Golden Chariot

by Chris Karlsen

  “Fortunately, she cannot talk underwater.”

  Charlotte opened her mouth to jump into the conversation.

  “Go,” Refik ordered before she could, then turned and hurried away.

  Charlotte and Atakan slipped into the water from the Suraya’s dive platform. Uma and Talat lowered the scooters into the water next to them.

  “Where do you want us?” Charlotte asked.

  “We’re four hundred meters out from the bow so far. You two start at five hundred meters from the bow. Other teams are working off the starboard and stern,” Talat said.

  “Commencing countdown, engines on,” Charlotte sang Space Oddity to herself and fired up her engine.

  They flipped on the scooter’s headlights and dived, side-by-side, gliding over the wreck. At the far grid, both Charlotte and Atakan increased their speed to the scooter’s maximum. They wasted several precious minutes of dive time racing around like teenagers with new snowboards. She checked her watch. They’d agreed on deck to not fool around for more than three minutes. Time was up. She looped to her right while Atakan looped left. They paralleled each and began a methodical search of the seabed. The arrangement gave them a one-hundred-eighty degree view with some overlap in the middle. If one of them spotted an object of interest, they’d split off and investigate while the other remained stationary.

  They’d covered thirty-five meters when a field of white fragments popped into Charlotte’s peripheral vision. The pale patches oscillated in the distance as she turned to look through the scooter’s wake. In all likelihood, they were more amphoras partially buried in silt. She wondered how broken pottery ended up so far from the wreck site. No identifiable artifacts in this area appeared on the original survey. Strong currents must have uncovered the relics since then. She signaled Atakan and pointed. He nodded and circled as she motored away to investigate.

  As the scooter’s engine stirred more of the sand from the find, it took her a moment to realize what she’d found.

  Bones.

  Lots of bones.

  She waved Atakan over and circled.

  A field of remains. Human or animal?

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “Horse bones are a good find,” Charlotte said, calculating their potential for her theory.

  “Admit it, you were hoping for human,” Atakan said.

  “Kind of. Buried in the sand the way many were, I thought it was possible.” She shrugged. “I have mixed feelings about digging down for relics and coming up with a human skull.”

  “Since you found the field, shouldn’t you be doing the analysis?”

  “Me? God, no. Any parts south of the skull and above the legs is fuzzy blur in my memory bank.”

  “You took a class in this and don’t remember anything?”

  Atakan whispered.

  “Three years ago and I struggled through it. I sucked at high school biology let alone faunal analysis. What about you?”

  “I’m happy to identify living animals...dogs, cats, sheep. I don’t do bones,” Atakan said.

  The team arranged the equine bones on several long tables in the conservation tent. Later teams found more beyond the field Charlotte and Atakan discovered. Talat and Uma laid the bones out in the same pattern they’d been found on the seabed. Layers of silt left many of them in reasonably good shape. Teeth of varied size mixed in with the skeletal remains were also recovered.

  Uma held the distinct distal limb bone up for closer examination. She slowly turned it then placed it back on the table and measured the length and circumference.

  Few of the scientists had experience with zooarchaeology other than a basic mandatory course of study. Those who did, like Charlotte, confessed to forgetting more than they remembered.

  The group deferred to Uma who’d taken two semesters. She tried to reject the job, arguing her limited knowledge wouldn’t help much.

  “Uma suffering from an attack of humility, who’d have thought it?” Charlotte commented to Atakan is a low voice.

  In spite of her protests, the group voted. Uma lost.

  “What do you think, pony or horse?” Talat asked her.

  “I’m not an expert,” Uma warned again. “From the size, I’d say a horse, and a large one, for the time. As I recall, most Bronze Age equines were about one-hundred-forty centimeters...fourteen hands,” she clarified. “I believe once the test results come back we’ll find these horses closer to fifteen hands.” Her mouth turned down in a dismissive manner. “Of course, this is nothing compared to the Warmbloods in my country.”

  So much for humility.

  Uma continued her analysis moving from bone set to bone set.

  Charlotte stepped away from the displays and went outside.

  Everyone was focused on Uma and didn’t notice her exit, except for Atakan.

  Charlotte sank down under an olive tree overcome with a sudden sadness.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “Liar.” He joined her on the ground. “Here I was ready to make my argument against your latest silly connection to Troy’s fame for horses. I foresaw you’d make an association. Instead, you wandered off. Why?”

  She hesitated to discuss what she felt. Atakan was certain to laugh.

  “Charlotte?”

  “You’re right. My mind did go to Troy, and I was preparing my logical connection to throw at you.”

  “I’m here.”

  “Maybe later.”

  Atakan didn’t press her. He stretched out in the shade and lay with his hands behind his head, eyes closed.

  They sat quiet for several minutes each to their own thoughts. In the distance, a local boatman delivered fresh water to the Suraya for the desalination tanks. Farther out, where the sea appeared to drop off the edge of the earth, white fishing boats dotted the blue along with the larger dots of the occasional yacht. Birds darted back and forth on the beach, chasing the receding water of a gentle wave and running away from the next one. On the hills, lavender Wisteria grew wild among the scrub and rocks. It was the perfect landscape for a travel brochure’s picture of tranquility. The peaceful scene clashed with the German hip-hop CD Ursula played in the kitchen.

  “Weird music,” Charlotte said, glancing over her shoulder in the direction of the kitchen.

  “Pardon?”

  “German hip-hop, it’s sneaking up on creepy. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Haven’t a clue, I don’t listen to hip-hop,” he said.

  “What do you listen to?”

  “Latin music.”

  “Latin? You?” Atakan and salsa music, the pairing was almost as weird as Ursula’s Gangster Rap. “Like who?”

  “Enrique Iglesias is my favorite. I also like Marco Solis and Jenni Rivera.”

  She liked Iglesias too. She hadn’t heard of the others. But--salsa Atakan? In a million years, she wouldn’t have put those two together. “What else do you listen to?”

  Atakan opened his eyes and turned his head to look at her. “Caravan music,” he said with a smile.

  Charlotte wasn’t sure if he was making that up or not. “You mean haunting, deserty tunes, or is that a euphemism for belly dancer music?”

  “There’s some similarity, a shared rhythm with some of the music, depending on the artist and the country they’re from. Much of it is along the lines of Desert Rose, the Sting, Cheb Mami tune. I’ll let you listen to a few on my iPod one day.”

  He rolled over onto his side, resting his head on his fist. “Are you ready to tell me what’s bothering you, now?”

  “You’ll laugh at me. You often do.”

  “Only when you talk nonsense. Maybe I won’t this time. Try me.”

  “It’s the bones of all those horses. I suddenly felt a terrible empathy for them. How terrified they must’ve been. The water rising, the noise of the storm, the wind roaring, the waves slamming against the hull. Animals are sensitive to noise. Worse, tied to iron rings on the hull, there was no escape for most
of the horses. The ones who managed to snap their tethers weren’t any better off. We know how far some managed to swim. Disoriented, getting tossed and turned in the turbulent water, struggling to find solid footing and not understanding what is happening to them, can you imagine their panic?”

  Atakan looked puzzled by her comment. A strange reaction, since she didn’t see her observation as particularly unusual.

  “I’m curious,” Atakan said. “Does this empathy extend to the crew? Because I’ve never heard you mention you suffer this sadness for them, when they endured the same deadly conditions.”

  Of course, she’d thought about them in general terms. What were they like? What gods did they pray to? What were their values? All contributed in some measure to the civilization we are today, for good and bad. She cared, just not as much as she did for the horses. Potentially, Trojan horses, horses from Priam’s own stable. The ancient crew mattered to her, but not over proving the existence of Hektor and Priam and even the loathsome Paris. Establishing the reality of their lives was everything. She compared her passion to that of those who search for the lost tomb of Alexander the Great or Cleopatra’s tomb.

  “My empathy extends to the crew, yes,” she said, blowing off the question with a half honest answer. She considered the size of the horses. Horses used for war chariots were the more common smaller ones of the period. The ship didn’t carry other war materials, none found as yet. These bigger horses would suit a royal chariot. A chariot used to make an impression, a regal display of power and wealth.

  “You know...” she said, thinking out loud. “I bet we find more than equine bones. I bet we find some identifiers like ornamental cheek pieces to their bridles or jeweled headpieces. They could give us the original port or the destination.”

  Atakan closed his eyes, took a deep breath and let it out in a long, exasperated sigh. Charlotte suspected he was counting to ten. When he opened his eyes he looked on the verge of choking her.

  “I knew it,” he said. “I thought you’d try and make a connection. You really do think these are Trojan horses, stallions of Hektor’s, no doubt. That is why you feel so sorry for the animals.”

  “I never said Hektor’s.”

  His cell phone rang before he could respond. He sat up and unclipped it from his waistband. Atakan’s expression changed from exasperation to one of concern as he listened. He didn’t say anything after he clicked off. He appeared lost in thought.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Heather Hilliard is missing.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The news snapped Charlotte out of her sad empathy for the horses and thoughts of Troy. “What do you mean missing?”

  Some of the group from the lab came outside. Atakan glanced their way. “Come.” He stood and offered his hand. “We can talk better in private.”

  Clasping his hand, she got to her feet. “Sure. Where?”

  “Away from camp. The café is good. Let me grab my wallet.”

  As they entered the living quarters, they nearly collided with a man leaving. Atakan remained in the doorway and blocked his exit.

  Charlotte was acquainted with most of the villagers who came and went from the camp. She didn’t recognize the bearded man. Shorter than Atakan and heavyset, the stranger was moon-faced with wide, rubbery lips, and piggy eyes. Not someone she’d forget seeing.

  “I’ve never seen you before. May I ask your name?” Atakan asked, not moving from the man’s path.

  “Basri.” The man extended his hand for Atakan to shake. “Basri Damla. I’m from the village.”

  “What are you doing in here?” Atakan gave the man’s hand a perfunctory shake, never taking his eyes off him. “This is a private area.”

  Damla pointed to a basket of fruit and vegetables. “The basket is from our family farm. My brother usually comes but he is busy. He asked me to bring these supplies to you.”

  Indifferent to the bluntness of his question to Damla and the insinuation he was a sneak, Atakan said, “Don’t move.” Then he walked around the room double checking nothing was disturbed.

  “I do not steal,” Damla said in a sharper tone than the locals used with the scientists.

  “For future reference, deliveries are dropped off at our team leader’s office or left in the kitchen area,” Atakan said, rejoining him.

  “Where are they?”

  “Refik Mahir is in charge. His is the small building at the entrance of the camp. The large building is the kitchen and dining area.”

  Damla thanked him and turned to leave. Charlotte stepped to the side and held the door open. The strong smell of sour sweat and moldy clothes hung in the air as he brushed passed her.

  “Whew.” Charlotte flapped her hand in front of her face to clear the funky stink of body odor that lingered.

  She closed the screen and went over to Atakan. “No one is around. Tell me about Heather.

  “Not here, I told you,” he said with enough heat, she knew not to push him.

  Atakan slid his overnight bag from under his bed and opened it on top of his bunk. He pulled out a thin chain attached to the inside of the waistband of his shorts. Two small keys hung on the chain. He removed a green metal box and unlocked it with the smaller key. He pulled his wallet out, relocked the box, and put it into the case which he stored under the bed again.

  “You’re kind of paranoid. No one else locks their stuff up like that.”

  “Force of habit. Let’s go.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “Charlotte--”

  “I’m sorry, Atakan. What did you say?” He’d chosen a corner table away from two village men having tea and told her the circumstances surrounding Heather’s disappearance.

  “I can see the worry in your eyes.”

  “I’m fine.”

  He shook his head. “No, you’re not.”

  “I feel sorry for Heather.”

  “You’re a little scared too, I think. Something bad has happened to two of the three people on the gulet.”

  “Scared...no. Tischenko saw me at the airport. Between the airport and the marina he had ample opportunity to harm me, if he’d wanted. But this development with Heather is strange.”

  The more she thought about the two crimes, the more questions seemed to arise. Ekrem’s was an execution and assumed connected to his job. Heather didn’t deal with criminals. Was it possible the crimes were unrelated?

  “Are you sure Tischenko is behind Heather’s disappearance?”

  “Ninety-nine percent sure, why?”

  “I don’t understand taking her. It doesn’t make sense.”

  Charlotte couldn’t shake the feeling they were overlooking some clue. There had to be something, a reason behind the action.

  “The police and Ministry are working on a couple of theories.”

  “I hope for her sake they work fast.”

  Atakan reached across the table and took her hands in his, an extraordinary show of tenderness.

  “I presented the worst scenario. I don’t believe the results will be as bad.”

  “Define ‘as bad.’”

  “Tischenko won’t stay in Istanbul long. He’s too well known to us. If he’s spotted, we’ll detain him. We always do.”

  “All right, presuming he left then what?”

  “If he has her in the Ukraine, he’ll beat and rape her. It’s an opportunity he won’t pass up.”

  “Rape...”

  “Rape is survivable, as is a beating.” Atakan squeezed her hands. “Money is his god. He won’t kill her unless he’s paid to and we know of no one who wants her dead.”

  “Still--”

  “We’ll find her. Whatever’s been done, she’ll heal eventually.”

  Rape was rape, traumatic to mind and body but she had to agree with Atakan’s assessment: Heather would survive.

  Atakan was quiet, letting her digest his reassurance. He stroked the back of her fingers with his thumbs. Somewhere he’d seen this done, or so
meone must’ve told him it was a way to offer comfort. He wasn’t very good at it. His thumbs were too rough and he rubbed too hard. His lack of finesse aside, she did find it oddly comforting.

  “Want to go?” Atakan asked.

  She nodded and he released her hands. He left twice the amount of money that the coffee cost on the table and stood.

  “After you,” he said, letting her lead.

  Damla and another man passed Charlotte and Atakan on the opposite side of the road as they walked towards camp. She recognized the second man. He’d ferried her back and forth to the Suraya a few times. He smiled and waved when he saw her. She smiled and waved in return. Damla briefly looked her way. He exchanged no greetings but stared hard at Atakan. If Atakan noticed he didn’t show it.

  “I bet that Damla fellow tells the boatman you’re a suspicious jerk or makes some derogatory comment. If he does the town gossips will blow it out of proportion. You know how these provincial villages are. Hopefully, with all the funds our folks bring to local businesses, the blowback will be minimal.”

  Charlotte walked several yards unaware Atakan hadn’t kept up with her. “What do you think?” When he didn’t answer, she turned looking for him. He’d stopped in front of a shop window. The store sold new and refurbished cell phones, CD and DVD players, and small kitchen appliances. She joined Atakan, curious about what held his interest.

  “Are we going inside?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Why’d you stop?”

  “I’m watching Damla.”

  “You are?” She leaned to the side trying to get the same angle as Atakan. In the reflection of the glass window, she watched as Damla and the ferryman crossed the road. She glanced over as they entered the bakery’s patio cafe.

  “They went into the café,” she told Atakan.

  “I know. I was subtly tracking their movements until you decided to stare.”

  “I did not stare, and how was I supposed to know you were doing your spy thing?” she said, facing forward again. “If you ask me, you have an unhealthy preoccupation with this guy. He delivered to the wrong building, big deal. Let it go.”