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Authors: Anne Fortier
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attitude that I had a sudden revisitation not only of the vile coffee but also of the well-meant words of warning James had spoken the night before. The supposed Amazon inscription might be a hoax … or worse. That was how he had phrased it, and I found myself once again wondering what my own role was going to be. It was becoming painfully clear that Mr. Ludwig no longer felt the need to ingratiate himself with me, and I suspected the rapid decline of his manners foreshadowed the week ahead. Any normal person would heed the flashing signs and walk out while there was still time … except I couldn’t. Granny’s red notebook hidden in my handbag had long since overthrown my common sense.
“Ready?” Mr. Ludwig took out his boarding pass. “Let’s go.”
Moments later we were walking down the Jetway. I was still not sure why we were flying to Amsterdam, but by this point I knew itwould be futile to ask. It did not lessen my confusion when Mr. Ludwig—instead of stepping on board the plane—stopped to exchange a few words with a man wearing a boilersuit and large orange earmuffs.
The man shot me a suspicious look before opening a door in the side of the Jetway and leading us both down a set of rickety metal steps until we were standing on the tarmac, next to the plane. Even outside, the air was dense with noise and exhaust, and when I opened my mouth to ask what was going on, I found myself choking on the jet fumes, unable to make myself heard.
After a short ride in a utility vehicle, weaving between catering vans and fuel trucks, we pulled up next to another plane. Only then, when I saw my suitcase changing hands and disappearing into the baggage compartment, did it dawn on me that our apparent flight to Amsterdam had been nothing but a carefully planned decoy.
There was no time to question Mr. Ludwig about our change of destination, however, for we were hastily ushered up the back stairs to the plane after only the most perfunctory security check.
“Some bangle,” said Mr. Ludwig, when the wand beeped next to the bronze bracelet on my arm. “Do you use it as a weapon?”
“Not yet, but I might,” I replied, pulling down my sleeve again. He did not need to know that the bracelet had belonged to my grandmother, and that I had excavated it from my underwear drawer only a few hours earlier, as a way of initiating this unexpected adventure. As far as Mr. Ludwig was concerned, I had come along for the money and the possibility of academic glory; I didn’t want him to know exactly how personal the trip was to me. If Mr. Skolsky could fly low, so could I.
As the plane taxied to the runway with us both safely strapped into first class, I said to Mr. Ludwig, “Perhaps now would not be an entirely unreasonable moment for you to tell me where we are going?”
Mr. Ludwig touched his champagne flute to mine. “Djerba. Here’s to a productive trip. Sorry about the hocus-pocus, but there is too much at stake.”
I was itching to take out my phone and look it up, but we were only minutes away from takeoff. As far as I knew, Djerba was a small island in the Mediterranean, off the coast of Tunisia, and known primarily for its resort hotels and pleasant climate. It had never struck me as having much of an archaeological scene, but then, I doubted Djerba was where the actual excavation was. It was most likely in mainland Tunisia.
Which made perfect sense.
Modern-day Tunisia is a relatively small country wedged between Algeria and Libya, but two thousand years ago it was the archrival of the Roman Empire. As a consequence, its ancient capital, Carthage, was eventually destroyed by the Romans, who sold its inhabitants into slavery and annihilated its historical records. Almost no written sources escaped this consummate cultucide; the land of Hannibal might as well have been a myth.
But these were all relatively recent events compared to the time when—according to some—the heroes of Greek mythology walked the earth.
“Ready?” Mr. Ludwig took out his boarding pass. “Let’s go.”
Moments later we were walking down the Jetway. I was still not sure why we were flying to Amsterdam, but by this point I knew itwould be futile to ask. It did not lessen my confusion when Mr. Ludwig—instead of stepping on board the plane—stopped to exchange a few words with a man wearing a boilersuit and large orange earmuffs.
The man shot me a suspicious look before opening a door in the side of the Jetway and leading us both down a set of rickety metal steps until we were standing on the tarmac, next to the plane. Even outside, the air was dense with noise and exhaust, and when I opened my mouth to ask what was going on, I found myself choking on the jet fumes, unable to make myself heard.
After a short ride in a utility vehicle, weaving between catering vans and fuel trucks, we pulled up next to another plane. Only then, when I saw my suitcase changing hands and disappearing into the baggage compartment, did it dawn on me that our apparent flight to Amsterdam had been nothing but a carefully planned decoy.
There was no time to question Mr. Ludwig about our change of destination, however, for we were hastily ushered up the back stairs to the plane after only the most perfunctory security check.
“Some bangle,” said Mr. Ludwig, when the wand beeped next to the bronze bracelet on my arm. “Do you use it as a weapon?”
“Not yet, but I might,” I replied, pulling down my sleeve again. He did not need to know that the bracelet had belonged to my grandmother, and that I had excavated it from my underwear drawer only a few hours earlier, as a way of initiating this unexpected adventure. As far as Mr. Ludwig was concerned, I had come along for the money and the possibility of academic glory; I didn’t want him to know exactly how personal the trip was to me. If Mr. Skolsky could fly low, so could I.
As the plane taxied to the runway with us both safely strapped into first class, I said to Mr. Ludwig, “Perhaps now would not be an entirely unreasonable moment for you to tell me where we are going?”
Mr. Ludwig touched his champagne flute to mine. “Djerba. Here’s to a productive trip. Sorry about the hocus-pocus, but there is too much at stake.”
I was itching to take out my phone and look it up, but we were only minutes away from takeoff. As far as I knew, Djerba was a small island in the Mediterranean, off the coast of Tunisia, and known primarily for its resort hotels and pleasant climate. It had never struck me as having much of an archaeological scene, but then, I doubted Djerba was where the actual excavation was. It was most likely in mainland Tunisia.
Which made perfect sense.
Modern-day Tunisia is a relatively small country wedged between Algeria and Libya, but two thousand years ago it was the archrival of the Roman Empire. As a consequence, its ancient capital, Carthage, was eventually destroyed by the Romans, who sold its inhabitants into slavery and annihilated its historical records. Almost no written sources escaped this consummate cultucide; the land of Hannibal might as well have been a myth.
But these were all relatively recent events compared to the time when—according to some—the heroes of Greek mythology walked the earth.
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