Authors: Barbara Cleverly
“I think we can guess who
Andrew
thought it belonged
to!” Letty said. “He’s been leading us through this! Softening us up for a revelation we might just be unprepared to swallow. That would always be his style … catch his audience in a storytelling web. And I think we’ve earned the right to read his explanation, don’t you? The brown foolscap envelope placed so teasingly right at the bottom? Shall we have a look?”
“By all means. But, Letty, go back to his letter first, will you? I think we ought to obey the stage directions!”
“So dramatically and meticulously given,” agreed Montacute. “Let’s travel a little further with the professor, shall we? Play his game a little longer?”
“The smallest and the choicest of the artefacts I came by, I leave for you, Letty. Should you choose to spirit them away to England, you will find them eminently smuggleable. I’m sure you’ll find a way if you wish to. Assigning ownership in these politically troubled times will not be easy. I’ve done my best to supply the paperwork you may need: bills of sale and deeds to the property west of Thessalonike where they originated. All these glorious things and, indeed, the estate where they came to light are yours because you will know how to deal with them. It’s important that you have the house and the acres of farmland surrounding it. It is the most exciting prospect I came across in my months of fossicking about in Macedonia. And, if all continues to go well, you may assume ownership and arrange to dig where you please. I have moved heaven and earth over the years to bring this to a satisfactory conclusion. I’ve wheedled, promised, threatened, bribed, and suborned, and finally, I have the deeds in my hand and am about to slide them into the foolscap envelope
.
“It’s a distressing story and any surge of triumph and pride in my achievement is instantly swamped in a wave of sadness. I met Soulios Gunay (the name will mean nothing to you) in an antiques dealer’s shop in the old city in the centre of Thessalonike in 1917, during the war. He was selling and I was buying Modestly gratified and standing between us was the dealer. Difficult times. Gunay, a local farmer, was
experiencing some financial problems and was offering for sale the
lekythos
you will have admired. I bought it, for a generous amount, and both he and the salesman were pleased with their day. I chased after Gunay when he left and we had a cup of coffee together. You can imagine with no difficulty what we spoke of!
“The upshot was—he invited me to visit him at his farmhouse west of the city and look over some more of the goods he might have for sale. His family had farmed the land—which was extensive and productive of olives and fruit—for many generations, and had made a habit of collecting together any objects found on the property. He hinted at precious metals and exquisite workmanship. These objects he was holding in reserve, fearing some dreadful turn of events which might make it necessary for him to realise their value in the saleroom in order to finance the farm. In this he was right, except that his fears did not go far enough … Poor chap! He was to lose both his assets and his land by a cruel blow of Fate
.
“No! Why blame Fate? It was by the hand of Man that he lost his belongings, his livelihood, and eventually his life. He lost everything at the stroke of a pen, the signature of a fellow countryman he trusted, on a document drawn up far away on the shores of Lake Geneva in Lausanne. The Exchange of Populations Treaty of 1923
.
“Swept on by my army life—I was needed back in Athens—it was more than five years before I saw Gunay again. I rode up to his farm and found him in despair. His papers had come through. He and his family—he had a beautiful wife and two charming children—had received their marching orders. Since they were registered as Muslim, it had been decreed that they were to set off at short notice, load whatever possessions they could onto a cart, and get themselves to the port, where they would board a Turkish boat bound for a homeland which was not their homeland. They were assured that a similar property and life would be provided on the other side of the Aegean Sea. Their own farm would be taken up by refugees of Greek origin who were performing the same manoeuvre in the opposite direction
.
“There was no arguing with the authorities. Two armed Cretan
gendarmes were standing about looking threatening, to make sure the family obeyed the decree. I had to act quickly. I don’t think I gave it a minute’s thought. I made him an offer for whatever artefacts remained to him and for the estate itself. I agreed to pay him at the port in gold coinage before he sailed. He trusted me. He handed over—for what they were worth—the title deeds to his land. I was as good as my word. Don’t ask how I came by the sum of money. I’ll just say the British presence still in the area had large reserves at its disposal and my credit with the Government has always been good. Shh! If the words ‘cloak and dagger’ come to mind, then your mind is a very suspicious one! But if events have put this letter in your hands, it doesn’t matter much anymore, so I’ll say: Suspect all you wish, double your suspicions, and you’ll be in the target area …”
“What
is
Andrew suggesting?” Letty broke off to ask. “That he was some sort of a … spy?”
“Undoubtedly,” said Montacute. “An agent of the British Government. Political? Military? High up, I’d guess, judging by his free-ranging ability to go about the place under cover of archaeology, buying up property, defying the Lausanne convention, and borrowing army resources. I don’t like to think of the favours Merriman must have called in … the arms he must have twisted to get what he wanted …”
“Not high enough, it seems from what he says next!” Letty read on, skimming down the page. “Problems … sticks poked into wheels … applications delayed in Embassy in-trays … I can imagine the sort of stuff. It must have driven him mad! No wonder he was spending so much time in Greece. But perseverance, or whatever else it was he was using, seems to have paid off. Listen!”
“And the upshot is: The house and land are now officially recognised as mine. I don’t feel too badly about this because I bought with honest intent. Many properties were the subjects of deals of a clandestine
nature at this time, and many unfortunates did not do so well as Gunay—though his luck was to run out. Sadly, the family died on the journey to Turkey. There was a report that the boat on which they travelled was ravaged by disease and all the passengers died of it—those who had survived the appalling crossing. Gunay’s land has not suffered. Assuming ownership as I did, I arranged with the local placement bureau for Turkish refugees—a farming family—to be installed for a reasonable rent, and there they still are
.
“And the point of all this … and the part which gives me a twinge of guilt … is the answer to the questions I’m sure you’ve been asking yourself as you unpacked these pretty things. There are at least four tumuli on Gunay’s land, possibly more. Indeed, I have, through the years, imposed on the tenant farmer the task of preserving the mounds untouched (on pain of eviction). And I have checked periodically that he has performed in accordance with my instruction. One tumulus I believe to be in its original state, undisturbed by man. I want you, Letty, to disturb it!
“You will have guessed that I have identified this site as the burial place of the Kings and Queens of Macedon. Its excavation could be as thrilling to the world as the revelations from Mycaenae. And as rich in gold! It was the custom of the royal family to be buried near their capital of Aigai (some few miles distant from the site) and in a particular way. The bodies would be cremated, the burnt remains gathered up and placed in a ceremonial box—a larnax—and placed along with sumptuous grave goods in a space built and decorated as a room. I have caught glimpses of the most wonderful wall paintings in other tombs of Macedonian nobles, but sadly raided and defaced. In the middle of a battlefield, all I could do was pop the lid back on and mark them down for further and better investigation at a later date! Heartrending!
“If I am to believe Gunay—and I do—the portrait busts and the collection of gold and silver coins you have just examined came to light in one of the mounds on his property. Having no interest in archaeology and not much knowledge of the ancient history of the region, he kept most of the objects and sold off some others but left the remaining tomb
untouched—‘Just in case …’ Safer than a bank, he must have assumed. Not an unusual sentiment from a countryman. I’ve known peasants the world over who keep their precious goods under the mattress or buried in a jar in the back garden!
“You will have assigned a date to the coinage …”
Letty gave a guilty gasp. “Have we?”
Gunning ran his fingers through the coins again, paying attention to the markings. They waited for his decision.
“Up to and including and quite possibly beyond Alexander,” he pronounced. “But how would
we
know? The professor’s playing with us again! The coins minted after the death of Alexander the Great, who was number three in the lineup of Alexanders, went on showing his face on the front, usually in a lion’s-head helmet, through the reigns of the next two or three kings, including his own brother and his son, the number four Alexander, who reigned very briefly. It would take an expert to judge. Here, Montacute … what do you make of this one?”
Montacute peered and shrugged. “You’re asking the wrong bloke. Takes me all my time to tell a half crown from a two-bob bit. It’s silver with the goddess Athena on the back like a lot of the others, but it seems a bit different from the rest … The face on the front is Alexander, I’d say, but he looks rather sterner, older than usual—and what’s all that outcrop behind his head?”
“I think it’s meant to be a ram’s horn, signifying the god Ammon. He’s done up as Alexander the Deified. He’s turned into a god—one presumes
after
his death.”
“Let’s assume we’ve failed that little test and go on to the next thing, shall we? Letty?”
“… which leads me to infer that the burial represented here, by these goods, postdates the death of Alexander, and yet is a royal funeral. His mother died some years after her son. Subject to further investigation
on the spot, I’m suggesting that we have here some of the contents of the tomb of Olympias. One of the raided mounds?
“But the intact tomb? I say again: It was the strong custom of the Kings of Macedon to be buried near their home, alongside their fathers and grandfathers. No one has ever located the last resting place of Alexander. He died in the East, in Babylon, and there are convincing accounts of the mummification of his body by experts in the practice. It is suspected—and for excellent reasons—that he was laid to rest, possibly along with his great golden catafalque, somewhere in Egypt. In Alexandria? At the oasis of Siwah? The world’s most energetic and knowledgeable archaeological sleuths have dug about in every likely Egyptian location. Even Schliemann with his acute nose for buried gold snooped about and came up with nothing! Merriman toiled for years! Exploring following up clues and whispers of clues, and I found: nothing. Significant? Letty, it’s my opinion that if there had been something to find in the burning sands, it would have been found
.
“I’m proposing that the remains of Alexander lie in the deep soil of his homeland, alongside his grandfather, his father, and his mother. The richest man the world has ever known was returned there by a supreme piece of sleight of hand on the part of his general Perdikkas and buried with all honours by his own mother. And Olympias would not have stinted on the splendour of the funeral rites for her beloved and only son! Perhaps she had the taste to refrain from the ceremonial cremation and bury her son intact as she last saw him: his youthful body preserved forever, covered in gold and draped in purple cloths
.
“I’m proposing that the golden youth you so despise is, at the end, in your hands, Letty!
“Deal with him appropriately, won’t you? Many, many men have admired him down the centuries, you know! And still do! Ask Gunning!
“I resist my impulse to plead for him one last time—to stress the enormous influence he was on the ancient and, indeed, our modern world, the way in which he spread Hellenic culture throughout the East, replaced Persian and Egyptian magic with Greek science and
mathematics, introduced Greek ideas of medicine, law, meritocracy, and justice. I, instead, appeal to your female and romantic instincts. He loved literature, he loved his horse and his dog. He was courteous to women and generous to his friends, and he was fond of his mother.”
“Pompous, patronising old juggins!” Letty exclaimed, thrusting the pages at Gunning in disgust. “Oh, Andrew! If you’re still lurking about somewhere in the shadows—pin your ears back and hear this! That metallic tinkling you hear is the remaining scales falling from my eyes! Romantic female indeed! I expect clever, ambitious Olympias had the same problems with the men who surrounded her, running her life. How dare you make such assumptions about me and my prejudices? I begin to think you scarcely know me …
knew
me. Do you seriously think my opinion will be softened because a man loved his horse and was fond of his mother? Do you think I’m capable of such triviality of thought? And incapable of understanding that a man can be a baffling mixture of goodness and evil? Good Lord! I don’t have to assign the man a pass mark in humanity as judged by the morality of a later era before I’ll be prepared to dig up his bones!”
Montacute frowned, irritated, she thought, by her tirade. “Shall we let Gunning read on for a while?” he asked politely.
Gunning was ready to pick up the hint.
“He was a good son. He constantly sent home the pick of the plunder from the cities of the East he conquered to his mother in Macedonia. Olympias wrote to him regularly and he always paid attention to her advice and suggestions. And he had a sense of humour you would have appreciated. One day, needled beyond reason by his mother’s demands, he waved her latest letter at his friend Hephaestion and grinned. ‘She asks a lot in return for the nine months’ board and lodging she gave me,’ he joked
.
“This, Letty, is the elusive man I have tracked for years, eager to
find some last trace of him. With luck, I shall be here beaming and smiling when you return from Crete and, when the moment seems right, I shall propose that we go north and make the discovery together. If things do not go so well for me, it will be up to you to implement Plan B
.
“You must go under the aegis of the British School and liaise with the Embassy. You will find many people eager to help. Use all authority you can come by and insist on an armed guard. Take all possible care
.
“I think I saw him again the other day. And again yesterday. Soulios Gunay. I had thought him dead. If this is indeed Gunay, and not my shocked imaginings, why is he in Athens? He should not be here. Why does he not greet me but stare through me, turn, and hurry away? I’m sick with apprehension—”