Valley of Thracians (7 page)

Chapter
15

The Regional History Museum of Vratsa
consisted of nine exhibition halls highlighting Bulgarian history, archaeology,
geology, and information about the life and final days of Hristo Botev, the
country’s beloved revolutionary hero who had been killed by the Ottomans in the
nearby mountains. Sophia didn’t bother to stop at any of the display cases but
hurried Simon along to a climate-controlled room in the back that was the most
popular in the entire museum. This was the Treasure Room, home to Bulgaria’s
largest collection of ancient Thracian artifacts.

In this hall, glass display cases were
brightly lit to showcase the silver- and gold-gilded vessels within. Each of
the rectangular boxes displayed a number of the items, dated to the first half
of the fourth century BC and arranged attractively on top of colored fabric.
Descriptions were printed in both Bulgarian and English. Close examination of
each piece revealed ornate detail that had survived the centuries.

One gold-gilt pitcher, about thirteen
centimeters in height, displayed the barefooted Thracian Virgin Goddess. Her
hair was braided and her head was shown full-faced, in what Sophia described as
the Thracian manner. A draped
chiton
was flung over her left shoulder
and pulled tightly under her right armpit. In one hand the goddess held a bow
and arrow, while with the other she was hugging the large cat, possibly a
mountain lion or panther, on which she was mounted.

To its side was a second pitcher, two
centimeters shorter than the first and crafted entirely of silver. Depicted in
its center was another goddess, this one with a disproportionately large head.
In each of her hands the goddess held a backward-facing small dog, while winged
centaurs galloped at either side. In the lower part of this pitcher, an
engraved bull was being attacked by two pairs of enraged dogs.

“The details are absolutely exquisite!”
Simon said, looking closely through the glass. He was extremely pleased that
Sophia had insisted on a short tour of the museum following their meeting with
the Peace Corps training director. The artifacts were stunning, as brilliant
today as they had been upon their creation millennia before. “Where were these
treasures discovered?”

In 1985, a farmer by the name of Ivan
Dimitrov was working on his tractor, preparing to dig a new well for his
vegetable garden in the village of Rogozen, some forty-three kilometers north
of Vratsa, Sophia explained. Just a short distance below the surface, he
encountered an obstruction, and upon investigation, Dimitrov saw that he had
unearthed a hoard of silver vessels. More digging revealed a total of forty-two
jugs; twenty-two wide, shallow saucers known as
phialai;
and other objects. He brought the artifacts to the staff
at the Vratsa museum.

Archaeologists converged on the site and
further excavations revealed another pit containing one hundred silver vessels
buried just forty centimeters below the surface. In this second location,
eighty-six
phialai
, twelve jugs, and
two cups were discovered. The archaeologists dated the discoveries to the
fourth century BC, conjecturing that the objects belonged to a local noble
family that buried its treasures due to extreme circumstances, possibly in fear
of a foreign invasion. Some claimed that the treasure was buried to prevent its
falling to the conquering forces of Alexander the Great.

“Because most of the Rogozen vessels
were made of silver, some will say that the gold treasures discovered by three
brothers outside a Panagyurishte ceramics factory in 1949 were a more important
discovery,” Sophia said, the excitement apparent in her voice. “But due to the
incredible quantity of vessels, I believe the Rogozen collection is much more
significant in understanding the ancient Thracian kingdom. On many of the
Rogozen vessels you can see inscriptions with the names of the Thracian rulers
and even of the silversmiths, goldsmiths, and engravers who made them. The
graphic depictions on the Rogozen vessels show a clear connection between
Thracian and Greek mythology and culture.”

Sophia explained to Simon that ancient
treasures were accidentally discovered quite frequently in Bulgaria. Gold and
silver vessels were unearthed near the village of Valchitran in 1924, and
farmers
uncovered treasures while plowing their fields near
the town of Borovo in 1974. Other caches of Thracian relics had been dug up by
chance at Loukovit and Letnitsa.

“We have unearthed so many treasures,
and there are so many more yet to be found. As recently as 2004, Professor
Georgi Kitov discovered a unique five-hundred-gram gold human mask near the
village of Shipka, in central Bulgaria. It was unearthed in a burial tomb in
what we call the Valley of the Thracian Kings. Not as glorious as the Valley of
the Kings in Egypt, perhaps, but still, a valley with more than thirty ancient
burial tombs of significant value. It is amazing that Kitov was able to
discover that mask in pristine condition after it being buried for two
millennia. Who knows what other treasures
lie
just
below the surface, waiting for us to find them,” Sophia said.

“What was in this one?” Simon was
standing by an empty glass case, the largest in the entire Treasures Room hall.
“Is this item on temporary loan to another museum?” he asked.

“Hardly,” Sophia replied with a sigh.
“Unfortunately, that item is no longer in the Rogozen collection, and it was
the most stunning Thracian artifact of all! Do you know what a
rhyton
is?”

Simon started to shake his head, but
then remembered the local custom. He forced his head to nod up and down.
“What’s a
rhyton
?”

“A
rhyton
is an ornate drinking vessel, or container, typically shaped like a drinking
horn with an animal or animal’s head at the bottom. We know they held fluids
intended for drinking, however, they may have been used to pour libations in
ritual ceremonies.

“In this display case, the museum
exhibited the largest, most magnificent
rhyton
ever discovered in Bulgaria. It was absolutely enormous, almost half a meter in
length and weighing nearly two kilograms. It was completely silver and covered
at its ends in pearls. At the lower part was a finely carved oversized lion’s
head. As I said, the
rhyton
is a
drinking vessel, and as such, its opening was the lion’s mouth itself. On the
inside of this
rhyton
there was an
inscription, and the likely translation from the ancient Thracian meant
basically ‘Mother Earth.’ There is no doubt in anyone’s mind that this
rhyton
belonged to a royal family,
possibly to the King of Thrace himself. This vessel was very famous. News of
its discovery at Rogozen was announced with huge publicity all around the world
back in 1985. Of all the items in this collection of treasures, only this one
was given a specific name. They called it the Rogozen Drinking Lion.”

“What happened to it?”

“It’s sad, really. The Rogozen Drinking
Lion was hidden underground for two millennia alongside the other treasures
that you see here. It was able to escape being captured by the Macedonian
kings, including Alexander the Great himself. But it wasn’t able to avoid the
dangers of modern greed.

“The Rogozen Drinking Lion, perhaps
Bulgaria’s finest Thracian treasure, was stolen from this museum a few years
ago,” Sophia said, her eyes never dropping from the empty display case.

Chapter
16

That night he had trouble sleeping.

He was too old for this, he told
himself. When was the last time he had dined alone with such an attractive
woman? In the years since Marcia’s death he had never considered starting up
again with anyone. The thought had never crossed his mind. Sure, there had been
evenings in Chicago when he had gone out to dinner with his female colleagues
from the university, but in those cases he was on his home turf—an arena where
the topics for discussion were literature and the politics of tenure. He felt
on much safer ground dining with a woman in Illinois than he did at a grill
house in northwestern Bulgaria.

There was something about Sophia, but he
couldn’t put his finger on it. She was attractive, single, very educated, and,
like him, she came from the world of academia. She had a maturity in her
attitude about life in Bulgaria, and her career had elevated her stature above
that of most of the women he knew back in Chicago. She was very easygoing,
taking readily to her self-appointed role as his tour guide and source of
information about Bulgarian history and culture. And, she seemed genuinely
interested in helping him find out what had happened to his grandson.

But there could be something more, and
this was what was preventing him from falling asleep. Her interest in him was
touching, but he failed to understand what she saw in him. He was a gray-haired
American in his late sixties, with aching legs and an inability to hold his
alcohol. No, he must be mistaken. Surely her interest in him was solely
academic.

The decision to stay overnight in Vratsa
had been unexpected, made after Sophia’s numerous phone calls had ascertained
that Scott’s former host family in Montana would only be available to meet with
the visiting American the following morning. Traveling all the way back to
Sofia was out of the question, so after their visit to the Vratsa museum, they
checked into rooms at the gray and uninviting Hemus Hotel off the town square.
Simon fell into a deep afternoon nap that lasted much longer than planned.
Later, he happily accepted Sophia’s offer to explore the town.

Their dinner that evening had been
pleasant enough. At the simple grill house, with its stained wood tables and
impatient waiters, they shared a platter of mixed meats, which included many
pork portions. Although Simon wasn’t an observant Jew, eating pork was not
something he did frequently. He understood that Bulgaria was a country where
pork was plentiful and tasty, and he bit into the white meat with a hearty
appetite. As a garnish, he ordered French fries, and he was surprised to receive
his side dish sprinkled with white cheese, the same topping that had blanketed
Sophia’s
shopska salad
. Local beers
accompanied the meal. The ice-cold Shumensko was refreshing, completing the
picture of a typical Bulgarian meal.

“You know, you keep pronouncing the name
incorrectly,” she said, and he didn’t have a clue what she was talking about.

“The name of our
capital city.
Sofia. You have been pronouncing it
exactly as you do my name—Sophia. But actually, they are different. My name is
Sophia, with the accent on the second syllable. And our capital is Sofia, with
the accent on the first syllable.”

“I didn’t notice that!” he said.

“Yes, many of our words carry an accent
on the first syllable. The woman we’ll be meeting tomorrow, her name is
Ralitsa, pronounced with an accent on the ‘Ra.’ I can’t say that this is a
general rule for Bulgarian, as our language has a number of quirks regarding
pronunciation.”

“Is Bulgarian similar to Russian?”

“Russian is a much more complicated
language. I know
,
I studied it for many years! But we
both use the Cyrillic alphabet. Did you know that the Cyrillic alphabet
actually originated in Bulgaria?”

“I thought it came from Russia.”

“No! There were two brothers, Cyril and
Methodius, who were born in Thessaloniki, Greece. They were very instrumental
in introducing Christianity to the Slavic peoples back in the ninth century.
They also standardized our language, and for this, the church recognizes them
as saints. In Bulgaria we commemorate their achievement with a special holiday,
Saints Cyril and Methodius Day, or as it is more modernly known, Slavonic
Literature and Culture Day. Our national library in Sofia is named after them
as well.”

“I can’t imagine celebrating the
creation of an alphabet that is so difficult to read!” he said, laughing,
thinking of how she had guided his choices on the Bulgarian-only menu.

They sat silently for some time,
enjoying their meal. And then Sophia asked a question that surprised him,
sending involuntary shivers up his spine.

 
“You lost your wife recently?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied quickly, although
Marcia’s death from breast cancer had been a number of years before. Was the
loss still so obvious? For a few minutes he spoke of Marcia, how good and
stable their relationship had been, how she had supported his academic career
and served as a sounding board to his essay ideas and book proposals. She had
let him lead a double life, one private at home with her and the family, and
one on his own with his fellow professors and students. She had been a loving
wife, a good mother, and a wonderful grandmother.

Without waiting for an invitation, he
spoke of his academic years, of the many scholarly papers he had written; of
the lectures he had given with no need for notes; and of the constant demand to
be familiar with the latest publications in the field of literary criticism.
His few published books were minor volumes that reviewed the works of
nineteenth-century American authors, including Melville and Twain. He had
longed to write his own fiction but lacked the discipline and stamina to
produce anything more than a few half-hearted short stories. He had taken
pleasure in reading the papers submitted by his students and encouraged them to
seek out original and creative ways to format their ideas. He saw his role as
that of a guide, assisting his charges in their creativity as they developed
critiques of famous works of literature, which he would afterwards review and
grade. It was hard work, he told Sophia, requiring many hours of concentrated
effort. For years he had worked well into the night, reading and grading,
critiquing in such a way that would encourage and not discourage. Weekends and
holidays had been more of the same. There had been literary conferences all
over the United States and in Europe as well. He had enjoyed a fruitful career,
and having a wonderful and supportive wife like Marcia at his side had made it
all possible.

“Do you have any regrets?” she asked.

“No, no regrets. Well, one. I wish my
wife was still with me. I miss Marcia, and it’s hard to carry on without her.”

Sophia put her hand on his. Embarrassed
at the touch, he quickly withdrew his hand and hid it in his lap. What was he
doing? She was offering sincere sympathy, and he need not fear her kind
gestures. A few minutes later, moving it as naturally as possible, his hand was
back on the table.

“Simon, why did you come to Bulgaria to
look for Scott now? After all, he’s been missing for three years,” Sophia said,
abruptly changing the subject.

The sign—indicating
that Scott was still alive.
He couldn’t keep this
piece of information to himself any longer. He needed to confide in someone,
but should he be opening up to a Bulgarian woman he had only recently met? She
was taking a very keen personal interest in helping him and had invited him to
her apartment to meet her colleagues from the university. She had gone entirely
out of her way to drive him to Vratsa for his meeting with the Peace Corps
instructor, and tomorrow she would take him to meet Scott’s host family in
Montana. He felt he could explain everything to Sophia, but would she believe
his story?

 
“Okay, I’ll tell you what I saw,” he said. “Do
you know the program Skype?

“Of course.
Everyone knows Skype! You talked to your grandson on Skype?” she asked
excitedly.

“No,” he admitted. “I only wish. It was
my grandson who taught me how to use the program. I am pretty much a computer
ignoramus, but I can still learn a thing or two. Scott taught me the basics of
email, and he taught me how to use Skype. When he first came to Bulgaria, he
regularly sent me emails describing his experiences, and he called me at least
once a month on Skype to update me.

“The thing is, Scott’s laptop was never
found, which I thought a bit strange at the time. Even now, this fact continues
to irk me. Where is his laptop? Certainly that would be an important clue,
valuable information regarding his disappearance. I talked to the police about
this, but they apparently never even bothered to search for the laptop. Or if
they did, they never found it.”

“Simon, I’m not exactly sure what you’re
saying.”

“Just about ten days ago, before I
decided to come to Bulgaria, I noticed Scott’s laptop online in Skype.”

“You mean, you noticed Scott online on
Skype?”

“Yes, I guess that’s how you’d say it.
His username in the program is WildScott1984. I was online on my computer at
home and just checking my emails, which I do on a daily basis. All of a sudden,
a little green box popped up at the bottom of the screen. It said:
‘WildScott1984 is online.’ At first I didn’t realize what I was looking at. I
opened my list of contacts to see who was online. I have friends all over the
States, others in Europe. In any case, I went to the bottom of the list of
online contacts, and sure enough, WildScott1984 was there, marked with a green
icon.”

“Did you chat with him?”

“Well, I was in a bit of shock. I
couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I stared at his name for a moment, but the
instant I tried to click it, it faded. He had gone offline.”

 
“It definitely sounds like he was online, but
he could have logged into his Skype account from any computer in the world.”

“Oh,” Simon said, a sinking feeling
beginning to engulf him. Seeing the WildScott1984 icon online didn’t prove that
his grandson was in Bulgaria after all.

“Actually, there are a few
possibilities,” Sophia said, thinking over what Simon had said. “Scott could
have gone online with his laptop or from some other computer. Alternatively,
someone may have used his laptop and inadvertently launched the Skype program,
automatically logging in with Scott’s username and password. In any case, this
information is something that no one previously knew. Did you tell anyone about
this?”

“No, I didn’t think that Daniel or the
police would have believed me.”

“Have you seen him online since?”

“No. I keep looking. I check Skype every
time I turn on my computer, glancing through my list of contacts and
hoping—even praying—that I will see WildScott1984 online again. Now I’m a bit
confused. From what you’re saying, it could be that someone else is using
Scott’s laptop. If that’s true, that person would know something about Scott’s
disappearance. Perhaps that person is responsible for what happened to Scott.
My grandson could be in serious trouble! He could have been kidnapped. Who
knows?”

Simon wiped away a tear that threatened
to cascade down his face, something that surprised him each time he thought
deeply about his beloved grandson even after all this time.

“Looking back, I sometimes think that
what I saw may have been a figment of my imagination,” he admitted to Sophia.
“Maybe I wanted Scott to be alive so intensely that one day that I imagined his
name as being lit up in green. If he had responded to me, I would have known
for sure. Now, I can’t prove anything.”

 
“I think it’s good that you’ve come to
Bulgaria to look for Scott,” she said, trying to calm him. “You’re here now,
and together we’ll figure out the events that led to his disappearance.” Again
she put her hand on his, a touch that lasted far longer than he would have
expected.

Tossing in his narrow hotel bed later
that night, with its rock-hard mattress and lumpy pillow, he couldn’t stop
thinking about their dinner and her reassuring touch. This shouldn’t be
affecting him so much, he told himself as he turned over again onto his back. He
was too old for this. He hadn’t come to Bulgaria to form a friendship with a
woman. He had come to the country for a reason, and he needed to fully dedicate
himself to that task. Now, if only he could get some sleep.