Rome

by Matthew Thayer

  Unable to find forage or mud to wallow, hippos have taken a beating. Their bloated carcasses litter the dusty flats. Riverbanks remind me of those ancient video clips of African droughts, the ones with herds kicking up dust and clustering around shrunken waterholes. Those clips always showed a thirsty wildebeest being snapped up by a great crocodile. We may not have any crocodiles to deal with, but we see that type of carnage so often we’re nearly immune to it. As long as it doesn’t involve us, we just block it out–at least that’s what I do.

  This would be an outstanding summer to be a vulture or hyena. In fact, all the scavengers are having a heyday. I wouldn’t be surprised if their populations burgeon next year. Just one more reason to head for America.

  We now stash the kayaks near the Tiber and walk to the hill. The tributaries and ponds we used to traverse are either too shallow or completely evaporated. We’ve found a left-hand curve in the river where the channel cuts almost all the way to Rome’s tree line. It’s not a long portage across exposed riverbed to the thicket where we hide the boats, but carving our way through the throng of animals is always a challenge.

  Our routine starts by paddling a good half a mile past the spot where we want to land. This allows us to scout for nosy natives on the way up and have time to prepare for landing as the current carries us back downstream.

  Giving up his fight against the river, retrieving a fire horn from its cradle in the bottom of his kayak, Paul begins feeding bits of dried moss to the embers. Already the smell of smoke causes the beasts along the near shore to pick up their heads and sniff the air. Blowing steadily, he feeds wood shavings to the leather-wrapped bison horn’s glowing mouth. By this time, I’ve untied a bundle of cattails coated in pine tar. About 100 yards from landing I extend half the cattails over the flame and they slowly flare to life.

  Paul tows my kayak to shore while I twirl the torches and cause them to belch black smoke. We beach and pull the kayaks across the wash, each carrying flaming cattails, and add shouts and curses if the skittish animals need further encouragement to bug off. Fire buys man such incredible power.

  By the time the torches have petered out, we’re usually through the danger zone and on the dusty trail to the top of Palatine Hill. On the climb up the old trail today, I noticed the boys are once again using fire to girdle a section of trees. Sal will claim it is for firewood, but I’m sure the cull will also improve his view. Why he bothers, I do not know. We’re leaving in a month.

  That was confirmed after we found Hunter using a wooden dipper to ladle water into his shivering son’s mouth. The sight was worth a double take. Hunter has never struck me as the nurturing type.

  “Has he come down with the flu?” I asked, keeping my distance from the chaise lounge where Sal curled into a tight fetal position and moaned.

  “No,” Hunter sighed. “This is a self-administered wound.”

  “Another all night bender?”

  “Quite the opposite.”

  TRANSMISSION:

  Hunter: “Are you absolutely certain you wish me to do this?”

  Jones: “Don’t fuck with me, man.”

  Hunter: “I’ll have to strap on my belt.”

  Jones: “Know that.”

  Hunter: “You also know the risks. It must be bad.”

  Jones: “Gettin’ there. Make it quick, will ya? Ya can do that, can’t ya?”

  Hunter: “I can, but it will cost you.”

  Jones: “Fucker . . . cost what?”

  Hunter: “Nothing too precious. I need some alone time with Duarte. You’re going to help me.”

  Jones: “Alone?”

  Hunter: “No harm will come to the good doctor, I promise. There’s something I must show her before we cross the Pond.”

  From the log of Salvatore Bolzano

  Chief Anthropologist & Master Vintner

  (English translation)

  I hope it does not come off as persnickety to note this evening’s venison stew would have benefited from a smidgen more seasoning and a lot less simmering. I really have no right to complain. In my absence, Jones and Flower did their best to prepare the official welcoming feast for Father. Duarte and Kaikane raved that it was “fabulous.” I keep reminding myself they were only praising the efforts, and not, as I first interpreted, pronouncing the culinary skills of Jones and his girlfriend superior to mine.

  How petty! What is next? Should I dash myself to the dirt and flail my arms and legs? Stick out my tongue? If it would help, I would do all. At this moment, I would trade my right thumb for a skin of wine. Buon Dio, I feel wretched. At least this childish pouting is being conducted privately. My associates think I am in here twisting in the throes of delirium tremors. The shivers stopped an hour ago, hopefully for good. With the predictability of a Swiss train schedule, I have progressed to the megrims. This is a skill in which I am preeminent! No one will ever best me at feeling sorry for myself.

  I have endured this drying-out process before. It never gets any easier. Father surprised me with his understanding and compassion. Of course, once the suffering dragged into day two he more or less forgot me, but initially he was really quite attentive.

  His first kindness was to accompany me back into Lupercal to assess the damage. Tying back the shredded tarps to give us adequate light, we waded into the depths of the crime scene. Hopes of finding a portion of my stores intact, an emergency wine skin or un-pillaged cheese pit were dashed. I stumbled from one violated hiding place to the next.

  Damn that bear, she wrought total destruction. The sad realization I may never again enjoy olive oil or grape wine tears me to the core.

  On our second circuit, Father began hypothesizing. He wagered the sow began with the salted meats and cheese, then turned to the wine to slake her thirst. Nether of us could make sense of the olive oil. Though bears are omnivorous, spicy oil just does not seem like a substance they would enjoy. The stupid bitch barely spilled a drop. We surmise she did not begin smashing pots and slashing bags until the food and beverages were finito.

  “Let’s have a bath,” Father said, wiping his finger along the rim of a shattered crock to glean one last taste of olive oil. “You look like you could stand a bit of scrubbing.”

  “You as well.”

  “I see your stream continues to flow. Many of the springs north of here have withered.”

  Only half listening, I asked, “What about south?”

  “How the hell would I know about the south? I told you I came from the north.”

  I did not have the energy to bicker. “You say it is dry in the north?”

  “Yes, Salvatore. That is what I said, twice now. Are you concussed? Did that bear rattle your brain?”

  Though she caused no physical damage–my liver might even contend she did far more good than harm–“rattled” is the perfect word to describe my feelings in the aftermath. Lost in a fog of mourning, shocked, I followed him from the coolness of the dim cave into the convection oven afternoon.

  My little spring trickles out of a crack near the Palatine’s summit, emerging at the same rate whether it is the dead of winter or middle of a continent-wide drought. Thanks to many hours of digging and prying with Stone Age tools by yours truly, the bathing spot is a meter wide, a half-meter deep and roughly three meters long. My clan mates pitched in to help me cover the floor with a thick layer of round pebbles and sand imported from the seashore. The elongated pool is an aberration, a brief stop for glory in a creek that weeps over mossy-covered rocks for the rest of its zigzag journey to the swamp.

  These days the creek peters out in a shallow pond where thousands of animals water every day. As it is situated near where the Trevi Fountain will someday be built, we have named it Trevi Mud Hole. Even now, nearing midnight, the chaos around the Trevi echoes through my cave.

  Father and I settled into opposite ends of the narrow pool and let the cool water cover our weary muscles. Scooping sand, crushed shells and stones from the bottom, we scoured our bodies in silence. I
nterludes in a conversation rarely live long around me, but I had nothing to say. It was Father who finally spoke. Facing my way, toes not quite touching mine, he gave me a brief recap of his 14 months on the trail.

  He claimed he wasted half a year wrapping up affairs in Northern Europe before setting off on a long run to the coast of China and back. Details that might interest me personally were in short supply, but he did describe several hunts and how he paused for “just a few moments” to watch the sun rise over the Pacific before turning and hotfooting it back to Italy. Father had nothing to offer on the hominids he encountered, or what progress mankind might or might not be making in the East. I did not have the energy to coax the information out of him.

  “It was a jolly good run,” was the gist.

  I barely had the strength to drag myself from the tub, don my loincloth and trudge to the patio. Gravity seemed to increase fourfold as I collapsed on my leather chaise. Silent tears soon gave way to uncontrollable weeping.

  Since my childhood, Father has always been quick to mock my emotions, claim my occasional meltdowns made me a “baby” or a “girl.” Not today. As stated earlier, he surprised me with his patience and empathy. Father must not have worn the belt for a long time. He seems human. Though it is impossible to hide his disappointment in the loss of our special stores, he has had three days to lay blame at my feet, yet refrains.

  We could be sharing horns of mash right now! The patio has become synonymous with fine appetizers and relish platters. Oh, I must stop thinking of what could be and accept what is. My associates took the news better than I would have expected. What is a party without vino? No, they are getting along just fine on creek water, fresh game and conversation.

  Father’s news of widespread drought prompted Gray Beard to share an ancient story of hardship and starvation while tonight’s stew cooked into oblivion. Most of his stories deal with hardship and starvation of one sort or another. It was impossible for me to absorb every detail, but apparently a long-ago group of Green Turtles crossed the Gobi Desert, or perhaps the Sahara. Morbid deaths, running battles with hyenas and days when they were forced to drink their own urine to survive–what passes as dinner conversation in the Paleolithic.

  There I go again, projecting my pain, blaming others for my problems. I owe everything to my native half brother, and usually adore his stories.

  Leonglauix smells change in the air, senses we are on the verge of an important decision, one that will affect him. When Duarte proposes her ship’s manifest during our meeting tomorrow, I wonder if his name will be listed. After all the old man has been through with us, I am not leaving him behind. For me, that would be a deal breaker. It is bad enough they are taking me to a land without olive trees.

  To her credit, Duarte has held her tongue as she waits for me to recover. I have been surprised, actually miffed, by how nonchalant my contemporaries have been toward my suffering. If a bear attacked one of them, I would not stop the pampering until their spirits had revived. These jokers have begun having fun at my expense, making light of my plight. Father has dubbed me “The Shagger,” snidely implying the bear and I were engaged in sexual congress when he arrived.

  I do not mind really. He has been using me to entertain others since I was a tyke. “Wait until you hear what my sillyheaded son Salvatore has done now. Come here boy, tell them what you did.”

  We all play our roles in life. It was far better to see Father laughing with my friends than to have him arrive encased in his security field, glowering and stomping around camp like a despot. Having run the gamut of his emotions, I think it would be fair to rank tonight as one of his better evenings in a long while. Too bad I was suffering too much to fully enjoy it.

  The light mood was infectious among my counterparts. Jones was the most jovial I’ve seen him in years. Hovering near the cook bag with Flower, holding hands and smooching when they thought we were not aware, he appears to have shaken his depression, a vulture that has been circling for months. The broad-shouldered, kinky-haired warrior cracked several jokes and sang an Icelandic folk song from pre-jump days.

  Duarte was having such a fine time she did not bother chastising him for the sin of sharing a modern tune and melody with our guest, Flower. (We have given up attempting to shield Leonglauix.)

  Once the bland stew was choked down, Father began handing out gifts–not an uncommon practice in Cro-Magnon society, but a first for him.

  Pulling a pair of silvery bromeliads from his leather pack, he said, “Maria, I encountered these plants near the base of the Hindu Kush. They are seed producers. I have taken care to remove all pods so there is little chance of introduction to this region. Do you see the alternating leaf structure? It is unique, is it not?”

  “I haven’t catalogued these yet. Are they from an arid region?”

  “Quite. Rough up one of the leaves and give it a whiff.”

  “Mmmm, that’s nice. Like a cross between lavender and cinnamon.”

  “Buggers are one of the few things that grow below the ice cliffs along the East-West route the Cro-Magnons use. The plant is a trade item, but poisonous as hell. Don’t eat them.”

  The manner in which Duarte dropped the plants to the ground, the confused look on her face, caused Father to erupt into a full belly laugh.

  “Gotcha!” He howled. “There’s no danger. Really! The leaves are used as medicine and the stems for seasoning stews. Local tribesmen, a small race of people, collect the plants in packs big as themselves and carry them down to the lowlands to trade. Go on, inspect them, they won’t hurt you!”

  Digging into his pack like a lithe Father Christmas, but barefoot and dressed only in a scant leather mantle, Father produced a fox-fur bag containing a pornographic ivory statue. Holding the bag just out of reach of his seated son, the gray-bearded storyteller, he made his presentation in Green Turtle dialect.

  “Brave Leonglauix, greatest storyteller in all the land, here is an item which will help you keep listeners enthralled no matter what you have to say. If an audience begins losing interest, show them this!”

  With a flourish, Father produced a quite sophisticated carving depicting a man mounting a woman from behind. The details of the smiling faces, the shape and size of the woman’s swinging breasts pointed to an advanced level of artisanship. Not that anyone but me was paying attention to the crafter’s technique. Father began turning the statue in different positions.

  “He’s on top,” he joked. “Now she’s on top. Now they’re standing on their heads doing it!”

  Cro-Magnon humor, it always gets old. Leonglauix and Flower thought it was the funniest thing ever. Once he had the statue in his own hands, Leonglauix could not stop admiring it. He spent the remainder of the evening studying its nuances.

  My gift came next.

  “I thought of you when I stumbled upon this skull in the bottommost chamber of a Mesopotamian cave,” Father said. “Someone or something had set it atop a rock in the middle of the sandy floor. There was no sign of other bones. Judging by the size and shape, I reckon it’s rather on the old side. Since I don’t often see skulls with the lower mandible, I added the loops of leather to keep it in place during the journey to Rome.”

  Dr. Duarte leaned in for a closer look as I rotated the yellow skull in my hands, levered the lower jaw open and closed. It was about half the size of a modern human skull and lacked the heavy brows, sloped forehead of Neanderthal. The way the bones had fused, the pair of mended wounds, told us it was most certainly an adult.

  “Chimpanzee?” Duarte asked.

  I did not think so and neither did she.

  “It appears to be a hominid,” I replied with little conviction.

  Father nearly knocked the skull from my hands when he tapped it with his forefinger. “I have a theory on which dead-end branch of mankind this is from. Rather than poisoning the well, I’ll hold my opinion until you each have a chance to come up with conclusions of your own. Good science, and all that rot.”


  Jones and Flower received a modest collection of neon-colored feathers. Though small, they were the brightest yellows, greens and oranges any of us had ever beheld. A wink from Father prompted Jones to sketch the vaguest hint of a salute. Was I the only one who witnessed the exchange? I believe Jones may have received his present early. A medicinal zap from Father’s belt? If so, good for him.

  The last gift went to Kaikane, and though it wasn’t much of a present, he received it with a great deal of enthusiasm.

  “Admiral, this may be what you have been seeking,” Father said as he handed the Hawaiian waterman a piece of driftwood that appeared to have been dipped in chocolate.

  “Shit on a stick?” Kaikane deadpanned.

  “Hopefully better than that,” Father replied. “I found this along the coast of Syria. The region’s interior is littered with stinking, bubbling tar pits, but you don’t see many along the sea. I pulled this wood from a pit oozing asphalt tar not more than a stone’s throw from a beach where I camped several nights. The zone is void of humans, and twice as bloody hot as it is here, but I was passing through and needed to stop to recuperate. The beach was blessed with a fresh water source, a shady grove of date palms and good fishing. I found it rather comfortable.

  “Anyway, back to the driftwood. Do you see how well preserved the end covered in tar is? Compare it to the un-treated end.”

  Wormholed, gray from the sun and wind, the bare end had no defense against Kaikane’s fingernails as he scraped them along its powdery surface.