by Tom Harper
Richard Andrews has lived his entire life by the rules that other people set for him.
He knew he should be angry. Come to that, he was angry – but not with the all-consuming fury Richard deserved. Perhaps it would come later; perhaps the sheer enormity of Richard’s betrayal had jammed his emotions.
Perhaps he didn’t have the luxury of brooding on the past. ‘What did they do with Lily?’
‘Ari put her on his boat.’ Richard fingered his collar, smearing more blood. It looked as though he’d cut his throat. ‘I’m sure they’ll let her go as soon as this is over. They’re not bad people. They just want the tablet.’
From across the sea, Jonah caught Socratis Maroussis’ eyes watching him from his island. As deep as the world, and as cruel.
‘You really think they’ll let her go? After all they’ve done to her?’
‘I suppose they can pay her enough to keep quiet. You too.’
‘What about the tablet?’ Ren said from the door. It was the first time she’d spoken. Richard looked as surprised as if the skull on the counter had suddenly come to life.
Richard writhed under her stare. ‘I don’t know. I don’t.’
‘You were the only other person who had the combination.’
‘Do you think Adam and Ari don’t know that? Do you think they didn’t work me over pretty hard.’
‘He’s right,’ said Jonah. ‘He’d never have stood up to them. You wouldn’t even have dared take it in the first place.’
He sniffed. ‘Some would say that’s honesty.’
‘So where is it?’
Jonah turned, trying to imagine Lily in the room. Late, dark – just like now – rushing to get the tablet out, scribbling down the words as urgently as the original scribe to preserve the memory. I found her here by herself. Richard’s feet on the stairs, the squeak of the door as he came in. No time to put it back in the safe.
‘She took the tablet, but she wasn’t going to keep it,’ he guessed. ‘She wanted to copy the text, so that she’d have it if Maroussis made it disappear. You surprised her, so she didn’t get a chance to put it back in the safe. That’s why she was so desperate to get to the lab next morning. To put it back before anyone found out.
‘But they searched her when they picked her up. She didn’t have the tablet. It wasn’t in her room, either. Adam said so.’
They searched her. Grim images came into his head, rough hands pawing at Lily, fumbling and groping and pinching. Were they violent? Were they thorough?
Ari’s used to getting what he wants.
‘Did Adam say if they’ve found the tablet since?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. I’m sure they’d have let Lily go if they had. That’s all they want her to tell them.’
You really think they’ll let her go? If Lily knew where the tablet was, he prayed to God she hadn’t told them. If she had …
He forced himself to concentrate. He put himself back in Lily’s shoes that night, copying out the tablet. He remembered the piece of paper, the awkward Greek letters and – in the top left-hand corner – a reference.
‘Was R27 the number of the tablet?’
Richard shook his head. ‘The trench. Every artefact is bagged up with a piece of paper that records the location we found it.’
Ren watched Jonah carefully, head tilted against the doorframe. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘The tablet isn’t in the lab. It wasn’t in the hotel room. She didn’t have it with her.’
‘Go on.’
‘The only other place she went that day was the dig.’
‘Why would she have left it there?’
‘She meant to put it back in the lab, but Ari arrived before she could get there. So she hid it.’
‘Where?’
‘R27. The trench where she originally found it.’ He turned to Richard. ‘Have you got torches?’
Richard didn’t move. A strange, unhappy look filled his face.
‘What?’
‘It’s not that easy. The season’s over, we’ve already started backfilling. And we turned the pumps off yesterday.’
The pickup’s high beams shone over the hole, cutting a slice out of the night. Mist rose off the freshly turned earth. In the truck’s cab, parked on the edge, Jonah could see how far the work of filling in the trench had advanced. It looked less than a third of the size he remembered. Heaped earth-mounds ringed the remaining hole like a crater; a digger’s scoop dangled into the beam like the claw of some mud-dwelling monster.
Richard put the truck in low gear and nudged it forward until it was pointing down the slope, aiming the lights at the bottom of the hole. Jonah leaned forward in his seat.
The city had drowned again. A black lake covered the bottom of the pit, lapping its sides. The only remains were a few stone walls, barely breaking the surface. Jonah tried to remember how high they’d been before. A foot? Two feet?
Leaving the engine running, they grabbed two spades from the back of the truck and made their way down the slope. Damp mud balled under their shoes. They halted at the edge of the pool.
‘Where was R27?’
Richard looked around uncertainly. Their shadows rippled on the black water. ‘We took up all the markers.’
‘Don’t be cute,’ Ren said. ‘You know exactly where it is.’
‘How?’ said Jonah.
‘Tell him.’
‘When we survey the trench, we map every position with GPS,’ Richard admitted.
‘Where’s that written down?’
‘In the Field Journal,’ said Ren. She took the battered notebook out of her bag.
‘I thought we might need this. I grabbed it from the lab.’
Jonah shot her an admiring look. ‘Did you bring a GPS reader too?’
‘Everything you need is within you.’ She slapped his hip pocket. ‘Your phone will do just fine.’
She flipped through the notebook to find the right page. Jonah turned on his phone. He hadn’t had it on since Athens, but there were no missed calls or messages. Only a text from the mobile carrier welcoming him to Italy.
Has everyone forgotten about me?
Ren read off the coordinates and he entered them into the phone. A red arrow glowed on the screen, pointing him into the water. Without bothering to take off his shoes or trousers, he stepped in.
It was warmer than he’d expected, and deeper. After two strides, it reached his knee. With every step, he felt the mud open under his feet, yielding and inviting. He had to use the spade to steady himself, digging in the blade then pushing off like a bargepole, gripping the phone in his free hand. The arrow wobbled as the digits crawled towards the coordinates Ren had given him.
The arrow became a green circle. He dug the spade into the mud so hard he couldn’t pull it out.
‘Throw me the other spade,’ he called. It sailed out of the darkness and splashed into the water next to him. He put the phone in his pocket, grabbed the spade, and started to dig.
Almost at once, he realised it wouldn’t work. The water was too deep and the spade was too large. He might turn over the tablet and miss it completely – or dislodge it, only to have it drift away. He stuck the second spade in the ground beside the first and dropped to his knees. The water surged up to his chest: he grabbed for the spade, missed it and almost lost his balance completely.
‘Are you OK?’ Ren called from the water’s edge. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Fine.’
Jonah forced himself to relax. He hummed a few bars of a song that had come into his head: It comes down, down, down … like a divebomb. He got his balance back, took a deep breath, and reached into the depths.
Down, down, down … His face broke the surface of the water before his arms felt the bottom. The moment he went in, buoyancy pushed his legs up, pitching him forward. His fingers touched mud. Lunging forward, he dug his hands in as deep as he could, clawing through the slime. It slithered through his fingers and kept its secrets.
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He came up for breath, and to get his bearings. He’d already slid a few feet beyond the spade. He waded back.
Lily wouldn’t have buried it far down. Just enough to cover it until Ari had left.
He dived again, keeping one hand on the spade so he wouldn’t drift. He wormed his hand wrist-deep into the mud, then trawled it in a radius around the centre-point. A few pebbles, nothing to get his hopes up.
Soon he’d spent so long in the water he didn’t feel it any more – only when he came up for air, when the night sucked the heat straight through his wet clothes. He actually preferred it underwater, blind but warm, the taste of earth burring his tongue. A worm wriggling through the mud. He lost count of the dives he made, snatched breaths and then back down. If Ren or Richard spoke to him in between, he didn’t hear them.
The moment he felt it, he knew it was different. The hard edge stood out like a knife. He worked his fingers underneath it, got a grip and rocked it free of the mud. He breached the surface gasping with triumph and squatted in the water to examine his treasure.
The headlights shone off old-fashioned letters printed in the metal. Farrah’s Original Harrogate Toffee. It was the tin Lily used for her watch and wedding ring when she was digging.
A fit of shivering almost shook it out of his hand. He grabbed the spade handle and hauled himself to his feet. He opened the tin. No watch or ring, but a plastic bag folded so thick it became opaque. He lifted it out and held it up to the headlights at the top of the slope.
Golden words gleamed through the cloudy plastic.
Thirty-three
Though Dionysius was clever enough to know he couldn’t trust anyone, he still hardly survived, for he had no reliable friends or followers.
Plato, Letter VII
I was caught red-handed. He stood in the doorway, a drawn sword in his hand. Another man lurked in the shadows outside by the pillars.
‘Do you know what the penalties are for breaking into the temple?’
I didn’t say anything. Even Euphemus would have struggled to talk himself out of this one.
Dion crossed the threshold. His companion – an old man with wild hair and a large key – followed and closed the door behind him.
‘Do you have any idea how much danger you’re in?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘Beyond the obvious.’ He took the handle of the chest and dragged it back behind the statue. I followed with an armful of manuscripts. ‘You don’t know what’s happened.’
‘Are you going to report me to your brother?’
He looked up and I shrank back. There are few sights more chastening than a nineteen year old whose illusions you’ve shattered. ‘Have you stolen anything?’
I took Timaeus’ manuscript from my belt and threw it in the box. I didn’t mention the tablet. I folded my arms across my chest to hide the bulge of the locket under my tunic.
‘No.’
‘Then maybe you’ve done nothing wrong.’
I nodded to his companion, who I assumed must be the temple priest.
‘What about him?’
‘He’s my uncle – he won’t say anything. If you’ve upset the goddess, she can probably take care of you herself.’ He glanced at the statue behind me and made a small, apologetic bow. She didn’t look offended.
‘How did you know I was here?’
‘You weren’t in your room. One of the guards reported he’d heard strange sounds coming out of the sanctuary, and I remembered our conversation.’ He shook his head. ‘I hope it was worth it.’
The box closed with a bang. I remembered the lid falling shut on Agathon’s coffin. Did he think it was worth it, as Dionysius’ torturers went to work on him? Had he found something I’d missed?
The book was gibberish – the ravings of a madman.
‘Come on,’ said Dion. ‘We have to get you back.’
The great doors closed behind us. We hurried down the steps and back towards my room. A thought struck me.
‘Why were you looking for me in the first place?’
‘To warn you.’ He ducked under a dark archway that led through to the exercise ground. ‘Dionysius—’
The guard must have been waiting in a niche in the wall, invisible in the darkness. All I heard was a sudden clatter of armour and a sharp command.
‘Come with me.’
Dionysius sat on his throne, leaning forward, every muscle tensed ready to pounce. Blood oozed from a scratch on his arm that hadn’t been there yesterday evening. I half expected to see blood on his lips, too: he had the look of a wolf who’s had a taste and wants more. His myrmidons around the room balled their fists and waited for the signal to tear me apart.
I glanced at Dion. Was he a friend – or one of the wolves?
Dionysius’ gaze bored into me, searching for something. Guilt? Fear? There was plenty of both.
‘My men went to your room half an hour ago. Where were you?’
My room must have been busier than the agora: everyone had been there except me.
‘I’d gone to the temple of Athena. I wanted to pray.’
He curled his fingers, testing his claws. He examined my scraped knuckles, the streak of blood on the back of my hand. He was enjoying this. ‘In the middle of the night?’
‘I couldn’t sleep.’
‘It’s true,’ said Dion. ‘I was with him.’
Dionysius shot him a dangerous look. ‘Really?’
‘He asked me to go with him. He couldn’t wander around Ortygia alone.’
If I’d looked at Dion, my gratitude would have betrayed us both. I wondered why he was doing it. I wondered whether the lie would hold both our weights.
‘And where was your friend while you were at the temple?’
Dionysius leaned back a fraction, inviting me forward. A smile opened on his face like the jaws of a trap. But I didn’t understand.
‘Dion was with me. He told you—’
‘Your friend the sophist.’
‘Euphemus?’ I struggled. So much had happened in those last few hours. ‘I haven’t seen him since dinner time.’
And a second later, I remembered. The corridor, the laboured references to Herodotus and Gyges.
Then, when the king had fallen asleep, Gyges entered his room and struck him dead.
I gave the cut on Dionysius’ arm a closer look. It was deep – worse than you’d get cutting yourself on a razor. If you’d happened to be shaving in the middle of the night, and accidentally mistaken your arm for your cheek.
‘The sophist was out of his room tonight, too,’ Dionysius said. ‘He wanted to give me a lesson in Athenian democracy. He made some incisive arguments.’ He twisted his arm so that the blood gleamed in the light.
‘What have you done with him?’
‘We agreed to disagree. Syracuse isn’t Athens. It would never have taken here.’
Our eyes locked. I tried to read them: the animal cunning, the ponderous intelligence, the cruelty and the hunger for power. But in the end, after all, they were just eyes.
‘It wasn’t easy to persuade him. He found it hard to swallow his pride.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Lying down. He said he was having trouble breathing.’ Some of the soldiers laughed. ‘At least, I think that’s what he said.’
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t frightened. Exhausted, confused and numb with shock, I still understood I could suffer a lot of pain before Dionysius finished with me. And I didn’t hate my life so much I was willing to throw it away.
‘I was at the temple,’ I insisted.
‘An Athenian makes an unannounced visit to my room in the middle of the night. At the same time, the only other Athenian here – his best friend – takes it into his head to leave his room so he can say some prayers. And you expect me to believe that’s a coincidence?’
He’d half risen out of his chair, his fists clenched around the lion’s heads on the arms. Any further and he’d have thrown himself on me.
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The locket seemed to burn the guilt into my chest. I summoned every scrap of strength I could find in my soul to resist. It still wasn’t enough.
‘Ask your brother-in-law,’ was all I could say.
Still halfway out of his chair, Dionysius looked at Dion. Even without my life hanging in the balance, there would have been something elemental in the contrast. Dionysius, his meaty hands and blacksmith’s arms, his burnt-red face etched with twenty years of sleeping with a dagger under his pillow. Dion, slim and dark and desirable, with the happy confidence of youth and the implicit promise you might see something wonderful if you followed him.
‘It’s true,’ Dion said, so casual he almost sounded bored.
Did Dionysius envy his brother-in-law? Did it ever cross his mind to wish he had him for a son, instead of the dull, idle boy he’d fathered? Or are tyrants incapable of doubt?
Dionysius sat back down in his chair. Even he couldn’t completely resist Dion’s aura. I hoped for Dion’s sake it lasted. I’ve known a few men who had that kind of addictive charm – Socrates, Alcibiades, Agathon. None of them died of old age.
‘Take him to bed,’ Dionysius told his guards. But he winked as he said it. I glanced at Dion as the guards led me away, and saw that he didn’t know what it meant either.
The guards took me to my room, bolted the door from the outside and left me there, sobbing into my mattress. They didn’t even touch me.
But they didn’t take me the most direct way. Instead of going past the ball-courts, we diverted down a passage which came out on a small balcony right at the tip of the island. Waves crashed on the rocks below; the setting moon illu-minated the ghastly scene with its unforgiving light.
Euphemus lay spreadeagled on a wooden cross on the ground. Leather ligatures bound his wrists and ankles to the wood; another one had been fastened around his neck, wound around a little spindle so it could be tightened slowly. It had cut so deep it had almost disappeared into the flesh: the head seemed to have swollen out of all proportion. Dead eyes stared up at the almost-full moon and looked for something that wasn’t there.
