“Someone ought to tell Philip. That is all I have endeavored to say. I fail to see the controversy.”
“I know you, Em, and I know right now in that pretty head of yours, you are fuming because you are thoroughly convinced you would feel the same about anyone you thought to be in a precarious situation. I also know this to be true, and it is a credit to your character that you do not stand by quietly when you can prevent something awful from happening.”
“So you agree we should warn him?”
“No, Em, I don’t share your opinion that he is in imminent danger he can’t ward off on his own. Your judgment is clouded by something—guilt being the obvious culprit. It looks to me as if you are desperate to save him from being harmed again, perhaps because you had no way of helping him when he was in Africa. Furthermore, there’s the little matter of your having married his best friend.”
I felt the skin on my neck prickle, and I sighed. “There may be some truth to what you say.”
“Heaven save us all.” He rolled his eyes. “You are making me miserable, Em, for if I have started speaking the truth, then I am further away than ever from my goal of being the most useless man in England.”
“Have you considered the possibility that you could be useless while in England and useful when abroad without irrevocably harming your reputation?”
“Inconceivable,” he said. “Have you forgot how quickly gossip spreads? Particularly when one is an incredibly wealthy and—dare I say?—more than moderately handsome bachelor duke? What do I have in the end other than my bad reputation? I shall protect it at any cost.”
Philip
Constantinople, 1894
Much though Philip had been loath to leave Troy at the end of the season, the visit paid him by the knife-brandishing Hakan had softened the blow. He had not mentioned it to any of his colleagues. It would only remind them of the story at which they had scoffed after he had lost the Achilles bronze, and he had no desire to say anything that might make them think less of him, not when they had begun to accept him as their professional equal rather than as a mere dilettante-dealer turned archaeologist.
Dörpfeld did not plan to return to Troy the following season, and rather than following him to a new site, Philip had agreed to join Fritz Reiner, who would be working with Carl Humann at Ephesus, the magnificent Greco-Roman city in western Turkey. Humann was delighted at the prospect of having Philip back, having seen much promise in his work in Magnesia on the Maeander, and Philip was eager to see his friend Reiner again.
So Ephesus it would be, but first he would spend another winter in Constantinople. It would not take long to sell the antiquities he had acquired over the season, but this time he intended to go about it more slowly, because along with money, he wanted—needed—information. Who was this Demir who’d sent Hakan with a knife to his tent in Troy? Someone interested in ancient artifacts in general, or someone who wanted the Achilles bronze in particular? The former sort of chap was not likely to incite violence.
It could not be argued the bronze was anything less than a spectacular find, although one did wish that more of the helmet were intact. Even in its mutilated state, something uncovered at Troy featuring Achilles’ name so prominently would draw a handsome price, but most members of the public would be more impressed with gold jewelry, like that Schliemann had found at Troy. He’d had his wife photographed wearing it, and claimed it had belonged to Helen; all the newspapers had published the story. Jewelry was the sort of thing—splashy, its value obvious—along with monumental statues and beautifully carved friezes, that tended to command the highest prices on the antiquities market.
Whoever wanted the Achilles bronze was bound to be as obsessed with Homer’s hero as Philip. And obsession, he knew, could prove dangerous.
As he made his rounds from dealer to dealer, Philip made discreet inquiries, insinuating he had heard rumors of something of Achilles’ having been stolen from the dig at Troy. He had worked there, he explained, and was cognizant of the fact that nothing of the sort had officially been found, but, he explained, he knew that locals often pocketed objects when they could.
No one he questioned admitted to having heard of any such thing. One dealer, however, suggested that he, an honest man—he repeated the phrase three times to convey its truth—would not be approached by anyone in possession of something looted from an archaeological site. He was aware, naturally, of others less scrupulous than he, and if Mr. Chapman wished to be introduced to that sort of dealer …
“I am told a man called Demir…” Philip paused, partly for effect and partly because he did not know how to finish the sentence.
The dealer straightened in his chair. “Demir? You know him?”
Philip tried to modulate his voice and regulate his breathing, which was becoming rapid. “By reputation, only, I am afraid.”
The man nodded. “It is he who would have information about the sort of piece you are seeking. I, you must understand, have great respect for Demir, but in my own humble shop, I do not deal with such objects. I am an honest man—as Demir is, too; I would never offend him. I, however, do not have the connections he does.”
“Can you put me in touch with him?” Philip asked.
After a lengthy back-and-forth that primarily involved the dealer’s proclaiming his honesty and Philip’s praising him for his scruples before offering a rather large bribe, the man agreed to set up a meeting.
The following evening, just after eight o’clock, Philip found himself on the Asian side of the city, in a seedy alley, ripe with the scent of sewage and rotting vegetables. More Gypsies than Turks resided in the neighborhood, and the dealer had told him in no uncertain terms to take precautions against attack. He had armed himself accordingly, and kept a hand on the revolver in his pocket as he waited. When the eerie strains of the night’s final call to prayer came from the nearest mosque, its sound bouncing and echoing off the quarter’s decrepit buildings, Philip began to look around more earnestly. Before the muezzin had finished, a boy of no more then ten approached him, holding out a small bronze statue of the god Hermes, the sign for which he had been told to watch.
The child led him through a maze of back alleys and narrow streets until they reached a rickety wooden building, designed to mimic those favored by Ottoman officials, but of much lower quality in both material and construction. Philip pulled open the door, at which point the boy pressed the statue into his hand and disappeared into the darkness. Philip stepped inside, unsure how to proceed.
A broad, muscular man who did not speak met him at the door and glanced at the statue Philip showed him before leading him into a small room lit by a single oil lamp hanging from a chain. Its scattered glow, colored by the mosaic of its glass globe, provided scant illumination, but allowed him to just make out the features of his guide. His black eyes and hooked nose were foreboding enough, but were made all the more imposing by a long scar that crossed the entire length of his face, from forehead to neck. A second man, seated at a rough table, leaned away from the light, keeping his face in the shadows.
“Please sit,” the man said, his voice refined. “I am Demir and you are Philip Chapman, enterprising archaeologist and seller of antiquities. You are looking for something that belonged to the great Achilles?” His command of English was impressive, and he spoke in a manner that suggested he had been educated in Britain rather than in Turkey.
“I am,” Philip said, lowering himself onto a stool. “A specific piece. A bronze.”
“Yes, I am familiar with the details.” He raised his eyebrow in a manner that made Philip uneasy. “There is, however, no such item. If there were, I would know about it. What makes you think it exists?”
“Rumors. I worked in Troy, at the excavations, and our workers sometimes did not share all their finds with us.”
“Your employer Dörpfeld did not offer them bonuses for significant objects?”
“He did.”
“And does he not pay fairly?”
“Indeed, and I am that source, at least in Constantinople. No one pays better than I. Which means, unfortunately for you, the cost of acquiring such a piece would be not insignificant.”
“But you have nothing matching the description?” Philip asked.
“Indeed not, though I, too, have heard stories.” Demir looked at him with an unnerving stare. “If we are to work together, I demand absolute honesty from you. I see you smile, as you make the mistake of believing that because I deal on the black market, I am no better than a thief.”
“Not at all, I assure you.”
Demir waved his hand dismissively. “I am not interested in your assurances. I would like to know more about the rumors I have heard concerning a certain English archaeologist who claimed such an object was stolen from him.” His eyes darkened in a terrifying manner.
Philip swallowed hard. “Yes. That was me.”
“You think I do not already know this? You are not as intelligent as I expected. I do not appreciate your game. Do you come here to accuse me of stealing from you?”
“No, I—”
“You are an amusing man, so I will not kill you. Not now, at any rate. But never again come to me under false pretenses.”
“I have not done so now.” Philip felt increasingly confident. Demir knew his story, and this encouraged him. “You have sent men to harass me over this piece—a piece that was stolen from me.”
“You misunderstand my associates, Mr. Chapman. They made inquiries as to the location of the piece and have informed me you insist you do not have it.”
“I don’t have it,” Philip said, “and I cannot understand why you are bent on believing otherwise.”
“I find most men incapable of telling the truth the first time they’re given the opportunity. Asking a question repeatedly, with encouragement as necessary, is the only way to an honest answer. Why did you come to me on the pretense of looking for the bronze, when your true purpose was to beg me to call off my men? I do not appreciate lies and subterfuge.”
Though he felt sweat beading on his face, Philip nearly laughed at the irony of Demir’s statement. “I do want you to call them off, but it is your persistence regarding the object that tells me you are the only person capable of tracking it down. I want the bronze back. I do not know who has it, but I am happy to pay for the piece—whatever price you demand. Will you tell me the moment you learn where it is?”
“You are very determined,” Demir said. “It is a quality I admire. Furthermore, I find you wholly untrustworthy, a quality I often find useful in acquaintances. I shall contact you periodically to inform you if I have any information for you.”
“I shall be at Ephesus once I leave Constantinople.”
“I knew that already.” He smirked, as did his henchman, lurking in the background. “I will always know where you are.”
“And you are certain—quite certain—no one has the Achilles bronze?” Philip asked.
The man shrugged. “You are the only one who has ever claimed to possess it.”
“The man working with me that day was killed. Surely that supports my story. It certainly horrified me.”
“Yes, yes, this tribal justice is sometimes most unsettling to you Westerners. I would think nothing of it.”
“I am convinced he took the bronze from me, and I want it back. At any cost.”
Demir narrowed his eyes. “Yes, I do not doubt you will pay almost anything to retrieve it. I will be in touch, Englishman.” He rose from his seat and left the room, the burly man accompanying him, but not before he first extinguished the oil lamp, leaving Philip to feel his way out in the dark, terrified he had set something in motion he did not quite understand.
13
The sea had grown rough by the time we started our return trip from the volcano, and this, combined with heat, sunburn, and displeasure at what I had seen on the beach, left me in a foul mood. Back at the villa, I went straight to my bath, eager to wash the film of volcanic dust from my body. I scrubbed my hair clean, then ducked down to rinse out the suds. That accomplished, I leaned my head against the porcelain and slid until the water reached my neck. I lingered for some time, mulling what Jeremy had said to me. How had I managed to make such a bungle of everything?
Colin had not yet come up to our room, and although his mood had showed no signs of distress or discomfort during the rest of our visit to Nea Kameni, I could not help but worry I had hurt him. When my fingers began to prune, I climbed out of the tub and pulled on a comfortable, bright caftan. I could hear Jeremy and Margaret on the terrace below, but saw no sign of my husband. I decided to wait for him and sat on the balcony, reading Sophocles’ Antigone until I heard his familiar step in the corridor outside our room. Tossing the book aside, I raced to the door and flung my arms around him as soon as he opened it.
“This is unexpected,” he said, kissing me, but only quickly. “I would take matters into hand in an entirely different way were I not so filthy.”
“Where have you been?” I asked. “You were in a better condition when we arrived home.”
“I received a response from our solicitor. He says the matter is most complicated and he would prefer to discuss it in person when we return to England.”
“That is disappointing,” I said. “I had hoped for a clear and immediate resolution. But surely reading a telegram did not leave you covered with dust.”
“No. I rode to the excavation and told Ashton what you saw and heard. I may not agree there is anything to it, but I could not in good conscience ignore your intuition when it has on so many other occasions proven to be correct.”
“Thank you,” I said. “You do know I would have felt the same concern for anyone, not just Philip, don’t you?”
“I know it well, my dear.” He peeled off his jacket and started to unfasten the buttons of his shirt. “Ashton was grateful. He is rather skittish. I pressed him as to the cause, but he assured me I ought not concern myself. He does not have the bronze, and eventually whoever is looking for it will have no choice but to accept that.”
“His tent and his possessions were mangled by someone in the midst of a dreadful storm,” I said. “That does not suggest an individual who is likely to give up his quarry.”
“I agree with you, but Ashton now believes Reiner misread the scene, and that the destruction was likely due to the storm itself.” He kicked off his boots and headed for the bathroom, flinging his shirt to the ground on the way.
I scowled. “How can he believe that when no one else’s tent suffered even the slightest damage?”
“He is aware of that and credits it to the same bad luck that has haunted him since his ill-fated safari in Africa.”
“Is there anything else we ought to do?” I asked.
“No,” he said, disappearing into the bathroom.
“Then that settles the matter,” I said with a shrug.
He popped his head back into the bedroom. “Settles the matter?”
“You know I have always respected your opinion. If you do not consider further action necessary, I agree.”
“If I did not know you better—” he started.
“No one could know me better.” I put my hands on his chest, the hard muscles still warm from the exertion of riding. “And I would have it no other way.”
“Leave me to my bath, wicked woman,” he said, a familiar glint in his eye. “I shall see to you when I am finished.”
* * *
We passed the following fortnight in a state of calm respite. Colin borrowed Kyros’s boat and took us on a cruise around the island. We walked into Fira and visited the small museum in town, whose collection grew with each new season of Professor Hiller von Gaertringen’s excavations. It now included some very pretty pots as well as numerous older objects, including the stark but charming Cycladic figures from island civilizations predating that of Pericles’ Athens by several millen
nia. Each afternoon, we chose a different vantage point from which to view the sunset, sometimes hiking all the way out to the top of Skaros, sometimes taking the horses to Oia, on the northernmost tip of the island, and sometimes staying at the villa, watching from the comfort of the cushioned benches of our terrace, while munching on fresh fruit and drinking cool wine.
Our patient, whom the doctor from Oia was now visiting only every third day, had showed no signs of improvement, but we took the fact that his condition had not further declined to be encouraging. Beyond his presence in the house, the events surrounding Philip’s arrival were no longer a topic of our conversation. Margaret decided Jeremy ought to marry one of the beautiful local girls and spent a great deal of time searching for a suitable candidate for him, much to his chagrin. I could almost have believed Philip’s return to have been nothing more than a dream, were it not for the increased vigor of Colin’s marital attentions to me. Although his efforts were much appreciated, I could not help but wonder if he was trying to erase any memories I might have of similar, shall we say, activities. If so, he need not have bothered, but I was not about to tell him that, given the spectacular results of his endeavors.
“The time has come for us to consider our next destination,” I said one morning when the two of us were taking breakfast on our balcony instead of on the terrace with our friends. “We are all thoroughly relaxed from our stay here, and it would be best if we left before Margaret starts marriage negotiations with any of our neighbors.”
“We could go to Rhodes,” Colin said. “Bainbridge might like the crusaders’ palace there.”
“I was thinking we should go to Olympia. It is not a simple journey, but the excavations there—”
“Perhaps it would be best to ask Bainbridge. He is, after all, the one meant to benefit from the trip.”
A Terrible Beauty Page 14
