Bolzano: “I find it difficult to believe it will be any worse than Rome. Mamma mia, I can barely breathe.”
Hunter: “Son, you have no idea what hot is.”
From the log of Hunter
(aka–Giovanni Bolzano, Dr. Mitchell Simmons)
Ethics Specialist
I’ve returned to Rome smack dab in the middle of a drought. Many streams and lakes are completely dry. Forests have lost their color as trees mummify under the relentless sun. Not even nightfall brings relief from the oppressive heat. Dr. Maria Duarte says more than nine months have gone by since the last rain, and nearly 22 months since precipitation totals began dropping.
Of course, none of it compares to those dreadful decades Earth and its many billions of inhabitants will be forced to endure in the late 2100s. Though withered, this Rome still has trees and berry patches, more game than we could ever hunt.
Our estate in Umbria once went 12 years between rainfalls–I believe it was 2182 to 2194. The atmosphere was just so thin at the time. Nearby Rome suffered the same fate. I remember walking the streets and wondering where all the trees had gone. Apart from the mansions, Palatine Hill was bald, as was Circus Maximus and Villa Borghese. City elders decided the dead trees were too sad, too stark a reminder of the city’s pain, and ordered the bare skeletons cut down.
As I told my current associates, “things could be worse.” My mother used to say that. I wonder if I caused her as much consternation as my two sons do me? My return has coincided with another low point in Salvatore’s life. I didn’t have to bail him from jail or pay off a judge this time, but was forced to do a lot of hand-holding as he groaned through a gut-wrenching detoxification. For such a bright and entertaining lad, he certainly makes poxy choices in life.
His friends claim they were unaware of how much alcohol he had been consuming. Are they daft? He must have been drunk around the clock. The DT’s nearly killed him. Though we all could do with some wine, cheese and cured meats, it is probably a blessing that a bear destroyed the contents of his cave’s production center and food locker. Better to have the tremors now than in the middle of the Atlantic.
A jittery, sloppy mess for the first few days, Salvatore has now begun to rally. He always does. That is one of the things I have forever, albeit grudgingly, admired about this son. He brushes off disaster as readily as a duck sheds water. Already he has returned to curing meats and fermenting cheese. Today, Jones and I provided him with the bulging milk sacs of two nursing goats we harvested down by the Trevi. The milk inside was still warm. He went right to work–five words not often associated with Salvatore. He says he has sworn off alcohol, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he has a still percolating somewhere.
My other boy, the well-seasoned elder who looks old enough to be my grandfather, has been slow to welcome me home. Leathery brown skin, ebony hard muscles, Leonglauix the Green Turtle storyteller has tried to kill me several times through the years. To be fair, I’ve wronged him and nearly caused his death as well.
The only fatherly thing I’ve ever done for Leonglauix was impregnate his mother, Spotted Horse. The other night he told a story about a desert crossing that I’d heard before. The first time, his mother told the ancient Green Turtle tale during a seasonal gathering of the clans along the Rhine. Leonglauix was just an attentive little tadpole sitting at Spotted Horse’s knee when she chanted the verses.
Leonglauix currently sits alone in the light of the fire with a three-kilo column of flint wedged between his bare feet. He’s been studying the rock for hours and may not make a strike for a day or more. I’ve watched him knap tools. Once he starts, the strikes come fast and with confidence. Leonglauix flakes the sharpest points and edges in the land. He is an artist.
His long silver hair is pulled back into a single ponytail. Bushy silver eyebrows, clumps of silver hair sprouting from his ears, at first glance, seeing the way he slumps over the rock tracing its grain with gnarled fingers, one might mistake him to be a decrepit elder. I wager if a pack of wolves were to rush into camp, he would be first on his feet, grabbing spears and rallying his troops to meet the threat.
I did some counting on my fingers and reckon his age to be around 70. Ever curious, never afraid to take on a challenge, Leonglauix has managed to outlive just about every peer of his generation, as well as the generations that followed. He’s buried wives, children and grandchildren, endures as his great clan dwindles to the verge of extinction. His Green Turtles have morphed into a tiny band made up almost entirely of shipwrecked time travelers.
Rather than bemoaning his plight, I believe he is pleased to have connected with such intelligent, capable mates. Wise, with a wry sense of humor and low tolerance for stupidity, he appreciates that they challenge his mind and understand his jokes. He’s always been sneaky as a fox, never had qualms against playing dumb if it served his purpose or gave him an advantage. A slight limp may slow him on the trail and he may not be able to carry as much as he used to, but the storyteller pulls more than his weight. He’s a trove of native folklore and crafts, an invaluable resource when it comes to discerning things like which mushrooms are nourishing and which ones will send you to a wretched death.
Even though he gives me the evil eye, Leonglauix had my vote when it passed unanimously to invite him to North America. He deserves to come. And we’d be off our bloody rockers not to bring him.
Moving on, I will add that “Gray Beard,” as they affectionately call him, is not the only member of the clan showing his age. It’s strange how a lengthy absence allows you to mark differences that otherwise go unnoticed. When it happens slowly, day after day, change is easy to overlook.
For example, it was startling that Dr. Maria Duarte’s mane of wavy, raven-black hair now measures nearly half salt to pepper. Not that the gray detracts from her beauty. Maria reminds me of Salvatore’s mother, a pretty girl who blooms in womanhood. My former wife reached her physical peak in middle age and Duarte will be the same. Straight-backed, made lean by the demanding lifestyle she leads, but still curvy enough to make men look twice, Duarte is more attractive than ever.
I’m happy to note that her single-minded intensity has mellowed. No longer does Dr. Duarte treat every important decision as if it is a matter of life and death. She has learned to pick her battles, has toned down her role as the group’s full-time conscience. She smiles more often, argues and scolds much less.
Still, it pays to choose your words wisely around the doctor. She has an uncanny knack of detecting the story behind the story, spotting half-truths. Maria doesn’t correct people like she used to, but still jumps on mistakes the way a terrier goes after a rat. Rather than challenging you outright, she’s learned to ask questions, direct your thinking in the direction she wants it to go.
I used to consider her quite predictable. Stick to the straight and narrow, follow the rules, do what’s right–those have been Maria’s guiding lights as long as I’ve known her. Her moral compass, however, has tempered through the years. Life in the Paleolithic has taught the earnest doctor that few decisions are easily cut and dried.
It took me by surprise when she lobbied to take the creaky sailing canoe to Syria for repairs rather than straight on an all-or-nothing run to North America. In his presentation, the ship’s captain, waterman Paul Kaikane, expressed confidence the boat was sound enough to make the crossing. Most of his worries are based on “what-ifs,” like, “what if we are hit by a hurricane.” I wasn’t the only one to note hitting a hurricane was likely to be bad news no matter how much tar we paint on the craft
What a strange turn. I’m the one who has been stalling for years, making it abundantly clear I am in no hurry to leave Europe, Asia and Africa behind. North and South America are boring, desolate places rife with mosquitos, biting flies, saber-toothed cats and cranky mastodons.
That may not sound “boring and desolate,” but I say it because we have less than 50-50 chance of encountering other people. Wait until this lot has had a few years in such a vas
t land. If it is devoid of humanity, they’ll starve for new faces, new acquaintances to share information with. It is hard-wired in our DNA to search out and engage members of the same species. This is something you can explain until you are blue in the face, but it must be bloody experienced to be understood.
For the past few years, I have done everything in my power to extend our stay together here. Now, I realize it is time to go. In another five or 10 years, they may have aged beyond the ability to make such a hard and dangerous voyage. Duarte is correct, we must leave posthaste, even if that means a side trip in the wrong direction.
TRANSMISSION:
Duarte: “Would you say my hair is 50 percent gray?”
Kaikane: “Not even close.”
Duarte: “How much then.”
Kaikane: “This is one of those conversations that sends shivers down a man’s spine.”
Duarte: “I don’t have a mirror! Just tell me!”
Kaikane: “No more than a quarter.”
Duarte: “I must look old.”
Kaikane: “No way. Why would I be checking you out all the time?”
Duarte: “We’re not spring chickens anymore.”
Kaikane: “You worried about tomorrow’s launch?”
Duarte: “No, we got it.”
Kaikane: “Then where’s this talk coming from?”
Duarte: “Just something Hunter wrote in his journal.”
Kaikane: “You hacked into his journal?”
Duarte: “I programmed it to update all new files to mine. All the computers do it now.”
Kaikane: “So he said you look old?”
Duarte: “No, the opposite really. He just said something about my hair being half salt and half pepper.”
Kaikane: “Is that cool, reading his entries? He know you’re doing it?”
Duarte: “I’m sure he has his suspicions. I would.”
Kaikane: “Do you read my stuff?”
Duarte: “Do you mean your story about the Palio, your ‘freakiest’ sex ever?”
Kaikane: “I didn’t say it was the best ever.”
Duarte: “You’re lucky I’m not mad.”
Kaikane: “It was a long time ago.”
Duarte: “Or a long time to come. Either way, I’m taking it as a challenge, Buster.”
Kaikane: “Challenge?”
Duarte: “I wanna get freaky. I don’t even know what that means, but I’m ready to try.”
Kaikane: “I forgive you.”
Duarte: “Forgive me?”
Kaikane: “For being a snoop. I forgive you.”
CHAPTER SIX
From the log of Hunter
Ethics Specialist
63 A.D.
How wonderful to finally be alone in my own home on my own land sitting on my own stool at my own woodblock table. With its packed dirt floors and loosely stretched oilskin windows, the drafty stone cottage is a far cry from the Indian palace I recently called home, and yet it serves me well. From caves to dungeons, I’ve laid roots in far worse through the millennia.
Not many residences will ever measure up to the palace of statues. Tucked safely inside the walls of a fortress city north of the Ganges, glittering in gold leaf and calmed by the gurgling of garden fountains, it was more than a home, it was a seat of power. My live-in paramour and I each had a dozen full-time staff and private army on retainer. Our city-state controlled a major port on the main east-west trade route as well as nearby mining and smelting operations. As trusted friends of the men in charge, we couldn’t help making a killing. Even with the exorbitant taxes, it seemed money simply fell from the sky. I rode off one day expecting to return and never bothered.
Truth be told, I’d buried too many friends. My lack of wrinkles and perpetually black hair had not yet begun to draw comments, but the accusations were coming. It wouldn’t have been long before some superstitious fool declared me a genie or warlock. Perhaps I’ll return as a grandson someday and see if I might claim my inheritance.
For now, my journey has brought me to a wooded Tuscan valley a half-day’s walk from the hilltop town of Silvia. The former Etruscan village is in a period of flux as Roman sensibilities supplant the old ways and old families. In 400 years the growing city will have a new name, San Gimignano.
Though I could afford to live in bustling Florentia, or the “center of the world,” Rome, this is no time to draw attention to one’s wealth. The Empire careens from one expensive fiasco to the next. Nero’s men would be banging on my leather-hinged door in five minutes if they knew how much loot I’m sitting on. Oh yes, despite the humble
abode, I’m richer than God. I assure you it was quite unexpected. I’d forgotten just what I’d buried in the second vault. I levered away the boulder and found a hole brimming with gold nuggets and jewels, all the finest quality. I must have been quite the busy beaver back in the Bronze Age.
Thankfully, I opened the lesser vault first. My Mongols were so pleased by its contents they granted me a quick death, an arrow to the back. I imagine the chief, Bil Lummong, twirled his long mustache as his boys and girls stripped my clothes and divided my belongings. The only thing left behind of any note was this computer.
As galling as it is to allow their crimes to go unpunished, I take solace in knowing they’re far more likely to reach the gladiatorial pits than the steppes. I would bet my bottom Greek drachma they abandoned my strategy of stealth and immediately stole or purchased a string of horses to begin galloping for home. It won’t take long for a Roman militia to recognize Bil Lummong and his ilk for the thieving, lying Mongols they are.
Though the bastards left me naked and shoeless in a pool of blood, they at least had the unintended kindness to remove the arrow and take it with them. It’s quite dreadful to extract spears and arrows from oneself. My senses kick-started about the time the nouveau riche departed amid whoops and whistles.
The nanos did their repair job without complaint. Two days holed up in an abandoned bear den allowed me to recover enough to skulk naked to the edge of a prosperous estate. After an hour’s reconnoiter, I boldly entered the farm manager’s villa while its occupants were in the fields harvesting emmer wheat. Heart pounding, I searched their cupboards for a plain tunic and prowled the slate floors for a pair of sandals that fit.
Hearing the approach of stomping feet big enough to fill the oversized sandals in my hand, I staggered out the back door and went to ground behind a spindly currant bush. That’s where I spent the rest of the day, lying in the sun and hoping nobody would find me.
Returning to an approximation of full strength over the next week, I kept to forest trails to reach the second vault and its happy surprise. Taking only what I needed, I left the lion’s share of the treasure behind. If used correctly, that reserve is enough to bankroll my European endeavors for many centuries to come.
Upgrading my wardrobe slowly as I made my way from village to village, I transformed myself from farmhand with mismatched shoes to wealthy merchant over several months. It never pays to force the issue of class and privilege. The elite are ever eager to kick climbing pretenders in the teeth.
Passing through the gates of lively Assisi, my pockets were filled with trade gems and bits of copper, while a stash of high-grade jewels and gold coins was sewn into the lining of my new cape. The growing hilltop city was surrounded by a quilt of tidy farms, all buzzing in anticipation for the first in a series of harvest festivals. The sacrifices, games and feasting were predicted to be of the highest caliber in honor of a bountiful year.
So many new faces were in town I easily passed myself off as a Roman merchant. If anyone asked my business, I said I was scouting investment opportunities for a noble back home. In other words, a bloody window-shopper. Keeping ears and eyes open, and mouth generally shut, I spent a month learning who was honest and who could be bought.
A Roman magistrate with a penchant for gambling caught my attention. I allowed him to cheat me at dice several times to set up a mighty fall. In one h
alf hour of doubling the stakes, using my dice this time, I was into him for twice his yearly wage. As he stammered for time to pay, I leaned close to assure him we would find a solution that did not see his family turned out into the street.
His beady eyes narrowed as he sensed the hook, but we were in a public gaming hall and as a newly arrived Roman official, his reputation was at stake. No doubt he was thinking of having me arrested on trumped-up charges and hung on a cross, but as I say, the locals were watching to see how he conducted himself.
We ended up inside his large canvas tent within the walls of the garrison. The time for coyness was long past. I explained I was looking for a new start. I needed a provenance, travel documents and a deed to a piece of land where I could settle in peace, far away from my wife and her crazy family.
“Drop the oxshit,” he interrupted. “You were doing well, but then you start telling lies. There is no wife or crazy family. There is only Nero. Do you think you are the only man to flee?”
For the second time in a month I was robbed, but at least this time I left with the shirt on my back. Only one stipulation was nonnegotiable. I insisted, “There must be no record of our transactions.”
A week later we again met in his tent. Though I expected a squad of soldiers to burst through the flaps and arrest me, he handed over the documents one by one, taking time to explain what they meant and where I should present my claims. “You’ll need this,” he said, handing me a signet ring. “It’s your family crest.”
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