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wondering when you were going to bring music up. Looks like you have a hobby of your own.’
    Dillen looked over. ‘Oh, that.’ He got up, stretched, walked over, and picked the object up. ‘It’s a lyre, a hand-harp, meant to be a replica of a Bronze Age lyre. I made it myself, over the last few months. It’s based on all the literary and artistic evidence I could muster, and a few archaeological discoveries.’ He carefully removed the cover, revealing a tortoiseshell soundbox with two raised arms curving outward and forward from it, with a crossbar at the top and strings leading down from it to another bar on the shell, forming a bridge. ‘The different notes come from the thickness of the strings, which are made of animal gut. All the ancient poets, the bards, used a lyre. I realized I could never hope to understand Homer without trying it.’
    ‘Will you play?’
    Dillen replaced the cover. ‘Maybe when the digging’s over. Rebecca’s been badgering me to put Homer to music. I’m not sure if she knows quite what I mean. Sometimes I think the music is meant just to be in my head.’
    ‘Oh, I think she knows. When we’re together she often refers to things you’ve said. You and she seem to be on much the same wavelength.’ Jeremy cocked an ear. ‘Speaking of Rebecca, I forgot to say. I can hear someone approaching. She wanted me to warn you so you’d know she wasn’t Hiebermeyer and wouldn’t get into a panic about tidying up. I’m sure that’s her coming up the path now.’

3
    T here was a scrambling sound on the path, and Dillen and Jeremy turned to see a tall, slender girl appear, wearing hiking boots, shorts and a T-shirt with the IMU logo, her long dark hair boots, shorts and a T-shirt with the IMU logo, her long dark hair tied back under a baseball cap. She was carrying a suspended silver tray holding little glass cups filled with tea. She stepped into the trench, saying nothing, and solemnly handed one to Dillen, then another to Jeremy.
    ‘ Teshekkur ederin .’ Dillen smiled, holding up the glass and taking a sip, trying not to recoil from the powerful liquid. Rebecca bowed, put down the tray and took off her sunglasses. Dillen looked at her fondly. He had taught her mother as well as Jack, and Rebecca had inherited much from both of them, Jack’s long limbs and angular features, her mother’s dark beauty. A wave of sadness came over him when he thought of Elizabeth, but he put it from him and focused on the continuity he saw in Rebecca, the familiar eyes and vivacious manner. Rebecca had remarkable determination, but they all knew they had to work with her to overcome the pain of her mother’s death, to focus on the future and stave off a past that could engulf her. She squatted down, arms on her knees. ‘So, guys. How’s the bard?’ She spoke with an American accent from her upbringing and schooling before her mother had died, but with English idiom she had picked up from Jack and the IMU crew.
    Jeremy looked at her, then glanced quizzically at Dillen. ‘Bard? Your lyre? I thought you didn’t play.’
    Rebecca shook her head. ‘No. I don’t mean Professor Dillen. I mean the bard. Over there. Maurice gave me a lightning tour when I arrived this morning, and it was there.’ She pointed at the excavated wall of the room behind them, covered by the plastic sheet.
    ‘Ah, yes.’ Dillen got up. ‘I haven’t shown Jeremy yet. We’ve been talking about my arrowheads.’ He reached over and carefully rolled up the plastic sheet, placing it on top of the masonry. Jeremy gasped. The image below was extraordinary, a life-sized fresco on white plaster, reminiscent of Bronze Age paintings from other sites around the Aegean. It showed a person in a white robe sitting on a rock, holding a lyre, as if in readiness for playing. The background and the skin of the player were dark; the rock was off-white, covered with swirling tendrils of green leaves, and above it was a stylized bank of