A Terrible Beauty (20 page)

“I will go with you,” Philip said. “My pain is trivial. My usefulness may be limited somewhat, but I will at least be able to assist.”

“You cannot even consider it,” I said. “You are staying here. There will be no further discussion of the subject.”

 

Philip

Athens, 1894

Philip had meant to spend the entire winter in Constantinople, but after completing, more or less to his satisfaction, the selling of the artifacts in his possession, he decided instead to go to Athens. His conversation with Demir had initially frightened him, but as the weeks went by, he began to feel emboldened, and started to reach out to his contacts in the antiquities market in the Greek capital. By the time he arrived in the city, he had arranged meetings with three dealers who'd promised knowledge of objects not officially for sale.

Of these men, none had heard the story of the Achilles bronze, but each perked up when Philip told the tale. He judged the second dealer, a man called Simonides Floros, the most likely to be able to help him, and went so far as to give him a payment—not exorbitant, but larger than Philip would have liked—as a retainer of sorts. In return, Mr. Floros would have his contacts begin to make inquiries about the piece.

That done, Philip felt a rush of relief. Soon he would have positive confirmation about what the sellers of illegal antiquities knew or didn't know about the bronze. Either Mr. Floros or Demir—or both—would ferret out whatever there was to discover. Then he would at last know whether Demir was hunting him because he had somehow learned the truth—that Philip still had the object in his possession.

He fingered the stiff spot in the bottom of his jacket where he had carefully sewn a small pocket behind the lining, only as large as necessary to contain the thin strip of bronze. Every inch of his body burned whenever he felt it. He should never have taken it and, having done so, should never have lied about the other man stealing it. But what else could he have done? The man had tried to steal it, and Philip still did not quite understand how he had managed to keep it from him.

The sun had been low in the sky. He and Erkan, a Turk, had worked later than their colleagues. Dörpfeld had agreed to let him dig a series of test trenches in this area, partly because he wanted to be as thorough as possible with his excavations and partly because, Philip suspected, he admired Philip's devotion to Homer's great works. They frequently discussed the poetry in camp, after the day's work was done, and although Dörpfeld's primary focus was on the city of Troy, he agreed that going further afield, into the area of the Greek's encampment, could unearth a trove of information. Archaeologists know rubbish heaps can reveal all kinds of fascinating details about the lives of ancient peoples.

No one else had worked so late that evening, and Philip and Erkan were too far away to be easily seen from camp. The moment Philip had felt the hardness of metal in the dirt, excitement had filled him. He cleared the area, first with his hands and then with a brush, revealing a glint of bronze. His initial disappointment at the size of the piece—clearly it was nothing more than the fragment of something, nice, but not spectacular—faded the instant he saw the great hero's name scratched into the surface. He touched it, reverently, and as he read the inscription—
ΑΧΙΛΛΕΥΣ ΑΝΕΘΕΚΕΝ ΤΟΙ ΔΙ
. Akhilleus dedicated to Zeus—his hand started to shake. He knew of the discovery of Miltiades' helmet at Olympia, with words on its base following the same formula. Could this be a piece of Achilles' helmet? The very one he had worn when fighting the Trojans? Perhaps—almost certainly, as what other helmet would he dedicate to Zeus?—the one that had protected him the day he killed Hector?

Erkan, ten feet away, was not paying the slightest attention to Philip. He did the coarser work, digging the initial trench and moving dirt as necessary. He showed no interest in archaeology beyond the money it brought him, and revealed no aptitude for the finer techniques of the work. Philip watched, wondering if the man had seen the bronze, and started to breathe rapidly as the realization of what he was about to do began to sink into his soul.

He could not bear to be parted with this piece. He knew it belonged in a museum, he knew scholars should be allowed to study it, and he knew to keep it for himself would be akin to an act of blasphemy. But he could not—would not—stop himself, and as he took it in his hand, his back to Erkan, he felt as if he were watching the scene from above, as if some other person were committing the crime. The bronze felt heavy in the breast pocket of his coat. He buttoned the pocket closed, his heart racing, and crouched in the dirt, trying to catch his breath.

He never managed to quite compose himself. Truthfully, not ever again after that, no matter how many years passed. For all the pleasure he got from having that small bit of bronze he believed Achilles had once owned—worn, even—the crushing blow of knowing he had become a thief to get it tormented him.

But that guilt paled next to the constant fear and paranoia with which he now lived. Fear of exposure, of course, of losing the respect of his new colleagues, of tarnishing his name. But did the latter truly matter? He had invented Philip Chapman and could adopt another identity if necessary. At least he told himself he could. But he loved this new life of his, and could not fathom having to leave it behind. Death would be preferable.

And death might be precisely what he would face, for when he called out to Erkan that the time had come to stop work, the man stepped toward him, a menacing look on his face.

“What did you take?” he asked. “I saw you put it in your pocket. I saw the gleaming metal.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Philip said. “No metal freshly removed from the ground after thousands of years would be gleaming, unless it were gold, and I can assure you had we discovered such a thing, you would have heard my cries of delight long before you noticed any gleaming.”

“I saw what you did.”

“You are mistaken.” He took a firm tone. “I keep my compass in one pocket, and my watch in another.” He pulled the watch out, as if to prove his point. “You must have seen me returning it after I had checked the time.”

“I saw what you did.”

No matter how Philip replied, Erkan kept repeating that same sentence, each time closing the gap between them. Little by little, the man came closer, looking fiercer with each step. When Erkan pulled back his arm, his hand balled into a fist, Philip struck first, a clean hit to the jaw.

They had struggled—fought—and somehow Philip came out victorious. He had never felt anything like the rush of watching the man slink away from him. It was superior to anything a man could experience even on the plains of Africa during a successful hunt. He had saved himself—his reputation, his livelihood—and he had saved the remnant of bronze. Nothing would make him part with it now.

He had been fortunate, though, that his opponent had run away too soon to see Philip collapse, unconscious. Erkan's blows had taken a toll, and Philip hardly remembered growing unsteady on his feet before falling. If Erkan had seen, the bronze would well and truly be gone, in the hands of someone who cared not for its historical significance but only for its monetary value. Philip would protect it and keep it safe. No one could appreciate it more than he. No one had more right to possess it. It would be his forever.

 

14

Dr. Liakos and Jeremy arrived from Oia in a cloud of dust. The doctor, whom I had almost begun to consider a friend, given how frequently was he at the house, confirmed Colin's diagnosis of Philip's injury, and closed the wound with a row of neat stitches before checking on his other patient. I followed him to the small room in which the stranger reposed.

“Is there any hope he will wake up?” I asked.

“It is impossible to say, Lady Emily. In cases like this, I cannot predict. He is not yet dead, which is favorable, and his leg is healing nicely. But his brain … Only time will tell if his injuries were too great.”

“If he does regain consciousness, will he be able to speak?” I asked.

“Again, he may or may not. I would not venture to guess.”

“I wonder if anyone on Santorini might recognize him? I hate to think of his family worrying, not knowing what has happened.”

“As I told you when I first saw him, he is a stranger to me, and I have not heard of anyone having gone missing,” Dr. Liakos said, returning his instruments to his leather satchel. “The island is small, and if someone were lost I would likely hear about it.”

“Of course,” I said. “Families would contact you to see if the person in question had been injured and was in your care.”

“Yes. Most likely he is a visitor.”

“Yet his clothes did not suggest him to be a man of means traveling for pleasure.”

The doctor shrugged. “He might have come looking for work and went to the excavation in search of employment.”

“If that were the case, he wouldn't have run away when we called to him.” I sighed. “I shall take up no more of your time with idle speculation. Thank you again for coming all this way.”

“It is no trouble, Lady Emily. I shall return tomorrow to look in on Mr. Chapman. I do not expect any complications, but we must keep an eye out for infection.”

After he had gone, I went into the kitchen, where Mrs. Katevatis was looking over the shoulder of the maid as she washed the breakfast dishes.

“There is still something there,” Mrs. Katevatis said, pointing to a spot on a pan. “You must get every last bit, you know, if you ever want to stop doing dishes and start cooking.” The maid nodded and scrubbed harder.

“Do not be too rough on her,” I said.

“You are lucky she does not speak English,” Mrs. Katevatis said, “or I would have to throw you out of my kitchen. I will not have you making her think I will accept any lowering of my standards.”

“You may rely on my uncompromising support of your standards,” I said. “Come sit with me in the courtyard. I would like to have a word about our injured man.”

“Which injured man?” she asked.

“Not Lord Ashton.”

“Who now wants us to call him Mr. Chapman,” she said. “Remarkably foolish, if you ask me. I will brew us tea and meet you in the courtyard.”

A quarter of an hour later, we were seated at the wooden table behind the house. The air felt considerably warmer here than in the front, where the breeze from the sea offered respite. Our mountain tea, though hot, was thoroughly refreshing, and like its black counterpart somehow managed to have a cooling effect despite its temperature. I am told that in India, even during the hottest days of summer, a nice cup of tea is more beneficial than cold water, although I admit to a certain skepticism on the point.

“I would like to try to ascertain the identity of the injured man,” I said. “Dr. Liakos does not believe him to be local. Do you agree?”

Mrs. Katevatis nodded. “I have never seen him before, and no one in the village has heard anyone is missing. His clothes look Turkish to me.” She wrinkled her nose and made a noise as if she were spitting. She would never forgive the Turks for the four hundred years they subjugated the Greeks to their rule before her nation won its independence in the early part of our century, and held every individual Turk personally responsible for the affront.

“Do foreigners often come to Santorini looking for employment?” I asked.

“What do you think? We have barely enough work for those of us who live here. This is not Athens. We are a small island.”

“There are some foreigners who come here, though,” I said. “Those who work on the ships that stop in Oia.”

“The captains of those ships live in Oia, but even so there are not many foreigners. He could, I suppose, be a sailor.”

“I would like to ask Adelphos to help me identify him. Would you object?”

“No, my son is always a good help. You are wise to make use of him.”

“Could you send him to me in half an hour? There is one task I must complete before speaking with him.”

When Adelphos and I rendezvoused in the courtyard, the young man listened to my words with a serious look on his face, nodding his head in understanding, but remaining silent until I had finished proposing my plan: He would question as many as people as possible to determine whether any of them remembered the man arriving on Santorini. If we were lucky, one of them may even have ferried him from another island.

“I will do as you ask. It is no problem,” he said, after sitting, contemplative, for a moment. “It is a sound idea. Someone must have seen him. The only trouble is how will they know if they recognize him?”

“You can describe his clothing, but also, I have this for you.” I had made a sketch of the man's face. Adelphos looked surprised when I handed it to him.

“You did this? I had no idea you are such a talented artist. You should be with the archaeologists. Mr. Reiner tells me they are always looking for someone who can draw.”

“You're very kind, Adelphos. It is a reasonable facsimile, but I assure you I lack the hand of a true artist. Furthermore, the archaeologists have cameras, which give a much more exacting image of the original.”

“I do not agree. A photograph cannot show us the soul of a man. I see a menace in his face, even with his eyes closed, that his features alone do not communicate. Yet you have managed to show just this in your drawing. It will be a great help on my quest.”

Adelphos pulled himself up very tall and threw his shoulders back as he spoke this last sentence. It might have been his use of the word
quest
, but I could not help seeing him as a modern incarnation of the ancient hero, ready to take up the mantle from his ancestors. Jason and Heracles would have recognized the noble look on his face as he took on the task, and even though he would face neither harpies nor Stymphalian birds (although he might argue he too well understood the trouble of the Augean stables), I did not doubt he would handle any challenges with the single-minded determination required to succeed.