The Fall of Troy

by Peter Ackroyd

  “There was some disaster.”

  “An impending disaster. A doom. If the Greeks had entered through the gate of Troy, that would be just such a disaster.”

  “If they were beating on the doors of the palace, the women would hide their treasures.”

  “Naturally.” He picked up one of the golden vases, and examined its external markings. “Hidden for five thousand years. Does that not make you feel afraid, Sophia?”

  “What is there to fear?”

  “Some supernatural terror. I do not know. We have taken something from Troy. We have taken part of its secret life.”

  She looked at her husband in surprise. “It is too late, Heinrich.”

  He clenched his fist and put it up to his forehead. “Of course. It is nonsense. We have more to fear from Kadri Bey. And these treasures must be hidden again.” He put them carefully in the space beneath the floor, then replaced the board. “It is their destiny to be concealed, is it not? It is the peril of gold.”

  “They cannot stay here, Heinrich. If we were to be absent for a few hours—”

  “I know. He would come here with the eyes of Argus. But I have the solution.” He did not pause, and to Sophia it seemed that the idea took shape even as he talked; he conjured it out of thin air. “Leonid and I will ride down to the sea. I will carry some satchel with me, stuffed with paper. Kadri Bey will follow us from a distance, beyond a doubt, and in his absence you must take the treasures on a journey. There is a small farm by the coast past Kannakale. I will give you the directions. Take one of the horses and ride there as quickly as you can. They will know you.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Friends. They have proved invaluable to me in the past. So I am buying them the farm. I knew them from Ithaca.”

  Obermann had never mentioned these friends to her before. Once more an aspect of his life was emerging accidentally and unexpectedly. Sophia was eager to learn more about them. She had become increasingly curious about her husband’s past, ever since she had learned by chance about his first wife. If he had known these suddenly revealed friends from his days on Ithaca, then they must have been involved in the excavations there. But what were they now doing upon the coast of Anatolia? And why had he agreed to buy them a farm? He had taken out a pen and paper. “You must carry this letter with you, Sophia. It will explain everything.” He began writing rapidly. Then he placed the paper in an envelope, and sealed it. “I will go with Leonid in the afternoon. Be sure to wait for the departure of Kadri Bey. I will draw you a map for your journey. The place is easy to find.”

  “How long will it take me, Heinrich?”

  “They will look after you overnight.”

  “You have not told me who they are.”

  “An old couple. Man and wife. They have no children. Here is the harbour of Kannakale.” He began sketching with a pencil on a small sheet of paper. “There is a road leading east towards a village known as Karamic. It is marked. You ride down this road for a quarter of a mile. There you will find a stone hut. There is generally food and a pitcher of water left outside it. It is the home of the watcher of the sea. You know of him.”

  “I have never heard of him.”

  “Has Leonid not told you of him? I am astonished. He is a peasant who always looks out to sea. He has watched it all his life. He can do nothing else. Some say that he is blessed. Some say that he is cursed. But he looks always out to the waves and billows of the water.”

  “Does he speak?”

  “He prays. So he is considered holy. It is said that he keeps the sea from inundating the land, as it did in previous ages. You have seen the shells in the earth about here. I almost believe in him myself. You turn right down the track that goes past his hut and travel on for half a mile. Here. I will place an X. Then you will see their farm. Their name is Skopelos.”

  “They are Greek?”

  “Phrygian Greeks. They crossed to Ithaca from Phrygia at the time of the last famine. But they are loyal to me. I would trust them with my life. Is all this clear to you, Sophia?”

  “I hope it will be safe for me to travel alone.”

  “You are Frau Obermann! No one will dare to touch you.”

  SHE HAD DRESSED like a native woman for the journey, and her complexion was now so darkened by the sun and the wind that she did not expect to provoke much notice. For the same reason she had decided to ride upon a mule rather than a horse. She placed the golden treasures in a leather pouch, and slung it over the animal’s back. Then she made her way towards the farm of the Skopeli.

  THIRTEEN

  It was not a hard journey. The road to Kannakale was well travelled. But she could not resist the sight of a spring a few hundred yards from the track. Partly shielded by olive trees, it was a vision of coolness and repose upon the plain. But the quietness did not last. She had come close to the water, having tethered the mule, when four black dogs hurled themselves at her furiously barking. They had come from a neighbouring vineyard. Aware of the danger, she recalled what Odysseus had done in the same situation. “As soon as the barking dogs saw Odysseus, they rushed towards him howling. Odysseus, however, wisely sat down on the ground, and let his staff slip from his hand.” So she lowered herself to the earth, looking once over her shoulder to make sure that the mule was safe, and remained still. The dogs circled around her and continued to bark, but they did not touch her.

  A man came running out of the vineyard, alerted by their barking, and called off the dogs. He began talking rapidly to Sophia in Turkish, but she rose to her feet and said nothing. She waved him away, making a gesture of modesty and embarrassment. He ran back to the vineyard and brought out a bunch of grapes which she accepted without a word. Then she walked back to the mule, which had remained impassive throughout Sophia’s ordeal, and returned to the track. “I am pleased that I have read Homer,” she said, half to herself and half to the mule.

  She rode through Kannakale slowly, not wishing to draw attention to herself. And she passed unnoticed in the general noise and bustle of the town. She was relieved, however, when she had taken the road to the village of Karamic; she passed by the huts and stalls on the outskirts of Kannakale until she found herself among fields of long grass and patches of marshy ground with dunes and clumps of weed. The sky here appeared to be vast, over-arching, an infinity of pale blue that touched the earth and grassland. The sky above Troy always seemed to Sophia to be fleeting and troubled, inconstant, but here it was light and unmoved.

  She recognised the hut of the watcher of the sea because, as Heinrich had predicted, there were loaves of bread and figs on the earth beside the door. She hesitated as she passed, wishing to stop and greet him. But she dared not disturb him.

  She went a few yards further, then dismounted. She had promised herself, when contemplating this journey, that this was the point where she would open the envelope and read the letter that Heinrich had written in Greek to the Skopeli. She had brought a paper-knife with her for that purpose, and she easily unsealed the vellum envelope that Obermann always used for his correspondence. The preliminary greetings were followed by a passage that Obermann had underlined:

  I am sorry to inform you that we are closely watched and expect that the Turkish overseer, who is angry with me, I do not know for what reason, will search our house tomorrow. I therefore deposit with you certain articles, knowing that you will lock them up and hide them where no Turk will be able to touch them or discover them. The villagers betray me to the Turk so that I cannot use their horses. When I come to remove these articles have ready for me three horses in the night. Farewell. Sophia, the wife of whom I have told you, does not know the history.

  What did this mean? “Sophia does not know the history”? To her, this meant a tale or a story. What story did she not know? And was this not a curt and impersonal way of describing her? To her surprise, she felt anger rather than curiosity. In some way he had betrayed her to strangers. She did not know the nature of that betrayal, as she did not know
so many things, but she feared it. And she was indignant. She had no conception of what the story might be, but she guessed that it was a dark one.

  The watcher of the sea came out of his stone hut, and took up a pitcher of water that had been left on the threshold. He did not seem to notice Sophia, although she was standing close to him by the side of the path. She deliberately sought out his eyes, but they registered no impression of her presence. They were bright, but they seemed blank. Was it possible to suffer from sea-blindness? He went back into his hut. He reappeared after a few moments and retrieved the loaves of bread, again without giving any sign that he had seen her. In truth he still saw the sea.

  She placed the letter back in its envelope and resealed it, making sure that she smeared dust upon the back as if it had fallen into the road. Then she continued her journey. Fifteen minutes later, she reached the farm. The one-storeyed house was built upon the standard pattern of this countryside, with walls of large clay bricks; the roof was constructed with flat boards, on which was heaped a thick layer of clay as protection against the rain. But it was an unusually large house, with a wooden porch running in front it. There were also several barns and outbuildings, which gave the appearance of prosperity.

  No one was in sight, but Sophia could faintly hear a woman singing. She called out, and the singing stopped at once. A man stepped on to the porch and asked her in Turkish what she wanted. “I am the wife of Heinrich Obermann,” she said. “Sophia.”

  He held out his arms to her. “Of course. Welcome.” He spoke in Greek to her. “He has told us about you. Maria! Quickly!” A woman came on to the porch and put her hand up to her eyes as if shielding them from the sun. “It is Sophia. He has sent her.”

  The husband and wife made a marked contrast. He was a full and ample man, with fleshy face and large limbs; she was much thinner, much smaller, and beside him seemed almost insubstantial. She took a step back, in surprise, and with a nervous gesture smoothed her hair with her hands.

  “You honour us,” he said. “Come in. Maria, prepare for our guest.” Maria went back quickly into the house. “I am Theodore,” he said.

  “I am a messenger from my husband. He sends you this.” She took out the letter and, as Skopelos was reading it, she went over to the mule and untied the leather pouch that held the golden vessels and ornaments. When she brought the pouch over to him, he accepted it without a word, almost solemnly, and carried it into one of the outbuildings.

  The yard was quiet. For a successful farm, there was very little sign of activity. As she stood beside the mule, she could hear Maria—she supposed it was Maria—talking quickly and animatedly. She must have been instructing a servant, since there was no reply. She detected a slight querulousness in her voice and decided, on a sudden instinct, that she did not wish to stay in this place overnight.

  Theodore came out of the barn, smiling. “Allow me to take you inside,” he said. “My wife will wish to feed you.”

  The interior was somewhat dark, with blinds drawn against the afternoon sun, and it was dominated by some large and elaborate pieces of ebony furniture. There was an icon of the Virgin upon one wall, with three candles placed in saucers before it. Maria came in, bearing a tray of small cakes covered with sugar powder like dust. “Eat,” she said. “Eat after your long journey.”

  Sophia knew well the laws of host and guest, and could not refuse the offering.

  “How is he?” Theodore asked her. “Is he well?”

  “My husband is flourishing. You have seen Troy?”

  “Oh, no. We do not bother him at his work. He is too busy. We hear from him from time to time.”

  “You met my husband in Ithaca?”

  “Many years ago. We performed some slight services for him, and he has been kind.”

  Sophia would have liked to have learned more about these “services,” but he had fallen silent.

  “You farmed there?” she asked him.

  “No. We owned a guest-house.”

  “A hotel?”

  “A very small affair. There were foreigners coming to our island in the footsteps of Odysseus. English. French. German. I guided them.”

  “And that is how you met my husband.”

  “Except that he guided me. He is a great expert on Ithaca.”

  Sophia sipped the strong tea that Maria had brewed for her.

  “How is Leonid?” Theodore asked her.

  “You know Leonid?”

  “Of course.”

  “He is a good boy,” Maria said. She had a thin, plaintive voice. “He prays before the Virgin.” She looked towards the icon, and touched her breast.

  Sophia was surprised that they knew Leonid, and that he should come to this place. Did he bring money from Heinrich? Or did he transport other treasures for them to hide?

  “Do you have neighbours?” she asked them.

  “They leave us alone,” Theodore replied. “There is space enough for everyone here.”

  “But you are Greeks among Turks.”

  “They do not harm us. We are quiet people, as you can see, and keep to ourselves.”

  “My husband says that you come from Phrygia.”

  “Ah yes. We are closer to it here. And the landscape reminds us of it. The plain. The distant mountains—”

  “Why do you not go back?”

  “That is an interesting question. We have duties. Responsibilities. We love your husband. You must have more tea—”

  There was silence between them. “What do you grow here?”

  “We grow enough to live. We have a little surplus that we sell. We are content. We are simple people.”

  Sophia did not believe them to be simple at all. Indeed she was more puzzled by them now than before she had met them. “But you have a servant.”

  “A servant?” Maria seemed surprised.

  “I heard you talking to her.”

  “Oh. A girl. An orphan girl who works in the kitchen. But she will not disturb you.”

  “She would not disturb me in the least. She has a strong voice for a child.”

  “I do not understand,” Maria said.

  “I heard her singing when I arrived.”

  “You did? She has gone now. She has gone into the fields.”

  There was a further silence.

  “I must leave you both,” Sophia said eventually.

  “Will you not stay for the night?”

  “No. Thank you. I must go back while it is still light.”

  They made no further effort to persuade her to stay, so she rose from the large ebony chair. Then she fell back.

  SHE AWOKE the following morning, fully clothed, lying upon an ornate bed in a small whitewashed room. She had been woken by a knock upon the door. Maria came in with two eggs and a wheaten loaf. “You were very tired after your journey,” she said. “You fell asleep.”

  “I must have fainted—”

  “No. You slept very deeply. That is all.”

  Sophia knew that the atmosphere of the plain was supposed to be soporific, but it had never affected her before so suddenly or so powerfully.

  “Leonid is here,” Maria said.

  “Leonid?”

  “He will accompany you home. He is a good boy.”

  After Sophia had washed her hands and face in the porcelain bowl provided for her, she left the room and found Leonid sitting on the porch. He was talking quietly and seriously to Theodore, but, as soon as he saw Sophia, he rose and smiled. “Greetings, Frau Obermann. I hear that you slept well.”

  “It is the air.”

  “I know it. It is unusual here.”

  She had brought out her eggs, so eager was she to see Leonid, and came over to the porch. “I had not expected you. Would you care for an egg?”

  “No, thank you, I have eaten already. It is a long journey for you alone. The professor regretted asking you—but there was no one else.”

  “And Kadri Bey suspected nothing?”

  “It was wonderful!” Leonid clappe
d his hands. “The professor and I rode across the plain to the Aegean, not wishing to look back, and when we came to the bay at Granica we dismounted. We could hear the faint beat of hooves somewhere in the distance, so we knew that they were following us. We waited until we felt their presence among the rocks above us. On the plain you can sense other human beings without seeing them. That was how it was. Then we stripped, leaving our clothes and our satchels upon the shore, and plunged into the sea. We swam to the little promontory outside the bay, and hid ourselves. We watched as Kadri Bey and his two men came down to the shore, searched our satchels—searched our horses—searched the area around us—and then retreated to the rocks utterly baffled and defeated. They had seen us enter the Aegean quite naked, and realised that we could have taken nothing. The professor was joyous.”

  “How did you explain my absence when you returned to Troy?”

  “You are not absent. You are lying in a fever, where no one will dare to disturb you. When we go back, I will say that you have taken the air for a few minutes.”

  “I am ready now,” she said. She did not wish to stay on the farm for longer than was necessary.

  “Good. You are quite composed?”

  “Of course.”

  “Before we go I must show you Ferdinand.” He stepped over to Theodore, and said something to him.

  “He is in the field,” Theodore said. “Come this way.”

  Sophia and Leonid followed him past the outbuildings; she glanced into the one where he had taken the treasures, but it was empty with a floor of beaten earth. They came on to a field where a large white goat was grazing on the lush grasses. “Ferdinand! Ferdinand!” Theodore was calling to it, and the goat began to amble towards him. Sophia noticed that its legs were longer than those of the goats of Greece. Then Theodore took a pipe or flute from the pocket of his shirt, and began to play a soft, slow melody. The goat stood upon its hind legs, as the music played, and began to dance. Sophia could think of no other word. It performed a dance in front of her, its forelegs bent gracefully. It turned in a circle, against the background of the distant mountains.