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No one would notice the ring of longing in my voice. When I had brushed away the sand covering the treasure, something in me had whispered, “Mine.” It had physically hurt me to leave it, and even now, thinking I might never hold that shard of pottery in my hands again, made me ache.
The man narrowed his eyes and cocked his head to the side, studying me. Unable to hold his gaze, I went back to my lecture.
In that short ninety minutes, I only skimmed the surface of my course. The first class was ever only just a taste. The real meat of it would happen in the coming weeks. This was how I made sure the students wanted to come back. For the amount of work I would require of them, I had to make it worth their while.
“We’ll end today with the artifact I know you’re all waiting to see.” I pulled up the image of the shard of pottery again.
Collectively, my audience seemed to lean in. Happening to glance at my late arrival, I noted how his tan features paled, and how his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. He stood from his spot on a stair and took a step closer, as if drawn toward the photograph.
“My doom has come upon me; let me not then die ingloriously and without a struggle, but let me first do some great thing that shall be told to men hereafter.”I spoke the words softly before going on. “If the carbon dating is correct—and it has been repeated so many times before that we know it is—then Hector’s fate wasn’t death. His fate wasn’t to fight a war because his brother fell in love with Helen of Troy. It wasn’t to fight Achilles and die. It was this.” Flipping to the final slide, I stared at the close-up of Hector’s face. “It was this. To lose everything and survive. His fate was that the woman he loved, Andromache, became another man’s wife. And their son, who was little more than a baby, but who as Hector’s heir could have been king of Troy and a rallying cry for any Trojan warrior, couldn’t live. So it was Hector’s fate not to be a prince, or a king, or a warrior, or a husband, but the father of a murdered son.”
Somewhere in the back of the class, someone sniffled. Brightening the lights, I raised my voice even though no one else was speaking. “And that’s where we leave it today. I have hard copies of the syllabus for those of you who might want one. I also ask that you check in with me before you leave. I need names to confirm my class list with the registrar. Thank you.”
For a beat, there was nothing but silence. It was a common enough occurrence after this lecture. It was a mental shift to accept what I—no, my research—proposed. Then, all at once, people seemed to snap out of their stupor. There was a smattering of applause, just barely audible over the voices and sudden crush of bodies vying for my attention.
The first time this had happened, I’d been totally overwhelmed. I’d stuttered and stammered answers. But now, three years out from my discovery, I was better at masking my discomfort.
Some people just came over to give me their name as I requested, but others wanted to debate.
“But what does it mean that the Trojan war was millennia ago?”
“Who’s Hector? I thought Paris was the Prince of Troy who stole Helen?”
Inwardly, I groaned. This class was meant for third and fourth year undergrads, but clearly, I was going to have to revisit some basic Greek mythology.
“Your discovery didn’t prove anything except the story is older than we thought. But that makes sense since there are gods in all religions and the same stories told different ways.”
The arguments weren’t anything I hadn’t heard before. To these people, I said only, “We’ll discuss what this could mean during the course of study. I’m not suggesting anything beyond a set of data points.”
“It would be ridiculous to believe it was a real event, not a cautionary tale or a war story, hyped up by a blind poet.” The quiet voice was heavy with sarcasm.
The tall man glared at me, and I wilted under it. The last time someone had stared at me with such unbridled hatred, I’d been presenting my doctoral dissertation.
“Young man, I don’t believe Dr. Ophidia said anything like that.” Dr. St. John tapped the lectern where I stood. “Well done, Leo. I look forward to next week’s lecture.”
A body pushed between me and the glaring man. “Sarah Bishop.”
Right.I squinted at my list and found, yes, I did have a Sarah Bishop registered.
“Thank you,” I told her.
She moved on, but the man didn’t.
“Your name?” I asked. I sincerely doubted he was one of my students. For one, now that he was closer, I could tell he was older than most undergrads. For another, most of my students preferred to wait until I graded their papers before staring daggers at me.
“Pollux,” he answered.
“Last name or first?” I asked. But I knew for a fact there was no one with that name on my list. I would have noticed—Pollux was a hero out of Greek mythology, one of the twins who made up the constellation Gemini, and Helen of Troy’s brother.
“Just Pollux.”
“Like Beyoncé. Just one name.” My joke fell flat.
“Have you found any other pieces of the vessel?” Bracing his huge hands on either side of the lectern, he leaned closer to me.
Later on that night, I would wonder why I responded at all. His attitude did nothing to endear him, and I certainly didn’t owe him an answer, but I gave one anyway. “Not yet. But I will.”
Leo
