Nope, they didn't exist for the entire time. Greece was missing from the map for centuries; at first, it was a part of the Eastern Roman Empire (though a core part), then a part of the Ottoman Empire (an oppressed colony). Italy was split into disparate city states for the entirety of the Middle Ages and Renaissance. The city of Rome was held by the powerful Papal State (a much larger predecessor to modern day Vatican), but it was not interested in preserving "pagan" monuments (the same could be said about the Eastern Roman Empire).

Yes

The Wishmaker's Key, one of the fabled artifacts of the arcane that grants your wishes, and the most sought after. Not cursed like the Monkey's Paw that twists your wish and grants it in such a way that guarantees your suffering. No dreadful price to pay like with the Devil's Bottle, which summons a demon that grants wishes but condemns your soul to Hell. No, the Wishmaker's Key was never described as cursed or dreaded. Every ancient libram of legends had it as the Fair Artifact.

However, few people knew that the Key was truly a fair artifact. Having your wishes granted for free, with no effort on your part, is not fair. The Key does not do that. It grants your wishes, but you have to work for them to come true.

Annette the Red, a scullery maid from Maracanor, once found the Key and wished to become a great sorceress. She lost her job at Baron von Koffinus' household and was hired by the wizard Solomon Craque. Soon she became the wizard's all-around assistant, and the cranky old mage agreed to teach her some of his craft. One hundred years later, Annette became a member of the Grey Council, an exalted order of archmages.

Sir Glorius, a poor landless knight, was the next owner of the Key. He did not believe at first that this was the fabled Wishmaker's Key, and jokingly wished to become King of Caramanor. The next day, the infamous pretender, Balderac the False King, started his rebellion in the Eastern Holds, and the local count declared a call to arms. Sir Glorius was accepted into the count's personal guard and rode into battle against the pretender. In the long and harrowing civil war, most of the old nobility died, and new heroic warlords arose, one of them Sir Glorius, who ended the war by capturing the capital of the Eastern Holds, returned triumphantly into the deserted Isle de Caramanor and was crowned king.

Finally, the Key found itself in the hands of the traveling wizard Albendalf the White. Having immediately recognized the Key for what it is, the wizard decided to test it by wishing for a cup of good coffee as he was walking down the streets of Barmalion City. And lo and behold, just around the corner was a fine little coffee shop. Albendalf entered and ordered some Al Shaytani coffee, and damn, that cup was a good one and worth every penny.

Sergeant Komarov was awakened by a strange silence, a kind unheard of since the day he was drafted and sent to the frontlines. When he looked around, he found himself alone in a snowy field. His unit was gone. The trenches and encampments, all vanished. No gunfire sounded in the distance, no rumble of artillery.

Slowly he stood up and looked around. The terrain looked the same. No one stole him in the night and dumped somewhere, it was still the same hilly plain with copses of trees that was the contested ground between the Russian army and the Ukrainian defenders for months now. No one disarmed him, either: his rifle and body armor were still with him.

He walked through the snow, looking for any signs of human presence, and he soon found some. There was a village in the horizon. It was the same village that was abandoned by its inhabitants and shelled into ruins months ago, except it was entirely intact. The chimneys were smoking. People were walking around with no fear. The village looked like there wasn't any war.

Komarov approached the village cautiously, not knowing if there are any soldiers residing there, Russian or Ukrainian, but as he came closer he saw no signs of military presence. Finally he met a villager, casually strolling along the snowy road.

"Hello!" Komarov said. "I may sound stupid, but I need to know: is this territory held by Russians or Ukrainians?"

"Are you daft, soldier?", the villager responded. "This is Soviet territory. This is the Lenin's Way Collective Farm!"

"Captain!", the radio squawked in the voice of Science Officer Hithlomiel. "My field analysis of the remains and archeological findings here is complete. It's fascinating, you need to see this!"

"Can you upload it to the ship's server?", Captain Narion asked.

"Yes, I'm doing it right now! By the Exalted One, Captain, you MUST see this!", Hithlomiel's voice was bubbling with excitement.

"This is some kind of error", Captain Narion thought as he started to peruse Hithlomiel's findings. "It's just Elfoid remains, nothing more... Wait!", a thought flashed in his head as he examined a photo of some posters found on the ruins. The beings depicted were, indeed, very similar to Elfoids, but on close inspection, it became obvious that they were not. The most obvious distinction was round ears. Precise anatomical drawings hid more details the Elfoids lacked. These people had 32 teeth, while the Elfoids had 28. There was a strange, tiny, dead-end intestine these people had and the Elfoids didn't. The eyes' retinas were literally facing the wrong way. But there were much, much more similarities than distinctions. These people had a tetracameral heart, a pair of lungs, a network of blood vessels and a gastrointestinal tract. Their bodies were made of eukaryotic cells with DNA encoded proteins.

"Science Officer, these people..."

"They looked like us, yes. But with one small caveat. They looked like the naturally evolved version of us. Untouched by genetic enhancement."

"So... this... this dustball, forsaken by the Exalted One, is the actual birthplace of the Elfoid kind? Not Anor? Do you have any further data? What were they like?"

"Ample medical data, Captain. It appears these beings weren't biologically immortal and got sick pretty often, so their doctors were never out of work. Here, I have uploaded some scanned old photos".

One photo depicted a woman that was impossible to mistake for an Elfoid, so bloated and massive she was. It reminded Narion of old science fiction flicks, where the evil aliens always looked like uglier, monstruous version of Elfoids.

"What is THIS?"

"Body fat, captain. Apparently it's a medical condition these people sometimes had, which caused their body fat to become so massive".

"Another thing edited out of us? Like those extra teeth?"

"Yes, and now I see why the extra teeth didn't make the cut. Look at these X-Rays of them growing wrong way."

Narion was extremely confused by Hithlomiel's excited, chatty attitude. All these images looked horrible. The hypertrophied body fat, teeth growing wrong way... What's next, hairless scalps? Misshapen spines? Tumors growing on skin? "Don't tell me they sometimes had all that, too!", Narion shuddered. The Elfoids' imperfect ancestors looked like Elfoids at best... and like sick twisted monsters at worst.

"You say they weren't biologically immortal. Any success with deciphering their records? What was their average lifespan?"

"About 65 Anorian years, or 80 local ones".

"So they died as barely more than children", Narion whispered in horror.