37 The Man with the Crooked NoseIt was daylight and birds were singing outside the window. The new sun shone down again on a freshened earth, a rich black earth that would nourish vine and convolvulus impartially. To the sun, and to the earth, there were no weeds, no precious flowers; all were green and hungry, waiting to be fed. There were no hawks and no skylarks, only birds, that poised or sang, fished or soared, as their nature guided them. No good, or bad men—only men, hungry, needing to be fed; only men living, and men dying.
Gemellus was lying in a warm bed, drinking thick meat broth out of a wooden bowl. He was very thin, and pale, and his beard had grown long, a grizzled black now. He looked old, or rather, ageless, a young old man. He held the bowl in his left hand, for the othe
