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Pollux opened the door, waiting. Without another word, Orestes left, closing the door behind him.
Leaving everything where it was, I went to bed, pulled the sheets over me, and stared at the ceiling until my eyes burned.
* * *
It took all my motivation to get out of bed, but I did.
The specter of my mental deterioration hovered over me, and a desire to finish my work overwhelmed my exhaustion.
I got to the Bodleian when it opened, ignoring the chill in the air and the other students who glared at me when I fairly shoved them out of my way to get inside.
The librarian who usually helped me wasn’t working, so it took longer than it should have for the seventeenth century book about Roman carvings of Trojan heroes to reach me. I sat at the desk I’d decided was mine and tapped my foot, aware of how the sound of the hard sole echoed throughout the stone room.
When it was finally delivered, along with the catalog of Heinrich Schliemann’s stolen treasures, I put my head in my hands and got to work. And reading, that day, was hard work.
Hours passed. I didn’t eat. I didn’t stretch. I flipped pages. Finally, I paused to stare at the profile of Achilles, carved into a piece of jet.
“Dr. Ophidia?” Someone tapped my shoulder, and I jumped, spinning at the same time. The librarian who’d delivered my books stood behind me. “I’m sorry to bother you. Your three hours withIconlogiais up. It’s been placed on reserve by another professor, which means…”
I knew what it meant. It meant that I only got a limited time with my book, and I wasn’t allowed to bring it out of the Bodleian. Annoyed, but trying not to show it, I started to close it.
Before I could, the young man glanced at the page and the image of Achilles. “You know, the Whitby jet carved with Achilles’ profile is on display at the Ashmolean.” He spoke of the museum not far from the library. “It’s part of theirBritain Through the Agesexhibit.”
I glanced at the books—none of which really had gotten me very far in my research. I was grasping at straws, blindly hoarding anything remotely related to Troy, or the heroes of Troy.
Sighing, I closed all the books and passed them to the man. “Thank you.”
He gave me a tight smile, alerting me that I may not have been quite as polite as I’d tried to be, and left.God.My back ached, and my neck was tight from being bent over the books. My toes were frozen, and my head pounded.
I needed a change of scenery, but the thought of abandoning my work caused my gut to clench. Maybe I would walk to the Ashmolean. It wasn’t too early for it to be open.
A little while later, after a cup of tea and an inhaled scone, I pulled a pair of cotton gloves over my hands and waited for the museum curator to open the case housing the Whitby jet collection.
“This is one of the few pieces we can date to late Roman Britain.” He gently passed the oval piece to me. It was larger than I expected and fit into the palm of my hand. “It’s not jewelry. It’s too large for that. It may have been part of a series of pieces. See?” He pointed to the side of the jet. A small divot, rectangular-shaped, was carved into the side. “Almost like another piece fit into it. Like a puzzle.”
I brought it closer to my face and he cupped his hands beneath mine, like I might drop it.
“It was found in a dig outside the Abbey—are you familiar with Whitby Abbey?”
I shook my head. British history wasn’t my strong suit, though I knew more than the average American.
“Bram Stoker set one of his scenes in Dracula there,” he added.
“Interesting.” I turned the jet over, trying to get a better angle to see the carving.
“Yes.” It might have been my imagination, but the man sounded breathless now. “We found it with weapons dating back to the battle of Penda and King Oswy—”
When I gave him a blank look, he sighed again and explained, “The great battle between the pagan Penda and the Christian king Oswy. We found this along with sixth century weapons, though this is older. I should put it back.”
My reputation got me some perks, like holding museum artifacts, but clearly this man was finished with me. Snatching it out of my hand before I could hand it over, he turned his back on me.
“Whitby was a pagan stronghold, though Romans mined there.” He spoke as he gently placed the jet in its climate-controlled display. Under the lights, the black went from matte to glossy. I crept closer to see if the light revealed anything I had been unable to discern by eye.
“What is your interest in this, if I may ask?” Something about his question made me realize he probably felt the same connection to these pieces that I had to that shard of pottery housed in London. Arms crossed, he studied me. The curator was taller than I was, thinner, but not much older.
“I’m studying any artifacts related to Troy that may have been found in England.” My answer was broad enough not to give anything away, but specific enough he would think I’d answered his question.
“Some of your students have visited.” He sniffed, as if put out by students. “Something about a treasure map.”
