Theodora's Necklace, Pt. I
In which Hugo gets into two very different fights.
This is my second short story from the HugoVerse.
This is the first part of Theodora’s Necklace. It contains the teaser segment, so if you’ve read it, you might skip the first segment and go directly to Venice.
The warm breeze from the Bosphorus made this a pleasant evening. Hugo was finishing his coffee in a nice local café and decided to go for a short walk. He needed some fresh air after spending the entire day in the Topkapi Palace library reading some forgotten, dusty manuscripts. A lot of them were in dire condition and this required a lot of magic to recreate their content at least partially. And while Hugo loved working with old manuscripts, he definitely had some limits.
He closed the book about Empress Theodora’s life, took the last sip of coffee, and closed his eyes.
Since morning, he had an uneasy feeling of being watched – again. He couldn’t really understand why. It began in Venice (but then Vienna also felt strange). Well, everything really began in Cracow, when Hugo decided to take a look at the newly discovered manuscripts, miraculous war survivors – basically casual notes and letters of nuns in one of Cracow’s monasteries. But there was one thing, written in the marginalia, that intrigued him. And now here he was, following a hunch that might prove silly. But the prospect of discovering a rare artefact, more of a legend than fact, was thrilling.
Let’s check it.
He went out onto the bustling boulevard and decided to take the direction of the Golden Horn.
And that gnawing feeling again. Of course he was watched. It was a very subtle movement of energy around him when he went out of the café, but it was still noticeable. He didn’t pay attention to it in the morning because he was so preoccupied and excited – first day in Istanbul, in new library, on the trail of something exciting. Now he knew what he was looking for.
Of course, a minor wizard would still have trouble detecting such a subtle signal. But Hugo knew it.
Oh dear. This probably won’t be a quiet walk. But then, after sitting for the entire day – let’s have fun.
He directed his steps toward the narrow back alleys.
He had a few minutes while still in the crowd to prepare himself. He sharpened his senses, built up offensive energy, mastered his focus, did a quick meditation while walking to calm down potential cortisol response that would cloud his judgment.
Then he took a turn.
After a while, he was sure he was right. A surge of negative, violent energy flew towards him from behind.
But then, it strangely weakened.
What the fuck?
For a few seconds, he was taken aback. Bad decision.
A quick micro-realignment. He was ready.
The attack came from above. One thug from the left, another from the right.
Hugo made two quick steps backwards, creating a protective shield – in the last moment, before the attackers’ offensive spells could reach him. But dammit, the guys were quick. Probably well-trained assassins. This won’t be easy.
And then, he made another mistake. He moved a few inches too much to the left, getting too close to the wall. The attackers began to weave a constraining spell around him, gradually leaving little room for manoeuver. Hugo faced two choices – either he stays in protective bubble and ultimately gets immobilized – which will eventually break the shield anyway – or drop the shield and try a counteroffensive. The choice was obvious.
He began to enlarge the shield, thus leaving some space between himself and the weaving binding spell. This required a lot of energy, but it allowed him to gain a few nanoseconds.
The nanoseconds he needed to counter-attack after breaking the protective ward.
The assassins were surprised. They obviously didn’t expect him to be so quick. They were blasted backwards. A few more seconds allowed Hugo to gain a more favourable ground while taking a deep breath to replenish some of lost energy.
A few more blasts to stun the enemy. Then Hugo began to weave a binding spell. He didn’t want to fight really, but he needed information.
They tried to counterattack, but he was quicker, and their spell-casting became frantic. One of the haphazard spell blasts almost hit him, but he ducked in the last moment.
This cost him the right-hand binding spell. While he successfully constrained the assassin to his left, the thug on the right blasted immobilizing spell, effectively numbing his right arm.
Dammit. But he was quick, and almost finished the left-hand binding spell, making the thug to faint. He moved his left hand to the right and began weaving the same spell around the second assassin.
This freaked out the thug, who thought his comrade dead. He blasted the breaking spell and began to ran.
Good. He’ll tell whoever the fuck he works for you don’t mess with Hugo that easily. They picked the wrong guy.
Hugo paralyzed the other thug from his neck down and woke him with a bit of a shock spell.
Time to get some information.
‘What the fuck do you want?’
The other guy was in horror.
*
Three weeks earlier. Venice.
The smell of many centuries was hanging in the air. The sense of ancient magic was lingering there, like the incense that you feel has penetrated the stones in Medieval churches, along with prayers and devotion of believers.
After three days of bureaucratic hassle and having had to pull a few strings at the Vatican, Hugo finally obtained a permit to explore the archives at the San Zaccaria monastery.
The nuns suddenly became very obliging and friendly. One of them just brought him hot tea and a few biscuits – only to take a prolonged and very focused glimpse at his notes. She seemed more like a ninja warrior, able to take a scan of all the important information about the environment in one second. And this was only the first of the entire string of curious impressions about this place. Really, it felt more like a female version of Alamut then a quiet, humble monastery.
He took a sip and then wondered whether he should be really drinking the tea. Let’s check.
No spells.
I am becoming paranoid.
He went back to the manuscript at hand – he couldn’t focus, though. He had a persisting sense of constantly being watched. An intuitive, magical sensation, nothing very precise.
So he decided to leave the research for a moment and focus on that magic. But here was a problem. In his commercial work, he was a specialist in protective spells, and he knew almost all intrusive kinds of spells (spying, scrying, looking into, whatever it was). And now, he knew something was going on, but he was unable identify these spells. And without that, there was no way to neutralize them. Damn!
What’s going on here?
Oh no, he won’t let them be on top of this game. He tried to cloak himself with a confusion glamour – envisioned a mist shrouding his body, extending from about a meter from him and the manuscripts he was working with onwards, filling in the entire room, maintaining clarity within the bubble. Hopefully, this works.
To that, he added a protective anti-magic layer to his bubble.
Oh God, I really hate it when people watch over my arm.
He went back to the manuscript. A curious piece of marginalia, similar to those in Cracow, but obviously better preserved, containing comments on a religious material that were strangely out of place. Usually, such marginalia involved either spiritual, theological reflections, including some sort of introspection, some cryptic emotional language, or practical annotations. These ones, like the ones in Cracow, were from the same nun and looked more like a coded message – or rather, like a puzzle. They referenced a “divine radiance”, which could pass as theological reflections, but along with them where very down-to-earth stories of travels, of movement, passages. A drawing of a compass. Drawings of birds and their passage that uncannily looked like a map. And they went on and on for a few pages.
He took out his notebook to compare the drawings from Poland.
And then he felt the images on the page of his notebook were being scanned.
Fuck!
He turned to a blank page in the middle of the notebook and began copying the marginalia from the book.
After that he packed his stuff, and left the library. He will come back tomorrow, but before that, he will hold a few consultations.
*
Istanbul. Present day.
‘He said they wanted to warn me. I’m supposed to stop looking into what I’m looking to. The funny thing is – I’m not even sure what I’m looking into.’
Hugo sat with his close friend and ally Mehmet Kaplan in the terrace of his villa looking over the Bosphorus. Hot tea and some nice Turkish sweets were a pleasant respite from the evening’s events.
‘Do you believe it?’
‘No. I think he lied to wriggle himself out of it. And I think he said something really stupid.’
Hugo reached for another portion of baklava.
‘Picture this,’ he added. ‘You’re interested in somebody’s research. You suspect he might know something you don’t. What do you do?’
‘I either want to learn what is it he knows that I don’t or I would watch all his moves and let him lead me to what he’s looking for.’
‘Exactly.’
‘The more interesting question is – how did they know you were looking into what you don’t know that you’re looking into? The nuns from the San Zaccaria monastery?’ asked Mehmet.
‘Now that was a curious case… They used some very old spells. Very old and not commonly known. Even to me. Actually that’s fascinating.’
‘That’s a very old monastery. Rumours have it that it has existed since the 6th century.’
‘I think in Cracow, I’ve found a confirmation it has indeed. Everything seems to point at empress Theodora.’ Hugo pointed at the book. ‘Venice was part of the Byzantine Empire at this time, so this makes sense.’
‘And a lot of Byzantine spells have been lost to posterity. Or, as it appears, not entirely.’
‘One thing is curious here, though. They must have known that using those spells itself is very telling, and would make me curious. So all of it must be about something worth that risk.’
‘You know, there are rumours…’ Mehmet paused for a while. ‘Nothing specific, more like… patterns. Information travelling the way it shouldn’t. Connections that don’t quite make sense. In my world, there’s this urban myth of a secret female espionage network.’
‘Yeah, I’ve heard that, too. Now I’m getting curious! But still, I doubt they would resort to violence. Somehow, I feel that doesn’t fit their way of doing things. I can really come up with a few more subtle ways of laying a hand on someone’s notes.’
‘I’d say that if anybody wanted you to stop, they achieved exactly the opposite,’ Mehmet smiled.
‘Oh, absolutely.’
‘Maybe the nuns were testing you. You know, to see if you are worthy of being let in on a secret.’
‘I’m sure they must have heard about me. I’m not entirely unknown in the academia.’
‘You can’t be accused of excessive modesty, you know,’ said Mehmet.
‘Surely I can’t,’ Hugo replied, with an undertone of self-mockery. ‘Modesty is overhyped.’
‘It pays well in intelligence work.’
‘That’s why you’re doing this line of work, and I’m not. Thank God!”
Then, his phone buzzed. An unknown Italian number. He answered, and heard that sexy, low, husky voice he had heard earlier.
‘Dear Mr…. Oh damn it, I’ll never learn how to pronounce that name!’
‘Elena?’
*
Vienna. Two weeks earlier.
Another mildly amusing conference. Vienna is nice, very pleasant, but not exciting enough for Hugo’s tastes. Why did they decide to hold a conference about Byzantine magical traditions here? Why not some sexy Italian city, like Rome? Or at least, Milan? He missed Venice already, in spite of the irritating nuns.
In this dull, sleepy, middle class atmosphere, Hugo was hoping to make things at least a bit more exciting – his presentation on heritage ownership might ruffle a few feathers, especially all those woke propagandists speaking against Western custodianship of certain dangerous artefacts. He expected to hear the world “colonialism” a lot. Oh, and he might hear a certain overused P word as well. Sounds like a fun battle.
But this was tomorrow. Today, a small coffee and some nice pastry after the plane trip would be nice. He sat in a pleasant, old-fashioned place downtown and quickly decided – again – that all this Austro-Hungarian vibe was not his tune.
And then a woman went in, and took a table in the opposite corner. He smelled a subtle hint of strong, distinctive fragrance – incense, pine, white wood. Not looking Austro-Hungarian at all. Dark skin, black hair, very intelligent eyes. Understated. Classically dressed. She ordered a single espresso (what a restraint!) and took out a book – he couldn’t really see the title, but it certainly did not look like a popular paperback.
For a moment, Hugo lost his poise. And that doesn’t happen often.
He tried not to stare at her too much. So he took out his own book and did a bit of performative reading. He suddenly felt that he was being intensely looked at. As if someone was evaluating him.
He looked towards her and caught her in this tiny final move when you go back to what you were doing right after watching someone.
Who is this? Her face is somewhat familiar.
He closed his eyes for a moment to regain his cool and try to remember where he saw this face.
And when he opened them a minute later, she was no longer there.
*
Vienna. The next day.
The presentation began quietly – with a few undeniable examples of artefacts saved from being used as weapons in various theatres of war due to the fact that they were somewhere else.
Hugo began with a question.
‘If in 1938 the Germans decided to destroy Beethoven’s music – literally obliterate it from the surface of the Earth, claiming it’s not purely German enough – I think we would all agree nobody in their right mind would say it’s their composer, they have the right to do it. We believe Beethoven belongs to all mankind. He’s my favourite composer, for example, and I think I have the right to listen to him. I don’t want anybody to decide whether I can listen to him or not. He is not owned by Germany.’
‘Of course, with material artefacts, it’s trickier. But can we so easily assume that if they belong to a certain tradition, the nation that inherited that tradition has the right to own it? Does its attitude towards that artefact weigh more than the attitude towards the rest of mankind? I don’t want to say it’s either yes or no – all I want to say is that we always claim, simplistically, that, in any case, an artefact always belongs to a civilisation or tradition that created it – and to claim that whatever the case, they must be returned, and that trying to preserve it is always a theft.’
‘And if they are more than just a pretty thing? What if they can serve an evil purpose? If they have magical properties that can be used as a weapon? In my opinion, they cease to be innocent. They go beyond the simple question of belonging – and begin to enter the territory of morality. If we can prevent evil being committed – isn’t it an issue of a higher order than a simple question of who owns what?’
‘Excuse me, sir, but I must disagree,’ said someone in a low, confident female voice.
The was a murmur among the crowd, heads turning, and a moment of silence. Who dares to interrupt a presentation?
Then Hugo recognized her. The woman from the café. This is going to be interesting.
‘And you are…?’
‘Elena Karahalios.’
Of course he knew that name. A famous Byzantine scholar and art collector. He saw her photos, but… Well, the photos in academic journals rarely give justice to a woman’s beauty.
‘In my opinion the thinking you are presenting here, in spite of your attractive and very eloquent examples, yet very extreme and disconnected from real-life situations, can easily lead to adopting a very grey-area reasoning and may well justify all kinds of misdeeds. The Beethoven case is a lazy example – it’s easy to choose a universally venerated Western composer. How very Eurocentric. But what about indigenous artefacts taken from their communities, reduced in our museums to curiosities? How would you feel if your nation’s precious composer, Chopin, was taken from you, and allowed to be listened to exclusively in, say, Tokyo, on the argument that they appreciate him there more (which they probably do, by the way), and would care about his heritage better?’
‘Ms. Karahalios, you are of course right. And wrong. All I’m saying is that it’s ridiculous to take a black-and-white approach. Yes, there are indigenous artefacts – which are the favourite example of some kind of woke, decolonial propaganda – which would be better off returned to their places of origin. Yes, some groups have been stripped off of their rightful heritage. But we must make no mistake. Some groups are entirely unfit to take care of their heritage. And, while respectful, we mustn’t turn a blind eye to the truth. And the truth is, in some cases, and this will offend a lot of people, Western civilization and its institutions are better equipped to take care of certain works of art.’
There was a murmur in the room. Here it begins.
But Elena seemed undaunted, self-assured, focused. She pierced Hugo through with his eyes. As if she was trying to see him through.
‘And who is supposed to decide what constitutes that “fitness”?’ asked Elena. ‘Will Western civilization be the only arbiter and judge of its own predisposition to be the world’s curator? How very convenient.’
‘Yes, I believe Western civilization has instruments of thought and reasoning that allows it to claim that it is fit to take care of certain works of art. And yes, it often does this job better. Shall I give you examples? There are plenty of them, and, being and intelligent woman and a brilliant scholar, I’m sure you must know them yourself.’
For a very brief moment, this stopped her in her track. Hugo was watching her very closely. It was as if the rest of the room ceased to exist. And he could sense a vacillation in her aura. Barely perceptible, but it was there.
‘What I mean to say, at all cost we must avoid black-and-white thinking,’ Hugo continued. ‘Everything must be considered on a case-by-case basis, and we must avoid falling into the trap of ideologies. And propagandas. Do I believe the superiority of Western civilization? In certain aspects, yes, of course. If I didn’t, why am I living here, enjoying all its benefits? This is what I choose because I believe it’s better than any alternative. Do I believe Western civilization is guilt-free and colonialism was OK? No, it was not OK. Do I believe colonialism has become an empty word used by half-educated activists? Like hell I do. Is de-colonialism a dangerous ideology that doesn’t take reality into account and is blind in its judgment? Damn yes. And yet, should we return some of the works of art? Perhaps, yes.’
‘But there are others, still unexplored, than can hold enormous magical power. They can be not just works of art, cultural artefacts. They can be weapons. And when a thing can become a weapon, it’s no longer a subject of academic discussion about sins of colonialism and heritage ownership. It becomes a subject of national – and transnational – security. This is why I believe the academia must be open to closer collaboration with security agencies around Europe. We cannot stay in our narrow lines of thinking, clinging to our abstract concepts and lofty reasoning. We must see reality – and sometimes come to terms with the world as it is – not as we wish it to be. Thank you.’
And then, ignoring the crowd, the questions and the protestations, he left the room.
*
He lit a cigarette outside. He always did it when he needed to gather his thoughts. Smoking was bad, surely, but occasionally, it helped him think.
Hugo knew he had lost his temper. Got into a bit of a combative mood. Why?
He sincerely hated certain ideologies. And half-wit ideologists, ready to destroy works of art, and their empty, meaningless acts of vandalism. Their empty words, protests that were completely missing the point.
That for sure. But was it really about it?
No. Was it about Elena? Could this fascinating, apparently highly intelligent woman believe these dimwit remarks she was saying?
Why did he actually care?
‘Well, it seems you have offended a few persons there and made a few enemies.’
Incense, pine, white wood.
‘Ms. Karahalios. I hope I didn’t…’
‘This might have cost you something, and yet you spoke your mind.’
‘I… I think I’m chronically incapable of not speaking my mind.’
They both smiled.
‘I’m sure we’ll meet again. Please call me Elena.’
And she left.
And the cigarette no longer helped him think.
*
Istanbul. Present day.
‘Elena?’
‘About what you said in Vienna… About certain artefacts becoming weapons. You are closer to one more than you think. Please come to Athens. Then I’ll tell you more.’
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