David Gibbins - The Mask of Troy

‘Good to go.’

H einrich Schliemann embraced his wife and left her standing on the grassy knoll at the highest point of the ancient citadel, staring out across the plain of Troy towards the distant waters of the Dardanelles. He took out his fob watch, scratched and battered after almost twenty years of excavating, in Greece, in Egypt, in Italy, here within the walls of fabled Troy, relentlessly searching. He slid it back into his waistcoat pocket. A quarter to seven. It was almost time . The delegates to the conference would be gone by now, departed for Canakkale and Constantinople and their home countries, and the archaeological site would be barred to all comers except the three he had specially invited to join him this evening.

His pulse quickened, and he took a deep breath. The terrible pain in his head, the sickening earache that had assailed him for months now, the ringing that had tormented him day and night like a thousand mosquitoes swarming round his head, all of that seemed to disappear the moment he stepped back into the citadel. Nobody knew whether it was real or imagined, none of the physicians he had consulted, whether the product of a fevered imagination or some dormant affliction he had released from an ancient tomb. All he knew was that the ache had begun when he knew the time was right to return to Troy, to bring back what he and Sophia had found that night in the royal grave at Mycenae, to return it to the vault of its founders where it might once again serve as a bulwark for the world against darkness and evil war.

He took a few steps along the rickety plank that served as a walkway over the open excavation, then glanced back towards the knoll. It was the last place on the upper citadel left to excavate, beside the great trench they had cleaved through the mound of Troy twenty years before. He had felt close to Homer on that knoll, closer than anywhere else at Troy. It would be the site of their final excavation, once the great task that lay ahead of them was finished, the excavation of the passageway that would now begin in earnest beneath the citadel. One day he would sit where Sophia was now standing, where he believed there was an excavated room of the great palace: a place where Priam might once have sat and looked out over the walls, where marauding Agamemnon had found him. Like Priam, he would not see the ravages of war but instead would soak in the bounteous richness of the land; not hear the battle cries and shrieks, but instead hear soft music of the lyre, soothing his ears, lulling him into a paradise where Troy was the city of heaven, a city of joy and love, and not a crucible of war.

‘Heinrich,’ Sophia whispered after him in Greek, her voice like sweet music on the wind. ‘You must go now. Do you remember what you said at Mycenae, when we lifted the mask? For the sake of our children .’

Schliemann looked up at her, and smiled. ‘For all the children.’ He blew her a kiss. As she turned away, the gold that bedecked her shimmered, gold they had found here that night in the darkness seventeen years before, digging secretly at the bottom of the great trench. He turned and carried on along the walkway, passing that very spot, peering down. He had told the world they had found the treasure of Priam, but in truth he knew it was a thousand years too old, the treasure of a nameless ancient king who had ruled Troy when the citadel was still young, when bronze was still a modern marvel. He had wanted to divert attention from the truth, from the discovery they would reveal once all the pieces were in place. He remembered the other citadel where he and Sophia had dug secretly, when he had lifted the golden mask of the great king. Now he felt as if he were about to lift a mask off Troy itself. He felt the bulge beneath his coat, where Sophia had swathed the object in silk inside his satchel bag. He felt a rush of excitement, yet a tinge of apprehension. What if it were all to no avail? He thought of those he was about to meet. All that he had done, all that he had found, everything he had put his soul and his energy into, all of that was at stake. This was the most important day of his life. There was no turning back now.

He heard a rustle in the grass, and saw the silhouette of a man scurry up the slope of the trench and disappear over the top. It was Kemal, the site foreman, who had first shown Schliemann this place as a boy, whose ancestors had known Troy since time immemorial, descendants of Prince Hector himself. He could never tell Kemal to leave this place, nor did he wish to. Kemal was continuity, the future. And that was what this evening was about. The future. The future of the human race.

Schliemann turned east over the trench, then came down on the path that led around the citadel, from the excavation house towards the entrance to the secret passageway. Sophia had left little candles in tin holders to mark the way, and they flickered in the breeze. Around the corner another man came into view. He was large, wearing a fur-lined overcoat and a trilby hat, carrying a walking stick and one of the lanterns that had been left at the entrance to the site. He stopped and raised the lantern, peering. Schliemann saw the features that had cowed so many, the heavyset face, the bags beneath the eyes, the hint of a scowl, but he also saw in those eyes what those close to the great man knew, the humour, the thirst for knowledge, the humanity. ‘Ah,’ the man said gruffly, moving closer. ‘Herr Doktor Schliemann.’ He spoke in German. ‘I was wondering where you were.’

Schliemann’s heart raced. He replied in German also, holding out his hand. ‘Your Excellency. I trust you had a felicitous journey.’

‘Felicitous!’ the man grumbled. ‘Fortunately, the King of Greece lent me his yacht. The Ottomans would not let an Imperial German warship into the Dardanelles. I ask you. There will be a war, you know, and the Turks need an ally, what with the Russians on one side, and Gladstone and the English baying for their blood on the other. That infernal man. I hope I never meet him in person. I would not answer for the consequences.’

‘Ah,’ Schliemann said.

‘What do you mean, “Ah”? And what’s the meaning of all this subterfuge? For years I’ve been asking you for a tour of Troy. Now I’m here, and it’s too dark even to see it.’

‘My dear Otto.’ Schliemann took the man by the shoulder, and steered him on the path between the little candles. ‘We were both awarded freedmen of the city of Berlin, yes? We are a rare breed. A secret society. And like all secret societies, we must have our little rituals, our indulgences.’

‘Freedman of the city, yes, but I failed to convince those swine to make you a member of the Berlin Academy,’ the man muttered. ‘After all you’ve done for Germany. Donating your greatest finds to the Reichsmuseum. Even the unmentionable Gladstone had you made an honorary Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries of London, and all you gave them was a few miserable pots.’

Schliemann smiled. ‘My dear old friend. If I were the type of man on whom academic honours were showered, I would not be the type of man who would have found Troy. And I already have the greatest prize a man could ever ask for.’

The man stopped. ‘Where is she? Your queen? I wish to kneel before her and kiss her hand.’

‘Sophia and the children await you with pleasure. The children remember your skill in woodwork, and I have promised them you will build them a model of the Trojan Horse. But that must wait. Now, we have momentous matters to discuss. And others to meet. Others who may surprise you. Others with whom I fervently hope you will find a common cause, a cause that surpasses all the affairs of state at which you have so excelled. A cause that is greater than any in the history of mankind.’