It was 1876 when Heinrich Schliemann unearthed the bodies of several anonymous Mycenean rulers, five of whom bore golden funeral masks with the imprints of what once may have resembled their faces. One of these masks, the most immaculately preserved of all the relics, was of particular interest. The businessman-archeologist Schliemann, eyes glistening and jowls quivering, majestically proclaimed, “I have gazed upon the face of Agamemnon,” though in fact it was the face of a servant who had unwittingly dunked his head into a cauldron of melted jewellery about three hundred years before the Homeric era.
Many of Schliemann’s supporters lauded him despite the numerous errors of judgment he made while searching for the ancient city of Troy. Gustav von Hottner, Germany’s leading obscure poet of the un-Victorian post-modern pre-sub-revolutionary era, phrased his admiration for Schliemann thus: “A lesser linguist may never have abandoned his Latinate tomes for the heavier workman’s shovel, not even with undue provocation from his spouse.”
Schliemann was indeed quite the polyglot. Contemporary archeologists may scoff at his excavational technique which, despite any allowances made for carelessness in the face of realizing a childhood dream, was abominably amateur, but his genius in mastering thirty-seven languages (including the lost tongue of Atlantis, which came to Schliemann in a dream) was unparalleled.
It was this particular talent that may have driven him into an abysmal record with the Turks. Early on in his diggings, Schliemann discovered that the ruins of Troy had voices and a language of their own.
Overwrought with curiosity, the man spent hours with ruby diadems and leafy golden laurels. It seemed to him, however, that the masks alone were the only objects of any linguistic value.
Schliemann, unwilling to be stripped of the privilege of discovering the secret tongues of antique ornaments worn by the greatest warriors in history, stole several important objects from the site. Of course, Mycenae was implicitly intellectual property by the time the German’s spade struck gold, but the Ottoman Empire was irritated nonetheless by such unlawful exportation of artifacts by Herr Schliemann and his team. The Turks chased them back to Deutschland with muskets and stern derision.
Upon his return, Schliemann became an instant celebrity. His immense wealth, well-advertised by the sparkling attire of his Greek wife, only added to the profits he had made as a military contractor. The masks were donated to museums after Schliemann understood that inanimate objects are, in fact, better seen than heard. “Godawful racket they make, really!”
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