The Fall of Troy

by Peter Ackroyd

  Obermann held out the cross. “Arma virumque cano!” He pronounced the phrase in a voice so loud that the villagers came from the doorways, where they had been witnessing the events of the morning. “At pius Aeneas per noctem plurima volvens.” As he rolled out the syllables he began to sprinkle the front door and elevation of the house with water from the bowl.

  “He is mixing up his Virgil,” Decimus Harding whispered to Cyrus Redding. “That is blasphemy.”

  “At regina iamdudum saucia cura!” Obermann sprinkled the ground before the house, and then pressed the cross against the wall. “Anna soror, quae me suspensam insomnia terrent!”

  Sophia was surprised by the actions of her husband. She realised at once that he was quoting Virgil’s epic poem, and she did not wholly approve. “At pius exsequiis Aeneas rite solutes, aggere composito tumuli, postquam alta quierunt!” The villagers were quiet, impressed by the solemnity of the occasion, and those who inhabited the house were now embracing each other.

  Obermann held up the cross once more; then, in a final gesture, he knelt down and kissed it. The villagers applauded him as he rose to his feet. He bellowed, “Purified! Purified!” Arindi! Then he went over to Cyrus Redding, who had been watching the ceremony in bewilderment. “We have a horse and cart for Professor Brand,” he said. “We must waste no time.”

  “Whatever were you doing, Herr Obermann?”

  “What do you think? I was exorcising the house.”

  “With Virgil?”

  “He came to my mind. Was he not called the divine Virgil by the early Church fathers? Come. We must remove the professor while he still lives.” He returned to the house and, with the help of Leonid and Sophia, he carried Brand on the straw pallet through the door and into the street. The horse and cart were tethered by the wild olive trees, and they took him over. Obermann again addressed the little crowd of villagers. “See,” he said. “He is not dead! He lives!” Olmedi! Yasiyor!

  THEY TRAVELLED across the plain, Obermann and Redding sitting side by side in the cart on the same bench as the driver. “No Greek or Turkish captain will carry him,” Obermann explained to Cyrus Redding. “I have hired a boat that will transport us from the bay of Ezine. We will go along the coast of Marmora, stopping for provisions.”

  “That will take many days!”

  “And how else do you suggest that we get him to Constantinople? We cannot fly. We have no magic carpet.”

  “He will not survive.”

  “In that case he must be buried at sea.”

  “Professor Brand is an American citizen!”

  “Poseidon does not know of America, Mr. Redding. He will accept the professor.”

  “There are regulations.” They were both speaking in low tones, as Leonid and Sophia attended to the sick man in the back of the creaking, jolting cart.

  “We are not in the nineteenth century here, my dear sir. We are much further back.”

  “Heinrich!” Sophia called. “Heinrich! He has gone.”

  “He is dead? God bless him.” Obermann clambered over to the body, and took up the wrist. “He has no pulse. You are right.”

  “He died so silently,” she said. “Without a sign.”

  Cyrus Redding took off his straw boater. “This is a very peculiar situation,” he said. “I am at a loss.”

  “You are with Obermann,” Obermann said. “All will be well. Reverend Harding, please listen for a moment. We will proceed to the shore, where we will unload our precious burden. You may then pronounce the burial service.”

  “There must be an inquest, Herr Obermann.” Cyrus Redding looked to Harding for support.

  “And do you expect to find a coroner and a coroner’s court on the plain of Troy?”

  “What does the consul say to Harvard?” Harding asked Obermann. “To his relatives? I merely wish to know.”

  “He must say that Professor Brand died of the plague fever and that he had to be buried at once. It is common here. I will write a confirmation of this to the registry in Constantinople. If you will do the same, Reverend Harding, it will be accepted.”

  “What of Kadri Bey?” Sophia seemed impassive. “He will object.”

  “He needs to know nothing of it. The professor has left for Constantinople unexpectedly.”

  Harding and Redding remained silent as the horse and cart made its way slowly over the plain. When the driver came to the bay of Ezine they dismounted, one by one, on to the pebbled shore. The Aegean shimmered in the light of the late afternoon, casting a strange glow over them as they took Brand’s body very carefully from the cart and laid it upon the ground.

  “There is a problem,” Obermann said. “If we bury him, the vultures will know of it. Even the heroes were afraid of them.”

  Harding gave a small shudder. “Besides,” he said, “we have no spades.”

  “If we cannot bury him, we can burn him.”

  “That is not Christian, Herr Obermann.”

  “It is Homeric. We will light a pyre. Put him back in the cart. There is wood all around us. The boat can go on top of him.” There was, in fact, much driftwood on the beach, baked dry by the sun. The boat, requisitioned by Obermann for the journey by water to Constantinople, had been hauled upon the pebbles by two fishermen who stood quietly waiting for Obermann’s attention.

  “You could not have planned it better.” Decimus Harding seemed amused by the circumstances.

  “I? I have planned nothing!”

  “You misunderstand me. I mean to say that it is more fortunate than anything you could have planned.”

  “The gods favour us. That is all. The pyre will satisfy them. It is our tribute.”

  “It is very pagan, sir.” Cyrus Redding was clearly unhappy with the situation.

  Obermann had already gone over to the driver of the cart; he put his arm around his shoulder, and whispered to him. Immediately the driver unyoked the cart and rode off across the plain, leaving one of the horses behind. Obermann then approached the two fishermen, and began talking animatedly to them. He pointed to the sea and smoothed his hands; then he raised his arms and made great gestures towards the sky.

  Leonid and Sophia walked down to the margin of the sea.

  “Heinrich has planned this,” she said. “I am certain of it. He knew that the professor would die on the plain.”

  “It is not so strange, Frau Obermann. Cremation is the ancient rite of Troy. And no Turk would bury him.”

  “He is unclean. Is that it?”

  “There is a custom here. If a man is considered to be cursed by God, he is taken to the boundary of the town. Then he is driven away with earth and stones. When he has departed, the people turn away from him and do not look back. It is the same for Professor Brand.”

  The two fishermen brought the wooden cart down to the shore, and placed Brand’s body within it. Then they put the boat over the corpse, and piled the cart high with driftwood.

  “You will know the service by heart.” Obermann had come up to Decimus Harding. “It is very English, is it not?”

  “I cannot claim to recall every word, sir.”

  “No matter. It is of no consequence to Professor Brand. Begin, if you please. It is growing dark.”

  Harding went over to the cart and made the sign of the cross. “O God, through whose mercy the souls of the faithful find rest, bless, we beg Thee, this grave and place it under the care of Thy holy angel.” Obermann took out a box of Lucifer matches, and applied the flame to the driftwood; it caught fire at once, and blazed around the boat. “I am the Resurrection and the Life. He that believeth in Me, even if he die he shall live. And all who live and believe in Me shall not die for ever. Shall we pray?” Cyrus Redding, Leonid and Sophia bowed their heads, as Harding intoned a half remembered prayer for the departed. As they did so, Obermann was busily poking the wood with his cane, pushing it beneath the boat so that the bier might burn more fiercely.

  “Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord. And let perpetual light shine upon him.”
Harding looked towards the Aegean, where the sky and sea now seemed to meet. “May the soul of the departed rest in peace. And let our cries come unto Thee.”

  The flames were now leaping upwards, and the heat obliged them all to step back. Then Cyrus Redding, in a surprisingly strong, clear voice, began to sing an American hymn, “The Pilgrim Comes from Lands Far Off.” Obermann nodded and smiled, waving his cane in unison with the melody. “Bravo!” he cried, at the conclusion. “Bravo!”

  As the sun dipped below the horizon, the sea growing darker and more turbid, they watched the funeral pyre incinerate the boat and the body of Professor Brand before sinking into ashes. Obermann shouted some instructions to the Turkish fishermen, who were able to wheel the charred cart down the pebbled shore towards the margin of the Aegean.

  “Should we not scatter his ashes?” Harding asked.

  “The wind will blow them back again,” Obermann said. “It is better that he is entrusted to the waves.”

  And so the fishermen, wading into the sea, pushed the cart into the deeper parts of the water, where it slowly sank from sight, leaving a film of ash and burned wood on the surface of the sea.

  “He was a charming man,” Obermann said to Sophia, “but his archaeology was not perfect.”

  They could hear the sound of horses coming towards them, and Cyrus Redding turned in alarm.

  “They are riding to your rescue,” Obermann said to him. “They are your transport.” The driver of the cart had returned with three horses roped together. “The reverend and the consul must ride back to Kannakale and from there take ship to Constantinople. We will go back to Hissarlik. Nothing has occurred. Nothing whatever.”

  “I had been hoping,” Harding said, “to visit Troy. To have come so near—”

  “It will remain a dream for you,” Obermann replied. “I am envious. Yet you may come back. Who knows what fate may bring?”

  Sophia had turned and was gazing out to sea. “Farewell, Professor. Farewell for ever.” She called the words as the shadows of sea-birds passed across the water.

  TWELVE

  It had become unseasonably cold on the Troad plain, with sharp winds and a dawn frost clinging to the tiny red and yellow flowers scattered in profusion. The higher peaks of the Ida were covered with snow, and Obermann reported after his morning swim that the Hellespont seemed sluggish and resentful. The absence of Professor Brand had gone unremarked by the others; they had accepted Obermann’s explanation that, satisfied by what he had seen at Troy, he had returned to Constantinople. “We have had the blessing of our American colleague,” he said. “Now we must work on. Work is the sovereign cure! If we work, we live!” He turned to Sophia. “I have been considering what to place upon my tombstone. ‘Rest in Peace. You Have Done Enough.’ No. That is not quite right. Not quite the thing. This may be better. ‘You Should Imitate Him. He Laboured Hard for Mortals.’ It has the Greek spirit, does it not?”

  She was not sure whether he was serious. “You should not think of tombs, Heinrich.”

  “Why not? We are surrounded by them. Who knows what is beneath our feet?” He stamped upon the ground.

  He had taken up a suggestion by Sophia of clearing the area before the gates of Troy as well as the adjacent stretches of the city wall. “This is where the wooden horse once stood,” she had said.

  “Nothing will remain, Sophia. The horse was brought within the city.”

  “But I would like to see the ground on which it rested. There may have been a stone pathway. Or flat timbers may have been laid.”

  So they stood there, on this cold morning, looking at a square section that had been excavated to a depth of three feet. They had found pins and broken stone implements, proving that people had once trod this path, but no pavement had been uncovered. “The wooden horse has gone,” Obermann said. “It served its purpose.” He picked up a large stone and hurled it at a piece of scrub by the city wall. “Snake.”

  “How did you see it?”

  “Obermann sees everything. I have told you of the brown adders?” She shook her head. “They are most deadly. If you are bitten, you will die at sunset. Antelion.” He seemed to be in a good humour. “The bushes of rosa canina conceal them. They are small, Sophia. Not larger than a worm. So beware.” He started to climb the mound towards the main excavations, and Sophia was about to follow him, when Leonid came down to greet them.

  “The men are very excited, Professor. An imam has told them that something glorious will be discovered today.”

  “Is that so, Telemachus? This holy man—does he indicate the site of this precious thing?”

  “He mentioned only the ancient city. In his own words, the sun will rise once more from the old city.”

  “That is ingenious. But it is not exact. Nevertheless, we will work on with high hopes. We will trust the holy man.”

  They had been concentrating much of their excavation in the immediate vicinity of what Obermann still called Priam’s palace, the stone complex at the centre of that layer which had become known as “the third city” or “the burned city.” They had recently uncovered a retaining wall of brick, sixteen courses all joined with a paste made of crushed stone; above this brick construction a layer of ashes was mixed with the stones of subsequent houses, and the remnants of smaller house-walls rose again on these ruins.

  Later that morning Sophia was working beside this wall, digging and sifting the debris not very far from her husband, who was trying to calculate the alignment of the entire structure.

  “Heinrich,” she called. “Heinrich! Here is some boring bone.”

  This was the phrase they had chosen to signal to one another. It was a way of avoiding the attentions of the ever alert Kadri Bey.

  “Can it be left, my dear?”

  “No. You must note it.”

  So he wandered slowly over to the trench where his wife was working. “In there,” she whispered. “I see something glistening.”

  Obermann knelt and peered into the earth-dark cavity. He, too, thought that he had glimpsed gold.

  “What time is it?” he asked Sophia.

  “Almost nine o’clock.”

  He climbed to the top of the trench, and called out “Paidos! Paidos!” He knew that the men would fall to their food at once, paying no more attention to the digging than if they had been farmers eating in a neighbouring field. The call went down the line of workmen, and they dispersed on to the higher ground. Immediately he went back to the cavity and carefully extricated the copper container or utensil, about two feet long and a foot in width. There was also a large copper bowl, just behind it, which contained what seemed to be a candlestick. When Obermann moved it, however, he could see at once that it contained gold vases and cups as well as golden rings and bracelets. “Give me your shawl,” he said urgently. Sophia unwound it and placed it on the ground; then, very deftly, he scooped up the golden objects from the bowl. “We must work quickly,” he said. When they were all placed in the shawl, Sophia tied it and was about to hang it from the belt around her waist. “Place it within,” he said. “Hitch up your skirt and put it in your underlinen.”

  They did not know that a small boy was watching them from a nearby trench; he was the son of one of the workmen, and was employed to carry stone away from the site in a wheelbarrow. He had lingered there while the adults went to their breakfast.

  “I cannot walk easily, Heinrich. Do you see the bulge?”

  “No matter. Follow my direction.” He put his arm about her shoulder and, with his body partially shielding the concealed gold, he led her away from the wall to their living quarters. “If you are asked,” he whispered, “you are taken ill.”

  They reached their little bedroom and kitchen without being noticed. Sophia took the bundle from beneath her skirt, and was about to pass it to Obermann when there was banging on the door. “Quick,” he said. “Put it upon the bed and lie upon it. You are in pain.”

  He opened the door, and Kadri Bey stood before him. Both men rema
ined very calm. “What have you taken, Herr Obermann?”

  “Taken? I do not understand you.”

  “You were seen removing some gleaming coins.”

  “Coins? There are no coins in Troy, Kadri Bey. You must be aware of that.”

  “Something golden. The boy saw you.”

  “What boy?”

  “The son of Hamdy.”

  “That boy is a notorious thief and liar. I am surprised that you allow him to remain here. His father is a cheat, also. I have reprimanded him before.”

  “May I come in?”

  “If you wish. Sophia has been taken ill. I pray God that it is not the fever.”

  “The fever?”

  “See how her body is arched. It is a sign. But come in, Kadri Bey. I am with her. I am indifferent to personal risk.” Kadri Bey remained on the threshold. “And what has this son of a fiend said of me? I have taken gold coins from the heart of Troy, in the middle of a hundred workmen? It is preposterous. Come. Search my lodging, Kadri Bey. Look everywhere in the name of the sultan. Throw open my chests and cupboards.”

  “So you have found nothing at all this morning?”

  “That is not precisely true. I have found some carbonised barley and a piece of petrified cheese. Do you wish to view them, Kadri Bey?”

  His evident anger seemed to placate the overseer. “I will trust you, Herr Obermann. The sun must have entered the boy’s eyes.”

  “Do not whip him. Let him go in peace. In Troy we all see things that are not real.”

  “My commiserations to Frau Obermann. May she recover her health.”

  “I pray to Allah for her, Kadri Bey. The sickness will pass.”

  As soon as he had gone, Obermann closed the door and locked it. “Quick,” he said. “We must hide them under the floor.” Sophia came from the bed, and brought over the shawl filled with gold objects. Obermann took up the floorboard in the small alcove. “God’s plenty,” he said, as he opened the bundle. There were gold earrings, a headband, and a sauceboat; there were two small vases with lids as well as various ornaments. “Each one of these is priceless!” He stared at them for a moment with wide eyes, and then he looked up at her. “They were hastily assembled. Why else would a bracelet be placed with a sauceboat? And they were hidden in a cavity within the wall of the palace. What does that suggest, Sophia?”