The Lost Sisterhood (59 page)

THE ISTROS RIVER

T
ALLA WAS BORN UNDER THE FULL MOON.

She was healthy and hungry, and had her father’s eyes. For days and days, Myrina did nothing but lie with her in her arms, looking into those little eyes whenever they were open. “Have you seen him?” she would whisper, letting Talla hold the tip of her finger. “Is your father looking at us? I think so.”

They had spent autumn traveling up the Istros River. These northern lands were a world without grandeur, without sophistication of any kind. The people they met were simple and easy to understand. Sometimes they were friendly, sometimes not; there was nothing puzzling about their ways.

So far, Myrina and her sisters had come upon neither witches nor wolf men; in fact, whenever they arrived at a new village, it was evident that
they
were the unnatural ones: women with different faces, different hair, different clothes, but most important, women with different customs….

Women without men.

They decided to spend winter in a valley, a place where there were not too many other hunters to contend with. Here, they built huts for themselves and for the horses, and buried King Priam’s precious tablets in nests of straw underneath the floors.

Not a day went by where they did not speak of the future. They had one dream in common, namely that of a fertile and welcoming land
where they might farm and hunt in peace without the constant fear that what they had would once again be taken away. “When we get there—” they would say, to themselves and to one another, and none doubted that one day, they would.

“It is out there, waiting for us,” Lilli always maintained, smiling at the horizon she couldn’t see. “We shall have our village, nay, our city. A city of women.”

Through the long winter, they spent evenings around the fire, huddled under pelts and skins, laying out that city in words. The question of men arose occasionally, but since no one could imagine ever desiring any intimacy with the inarticulate males that roamed these northern lands, the response was usually laughter.

“I will never ask you,” Myrina said once to her sisters, stoking the fire with a stick, “to live without such pleasures. But I do believe men and women are so different we should not try to live in each other’s worlds. If you must, go and frolic with a herdsman under a starry sky, but do not attempt to share his daylight. For the sun works on men as an elixir—it blears their eyes to the worth of women and makes them dare to think they should rule over us. Even the kindest of men”—she bent her head as the memories stirred—”will think they are doing us a favor by locking us away.”

“Surely not all men are tyrannical masters,” objected Pitana, busily carving a wooden toy for Talla. “I for one remember how you used to smile.” She looked up at Myrina, gauging her mood. “I should like to know how it feels to smile that way. It seems to me men bring out sides of us that would wither away if we lived our lives without them.”

“Had it not been for the Trojans,” agreed Klito, “Kara and I would still be enslaved in Mycenae. Surely
some
men deserve to be praised as liberators.”

“I do not deny it,” said Myrina. “Many good men, I am sure, have lost their lives—or at least their happiness—because of a woman. This is why I say that the kindest thing we can do for them is to leave them be. We, too, will benefit from such precautions. For man’s primitive response to our complex power is to yoke us and make us believe we should be yoked. He calls it an act of love and protection—so speaks
the cunning tyrant. And when we believe him and willingly leash ourselves and our sisters”—she sighed deeply and shook her head—”then our tragedy becomes
his
ultimate triumph.”

“Indeed,” agreed Kara, who had embraced their new life more heartily than anyone. “Love is a treacherous thing. We give men strength, but they do not return the favor. Even those of us who consider ourselves superior in spirit lose our bearings when a male spreads his plumes. It is a noxious spell they cast on us, is it not?” She looked around at the others for confirmation.

“Once again I am the lucky one,” said Lilli, smiling as she rocked baby Talla in her arms. “I cannot see those noxious plumes that lead you astray. Count yourselves fortunate, sisters, that you have at least one person in your midst who can maintain a steady course.”

“I propose, then,” said Myrina, when at last the discussion waned and she was nursing Talla, “that our city shall admit no men, lest some plumed cock tries to lord it over us. We will all be free to come and go, of course, and spend our nights howsoever we choose; no jealous Moon Goddess shall rob us of that choice.” She pointed at the raised scar on her breast—the permanent reminder of her initiation at the Temple of the Moon Goddess. “From now on, these scars shall mean freedom, not enslavement. Our days shall be ours alone, devoted to industry and improvement; while the sun is up, no male and no stone deity shall be allowed to confine us.”

A
S TIME WENT ON,
their numbers increased. Even the world of forests and mountains had no shortage of women ready to exchange a husband for a horse and halter. Always on the move, Myrina and her growing band of sisters refused to settle down until they found the perfect place for their city.

It eventually fell to Talla to challenge her mother’s nomadic nature. “We cannot be hunters forever,” she said one day, when they were all gathered around a stag roasting on a spit. “Aunt Lilli is right, some hands have a need to plant and harvest. I know we are reluctant to found our city only to have it move again, but is that not the way of the
world? The tide will come in, and go out, and we will be in another place.” She looked at each of them in turn. “Let us not be enslaved to an inflexible idea—”

Myrina silenced her daughter with a tired gesture. “The ages to come hold no shortage of enemies, I am sure of it. To survive we must be ever ready, ever lithe of foot—”

“And we will be!” exclaimed Talla, throwing up her arms. “But even the strongest runner needs to rest. Let us not imitate those animals who expire from exertion. We may be the Amazons, but we cannot be at a gallop from here to eternity.”

And so they settled for a while, and moved, and settled again, never fully rooting in one place, always merely passing through. And wherever they went, the clay tablets from Troy—which none among them could read—served as a symbol of their promise to King Priam and to themselves: Never forget.

Through the years they worked hard to remember the writing Kyme had taught them, but more than anything, they never stopped telling their stories. Even as time went on and their group split into many, each chapter stubbornly clung to the history that was their common root. For in that history, they knew, lay the wisdom that would protect the seed from the hungry beetle—the promise of a new and better world.

There still may be another Troy.

—E
URIPIDES,
The Trojan Women

OXFORD, ENGLAND

T
HE SHELDONIAN THEATRE WAS ABUZZ WITH GUESSWORK. IT WAS
rare the humble field of classical philology attracted worldwide media attention, but the press conference had turned out to be one such occasion. Less than a month earlier, Mr. Ludwig had promised me I was about to write history. In his lie, he had been absolutely right after all, I thought to myself as I walked to the podium.

“Thank you, Professor Vandenbosch.” I smiled at the poor old backbiter, who had been given less than twenty-four hours to compose a eulogistic introduction listing my credentials, personal virtues, and inestimable value to the scholarly community at Oxford … in fact, from this day on, to scholarship everywhere. Despite a little muscle spasm at the corner of his eye as he spoke to the ladies and gentlemen of the press, the venerable department chair was pleasingly convincing in the role of my committed friend and colleague.

Over the previous three days, since the crates had arrived, Professor Vandenbosch and everyone else with a stake in the ancient world had run me through an understandable gauntlet of questions, accusations, and insults, and he in particular had been terribly disappointed when I emerged alive on the other side. From being the self-anointed
anchorman of the whole affair, he had soon been sidelined by journalists and authorities who had no patience for his patronizing mediation. In the end, the vice chancellor had stepped in, and a press conference had been arranged overnight.

“As you already know,” I continued, looking out over the swaying field of faces, “an anonymous Swiss collector has entrusted me with twelve clay tablets inscribed in Luwian—a language spoken throughout the Hittite world in the second and first millennium
B.C.E.
My working theory is that these tablets contain historical records from ancient Troy—records that were removed from the city before it was destroyed more than three thousand years ago. The significance of such records is enormous. As you all know, the legendary Troy continues to intrigue not just scholars but everyone with an interest in ancient civilizations. I hope these tablets will lay a foundation for rewriting what we know about King Priam’s city.”

I had intended to say more, but as soon as I paused, a wilderness of arms shot up, vying for my attention. Focusing on the core group of media heavyweights in the audience—carefully pointed out to me by the vice chancellor—I took a few questions in rapid succession, without leaving room for follow-ups.

“You say the donor is an anonymous Swiss collector,” asked a gravel-voiced London reporter with slicked-back gray hair. “Can you give us any more detail than that?”

“I’m afraid not. I have agreed to maintain the donor’s anonymity.”

“Dr. Morgan.” A female journalist whose face I recognized from television was next. “When I look at your articles and research, I see a lot of”—she grimaced—”Amazons, and not a lot about Troy. Has there been any discussion about whether you are qualified for this new challenge?”

I forced out a smile. “Since you’ve taken a look at my work, you already know I am not unfamiliar with the Luwian language.”

“What exactly do the tablets say?” asked an American in a frumpled brown suit—the only one of the lot who seemed remotely friendly.

“I received them only three days ago,” I replied. “But as far as I can
see, we are dealing with historical records listing specific events and names.”

I meant to go on, but was stopped by a wild-eyed pit bull of a Frenchman who just couldn’t wait his turn. “This past week,” he barked, not just at me, but at everyone, “there have been other so-called incidents in artifact trading circles. A well-known collector by the name of Grigor Reznik was killed in a warehouse in the Geneva Freeport. Apparently, he was shot by the son of a rival collector during an illicit artifact exchange. Some speculate that Reznik was the previous owner of the Trojan tablets. Also, three days ago, an ancient manuscript called the
Historia Amazonum
was returned anonymously to the Romanian archive from where it had been stolen—allegedly also by Reznik.” The Frenchman fixed his accusative stare on me. “What has been your role in these events?”

The question nearly made me choke. “This is all news to me,” I said, as calmly as I could. “But I highly doubt the Trojan tablets have been sitting in a Geneva warehouse all these years. Next question, please!”

By the time the most aggressive journalists had had their fill of me, my hands were shaking so badly I had to cross my arms. Until the last minute I had hoped to see Katherine Kent appear out of nowhere for the press conference. But apparently, this was a battle I had to fight on my own.

I suspected my little speech to Otrera in Suomussalmi had been instrumental in convincing the Amazons it was time they did their treasure justice. And yet, their faith in me was so deeply moving I hardly knew how to respond except to make sure the tablets were safe and their texts translated and publicized. That the anonymous press release had been issued on the same day the crates were delivered to me confirmed my belief that I was not merely to be another tablet guardian; I was to bring King Priam’s lost city back to life.

“Last question?” I looked out over the crowd again, trying to choose between dozens of eager arms. Among the people lining the walls was a contingency of men in gray suits—so discreet in appearance I had not even noticed them until that moment.

Secret Service? The thought made me stiffen with fear. Had they come to question me about Reznik? Or James?

Glancing at the men again, I wondered if they were planning to arrest me right after the press conference and whether I should try to escape…. But then I finally noticed
him,
standing right in the middle of them, looking just as unforgiving as he had done the week before, when he came barging into his son’s hospital room and kicked me aside like a dog toy. He, too, wanted to ask me a question.

“Mr. al-Aqrab?” I heard myself saying, into the microphone.

The name set off an earthquake in the audience, with everyone stretching to see the fiend from Babylon, so unexpectedly present in their midst.

“Dr. Morgan,” said Mr. al-Aqrab, not unaware of the flashes going off around him. “I would like to congratulate you on rescuing and reviving this forgotten body of history. No doubt it will mark a turning point in the relationship between your university and my foundation, which have regrettably been at odds in the past.” He paused to allow the significance of his words to sink in, then continued, “I know you have already been in touch with the Turkish authorities, and I commend you for taking the initiative. With that in mind, who do you consider to be the legal owner of these tablets? Will they now, like so many ancient treasures, become the property”—he held out his arms in a gesture of prosecution—”of the United Kingdom?”

The question caused a series of afterquakes, with photographers vying to capture the image of the day. I barely registered the commotion; all I could think of was Nick. Surely Mr. al-Aqrab would not be here if his son was still in critical condition.

“The tablets were entrusted to me personally,” I replied at last, belatedly realizing that everyone was awaiting my response, “and I consider it my duty to ensure their safety. But no one can own other people’s history, even if those other people are long dead. To keep Trojan artifacts of any kind here in Britain, so far from their place of origin, would be to fall back on an outdated praxis.” I straightened, doing my best to rise above the crescendo of scholarly discontent threatening
to drown me out. “The donor has tasked me with choosing the future home of the tablets, and it is my intention to return them to their place of origin as soon as possible.”

In the groundswell of anger following my statement I was sure I heard Professor Vandenbosch yelling, “Absurd!”

Mr. al-Aqrab looked around, evidently enjoying the uproar. “Suppose I offered to build a museum for them?”

The room fell immediately silent, and all heads once again turned to me, as if the Sheldonian Theatre was full of sheep watching the unloading of a fodder truck, which might, or might not, be heading for the slaughterhouse next.

“There are museums at Troy already—” I began.

“A
safe
museum, Dr. Morgan. Overseen by a man I think you know: Dr. Murat Özlem. What do you say?” Mr. al-Aqrab smiled, and it changed his face completely. “Isn’t it time for a joint venture?”

“Obviously we’ll have to clear it with the Turkish authorities,” I said. “But … that is generous of you. Perhaps we should plan a meeting.”

An entire jungle of arms shot up among the debris of our exchange. Professor Vandenbosch was halfway out of his chair, poised to step in and seize control of the podium and microphone.

Uncertain as to whether I should take another question, I looked up and saw Mr. al-Aqrab and his cohort making for the door, their business done.

In a sudden attack of tunnel vision, everything else faded to gray around me. I didn’t care what would happen; I was not going to let that man walk away from me again.

“Thank you,” I said into the microphone. “Professor Vandenbosch will be happy to answer the rest of your questions.” With that I stepped down from the podium and hastened down the central aisle without taking my eyes off the door. I didn’t run, but it was close.

As I burst outside, an unexpected downpour of freezing rain confused me just long enough for Mr. al-Aqrab to nod a devilish farewell, get into a black limousine, and drive away, leaving me soaked, inside and out.

I stood paralyzed, staring into the blur of Broad Street. My feet simply wouldn’t move.

“You’ll have to forgive my dad,” said a voice behind me. “He was never good at making apologies.”

I spun around to find Nick, standing there, as soaked as I, but smiling nonetheless. His smile faded, however, when he saw my expression. “Hello, Goddess,” he said, reaching out to touch my cheek. “Are you not happy to see me?”

And then I was in his arms at last, clinging to his warmth with every shivering ounce of my being, so desperate to assure myself of his wholeness it did not even occur to me to kiss him until his mouth found mine and routed all my fears.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered after a while. “I’m fine. And I won’t disappear again, I promise. Not unless you want me to.”

I was not yet ready to laugh. “I’ve been miserable,” I muttered, pressing my face into the crook of his neck. “Why didn’t you call me?”

Nick took my head between his hands. “Because I had to see your eyes—”

Just then, the door to the Sheldonian Theatre burst open, unleashing a multitude of follow-up questions.

“Oh no,” I said. “I don’t want to go back there.”

Nick laughed. “Oh why not? Of course you do.” He spun me around to face the crowd. “String your bow, Diana. I’m right behind you.”

N
ICK HAD RESERVED A
room at Claridge’s in London, but we never got that far. Escaping the post-press-conference crowd on foot, we fled down New College Lane underneath the Bridge of Sighs and ducked into the nearest alley. Pulling Nick along by the hand, I led us through a shady labyrinth of timeworn walls until we reached the sneakiest hideout in Oxford: the Bath Place Hotel. A polite inquiry and a key later, we tumbled into our room, ripping off each other’s wet clothes with corybantic furor. Only when I saw the stitches on his thigh was I reminded of Nick’s recent brush with mortality.

“Wait!” I gasped. “Are you all right? Maybe we should—”

“What?” He drew me tightly against him, his eyes locked in mine. “Wait until the sun sets? I’m ready to break the rules if you are.”

I pushed him down on top of the bed and straddled him with a kiss. “The only rule around here,” I whispered, indulging in the feel of him, “is that you stay alive from now on.”

Later, when we were lying together in a state of sweaty felicity, Nick looked at me with a puzzled frown and said, “Wait a minute. Don’t you have an apartment here in Oxford?”

“Yes,” I sighed, “but Bex is there. And my parents are stopping by. In fact”—I checked his wristwatch and groaned—”we’re all supposed to meet up for tea in an hour.”

“Am I invited?”

I laughed and snuggled up to him. “At your own peril. Remember, my father used to be a headmaster. He knows how to ask questions.”

Nick kissed me on the forehead. “I’m prepared to stand at attention. I know I’m the embodiment of your parents’ worst fears. With a bull-headed Dubai businessman and an Amazonian biker chick thrown into the gene pool, God knows what their grandchildren will be like.”

Not sure how much to read into his words, I put my hand gently on top of his wound and said, “My jackal took a bullet for you. My parents will, too.”

Nick was silent for a moment. Then he said, with unusual solemnity, “Maybe now would be a good time for you to ask me to marry you.”

I was so amazed, so thrilled, I started laughing. When he didn’t join in, I sat up and looked at him. “You’re so wonderful. But you know, academics don’t propose to billionaires.”

“No worries.” Nick sat up, too, and gave me half a smile. “My dad believes—and I agree—that the surest way of destroying a man is to pay him to do nothing. I have to work and pay my bills like everyone else.” His smile broadened. “But I’m not too concerned. I’m planning to team up with a world-famous philologist. And if she won’t ask me to marry her, I’ll just be her trophy boyfriend.” When I didn’t say anything, he pulled me into his lap and said, more earnestly, “Come on, help me out here. How do I ask you to share my days and nights for as
long as we both shall live … without upsetting Granny? I know she is sitting up there, in Amazon heaven, shaking her fist at me.” He reached for his jacket lying across the bedside table and produced a smallish, square jewelry case. “But I’m hoping maybe I can appease her with
this.
”

“Oh, Nick,” I said, feeling a pinch of discomfort, “you mustn’t give me anything. Please.”