by Mike Sweeney
“Wasn’t that Caesar?” Safe bet; Howard had all the signs of a military history buff, and that “est” made it Latin. “When he, what was it, crossed the Hellespont?”
Vash shook his head. “The Rubicon. Caesar crossed the Rubicon.”
“Alexander crossed the Hellespont,” Howard amplified.
“So did Xerxes,” I said.
“Alexander threw a spear into the soil,” Howard volleyed back.
“Xerxes had the river whipped,” I replied.
“Yeah, the Rubicon!” Jim hadn’t realized the “let’s bash Penny” ship had sailed.
“The Rubicon is the river between the frontier and Rome,” Vash lectured Jim in a pitying tone. “By bringing his army across it, Gaius Julius was declaring war on his co-rulers. Thus starting a civil war which ended the Roman Republic.”
So now Vash had decided to play my side, with Jim the one that was getting bullied. Unwanted allies aside, I didn’t trust him. The only sure point on his moral compass was that all roads led to Vash. “I’m not actually much on the Classical period,” I admitted. “The archaeological dig I was on was Pre-Columbian.”
“Mound Builders?”
“Not the ones you are thinking of.” The Ohlone People had left pretty spectacular mounds of shells in the Emeryville area. That’s where I had volunteered.
“I am so glad everyone is getting along,” Ariadne appeared, the “despite the rough start” left unsaid. I sent a glance towards Giulio. Ariadne was right, he was a dear man, but, oh, that stunt of mine could have gone so terribly wrong. I hoped Dame Dupond didn’t have any other bright ideas.
Vash tipped his glass. “Time for a refill,” he commented to no one before heading to the table.
“So…” Howard said, a glint in his eye. “I was wondering if you had any thoughts about Atlantis.”
“Oh, and give you a chance to beat me up with your classical authors?” I shot back.
“What, like quoting the writings of Socrates at length?”
“Ha. Ha. Ha.” I wagged a finger at him. “It won’t be that easy.”
“I missed something there,” one of the newcomers chuckled. We’d attracted more people along the way; there was now a circle of about a dozen around us.
“Socrates didn’t write,” Howard and I said as one.
“Xenophon was his student, and wrote extensively about him,” Howard said.
“Plato sort of quoted from him. Made him a character in his own writings, in any case.”
“Timaeus and Critias,” Ariadne joined the conversation, a clear interest in her voice.
“Yeah,” I said. “Two of the Dialogues, and where we got Atlantis from,” I explained to the others. “It’s clearly an allegory. A fictional demonstration of how a perfect Republic is ever so superior to messy democracies. The other thing that most people don’t remember is that Atlantis isn’t the good guys in Critias. They’re the Evil Empire our brave Athenian heroes must stand against.”
Howard opened his mouth. Closed it again, with a “close enough for jazz” expression. But he hadn’t finished with me. He opened his mouth again for, “And Thera?”
Vash returned, two beers in hand. He gave one to me. “We doing Atlantis now?” he said in his best “witness the fools I have to suffer” tone.
But I’d been looking at Ariadne. Who had opened a gallery called Atlantis. Who had a Phaistos Disc on display. Who shared the name of the daughter of King Minos, the Princess who had aided the hero Theseus in his battle with the Minotaur and helped him escape the labyrinth with a clue of thread. I decided then and there I wasn’t in for the game of lump on Jim and Ariadne.
“Yes, we are doing Atlantis,” I said.
Besides, I’d seen our gathered audience. These weren’t history geeks (although if my channel had taught me anything, it was that history geeks would crawl out of the woodwork at the drop of a cocked hat.) Sure, we had the scatter of professional collectors, but we also had younger people with disposable income who had come out for novelty and a little magic. So, yeah, I would tell them an Atlantis story.
“Thera is the old name for the island of Santorini.” I settled in to my best Athena Fox lecture mode. “As well as the name of a volcanic eruption that struck the island around 1500 BC. An eruption bigger than Krakatoa; when the caldera collapsed and flooded it took half the island with it. It was as big as Tambura, the 19th century eruption that darkened the skies through the ‘Year without a Summer,’ and it struck a terrible blow to the Minoan civilization.”
“According to Timaeus,” Howard said, “Solon was traveling in Egypt and learned about Atlantis.”
“The Minoans were known to the Egyptians. They even had a name for them. ‘Keftiu,’ I think. And there’s a wall carving of traders from Crete in Heliopolis, although it was apparently altered in later years.”
Howard chuckled.
“What?” I asked.
“Oh, thinking that was a nice demonstration of the difference between history and archaeology. You are quoting physical evidence. I’m quoting textual.”
“That is the definition of history,” Vash pontificated. “History is what is written down. The Greek world is history. The Minoan world is speculation.”
“Oh, that’s a low blow,” I laughed. “Let me defend my chosen people by saying archaeological methods are still of use in understanding the lives behind the words, even for peoples as outright chatty about themselves as the Romans.”
I opened up to our audience again. “The Minoans are a wonderful and fascinating people and we can’t read any of their writing. Not the Linear A Vash mentioned earlier, or the Minoan Hieroglyphs that more-or-less preceded it, or for that matter the mysterious Phaistos script. We know something of their dress and their technology through the artwork they left, but essentially nothing about their beliefs, religious practices, or even their form of government.” Yeah, I was a Minoan buff. But who wouldn’t be?
“Didn’t they have a matriarchy, and the whole Snake Goddess thing?”
“Maybe,” I answered. “Sir Arthur Evans apparently thought so. We get most of our Minoan terms through him, Horns of Consecration, Lustral Basins, and of course he’s the one that looked at the mad scramble of rooms that is Knossos and decided that was the Labyrinth Daedalus built. But modern archaeologists aren’t so sure. In any case, their civilization survived Thera, but over the next two hundred years went into a decline they never recovered from. Best guess is that the early Greeks took over. And that connects us back to Plato’s fairy-tale of a Greek victory over an ancient thalassocracy.”
“That means, ‘power of the sea,’ for those of you taking notes,” Howard grinned.
“The Mycenae were not Greeks,” Vash said dismissively. “Not that Plato would recognize.”
“Neither was Homer,” Howard wasn’t having any. “Not if you are going to use Classical Athens as your one and only measure.”
“This sounds like what Professor Sharpe was writing about,” Ariadne said at that point.
“The Heracleidae,” I said.
Vash raised an eyebrow in approval. “Our archaeologist hasn’t entirely neglected her literary sources.”
“No; I can remember the title of a book.”
“The Return of the Heracleidae,” Vash said. “Let me explain. First, you have to understand a little something about Greek dialects. In the Classical era, the important ones are Doric and Ionic.”
“And Attic,” Ariadne put in.
“Considered a subset of Ionic,” Vash waved that away. “And there’s Aeolic if you want to be picky. Doric was the late-comer. Classical writers had noticed how it seemed to sweep in from the North, supplanting the older dialects. Sparta was just being settled at that time; the Laconians described by Homer are a far cry from the tough, warlike men whose victories were recorded by Herodotus.”
“Father of history, father of lies,” Howard said, sotto voce.
“The Greek writers connected these movements to the legendary
sons of Heracles, and their victorious return to lands they had once ruled during the Heroic Age. Modern writers refer to this influx of new blood as the Dorian Invasion.” Vash had the floor now, and he very much cared who knew it. “I can not overstate how dramatic the change was from Homeric Greece into the early Classical era. New forms of rule, iron weapons, advances in all the arts. You can ask our professor here,” he nodded to Giulio, “About the artistic refinement of Classical ceramics.”
“The word ceramics comes from Athens,” Ariadne wedged in. “The old Kerameikos is just south of here.” Did I detect just a little bit of Athenian pride? I was with her, there. Something about Vash’s presentation was making my hackles rise.
“I will be the first to admit there are many theories as to what exactly happened to bring about the Greek Miracle and the full flowering of the Classical Age. However! I find Professor Sharpe’s book well-argued and compelling.”
“I am pleased to hear you say that,” a new voice said in heavy, measured tones. Cosimo Nardella had joined us. So where did he come in?
“You are probably wondering where Signor Nardella comes in,” Ariadne said, turning to welcome him. “He managed to clear permissions for a reprinting of Professor Sharpe’s book from his heirs. And better than that, he also secured the late Professor Sharpe’s wide collection of art objects and antiquities. The Professor was a frequent visitor to our country during the late ’60s and he acquired some striking pieces.”
There’d been an ever-so-slight emphasis on “late ’60s.” I hadn’t been the only one to catch it. I saw Vash’s smirk twist slightly in a knowing wink. So it meant something to this crowd? More context.
“There are several fine examples of Hellenistic sculpture in the collection,” Cosimo picked up the thread with a politician’s smoothness. “It is rare to see such items in today’s market. Various items from Syria and the Holy Land, some of them bronzes going back to the Greek Dark Ages. Along with many beautiful — and historically intriguing — ceramics.”
Giulio was quivering to say something, but Vash’s voice drove over him.
“This seems to be Henry’s big year. Not only is his book re-issued, there’s an excavation going on in Germany that may finally prove his thesis. For those of you who haven’t heard,” he addressed the whole group, “the lead archaeologist recently announced discovery of an artifact that could overturn our entire understanding of the origins of Western Civilization. Some of us,” he added, “Will be flying out to the site tomorrow.”
There was something in the stir around me that suggested many had heard. That, in fact, the timing of this little reception was far from coincidental.
“I believe that lead archaeologist is Edward Sharpe’s protegé,” Howard said dryly. “Convenient, that. Well, my wife and I will be in Florence next, so I doubt we’ll be attending.”
“I just arrived in Athens,” I said plaintively. That got the little laugh I was hoping for.
Howard hadn’t finished. “Out of all the ideas in Sharpe’s book — and there are a great many — I was particularly tickled by the suggestion that the Gigantomachy might also be a representation of the coming of the Dorians.”
“Like the battle of the Centaurs and the Lapiths in the Parthenon Marbles,” I said. “Which sure looks a lot like symbolically describing the victory of the Athenians over the Persian invaders.”
“Casting the Persians as half-human beasts,” Howard said dryly.
“Yes, and this is what excites me the most!” Giulio burst out. “The Gigantomachy, it is the subject of that item I very much want to purchase!”
“Dottore!” Cosimo chided. “You and I have had this conversation many times before. I tell you there is no such ceramic in Sharpe’s collection.”
“But Christakos and I met many times to discuss it, before he had that terrible automobile accident. I have here the picture he gave me!” Giulio brought what appeared to be Polaroid out of an envelope and held it out. When Cosimo refused to take it, I made an enquiring sound and he handed it to me instead.
I saw a tall, footed pot covered in cracks, one large piece missing. Same kind of black glaze as the pot I’d seen in the agora but it looked older. Against the red clay, lines and geometric borders framed equally geometric figures in silhouette. One was center, forced back on one knee by whatever warrior had been on the missing piece. On first glance, it wasn’t much to look at. But the longer I looked at it the more it tugged at my eye. There was a grace of line and a clarity of vision. I was no art collector but I thought I understood why Giulio was so interested in it.
I handed the photograph back. “A krater, perhaps a calyx,” Giulio explained. “I believe the central scene is an early depiction of the Gigantomachy!”
“I do not know where Christakos may have gotten that picture,” Cosimo said with finality. “If he ever intended to broker such an item, it was not as part of his partnership with me.” With that, he walked away.
“I understand,” I told Giulio, trying to put across my appreciation for the artistry of the object. “Um…what’s a krater?”
“Used by the Greeks to mix water and wine,” Howard leaned over to explain. “Only a barbarian drank his wine neat. It has been a pleasure talking with you, Miss Fox.”
The circle was breaking up. People were making a last stop at the bar, or splitting off into small private conversations before they headed out. Several were still engaged in the glossy catalog that had been circulating. I could feel the post-performance shudders trying to take over.
I had a new respect for the friends I knew who had done dinner theatre. Staying in character while being attacked was tough! Not to mention I’d held my own against a serious amateur historian.
Ariadne came to my side, a short glass of something milky white in her hand. “I think you deserve this,” she said. She seemed, overall, quite pleased at how events had unfolded.
I took a careful sip. “Sweet!” I exclaimed.
“This is raki, from Crete,” she said. “It’s a little like ouzo but much smoother.”
“It tastes like the Aegean in moonlight,” I said, thinking of Crete and the Minoans with their labrys axes and dolphin frescoes and the twisty maze of rooms that made up the massive Knossos palace complex. I should really go to Crete some day. Hey, this travel stuff wasn’t bad.
“I like this young lady of yours.” Margarita Dupond had drifted back our way.
“I have always valued your instincts, Margarita,” Ariadne smiled. “So do I.”
There was movement at the door. Cosimo Nardella was on his way out. “Oh!” said Ariadne, torn. “I thought he would wait…Athena, this is not how I meant to ask, but I’m worried about Germany. I need someone there I can trust. Is there any way…?” She fumbled for a business card, scribbled something on it, one eye on the departing antiquities dealer. “We can call it a consultancy.” She shoved the card into my hand.
Germany? No way. But I couldn’t outright refuse a plea like that. “I’ll consider it,” I said.
She flashed a thankful smile and raced off. Other people had found their coats; the reception was over. I sagged.
Dupond was studying me, a troubled look clouding the placid gaze. “I still worry about you, dear,” she said at last. “All those dangerous things you do.”
“I try not to do dangerous things,” I said lightly. Any stunts would be performed in front of the chroma-key screen, thank you very much.
“Take this,” she said suddenly. A metal object was pressed into my hand. I glanced down. A little bronze disc on a chain. It was hard to see the details. A geometric border, and a face with — wait, was that a Medusa?
“I can’t!” I protested.
“I insist,” Margarita said. “It is Greek. Very traditional. It will protect you.”
What was it about this day? I looked down at the raki. I’d finished it. The stuff had a kick. Snuck up on you like warm saké.
I drew Athena Fox about myself one more time and she found
the words for me. “I will wear it always, then. Thank you, Mrs. Dupond.”
I already had my hat and coat. I took one last look around the Atlantis gallery, wondering if I’d ever be back in a place like this but to buy. Then I headed for the door.
Oh, the business card. I looked at Ariadne’s scribble. “Bad Monster 23-9-18 Conslt €5.”
I shook my head. Yup. This had definitely been a weird day.
Twilight was arriving, the last of the sun putting its Midas touch on everything; enough gold to satisfy a Lord Carnarvon. “Wonderful things,” I muttered to myself. I was trying to find that area I’d passed through much earlier, the place where there were so many tables outside one restaurant flowed into another in a continuous skein of laughter and wine and music.
I found a wide cobbled way of long slow curves where people were strolling and stands were set up for trinkets and t-shirts, pre-Euro currency, roasted nuts.
Down the street a busker on a large dulcimer started in on a new tune. One bar in stately 4/4 and people were making that glad sound of recognition. One person raised his hands above his head, began a slow dance. His companion, giggling, joined him. More context. This was great, but I was being the fabled donkey, caught between two equally enticing piles of hay.
I kept looking. A few more streets, and I seemed to have found myself in a scrawl of narrow, twisting streets, every one identical. Through the gaps I still caught glimpses of the golden walls of the Acropolis looking benignly over everyone.
An older man was having a quiet smoke on the steps of some corner building. I’d just stepped off the narrow sidewalk to get around him when he looked up. “Kalispéra!” I greeted him, not wanting to be rude.
“Kalispéra,” he replied. “You are, looking for somewhere to eat?” he asked.
“How did you guess?”
“This place is very good,” the man said. “What do you want? Gyro? Cheeseburger? Octopus? They have very good seafood. I eat here all the time.”
“Well, I should really try something auth…did you say gyro?” He’d said it with a “y” sound. I made a note of that. “Okay, sure.” I sagged into a chair at the nearby cafe table.
