“And the better for it,” said Galla. “The empire will never come back. But I truly believe that some day, out of the union of our peoples here and across the continent, new blood will arise, new kinds of strength and vision.”
Athalaric raised his eyebrows. Something in her tone reminded him unfortunately of Papak, and he wondered what she was trying to sell his uncle. He said dryly, “But in the meantime, before that marvelous day comes to pass—”
“In the meantime I am concerned for my children.”
“Why? Are they in peril?”
“In fact, yes,” Galla said, letting her irritation show. “You have been away too long, young man, or else you have your head too firmly buried in Honorius’s teachings.”
“There have been attacks,” Theodoric said. “Property damage, fires, thefts.”
“Directed against the Romans?”
“I am afraid so.” Theodoric sighed. “I, who remember how it was, would like to preserve what was best about the empire — stability, peace, learning, a just system of law. But the young know nothing of this. Like their forefathers who lived simpler lives on the northern plains, they hate what they know of the empire: power over the land, the people, riches from which they were excluded.”
“And so they wish to punish those who remain,” said Athalaric.
Galla said, “Why they behave as they do scarcely matters. What is important is what must be done to stop them.”
“I have raised militia. The disturbances can be quelled, but they erupt again elsewhere. What we need is a solution for the long term. We must restore the balance.” Theodoric smiled. “It is a paradox that I should come to believe it is necessary to make our Romans strong again.”
Athalaric snorted. “How? Give them a legion? Raise Augustus from the dead?”
“Simpler than that,” Galla said, unmoved by his mockery. “We must have a bishop.”
Now Athalaric began to understand.
Galla said, “Remember, it was Pope Leo who persuaded Attila himself to turn back from the gates of Rome—”
“So that’s why I’m here. You want Honorius to become a bishop. And you want me to persuade him to do it.”
Theodoric nodded, pleased. “Galla, I told you the boy is perspicacious.”
Athalaric shook his head. “He will refuse. Honorius is not — worldly. He is interested in his old bones, not in power.”
Theodoric sighed. “But there is a shortage of candidates, Athalaric. Forgive me, madam, but too many of the Roman gentry have proved themselves fools — arrogant, greedy, overbearing.”
“My husband among them,” Galla said evenly. “There is no offense to be given by the truth, my lord.”
Theodoric said, “It is only Honorius who commands true respect — perhaps because of his lack of worldliness.” He eyed Athalaric. “If it had not been so I would never have been able to release you to his tutelage.”
Galla leaned forward. “I understand your misgivings, Athalaric. But will you try nevertheless?”
Athalaric shrugged. “I will try, but—”
Galla’s hand shot out and grabbed his arm. “As long as he lives, Honorius is the only candidate for the position; no other can fill the role. As long as he lives. I trust you will try very hard to persuade him, Athalaric.”
Suddenly Athalaric saw power in her: the power of an ancient empire, the power of an angry, threatened mother. He pulled himself free of her grip, disturbed by her intensity.
Honorius prepared for the last leg of the epic journey he had first conceived on meeting the Scythian on the edge of the eastern deserts.
A traveling party formed up. The core was Honorius, Athalaric, Papak, and the Scythian, just as it had been before. But now some of Theodoric’s militia traveled with them — away from the towns, the country was far from safe — along with a handful of the more inquisitive young Goths and even some members of the old Roman families.
So they journeyed west.
As it happened they were all but retracing the steps taken by Rood’s hunting party, some thirty thousand years earlier. But the ice had long retreated to its northern fortresses — so long ago, 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.”