‘It’s that bloody woman again, isn’t it?’
‘No. Well, not exactly.’
‘And you’re choosing to dive headfirst into this god-awful mess . . . for what reason, exactly?’ She’d thrown her arms in the air, frustrated. ‘Look – it’s not that I mind for myself. Honestly. But I could slap you silly for getting sucked into her vortex again. Look at what happened last time, for Christ’s sake!’ She spun away from him, fighting the fury in her voice. ‘Things are so good for you right now. Why can’t you just be happy with what you’ve got?’
She had a point, and he knew it. ‘After what the Frenchman – and what she – did to me, I can’t just pass this up. The opportunity to get back at them for all they put me through . . . I can’t ignore it.’ He’d reached out and rested his hand gently on her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Fi. I really am.’
She smacked his hand away. ‘Don’t touch me!’
Cramming clothes into her duffel bag, she’d kept her back to him but there was no hiding the tears in her voice. ‘Don’t worry, Ben. I’ll be fine. Sure – the pride’s a little injured. But if I’m honest with myself, you’re not really my type.’
She’d turned, hands on hips, and appraised him with cold eyes. ‘Look at you. There’s no denying it – the packaging’s great. But there’s no getting past the fact that you’re a self-destructive narcissist. Every woman’s dream . . . ha! I should be thanking you. I’ve already invested too much time in this bullshit.’
When she’d finished packing, he’d insisted on escorting her on the walk up to the coast road to wait for a ride to the port. She very wisely declined his offer of a lift across the Bosphorus in his clapped-out boat. Until that moment he hadn’t really thought that Fiona might actually feel strongly enough about what he planned to do to leave him, so when the inevitable happened, he was forced to acknowledge an unfortunate truth. When he was with her, he could believe – if only for a moment – that he could aspire to an ordinary life. But the surge of adrenalin in his blood at the thought of what now lay ahead of him confirmed his worst fears. He wasn’t built for ordinary.
A dusty black Chevrolet Deluxe approached along the potholed road. The front and rear bench seats were crammed with passengers. Ben stepped onto the asphalt and flagged it down.
The dolmuş slowed and pulled to the side of the road. He reached for the handle and hefted the door open.
‘It’s good that you’re leaving. You’ll be much safer.’
‘Safer? Yes, I’m sure you’re right. But not in the way you mean it.’
‘Well . . . bye, then.’
‘Yep.’ She clambered into the back seat of the lumbering Chevrolet and slammed the door. As the car pulled away, she leant out the window and waved cheerlessly.
The car’s rear tyres spun a fog of dust into the air as the vehicle accelerated. He stood and watched it lurch along the road until it turned a corner and disappeared from sight. His breathing was shallow and his heart thumped loudly in his ears. But any lingering regret evaporated in the hot afternoon sun as he contemplated the path he’d chosen. His gut reaction told him he was on to something – that pursuing this was worthwhile, even if he had no idea where it might lead him. On the hunt for ancient treasures, his instincts rarely failed him. It was only in the present that he always seemed to land himself in trouble.
People often threw around the hyperbolic statement that something or another was worth killing for. Proof of that willingness was another thing altogether. If the tragedy at Topkapı was anything to go by, whatever it was that Garvé and the woman were searching for would be worth the effort. But it also meant Ben had a great deal to be concerned about.
Trudging down the drive towards his home, Ben was preoccupied. With Fi gone, his mind had switched from the immediate to the strategic, running through a checklist of what needed to be done next. A sudden and unfamiliar sound broke his concentration and made him flinch.
A telephone. His telephone. When Ben had first bought his house, he’d taken Ilhan up on his insistent offer to arrange a private phone line through his personal – and undoubtedly shady – connections in the upper echelons of government. Ben estimated it to have rung no more than a handful of times since – not surprising given the scarcity of privately owned telephones in Turkey. The persistent trilling from inside the house suggested that what had become little more than an expensive paperweight was, for once, fulfilling its intended purpose.
‘Ah . . . yes? . . . Hello . . . Good day . . . May I ask who is calling? It is Benedict Hitchens speaking . . .’ Ben still struggled with the etiquette of telephone ownership.
‘Who else would it be, other than you, Ben? Unless you’ve recently hired yourself a housekeeper.’
‘Ilhan? Is that you? Me . . . a housekeeper? Not likely. Now what’s so urgent? Have you any idea how much these calls cost?’
‘Yes, I do. Which is why I never ring. But this time, it was necessary. I’m glad I caught you. I’ve changed my mind. I will join you on your travels.’
‘Really? You seemed so certain. What’s changed?’
‘Does it matter?’ Ilhan snapped.
‘Of course not. I’ll be happy for the company.’
‘Fine. Train?’
‘Yes – I was planning to head off tonight.’
‘Can’t it wait till tomorrow?’
‘No. I’ve just spoken with Hasan –’
‘Ben! I warned you!’
‘It’s not what you think. But the sooner I leave the city, the better. And, come to think of it, it might be a good time for you to be out of town as well.’ Ben had only just realised that if the police planned to arrest him for involvement in Fatih’s murder, Ilhan would be in their sights as well.
‘Why? What’s happened?’
‘Can’t explain now. Operators listening in and all that.’
His friend sighed. ‘I’ll meet you at the station, then.’ Ilhan hung up.
What’s up his nose? Ben wondered. His normally affable and even-tempered friend was clearly out of sorts. And why the change of heart?
6
Niğde, Turkey
Ben stood beneath the elaborate pointed archway at the entrance to the Niğde Akmedresi and waited. Three attempts to elicit a response from the other side of the bolted door had amounted to nothing. He could hear no movement inside and there was nothing to indicate when – if ever – the museum would open.
When Ben and Ilhan had arrived in Niğde, they’d gone in different directions – Ben to the museum, and Ilhan to meet with a dealer who in the past had proved to be a good source of black market goods. Ilhan was planning to join Ben once he’d wrapped up his business, though at this rate it looked like Ben would be finished long before his friend.
Again, he pounded the heavy oak with a bunched-up fist. Hands on his waist, his eyes drifted to the ornate honeycomb ornamentation in the archway above his head.
‘A masterful example of Seljuk design.’ A voice at his shoulder made him start. ‘Muqarnas vaulting – intended to replicate stalactites and inspire in the faithful thoughts of the cave on Jabal al-Nour where Allah visited the Prophet Muhammad with the first of his revelations. But you’d already know that.’
Ben spun on his heel. A slight figure stood before him, head tilted to one side and blue eyes peering out from beneath a mop of hair cut unfashionably long. A timid smile spread beneath a neatly trimmed moustache. ‘Dr Hitchens. I knew it was you.’
‘I don’t believe it . . . Cem?’ The last time he’d seen Cem Yıldız was the day Ben departed the excavation at Eskitepe, bound for a fateful meeting with the Director of the British School of Archaeology in Ankara. As the most senior Turkish archaeologist on site, Ben had put Cem in charge while he took what he assured his deputy would only be a brief sojourn in the capital. He had been wrong.
‘Yes, it is I, Dr Hitchens. These days I’m dedicating most of my time to institutional work – I find it suits my constitution better than on-site excavation. I have ov
ersight of the collection here. And you? I’ve been reading all about your discoveries on Mt Ida. Remarkable. Quite remarkable.’ As he spoke, Cem fussed with the hair that fell over the left side of his face, grown long to cover what Ben knew to be extensive scarring from a burn suffered in childhood.
‘I’m researching something else at the moment, Cem. And I was hoping to have access to the museum’s collection.’
‘Of course. It would be my pleasure to assist you. We keep the front door shut outside hours. Come round the side – we’ll use the staff entrance.’
Dim light filtered down into a central courtyard through a filthy glass roof. Ben could only assume the building’s shabby exterior must fall outside Cem’s purview, given the meticulous and well-maintained condition of the museum collection contained within its walls.
The madrasah had been built in the early fifteenth century on the four-iwan floorplan, with four vaulted rooms opening onto the courtyard. The largest of these was framed by a single stone arch that Ben assumed faced Mecca and would contain the mihrab the Muslim students would have faced to pray when the building still operated as a Koran school. Within the alcoves these days, conscientious religious scholars had been replaced by dust-free stacks of documents and tidy boxes of artefacts lined up neatly on shelves in chronological and alphabetical order. Cem obviously took pride in his work and showed great reverence for the ancient treasures entrusted to his custodianship.
‘What is it you’re here to see, Dr Hitchens?’
‘I’m looking for whatever material you have from Tyana. More specifically – anything relating to Balinas, or Apollonius – whichever of his names you prefer.’
‘Either’s fine with me. Most of the museum’s Tyana collection dates from the Graeco-Roman period, which is the right time frame. Emperor Caracalla established a shrine dedicated to Apollonius in the city, and it was the centre of Apollonius’ cult. But not much has been salvaged – most of what we have are surface finds rather than things unearthed in a proper excavation.’ He paused. ‘There is one thing that was brought in to us recently, though . . .’ The young man walked over to a row of shelves.
‘Come . . . here it is . . .’ He pointed to a piece of marble, its top edge squared off with the remains of a lip that suggested it had once formed a lintel above a door or an architrave running between columns on a sizeable building. Ancient Greek script had been chiselled into its surface.
Ben ran his forefinger along the inscription as he translated it. ‘“. . . This man, named after Apollo, and shining forth from Tyana, extinguished the faults of men. The tomb in Tyana received his body but in truth heaven received him so that he might drive out the pains of men.” Do you think it came from the shrine? Though judging by the text, it sounds like it may have been used on a tomb. Where did you get it?’ He stepped back, rocking on his heels. ‘Looks like third or fourth century BC. What do you think?’
‘Judging by the lettering and punctuation, that’s probably about right. Although it’s hard to tell without seeing it in context. This was carted in by a well-meaning local who uncovered it, so there’s no way of dating it by what was found around it.’
‘But still – shouldn’t you look into it? Might be that your well-meaning local can show you where it was found and that would tell you more.’
‘I’m sure you’re right.’ Cem’s voice was clipped. ‘It’s something the department will pursue. Eventually. But for now, it’s just one more thing to add to the ever-growing list of artefacts we need to research without the manpower to do it. I do the best I can and look after these precious things until we have the money and the people to examine it. Will that time ever come?’ Cem shrugged. ‘Who knows? But I remain optimistic.’
‘Look, this is too good for me to ignore, Cem. Would you be willing to tell me where it came from? It might amount to nothing, but you never know. Of course, in the spirit of collegiality, I’d share any information that came my way with you. How does that sound?’
‘Have someone with your qualifications investigate one of my artefacts? How could I refuse? But . . .’ Cem lowered himself into a desk chair and found a sheet of writing paper. ‘. . . If you’re going to visit Bayan Sebile, I should write you a letter of introduction.’
‘Bayan Sebile?’
‘The woman who brought this in to us. She lives in Tyana and fancies herself the guardian of Balinas’ legacy. And she’s also likely to disappear into thin air if a stranger turns up on her doorstep without warning. She’s . . .’ Cem paused and looked into the distance, struggling to find the right words, ‘. . . rather peculiar.’ He signed the letter with a flourish, slipped it into an envelope and scribbled an address onto the outside.
Ben took it with a nod of thanks.
‘I never had the chance to thank you, Dr Hitchens. You know, many of us Turks were quietly very pleased you undermined the British School as you did.’
‘Undermined?’ Of the many reasons he’d come up with to justify to himself the theft of material from his own excavation to sell to Ilhan and fund the new trenches he’d wanted to open, ‘undermining’ the institute had never been one of them.
‘Yes. The arrogance and high-handed manner in which we’re treated in our own country by these people who think they know so much more than we do about our own heritage . . . the day will soon come when we’ll be excavating our own past and writing our own history. You were never like the others.’
‘Me – like them?’ Ben laughed. ‘Well, that’s one thing you’re right about, Cem.’
Ilhan was waiting for Ben at a small table set beneath the arching limbs of an ancient plane tree that cast the tiny tea garden outside the museum’s entry in dappled shade.
He stood as Ben approached. ‘So, did you get what you needed?’
‘Kind of. I’ve been pointed in another direction, anyway. Feel like a trip to Kemerhisar?’
‘Sure. My business here is done, at any rate. I was in luck – Metin had just had a truckload of new artefacts arrive from the mountains. Unbelievable Hittite material. Worth a small fortune. If my luck keeps up, maybe I’ll be able to sniff something out in Kemerhisar as well. Though I’ve been there before, and to say it’s an unexceptional place would be overstating things.’
Ben was happy to see Ilhan in a cheerful mood. ‘You’re back to your old self,’ he observed.
‘It’s just getting out of the city. Sometimes Istanbul makes me feel like I’m going insane.’ The two men walked towards the street, raking autumn sunlight warming their backs. ‘Speaking of insane, my mother . . .’ Ilhan sighed. ‘I need to find a phone before we go. She was expecting me tonight for dinner. Yet another doomed attempt to set me up with a good Turkish girl.’
Ben laughed and elbowed his friend in the side. ‘Ah . . . so that was your problem? Why didn’t you mention it earlier? Barely got two words out of you on the train.’
‘A man of my age still under his mother’s thumb? It’s not something I’m proud of.’
‘So. She’s on a mission again . . . she’ll never learn, will she? It explains your change of heart, anyway. I was wondering . . .’
‘Don’t be smug, Benedict. It doesn’t suit you.’
7
Kemerhisar, Turkey
‘Cursed little monsters!’
Ben and Ilhan ducked to avoid a volley of horse turds flung through the air as a cluster of rough-headed young boys shouldered their way past them, cackling maniacally. One of them clutched at his head, blood oozing from between fingers pressed hard against his scalp.
As with so many Anatolian towns and villages, the once-important city of Tyana had been through a series of name changes as the territory in which it lay passed from one conqueror to the next. So it was that Ben and Ilhan had found their way from Niğde to the outskirts of the place now known as Kemerhisar aboard a tiny local bus.
It hadn’t been difficult to find Bayan Sebile’s residence. Walking beneath the vaulted remains of the Roman aqueduct that was – as far a
s Ben could see – the town’s only redeeming feature, the two men approached a shepherd who’d stopped by the road to gawk at the new arrivals in town, goats milling about his legs. An enquiry about where they might find the address they were looking for had prompted a string of muttered curses and theatrical hand gestures that left no doubt that the woman they were seeking wasn’t considered a pillar of the community.
That impression wasn’t helped by the greeting they received when they arrived at a stone fence encircling an outcrop of soft, white volcanic rock that had been fashioned into one of the many thousands of cave homes scattered across Cappadocia’s lunar landscape.
A surprisingly tall figure whipped around the corner of the house, a ball of horse shit brandished above her head.
‘Eşek herif! And don’t come back, you little demons!’
Ben and Ilhan both reflexively threw their hands in the air. The woman was straight-backed and broad-shouldered, her silver hair arranged beneath a delicately embroidered black scarf. Fierce blue eyes peered out from beneath a brow creased with fury. Realising her quarry had fled, she dropped her foul missile.
‘Bayan Sebile? My name is Dr Ben Hitchens. This is my friend, Ilhan Aslan. I’ve been sent by Cem Yıldız from the Niğde Akmedresi . . .’ He held out the letter Cem had written for him.
Sebile shook her head as she approached, muttering as she brushed her hands on her apron. ‘Evil children. Not that their parents are any better. They’re just doing what the adults wish they had the spine to do themselves. Today it was stealing my apricots – last week, a dog’s corpse dumped in my well.’ She took the letter and opened it.
‘You can read?’ Ben blurted out without thinking. To find anyone literate living in a small Turkish town was unusual enough, but for that person to be a woman was almost inconceivable.
The Emerald Tablet Page 6