A Terrible Beauty (18 page)

We all sat on overstuffed, soft pillows and immediately tore into the spectacular dishes Mrs. Katevatis had packed for us: tyropita and spanakopita, their fillings—cheese in the former and spinach in the latter—almost bursting from the flaky pastry encasing them. There were also plump dolmades (grape leaves full of rice and spiced meat), salty feta cheese, and tomatoes, along with bread she had baked early in the morning and a bottle of crisp white wine made on Santorini.

“How can you say with any confidence they were speaking of Ashton with menace?” Colin asked, as I recounted for him what Margaret and I had observed. “I know you do not understand much Turkish.”

“It was apparent in both their tone and their gestures,” I said.

“You cannot possibly claim to know simply from tone and gestures they were directing malice toward Ashton. Or if he even was the topic of their conversation.”

“You must admit it is too much to believe it to be a coincidence that they spoke his nom de guerre,” Margaret said. “I would perhaps be skeptical, too, if I had not heard it myself—”

“You wouldn't believe me?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.

“You do have a flair for the dramatic, my dear,” Margaret said. “It is one of your finest qualities.”

Frustrated, I shook my head. “Regardless of what you think, I am confident they were talking about Philip. Am I to believe there is someone else called Chapman on Santorini at present?”

“Perhaps they were discussing Homer,” Jeremy said. “I have seen you engaged in violent arguments on the subject, particularly when it comes to translators.” He popped a dolma into his mouth.

“We ought to warn Philip,” I said.

“Warn him of what?” Colin asked. “The fact that two men of indeterminate origin had a conversation of indeterminate topic that may or may not have included a reference to the false name he has been using?”

“Yes, exactly,” I said. “He told us Demir is a Turk, and now, whatever their origin, two men speaking Demir's language are here, near where Philip is working. I would be concerned even if they had not said his name. Do you want him to suffer the same fate as the unconscious man back at the villa?”

“I hardly think it is wise to condemn an entire nation of Turkish speakers on the basis of one story of dubious credibility,” Colin said.

“I thought Philip was your dearest friend,” I said. “Now you speak as if you don't trust him and are content to let him, too, be injured.”

My husband's eyes darkened slightly. “The man in our villa was injured because he chose to run away from us rather than identify himself. We have no evidence—none—that his presence on the island is connected to Ashton in any way at all.”

“All of our nerves are strained at present,” Margaret said. “Why don't you have some more wine?”

“My nerves are quite fine, thank you,” I said. I threw down my napkin and stormed away from them.

“Em!” Jeremy called out as he followed me along the beach. I walked faster until he pulled on my arm, stopping me. “What is going on here? Why are you arguing with Hargreaves? I realize I ought to be encouraging you, and probably would if I thought divorce would ever become socially acceptable, but as the chances of you leaving him are slim, I must say you are … overreacting to the present situation.”

“Overreacting?” My hand ached to slap him.

“Ashton is a grown man, capable of taking care of himself. What you and Margaret saw on the beach is at best a sketchy indication that two gentlemen may or may not be referring to him in conversation.” I was looking away from him, down at the rocky beach. He bent over and forced me to meet his eyes as he continued. “How do you think it makes your absurdly handsome husband feel when you make such a display of worrying about Ashton?”

“I was not making a display.”

“Call it whatever you like,” Jeremy said. “Just try to be a little less insistent about us all having to be thinking about Ashton constantly.”

I did not think his words were entirely fair, and I was still convinced the men on the beach had been talking about Philip. Furthermore, Colin knew better than most I would be concerned about any person in Philip's situation. This was not about Philip because he was Philip; it was about common concern for someone who might be in grave danger.

“Someone ought to tell Philip. That is all I have endeavored to say. I fail to see the controversy.”

“I know you, Em, and I know right now in that pretty head of yours, you are fuming because you are thoroughly convinced you would feel the same about anyone you thought to be in a precarious situation. I also know this to be true, and it is a credit to your character that you do not stand by quietly when you can prevent something awful from happening.”

“So you agree we should warn him?”

“No, Em, I don't share your opinion that he is in imminent danger he can't ward off on his own. Your judgment is clouded by something—guilt being the obvious culprit. It looks to me as if you are desperate to save him from being harmed again, perhaps because you had no way of helping him when he was in Africa. Furthermore, there's the little matter of your having married his best friend.”

I felt the skin on my neck prickle, and I sighed. “There may be some truth to what you say.”

“Heaven save us all.” He rolled his eyes. “You are making me miserable, Em, for if I have started speaking the truth, then I am further away than ever from my goal of being the most useless man in England.”

“Have you considered the possibility that you could be useless while in England and useful when abroad without irrevocably harming your reputation?”

“Inconceivable,” he said. “Have you forgot how quickly gossip spreads? Particularly when one is an incredibly wealthy and—dare I say?—more than moderately handsome bachelor duke? What do I have in the end other than my bad reputation? I shall protect it at any cost.”

 

Philip

Constantinople, 1894

Much though Philip had been loath to leave Troy at the end of the season, the visit paid him by the knife-brandishing Hakan had softened the blow. He had not mentioned it to any of his colleagues. It would only remind them of the story at which they had scoffed after he had lost the Achilles bronze, and he had no desire to say anything that might make them think less of him, not when they had begun to accept him as their professional equal rather than as a mere dilettante-dealer turned archaeologist.

Dörpfeld did not plan to return to Troy the following season, and rather than following him to a new site, Philip had agreed to join Fritz Reiner, who would be working with Carl Humann at Ephesus, the magnificent Greco-Roman city in western Turkey. Humann was delighted at the prospect of having Philip back, having seen much promise in his work in Magnesia on the Maeander, and Philip was eager to see his friend Reiner again.

So Ephesus it would be, but first he would spend another winter in Constantinople. It would not take long to sell the antiquities he had acquired over the season, but this time he intended to go about it more slowly, because along with money, he wanted—needed—information. Who was this Demir who'd sent Hakan with a knife to his tent in Troy? Someone interested in ancient artifacts in general, or someone who wanted the Achilles bronze in particular? The former sort of chap was not likely to incite violence.

It could not be argued the bronze was anything less than a spectacular find, although one did wish that more of the helmet were intact. Even in its mutilated state, something uncovered at Troy featuring Achilles' name so prominently would draw a handsome price, but most members of the public would be more impressed with gold jewelry, like that Schliemann had found at Troy. He'd had his wife photographed wearing it, and claimed it had belonged to Helen; all the newspapers had published the story. Jewelry was the sort of thing—splashy, its value obvious—along with monumental statues and beautifully carved friezes, that tended to command the highest prices on the antiquities market.

Whoever wanted the Achilles bronze was bound to be as obsessed with Homer's hero as Philip. And obsession, he knew, could prove dangerous.

As he made his rounds from dealer to dealer, Philip made discreet inquiries, insinuating he had heard rumors of something of Achilles' having been stolen from the dig at Troy. He had worked there, he explained, and was cognizant of the fact that nothing of the sort had officially been found, but, he explained, he knew that locals often pocketed objects when they could.

No one he questioned admitted to having heard of any such thing. One dealer, however, suggested that he, an honest man—he repeated the phrase three times to convey its truth—would not be approached by anyone in possession of something looted from an archaeological site. He was aware, naturally, of others less scrupulous than he, and if Mr. Chapman wished to be introduced to that sort of dealer …

“I am told a man called Demir…” Philip paused, partly for effect and partly because he did not know how to finish the sentence.

The dealer straightened in his chair. “Demir? You know him?”

Philip tried to modulate his voice and regulate his breathing, which was becoming rapid. “By reputation, only, I am afraid.”

The man nodded. “It is he who would have information about the sort of piece you are seeking. I, you must understand, have great respect for Demir, but in my own humble shop, I do not deal with such objects. I am an honest man—as Demir is, too; I would never offend him. I, however, do not have the connections he does.”

“Can you put me in touch with him?” Philip asked.

After a lengthy back-and-forth that primarily involved the dealer's proclaiming his honesty and Philip's praising him for his scruples before offering a rather large bribe, the man agreed to set up a meeting.

The following evening, just after eight o'clock, Philip found himself on the Asian side of the city, in a seedy alley, ripe with the scent of sewage and rotting vegetables. More Gypsies than Turks resided in the neighborhood, and the dealer had told him in no uncertain terms to take precautions against attack. He had armed himself accordingly, and kept a hand on the revolver in his pocket as he waited. When the eerie strains of the night's final call to prayer came from the nearest mosque, its sound bouncing and echoing off the quarter's decrepit buildings, Philip began to look around more earnestly. Before the muezzin had finished, a boy of no more then ten approached him, holding out a small bronze statue of the god Hermes, the sign for which he had been told to watch.

The child led him through a maze of back alleys and narrow streets until they reached a rickety wooden building, designed to mimic those favored by Ottoman officials, but of much lower quality in both material and construction. Philip pulled open the door, at which point the boy pressed the statue into his hand and disappeared into the darkness. Philip stepped inside, unsure how to proceed.

A broad, muscular man who did not speak met him at the door and glanced at the statue Philip showed him before leading him into a small room lit by a single oil lamp hanging from a chain. Its scattered glow, colored by the mosaic of its glass globe, provided scant illumination, but allowed him to just make out the features of his guide. His black eyes and hooked nose were foreboding enough, but were made all the more imposing by a long scar that crossed the entire length of his face, from forehead to neck. A second man, seated at a rough table, leaned away from the light, keeping his face in the shadows.

“Please sit,” the man said, his voice refined. “I am Demir and you are Philip Chapman, enterprising archaeologist and seller of antiquities. You are looking for something that belonged to the great Achilles?” His command of English was impressive, and he spoke in a manner that suggested he had been educated in Britain rather than in Turkey.

“I am,” Philip said, lowering himself onto a stool. “A specific piece. A bronze.”

“Yes, I am familiar with the details.” He raised his eyebrow in a manner that made Philip uneasy. “There is, however, no such item. If there were, I would know about it. What makes you think it exists?”

“Rumors. I worked in Troy, at the excavations, and our workers sometimes did not share all their finds with us.”

“Your employer Dörpfeld did not offer them bonuses for significant objects?”

“He did.”

“And does he not pay fairly?”

“He does, but you and I are both aware of other sources that pay better.”

“Indeed, and I am that source, at least in Constantinople. No one pays better than I. Which means, unfortunately for you, the cost of acquiring such a piece would be not insignificant.”

“But you have nothing matching the description?” Philip asked.

“Indeed not, though I, too, have heard stories.” Demir looked at him with an unnerving stare. “If we are to work together, I demand absolute honesty from you. I see you smile, as you make the mistake of believing that because I deal on the black market, I am no better than a thief.”

“Not at all, I assure you.”

Demir waved his hand dismissively. “I am not interested in your assurances. I would like to know more about the rumors I have heard concerning a certain English archaeologist who claimed such an object was stolen from him.” His eyes darkened in a terrifying manner.

Philip swallowed hard. “Yes. That was me.”

“You think I do not already know this? You are not as intelligent as I expected. I do not appreciate your game. Do you come here to accuse me of stealing from you?”

“No, I—”

“You are an amusing man, so I will not kill you. Not now, at any rate. But never again come to me under false pretenses.”

“I have not done so now.” Philip felt increasingly confident. Demir knew his story, and this encouraged him. “You have sent men to harass me over this piece—a piece that was stolen from me.”