The Dream
It was dark in here, but this was the jungle and it was always the domain of darkness, and that too of the all-pervading damp. Slime and mould ran across the stonework, shadows danced as branches high above them swayed in the merest of winds, and leaves and other detritus crunched damply underfoot.
I moved further in, a careful hand gripping a long low stone, perhaps once the lintel to a doorway, now laying cracked upon the mound. Before me lay the place of legend, the lost temple of the Lemba, the broken ruin all that was left of centuries of glory, centuries whose foundation had been incarnate in the ancient stones I now unearthed, clearing the roots and fungi off, stones more ancient than the rest of the fallen edifice, stones whose age was a testament to the truth that lay at the heart of all legends.
For indeed I was looking at a Latin inscription, Petronius, Governor of the colonia, erected at the height of Roman dominance, a time when Roman colonies breasted the Indian Ocean, when their empire was at its maximum extent, when it truly seemed a world empire, and where in the world it did not rule, it had influence, such as in the Indian kingdoms. Half-forgotten tales even hinted at a trade with China from these Indian ports, but people had yet to assert the provenance of any of that. But what was no longer up for debate was that the legendary status of Roman rule in what was now Zimbabwe was a solid reality. As solid as the stones beneath my hands.
The interior was vast, and in some places still roofed by vaulting that leapt up, and in these places met its fellow rising from the walls on the other side. Mostly it had collapsed, but the places where it had not leant a certain glory to the place, despite the jungle wreathed around, and the half-jungle growing up amongst the stones, in places seeing whole trees taken root in banks of sediment, in others seeing the power of nature pushing up from below, cracking the stone flags, pushing vegetation upwards into the light.
But still it was recognisable in the round, it was a temple, perhaps one that had seen its heyday as late as the sixteenth century, a time when even the great builders of Europe could not have built anything to better it. I knew that the modern people of this nation claimed ancient roots, that whilst the Bantu ethnicity was plain upon them, that the Roman heritage they believed in, and the Jewish religion that survived in a warped form, all hinted at something more. In its way it was truly remarkable - despite race and ethnicity, these people kept alive these twin traditions that most people, even a decade ago had castigated as mere fancy. Now, I had no doubts at all.
I worked hard, not having to worry about the burning sun or the oppressive heat, not down here in the dank shadow of the canopy above. By evenfall, I had it clear. The builders of this, the last great temple of the Lemba, had arranged these stone inscriptions upon the wall that was now fallen, the wall that had risen beside, and above the doorway whose giant lintel lay broken on the ground. These inscriptions, and they were many, truly spoke the history of this place.
It was a record of conquest and assimilation, starting with the Romans who had written their own glories upon stone, and who had lasted a century, or maybe close to two, the record was still obscure, and much about late period colonia remained to be understood; just how much had they retained contact with the empire, and how much that was truly Roman had remained in their midst? After that had come what was recorded as glorious independence, and then conquest, after conquest, but always ending with the conqueror assimilating into the Lemba, always ending with the fall of the conqueror's home and the survival of this distant outpost.
I read this, and later in the fading light I read the writings elsewhere within the ruined temple. I had studied what the modern people of Zimbabwe called their ancient tongue, I knew the lettering and the script, but here I was not reading it as Bantu, but as Hebrew! Everything was confirmed! My eyes misted as I read of the ancient origins of the Arc of War, of how it had been brought forth out of Israel, of how it had resided here, of how it had been renewed by God's spirit, and how its power had always overcome adversaries, turning them in upon themselves. Everyone who had ever conquered them had become of them, and this final temple was the last and greatest monument of them all!
As darkness fell, I collected up my equipment and moved out. The cosmophone would be ready in the inn, and tonight I would send my first report. By the weekend, The World Chronicle would be breaking the story around the world, and the long lost secrets of the Lemba would be out for all to see...
Best Regards
Grey Wolf
It was dark in here, but this was the jungle and it was always the domain of darkness, and that too of the all-pervading damp. Slime and mould ran across the stonework, shadows danced as branches high above them swayed in the merest of winds, and leaves and other detritus crunched damply underfoot.
I moved further in, a careful hand gripping a long low stone, perhaps once the lintel to a doorway, now laying cracked upon the mound. Before me lay the place of legend, the lost temple of the Lemba, the broken ruin all that was left of centuries of glory, centuries whose foundation had been incarnate in the ancient stones I now unearthed, clearing the roots and fungi off, stones more ancient than the rest of the fallen edifice, stones whose age was a testament to the truth that lay at the heart of all legends.
For indeed I was looking at a Latin inscription, Petronius, Governor of the colonia, erected at the height of Roman dominance, a time when Roman colonies breasted the Indian Ocean, when their empire was at its maximum extent, when it truly seemed a world empire, and where in the world it did not rule, it had influence, such as in the Indian kingdoms. Half-forgotten tales even hinted at a trade with China from these Indian ports, but people had yet to assert the provenance of any of that. But what was no longer up for debate was that the legendary status of Roman rule in what was now Zimbabwe was a solid reality. As solid as the stones beneath my hands.
The interior was vast, and in some places still roofed by vaulting that leapt up, and in these places met its fellow rising from the walls on the other side. Mostly it had collapsed, but the places where it had not leant a certain glory to the place, despite the jungle wreathed around, and the half-jungle growing up amongst the stones, in places seeing whole trees taken root in banks of sediment, in others seeing the power of nature pushing up from below, cracking the stone flags, pushing vegetation upwards into the light.
But still it was recognisable in the round, it was a temple, perhaps one that had seen its heyday as late as the sixteenth century, a time when even the great builders of Europe could not have built anything to better it. I knew that the modern people of this nation claimed ancient roots, that whilst the Bantu ethnicity was plain upon them, that the Roman heritage they believed in, and the Jewish religion that survived in a warped form, all hinted at something more. In its way it was truly remarkable - despite race and ethnicity, these people kept alive these twin traditions that most people, even a decade ago had castigated as mere fancy. Now, I had no doubts at all.
I worked hard, not having to worry about the burning sun or the oppressive heat, not down here in the dank shadow of the canopy above. By evenfall, I had it clear. The builders of this, the last great temple of the Lemba, had arranged these stone inscriptions upon the wall that was now fallen, the wall that had risen beside, and above the doorway whose giant lintel lay broken on the ground. These inscriptions, and they were many, truly spoke the history of this place.
It was a record of conquest and assimilation, starting with the Romans who had written their own glories upon stone, and who had lasted a century, or maybe close to two, the record was still obscure, and much about late period colonia remained to be understood; just how much had they retained contact with the empire, and how much that was truly Roman had remained in their midst? After that had come what was recorded as glorious independence, and then conquest, after conquest, but always ending with the conqueror assimilating into the Lemba, always ending with the fall of the conqueror's home and the survival of this distant outpost.
I read this, and later in the fading light I read the writings elsewhere within the ruined temple. I had studied what the modern people of Zimbabwe called their ancient tongue, I knew the lettering and the script, but here I was not reading it as Bantu, but as Hebrew! Everything was confirmed! My eyes misted as I read of the ancient origins of the Arc of War, of how it had been brought forth out of Israel, of how it had resided here, of how it had been renewed by God's spirit, and how its power had always overcome adversaries, turning them in upon themselves. Everyone who had ever conquered them had become of them, and this final temple was the last and greatest monument of them all!
As darkness fell, I collected up my equipment and moved out. The cosmophone would be ready in the inn, and tonight I would send my first report. By the weekend, The World Chronicle would be breaking the story around the world, and the long lost secrets of the Lemba would be out for all to see...
Best Regards
Grey Wolf