My life stopped. The world ceased its eternal gyration and Nature fell silent. I entered a type of silent white tunnel which proved that Einstein was right—time and space are relative. I looked at my feet and saw one of them sunk slightly into some white, cold stones. The other ascended in slow motion to take the next step. Time had expanded and stretched, allowing me to study that strange pathway without haste. My second foot fell like a bomb on the stones, making them jump in the air. My first foot had already started its indolent ascent. I could see how my toes extended, how the bottom of my foot expanded to offer more resistance to the rocky bed. Now it was descending very slowly so when it hit, it caused another gigantic earthquake. I laughed. I laughed because I was flying. A second before it hit the surface, the other foot lifted off the ground, leaving me suspended in the air.
I couldn’t erase the joy off my face the entire time that incredible experience lasted. It was only ten steps, but the longest ten steps of my life, and the most surprising. Suddenly the white tunnel ended and I entered reality, falling abruptly to the ground, propelled by the hot air. The drums were sounding, the shouts were deafening, dirt was stuck to my hands and feet, and I was all scratched up. I didn’t see Farag or Glauser-Röist anywhere although I sensed they were close by. Someone was covering Farag up with a large white linen cloth and carrying him off into the night. I too became a roll of linen. Hundreds of hands held me in the air in the middle of a deafening uproar. Then they laid me on a cushioned surface and unrolled me. I was dazed, completely soaked in my own sweat, exhausted as never before. I was so terribly cold; I shivered, as if I were freezing. Two women offered me a large glass of water, and I realized they weren’t Anuaks from Antioch. They were blond with translucent skin; and one of them even had green eyes.
After I drank what was in the glass, which didn’t taste anything like water, I fell asleep.
____________
* A white sauce or paste made with sesame.
* A mixture made with milk, nuts, raisins, and coconut.
† Puff pastry made with honey.
‡ Puff pastry made with sugar, pistachios, and coconut.
§ Cookies of ground wheat, milk, dried fruit, raisins, and rose water.
* An Arabic greeting.
* Historia Augusta, Antonino Caracalla, by Elio Esparciano (13,6,2–4).
* Staff crowned with two wings and two intertwined serpents. It was the symbol for Hermes, messenger for the gods.
* Lake in northern Egypt, in the western part of the Nile delta. Alexandria is situated on the strip of land between the lake and the Mediterranean.
* The Nile is formed by the confluence in Khartoum, capital of Sudan, of the White Nile and the Blue Nile. The White Nile starts in central Africa and contributes only 22 percent of the volume, while the Blue Nile starts in Lake Tana, in the Ethiopian plateau, and contributes the remaining 78 percent.
CHAPTER 7
I detached myself from my slumber, floating out of the deep lethargy I’d sunk into after we stomped over the wheel of fire. I felt relaxed, comfortable even, with an incredible sense of well-being. A delightful scent of lavender told me I wasn’t in Antioch. Half-asleep, I smiled at how good that familiar fragrance made me feel.
I heard women’s voices, whispering softly, not wanting to disturb my sleep. My eyes still closed, I paid attention to the sounds around me. To my great surprise, I realized that for the first time in a lifetime of study, I had the immense honor of hearing Byzantine Greek spoken.
“We should wake her up,” whispered one of the voices.
“Not yet, Zauditu,” answered another. “Please leave without making any noise.”
“But Tafari told me the other two are already eating.”
“Fine, let them eat. This woman can sleep as long as she wants.”
I suddenly opened my eyes. I was stretched out on my side, facing the wall, and the first thing I saw was a pleasant fresco of flautists and dancers painted on the smooth wall across from me. The colors were brilliant and intense, with magnificent details in gold surrounded by an array of browns and mauve. Was I still dreaming? I suddenly understood: I lay there in the earthly paradise.
“See?” said the voice of the woman who wanted to let me sleep. “You and your chatter. You woke her up!”
I hadn’t moved a muscle, my back was still to them. How did they know I was listening? One of them leaned over me.
“Hygieia,* Ottavia.”
I turned my head very slowly and found myself looking into a middle-aged female’s face, with white skin and gray hair gathered up in a bun. I recognized her by her green eyes: she was one of the women who had given me something to drink in Antioch. Her mouth wore a beautiful smile that formed lines around her eyes and lips.
“How are you?”
I was just about to open my mouth when it dawned on me I’d never spoken Byzantine Greek. I quickly translated from a language I knew only on paper to an oral language I had never tried speaking. When I tried to say something, I realized how badly I sounded.
“Very well, thank you,” I said haltingly, interrupting myself with each syllable. “Where am I?”
The woman stood up and stepped away from me, making room for me to sit up. The sheets were made of very fine silk, softer and more delicate than satin or taffeta. I slid in them when I moved.
“In Stauros, the capital of Paradeisos.† And this room,” she said looking around, “is one of the guest rooms in Cato’s basileion.” ‡
“So,” I concluded, “I’m in the Staurofilakes’ earthly paradise.”
The woman smiled and the other younger woman hiding behind her did the same. Both were dressed in flowing white tunics held up by clasps at the shoulders and girded by a belt at the waist. The white of those garments had no equal. The white clothes the Anuak wore would have looked gray and dirty in comparison. Everything struck me as beautiful; an exquisite beauty I couldn’t stay indifferent to. The alabaster glasses placed on one of the magnificent wooden tables glinted with the light of innumerable candles. Vibrantly colored rugs covered the floors, and there were extraordinarily large and fragrant flowers everywhere I looked. The most disconcerting thing was the room’s walls—they were completely covered by Roman-style murals, complete with scenes depicting daily life in the Byzantine Empire of the thirteenth or fourteenth century A.D.
“My name is Haide,” the green-eyed woman said. “Stay in bed a while longer if you like and take it all in. You seem to thoroughly enjoy the items that surround us.”
“I love it,” I exclaimed. So much luxury, good taste, and Byzantine art gathered in one room. It was the perfect time to study firsthand what I could only guess at in examining adulterated reproductions in books. I added, “I’d really like to see my companions.” I’d always been so proud of my vocabulary in that language; now it proved woefully lacking. I said “compatriots” (simpatriotes) instead of “companions.” But they seemed to understand.
“Didaskalos * Boswell and Protospatharios † Glauser-Röist are eating with Cato and the twenty-four shastas.”
“Shastas?” I repeated, surprised. Shasta was a word in Sanskrit meaning “wise” or “venerable.”
“The shastas are…,” Haide hesitated before finding the right way to explain such a complex concept to a neophyte like me, “Cato’s assistants, although that isn’t exactly their role. Be patient in your apprenticeship, young Ottavia. There’s no need to hurry. In Paradeisos there is always time.”
As she said this, Zauditu opened barely visible doors in the wall and removed from a closet covered in murals a tunic identical to theirs. She laid it out on an ornately carved wooden chair. Then she opened a drawer tucked under the top of one of the tables, took out a case and set it carefully on my knees, which were still covered by sheets. To my surprise, in the enameled case was an incredible collection of gold brooches and precious stones, valuable as much for the Byzantine engraving and design as for their raw materials. The goldsmith who worked those wonder
s had to be a first-class artisan.
“Choose one or two, if you like,” said Zauditu timidly.
How do I choose between such beautiful objects, especially when I was not accustomed to wearing any type of jewelry?
“No, no. Thank you,” I apologized with a smile.
“Don’t you like them?” she said surprised.
“Oh, yes, of course I do. But I’m not used to wearing such expensive things.”
I was on the verge of telling her I was a nun who had taken a vow of poverty, before I remembered that aspect of my life was now a thing of the past.
Distressed, Zauditu walked over to Haide, but the young lady’s attention was elsewhere. She talked calmly with someone standing on the other side of the door. Zauditu picked up the box and set it on the nearest table. I then heard the soft sound of a lyre playing a festive melody.
“That’s Tafari, the best liroktipos * of Stauros,” said Zauditu with pride.
Haide returned, with languid grace and rhythmic steps. Later I discovered that this fluid way of walking was the way all the inhabitants of Paradeisos moved, in Stauros, as well as in Crucis, Edem, and Lignum.
“I hope you like the music,” Haide commented.
“Very much,” I replied. Then I realized I had no idea what day it was. With all the turmoil, I had lost complete track of time.
“Today is the eighteenth of June,” Haide responded. “Our Lord’s day.”
Sunday, the eighteenth of June. It had taken us three months to get here and we’d been missing more than fifteen days.
“She doesn’t want any clasps,” Zauditu interrupted, very worried. “How will she hold up her himation?” *
“You don’t want any clasps?” Haide was astonished. “But that’s not possible, Ottavia.”
“They’re… They’re too much… I never wear such things; I’m not accustomed to such things.”
“Could you please tell me how you plan to fasten your himation?”
“Don’t you have anything simpler? Pins, needles.” I had no idea how to say “safety pins.”
The two women looked at each other, confused.
“The himation can only be worn with clasps,” Haide declared. “It can be held up differently if you prefer, with one or two of them, but you can’t just hold it up with simple pins. They wouldn’t hold up under your movements or the weight of the fabric itself, and they’ll end up tearing it.”
“But those clasps are too ostentatious!”
“Is that what bothers you?” asked Zauditu, growing more and more surprised.
“Well, Ottavia, don’t worry about that,” Haide said. “Let’s talk later. Now choose some clasps and sandals, and we’ll go to the dining room. I sent word with Ras, and they’ll be expecting you. I believe Didaskalos Boswell is eager to see you.”
And I was eager to see him. I jumped out of the bed, and indiscriminately chose a pair of clasps. One had a lion’s head with two incredible rubies for eyes and the other one was a cameo depicting a waterfall. I started to take the long nightgown I’d been sleeping in off over my head.
“My hair!” I exclaimed in Italian.
“What did you say?” Zauditu asked.
“My hair, my hair!” I repeated, letting the garment fall over my body, looking for a mirror. I ran over to a full-length silver mirror hanging on a wall, next to the door. My blood froze when I saw my head completely shaved. Incredulous, I raised my hands to my scalp and tried to remember what my head felt like with hair. As my fingertips probed my head, I felt a sharp pain. I twisted my neck slightly downward and there it was: On the very top of my head, in the very center, I had a tattoo like Abi-Ruj Iyasus, a capital sigma.
Still in shock, unable to react to Haide’s words of consolation, I took the shirt off again and stood there naked. Another six capital Greek letters were distributed over my body: on the right arm, a tau; on my left arm, an epsilon; on my heart, between my breasts, an alpha; on my abdomen, a rho; on my right thigh, an omicron; and on my left thigh, another sigma like the one on my head. Adding up all the crosses I’d gotten for completing the series of tests, along with the great chrismon de Constantine on my navel, I looked like a mental patient with a penchant for body art.
Suddenly, Haide appeared by my side in the mirror, also naked; a moment later, Zauditu was there, too. They had the same marks, although they’d long since healed.
“I will get over it… more or less…” I stammered, on the brink of tears.
“Your body didn’t suffer,” Haide calmly explained. “We were always sure you were deep asleep before cutting your skin. Look at us. Are we so horrible?”
“I believe they are very beautiful symbols,” Zauditu observed, smiling. “I love the tattoos on Tafari’s body, and he likes mine a lot, too. See this?” she added, pointing to the letter alpha between her breasts. “See how delicately they made it. Its edges are perfect, smooth and rounded.”
“Think how those letters,” continued Haide, “form the word, Stauros. It will be with you wherever you go. It is an important word, and, therefore, they are important letters. Remember what it took to get them and feel proud.”
They helped me get dressed, but I couldn’t stop thinking about my hair and my body, now covered with tattoos. What would Farag say?
“Perhaps it will calm you to know that the didaskalos and the protospatharios look just like you,” Zauditu said. “It does not seem to bother them.”
“They’re men!” I protested while Haide tied the sash around my waist. They exchanged a knowing look and tried to hide a look of patient resignation.
“It may take you some time, Ottavia, but you will learn that focusing on those differences is trivial. Now, let’s go. They are expecting you.”
I said nothing and followed them out of the room, surprised at how modern the Staurofilakes were. On the other side of the door was a wide corridor furnished with tapestries, armchairs, and tables; it opened onto a patio full of flowers. A large fountain shot water into the air. Although I tried to look for the sky, I could only make out strange black shadows so far above me that I couldn’t estimate their height. Then I realized the light of the real sun didn’t reach where I stood. There was no sun anywhere, and what light there was, was in no way natural.
We walked down many other corridors similar to the first, with more and more patios and ornamental gardens with jets of water forming incredible effects. The sound was relaxing, like the gentle sound of a noise made by a running creek. I was starting to get nervous. If I concentrated on everything around me, a thousand signs pointed to something very unsettling.
“Where is Paradeisos exactly?” I asked my silent guides. They walked in front of me without hurrying, looking into the patios from time to time, arranging the tablecloth on a table or smoothing the waves in their hair. A lilting laugh was my answer.
“What a question!” added Zauditu, delighted.
“Where do you think it is?” Haide felt obliged to add, with the same tone of voice she would use in talking to a small child.
“In Ethiopia?”
“That’s what you think?” she answered as if the solution were so obvious. The question was superfluous.
My guides stopped before two impressive doors and opened them gradually without the slightest strain. Behind them was an enormous room, as beautifully decorated as everything else I had seen. At its center was a colossal circular table.
Farag Boswell, the baldest didaskalos I’d ever seen, leaped to his feet when he saw me. The rest of those at the meal also stood. His arms open wide, he started to run toward me, tripping on the hem of his tunic. I got a lump in my throat when I saw him walking toward me, and for a second, forgot everything around me. They had shaved his head, true, but his blond beard was as long as ever. I pressed against him feeling like I couldn’t catch my breath. I felt his warm body pressing into mine and took in his scent—not the light sandalwood smell of his himation, but the familiar smell of the skin on his neck. We were in the st
rangest place in the world, but in Farag’s arms, I began to feel safe again.
“Are you okay? Are you okay?” he repeated, anguished, holding on tight as he kissed me.
I was laughing and crying at the same time, torn by my emotions. Grabbing his hands, I pulled back to get a better look at him. What a strange sight he made. Bald with a beard, his white tunic flowing all the way to his feet. Even Butros would have had trouble recognizing him.
“Professor,” said an ancient voice that echoed through the room. “Please bring Dr. Salina over.”
Crossing the room under the gaze of cordial onlookers, Farag and I came to a hunched-over old man. Except for his advanced age, neither his clothes nor his position at the table gave away that he was Cato CCLVII himself. When I figured out who he was, I was filled with respect and fear; at the same time shock and curiosity drew me to examine him in detail as we drew closer. Cato CCLVII was an elderly man of medium complexion and build. He rested the weight of his overwhelming old age on a delicate cane. A slight tremor due to weak knees and muscles shook his body head to toe, but it didn’t diminish his solemn dignity one bit. I’d seen parchments and papyrus less wrinkled than his skin; it looked about to split into a thousand pieces where the wrinkles overlapped and crossed. The sharp expression on his face and his radiant gray visage seemed infinitely wise. I was so impressed I was tempted to kneel and kiss his ring, as though I was at the Vatican and stood before the pope himself.
“Hygieia, Dr. Salina,” he said in a weak, trembling voice. He spoke perfect English. “I am delighted to finally meet you. You can’t imagine the interest with which I have followed these tests.”
How old could this man be? He seemed to carry on his brow the weight of eternity, as if he had been born back when water covered the entirety of the planet. Very slowly, he extended his trembling hand to me, palm up, his fingers lightly bent, waiting for me to give him mine. When I did, he raised it to his lips with a gallant gesture that won me over.
Only then did I see the Rock—as serious and circumspect as ever— standing behind Cato. Despite his serious expression, he looked much better than Farag and I. Since he always wore his nearly white hair very short, I didn’t even notice, at first, that they had shaved his head.
The Last Cato Page 47