A Terrible Beauty

by Tasha Alexander

  Margaret had slid off her horse and was now leaning against the side of a building away from the men. I went to her, passed her my canteen, and forced her to take a drink.

  “The water is bound to be hot and awful, but it will do you good,” I said.

  “I did not think I would react this way,” she said. “I am so very sorry, and thoroughly mortified.”

  “You ought not be,” I said. “It was a hideous scene. No one should have to observe such a thing.”

  “You are stronger than I realized. How many times have you faced this? And yet you manage to go on and do whatever is necessary, regardless of a churning stomach.”

  “No more talk like that,” I said. A high-pitched wail came from inside one of the houses, and we knew Milos and the girl’s mother had given her the awful news. “We will need the police, but I don’t know if there are any on the island. Dr. Liakos may be able to help us. Why don’t you and I return to the house and send Jeremy or Fritz to fetch him?”

  “We should wait for Colin,” she said.

  “He is perfectly capable of handling things here,” I said. “Go back to your horse. I will be along presently, as soon as I have explained to Milos what we are doing. He will tell Colin.”

  * * *

  Margaret remained silent the entire way back to the villa, and when we entered the house, she retired to her room without so much as acknowledging the gentlemen, all three of whom were on the roof terrace and had called down greetings to us. I followed her and knocked on her door, but she begged me to leave her be, so I sent Mrs. Katevatis up to her, on the pretense of drawing her bath, and stayed in the corridor outside her room until I could hear the two of them talking. Mrs. Katevatis had nearly mystical powers when it came to comforting others, and I was glad Margaret had seemed to succumb to them.

  Knowing my friend to be in capable hands, I climbed the stairs to the roof, where the gentlemen leapt to their feet upon seeing me. Philip, his arm bandaged and in a sling, had regained his color. I told them to all sit back down, and scolded Philip for having got out of bed—he ought to have been resting—and then described for them the events of the day. Upon hearing of Mr. Kallas’s death, Fritz choked back a sob and Philip turned a sickly shade of gray. Jeremy immediately expressed concern over the man’s death, but then inquired after Margaret.

  “She saw the body?” he asked.

  “She did. You know the effect such a thing can have—”

  “Indeed I do,” he said. Some years earlier, Jeremy had accompanied me on a walk through Hyde Park, during which we stumbled upon a similarly grisly scene. It had taken a great deal of whisky to get him—and me—through the aftermath. “Should I go to her?”

  “She refused to let me in,” I said. “Mrs. Katevatis is with her now.”

  “We need to return to Kamari immediately,” Philip said, rising. “We cannot let our men think we have no concern for their well-being.”

  “Sit back down at once,” I said, ignoring the shock on his face. “They do not need anything from you right now, particularly as your presence is what appears to have lured this miscreant to the area. Would you have him stalk you again, and perhaps miss and hit one of the villagers instead? Do they need another death in their community?” The harshness of my words took me by surprise.

  “Hargreaves is with them,” Jeremy said. “He will have told them you have not abandoned them, but are staying here for the safety of everyone.”

  “I will go tomorrow,” Fritz said. “Today it is best that we leave them undisturbed to mourn.”

  “An excellent idea,” I said. “In the meantime, it would be helpful if you, Philip, told us everything you can about what precisely you think is going on.” I looked directly into his eyes and held his gaze.

  “I have already told you everything I can,” he said. “That is, everything I know. I am as much in the dark as the rest of you. This Demir believes I have something of his and he has become increasingly violent.”

  “Perhaps it is time to find something to give to him,” I snapped. “Unless you are content to let his henchmen terrorize innocent people?”

  “It is not fair of you to be angry with me,” he said, his tone scolding. “You do not know everything—”

  “You just said I know everything you do.” I stopped myself from stamping my foot. “I am going to freshen up. You, Philip, should retire to your room at once to rest so your injuries heal more quickly.”

  “I am quite fine here, I assure you.”

  He answered me sharply, responding precisely as I’d thought he would. His rebuke told me he did not like his former wife—or, more likely, any lady—speaking to him with such candor and force, and I’d suspected he would refuse to follow what he viewed as an order from me. Pleased that I had managed him so neatly, I went back down the stairs, but paused at the bottom before going any further. Once the gentlemen had started talking again, and it became clear Philip was involved in the conversation, I felt confident he would not come down in the immediate future.

  I crossed the corridor and headed directly for the Etruscan room, closing the door and locking it behind me. On the wall above the bed I had caused to be painted, by an extremely skilled artist, a fresco in the Etruscan style, depicting three musicians with their instruments against a background filled with trees, birds, and other decoration. A niche on the wall opposite the door contained a spectacular amphora from the sixth century B.C. that was still in possession of its pointed lid, covered with geometric patterns. Mermen frolicked along the top of one of the sides, dogs on the other, and below, the artist had painted a wide variety of waterfowl.

  I looked around the room, not sure where to begin, feeling not even the slightest guilt at what I was about to do. Philip had brought nothing with him from the camp other than the clothes he was wearing and a small bag he had hung across his chest. I remembered seeing it after he had fallen from his donkey, and now I found it on a bedside table. Without any hesitation, I opened the buckle and looked inside.

  The contents—a notebook, a pencil, a penknife, a spyglass, a revolver, and a box of bullets—disappointed me. I opened the notebook, expecting to see the handwriting so familiar to me after having read his journals, but instead found only sketches of Ancient Thera. He was an excellent draftsman, the drawings clear, detailed, and accurate, but the pages contained nothing to indicate why he was being targeted. According to his story, the Achilles bronze fueled all of the current violence, but I found it hard to believe anyone would focus this many years on what seemed nothing more than a futile chase. Surely this Demir person would realize he would be better off spending his time harassing someone in possession of something he had a chance of actually acquiring.

  I felt along the bottom and sides of the bag and realized I had missed one of the inside pockets. In it, I found a small statue, bronze, of the god Hermes. I thrilled at the discovery, until, upon closer inspection, it became clear the piece was a modern copy, and not a particularly good one. I returned it to the bag.

  I would never be convinced the storm had mangled Philip’s tent the night of Herr Bohn’s death. The destruction was deliberate and with specific purpose. If Demir’s lackeys had not found the bronze there or on Philip’s person during one of their numerous attacks on him, why would Demir continue to waste resources pursuing it after all this time? No rational man would continue the pursuit, unless he had a solid reason to believe Philip did, indeed, have the object.

  I searched the rest of the room, even under the mattress, but found nothing further. Undaunted, I went down through the kitchen and into the courtyard, where, as I has suspected, Philip’s clothes, along with Fritz’s, had already been washed, and were hanging on the line to dry. I glanced up at the roof, but saw no sign of the gentlemen watching me from above, and then checked the pockets in each pair of trousers and both jackets, as well as Fritz’s shirt. Philip’s, too damaged to merit repair, was nowhere to be found. Satisfied that the pockets were all empty, I went in search of
the maid, who told me Mrs. Katevatis had burned Philip’s shirt, its bloodstains having rendered it unusable even as a rag. The jacket, she said, could be saved.

  Frustrated, I returned to the clothesline and felt through the pockets again, focusing on the myriad number of them in the jackets, before turning my attention to the seams of the garments. The trousers revealed nothing of import, but on the inside of one of the khaki jackets—the one I recognized to be Philip’s—I spotted a small repair in the lining, beneath which lay something hard and inflexible, no more than six inches long. I ran to the kitchen and grabbed the first sharp object I saw, a paring knife, and used it to rip open the stitches. I could hear the blood pulsing through my veins as I reached inside with a single finger, and felt the cool touch of metal. Continuing with great care—I anticipated what I had found—I pulled open the lining so I could gently remove the object. I trembled as I touched it and placed it on my open palm, holding it up in the sunlight, the inscription confirming my suspicions:

  ΑΧΙΛΛΕΥΣ ΑΝΕΘΕΚΕΝ ΤΟΙ ΔΙ.

  Akhilleus dedicated to Zeus.

  Philip

  Ephesus, 1895

  This last visit from Hakan caused Philip ongoing distress. He could no longer sleep. Every sound in the camp, every voice in the distance startled him. Reiner commented he was not looking well and worried his friend would fall ill, but Philip assured him it was nothing a little rest would not cure, and he asked Humann to allow him some leave to recuperate, saying he would go into town, consult a physician, and stay for a few days. Obviously, he had no intention of doing any of this, but he needed an excuse to leave the site in search of something to satisfy Demir. He did not have enough time to go far, but he covered as much ground as he could on horseback, combing village after village and buying whatever antiquities he could find from the locals.

  His spoils lacked the panache he believed would be necessary to impress Demir. He had two small but adequately decorated red figure pots, a badly damaged sculpture a foot and a half high that might have been Artemis, a handful of prehistoric spearheads, and a tiny but lovely bronze of Hephaestus. No one would believe any of them, except perhaps the last, worthy of stealing, but he hoped that, if presented in the right way, they might convince Demir that he was at least trying to do what the man wanted. After all, Philip could not guarantee the Turk he would ever uncover something spectacular enough to tempt the man’s clients. Archaeology was not predictable. One might work for years without finding something the outside world would consider exciting, as John Turtle Wood had learned the hard way. Demir would have to content himself with whatever Philip presented him.

  The difficulty, of course, would come if something truly extraordinary did turn up in the course of their excavations. Demir would get word of it, and Philip hated to think what might happen then. He might be able to pocket a few coins, or even a small statue, but the mere thought of doing so troubled him, and objects of that sort surely would not be enough to satisfy Demir anyway. Philip had already stolen once and had no intention of ever doing it again.

  He continued to work, his dedication never wavering, but found himself plagued by feelings of paranoia and fear with ever-increasing frequency. Peace eluded him altogether. Even when he turned to The Iliad, in which he had always before been able to escape whatever was happening around him, he could not focus.

  One morning, as he sat sorting an enormous heap of potsherds and considering his plight, excited shouts rang out over the site. Like everyone else, he stopped what he was doing and ran to see what had happened. Reiner was standing with Humann, who was wiping sweat from his brow.

  “It is extraordinary,” he said. “Where is Benndorf? He must see this.” In the trench below, the first signs of a significant find emerged from the dirt. The curly-haired head of a life-sized bronze statue stared out at them. Reiner returned to his task, using a soft brush to clear the rest of the face.

  “It must be a Roman copy,” Philip said, jumping into the trench and assisting his friend, working to remove the harder chunks of earth away from the body of the sculpture—assuming, of course, more of it had survived than simply the head. His work was rewarded quickly, and he grew more and more excited as together the archaeologists revealed a figure that, although not intact, was in a condition remarkable for its age. The pieces would have to be carefully fitted together, but that would prove no problem, and, eventually, the sculpture would be restored to its former glory.

  The mood at the dig turned celebratory, and the men returned to work fresh with inspiration, dedicating themselves to finding the next magnificent souvenir of this once-great city. Benndorf and Humann agreed with Philip’s initial assessment of the piece and, after weeks of excavation and study, announced it had been copied from a Greek original and dated from the middle of the first century.

  A month after they had come to this conclusion, Philip received a visit from Hakan.

  “Why did you not secure the bronze sculpture for Demir before its restoration began?”

  “Have you any concept of its size?” Philip asked. “I could never have moved it on my own, let alone stored it somewhere without anyone seeing.”

  “You could have taken just the head. That alone would be worth—”

  “Look here, I will not destroy what I am meant to protect,” Philip said. “Taking the head would have been tantamount to an act of violence against our cultural past. I shall not participate in any such thing.”

  “So I should tell Demir to expect very little from you, yes?”

  “I am doing my best,” Philip said. “I have some items for you. They are not of the caliber of the statue, but they are not worthless. I will meet you at sundown on the road to Selçuk and give them to you.”

  “There is a well three miles from the city. I will wait there.”

  Now came the most delicate part of Philip’s plan. He had done nothing illegal—he had bought these objects in the open, from villagers, but he had to make it appear to Hakan that he had pilfered them from the dig. At the same time, he could not let any of his colleagues suspect he was stealing, so going overtly to meet the man was out of the question.

  As sunset approached, and the day’s work wound down, he told Reiner he was going to Selçuk, and was deliberately vague about the purpose of his trip, wanting to make sure Reiner would not offer to come with him. Reiner’s guarded reaction to Philip’s stumbling explanation told Philip his friend suspected him of seeking out the comfort of a willing local woman, a thing Philip would never do—he adored Kallista too much and would never betray her, even if she had not extended the same kindness to him—but he saw no way out other than letting Reiner believe the worst. Better he think Philip weak-willed than guilty of something far more sinister.

  And, so, he stood alone at the well as sunset approached, his horse tied to a nearby tree, the antiquities packed carefully into parcels, ready to be handed over. No one came for more than two hours. Philip grew increasingly anxious as he waited, starting every time he heard the sound of hooves on the dark road. This was an intolerable way to live.

  When Hakan did at last arrive, it was not via the road. He emerged from the darkness behind the well, as if he had made his way across the coastal plain without the benefit of so much as a lantern. Furthermore, he was not alone. Batur, his brawny compatriot, had accompanied him.

  “You are late,” Philip said, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

  “You are disappointing,” Hakan said. Philip reached for the bundles, but the man slapped his hand down. “I do not think you give Demir objects worthy of his attention, and I would teach you to do better next time.” With that, he nodded, and Batur commenced a beating the likes of which Philip had never before experienced, leaving him on the ground, bleeding, his nose broken. He could hardly see out of his swollen eyes.

  “I will take what you offer to Demir,” Hakan said, watching as Batur used water from the well to rinse his bloodied hands. “And you will remember this, will you
not? I think you will not disappoint us again.”

  16

  I slipped the piece of bronze into a pocket of my khaki jacket, a near-perfect match to Philip’s, and returned his to the clothesline. I considered repairing the seam that had held the piece and waiting to see how long it would take for Philip to notice it had gone missing, but decided, on balance, I did not wish to delay confronting him for quite that long.

  I went into my room—I had not lied about my desire to freshen up—and drew a bath. While the tub filled, I held the bronze on my palm, hardly able to comprehend the historical significance of the words carved on it. I am no lover of Achilles, but even I felt moved at the sight of something that might very well have belonged to the mighty warrior. Part of me—a very small and juvenile part—wanted to smash it to bits, invoking the memory of Hector as I did so, but I resisted this unseemly urge; I would never destroy something of historical value. I wished I knew more about bronze in general, as I had no way at all of making an attempt to date the piece, but I was willing to accept Philip’s reasons for believing it to have come from the time of the Trojan War. My eyes misted as I faced the possibility it might even be a shard from the helmet Achilles wore when he slayed noble Hector.

  Not wanting to let it out of my sight, I took it with me into the bathroom, placing it on a chair before I stepped into the tub. Once scrubbed clean, I pulled on a simple tea gown, picked up the bronze, and went to Margaret’s door. Mrs. Katevatis was no longer with her; my friend had regained her composure and all but drowned me with apologies.

  “You must stop,” I said. “I cannot stand one more act of contrition.”

  “I have always believed myself strong enough to face any adversity,” she said. “Now I must revise my theory. I do not surrender, however, only now find it necessary to train myself to better react when facing horrors.”

  “You might, instead, try avoiding having to face horrors.”