“Your Scythian, I take it,” Honorius murmured.
“Indeed,” said Papak.
Honorius drew himself up and reached for the fold of his toga. Athalaric felt a flicker of pride, complicated by a sense of envy, or perhaps inferiority. No matter how imposing this stranger was, Honorius was a Roman citizen, afraid of no man on Earth.
The Scythian unwrapped the cloth over his face and head, scattering more dust. His face was sharp-nosed, a thing of weather-beaten planes. Athalaric was startled to see that his hair was quite blond, as yellow as a Saxon’s.
Honorius murmured to Papak, “Bid him greetings, and assure him of our best intentions to—”
Papak cut him short. “These fellows of the desert have little time for niceties, sir. He wants to see your gold.”
Athalaric growled, “We’ve come a long way to be insulted by a sand flea.”
Honorius looked pained. “Athalaric, please. The money.”
Glaring at the Scythian, Athalaric opened his wrap to reveal a sack of gold. He tossed a piece to the Scythian, who tested it with his teeth.
“Now,” whispered Honorius. “The bones. Is it true? Show me, sir. Show me—”
That needed no translation. The Scythian drew a bundle of cloth from a deep pocket. Carefully he began to unwind the cloth, and he spoke in his own liquid tongue.
“He says this is a treasure indeed,” Papak murmured. “He says it comes from beyond the desert with the sand of gold, where the bones of the griffins—”
“I know about griffins,” said Honorius tightly. “I do not care about griffins.”
“From beyond the land of the Persians, from beyond the land of the Guptas — it is hard to translate,” Papak said tightly. “His sense of who owns the land is not as ours, and his descriptions are lengthy and specific.”
At last — with a shopkeeper’s sense of timing, Athalaric thought cynically — the Scythian began to open up the wrapped bandages. He revealed a skull.
Honorius gasped and all but fell on the fragment. “It is a man. But not as we are—”
In the course of his education Athalaric had seen plenty of human skulls. The flat face and jaw of this skull were very human. But there was nothing human about the thick ridge of bone over the brow, or that small brain pan, so small he could have cupped it in one hand.
“I have longed to study such a relic,” Honorius said breathlessly. “Is it true, as Titus Lucretius Carus wrote, that the early men could endure any environment, though they lacked clothing and fire, that they traveled in bands like animals and slept on the ground or in thickets, that they could eat anything and rarely fall ill? Oh, you must come to Rome, sir. You must come to Gaul! For there is a cave there, a cave on the coast of the ocean, where I have seen, I have seen—”
But the Scythian, perhaps mindful of the gold that still lay out of his reach, was not listening. He held up the fragment like a trophy.
The Homo erectus skull, polished by a million years, gleamed in the sunlight.
II
Under Honorius’s pressure, the Scythian eventually agreed to come to Rome. Papak came along too, as a more or less necessary interpreter — and, to Athalaric’s further dismay, so did two of the porters they had used in the desert.
Athalaric confronted Papak during the sea crossing back to Italy. “You are milking the old man’s purse. I know your kind, Persian.”
Papak was unperturbed. “But we are alike. I take his money, you empty his mind. What’s the difference? The young have always fed off the wealth of the old, one way or another. Isn’t it so?”
“I have pledged that I will bring him home safely. And that I will do, regardless of your ambitions.”
Papak laughed smoothly. “I mean Honorius no harm.” He indicated the impassive Scythian. “I have given him what he wants, haven’t I?” But the Scythian’s demeanor, as he coldly watched this exchange, made it clear to Athalaric that he was not to be regarded as anybody’s property, however temporarily.
Still, even Athalaric’s curiosity was pricked when this desert-dwelling nomad was brought to the greatest city in the world.
On the outskirts of Rome, they spent a night in a villa rented by Honorius.
Set on a slight rise on the edge of the city proper, this was a typical imperial-period home, its design drawn from Greek and Etruscan influences. The house was built on a series of bedrooms grouped around three sides of an open atrium. At the back were a dining room, offices, and utility rooms. Two street-facing rooms had been given over to shops. Honorius told him this had not been uncommon in the days of the empire; he reminded Athalaric of the shop his own family had once run.
But, like the city it overlooked, the villa had seen better days. The little shops were boarded up. The impluvium, the pool at the center of the atrium, had been crudely dug out, apparently to get at the lead piping that had once collected rainwater.
Honorius shrugged at this decay. “The place lost a lot of its value when the sackings came — too hard to defend, you see, so far out of the city. That is how I was able to rent it so cheaply.”
That night, amid this battered grandeur, they ate a meal together. Even the mosaic on the floor of the dining room was badly damaged; it appeared that thieves had taken any pieces that showed traces of gold leaf.
The food itself was a signature of the great pan-Eurasian mixing that had followed the expansion of the farming communities. The staples were wheat and rice from the original Anatolian agricultural package, but supplemented by quince originally from the Caucasus, millet from Central Asia, cucumber, sesame, and citrus fruit from India, and apricots and peaches from China. This transcontinental diet was an everyday miracle, unremarked on by those who ate it.
The next day they took the Scythian into the old city itself.
They walked to the Palatine, the Capitol, the Forum. The Scythian gazed around him with his horizon-sharp eyes, assessing, somehow measuring. He wore his desert garb of black clothing with scarlet wrap around his head; it must have been uncomfortable in Rome’s humid air, but he showed no signs of discomfort.
Athalaric murmured to Papak, “He doesn’t seem very impressed.”
Now the Scythian snapped out something in his terse, ancient language, and Papak translated automatically. “He says he understands now why the Romans had to take slaves and gold and food from his land.”
Honorius seemed obscurely pleased. “A savage he may be, but he is no fool — and he is not intimidated, not even by mighty Rome. Good for him.”
Away from the monumental areas, central Rome was a clotted network of streets and alleys, narrow and gloomy, the product of more than a thousand years’ uncontrolled building. Many of the residences here were five or six stories tall. Raised by unscrupulous landlords determined to get as much income as possible out of every scrap of precious land, they towered unsteadily. Walking through sewage-littered, unpaved streets, with buildings crowded so closely they almost touched above their heads, it seemed to Athalaric that he was passing through an immense network of sewers, like one of the famous cloacae that ran beneath Rome to the Tiber.
The crowds in the streets wore masks over their mouths and noses, gauze soaked in oil or spices. There had been a recent outbreak of smallpox. Disease was a constant threat: People still talked of the mighty Plague of Antoninus of three centuries earlier. In the millennia since the death of Juna, medical advances had barely slowed the march of the mighty diseases. Immense trade routes had united the populations of Europe, northern Africa, and Asia into a single vast resource pool for microbes, and the increased crowding of people into cities with little or no sanitation had exacerbated the problem. Throughout Rome’s imperial period it had been necessary to encourage a constant immigration of healthy peasants into the cities to replace those who died, and in fact urban populations would not become self-sustaining until the twentieth century.
This swarming place was a pathological outcome of the farming revolution, a place where people were crowded like
ants, not primates.
It was almost a relief when they reached an area that had been burned out during one of the barbarian sackings. Though the destruction was decades past, this scorched, shattered area had never been rebuilt. But at least here among the rubble Athalaric could see the sky, unimpeded by filth-strewn balconies.
Honorius said to the Persian, “Ask him what he thinks now.”
The Scythian turned and surveyed the rows of heaped-up residential buildings. He murmured, and Papak translated. “How strange that you people choose to live in cliffs, like gulls.” Athalaric had heard the contempt in the Scythian’s voice.
When they returned to their villa Athalaric found that the purse he carried around his waist had been neatly slit open and emptied. He was angry, with himself as much as the thief — how was he supposed to be looking after Honorius if he couldn’t even watch over his own purse? — but he knew he should be grateful that the invisible bandit had not slit open his belly in the process and robbed him of his life as well.
The next day Honorius said he would take the party out into the country, to what he called the Museum of Augustus. So they piled into carts and went clattering over metaled but overgrown roads, out through the farms that crowded around the city.
They came to what must once have been an exclusive, expensive small town. An adobe wall contained a handful of villas and a cluster of meaner dwellings that had housed slaves. The place was obviously abandoned. The outer wall had been broken down, the buildings burned out and looted.
Honorius, with a scrawled map in his hand, led them into the complex, muttering, turning the map this way and that.
A thick layer of vegetation had broken through the mosaics and floor tiles, and ivy clung to fire-cracked walls. There must have been agony here, Athalaric thought, when the strength of the thousand-year empire had failed at last and its protection was lost. But the presence of the new vegetation in the midst of decay was oddly reassuring. It was even comforting to imagine that after another few centuries, as the green returned, nothing would be left of this place but a few hummocks in the ground, and oddly shaped stones that might break an unwary farmer’s plow.
Honorius brought them to a small building at the center of the complex. It might once have been a temple, but it was as burned out and ruined as the rest. The porters had to haul aside a tangle of vines and ivy. Honorius rummaged over the ground. At last, with a cry of triumph, he retrieved a bone, a great scapula the size of a dinner plate. “I knew it! The barbarians took the petty gold, the shiny silver, but they knew nothing of the true treasures here.”
At the sight of Honorius’s spectacular find, the others began to root in the dirt and vegetation with the enthusiasm of prospectors. Even the doltish porters seemed fired by intellectual curiosity, perhaps for the first time in their lives. Soon they were all unearthing huge bones, tusks, even misshapen skulls. It was an extraordinarily exciting moment.
Honorius was saying, “This was once a bone museum, established by Emperor Augustus himself! The biographer Suetonius tells us that it was first set up on the island of Capri. In later times one of Augustus’s successors imported the best of the pieces here. Some of the bones have crumbled away — look at this one — they are clearly very ancient, and have been subject to grievous misuse.”
Now Honorius found a heavy slab of red sandstone, with startling white objects embedded within it. It was the size of a coffin lid and much too heavy for him, and the porters had to help him raise it. “Now, sir Scythian. No doubt you will recognize this handsome fellow.”
The Scythian smiled. Athalaric and the others crowded around to see.
The white objects, suspended in the red matrix, were bones: the skeletal remains of a creature embedded in the rock. The creature must have been as long in its body as Athalaric was tall. It had big hind limbs, clearly visible ribs suspended from its spine, and short forearms, folded before its chest. Its tail was long, something like a crocodile’s, Athalaric thought. But its most surprising feature was its head. The skull was massive, with a great hollow crest of bone, and a huge, powerful jaw hinged under what looked like a bird’s beak. Two empty eyes stared out of time.
Honorius was watching him, rheumy eyes glittering. “Well, Athalaric?”
“I have never seen such a thing before,” Athalaric breathed. “But—”
“But you know what it is.”
It must be a griffin: the legendary monsters of the eastern deserts, four-footed, and yet with a head like a great bird’s. The images of griffins had permeated paintings and sculpture for a thousand years.
Now the Scythian began to talk, rapidly, fluently, and Papak scrambled to keep up his translation. “He says that his father, and his father before him, prospected the great deserts to the east for the gold that washes down from the mountains. And the griffins guard the gold. He has seen their bones everywhere, peering out of the rocks, just like this.”
“Just as Herodotus described,” Honorius said.
Athalaric said, “Ask him if he has seen one alive.”
“No,” the Scythian said through Papak, “but he has seen their eggs many times. Like birds they lay their eggs in nests, but on the ground.”
Athalaric murmured, “How did the beast get into the rock?”
Honorius smiled. “Remember Prometheus.”
“Prometheus?”
“To punish him for bringing fire to humans, the old gods chained Prometheus to a mountain in the eastern deserts — a place guarded by mute griffins, as it happens. Aeschylus tells us how landslides and rain buried his body, where it was trapped for long ages until the wearing of the rock returned it to the light. Here is a Promethean beast, Athalaric!”
On they talked, rummaging among the bones. They were all strange, gigantic, distorted, unrecognizable. Most of these remains were actually of rhinos, giraffes, elephants, lions, and chalicotheres, the huge mammals of the Pleistocene brought to light by the tectonic churning of this place, where Africa drove slowly north into Eurasia. As in Australia, as all over the world, so here; people had even forgotten what they had lost, and only distorted trace memories of these giants remained.
And as the men argued and pried at the fossil, the skull of the protoceratops — a dinosaur trapped in a sandstorm only a few centuries before the birth of Purga — peered out with the sightless calm of eternity.
“…These are accounts written down by Hesiod and Homer and many others, but handed down by generations of storytellers before them.
“Long before the existence of modern humans, the Earth was empty. But the primordial ground birthed a series of Titans. The Titans were like men, but huge. Prometheus was one of them. Kronos led his sibling Titans to slay their father, Uranos. But his blood produced the next generation, the Giants. In those days, not long after the origin of life itself, there was much chaos in the blood, and generations of giants and monsters proliferated.”
They sat in the half-ruined atrium of the rented villa. The air had remained hot and still as the evening had drawn on, but the wine, the hum of the insects, and the luxuriant, unlikely greenery draped around the atrium made this place somehow welcoming.
And in this decayed place, over glass after glass of wine, Honorius tried to persuade the man from the desert that he must travel with him much further: back across the wreckage of the empire, all the way west to the fringe of the world ocean itself. And so he told him stories of the birth and death of gods.
Another generation of life had passed, and more new forms evolved. The Titans Kronos and Rhea gave birth to the future gods of Olympus, the Romans’ Jupiter among them. Eventually Jupiter led the new, human-form gods against a coalition of the older Titans, Giants, and monsters. It was a war for the supremacy of the cosmos itself.
“The land was shattered,” Honorius whispered. “Islands emerged from the deep. Mountains fell into the sea. Rivers ran dry, or changed course, flooding the land. And the bones of the monsters were buried where they fell.
; “Now,” Honorius went on, “the natural philosophers have always countered the myths — they seek natural causes that conform to natural laws — and perhaps they are right to do so. But sometimes they go too far. Aristotle holds that creatures always breed true, that the species of life are fixed for all time. Let him explain the giants’ bones we dig out of the ground! Aristotle must never have seen a bone in his life! The thing embedded in the rock in the museum may or may not be a griffin. But is it not clear the bones are old! How long can it take for sand to turn to rock? What is that great slab but evidence of different times in the past?
“Look beyond the stories. Listen to the essence of what the myths tell us: that the Earth was populated by different creatures in the past — species that sometimes bred true, and sometimes produced hybrids and monsters radically different from their parents. Just as the bones show! Whatever the precise facts, is it not clear that the myths hold truth, for they are the product of a thousand years of study of the Earth, and contemplation of its meaning. And yet, and yet—”
Athalaric laid a hand on his friend’s arm. “Calm yourself, Honorius. You are speaking well. There is no need to shout.”
Honorius, trembling with his passion, said, “I contend we cannot ignore the myths. Perhaps they are memories, the best memories we have, of the great cataclysms and extraordinary times of the past, witnessed by men who might have comprehended little of what they saw, men who might have been only half men themselves.” He caught Athalaric’s frown. “Yes, half men!” Honorius produced the skull that the Scythian had given to him, with its human face and apelike cranium. “A human, but not a human,” he murmured. “It is the greatest mystery of all. What came before us? What can answer such a question? What but the bones? Sir Scythian, you told me that this skullcap comes from the east.”
Papak translated. “The Scythian cannot say where it originated. It passed through many hands, traveling west, until it reached you.”
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