David Gibbins - The Mask of Troy

‘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 Goring 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 got 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.

J ack 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.