The Fall of Troy Page 17

  I saw and felt the unmistakable marks of a knife applied to the bones, and of the flesh being scraped from the bones, but Herr Obermann professed the sublimest indifference to the matter, and positively rejoiced when the poor child’s skeleton began to disintegrate after its unwelcome exposure to the air. He refused to believe that his blessed Trojans were engaged in ritual sacrifice or ritual cannibalism, despite the fact that it is well attested in the ceremonies of other primitive tribes. As far as he is concerned, his Trojans are not primitive at all. They are Homeric heroes in gorgeous armour.

  Thornton stopped again, and reflected on his words. “So I ask you to keep this letter safe until my return, when I fully intend to publish the details of the incident. I am enclosing a drawing I made of the site of the burial.” He followed this with his good wishes to his other colleagues at the British Museum, and signed, “Cordially yours, A. Thornton.” Then he placed the paper in a envelope, and sealed it.

  The following morning he gave the letter to a Turkish boy, Rashid, whose duty it was to run errands between Hissarlik and Kannakale.

  OBERMANN HAD BEEN walking towards the “armoury” where the finds were stored; ever since the sword had been discovered, he had given the hut that name. He had glimpsed Thornton giving a small packet to the boy, and waited in the doorway until Thornton had gone. Then he called him over. “Rashid, what have you there?” He glanced at the inscription on the envelope. “I am riding to Kannakale this morning. I will take it.” He gave the boy his customary tip. “Do not tell Mr. Thornton,” he said. “He will ask you to return his piastre.”

  He went back to his quarters, since he knew that Sophia was busy in a trench where some jade beads had been discovered. He removed the letter from its envelope and, whistling softly, he read it very quickly. “The Englishman is upset with me,” he said to himself. “I am not a good sport.” Then he lit a candle, and burned the letter.

  SOPHIA NOTICED that her husband was very jovial that evening, over dinner. He was particularly attentive to Thornton, insisting that he have a second helping of canned peaches, which he had mixed with some curaçao he had brought to the table in his hip-flask. “It is not ambrosia,” he said, “but we are not gods. We are mortal men. We must eat canned peaches. Are they to your taste, Mr. Thornton?”

  “We are not heroes, either,” Lineau said. He did not care for canned fruit.

  “What was that, my friend?”

  “The age of heroes is past.”

  “Ah, Lineau, you are a pessimist. Is that your belief also, Mr. Thornton? Has the age of heroes passed away?”

  “I could not say.”

  “Surely you have an opinion on the matter? Your friend, Rawlinson, for example. Will he be remembered in a thousand years’ time?”

  “He is not my friend, but I esteem him very highly.”

  “So he is a hero, then?”

  “I don’t know if the word has any weight. It has changed since the days of Troy.”

  “I challenge you, Mr. Thornton.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I challenge you to race with me three times around the circuit of Troy. Just as Hector and Achilles did. They ran three times around the city in heroic contest. Shall we be heroes? Shall we follow their steps?”

  “It was not a contest,” Lineau said. “It was a pursuit to the death.”

  “But we are sportsmen. We are more enlightened than the savage Trojans, are we not, Mr. Thornton?”

  “I have reason to think so, sir.”

  “Then we will simply race on the plain. Will you be Achilles fleet of foot or Hector of the flashing helmet?”

  Thornton laughed. “Achilles is too terrible. I had rather share the fate of Hector.”

  “So be it. You have spoken. Tomorrow we will run where Homer has described. They began before the great gates of Troy, just beneath the wall. They passed the watch-tower and the wild fig tree before they came upon a wagon track and the two fair flowing fountains that feed the Scamander. They passed the washing tanks, where we have found the stone cisterns. That is our course.”

  “But what is to be the prize?” Sophia asked him.

  “Immortal glory.”

  “Do not let history repeat itself,” Kadri Bey whispered to Thornton. “Hector was killed by Achilles, and his body was dragged across the dusty plain.”

  “I know it. I do not think Herr Obermann dislikes my theories to that extent.”

  “In running around the city three times,” Obermann was saying, “we will cover almost ten miles. Is that daunting, Mr. Thornton?”

  “Not at all.”

  “In your public school you will have run greater distances.”

  “But not through such grand terrain. Sussex has no mountains.”

  “You were educated in the land of the south Saxons? It accounts for the sturdiness of your beliefs. I admire the Saxon mind. It is so practical.”

  “They believed in justice, certainly.”

  “As do we all. In justice, as Hector, you are allowed to begin the race. I give you thirty seconds.” Then Obermann rose from the table, and took Sophia by the arm; they walked back slowly, and Obermann could be heard interpreting a part of the night sky to his wife.

  TWENTY-ONE

  On the following morning, much to the surprise of the Turkish workers, Obermann and Thornton stood in shorts and linen shirts before the stone blocks that marked the original gateway of Troy. Sophia, Lineau and Leonid were with them, and Leonid handed each of them a metal cup of water from the spring. It seemed to be an unequal contest—Obermann was a heavy-set man, with the ordinary stoutness of middle age, while Thornton was young enough still to have retained his slender and muscular physique.

  “Sophia,” Obermann said, “you will be good enough to strike this for the commencement.” He presented to her a large bronze bowl, with incised rim, that had been unearthed from one of the storerooms of the ancient palace. “Telemachus, you will go ahead of us and supervise the course. You will observe our progress, like the gods who watched the flight of Hector. You have the start of thirty seconds, Mr. Thornton.”

  Sophia was astonished at her husband’s confidence. How could he possibly compete with this athletic young man in a race of ten miles? He was already perspiring in the morning sun. Yet he seemed eager and determined. Leonid walked up, with a leather satchel holding a container of water.

  “You will be the fawn, Mr. Thornton, and I will be the hound. Once you have started from the covert, on this bright morning, I will track you through the glades and groves.”

  “Homer?”

  “He inspires me with great energy. Do you remember that passage on the dream, where a man cannot overtake the one who runs before him? We will see if that dream comes true. Are you ready, Sophia?”

  Sophia took up the bronze bowl, and struck it with the flat of her hand; on that dull thud Thornton began to run around the course. Obermann watched him and in a loud voice counted thirty seconds. Then after blowing a kiss to his wife he sprang off after him. He seemed to Sophia to be immensely light-hearted, and in fact he ran much more quickly than she had expected; he had a way of carrying his bulk gracefully, so that he cut neatly through the air. But there was no possibility that he could catch Thornton, who had the speed and concentration of a practised runner. The two men disappeared from sight.

  “What is the point of this?” she asked Lineau, who was standing to one side of her.

  “Your husband wants to teach the Englishman a lesson. I do not yet know what it is.”

  “By losing to him? Surely that is what will happen.”

  “It might be that, on being victorious over a much older man, Thornton will learn something. It is possible. The ways of your husband are sometimes mysterious.”

  Eventually Thornton came back into sight, running at a slightly more measured pace but with no sign of discomfort. He waved at Sophia, but said nothing. Two or three minutes later Obermann appeared; he had acquired a steady, relatively fast, pace t
hat seemed to suit him. “I am fit!” he called to Sophia. “My daily swim has toughened me! I am an eagle darting through the clouds to the plain!”

  “If the race were twenty circuits,” Lineau said, “Herr Obermann might win. I sense his persistence.”

  “I am beginning to understand him,” she said. “He will win at all costs.”

  “Unless there is a bolt of lightning, that will be difficult.”

  “It would not surprise me, Monsieur Lineau, if my husband could summon lightning.”

  “Do you believe him to be dangerous?” Lineau’s tone was light and playful. “Surely not?”

  “Oh, no.” Sophia was equally playful. “But his gods are dangerous.”

  “And if he could invoke them—”

  “Fortunately, that is no longer possible.”

  “A mortal man, then?”

  “But he takes mortality to its limits, don’t you think?”

  “He attempts to do so, Frau Obermann.” Lineau was silent for a moment. “I envy you.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “You will live long enough to see if he succeeds or not.”

  Thornton now came back into view on the second circuit of the old city. He seemed as fresh and as energetic as before. Sophia was about to talk to him, but he put up his hand. “I am perspiring too freely,” he said. “I am not fit for human company.”

  Four minutes after he had receded into the distance Obermann appeared, keeping up the same pace and momentum that he had acquired at the beginning. He called out a line of Greek to Sophia as he passed her, but she did not catch the words.

  “Aesop,” Lineau said. “The hare and the tortoise.”

  On the third circuit, to Sophia’s astonishment, Obermann emerged alone. She called to him, even while he was still in the distance. “Where is Alexander?”

  Obermann seemed to shrug his shoulders, but he did not reply until he came close to her. “Hector is sprawled in the dust.”

  “Why? What has happened?”

  “I did not wait to discover.” Obermann laughed, but did not vary his stride until he had reached the stone blocks where the race ended. “Achilles has triumphed!” He walked over to Sophia, his arms outstretched. “Where is the wreath for the victor? Do you not wish to congratulate your glorious husband?”

  “I must go to him.” She disengaged herself from his embrace. “He may be injured.”

  “Telemachus will attend to him. Look. They are approaching. The hare is limping, but he is unharmed.”

  Sophia could see Thornton being supported by Leonid, as they made their way slowly towards them. She was surprised by the keen concern that she felt for him; she looked on anxiously as he seemed to sway against Leonid. When they drew closer she noticed how pale he seemed.

  “What is the matter?” she asked him.

  “Ankle.” He tried to smile but could manage only a grimace.

  “Did you fall?”

  “Something hit me on the back. A stone. A rock. I felt the pain and fell forward. Then I stumbled.”

  “It is not broken,” Obermann said. “It is sprained. Let Mr. Thornton rest against you, Telemachus. We will carry him back.”

  “A rock?” Sophia was incredulous.

  “It is not possible.” Obermann answered her question. “There was no one near you, Mr. Thornton. Did you see anyone, Telemachus?” Leonid shook his head. “They could not have thrown a missile at you from the walls of Troy. You slipped and fell. That is all.”

  “I felt it. It threw me off balance.”

  “Then this is a mystery, Mr. Thornton.”

  “It could have been a stone fallen from the beak of a bird,” Leonid ventured. “Such things have happened.”

  “In that event,” Obermann said, “it would have been an omen. But I do not think that Mr. Thornton believes in omens.”

  “It must have left a mark upon my back.”

  Obermann investigated Thornton’s skin. “There is no mark here. Not even a scratch. It is my belief that you were hit by an arrow from Athene. The arrows of the gods are invisible.”

  “And why should Athene wish to strike him?” Lineau asked.

  “She wishes to preserve the honour of the founder of Troy!”

  “Not the founder, surely?”

  “Finder, not founder.” Obermann laughed. “I have mistaken the words.”

  “It was a stone.” Thornton was very clear. “It was hurled at me with great force.”

  “But it left no bruise.”

  “If it had hit my head, I could have been killed.”

  “But you were not killed!” Obermann clapped his hands. “You have only sprained your ankle. If you were not an Englishman, I might accuse you of being a bad loser.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Thornton’s injured ankle gave him the opportunity to remain within his quarters, where he continued to study the clay tablets intently. If he gazed at the signs for long, they became formless, a wilderness of lines and marks, so he carefully divided his time and attention between different aspects of the decipherment. He compared the tablets with various Egyptian hieroglyphics, for example, looking for resemblances; he studied the rows of symbols for any evidence of association with the cuneiform of Mesopotamia. He separated the signs that were clearly pictures or ideograms from those he considered to be phonetic in character; of the phonetic groups, he believed that he could distinguish eight different units or syllables. “These are records of some kind,” he told Sophia one afternoon. She came each day to examine his ankle, and to anoint it with bear’s grease that she had purchased in Kannakale; it was supposed to be a sovereign cure for muscular strain, and indeed Thornton’s ankle was now greatly improved. “And, since they are records, they are brief and to the point. They are placed in units.”

  “If they are records,” she said, “they will contain numbers.”

  “Precisely so. Do you see these signs at the end of each row?”

  “And what are these marks at the beginning of the lines? They resemble each other.”

  “Well observed. I do not yet know what they represent. My guess is that they signify a change of tense, or a different case ending. Plural rather than singular. Accusative rather than nominative. If they are evidence of grammatical inflection, then—I am sorry, Sophia. I am boring you with my nonsense.”

  “It is not nonsense at all. It is pure sense. It is sense from the beginning of the world.”

  “So many tablets are burned or decayed. Sometimes I feel as if I am searching among ashes.”

  “My husband has taught me to value the evidence of fire. So much is preserved by it.”

  “When fire breaks out—”

  “Yes?” She suddenly became wary.

  “Who can tell what will be saved and what lost? Do you see? This appears to me to be a clay label, but the object to which it was attached has been destroyed. Here is a clay seal, but I cannot make out the symbol. Is it a dancing figure? Or is it a heron?”

  “You will have to be patient, Alexander.”

  “I know it. Troy was not built in a day. May I ask you a question, Sophia?”

  “If it is a reasonable one.”

  “Are you happy in this place?”

  “I am content with it. I am busy with the work we do.”

  “You have no regrets about coming here?”

  “You are asking me if I have any regrets about my marriage.”

  “Oh no. Nothing of the kind.” He was clearly embarrassed. “I would never ask such a question.”

  “And I would never answer it. Are you happy here?”

  “I am happy with my work, like you. It is the most fascinating I have ever done. It is overwhelming.” They examined two or three tablets in silence, but then Thornton laid them down. “There is something else I must ask you, Sophia.”

  “What is it?” She seemed alarmed, and put her hand up to her throat.

  “Do you not notice—do you not feel—a certain strangeness here?”

  “What do
you mean?”

  “I was hit by a stone that vanished. The bones of that child disappeared in front of us.”

  “That was simple exposure to the air. It is quite common.”

  “Not just that. Everything. The earthquake, too. You must have noticed other things.”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary.” She did not mention the sudden death of the American, William Brand, because she did not know how to describe it. Instead she had a vivid recollection of something else; she heard once more the cry of the woman on the farm of Theodore Skopelos. “You are in unfamiliar surroundings. That is all.”

  “Quite. I am being fanciful. You do not approve.”

  “You do not need my approval, Alexander.”

  “On the contrary. I feel that I need your support.”

  “To do what?”

  “To stay here.”

  She leaned forward, and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “There. I am supporting you, Alexander.”

  LATER THAT AFTERNOON Kadri Bey, in high excitement, brought to Thornton a number of tablets that had been found undisturbed in one of the most recent excavations of a “kitchen” or “eating area” in which had already been found the bones of goats, sheep and aurochs. “I am happy to present these to you, Mr. Thornton,” he said. “If I may hazard my own poor opinion, they are considerably older than the others. They have been found at much greater depth.”

  “How were they stored?”

  “In a stone oven. I wish you joy.”

  On examining them later that day, Thornton found that Kadri Bey’s speculation had been correct. These were all pictures or picture-words, ideograms, much like the earliest known hieroglyphics. There was the image of a fish, and of a palm tree; there seemed to be a boat, and a mountain. On studying these images Thornton believed that he was looking into a lost world in which every natural thing was sacred and charged with life. Another tablet intrigued him. It showed four horizontal lines, with four circles in a row above them; to the right-hand side was the image of a hammer or an axe. Inside each circle were two dots or points. If Thornton had been a mathematician, he might have puzzled over this equation for some time. But he realised, with an intake of breath, that the circles were heads. The four heads were detached from the four bodies lying horizontally beneath them; they had been cut by the axe that completed the ideogram. It was a record of four killings or sacrifices. “I know it now,” he whispered to himself. “This was a city of death.”