The Lost Sisterhood (25 page)

But Animone needn’t remind Myrina of the danger; she was all too aware. Due to unfavorable winds, the journey, which should have taken
three days, had taken thrice that long. Trapped in this timeless whirl, Myrina found herself sucked into Paris’s charms further and further, to a point where she had almost no strength left to kick against the current. Every night, under pretext of tending to her healing wound, his hand would linger on her back a little longer, his breath would come a little closer…. Were it not for Animone, thanking him profusely before whisking Myrina away, some touch or sound would surely have passed between them that no words could undo.

As she lay among her sisters on the floor of the dining space at night, rolling and tossing on the waves of her own thoughts, Myrina felt the jackal’s jealous fury very keenly. And because she was determined not to pass any of its demonic bile to the man who had been so kind to her, she spent all day avoiding him, bravely suffering on her own.

But Paris, always on deck, always alert, looked as if the poison had found him all the same. His gaze sought Myrina wherever she was, drinking in the sight of her, and his thirst grew worse for every day he kept mistaking the contagion for a cure.

When the three Trojan ships arrived at the Bay of Argos at last, Myrina almost felt there was greater danger lurking on board than could possibly be awaiting them ashore. First to volunteer, she was outraged when Paris would not let her leave the ship, and stood glumly at the railing while he and his most trusted men rowed off to gather information about the harbor.

“But don’t you see it would be disastrous if anyone recognized us?” said Animone, standing next to her.

“Maybe.” Myrina followed the rowboat with her eyes as far as she could. “Maybe not. I still do not know what Paris’s plan is.”

As a matter of fact, she was not even sure Paris
had
a plan for their visit to Mycenae. Nor had he made her any promises. “First of all, we must determine if your sisters really are here at the palace,” he had said to her before leaving.

But when the men returned from their scouting trip, Myrina saw right away that Paris had news for her. “The Minos did not deceive us,” he said, drawing her aside. “King Agamemnon’s son has just returned
from a journey, and there is much talk of a black goddess to be gifted to a chieftain up the coast. We will move the ships to the harbor, for tonight we dine at court. And yes, you may come”—Paris held up a hand to delay Myrina’s raptures—”but this time, you will not be wearing my crown. You will be my slave, and believe me: I shall enjoy ordering you around.”

T
HE ROYAL COURT AT
Mycenae was situated inland, some miles from the harbor town of Argos. Between Argos and Mycenae lay a vast and open plain, ringed by protective hills and farmed in long, narrow strips. Now faded and dormant for the winter, the landscape gave every promise of summer ripeness, and Myrina found the contrast between this place and the scorched salt plains of her childhood so staggering she barely knew where to rest her eyes.

“You would like it here,” said Paris, looking at her over his shoulder. He sat just in front of her on his giant horse and seemed more preoccupied with her reaction to their surroundings than with the road ahead. “It is full of hunters and farmers and boisterous talk. Perhaps not as refined as the world you once knew, but I suspect you would feel right at home.”

Myrina merely smiled behind her head scarf, shifting her hands once again to touch him as little as possible as the beast below jostled her. She had resisted the scheme of sitting behind Paris, sharing his saddle, knowing she would enjoy the closeness more than she ought, but had eventually surrendered to common sense.

“To walk will take hours,” Paris had told her. “If you want to accompany me, it will be on my horse’s back. And your sisters”—he had nodded at Animone, Egee, and Pitana, who insisted on coming, too—”must suffer a similar indignity.” Smiling at her nervousness, he had dared her anyway. “You decide.”

Agamemnon’s royal residence was perched on a hillside above the Argos Plain, with the small but prosperous town of Mycenae kneeling at its feet. Heavy walls protected town and citadel alike, and in spite of
a steady stream of traffic going in and out of the central gate, there was a general atmosphere of fear and suspicion.

As the road grew steeper, Myrina felt her blood rushing ahead with anxious anticipation. Glancing at Animone, sitting behind Aeneas, she suspected her friend was equally filled with fears and misgivings, for she became more and more silent as they approached the gate to the citadel. Although only a sliver of Animone’s eyes was visible behind the head scarf, that glimpse was enough to convince Myrina her thoughts were not merely for the women they were hoping to find at King Agamemnon’s court. Animone was also thinking about the men they might recognize—the demons who had crushed their idyllic life in the temple, and who had surely never imagined that the evil shadow they had cast abroad would follow them home.

The royal residences at Mycenae were a rambling complex of buildings that had grown over time, not according to a master plan, but heeding the fancies and conveniences of subsequent dwellers. Where the palace of the Minos had been an elegant, angular place, there was something more organic about the court in Mycenae. To a bird flying in the sky, Myrina could not help thinking, it must all resemble a random cluster of white mushrooms sprouting from a putrescent source of nourishment in the ground.

Everywhere she looked she saw yet another set of steps or a covered alley leading away; the place was utterly disorienting. The Trojans, however, did not dally in confusion when they finally arrived at the upper terrace of the citadel. Both Paris and Aeneas knew their way around, for they had visited King Agamemnon several times before, to mend and strengthen the diplomatic ties between Mycenae and Troy. Leaving the horses with Pitana and Egee as agreed, they continued up a wide staircase to the central courtyard with Paris in front and his slaves Myrina and Animone at the rear, necks bent in submission.

Across the courtyard was the entrance to the throne room—a wide door set behind a portico and guarded by four strapping men with spears. Despite her promise to be discreet, Myrina could not help scrutinizing the guards as she walked past them into the building. Although
they resembled the temple raiders in stature, nothing about the four struck her as particularly familiar.

“Slave.” Paris paused on the threshold to address Myrina under his breath. “Know yourself. And control yourself.”

Then a herald came forward to greet them, with ardent bows and hands nervously clasped, and they finally stepped into the room the Trojans had gravely referred to earlier as “the lion’s cave.” For here sat the bearded king of Mycenae upon his throne, sometimes hungry for blood, sometimes not. He was ever surrounded by men who would do anything—kill anyone—to please their master. To the visitors who came to see him, regardless of their errand, Agamemnon and his cronies truly were like a pride of lions; no one bold or foolhardy enough to enter their cave could be sure to leave alive.

The royal throne was hardly more than a chair among others; the king of Mycenae needed neither pomp nor elevation to be formidable. All the seats in the room, Agamemnon’s included, encircled a fire pit large enough to hold an entire ox, and this was precisely what was turning on a spit over the flames—a blackened bull with the horns still attached.

“Paris!” exclaimed Agamemnon, raising his chalice in a friendly greeting. Whatever he said next, however, Myrina did not understand, nor could she follow Paris’s elaborate response. It was all in the language she had heard only once before, during a night and morning of unspeakable horror. The cadence of it, to her ears, was the most hideous sound in the world.

Sitting on a bench cushioned with woven wool, Paris motioned for his men to sit beside him—all except Aeneas, who settled down with Myrina and Animone on the stone floor behind the couch, in order to be able to whisper translations whenever he thought the conversation worthwhile.

In the beginning, little more was exchanged than polite remarks and harmless inquiries. Myrina looked discreetly around the room, trying to make out the faces of the men gathered around the king’s fire. Many were as old and gray as he, but a few struck her as painfully
familiar. More often than not, after nervously following the line of Myrina’s stare, Animone would bend her head and nod with heavy certainty.

By the time meat and wine were carried around, Myrina was reasonably sure at least four of the fifteen Greeks in the throne room had been part of the raid on the Temple of the Moon Goddess. She remembered their faces and gestures from the beach, where they had argued about the loot and scuffled over the priestesses. When she saw Animone wincing at the entrance of yet another man, entering the hall from a back room, she instinctively knew her friend remembered more than just his ignoble face.

“Now they speak of your country,” whispered Aeneas, leaning toward Myrina. “My master asked the king whether he has seen any evidence of the rumored drought with his own eyes, and the king says his son just returned from Lake Tritonis. He says that because of low water they had to drag the ships overland to return to the sea. He calls it a region of monstrous serpents and ugly witches.” Aeneas fell silent for a while, his eyes brimming with embarrassment. And on the couch in front of them, Myrina saw Paris stiffen as he listened to Agamemnon’s tale.

“What is he saying?” she urged Aeneas.

The Trojan hesitated. “He says the women of the region are stubborn and haughty. He is shaking his head at his son, the prince, for bringing home so many of them.” Aeneas nodded at the fire pit. “The prince sits right over there. Can you see him? Maybe, if you lean over a bit.”

When Myrina moved forward to espy Agamemnon’s son on the other side of the fire pit, she saw a face she would never forget: that of the man who had butchered the High Priestess and held up her severed head in triumph.

“Now my master says the king’s tale has made him curious,” Aeneas went on. “He is asking if he may see for himself one of these strange women. And the king—” But Aeneas did not need to interpret further. Agamemnon snapped his fingers, and a hunched servant galloped away
only to return almost immediately with a young woman in a white dress.

Myrina recognized her from her gait alone. Fumbling and uncertain, the girl clung to the arm of the servant, depending on him to lead her through the unfamiliar room. The sight made Myrina flinch with pain and relief all at once, for the girl was Lilli.

O king, my king how shall I weep for you? What can I say out of my heart of pity? Caught in this spider’s web you lie, your life gasped out in indecent death, struck prone to this shameful bed by your lady’s hand of treachery.

—A
ESCHYLUS,
Agamemnon

KNOSSOS, CRETE

P
OPPING BY MYCENAE TO HAVE A QUICK CHAT WITH MR. TELEMAK
hos did not turn out to be quite the first-class experience Rebecca had promised. No sooner had I agreed to go than my friend disappeared for the better part of an hour; when she came back she was dressed in a nifty little flight jacket and a tight leather helmet with goggles.

“You didn’t think I would do it, did you?” she grinned, referring to one of our many late-night discussions about the pros and cons of flying one’s own airplane. “Well, I finally got my pilot’s license. Or rather, I am getting one as soon as Stavros gets his printer fixed.”

“That’s tremendous news, Bex,” I said, foreboding gnawing at my imagination. “I hope you’re not planning to actually take off somewhere.”

“Absolutely!” She ushered me outside and locked the door behind us. “It’s really the only way to go, in my opinion. You can fly directly from dig to dig and never have to deal with the modern world at all.”

After we had picked up Nick, I saw what she meant. In her van, Rebecca took us on a short, bumpy ride down a gravel road, at the end of which stood a derelict hangar with three propeller planes parked outside. Two looked airworthy; the third struck me as something that belonged in a museum, with a
DO NOT TOUCH
sign hanging from one wing.

“I rent it through Stavros,” explained Rebecca, parking the van next to the hangar. “It needs a little love”—she nodded at the dilapidated plane—”but the price is right.”

“Who is this Stavros?” I asked, still too shaken to think straight. “And why is he trying to kill you?”

But Rebecca had already jumped from the van, leaving the door wide open. Nick followed her without a word of protest. So, there I sat, alone with my misgivings, asking myself how an impulsive flight with a doomed airplane could possibly bring me closer to Granny. What spurred me on was the knowledge that I still had unfinished business with Nick. Never mind the money he was going to repay me, which I was determined to split with Rebecca—no, it was my conviction that somewhere in an office in Dubai sat a top-secret folder with the answers to all my Amazon questions.

Rebecca and I had spent a good half hour on her computer earlier that day, looking for information about the Aqrab Foundation. What little we found was enough to fuel my fears and confirm what James had already told me. Violence, shootings, lawsuits … the Aqrab approach to archaeology ran counter to everything I had ever held dear in the world of ancient studies. Nowhere did I see a celebration of the beauty and poetry of the past; instead, it was all about money and ownership.

Rebecca and I were so addled by our findings we nearly missed the—for me at least—most relevant news item. Not only had the Aqrab Foundation been suing British museums for years, claiming these had knowingly purchased looted artifacts from the Middle East, but the Moselane Manor Collection had recently joined the list of targets in a veritable blitz of what sounded to me like truly far-fetched accusations.
I now understood why James had warned me, just a few hours earlier, not to let Nick and his ilk “get into my head.”

The discovery had added considerably to my already confused state. Had I somehow become an unwitting Ping-Pong ball bouncing back and forth between al-Aqrab and Lord Moselane? Was that why James had taken such an interest in my whereabouts, to the point of tracing Nick’s phone and ascertaining that I was in Algeria? I barely knew what to think.

“Hello? Earth to Bronze Age.” Rebecca cut short my unhappy reflections by sticking her head into the van. “The Oracle is waiting. And yes, you may die, but at least you will be a martyr for friendship.”

F
OR ALL ITS VIRTUES—GETTING
off the ground and actually flying being the most significant—Stavros’s eight-passenger wonder was alarmingly shaky, and the uneven clamor of its engine was absolutely hellish. “It’s because he gutted it!” Rebecca yelled when we were aloft at last, her voice nearly drowned out by the roar and rattle of the claptrap plane. “It’ll get better when we reach cruising altitude.”

“Speaking of cruising altitude,” I yelled back, hugging my life vest, “are you not supposed to be in radio contact with some … authority?”

“I don’t see why we should.” Rebecca checked her instruments, seemingly in control. “We’re literally flying under the radar. And in the off chance we meet another plane, there are basic rules. It’s all wonderfully straightforward.”

Nick was understandably laconic during the flight, and yet gave the impression of being at ease. He had taken the seat right behind Rebecca but didn’t speak to her at all; he merely observed what she was doing and occasionally glanced out the windows. But then, if I were to believe what I had just read on the Internet, even a rickety plane flown by an amateur would be a safer environment than what Nick was accustomed to as an operative for al-Aqrab. Perhaps, I thought, studying him as I had so often, with reluctant curiosity, he had not even been lying when he said he needed a vacation.

By the time we finally landed on the Argos Plain, only my respect for Rebecca’s dignity prevented me from kissing the ground. I was still light-headed when we were picked up by Mr. Telemakhos, and it didn’t help that part of me remained hesitant to meet this eccentric man. For the past three years I had dodged Rebecca’s attempts to introduce the two of us, hoping the man she had nicknamed “the Oracle” would eventually get the hint. But clearly, despite my best efforts, Fate was determined to have us meet.

“Welcome to Mycenae, barbarians!” boomed Mr. Telemakhos, slamming the door to his rusty convertible. He was a sunbaked, bald-headed hulk of a man, whose natural authority was not the least bit compromised by his open, tie-dyed shirt or the golden necklace meandering through his jungle of white chest hair. “My little Hermes.” He waited for Rebecca to come to him before embracing her. “What did you bring me today?” But before she could reply, he cast me a look of triumph and said, “Diana Morgan. Here at last.”

I opened my mouth to say something suitably conciliatory, but there was no need. Mr. Telemakhos had already moved on to Nick, a wide smile of recognition spreading across his face. “You’re back!”

Both Rebecca and I were stunned; Nick looked positively gobsmacked. “I’ve never been here before—” he began.

“Yes, you have!” insisted Mr. Telemakhos, frowning now. “You came here to ask me questions, and we talked all night. Don’t you remember?”

Obsessed with the memory and determined to be right, Mr. Telemakhos drove us directly back to his home: a fieldstone bungalow on a gravelly hillside, facing the ruins of ancient Mycenae. Muttering to himself in Greek, he went ahead of us into the living room and then returned, almost immediately, carrying with him a large scrapbook. “Aha!” He set down the book on the kitchen counter atop a cutting board with bread crumbs. “Now, let’s see.”

Beginning at the end, Mr. Telemakhos worked his way backward through the hefty volume, scrutinizing its every photo and caption. The further he got, the more impatient he became. “I know I’m right!” he insisted. “It’s right here somewhere.”

When he finally found what he was looking for, however, his delight deflated. The photo was thirty years old. Furthermore, despite the washed-out colors, it was evident that the young man pictured in it bore only a vague resemblance to Nick. He was handsome, certainly, but his features were darker, his expression more remote. “Chris Hauser,” said Mr. Telemakhos, poring over the handwritten caption. “From Baltimore. Do you know him?”

Nick shook his head but looked uncomfortable. I couldn’t blame him. It would seem he had risked his life flying with Rebecca for an appointment with a madman—not to mention the ten grand he owed me. I couldn’t help thinking it was all beginning to add up and turn red … even to someone working for a billionaire.

Soon thereafter, Nick slipped outside to make his usual dozen phone calls. Half an hour or so later, when his absence was becoming tiresome, I went in search of him and found him behind the garage, striding around through the tall weeds with his shirt open. “Don’t even whisper it to the grass,” I heard him mutter into the phone. “That’s totally off the record.”

I backed up a bit, hoping he hadn’t seen me. Standing just around the corner, I heard his next words with gut-wrenching clarity: “Well, apparently it’s real. People have been looking for it for three thousand years. The experts I’m working with are confident we’re on the right track.” And then, a moment later, “That I can’t tell you. But they say it’s bigger than anything we’ve ever found before. They refer to it as ‘the Amazon Hoard.’ “

Almost sick to my stomach with shock and confusion, I leaned against the crumbling wall, anxious to hear more. But that was it. After a few added pleasantries, Nick hung up and made another call, this time in Arabic.

I returned to the house in a state of helpless rage. How many times had he lied to me now? When I told him about the ancient
Historia Amazonum
manuscript in the car leaving Algeria, I could have sworn he had never heard about the Amazon Hoard before. He knew about the Istanbul collector, Grigor Reznik, yes, but not about the treasure. That was two days ago. Either he had brilliantly concealed the fact that he already
did
know, or something extraordinary had happened between then and now. But what?

C
ONVINCED MY SUDDEN MALAISE
had been caused by hunger, Mr. Telemakhos rushed us all to an early dinner at a restaurant down the road, called King Menelaos. It was run by a distant but friendly cousin, and Mr. Telemakhos maintained his own exclusive table on the patio, piled high with newspapers and discarded lottery coupons to discourage tourists or anyone else from sitting down just there.

Hair sprouting as vigorously from his open shirt as it must once have done from his head, Mr. Telemakhos insisted on ordering for us, claiming he knew precisely what we needed. “A young man like you,” he said, patting Nick on the shoulder with nostalgic camaraderie, “must eat meat. Remember that. Lots of meat. Otherwise”—he leaned closer to impart his wisdom behind a folded-up newspaper—”you won’t have the energy to keep the ladies happy. Eh?” He chuckled at their secret understanding, then added, more gravely, “That’s what happened to Menelaos. He didn’t eat his meat, and couldn’t hold on to his woman.” Mr. Telemakhos sighed and shook his head, reaching out for his ouzo glass. “It happens to the best of us.”

“His wife was the beautiful Helen,” interjected Rebecca, mostly to Nick, “who ran away with the carnivorous Paris and started the Trojan War.” She smiled, anxious to maintain the merry tone. Mr. Telemakhos was recently divorced, she had told us earlier, and desperately needed some cheering up.

“A toast to Menelaos”—our host held out his glass—”who didn’t realize what he had until she was gone. Helen, that two-timing bitch.”

“To the vegetarian,” said Nick, raising his own glass, “who launched a thousand ships.”

I glanced at him, amazed at his cool. Here he was, after just jamming a knife into my back, looking as if he didn’t have a care in the world. If the beautiful Helen had been a two-timing bitch, what was the number on Nick?

“And this,” Rebecca went on, passing him a bowl of caper berries, “as you have already guessed, is where Menelaos launched them from. Big brother Agamemnon’s pad—the bedrock of Greek power in the Heroic Age.”

“Heroic! Pffff.” Mr. Telemakhos batted away the word as if it were an annoying fly. “Man will be man; kill first and explain later. That is why we have this big brain, you see.” He clutched his head as if he meant to pull it right off. “It is so we can sit around and tell nice stories afterward. Homer was good at that.”

“Apparently,” interjected Rebecca, who had clearly heard the rant before, “the beautiful Helen never existed. She was a plot device, meant to shine a romantic light on the destruction of Troy.”

“Sorry to slow things down,” said Nick, leaning back on the chair as far as humanly possible, “but where exactly
was
Troy?”

I groaned inwardly. Was this more of his act? Rebecca, however, was only too happy to plunge into one of the greatest archaeological questions of all times. “Even to this day,” she told Nick, “after decades of excavations at Hisarlik, some of my colleagues are still not convinced we have the answer.”

“Hisarlik is in Turkey,” I added, “on the northwest coast of Anatolia, right where the Aegean Sea meets the Sea of Marmara.” I pointed over my shoulder. “Basically over there. Four days by boat in Homer’s day.”

“And that was precisely the problem.” Rebecca leaned forward to reclaim her narrative. “Location, location, location. Troy was prime real estate for anyone who wanted to dominate the Aegean Sea.”

“The Trojan War was never personal,” Mr. Telemakhos chimed in, looking as concerned as if he were personally to blame for what had happened back then. “We, the Greeks, were building a commercial empire, and Troy was in the way.” He stabbed a few slices of sausage and transferred them to his plate. “Call it what you want, but don’t call us heroes.”

After dinner we took a moonlit stroll through the Mycenaean ruins, marveling at the masonry on this seemingly remote hillside. The
contrast between these massive walls and the completely unfortified Knossos palace in Crete was striking. It was hard to believe the two civilizations had been so close both in time and space.

“The Greeks took control of Crete sometime around 1450
B.C.E.,”
said Rebecca. “Traditionally, the Knossos palace was thought to have been devastated by fire only half a century later, but there has been intense debate over the dating of this fire, and
some
people”—her raised eyebrows suggested she was one of those people—”are ready to swear it actually didn’t happen until around 1200
B.C.E.
Take for example the Pylos tablets—”