Athalaric listened to his mentor, keeping his face expressionless.
This was the heart of Rome. It was here that the business of the city had been done even in Republican times. Since then, leaders and emperors as far back as Julius Caesar and Pompey had sought prestige by embellishing this ancient place, and the area had become a maze of temples, processional ways, triumphal arches, basilicas, council halls, rostra, and open spaces. The imperial residences on Palatine Hill still loomed over it all, a symbol of brooding power.
But now, of course, the emperors, like the Republicans before them, had gone.
Today Athalaric had chosen to wear his best metalwork, his belt buckle of bronze with fine lines of silver and gold hammered into its engraved pattern and the bow brooch of gold with silver filigree and garnets that held his cloak in place. His
barbarian
jewelry, so sneered at by the Romans, caught the light of the fierce Italian sun, even here in the ancient heart of their capital. And to remind himself of where he had come from, around his neck Athalaric wore the tag of beaten tin that had marked his father out as a slave.
He was proud of who he was, and who he might become. And yet, and yet . . . And yet the sheer scale of it all, to eyes accustomed only to the small towns of Gaul, was astonishing.
Much of Rome was a city of mud brick, timber, and rubble-work; its predominant color was the bright red of the roofing tiles that covered so many of the residential buildings. The population had long overflowed the fortifications of the ancient city, and even the more extensive walls erected under the threat of barbarian invasion two centuries ago. It was said that at one time a million people had lived in this city, which had ruled an empire of a
hundred
million. Well, those days were gone— the burned-out and abandoned outer suburbs attested to that— but even in these straitened times, the sheer
numbers
of the place were stunning. There were two circuses, two amphitheaters, eleven public baths, thirty-six arches, nearly
two thousand
palaces, and a thousand pools and fountains fed with Tiber water by no less than nineteen aqueducts.
And at the heart of this sea of red tile and swarming people, here he was in an immense island of marble: marble used not just for columns and statues, but for the veneers of the walls, even for paving.
But, though the great spaces of the Forum were thronged with market stalls, Athalaric thought he sensed a great sadness here. Today the city was no longer even under Roman rule. Italy was now governed by a Scirian German called Odoacer, placed there by rebellious German troops, and Odoacer used Ravenna, a northern city lost in marshland, as his capital. Rome itself had been sacked twice.
Athalaric, motivated by a mild cruelty that puzzled him, began to point out evidence of damage. “See where the plinths are empty; the statues have been stolen. Those columns have tumbled, never to be repaired. Even some of the marble from the temples’ walls has been taken! Rome is decaying, Honorius.”
“Of course it is decaying,” Honorius snapped. He shifted to stay in the shade of the plinth. “Of course the city decays.
I
decay.” He held up his liver-spotted hand. “As do you, young Athalaric, despite your arrogance. And yet I am still strong.
I am here,
am I not?”
“Yes, you are here,” Athalaric said more kindly. “And so is Rome.”
“Do you believe that nature is running down, Athalaric? That all life-forms are diminishing with successive generations?” Honorius shook his head. “Surely this mighty place could only have been constructed by men with the most tremendous hearts and minds, men one will not find in the present world of squabbling and fracture, men who have evidently, tragically, become extinct. And if so it behooves us to conduct ourselves as did those who came before— those who built this place, rather than those who would tear it down.”
Athalaric was moved by these words. But they subtly excluded him. Athalaric knew he was a good student, that Honorius respected him for his mind. Athalaric had reason to feel protective of the old man, even fond, of course; else he would not have accompanied him on this hazardous jaunt across Europe in search of ancient bones. And yet Athalaric was aware, too, that there were barriers in Honorius’s heart every bit as solid and enduring as these great walls of white marble around him.
It was Honorius’s ancestors who had built this mighty place, not Athalaric’s. To Honorius, whatever he did, Athalaric would always be the son of a slave— and a barbarian at that.
A man approached them. He was dressed in a toga every bit as grand as Honorius’s was threadbare, but his skin was as dark as an olive’s.
Honorius pushed himself away from the plinth and stood up. Athalaric shifted his robe so that the weapon at his waist was visible.
His hands hidden in a fold of his toga, the man appraised them coolly. In clear but highly accented Latin, he said, “I have been waiting for you.”
“But you do not know us,” Honorius said.
The newcomer raised his eyebrows and glanced at Honorius’s travel-stained toga, Athalaric’s gaudy jewelry. “This is still Rome, sir. Travelers from the provinces are usually easily recognized. Honorius, I am the one you seek. You may call me Papak.”
“A Sassanian name— a famous name.”
Papak smiled. “You are learned.”
As Papak smoothly questioned Honorius about the difficulty of their journey, Athalaric appraised him. The name alone told him much: Papak was evidently a Persian, from that great and powerful state beyond the borders of the remnant empire in the east. And yet he was in fully Roman attire, with not a trace of his origin save for the color of his skin and the name he bore.
Almost certainly he was a criminal, Athalaric thought. In these times of disintegrating order, those who worked in the shadows thrived, trading on greed and misery and fear.
He interrupted Papak’s easy conversation. “Forgive my poor education,” he said silkily. “If I remember my Persian history,
Papak
was a bandit who stole the crown from his sworn ruler.”
Papak turned to him smoothly. “Not a bandit, sir. A rebel priest, yes. A man of principle, yes. Papak’s life was not easy; his choices were difficult; his career was honorable. His is an honored name I am proud to bear. Would you like to compare the integrity of our lineages? Your German forebears chased pigs through the northern forests—”
Honorius said, “Gentlemen, perhaps we should cut to the heart of the matter.”
“Yes,” Athalaric snapped. “
The bones,
sir. We are here to meet your Scythian, and see his bones of heroes.”
Honorius laid a placating hand on his arm. But Athalaric could sense his intensity as he waited for Papak’s answer.
As Athalaric had half expected, the Persian sighed and spread his hands. “I did promise that my Scythian would meet you here, in Rome itself. But the Scythian is a man of the eastern desert. Which is why he is so difficult to work with. But his rootlessness is why the Scythian is so useful, of course.” Papak rubbed his fleshy nose regretfully. “In these unfortunate times travel from the east is not so secure as it once was. And the Scythian is reluctant—”
To Athalaric’s irritation, the ploy worked.
“It has always been thus,” Honorius said sympathetically. “It was always easier to deal with farmers. Coherent wars can be fought with those who own land; if deals are struck all understand the meaning of the transactions. But nomads make for a much stiffer challenge. How can you
conquer
a man if he does not understand the meaning of the word?”
“We had an arrangement,” Athalaric snapped. “We engaged in extensive correspondence with you, on receipt of your catalog of curiosities. We have traveled across Europe to meet this man, at great expense and not insignificant danger. We have already paid you half of the fee we agreed, let me remind you. And now you let us down.”
Athalaric, despite himself, was impressed by Papak’s display of hurt pride— the flaring nostrils, the trace of deeper color in his cheeks. “I have a reputation that spans the continent. Even in these difficult days there are many connoisseurs, like yourself, sir Honorius, of the bones of the heroes and beasts of the past. It has been a tradition across the old empire for a thousand years. If I were to be found out a cheat—”
Honorius made placatory noises. “Athalaric, please. I am sure our new friend did not mean to deceive us.”
“It simply strikes me as remarkable,” Athalaric said heavily, “that as soon as we meet, your promises evaporate like morning dew.”
“I do not intend to renege,” Papak said grandly. “The Scythian is— a difficult man. I cannot deliver him like an amphora of wine, much though I regret the fact.”
Athalaric growled, “
But?
”
“I can propose a compromise.”
Honorius sounded hopeful. “There, you see, Athalaric; I knew this would come good if we have patience and faith.”
Papak sighed. “I am afraid it will demand of you further travel—”
“And expense?” Athalaric asked suspiciously.
“The Scythian will meet you at a rather more remote city: ancient Petra.”
“Ah,” said Honorius, and a little more of the life went out of him.
Athalaric knew Petra was in Jordan, a land still under the protection of Emperor Zeno in Constantinople. In such times as these, Petra was another world away. Athalaric took Honorius’s arm. “Master, enough. He is applying storekeepers’ tricks. He is merely trying to draw us more deeply into—”
Honorius murmured, “When I was a child my father ran a shop from the front of our villa. We sold cheese and eggs and other produce from the farms, and we bought and sold curiosities from all across the empire and beyond. That was how I got my taste for antiquities— and my nose for business. I am old but no fool yet, Athalaric! I am sure Papak senses further profit for himself in this situation— and yet I do not believe he is lying about the fundamentals.”
Athalaric lost patience. “We have much work waiting for us at home. To be hauled across the ocean for a handful of decayed old bones—”
But Honorius had turned to Papak.
“Petra,”
he said. “A name almost as famous as Rome’s itself! I will have many colorful adventures to recount to my grandchildren on my return to Burdigala. Now, sir, I suspect we must begin to discuss the practicalities of the journey.”
A broad smile spread across Papak’s face. Athalaric studied his eyes, trying to assess his honesty.
It took Honorius and Athalaric many weeks to reach Jordan, much of it consumed by the bureaucracy required to deal with the eastern empire. Every official they met proved deeply suspicious of outsiders from the broken remnants of the western empire— even of Honorius, a man whose father had actually been a senator of Rome itself.
It was Athalaric’s self-appointed duty to care for Honorius.
The old man had once had a son, a childhood friend of Athalaric’s. But Honorius had taken his family, with Athalaric, to a religious festival in Tolosa, to the south of Gaul. The party had been set upon by bandits. Athalaric had never forgotten his feeling of helplessness as, just a boy himself, he had watched as the bandits had beaten Honorius, molested his daughters— and so carelessly killed the brave little boy who had tried to come to his sisters’ aid.
A fine Roman citizen! Where are your legions now? Where are your eagles, your emperors?
Something had broken in Honorius that dark day. It was as if he had decided to detach himself from a world in which the sons of senators needed the patronage of Goth nobles, and bandits freely roamed the interior of what had been Roman provinces. Though he had never neglected his civic and family duties, Honorius had become increasingly absorbed by his study of relics of the past, the mysterious bones and artifacts that told of a vanished world inhabited by giants and monsters.
Meanwhile Athalaric had developed a deepening loyalty to old Honorius— it was as if he had taken the place of that lost son— and he had been pleased, though not surprised, when his own father had agreed that he should serve as Honorius’s pupil in the law.
Honorius’s story was only one of a myriad similar small tragedies, generated by the huge, implacable historical forces that were transforming Europe. The mighty political, military, and economic structure built by the Romans was already a thousand years old. Once it had sprawled across Europe, northern Africa and Asia: Roman soldiers had come into conflict with the inhabitants of Scotland in the west and the Chinese to the east. The Empire had thrived on expansion, which had bought triumphs for ambitious generals, profits for traders, and a ready source of slaves.
But when expansion was no longer possible, the system became impossible to sustain.
There came a point of diminishing returns, in which every
denarius
collected in taxes was pumped into administrative maintenance and the military. The empire became increasingly complex and bureaucratic— and so even more expensive to run— and inequality of wealth became grotesque. By the time of Nero in the first century, all the land from the Rhine to the Euphrates was owned by just two thousand obscenely rich individuals. Tax evasion among the wealthy became endemic, and the increasing cost of propping up the empire fell ever more heavily on the poor. The old middle class— once the backbone of the empire— declined, bled by taxes and squeezed out from above and below. The empire had consumed itself from within.
It had happened before. The great Indo-European expansion had spun off many civilizations, high and low. Great cities already lay buried in history’s dust, forgotten.
Although the west had been the origin of the sprawling empire, the east had eventually become its center of gravity. Egypt produced three times as much grain as the west’s richest province in Africa. And while the west’s long borders were vulnerable to attack by land-hungry Germans, Hunni, and others, the east was like an immense fastness. The constant drain of resources from east to west had caused a growing political and economic tension. At last— eighty years before Honorius’s visit to Rome— the division between the two halves of the old empire was made permanent. After that the collapse of the west had proceeded apace.