I had intended to say more, but as soon as I paused, a wilderness of arms shot up, vying for my attention. Focusing on the core group of media heavyweights in the audience—carefully pointed out to me by the vice chancellor—I took a few questions in rapid succession, without leaving room for follow-ups.
“You say the donor is an anonymous Swiss collector,” asked a gravel-voiced London reporter with slicked-back gray hair. “Can you give us any more detail than that?”
“I’m afraid not. I have agreed to maintain the donor’s anonymity.”
“Dr. Morgan.” A female journalist whose face I recognized from television was next. “When I look at your articles and research, I see a lot of”—she grimaced—”Amazons, and not a lot about Troy. Has there been any discussion about whether you are qualified for this new challenge?”
I forced out a smile. “Since you’ve taken a look at my work, you already know I am not unfamiliar with the Luwian language.”
“What exactly do the tablets say?” asked an American in a frumpled brown suit—the only one of the lot who seemed remotely friendly.
“I received them only three days ago,” I replied. “But as far as I can see, we are dealing with historical records listing specific events and names.”
I meant to go on, but was stopped by a wild-eyed pit bull of a Frenchman who just couldn’t wait his turn. “This past week,” he barked, not just at me, but at everyone, “there have been other so-called incidents in artifact trading circles. A well-known collector by the name of Grigor Reznik was killed in a warehouse in the Geneva Freeport. Apparently, he was shot by the son of a rival collector during an illicit artifact exchange. Some speculate that Reznik was the previous owner of the Trojan tablets. Also, three days ago, an ancient manuscript called the Historia Amazonum was returned anonymously to the Romanian archive from where it had been stolen—allegedly also by Reznik.” The Frenchman fixed his accusative stare on me. “What has been your role in these events?”
The question nearly made me choke. “This is all news to me,” I said, as calmly as I could. “But I highly doubt the Trojan tablets have been sitting in a Geneva warehouse all these years. Next question, please!”
By the time the most aggressive journalists had had their fill of me, my hands were shaking so badly I had to cross my arms. Until the last minute I had hoped to see Katherine Kent appear out of nowhere for the press conference. But apparently, this was a battle I had to fight on my own.
I suspected my little speech to Otrera in Suomussalmi had been instrumental in convincing the Amazons it was time they did their treasure justice. And yet, their faith in me was so deeply moving I hardly knew how to respond except to make sure the tablets were safe and their texts translated and publicized. That the anonymous press release had been issued on the same day the crates were delivered to me confirmed my belief that I was not merely to be another tablet guardian; I was to bring King Priam’s lost city back to life.
“Last question?” I looked out over the crowd again, trying to choose between dozens of eager arms. Among the people lining the walls was a contingency of men in gray suits—so discreet in appearance I had not even noticed them until that moment.
Secret Service? The thought made me stiffen with fear. Had they come to question me about Reznik? Or James?
Glancing at the men again, I wondered if they were planning to arrest me right after the press conference and whether I should try to escape…. But then I finally noticed him, standing right in the middle of them, looking just as unforgiving as he had done the week before, when he came barging into his son’s hospital room and kicked me aside like a dog toy. He, too, wanted to ask me a question.
“Mr. al-Aqrab?” I heard myself saying, into the microphone.
The name set off an earthquake in the audience, with everyone stretching to see the fiend from Babylon, so unexpectedly present in their midst.
“Dr. Morgan,” said Mr. al-Aqrab, not unaware of the flashes going off around him. “I would like to congratulate you on rescuing and reviving this forgotten body of history. No doubt it will mark a turning point in the relationship between your university and my foundation, which have regrettably been at odds in the past.” He paused to allow the significance of his words to sink in, then continued, “I know you have already been in touch with the Turkish authorities, and I commend you for taking the initiative. With that in mind, who do you consider to be the legal owner of these tablets? Will they now, like so many ancient treasures, become the property”—he held out his arms in a gesture of prosecution—”of the United Kingdom?”
The question caused a series of afterquakes, with photographers vying to capture the image of the day. I barely registered the commotion; all I could think of was Nick. Surely Mr. al-Aqrab would not be here if his son was still in critical condition.
“The tablets were entrusted to me personally,” I replied at last, belatedly realizing that everyone was awaiting my response, “and I consider it my duty to ensure their safety. But no one can own other people’s history, even if those other people are long dead. To keep Trojan artifacts of any kind here in Britain, so far from their place of origin, would be to fall back on an outdated praxis.” I straightened, doing my best to rise above the crescendo of scholarly discontent threatening to drown me out. “The donor has tasked me with choosing the future home of the tablets, and it is my intention to return them to their place of origin as soon as possible.”
In the groundswell of anger following my statement I was sure I heard Professor Vandenbosch yelling, “Absurd!”
Mr. al-Aqrab looked around, evidently enjoying the uproar. “Suppose I offered to build a museum for them?”
The room fell immediately silent, and all heads once again turned to me, as if the Sheldonian Theatre was full of sheep watching the unloading of a fodder truck, which might, or might not, be heading for the slaughterhouse next.
“There are museums at Troy already—” I began.
“A safe museum, Dr. Morgan. Overseen by a man I think you know: Dr. Murat Özlem. What do you say?” Mr. al-Aqrab smiled, and it changed his face completely. “Isn’t it time for a joint venture?”
“Obviously we’ll have to clear it with the Turkish authorities,” I said. “But … that is generous of you. Perhaps we should plan a meeting.”
An entire jungle of arms shot up among the debris of our exchange. Professor Vandenbosch was halfway out of his chair, poised to step in and seize control of the podium and microphone.
Uncertain as to whether I should take another question, I looked up and saw Mr. al-Aqrab and his cohort making for the door, their business done.
In a sudden attack of tunnel vision, everything else faded to gray around me. I didn’t care what would happen; I was not going to let that man walk away from me again.
“Thank you,” I said into the microphone. “Professor Vandenbosch will be happy to answer the rest of your questions.” With that I stepped down from the podium and hastened down the central aisle without taking my eyes off the door. I didn’t run, but it was close.
As I burst outside, an unexpected downpour of freezing rain confused me just long enough for Mr. al-Aqrab to nod a devilish farewell, get into a black limousine, and drive away, leaving me soaked, inside and out.
I stood paralyzed, staring into the blur of Broad Street. My feet simply wouldn’t move.
“You’ll have to forgive my dad,” said a voice behind me. “He was never good at making apologies.”
I spun around to find Nick, standing there, as soaked as I, but smiling nonetheless. His smile faded, however, when he saw my expression. “Hello, Goddess,” he said, reaching out to touch my cheek. “Are you not happy to see me?”
And then I was in his arms at last, clinging to his warmth with every shivering ounce of my being, so desperate to assure myself of his wholeness it did not even occur to me to kiss him until his mouth found mine and routed all my fears.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered after a wh
ile. “I’m fine. And I won’t disappear again, I promise. Not unless you want me to.”
I was not yet ready to laugh. “I’ve been miserable,” I muttered, pressing my face into the crook of his neck. “Why didn’t you call me?”
Nick took my head between his hands. “Because I had to see your eyes—”
Just then, the door to the Sheldonian Theatre burst open, unleashing a multitude of follow-up questions.
“Oh no,” I said. “I don’t want to go back there.”
Nick laughed. “Oh why not? Of course you do.” He spun me around to face the crowd. “String your bow, Diana. I’m right behind you.”
NICK HAD RESERVED A room at Claridge’s in London, but we never got that far. Escaping the post-press-conference crowd on foot, we fled down New College Lane underneath the Bridge of Sighs and ducked into the nearest alley. Pulling Nick along by the hand, I led us through a shady labyrinth of timeworn walls until we reached the sneakiest hideout in Oxford: the Bath Place Hotel. A polite inquiry and a key later, we tumbled into our room, ripping off each other’s wet clothes with corybantic furor. Only when I saw the stitches on his thigh was I reminded of Nick’s recent brush with mortality.
“Wait!” I gasped. “Are you all right? Maybe we should—”
“What?” He drew me tightly against him, his eyes locked in mine. “Wait until the sun sets? I’m ready to break the rules if you are.”
I pushed him down on top of the bed and straddled him with a kiss. “The only rule around here,” I whispered, indulging in the feel of him, “is that you stay alive from now on.”
Later, when we were lying together in a state of sweaty felicity, Nick looked at me with a puzzled frown and said, “Wait a minute. Don’t you have an apartment here in Oxford?”
“Yes,” I sighed, “but Bex is there. And my parents are stopping by. In fact”—I checked his wristwatch and groaned—”we’re all supposed to meet up for tea in an hour.”
“Am I invited?”
I laughed and snuggled up to him. “At your own peril. Remember, my father used to be a headmaster. He knows how to ask questions.”
Nick kissed me on the forehead. “I’m prepared to stand at attention. I know I’m the embodiment of your parents’ worst fears. With a bull-headed Dubai businessman and an Amazonian biker chick thrown into the gene pool, God knows what their grandchildren will be like.”
Not sure how much to read into his words, I put my hand gently on top of his wound and said, “My jackal took a bullet for you. My parents will, too.”
Nick was silent for a moment. Then he said, with unusual solemnity, “Maybe now would be a good time for you to ask me to marry you.”
I was so amazed, so thrilled, I started laughing. When he didn’t join in, I sat up and looked at him. “You’re so wonderful. But you know, academics don’t propose to billionaires.”
“No worries.” Nick sat up, too, and gave me half a smile. “My dad believes—and I agree—that the surest way of destroying a man is to pay him to do nothing. I have to work and pay my bills like everyone else.” His smile broadened. “But I’m not too concerned. I’m planning to team up with a world-famous philologist. And if she won’t ask me to marry her, I’ll just be her trophy boyfriend.” When I didn’t say anything, he pulled me into his lap and said, more earnestly, “Come on, help me out here. How do I ask you to share my days and nights for as long as we both shall live … without upsetting Granny? I know she is sitting up there, in Amazon heaven, shaking her fist at me.” He reached for his jacket lying across the bedside table and produced a smallish, square jewelry case. “But I’m hoping maybe I can appease her with this.”
“Oh, Nick,” I said, feeling a pinch of discomfort, “you mustn’t give me anything. Please.”
“I know, I know.” He held up his hands in self-defense. “No rings, no diamonds, no patriarchal down payments. I get it. But”—he pushed the box into my hand—”you could at least take a look.”
“All right, then, but you really shouldn’t—” I opened the box.
It was empty.
Puzzled, I lifted the blue satin lining to see if anything was hiding underneath. But nothing was there.
Looking up, I saw that Nick was enjoying my perplexity. “It’s for the jackal,” he said at last. “A little doghouse for our best friend.”
Too happy to speak, I leaned over and kissed him. “Easy!” he said, laughing. “This daylight lovemaking is new to Granny. I don’t want my nose punched again.”
I slipped out of bed to locate my latest handbag and the mangled jackal I was still carrying around. Nick watched me as I came back and placed the bracelet on its new blue satin bed. As soon as I had closed the lid, he pulled me into bed with a demonic laugh. “Now you’re mine!”
“Careful.” I held up the jewelry case in mock warning. “This is no retirement home. My jackal may have been blinded by the bullet, but she can still bite.”
“I certainly hope so.” Nick drew me into his lap once more. “How do you want to spend the next half hour? I still haven’t told you about my death ride to the Suomussalmi hospital with my arms frozen into place around my mother’s Kevlar waist … but that’s more of a dinner conversation.”
“And I haven’t told you about your mother’s namesake, the original Myrina.” I glanced at my handbag, wondering if this was the time to show Nick the leather binder with the meticulously recorded memoirs of the small band of sisters who had—three thousand years ago—traveled before us from Algeria through Troy to the freedom of the northern wilderness. “Maybe if you’re lucky, I’ll read it to you after dinner.”
“I have an idea,” said Nick. “Why don’t you lure me into another shower?”
I gave him a long look. “Remember what happened last time.”
“Yeees.” He pulled me in for a kiss. “But it was still worth it.”
WE DIDN’T GET AROUND to actually reading the story in the leather binder until two weeks later, when we were back in Turkey discussing the location of the new Trojan tablet museum with a jubilant Dr. Özlem and an extremely self-congratulatory Mr. Telemakhos. Even so, I knew Nick took the subject of the Amazons as seriously as did I, and that this shared prehistory of ours would serve to bolster our love in the times to come.
For our path—yes, even ours—would not lack enemies or fateful turns, but the jackal from its regal abode assured us that as long as we stuck together, the three of us, we would never stray too far from the happiness that had, as it turned out, been Granny’s greatest gift to me.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
DID THE AMAZONS REALLY EXIST? OF COURSE THEY DID. WERE THEY EXACTLY as we find them portrayed in ancient literature and art? Probably not. As with many other mythical figures and events, the Amazons are a dream, a fear, a seductive constellation of ideas and emotions centered on the place of women in early Mediterranean society. Would women have taken up arms to defend their home and loved ones? It seems impossible that they would not. Would they have assembled entire armies to battle prehistoric Greek military powers? It seems unlikely. But since the dawn of man (and woman), storytellers have sought to spellbind their audiences with abnormal villains and chopped-off limbs. And to the ancient Greeks, the Amazons were bestseller material. Are these remarkable women still around today? They certainly are, in every single one of us. Sometimes we don’t realize our inner Amazon until life deals us a numbing blow … but she is there, waiting to lend us her strength, I am sure of it.
I have dedicated this book to my wonderful mother-in-law, Shirley Fortier, who was ambushed by cancer the same month I finished the final draft. Despite being unhorsed and outnumbered from the start, she fought to the death with an astonishing courage we never knew she possessed. We miss her dearly and will never forget her.
As for the original Amazons of Greek myth, the legends describing their deeds are so abundant and nebulous—and often contradictory—that no one could ever hope to gather all the strands in a single, comprehensive narrative. I have
certainly not attempted to do so, and I hope readers are aware that I deal with the tradition in a playful way, and that this book can by no means replace authoritative nonfiction works on the subject. Therefore, I urge you to continue the Amazon hunt on your own: Gallop apace into your local library, boldly prowl your local bookstores, and allow yourself to indulge in the ancient myths that are available to us even now, millennia later, in so many different intriguing interpretations.
While the events and characters I describe in the book are probably to a large extent fictitious, I have gone to great lengths to ensure that the historical framework is as solid as can be. Several distinguished experts have kindly read the manuscript in progress and given me valuable feedback; above all I am happily indebted to my dear friend, Dr. Thomas R. Martin, Jeremiah O’Connor Professor in Classics at College of the Holy Cross, and I highly recommend his well-known works Ancient Greece and Ancient Rome to anyone interested in a compelling armchair journey into our amazing past.
I am also immensely grateful to my longtime friend Dr. Timothy J. Moore, the John and Penelope Biggs Distinguished Professor of Classics at Washington University in St. Louis, whose brilliant, generous energy early on made me come to see top-notch philologists in a heroic light, and whose gloves-off, blazing-guns approach to mentoring has done more to toughen me up than any amount of sweetly smiling support could ever do.
My close friends, Mette Korsgaard, senior editor at Gyldendal Business, and Dr. Peter Pentz, curator at the National Museum of Denmark, were kind enough to look at the book from the perspective of the archaeologist. With their counsel in mind, I should emphasize that opinions are often divided when it comes to interpreting ancient finds. Some scholars will certainly disagree with my choices in describing the past—skepticism is, after all, a prerequisite of proper scholarship—but that doesn’t necessarily mean things could not have happened the way I depict them. It is my hope, of course, that inquisitive readers will use my book as a springboard for a dive into the many unsolved mysteries of the past and flock to the fields of history, philology, and archaeology, eager to help expand our knowledge of the ancient world.