Lost Temple

by Tom Harper

  Sourcelles laughed, softly mocking. 'Maybe. But how will you unlock it? Have you solved the code of the Minoan script?' He read the answer on their faces. 'I think not. Many have tried to break it — I myself have tried, many times. The tablets are comme une femme. You possess her body, but her secrets she keeps to herself.'

  He blew a ring of smoke. 'Do you know what the original museum was? It was not some exhibition hall, where the untutored masses could come and stare at relics they could never comprehend. It was a temple to the muses, museion, a sanctuary to the goddesses of memory. The men who worked there were a sacred order of priests and poets — not day trippers paying their two pennies to be entertained.'

  'Well, we're not tourists,' blurted out Jackson. 'Professor Reed is from Oxford University.'

  Sourcelles laughed. 'I have been to Oxford. When I was a young man I went to all the capitals of scholarship. To Paris, to Berlin, to Oxford. I sat at the feet of the great men of learning and asked them about the Trojan war. They laughed at me. Even after Schliemann had proved Homer was correct, they could not accept it. They spun lies about him: that he salted his finds with trinkets he bought in the Athens markets; that his accounts of his digs were fiction; that he could not tell apart the different levels of his finds. Slanders. When he went to Troy, they said he would find nothing. When he found not one but half a dozen cities, they said that none of them could be right — they were too old, or too late, or there was no sign of a war. They mocked him, because their imaginations were too small to believe. Those same men, they thought I was another Schliemann, a little rich boy who would use his money to build fantasy castles. They had no time for heroes. They were small, mean-minded people who could not understand the true scope of the heroes. They were not worthy. So I resolved that as much as I could afford, I would collect the relics of the age of heroes and preserve their memory with honour.

  'Besides, the White Island is not hidden, just as Troy and Mycenae were not hidden. If men have lost it, it is only because they do not believe. You know the story of Cassandra, the Trojan priestess whose fate was to speak the truth and never to be believed? She is the true heroine of the story: not Helen or Achilles or Odysseus. For three thousand years, the truth of the tale of Troy has been known to every generation — and every generation, in its feeble-mindedness, has refused to believe it.'

  'But all the sources contradict each other,' said Marina. 'According to whom you believe — Pliny, Pausanias, Lycophron, Strabo or Arrian — it could be at the mouth of the Danube, or the Dnieper, or somewhere in the open sea.'

  Sourcelles nodded. There was something almost paternal in his approval, a father admiring a precocious daughter — but also something voracious, hungry to lure her on. He rose and crossed to the cabinet on the wall. He pulled a slim brown volume from one of the shelves and laid it on the low table in the centre of the room. Grant saw Sourcelles' name in gold on the cover. He opened it to a page that showed a double-spread map> flattening the spine as the others leaned in to look closer.

  'The Black Sea.' On the thick cream paper it looked like some sort of bodily organ, with the various rivers, straits and tributaries straggling from it like veins. 'Here' — the north-west corner — 'the Danube estuary, and here' — the northernmost point — 'the Dnieper. In between, halfway, the Dniester. Between each is one hundred kilometres.Alors…'

  He took a wooden compass from a tin and gave it to Marina.

  'Mademoiselle. You can show where is five hundred stadia from the estuary of the Dniester.'

  Marina calibrated the compasses against the map scale, then centred it on the narrow bay at the mouth of the Dniester and twisted. The faint circle she inscribed touched the mouths of both the Danube and the Dnieper.

  'I don't see that that gets us any further,' said Reed.

  Sourcelles ignored him. 'Pliny is a fausse piste — how do you say, a red herring. Here' — he tapped the mouth of the Dnieper with a silver pencil — 'was the Greek colony of Olbia. It was founded in the sixth century before Christ by settlers from Miletus, who came to trade for furs and precious stones with the Scythians. Achilles was the local hero — the patron saint, you understand? They built a temple to him on a little island where the river joins the sea. But they did this because the story of the White Island was known, because already Achilles was associated with this place. Centuries later, writers and geographers remembered the story of the White Island; they remembered there was a temple of Achilles on an island near Olbia and they thought they must be the same thing.'

  'So if it's not there, it must be in the mouth of the Danube.'

  'C'est possible. That is what Pausanias and Lycophron believed, and there are many islands in the mouth of the Danube. But Pausanias never visited the Black Sea. He repeated what he had read in a much older source. And he mistranslated. The correct reading is not in the mouth of the Danube, but opposite.'

  With her finger, Marina traced the pencil arc she had drawn: out from the Danube estuary, through the open sea and back towards the north shore. Her finger glided across the map — then, at the circle's furthest point, hovered for a moment. At the tip of her nail, almost crossed out by the pencil line running through it, a dark spot blotted the paper. It could have been an ink stain, or a squashed fly, but when Marina peered closely she could see… 'It's an island.' She blinked as her eyes adjusted back to the room. 'What is it?'

  'In Russian it is called Zmeiny, in Turkish they say Yilonda.'

  Sourcelles smiled at their incomprehension. 'They have all the same meaning. The Greek name is Ophidonis.'

  'Snake Island,' said Marina and Reed almost simultaneously.

  Sourcelles nodded. 'You know the symbolism of the serpent. It crawls into dark holes in the earth, down into the darkest recesses where no man goes. It has the power of death — but also of life.'

  'Life?' said Grant sceptically.

  Sourcelles drew a sinuous wave in the corner of the page, then bisected it with a straight line. 'You know the pharmacists' symbol? The serpent curled round the staff. It is an ancient Greek symbol, the Rod of Asclepius. The snake is one of the earliest symbols of primitive life — sexless, timeless, able to regenerate itself by shaking off the old skin and leaving it behind. They were also associated with the gift of prophecy. The prophetess Cassandra had her eyes and ears licked by serpents when she was left alone by her parents, and this gave her her powers. And Apollo's priestess at Delphi was the Pythia, a pythoness in human form who entered a trance to deliver the oracle.'

  'Like the Minoan snake woman,' said Grant. The image, the serpents writhing round her hips and breasts, had lodged unsettlingly in his mind.

  Sourcelles raised an ironic eyebrow, the teacher surprised by the boy at the back of the classroom.

  'Très bien. According to Arrian, there was an oracle in the temple of Achilles on the White Island. So where is better to have it, this temple of the undying hero, this door to the underworld, than on Snake Island?'

  'But that's in the fucking USSR!' Jackson exploded. He jabbed a finger on to the book. 'Are you telling me that the Soviets have been sitting on this thing the whole time?'

  Outside, lightning forked in the valley and rain drummed on the window like bullets. The sound of water flowed all around them, running off the roofs and gutters, and down the mountainside.

  'Has anyone ever been there?' asked Muir more calmly.

  Sourcelles waved the cigarette holder like a wand. 'In 1823 a Russian officer in the Black Sea Fleet, Captain-Lieutenant Kritskii, put ashore. He passed his account to an academician at the Imperial Academy of Sciences and Belles Lettres in Saint Petersburg.'

  All five of them were tensed, leaning forward in their chairs. The fire crackled and spat out sparks that eddied and flurried up the chimney.

  'Did he find anything?'

  'He found the island lived up to its reputation.' Sourcelles lit a fresh cigarette and tucked it in his holder. 'It was crawling with snakes. Many birds, also. He could not move more t
han two paces without stepping on them. You have read the story in Arrian?' he said, suddenly turning back to Marina. She nodded slowly. 'He said the White Island was filled with seabirds. Each morning they would dive down to the water and wet their wings in the waves, then fly up and sprinkle the water over the temple. Then they landed and mopped the temple courtyard clean with their wings.'

  Jackson shifted in his chair. 'Can we skip the fairy tales? We haven't got time — not if Uncle Joe's got this thing in his goddamn backyard. Did this Krisski or Russki or whatever the hell his name was find anything important?'

  Sourcelles eyed him with the sort of look that only a Frenchman could give an American. Then, turning deliberately to face the others: 'He found an ancient temple.'

  Nobody knew what to say. They all gazed at Sourcelles, stupefied by hope, by greed, by the fear of what he might say next.

  'Did he find anything else? Anything, uh… valuable?'

  Sourcelles's eyes narrowed and he fixed Jackson with a raking stare. 'A strange question. I wonder, Mr Jackson — I have answered your tiresome questions as best as is possible; I have welcomed you into my house although you offered me only danger — but now I wonder, why is it you want to know so much about the White Island? Are you an archaeologist? What brings five such different and — excuse me — strange persons to my doorstep in these dangerous times? Have you been honest with me? I do not think so.' He stared around the room: Muir defiant, Jackson plainly annoyed, Reed looking at his shoes. No one met his gaze.

  'Legend says there was a great treasure on the island.' Marina said it calmly, but her words electrified the room. Muir made a strangled, gurgling sound, as if he was suffering some sort of seizure. Jackson's hand edged inside the lapel of his jacket, towards the Colt under his arm; Grant reached for the Webley just in case. Only Reed and Sourcelles kept still, attentive. Sourcelles motioned for Marina to continue.

  'According to Arrian, the temple on the White Island attracted lavish offerings from sailors who put in there. He describes mountains of silver bowls and golden rings, and hoards of precious stones. A treasure trove.'

  Muir's heart restarted; Jackson's hand eased back into view. Grant kept his fingers wrapped round the Webley.

  'According to the text, they also offered many goats.' A conspiratorial smile passed between Sourcelles and Marina. Grant didn't like it. 'But no, as far as I am aware, Captain Kritskii found only stones. No treasure. Perhaps it was hidden in the bowels of the island. More probably it was looted long ago. The Black Sea has always been a haven for pirates and thieves.' He inclined his head towards them with a chill smile. 'If you go there, be careful of what you find. There was a reason the ancient Greeks feared the Black Sea as a place beyond the confines of the world, a liminal region peopled by savages. Wild Amazons, flesh-eating Laestrygonians, Sirens and serpents.

  'You should not be fooled by the White Island's chaste name. Too much Christianity has made us think of the afterlife as a happy place of harps and choirs and soft clouds. The Greeks knew better. Even for heroes it was an angry, tortuous place. There is a story about the White Island in Philostratus that the ghost of Achilles instructs a passing merchant to bring him a certain slave girl from Asia Minor. When the merchant does so, Achilles feasts him royally in his temple, then sends him on. But as the merchant sails away he hears screams, horrible screams of impossible agony, coming from the island. It is Achilles, tearing off the girl's limbs one by one.'

  Jackson got to his feet. 'Well, thank you very much Mr Sourcelles. I guess we'd better be going. You've been, uh, very helpful to us.'

  The others stayed seated. 'What about the tablet?' said Muir. 'That's what we came for.'

  'What you came for?' Dark anger clouded Sourcelles's voice. He stood. The fire cast a long shadow back over the room. 'You do not come to my house to demand something. My collection is my own. I do not share it with anyone. Unless you have some quid pro quo to offer me in return?'

  'Let's go,' Jackson urged. 'We can find this island for ourselves. We don't need the tablet. Can't read the damn thing anyway.'

  'And what will we do when we get to the island?' Reed looked angrier than Grant had ever seen him. 'We'd never even have got started on this hunt without the information on that tablet. What if there are more vital clues hidden on the second half? Whatever's on this island, it obviously isn't lying around in plain view.'

  'You keep your mouth shut,' snapped Jackson. For a moment Sourcelles was forgotten in his own home as the three men stared each other down. He watched them from beside the fire, listening with detached fascination.

  The mournful chime of a bell echoed through the empty house. Everyone looked at Sourcelles, who shrugged. 'The doorbell. Jacques will see to it.'

  'Are you expecting anyone else?' Grant was already reaching for his gun.

  'Non.'

  'It's probably Kirby,' said Jackson. 'Must be wondering what happened to us.'

  The bell chimed again. A flicker of annoyance crossed Sourcelles's face. 'Where can Jaques be?' He crossed to the French windows and opened them. A blast of cold, damp air blew in and the din of the raindrops filled the room. Sourcelles peered out into the rain, though the garden was all but invisible in the gloom.

  'Qui est là?'

  'No!' Grant realised what was happening a moment too late. Pulling Marina down, he dived towards the open door. He was still in mid air when the first bullet struck.

  Twenty-two

  The windows exploded in a storm of lead and glass. Sourcelles was knocked back by the impact; he collided in mid air with Grant and the two men fell to the floor. That probably shielded Grant from the worst of the blast. Jackson, who'd been standing nearest the window, wasn't so lucky; he reeled away clutching his face. Thin tendrils of blood covered it like maggots.

  'Get back!' Grant shouted. Bullets were still flying over his head, but he couldn't see where they were coming from. 'Get into the hallway.' Shuffling back on his knees, he dragged Sourcelles into a corner. The Frenchman had actually been standing in front of the windows, so the flying glass had missed him, but that wouldn't help. Three wounds gaped in his chest where the bullets had struck, and he had left a thick smear of blood on the white marble floor. Grant looked for something to staunch the bleeding, but there was nothing within reach.

  'The tablet. Where is it?'

  Thunder roared over the mountain, temporarily drowning out the rattle of the machine-guns. It also drowned out Sourcelles's answer. Grant bent his ear close to the Frenchman's mouth, all the while trying to keep an eye on the shattered window frame.

  'Where?'

  'The gallery.' The guns had stopped, but now even the rain almost overpowered Sourcelles's voice. 'It is in the east wing — on the top floor.' He lifted a limp arm to his throat and tugged at his blood-soaked collar. Grant tore it open for him. He'd assumed the dying man just wanted to breath — but his fingers were still scrabbling for something. A leather cord hung round his neck. Grant lifted it and pulled out a small brass key from under the shirt.

  'The Gorgon,' Sourcelles whispered. 'Behind the Gorgon.'

  He went limp. There was nothing more Grant could do. Keeping his back to the wall, he edged round the room to the exit. The others were there, sheltering in the hallway. Reed clutched Sourcelles's book to his chest; he must have snatched it off the table.

  'Sourcelles bought it,' Grant said. 'The tablet's upstairs.'

  'That's not going to be much use if we can't get out,' said Muir. 'We don't even know what we're up against.'

  'Kirby said he had a radio in the car.' Grant turned to Jackson. 'Can you use it to raise the American HQ?'

  Jackson nodded. 'Gonna take a while for the cavalry to get here, though.'

  'We'll meet them halfway. There's an airstrip on the other side of the mountain. It won't be on their maps, but it's roughly between the villages of Enispe and Stratie, in the valley.'

  Jackson stared at him incredulously. 'How do you know that?'

  'I used
it in the war.'

  Jackson might have argued, but at that moment an enormous explosion tore through the living room beyond. A cloud of dust and splinters swept into the corridor. Through the ringing in his ears, Grant heard shouts from the terrace outside and more shots. They ran down the corridor, past the sightless row of marble heads. Ancient heroes watched them from above, frozen in their own battles. They stopped at the end of the passage, by the corner that led to the front hall and the main staircase.

  'Give me your hat,' Grant said to Jackson.

  Jackson did. A bust of Socrates stood on a column about chest height just inside the corridor. Grant hung the trilby on its head, then crouched down and heaved against the pillar. It slid easily across the polished marble floor, past the corner, out into the hallway and…

  Two cracks sounded almost at once: a pistol shot and the bullet chiselling into the marble. Half of Socrates' right cheek split off and crashed towards the floor. Before it hit, Grant had sprung out behind the column, trained the Webley through the narrow gap it made with the wall and squeezed off two shots. The trilby fluttered down. By the front door, something heavier thudded to the ground.

  Grant glanced at Jackson. 'Cover me.'

  He bounded into the hallway and dived behind the stairs. No one shot at him. He peeked out from behind the banister. A body in green fatigues, with a red star sewed on the sleeve, lay sprawled across the threshold. There was no one else there.

  Grant waved Jackson forward. The American sprinted across the hall, flattened himself against the wall by the front door and risked a quick look out.

  'Is the car still there?'

  'Uh-huh. But I don't see Kirby.'

  'As long as the radio's there.'

  At a nod from Grant, Jackson dived out through the front door and rolled down the steps to the parked car. He crouched against its back tyre. Grant waited for the bullets to come, ready to return fire at a moment's notice. No one seemed to have seen them.