Philip had meant to spend the entire winter in Constantinople, but after completing, more or less to his satisfaction, the selling of the artifacts in his possession, he decided instead to go to Athens. His conversation with Demir had initially frightened him, but as the weeks went by, he began to feel emboldened, and started to reach out to his contacts in the antiquities market in the Greek capital. By the time he arrived in the city, he had arranged meetings with three dealers who’d promised knowledge of objects not officially for sale.
Of these men, none had heard the story of the Achilles bronze, but each perked up when Philip told the tale. He judged the second dealer, a man called Simonides Floros, the most likely to be able to help him, and went so far as to give him a payment—not exorbitant, but larger than Philip would have liked—as a retainer of sorts. In return, Mr. Floros would have his contacts begin to make inquiries about the piece.
That done, Philip felt a rush of relief. Soon he would have positive confirmation about what the sellers of illegal antiquities knew or didn’t know about the bronze. Either Mr. Floros or Demir—or both—would ferret out whatever there was to discover. Then he would at last know whether Demir was hunting him because he had somehow learned the truth—that Philip still had the object in his possession.
He fingered the stiff spot in the bottom of his jacket where he had carefully sewn a small pocket behind the lining, only as large as necessary to contain the thin strip of bronze. Every inch of his body burned whenever he felt it. He should never have taken it and, having done so, should never have lied about the other man stealing it. But what else could he have done? The man had tried to steal it, and Philip still did not quite understand how he had managed to keep it from him.
The sun had been low in the sky. He and Erkan, a Turk, had worked later than their colleagues. Dörpfeld had agreed to let him dig a series of test trenches in this area, partly because he wanted to be as thorough as possible with his excavations and partly because, Philip suspected, he admired Philip’s devotion to Homer’s great works. They frequently discussed the poetry in camp, after the day’s work was done, and although Dörpfeld’s primary focus was on the city of Troy, he agreed that going further afield, into the area of the Greek’s encampment, could unearth a trove of information. Archaeologists know rubbish heaps can reveal all kinds of fascinating details about the lives of ancient peoples.
No one else had worked so late that evening, and Philip and Erkan were too far away to be easily seen from camp. The moment Philip had felt the hardness of metal in the dirt, excitement had filled him. He cleared the area, first with his hands and then with a brush, revealing a glint of bronze. His initial disappointment at the size of the piece—clearly it was nothing more than the fragment of something, nice, but not spectacular—faded the instant he saw the great hero’s name scratched into the surface. He touched it, reverently, and as he read the inscription—ΑΧΙΛΛΕΥΣ ΑΝΕΘΕΚΕΝ ΤΟΙ ΔΙ. Akhilleus dedicated to Zeus—his hand started to shake. He knew of the discovery of Miltiades’ helmet at Olympia, with words on its base following the same formula. Could this be a piece of Achilles’ helmet? The very one he had worn when fighting the Trojans? Perhaps—almost certainly, as what other helmet would he dedicate to Zeus?—the one that had protected him the day he killed Hector?
Erkan, ten feet away, was not paying the slightest attention to Philip. He did the coarser work, digging the initial trench and moving dirt as necessary. He showed no interest in archaeology beyond the money it brought him, and revealed no aptitude for the finer techniques of the work. Philip watched, wondering if the man had seen the bronze, and started to breathe rapidly as the realization of what he was about to do began to sink into his soul.
He could not bear to be parted with this piece. He knew it belonged in a museum, he knew scholars should be allowed to study it, and he knew to keep it for himself would be akin to an act of blasphemy. But he could not—would not—stop himself, and as he took it in his hand, his back to Erkan, he felt as if he were watching the scene from above, as if some other person were committing the crime. The bronze felt heavy in the breast pocket of his coat. He buttoned the pocket closed, his heart racing, and crouched in the dirt, trying to catch his breath.
He never managed to quite compose himself. Truthfully, not ever again after that, no matter how many years passed. For all the pleasure he got from having that small bit of bronze he believed Achilles had once owned—worn, even—the crushing blow of knowing he had become a thief to get it tormented him.
But that guilt paled next to the constant fear and paranoia with which he now lived. Fear of exposure, of course, of losing the respect of his new colleagues, of tarnishing his name. But did the latter truly matter? He had invented Philip Chapman and could adopt another identity if necessary. At least he told himself he could. But he loved this new life of his, and could not fathom having to leave it behind. Death would be preferable.
And death might be precisely what he would face, for when he called out to Erkan that the time had come to stop work, the man stepped toward him, a menacing look on his face.
“What did you take?” he asked. “I saw you put it in your pocket. I saw the gleaming metal.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Philip said. “No metal freshly removed from the ground after thousands of years would be gleaming, unless it were gold, and I can assure you had we discovered such a thing, you would have heard my cries of delight long before you noticed any gleaming.”
“I saw what you did.”
“You are mistaken.” He took a firm tone. “I keep my compass in one pocket, and my watch in another.” He pulled the watch out, as if to prove his point. “You must have seen me returning it after I had checked the time.”
“I saw what you did.”
No matter how Philip replied, Erkan kept repeating that same sentence, each time closing the gap between them. Little by little, the man came closer, looking fiercer with each step. When Erkan pulled back his arm, his hand balled into a fist, Philip struck first, a clean hit to the jaw.
They had struggled—fought—and somehow Philip came out victorious. He had never felt anything like the rush of watching the man slink away from him. It was superior to anything a man could experience even on the plains of Africa during a successful hunt. He had saved himself—his reputation, his livelihood—and he had saved the remnant of bronze. Nothing would make him part with it now.
He had been fortunate, though, that his opponent had run away too soon to see Philip collapse, unconscious. Erkan’s blows had taken a toll, and Philip hardly remembered growing unsteady on his feet before falling. If Erkan had seen, the bronze would well and truly be gone, in the hands of someone who cared not for its historical significance but only for its monetary value. Philip would protect it and keep it safe. No one could appreciate it more than he. No one had more right to possess it. It would be his forever.