1. An Unexpected Find
CHAPTER 1
AN UNEXPECTED FIND
A ugust 1840, Acropolis at Athens, Greece
Wiping the sweat from his brow with a linen handkerchief, Randolph Forster, heir to the Gisborn earldom, paused on the last marble step leading up to the front of the Propylaea of the Acropolis and turned around.
His gaze took in the city of Athens below, many of the white houses built from the blocks of temples no longer atop the nearly flat acropolis.
“See anything of note?” his brother, Tom, asked from where he was still negotiating the worn marble slabs leading up to the escarpment.
“Anything not under construction?” their cousin, David Slater, Viscount Penton, asked from the bottom step. He was directing a pair of binoculars towards a nearby hilltop. “I think I found the Prison of Socrates,” he added, struggling to focus the lenses of the set of small telescopes held together by a crude frame.
“Rubble and ruins and more ruins,” Randy responded, his voice sounding his disappointment.
Holding an open book stuffed into the crook of this arm, Tom was studying a map. “According to this book, the Stoa of Attalos was there, in the agora,” he said, pointing out toward the remains of a building where a number of columns were still lined up, their white marble made more so in the harsh morning glare of the sun. “Which means the Temple of Olympia Zeus would be around to the left,” he guessed, his finger swinging through the air. When it came to rest, it pointed to the wall of marble blocks directly below the Temple of Athena Nike. “Out there somewhere.”
“That was the group of columns we saw when we arrived in town,” he said. You couldn’t miss them they were so tall. We should be able to see them from the top,” Randy said, grinning at Tom’s antics.
“You would think Pausanias would have provided more detail about what’s up here,” Tom grumbled. “I read what I could last night, and it was damned difficult. He writes like he’s an academic?—”
“He doesn’t even mention the Stoa of Attalos,” Randy groused. “It was supposedly a dominant feature back then.”
“I appreciate the detail with which he describes all the physical objects. The artwork,” David stated. “I have no trouble with the language.”
Tom and Randy exchanged quick glances as Tom rolled his eyes. Their cousin had always excelled at school, his ability to learn foreign languages a huge help when studying the Classics.
“Hey,” David said by way of protest. “I admit his guide is not proving as useful as my brother’s, but I still think it’s worth reading,” he explained. “There’s a good deal of history, and his eye for art is unmatched. I finished Volume One last night and intend to start the next one after dinner tonight.”
David had obtained several volumes of Pausanias’ Hellados Periegesis , or Description of Greece , during their stay in Catania on Sicily, the second century text printed in its original Greek. Meanwhile, they had been following the guidebook his older brother, Donald, had written based on his Grand Tour from seven years prior.
Donald Slater’s book was far more practical, providing information on where to stay, what to see, and how long it might take to explore certain cities and their monuments and temples, while the information in the Pausanias volumes didn’t seem intended for an actual traveler but rather one who wished to learn about Greece whilst sitting in a comfortable chair in their study.
Tom looked up from the guidebook Donald had written and directed his attention down to his right. “The theatre appears to be mostly intact,” he said in awe, referring to the Odeon of Herodotus. From his vantage, he could see the stage as well as the half-circle arcs of marble seats and the backside of the multi-arched facade.
“Pietro said it’s still in use,” David commented, remembering how easy it had been to understand the butler of their rented house in Athens. Although Pietro spoke some English, Randy and Tom had been forced to remember their Greek from university while David, who was fluent in the language, had stood nearby and pretended ignorance.
Randy watched Tom pass him and step around the columns making up the Propylaea—the entry to the Acropolis. “Where are you going?”
“The Erechtheion,” he replied, excitement in his voice. In one hand, he held a loosely bound book, its pages opened to a drawing Donald Slater had done when he had visited the Acropolis seven years prior. “It has the rest of those caryatids like the one that’s in the British Museum.”
“Why is it you’re always after young women?”
Tom gave him a quelling glance. “I think you have me confused with Cousin David,” he replied. “Where are you starting?”
From the moment Randy had begun the climb to the Propylaea, he had been curious about the stout white marble temple directly above and to the right of the worn steps. Now that he was nearly level with it, he wondered at its odd placement. “I’m going in this one,” he replied, frowning at how out of place a tall, dark, square tower next to it appeared. “Such a shame the Franks had to build such an ugly fortress right here,” he added.
“Made sense at the time,” David remarked, his head dropping back on his neck to take in the worn blocks of the crenelated tower. “Made for a perfectly situated watch tower. From the top, you can probably see for miles. Are you going in?”
Randy’s face screwed into a grimace. “Maybe later. I’m going into this temple first.” Although it was only mid-morning, the day was growing warm. The tower’s position cast a cooling shadow over the white marble temple. He glanced over at the book Tom held open, the pages displaying a sort of map of the location of the structures on the Acropolis. “The Temple of Athena Nike.” He chuckled. “Ladies first.”
“Suit yourself,” Tom murmured, “but don’t expect much. The original temple was dismantled by the Turks and had to be reassembled by Hansen and Schaubert a few years ago. The roof was never found.”
Randy frowned. “Hansen and Schaubert?” he repeated. His eyes suddenly rounded. “Ah, the architects. Christian Hansen and Eduard Schaubert,” he remembered. The two had been responsible for some of the reconstruction efforts after the Greeks had won their war for independence.
Tom and David hurried off over a field of rubble toward a temple featuring a series of caryatids perched atop the walls of a porch protruding from the north side.
Randy continued his trek past the columns of the Propylaea and considered how best to navigate the partially buried marble blocks and broken rocks strewn about the ground. If he wasn’t careful, he would end up spraining an ankle, or worse, falling and breaking an arm—or his head—on the unforgiving stone.
Once he made it to the entrance of the small temple dedicated to the goddess Nike, he paused in the entry in an attempt to allow his eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness beyond.
Darkness? This temple was supposed to be missing its roof. He glanced up, realizing a tarp had been strung across two of the cella walls while the Frankish tower behind the temple cast its sharp mid-morning shadow over the rest. There was a small light source, but he couldn’t make out exactly what it was—at first.
“You’re blocking my light.” The feminine voice held complaint in its tone.
Quickly stepping to one side, Randy blinked when his vision returned and his gaze fell on the perfect globes of a derriere garbed in doeskin breeches. For a moment, he was reminded of the shape of an upside-down heart, until he realized said heart sat atop a pair of shapely legs leading down to a pair of black riding boots.
The very last thing he expected to find in the Temple of Athena Nike was a woman, although he supposed he should have expected to discover a statue of the goddess at the very least.
His cock reacted in a most undignified manner. Why it did, he didn’t have a chance to consider. He had seen his younger sister, Grace, dressed in breeches a number of times. She was a tomboy, though, and she was still young. Even before he had left England on his Grand Tour, his mother, Hannah, Countess of Gisborn, had mentioned her hope that by the time he returned, Grace would have outgrown her affinity for doing everything their younger brother, George, did in favor of more feminine pursuits.
“Have you already finished your socializing?” the woman asked. She was still bent at the waist and holding a lantern near the marble wall, her attention clearly on the smooth stone.
By now, Randy realized the derriere belonged to a young woman. Tucked into the tightly-fitted breeches was a white shirt. Her reddish-blonde hair was pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head, and a red scarf was wrapped around her neck. “I haven’t even begun,” he replied, not sure what else to say.
She quickly straightened and glanced back. The lantern suddenly swung in front of her, momentarily blinding Randy. “Did my brother hire you?” she asked, the query making her suspicion evident.
Holding out a hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the light, he said, “He did not, Miss…?”
“Who are you?” she asked, stepping sideways so she was next to a large marble block that nearly reached her waist. From the alarm in her voice, Randy could tell she was either frightened or annoyed.
With her face cast in the golden glow from the lantern, he realized he would prefer she be neither. “Forgive me, my lady. I am Randolph Forster, and?—”
“You’re English.” It wasn’t a question
“Yes. Oxfordshire, actually. I’m on my?—”
“Grand Tour,” she finished for him, the sound of disgust in her voice. “Well, there are plenty of other temples for you to see today. Be off, won’t you?”
Randy bristled at her dismissive comment. “Yes, I noticed,” he replied. “However, I am here.”
Her free hand fisted and rested on her hip, a move he had seen his mother and his Aunt Barbara do on a number of occasions—times when they were annoyed and determined to make their displeasure known. The move emphasized the silhouette of her body, which had him swallowing any other response he might have made. She seemed familiar and yet he couldn’t sort exactly why.
Had she been naked, she could have been Venus about to scold Eros.