but there are some large ones at the back which have cracks in them. If you cut away the damaged areas, they're still usable.'
I realised that the old man had mistaken me for someone searching for scrap marble. Pelagia had mentioned that marble-work in the city was now made mostly from pieces of salvaged material.
'I had no idea there was so much derelict statuary in store,' I said.
The old man sniffled; the dust was getting in his nose as well as his eyes.
'The city authorities need the display space,' he explained. 'Every time there's a new monument, the sponsors want to put it in the city centre where most people will see it. But the city centre is full up. Not surprising when they've been erecting public monuments there for seven hundred years. So they tear something down and, if they're trying to save money, reuse the plinth. Half the time no one can remember who or what the original statue commemorated. And that's not to mention the statues and monuments which get pulled down when someone wants to build a new apartment block, or which topple over due to neglect or during an earthquake. The city council doesn't want to spend money on putting statues back on their feet.'
'I came here to look at the older statues,' I said cautiously. I did not want to arouse any suspicions that I was a heathen. 'Maybe I can find a representation of one of the ancient Gods.'
'You're not the first person to do that ' said the old man, 'though I doubt if you'll have much luck. Difficult to turn an old God into a new man.' He cackled. He still believed that I was a monumental sculptor looking for a cheap and quick way to carry out a commission by remodelling an earlier statue.
'Can you tell me the best place to look?'
The old man shrugged. 'Can't help you there,' he replied curtly. 'Could be anywhere.' As he turned away with complete lack of interest, I reflected that when the old Gods were discarded, they fell into oblivion.
I spent the next few hours nosing around the Basilike. Nowhere did I find a statue that resembled the Gods I believed in, though I did find what was obviously a sea god, for he had a fishy tail and carried a seashell in one hand. But he was not Njord, my own God of the Sea, so I presumed he belonged to a different faith. In one corner I saw a well-muscled statue sporting a bushy beard, and thought I had stumbled across Thor. But, looking more closely, I changed my mind. The unknown God carried a club, not a hammer. No True Believer would have failed to show Mjollnir, or Thor's iron gloves and strength-giving belt. The other effigy which raised my hopes was the contorted figure of a man pinioned to a rock. The writhing figure was obviously in torment, and I thought it might be Loki the trickster whom the Gods punished by tying him to a rock, using the entrails of his own son as his bonds. But I could see no trace of the serpent whose venom would fall on Loki's face if it was not collected in a bowl by his faithful wife Sigyn, nor a statue of Sigyn herself. The carving remained a mystery, and I was disappointed that I found no trace whatever of the God whom I expected to be there — Odinn. And among all the inscriptions I saw not a single rune letter.
I had reached the very back of the last storage hall when I finally came across one image that I could identify for certain. The carving was done on a panel, and there were holes drilled for the attachment points where it had been fixed on public display. It was a picture of the three Norns, the women who weave the fate of all beings. One of them was spinning, another measuring, and the third held scissors. As I gazed at the panel, it occurred to me that here, perhaps, was a message that I should heed. Not even the Gods themselves can alter the destiny that the Norns have woven, so there was nothing that I could do to change the ultimate fate of the Elder Way. It was better that I should try to understand what was replacing it.
Perhaps Odinn put that thought into my
I realised that the old man had mistaken me for someone searching for scrap marble. Pelagia had mentioned that marble-work in the city was now made mostly from pieces of salvaged material.
'I had no idea there was so much derelict statuary in store,' I said.
The old man sniffled; the dust was getting in his nose as well as his eyes.
'The city authorities need the display space,' he explained. 'Every time there's a new monument, the sponsors want to put it in the city centre where most people will see it. But the city centre is full up. Not surprising when they've been erecting public monuments there for seven hundred years. So they tear something down and, if they're trying to save money, reuse the plinth. Half the time no one can remember who or what the original statue commemorated. And that's not to mention the statues and monuments which get pulled down when someone wants to build a new apartment block, or which topple over due to neglect or during an earthquake. The city council doesn't want to spend money on putting statues back on their feet.'
'I came here to look at the older statues,' I said cautiously. I did not want to arouse any suspicions that I was a heathen. 'Maybe I can find a representation of one of the ancient Gods.'
'You're not the first person to do that ' said the old man, 'though I doubt if you'll have much luck. Difficult to turn an old God into a new man.' He cackled. He still believed that I was a monumental sculptor looking for a cheap and quick way to carry out a commission by remodelling an earlier statue.
'Can you tell me the best place to look?'
The old man shrugged. 'Can't help you there,' he replied curtly. 'Could be anywhere.' As he turned away with complete lack of interest, I reflected that when the old Gods were discarded, they fell into oblivion.
I spent the next few hours nosing around the Basilike. Nowhere did I find a statue that resembled the Gods I believed in, though I did find what was obviously a sea god, for he had a fishy tail and carried a seashell in one hand. But he was not Njord, my own God of the Sea, so I presumed he belonged to a different faith. In one corner I saw a well-muscled statue sporting a bushy beard, and thought I had stumbled across Thor. But, looking more closely, I changed my mind. The unknown God carried a club, not a hammer. No True Believer would have failed to show Mjollnir, or Thor's iron gloves and strength-giving belt. The other effigy which raised my hopes was the contorted figure of a man pinioned to a rock. The writhing figure was obviously in torment, and I thought it might be Loki the trickster whom the Gods punished by tying him to a rock, using the entrails of his own son as his bonds. But I could see no trace of the serpent whose venom would fall on Loki's face if it was not collected in a bowl by his faithful wife Sigyn, nor a statue of Sigyn herself. The carving remained a mystery, and I was disappointed that I found no trace whatever of the God whom I expected to be there — Odinn. And among all the inscriptions I saw not a single rune letter.
I had reached the very back of the last storage hall when I finally came across one image that I could identify for certain. The carving was done on a panel, and there were holes drilled for the attachment points where it had been fixed on public display. It was a picture of the three Norns, the women who weave the fate of all beings. One of them was spinning, another measuring, and the third held scissors. As I gazed at the panel, it occurred to me that here, perhaps, was a message that I should heed. Not even the Gods themselves can alter the destiny that the Norns have woven, so there was nothing that I could do to change the ultimate fate of the Elder Way. It was better that I should try to understand what was replacing it.
Perhaps Odinn put that thought into my
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