Lost Temple

Thirty-three

'Homer never intended that the shield of Achilles should be considered as an actual, literal object. The shield, as described in the Iliad, is meant as a metaphor for the world — a flat disc, made by a god, surrounded by the Ocean river, in whose compass lie all the stars, sun and moon; war and peace, commerce and agriculture; work and leisure; gods, men and animals.'

The undergraduate looked up nervously. He'd padded this paragraph out a bit in a slightly desperate attempt to eat up tutorial time. So far, his tutor didn't seem to have noticed. It didn't occur to him that his tutor might be quite as eager as he was to let the tutorial slip by painlessly.

'But, in reality, this glittering artefact is forged from words, not metal. Clearly, the poet expects his readers to suspend their disbelief during the ecphrasis. Such a cumbersome weapon would have been wholly impractical on the field of battle. For all its poetic depth and power to dazzle, we must — with regret — dismiss the shield as fiction, a triumph of Homer's imagination, written at a time when the technical practice of Bronze Age warfare was merely legend.'

Reed stared out of the window. Outside in Turl Street, women in summer dresses flirted with men in blazers and flannel trousers. Behind the college walls, croquet balls knocked each other on the immaculate lawns. Reed was oblivious to it. In his mind's eye he was at the top of a cliff, straining on a rope with Grant as they tried to lower the shield without dropping it in the pool. He was tripping his way back down the overgrown stream, splashing through the shallows as he tried to support Marina with her broken leg. He was back in the lagoon, scrambling into the seaplane, praying no more Russians would come.

He realised his student was waiting to continue, deferring his essay to whatever great thoughts Reed's distant stare portended. Sometimes, he decided, there were distinct advantages to having a reputation for abstract brilliance. He smiled. 'Go on.'

'What is significant is the fact that Homer gives the shield to Achilles. He seems to be saying that Achilles grasps the entire world in his hand. When he fights, it is the world itself which shivers under the blows.

'In this age of atom bombs and a National Health Service, the unbridled violence and haughty elitism that Achilles embodies may fail to rouse our sympathies.' The undergraduate glanced up, wondering whether this was too daringly relevant, if his ethereal professor had ever heard of either atom bombs or a National Health Service. 'Odysseus, the man who prizes wit over strength, who suffers for ten years to return home and save his family, seems a more realistic hero in this country, in this century.

'But, I suggest, if we are to build a better world, it is Achilles who offers the parable of salvation. True, he spends much of the Iliad governed by rage, heedless of the destruction it wreaks on those around him: his fellow warriors, his friends, even his most intimate companion Patroclus. But the poem is the story of his humanising, his journey away from unthinking anger into an understanding of his responsibilities to the world.

'In metaphorical terms, we all exist on the shield of Achilles. When the warriors gird themselves for battle we tremble. If we are to survive the new perils of the modern age, we must hope that the destructive rages which drive men can be tempered by reason, by engagement and most of all by compassion.'

He shuffled his essay back together and put the papers down.

From his wing-back chair, the professor looked as if he might be asleep. 'Tell me,' he said at last, 'do you believe in Homer?'

The undergraduate looked alarmed. He hadn't prepared for that question. 'Well, erm, Mr Schliemann's finds in Turkey obviously pose some questions. And Mycenae.' He thought desperately — and, to his surprise, found an answer. 'I don't believe it actually matters.'

A white eyebrow rose in surprise. 'No?'

'The poetry is what matters. That's real. It's survived intact for two and a half thousand years, much longer than anything made of metal or wood. And…' He tried to think of something to expand his point. He was saved by a knock at the door.

'Beg your pardon, Professor. There's a gentleman in the lodge to see you. Says he's come from London.'

Reed didn't appear surprised; he'd expected this ever since he got back to Oxford. There was no point delaying the inevitable.

'Would you mind coming back in an hour?' he said apologetically. 'I shan't be long.'

Hardly able to believe his luck, the undergraduate picked up his essay and darted out of the room. A few moments later the porter showed in his visitor, a young man in a blue suit who sat forward on the sofa and held his hat.

'Wright,' he introduced himself. His face was kind rather than handsome, but there was a lively intelligence in his eyes and a suggestion of humour gently kept in check. 'Thank you for seeing me, Professor.'

Reed waved graciously.

'It's about a colleague of mine, a man named Muir. I understand you had some dealings with him.'

'I worked with him in the war. He came to me a few weeks ago. He wanted help tracing an ancient Greek artefact. I believe he was working with the Americans.' 'So we've gathered.' Wright twisted the hat in his hands. 'And not much else, unfortunately. He was a bit of an odd fish, Muir. Frankly, there's a suspicion he may have been involved in some rather queer business.'

Reed tried to convey a distinct lack of surprise. 'He always seemed a little… unorthodox. What's he done now?'

'Well, that's what we're trying to find out. You see, he's gone missing. We were rather hoping you would shed some light on it.'

Wright stayed for an hour. Reed answered his questions as best he could — which was to say as little as possible that was flatly untrue, or easily disproved. Wright took copious notes, frowning as he tried to keep up.

'We're also trying to trace this Mr Grant.'

'Yes,' said Reed. 'I can see that you would. I don't suppose you'll find him.'

'Do you have any idea where he might…'

'Not really. He may have mentioned Canada.'

Wright looked surprised. 'Oh. That's certainly news to us. Thank you.'

He stood and shook Reed's hand. At the door he paused for a moment. 'This… Homeric artefact. You don't think there was anything in it, do you? No chance of it turning up?'

Reed smiled. 'I shouldn't think so.'

The plane flew south-west through the night, high above the sea that had seen so many gods and heroes pass. Grant manned the controls; behind him, Marina lay on the floor under a blanket, her leg stretched out in a splint.

Reed made his way forward and squeezed into the copilot's seat. 'Where are we?'

Grant checked his watch. 'Just past the Dardanelles. We should make Athens in another couple of hours.'

Reed squirmed round and looked back down the cabin. At the rear of the plane, lashed to a steel bulkhead, the battered shield stared back at him. A canvas sack, bulging with all manner of strange shapes and nubbles, sat beside it.

Grant saw his gaze. 'Imagining how it'll look in the British Museum?'

Reed sighed. 'You know we can't keep it. The Americans would have it in a flash.'

Grant banked the plane left a little. 'Do you really think it could be used to make a bomb?'

'Are you willing to take the risk?'

Grant didn't answer. They flew on in silence for a few minutes. Reed pointed to a small island of lights in the darkness below. 'That must be Lemnos.'

'Maybe we should land there. Hide it in the temple we found until it all blows over.'

'No. Even there, someone will find it eventually.'

'Someone'll find it anyway. You can't unfind things.'

'It's already been missing for three thousand years. If it were lost for another three thousand, I shouldn't complain.'

Grant stared at him in surprise. 'But the shield changes everything. It proves it was all true: Homer, Achilles, Troy — everything. It's… it's history.'

Reed stared out of the window. 'That's exactly it. The world has enough history — more of it every day. But no one's making any more myths. And we need them. When I heard Schliemann talk in Kensington, it wasn't the fact that all this was true — it was being allowed to believe that it might be true. It's wonder that inspires us — the wondering, the delicious not-knowing. A sense of something just out of reach. History brings that back within our grasp.'

He unbuckled his seat belt and moved to the back of the plane. Grant didn't try to stop him. A howling gale blasted into the cabin as the cabin door slid open. Under her blankets, Marina stirred and opened her eyes. Holding on to the struts in the roof, Reed tottered to the shield and untied it, pulling away the lead blankets that had wrapped it. He knelt in front of it for a moment, staring at the images of life teeming in the metal. Then he got up, rolled it to the door and heaved it into the whirling darkness.

The plane flew on into the night. Down on the water, nobody saw the small splash the shield made — or, if they did, they assumed it was just a dolphin broaching the waves. The water was deep; the shield sank quickly. And if a siren's haunting song ever echoed down to the deep place where it came to rest, or a kraken slithered past, or the shadow of a sea nymph flitted overhead, history never knew.