The Fall of Troy Page 9

  “Not at all, Mr. Obermann. I have a deal of poetry in myself, if I may say so. But one thing does puzzle me.”

  “Yes?”

  “In your report in The Times you say that the palace was built on the summit. But it is here, on the north-west ridge.”

  “It is necessary to inspire the readers of your newspapers. To give them dreams. That is my idealism, Professor. In my imagination I witnessed the gleaming palace surmounting all. It will be rectified in the book. Do you see here the sculpted splinters of white marble? A temple. Too late for our purposes.”

  William Brand was surprised by his nonchalance. He had never met anyone like Obermann before, and he did not know how to proceed with him. Yet he felt emboldened by him. It was like entering some new territory, where previous laws and customs need not apply. “I was considering last night, sir, that you had told another tall story.”

  “A tall story?”

  “An invention. A fantasy.”

  “You credit me with too much ingenuity, Professor.”

  “You stated in The Times that you had found a statuette and rings concealed in a wall of the palace. You suggested that they were hidden as the invaders stormed the building.”

  “What of it?”

  “From my memory I believe that those objects were found at different levels. So it said upon the labels. They could not have been concealed at the same time.”

  “The story is more important, Professor. Stories brought me to this place. What would happen if the world were without stories?”

  “But you have combined two finds. Your story is untrue.”

  “What is truth?”

  “I can’t answer that. But I do know what is false.”

  “You are being ridiculous. My story, as you call it, has fixed an essential element in Troy. The finds themselves are of no interest to me in isolation.”

  “That is where we differ.”

  “And where we will continue to differ. I am here to re-create Troy, not to reduce it to a pile of dust and bones. Now, if you will excuse me, I must organise the day’s digging.”

  He walked off, his cane hammering upon the ground, and Sophia watched him adjust his pocket-watch with more than usual intentness. She came over to him. “Our American friend,” he said, “is nervous and dyspeptic. Like some hysterical female. He vexes himself over trifling matters. Newspaper articles! Bedbugs!”

  “You are becoming angry, Heinrich.” She looked at her husband with an almost impersonal interest.

  “He has no feeling for this place.”

  “Oh, you may be wrong. Leonid tells me that Professor Brand wishes to visit the cave of Semele.”

  “Oh? Does he?” He looked around at William Brand. “Has he been made aware of its history?”

  “Leonid has told him the story.”

  “And it does not make him fearful?”

  “It does not move him in the least.”

  “Is that so?” Obermann smiled. “Then we must arrange a horse for him. No one will take him.”

  “Is it wise for him to go alone, Heinrich?”

  “Professor Brand is a rational man. He does not fear. Where there is no fear, there is nothing to be feared.”

  “I would like to go with him.”

  “No! I utterly forbid it! Absolument pas!” She was surprised by his fierceness. “I speak out of love and devotion for you, Sophia. You are a child of Greece. You may not know of it, but you are filled with superstition. The American has nothing to lose. Nothing to gain, but nothing to lose.”

  She would be dutiful in this, of course. Her mother had taught her that a wife obeys her husband in small requests so that she might rule him in more important matters. Yet Sophia thought that she had discovered a better way. She had learned that if she embraced her duties with enthusiasm those duties ceased to be burdensome. That is why she had immersed herself in Homer, and why she took pride in her excavations. She had become Frau Obermann rather than Sophia Chrysanthis. Was that not what it meant to be married?

  “Yet I can guide him there, can I not, Heinrich? That can do no harm.”

  “Stay far away from the cave, Sophia. The people do not treat it with abhorrence for no reason.”

  ELEVEN

  Sophia accompanied Brand eastward across the plain. “This is all table-land,” she said. “Where the horses are reared.”

  “The Trojans were famous horse-trainers, were they not?”

  “Oh, yes. And they used exactly the same land for it. We have found nothing on this ground. Not even bricks or fragments of pottery. Everywhere the natural soil, as it was then and as it is now.”

  “You have a musical tone to your voice, Frau Obermann. Like a singer.”

  “Have I?”

  “No one has told you before?”

  “It has never been mentioned, Professor.” She laughed. “I certainly cannot sing.”

  “I believe that you are not used to compliments.”

  “I do not deserve them.”

  “Oh, you do. You deserve every compliment in the world.”

  “Now you flatter me.”

  “As we say in America, you would be nice to come home to.” She remained silent. “Forgive me. I have gone too far.”

  “Do you see ahead of you the ridge of hills?”

  “There is the cave, is it not?”

  “Nothing grows there. It is said that the branches of trees turned towards this place wither away.”

  “That’s mighty interesting.”

  “It is interesting, Professor. I wish that I could come with you, but my husband—”

  “Your husband is too swayed by stories, Mrs. Obermann. Do you believe in ghosts and suchlike?”

  “I do not believe in them.” She spoke very slowly, and then hesitated. She looked towards the mouth of the cave as they approached it. “But I think I am afraid of them. I must stop here, Professor. I will wait for you.”

  HE RODE FORWARD, more quickly without his companion, and came up to the cave. His horse reared as they approached the entrance, startled perhaps by a snake, but he whispered to it and patted it down. He tethered the animal to an outcrop of stone, and walked forward.

  He stopped at the threshold, and lit a lantern that he had brought with him. Then he entered the mouth of the cave. It was not as cool as he had expected, inside the cave, but there was a passage of air coming from within. The floor was a smooth surface, with a few stones or pebbles scattered in the grey dust. There were some overhanging rocks that appeared to be of the same colour and texture as the dust, but petrified and twisted into strange shapes. There was no odour of damp or decay but of something mild and fusty; he was reminded of the time he had opened the wardrobe in his father’s bedroom, and smelled the frock-coats and overcoats hanging within. And there was no noise; the dust at the entrance to the cave was so thick and so fine that his steps were muffled. The rock had also closed off any sound from outside; he could no longer hear his horse pawing upon the ground. He held up the lantern, but its light did not seem to penetrate very far into the cave; there was a pearly iridescence in front of him, and then no more. He could still sense the passage of air coming from some gap or vent, but it seemed in his heightened state to have become warmer. Or was that simply the still, dry air within the cave? He called “Hello!” There was no echo. He turned to look back but the bright light of the lantern must have concealed the entrance, and the daylight, from him. He took a long stride but then he stumbled; he fell forward before righting himself with a sudden instinctive movement. The lantern swung wildly in his hand, and for a moment it seemed as if his shadow had passed him, stopped and looked back.

  SOPHIA HAD BEEN WAITING for half an hour or so. A sea-wind, carrying dampness from the Aegean, passed over the plain and refreshed her. It presaged travels and partings, but she welcomed it. Then Professor Brand came out of the cave. He was standing upright, and walking very slowly. He walked past his horse, which looked curiously at him but made no sign of movement. Brand’s h
ead was held at an angle, as if he had injured his neck, and as he came closer she could see that he was staring straight ahead. Something was wrong. His skin had taken on a grey colour.

  “I must go home,” he said, when he came up to her. He was not looking at her.

  “You have caught a chill in the cave, Professor. This is not healthy ground.”

  “Home.”

  She went over to his tethered horse and took one swift glance into the interior of the cave. It seemed very light, and she guessed that the rays of the sun had found a crevice somewhere within the rock. She led the horse away. Professor Brand was still standing, his head twisted awry, and with some effort she managed to haul him on to the horse where he sat bowed upon the leather saddle. Then she mounted her own horse and, holding the reins of Brand’s animal with one hand and guiding hers with the other, she made her way back to the village where Brand had slept the previous night. By good fortune Leonid was there, buying some sacks of wheat, and she called out to him.

  He came hurrying over.

  “He must have caught some sickness in the cave,” she said. “Some fever.”

  They took him from the horse and half dragged, half carried him into the peasants’ house. Three women were sitting in the secluded garden, grinding a heap of sesame seeds, and Leonid explained that the professor had returned to his bed because of sickness. He did not mention the lagoum of Semele. The women got up at once, fearful of the fever that often spread through the region. But when they saw the American being helped to the pallet bed by Sophia, they noticed at once that there was no heat or sweat coming from him. He was pale, his lips and eyes grey. They turned away, and left the house without looking back.

  The men did not return to the house after that day’s labour, but stayed with their cousins at the other end of the village.

  SOPHIA REMAINED by the bedside all that afternoon and evening. Brand lay upon the straw mattress, breathing slowly and heavily. His eyes were open, but he made no sign. It was as if he were lost in thought. But then, just as the sun was setting, he turned his face towards Sophia and seemed to look at her. “Dancers,” he said.

  Obermann, alerted by Leonid, arrived a few minutes later. He went over to the bed and glanced down at Brand. “There is no strength in him,” he said. “He is a shadow. Did you heed my warning, Sophia?”

  “I did not enter.”

  “Do you see what may happen when we thwart the will of the gods?” He bent over and felt Brand’s pulse. “I cannot give him quinine. This is not a fever. And there is no need for laudanum. He is not in pain. Do you see how his face has lost its lines? He is going back.”

  “To America?”

  “No, no, Sophia. That is too short a journey. He is going back to his origins.” Then he knelt down and inspected the straw mattress. “It is as I expected,” he said. “Even the bedbugs have fled.” He went outside and stood next to Leonid, looking out at the darkening plain. “We cannot deal with these matters, Telemachus. They are above us.”

  “Will he recover?”

  “Of course not. You must telegraph the American consul. He must be taken back to Constantinople. We cannot have his body here. It will curse our work. The villagers are already in a state of fear. I have promised them money, but he cannot stay here for very long.” Obermann went back into the house. “You sit here, Sophia, like a goddess on a funerary monument. As lovely as marble!”

  “Heinrich!”

  “Excuse me. My apologies. I cannot speak of beauty in these circumstances.” He went over to Brand, and looked down at him again. Brand’s eyes were still open, and he seemed to be breathing normally. “He is waiting. Are you happy to stay with him until the morning?”

  “Naturally.”

  “You are a goddess.”

  “If I were, I could help him.”

  “You have no thought of yourself in this situation, Sophia. I admire that. It is as it should be. I can assure you that you are in no danger. This is not an infection.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It is a sickness. But it is not a sickness of the body. I know no more than that. You must ask a priest of the Turks.”

  “The only word he said to me was ‘dancers.’”

  “Dancers? The plain is known as the dancing plain, when the wheat is tossed and lifted by the wind.”

  “Could he have meant that?”

  “And there were dancers who accompanied the gods when they visited mortals. But who can fathom the mind in such a condition?”

  SHE STAYED with William Brand all that evening and night. She began to enjoy the silence, of which there had been so little in these first months of marriage. She settled back within it, looking at Brand from time to time and even taking his hand. He seemed to her to be sleeping, despite the fact that his eyes were still open. If this is death, she thought, then I need not fear it. Yet who knew? She had heard of spells that were cast upon people for days or weeks, before they were lifted. She had heard stories of people waking after they had been presumed dead. Then once again she allowed the silence to enter her for an hour or more.

  “I do not love him,” she said at last. “But I admire him.” She was silent again. “He is not an ordinary man.” Again there was silence. “You were quite right to question him. He needs to be questioned. He will run off in all directions if he is not corrected. His excitement and enthusiasm lead him to do odd things. If you had asked him about the sword, I do not know what answer he would have given you. It is a puzzle. I do not wish to think of it. The husband of Frau Obermann must be above suspicion!” She laughed. “You ask me why I married him. I had no choice in the matter. My mother had decided for me. But that is not such a bad thing. It removes all doubts and uncertainties. I can go on with my life without years of waiting. I say ‘my life.’ But is it my life? I did not think it would be this.” She stopped and placed Brand’s right arm beneath the blanket. It felt curiously light. “When I first came to this place, I was dismayed. What had I to do with Troy? But then Monsieur Lineau told me of the gods—oh. Forgive me.” She looked at Brand’s face, which remained calm and immobile. “There is salvation in work. In activity. As soon as I began to dig I found a purpose. It is what my husband calls my destiny. I do not think it is that precisely. It does not seem like my destiny. I will know it, when it comes. But this is not it.” She sighed, and went over to the door; she tried to glimpse, through the night, the outlines of the wild olives growing out of the rocky ground below. She saw nothing but darkness. “I have told him that I do not want children as yet. It is not what a Greek wife is meant to say. Yet he has accepted it. He is very like a child himself, don’t you think? He does not need a rival. Imagine my astonishment when my husband came into our bedroom the other night, knelt before me, put his head into my lap and burst into tears! It was entirely unexpected. Then he left.” She came away from the window, and resumed her seat beside the bed. “I do not think that I will ever have children. That is my opinion. He is older than me, of course. Much older. But it makes no difference to me. He has been married before. I did not know that until I came here.” She twisted her wedding ring around and around her finger. “I know that my husband is considered mad by some people. Their expressions tell me so. But Heinrich is not mad. His vision makes him powerful, but not mad. He can be very difficult, I grant you, and he says many cruel things. But he does not heed what he is saying. He speaks from the fullness of his heart.” She opened her hand, and began to examine it. “There is dirt under my fingernails, you see. The dirt from Troy. Sometimes I feel that I will never be free from it! It has a strange hold upon us all. It is like some accident in a life that changes everything. Yes. Troy has influenced me more than my marriage. I can say that now with confidence.” She began to study her palm. “Do you hear the wind? It is gathering strength. It makes me feel ancient. Can you not hear it? If you hear anything it will be this wind.” Brand made no sign, and his eyes were still open. She bent over him and met his gaze, but there was no recogniti
on left within him.

  ON THE LATE AFTERNOON, late in the day, Cyrus Redding arrived. The American consul had caught the packet-boat from Constantinople as soon as he had received the telegraph from Leonid, and he had brought with him a companion. Decimus Harding, the priest from Oxford, had been visiting him when the telegraph had been delivered.

  “It was my obligation,” Harding said to Sophia as they stood in the little hut. “Professor Brand would prefer the rites of the Church of England, don’t you think? More suitable than the Orthodox. Besides, I wish to see Troy.”

  Cyrus Redding was standing with Obermann by Brand’s makeshift bed. Obermann suddenly put his arm around Redding and whispered fiercely in his ear, “He cannot live.”

  Cyrus Redding moistened his lips and nodded. Then he turned to Harding. “It is time, sir.”

  Harding opened the black case he carried with him, and took out a plain wooden cross. The others moved away from the bed as he began his ministrations. As he did so, Obermann knelt down upon the floor of beaten earth and seemed to be praying fervently. When the rite had been completed, Obermann rose and, much to Harding’s surprise, kissed him upon both cheeks. “I wish you to purify the house, Father Harding. From the street. Where the villagers will see you.”

  “There is no form of worship in the Church of England—”

  “There is a rite of exorcism, is there not? Every religion has its demons.”

  “I do not know it by heart, I am afraid.”

  “Then we will improvise. Come, sir. It is the most significant and important task in this place.”

  “I am not in a position—”

  “I am in a position. May I take your cross? Sophia, will you bring me some water from the well?”

  “This is approaching blasphemy, Herr Obermann.” Decimus Harding was smiling as he spoke. He seemed delighted. “I do not know if I should permit it.”

  “It cannot be helped. It is necessary to remove the burden from this house.” Decimus Harding, Cyrus Redding and Leonid came out after him, and stood in an awkward group by the side of the path. “Come, Sophia,” he said. “Do you have the water?” She had filled a small earthenware bowl from the well at the side of the road, and stood beside him.