“Another fire line?” Beenay said.
“Another fire line, yes. What we have in this hill is like a sandwich—a layer of human occupation, a layer of charcoal, another layer of human occupation, another layer of charcoal. So what I think happened is something like this. During the time of the crosshatch people there was a devastating fire that scorched a pretty good chunk of the Sagikan Peninsula and forced the abandonment of the Thombo village and other crosshatch-style villages nearby. Afterward, when the inhabitants came back and began to rebuild, they used a brand-new and more elaborate architectural style, which we call cyclopean because of the huge building-stones. But then came another fire and wiped out the cyclopean settlement. At that point the people of the area gave up trying to build cities on the Hill of Thombo and this time when they rebuilt they chose another site nearby, which we term Beklimot Major. We’ve believed for a long time that Beklimot Major was the first true human city, emerging from the smaller crosshatch-type proto-Beklimot-period settlements scattered all around it. What Thombo tells us is that there was at least one important cyclopean city in the area before Beklimot Major existed.”
“And the Beklimot Major site,” Beenay said, “shows no trace of fire damage?”
“No. So it wasn’t there when the city on top of Thombo was burned. Eventually the whole Beklimot culture collapsed and Beklimot Major itself was abandoned, but that was for other reasons having to do with climatic shifts. Fire had nothing to do with it. That was perhaps a thousand years ago. But the fire that wrecked the topmost Thombo village seems to have been much earlier than that. I’d guess about a thousand years earlier. The radiocarbon dates from the charcoal samples will give us a more precise figure when we get them from the lab.”
“And the crosshatch settlement—how old is that?”
“Orthodox archaeological belief has been that the fragmentary crosshatch structures we’ve found here and there on the Sagikan Peninsula are only a few generations older than the Beklimot Major site. After the Thombo excavation, I don’t think so. My guess is that the crosshatch settlement on that hill is two thousand years older than the cyclopean buildings on top of it.”
“Two thousand—? And you say there are other settlements below that one?”
“Look at the chart,” Siferra said. “Here’s number three—a kind of architecture we’ve never seen before, nothing at all like crosshatch work. Then another burn line. Settlement number four. And a burn line. Number five. A burn line. Then numbers six, seven, eight, and nine—or, if Balik’s reading is correct, just numbers six and seven.”
“And each one destroyed by a great fire! That seems pretty remarkable to me. A deadly cycle of destruction, striking again and again and again in the same place.”
“The remarkable thing,” said Siferra in a curiously somber tone, “is that each of these settlements appears to have flourished for approximately the same length of time before being destroyed by fire. The layers of occupation are quite extraordinarily similar in thickness. We’re still waiting for the lab reports, you understand. But I don’t think my eyeball estimate is very far off. And Balik’s figures are the same as mine. Unless we’re completely mistaken, we’re looking at a minimum of fourteen thousand years of prehistory in the Hill of Thombo. And during those fourteen thousand years the hill was periodically swept by massive fires that forced its abandonment with clockwork regularity—one fire every two thousand years, just about exactly!”
“What?”
A shiver traveled along Beenay’s spine. His mind was beginning to leap to all manner of improbable and disturbing conclusions.
“Wait,” Siferra said. “There’s more.”
She opened a drawer and took out a stack of glossy photographs.
“These are pictures of the Thombo tablets. Mudrin 505 has the originals—the paleographer, you know. He’s been trying to decipher them. They’re made of baked clay. We found these three in Level Three, and these in Level Five. They’re both written in extremely primitive scripts, and the writing on the older ones is so ancient that Mudrin can’t even make a start on them. But he’s been able very tentatively to puzzle out a couple of dozen words from the Level Three tablets, which are written in an early form of the Beklimot script. So far as he can tell at this point, they’re an account of the destruction of a city by fire—the work of angry gods who periodically find it necessary to punish mankind for wickedness.”
“Periodically?”
“That’s right. Does it begin to sound familiar?”
“The Apostles of Flame! My God, Siferra, what have you stumbled on here?”
“That’s what I’ve been asking myself since Mudrin brought me the first sketchy translations.” The archaeologist swung around to face Beenay, and for the first time Beenay saw how bleary her eyes were, how tense and drawn her face. She looked almost distraught. “Do you see now why I asked you to come here? I can’t talk about this with anyone in the department. Beenay, what am I going to do? If any of this becomes public, Mondior 71 and his whole crazy crew will proclaim it from the rooftops that I’ve discovered firm archaeological proof of their crackpot theories!”
“You think so?”
“What else?” Siferra tapped the charts. “Here’s evidence of repeated fiery destruction at two-thousand-year intervals, roughly, over a period of many thousands of years. And these tablets—the way it looks now, they might actually be some sort of prehistoric version of the Book of Revelations. Taken together, they provide, if not actual confirmation of the rantings of the Apostles, then at least a solid rational underpinning for their whole mythology.”
“But repeated fires at a single site don’t prove that there was worldwide devastation,” Beenay objected.
“It’s the periodicity that worries me,” said Siferra. “It’s too neat, and too close to what Mondior’s been saying. I’ve been looking at the Book of Revelations. The Sagikan Peninsula is a holy place to the Apostles, did you know that? The sacred site where the gods formerly made themselves visible to humanity, so they say. And therefore it stands to reason—listen to me, it stands to reason,” she said, laughing bitterly—“that the gods would preserve Sagikan as a warning to mankind of the doom that will come again and again if we don’t alter our wicked ways.”
Beenay stared at her, stunned.
He knew very little about the Apostles and their teachings, really. Such pathological fantasizing had never held any interest for him, and he had been too busy with his scientific work to pay heed to Mondior’s windy apocalyptic prophecies.
But now the memory of the conversation he had had some weeks before with Theremon 762 at the Six Suns Club burst with furious impact into bis consciousness. “… won’t be the first time the world has been destroyed … the gods have deliberately made mankind imperfect and given us a single year—one of their divine years, not one of our little ones—in which to shape up. That’s called a Year of Godliness, and it’s exactly two thousand and forty-nine of our years long.”
No. No. No. No. Idiocy! Claptrap! Hysterical folly!
There was more. “Again and again, when the Year of Godliness has ended, the gods have discovered that we’re still wicked and sinful, and so they have destroyed the world by sending down heavenly flames.… So say the Apostles, anyway.”