The Lost Labyrinth (14 page)

‘I don’t want to go,’ she said. ‘I want to stay with you.’

‘We need to find out what Petitier brought here,’ insisted Knox. He reached for his mobile. ‘Look. I’ll call Iain. You check out what tickets are available.’

‘
Now
?’ she asked.

‘It’s Easter weekend, Gaille. If we leave it till
morning, who knows when you’ll be able to get a flight?’

She stared into his eyes, trying to read the truth; but he held his nerve and didn’t look away and finally it was she who broke. ‘You really think this could help Augustin?’ she asked.

‘Yes. I really do.’

‘Fine,’ she sighed.

‘Good,’ he said. He leaned across to kiss her on the lips. ‘I love you,’ he said.

‘I love you too,’ she replied. But, for the first time since they’d initially made their declarations, he wasn’t quite sure that her heart was in it.

A loud clang outside Knox’s balcony door. He woke abruptly and sat up, uncertain for a moment where he was. Another clang, but now he recognised what it was, and that it was benign: dustmen collecting trash in the alley below. His heart resettled, he lay back down, listened drowsily to their good-natured banter for a moment or two before the tumult of yesterday’s memories began to assail him, and then the dustcart began backing up, its reversing siren wailing. He rolled onto his side, illuminated the dial of his travel alarm clock, gave a groan.

‘What time is it?’ murmured Gaille.

‘Four twenty. We’ve still got a few minutes.’ He’d been right about the Easter rush for air-tickets: Gaille’s choice had been flying out first thing this
morning or waiting until Saturday afternoon. She hadn’t been happy about it, but she’d booked the early flight all the same.

It was a little after five when they set off. The streets were empty; they made excellent time. At first, Gaille tried gamely to make conversation, but it was so obvious she was struggling that Knox turned the radio on, not wanting her to feel obliged. She rested her head against the window and dozed off, until he hit a pothole and startled her awake, her arms flailing to brace herself, her eyes gluey with tiredness. He slowed down after that, did his best to keep the ride even. He parked in short-term, woke her gently.

‘There’s no need to come in with me,’ she said, a little stiffly, when he shouldered her overnight bag and headed towards the terminal. ‘You mustn’t be late for your talk.’

‘Don’t be angry with me,’ he pleaded.

‘I’m not angry with you.’

‘Yes, you are.’

She bit her teeth together, as if struggling not to say something she might regret, but failing. ‘This is a stupid bloody trip,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why you’re sending me on it.’

‘I thought you agreed. We need to help Augustin.’

‘But this isn’t about Augustin, is it? Not really. It’s about you getting spooked by that prick in the
lift last night, and thinking up this wretched plan to get me out of harm’s way.’

Knox stood there, feeling foolish. ‘I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you,’ he said weakly.

‘And I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you. But that doesn’t mean I’d lie to you or try to trick you or coerce you into doing things you wouldn’t otherwise choose to do. It doesn’t mean I think so little of your ability to help that I’d send you away when I needed you most.’ She sighed and shook her head. ‘Never mind. Let’s discuss it when I get back. I’ll do my best, I promise. And who knows? Maybe I will find something.’ She nodded emphatically, as if to convince herself. ‘Maybe I will.’

He gripped the steering wheel tight as he headed back into town. He felt by turns aggrieved, dispirited, foolish and lonely. The dawn sun broke behind him and threw out shadows. Traffic began picking up, not yet enough to slow him down, but enough to make it clear that he didn’t have time to visit Augustin if he wanted to make Eleusis by eight; a decision he was in truth relieved to make, for he lacked the heart to face Claire.

He headed west along the old Sacred Way. It should have been infused with history, for this was the road on which, for many hundreds of
years, celebrants had made their way from Athens to Eleusis. It didn’t seem sacred anymore, however, just a series of shabby strips of shops and apartment blocks, interspersed with the occasional light industrial estate. He used the time to murmur his way through his talk, further familiarising himself with its themes and rhythms. Brake lights flared on the green van in front and it squealed to a stop, forcing Knox to slam on his own brakes. He leaned out his window to look, saw gridlock ahead. A minute passed without movement. Two. Drivers began to vent their frustration on their horns, late for work or leaden-eyed after a night shift. Knox took the opportunity to make some calls. He left a message for Charissa, though his speculations of the night before seemed feeble this morning. He called Iain Parkes again, for he’d only managed to get voicemail the night before. His mobile was still switched off, so he left another message with Gaille’s flight number and expected time of arrival.

Away to his right, he could see the famous Rarian Plain, where the young maiden goddess Persephone had one day gone to pick crocuses. Hades, lord of the underworld, had seen her and been smitten; he’d abducted her and taken her back beneath the earth with him. Demeter, Persephone’s mother and the goddess of grain, had been understandably distraught. She’d searched the
earth without success, before losing heart for a while here in Eleusis. But then she’d sent a blight to kill crops across the earth, causing a famine so severe that the other gods had prevailed upon Hades to let Persephone go. Just before she’d left, Hades had tricked her into eating several pomegranate seeds, thus forcing her to return to the underworld for several months each year, during which time the earth became barren again. A metaphor for the seasons, of course, though the myth was far more complex and subtle than just that.

Traffic began to move slowly again. Three lanes merged into two, two into one. A blue flutter of police lights ahead, a shriek of injured car alarm, and then the culprit, a four-vehicle shunt of crumpled bonnets and deflated airbags, a man yelling furiously at the sky while a woman gave her statement to the police. And then he was through, the road at once opening up, allowing him to put his foot down and regain a little lost time.

To his left, the sea came incrementally into view, the dark blue horizon and then a fishing trawler and finally the port itself, tankers and container ships being loaded and unloaded at the end of their long umbilical cords of jetties; yet somehow attractive for all that, what with the clear skies and sunshine glinting on the rippling water.

He breathed in deep through both nostrils,
feeling surprisingly privileged to be here to give a talk.

Modern-day Elefsina. Ancient Eleusis.

Nina Zdanevich left her twin girls and returned to Kiko’s room to find him already up and dressed, standing awkwardly by the end of the bed, as though he’d heard her coming and had wanted to look as if nothing was up—achieving, of course, exactly the opposite effect. She knew her son well enough not to approach him head on, however. ‘Good morning, sweetheart,’ she said.

‘Good morning, Mama.’

‘Did you sleep well?’ she asked.

‘Yes, thank you,’ he said. But he wouldn’t meet her eye.

She felt a lurch of dismay, she had to fight to keep her smile. She crouched and took his face between her hands, steered him gently until he met her eyes. ‘Did something happen, Kiko?’

‘No.’

She considered for a moment pressing him, but thought better of it. He was too imaginative and obstinate. Push him now, the lies would gloop out like cement from a mixer, and they’d soon set into stone, and she’d never get the truth. She nodded
as if she believed him and smiled broadly. ‘Great. Would you like to get some breakfast, then?’

‘Yes, please,’ he said quietly. He took her hand as they went to the door. He kept his eyes on the carpet, his voice nonchalant. ‘Will you be sleeping with the girls again tonight?’ he asked.

Tears pricked her eyes. She felt a moment of the most intense hatred: for herself, for her husband, for these loathsome Nergadzes, for the whole damned world. ‘No,’ she assured him. ‘I’ll be staying with you tonight.’

‘You promise?’

‘Yes, sweetheart. I promise.’

Knox drove into the town, turned left off the main road, following signs to the ancient site. Even the car park looked the part, a courtyard of haphazard cobblestones, with foundation blocks, plinths and pediments on either side, along with traces of ancient temples, stoas, altars and fountains. He couldn’t see Nico at first, but then he emerged through the half-open site gates, talking earnestly with an extravagantly tall black man who carried himself with a slight stoop, as though he wanted to deemphasise his height. He couldn’t have been far into his forties, yet he exuded an exaggeratedly
academic air, with his shabby suit and the gold-rimmed half-moon glasses that dangled on a string around his neck.

‘Sorry, I’m late,’ said Knox. ‘There was a pile up.’

‘So we’ve heard,’ said Nico gloomily. ‘Did it look like it would be cleared soon?’

‘That depends on your traffic police.’

‘Then we’re doomed,’ said Nico, trying unsuccessfully to make light of it. He gestured towards his companion. ‘Have you met Doctor Claude Franklin? A colleague from the university.’

‘I don’t believe so,’ said Knox.

‘Nor I,’ said Franklin. He had elegant long thin fingers to match his frame, so that Knox was mildly surprised by the firmness of his grip.

‘I mentioned him last night, I think,’ said Nico. ‘He knew Petitier when he worked here for the French school.’

‘Ah,’ said Knox, his interest growing. ‘You were friends?’

‘I’m not sure I’d go that far,’ said Franklin carefully. He spoke slowly, articulating clearly, as though accustomed to people struggling with his residual American accent. ‘We shared a house for a while, that’s all.’

‘You’ll excuse me,’ said Nico. ‘I have to see this damned crash for myself. In case I need to make arrangements.’

‘It’ll be fine,’ said Knox. ‘There’s plenty of time.’

But Nico only shook his head. ‘A conference on Eleusis in Eleusis over Easter week. I thought it was such a good idea. I thought I was
inspired
!’ He laughed savagely and kicked a stone skittering across the cobbles. ‘What was I thinking?’

Knox shrugged sympathetically, then turned back to Franklin. ‘So?’ he asked. ‘Was it just you and Petitier sharing?’

‘Hardly,’ smiled Franklin. ‘It was a typical university house: big and old and falling apart.’ He kept up his over-enunciation, turning to Knox whenever he spoke, making sure he could see his mouth at all times. ‘Four bedrooms. Two of us in each, sometimes three, depending on who was sleeping with who. Everyone welcome, Greek or foreign, as long as you could pay your way and enjoyed intelligent late-night conversations. Good times. I wrote my thesis there. On the Doric Invasion, no less.’

‘The Doric Invasion?’ asked Knox politely, as they entered the site itself, crossing a cobbled courtyard to an ancient path of weathered grey slabs that led to the sacred hill. In the quiet morning, it was hard to imagine the furious euphoric bustle of the ancient festivals themselves, when all Athens would have been here, exuberant and exalted. He was not a religious man, Knox, but he had a strong affection for anything that celebrated the wonder and strangeness of the world.

‘I know,’ laughed Franklin. ‘But it was in vogue at the time. Besides…’ He gave a little wave to indicate the colour of his skin. ‘I was a young black man striving to make my way in academia. In
Greek
academia. I needed to prove myself reliable. And what could be more reliable than arguing for the European origins of European culture?’ He steered Knox between two of Eleusis’s legendary symbols, the well beside which Demeter had mourned the loss of her daughter Persephone; and the Plutoneion, a grotto that had once led to the underworld. ‘I take it that you know the broad thesis of the Doric Invasion?’ he enquired.

‘Aryan tribes sweeping down from northwest Greece or maybe the Balkans,’ said Knox. ‘Overthrowing the Mycenaeans and bringing classical Greek culture with them.’

Franklin nodded. ‘A convincing scheme of history, with just one flaw.’

‘No evidence,’ suggested Knox.

‘No evidence,’ agreed Franklin. ‘Of course, I knew it was thin even at the time. But I didn’t think that mattered. All the minds I most admired were convinced of it, so it had to be true. After all, what reason could they possibly have had to lie? Or—more charitably—to fool themselves?’

‘And then Petitier came along?’ suggested Knox.

‘Yes,’ smiled Franklin. ‘Then Petitier came along.’

Edouard had woken at dawn, but he hadn’t yet risen, lying enervated in bed instead as his room grew light around him. He’d suffered plenty of anxiety as a father, but nothing like this. His wife and children hostages, and no way of assuring himself that they were safe. Plumbing burbled; doors banged. He kept telling himself to get up, but still he lay there. Footsteps finally outside his door and then a perfunctory knock and Boris came in, looked with disdain down at him. ‘Sandro Nergadze for you,’ he said, holding out his mobile.

‘For me?’

‘Yes,’ said Boris. ‘For you.’

‘Mr Nergadze,’ said Edouard, sitting up anxiously. ‘What is it? Has something happened to my children?’

‘No.’

‘You swear?’

‘Of course. Your family are fine. They’ve just gone out riding with my father, as it happens.’

‘What, then?’

A moment’s hesitation. ‘This fleece,’ he said. ‘I want you to tell me what it looks like.’

‘I’m not with you,’ frowned Edouard. ‘We’ll know what it looks like once we’ve seen it this morning.’

‘That isn’t good enough any more. I’ve promised my father a golden fleece by the end of this
weekend, and I’m going to give him one, whatever happens at your end.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Then listen. I’ve just ordered several kilos of gold. I’ve also arranged for an…
artisan
to come. Don’t worry; we can trust him. He’s done a lot of work for my family. He assures me he can make me a convincing fleece, as long as I can give him the right specifications to work from. Would it have been made exclusively of gold, for example, or would it include other materials? If so, which, and in what proportion? How heavy would it have been? What shape? What texture? What techniques did they know back then? Might they have used moulds, for example, or gold thread? How would it have handled? Could someone have worn it? What, in short, would it have looked like?’