Evolution

in fact, that humans had forgotten it had even come this way. Rood would not have recognized this rich, temperate land. And he would have been astonished at the great density of people living here now — just as Athalaric would have been astounded if he could have glimpsed Rood’s mammoth herds gliding across a land empty of humans.

At last the land ran out. They came to a chalk cliff. Eroded by time, the cliff looked out over the restless Atlantic. The grassy plateau at its top was windswept and barren, save for a skimming of grass littered by rabbit droppings.

As the porters unpacked the party’s belongings from their carts, the Scythian walked alone to the edge of the cliff. The wind caught his strange blond hair, whipping it about his brow. Athalaric thought it a remarkable sight. Here was a man who had peered into the great sand ocean of the east, now brought to the western fringe of the world. Silently he applauded Honorius’s vision; whatever the Scythian made of Honorius’s enigmatic bones, the old man had already crafted a remarkable moment.

Though the members of the party were wearied by the long journey from Burdigala, Honorius was impatient to conclude the jaunt. He would allow them only a brief respite for meat, drink, and the necessary attention to their bladders and bowels. Then, capering gauntly, Honorius led them toward the cliff face. The rest of the party followed — all but Papak’s two porters, Athalaric saw, who seemed intent on making a trap for the rabbits that infested this chalky cliff top.

As they walked together, Athalaric tried to reason with Honorius again about the offer of the bishopric.

It made a certain sense. As the old civil administration of the empire had broken down, the Church, enduring, had proven a bastion of strength, and its bishops had acquired status and power. Very often these churchmen had been drawn from the landed aristocracy of the empire, who had learning, administrative experience drawn from running their great estates, and a tradition of local leadership: their theology might be shaky, but that was less important than shrewdness and practical experience. In turbulent times these worldly clerics had proved able to protect the vulnerable Roman population by pleading for the protection of towns, directing defenses and even leading men into battle.

But, as Athalaric had expected, Honorius refused the offer flat. 'Is the Church to swallow us all?' he railed. 'Must its shadow extinguish everything else in the world, everything we have built up over a thousand years?'

Athalaric sighed. He had very little idea what the old man was talking about, but the only way to talk to Honorius was on his terms. 'Honorius, please — this has nothing to do with history, nor even theology. This is all about temporal power. And civic duty.'

'Civic duty? What does that mean?' From a bag he fished out his skull, the antique human skull that the Scythian had given him, and he brandished it angrily. 'Here is a creature half human and half animal. And yet it is clearly like us. What, then, are we? A quarter animal, a tenth? The Greek Galen pointed out two centuries ago that man is nothing more than a variety of monkey. Will we ever walk out of the shadow of the beast? What would civic duty mean to a monkey, what but a foolish performance?'

Hesitantly Athalaric touched the old man’s arm. 'But even if that is true, even if we are governed by the legacy of an animal past, then it is up to us to behave as if it were not so.'

Honorius smiled bitterly. 'Is it? But everything we build passes, Athalaric. We are seeing it. In my lifetime a thousand-year-old empire has crumbled faster than the mortar in the walls of its capital buildings. If all passes but our own brutish natures, what hope do we have? Even beliefs wither like grapes left on the vine.'

Athalaric understood; this was a concern Honorius had rehearsed many times. In the last centuries of the empire, educational standards and literacy had fallen. In the dulled heads of the masses, distracted by cheap food and the barbaric spectacles of the coliseums, the values on which Rome had been founded and the ancient rationalism of the Greeks had been replaced by mysticism and superstition. It was — Honorius had explained to his pupil — as if a whole culture was losing its mind. People were forgetting how to think, and soon they would forget they had forgotten. And, to Honorius’s thinking, Christianity only exacerbated that problem.

'You know, Augustine warned us that belief in the old myths was fading — even a century and a half ago, as the dogma of the Christians took root. And with the loss of the myths, so vanishes the learning of a thousand years, which are codified in those myths, and the monolithic dogmas of the Church will snuff out rational inquiry for ten more centuries. The light is fading, Athalaric.'

'Then take the bishopric,' Athalaric urged. 'Protect the monasteries. Establish your own, if you must! And in its library and scriptorium have the monks preserve and make copies of the great texts, before they are lost—'

'I have seen the monasteries,' Honorius spat. 'To have the great works of the past copied as if they were magical spells, by dolts with their heads full of God — pah! I think I would rather burn them myself.'

Athalaric suppressed a sigh. 'You know, Augustine found comfort in his faith. He believed that the empire had been created by God to spread the message of Christ, so how could he allow it to collapse? But Augustine concluded that history’s purpose is God’s, not man’s. Therefore in the end the fall of Rome did not matter.'

Honorius eyed him wryly. 'Now, if you were a diplomat, you would point out to me that poor Augustine died just as the Vandals swept through northern Africa. And you would say that if he had devoted more attention to worldly matters than spiritual, he might have lived a little longer, and managed a little more studying. That is what you should say if you want to persuade me about your wretched bishopric.'

'I am glad your mood is improving,' said Athalaric dryly.

Honorius tapped his hand. 'You are a good friend, Athalaric. Better than I deserve. But I will not take your uncle’s gift of a bishopric. God and politics are not for me; leave me to my bones and my maundering. We are nearly there!'

They had reached the cliff’s edge.

To Honorius’s frustration the path he remembered was overgrown. It was anyhow little more than a scratch in the cliff’s crumbling face, perhaps made by goats or sheep. The militiamen used their spears to clear some of the weeds and grass. 'It is many years since I came here,' Honorius breathed.

Athalaric said sternly, 'Sir, you were younger when you were here — much younger. You must take care as we descend.'

'What do I care of the difficulty? Athalaric, if the path is overgrown it has not been used since I was last here — and the bones I found are undisturbed. What matters compared to that? Look, the Scythian has already started his descent, and I want to see his reaction. Come, come.'

The party formed up into a line and, one by one, they stepped with care down the crumbling path. Honorius insisted on walking alone — the path was scarcely wide enough to allow two to walk side by side — but Athalaric went first, so at least he would have a chance of saving the old man if he fell.

They reached a cave, eroded into the soft chalk face. They fanned out, the militiamen probing at the walls and ground with their spears.

Athalaric stepped forward carefully. The floor near the entrance was stained almost white by guano and littered with eggshells. The walls and floor were worn butter smooth, as if many creatures, or people, had been here before. Athalaric detected a strong animal scent, perhaps of foxes, but it was stale. Save for the seabirds, it was evident nothing had lived here for a long time.

But it was here that a younger Honorius had found his precious bones.

Honorius hobbled around the cave, peering at anonymous bits of the floor, kicking aside dried leaves and bits of dead seaweed. Soon he found what he was looking for. He got to his knees and cleared away the debris, carefully, using only his fingertips. 'It is just as I found it — and left it — for I did not want the bones to be disturbed.'

The others crowded around. Athalaric absently noticed that one of the young Romans, a man of Galla’s entourage, was pressing peculiarly close behind Honorius. But there seemed no harm, nothing but eagerness in the boy.

And everyone was impressed when Honorius gently lifted his osteoid treasure from the dirt. Athalaric could immediately see that it was the skeleton of a human — but this must have been a particularly stocky human, he thought, with heavy limb bones and long fingers — and that the skull was distorted. In fact, it appeared to have been broken from behind, perhaps by a blow. Beneath the bones was a litter of shells and flint flakes.

Honorius pointed to features of his find. 'Look here. You can see where he has eaten mussels. The shells are scorched; perhaps he threw them on a fire to make them open. And I believe these flint chips are waste from a tool he made. He was clearly human, but not as we are. Consider that skull, sir Scythian! Those massive brows, the cheekbones like ledges — have you ever seen its like?' He glanced at Athalaric, his rheumy eyes shining. 'It is as if we have been transported back to another day, lost unknown centuries in the past.'

The Scythian bent down to scrutinize the skull.

That was when it happened.

The young Roman behind Honorius took one step forward. Athalaric saw his flashing arm, heard a soft crunch. Blood splashed. Honorius fell forward over the bones.

The people, startled, scrambled out of the way. Papak squealed like a frightened pig. But the Scythian caught Honorius as he fell and lowered him to the ground.

Athalaric could see that the back of Honorius’s head had been smashed. He lunged at the young man who had stood behind Honorius, and grabbed his tunic. 'It was you. I saw it. It was you. Why? He was a Roman like you, one of your own—'

'It was an accident,' the young man said levelly.

'Liar!' Athalaric slapped his face, drawing blood. 'Who put you up to this? Galla?' Athalaric made to strike the man again, but strong arms wrapped around his waist and pulled him away. Struggling, Athalaric gazed around at the others. 'Help me. You saw what happened. The man is a murderer!'

But only blank stares met his entreaties.

It was then that Athalaric understood.

It had all been planned. Only the terrified Papak, and, Athalaric presumed, the Scythian, had known nothing of the crude plot — aside from Athalaric himself, the barbarian too unschooled in the ways of a mighty civilization to be able to imagine such poisonous plotting. With his refusal to accept the bishopric, Honorius had become an inconvenience to Goth and Roman alike. The planners of this foolish, vicious conspiracy had cared nothing for Honorius’s miraculous old bones; this jaunt to the remote seashore had been seen merely as an opportunity. Perhaps poor Honorius’s body would be dumped in the sea, not even returned for inconvenient inspection to Burdigala.

Athalaric struggled free and hurried to Honorius. The old man, his ruined head still cradled in the Scythian’s bloodstained arms, was still breathing, but his eyes were closed.

'Teacher? Can you hear me?'

Remarkably Honorius’s eyes fluttered open. 'Athalaric?' The eyes wandered vaguely in their sockets. 'I could hear it, an immense crunch, as if my head were an apple bit into by a willful child…'

'Don’t talk—'

'Did you see the bones?'

'Yes, I saw.'

'It was another man of the dawn, wasn’t it?'

To Athalaric’s shock, the Scythian spoke in comprehensible but heavily accented Latin. 'Man of the dawn.'

'Ah,' Honorius sighed. Then he gripped Athalaric’s hand so hard it was painful.

Athalaric was aware of the silent circle around him, the men from the east, the Goths, the Romans, all save the Scythian and the Persian complicit in this murder. The grip slackened. With a last shudder, Honorius was gone.

The Scythian carefully laid Honorius’s body over the bones he had discovered — Neandertal bones, the bones of a creature who had thought of himself as the Old Man — and the pooling blood soaked slowly into the chalky ground.

The wind changed. A breeze off the sea wafted into the cave, laden with salt.