The Mask of Troy Read online

  For weeks now Jack had been putting himself in the mind of Heinrich Schliemann, poring over his publications, visiting his home in Athens, exploring the ruins of Mycenae, the site of Schliemann’s other great triumph. But always he had felt the presence of another, a towering, shadowy figure whose steps Schliemann had tried to follow, a giant among men from the age of heroes. It was at Mycenae that Jack had first tried to go there, standing alone in the ruins of the Bronze Age palace, on the edge of the grave circle where Schliemann had found the famous mask, staring out towards the sea where the king of kings had set off at the head of a thousand ships. Broad-shouldered Agamemnon, cattle-stealer, earth-smiter, sacker of cities, who knows war in all its bloody ways. What had Agamemnon seen? What had he done? What had made him come here, to Troy, to set in motion the war to end all wars, the war that would obliterate civilization, that would reduce men to their most base condition?

  Sunlight streamed through the door as the ship changed position, obscuring his view of the shoreline. If Dillen had been there and not taken him down a notch, Rebecca would have done. She was out there too, learning the tricks of the trade from Hiebermeyer. Jack had missed seeing her at the briefing. It was now nearly two years since her mother had died, since he had taken over responsibility for her, but already those years when she had been brought up apart from him were receding into the background. He tried to keep her mother close in their memory, and there was much that reminded him of Elizabeth too, the dark eyes, the vivacity, the determination. But there was a Howard in Rebecca as well. Dillen said he had seen the same light in her eyes, the same drive. Jack hoped she had a dose of the Howard luck. Maybe together they could crack this place.

  ‘Okay, Jack.’ Costas reappeared at the door, and shut it behind him. ‘We’ve got fifteen minutes before the divemaster wants us in the equipment bay.’ He walked back to the front row of seats and sat down, a glint in his eye, then jerked his thumb towards the picture on the screen. ‘So what’s this really all about? You can tell me. Your old buddy Costas. Everyone else has gone. What’s the scoop, man? What’s the treasure?’

  Jack pretended to look affronted. ‘The treasure’s in the ideas. In the revelations about the past. The lessons for the future.’

  ‘As if.’

  ‘Where did you learn to say that?’

  ‘Your cool daughter. It’s what she says when I tell her that one day you’re going to put up your fins, and pass all this on to her.’

  ‘She’s only seventeen, you know. And our greatest discoveries lie ahead of us.’

  ‘Let’s talk about the here and now, Jack. Come on. The treasure.’

  ‘Okay.’ Jack paused. ‘You remember those lumps of charcoal - as you called them - we found all those years ago on the beach near Troy? The ancient ship’s timbers? Well, I’ve always wanted to find more, to prove that Bronze Age galleys were built using the same edge-joined mortice-and-tenon technique as the galleys of the Greeks and Romans. That would help prove the reliability of Homer, too. If we can push the technology of Homer’s age, about the eighth century BC, back four centuries or so to the likely date of the Trojan War, then that makes it all the more likely that the history of the war was real too, that it wasn’t being made up by the bard. The more threads we have like that, the more the truth is locked down. So that’s what I want. A wreck with enough hull to prove it’s a galley, not a merchantman, and a nice big section of joined planking. And some keel, too. Icing on the cake.’

  ‘Jack.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You can’t kid me. Jack Howard doesn’t get a five-million-dollar special grant from IMU, talk about nothing else for months on end, book Seaquest II for an entire summer and assemble the biggest team of experts we’ve ever fielded, just to find a lump of soggy timbers. It just doesn’t happen.’

  Jack sighed dramatically. ‘You really want to know.’

  ‘You bet.’

  Jack jerked his thumb at the screen. ‘It’s the next image. I would have told the team, but I didn’t want someone talking and the press getting hold of it. This project’s already front-page news. We’d have every treasure-hunter and pirate in the world descending on this place.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Jack took a deep breath. ‘Okay. In the Iliad, Achilles lends Patroclus his armour, but then Hector kills Patroclus and strips it off him as a trophy. So Achilles’ mother, the sea-nymph Thetis, goes to Hephaestos, god of the forge, and has him fashion new armour for Achilles. The centrepiece was a magnificent shield, covered with images. Homer devotes almost two hundred lines to it. It’s the first time in literature that an object is described in that way, as a work of art. The shield beguiled later classical authors, from Hesiod to Virgil, as well as modern writers. W.H. Auden wrote a poem about it.’

  Costas cleared his throat. ‘You mean this? Auden’s talking about the images Hephaestus is creating on the shield, watched by Thetis. Instead of beautiful cities and flourishing fields, he creates “an artificial wilderness, and a sky like lead”.’

  Jack stared at him, stunned. ‘You never cease to amaze me.’

  ‘My English teacher at school in New York. Dead Poets Society, and all that. It must have sunk in while I was doodling submarines. I liked the “ships on untamed seas” bit.’

  ‘You were a member of the poetry society at school? You?’

  Costas fidgeted. ‘Never underestimate an engineer.’

  ‘Does your inseparable buddy Jeremy know this?’ Jack flipped open his phone. ‘He’s over there at Troy now. This is breaking news.’

  Costas clamped a hand over Jack’s. ‘Does the world know that the famous marine archaeologist Jack Howard gets seasick?’

  Jack stared at the phone, sighed and snapped it shut. ‘Touché. Just no more secrets.’

  ‘It wasn’t a secret. It was a hidden depth.’

  Jack grinned, looked at his watch, and carried on. ‘You’d be surprised by Jeremy’s reaction. But back to Auden. He’d gone as an observer to the Sino-Japanese war in 1938, and worked for the US Strategic Bombing Survey in Germany in 1945. He’d seen the reality of war. For him, it was an all-encompassing horror that obliterated everything around it, that neutered images of life, of light and colour. A painting of Auden’s poem would be monotone, grey, with none of the gold and silver in Homer’s description. Imagine those black and white photographs of bombed-out cities of Germany, or images of the death camps, all colour sucked out of them.’

  ‘So what do you think the shield might have looked like?’ Costas asked.

  Jack tapped the laptop keyboard. Lanowski’s bathymetric map on the screen transformed into the image of a magnificent circular shield, gold and silver, its surface divided into concentric circles densely populated with figural scenes. Costas whistled. ‘Now that’s more like it. That’s what I call treasure.’

  ‘Here it is according to the Italian artist Angelo Monticelli,’ Jack said. ‘He followed Homer’s description by showing a figure of divinity in the centre, then five concentric circles - zoomorphic representations of the constellations, then those two registers showing vignettes of people in city and pastoral scenes, some playing music. The figures look classical, too late for the Bronze Age. But Monticelli finished this about 1820, before anyone knew what Mycenaean art looked like. Many people still thought Homer’s world was entirely mythical. It was more than half a century before Schliemann was to discover Troy and Mycenae.’

  ‘Do you think Schliemann knew of this image?’

  ‘As a boy in Germany he’d been fascinated by a picture in Georg Ludwig Jerrer’s Universal History for Children, showing Aeneus rescuing his father Anchises from burning Troy. Schliemann knew the lure of treasure. He’d made his fortune in America on the back of the California gold rush, in the early 1850s. But it wasn’t greed that propelled him to Troy and Mycenae, it was a fascination with the power and meaning of artefacts, the people behind them. That’s why the image of the shield would have fascinated him. It’s why I’ve always felt
I understood Schliemann. God knows, he had his faults. He mythologized his own past. He dug Troy like a bulldozer. And who knows what happened to his greatest discoveries, what he and his wife Sophia really found when they disappeared at night to dig alone. But look at his achievements. He opened the world to the glories of the Aegean Bronze Age. He changed our perception of myth and history. You can’t knock that. I don’t know any archaeologists today who would have the courage or imagination to make the leaps he did.’

  ‘I can think of one,’ Costas murmured.

  Jack tapped the keyboard again. Two images came up, one a beautiful golden cup with scenes in relief, the other a group of swords. ‘When Monticelli made that painting, the only available images from antiquity came from the art of Greece and Rome, so that’s what he used. His figures look as if they’ve been lifted from sculptures in Rome. But these two images here are the real thing, actual Mycenaean art. The one on the left is the Vaphaio Cup from Greece, with wonderful relief work in gold, showing scenes of a hunt. And those are swords found by Schliemann at Mycenae, inlaid with gold and niello. These images suggest what we might expect to find on a shield, bronze decorated with inlays and gold relief. But they tell us more than that. Look at the bull on the cup. It’s stretched, powerful, a scene of intense action. The classical figures on Monticelli’s shield are indolent, posed, idealistic. Mycenaean art had an edge to it. The shield may have contained pastoral scenes, images of peaceful life, but there would have been a vibrancy to them, a dynamism, as if everything were tightly wound. In the world of the late Bronze Age, violence may have been ritualized, channelled through the contest of heroes, but it was still violence, a visible part of day-to-day life. It was a world where men at leisure didn’t lounge around in gymnasia or bathhouses as in the classical period, but went outdoors to hunt and play, to engage in bloody combat with boars and bulls and each other.’

  ‘So what about images of real men?’ Costas said. ‘Are there any Bronze Age portraits? Heroes and kings?’

  Jack nodded slowly. ‘One stormy night in 1876 in the royal grave circle at Mycenae, Schliemann found this.’ He tapped, and the image changed to one of the most fabulous archaeological discoveries of all time, a golden mask in the shape of an angular, bearded face, the eyes hooded, elusive. It was the ultimate image of kingly power, aloof, unknowable, but unmistakably human, not the idealized image of a god.

  ‘The Mask of Agamemnon,’ Costas murmured. ‘When I was home in Greece as a boy, my grandfather took me to see it. It’s virtually a national symbol. It’s the pride of the National Archaeological Museum in Athens.’

  Jack stared hard at the image, trying as he had done a thousand times before to see beyond those hooded lids, to reach into the soul of the man who lay behind the mask. ‘According to the Iliad, the shield of Achilles was made during the siege of Troy, in the ninth year, close to the end. An expeditionary army in the field for so long would have had its own smiths and forges, its own armourers, probably at their base on the island of Tenedos. When Achilles needs new armour, he sends word back there. Forget about mythical Thetis and the forge on Olympus, but imagine some down-to-earth Hephaestos whose job is to keep the heroes supplied with all their finery, whose workshop does more than fix helmets and churn out spearheads. Our guy’s an artist, used to creating pieces of armour for swagger and display. And look at that mask. Mycenaean artists could do portraits.’

  ‘So you’re suggesting that the images on the shield, the people, could be real people, actual portraits?’

  ‘After nine years, everyone knew the faces. The images of generals are etched on the minds of soldiers. Think of Alexander the Great, King Henry V of England, Napoleon, General Ulysses S. Grant. We all know what they looked like. To the soldiers at Troy, the faces of their captains and heroes would have been as familiar as Hollywood actors are to us. These were not distant figures in some headquarters tent, but were there every day in front of the soldiers on the beach, shouting, feuding, drinking, whoring, sulking, just as Homer describes them. So yes, the people on the shield could be real people, real heroes. And a real image of a real king.’

  ‘A real king,’ Costas repeated, pointing at the image of the golden mask. ‘And that one. Do you think that’s really Agamemnon?’

  Jack paused, then spoke quietly. ‘I think he existed. I think we’re on his trail, here and now. Agamemnon, what he did, is where the truth of the Trojan War lies.’

  ‘And for Jack Howard, the fact that this shield would be one of the most priceless treasures ever discovered is neither here nor there?’

  Jack grinned. ‘It would make a pretty good centrepiece in a new archaeological museum at Troy, don’t you think? Along with everything that Hiebermeyer and Dillen and Rebecca and Jeremy are discovering. Finding the shield would repay the Turks for giving us a permit to dig here.’

  ‘And you think the shield’s somewhere on the sea bed, in a wreck.’

  ‘In the funeral games of Achilles, Homer has the armour going to the champion who won the contest for it, the outstanding hero. But by the final chapters of the war, all of the heroes were dead, and their treasure had reverted to Agamemnon. The age of heroes was over, the age that saw chivalric contests to claim the armour of a slain warrior. Agamemnon was no longer merely coalition leader, the first among many; he was now mighty ruler of them all, king of kings. Achilles’ armour would have become part of his prestige display. All the treasures of the heroes would have been stashed away in his personal war galley. Remember Dillen’s translation? The ship, booty-laden, weighted down with gold.’

  ‘Holy cow,’ Costas said quietly. ‘Now I’ve got you.’

  ‘Treasure. Big time.’

  ‘Bring back the age of pirates,’ Costas sighed, shaking his head. ‘Treasure like that could set me up for life.’

  ‘That’s exactly why I want this kept under wraps,’ Jack said. ‘If word slipped out, every treasure-hunter in the world would be hovering around us, the good, the bad and the ugly.’

  ‘The whereabouts of Schliemann’s stolen treasure has attracted some pretty rough customers. The Nazis were after it.’

  ‘What do you know about that?’

  ‘Dillen told me. It was when Rebecca was involved with returning that painting in the Howard Gallery, the one Göring had pilfered. Dillen was at the IMU campus at the time and we got to talking. A great-uncle of mine was a Monuments Man, with the US army, responsible for recovering art stolen from Jewish families in Greece. Dillen mentioned a schoolteacher of his who had some connection with the search for the lost treasures from Troy.’

  ‘That’d be Hugh Frazer,’ Jack murmured. ‘I knew Frazer had been in special forces during the war, but I didn’t know anything about that. Intriguing. I’ll have to plug Dillen on it.’

  ‘It was something he had just remembered. Something this guy, Frazer, knew about some other guy, a British officer friend of his, who went missing. Something to do with one of the death camps.’

  ‘It was a more hazardous job than you’d think. And there was a lethal subtext, that the places where treasures were hidden could also conceal other secrets, weapons ready for use to execute the so-called Nero Decree.’

  ‘I know about that. Hitler’s order to destroy the Reich.’

  ‘And take the world with it, if at all possible.’

  Costas checked his watch. ‘So, the shield of Achilles. Mum’s the word on your dream find?’

  ‘Radio silence until we find out what’s actually down there.’

  Costas nodded. ‘Okay. For now, soggy timbers it is. But between you and me?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This really is a treasure hunt, isn’t it? I mean, you owe me. It’s why you convinced me to get into this game in the first place. You promised, fifteen years ago at Troy.’

  ‘I thought that was submersibles. Getting your own shed full of gadgets.’

  ‘Means to an end. It was seeing those pictures just now, the shield, the golden mask. I think I’ve finally g
ot the fever.’

  Jack sighed. ‘Okay. Just to keep my old dive buddy happy. Treasure it is.’

  ‘Right on.’

  ‘I want to give Dillen and Hiebermeyer a call. See how they’re getting on. I’m due to be choppered over there after the dive. And see Rebecca.’

  ‘Tell her Uncle Costas expects her to be able to strip a dive regulator the next time we meet.’

  ‘Uncle Costas,’ Jack muttered. ‘Uncle Costas.’ He put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Speaking of regulators, time you went below to prep our gear.’

  Costas broke into a huge smile. ‘Now you’re talking.’ He got up, collected his things and walked towards the door, rolling from side to side. Jack stood up to follow, glanced at the image of the shield of Achilles on the screen, then clicked it off and picked up the laptop. He remembered waking up on the deck little more than an hour ago, those images from his dream still fresh in his mind, the light shining dazzlingly through the depths, the greatest treasure always just beyond his grasp. He remembered the other treasure Dillen had dreamed of finding, the most sacred artefact of Troy, the palladion. Had Agamemnon, the king behind the golden mask, the bearer of the shield of Achilles, once held that aloft too, borne it away from burning Troy to his mountain fastness at Mycenae, snatched a prize won at the cost of darkness and death, of civilization torn asunder? Had that prize been what Schliemann had sought? He watched Costas disappear down the stairs towards the equipment bay, then took a deep breath. His heart was suddenly pounding with excitement, the huge adrenalin rush he always felt before diving on a new site, the possibility of making a discovery that might change history. And this time it was not a dream. This time it was real.

  7

  Jack floated motionless ten metres below the surface of the Aegean Sea, just outside the huge shadow created by the hull of Seaquest II. He and Costas had exited from the ship’s internal docking bay, so had avoided struggling in the choppy afternoon swell that Jack could see above him pulsing in the direction of the shoreline to the east, towards Troy. He looked up at the hull, and saw the wavering faces of the support team peering down through the calm water inside the docking bay. He raised his arm to Costas and held his thumb and forefinger together in the ‘okay’ sign, then watched Costas repeat the signal. He glanced again at Costas’ gear. They were wearing e-suits, Kevlar-reinforced dry suits with a computerized temperature and buoyancy control system, and full-face helmets that incorporated an intercom. They had toyed with using the Aquapods, the one-man submersibles that were Costas’ pride and joy, but had opted instead for SCUBA with oxygen rebreathers mounted on their backs in streamlined yellow cases. The rebreathers would give them twenty minutes at ninety metres’ depth, ample time for the job in hand, and diving would allow them close-up exploration impossible from the Aquapods. Jack disliked the constraints of a submersible and was always more happy diving. He felt supremely relaxed, perfectly in his element, but coursing with excitement at the prospect of what they might find in the inky depths below.