The Mask of Troy Read online

‘While we wait. Run me through the Shield of Achilles again. What we’re looking for. The decoration.’

  ‘Best guess? Wooden-backed, about a metre across, covered in beaten gold. The decoration? Maybe bands of black niello, red carnelian, though whether that survives underwater for three thousand years, who knows. The scenes might show a kind of cosmography, a bit like a medieval mappa mundi. It’s for a hero, for display and swagger and appearance, but like most prestige weapons it’s made as if for real combat, using the best techniques of the smith. So the five layers described by Homer were probably built up one on top of the other, leaving a progressively smaller outer ring visible for the decorative scenes, and the thickest part of the shield in the centre, at the boss. That’s exactly how you’d make a real working shield, strengthening the centre where you fend off the blows, minimizing the weight around the edge. I think Homer had seen a shield like that being made, as he knew what he was talking about. The scenes he describes are plausible, everyday scenes of the world of heroes, the world before the apocalypse, scenes of hunting, contests between champions, the countryside, town life, the unending cycle of life in the Age of Heroes.’

  ‘And what if the world had moved beyond?’ Costas said. ‘Remember Auden? The thin-lipped armourer, Hephaestos, hobbles away, and Thetis “cried out in dismay at what the god had wrought”. We know the armour won’t protect her son Achilles from death, and maybe Homer’s audience knew that the shield as a metaphor wouldn’t protect history from the rise of Agamemnon, from the destruction of Troy, from total war.’

  ‘That’s good. Very good. Actually, thinking of Hugh has made me ponder all that too. What he must have seen, at the end of the Second World War. What Auden saw, in the bombed cities of Germany. A kind of truth that no artistry can mask, where no metaphor or simile or symbol can stand in for stark reality. Auden even talks about it, doesn’t he? “Of barbed wire, of weed-choked fields, of rape, of casual murder.” ’

  ‘The age of heroes, the age of controlled violence, is gone. The age of men has come.’

  ‘The history of our times. Maybe it all begins at Troy.’

  The churning of the screws ended, and was replaced by the whirring noise of the ship’s water-jet stabilizers coming on line. A green light flashed above the entrance to the dock. ‘Okay. We’re on,’ Costas said. He gave a thumbs-up to the controller standing on the deck beside him. She raised one arm and pressed her headset against her ear to listen to instructions from the bridge, and then stood back and gave an emphatic thumbs-down. Costas repeated the sign to her and turned to Jack. ‘Good to go?’

  Jack took a deep breath. They always treated submersible dives like SCUBA dives, using the same instructions and hand signals, a deliberate reminder that it was people, not machines, that were diving, and that the safety of a submersible dive was dependent on human judgement more than machines and computers. But Costas also knew Jack’s discomfort with submersibles and understood that treating the dive this way gave him a sense of control. Jack exhaled, then closed his eyes for a moment. It felt right. He looked intently at Costas, then put up his left hand and dropped the thumb down. ‘Roger that. Good to go.’

  The davits quickly lowered and released them into the water. They were immediately under the waves, plummeting at a rate pre-set by the computer that controlled the buoyancy chambers in the pontoons. Had they lingered for even a moment and been a few metres off, they would have missed the wreck, with nothing to do other than abort the dive and try again. Thirty-five metres down, they entered the current stream with a jerk that pressed Jack back in his seat, but once in the stream he had little sense of it, like being on a high-speed escalator walkway. Dropping out of it, though, was a fairly serious G-force jolt that threw him forward. Below that the readout showed a modest 1.5 knot current, reduced enough for the Aquapods to maintain position at the site using their water-jet propulsion systems. Nevertheless, they had agreed with Macalister that this was not a day to linger, and they would leave in no more than twenty minutes. Officially the dive was a second recce to confirm what they had seen on the first dive and allow an excavation plan to be formulated for the next day.

  Five minutes after exiting Seaquest II they had reached the site, perfectly on target. Jack breathed a silent thanks to Lanowski. He scanned the sea bed, remembering the waymarkers of their dive yesterday, distorted slightly through the Plexiglas dome. He activated the magnifier, which brought the image through the thick flat slab of glass at the front of the dome close to his face, as if he were looking through a mask. He immediately felt more comfortable, a diver again. They had come up off the starboard stern side of the wreckage. He saw the stem post of the ancient wreck, still there, the shape of the lion of Mycenae. He had not dreamed it. It was real. In the decaying superstructure of the minelayer he saw the gap where the Turkish navy divers had attached lifting bags and removed the mine. He jetted forward a few metres and angled the Aquapod to peer below the starboard side of the minelayer’s hull, where he had first seen the ancient timbers, some eight metres from the stem post. He was concerned to see how much more exposed the timbers were after only a matter of hours, with the increase in the current and the effect of his own rapid clearance by hand the day before. He could see several square metres of planking and frames on both sides, giving an exact image of the dimensions of the ancient hull as it converged towards the stem post. His pulse quickened. He had been right. It was a war galley, there was no doubt about it.

  And there was more. As he sank closer, he saw other objects, close to where he had raised the pottery cup the day before. They were sticking out of the sand in bundles, having been buried in a grey anaerobic layer that was now exposed and being eroded away. Each bundle comprised several dozen wooden rods, with a concreted mass at the end. Jack knew exactly what they were. It was astonishing. He tapped the intercom. ‘Now I know exactly what Agamemnon’s treasure was.’

  Costas’ Aquapod was directly in front of him, on the other side of the ancient hull, and had its camera arm extended, angled down at the objects. ‘A bundle of wooden rods coming out of a ferrous concretion. Talk to me, Jack.’

  ‘A bundle of arrows,’ Jack said excitedly. ‘And that corroded mass? Look closely. It’s not one mass. It’s lots of corroded lumps, joined together. That’s iron, Costas. Iron arrowheads. That’s what Agamemnon’s treasure was. That’s what gave him the edge. It’s exactly what James suspected. The Greeks had discovered iron technology. Look, beside it, there’s another bundle. And another. That’s how Agamemnon won the Trojan War, not by contests of heroes, but with iron, iron for all soldiers, for all weapons, for total war.’

  ‘Typical archaeologist, riveted on lumps of corroded iron, totally uninterested in the gold.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Between those arrows and the minelayer’s hull.’

  Jack looked over and gasped. It was astonishing. The object was circular, perhaps a metre across, buried under the sediment. Around the edges he saw a glint of gold. Beaten gold. He activated the miniature water jet on the Aquapod’s arm and gently sprayed the shape, clearing the sediment from about half of it. It was all gold, shining, uncorroded. He could see a thin layer of darkened wood beneath. ‘It’s a shield,’ he exclaimed, his voice tight with excitement.

  ‘The one we want?’

  ‘Look,’ Jack exclaimed. ‘You can see the bands, as you go from the outer rim to the boss. Five layers, just as Homer described it. You can even see the dark rings, where glass niello is still visible.’ He stared at it, his mind reeling. ‘No decoration. Just an awful lot of dents and bashes. It’s odd. It hasn’t been flattened by the shipwreck. It still has the concave shape. It could be battle damage, but this just isn’t a shield you’d take into battle. It’s a display shield, a prestige object. That much is consistent with Homer. Something a king or a hero mounts beside his tent. But a lot of gold, no ornament. Strange. I feel as if this is Troy yet again, Costas. Fabulous find, but more unanswered questions than
we started with.’

  ‘Take a closer look.’ Costas had extended the video arm to within inches of the shield, and was watching his screen. ‘Jack, I’m sure of it. You can see decoration. Only just. Vine leaves. An animal, maybe. It’s all been beaten out of it, really crudely. Check out your screen. I’ll feed it through.’

  Jack clicked on his monitor and immediately saw what Costas meant. ‘Incredible,’ he murmured. ‘Look at that. It’s like a ghostly imprint. But why do it? Why?’ He drummed his fingers, speaking slowly as he thought. ‘The Shield of Achilles. Awarded to the victor in the funeral games. Claimed by Agamemnon. Let’s say he takes it to the armourers on Tenedos, those ones churning out the arrowheads, and they crudely hammer out the decoration. Why would he do that?’

  ‘Pride?’ Costas said. ‘Agamemnon was always having standoffs with Achilles, right? Didn’t he take Achilles’ girl, and Achilles went off in a sulk? All that prestige display stuff you were talking about. Agamemnon acquires Achilles’ shield, but shows who’s supreme by stamping out the ornamentation people associated with strutting Achilles. Agamemnon’s now the boss, the tough guy, no frills.’

  ‘But still very odd that it was left this crude.’ Jack stared. There was no time to ponder now. ‘I’m going to take it. We don’t leave this exposed on the sea bed.’ Costas rose above to give him room to slide the two forks of the extractor arm beneath the shield. Jack worked the lever until it seemed to be in the right position, then clicked the intercom to confirm with Costas. ‘You’ve gone quiet. You okay? Let me know how this looks from your angle. Over.’

  ‘Jack.’ Costas’ voice sounded faltering. ‘About those bumps and dents.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘My camera is angled directly down on the shield. You need to take a look. I think you’ll agree it’s sometimes good to take a step back.’

  Jack clicked on his screen again. The image was fuzzy as the feed came through. He suddenly felt the Aquapod beginning to angle up, and quickly focused on the buoyancy control. He had to remember he was not on autopilot. It was exactly why he disliked using submersibles to excavate. He trusted his own hands more than mechanical extensions. He came level again and engaged the motor to drive the arms slowly under the shield, until he was sure it would lift out and not slip off.

  ‘Well?’ Costas said.

  ‘Just let me concentrate on this.’ He lifted the shield inch by inch, injecting water into the rear buoyancy tanks to compensate for the weight, raising a cloud of silt as he did so, watching it quickly settle. It was exactly as Lanowski said, a coarse-grained sediment, overlying the grey anaerobic layer that had preserved the wooden backing of the shield. Slowly Jack reversed the Aquapod until the shield was clear of the sea bed, grey sediment now falling away from it in a cascade. He used another lever to slide a metal basket beneath it, lined with plastic cushioning material like bubble wrap. A cover with cushioning would be extended above it, designed to cocoon artefacts for raising to the surface. He slowly depressed the lifting arm through the basket until it was several centimetres beneath, leaving the shield resting on the wrap, then withdrew the arm into the Aquapod. He exhaled forcibly. ‘Would you look at that?’ he murmured.

  ‘I think it’s about time you did exactly that, Jack,’ Costas said.

  ‘My screen. Yes.’ Jack saw a grainy video image of the shield from five metres above. The feed was still not working properly. He looked again. Then he saw it. ‘My God,’ he exclaimed. ‘My God.’

  ‘Remember I told you my uncle took me to see that in the Archaeological Museum of Athens as a kid?’ Costas said. ‘Never thought I’d see it this way.’

  ‘So that’s what Agamemnon did,’ Jack whispered in astonishment. He was barely able to register what he was seeing. ‘That’s what he had those smiths on Tenedos do. He must have had the golden mask to show them, the mask he later took back to Mycenae, where Schliemann found it.’ He stared. He was gazing at a face. The entire shield was a face. And it was the face of Agamemnon. The bumps and bashes were where the smiths had made an impression, like a ghostly impression of the mask, not crude at all, but executed with enormous artistry, as bold as any art from antiquity Jack had ever seen. In shadow it would have looked extraordinary, the ultimate extension of one man’s sense of his own power, stamped over the shield of the greatest of the heroes.

  ‘So let me get this right,’ Costas said. ‘Homer saw this, but he must have seen it earlier, before it was remade.’

  Jack was sure of it. As sure as he had ever been. ‘Homer’s story was about the contest of heroes. Nobody in that story saw the shield this way. This shield, as we see it here, was an image from after the fall of the heroes, an image of the terrible face of war, of Agamemnon himself. It was being shipped back to the plain of Troy for Agamemnon’s final assault against the citadel when a seismic storm whipped up the sea and sank this ship, and pushed the galleys of Agamemnon from the beach into the very walls of Troy itself.’

  ‘I think Maurice might owe James that crate of whisky,’ Costas said.

  Jack looked back at the bundles of arrows still visible in the background. Those would have to wait. Costas’ Aquapod was fitted with the video and lights array rather than for finds retrieval. They would have to come back down here as soon as possible. He looked at the shield again. He wished he could touch it, hold it to his chest, grasp a spear, feel the tactile power he had felt holding the Webley on the deck the day before. He gazed at that face with its hooded eyes, staring blindly upwards yet all-seeing, as they had done through all the history that had passed this way, through the age of mankind that had been set in motion during those few days at the death-knell of the Bronze Age. He stared at the iron arrowheads, and in a flash he understood. He understood the temptation. The temptation of power, the temptation to swing the murderous pendulum of anger and retribution. War as a condition of life, without reason, beginning or end. The temptation that had driven Agamemnon to take the tablet of war, to cast away the tablet of peace.

  ‘Jack. Reality check.’

  ‘Okay. Let’s get this topside. In that current, we’re in for a joyride. I can’t imagine anything worse than dropping this.’

  ‘Roger that. I’ll advise Seaquest II. Over.’

  Jack activated the autopilot to maintain position three metres above the sea bed while he closed the basket down. He could already sense the pull of the current, edging both of the Aquapods beyond the stern of the minelayer wreck. He extended the upper cage over the basket, lowering it until the plastic wrap cushioned the shield on both sides and he could see only a rim of beaten gold sticking out. It was as secure as he could make it. He heard the rumble of ship’s engines in the water and looked up, seeing nothing but a dark blue haze. Costas edged his Aquapod alongside. ‘Okay, Jack. Do you read me?’

  ‘Loud and clear. Over.’

  ‘I’ve just spoken to Macalister. Here’s the drill. That current’s becoming more serious, four, maybe five knots. We’re going to move apart, fifteen metres or so, then rise very slowly up into the current where it takes off about eight metres above us, and let it take us. Seaquest II has got us on sonar and they’re going to track us, maintaining position above. Once we rise above the current at about fifty metres’ depth, we’ll assess the situation, but we won’t ascend further until Seaquest II is overhead and the divers are in the water. Copy?’

  ‘Copy that.’ Jack took one last look at the wreck, staring at the rusting hulk of the minelayer over the ancient war galley, seeing that lion prow rising on the edge of the sand channel. He remembered that it was a war grave. A grave from two wars. He closed his eyes briefly, whispering the words he had spoken at every shipwreck he had excavated since finding a Viking longship in the ice off Greenland three years before: Han til Ragnaroks, ‘Until Ragnaroks’, the Old Norse hymn for passing warriors, that they should meet up again. He had only ever told Rebecca that he did this, and the reason why. His empathy for the past came at a price. He disliked excavating burials becau
se he could feel the emotions of those who had stood by the graveside. And shipwrecks held the emotions of those whose final moments were imprinted here. But now he had said those words. He looked at the finds basket, at that rim of gold, and shook his head with astonishment. He was itching to return. What else would they find?

  ‘Jack. I’ve just had Macalister on the com again. He’s had a call from Maurice at Troy.’

  ‘I read you. Over.’

  ‘Apparently, it was mostly an attack of coughing. Macalister had a hell of a time making it out.’

  ‘That sounds promising. Sounds like Maurice has been down his hole again.’

  ‘Well, wait for it. You and Maurice might both be owing James a crate of whisky.’

  ‘You’re kidding me.’

  ‘You’ve found the Shield of Achilles. Kind of. Call it the ghost of the Shield of Achilles. And Maurice, with that palladion thing. It’s not that he’s found it, exactly, but it’s the same kind of thing. A ghost. As you say, that’s Troy for you. Never gives you exactly what you want.’

  Jack felt his Aquapod tilt alarmingly, and he quickly pressed the buoyancy control handle to inject compressed air into the forward end of the pontoons, compensating for the extra weight of the finds basket out in front. He felt the submersible level out, and exhaled in relief.

  ‘Jack. You still with me? Over.’

  ‘Only just. James nearly lost his crate of whisky from me. The autopilot doesn’t like that weight at the front. I’m ascending on manual. Over.’

  ‘I never designed these as heavy-lift vehicles. But it’s another problem I can put Jeremy on to.’

  ‘Just give me a moment.’ Jack held the stick, then feathered the pedals to get as near to level as he could. On manual it was like flying a helicopter, with similar inherent instabilities that needed constant attention. He was having to ascend by bleeding air into the forward chamber in the pontoon, then quickly injecting a blast into the aft chamber to keep the Aquapod from tilting in the other direction, at the same time ensuring that both the port and starboard chambers were balanced. It was taking all of his attention, and his eyes were glued on the gyroscope and depth meter. He glanced out. The sea bed still seemed close, as if they were getting nowhere, but he knew that was an optical illusion, a function of the refraction of light through the Plexiglas that meant that everything outside looked thirty per cent larger. He glanced at the depth gauge. Ninety metres. He had achieved a modicum of stability with the controls. He glanced over and saw Costas in his Aquapod keeping a good distance away, about twenty metres to the north-west and five metres above him. The last thing they wanted was a collision. He pressed the intercom again. ‘Okay. So what’s he found? Over.’