The Lost Sisterhood (6 page)

A
S THE SISTERS MADE
their way through the clingy weeds of the estuary, Myrina found that the sea was surprisingly shallow and marshy. Tall reeds were growing out of the water, and there were no waves to speak of, hardly even ripples. “I don’t like this,” said Lilli at one point, when
they were both knee-deep in mud and slimy sea grass. “What if there are snakes?”

“I doubt there are,” said Myrina, lying, as she stabbed the water in front of them with her spear. “Snakes don’t like open water.”

Just then, a burst of voices made them both stop.

“That is what I heard before!” hissed Lilli, pressing nervously against her sister’s back. “Can you see them?”

Myrina pushed aside the reeds with her spear shaft. Through the tangle of green stems she could make out a small boat carrying three fishermen. They were too busy with their nets to notice her and Lilli, and she quickly decided they were hardworking men and thus trustworthy.

“Come!” She pulled Lilli through the water, anxious to reach the boat before it disappeared. The idea of spending another night in the dusty riverbed or in this marsh swarming with bugs was unbearable. Wherever those three fishermen were going, she and Lilli were going, too.

As soon as they were close enough to be seen, Myrina called out to the men, waving her spear in the air. She was in water up to her waist now, with Lilli riding on her back. Not surprisingly, the men stared at her in disbelief.

“They have seen us!” gasped Myrina, wading through the muddy water with unsteady strides. “They are smiling and waving us onboard—” But as she came closer to the boat, she saw that the men were not smiling. They were gesturing frantically, their faces contorted with fear.

Moments later, eager hands pulled first Lilli, then Myrina, onboard the boat, after which the men collapsed in relief and pointed into the water with long strings of explanation in a foreign language. “What is it?” Lilli wanted to know, clinging to her sister’s muddy tunic. “What are they saying?”

“I wish I understood,” muttered Myrina. Judging by their looks, the fishermen were a father and his two grown sons, and they did not seem like men who were easily shaken. “I think—”

Just then, the riverboat rocked, and the younger men instantly
reached to steady their father. Myrina saw them all glancing nervously at the water, and she finally understood the source of their alarm.

A long, speckled form circled the boat, its enormous body sliding through the mire. Was it a large fish? But she saw neither head nor tail, merely a never-ending body as thick around as a human being. A colossal snake.

“What is it?” whimpered Lilli, sensing the sudden tension. “Tell me!”

Myrina could barely speak. She had seen large serpents before, certainly, but never anything like this. “Oh, it is nothing,” she finally managed to say. “Just seaweed clinging to the hull.”

After a few anxious moments the snake seemed to lose interest in the boat, and the men relaxed and began talking again. They checked a few more traps, but their catch was meager. Only a dozen or so fish and a couple of eels, but even so, the fishermen seemed in good spirits as they picked up their poles and laboriously propelled the boat forward with small, rhythmic jerks.

“Where are we going?” whispered Lilli, shivering with fatigue.

Myrina drew her sister’s head to her chest and stroked her grimy cheek. “We are going to the big city, little lion. The Moon Goddess is waiting for us there, remember?”

DAWN

The Amazons will gladly guide you on your way.

—A
ESCHYLUS,
Prometheus Bound

GATWICK AIRPORT

I
F MR. LUDWIG WAS SURPRISED TO FIND ME SITTING AT THE DEPAR
ture gate, casually leafing through an abandoned boating magazine, he didn’t show it. He merely nodded, as if my presence was to be expected, and said, “Coffee?”

As soon as he had disappeared, I deflated with relief and exhaustion. For all my assumed calm, the past few hours had undoubtedly been the most hectic of my life, and I had been at a breathless gallop ever since finding Granny’s notebook in the attic. Fortunately, my father had been perfectly available for a small adventure and had insisted on driving me all the way to the airport. “Although I do confess to a slight curiosity,” he had said, quite reasonably, while we were parked briefly in front of my Oxford college and I was struggling to squeeze a hastily packed suitcase into the backseat of the Mini.

“It’s just for a night or two,” I replied, sliding into the passenger seat and tightening my disheveled ponytail. “Maybe three.”

The engine was still going, and my father was still holding the steering wheel, but the car was not moving. “What about your teaching?”

I moved uncomfortably in my seat. “I’ll be back before you know it. It’s a research trip. Someone is actually paying me to go to Amsterdam—”

“I take it young Moselane is not your benefactor?” My father was staring into the rearview mirror as he said this, and when I twisted around I saw James emerging from college with a tennis racket over his shoulder.

I suddenly felt hot all over, and it was not a pleasant sensation. There he was, reason incarnate, as gorgeous as ever … would it not be wise to inform him that I was leaving, rather than sneaking off like this?

“Oh, bugger,” I said, checking my watch. “We really need to go.”

My father kept glancing at the rearview mirror as we rolled down Merton Street, probably wondering how to present this inauspicious turn of events to my mother, and I felt the prickly yarn of guilt in my throat grow bigger with every twitch of his eye. But how could I possibly tell him the truth? He had never taken any steps to discuss Granny, had never told me about the notebook she had clearly left for me. To open the subject now on our way to the airport at what was, to him, breakneck speed, could hardly be a good idea. “I’m sorry, Daddy,” I muttered, patting his arm. “I’ll explain when I return.”

We drove in silence for a bit. Out of the corner of my eye I could see his habitual dislike of confrontation wrestling with his growing parental concern, and in the end he took a deep breath and said, “Just promise me this is not some sort of”—he had to do a little run-up to pronounce the word—”elopement? You know we are perfectly capable of paying for a wedding reception—”

I was so shocked I started laughing. “Daddy, honestly!”

“Well, what am I to think?” He looked almost angry as he sat there, hunched over the steering wheel. “You come home for three hours, ask about your birth certificate … and now you’re off to Amsterdam.” He glanced at me, and there was a flicker of genuine fear in his eyes. “Promise me this is not about some … man. Your mother would never forgive me.”

“Oh, Daddy!” I leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. “You know I would never do that. Don’t you?”

He nodded without conviction, and I suppose I couldn’t blame him. Although the subject rarely came up, I had no doubt my parents had
deduced quite a bit about the motley handful of past boyfriends to whom Rebecca referred jointly as “the Horsemen of the Apocalypse,” although none of them deserved so fine a title.

For whatever reason, I had never been good with men. Perhaps the culprit was my own particular preference for solitude, or perhaps—as Rebecca had once proposed, briefly forgetting my childhood crush on James Moselane—I had some genetic incapacity for romance, passed down from Granny. Whenever a relationship ended poorly, with tears and hurtful words, I would even occasionally be left with the suspicion that maybe I simply didn’t
like
men, and that maybe this was why I had a growing bundle of farewell letters in my desk drawer accusing me—in more eloquent terms, of course—of being a frigid bitch.

Prompted by Rebecca, long-distance from Crete on occasion of my twenty-seventh birthday, I set out to determine whether my problem might be solved by a simple shift in focus from men to women. But after pondering the question for a week or so I had to conclude that women intrigued me even less than men. The sad conclusion, I decided, must therefore be that Diana Morgan was destined to be a loner … one of those ironclad ladies whose legacy did not consist in grandchildren, but in seven-pound monographs dedicated to some dead professor.

Three days later Federico Rivera arrived.

As a longtime regular at the Oxford University Fencing Club I was not easily impressed by posturing males, but I knew right away that the new Spanish master in residence was something else altogether. He was not handsome as such, but he was as tall as I and in excellent shape, and, more important, there was an explosive energy about him that was utterly intoxicating. Federico was a perfectionist, not only in fencing, but in the art of seduction as well, and although I am sure we both knew early on what the inescapable consequence of my private evening lessons with him would be, he spent several months focusing on my lunge and riposte and nothing else … before finally following me into the shower and teaching me the
coup d’arrêt
without a word.

Our affair lasted all winter, and despite Federico’s insistence that
we keep it secret, I fully believed him when he called me the love of his life. One day soon we would make it public … get married … have children…. It was never explicitly said, but always implied. And when he suddenly fled back to Spain from one day to the next, without so much as a goodbye, I was so shocked and heartbroken I thought I would never be happy again.

Then came all the terrible discoveries: Federico’s many affairs around Oxford, the furious fiancée in Barcelona, and his ignominious dismissal from the fencing club … and yet I wrote him letter after tearful letter, pledging my love and understanding, begging him to respond.

He did. Several months later I received a fat envelope sent from a fencing academy in Madrid; it contained all my letters to him—most of them unopened—plus five hundred euro. Since he didn’t owe me any money I was forced to assume it was his way of remunerating me for my services.

I was so furious it took me weeks to decide that Master Federico Rivera, in his libertine wisdom, must have deliberately insulted me in order to cauterize my wound and—perfectionist as he was—complete my fencing lessons with the most honorable move of all: the
coup de grâce.

Even though I had never told my parents about him, they surely knew I had had my share of secret heartbreak. In fact, there were moments when I suspected that my mother’s persistent obsession with James Moselane was simply her own way of consoling us both. And what could be more soothing than the vision of an ideal future in which I lived at the manor just around the corner, happily ever after?

W
HEN MR. LUDWIG RETURNED
with our coffee, I put away the magazine and moved my jacket so he could sit down next to me. “Thanks,” I said, taking one of the cups, relishing its warmth against my nervous hands. “By the way, you never told me the name of the foundation sponsoring our current luxury.”

Mr. Ludwig eased the lid off his own coffee. “I’m a careful guy.” He
took a tentative sip and made a face. “What is it with you Brits and coffee? Anyway, here is a name for you: the Skolsky Foundation. Sugar?”

Moments later, while I was frantically Googling the Skolsky Foundation, I heard Mr. Ludwig chuckle and looked up to find him shamelessly spying on my phone. “You won’t find anything online,” he informed me. “Mr. Skolsky prefers to fly under the radar. It’s a billionaire thing.”

Perhaps it was meant humorously, but I was not amused. Around us, the gate was bustling with airline representatives and travelers hoping to preboard the plane, but I was still largely in the dark about our voyage. “I’m embarrassed to say I’ve never heard of the Skolsky Foundation,” I said. “But I am assuming its offices are in Amsterdam?”

Mr. Ludwig bent down to put his cup on the floor. “As I said, Mr. Skolsky is a private man. An industrialist with an interest in archaeology. He sponsors digs all over the world.”

I stared at him, waiting for him to elaborate. When he did not, I leaned forward a bit, making it clear I was expecting more. “Such as—?”

Mr. Ludwig smiled, but something in his predatory eyes told me he was getting irritated. “I can’t tell you until we get there. Skolsky protocol.”

I was so upset by his dismissive attitude that I had a sudden revisitation not only of the vile coffee but also of the well-meant words of warning James had spoken the night before. The supposed Amazon inscription might be a hoax … or worse. That was how he had phrased it, and I found myself once again wondering what my own role was going to be. It was becoming painfully clear that Mr. Ludwig no longer felt the need to ingratiate himself with me, and I suspected the rapid decline of his manners foreshadowed the week ahead. Any normal person would heed the flashing signs and walk out while there was still time … except I couldn’t. Granny’s red notebook hidden in my handbag had long since overthrown my common sense.

“Ready?” Mr. Ludwig took out his boarding pass. “Let’s go.”

Moments later we were walking down the Jetway. I was still not sure why we were flying to Amsterdam, but by this point I knew it
would be futile to ask. It did not lessen my confusion when Mr. Ludwig—instead of stepping on board the plane—stopped to exchange a few words with a man wearing a boilersuit and large orange earmuffs.

The man shot me a suspicious look before opening a door in the side of the Jetway and leading us both down a set of rickety metal steps until we were standing on the tarmac, next to the plane. Even outside, the air was dense with noise and exhaust, and when I opened my mouth to ask what was going on, I found myself choking on the jet fumes, unable to make myself heard.

After a short ride in a utility vehicle, weaving between catering vans and fuel trucks, we pulled up next to another plane. Only then, when I saw my suitcase changing hands and disappearing into the baggage compartment, did it dawn on me that our apparent flight to Amsterdam had been nothing but a carefully planned decoy.

There was no time to question Mr. Ludwig about our change of destination, however, for we were hastily ushered up the back stairs to the plane after only the most perfunctory security check.

“Some bangle,” said Mr. Ludwig, when the wand beeped next to the bronze bracelet on my arm. “Do you use it as a weapon?”

“Not yet, but I might,” I replied, pulling down my sleeve again. He did not need to know that the bracelet had belonged to my grandmother, and that I had excavated it from my underwear drawer only a few hours earlier, as a way of initiating this unexpected adventure. As far as Mr. Ludwig was concerned, I had come along for the money and the possibility of academic glory; I didn’t want him to know exactly how personal the trip was to me. If Mr. Skolsky could fly low, so could I.

As the plane taxied to the runway with us both safely strapped into first class, I said to Mr. Ludwig, “Perhaps now would not be an entirely unreasonable moment for you to tell me where we are going?”

Mr. Ludwig touched his champagne flute to mine. “Djerba. Here’s to a productive trip. Sorry about the hocus-pocus, but there is too much at stake.”

I was itching to take out my phone and look it up, but we were only minutes away from takeoff. As far as I knew, Djerba was a small island in the Mediterranean, off the coast of Tunisia, and known primarily for its resort hotels and pleasant climate. It had never struck me as having much of an archaeological scene, but then, I doubted Djerba was where the actual excavation was. It was most likely in mainland Tunisia.

Which made perfect sense.

Modern-day Tunisia is a relatively small country wedged between Algeria and Libya, but two thousand years ago it was the archrival of the Roman Empire. As a consequence, its ancient capital, Carthage, was eventually destroyed by the Romans, who sold its inhabitants into slavery and annihilated its historical records. Almost no written sources escaped this consummate cultucide; the land of Hannibal might as well have been a myth.

But these were all relatively recent events compared to the time when—according to some—the heroes of Greek mythology walked the earth. Famous figures such as Hercules, Jason, and Theseus belonged to a prehistoric world of monsters and magic … and Amazons.

It was true that most ancient writers—regardless of whether they believed in the legends or not—placed the Amazon homeland in the east, most often on the Black Sea coast of northern Turkey, but a few claimed this nation of women warriors originated in North Africa. Part of the problem was that the Amazon tradition fell more or less into three periods, all of which differed enormously, both in time and space.

The last of these three periods had the Amazons entrenched in and around Themiscyra, their legendary capital on the Black Sea, and saw them gradually squeezed from all sides until they either died out or became absorbed by surrounding tribes. One might say this period was a long, slow autumn culminating in one last blossom around the year 330
B.C.E.
when an Amazon queen allegedly paid a visit to Alexander the Great, asking that she and her female entourage might spend a fortnight with him in the hopes of conceiving children by this living legend of a man. By the time the Romans showed up—only a century or so later—the Amazon nation was nowhere to be found.

Without a question, their heyday was the middle period, namely the age of the Trojan War, which most scholars would place about three thousand years ago, somewhere between 1300 and 1100
B.C.E.
This was the time when the Amazons were skewered by Achilles before the tall walls of Troy, and where Hercules roamed the Trojan hinterland to get his hands on the Amazon queen’s girdle as part of his Twelve Labors. It was also the time when the Amazons supposedly raided Athens and finally earned their place on the Parthenon frieze—also known as the Elgin Marbles.