by Tom Harper
On the landing, the German soldier lay flat on his back, his toes in the air and the soles of his boots pointing toward Pemberton. Blood dripped from the step. Before Pemberton could hoist in this sudden reversal, a dark figure had flitted past. He ran up the stairs three at a time, checked the German’s pulse then turned back. He was not wearing a uniform, but there was a pistol in his hand and what looked suspiciously like a knife bulging from his boot. His tanned face was frowning, troubled by something.
He stared down at Pemberton. “Are you the King of Greece?”
Pemberton gazed up blankly at the man who had saved him. Sunlight from the shaft above cast a slanted shadow over his face, revealing a tough mouth, weather-beaten skin and stubble that suggested he had left his bed in a hurry that morning. Dark eyes glinted in the gloom.
There was nothing Pemberton could think to say except, “Do I look Greek?”
The man shrugged. “They told me he might be here.”
“He was.” Pemberton struggled to his feet, not quite sure how he had come to be having this conversation. “He stayed at my house.” He still remembered the shock of returning to the villa and finding the Greek monarch there: the New Zealand guards patrolling the garden, the liaison officers shouting into the radio they had erected in his study, the redundant courtiers sitting on the terrace chain-smoking their way through endless hands of cards. “They moved him on—to Chania, I think.”
“Well, he’s not there now.” The man snapped open the breech of his revolver and replaced the spent cartridge from the pouch on his belt. “He escaped this morning—no one knows where he went. They told me to look out for him here.”
Pemberton squinted at him. “Who are you?”
“Grant.” He didn’t offer a hand.
“John Pemberton. I’m the curator here.”
“Good for you.” Grant holstered the revolver and knelt down to pick up the machine pistol. He rifled through the dead German’s uniform, extracting three spare magazines and—to Pemberton’s horror—two hand grenades.
“Surely you won’t use those here?”
“Why not?” Grant tucked the grenades into his belt and slung the machine pistol over his shoulder. “If you’re worried about chipping the paintwork I’d say you’re a few thousand years too late.” He turned back up the stairs. “Wait here.”
Pemberton’s mouth was very dry. “Where are you going?”
“To find the King of Greece.”
Pemberton waited, huddled in the shadows in the crook of the stairwell. Grant’s footsteps died away quickly and he was left in silence. Trying not to jingle the buckles, he opened the knapsack and reached in. The notebook was still there, thank God; he ran his fingers over the leather and wondered what on earth he was doing. Where had Grant come from? Would he come back? Even if he did get rid of the soldiers in the palace, how would they ever manage to evade the others that must be swarming all over the island? Pemberton was no stranger to warfare, but for twenty years he had only experienced it through the muffled blanket of archaeology: scorch marks on walls, bronze blades pitted and notched, very occasionally a skeleton to be photographed, tagged and displayed. Now he was in the middle of it, and the idea that he might become fodder for some future archaeologist was not a pleasant thought.
Shouts rang out, very nearby, followed by three quick shots. Pemberton flinched. This was a dangerous place to be—he needed somewhere darker, more out of the way. Treading softly on the broad stairs, he tiptoed further down, toward the Hall of the Colonnades.
Grant knelt beside the bodies of two German soldiers and slotted three new cartridges into his Webley. It was a habit he had learned early on, always to reload when you had the chance. He’d lost count of the number of times the extra bullets had saved his life.
He holstered the Webley and gripped the Schmeisser. Two more, he thought. He had been watching the valley from a hidden lookout all day, ever since a panicked adjutant had arrived at his billet gibbering that the King of Greece had gone missing. He had seen the planes streaming in, the blizzard of paratroops falling over the island and the smoke rising from the towns, and felt his rage mount. Why should he be sidelined because some idiot politician was worried about a king whose own subjects didn’t even want him? He had seen Pemberton leave the villa, then watched the squad of paratroopers make their landing up the valley. That was when he had left his post and crawled down the slope to the palace. SOE hadn’t sent him to Greece to gawp at royalty; they had sent him to kill Nazis. And that was what he intended to do.
Keeping low, he crept down the eastern slope of the palace. He had had plenty of time to study it from above, but now that he was down among the ruins it was almost impossible to reconcile his bird’s-eye view with the sprawling chaos around him. It was a sniper’s dream, so much cover spread across so many different levels that he didn’t know where to look.
“Patience,” he murmured to himself. It had never been his strong point. But there were still two Germans prowling this labyrinth, and if he blundered about he would make easy prey. Better to . . .
A fragment of stone on the wall beside him exploded under the impact of a bullet. He hadn’t seen where the shot came from; instinctively, he grabbed the Schmeisser with both hands and swung round to lay down a suppressing fire. Two bullets spat out of the muzzle; then—nothing. Jammed. He tore it off his shoulder and threw it away, diving to his right as more shots whistled over his head. The bastard was above him. Staying on his stomach, he wriggled along the shallow trench that had once been a royal corridor. A dark chamber loomed at the end of it, a cellar built into the hillside. If he could make that, he would at least have a roof to protect him. Blood pounded in his ears; he could hear the German soldier scrambling down after him. Abandoning caution, he flung himself through the open doorway as another volley of bullets chased him in.
He had come into a long, thin room, with a succession of bays opening off on either side like cattle stalls. Low walls divided them, and each seemed to be occupied by massive clay urns, every one taller than Grant himself. For a moment he thought about trying to crawl inside one to hide—then dismissed the idea. He’d be trapped like a rat in a bag.
More shots flew through the doorway, kicking up plumes of dust from the dry floor. He ran to the end of the chamber, looking for a door, even a hole in the wall. There was nothing—the door he’d come in by was the only way out. Just my luck, he thought grimly, the one solid room in this whole bloody ruin. The last bay on his right was empty: he hurled himself into it as his pursuer came running through the door.
For a moment there was silence, while the German waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness and Grant crouched behind the wall. He tried to peer out, but the fat-bellied jar in the next bay blocked his view completely.
“Rudi,” he heard the soldier call. “Komm. Ich habe ihn.”
There was no reply. That was good, thought Grant. Better still, the voice had sounded uncertain. He didn’t know where Grant was and he didn’t want to find out on his own. That was very good.
Quiet as a cat, Grant eased himself over the low wall and dropped down into the bay on the other side, behind one of the massive jars. Thumbing back the hammer on the revolver, he leaned round, feeling the clay coarse and cold against his bare arm. Where was the German?
His gun came out from behind the jar and a beam of light from the door caught its barrel. Only for a second, but it was all the nervous paratrooper needed. A burst of gunfire raked the room and thick lumps of clay flew off the jar. One struck Grant’s right hand; before he knew it his fingers had sprung open and dropped the revolver. It fell to the ground and another layer of sound joined the cacophony in the chamber as the shock of the impact triggered the firing mechanism.
Grant dived back behind the jar. Thank Christ the Minoans had built it to last: the bullets had cracked it but not broken it. Meanwhile, the shot from the Webley seemed to have given the German pause for thought. He had stopped shooting—perhaps he was wai
ting for his comrade to join him. Peering underneath the jar, Grant could just see a pair of polished black boots standing to the right of the door.
Now he knew where the German was, but he had no way of getting him. The Webley lay on the sandy floor, almost close enough for him to stretch out his arm to grab it, just far enough that he would certainly die if he tried. He had the knife in his boot, but he’d never get sufficiently near to use it. That left . . .
Grant looked down at the two stick grenades tucked into his belt. He thought of the poor archaeologist, the horror on his face when Grant had taken them from the dead German.
“Sorry, old man,” he whispered. Then he unscrewed the cap in the grenade’s handle, felt for the cord inside and gave it a sharp tug. One . . . two . . . He stood, bent his arm and lobbed the grenade toward the far end of the passage. Three . . . It spun through the air and vanished out of sight. Four . . . A knock as it struck the rim of the jar next to the soldier, then a hollow thud as it dropped inside. Five . . .
A cloud of clay shards enveloped the German as the jar disintegrated. Grant didn’t hesitate. He threw himself into the passageway and grabbed the revolver, rolled into a crouch and squeezed off three quick shots almost before he stopped moving. The second two were unnecessary. The paratrooper slumped to the ground among the pulverized remains of the jar. His face had been mashed into a bloody mess and blood trickled from the small hole just below the eagle insignia on his left breast. He didn’t move.
Grant looked down at the pile of clay and dust, unrecognizable as the great artifact it had been. That’ll give the archaeologists something to piece together, he thought.
And that was when he heard the shot.
John Pemberton was terrified. Not since Passchendaele had he felt dread like this—and at least then, for all the horror, he had had his men around him. Now he was alone. From somewhere nearby, maybe just the other side of the wall, he heard a furious fusillade of gunfire, a pause, then a deep booming explosion that seemed to shake the palace to its foundations. Had the bombers come back? Echoes from the blast lapped around the stone shaft; he didn’t hear the shots that followed—nor the footsteps creeping quietly down the stairs.
The first bullet caught Pemberton in the shoulder, spinning him round so viciously that the second missed completely. The third tore through his shoulder blades and erupted from his chest. He fell forward, then rolled over on to his back. A dark mist clouded his eyes. At the bottom of the steps he could dimly see a snarling monster advancing toward him. In the strange criss-cross shadows of the hall, it almost looked as if horns had sprouted from the rimless helmet he wore.
Even in his dying moments Pemberton only had one thought. The book. He reached for the knapsack—but it was not there. He’d dropped it when the first bullet struck. Squinting through the blood-soaked haze, he saw the bag lying beside the pillar. He turned on to his side and stretched toward it.
A heavy boot came down hard on his hand. He barely felt the pain, but the sickly sound of fingers cracking made him scream aloud. The monster laughed, enjoying his agony.
“Wünschst du dieses?” The voice was harsh and indistinct, the bovine mockery evident. Keeping his rifle trained on Pemberton, the monster reached down and picked up the knapsack, dangling it just out of Pemberton’s grasp. Pemberton flailed, but could not touch it. His lungs were racked with pain now, each breath barely worth the effort, and a pool of blood was spreading around him. The monster had unlatched the bag and was rooting inside it: he pulled out the torch, the penknife, two bars of chocolate—and then the notebook.
Pemberton groaned with despair. The monster laughed—a horrid, snorting sound that turned to uncomprehending snuffles as he pawed through the pages.
“Was ist das?”
“Go to hell.”
It took all of Pemberton’s energy just to say it—but it enraged the monster. Rearing up, he threw the book aside and upended his rifle like a club. Pemberton didn’t even have the strength to flinch. Over the monster’s shoulder he saw a dim shadow moving behind the columns on the stairs like the flicker of a flame. But of course there had not been a fire in here for three thousand years.
Behind the column, Grant couldn’t see the German, but he saw the black shadow looming across the dying archaeologist. Forgetting his pistol, he pulled the knife from his boot and vaulted down from the open stair. Two silent bounds took him across the chamber. The German began to turn, but too late: Grant crooked his left arm round the German’s throat, pulled him back and plunged the knife hilt-deep into his neck. For a second the man’s head tipped back and he bellowed with agony. Then, with a twist, Grant pulled the knife clear. Blood sprayed from the wound, soaking Grant’s face, and the German went limp. Grant shoved him aside and looked down.
One glance told him that Pemberton would not leave that room alive. His cheeks and lips were white, his body drained. But there were still a few drops of life in him. He raised a trembling arm and pointed to something behind Grant. His mouth stretched and puckered in a succession of grimaces, trying to force out a few last words. Grant knelt beside him, putting his ear to Pemberton’s lips while his eyes followed the outstretched arm. There, in the corner, a small brown notebook lay splayed open on the floor.
“Arch . . .”
Pemberton broke off in a fit of choking. Grant cradled his head against his chest. He wanted to tell him not to speak, to save his strength, but he knew there was no point. Whatever the old man had to say, he might as well get it out.
White hands, suddenly strong again, clutched the collar of Grant’s shirt. Dull eyes sparked into life and fixed on him. “Archanes,” he whispered. “The house with the apricot trees. Take it to her.”
Then the hands went limp, the eyes closed and Grant smelled the familiar, lavatorial stench of death.
He carried the archaeologist’s body outside and laid it in the palace’s open foundations, covering the corpse with rubble to protect it from scavengers. One of the stones had a strange mark cut into it, a three-pronged design like a pitchfork or a trident, and he used that as a headstone. He took what he could from the dead paratroopers and reloaded the Webley. Then, like the heroes of old, he went in search of battle.
CHAPTER 1
Oxford, March 1947
Rage. The first word ever written in Western literature, it sets the theme for all that follows.”
The undergraduate glanced up from his essay, obviously hoping for a reaction. Opposite, a pair of pale-blue eyes stared steadily over his shoulder and examined the smear of ice that clouded the window. A coal fire hissed and spluttered in the grate, but it stood little chance against the freeze, which had gripped all England since January. Least of all in the drafty medieval rooms of an Oxford college, whose stones stored five hundred years of accumulated damp and chill.
The undergraduate cleared his throat and continued. “All the characters in the Iliad are defined by rage. Some think they can manipulate it; others are overwhelmed by it. Mostly, they die because of it, which explains why the story has such resonance almost three thousand years after Homer wrote it. As recent history shows, rage and violence continue to be the dominant passions of the world. The Iliad is not a story about the past; it is the story of the present. We can only hope that we, like Achilles, will eventually allow humanity to master our rage and pride and build a better, more just future.”
A pause. Across the book-lined room, Arthur Reed, Professor of Classical Philology, was frowning.
“Did I say something wrong?”
The blue eyes drifted down from the window and settled on the undergraduate. “A poem.”
The student blinked. “Sorry?”
“It’s a poem. Not a story.”
The undergraduate scowled, but swallowed whatever he wanted to say and stared at his essay. “Shall I go on?”
Reed settled back in his chair and sighed. The war had changed everything. In the thirties the undergraduates had been a callow bunch, eager to please and easily aw
ed. This new generation were different. What could he, who had spent the war behind a desk, teach them about heroes?
A soft tap at the door interrupted the tutorial. A porter appeared and bobbed his head, studiously ignoring the undergraduate. “Beg your pardon, Professor. A Mr. Muir in the lodge to see you.”
Wrapped in his wing-back chair, with a blanket over his legs and a thickly wound scarf almost swallowing his head, Reed was all but invisible to the porter in the corridor. But the undergraduate opposite could see him well enough—and saw the strange look that crossed his face, as if he’d bitten into a sour apple.
“Tell him I’ll come down when I’ve finished.”
“He was awful insistent, sir.”
“So am I, Mr. Gordon.” Reed took off his glasses and began polishing them on the tail of his scarf—a sure sign, to those who knew him, that the discussion was over. With another bob of his head the porter disappeared.
Reed stared at the ash-white coals in the grate, so long that the undergraduate wondered if he’d been completely forgotten. Then, with a strained smile and obvious effort, Reed forced his gaze back to his student. “Where were we?”
An hour later, with the undergraduate slightly older but—Reed feared—little wiser, the porter returned. He had hardly opened the door before the visitor pushed past. He was a slim man, wiry and taut, who didn’t so much move as bristle. His ginger hair was cropped close as a scouring brush. Without taking off his coat he strode across the small room and dropped into the threadbare sofa opposite Reed. The aging cushions sagged underneath him, doubling him up in an awkward, angular sort of crouch. Leaning forward, his legs spread apart, he gave the unsettling impression of a leopard poised to pounce. He rubbed his hands together.
“I’m sorry for keeping you waiting,” said Reed mildly.
“You damn well should be. I’m a busy man.”
