great secrecy when his ego would allow it. And he truly believed in the myths. Let’s imagine the palladion was what he was really after. He may never have confided his thoughts to paper. He may only have told his wife, Sophia, and maybe a few close friends. Schliemann was perfectly prepared to gamble his reputation with big announcements, but he was also shrewd, and this would have been an extraordinary treasure.’
An excited shout came up from below, a man’s voice with a German accent. ‘James. Rebecca. Jeremy. Come on down. James, bring your camera gear. We’ve found something wonderful.’
‘They’re nowhere near the end of the tunnel yet,’ Rebecca said. ‘I was just there. They were only finding rubble. What on earth could it be?’
‘Maybe Maurice has got his Egyptian inscription,’ Jeremy said, getting up quickly. ‘And I haven’t even seen this tunnel yet.’ He paused, looking at the wall painting of the bard with the musical instrument, and then at Dillen’s lyre in the corner of the trench. ‘You really did get your lyre right, you know. Exactly right. It’s uncanny. What you were saying earlier, about the bardic tradition? You said you felt as if you’d heard music up here. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so flippant about it. Maybe there really is a bit of Homer in you.’
Dillen looked at him, started to say something, and was suddenly speechless, overwhelmed. He stared down, blinking hard. In all his years of academic achievement, he had never had an accolade like that. He swallowed hard and spoke, his voice gruff. ‘I should tidy up. Herr Professor Doctor Hiebermeyer’s inspection, you know.’
‘Leave it,’ Jeremy said. ‘We won’t tell.’ Rebecca touched Jeremy’s hand and smiled at him, nodding her head towards Dillen, saying nothing. Jeremy went over and rolled the plastic cover back over the wall painting, while Rebecca helped Dillen to his feet. As he reached down to pick up his camera bag, a jolt of pain shot through his knee, and he winced. He leaned against Rebecca for a moment, feeling her warmth, her youth, letting the pain go, and remembered what he had been thinking before she and Jeremy had arrived. Archaeology did come at a price. But he was loving every minute of it.
4
London, England
T he man in the greatcoat turned left off the busy street and strode into the forecourt of the British Museum, swiftly negotiating the milling groups of tourists and the puddles that had spread over the pavement like quicksilver. The drizzle that had enveloped London all morning was now a persistent rain, and he clicked open his umbrella. His phone buzzed and he stopped, holding the phone to his ear with one hand and his umbrella with the other, peering out under the brim at the imposing columns of the museum façade. He replied quickly, snapped the phone shut, checked his watch and remained still for a moment, glancing up at the pediment sculptures above the columns, at Sir Richard Westmacott’s allegorical figures depicting the rise of civilization, culminating in the central female holding a golden orb and sceptre.
He curled his lip, and snorted. Even the gilding seemed dull in this weather. He was contemptuous of it, of the entire museum, a neoclassical folly of the first order. As a student he had been to the temple at Priene in Turkey that had inspired Sir John Soane’s design for the museum, and had seen with his own eyes the power of ancient architecture in its setting, the mastery of man over the elements. And at Linz in Austria he had traced the plan of the greatest museum ever devised, walked the streets with the blueprint in his head, populated the phantom galleries with all the works of art that had once been collected for the highest cause ever conceived. It was a museum to harness the power of the past, to radiate it, not to trap it like this one. A museum from the greatest architect of them all. A museum for the thousand-year Reich. The Führermuseum .
He ran
An excited shout came up from below, a man’s voice with a German accent. ‘James. Rebecca. Jeremy. Come on down. James, bring your camera gear. We’ve found something wonderful.’
‘They’re nowhere near the end of the tunnel yet,’ Rebecca said. ‘I was just there. They were only finding rubble. What on earth could it be?’
‘Maybe Maurice has got his Egyptian inscription,’ Jeremy said, getting up quickly. ‘And I haven’t even seen this tunnel yet.’ He paused, looking at the wall painting of the bard with the musical instrument, and then at Dillen’s lyre in the corner of the trench. ‘You really did get your lyre right, you know. Exactly right. It’s uncanny. What you were saying earlier, about the bardic tradition? You said you felt as if you’d heard music up here. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so flippant about it. Maybe there really is a bit of Homer in you.’
Dillen looked at him, started to say something, and was suddenly speechless, overwhelmed. He stared down, blinking hard. In all his years of academic achievement, he had never had an accolade like that. He swallowed hard and spoke, his voice gruff. ‘I should tidy up. Herr Professor Doctor Hiebermeyer’s inspection, you know.’
‘Leave it,’ Jeremy said. ‘We won’t tell.’ Rebecca touched Jeremy’s hand and smiled at him, nodding her head towards Dillen, saying nothing. Jeremy went over and rolled the plastic cover back over the wall painting, while Rebecca helped Dillen to his feet. As he reached down to pick up his camera bag, a jolt of pain shot through his knee, and he winced. He leaned against Rebecca for a moment, feeling her warmth, her youth, letting the pain go, and remembered what he had been thinking before she and Jeremy had arrived. Archaeology did come at a price. But he was loving every minute of it.
4
London, England
T he man in the greatcoat turned left off the busy street and strode into the forecourt of the British Museum, swiftly negotiating the milling groups of tourists and the puddles that had spread over the pavement like quicksilver. The drizzle that had enveloped London all morning was now a persistent rain, and he clicked open his umbrella. His phone buzzed and he stopped, holding the phone to his ear with one hand and his umbrella with the other, peering out under the brim at the imposing columns of the museum façade. He replied quickly, snapped the phone shut, checked his watch and remained still for a moment, glancing up at the pediment sculptures above the columns, at Sir Richard Westmacott’s allegorical figures depicting the rise of civilization, culminating in the central female holding a golden orb and sceptre.
He curled his lip, and snorted. Even the gilding seemed dull in this weather. He was contemptuous of it, of the entire museum, a neoclassical folly of the first order. As a student he had been to the temple at Priene in Turkey that had inspired Sir John Soane’s design for the museum, and had seen with his own eyes the power of ancient architecture in its setting, the mastery of man over the elements. And at Linz in Austria he had traced the plan of the greatest museum ever devised, walked the streets with the blueprint in his head, populated the phantom galleries with all the works of art that had once been collected for the highest cause ever conceived. It was a museum to harness the power of the past, to radiate it, not to trap it like this one. A museum from the greatest architect of them all. A museum for the thousand-year Reich. The Führermuseum .
He ran
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