by Anne Fortier
They stood quietly for a while, looking up at the silent chimes. Then Myrina, failing to find criticism in what she had just heard, said, “You are telling me to … be happy?”
Otrera gathered her skirts and began walking farther into the meadow, following a little path to a stone bench overlooking the sloping expanse of the horse enclosures. “Who am I to divine what Fate has in store for you?” she said at last, sitting down on the bench. “I am merely telling you what is in my heart.” She patted the bench to encourage Myrina to sit next to her. “Come, and let me tell you about the man I loved.”
Myrina dropped to the seat with a gasp, and her shocked expression made Otrera laugh. “Have no fear. It was a long time ago, and our love never became more than mere admiring looks. For I did nothing to encourage him. I was, after all, devoted to the Goddess.” She paused to give Myrina a stern look, then continued, “And so this inconstant man pursued my sister instead, persuading her to cast off her vows and become his wife.” Otrera smoothed her skirt with both hands, reliving, perhaps, the sorrow of times past. Then she sighed and said, “Foolishly, they celebrated their wedding here, under the roof of the Goddess, and true to her jealous nature, she gave them a most terrible omen in return. For on their wedding night a fire broke out, and the roof of their building collapsed, nearly killing them both.” Otrera shook her head. “You can imagine the seers predicting death and doom everlasting, advising them to kill the child that was conceived that night. But, of course, my sister refused to take such a cruel and superstitious measure, and the boy was raised with much love, to become a favorite of his people.”
Myrina moved uncomfortably on the bench. She suddenly remembered Paris telling her, upon their arrival in Ephesus, that Lady Otrera was his mother’s sister, and that his parents had met right there, on the farm. Was it possible, she wondered, that Paris had been the child conceived in the fire? Could such a capable, smiling boy—now a man—have been born among such evil omens?
“So you see”—Otrera threw up her hands only to let them drop, once more, limply into her lap—”if I had really loved that man, I would be a bitter old woman. I would say the Goddess had punished me rather than her.” She paused, then straightened. “But only the unwise cast premature judgment. Fate is patient. Sooner or later, she will find you.”
“The vows I made,” began Myrina, “were for the Moon Goddess—”
“And for your sisters.”
“True.” Myrina leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “But I like to think I have long since paid off my debts to them. As for the Goddess … she did nothing to protect us. If anyone has betrayed our holy vows, it is her.”
“Careful.” Otrera held up a hand. “Even the gods must obey Fate. Perhaps there is some grand scheme in heaven … perhaps not. But let us not mock powers we don’t understand.”
“I am sorry,” whispered Myrina, bending her head. “I never could hold my tongue in the face of injustice.”
Otrera patted her hand. “And for that alone, we shall miss you dearly.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Men whose glory is come by honestly Have all my admiration. But impostors Deserve none: luck and humbug’s all they are.
—EURIPIDES, Andromache
TROY, TURKEY
FOR AS LONG AS SHE LIVED WITH US, GRANNY HAD MADE NO BONES about loathing men, or, as far as I was concerned, boys. Not because they were necessarily wicked, but because she considered them a waste of our time. “Don’t let some fluffy-haired puppy-boy interfere with your training,” she kept saying, never tiring of the repetition. “Later, when you are mature and have proven your worth, you may enjoy the company of a healthy male the way you enjoy a good meal. Eat, sleep, and forget.”
It might never have occurred to Granny that I needed such explicit advice, however, had not Rebecca—in a typical moment of clandestine overflow—blurted out the story behind the presence of the Manor Park golf ball in our little hidden box of collectibles. “We think it belongs to James Moselane,” she whispered, cradling the ball in her hands as if it were a baby bird.
“Huh,” said Granny, sniffing the miniature bar of hotel soap with disgust. “Who is James Moselane, and why do his balls deserve to be in this box?”
When Rebecca finally stopped explaining, Granny shook her head and said, “You must rid your mind of these useless thoughts. Both of you. And train harder! Your arms are still too weak.” She reached out to test Rebecca’s shoulder. “When you are strong enough to pull yourself up, and when you have slain a man in battle, then you may play with James Moselane. But not before. And remember to share. Do you understand?”
Now, as we stood together among the Trojan ruins, watching James approaching, Rebecca looked as terrified as she had that day long ago, listening to Granny’s instructions. And so, I feared, did I.
“James!” I exclaimed, my heart aflutter as I tried to decide how to greet him. Normally we never touched, except for a brief but possibly accidental caress whenever he helped me with my overclothes. But this time he walked right up to me and kissed me on the cheek.
“Morg,” he said, smiling warmly, “I’m sorry it took me so long to catch up.” Then he turned to Mr. Telemakhos and Dr. Özlem, greeting them as if they were old friends.
Meanwhile, behind his back, I saw Rebecca glancing nervously at Nick, then at me, as if to ascertain that the feelings I had confessed to her on the boat were in no way so progressed as to leave us in something as sordid as a love triangle. But we had nothing to fear from Nick; he looked at me as if I was not even there, or, perhaps more accurately, as if I were a complete stranger, barely worthy of a change of expression. I could only hope to come across as blasé as he.
In contrast to the rest of us, Nick didn’t seem the least bit surprised by James’s sudden appearance. “I was wondering when you’d join us,” he said, shaking the proffered hand with measured enthusiasm, “ever since your name showed up on my phone.”
“Yes, well”—James wrung out a brisk smile—”I meant to come earlier. Oxford likes to keep tabs on its assets. Nick, did you say?”
“You know who I am.”
One would have to know James well to see the irritation tugging at his face; it could easily be mistaken for a smile. “I hear our lawyers are getting along famously,” he said. “Quite the witty letters going back and forth.”
Nick did not return the smile. “I’m afraid I’ve lost my sense of humor.”
There was a brief silence, during which the two men stared at each other as intensely as had they been a pair of duelists waiting for the handkerchief to drop. Then, finally, Nick walked away and James turned to me with a headshake. “Some people,” he said, just loudly enough for Nick to hear him, “simply can’t be happy with what they have, but must try to get their hands on other people’s possessions.”
I was not sure whether he was referring to me or to the Moselane Manor Collection, but took temporary refuge in the uncertainty. It was clear to me, however, that James had come to Troy to save me from the Aqrab Foundation; my last text to him had been sent from Nick’s phone. His presence here certainly seemed to suggest that he wanted to take our friendship a step further. Why else would he go to the trouble of tracking me down in Turkey when he knew I would be back in Oxford within days?
“Do tell me,” I said, as everyone started toward the parking lot and we had a chance to fall behind. “How did you know we would be here today?”
James stopped and took my hand. “Morg,” he said, looking at me with those hypnotic, bottomless eyes of his, “I have called and called—”
His sincerity made me soften. “My phone was stolen,” I told him. “I meant to fly home three days ago, but … things got complicated. My students probably hate me by now.”
“How did you get this bruise?” James touched his fingers to my temple with uncharacteristic tenderness. I hadn’t even realized the bump was still visible. “Don’t worry, young Morgan.” He put an arm around my shoulders a
nd gave me a little squeeze. “I’m here now, and everything is under control. When I got your text, I thought to myself: You know what, I have never actually been to Troy. Maybe now’s the time.” He glanced at Nick, who was waiting for us next to Dr. Özlem’s van, fingers drumming on the faded metal. “Besides, my uncle has a place on the Black Sea. Any excuse to drive his cars”—James nodded at the only other vehicle left in the parking lot: a racing green Aston Martin—”while saving damsels in distress.”
THE ÖZLEMS LIVED IN a tiny farmhouse in the middle of a cow pasture. The more I looked around the humble dwelling, the more convinced I became that it had originally been built to house livestock, not humans.
“I am not going to light the fire,” announced Dr. Özlem at one point, kindling my suspicions about the building, “because my wife thinks it smells too much like cows when the walls get warm. As for me”—he gestured sadly at his nose—”I can’t smell anything anymore. They say it happens sometimes.”
Although she spoke no English, Mrs. Özlem understood the gist of the conversation, and I felt a twinge of pity when I saw the haunted look on her gentle face. Slight of build and dressed in threadbare gray tones, she moved about with the pained grace of an aging ballerina, her every step and gesture devoted to the well-being of her husband. If Mr. Telemakhos had not already more than hinted at Dr. Özlem’s illness, the entrenched worry on Mrs. Özlem’s face would have told us everything we needed to know about her husband’s fragility.
“What a charming cottage,” said James, who had readily accepted an extended dinner invitation and was now doing his best to compensate our host with cheery remarks. “I imagine this would be considered traditional Turkish architecture?”
“Yes,” said Dr. Özlem, pouring cloudy water for everyone from a three-legged brass pitcher. “Turkish architecture for cows. That was our house, up there.” He nodded at a framed photograph on the wall. “We sold it to pay for the lawyers. Our son is studying law, but too late.” He began handing out the water glasses, his gestures as dignified as if they had been filled with the finest champagne. “Now I wish he was becoming a doctor. Or a plumber. A plumber would be nice.”
Later, over dinner at two small tables put together, James smiled at everyone and said, “So, how is the Amazon hunt going? I’m surprised it has taken you so long to get here. Isn’t Turkey supposed to be true Amazon territory? Wasn’t the Artemis temple at Ephesus, just south of here, allegedly built by the Amazons? One of the Seven Wonders of the World, if I’m not mistaken?” He glanced at Dr. Özlem for confirmation.
“Some scholars,” nodded our host, thankfully oblivious to the teeth-gritting tension around the table, “believe there were quite a few matriarchal societies in the ancient Mediterranean world—for example on the island of Lemnos—but that the spread of the male-dominated Greek culture pushed these societies farther and farther east, until they ended up as colonies on the Black Sea coast. It is possible that Ephesus was a matriarchal society, too, and the many legends and names linking the Amazons to this region suggest there once was a matriarchal tradition here.”
“Which is why, I imagine”—James shot me a smile, acknowledging that he was borrowing my turn of phrase on the subject—”heroes such as Hercules considered it their duty to occasionally spearhead a preemptive campaign against them and steal their girdles.” Still smiling, James looked at Nick across the table. “Are you familiar with the Twelve Labors of Hercules? It was one of them, you know: stealing the Amazon queen’s girdle. Have you had any success with that so far?”
Nick looked at James with the oddest expression, as if his thoughts were far away. Then he suddenly snapped to and said, “I’m not as literate as you when it comes to women’s underwear.”
A thunderclap of laughter from Mr. Telemakhos finally did away with the doomsday atmosphere. Even Rebecca perked up enough to whisper into my ear, “Please let’s stick with the myths and not get personal.”
Although not in a mood to make merry conversation, I knew she was right. “Allow me to elucidate,” I said to Nick and James, “since I am the one with a degree in Amazon fashion. A girdle, somewhat disappointingly, is merely a large belt that protects the lower torso. The Bronze Age version of bulletproof granny knickers. A man would use his girdle to carry weapons, such as a sword or dagger, while a woman—at least in literature—wore a girdle as a symbol of protection and virginity. In the case of the Amazon queen, of course, it would mean both. By stealing her girdle, Hercules would in a sense remove both her masculine power and her female dignity. Or, less philosophically, he raped her and stole her pepper spray. What a hero.”
After the passing around of several bowls and platters, Mr. Telemakhos said to Nick, “If you like, we can continue up the coast and visit the Amazon homeland on the south shore of the Black Sea.” He nodded at Dr. Özlem. “Murat knows all the archaeologists digging at Karpu Kale and Ikiztepe—”
At this, finally, Rebecca was able to rally her spirits. “Yes, please!” she exclaimed, looking at the two older men as if they had offered her a seat in a lifeboat. Then something occurred to her, and she glanced nervously at me. “What do you say, Dee? A few more days—?”
Before I could even begin to reiterate all my reasons for not continuing another mile on Mr. Telemakhos’s floating prison, James leaned into the conversation, saying, “Actually, I’m going to steal Diana away for a party in Istanbul tomorrow night.”
I was not the only one staring at him with disbelief. “Thanks for the invitation,” I said, “but I’m going to have my own little five-day party hitchhiking back to Britain.” Seeing James’s confusion, I hastened to add, “I lost my passport.”
“Oh, don’t be daft!” he exclaimed. “My uncle works at the British Consulate in Istanbul. I can get you a new passport in an hour. It’ll be ready after the party.”
“What party?” asked Rebecca, on behalf of everyone.
James smiled, but mostly to me. “Remember Reznik, the collector you wrote to about the Historia Amazonum? He is hosting a bash tomorrow—a sort of masquerade. I took the liberty of annexing a spot on the guest list. Thought it would be a brilliant opportunity for you to meet the man.”
I looked at Nick across the table. He had claimed the Moselanes were in bed with Grigor Reznik and his Geneva smugglers…. Was it really true? Months ago, when I had first told James about my letters to Reznik, he had not said anything about being personally acquainted with the man.
Meeting my eyes with unusual solemnity, Nick shook his head discreetly, as if to say, “Don’t do it.”
“Reznik!” blurted Mr. Telemakhos, incapable of restraining his abhorrence for another second. “That son of a donkey has a big house in Istanbul full of stolen antiques. He even brags about it to foreigners and celebrities, to make them think he is somebody. Where do you think Murat’s two stolen Amazon bracelets are now? Huh?” He glared at James, evidently holding him responsible by association.
“They say he has a vault in the basement”—Dr. Özlem touched a palm to his chest, as if to calm his heart—”full of gold from Troy that no one ever knew existed. Our boy went to university with Reznik’s son, Alex, and says that he bragged freely about his father’s crimes. Like father, like son. Poor devil. It all caught up with him in the end.”
“Devil, yes,” said Nick, his eyes narrow. “Poor, no.”
“Well,” said James, looking somewhat irritated at my lack of enthusiasm, “I am going to the masquerade, and you’re welcome to accompany me.”
“All of us?” Rebecca straightened with sudden inspiration, then turned to me and exclaimed, “This is fantastic! James and I will distract Reznik while you take a look at the Historia Amazonum.”
“Great idea,” I said. “Will you also bail me out of jail later?”
James rolled his eyes. “The manuscript is on display in Reznik’s library, for everyone to see. It isn’t even wired to an alarm.”
“How do you know that?” I asked him, but he didn’t seem t
o hear me.
“Ooooh!” boomed Mr. Telemakhos, shaking his head wistfully. “Would I like to get my hands on that manuscript. They say it holds vital information about the fate of the last Amazons.”
“Last?” I looked at him, puzzled. If he sincerely believed Amazons were still around, how could he refer to any of them as the last?
Mr. Telemakhos shrugged, and the whole table wobbled. “I am just repeating what I have heard. That is the thing about the Historia Amazonum: We’ll never know until it is properly translated and published.” He nodded at me across the table. “Eternal fame, my fair-haired philologist, will befall the scholar who accomplishes that task.”
“You mean, who steals it from Reznik?”
“Steals … borrows … sweet-talks.” Mr. Telemakhos did not look overly concerned with the legal scope of the act. “When it comes to that man, I would say anything goes.”
I could feel Nick’s warning glare, but ignored it. “All I want is to have a quick look—”
James nodded to let me know I had made the wise choice. “A quick look and a passport. Consider it done.”
WE TOOK OFF FOR Istanbul early the next morning. Despite James’s rather toe-cringing attempts at disinviting them, both Rebecca and Nick insisted on coming along.
“Are you out of your mind?” Rebecca had asked, when I urged her to stay on the boat with Mr. Telemakhos and embark upon her Black Sea job hunt right away. “Do you really think I’ll let you attend this party alone? No. We’ll plunge in and be cut into shark food together. You and I can be James’s arm candy, and Nick can be his bodyguard—he’s so brilliant at being muscled and monosyllabic. Right, Nick?”
