Golden Chariot

by Chris Karlsen

  “I’m not here for a fling. My entire dissertation is based on this wreck.”

  Ursula tipped her chin and stepped closer to the mirror. Her lips parted slightly as she applied a thick layer of mascara to her lashes. “How unfortunate, I’m ready for some new gossip.”

  “What is that smell?” Charlotte asked, propping herself on her elbows. “It stinks like rancid carrots.”

  Ursula pointed to a bottle on the dresser. “My suntan lotion. It contains carrot oil and makes my tan look deeper. Stevan likes the bronzed look.”

  “Are you seeing him today?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t feel any guilt about having slept with Jeff when you are involved with Stevan?”

  Ursula snorted. “No. Stevan is old and flabby. Jeff is firm and possesses great stamina. If you know what I mean.”

  “Got it.”

  Ursula put her makeup away and looked herself over in the mirror one last time. She grabbed her purse and overnight bag and went to the door.

  “In case you were wondering, Uma says your brother--.”

  “Stop. For god’s sakes, don’t tell me about my brother’s sexual techniques. I don’t want to know that stuff.”

  Outside the screen door, Ursula turned. “Uma says he’s open-minded and energetic,” she blurted and ran away laughing.

  “Ah, jeez.”

  Charlotte refused to dwell on unwanted information. She took out her laptop and checked her emails. A handful came in during the night while the team slept. The most recent was sent an hour earlier. With the time zone difference, it wasn’t dawn yet when Dr. Mortensen emailed. Now what, she wondered.

  She’d already considered and decided against informing Dr. Mortensen that exploration of both holds might be postponed. She’d planned to send an update later at the project’s half-way point. Why hand him another reason to question her choice of dissertation subject matter this early? Now, she’d probably have to give him the bad news update, which sucked.

  She skimmed through the family messages telling her of events at home and jokes from her friends. She put off reading the professor’s until last.

  Charlotte,

  I recently met with Dr. Auerbach. As they pertain to your theory, he is unimpressed with the artifacts recovered thus far. He expressed they are magnificent finds, in and of themselves. However, they do nothing to support your work. He’s considering withdrawing his approval. If this occurs, your dissertation proposal will be rejected by the rest of the committee. I have managed to talk him out of taking such a serious action for the time being. I sincerely hope you discover something substantial connected to Troy and/or the Iliad soon.

  Best Regards,

  Dr. Mortensen

  “Auerbach, you tight-assed, arrogant, jerk-off, I hate you.” Charlotte sent the message to her trash bin and turned the computer off and stored it back in the carrying case. She rummaged through her dresser drawer mulling over what she’d argue if Auerbach withdrew support.

  She pulled the box of candy Jeff gave her from its hiding spot under her lingerie and swimsuits. She’d limited herself to three pieces a day, trying to make the treasure last. She ate the first three the night she came back from the Artemis Hotel and three yesterday. She’d already eaten two that morning. However, limiting herself to just one more on a day when she received such crappy news from her professor was unrealistic. The message warranted at least two.

  She plucked two plump, domed truffles filled with nuts and the most decadent crème centers from the box.

  She popped one in her mouth and hid the box back in her drawer. She ate the second candy on her way to the kitchen looking for something else to eat.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Eastern Mediterranean

  Ursula winced. Stevan would leave fingertip bruises on her ass again. He assumed her sexual participation was included in their deal. It was the worst part of their bargain. He was the clumsiest of any of her lovers. His doughy-lipped kisses were mushy and sloppy. When they screwed, she stared at the ceiling, fantasizing. Her thoughts were on anything but him as his stubby fingers fumbled first with her nipples then between her legs. Today, she’d pretend it was Jeff inside her.

  As much as Stevan repulsed her, she didn’t complain. His promised payday ensured her silence. Once she delivered the artifacts and the money was wired into a private account, she’d sever the relationship.

  “What is that smell?”

  “Suntan lotion with carrot oil.”

  “Don’t use it again. You stink.” Stevan looked disgusted and released his clamp on her ass. “What news from the wreck?”

  “Some interesting pieces, mostly pottery, weapons and precious stones, but no cylinder seals yet.”

  “You’re still of the opinion you’ll find a few?”

  “Yes. This looks to be a rich cargo, not typical of a standard merchant ship. The weapons are more ornate than serviceable. We’re guessing they’re valuable gifts.”

  “Very good,” Stevan said, looking pleased. “When Yasar showed me the photos of the diptych we both agreed an envoy on a diplomatic mission was a passenger. If so, I’m certain you’ll find at least one seal, maybe more.

  Ursula moved out of his reach. “And, if there aren’t?”

  “My associate is paying for seals. No seals, no payday for me or for you.”

  She stepped to the bar and poured a glass of wine. The salon’s cabinets of burled wood, polished to a high gloss, hid a media center. The same wood covered the counters around the wet bar. Not a speck of dust shone on the flat surfaces in the light from the large windows. Stevan ordered everything in the salon area and master cabin wiped down twice a day. Phones and doorknobs were sprayed with disinfectant every morning. No one was allowed to use his bathroom. She used a secondary bathroom attached to the bedroom. He conducted surprise inspections of the galley. He demanded the chef wear surgical gloves when preparing the food or risk dismissal.

  Clean freak. Germ freak. Straight-up freak, but a wealthy one, she reminded herself.

  Ursula’s barely decent cotton shorts rode high, the seam defining the separation between her cheeks. She loved showing off her great legs. Away from camp and the village, she indulged her preference for provocative clothing.

  She hopped up onto the bar’s counter and wiggled backwards, suffocating a spiteful smirk as Stevan’s lips tightened into a thin line. The suntan lotion left large smudges on the wood. It’d drive him nuts.

  She didn’t fuck the old bastard for free. Ursula started to tell him she’d better get some payment. She paused and kept quiet as a young Asian woman entered the salon. The servant brought a tray of snack food and set the platter on the coffee table. Ursula marveled at the delicacy of the woman’s hands with their childlike fingers unlike her own. The woman gave her a quick glance. A pronounced tip to her almond shaped eyes, a short but full mouth; she resembled a black-haired doll. Another plaything of Stevan’s, no doubt.

  He waved the servant out. “What’s Dashiell like?”

  “How do you mean? Professionally, she’s excited about the wreck. Pleasant personality, she gets along with everyone.”

  “Is she pretty?”

  “She’s not a raving beauty, but attractive enough to interest Atakan Vadim, the Ministry rep.”

  “Really?” Stevan seemed lost in thought for a moment. He took a handful of pistachios from a bowl on the tray, shook them like dice before separating the shell from one with his front teeth. He spit the shell out onto a napkin and then cracked another one the same way. “Eat.”

  Ursula jumped down from the counter and filled her palm with the plumpest dates. On top of those, she stacked two triangle shaped miniature sandwiches of kalamata olive paste and tomato. She liked the flavor contrast of the sweet dates and the salty brine of the olives. The combination revolted Uma.

  A warm breeze from a double set of open sliding glass doors brought the fresh sea air into the salon. She leaned against the door frame, nibbl
ing, watching Stevan, and waited for him to say more.

  “You think they’re lovers?” he said at last.

  “I accused Charlotte of that in a joking way. She denied it. I haven’t actually seen any intimacies pass between them. They don’t touch in any way other than platonically.”

  “This is good. When she proclaims her innocence as the thief, he can’t be sure befriending him wasn’t part of her plan.”

  “There’s more...” Ursula told Stevan about the night at the Hotel Aphrodite and the walk Charlotte and Atakan took alone. She also mentioned the private phone call he made.

  “Did you hear the conversation?”

  “Only a bit, he asked for a check on someone. I didn’t catch the name. A couple walked by, he saw me and clicked off.”

  “You say her brother and his friend were visiting.”

  She nodded.

  “Perhaps Atakan was checking on them.”

  “That’s my guess. I gather Nick, her brother, and his friend, Jeff, were worried about her after the gulet incident. They probably asked a bunch of questions and Atakan took the precaution of checking them out.”

  “You think he knew you were listening in on the call?”

  “No,” she said, certain he hadn’t. “Why would he? He didn’t have a reason to suspect me.”

  “Did her brother tell you anything else useful? I assume you spent the night?”

  “Uma latched onto her brother. I hooked up with Jeff.”

  “Why’d you let Uma take the brother?”

  She brushed the crumbs from her hands and retrieved her wine from the bar. “What was I to do? Jerk her out of the chair?”

  Aggravated by Stevan’s imperious attitude, she moved past him and stood in the doorway. Off the starboard side, the hilly outline of Rhodes came into view. Of all the Greek islands, Rhodes was her favorite. She visited whenever her schedule allowed. Small pastel colored villas away from the harbor used by cruise ships were available at reasonable rates. The rental agency used the label villa very loosely considering anywhere else they’d be called cottages. She pictured the one she always requested. Perched on a hilltop with fruit trees, the sunflower yellow cottage had few amenities, but it cheered her. She glanced at Stevan. Was her payoff worth putting up with his arrogance and sexual ineptitude? Was it so terrible staying in the quaint villa rather than one of the grand resorts the money could afford her?

  “What did the brother’s friend tell you?”

  The question snapped her out of her thoughts. “They hoped to find out more about the events in Santorini. The circumstances of the sinking raised her brother’s suspicions.”

  “Did he say if they learned anything?”

  “I tried to press him, subtly, but got nothing.”

  “You’re no Mata Hari.”

  “If you want a spy, hire a Bond girl.”

  She nursed her wine, curious about the reasons Stevan wanted Charlotte set up. “Did you know Charlotte was on the gulet at the time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Risky move, she might’ve been killed by mistake.”

  “My goal was Ekrem. She was expendable to me. We’d find someone else on your team to put suspicion on. My associate would be the one upset if Dashiell got killed.”

  “What’s his reason for making her look guilty?”

  Stevan slid his hand under her shorts and panties and stroked her buttock with his thumb. “A personal vendetta.”

  “Who’s your associate?”

  “None of your business. Do your job and don’t ask questions.”

  In spite of the warning, her curiosity was piqued. Who was the associate? How was Charlotte connected to them? Someone at the university perhaps, someone in the doctoral program who considered her a rival was the logical choice. Those programs limit the number of participants. Ursula decided to pry information from Charlotte in casual conversation. Maybe, with details, she’d deduce who it was and blackmail them. They’d likely pay for her silence.

  “Come with me.” Stevan stepped onto the deck by the railing. “You said in the past, you like Rhodes. Would you like to go there instead of Marmaris?”

  “No.”

  Not with you.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Bozburun

  Charlotte happily chipped away at the concretion, making steady progress with the amphora. Little by little, she worked the piece free. Better this tedious job than Atakan’s. He and the other men had rock pile duty. They slaved, removing the wall of stones that tore through the weakened hull. The larger stones were loaded into heavy gauge steel baskets attached to a lifting balloon for relocation. While the men cleared the area, the chisel work continued in the unthreatened grids until the main hold was deemed safe to resume operations.

  The clean-up took several days in unseasonably rough waters. On the day they finally finished, the Suraya brought the men back in one trip rather than a few at a time. As soon as the ship anchored at the campsite, they scattered. Several headed for their bunks, most found a patch of shade to stretch out under and doze. Atakan snagged a grass mat from the storage tent and flopped down at the base of a mature olive tree.

  “You look beat. Bet you’re glad that’s over.” Charlotte handed him a cold beer.

  He grunted his thanks, took a swallow and lay down on the mat. Using his towel as a pillow, he rested the beer on his stomach, cradled in his hands.

  “I’m exhausted. Five days straight of hauling those rocks around and fighting the current, I’m tired to my bones.”

  “Feeling those thirty-seven years are you?”

  “Hah, I wish. I feel my father’s age and he’s sixty-seven.”

  “Tomorrow’s a cakewalk...pottery collection, nothing back-breaking.” She was watching Talat, blow on and then fan the flames of the big grill.

  A plate piled high with sausages sat on an upturned orange crate next to him. He added a handful of wood chips to the fire, and poked it with a metal rod, stirring embers into the air. Satisfied, he covered the grill’s grate with the beef and lamb links. White smoke billowed up from the sizzling meat and was carried across the camp by the breeze.

  A smoke cloud rich with the scent of garlic and cumin and onion wafted to where they sat. Charlotte salivated in Pavlovian response.

  Atakan propped himself up on his elbows. “I smell sucuks.” He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “I knew it. Refik worked me to death and I’ve gone to heaven.”

  “Talat is grilling a bucket of the sausages he brought back from Marmaris. Poor man took Uma with him. I bet Refik made him take her as punishment for something.” Charlotte sniffed the air. “Come on, let’s get in line.”

  “Bring me one, please.” Atakan gave her puppy dog eyes. “You see how trashed I am.” He added a tiny furrow to his brows, injecting a little pitifulness to the sad puppy look.

  “Stop with the eyes. I’ll get you one,” Charlotte said, as she stood and headed in Talat’s direction.

  Behind her Atakan called out, “Bring me two...with onions. And another beer,” he added, grinning as she glanced over her shoulder.

  She bowed her head slightly. “Yes, Your Highness.”

  #

  Refik divided the divers into two groups. One team he assigned the port perimeter. The rest, along with Atakan and Charlotte, remained in the main cargo area. Their group got lucky early in the process. Beneath the top layer of encrusted pottery they’d freed they discovered stacks of amphoras lying loose, some open, some sealed. For the archaeologists, this gift from the ancients was like Christmas morning. Better. If really lucky, they’d find artifacts or other lifestyle evidence still contained in the clay jars. The odds were against them with the open, unsealed ones.

  “Let’s decant these now.” Refik removed two of the sealed and intact amphoras the teams had brought up. He set them onto a cloth covered table and everyone gathered around.

  Unlike the previous amphoras recovered, these weren’t Anatolian grey. The painted patterns of Mycenaean d
esign were faded but discernible. The larger pot depicted a lion hunt. Charioted hunters in belted tunics, spears aloft, pursued the animal across the broadest part of the vessel’s body. Bands of birds and snakes painted in intricate detail paralleled each other across the body of the second pot.

  Refik carefully emptied the contents of the first container. Luxuries of the age, ivory discs and carnelian beads smaller than pearls spilled onto the cloth. He fingered through the pile, separating the beads from the ivory.

  “Nice handful of stash.”

  He decanted the second jar with the painted birds and snakes. Thumbnail sized oblongs of obsidian and coin sized rounds of lapis-lazuli rolled out.

  “Splendid example of Mycenaean pottery,” Talat said, examining the hunt scene amphora closer.

  “Care to approximate a timeline?” Refik asked.

  “I’d say sometime between 1400-1100 B.C.E. is a safe assessment.”

  Fourteen hundred didn’t help Charlotte with her theory but she mouthed a silent “yes” for the later period.

  Rachel Rathburn, a buxom redhead from Miami inserted herself between Refik and Talat. “How can you tell these are not from the beginning of the Submycenaean period?” she asked Talat. “Your dating blurs the distinction with the eleven hundred figure.”

  “Trust me; these aren’t Greek Dark Age pots.”

  “I don’t doubt your opinion. I just want to learn what to look for. To me, at least, the difference is too difficult to determine without testing.”

  Talat handed Rachel the amphora, instructing her to close her eyes. “Use the sensitive tips of your fingers to feel for imperfections.”

  She did.

  “Now, open your eyes and hold it to the light, inspect it for flaws. Rarely will you find any. The artistry of the later age imitated the more cultured time in style, but their products suffered from inferior workmanship.”

  Talat took the pot from her and slowly rotated it, pointing the features out. “The quality of the clay, the perfection of form and the overall excellence of the artistry, indicates this is from the older period.”