Rome

by Matthew Thayer

  “Do you want to lead or should I?” Paul asked over the com line.

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Stick to deep water.”

  “I know.”

  Like many other mighty rivers we have navigated in the Paleolithic, the mouth of the Tiber grows shallower and wider as it meets the sea. Built by a never-ending supply of silt and driftwood, shaped by waves, currents and thunderous floods, the Tiber’s gravel washes are forever changing. We’ve learned it’s easy to become separated, so we run nose to tail and let the lead kayaker pick the line.

  Aiming for the two largest islands, I let the current sweep me through the deep channel between the pine-topped mounds. Spotting riffles to my right, I angled left where the water ran still. It is like following a winding stream within a river.

  As usual, the toughest slog came once we cleared the headlands and reached the nearshore waters where the Tiber and Mediterranean wage constant war. Even when the waves are down like today, it is a struggle to break free of the turbulence. Stroking steadily, racing the sunrise, we angled north against a powerful current intent on carrying us the wrong direction. Finally reaching calm, blue water about two miles offshore, we stopped to rest with our paddles across our laps.

  Schools of anchovy and sardine worked the waters along the edge of the muddy outflow. Flashing silver by the billions in the gathering dawn, the small fish attracted all manner of hungry predators, including otters, seals and puffins rocketing through the water. Diving seabirds rarely surfaced without a sardine clenched in their beaks. All around us, links in the food chain just kept getting larger, with sharks and orca topping the list.

  The orcas that patrol these waters have a distinctive two-tone coloring, averaging about 60 percent white and 40 percent black. Most white is toward the head, while black dominates the tail. What purpose this serves, what advantage it gives these graceful, social mammals, I have not been able to discern. Not that they need any advantages. Orcas are the Mediterranean’s apex predators. Even the largest sharks give the pods a wide berth when they are on the prowl. Thankfully, both species are repelled by the systems in our kayaks. Killer whales and great whites give us a wide berth.

  Paul cupped seawater in his hands several times to splash his head and neck. Sweeping long wavy hair from his handsome face, burnished by the golden light of dawn, he caught me staring and flashed a contented smile. The happiness in his wide brown eyes caused my heart to flutter. My man. My life.

  “It’s going to be a beautiful day.”

  I’ve heard him say the same thing in a sleet storm. Paul loves his sunrises and sunsets. In no hurry, we savored the moment for 21 minutes before turning and paddling side by side to the U-shaped chunk of sandstone and pine forest we’ve been calling home for the past six years.

  Along the windward cliffs, Paul put his ivory hooks and spools of twine to work. In less than 10 minutes of trolling, he landed five good-sized cod. They’ll go well with the crabs I caught while he was fishing. I worked the edge of the seawall with the weighted reed basket Gray Beard made for me last winter. All I had to bait my trap was a chunk of Salvatore’s Yorkshire pie, but it was enough to catch two nice ones, three-pounders at least.

  Rounding the point and entering the aqua blue bay rimmed by white sand, we stroked to the section of beach where our sailing canoe sits on rollers above the high-water mark. With a wave from the shade of the tree line, the legendary storyteller Leonglauix set aside his latest weaving project and ambled down the sand to help pull the kayaks to camp.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Jones: “Tell me again ‘bout the cave.”

  Bolzano: “Legends will one day link the birth of Rome to this very rent in Palatine Hill, the cave known as–”

  Jones: “Lupercal.”

  Bolzano: “Yes, Lupercal. Very good, Captain.”

  Jones: “Get to the wolf part.”

  Bolzano: “This is where the she-wolf will nurse the twin boys, Romulus and Remus.”

  Jones: “One kills the other over a broad. Right?”

  Bolzano: “You learned this at West Point?”

  Jones: “Maybe. Story sounded familiar during my refresher course the other day. Duarte’s worried you’ll fuck things up.”

  Bolzano: “Hmmmmm. Sadly, I share her concerns. The natives are dying to know where we live. Sooner or later they are going to learn the truth. Say, what is this music we are listening to?”

  Jones: “Jilly Holiday, the French girl.”

  Bolzano: “Such sorrow.”

  Jones: “Why they call it the blues.”

  Bolzano: “If you do not mind, I would like to copy this recording over to my music library. Though her vocals are rough, there is no denying her power.”

  Jones: “Back in the day, ya musta saw clips of her dancing around nuclear blast zones.”

  Bolzano: “The bald woman in black and white?”

  Jones: “That’s her.”

  Bolzano: “Billie Holiday?”

  Jones: “No, later. Jilly Holiday.”

  Bolzano: “Jilly, Jilly Holiday. The cobwebs are beginning to clear. She succumbed to cancer, correct? Cancer contracted during the filming of her anti-war pieces.”

  Jones: “Heard she already had the Big-C.”

  Bolzano: “I recall her wandering Paris, past buildings melted to lumps of black glass, climbing on the wreckage of the Eiffel Tower. It was nothing more than a long puddle of rusting iron.”

  Jones: “Jilly’s music was big with my unit. The grunts called nuclear duty ‘going dancing with Jilly Holiday,’ or ‘pulling a Jilly.’ Radioactive suits were ‘Holidays,’ suffering exposure, ‘getting Jillied.’”

  Bolzano: “Were you ever exposed to radiation?”

  Jones: “Fuck no. I’m sittin’ here ain’t I?”

  Bolzano: “Well, excuse me.”

  Jones: “When’s your daddy comin’ back?”

  Bolzano: “I haven’t a clue. This is the fourth time you have asked me that question. Do you miss him?”

  Jones: “Might end up missing Hunter’s guns.”

  Bolzano: “Are we expecting trouble?”

  Jones: “Maybe.”

  From the log of Salvatore Bolzano

  Chief Anthropologist & Master Vintner

  (English translation)

  Capt. Jones uttered something that has made sleep impossible. Sitting in the pale light of a half moon several hours before dawn, sipping red berry wine from my favorite polished goathorn, I cannot halt the ping-pong match raging within my brain.

  Jones had the audacity to accuse me of having a conscience. As much as I would like to take his comment to heart, it butts headfirst against a litany of contradictory opinions, curses and threats cast my direction through the years.

  Is there such a thing as a thief with a conscience? The weasels who prosecuted my two trials would surely argue otherwise. Salvatore Bolzano’s abject lack of morals was a point they took every opportunity to drive home to the judges and juries. Their witnesses, usually people I swindled or stole from, but also associates from work and the clubs I belonged to, were generally quick to corroborate.

  Could nine years in the Stone Age have changed me so much? Was this sliver of goodness, this modicum of humanity always resting dormant? Or is this a new, learned behavior? Or am I drunk?

  No, I have always had a conscience, always known right from wrong. My great knack was the ability to switch it off as easily as others doused a house light.

  Jones made his accusation as the evening sun neared the horizon. Deep into Happy Hour, we had been discussing music and the weather, waltzing around Duarte’s latest attempts to limit our immersion into native society.

  The Captain usually loosens up after his first horn of wine, but he was obviously preoccupied. I believe a new girl has caught his fancy. The violin-shaped vixen with rosy cheeks arrived at the northern gathering spot last week. Her scruffy, 16-member clan speaks enough trade dialect to convey that she is a cousin of the clan leader and
recently single. Evidently her husband disgraced himself on a mammoth hunt this past spring and was expelled from the clan. She chose her people over the coward; even cast the first stone to drive him away. We believe that is the story. Most of their language is indecipherable.

  I happened to be standing on a lichen-encrusted rock along the Tiber’s shore, orating to a crowd of about 45 Cro-Magnons and a handful of hybrids when Jones made his first move. The buxom lass had been fluttering her eyes and flirting with my impressive friend all evening, but I thought his sights were set upon another newcomer, a brunette closer to his own height.

  From my vantage point, without pause in my stirring rendition of Leonglauix’s classic tale of a young leader who feeds his rivals to sharks, I had a clear view as Jones circled to the back of the enthralled crowd. Kneeling by the girl, he whispered into her ear. Such a smile! Taking his hand, she led him to the forest where they disappeared for the rest of the evening.

  I am usually the one who craves company, instigates our forays to the coast for “date nights,” but Jones is now the one who is either down with the clans or pining to be down with the clans. Judging by a few of the things he said tonight, I believe my burly neighbor is considering moving this girl to his residence at No. 2 Palatine Hill. Duarte will have a conniption fit.

  Please excuse me, I must visit the restroom, or as Jones so aptly puts it, “Take a leak in a creek.”

  I’m back. Having reread this missive, I must apologize for its lack of information. Gossip and self-loathing have always been two of my favorite subjects. Nothing I have penned will advance future man’s understanding of this ancient world, yet I have the audacity to proclaim myself Chief Anthropologist! Tomorrow, I will do a report on the five hybrids who listened to my story. In case I forget, they were about 25 percent Neanderthal and appeared to have a reduced social standing within their tribe. Stout, with sloped heads and meaty forearms, they bore responsibility for the largest packs and brought up the rear when the industrious Golden Plover Clan floated driftwood logs across the river and continued south.

  Compared to the Plovers, goodness, compared to everyone in this dog-eat-dog world, I am an indolent sloth. Drink all evening, sleep past noon, the only meaningful work I do is putter with my culinary creations–oils and wines, meats and cheeses, breads and pastas. Even the quality of my cooking has gone downhill of late.

  I must cut back on the vino. But for now, I shall enjoy one more horn of the land’s finest and listen to Vivaldi’s oratorio Juditha triuphans before retiring to the dark, cool depths of Lupercal to find my slumber. I can tell already it is going to be hot today.

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “Holy cow! Look at ‘em all.”

  Duarte: “Amazing.”

  From the log of Maria Duarte

  Chief Botanist

  We returned to the island this morning to find it coated in shimmering blue. The summer’s first kaleidoscope of migrating butterflies has arrived. It’s the same palm-sized species every June, spearheading the flyway north from Africa.

  They covered the trees and bushes, blotted out the sand as Paul and I dragged our kayaks above the high-water mark and carefully tiptoed to camp. Though we tried shooing them out of our way, many were crushed. Forgive me if this seems callous, but I doubt they will be missed. Thousands more arrive every minute. Millions?

  I was going to say they are pretty, but have you ever seen an ugly butterfly? I haven’t. Their royal blue wings are rimmed in gold, each with a white doughnut circle in the corner. When fanned, the two wings resemble the blinking eyes of an owl.

  Paul spotted the blue cloud not long after we left the Tiber. My mind was too focused on weighing the ramifications of Jones’ new girlfriend for me to notice the swarm of swifts and gulls spiraling over our island. It’s still a feeding frenzy and will be until sunset.

  I intended to work on pottery. Paul is itching to get back to his canoe. With so much birdshit and butterflies in the air, we’ve put our outdoor plans on hold and retreated to the back of our dugout cave. The migration will move northward tomorrow. With the curtains pulled tight it’s dark and cool, perfect weather for napping and snuggling, or, if Paul has his way, something more strenuous.

  We won’t starve. Thanks to Salvatore, our larder boasts a new skin of salty, smoky cheese and a pair of salami the size of my arm. I swear, Sal is like an Italian grandmother: You never leave his home without food of some sort. He’s always pressing leftovers or a rolled-up skin of something into your arms. “Mangia! Mangia! Bravo!”

  Not that we would turn down his cured meats, wine or olive oil. We enjoy his specialties as much as he appreciates our gifts of smoked salmon, honeycomb, fresh herbs, octopus and squid.

  We had a good visit on the mainland this weekend. Hunter has yet to return. As can be expected in his absence, the mood was relaxed. Discussions centered on the viability of the sailing canoe, but there was also time to talk over old adventures and share hopes for the future. I get the feeling neither Sal nor Jones will shed a tear if our plan to sail to America is scuttled. Particularly Salvatore, he knows he’s going to miss the people and comforts of Italy.

  Jones never made it up to the Palatine, but we did separate him from his native sweetie for a midday conference on the coast. As it was the first day of the annual spring equinox celebration, it was easy to slip away while the chattering clans built their towers of driftwood for the opening night’s fire competition.

  Finding a quiet glen to ourselves, we had two hours to revel in English and discuss complex issues in complete sentences, before returning to the beach and Stone Age society to build our own fire. On the way back, the boys brought down a fat sow to add to the feast.

  Of the 22 fires, only four were ignited at the proper time, just as the sun disappeared below the horizon. Two southern clans got itchy fingers an hour early and created a domino effect. We did the same thing our first year.

  Having learned the proper decorum, the Green Turtles held firm along with the three local clans. The visitors and know-nothings shot their wads while the great, unbeatable sun was still in the competition. Not until it was down and the full moon was slowly rising over the Apennines, did we put torch to kindling. As always, we did just well enough to distinguish ourselves but not win.

  In the glow of the dwindling blazes, feasting gave way to drums and entertainment. Salvatore and Gray Beard may have ruled the show with their stories, but I liked the dancing and singing communal songs best. Winding between the fires, we sang tales of great hunts and long journeys until we were hoarse.

  The day kicked off with Gray Beard and me seeing patients. Though he and I arrived early to Yellow Dove’s camp, there were a number of folks already lined up, squatting in the dirt and complaining of toothaches and rashes. The storyteller told them to wait outside while we disappeared into Yellow Dove’s cave to follow the proper protocols for greeting friends. I think the old man has taken an interest in the middle-aged widow with mismatched eyes–one sparkling blue and the other milky white.

  Apart from resetting a wounded hunter’s dislocated arm, it was all pretty routine stuff. Three tooth extractions, eight infected stings and splinters, five cases of rash, two gastric distresses and three pregnancies moving along nicely now that the mothers are embracing a better diet. I counsel the pregnant women and, as always, walk a fine line between following Team guidelines and doing the best I can for my patients.

  Guidelines? If Team leaders are reading this, I’m sure their blood pressure just spiked. The rules forbid nearly all interaction with native peoples and certainly do not condone a crew member practicing Stone Age medicine. I invite any one of you to jump back through time and stop me. As I always add, please bring a new microscope and pot of hot coffee if you do.

  I claim wiggle room by telling myself I’m only following Gray Beard’s lead. We use his recipes for medicines, concoctions that have been handed down and tested through many generations. The techniques we employ for settin
g and splinting broken appendages are his, as are the methods for removing teeth.

  I may apply modern common sense when I offer counsel, but for the most part these Cro-Magnon know a lot more about living and surviving in the Paleolithic than I do. Gray Beard is the alpha doctor and I’m his lowly intern.

  The most detrimental aspect of this bending of the regulations, at least as I view it, is how much it undermines my ability to ride herd on other Team members. So what if I am helping people in need? I am far out of line. Jones has me particularly concerned. He has gotten quite close to this girl named Flower. So close, Sal thinks the Captain is going to ask her to move in with him. That breaks the first rule we set down for living in Rome. Our exclusive zone would be no more. What’s to keep Flower from bringing her whole clan inland?

  TRANSMISSION:

  Bolzano: “Any sign?”

  Jones: “Fucker spotted me first. Doubled back and was stalking me.”

  Bolzano: “Stalking you?”

  Jones: “Tryin’ to get above me.”

  Bolzano: “Setting a trap?”

  Jones: “This ain’t your average wolf.”