The Fall of Troy Read online

  Obermann had worked as a merchant in St. Petersburg for seven years; he had principally traded in indigo and saltpetre, which, in the unsettled conditions of the time, had provided him with a substantial fortune. He had then invested that fortune in property, in Berlin and in Paris, and had acquired a large stake in the railways of Cuba.

  They had left the town of Kannakale and had come on to a dusty road, stony and uneven, with ruts and scars across it. “There are no true roads in this region,” Obermann said. “We are back in the Bronze Age.” On either side of them were fields of long grass, flowing like the waves of the sea, and Sophia could feel the wind on her back coming from the north. “It is always windy here,” he said. “I find it exciting. I find purpose in it! That is what Homer calls it. Windy Troy. The same wind blows through history, Sophia. Do you not feel it?” He turned around in the cart, and put his face to the rushing air. “In the fifth book of the Iliad the poet sings of the north wind. Boreas. It sweeps down from the mountain-tops and scatters the shadowy clouds. It is proof that Homer came to this place.” They crossed a stone bridge, over a little stream, and all Sophia could hear now was the chinking of the horses’ bells and the occasional bleating of goats. “Look west, Sophia, towards the sea. Do you see those two small hills close by the shore?” She could see two mounds, covered with bushes and trees; with the light of the sea behind them, they seemed to glimmer close to the horizon. “They are supposed by the people to be the tombs of Patroclus and Achilles. The two male lovers lying side by side! And yet they punish sodomy with death! We will enter those tombs, Telemachus. I wish to look upon the face of Achilles. Palai katatethnotos. You understand that, Sophia?”

  “One who died long ago.”

  “The language of your ancestors is close to you. This is what we will do. We will recite long passages from Homer, and we will learn them by heart. We will memorise them.” The dusty track had narrowed as they came upon the plain of Troy. “Welcome to the meadows of Asia, Sophia!”

  All around her now she saw the tall grasses, which seemed to be growing out of marshland, while, beyond them, there were fields studded with red and yellow flowers. The flat land stretched towards the sea, to the west, while to the east it gave way to ridges and distant mountains of which the higher peaks were covered with snow. There seemed to be oak trees growing all over this plain, hunched over in the direction of the wind like dark pygmies. Obermann turned to her and pointed out some small houses by the side of the track. “You know it is spring here, Sophia, when the storks nest upon the flat roofs. Do you see them?” She saw the untidy baskets of twigs and reeds. “This is the season when they return.”

  They had followed the track by the side of a river tangled with overgrowth and trees. Sophia could see rushes growing beside its banks, and for a moment she sensed the comfort of a green haven away from the dust and the wind. There was a series of small islands, in the middle of the river, covered with willows and elms. “The Scamander,” Obermann said to her. “That is the language of man. In the language of the gods this river is known as Xanthus, or the yellow stream. It is curious that rivers all over the world preserve their names with wonderful persistency. Homer called it dineis, eddying, or dios, divine. It was said to have been born of Zeus and was venerated by the people as a god. It had its own priest in Troy. Does that seem strange to you? It is not strange at all. We will follow its course until it meets the Simois. See how it flows! Hector called his son Scamandrus.” He seemed changed by the landscape around him. He was no longer in the society of men, but in the company of gods. That was how she put it to herself. “Water is the oldest thing upon the earth,” he was saying. “But it is ageless. Ever fresh and ever renewed.”

  Sophia suddenly felt very hungry, and took from her cloth-bag a packet of small chocolate cakes. She offered one to her husband. He took the packet, and crammed several into his mouth. She was about to pass the confection to the driver, but Obermann stopped her. “Never offer gifts to a Turk. He cannot refuse. And he would be obliged to return the favour.”

  “That does not apply to a Russian, I take it?”

  “Nothing applies to Telemachus. But he does not like to eat sweet things. He consumes vast quantities of meat, like a lion, but he cannot touch one particle of sugar. Is that not so, Telemachus?” The young man laughed out loud. “You see? He laughs at his own weakness. That is the Russian way.” Obermann leaned forward, and tapped him on the shoulder. “When you die I will erect a tumulus for you on the plain. The tomb of Telemachus.”

  “You will outlive me then, Professor?”

  “Oh, yes. I am ageless. Beside, I have a young bride.” The driver suddenly pointed his stick across the plain, and seemed to sing out two notes. “Look there, do you see, Sophia? A wolf!” She glimpsed some dark-haired animal, running among the grasses and the trees, and felt curiously happy.

  “A beauty!” Obermann was exultant. “He comes from Mount Ida. The mother of wild beasts. See how he streaks across the earth. The plain is welcoming you, Sophia. It is showing you its delights. Soon you will have thunder from Zeus, and all will be perfect.”

  “It is good luck to see a wolf,” she replied, “in my country. Not in packs, of course. But a single wolf is a good omen.”

  “Did you hear that, Telemachus? The gods are auspicious.”

  They travelled in silence for a while, as the track diverged from the bank of the Scamander and passed through what appeared to be swampy ground; and then they came upon a terrain of small hills covered with oaks, low shrubs and bushes.

  “We are approaching,” Obermann said, “the mysterium tremendum.”

  She could hear the river again, rushing through the masses of trees lining its banks. They crossed another roughly hewn stone bridge and came to the outskirts of a small village with its houses of thatch and mud-brick. And then she saw the hill. Or, rather, it was not a hill but a great outcrop of rock and mud at the very end of a ridge. Yet it also resembled a castle, with defensive ramparts and earthen towers. They rode through the narrow street of the village, watched by several women and children, and approached the mound.

  “Welcome to Troy,” her husband said. “Every city that ever was and every city that ever will be.” It rose above them and, as they came closer, she could see people working upon it; it was teeming with life, like some nest or burrow. It was a living thing. “In the language of the gods it is called Ilium. It is the most famous place on the whole earth.”

  The cart stopped, and Leonid helped her to dismount as Obermann strode in the direction of the mound. He had taken off his hat, and was surveying the scene; his arms were stretched out, and he cried aloud some words in Turkish.

  “He is greeting his workers,” Leonid said. “He has missed them greatly.”

  Sophia did not wish to approach the mound yet. “It is built upon this hill?”

  “No. It is not a hill. It is not a natural object at all. It is made by man.” As he spoke about Troy his reserve towards her seemed to lighten. He sensed, perhaps, her excitement. “These are all the levels of the city. For thousands of years each version of the city was built on top of its predecessor. What you see are the layers of a cake. A human cake.”

  “And these rocks?”

  “Not rocks but stones. Stone walls. Stone roads. The earth is the mud-brick of the houses, fallen into ruin. The professor believes it to be the first and most ancient city. He calls it Troy but to the people here it is known as Hissarlik. That is their word for a fortress hill.”

  “If it were a beast, it would move one to pity.”

  “Pity, yes, and terror. Awe. I never see it without wishing to bow my head.”

  She looked more carefully now. There were several steep slopes, which had the appearance of ramparts, but the central area was flattened into a plateau where numerous remains of stone walls were visible. She could see workmen trundling wheelbarrows on makeshift tracks, and there were women carrying baskets upon their heads. Other men had pickaxes and shovels. Th
ey were clambering over the sides of the mound. It was a scene of intense activity, in the middle of this drowsy plain.

  She went over to her husband, who was standing in the shade of a solitary fig tree, mopping his brow with a cotton handkerchief. “I am opening a new world. Sophia! Come with me. This is your home.” He took her hand and led her across the grass and loose earth towards Hissarlik. There was a shallow slope on the north side where a narrow trackway had been formed between deep trenches; all around her there seemed to be ditches, depressions and small hills. He noticed her glance. “Yes. It is like a scene of battle,” he said. “We are the warriors beating on the gates.”

  “Who are all these people, Heinrich?”

  “Mainly Turks. A few Greeks and Asiatic Jews. I curse them in their own languages. The Turks work better than the Greeks. Forgive me for saying so, Sophia, but they are more honest. And they work on Sundays, which no Greek will ever do.”

  “It is a holy day, Heinrich.”

  “Every day on Troy is a holy day. It is a sacred place. A shrine.” He paused, bent down, and picked up a piece of pottery; he cleaned it with his thumb, looked at it keenly, then threw it back on to the earth. “It was here that Asia and Europe, East and West, first met in conflict. It is here that literature began. Does that not make it holy?”

  They walked further up the slope, and she felt more keenly the strong wind. “What was that piece you threw down?”

  “Roman. Nothing more. The whole site is awash with fragments of pottery.”

  “Is not the Roman very ancient?”

  “If we were looking for Hellenistic Ilium it would be profitable. But we are not. Look down there.” He pointed to what seemed to be a newly dug shaft. “Do you see how far it is gone? It is like a funnel. At the bottom of the funnel will be the most ancient Troy. The first city.” For some reason she had a vision of a whirlpool, not a funnel, and within its rushing vortex lay an ancient place.

  “How far down, Heinrich?” She peered into the darkness.

  “Thirty or forty feet. It is impossible to say. Archaeology is not something you can learn at university. It is not cut and dried. I have found levels of Roman occupation here and, below them, the Stone Age! For a moment my mind is deranged. How could the Stone Age live on into the time of the Empire? But then a theory presents itself. My honoured colleague Professor Lineau tells me that this part of the site was not used for thousands of years. The Romans found an area of unused stone, and built upon it. All becomes clear! You will meet Lineau very soon. I found him at the Sorbonne.”

  Sophia did not particularly wish to meet anyone else that afternoon: she was too bewildered by her early sensations, too distracted by the noise and activity around her, to keep command of herself. She longed for rest and quietness.

  “When I first arrived here,” Obermann was saying, “I had only one workman. Only one! I gave him a spade, and told him to dig. What did he find but a little wooden idol? Here. I keep it with me always, for the good luck it brings.” He took from his pocket a small carved figure with a mouth shaped like an O. “It calls to me, saying, ‘Go on! Go on!’” He put it back in his pocket, and patted it. “Now I have one hundred and fifty men and women. Each one earns nine piastres per day. If they come to see me with an especial find, I pay them a bonus of twenty-five piastres. Nothing can escape a Turk’s eye when he is looking for a bonus! It is a small expense, but the gain in antiquities is immense.”

  The wind had picked up more strength, and there was a chill in the afternoon air. And then she saw three workmen carrying her luggage, on their backs, up the slope of Hissarlik. “What are these men doing, Heinrich?”

  “They are taking our cases to our house. I told you this was your new home, did I not?”

  “What? We are living here?”

  “Of course. Where else are we supposed to live, Sophia? The houses on the plain are filled with vermin. Here we are free of bedbugs.” She had expected them to be lodged in the village they had passed, or even in the port of Kannakale, but to live upon a dirt hill—was that possible? “Why look so afraid, Sophia? That is why I married a young wife. You are strong. You must get used to adventure! Do you see here? These are the walls of a palace. Do you see? You will be living in a palace!” There were women formed in a line, taking away earth in what appeared to be dough-baskets. They were chanting some Turkish song in low voices. The men were in a trench with pickaxes, cutting away the ridges of dark earth from which the walls were emerging. They had wound shawls around their faces, to protect them from the dust and wind, so that they looked to her like muffled mourners at an Ottoman funeral. All this was to be her home.

  “My shoes slip in the mud, Heinrich.”

  “Only a little further.” And then they came upon the plateau on top of the mound. There were more trenches and ridges here, but there was also a range of stone and wooden huts. “Welcome to Obermannopolis,” he said. “You are its queen.” He laughed out loud, startling her. “Except, I forgot, it is a republic.” He led her towards a stone hut surrounded by deep trenches. “This is where we live.”

  When she entered, cautiously, she found herself in a large room with a bed at one end and a rudimentary kitchen and hearth at the other. The floor, of beaten earth, was covered with rush-mats and Turkey carpets. “It was built with stones from Ilium, Sophia. We live in primitive comfort.” Their luggage had been deposited on the floor, and she sat down upon one of the cases. “The walls are two feet thick.” She would not cry in front of him. She had promised him, in Athens, that she would never cry again. Yet in Athens he had told her that she would have good and comfortable lodgings and that, after a short stay in Troy, he would take her on a journey to Paris and to London. She noticed that the ceiling was made of planks covered with rough thatch. “The roof is covered with waterproof felt,” he said. He seemed always to know what she was thinking. “We are snug.” He was still watching her keenly—she knew that—and she was determined to betray no feeling. “You had not expected this, Sophia?”

  “I expected nothing. I did not know what to expect. As you said before, I am young.”

  “Do you have the jewels you brought from Athens?”

  “They are safe.”

  “I will show you a place to hide them. Not everyone is to be trusted.”

  Someone called to him, and he went out of the stone hut. As soon as he had left her, she put her face into her hands and wept.

  FOUR

  She could not sleep. She could hear the north wind whistling through the crevices in the old stones. And she could hear the owls, myriads of owls, calling to the night. He had warned her of their noise. He said that they nested in the holes of the trenches, but she wondered how that could be. It was yet another mystery. He had confessed at supper that evening that he found their clamour and their hooting disturbing; he had described it as a hideous shrieking. But the noise somehow soothed her; the owls had sounded sympathetic to her fate. He had told her, too, that the thousands of frogs in the swamps and marshes would join in the chorus.

  She left the bed as quietly as she could, with her husband sleeping silently beside her. Her eyes were already accustomed to the darkness. She put on her bed-coat, which she had draped over a simple wooden chair, and found her night-shoes. When she opened the door of the hut she felt the wind envelop her. It overwhelmed her. It seemed to her to occupy, not to haunt, this place. It would always be here. She made her way carefully along a path between the trenches that led directly to the old palace walls. In the light of the moon they appeared newly built. And, when she looked up, she had never seen the stars so clearly. She searched for, and quickly found, the constellation of Ursa Major. It seemed so close that she might put up her hand and touch it. She followed its arc across the sky and found the bright star, Arcturus, in the constellation of the Boötes. She murmured the words she had learned as a child, when she and her nurse had sat in the garden in the evening before she was lifted up and carried in to her bed. Aspetos aither. The pure s
ky. Now, when she looked across Hissarlik, she could sense the shape of old Troy all around her. For the first time since her arrival she understood its form. Earlier, before supper, Heinrich had explained to her the alignment of the palace with the main street leading to the great Scaian gate; he had drawn on some paper the circuit of the walls around the ancient city, and the extent of the houses and gardens stretching beyond those walls. Now, in the night and darkness, Troy was visible.

  Mother of God. Someone was sitting upon a rock just ahead of her, his body hunched over. She must have spoken out loud because the man arose and removed his hat. “Frau Obermann? Forgive me. I am lost in my thoughts.” He spoke in English to her. “My name is Lineau.” She was immediately aware of the impropriety. She was dressed only in her nightgown and coat. But when she saw the milky white orbs of his eyes, she realised that he was blind. “I am sorry to have missed you at dinner, Frau Obermann. I was visiting a rogue who deals in antiquities.”

  “My husband has told me of you.”

  “Yes, I am the French professor with the mad theories! That is why I sit at night and smoke my pipe.”

  It was Lineau’s belief that Troy had been built upon the site of a holy place, a shrine of a god or a tomb of some great king, and that the original inhabitants were priests or guardians of the sacred spot. He believed that in some manner, also, the position of the city upon the plain was aligned with the movement of the stars. That was why Homer celebrated it in the Iliad, and why it had been fought over so fiercely.

  “I have grown accustomed to the owls,” he said. “The goddess of Troy, Athene, is known as glaucopis, or owl-eyed. Why should they not inhabit this place? This is where they belong.”

  “In my country they are considered birds of death.”

  “Precisely. This is a place of death, is it not? What are we doing here but calling back the dead? It is the bird of night. It sat on the spear of Pyrrhus when he advanced against Argos. I have found a tomb in Ionia where two owls sit on the left and right of a siren, the songstress of the death-wail. Has Herr Obermann not told you of the vases we have found here, which are decorated with owls’ faces? They are unique to Troy. This is the place of death and night.”