  I barely heard him. “Yes, but the thing is, Athens was no more than a flyspeck in Homeric times; if the Amazons had really wanted to make a statement, it would have been Mycenae they attacked.”

  “The heart of the Greek empire? Why risk it?”

  “Good question.” I pondered the issue for a moment. “According to the ancient writer Plutarch, among others, the Greeks had abducted the Amazon queen, and her fellow Amazons were determined to free her.”

  Nick smiled broadly. “See, I knew you already had the answer. Greek pirates raided an Amazon temple in Algeria, and the Amazons raided them right back in what would have been the Athens of the time, namely Mycenae, to free their kidnapped friends. It makes perfect sense.”

  I burst out laughing. “You should talk to Rebecca’s friend, Mr. Telemakhos. He has a house in Mycenae, and he is also insane.”

  Nick nodded. “I like it. Let’s go.”

  “Where?” I stared at him, thinking he was joking. “To Mycenae?”

  “Why not?” He looked at his wristwatch. “We can still have you back in Oxford by tomorrow morning. With your ten thousand dollars. What do you say?”

  IT DIDN’T TAKE ME long to find Rebecca; she was lying across her bed, face buried in a pillow. “Bex!” I exclaimed, rushing to her side, “What’s wrong?”

  “Everything,” she muttered, her voice distorted behind the pillow. “Are you alone?” When I assured her that I was, she lifted her head, and I was shocked to see her expression; never before had I seen such unmasked hatred in her face. “Worthless prick,” she sneered, at some specter visible only to her. “I should have told him exactly what I think of him.”

  The team leader, she went on to explain, had summoned her to his office under the pretext of having something to show her. That something, it turned out, was the shoe I had lost during the attack in the labyrinth. There it was, sitting on his desk, while he himself sat in his swivel chair, beaming with triumph. “And when I said it wasn’t mine,” Rebecca went on, still hugging the pillow and refusing the glass of water I held out to her, “what do you think he did, the slimer? He took out the keys you forgot in the door lock and dangled them in the air.”

  “Oh, Bex!” I felt jabs of pain on her behalf, “I’m so sorry—”

  “Don’t be!” Rebecca’s mellifluous voice had temporarily morphed into a crusty growl. “He was just waiting for an excuse to get rid of me. He can’t stand the fact that I know more about this place than he does.”

  “Did he actually … fire you?”

  She finally boxed away the pillow and took the glass of water. “More or less. He told me to take two weeks off to think things through, or, translated into modern English: Go find myself another job.”

  “This is awful.” I tried to put my arms around her, but she wouldn’t let me.

  “What happened to you?” she asked instead, her voice understandably terse. “You look positively radiant.”

  I shook my head. “I think you mean furious. Nick wants to replace the ten thousand dollars I lost—”

  “Why, excellent!” Rebecca was too upset to hear me out. “We’ll fly to Milan and blow it all on shoes. Okay?” The way she looked at me suggested that, despite her assurance of the opposite, she still largely blamed me for the mess she was in.

  “There is a snag,” I pointed out. “Nick wants to meet Mr. Telemakhos. He isn’t going to pay me unless I take him to Mycenae.”

  Rebecca’s eyes narrowed, and I could almost see the wheels turning in her head. “Interesting.”

  “Don’t even think about it,” I said. “I’m not traveling another mile with that man. And I don’t give a damn about the money. I’m going home.”

  In response, Rebecca rose from the bed and walked ove
r to put the kettle on. “I wonder what your grandmother would say to that.” She slammed the fridge and pulled the cap off the milk bottle with an angry gesture. “I thought this was about finding her. Didn’t you say you could feel her pulling at you in a way you couldn’t explain?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And what about the theory that it was all a summons … Mr. Ludwig, the photo, the inscription … and that maybe, somewhere out there, she is waiting for you?” Rebecca looked at me as if I had betrayed both her and Granny in one fell swoop.

  I stood up at last, my battered knees aching. “What do you want me to do?”

  Rebecca came over with the tray and handed it to me. “I want you to be the Amazon I know you are. I didn’t lose my job so you could weasel out like this. Sugar Daddy wants to go to Mycenae? Fine, I’ll take you there, first-class.” She went back to check the kettle, her gestures more gentle now. “And you’re finally going to meet Mr. Telemakhos, whether you want to or not.”

  I put down the tray on a footstool, struggling to come up with an objection that wouldn’t upset Rebecca further. “You don’t have to do this—”

  “I think you’re forgetting,” she countered, “that the Aqrab Foundation funds digs all over the world.” She tried to make a sly face, but came up a little short. “Maybe I can persuade Nick to give me a new job—”

  “No!” I shook my head vigorously. “No-no-no—”

  “Why not?” She looked me up and down, a spark of resentment returning to her eyes. “Why can you work for them, but not me? Where do they dig? How many archaeologists do they employ?”

  I sighed. “No idea. I’ve been meaning to Google them—”

  “What?” She glared at me. “You haven’t even looked them up? You’re traveling around with this man, escaping explosions and getting yourself beaten up … without even knowing the facts?” She shook her head in dismay, not allowing me to defend myself. “You may rest assured, my dear Miss Morgan, all that is about to change.”