One of the most well-known stories of stolen identity is that of the sixteenth-century French peasant, Martin Guerre. Plagued by a disappointing marriage and an accusation of theft by his father, he fled from his home in Artigat, abandoning his wife and small child. Eight years later, he returned, as unexpectedly as he had departed.
Guerre’s absence appeared to have changed him. He looked a bit different—as we all do after nearly a decade—but his friends and family recognized him, and they were delighted to find him a kinder, more affectionate man. His travels had improved his character.
What no one knew was that this man was not Guerre but an impostor who had carefully planned his subterfuge. After being mistaken for Guerre in a tavern, Arnaud du Tilh (known as Pansette) decided he would take on Guerre’s identity. He spent three years learning everything he could about Guerre, and his studying paid off. The villagers, including his wife, accepted him. Eventually, Bertrande uncovered the truth, but by then she had decided she preferred Pansette to her actual husband, and did not reveal his scheme.
Trouble came when he pressed Guerre’s brother, Pierre, for part of his inheritance. The case went to court and was settled in Pansette’s favor; this made Pierre furious, and he began to say—no doubt because it was to his financial advantage—that this supposed Martin Guerre was an impostor. Eventually, Pansette was charged and had to try to prove his identity in court. And he might have been able to do so, had the actual Martin Guerre not suddenly appeared out of the blue, twelve years after he had left his village.
Guerre’s story served as the initial inspiration for this book.
Greece—its history, art, and culture—have been critical to this series from the beginning. When I visited Greece for the first time in the summer of 1998, I stayed in a small hotel in Imerovigli on Santorini and fell in love with the village. The first image I had of Emily came to me on the cliff path, where I pictured her standing and taking in the view of the caldera below. When I walked the path then, there were still sections of it that were undeveloped. Going back in 2015 to do research for this book, I discovered those to be all but gone. Now there are more crowds and less open space, but the spectacular views over the caldera have not changed. Given the immense popularity of the island and its famous sunsets today, it is difficult to imagine that in the nineteenth century it had almost no tourism. Emily’s island retreat would feel very different to Santorini today.
They might not have traveled to Greece in search of island beach resorts, but nineteenth-century Britons, ladies included, found the ancient world fascinating. Despite the differences in the education given to men and women, the latter could and did study Ancient Greek, although they were taught “lady’s Greek” (the astute reader will recognize the phrase from Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s poem “Aurora Leigh”), a version which left out the diacritical marks—which in and of itself proves the inequalities of the system. Byron popularized Greece in his poetry, giving legions of readers a set of expectations for what they would see when they visited. Although he and his compatriots were passionate supporters of Greek independence, subsequent English tourists were less interested in peasants and present-day Greek politics than they were in romantic ancient ruins, and for the rest of the century, Hellenistic ideals set the standards for English views of culture and beauty.
Friedrich Hiller von Gaertringen, Carl Humann, Wilhelm Dörpfeld, and Heinrich Schliemann were all archaeologists working at the sites I have described in the book. Jane Harrison, born in 1850, was one of the first female classicists (she studied at Newnham College, Cambridge), giving many popular lectures, and Dörpfeld included her on many of his trips to Greece and Ephesus. She wrote extensively about her experiences, as well as about Ancient Greek religion.
The maps of the archaelogical sites found in the front of this book are in keeping with those Emily would have found in her trusty Baedekers. It was assumed educated travelers could decipher them in French or German as necessary.
I took my epigraph from Robert Fagles, whose translations of Homer are my personal favorites. Emily is limited to what was available in her century, but I (fortunately!) am not. She would adore his gorgeous command of language.
Miltiades’ helmet, inscribed to Zeus, is on display at the museum in Olympia. Nothing belonging to Achilles has ever been discovered. Like Emily, I would prefer archaeologists uncover something of Hector’s.