Artifact

PART ONE

CHAPTER

One

Deep inside the tomb they barely heard the snarl of an approaching vehicle.

That’ll be Kontos, George said, putting down his calipers.

It doesn’t sound like his car. Claire carefully punched her computer inventory on HOLD.

Who else would come out here? That union moron?

Possibly.

Come on, I’ll bet you it’s Kontos.

Wait a sec.

Claire shut down the inventory program. She was checking the last catalog numbers of potsherds against the printout manifest, a tedious job. The computerized field inventory was a marvel, neatly organizing six months of archeological data. It could be hypertexted and correlated with a single keystroke. Scarcely the size of a water glass, it carried six months’ worth of archeological data.

She brushed off her hands and walked out under the lintel of the huge stone doorway, into the midmorning sun. Every day was slightly cooler now and she thought fondly of the green bowers along the Charles River, the silent glassy water and crisp red brick. She was tired of the colors of Greece, however sharp and exotic. Inland, young cypress trees speared the pale sky. The heat haze of summer was gone and she could make out distant dry canyons that sloped toward the Aegean. Empty stream beds carved bone-white curves down the spine of each canyon, shimmering like discarded snake skins.

High above, a hawk lazed on thermals rising from the sea. Shading her eyes against the glare, she pondered how irrelevant the narrow valley would look from up there—tawny hills crisp from the drying winds, a gray grid of the Greek-American excavation, brown rutted paths worn by the digging crews, all bordering a sweep of steel-blue sea. Or perhaps the hawk glided above such signs with indifference, much as when the stone walls sheltered a living, vibrant race. Man’s strivings would seem like mere background noise from up there, compared to the squeak and rustle of prey.

The hawk banked and began a descending gyre, intent on essentials.

She started down the rocky path. A jeep braked noisily to a stop several hundred meters away, where the dirt road met the work camp. A plume of tan dust enveloped it.

So he’s got a dapper little jeep now, she said.

Very fashion conscious, is the Colonel.

As they descended she heard quick, agitated talking. From his tone she identified Doctor Alexandros Kontos, the Greek co-director of the dig, well before she could recognize him standing beside the jeep. He was speaking rapidly and angrily to the camp man—a weathered brown figure who stood and took the abuse without blinking.

Kontos did not glance up at Claire and George as they wound their way down the hill among the few remaining tents of the camp, and approached the jeep. Claire could not follow all the colloquialisms and rapid-fire slang that tumbled out of Kontos, but it was clear that he blamed the camp man for the absence of the manual laborers. His target merely shrugged, explaining that the men were either involved in the spreading political meetings and demonstrations, or afraid to work for Americans out of fear of disapproval by their friends, or both.

Kontos slapped his hand on the jeep in exasperation. Get them back! he shouted in Greek. Then he saw Claire and his manner abruptly changed.

Ah! The lovely Claire. I hope the absence of these ignorant peasants has not perturbed you.

Not at all. We didn’t have a great deal of work left when—

Excellent. Great things happen in Athens and I will not have time for this site now. It is well you be on your way.

What things? George asked.

Kontos’ face altered as he turned to George, the strong jaw jutting out more. Nothing you would approve, that I am sure.

George grinned wryly. Try me.

The divisive times, they are finished. The center parties, they come over to our side.

What’ll you end up with? A one-party state?

True socialism.

And the other parties?

In time they follow.

Kontos was wearing a smartly tailored Army uniform that showed off his thick biceps and bulging chest very well. His hat, with freshly shined braid, adorned a full head of gleaming black hair. The long, somewhat sallow face was saved from thinness by the interruption of a bushy moustache. His tan almost concealed the fine webbing of lines at the eyes that gave away his age—mid-forties, Claire guessed—better than anything else.

George said blandly, No doubt.

This is why I must break off my stay here with you. He turned to Claire and his face brightened again. It will be a sad thing to be parting. Very sad.

Claire said, But there’s still work to finish!

I will get the laborers back. This lizard—he jerked a thumb at the camp man—will stop lying in the sun. He will go to the village, round them in.

There’s chemical analysis, some soil studies, on-site metallurgy—

"Ohi, ohi. He shook his head violently. That we do in Athens."

Who will? I know—Ministry lab techs. But they haven’t visited the site, they don’t know everything to do. Claire defiantly put her hands on her hips.

You will write instructions.

There are always idiosyncratic features, samples that have to be treated differently. There’s no replacement for being—

Your Greek is excellent, Kontos said smoothly in Greek, smiling. They will understand.

George put in, Come on, Alex, soil analysis is in the schedule, you can look it up.

A secondary consideration now, this schedule.

It was agreed! Claire said. We have nearly a month left.

"Ohi! Kontos narrowed his heavy-lidded eyes-the expression, Claire saw, that had produced the crescent lines that fanned back from his eyes almost to his ears. In English he said sharply, These are not treaties or contracts, these schedules. They can be withdrawn."

Claire began, The soil sampling is—

I never like that sort of thing, me. Seldom it yields anything in digs of this sort.

George began, "Well, so much you know. There’s plenty here you don’t—"

I fail to understand, Alexandros. Claire overrode George’s rising tone, trying to keep the discussion within bounds. It always helped to call him by his full name, for one thing; Greeks were funny that way. Why the speed?

Kontos leaned against the jeep, and noticed the camp man again. He waved a hand of dismissal. We are trying to, you say, pedal softly this kind of thing.

"What sort of thing? Archeology?"

No no. Co-operative endeavors.

George said sourly, Uh huh. So the Ministry is putting the same hustle on the French down in Crete and those Germans up north?

Kontos looked stonily at George. Not precisely.

Claire said, So this policy, this soft-pedaling, it’s especially with Americans.

I did not say that.

George said hotly, It’s what you mean.

"The Ministry has sent a tilegraphima, a cable, to Boston University—"

What! Claire stepped back.

It asks, to terminate quick as possible this dig.

George said sarcastically, Gee, I wonder who asked the Ministry to do that.

Kontos reddened—but not with embarrassment, Claire saw—with anger. Decisions are made collectively!

Uh huh. Who decided you’d come back in a jeep? George asked.

I was issued it. I am an Army officer, I am entitled.

George drawled, Interesting, how they’re making all the Ministry staff Major This and Cap’n That.

Our society, we mobilize. The depression your country and the others, the Japanese, the British, brought on—we respond to that.

Kontos stood rigidly erect, moving his body consciously to confront George—arms slightly forward of the chest, chin up to offset George’s two inch advantage in height. Claire decided to step in and deflect the two men, who were now staring fixedly at each other with growing hostility. She said brightly, George, get back to closing up the tomb, would you? I hate leaving it open like that, nobody around.

George looked at her blankly, still wrapped in his tit-for-tat with Kontos. Close…up?

Yes, right. I want to show the Colonel some of that pottery.

George said nothing. In the strained silence a bird suddenly burst into full-throated song from a nearby oleander bush. Claire lowered one eyebrow in what she hoped was a clear signal to George. He saw it, and swallowed.

I think we’re gettin’ the bum’s rush here, he said bitterly. He stalked off, occasionally glancing back over his shoulder at the two of them.

Kontos murmured urbanely, his composure returned, That one, he has a hot head.

You weren’t the soul of reason yourself.

He sighed heavily. I am subject to pressures. You understand, you speak our language, that must bring some knowledge of the way we think. Come. He gestured and they walked into camp. This cable, it is necessary to—how is it? In diplomacy, they say—to send a signal.

"To whom? You could tell us right here."

To the people who rule you, though you may not know it, Claire.

Boston University doesn’t precisely ‘rule’ me, Alexandros.

"Ohi, ohi. Your government. The men behind it. And those who act for you at the International Monetary Fund. They oppress unfavored nations like ours."

One little joint expedition—

It will be felt. Diplomacy is subtle, my dear.

As subtle as you? Claire thought derisively. But kept her face impassive.

They reached the pottery sorting tent. He held the flap for her with a formal, sweeping gesture. They ducked into its yellowish aura of collecting warmth. Iced tea? Claire offered, opening their tiny refrigerator.

He nodded. I hope you see this was not policy I made.

You had a hand in it.

He shrugged. I assure you, I mean nothing bad to you.

Sure, Claire said sarcastically before she could catch herself. George had pretty well proved that approach didn’t work.

I did not! Not to such a fine, lovely woman? Impossible, for a man, for a Greek.

All those who are not Greeks are barbarians? Claire asked lightly, pouring the tea and sitting at a sorting table. Bits of pottery were arrayed according to size, curvature, glaze and other properties on the tabletop grid. Automatically her eyes strayed over the pieces, searching for connections, fragments that might meet. The past was a jigsaw puzzle and you never had all the pieces.

Kontos smiled broadly, liking this shift in the conversation. Me, I do not think like Aristotle. My foreign colleagues are very close to me. He demonstrated by touching his chest.

Not so close you would go to bat for us with the Ministry?

He smiled, puzzled. Go to bat for…?

Support us.

He spread his hands expressively. One mere man cannot do the impossible. We are civilized.

Then why don’t we start being civilized, by sticking to our agreement.

Kontos sighed theatrically and sipped his tea. You appreciate, mine is only one voice. Still…I might be able to do something.

Good.

Only, you understand, because of our personal relation. You are a charming woman and I have very much enjoyed working with you on this site. Indeed, the abrasions from such as George and the other Americans—they are not like you. They cannot see out of their little boxes, do not see the world as it is becoming.

There is some truth to that, Claire said politely. Her years of experience in the Mediterranean had prepared her for the steady leftward drift in Greece. The American press now had prepared her for Greece’s hardening stance. The economic slide of the late 1990s had been worse along the eastern Mediterranean. Robotization in Europe had sent Greek laborers home, where they became a disgruntled irritant, calling for stronger measures. The centrist parties had little to offer them. Gripped in another chronic financial crisis, the US-backed International Monetary Fund was not likely to bail out any Greek government. There was little support from northern Europe, which had yet to stop its slow, lazy slide that began in the late 1970s. The only northern Mediterranean power which was doing well was Turkey, still on bad terms with its ostensible NATO ally, Greece. With a bemused fatalism Claire had watched the Greeks form coalition governments and juggle parties; she cared little for conventional politics, and Kontos’s news was only confirmation of what she had long expected.

You have been the solitary good spot in this summer. You are a lady, a true scientist, and it has been delightful.

Claire never felt quite at ease fielding bald-faced compliments. Ah, thank you, but—

Our friendship, it is the only element I shall miss if the site is closed this week.

"This week?"

"Ne. Of course. That is what I say to the camp man."

Impossible.

Necessary, however. There are forces in our government who would like to create an incident, with this as a pretext.

To Claire’s look of disbelief he nodded slowly, sadly. It is so.

This is an internationally agreed-upon expedition, we have all the papers, we have every right to—

You are also unpopular with the surrounding villages.

Who says? Why?

You are Americans.

I was in Nauplia just the other day. The shop people were just as friendly as ever.

Oh, they, yes. They depend on your money.

Alexandros! You’re not seriously suggesting that the villagers share the ah, exaggerations of that bunch in Athens? They don’t—

"You do not know the souls of these people, Claire. They are enraged at what years of deprivation have—"

I don’t believe it.

He said quietly, "Your laborers have left, ohi?"

And who instigated that?

Local unrest, the workers…

"If there were the slightest element of truth to this, your duty would be to protect the site."

Kontos brightened. So it is. I post a guard here. You will return to Athens.

But my work is here!

You can supervise the laboratory people in Athens. George can remain here to complete what is necessary.

"I don’t like that arrangement. We’ve got to finish, there is the excavation behind the tomb walls—"

I offer this as a friend. Not as negotiator, Kontos said mildly, folding his hands before him on the table. To get the Ministry to approve even this, I will have to pull ropes with the correct people.

Pull strings?

Whatever the phrase.

Kontos had clout, yes. He had made his international reputation on the expedition which dove for the Elgin marbles. The famous set in the British Museum was actually the second shipment by Lord Elgin; the first had gone down at sea. Kontos and several of his countrymen had mustered money and experts to recover the priceless, striking stoneworks. They were now the highlight of the Athens Museum. Whatever Kontos said was now law in the small world of Greek archeology.

Listen, Alexandros—

No, do not talk this way. He stood and walked around the table, and stopped beside one of Claire’s partially assembled bowls. He glanced only a moment at the shards, though she knew he had done his doctoral work on just such routine work. That was far behind him now. She caught a faint aroma of him, a heavy musk.

Look, I’ve found—

So much business, no no, he said, smiling broadly.

Claire’s eyes narrowed. If he interrupts me one more time I’ll scream, she promised herself.

I do not want our dealings to be so, so formal, Claire. We are special friends, we can work out this. He put his hand on her shoulder. Colleagues, of course. But more than colleagues.

Claire sat still, not sure she understood him.

He continued suavely, carefully, It will cost me influence and time, you know, to do this.

I certainly appreciate anything you can—

I hoped you might come to Athens, where we can grow to know each other better.

I think we already know enough.

He began to knead her shoulder. Claire, these matters, they require time.

"What matters?" She looked up sharply. He was speaking from over her shoulder, making it awkward to confront him. Perfect, she thought. Much easier for her to bow her head and shyly go along with him.

Between us—

Between us there is nothing more than professional courtesy! Claire said sharply. She jerked away from his still-kneading hand and stood up quickly, backing away from him.

I do not think that, he said serenely, and neither do you.

So now you know what I think? ‘Little unsophisticated American, doesn’t know her own mind, needs a sure hand, some quiet instruction in the delicate arts?’ She snorted.

But he still stepped forward, using the imposing bulk of his shoulders beneath the crisp uniform, his hands waving slowly to dispel this sarcastic torrent, a coolly condescending smile playing artfully at the edges of his lips.

She grimaced and said loudly, "Maybe she just needs a little Old World cock?"

This had the desired effect. He halted, mouth twitching in a spasm of offended irritation. That is…insulting.

Damn right!

Your understanding is—

I understand perfectly.

You are quite…American.

Do you know what you just tried to do?

I think so. I am not so sure you know.

She said sternly, You’re willing to give us more time if I’ll come to Athens, set up there—her eyes widened—I’ll bet you have a little hotel room reserved already, don’t you? Something near the Ministry, out of the way? An easy walk during a long lunch hour? Or suitable for a stopover, on the way home to the wife in the evening?

He stiffened.

I’m right, aren’t I?

You are a child.

Maybe, by your definitions, she said quickly, feeling the wind go out of her sails. Had she mistaken the situation? No…but already, despite herself, she was replaying her reaction, seeing it as too harsh, too offensive.

I offered a compromise, a bargain between scholars. I cannot help it if my own feelings become mixed in.

You’ll have to separate them, she said coolly.

He spread his hands in a Mediterranean gesture of acceptance. I cannot divide myself beneath the knife.

Well, it’s no deal, got it?

You do not—

I’m not going to become your little poopsie just to wring a few more weeks out of this dig.

His face flushed. You cold bitch!

Cold, huh? Ever think it might be your technique?

His face congested with rage. She felt suddenly the compressed force of the man, and saw she had gone too far.

He stepped forward, fists clenched.

She cringed back for an instant, then impulsively stepped to the assembly table and picked up a pot. It was nearly complete, carefully glued. She held it up precariously in one hand.

Come closer and I’ll drop it.

You… He swore in Greek.

Kontos was still an archeologist, even though he had spent most of this dig playing politics in Athens. His early professional days, spent laboriously piecing together shards, still meant something to him.

Or so she hoped.

A long moment passed. Then something changed in his eyes.

Take your hand away from the heritage of my country, he said stiffly.

Heritage? She restrained a laugh. The man’s moods were incredible.

You are here with our consent.

True enough.

And I will not tolerate your…insults.

He spat into the dust.

Alexandros—

He jerked the tent flap aside and left without looking back.

CHAPTER

Two

Just before noon they found something odd.

Claire was busy, trying to tie up a thousand straggling ends. She did not notice George Schmitt trotting up the dusty path until he called, Hey! I got the slab out.

She looked up, brown eyes wide with disbelief. "Out? You were supposed to check the mortar, period."

I did. It’s only a couple inches deep. So’s the slab.

She shook her head and stepped outside the tin-roofed sorting shed. You were supposed to see if the center slab was different, right? Not pry it away from the wall.

Yeah, but it was easier than we thought.

With that piece missing, the whole damned dome could collapse.

He grinned, blond hair glinting in the slanted sun of crisp morning. I’ve got the hole braced real well. Crowbars, steel and wood. No big deal, anyway—the slab’s only five centimeters thick.

Claire grimaced. Come on, she said tensely.

I should’ve known better than to let him do it alone, she thought. It would be a miracle if his brace held, considering the lintel support he had put up several months back. The local workmen had to start over from scratch on that one. If only the damned Greeks weren’t off on this strike, she’d never have let George touch such a tricky job.

Kontos was deliberately keeping the men away now, she was sure of it. He had returned to Athens in a foul mood, and was probably pulling the strings in the labor unions of the nearby towns.

But strikes came so often now they had gotten used to working around them. This strike was a protest, saying the archeologists ought to hire more workers, rather than put the present laborers on overtime when it was needed. A curious kind of solidarity; usually people simply asked for more money.

They went along the worn path around the hillside, scuffing up dust. A lone cypress tree held out against the odds, a freak green richness amid the rough scrub. Claire liked the fresh scent of it, and habit made her glance up toward the distant hills where files of trees cut the horizon. Until the fall rains came the countryside would not truly begin to recover from the searing summer just past. A welcome breeze stirred the dust from her steps. It carried a whisper of waves from the other side of the hill, where the cliff dropped to the Aegean.

The area seemed deserted now, with most of their expedition gone home. She missed the supportive sense of community, with its loose-knit organization of surveyor, cataloger, field technician, foreman and other jobs. Now the khaki tents were empty, the collected fruits of the summer’s labors awaiting their journey to Athens.

Their base work camp was only five minutes’ walk from the entrance to the tomb. As they climbed they gained a view of the excavated ancient village which had taken most of the season’s labor. Though the exposed stone walls and collapsed structures had yielded many potsherds and implements, little of it was distinctive. Their understanding of Mycenaean Greece would not be greatly advanced by this hot, conflict-filled summer. Still, the tholos tomb above the village suggested that the region had been significant, perhaps even wealthy, with a ruler worthy of elaborate burial. It might yet reward these last explorations, carried out at the nub end of the expedition. Or so she hoped. She had taken a semester’s sabbatical from Boston University to close up the site and finish her own projects. So far there had been no payoff for her carefully calculated investment of time.

Claire strode in through the excavated passageway, between massive limestone blocks, a few steps ahead of George despite his advantage in height. She moved with efficient, bunched energy, her smart tan jumper going snick snick as her legs scissored. At twenty-eight, she had been on seven major digs in Greece and Turkey, which had brought a sinewy heft to her thighs.

The long unroofed corridor rose to each side, knifing into the hill to meet the great rectangular entrance. They went from sunlight to sharp shadow as they passed under the huge lintel, their footfalls echoing back at them in false welcome from the beehive tomb.

Claire stopped amid a clutter of tools. That frame is pathetic. She picked her way forward. God, what a rat’s nest.

It’ll hold, George said defiantly. He slapped the timbers. The slab swung, creaking in a double-ply rope cradle. She saw he had done the simplest job possible, not bothering with a side brace. The important part was the framing of the hole left in the wall, though. That seemed okay. He had used standard steel struts, wedged in to carry the weight. She bent to inspect the slab.

Three concentric circles had been chiseled in the outer face. This was what had intrigued her about it in the first place. There were scratches near the edges—probably insignificant, she judged. She ducked around to see the other side. Gray mortar clung feebly to the edges, crumbling to the touch. The back face was blank, uninteresting.

Too bad, she said.

Yeah. George brought a hand lamp and crouched beside her. Point is, look inside.

She turned awkwardly in the cramped space against the wall and peered into the large hole. An amber-colored cone gleamed dully, pointed straight out at her. It was mounted somehow on black rock.

She sucked in her breath. What…?

"A beauty, huh? Here we thought the slab might be carved on both faces, but who’d think they’d bury something behind it?"

Mycenaean burials didn’t use the walls for— she started, and then shut her mouth. So much for the conventional wisdom.

Look how symmetrical it is, George said lovingly. "Perfect. Only, a perfect what?"

I never saw anything similar.

Ornamental, that’s for sure.

No hole in it that I can see, so you couldn’t wear it on a necklace.

Check. Too long, anyway—must be ten centimeters at least. Wonder how it’s stuck on?

Looks like it’s imbedded. He leaned forward, reached between the steel struts and touched the rock beyond. Yeah, see? It’s been tapered at the base, to fit into the dark limestone.

A fairly rare material. Funny, concealing it.

You’d think they’d show it off. I’m sure glad I didn’t hit that cone when I jammed the steel in there.

Claire thought, I suppose that’s his way of saying he realizes how lucky he was. All alone, struggling with weights he couldn’t handle, sticking supports in blind. She shook her head.

George caught her. He said roughly, Shine the spot over here.

He squeezed himself into the narrow space between the hanging slab and the hole it had left. The added yellow-tinged light showed that the black rock did not fill the opening. It stopped five centimeters short on one side, and left a slightly larger gap on the other. There was no gap at top or bottom.

Claire said, Looks like these top and bottom blocks are as thin as the first one.

Look at the side ones, though. Half a meter thick, easy.

To carry the weight down around this thin part, Claire said. She rubbed the black surface. It was bumpy, perhaps simply roughed out by a stonemason with the same quick efficiency devoted to paving stones. Large chisel marks, she said to herself.

Yeah, you’d expect anybody making an art object would do finer work. This looks messy.

Get the light pipe, would you? Let’s look behind this thing.

He backed out of the narrow space, dragging the lamp. In the dimness Claire thought she saw a golden glimmering in the cone, reflecting specks. Impurities, perhaps. George muttered behind her, casting shadows that made the flecks ripple, wax and wane.

Probably amber, she thought. Fine work, over 3500 years old. Her years of training had not erased the sense of wonder she felt at such thoughts.

The cone was about as long as her hand, tapering smoothly to a rounded point. As she touched the rock, spreading her hand across it, a slight uneasiness came over her, a prickly feeling, and she withdrew.

Here, George said, handing her the light pipe. She was his superior in the expedition. Though the archeologists usually made no great fuss about pecking order, now that the big names had cleared out Claire had right of first inspection. That had never happened before, and she felt a small quiver of anticipation. Thank God Kontos was back in Athens.

She inserted the thin, flexible plastic tube in the right hand gap around the black limestone. The pipe carried a shaft of light down its core, illuminating a small patch at the tip. The image returned in a thin coaxial layer.

George clicked off the tomb lamps. Claire slipped a helmet on, swung its goggles into place, and saw a faint rough surface. She poked the tube to the side. Raw dirt and pebbles. Original hillside.

George squatted beside her and fed the tube forward. She maneuvered it gingerly, using a guiding rod with articulating joints.

It closes off about ten centimeters to the right. No, wait—there’s a little hole. Looks like water erosion.

Can you get around behind this black limestone?

Trying, Got to—damn!—work this around….

In the gloom the two crouched figures were ghostlike. Radiance escaping the light pipe cast huge shadows reeling up the curved walls to stretch and lose themselves in the inky blackness of the dome.

There. Poked it through. Now…if…I can turn… Her clipped, precise voice echoed from the arched stone, giving it a ringing, almost metallic edge. The rock ends. Can’t see any markings from this perspective. It’s flat on the back.

Anything behind it?

Open space.

How big?

I’m getting no reflection.

Couple feet long, then, at least.

Probably more water hollowing. Here, have a look.

When George had the helmet on he jockeyed the light pipe around and whistled to himself. This is a pretty sizable block. Can’t see that it connects to anything else.

He studied it a moment longer and then pulled off the helmet. Claire returned his grin. Decidedly odd, Watson, she said.

It’s a good find, isn’t it?

No Mycenaean tomb has a false wall like this. Or that amber ornament. A first. A real first.

CHAPTER

Three

The Greek laborers didn’t turn up the next day, though.

This would have been a serious problem if it had happened in the middle of the excavation. With the expedition shutting down now, it became only a nuisance. No one had expected any more important finds, or else Director Hampton would have stayed on, getting one of the postdocs to fly back to Boston University and take over his lectures for a few weeks as the semester began.

Claire had stayed principally to finish her own analysis of pottery found at the site. As the senior remaining American, she had to work with the Greeks to finish inventory, handle the shipping and seal up the tomb to prevent vandalism.

She and George were the only staff left in camp qualified to work the dig. Originally, Kontos was to supervise this last phase, but since late June he had spent most of his time in Athens. His absence now left the Americans alone, except for a woman from the village who did the cooking and the camp man.

Claire grudgingly admitted that George’s original framing in the tomb was probably structurally sound. Still, they reinforced his frame in the hole and studied the slab he had extracted from the tomb wall.

It was unremarkable except for the concentric circle markings—the only design like it on the entire interior of the tomb. There were also chips around the edges and the mortar was partially gone. George proposed that these marks represented half-hearted efforts by looters to extract the slab. During the first thousand years after the burial the mortar should have been tough enough to discourage casual efforts.

Mycenaean tombs were austere, a product of a people who had never known opulence. They echoed the Cretan fashion of a deep circular pit cut into the slope of a hillside. Modern archeologists termed them tholos tombs, from the ancient Greek word for round.

The Mycenaeans made them by lining the pit with stone blocks, building to a high corbelled vault that projected above the hill. They differed from the Cretans by covering the vault with a mound, which in time blended into the hillside, making the tombs harder to find. During the high prosperous period of Mycenaean society, tombs could be discovered by looking for the long passage, dromos, which lanced inward. These may have been left open to the air because the tomb was used again for successive burials.

The circles carved on the single block had provoked Claire to extract the slab in the first place, suspecting that it marked a recessed burial site. It had seemed an unpromising idea, because the Mycenaeans usually left everything out in plain sight. They had none of the cunning of the great Egyptian pyramid builders, who arranged blind approaches, deadfalls, fake chambers and other deceptions to mislead grave robbers. The Mycenaeans apparently expected that no one would ever despoil their tombs. This innocence Claire found rather endearing. These long dead people built with a tough simplicity, shaping and calculating their arched subterranean domes with an exactness that seldom yielded, even after 3500 years, to the decay of water seepage or earthquake.

Usually a beehive tomb failed at the peak of the dome, toppling in, leaving a hole which a passing shepherd would eventually notice. This was why most of the known tombs were picked clean long before modern archeology began.

This tomb was typical, though it had yielded an unusually rich trove. A native of a nearby town, Salandi, had called the Department of Antiquities and Restoration with a report of a hole in a seaside hill ten kilometers outside town. He had heard about it in a cafe.

Grave robbers had gotten there long before. Beehive tombs were used only for royalty, and their descendants knew it; few had survived intact. Here the thieves had broken open urns and boxes, scattering most of the contents. There was no gold left, no crystal vases, nothing readily profitable.

Tourists remembered best such valuables as the famous gold mask of Agamemnon, mistakenly identified by Schliemann when he took it from the Grave Circle at the Mycenaean Palace. It was glorious, beautiful, and told much about the royal life of the times. Archeologists, though, are equally interested in artifacts which show ordinary life, and in these the site was a good find. The dutiful servants of the dead had included tools, sealstones, daggers, bronze shortswords, utensils, stoneware, mirrors, combs, sandals—everything the dead King would need to set up housekeeping in the afterlife.

The King himself was a jumbled sprawl of bleached bones, probably cast aside when the robbers tore apart his decayed shroud for the attached jewels. The bones were divided equally between the laboratory teams at Athens and Boston University, where they awaited further study. There were several sets of bones found, all at the same level. This could mean the Mycenaeans used the tomb for several generations, or that several were buried at once, or even that shepherds died here after the cave-in.

Small items—pottery, minor jewelry, amethyst beads—were found buried under the heaps of infallen rock and dirt. The looters had apparently not bothered to dig to get everything possible. Streaks of black soot on the walls spoke of centuries of use as a shelter from storms, probably by shepherds. Weathering gradually widened the hole in the dome, letting in the slow gathering of dust. The plumes of soot started several feet above the original floor, mute evidence that the fires had been laid on the accumulated debris of centuries.

As usual, Kontos had whisked the prettiest or most striking artifacts off to Athens. He had given the Boston University expedition little time to study the best items, and rebuffed attempts to see them during the cleaning and analysis in the Athens laboratories.

Last year the Marxist Greek government had demanded that digs no longer be run as before, through the American School of Classical Studies. Kontos became co-director, with veto power. Friction with Kontos over that and other issues had made the camp tense from early summer on.

"That’s why I want to get a good look at everything, fast," Claire said to George the next day.

Just because of Kontos? I know he’s hard to take, but we’ve got something special here. Have to be careful, or—

Or we’ll run out of time.

Once Kontos sees this, he’ll for sure let us stay on the whole month.

Claire had not told George about being pawed in the pottery tent. Kontos had left smoldering, which did not bode well. Our permit has been withdrawn, remember?

Just a formality.

Ha! We’ve got a week, period. Kontos will stick by the book, you can bet on that.

You’re exaggerating. Okay, he didn’t get along with us. But he’s a real scientist, for Chrissakes—

And a colonel in their hotshot new Interior Guard.

So? The government’s handing out titles and ranks right and left. Comic relief politicians.

Listen, I’m in charge here. Claire stood up, scowling.