A Terrible Beauty

by Tasha Alexander

  “How can you be certain it was he who struck you?” Colin asked.

  “I cannot, I suppose, but there was no one else in the vicinity,” Philip said. “I staggered back to the main area of our dig and told my colleagues what had happened. No one believed me—no one expects to find firm evidence of the existence of Achilles—and they convinced me I had fallen victim to nothing more than petty theft. My watch, my compass, and the small amount of money I had with me were all gone.”

  “But the bronze—” I said.

  “I was quickly convinced it had been nothing more than a figment of my imagination—a product of the head injury I suffered when I had been robbed. Everyone assumed the man, desperate for anything he could sell, targeted me because I had chosen to work further afield than the rest of our team. I was content with the explanation until the following morning, when, upon exiting my tent, I nearly tripped over the body of the so-called thief. He had been strangled.

  “The general consensus,” he continued, “was that someone from his village had executed him, as theft from the Europeans, who are generally giving the natives good pay for honest work, is not tolerated in some quarters. I, however, read the situation differently. The way his corpse had been placed in front of my tent felt to me like a warning. I am certain I did discover a piece of Achilles’ helmet, and that this man stole it, probably to give to someone who had offered him an exorbitant price for anything that could be sold on the antiquities market. My reaction to the piece could not have been more enthusiastic, and I explained in detail how rare and significant it was. Perhaps he decided to keep it for himself, to sell, rather than give it to his employer, if I may call him that, and said employer, dissatisfied, had him killed.”

  “If that were the case, why deposit him in your camp?” Colin asked.

  “Perhaps the employer was never able to locate the bronze and is convinced I still have it. All I can say with certainty is that someone has been hounding me ever since.”

  “Did you tell Herr Dörpfeld this?” I asked.

  “I did, but he was not persuaded of the veracity of my story, particularly as further excavation where I had found the bronze yielded nothing of note. That, combined with the blow I had taken to my head and the fact no one heard even a whisper about the piece on the black market, led everyone to dismiss my theory out of hand.”

  “So why do you cling to it?” Margaret asked.

  “Because twice more while I was at Troy, men came looking for me and asked what I had done with the Achilles bronze. When I had no acceptable answer for them, they threatened me. When my work at the site had finished, and I had moved on to Ephesus, their methods became more violent. I still bear the scars of their delicate attentions.” He winced as he said the words.

  “Have you gone to the authorities?” Colin asked.

  “I have, both in Turkey and in Greece, but there is nothing to be done. There is no evidence to prove my story, and I have not the slightest clue as to the identity of the man sending others to do his dirty work for him.”

  “This is the first time you have had any contact with them here on Santorini?” Margaret asked.

  “It is,” he said. He had risen from his seat and now leaned against the wall next to a Monet painting of the seaside at Étretat. “Enough time had passed without an incident that I started to feel safe again. I came to Thera with Hiller von Gaertringen two years ago, and until today had all but forgot about Achilles and his bronze.”

  I watched him carefully as he spoke. His story, though outlandish, was credible enough, except for one point. Philip, Viscount Ashton, had written monographs praising Achilles and comparing him to Alexander the Great. He was a man who adored the Greek warrior in a way I, as a passionate admirer of Hector, could never understand. Having read every word he had ever written about his hero, no part of me believed Philip would ever have abandoned hope of seeing the Achilles bronze once again.

  Philip

  Troy, 1893

  The death of their worker had left the archaeologists less jovial than usual, but this did not stop them from teasing Philip over breakfast the next morning. Being fully aware of the incredible nature of his story, he could hardly blame them. Who among them had not dreamed of finding something—anything—that might have belonged to one of the great heroes of the Trojan War? Dörpfeld told him to push the incident out of his mind, and sent for a doctor to tend to Philip’s injury. His head still throbbed, but no one could make him believe he had imagined holding the bronze piece with Achilles’ name etched into it. This was no hallucination brought on by concussion.

  Three days later, his head no longer ached, but it took another fortnight before his colleagues stopped teasing him, calling him over to where they were digging only to laugh when he got there and say, look, this is not a shard of pottery, this is Achilles’ sword, or a piece of his armor. Eventually, they tired of the game, and that was the end of the incident so far as they were all concerned.

  No one claimed the dead man’s body, but one of the men from the village, although unwilling to take responsibility for the execution, admitted someone might have killed him to punish his crime. He agreed to see to his burial, shrugging, saying someone would have to do it, and it might as well be him. The man had no friends. He had moved to the area only recently and had not made much of an impression on his new neighbors.

  Philip, still convinced there were darker forces at work, went to the village and combed the man’s filthy hut for anything indicative of a larger purpose for the theft, but he found nothing, and would have been prepared to forget about the matter altogether had two large, well-armed men not stopped him halfway back to the archaeologists’ camp.

  “I am Hakan and have been sent, along with my colleague, Batur, to tell you Demir knows you have what is his,” the taller of the two said. Deep lines cut across his forehead, his face tanned the color of old leather by the sun. “It would be best if you returned it at once.”

  “First off, I don’t have the slightest idea who this Demir chap is,” Philip said, squinting in the bright sunlight. The men had positioned him at a disadvantage by forcing him to stand directly in its light. “Second, I can assure you I have nothing belonging to him or anyone else.”

  Batur, broad and built like an ox, pointed his rifle at Philip. “We will always be able to find you, so it would be best if you gave it back without requiring more persuasion.”

  “You are welcome to search me if you like,” Philip said. “You’ll find nothing.”

  “This is just a warning, my friend,” Hakan said. “Demir is a man of business and does not like violence. He did not expect you to be carrying something so valuable with you. I will come next week to collect it. Be ready.”

  The following week, Philip made a point of sticking close to his colleagues and never worked away from the group. On Thursday, Hakan entered the site, demanding to speak to him. Dörpfeld at his side, Philip again explained that he did not know Demir and had nothing belonging to the man. Hakan uttered no response, only nodded and walked away across the plain, eventually disappearing from sight.

  “These natives,” one of the other archaeologists said as they sat around the fire that night. “Difficult to tell what they are ever thinking. I do hope this Demir doesn’t have a daughter you’ve trifled with, Chapman.”

  “I would never do such a thing,” Philip said. “All I can think is that the bronze—”

  “There is no bronze, Chapman. Just some deceitful Turk who’s trying to shake you down for money. Pay him off and forget about it.”

  10

  After listening to Philip’s astonishing tale—the second he had told us in the span of only a few days—the time had come to retire to our rooms to freshen up. Jeremy offered to lend Fritz a spare suit so he could change out of his working clothes, but Philip, looking rather sullen, refused Colin’s offer to do the same.

  “I must return to the dig,” he said. “I want to make sure our men are all right.”

&
nbsp; “They will all have gone home, Chapman—er, Ashton, I ought to say.” Fritz looked uncomfortable. “Apologies. Old habits and all that.”

  “Chapman?” I asked.

  “It is the name I adopted so as not to draw attention to myself,” Philip said. “I picked it in honor of the translator of Homer.”

  “Of course,” I said. “His was the first I read and will always be my sentimental favorite. Achilles’ baneful wrath resound, O Goddess!”

  “Your knowledge is impressive, Kallista,” he said, his eyes meeting mine. “I had no idea you would take so readily to the Hellenic world. I only wish—”

  “Upstairs,” Margaret said, interrupting. “You too, Lord Ashton. You will accept Colin’s offer of a fresh suit, as I can no longer tolerate the state of what you are currently wearing. Filthy does not begin to describe it, and you smell of horse.”

  He could hardly refuse after that. I waited downstairs for a few minutes, in order to give him and Colin time to find him something suitable to wear. I did not want to be present while they did so. There was something off-putting about one’s first husband having to be dressed by one’s second. Jeremy and Fritz had gone up as well, but Margaret stayed behind with me.

  “Lord Ashton is a bit of a conundrum, is he not?” she asked. “Was he always so enigmatic?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” I said, “but I cannot claim to have been well acquainted with him.”

  “This odd incident with Achilles and the bronze and a mysterious Turk who has been chasing him across the Mediterranean—do you give it any credit?”

  “There is a healthy market for stolen antiquities, and I have read any number of accounts of local workers pilfering things from archaeological digs. One hears about it in Egypt with great frequency. When people live in abject poverty, they will do nearly anything to supplement their inadequate incomes.”

  “To have found something, at Troy, with Achilles’ name on it…” Margaret’s voice dropped almost to a whisper and she had a far-off look in her eyes.

  “It would be an extraordinary coup,” I said, “but I wonder at the validity of the story. I am leaning toward agreeing with Herr Dörpfeld—Philip’s head injury may have led him to believe he had found something of Achilles’ when, in fact, it may have been something else altogether, if there was anything at all.”

  “You think it was simple theft?”

  “If the dead man kept the bronze, this Demir would have found it on him, or in his home, and would not have needed to come after Philip. If the dead man had already sold the bronze, which would be unlikely in so short a time and in such an isolated location, I would expect there to have been something amongst his belongings to suggest an influx of money.”

  “If Philip found nothing, why is Demir still harassing him?” Margaret asked.

  “Perhaps Philip owes him money and invented a fantastical story rather than admit he is in debt. How much can an archaeologist reasonably be expected to earn in a season? He was accustomed to living in luxury, but now has access to none of his former funds—he left his personal fortune entirely to me, and his nephew has the rest of the estate.”

  “He might very well find it difficult to adapt to a limited income,” Margaret agreed.

  “I shall have a quiet word with him after dinner and see if he would accept any help from me. It is his money, after all. He ought to have it back.”

  I heard the sound of doors closing and water running upstairs. The gentlemen must have sorted out their clothing situation, leaving Margaret and me free to do the same. Colin had just got out of the bath when I entered our room.

  “What do you make of all this?” he called to me.

  “Margaret and I are considering the possibility that Philip owes this Demir money—”

  “Money is not a problem for him,” Colin said. “I had a frank discussion with him on the subject. He has managed to save quite a bit. He worked in Vienna for a while, as an antiquities dealer, and uses his connections in that world to sell pieces he has acquired with his income. He’s done rather well.”

  “Is it all legal?”

  He was rubbing his hair with a thick towel as he came into the bedroom. “Absolutely. He has been extremely careful about that. I would expect nothing else of him.”

  “I know we both believe he is who is claims,” I said. “What convinced you he is telling the truth?”

  “At first, I was too shocked to give the matter much useful thought,” Colin said, “and then I focused on the implausibility of his situation. Having spent more time with him, I am inclined to say, yes, he is Philip Ashton. He recalls our shared history with admirable detail—some of our exploits at Cambridge with too much detail. Yet it is not the memories, but something in the way he speaks, the manner in which he expresses his opinions and tells a story, that strikes me. The scar on his leg is an extremely strong piece of physical evidence to add to the fact that he does look like an older Ashton, one somewhat the worse for wear. In the end, my view on the matter is influenced most by something you, my dear, are ordinarily better acquainted with than I. After much considered analysis of the evidence, and accepting I have no way to actually prove the matter, I feel he is the friend I’ve known since my school days. What about you? What made you believe him?”

  “You knew him better than I,” I said, my voice quiet as I slipped past him and turned the faucets to fill the deep tub.

  “I do not like the recrimination in your voice. You are too hard on yourself.”

  “Do you not feel awful as well?” I asked. I threw my arms in the air and fought back tears. “This is ghastly. Have you had any reply from the solicitor?”

  “Not yet,” he said, “but Ashton is adamant he does not want anyone else to know he is still alive. So far as he is concerned, he is Philip Chapman, archaeologist; he wants no part of his old life.”

  “Can we leave it at that? What if he changes his mind in the future and comes forward and says we knew all this time he was alive? Would that not be worse for the boys?”

  “I cannot believe he would do such a thing. It would go entirely contrary to his character. We shall know more when the solicitor replies. Until then, do your best not to let it trouble you. As for the rest, tell me what you really think. Has he said anything that you take as proof he is who he claims?”

  I thought about our conversation on the roof, what Philip said about that kiss on our wedding night. “Yes,” I said. “There are things no one else could know unless Philip was extremely indiscreet and discussed them with you. And if he had done so, I am confident you would not have shared them with anyone else.”

  “What did he say?” Colin stopped buttoning his shirt and looked at me quizzically.

  “Nothing. It was nothing, just an insignificant detail from our wedding day.”

  “Something from the ceremony, or later?”

  I knew precisely what he was getting at, and had no intention of discussing the matter further. “As I said, it was nothing of any consequence except that no one else could have known of it.”

  Colin drew a long breath and held it before loudly blowing it out. “I would prefer to remain ignorant on the subject.” He returned to the bedroom, shutting the door to the bath behind him. Ordinarily, he would have left it open, so that we might converse with greater ease, and so he would know the instant I rose from the tub. He always liked to be on hand with a towel, a habit that often inspired him in certain amorous directions and led to our coming down shockingly late to dinner. I felt a strange pressure deep in my chest, and tears welled in my eyes.

  When I emerged from the bathroom, he had already gone downstairs, without so much as a word. I slipped into what I knew to be his favorite of my tea gowns, fashioned from filmy cream-colored silk and trimmed with delicate lace at the cuffs, hem, and high neckline. Around my waist I looped a wide sash of the same silk, its edges detailed with a Greek key pattern embroidered in blue and gold. I pinned my hair in a loose bun on top of my head, not bothering to tame
the escaping tendrils, as I felt they gave me a bit of a Gibson Girl style.

  I took stock of myself in the mirror. An elegant gown and a fashionable pompadour could not hide the strain on my face.

  I was not looking forward to the evening.

  * * *

  Dinner proved a more raucous affair than I had anticipated. The gentlemen consumed a great quantity of ouzo, given to them by Aristo Papadokos, the village woodworker who had become a close friend of ours—an excuse, I suspected, to see Mrs. Katevatis, upon whom I was convinced he had romantic designs. We dined on the roof terrace, and by the time the last bit of baklava had disappeared, the sun had long since set, its light replaced by a silvery slip of moon. Colin, Philip, and Margaret were around the table arguing about something to do with Latin while Jeremy and I sat with Fritz on chairs pulled close to the railing, looking out over the dark expanse of caldera. Jeremy passed cigars to all of us, and Fritz balked when I accepted one.

  “You do not approve?” I asked.

  “Quite the contrary—I rejoice,” he said. “I am surprised only because Ashton described you in ways so different from what I see having met you.”

  “How so?”

  “I had the impression you were like a fragile flower. I could not have been more wrong.”

  “A fragile flower?” I crinkled my nose. Had I appeared as such all those years ago, when I married Philip? Granted, my education and my passions had not yet fully developed, but I did not believe myself to ever have behaved like a delicate debutante.

  “Ashton probably wouldn’t have liked her one bit if he had known her better,” Jeremy said. “She is difficult. Impetuous, although I will admit if pressed on this that at least she may be improving with age.”

  I glared at him. “I changed a great deal after my husband’s death, if I may still call it that. It would be useless to speculate how things might have turned out had circumstances been different.”