Lara closed the picture and opened a third, captioned “Hungary 1940.” There he was again. He was leaner and taller, or at least he appeared to be next to the row of men he was standing among. Nevertheless, his face was the same, his expression as implacable as it always was. Lara had seen photographs from three major wars over eighty years, and the same face had appeared in all of them. Today she had seen the same face on a living man that she had also seen in photographs dating back to the 1860s.
“How is this even possible?” she said.
It was getting late, but Lara couldn’t stop there. She grabbed the Book and turned back to the pages where she had found the references to Ares and the Ten Thousand Immortals.
“Shit!” she said. “The notes weren’t misfiled. It wasn’t an anomaly. They were there for a reason.” The margin notes about Ares and the Ten Thousand Immortals had been made in the section on immortality and spiritual transference. There was also reference to a secret society that Lara had overlooked almost entirely.
“Who the hell are you, Ares? What do you know about the Golden Fleece? Is it real? Is that why you were so keen to get rid of me? To get me out of the way? You’ve got competition, Ares. If the Fleece is real, I can use it to bring Sam back, to save her from Himiko’s influence.”
Chapter 15
Lara breakfasted in her room. She checked in with Sam’s hospital ward, by phone, and then took the five-minute walk to Menelaou’s office in the Rue du Canivet. It was a little after nine, and the shops and businesses were opening. The streets were not busy, but there was a steady trickle of people. Lara kept her head up, making sure she knew who was around her at all times. She felt no need to deviate from her chosen route.
There was a buzzer next to Menelaou’s name at the street door, but no intercom system. Lara pressed the buzzer, but heard no sound inside the building. There was no corresponding buzz at her end, so she waited. She was about to press the buzzer again when the street door opened. A short, round, ancient man appeared at the door. He had a full head of grizzled hair that must once have been black, and he was mopping the sweat from his ruddy face and puffing slightly.
“Oui?” he said in an accent that was not French.
“Monsieur Menelaou?” asked Lara.
“Ah!” exclaimed the man, smiling. “English. Much better.” He mopped and puffed some more.
“My name’s Lara Croft, I’m a student of archaeology.”
“You must come in then,” said Menelaou.
The time, sweat and breathlessness were explained by the four flights of stairs that Menelaou now had to climb to get back to his office. When he arrived at the door, he took out a bunch of keys with his right hand and mopped his face with the large patterned handkerchief in his left. It took him a minute or two to find the right key, and when he did, he was unable to push the door more than a couple of feet open. He slid through the gap, which was barely big enough to allow him entry into the rooms beyond, and beckoned Lara to follow him.
It immediately became clear why the door wouldn’t open. The room beyond was not small, but it was full of shelves, cabinets, trunks, boxes and objects. They were arranged from floor to ceiling, on every surface, and in every nook, niche and corner. The sheer volume of stuff was utterly overwhelming.
Lara could see everything from household objects and utensils to chunks of masonry and roof tiles, from items of traditional dress to masks and jewelry, from armour to javelins, spears, arrows and blades, and from cannon balls to musket balls, from scrolls to books, and from religious icons to fertility symbols. She could see antiquities from all the classical civilisations from South America to Africa, from Europe to Asia. She had never seen a room like it in her life.
Babbington’s collection had been impressive, but this was extraordinary. The room in Oxford was sterile, sanitised, driven by order. This room was alive with the souls of kings.
Lara’s eyes widened, and she could hardly catch her breath. She didn’t know if she’d ever felt so excited about history before.
“See something you like?” asked Menelaou. He sat down heavily in a vast leather chair, its surface cracked and split with age and wear, and pulled the handkerchief away from his face to reveal a mischievous grin.
Lara turned to look at him, and the expression on her face made him break into a belly laugh that reddened his face even more.
“Go ahead,” he said when he was done. “Pick something out, examine it, hold it in your hands, smell it.”
Lara reached out for a drinking vessel. It was shiny black with age and as hard as stone.
“English blackjack. Late sixteenth century. Made of leather. Beautiful thing and a very early specimen. Take a really good look at it.”
Lara ran her hands over the tankard, and peered at it, rolling it around to catch the best light. The surface was cracked and crazed, but she soon began to see a pattern in the markings.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said. “That looks like...”
“The inscription, too,” said Menelaou.
“That’s Shakespeare’s signature,” said Lara.
“And his likeness,” said Menelaou. “A gift from a wealthy patron.”
“To you?” asked Lara. “I wish I received gifts like this.”
Menelaou laughed again, his pleasing rumble.
“A gift to Shakespeare from a wealthy patron, so the story goes.”
“It’s a wonderful story.”
“Every object has a wonderful story,” said Menelaou. “What is your object, Miss...”
“Croft,” said Lara again. “Call me Lara.”
“So, Lara, what is your object? No one comes to see me unless they have an object or are looking for one. What do you have in your bag?”
“Nothing at all,” said Lara. “I’m looking for an object.”
“Then you already have a story,” said Menelaou. “What is your story, Lara Croft?”
“If only you knew,” said Lara.
“I have all the time in the world for a beautiful young woman,” said Menelaou. “My visitors are usually rich, bitter, old men.”
“Sadly, I have no time at all.”
“Everyone has time for good Turkish coffee,” said Menelaou. “Now that I have my breath back, I find that I need some.” He rose from his seat and opened another door into an anteroom that served as a kitchen. “Come, talk to me.”
Lara liked Monsieur Menelaou. He was the first person who hadn’t judged her or tried to dissuade her from her course since she had seen Sam. He was the romantic soul that had eluded her so far on this futile quest.
“I was at Yamatai last year,” she found herself saying. She didn’t know why.
Menelaou stopped what he was doing, a tiny ornate coffee glass in his hand. He turned and looked at her.
“That was you?” he asked.
Lara blinked.
“What was me?” she said.
“Poor child,” said Menelaou. “What you must have seen!”
“You know about that?” asked Lara.
“I know the stories,” said Menelaou. “The Sun Queen. The evil she caused. The power of immortality.”
Lara was startled. Her face drained.
Menelaou stepped towards her, concern on his face.
“I am a foolish old man,” he said. “I believe too much in the legends. What can an old man do but believe in life everlasting when he knows he will die soon? We Greeks, we are too romantic.”
“I want to believe in something, too,” said Lara.
Menelaou put his hands on the tops of Lara’s arms and rubbed gently, reassuring her.
“You are troubled. It helps to talk. You came here for something. Tell me what it is.” Then he turned and went back to making Turkish coffee in a tall, slender, ornate pot.
“My friend… she was attacked b
y Himiko on Yamatai. She cannot get over it,” said Lara.
Menelaou tutted sympathetically as he poured scalding water onto the coffee grounds.
“Physically she’s improving, but mentally… I don’t know… she’s deeply troubled. I want to help her. The doctors are doing everything they can. I’m looking for an amulet, a charm, something I understand… Something she would understand. All I really care about is archaeology.”
“An object of healing, an artifact,” said Menelaou. “I know what you’re looking for. You’ve been doing your research.”
“I have,” said Lara. “And I’m not the only one.”
Menelaou paused and smiled.
“You are not,” he said. “Dare I say the name ‘Ares’?”
Lara tensed. “How do you know about the—”
“The Ten Thousand Immortals?” Menelaou finished. “Because they have also visited me. Two, three months ago. Presumptuous. Wicked.”
“What are they, sir?” Lara asked.
“Rich, bitter old men,” he sighed.
“But—”
Menelaou sat back and slid his palms apart across the top of the counter, a gesture that suggested he was shoving the past out of his way.
“In practice,” he said, his voice soft with the slow, Greek accent, “they are a private security consortium. Immensely wealthy, immensely successful… weapons dealers, traders, brokers… mercenaries. The Ten Thousand Immortals have been around for a very long time. They have made their riches from other people’s wars.”
He leaned forward, smiling.
“They pretend they are actually immortal,” he said.
“Pretend?”
He waved a hand.
“It is part of their thing… their… persona,” he said. “They like to inspire awe. Who would you rather employ? A mercenary? Or a mercenary who is three hundred years old and has a reputation to match?”
“They can’t be three hundred years old!” Lara laughed.
“No?” he agreed, chuckling.
“No. They can’t,” Lara said firmly.
Menelaou nodded, allowing it.
“Some of them claim to be a great deal older,” he said. “Some of them claim to be warriors of Xerxes, of Darius.”
“It’s all part of their thing. Their mystique,” said Lara.
“Oh, yes, yes, yes,” nodded Menelaou. “But ask yourself this… Why would they be so anxious, suddenly, to procure the Fleece? Eh? An artifact that heals and grants immortality? Yes? Perhaps, after Yamatai, the Ten Thousand Immortals started to feel… mortal, Lara Croft.”
“When did they come to you?” she asked.
He paused. “It would be two months ago. My reputation as the owner of the Fleece is widely known. Me, I blame my big mouth.”
“What did you tell them?” Lara asked.
“That I have a big mouth,” Menelaou smiled. “That I talk too much. That I made bold claims. They came in here and threatened me. They had guns. Then they went away, empty-handed. After that, I improved my security. To them, I was a dry lead.”
“And to me?” Lara asked.
“I used to have a reputation,” said Menelaou sadly.
“Trust me, the Internet ensures that your reputation will follow you forever.”
“That might be a curse,” said Menelaou.
“It brought me here,” said Lara. “I consider it a blessing.”
“You want to talk about the Golden Fleece?” asked Menelaou.
“Yes,” said Lara, “I do.”
“Then, let us talk,” said Menelaou. He picked up the small, circular brass tray with its gorgeous enameled surface and carried it into his office. He dropped sugar lumps into the tiny jewel-like coffee glasses and poured the coffee from the steaming pot.
Lara began by outlining what Babbington had told her about the mining methods in Colchis.
“Your professor is absolutely correct,” said Menelaou, “except for one or two important details. Don’t look so sad. It will all come right. I promise you.”
“But if he’s right,” said Lara.
“Ah, but the details,” said Menelaou. “God is in the details.
“There is a region in Georgia called Zemo-Savanti. It is the highest, most mountainous region in the area. A difficult place to live. Most gold miners kept to the lower slopes where the streams had grown old and shallow, but one spring, high in the mountains, was the mother of the true fleece. One man, a boy, fit, strong and adventurous, bartered everything he owned for one fleece. It was a young ram’s fleece, small and soft and curly. He took his fleece to that spring. He threw it in, and he waited.
“He grew tired and thin while he waited and waited, like a hermit. He foraged and he prayed to the gods. He took the fleece from the spring only when it was golden all over.”
“Just one fleece?” asked Lara.
“The true Golden Fleece,” said Menelaou. “When he tried to lift the fleece from the spring, he was weak, and it was weighed down with water and the gold it had captured. At first he could not do it. As he rolled it and squeezed it, he found strength in his hands and then in his arms. As he lifted it on his back, he felt warmth in his shoulders, and as he stood, his back straightened and he no longer felt hunger or pain.”
Lara could stand it no longer.
“The article I read said you had the Golden Fleece, that you owned it,” she said.
“How do you think I lived to be so ancient?” asked Menelaou, breaking into his belly laugh once more. He put down his empty coffee glass, dabbed at his lips with his handkerchief, and leaned over to open the bottom drawer of his desk. Lara was amazed when he pulled out a tin box. It was gold and heavily embossed with a design.
The box was Queen Mary’s Christmas gift box for 1914.
“A pity I don’t have the contents,” said Menelaou, “but what’s inside is far more valuable, and no one would look for it here.”
“The article said you wanted a million francs for it,” said Lara.
“What would you pay for it?” asked Menelaou, the mischievous grin back on his face.
Lara’s face fell.
“It’s priceless to me if it could save Sam,” she said.
“Don’t be so sad,” said Menelaou. “All things are possible when you’re young and strong.”
He pried the lid off the tin, folded back a piece of silk that was wrapped around the artifact inside, and then held the whole thing out for Lara to take it.
She cradled the tin in both of her hands and looked inside. It was nothing more than a grubby, matted, grey scrap of something that she couldn’t easily identify. It smelled strange, oily and organic, and very old.
“This is it?” she asked.
“What did you expect?” asked Menelaou, laughing once more.
“Ares said the whole world was interested in the Golden Fleece. He told me to beware, to trust no one. It seems so… insignificant. Can this really be such a powerful artifact that a man like Ares would kill for it? Could he really believe it could have the power to make him immortal?”
Menelaou laughed his great heaving belly laugh again.
“Maybe so, and maybe not so much,” he said. “Menelaou is a purist.”
He put his finger to the side of his nose and leaned a little closer, lowering his voice.
“I am an old man, and I have no one to tell my secrets to. You are young and beautiful, and you have an honest face. Shall I tell you an old man’s secret, or should it die with me?”
Lara looked into Menelaou’s eyes, and he broke into another laugh that rumbled up from his belly.
“Don’t look so serious,” he said. “I will fall into your eyes if they grow any bigger. But there are worse ways for an old man to die.”
“So, this is not the Golden Fleece after all?” asked Lara
.
Menelaou nodded his head.
“Of course this is the fleece...a portion of the fleece,” he said. Then, he smiled a mischievous smile that made him look like an overgrown boy with a shock of white hair. “I have asked myself many times, ‘But, Menelaou, where is the gold?’ Perhaps this is a mystery in two halves.”
Lara looked down at the grey scrap of wool in the tin box.
“Go on. Touch it.”
“I couldn’t,” said Lara.
“Of course you could. You should,” said Menelaou.
Lara wiped her fingers on her jeans and tentatively held them over the scrap of wool in the tin. She stroked the thing very lightly with her forefinger. It felt oily and rough.
“You feel something?” asked Menelaou.
“Nothing,” said Lara. “Nothing at all.”
“You are young and fit and healthy,” said Menelaou. “You should feel nothing. Now, we should barter. Tell me what you will give me for this great artifact.”
Lara could not tell whether the warm, funny man was teasing her. He seemed serious. She could get the money, but an object like this was beyond priceless. If a man like Ares was interested in finding it… If it was worth her life… If it was worth any life… More than the object, the information that Menelaou had given her was crucial. She had not reached the end of her quest. This little scrap of wool was not enough. She must find the gold that had come from it. Somewhere, in some form, there was Colchis gold, the gold from the fleece, the other half of the mystery of the Golden Fleece.
The silence extended between them for several long seconds, until Menelaou broke it.
“What about a story?” he asked. “Why don’t you tell me all about what happened on Yamatai? Why don’t you educate me a little? Indulge an old man. Talk to me of adventure and magic and the wonders of the world. I don’t get out much anymore.”
It was a small enough price to pay, and for the next hour, Lara talked about Yamatai. Menelaou was sympathetic when she cried, and plied her with more Turkish coffee when she could not go on. The experience was informative for him and cathartic for her. It cemented their strong liking for one another.