“I am not hungry, sir.”
“The tragedy has taken away your appetite. It will return by the morning.” At this moment Rashid came running up to them. He was about to approach Obermann, but he waved the boy away. “Shall I propose a toast?”
“We have something to celebrate?” Kadri Bey looked at him in surprise.
“A toast to Alexander Thornton! May he live to gain world renown!” Leonid looked at him oddly, but he raised his glass. “It is wonderful, gentlemen, that in the midst of this terrible disaster and sorrow we can be gay! The atmosphere of Troy revives us.”
“It has seen greater sorrows,” Lineau said.
“Precisely. Here we are part of the world soul. Excuse me for a moment.” He walked over to Rashid, who was standing by Thornton’s quarters. “Well. What have you discovered?”
“They are staying in the Central.”
“Have you spoken to Hasad?” Hasad Dumanek was the proprietor of the Central Hotel, whom Obermann had favoured with many small gifts from the excavations.
“Madame is in room ten. The Englishman is in room four.”
“What else?”
“She has paid for one week in English sterling.”
“That will be from Mr. Thornton’s purse.”
“She has been asking for details of the boats to Constantinople.”
“Constantinople? Is that their destination? They are fools. Do they think that I cannot reach them? They left in a storm. They will be enveloped in a storm.” He came closer to Rashid. “Say nothing to anyone. If you mention one word, I shall cut out your tongue.”
The boy ran off, impressed by this warning, and Obermann returned to the others. “Rashid tells me that the market at Kannakale has been flooded. We must exist without fruit for a day or two. It is fortunate that there are fewer mouths to feed this evening.”
AFTER THE MEAL was over, and the others had retired, Obermann remained talking to Leonid. “I am inclined to think,” Obermann said, “that the stones we found by the stream are part of a temple. When the stream was in torrent this morning, it took a natural curve away from the site. There is solid masonry blocking the water-course.” Leonid was surprised that, in the general confusion of the storm, Obermann had noticed this. The site had been surveyed only two days before. “The men must begin work there in the morning, Telemachus. We must lose no time. There will be an altar.”
Leonid could no longer restrain his impatience. “What did Rashid tell you?”
“They have separate rooms in the hotel, and have paid for a week in advance. They are planning to travel to Constantinople.”
“Where they can disappear.”
“It will not be so easy for them. I have many friends in the city. They will be seen. I believe that they will try to sail for England.”
“Try?”
Obermann waved the question aside. “It has just occurred to me that they may seek a legal wedding at sea.” He got up suddenly, and paced around the table. “Now that she has seen your mother—” He stopped for a moment, and poured himself another glass of wine. “Women know. Women have the instinct.”
“No captain would allow a marriage. They have no witnesses.”
“Money is the best witness of all.” He picked up his glass. “The English will not accept her. I know them. They are narrow. They do not like foreigners.”
“Yet she could hide in London. It is vast and dark.”
“And what kind of existence would that be for her? It would be insupportable. To live among the teeming millions? I tell you, Telemachus, she is doomed to misery if she stays with Thornton.”
“Then you must rescue her.”
“Of course! What a transformation that would be! To pluck her out of London and to carry her back to the sunshine of her native land.” He seemed to be seriously considering the possibility. “She will tire of him very quickly. He has no spirit. No energy. He is as white as the lily.” Obermann sat down heavily. “He will have very little blood.”
“Do not gash him then.”
Obermann laughed. “I promise you that I will set no hand upon him.”
THAT NIGHT, Obermann left his bed. He was still dressed, having lain awake in the hours after he had returned from dinner, and he found his shoes in the darkness. He opened the door of the hut quietly and walked into the night. The sky, now that the storm had passed, was awash with stars; the air was clear and cool, shedding a strange translucence over the stones and earth of Troy. On some of the vases he had taken from the excavations, he had seen what appeared to be the images of sun, moon and stars signified by a wheel, a circle and a cluster of dots. Priam and Hecuba had seen this sky. He walked down to the remnant of the old walls; the storm had dislodged most of the surrounding earth and debris, so that they stood solid and gleaming in the air. On such a night as this, he could sense the ancient life of Troy. On such a night, he walked through its populated streets.
He went down to the patch of partly excavated ground, where he believed that a temple had been erected near the stream. It was a tributary of the Scamander, making its way across the flat terrain immediately beneath the rising ground of Hissarlik, but after the storm it was running quickly. He could hear the sound of its waters in the night, and found the spot where the sound seemed to surround him. Here the temple, and the altar, had been erected. He raised his arms into the air and put up his face to the constellations. Then he began to chant. “Be Zeus my witness, greatest and most glorious of the gods, and you Fates who beneath the earth wreak vengeance on false men, I call upon all the gods to avenge the wrongs committed against their laws. I name Alexander Thornton and Sophia Chrysanthis. May the gods give them many woes. If any have broken the divine laws, may they be punished.” It was the ritual formula he had memorised, and he knew that Homer had borrowed it from more ancient sources.
Then he fell upon his knees. “I have no sacrifice,” he said, in a conversational voice, “but I pledge myself to your service.” An owl hooted, from a clump of oaks beside the slope. “Pallas Athene, great goddess, daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis, you hear my prayer. Flashing-eyed Athene, whose winged words counsel the other gods, stay by my side.” Then he heard the music of pipes, coming perhaps from the guards who protected the site. He rose from his knees and, in more cheerful mood, returned to the ruins of Troy.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Sophia and Alexander had booked their passage to Constantinople at the shipping office by the quay. They had elected to remain on the outside deck for the journey, in order to preserve their funds, and were returning to the hotel to collect their few possessions. Sophia needed to retrieve the case of jewels that she had placed in the hotel safe. The boat sailed in two hours. It was the first vessel heading for Constantinople, and they had purchased their tickets with some urgency. It was not clear to them what Obermann knew or guessed. But they wanted to leave this place as soon as possible. Neither of them realised that Rashid had watched them leave together.
As they crossed the square, by the entrance of the hotel, they saw him. Obermann was standing with the proprietor, Hasad Dumanek, gesticulating towards the sea.
Sophia stopped, and instinctively was about to turn back. “He must not see us,” she whispered. “We can go into the market.”
“No. I refuse to hide.” He noticed her hesitation. “Are you afraid of him, Sophia?”
“Afraid? No. Of course not.”
“We are guilty of nothing.”
“You are right, of course. I see him now for what he is.”
“What can he do to us? We leave in two hours. Come. We will walk across the square. Remember. We have done nothing wrong.”
“He is the one who has wronged us. He should flee from us.”
Obermann saw them, just as they left the square and advanced towards the entrance of the hotel. “My two friends!” He called to them, and extended his arms. “I have been looking for you. I have been concerned for you. By great good fortune I have met Hasad, who tells me you are
safe and well.”
“We are well, Heinrich.”
“The gods are protecting you, Sophia. But I have missed you dreadfully. It is time to come back, is it not?”
She shook her head. “No. I will not come back.”
“Is ‘not’ a word to use to your husband?”
“You are not my husband. And you are aware of that.”
Obermann was struck with apparent wonder. “Have the laws of the world been overturned? Have I been sleeping?”
“Has not Leonid told you that I have seen your wife? I have seen Frau Obermann.”
“Telemachus is so forgetful. He tells me nothing.”
“That is strange. Since he is your son.”
Obermann looked at her, and laughed. “You are like the oracle, Sophia. You speak more than you understand.”
“I understand that you have lied to me and deceived me and betrayed me.”
“Not so loud.”
“I will shout it from the highest building.” She was becoming steadily more angry as she spoke.
“Not in this place, Sophia.”
“This is the perfect place. The public square is used to accuse adulterers, is it not?”
“Harsh words. Not deserved. You are my wife in the eyes of the gods. They have blessed our union. The human law is of no consequence.”
“Your gods do not exist, Heinrich.”
“Be sure that you are not struck down.”
“They are a figment of your imagination. Of your pride.”
“I suppose that you have taught her this, Mr. Thornton?” Obermann turned upon Thornton. “You have steadily undermined me and ridiculed my beliefs.”
“I need no lessons, Heinrich.”
“I have never mocked you, Herr Obermann. I had the greatest respect for you.”
“But you respect my wife more, I see.”
“I am not your wife.”
Two or three inhabitants of the town had stopped to watch this argument among the foreigners. Hasad glanced anxiously at them, and guided Sophia and Thornton across the road back into the square. “We must have no problem,” he said. “No problem near the hotel. The other guests—”
Obermann walked after them, shaking his head, as if he pitied them. “I have done nothing against my conscience,” he said. “I have done no wrong.”
“You lied to me.”
“The woman you saw is dead to me. She is as good as dead. Telemachus did not wish her to be placed in an asylum. That is all.”
“We sail in two hours,” Sophia said.
“If you leave me now, you leave me for ever. You understand that.”
“Of course.”
“We must prepare,” Thornton said. “Time is pressing.”
“And who will believe your own lies, Mr. Thornton? You will return to London and tell them that Troy was the home of Asiatics and cannibals. There is no one who could possibly accept such a theory. It is preposterous. It is without proof.”
“You destroyed that proof.”
“I am the fire. I am the storm. I am the rain. Is that the sum of your conclusions? They will laugh at you.”
“I have no intention of discussing the tablets with anyone.”
“Ah, a miracle of silence!”
“But I am sure that evidence will appear elsewhere.”
“You will keep your powder dry. Is that it, Mr. Thornton?”
“I will draw up a memoir that will only be published if incontrovertible proof of my speculations emerges from another quarter.”
“Bravo! Nobly put!” He turned back to Sophia. “Where are you sailing?” She looked briefly at Thornton. “There is no need to hesitate, Sophia. I will know the details of your journey within seconds of your leaving.”
“We are travelling to Constantinople.”
“The city of the flowers. The city of gold. As a young man, Mr. Thornton, I loved gold. When I was a merchant in St. Petersburg, I delighted in the worn coin passing from hand to hand. Did you know that I was once a banker buying gold dust in California? One evening, after drinking my German beer, I covered my face with the precious dust so that it became a golden mask!”
“And thus you became a great king,” Sophia said.
“I knew that already. I knew that I had something within me that would lift me upwards. How will you live in Constantinople?”
“We will live,” she said.
“And from there you will journey to London. Am I right?”
“That is my home, sir.”
“The British Museum will be overjoyed, Mr. Thornton, to see your safe return. You have survived the legendary monster Obermann. You will be a hero!”
“I doubt I will be called that.”
“But you will bring back with you a prize beyond price.” Obermann was about to put his hand on Sophia’s shoulder, but she turned away.
“I am not a prize, Heinrich. Alexander has not won me. I go with him from my own will and wish.”
“Bravo! But you delude yourself, Sophia. You will not find any happiness in England. When you were working in Troy, you were content. I remember the look of joy when you uncovered the staircase.”
“Don’t you understand? I was doing it for you.”
“For me?” He seemed puzzled for a moment.
“Yes, Heinrich. For you.”
“Are you telling me that you loved me, Sophia?”
“I cannot answer that.”
“We must go back to the hotel,” Thornton said to her. “We must get to the ship very soon.” He took her arm and, without saying anything more to Obermann, they crossed the street in front of the square.
Obermann watched them, then suddenly ran towards them. “Did you love me, Sophia?”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Leonid had decided to ride at once to Kannakale. Early that morning, just after Obermann had left for the town, a discovery had been made. The heavy rains had dislodged a great pile of stones and rubble during the storm, disclosing the entrance to a stone-built chamber at the south-west of the palace complex; two workmen had entered it, clearing away some of the detritus that remained, and had then run out to announce their discovery. They had seen hundreds, and perhaps thousands, of clay tablets stacked neatly against the interior walls. Leonid had joined them and, on entering the dark enclosed space, could make out the piles of tablets; he lit a Lucifer match and, in the flickering light, he could see the same signs and markings that Thornton had been attempting to decipher. The Englishman’s work could be revived after the disaster of the storm.
Kadri Bey had at once given orders for the objects to be removed and preserved in a place of safety. Leonid, sensing the significance of the find to Thornton and to Obermann, knew that he should go to Kannakale. The tablets themselves might offer a way of resolving their argument. If Thornton returned to Troy, his sudden flight with Sophia might be conveniently forgotten or explained. Leonid might even reach the Englishman before any confrontation with his father. So he took Pegasus and galloped over the plain, his excitement and sense of urgency increasing as he came closer to the town.
When he arrived at Kannakale, he rode fast down the thoroughfare from the eastern gate, and turned the corner that led to the public square; he saw the hotel to his right, but he did not rein in his horse. Then suddenly someone ran in front of him. Pegasus reared up in alarm, and struck the running man with its forelegs. He went down at once, under the frightened animal; it reared up again, and its hooves came down heavily upon the prostrate body. In that moment of consternation Leonid heard a woman scream.
SOPHIA HAD TURNED, at the sound of the horse’s alarm, to see Obermann being struck and hurled to the ground. She watched in horror as Pegasus trampled upon his body. Leonid jumped down, and ran back to find the injured and bloodied body of his father lying in the mud of the public thoroughfare. The shock of discovery and recognition seemed to drive him backward; he staggered against a wooden post by the side of the road, and looked blankly at Sophia and Thornton as they ran over to t
he fallen man. Then he watched as two townsmen caught hold of the reins of the horse and led it into the square.
“We must carry him to the hotel,” Sophia was saying. “Call a doctor to him at once.” Obermann was not moving. One of his arms was stretched out at an unnatural angle, and his head was broken where the hooves of the horse had caught him. His forehead was an open wound. Blood covered his face, and continued to run into the mud. “Take him up,” Sophia urged Thornton and Hasad, who were standing beside her in confusion. “Take him up and call for help.”
Hasad took his shoulders and Thornton his legs; they might have been carrying a bundle of clothes, so little life was there, and Obermann’s arm dangled down like some broken wing. With difficulty they carried him into the hotel, and placed him on a divan in the vestibule. Hasad indicated, with alarm, that the green silk was soon soaked with Obermann’s blood. “He cannot live,” he said.
Sophia had gone over to Leonid and had put her arm around his shoulders. “You could do nothing,” she murmured to him. “I saw. He ran into your path.”
“He is my father.”
“I know that. But it was not your fault. He did not see you. Come now, Leonid. We must help him.”
They hurried into the hotel. “I have called for a doctor,” Hasad told them, as soon as they entered. “But—” He looked at Leonid.
“He is dead?” Leonid asked him.
“I cannot be sure. But I can see no movement.”
Thornton was bent over the body. He took up Obermann’s hand and wrist. “There is no pulse,” he said. “I do not think any doctor can save him now.”
“We must wait,” Hasad said. “He is a Greek doctor. Very skilled.”
“Is there nothing we can do for him?” Sophia went over to the divan. The blood had begun to congeal, and she could glimpse the face of the dead man. She could tell that Obermann had gone for ever, and she was surprised by her own tears. She had been running away from him, but this unexpected parting caused her the keenest distress. Was this the meaning of tragedy? When a life is filled with light for a moment, and then the moment passes into darkness?
The Fall of Troy Page 20