The Lost Sisterhood (44 page)

By comparison, Paris wore only light plates of armor, choosing to protect himself by holding a shield rather than wearing one. This left him more vulnerable, but, presumably, also more limber. On his head sat a solid bronze helmet with a half-moon crest of horsehair, but his movements were so free and untroubled it looked as if he barely knew he was wearing it.

Only when the two men planted their spears in the ground to show they were ready did it occur to Myrina she had never before seen Paris use real weapons against anyone. She knew he trained every morning with several different men, and had often seen him sparring with Aeneas and Dares on the ship, but it had never been more than a game….

Myrina’s musings were interrupted by agitated voices.

Agamemnon had arrived.

In a gesture of friendship, King Priam had offered the Lord of Mycenae a comfortable seat on the Scaean Tower, but Agamemnon had politely declined, citing the plight of a grieving father. The man who had just arrived at the battleground in his two-horse chariot, however, looked more the warlord than the father, for he was dressed in a radiant bronze panoply, as if he himself was entering the duel alongside Menelaos.

With Agamemnon present at last, the fight could begin.

Someone pitched a stone into the middle of the circle, and as soon as it had landed—throwing up a small cloud of dust as it did—the two fighters began circling each other, their spears poised to strike. As if to demonstrate the advantage of carrying no shield, Menelaos tossed his spear from one hand to the other a few times, apparently equally capable with them both.

Watching from the tower, Myrina remembered one of the rules Paris had taught her: Always make sure they underestimate you. Judging from Menelaos’s posturing, the Spartan was already making his first mistake, thinking himself untouchable in his armored suit. But as soon as he charged, she realized Menelaos had good reason to think himself the champion, for he moved with such swiftness and power his initial thrusts had Paris stumbling backward, barely able to block them with his shield.

Strangling a cry with her hands, Myrina watched with growing panic as the Spartan kept coming at Paris, over and over, thrusting from every possible angle. Yet Paris kept moving, as adroitly as ever, ducking and jumping to avoid the stabbing spearhead.

A heavy hand on the shoulder reminded Myrina she was not alone in her woe. “Have faith, woman,” said King Priam, a strange smile
around his unsmiling lips. “That is my son. The finest warrior Troy ever saw.”

For all his power and determination, Menelaos was unable to finish the duel as quickly as he had undoubtedly anticipated. It was not long before he had to pause and wipe sweat from his eyes, and there was a collective cheer from the Trojans on the wall when Paris used the opening to turn the fight around. As Menelaos stumbled backward across the sand, Paris dealt him blow after blow with the spear … but the armored suit withstood them all.

Next to her, Myrina could feel King Priam anticipating every move Paris made. And for every time his spearhead was foiled by the flawless plates of Menelaos’s panoply, the king made another grunt of frustration.

After these initial offensives, both men stepped back to catch their breath. They now knew there would be no swift end to their fight, and when they began circling each other once more, dealing a blow here, then there, it was clear they were mapping each other’s strengths and weaknesses.

Occasionally a charge would be followed by a brilliant, rapid exchange, but more often than not, Menelaos would duck and try his luck at Paris’s legs—earning for himself nothing but howls of displeasure from the crowd. “Foul, foul,” muttered King Priam, his hands pressed white against the parapet. “Get rid of that spear.”

It was as if the son heard his father’s order. For when Menelaos’s spearhead became briefly lodged in the leather edge of Paris’ shield, the latter did not hesitate, but swiveled the shield so fast and so forcefully Menelaos lost his grip on the wooden pole.

Without even pausing to disentangle the two, Paris tossed both shield and spear outside the circle and immediately went for Menelaos with his own spear. Aiming high, he was clearly looking to strike in between the armored neck and the helmet, but the need for precision compromised his momentum, and when he finally thrust the spear forward, Menelaos was able to bring it down over his armored thigh and break the pole in half.

“Oh no!” whimpered Myrina, covering her eyes.

At which King Priam turned to her and said, “Look up, woman, and be with your husband in spirit. It is far from over.”

Indeed, after a brief retreat, both men drew their swords and began their slow dance once more, this time a little closer. Myrina knew Paris’s sword well and had always thought it forbiddingly long and heavy; Menelaos’s blade, however, was even longer, and although he once again—clearly to provoke—shifted it back and forth a few times, it was evident he needed both hands to wield it.

Had Paris followed the instructions he had given her on the beach in Ephesus, he would have let Menelaos charge and charge again, waiting for the right moment to catch him off-balance. But it soon became clear to Myrina that Paris had drawn up quite a different code for himself—a code that placed honor over safety.

Lunging at Menelaos over and over, Paris gave him no chance to make use of his giant blade. Soon, the crowd began to jeer at the Spartan for being too slow, and—perhaps in desperation—Menelaos began doing what he had done before: lunging at Paris’s thighs, which were the least protected part of him.

“Enough!” sneered King Priam, shaking his head. “Finish him.”

And Paris did.

Pausing, as if to catch his breath, he let Menelaos pull back his sword to prepare a mighty strike … so far back it took no more than a foot against his armored midsection to make the man topple over backward and fall down with a thud that could be heard even at the top of the tower.

Suddenly, it was over. Menelaos’s colossal sword came skidding through the gravel, and Paris stood over him, holding the point of his blade against the Spartan’s neck. But he did not kill him. Despite the frantic cries all around, Paris merely kicked sand in Menelaos’s face, sheathed his sword, and walked over to pick up the rock that had been tossed into the circle to start the duel. Kissing the rock, he held it up in triumph, his helmet flashing in the sun, and looked straight at the top of the Scaean Tower as if he wanted Myrina to be the first to know.

Tumbling down the stairs, breathless with jubilance, she found him
in the palace courtyard, surrounded by cheering supporters who had pulled off his helmet and were splashing him with wine, while teasing him for not killing Menelaos. “Marriage has made you soft!” yelled the mighty Dares, punching Paris on the shoulder. “He would not have spared
you—
”

Paris laughed, pulling Myrina into his arms as freely as if they had been alone. “You are wrong!” he yelled back, sweat and wine dripping from his hair. “Marriage has made me hard.” And then he kissed her, much to the delight of his mates, and picked her up in his arms the way he did when they were alone. “Fear not,” he said with a grin to Dares. “We will have our feast. Go ahead, I will join you soon.”

But when he started toward the palace, Paris suddenly stumbled and fell to his knees, nearly dropping Myrina on the ground.

“What is it?” she exclaimed, grasping his face, which had all at once become deadly pale. “Are you hurt?”

“No.” Paris struggled to get back on his feet. “He barely touched me. Come”—he took her arm—”give an old man a hand.” But again, his legs refused to carry him, and he fell back down with a groan of frustration.

It did not take long for the others to realize something was wrong.

“Shade!” cried someone. “He needs shade. And water.”

By joint effort, the men half-dragged, half-carried Paris into the Temple of the Earth Shaker, which was the nearest building to where they stood. Here, they put him down directly on the stone floor and fanned him as best they could. “Water is coming,” said Aeneas. “Just lie still.”

“Enough of this nonsense,” growled Paris, trying to sit up. “What are you? A bunch of old nurses? Don’t let my wife see me like this—”

“Oh please,” cried Myrina, weighing in with the others. “Lie down and be calm. Tell me where it hurts.”

Paris grimaced. “It doesn’t hurt. But … I can’t feel my legs.”

Within moments, they had stripped the armor from his shins and pulled off his sandals, hoping to restore his strength. Then suddenly, Aeneas picked up something from the floor and said, “What is this?”

It was a small, polished bone fragment that looked like the tip of a broken arrowhead, except that it was curiously hollow, with a tiny opening at the end.

“Damnation!” exclaimed Dares. “It is a poisoned dart.”

After a quick search, they discovered an oozing puncture on the back of Paris’s heel, and Myrina was shocked to see the gravity in everyone’s faces—it told her they had seen men hit by poisoned darts before and had learned to fear the worst.

“You stay here,” said Dares, patting Paris on the shoulder, “and don’t move. It’s just the heel; I think you’ll be fine. And don’t worry.” He got up, gesturing for the others to follow. “You will get your vengeance. We are going to ride ahead and give those bastards their poison right back. Damn Greeks and their tricks. No doubt Agamemnon ordered this.” He paused, his face drawn tight with emotion. “Join us when you can.”

The men disappeared in a rustle of angry energy, and Myrina and Paris were left alone. “Lie down, my love,” she begged him, stuffing her shawl underneath his head. “Do you feel any better?”

Paris lay back obediently. Then he took a deep breath, forcing the air in and out. “A little.”

“Would you like me to fetch the servants?” she asked, stroking his pale cheeks. “Your father?”

“No.” He tried to touch her face, but could barely control his hand. “They will come soon enough.”

“Please tell me you will be well,” begged Myrina, kissing his hand.

“Come lie with me.” Paris was able to open his arm so she could rest her head on his shoulder. Then he tried to take another deep breath, but his chest was too heavy. “Will you stay with me,” he whispered, touching his lips to her forehead, “just like this, until the end of time?”

Only when she nodded did he close his eyes.

To me it is clear that you are very rich, and clear that you are the king of many men; but the thing that you asked me I cannot say of you yet.

—H
ERODOTUS,
Histories

ISTANBUL, TURKEY

I
AM NOT SURE HOW LONG
I
STOOD THERE ON THE PAVEMENT IN MY
bare feet, staring at the empty space where James had parked the car. Had they really left without me? I couldn’t believe it. Yes, James had been furious with me, and had likely grasped that his vindictive strike against Nick had forever smothered my regard for him … but how could he bring himself to leave me behind? Or rather, how could Rebecca have let him do it?

Partly in denial, I walked back to Reznik’s house to check whether maybe Rebecca was still there, waiting for me. But the tall gate was now closed, and apart from a few security guards stalking around with walkie-talkies, all was quiet. As I stood there, swaying with indecision, I heard one of the guards say, in French, into his radio, “No, there’s no one here. They’ve left.” And then, clearly in response to a question, “Yes, sir. The blue
and
the green woman.”

Breathless with fear, I withdrew into the shadow of a dense vine spilling over the fence … then, as soon as the guards were facing the other way, I ran down the street as fast as I could, my bare feet thankfully soundless against the concrete slabs of the sidewalk.

If Rebecca was no longer at the house, she
must
have gone with James. In fact, it was beginning to make sense. The guards had started asking inconvenient questions about the theft of the
Historia Amazonum,
and James and Bex had understandably fled. It was even possible they were circling the neighborhood in the Aston Martin, trying to find me.

And so I kept walking, clutching my precious evening bag to my chest. The chase and all the anxiety had made me hot and sweaty for a while; now the cool November evening struck my naked shoulders in full force, making my teeth chatter. By the time a taxi finally pulled up next to me, I knew I had to get in. “Thanks for saving me,” I said to the taxi driver, as we sped down the street, hot air blasting from every vent. “I didn’t realize Istanbul gets this cold in the winter.”

The man sighed and shook his head. “After Reznik’s parties, there is always a woman crying outside. Where do you want to go?”

I peeled off the satin gloves and wiggled my numb fingers. As soon as I found a pay phone, I would have to call James and Rebecca and clear things up. “The airport, please,” I said to the driver, well knowing there might not be any flights to England before the morning. But at least, I figured, if I spent the night at the airport, I would be first in line.

If Reznik was really as connected as Nick had led me to believe, it wouldn’t take him long to piece things together and start suspecting Diana Morgan of having played a part in the theft of the
Historia Amazonum.
When that happened, I had better be thousands of miles away from Istanbul.

Taking out my passport with trembling fingers, I checked yet again that it was really mine. With this crucial document in hand, I would have no problem buying a plane ticket; the only challenge was to stay clear of Reznik’s goons until the plane took off.

As I flicked absentmindedly through the passport, I became aware of a yellow Post-it sticker hidden among the pages. Two words were scribbled on it in capital letters: “GO HOME.” No exclamation point, just those two words, written with a black ballpoint pen.

I stared at the sticker for a while, trying to see beyond the rather obvious message. Then it occurred to me to check my wallet. Opening it, I braced myself for the sight of empty card slots, but to my amazement
everything was still there. In fact, the pouch that had held but a few creased pound notes when I left England two weeks before was now bursting from the addition of two thousand euro in crisp new bills.

Dumbfounded, I took out my diary to see if it held any other clues to the objectives of the people who had held my things hostage all this time. And there it was again, the same unmistakable message, scribbled across the empty space of the week ahead: “GO HOME.”

I felt myself bristling at these people’s arrogance. So, they wanted me to return to England and were even prepared to facilitate my departure with money and the return of stolen objects … but had they given me a single reason to trust them, whoever they were? They still had my laptop and my phone, were still responsible for the bump on my forehead, and their agenda was still obscure to me. Unless …

Sitting back in the cold leather seat, I summed up what I knew.

There was a treasure at stake, and I was already acquainted with two of the hunters. Reznik was after the Amazon Hoard, and so was Nick. The fact that my beguiling would-be lover had stolen the
Historia Amazonum
from Reznik amply cemented his guilt. But who were the women in the silver Audi who’d robbed me in Nafplio? Did they actually, as Nick had suggested, work for Reznik? Or could they possibly be … Amazons? I felt a prickle of excitement at the thought, as crazy as it was.
If
they were Amazons, was it possible that their objective had always been the same: to prevent Reznik and Nick—among others—from finding their treasure? Was this why they had kept bullying me? To stop me from helping Nick?

I sat quietly for a while, staring into the oncoming headlights of inevitability. It was a bizarre, infuriating sensation—the notion that I had been moved around on a titanic chessboard without knowing whether I was black or white—and as I sat there in the taxi, shivering again, I felt an irresistible urge to rebel against the game.

The jackal had tried to warn me many times, hadn’t it? But in my hurry to placate everyone around me I’d ignored its silent vibes. Now it was stirring again, having recalculated our position, and whispered in my ear that I could not go home yet—not until I had the
Historia Amazonum
in my hands. So, the Amazons didn’t want me on their side.
Go home, they said. Well, too bad. In my agitated state I could almost convince myself that this one manuscript would redeem all my tribulations … that it would lead me to Granny at last … but I also had to admit that part of the attraction was its current owner, whose coordinates were scrawled on a folded-up check in my purse. Even if Nick had not stolen the
Historia,
he still had something I wanted badly, namely my heart back in one piece. How exactly I was going to wrest the two from him I wasn’t yet sure, but I had to try.

T
HE AQRAB FOUNDATION SAFE
house was not, as I had imagined, located in the heart of a medieval maze near the Grand Bazaar. It was, it turned out, a suite at the Çira?an Palace Hotel—a building which, according to my rerouted taxi driver, had formerly been the summer residence for Turkish sultans.

Notwithstanding my missing shoes, capsized hair, and peacock face paint, it was probably fortunate I was wearing my party dress as I was escorted through the hotel vestibule and into the separate palace reception area by a liveried footman. With ceilings easily as tall as those of the Sheldonian Theatre—scene of my doctoral graduation in May—the vestibule was clad in white marble with accents of dark wood hemming the upstairs galleries. Above, an enormous chandelier hung—it seemed—from heaven itself.

Just then, as I approached the reception desk, I saw a familiar figure emerging from an elevator. He had grown a mustache since I last saw him, and acquired a pair of tinted glasses, but I had spent enough time with Mr. Ludwig to recognize him anywhere.

He was not alone. Next to him walked an athletic man wearing a red baseball cap and a fleece vest, whose face was strangely familiar to me.

No sooner had I crept behind a flower arrangement before it hit me: The eyes underneath the baseball cap had stared out at me from a photo in a scrapbook only the week before. Obviously, the face had aged a few decades, but there was no mistaking the tense jaw and piercing gaze of
Chris Hauser from Baltimore—the man who had long ago convinced Mr. Telemakhos that the jackal bracelet was of Amazon origin.

It took me a while to calm my heart. Coming here tonight, it seemed, had enabled me to spot one of the hidden players behind Nick, and although I was still too frazzled to draw any useful conclusions from Chris Hauser’s presence, I knew there was no turning back now.

I deliberately waited a while before approaching the reception desk to call Nick and let him know I was there; it would not do to make him suspect my arrival had overlapped with the departure of his two cronies. And yet, when he finally came down the grand staircase to greet me, I saw in his expression he was wondering exactly how much I knew. It was certainly not the face of someone anticipating a night of carefree carnality; rather, Nick looked like a man who had had one too many surprise visitors already. I knew him well enough to see that he was frustrated, and the fact that he was still wearing the dark suit more than suggested he had not had a moment to himself since returning to the hotel.

“Hello, Goddess.” He kissed both of my cheeks while his eyes scanned the room. Then he put a hand behind my back and escorted me toward the elevators, nodding at the receptionist on the way. “
Sa?olun,
Gökhan.”

That was all it took, Nick’s nearness and the gentle pressure of his palm, and I nearly forgot that I was not there to surrender to him; quite the contrary.

“Rough evening?” he asked, as the elevator doors closed.

“Reznik certainly knows how to party,” I said, trying to conceal a rusty tear in one of my gloves. “You shouldn’t have left so early.”

Nick looked down. “You lost your shoes again.”

“Did I?” Trying to make light of it, I lifted up my skirt as if to see for myself. “I hadn’t even noticed.”

The elevator doors opened again.

“After you,” said Nick, holding out an arm.

We walked down the gallery together. Even though we had gone up only one floor, the enormous chandelier that had seemed so distant
from the lobby now gave the impression of being within reach, and I felt an onrush of vertigo. Forcing my eyes from the blinding splendor, I chastised myself for being so easily overawed. Here I was, being seduced yet again; it was time to buck up and rally my Amazonian self.

Coming around to the far side of the gallery we arrived at a fortified double door, which Nick had not bothered to lock. “I haven’t promised to stay,” I said, before stepping inside. “I just wanted to say a proper good-bye.”

As soon as the door had closed behind us, Nick took my hand, pulled down the glove, and pressed his lips to my naked wrist right beneath the jackal bracelet. “Good-byes are unpredictable. They can take all night.” Then he turned up the lights to reveal a sumptuous parlor with three tall windows framing the night sky over the Bosphorus. “You must be hungry.”

I saw him glancing at a half-open door, through which a dinner table with used china and crumpled napkins was just visible. “Not really,” I said, pretending I hadn’t noticed the debris of his previous visitors. “But I’d love to get rid of this face paint.”

Nick nodded, seemingly relieved, and took me into a plush Ottoman-style bedroom with an en suite bathroom. “This is all yours,” he said. “If you need anything”—he pointed at a gilded rotary telephone on the bedside table—”just call housekeeping and tell them what you want.”

I smiled in response, thinking: If only it was that easy … but he had already left, closing the guest room door firmly behind him.

A
FTER A QUICK FACE
wash I sat on my bed for a bit, pondering the situation.

It was clear to me Nick was besieged by a whole host of problems this evening, and I was bursting with curiosity to know what had transpired before my arrival. Had Mr. Ludwig and Chris Hauser been dispatched by the Dubai office in order to pick up the
Historia Amazonum
and bring it back to Mr. al-Aqrab before Nick—accustomed as he was to racing down harm’s way—risked losing it again? If that were the
case, I thought with a twinge of worry, I had already failed in my recovery mission.

Turning the door handle as quietly as I could, I peeked out discreetly only to discover that Nick was nowhere in sight. But a majestic door on the other side of the vast parlor was ajar, and I had a feeling that was where I would find him. Tiptoeing across the plush carpet, I listened for familiar sounds and was rewarded with a rustling of paper. After that … silence.

Despite everything, I was stupefied. Was this the man who, only two hours earlier, had ravished me on a rooftop and invited me to stop by his hotel for more? Even if Ludwig and Hauser had been the bearers of bad news, I couldn’t help feeling Nick was displaying a most unexpected lack of interest in my presence.

I tapped on the door.

A few moments went by before Nick finally appeared with a slightly haunted look, his shirt buttons all undone.

“Hello again,” I said, striking a seductive pose. “Aren’t you supposed to give me a tour?”

He looked bemused. “What would you like to see?”

“How about
this
room?” I pushed past him through the door, my eyes already on the prowl. It was, as I had assumed, the master bedroom—a fantastic space, definitely worthy of a Dubai foundation with a golf course on the roof. But even more important: On top of the sultan-size bed lay a big envelope with sheets of paper spilling out.

Seeing he had already caught me staring at it, I said casually, “You got your marching orders already. I thought you said you weren’t expecting them until morning.”

“I wasn’t,” volunteered Nick, walking over to remove the large envelope from the bed, either to prevent me from taking a closer look or to make space for something other than business. “But things don’t always go according to plan, do they?” He put the papers away in a drawer, then turned toward me with an attempt at a smile. “ ‘It’s all a chequer-board of nights and days … where Destiny with men for pieces plays. Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays. And one by one back in the closet lays.’ Omar Khayyám.”