The Immortal Collection (A Saga of the Ancient Family Book 1)

by Eva García Sáenz

  “Get on with it,” he said impatiently. “What happened between them that I don’t know about?”

  “When the Scythians themselves began to harass Nagorno for being the son of a slave, he found a way to make them respect him. He asked his mother’s permission to kill the two of you, you and Iago, but she refused to give it. So he looked for another way.”

  “What way?”

  “Do you remember the three slaves he bought and who were always at his side?”

  “Yes, how could I forget them? They were immense human hulks. My son did well to look for protection. That was the only way the Scythians would stop tormenting him. What do they have to do with the story?”

  “How blind you were, Héctor!” I snorted. “How blind!”

  He looked at me with a question in his eyes, not understanding.

  “Every night Olbia demanded your presence, they came into the slaves’ tent you abandoned and took Iago away. Then they sodomized and tortured him under Nagorno’s orders, leaving no mark that you or Olbia might see. That went on for ten years. If you were with Olbia, they raped him; if you stayed in the tent, they left him in peace. That was really how Nagorno gained the respect of the Scythians.”

  His horrified eyes stared at me, silently begging me to say what he’d just heard wasn’t true. “That can’t be true,” he said, sounding agitated. “I never saw anything. Nothing ever happened that would have made me suspect what you’re telling me.”

  “I know. I think you’ve underestimated Nagorno’s cunning and Iago’s loyalty for thousands of years—in all senses of those words, and not just in this instance.”

  “What about Ponticus? Why did he keep quiet? He always behaved like a friend. Why hide such atrocities from me?”

  “Maybe his silence saved both your lives. Imagine what would have happened if you had found out. Wouldn’t you have reproached Olbia? Could you have continued your relationship with her knowing what every night of your pleasure meant for Iago? Olbia would have got rid of you, too. I don’t think the two of you would have survived either Olbia or Nagorno.”

  That resounding truth altered the expression on his face. I respected his silence for a few minutes because I needed to allow my story to make its mark.

  “And now for my request. I’m betraying Iago, but I’m doing it for a good reason. I’m asking you not to go in search of Nagorno, and I’m asking you not to tell him his heart will grow old if he finds you.”

  He clenched his jaw, but I continued to speak.

  “Don’t keep fooling yourself. Nagorno isn’t going to change. He’s the product of his circumstances, of his early childhood. You and Iago are still alive because you’ve learned to adapt with the times. He hasn’t. Your younger son remains rooted in the violent world of three thousand years ago, and there’s no place for his behavior in the present. He’s a fossil, Héctor. Let him die. Relinquish him.”

  “Are you aware of what you’re asking me to do? Do you still not understand that I want to keep my family together, that I refuse to be alone again? Nobody can come close to understanding what eighteen thousand years of loneliness searching a barely populated world for people like me who don’t grow old actually means.”

  “How was it?”

  “Going through the last Würm glacial period alone?”

  I nodded.

  “It was cold. Always. Inside and out. Very cold.”

  I thought about Iago. I forced myself to go on talking. “I’m asking you for justice. You longevos live on the margins of our laws. You have to in order to remain invisible, and I understand that. I can’t go to a police station and say I have the confession of my mother’s murderer, or hope they’ll go and look for him and lock him up. I don’t have proof, and even if I had it, what are thirty years in jail for murder for Nagorno? It will always be worth his while to murder someone. You are the only one who can deal out justice in this instance. For my mother, for Lyra’s family, for Iago. And what about Patricio—won’t his family suffer?”

  “Patricio was a child in the favelas of Brazil. Nagorno took him in and took care of him.”

  So what? I thought. I was sick of Nagorno’s contradictions. I got up from the bench and left without saying good-bye. I don’t think Héctor even realized I’d gone.

  78

  ADRIANA

  Sunday, November 25, 2012

  I woke up as the first light of day spilled onto Iago’s bed, but he was no longer lying beside me. He hadn’t left a note either, so I prepared myself for having breakfast on my own, assuming that he had gone to the cemetery to spend some time by Lyra’s grave, as he had been doing for the past few weeks. As it turned out I was wrong, because he came home a short while later in an excellent mood.

  “Do you want to spend the day out there?” he asked me with a smile.

  For a moment I thought I caught a glimpse of an Iago free of concerns. I looked outside and nodded. It was a calm winter’s day, and a warm sun was caressing the bay, inviting people to abandon their lairs and venture outdoors. We got into my car, and I headed out of Santander.

  “Did you have somewhere in mind?” I said, sounding him out, although I wasn’t sure he had heard me. He was looking out of the open window with a distracted air, closing his eyes when the breeze became too annoying. Despite that, nothing could wipe that mysterious smile from his face.

  “You know, my father once told me you reminded him of Atalanta,” he said happily, ignoring my question.

  “The one in the Greek myth? I vaguely remember it from when I studied Greek history as part of my degree. She spent her life running away, didn’t she?” I said, smiling.

  “Right. I remember that when the lioness attacked you in Cabárceno, I thought it was the goddess Aphrodite sending us a warning, as happened in the original legend.”

  “What would she have been warning us about?”

  “According to the legend she got angry with Melanius because he and Atalanta didn’t consummate their love on sacred ground. That’s why she changed them into lions.”

  So that was it. What was it with this mania the longevos had for wandering off the subject?

  “Sacred ground?” I said. “Do you have somewhere in mind?”

  “Well, what could be more sacred for a Cro-Magnon and an archaeologist than Monte Castillo?”

  “To Monte Castillo, then.”

  I smiled and abruptly changed the car’s direction.

  Not long after, the conical hill presented itself in front of us, but when we had parked and I set off toward the entrance to the cave, Iago grabbed me by my arm.

  “We’re going this way,” he indicated.

  I followed him without understanding why, along a small path that was visible on the right, though it was covered by so much vegetation that it dissuaded people from attempting to head along it.

  “Monte Castillo, as your grandfather might well have told you, is full of galleries and caves. What you don’t know yet is that many of them still haven’t been discovered. Today I’m going to show you an entrance my father and I use when we want to go into our home without asking permission.”

  We walked for almost thirty minutes, heading farther and farther into the forest away from the entrance, until I lost all sense of direction. Iago noticed my confusion and slowed down. A short time later we stopped in front of a rock covered in moss that was partially obscured by the twisted trunk of a lime tree.

  “It’s through here,” he said, showing me a narrow crevice I didn’t think I’d be able to squeeze through.

  Against all odds, the two of us made it through and, holding hands, I accompanied Iago through a shadowy gallery until, some yards farther on, I made out the flickering light of an oil lamp. Intrigued, I continued on with him, turning around hidden corners and sliding down steep inclines, all of them marked out with small lamps like the first one. Finally,
we reached the end of the gallery. To my surprise we weren’t alone. Héctor was waiting for us there, more Lür than ever, with a beard just like the one at the Monument to the Santander Fire, and strange ochre markings on his arms and his naked torso. Concentric circles around his neck and parallel lines from his shoulders to his wrists. Pure Paleolithic man.

  He addressed us in the same language he and Iago had spoken the day Lyra died. It was only the second time I had heard it, but it sounded so distinctive that I recognized it immediately.

  “Welcome, my children,” Iago translated for me.

  Then I noticed Lür was holding a hollow tube in one hand and a small pot with a reddish mix of pigment in the other.

  “We’ve always been linked to Mother Rock, and she has demonstrated that she has a memory,” Iago explained to me as he removed his long-sleeved T-shirt and displayed the same markings as his father. “The ochre has remained tattooed on the rock for millennia, and here it will remain. Dana, I’d like our union to be sealed in this sacred place. Do you agree to this?”

  I nodded without shifting my gaze from his ancient eyes. I extended my hand and placed the back of it against the rock wall. It was cold and damp, but even so it felt welcoming, as if my skin naturally belonged there. I would never have expected it.

  Iago placed his hand level with mine, and Lür blew on them, staining our hands red and leaving the silhouettes outlined on the rock.

  “Now Mother Rock knows of your bond; be worthy of her,” Lür intoned, first in his language and then in mine.

  Then Iago took a little of the ochre and spread it over the scar on my forehead. “Now you are one of us,” he said.

  Not entirely, I thought.

  When the ceremony was over, the three of us sat down, happy and relaxed. I remember that we chatted for hours. I was conscious that Lür was saying good-bye to us. I was also aware he and Iago had finally had that outstanding conversation, and Lür had relinquished his search for Nagorno. I could see it in Iago’s relaxed face. A completely happy man, finally.

  “The hour has come,” said Lür, glancing at Iago’s watch. “You two have a Prehistory Hall to open, and I ought to go. I intend to be absent for a good while. Urko, my son, we’ll see each other at the solstice, a century from now.”

  Then he turned to me.

  “I guess I won’t see you again, then,” I said.

  “Oh, I think you will,” he replied, looking at Iago and giving him a conspiratorial look I didn’t understand.

  That was the last time I saw Héctor del Castillo. I watched his outline disappearing inside the cave, like one more shadow of the sort that used to hypnotize me when I was a little girl and used to accompany my grandfather on his visits to Monte Castillo.

  EPILOGUE

  ADRIANA

  November 18, one year later

  I glanced at the little biface Iago had carved for me. The ringing sound it made against my car window needlessly reminded me I was going to be late arriving at the MAC. I had an interview in fifteen minutes, and it was almost certain I wasn’t going to make it on time. Once I got there, I did a bad job of parking, because my space was occupied by a mud-caked Harley-Davidson. Then I raced up the stairs as soon as I was sure no one could see me.

  The secretary let me know the candidate had already arrived, so I straightened my jacket and walked in. I wanted to make a good impression even though I was now the one responsible for hiring the museum staff. We’d been through a whole cycle—a year, to be clear—since TAF had disintegrated, and Iago had been in charge since then. He was also going to be present at the interview, although he’d been busy with a meeting since early that morning. The candidate was brilliant, a specialist in the Middle Ages, and his work had turned the small world that was European archaeology upside down in the past year. But he was quite elusive, and we’d had a hard time locating him for an interview.

  When I walked into my office, the first thing I thought was there’d been some sort of mistake. A young man, tall and very blond with shoulder-length hair and eyes exactly like Iago’s was sitting in an overly relaxed manner on my couch, one leg over the armrest and the other on top of a cushion lying on the floor. Squeezed into a leather jacket and wearing the well-worn boots of a motorcyclist, he sat there looking at me with an insolent smile.

  Iago also walked in just then. I heard him behind me, but I couldn’t see his expression when the supposed candidate greeted him in a strong Nordic accent with, “Hi, Dad.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I have consulted many sources, visited many museums and digs, made many trips to find the ideal location for each scene . . . Although I’m well aware that there is a host of people I will forget to mention, I want to express my gratitude in general to countless professionals in the areas of archaeology, history, and prehistory, both for their patience and for answering my queries. My particular thanks to:

  The technical team at the Museo Arquelógico Provincial de Alicante, which became my second home on weekends. Thank you for drawing me into the world of the Scythians and their fascinating culture.

  The chief curator of the Museo de Prehistoria y Arqueología de Cantabria for clearing up all my doubts regarding the history of Cantabria for the past thirty thousand years, and for giving me a guided tour during which she showed me the secrets of all the exhibits.

  The staff at the Centro de Interpretación of the Monte Castillo caves for allowing me access to their magical cave paintings.

  The staff at the Neocueva de Altamira and the Parque de la Naturaleza de Cabárceno for their willingness to help me with everything I needed.

  The archaeologists and interns at the Centro de Interpretación de Atapuerca for showing me how difficult it is to use a spear-thrower.

  Lorenzo Martínez Rivas and his wife, who own the Los Lienzos Inn in Puente Viesgo, for letting me spend a few days experiencing life in an authentic indiano house built at the start of the twentieth century.

  Manuel Cano Garcia, of the Departamento de Prehistoria, Arqueología, Historia Antigua, Filología Griega y Filología Latina at the Universidad de Alicante, for the detailed corrections he made to the manuscript, as well as his support and enthusiasm after his first reading of the novel.

  From the moment the Spanish edition of this book, La saga de los longevos: La vieja familia, was available for purchase on the Internet, the warm reception and enthusiasm on the part of its readers was such that my list of thanks has grown in a remarkable way. Once again it is impossible to note here all those who have supported me by spreading the word about the novel and recommending it on social networks.

  On a personal level, I want to thank my father, Evelio García Castaños, for giving me his bibliophile gene. His sudden death, as well as various other family losses, occurred while I was writing this novel. Perhaps understanding how ephemeral we are is what gave me the strength to finish it.

  My thanks also to my mother, Marisol Sáenz de Urturi Ozaeta, my sister, Nuria, and my brother, Raúl, for taking me to London to stand at Boudicca’s feet one Halloween night. Thank you for giving me the gift of a unique day shared by my real family and my fictional family.

  And to my husband, Fran Jurado Alonso, my enormous gratitude for accompanying me throughout this journey across the millennia. He has been my greatest support and the one who, from the beginning, best understood the spirit of the novel.

  And finally, to my sons: Adrián for lending his name to the protagonist and for the self-assurance that only an ancient soul possesses; and Dani, because you never run out of hugs. Believe me, hijo, I’ve needed them all.

  MONTHS ACCORDING TO THE CELTIC CALENDAR*

  December 23 not ruled by any tree. Traditional day of the proverbial “year and day” in the earliest courts of law.

  * * *

  *Robert Graves, The White Goddess, 1948, pp. 207–208

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR


  Eva García Sáenz was born in Vitoria, Spain, in 1972 and has lived in Alicante on Spain’s Costa Blanca since she was fifteen. She is a licensed optometrist and held various positions in optometry for ten years before settling into her current administrative role at the University of Alicante. For three years, she wrote in the evenings to complete The Immortal Collection, her first novel. She originally self-published on Amazon’s Spanish website. Thanks to enthusiastic reader reviews, the novel became a bestseller and a literary phenomenon in the social media world. After the book was published traditionally in Spain, it hit the print bestseller lists as well. The author is currently working on her second book.

  ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

  Lilit Žekulin Thwaites is a Hispanist specializing in contemporary Spanish literature, a literary translator, and former Head of the Spanish Department and Deputy Dean of the Faculty of Humanities and Social Sciences of La Trobe University, Melbourne, Australia. She was born in Czechoslovakia and grew up in England, Scotland, and Canada. Since 1981, she has lived in Melbourne with her husband and three children. Tears in Rain (AmazonCrossing 2012), her translation of Rosa Montero’s novel, Lágrimas en la lluvia (2011), was recognized by World Literature Today as one of their 75 Notable Translations of 2012.