“I’m sure I won’t make it,” I said.
“Oh, come on, Ottavia! We have more than nine hours!”
“So?” I jumped up. “I can’t run for nine hours. I don’t think I could run for nine minutes.”
The Rock flipped some more pages in his little notebook. “The men’s record for the marathon is under two hours and seven minutes. The women’s record is just over two hours and twenty minutes.”
“I can’t,” I repeated obstinately. “Do you know how much I have run in the last few years? Not one bit! Not even to catch the bus!”
“I am going to give you some instructions to follow tonight,” continued the Rock, turning a deaf ear to my complaints. “First, don’t overdo it. Don’t throw yourself into the race as if you really had to win a marathon. Run gently, don’t hurry, economize your movements. Take short, even strides, don’t wave your arms, breath normally. When you go uphill, do it effortlessly, efficiently, take small steps. When you go downhill, descend quickly, but control your pace. Keep the same rhythm throughout the entire race. Don’t lift your knees too much, and try not to lean forward, try to keep your body at a straight angle to the ground.”
“What are you saying?” I grunted.
“I am talking about getting to Kapnikarea, remember, Doctor? Or would you rather return to Rome tomorrow morning?”
“Do you know what Spyros Louis did when he got to kilometer thirty?” His Beatitude Christodoulous wasn’t used to our bickering. “When he felt very tired, he stopped, asked for a big glass of red wine, and drank it down in one gulp. Then he started a spectacular comeback and flew for the last nine kilometers of the race.”
Farag let out hearty laugh. “Well, now we know what to do when we are tired. Drink a nice glass of wine!”
“I don’t think the judges would allow that these days,” I replied, a bit miffed with Glauser-Röist.
“Why not? Runners can drink anything as long as they don’t test positive for doping.”
“We will drink sports drinks,” announced the Rock. “Doctor Salina, more so than Farag and I, needs to drink more often to recover ions and mineral salts. If you don’t, you will suffer really bad leg cramps.”
I kept my mouth shut. I preferred Saint Lucia’s hot red floor a thousand times over that blessed endurance test I was preparing for.
The captain opened a leather case that lay on the desk and took out three tiny, mysterious boxes. At that moment some far-off clock struck seven.
“Put on these pulse meters,” the captain ordered, showing Farag and me the strange clocks. “How old are you, Professor?”
“That’s a good one! Why do you ask?”
“You program the pulse meters so they can monitor your heartbeat during the race. If you go over your limit, you could collapse—or, even worse, have a heart attack.”
“I don’t plan on exceeding my limit,” I announced, disgruntled.
“Tell me your age, Professor, please,” the Rock asked again, picking up one of the pulse meters.
“I’m thirty-eight.”
“Fine, we subtract 38 from a maximum of 220 beats.”
“Then what?” asked His Beatitude Christodoulous.
“The recommended beats for a man are calculated by subtracting his age from the maximum cardiac frequency, which is 220. So, the professor will have a theoretical cardiac frequency of 182 beats. If he goes over that number during the race, he could put himself in danger. The pulse meter will beep if he does, okay, Professor?”
“Sure,” Farag said, strapping the contraption to his wrist.
“Please tell me your age, Doctor.”
I was waiting for that terrible moment. I didn’t care if His Beatitude Christodoulous and the Rock knew, but it bothered me that Farag would know I was a year older than he. Either way, I had no way out.
“I’m thirty-nine.”
“Perfect.” The Rock didn’t even blink. “Women have a greater cardiac frequency than men. They can handle a greater effort. So, in your case we will subtract thirty-nine from 226. Your theoretical maximum is 187 beats, Doctor. But since you live a very sedentary life, we will program it at 60 percent—that is 112. Remember, if the pulse meter starts beeping, you need to drop your pace immediately and slow down, got it?”
“Sure.”
“These calculations are approximate. Each person is different. Limits can vary according to a person’s preparation and constitution. Don’t just go by the pulse meter; at the slightest warning signal from your bodies, stop and rest. Now, let’s move on to possible injuries.”
“Can’t we skip that part?” I asked, bored. I certainly wasn’t going to injure myself—and I wasn’t going to make my pulse meter beep, either. I was going to hold myself to a slow pace, the slowest I could go and still make it to Athens.
“No, Doctor, we can’t skip that part. It’s important. Before starting we have to do some exercises and stretches to warm up. The lack of muscle mass in sedentary people is the main cause of ankle and knee injuries. In any case, we are really fortunate that the entire course is on asphalt highways.”
“Oh?” I interrupted him. “I thought it went through the countryside.”
“I bet my pulse meter you pictured yourself dead on some hill, surrounded by forests and wild animals!” commented Farag, trying not to laugh.
“Well, yes. I’m not ashamed to admit it.”
“The entire course is on highways, Doctor. We can’t get lost. Several years ago the Greek government painted a blue commemorative line along the thirty-nine kilometers. For greater safety, you pass through several towns and a city, as you will soon see. We don’t ever leave civilization.”
That was good news; getting lost in the woods was definitely out.
“If at any time you notice a sharp muscular pinch that leaves you breathless, stop. The test is over for you. Most likely you have a fibular tear. If you keep going, the damage could be irreversible. If it feels like a normal pain, even if it’s intense, rub the aching muscle. If it’s hard as a rock, stop to rest. It could be the beginning of a contracture. Massage it in the direction of the muscle, and when you can, end with some light stretches. If the tension subsides, continue; but if it doesn’t, please stop. The race is over for you. Now,” he got to his feet, decisively, “please change clothes, and let’s go. We’ll eat on the way. It’s getting late.”
Some bizarre sports clothes were waiting for me in my room. It was your standard running suit, but when I put it on, I looked so ridiculous I felt like crawling into a hole, though I must say that when I put on the white running shoes, it looked better. It was even better when I tucked a nice silk handkerchief into the collar of my sweat suit. In the end the outfit wasn’t so pathetic, and it did turn out to be comfortable. For several months, I hadn’t had a chance to go to the hair salon. My hair had grown so much I had to hold it back with an elastic band. Although it was a bit extravagant, at least it kept the long strands of hair out of my face. I put on my long wool coat (more to cover up than because of the cold) and went down to the lobby, where my companions, the porter in the green livery, and a driver from the archbishopric were waiting for me.
The road to Marathon was full of advice and many last-minute suggestions. I understood that Captain Glauser-Röist didn’t have the slightest intention of waiting for Farag or me, and that suited me just fine. His idea was that at least one of us should get to Kapnikarea before dawn. That was essential so at least one of us could continue the tests and get the next clue. Farag or I might not get our tattoos, but we could collaborate with the Rock on the next circles.
The Greek highways were actually more like country roads, not wide and well paved like those in Italy. The traffic wasn’t heavy. Traveling in the archdiocese’s car was like going back in time ten or fifteen years. Overall, Greece continued to be a marvelous country.
Night was falling when we finally drove into the town of Marathon. Nestled in a valley, with its flat terrain and wide-open spaces, Marathon was th
e ideal place for an ancient battle. In all other respects, it was no different from other industrial towns in modern-day Europe. Marathon received a throng of tourists, especially athletes and people who wanted to try out the famous race.
The car pulled up to the sidewalk in a strange spot outside of town, next to a knoll covered with green vegetation and some flowers. We got out of the car without stopping to look at the tumulus where one of the most important yet forgotten milestones in history had taken place. If the Persians had won the battle of Marathon, if they had imposed their culture, their religion, their politics on the Greeks, the world as we know it would more than likely not exist. Everything would be different—not better or worse, just different. That battle erected the barrier that allowed our culture to flourish. According to Herodotus, under that tumulus were 192 Athenians who died to make that possible.
The driver said good-bye and sped away, leaving us there on the side of the road. I left my coat in the car because the weather was actually wonderful.
“When do we start, Kaspar?” asked Farag, who was wearing a strange T-shirt with long, white sleeves and light blue running shorts. We each carried a small cloth backpack with the supplies we needed for the test.
“It’s eight-thirty and it’s just about to get dark. Let’s walk over to the hill.” The captain looked the best in his terrific red running suit, his physique that of a lifelong athlete.
The tumulus was much bigger than it had looked at first glance. Even the Rock looked as small as an ant when we got to the edge where the grass began. The spot was so solitary we were startled by a voice calling to us in heavily accented modern Greek from the other side of the hill.
“Who is that?” the Rock grumbled.
“Let’s go see,” I proposed, circling the tumulus.
Seated on a stone bench, enjoying the nice weather and the last rays of evening sun, a group of elderly men, with black hats and sticks fashioned into canes, studied us, seemingly very amused. We didn’t understand a word they were saying, and they didn’t seem to care. Accustomed to tourists, they must have had a lot of fun at the expense of people who traveled there like us, decked out in running clothes, ready to emulate Spyros Louis. The joking smiles on their leathery, wrinkled faces said it all.
“Could they be Staurofilakes?” Farag asked, staring at them.
“I refuse to think that,” I sighed, but the idea had occurred to me. We were getting paranoid.
“Do you two have everything you need?” asked the captain, looking at his watch.
“What’s the rush? We have ten minutes left.”
“Let’s do some exercises, start with some stretches.”
A few minutes after our exercise class started, the public streetlights came on. The sunlight was so dim now you could barely see a thing. The old men made jokes we couldn’t understand. From time to time one of our stretching positions made them burst out laughing, which dangerously inflamed my mood.
“Calm down, Ottavia. They’re just some old peasants. That’s all.”
“When we find the current Cato, I’m going to tell him a thing or two about his spies.”
The old men split their sides laughing. I turned my back on them, furious.
“Professor, Doctor. It’s time. Remember—the blue line starts in the middle of town, at the spot where the race started in 1896. Stick with me until then, okay? Ready?”
“No!” I declared. “I don’t think I’ll ever be ready for this.”
The Rock gave me a scornful look, and Farag quickly interceded. “We’re ready, Kaspar. Say the word.”
We stood there for a few silent seconds, not moving, while the Rock stared at his watch. Suddenly he turned, gave us a nod, and started running. He began at a smooth pace that Farag and I imitated. The heat didn’t do me any good. With each stride, I gave a prayer for my knees; they seemed to receive the impact equivalent to a couple of tons. Resigned, I told myself that, no matter what, I had to be a good sport.
A few minutes later, we came to the Olympic monument, where the infamous blue line started. The monument was a simple white stone wall with a heavy, burning torch in front. There, the race started in earnest. My watch read 9:15, local time. We followed the line into the city, and I couldn’t help feeling a little embarrassed at what people must have thought when they saw us. But the residents of Marathon didn’t seem the least bit interested in us. They were used to seeing all kinds of things.
At the starting point, when we were running on the same highway we’d driven on, the captain picked up his pace and pulled away. I, on the other hand, slowed down until I nearly stopped. Faithful to my plan, I adopted a light pace I planned to keep up all night. Farag turned to look at me.
“Something the matter, Basileia? Why are you stopping?”
So he’s calling me Basileia again, eh? Since Jerusalem, he’d only done that a couple of times—I’d kept track—but never in front of other people. So now it was clandestine, private, only for my ears. Just then my pulse meter beeped. I had gone over the recommended pulses. My running pace didn’t warrant it, my heart did.
“Are you okay?” babbled Farag, looking worried.
“I’m perfectly fine. I did my own calculations.” I stopped my charming contraption’s beeping. “At this pace, it’ll take me six or seven hours to get to Athens.”
“Are you sure?” he stammered, examining me.
“No, not completely; but once many years ago, I did a sixteenkilometer run and it took me four hours. That’s a simple rule of three.”
“But the terrain is different here. Don’t forget the mountains surrounding Marathon. Besides, the distance to Athens is more than twice sixteen kilometers.”
I redid my calculations and didn’t feel as sure as before. I vaguely recalled I was half dead when I finished that run, so the outlook wasn’t very good. I wished with all my heart that Farag would take off running and get far away from me. But apparently he had no intention of leaving me alone that night.
For the past week, I had desperately forced myself to concentrate on what we were doing and forget those crazy, unsettling feelings that wouldn’t leave me alone. Visiting Jerusalem and seeing Pierantonio had helped a lot. However, I noticed that those feelings that I was constantly trying to hold back made me feel terribly bitter and sapped my strength. What started out in Ravenna as a joyful emotion was now affecting the way I reacted to the world. One can fight back an illness or one’s destiny, but how was I supposed to fight back the feeling that was pushing me toward that fascinating man? There I was, my obedience to God growing more fragile with each stride I took on the race to Marathon.
Although the blue line was drawn on the asphalt highway, we prudently traveled on the wide tree-covered sidewalk. Soon the sidewalk ended and we had to run on the highway’s shoulder. Fortunately, the number of cars passing us decreased. We were running on the right side of the road, in the same direction as the cars driving up behind us, which we shouldn’t have done. But the only real danger, if you can call it that, was the dark. Here and there, lights were still on at a bar or on a highway near a town or at a little house on the outskirts, but soon they also began to dwindle. Maybe it was a good idea that Farag didn’t leave me.
When we came to the next city, Pandeleimonas, we were engaged in an interesting conversation about the Byzantine emperors and the general lack of knowledge that existed in the West about the Roman Empire, which lasted in fact until the fifteenth century. My admiration and respect for Farag’s erudition was growing. After a long, gentle ascent, we ran through Nea Makri and Zoumberi immersed in our chat. Time and kilometers were passing without our noticing. I’d never felt so happy; never had my mind been so open and alert, ready to leap at the least intellectual challenge. By the time we got to the sleepy town of Agios Andreas, three hours had gone by. Farag started to tell me about his work at the museum. The night was so magical, so special, so beautiful, that I didn’t even feel the merciless cold of the dark Greek countryside. The poor li
ght of the waning moon was no help. Still, I wasn’t worried or scared; I traveled along totally absorbed in Farag’s words. As he shined his flashlight on the ground in front of us, he talked passionately about the Gnostic texts written in Coptic found in the ancient Nag Hammadi, in Upper Egypt. He had worked on them for several years, locating the second-century Greek sources they were based on and comparing them, fragment by fragment, to other known writings by Coptic Gnostic writers.
We shared a great passion for our work, as well as a deep love for antiquity and its secrets. We felt called to unveil them, to describe what had been lost over the centuries out of abandonment or profit. He didn’t share certain nuances of my Catholic focus, and I didn’t agree with those postulates he professed on and on about a picturesque Gnostic origin of Christianity. True, nearly everything about the first three centuries of our religion is unknown, and those great gaps have been imaginatively filled with false documents or manipulated testimonies. Even the Gospel had been touched up during those first centuries. They’d been molded to the dominant currents in the nascent church, causing Jesus to commit terrible or absurd contradictions—contradictions that had often gone unnoticed. I couldn’t accept that everything needed to be brought to light, that the Vatican’s doors had to be open to any researcher who, like him, didn’t have the faith necessary to give the right sense to what he discovered. Farag called me a reactionary, a retrograde. He didn’t accuse me of usurping humanity’s patrimony, but he came close. Still he didn’t do it with acrimony. We laughed and laughed, we attacked each other from our respective ideological fortresses with a mixture of tenderness and affection that softened any steel bullet we might have fired at one another. The hours passed by unnoticed.
Mati, Limanaki, Rafina… We had just about reached Pikermi, the exact middle of the marathon. There was no more traffic on the narrow highway, and no sign of Captain Glauser-Röist. I was starting to feel a great fatigue in my legs and a light pain in my back and my glutes, and my feet were burning, but I refused to acknowledge it. During a forced stop, I discovered a couple of huge spots on my feet that had been rubbed raw and had become blisters sometime during the night.
The Last Cato Page 33