The Lost Temple (44 page)

“Wright,” he introduced himself. His face was kind rather than handsome, but there was a lively intelligence in his eyes and a suggestion of humor gently kept in check. “Thank you for seeing me, Professor.”

Reed waved graciously.

“It’s about a colleague of mine, a man named Muir. I understand you had some dealings with him.”

“I worked with him in the war. He came to me a few weeks ago. He wanted help tracing an ancient Greek artifact. I believe he was working with the Americans.”

“So we’ve gathered.” Wright twisted the hat in his hands.
“And not much else, unfortunately. He was a bit of an odd fish, Muir. Frankly, there’s a suspicion he may have been involved in some rather queer business.”

Reed tried to convey a distinct lack of surprise. “He always seemed a little . . . unorthodox. What’s he done now?”

“Well, that’s what we’re trying to find out. You see, he’s gone missing. We were rather hoping you would shed some light on it.”

Wright stayed for an hour. Reed answered his questions as best he could—which was to say as little as possible that was flatly untrue, or easily disproved. Wright took copious notes, frowning as he tried to keep up.

“We’re also trying to trace this Mr. Grant.”

“Yes,” said Reed. “I can see that you would. I don’t suppose you’ll find him.”

“Do you have any idea where he might . . .”

“Not really. He may have mentioned Canada.”

Wright looked surprised. “Oh. That’s certainly news to us. Thank you.”

He stood and shook Reed’s hand. At the door he paused for a moment. “This . . . Homeric artifact. You don’t think there was anything in it, do you? No chance of it turning up?”

Reed smiled. “I shouldn’t think so.”

The plane flew south-west through the night, high above the sea that had seen so many gods and heroes pass. Grant manned the controls; behind him, Marina lay on the floor under a blanket, her leg stretched out in a splint.

Reed made his way forward and squeezed into the copilot’s seat. “Where are we?”

Grant checked his watch. “Just past the Dardanelles. We should make Athens in another couple of hours.”

Reed squirmed round and looked back down the cabin. At the rear of the plane, lashed to a steel bulkhead, the battered shield stared back at him. A canvas sack, bulging with all manner of strange shapes and nubbles, sat beside it.

Grant saw his gaze. “Imagining how it’ll look in the British Museum?”

Reed sighed. “You know we can’t keep it. The Americans would have it in a flash.”

Grant banked the plane left a little. “Do you really think it could be used to make a bomb?”

“Are you willing to take the risk?”

Grant didn’t answer. They flew on in silence for a few minutes. Reed pointed to a small island of lights in the darkness below. “That must be Lemnos.”

“Maybe we should land there. Hide it in the temple we found until it all blows over.”

“No. Even there, someone will find it eventually.”

“Someone’ll find it anyway. You can’t unfind things.”

“It’s already been missing for three thousand years. If it were lost for another three thousand, I shouldn’t complain.”

Grant stared at him in surprise. “But the shield changes everything. It proves it was all true: Homer, Achilles, Troy—everything. It’s . . . it’s history.”

Reed stared out of the window. “That’s exactly it. The world has enough history—more of it every day. But no one’s making any more myths. And we need them. When I heard Schliemann talk in Kensington, it wasn’t the fact that all this was true—it was being allowed to believe that it
might
be true. It’s
wonder
that inspires us—the wondering, the delicious not-knowing. A sense of something just out of reach. History brings that back within our grasp.”

He unbuckled his seat belt and moved to the back of the plane. Grant didn’t try to stop him. A howling gale blasted into the cabin as the cabin door slid open. Under her blankets, Marina stirred and opened her eyes. Holding on to the struts in the roof, Reed tottered to the shield and untied it, pulling away the lead blankets that had wrapped it. He knelt in front of it for a moment, staring at the images of life teeming in the metal. Then he got up, rolled it to the door and heaved it into the whirling darkness.

The plane flew on into the night. Down on the water, nobody saw the small splash the shield made—or, if they did, they assumed it was just a dolphin broaching the waves. The
water was deep; the shield sank quickly. And if a siren’s haunting song ever echoed down to the deep place where it came to rest, or a kraken slithered past, or the shadow of a sea nymph flitted overhead, history never knew.

Linear B was actually deciphered in 1952 by Michael Ventris and John Chadwick. The story of their achievement, one of the great intellectual feats of the twentieth century, is told with elegant clarity in Chadwick’s
The Decipherment of Linear B
; and in full scholarly detail in their joint work
Documents in Mycenaean Greek
.

All the classical authors referred to in this novel are genuine and all the quotations from them are accurate. Reed’s quotations from Homer are from the translations of Alexander Pope.

Researching this book required travelling almost as much as the characters in it. Though my journeys usually involved less danger, they certainly provided as great a sense of wonder and discovery. For that I owe thanks to Colin Macdonald, who graciously showed me around the Villa Ariadne at Knossos when I turned up on his doorstep; Lucy and Nik Ftochogiannis at the Apollo Pavilion on Lemnos, whose home-made wine I promised to mention; James Harrop, with whom I discovered lost cities and fried pancakes on the natural gas flames at Cirali; and my Greek family—Helen, George and Panos Hayios—for their help and hospitality during my trips there.

Back at home, Yulia Kovas and Isabella Paul provided Russian and German translations, while my sister Iona helped with the classical references. Dr. Jonathan Burgess was kind enough to share an early draft of his monograph on
The Death and Afterlife of Achilles
, possibly unaware of how I would misuse his research. My agent Jane Conway-Gordon provided constant support and regular sustenance. At Random House, my editor Oliver Johnson encouraged my vision of the book and gave it his usual masterful commentary, while Charlotte Haycock kept everything running smoothly. Both were hugely supportive in the face of a daunting schedule, which made a great difference. I’m also grateful to
Richard Ogle, Rodney Paul, Claire Round, Louise Campbell, John Kelly and Richard Foreman for all their efforts on my behalf.

My wife Marianna was, as ever, an indispensable partner in all my creative endeavors.