The Mask of Troy Page 32

  He took out the package, and unwrapped it. They all gasped as he let the cloth fall away. It was a metal cross, about twenty centimetres wide, equilateral, with bars extending at right angles from each arm. It was gold, lustrous and dazzling in the flickering gaslight, with a silvery metal as the core.

  Gladstone reached out and touched it. ‘Of course,’ he murmured. ‘Of course. The symbol you write about with such passion in your books. The symbol you found incised on pots at Troy. The symbol, as I recall, you had painted into the decoration of your house in Athens.’

  ‘Schliemann the treasure-hunter, again,’ Hoar said. ‘Leaving clues for posterity.’

  ‘This is the shape of the keyhole in the bronze door ahead of us?’ Gladstone asked.

  Schliemann nodded, flushed with excitement. ‘I give you the hakenkreuz, gentlemen. The hook-cross. What in Sanskrit is called the swastika. The symbol of the Aryan peoples, the first Indo-Europeans who came from the east, over the Black Sea, the people I believe were the first settlers at Troy. This was their symbol. The symbol of the first civilization. The symbol of Troy. And this metal is not just gold, but meteoritic. Some ancient sacred discovery, shaped in this way for the kings of Troy.’

  Bismarck reached out, then let his hand drop. ‘I know this symbol,’ he growled. ‘The hakenkreuz has new meaning for the nationalists in Germany, the volk-movement. There are secret societies, those who hark back to an Aryan past. It seems,’ he said, looking at it uneasily, ‘to stand for all the possibilities of the past, and all the dangers of the future. Coming events cast their shadows before.’

  ‘Where did you find this?’ Gladstone asked.

  ‘It was Sophia, not me,’ Schliemann said. ‘I lifted the mask, but Sophia led me there.’

  ‘The mask?’ Gladstone said incredulously. ‘You mean the Mask of Agamemnon? At Mycenae?’

  ‘Have no fear, my dear Gladstone,’ Schliemann said, touching the other man’s arm. ‘Your eloquent argument in the preface to my book Mycenae still holds truth. I too am convinced that the shaft graves contain Agamemnon and his family. But when I raised the golden mask, it was not a skeleton I saw beneath. In my mind’s eye I saw Agamemnon, yes, a spectral image that flashed before me, so when I told the world I had gazed upon the face of Agamemnon I was telling the truth. But what I found beneath the mask was this. The hakenkreuz, the swastika. I give you the most astonishing find I have ever made. I give you the palladion, gentlemen.’

  ‘The palladion?’ Gladstone breathed, staring at the cross. ‘But the palladion was a wooden statue, surely, in the temple at Troy? The statue of the goddess Pallas, stolen by Odysseus?’

  ‘That story may well have been true. There are those who believe that statue found its way to Rome, and then to Constantinople, where it remains concealed to this day. The story would have suited Agamemnon. To steal the statue of the protecting deity was to steal the soul of a city. It meant Troy was doomed. But it would also have suited him that the story concealed the truth, that the palladion was not a wooden statue but this cross, the key to that chamber ahead of us. It may well have been concealed in the temple, in some underground repository, perhaps, a holy of holies, its whereabouts known only to the great kings who came to convene in that chamber to keep the peace.’

  ‘Agamemnon had been one of those kings,’ Hoar murmured.

  Schliemann nodded. ‘Yet years later, he stood here, at this very spot, that fateful night of fire and death, dripping with other men’s blood, slamming down his great sceptre, his bloody sword hanging from his other hand, staring at that door ahead, remembering. All he wanted was that chamber shut for ever, and this entranceway buried. Shutting the door would close off the chamber of power that had thwarted his own ambitions, had prevented his ascendancy above all the others. He had killed Priam, and now he would seal off the chamber that had counselled peace, not war. Those fallen blocks of masonry ahead of us were not the result of some natural convulsion, but were deliberately caused. And having buried the chamber, he would find the key, take it from this place, and conceal it for all time. He stormed up to the temple ahead of his men, the fires raging around him, the cries of women filling the air, and found the palladion, then took it back with him to his citadel at Mycenae. And where better to conceal it than in the hallowed burial ground of his ancestors, behind a mask that showed his own face, the ultimate act of power. Then, standing over the grave of his forefathers, Agamemnon could feel as mighty as a god, could raise his staff to Mount Olympus and shake it with contempt. The age of gods had ended. The age of men had begun. And he is there somewhere, his own burial, I am sure of it. What matters is that we have found the palladion. What matters is that we can turn back history, stand in front of those doors as all those kings before Agamemnon did, and reach up again with this key.’

  ‘What would we find?’ Hoar asked quietly.

  Schliemann paused. ‘I do not know what we will find. I do not know. It may be an empty chamber, a place where treasures of metal were once stored, a council chamber with empty seats. But even that could be enough to prove my theory, so that we may go forth with confidence and proclaim it to the world.’

  ‘What would you have us do?’ Bismarck said.

  ‘A year from now, a year to the day, we will reconvene at this spot. The arrangements will be made with the utmost secrecy, and we must not speak a word of this until we are agreed to do so, when the time is right. We must have something to show. I must be believed, not mocked. A grand opening. The press gathered, as they were at Mycenae when I revealed the Mask of Agamemnon. God willing, by a year from now Sophia and I will have dug through to that door, and created a passage wide enough to open it. It will be the greatest moment of all our lives. An incalculable treasure, far richer than all the gold in the world. The key, gentlemen, to the abatement of war. Proof, somewhere, indeed in the very existence of that chamber, that men could once control the urge to self-destruction.’

  ‘Do we few, so few, old men all of us, have the strength and morality to rise above the tide of technology, the monster of self-destruction humanity has created?’ Hoar asked.

  ‘The monster is within ourselves,’ Bismarck murmured, still staring at the swastika.

  ‘The world needs heroes,’ Schliemann said. ‘Not lords of war, not champions like Achilles, but heroes like Atreus, Minos, Priam of Troy, men willing to stand against the stream.’

  ‘We need more treaties,’ Gladstone murmured, tapping his fingers against his cane. ‘Treaties, with redoubled effort. I will be prime minster once again. This has convinced me of it. I will stand for re-election.’

  ‘We need a balance of power,’ Hoar said. ‘We will never prevent nations from having weapons, but if we maintain our strength we may prevent war through deterrence.’

  ‘Much can be set in motion in a year,’ Gladstone said. ‘And then, if we can show to the world that it has worked in the past, there may be the vigour and strength of purpose to get it done.’ He turned to Bismarck. ‘Chancellor, you have famously said that history is more than mere written words. We are old men, but we need to make history, not write it.’

  ‘It seems that after all we speak from the same page, Herr Gladstone.’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Schliemann said, turning to them. ‘There is an ancient expression of the Hittites. I give you a tablet of war; I give you a tablet of peace.’ He held out his hands as he spoke, palm up, left hand then right. ‘Which is it to be?’

  Silently the others came up, first Gladstone, then Bismarck, then Hoar, and placed their hands one on top of the other, on his right hand. They remained still for a moment, and then Bismarck and Hoar withdrew, leaving Gladstone alone, staring into Schliemann’s eyes, a look of concern on his face. ‘My dear Heinrich,’ he said softly. ‘You have left your mark upon this age. An undying name. A name that I trust will be with us for many a year. You do not need to push so hard as to be injurious to your health, as is your wont.’

  Schliemann squeezed his hand. ‘Your solicitati
on is most gratefully acknowledged. But have no fear. My health is redoubled by this meeting. My energy is undiminished. Great days lie ahead.’

  Gladstone withdrew, and stood beside Bismarck in the shadows. Hoar raised his right hand and pulled a golden signet ring off his finger. ‘Gentlemen, I am humbled to be here. I feel a mere mortal among giants. This ring bears the crest of my forefathers, who signed the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution of the United States of America, the greatest affirmations of peace and liberty ever devised. Those documents, gentlemen, give us hope that the will of the individual can triumph. I give you this ring in solemn affirmation that I have spent and will spend my days in the pursuit of life, liberty and happiness for all mankind, and in observance of our pledge here today.’ He knelt down stiffly and pressed the ring as far as it would go into the earth on the side of the tunnel, then pushed a potsherd over the top of it. He got back up, tottering slightly. ‘And to you, Mr Schliemann, in your great endeavour to finish this excavation, I wish Godspeed.’

  ‘And Godspeed to you too, Mr Hoar.’ Schliemann turned to go, took a few steps and then turned back. The three men were still there, standing, but had receded into the gloom. For a split second he saw them for what they were, three old men already half into shadowland, looming like wraiths of long-dead kings, like the kings Schliemann imagined still pacing the halls and battlements above. He felt a chill wind, and wrapped his coat around him. Could these men still make history? Or had he deceived himself? Had his passion, his yearning for more and more discoveries, his endless delay in returning to Troy, year after year, made him push this day too far ahead? Had he left it too late? He shook away the thought, and raised his hand. ‘Godspeed to you all. Until we meet again here, a year from now.’

  Schliemann returned on the path past the point where he had met Bismarck, following the line of little candles, now spluttering and dying. Night winds at Troy were always disturbing, and he half imagined the rustling he heard was not the wind in the grass but the advancing Greeks parting their way through wheat on the plain below, and the sound of bare feet pattering over the smooth adobe of the streets and walls, the trembling sounds of that final night before the storm, a night when each breath could be heard. He reached the ramp up the western wall of the citadel, on the edge of the great trench they had dug through the site. He looked up at the stars and saw Orion, the hunter, his favourite. Far above him, close below Orion, he saw black birds flying silently, heading north.

  He looked towards the grassy knoll on the northern edge of the citadel, and felt a rush of warmth. Sophia was still there, framed by the night sky, the wind blowing back her veil and revealing the golden belt, the bracelets, the headband, glistening in the starlight. But was it Sophia, or was he imagining another, Helen of Troy? Schliemann closed his eyes for a moment, feeling dizzy, a sound like the sea coming and going in his head. He opened his eyes and saw that Sophia had lifted up a tallow torch and lit it, sending wisps of smoke curling in the wind towards him. The flames suddenly erupted, illuminating her red dress, and for a moment it looked as though they would devour her, as if she herself would become a torch, a leaping, twisting beacon of fire, a signal into the night. Was that how it had all begun? And was the Trojan Horse real, or was it some dark force of the sea, raging, tossing its mane, turning to fire and bloody murder as it swept death towards the citadel, breaking over the beacon, carrying all before it?

  He knew Homer off by heart. He thought he knew about the Trojan War. A war fought for beauteous Helen, and the wealth she brought. But had it been? He closed his eyes, and tried to conjure it, melding fragmentary images as they came to him. The sea, the colour of widow’s tears, steel-blue. Grooms beside beached ships, whispering to tethered horses not to fear the sea, then kissing and releasing them. Harpies flying overhead, bronze and iron messengers of death. He looked at his hand, calloused as he imagined Agamemnon’s might have been: the hand of Agamemnon, people-devouring king, battle-wise, lion-maned, he who knew war in all its bloody ways. The ringing in his ears became shouts, bellows, roars. Blood was everywhere, pounding in his head, cloying in his nostrils, its iron taste filling his mouth. Dark blood spurting from wounds cleaved by champions. Blood swept up from the plain and falling like a rainstorm, staining the ground black. Blood lapping against Scamander’s shore, drenching the beach, drowning the plain below the battlements, seeping up over them. Sophia, blood-red beacon, dripping fire.

  Schliemann gasped as if coming up for air, leaning against the stone ramp. Perhaps Gladstone had been right. He was letting the past consume him. He looked up and saw Sophia turn and walk towards him, holding the burning torch. He pushed himself back up, and waved at her. He remembered how close he had felt to her that night years before, in the shaft grave in the far-off citadel of Agamemnon. He remembered the thrill of that moment, but also the fear, a tremulous, paralysing fear, just before he had lifted the golden mask. A fear that had been his greatest weakness, the fear of making a discovery that would cap his career but dim the light of his passion and infect the memory of all that had gone before, the exhilaration that had fuelled him. He feared a discovery that might diminish his yearning for more, and diminish the supreme fulfilment he had found with Sophia.

  And there had been the other, deeper fear, a fear of what he might reveal, an awful truth about the human condition, about war. Those terrible images of blood, those dreams that always came to him up here, were more than just a vivid imagining of Homer. He remembered what Bismarck had said. Coming events cast their shadows before. Schliemann had finally realized why those images so unnerved him. It was as if the tide of the future were rolling back, and he was seeing the river Scamander not drenched in ancient blood, in the blood of heroes, but in fresh, red blood, in the blood of the children of today. It was not the past he was seeing. It was the future.

  Sophia reached him, and they embraced. He held her tight, taking the torch and holding it away from them, the flame flickering in the breeze. All grim thoughts left him, and he experienced a supreme contentment. Their children were waiting. He felt a burst of the familiar adrenalin. Tomorrow he and Sophia would be here again, in the tunnel, at the crack of dawn, alone in secret with their trowels and shovels, just as they had been so many times before, knowing they were on the cusp of another discovery that they would one day reveal to an astonished world. What they found here could change history. He could hardly wait. There was no time to lose.

  19

  Wieliczka Salt Mine, Poland

  At first all Jack could see underwater was a green haze, obscuring the forms of Costas and the other three divers in front of him. He sank to the bottom of the pool, only a few metres below the surface, and angled the headlamps on either side of his helmet, locking them in place once they had reached a convergence point about five metres in front of him. He had never seen water of this hue before. Green usually meant organic matter, algae, that would reflect the light from underwater torches, like using full-beam car headlights in a snowstorm. But here there was no reflection, just haze. He remembered what Wladislaw had said about the copper inclusions that caused the colour, evidently particles of very small size.

  He could hear the suck and exhaust of the three Russians, all of them breathing hard on their regulators. The rebreathers he and Costas were wearing only needed to be vented of excess gas build-up every ten minutes or so, so were effectively closed systems most of the time that produced no exhaust. Through the intercom he could hear Costas’ breathing, calm, slow, reassuring. He knew his own breathing would conform to the same rate, a sign of a good buddy pairing. Only he and Costas would be able to talk to each other. Ben had not mentioned this to the phone contact when the arrangements had been made. The three Russians had been too concerned with understanding their own equipment, and they had evidently been briefed that he and Costas would have specialized gear. And each of them had just drunk a third of a litre of neat vodka. They were probably too drunk to care.

  He feathered his b
uoyancy control, injecting air into his e-suit, then looked around and saw a dark smudge where the tunnel descended. He looked at Costas. ‘You read me?’

  ‘Loud and clear.’

  ‘Let’s move. They can follow, if they’re able.’

  ‘One of them’s breathing like a steam engine. No way he’ll last.’

  ‘Shouldn’t drink and dive.’

  ‘You getting the map on your screen?’

  ‘Roger that.’ Jack peered at the lattice of red lines visible in three dimensions inside his helmet, to the left of his visor. ‘Looks like we’ve got about fifty metres ahead where the railway track continues to a vertical shaft. The shaft drops way down, about eighty metres. Then at the bottom there’s another stretch of tunnel angling down at about thirty degrees, evidently the line of the natural fissure. Looks like our target area’s going to be a hundred and ten, maybe a hundred and twenty metres below water level.’

  ‘My computer gives us about twenty-five minutes no-stop time. If the Russians stick to plan, they’ll go no deeper than eighty metres. That means part-way up that shaft.’

  ‘You ready?’ Jack said.