by Tom Pollack
Cain sighed. “Even with progress,” he said, “there is always a price to pay.”
***
During Homer’s three-month visit to Athens, the two men talked every day, sometimes for hours. Homer’s approach to the epic story of Troy fascinated Cain.
“I did not set out to recount the whole war,” Homer explained. “How could a singer include everything that happened in ten years’ time? And I am not a cheerleader for the Greeks. The backbone of my Iliad is the quarrel between two leaders with different values.”
“And that’s why you started out with the verses about the ‘wrath of Achilles’?” Cain asked. They had spent much of their time together refining the new alphabetic system of writing. Now, absentmindedly, Cain traced the alphabetic letters for the first line of Homer’s epic poem in the sand.
Menin aeide thea Peleiadeo Achilleos
Sing, Muse, of the wrath of Achilles, son of Peleus…
“Exactly. I also wanted to use the war as a backdrop for what every man, Greek or Trojan, must come to terms with—his own mortality.”
Cain betrayed no emotion, although inwardly he registered the irony of his own position. “Your poem is not really a history, then, but something else?” he hazarded.
“Yes, my friend. But I would not know precisely what to call it. I don’t think the word has yet been invented.” Somehow his statement conveyed modesty, not arrogance.
“What about the homeward journeys of the Greek heroes after the fall of Troy? Have you sung tales about those voyages?” Cain inquired.
“I once heard a story about the wanderings of Odysseus, but it was so full of gaps I could not piece it together. It would not make a song in my mind.”
“I also have heard of Odysseus’s journeys,” replied Cain. “And I too have been a wanderer. Let us compare what we know.”
Cain called for a flagon of wine and two cups. And so it was that, on a sunny afternoon by the sea, Homer’s Odyssey was born.
CHAPTER 33
Rome, Near the Vatican: Present Day
“YES, NOTOMBO?” CARDINAL RAVATTI responded to the blinking intercom light on his desk. Late on a Sunday morning, the office of the Vatican’s Pontifical Commission for Sacred Archaeology was as hushed as the catacombs that lay within its jurisdiction.
“I’ve just spoken to the airport, Eminenza,” his assistant reported. “There’s a backlog on helicopter flights departing from Fiumicino, but I have secured the necessary approvals to depart instead from the Vatican heliport. We can leave in half an hour.”
“This monsignor will go places,” thought Ravatti, as a chopper with the yellow-and-white papal insignia hovered appealingly in his mind’s eye. But all he said was, “Good work, Monsignor. Let’s pass the time with a cappuccino in my office. I have already called the kitchen.”
“Thank you. I’ll be in as soon as I finalize our clearance into Ercolano. Apparently there has been some activity from Vesuvius that is disrupting the local airspace.”
Before Notombo’s arrival, Ravatti withdrew several photographs from the top drawer of his ornate sixteenth-century marble desk. Spreading the pictures out on the gleaming surface, he placed beside them a color printout of the image e-mailed from Silvio Sforza a few minutes beforehand.
“Ebbene, se non č vero, č certamente ben trovato,” Ravatti murmured to himself. “So, even if it’s not true, it surely hangs together.”
When Notombo entered, followed by a white-jacketed waiter with a tray bearing the coffees and assorted biscotti, Ravatti motioned the monsignor to one of the chairs on the other side of the desk. As he waited for the servant to withdraw, he savored the rich aroma of the frothy beverages.
After the door clicked shut, the cardinal leaned forward and spoke with the affection of an uncle. “Gabriel, before we fly to Ercolano I want to share some background. One day, you may well be sitting in this chair, my friend. But for now, this is strictly confidential, you understand?”
Notombo, taken aback, sat up very straight. Ravatti had addressed him by his first name. He had also speculated favorably on his future. It was rare in the notoriously secretive Vatican for a cardinal to be so willing to share a confidence.
“Assolutamente, Eminenza,” he reassured his mentor.
Ravatti pointed to the first photograph on the desk. “Do you know what this is?”
The monsignor looked at the picture momentarily, his eyes widening.
“I gather they did not cover this when you were at Harvard. It is an antikythera mechanism, Gabriel. I hasten to add that, aside from its name, no one knows its purpose, including me. But I have a special connection with this intriguing gadget. Over forty years ago, when I was fresh out of seminary, my superiors sent me to a dig in Libya for further on-site training. It was there that I first met Silvio Sforza. We were fledgling archaeologists, flush with all the enthusiasm we needed to conquer the world.”
“Were you digging at Leptis Magna?” inquired Notombo. The site, eighty miles east of the modern-day Libyan capital at Tripoli, was one of the most renowned in the ancient Roman world.
“Correct, my friend. Silvio and I discovered the device almost completely intact. It lay in the hold of a buried ship in an ancient dry dock, a few hundred meters inland from the Mediterranean. Possibly a powerful desert sandstorm covered it so that it was lost to time.”
“How old is the device?”
“Coins found in the wreck indicated a date of about 250 BC. There is only one other surviving antikythera mechanism, discovered more than a century ago by sponge divers near the island of Antikythera. It is now in the National Archaeological Museum in Athens.”
“It looks remarkably intricate,” observed Notombo, as he peered at the dozens of miniaturized interlocking gears.
“It has been described as the world’s first mechanical computer. But despite the minute lettering in Greek and Phoenician, which may be some sort of instruction manual, nobody really knows what it was used for. It could have been a navigation device, or possibly a calendar. It might have been an instrument for astronomical observations.”
Extracting a powerful magnifying glass from his desk, Ravatti handed it to Notombo. “Now, look carefully at the narrow rectangle in the lower right-hand corner. What do you see?”
“It looks to be some sort of mark. It’s quite different from the alphabetic lettering elsewhere.”
“Correct again. When Silvio and I found the device, we noticed the difference immediately. We speculated that the mark was some sort of signature—perhaps a personal symbol used by the maker. Similar, possibly, to the individualized crests you find today on signet rings or coats of arms. As you know, signing artifacts of many kinds was a common practice in the ancient world.”
“What happened to the device? Where is it now, Eminenza?”
Ravatti sighed. “Before Silvio and I could study it further, our superiors ordered it boxed up and sent to Rome. Here, too, it was lost to time for many years, due to a cataloging error in the Vatican Museums.”
“A cataloging error?” Notombo raised an eyebrow.
“Well, that is the official explanation. In any case, it only surfaced less than a year ago. Of course, I contacted Silvio immediately. He suggested that we send it to the Getty Museum in California for further analysis, since they are experts in such matters and possess all the latest technology.”
“Isn’t it a bit unusual for the Vatican to deploy outside assistance in a matter such as this?” Notombo asked.
“Typically, yes. But because I head the Pontifical Commission, a loan to the Getty was not difficult to arrange. They are studying the piece now,” Ravatti told him. “But that’s not the end of the story.”
They sipped their cappuccinos appreciatively. Then the cardinal resumed.
“For many years, I had only my memory of the artist’s mark to rely on. We had no digital cameras in those days. But the mark, if that’s what it was, had made a very powerful impression. So you can imagine my amazement whe
n I saw this.”
Ravatti gestured to the second photograph, which Notombo dutifully inspected.
“More than twenty years after I worked at Leptis Magna, this stunning map came into the Vatican collections. The material is exquisite: silk paper. The chart is of ancient Xi’an, the capital of the First Emperor of China. From what we can tell, it is astonishingly accurate. From the silk paper and the inks, it is estimated that the map was fashioned just a few decades before the birth of Christ.”
“Where did it come to light?” Notombo asked eagerly.
“You’d never guess. It was found in the late 1980s, slightly singed, inside a metal tube recovered from the basement of a first-century AD estate right here on the Palatine Hill. The cellar was apparently situated above the entrance to a catacomb. That’s how our Pontifical Commission got involved. From a stone with the name carved on it, archaeologists have established that the place belonged to a nobleman named Marcus Flavius Pictor.”
Notombo’s expression betrayed his astonishment.
“Yes, I know. It does seem supremely unlikely to encounter such a possession in Rome,” the cardinal told him. “Yet we are certain there were trade contacts between ancient Rome and China, even in those days. Now, please use the magnifying glass to examine the lower right-hand corner of the picture.”
“The identical artist’s mark!” exclaimed the monsignor.
“When I first saw it, I was confounded. So baffled, in fact, that I confided in a senior colleague, Cardinal Luigi Bertoli. You wouldn’t remember him. He died in 1990. He was archpriest of Santa Maria Maggiore, the basilica right around the corner from here. I was not yet a cardinal, and he was one of my kindest mentors. After I summarized the story and showed him some photographs, he invited me to lunch. We went to a small trattoria in the Piazza del Popolo.
“‘I have something to show you, Sandro, before we sit down,’ Luigi told me.
“We strolled from the restaurant across to the center of the piazza. When we were in the shadow of the obelisk, he pointed to its northern face.
“‘Now, look very carefully at the lower right corner. Describe to me what you see there.’
“I could not believe my eyes.” Ravatti slid the third photograph, a telephoto snapshot of the base of the obelisk’s northern face, over toward Notombo, who scrutinized it carefully.
Notombo let out a low whistle. “You have ruled out a graffito, Eminenza?”
“According to the Egyptology experts, the mark probably predates the original inscriptions. They believe it was chiseled right after the stone was quarried. You know the history of the obelisk, of course? It was originally erected by Ramesses II around 1200 BC. Then it was brought to Rome by Augustus in 10 BC and was placed in the Circus Maximus. It’s been in Piazza del Popolo since 1589.”
Notombo considered for a few moments before commenting, “With the tremendous disparities in time and place among these artifacts, I can understand your astonishment over this mark.”
“Indeed, my friend. This mystery that began over four decades ago, and still remains to be solved, has become a personal quest for me. The artifacts all bear the same mark, yet they cannot possibly be the work of a single artist. My working hypothesis is that they are the products of a society of skilled artisans and engineers, a secret guild that is still unbeknownst to modern archaeology and that must have endured for centuries.”
“I know of no historical precedent for such a group, Eminenza.”
“Nor do I. Certainly not in the particular time period in question. For lack of a better name, I have dubbed this artisan ‘society’ the Incogniti. It’s scarcely an original name,” Ravatti chuckled. “There was a group of intellectuals called Accademia degli Incogniti, the Academy of the Unknowns, in Venice in the mid-1600s. But if my Incogniti are shown to be historical, the discovery will be a major revelation. Think of multiple incarnations of Leonardo da Vinci, extending over more than a millennium!”
“And what is the relevance of this last item?” asked Notombo, as he picked up the color photograph from Silvio Sforza’s e-mail.
“This digital photograph came in this morning from Silvio,” clarified Ravatti. “It is a picture of the large bronze doors leading to the central chamber at the new dig in Ercolano. I think you know where to look, Gabriel.”
There, in the lower right-hand corner of the photograph, Notombo recognized the same artist’s mark. Even though he had expected its presence, it still caused him to shiver slightly.
“What Silvio has discovered could hold the key to the entire mystery. I surmise that behind these doors may lurk many more artifacts of the Incogniti. And that, my friend, is why we are flying this morning to Ercolano,” declared the cardinal as he rose and looked at his watch.
“Let’s get underway. It’s only a fifteen-minute drive to the Vatican on a Sunday. Come, we’ll stop on the way at the Piazza del Popolo so you can see the mark on the obelisk for yourself!”
CHAPTER 34
Greece, 520 BC
“YOU ARE AWARE, SIR, that the games started with a single footrace?” the man walking alongside Cain asked him. While strolling through the sanctuary of Zeus on his way to the opening ceremonies of the Olympic Games, Cain chatted idly with a spectator.
“You don’t say!” Cain affected astonishment. Of course he knew about the footrace.
“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” the man rattled on. “A footrace of two hundred yards. Exactly two centuries ago. Hercules won that race. He was accustomed to victory. Then he ordered that games be held every four years. No one dared to disobey him.”
“I expect not,” Cain replied. “But I thought there was a different story about how the games began. Something about Zeus and his father Cronus wrestling for control of the world?”
“You can believe that one if you want to, sir,” the man sniffed haughtily. “The story about Hercules is historical fact.”
Cain chuckled to himself at the man’s comment. For many centuries he had felt a satisfying sense of purpose in recording and sharing human history and tales from the past. In addition, the blurring of mythology with reality so common to the era had earned him a comfortable living. Yet, soon after collaborating with the master poet Homer, he began to experience a decline in his passion for, and eventually outright boredom with, the vocation he and Tanith had jointly discovered.
With the onward march of technology and the development of city-states, life as a wandering bard had now become obsolete, he thought. Largely due to Cain, the Homeric epics had been committed to writing. Although most Greeks still regarded Homer as their encyclopedia, new forms of literary expression were emerging. These ranged from lyric poetry to philosophy and natural history.
Simply put, there were so many entertainment options on the menu that few people ordered what Cain was serving any more. Yet, even as the literary scene exploded in Greece, interest in athletics had never been stronger. Greeks could now travel to sporting events of the finest quality every summer. There was a vigorous energy in all this, and Cain realized that the adulation of a stadium crowd of thousands was of a higher order of magnitude than late-night listeners’ praise of a storyteller in a small taverna. And so he had committed himself to finding a new vocation, a search that had brought him to Olympia.
His first efforts to qualify for the games had begun six years ago. He focused on the footraces, especially the two-stade race wherein competitors ran the double length of the stadium, approximately four hundred meters. After a grueling eighteen months in solo training, he had succeeded in qualifying for the Olympics of 524 BC as a representative of Athens. But he underestimated the competition and lost to a competitor from Croton, a colony the Greeks had established recently in southern Italy. The evening of his loss, his mind circled back to a footrace improvised long ago.
“Anyone can run a single length of the field, Abel. You need a bigger challenge. Try racing for two lengths, then three. Let’s start today. I know you can do it. I’ll be your trainer.�
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“Would you teach me racing, Cain?” Abel asked. “You are so swift-footed… I don’t know if I could ever compete with you.”
“You can if you have the desire, brother. We will turn your superior strength and size to your advantage. You will make me proud.”
This second return to Olympia for the games of 520 BC marked a turning point in Cain’s aspirations. Although he narrowly won his event this time, his victory was overshadowed by the exploits of a man whose name was now on everyone’s lips: Milo of Croton. At the age of eighteen, long before Cain’s first Olympic competition, this youth had emerged as the victor in the boys’ wrestling. Most seasoned spectators agreed that he had not only won, but also displayed the confidence and technique of a prodigy. Milo, it was said, would mature into the greatest wrestler in Olympic history.
This prediction had turned out to be accurate. Over the next twenty years in the men’s wrestling, Milo triumphed five times. Tracking his career, Cain had to admit that he had fallen into the category of a fan as Milo captured larger-than-life celebrity status.
And so, at these Olympics of 520, when Milo was in his late thirties, a fascinated Cain finally sought out the legend. For a sports celebrity, he found the great champion to be surprisingly accessible. The two men chatted at the final champions’ banquet, with Milo cheerfully volunteering news from Croton and Cain countering with the talk of Athens, where citizens were experimenting with a novel form of government called democracy.
“So when will you visit Croton?” the wrestler asked Cain. “It would be a pleasure to have you stay with me and my family. You have heard of Pythagoras?”
“The man from Samos, the founder of the mathematikoi?” Cain asked. After his self-imposed exile from his native island, word of the storied philosopher’s secret society in southern Italy had spread throughout the Mediterranean world.
