The Lost Labyrinth

IV

Edouard had woken at dawn, but he hadn't yet risen, lying enervated in bed instead as his room grew light around him. He'd suffered plenty of anxiety as a father, but nothing like this. His wife and children hostages, and no way of assuring himself that they were safe. Plumbing burbled; doors banged. He kept telling himself to get up, but still he lay there. Footsteps finally outside his door and then a perfunctory knock and Boris came in, looked with disdain down at him. 'Sandro Nergadze for you,' he said, holding out his mobile.

'For me?'

'Yes,' said Boris. 'For you.'

'Mr Nergadze,' said Edouard, sitting up anxiously. 'What is it? Has something happened to my children?'

'No.'

'You swear?'

'Of course. Your family are fine. They've just gone out riding with my father, as it happens.'

'What, then?'

A moment's hesitation. 'This fleece,' he said. 'I want you to tell me what it looks like.'

'I'm not with you,' frowned Edouard. 'We'll know what it looks like once we've seen it this morning.'

'That isn't good enough any more. I've promised my father a golden fleece by the end of this weekend, and I'm going to give him one, whatever happens at your end.'

'I don't understand.'

'Then listen. I've just ordered several kilos of gold. I've also arranged for an…artisan to come. Don't worry; we can trust him. He's done a lot of work for my family. He assures me he can make me a convincing fleece, as long as I can give him the right specifications to work from. Would it have been made exclusively of gold, for example, or would it include other materials? If so, which, and in what proportion? How heavy would it have been? What shape? What texture? What techniques did they know back then? Might they have used moulds, for example, or gold thread? How would it have handled? Could someone have worn it? What, in short, would it have looked like?'

'Oh,' said Edouard. 'No one knows. There are representations of it on ancient vases and artwork, but they're all works of imagination, and they look much as you'd expect: that is to say, they look like sheepskins, only coated with gold. And maybe that's what it actually was. Did you know that Georgians used to stretch fleeces out in wooden frames then set them in the river so that all the gold dust washing by would catch in the wool. Then they'd hang them up from branches to dry. They'd have looked exactly like the fleece was supposed to.'

'You think that's what Petitier has found? A sheepskin covered in gold dust?'

'No,' said Edouard. 'It's perfectly possible that that's where the legend originally came from, but it can't be what he's found. Sheepskin is organic. A real fleece would have disintegrated thousands of years ago. Unless it was left in an extremely benign environment, I suppose. Much more benign than anything Greece can offer. Perhaps in Egypt or some other desert land it might have-'

'I don't need a lecture,' said Sandro tightly.

'I'm just saying that a real sheepskin coated with gold would be a heap of dust by now. Valuable dust, yes, but dust nonetheless.'

'So if it has survived, what might it look like?'

Edouard hesitated. It was bad enough being asked to authenticate a fleece; it was another thing altogether to advise on forging one. 'It doesn't matter,' he improvised. 'You'll never get away with it. They can do all kinds of sophisticated tests these days. They can analyse a metal's chemical signature, for example, and pinpoint exactly where and when it was mined.' His heart was in his mouth as he said this, because while it was true that lead, silver and copper were traceable this way, gold wasn't; not yet, at least. But it had to be worth the risk.

'What if we refuse to let them test it?'

'And why would you do that, unless you knew it was a fake?'

The silence at the other end proved his argument had struck home. His relief didn't last long, however. 'I know,' said Sandro. 'We'll use your Turkmenistan cache. That's ancient Colchian gold, isn't it?'

'You can't!' protested Edouard, horrified. 'That cache is priceless.'

'Not as priceless as it's going to be,' observed Sandro dryly. 'And we'll use the gold I just ordered to make replicas of all the Turkmenistan pieces too, so that no one will ever know what we've done.'

'I won't do it. I won't help you.'

'You will do it,' insisted Sandro. 'Or have you forgotten that your wife and your children are my guests?'

The fight went instantly out of Edouard. He felt himself sag. 'I'll need some time to think about it,' he said weakly. 'And I'll want to speak to my wife too.'

'Are you bargaining with me?'

'I'm a father,' said Edouard wretchedly. 'I can't think about anything else until I know my wife and children are safe.'

'I already gave you my word that they're safe.'

'You abducted them from my home,' snapped Edouard. 'How can I possibly take your word for anything?' He knew he'd gone too far, but it was true, it was driving him crazy. 'Please,' he begged. 'I can't think straight. How can I help you if I can't think straight?'

Silence stretched taut on the other end of the line, like the wire of a garrotte. 'Very well,' said Sandro finally. 'You can speak to your wife when I call back. In the meantime, please work out how best to forge me a golden fleece.'