The Last Cato

by Matilde Asensi

  Teodros, seated in the front row on the left, stood up. “The last contact the new Staurofilakes had with the Christian churches was in the patriarchate of Alexandria, the first of June, this year, exactly one month ago. After that, in the outside world they’ve had no word of Kaspar, Ottavia, and Farag. According to reports we have received, the catacombs of Kom el-Shoqafa have been examined in depth by the Egyptian police, who obviously haven’t found anything. The churches are about to send in another team of investigators who will use the information you three obtained to pick up where you left off. It will be a futile effort, of course,” Teodros added, very confident. “What those three did,” he said pointing first to the Rock and then to the two of us, “forces us to suspend the tests for aspirants until we can resume them in full confidence of complete secrecy.”

  “Why don’t we change them or just do away with them?” asked someone behind us.

  “We have to respect tradition,” Cato said, raising his head then resting it back on his palm.

  “So for the next ten or fifteen years, there will be no more tests,” Teodros continued. “Timely messages have already been sent so the brothers on the outside can erase all traces and be warned of possible interrogations. The doors to Paradeisos are being sealed. That just leaves the subterfuge that Ottavia and Farag will use to return to the outside, which Shakeb will now explain.”

  Young Shakeb, sitting two seats down from Mirsgana, stood up as Teodros sat down, gathering the hem of his himation with an elegant gesture.

  “Ottavia, Farag…,” he said, looking directly at us. Despite his round face, he was handsome with lively, expressive dark eyes. “When you return to Alexandria, a month and a half will have passed since you disappeared. You’ll have to tell the authorities where you’ve been and what you’ve done all that time and of course what happened to Captain Glauser-Röist.”

  The expectation in the room was palpable. Everyone wanted to know what lie we would have to tell to defend ourselves against the inquisition we were certain to face.

  “In the catacombs of Kom el-Shoqafa, the brothers in Alexandria have started to dig a false tunnel that ends at a remote corner of Mareotis Lake, near the ancient Cesarium. You will say that you were captured on the third level of Kom el-Shoqafa, that you were hit over the head, and that you lost consciousness, but that first you got a good look at the entrance to paradise. We will provide you with a very simple map that will help you locate it. You will say you awoke in a place called Farafrah, an oasis in the Egyptian desert, which is very difficult to reach, and that the captain didn’t wake up. The men who captured you said that he died while they were tattooing those crosses and letters on your bodies, but that they didn’t let you see the body. That leaves the door open for his possible return within a few months. Your description of the population of the place will match that of the village of Antioch. That way you won’t make any mistakes. Since the oasis of Farafrah doesn’t remotely resemble this town, you will send them on a merry chase. Don’t mention any names, only the name of the Bedouin who brought you your meals three times a day in the cell where they locked you up: Bahari. This name is so common in Egypt it will throw them completely offtrack. As a description of Bahari, you can describe Chief Berehanu Bekela—just be sure to make his skin lighter.” He took a breath and continued. “The evil Staurofilakes held you in the cell all this time.” The comment was met with laughter. “They repeatedly threatened to kill you until finally today, the first of July, they knocked you unconscious and dumped you near the mouth of the tunnel to Lake Mareotis with a written warning that you mustn’t say a word about what happened. You, of course, have no desire to continue the investigation. When the interrogations stop, you will look for a discreet place to live. You will go as far away from Rome—or better yet from Italy—as possible and disappear. We will keep a close watch so nothing happens to you.”

  “We’ll have to find work…,” I said.

  Cato interrupted me, raising his hand. “With respect to this matter, we Staurofilakes want to give you a farewell gift.” The Rock flashed us a mysterious smile. “Before, I said you had to learn to respect traditions. Of course, you must also renounce traditions or change them. During the tests of the seven deadly sins, as usually happens to those who reach the end, you, Ottavia and Farag, altered your life in a definitive and irreversible way. Jobs, countries, religious commitments, beliefs, philosophy… You changed everything to get here. Now there’s almost nothing left for you back there, but you are ready to go back and build the life you desire. Farag can get his job back in the Greco- Roman Museum in Alexandria, but Ottavia, you can’t set one foot in the Vatican Hypogeum. Nevertheless, you can count on your academic dossier which will open many doors for you. But still, what if we give you something that will let you decide your future with absolute freedom?”

  I felt Farag’s hand squeeze mine. The muscles in my neck tensed out of anxiety. The Rock smiled so hard you could see both rows of his teeth.

  “The expiation of the sin of avarice in Constantinople is going to change location. We will ask the brothers of that city to, over the next several years, organize the test of the winds in another part of the city without changing its content. That way you can ‘discover’ the mausoleum and the remains of Emperor Constantine the Great. This is our farewell gift to you.”

  Farag and I were stunned for a few seconds. Baffled, we turned our heads very slowly to look at each other. I was the first to jump: I gave a leap of joy so big I dragged the didaskalos with me. It was a miracle I didn’t yank his arm out of its socket. I had given up on Constantine the moment I met the Staurofilakes and had forgotten all about him. Too many interesting things were happening to waste my time thinking about Constantine. So, when Cato gave us the discovery of the mausoleum with the emperor’s remains, our options suddenly opened up. Our future had been given to us on a gold platter.

  We hugged and kissed each other; then hugged and kissed the Rock. We left that important assemblage and went to the great dining hall of the basileion where Candace and his acolytes had prepared an authentic feast for the senses.

  Music played until the wee hours of the morning; the dancing lasted way beyond a prudent hour. Along with the shastas and the servers, we tumbled into the streets of Stauros, ready to swim in the warm waters of the Kolos. Cato had retired hours earlier. The first hour came when our partying reached its apogee. Then the Rock and Khutenptah told us we had to leave. The Anuak had already arrived, and we couldn’t wait any longer.

  We said good-bye to hundreds of people we didn’t know, we kissed right and left, not knowing who we were kissing. Finally, Khutenptah and the Rock, with help from Ufa, Mirsgana, Gete, Ahmose, and Haide, dragged us from the arms of the Staurofilakes and led us away from earthly paradise.

  Everything was ready. A carriage with our few belongings waited at the entrance to the basileion. Ufa climbed into the driver’s seat. Farag and I got in the back, still clutching Captain Glauser-Röist’s hands.

  “Take care of yourself, Kaspar,” I said, calling him by his first name for the first time, about to burst into tears. “I’ve enjoyed knowing and working with you.”

  “Don’t lie, Doctor,” he muttered, hiding a smile. “We had a lot of problems at first, remember?”

  Suddenly, something came into my head I had to ask him. I couldn’t leave without knowing.

  “Kaspar,” I said, nervously, “did Michelangelo design the uniforms the Swiss Guards wear? Do you know anything about that?”

  It was important. We’re talking about an old, unsatisfied question I had never found the answer to. The Rock let out a belly laugh.

  “Michelangelo didn’t design them, Doctor. Neither did Rafael, as some have said. This is one of the best-kept secrets in the Vatican, so don’t go around telling everyone what I’m about to tell you.”

  Finally, the answer.

  “Those flashy uniforms were designed by an unknown Vatican seamstress in 1914. The pope, Benedict XV, w
anted his soldiers to wear something unique, so he asked the seamstress to dream up a new formal uniform. As you can see, the woman was inspired by the paintings of Raphael that show brightly colored clothing with gored sleeves, very fashionable in sixteenth-century France.”

  I was speechless for a few seconds, shocked by the deception, and looked at the captain as if he’d just stabbed me with a dagger.

  “Then…” I wavered. “Michaelangelo didn’t design them?”

  Glauser-Röist laughed again. “No, Doctor, Michaelangelo didn’t design them. A woman designed them in 1914.”

  Maybe I’d drunk too much and slept too little, but I was angry and I frowned. “Well, I wish you hadn’t told me.” I exclaimed, furious.

  “Why are you so mad?” Glauser-Röist asked surprised. “Just a moment ago you were telling me you’d enjoyed knowing me and working with me!”

  “Do you know what she calls you in private, Kaspar?” Judas-Farag blurted out. I stomped on his foot so hard it would have made an elephant tremble. “She calls you ‘The Rock.’”

  “Traitor!” I exclaimed, looking at him sullenly.

  “Don’t worry, Doctor,” Glauser-Röist laughed. “I always called you… No, I’d better not tell you.”

  “Captain Glauser-Röist!” I began, but at that very moment, Ufa raised the reins and let them fall on the horses’ hindquarters. I had to grab on to Farag to keep from falling. “Tell me!” I shouted as we drove away.

  “Bye, Kaspar!” Farag shouted, waving one arm in the air as he pushed me into my seat with the other.

  “Good-bye!”

  “Captain Glauser-Röist, tell me!” I kept shouting futilely as the carriage drove away from the basileion. Finally, defeated and humiliated, I sat next to Farag.

  “We’ll have to come back someday so you can find out,” he said to console me.

  “Yes, and so I can kill him,” I agreed. “I always said he was a very disagreeable man.”

  ____________

  * Greek greeting that means “Greetings!”

  † Paradise, in Greek.

  ‡ Palace, in Greek.

  * Professor, in Greek.

  † Byzantine military rank, equivalent to captain.

  * One who plays the lyre.

  * Tunic, in Greek.

  * Engraver of precious stones.

  * Truncated, in Greek.

  * A very popular game in Byzantium. Two teams on horseback, separated by a dividing line, had to capture a stone, marked on one side, as soon as it was thrown into the air. That stone decided which team chased the other.

  † In Byzantium, the furlong equaled one eighth of a Roman mile, that is, 185 meters.

  * In Byzantine and orthodox monasteries, the canonarca was the monk in charge of directing the psalmody in the church and calling the monks to prayer by striking a log.

  EPILOGUE

  Five years have passed since we left Paradeisos. During those five years— as I foresaw—we were interrogated by police forces from the countries we traveled through, by those in charge of security at various Christian churches, and especially by the Rock’s replacement, one Gottfried Spitteler, also a captain in the Swiss Guard. He didn’t buy a single word of our story and quickly became our shadow. We spent a few months in Rome, to put an end to the investigation and so I could wrap up my affairs with the Vatican and my order. Afterward, we traveled to Palermo to stay with my family for a few days. But things didn’t go so well with my family, so we left earlier than planned. Although, on the surface, I loved my family as before, the abyss that opened between us was no longer reconcilable. I decided the only thing I could do was put distance between them by moving a safe distance away, no matter how much pain it caused me. We returned to Rome and then caught a plane for Egypt. Despite his reticence, Butros received us with open arms, and a few days later, Farag returned to his job at the Greco-Roman Museum in Alexandria. We wanted to attract as little attention as possible, adopting a low-key way of life, just as the Staurofilakes recommended.

  Months passed. Meanwhile, I dedicated myself to studying. I appropriated Farag’s office and contacted old friends and acquaintances in the academic world who immediately started to send me job offers. I only accepted those investigations, publications, and studies I could do from home, from Alexandria, which didn’t force me to leave Farag. I also learned Arabic and Coptic. My new passion was the Egyptian hieroglyphic language.

  We were happy in Alexandria from the start. But during the first months, the constant presence of the charming Gottfried Spitteler, who followed us from Rome and rented a house in the Saba Facna neighborhood right next to our house, became a real nightmare. After a while, we discovered that the trick was not to pay any attention to him; we ignored him as if he were invisible. It will soon be a year since he completely vanished from our lives. He must have gone back to Rome, to the Swiss Guard’s barracks, convinced at last—or not—that the story about the Oasis of Farafrah was true.

  One day, soon after we settled down on Moharrem Bey Street, we received a strange visit. An animal dealer brought us a beautiful cat. According to the note that came with it, it was “a gift from the Rock.” I still don’t understand why Glauser-Röist sent us this cat with enormous pointy ears and dark brown, spotted fur. The dealer told Farag and me, as the animal with enormous, wary eyes studied us, that it was a very valuable Abyssinian cat. Since then, this tireless creature roams around the house as if he owns the place. He has conquered the didaskalos’ heart (but not mine) with his games and demand for affections. We named him Rock in Glauser-Röist’s honor. Sometimes between Tara, Butros’s dog, and Rock, Farag’s cat, I feel like I’m living in a zoo.

  Recently we have started to prepare for our trip to Turkey. It’s been five years since we left Paradeisos, and we still haven’t collected our “present.” Now it’s time to do so. We are planning a way to “accidentally” come upon Constantine’s mausoleum without having to pass through the fountain of ablutions at Fatih Camii. This project has monopolized all our attention until this morning. The same merchant who brought us Rock, the cat, has brought us—finally—an envelope with a long letter from Captain Glauser-Röist. Farag was at the museum, so I put on my shoes and jacket and went to the museum to read it with him.

  From what we could deduce from his missive, the Rock was up to date on all we had done. He even knew we hadn’t gone to Constantinople. He urged us not to wait any longer “since things have completely calmed down.” He told us he’s been living with Khutenptah for five years now, and that sadly, the elderly Cato has died. Cato CCLVII left this world fifteen days ago now, and the new Cato, number two hundred fifty-eight on the list, has been selected and will be officially installed in a month in the Temple of the Cross in Stauros. The Rock extends a thousand million pleas for us to come to Paradeisos on that day. According to him, Cato CCLVIII would be more than delighted and more than happy to have us there. That day, he added, needs to be the most complete in the life of Cato CCLVIII, and it won’t be complete if we don’t attend the ceremony.

  I looked up from the paper—the same thick, rough paper the Staurofilakes used for the clues during the tests—and looked questioningly at Farag.

  “Well, of course we’re interested, whoever it may be.” I observed, very puzzled. “But who do you think will be the new Cato? Ufa, Teodros, Candace…?”

  “Look at the signature,” Farag stuttered, his eyes wide, an amused smile on his lips.

  The letter from Captain Glauser-Röist, written in Captain Glauser-Röist’s hand, with the name Captain Glauser-Röist on the envelope was signed Cato CCLVIII.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To create worlds, characters, and stories using words as only tools is an activity that can only take place in solitude and, in my case, in silence and at night. During the day, however, I need all those people who accompany me in the beautiful and incredible process of writing a novel. Therefore, it would be quite selfish of me to publicly ignore their collaboration and mak
e readers believe that I am the only one behind the book they now hold in their hands. First and foremost, I would like to thank Patricia Campos for her constant support and for reading—every single day— the few pages I wrote, and for rereading the text as many times as was necessary, never complaining, and always offering me wonderful insights, comments, and suggestions. Second, I would like to thank José Manuel Baeza for his precious help on the Greek and Latin translations, and for being the best researcher in the world: he is capable of finding the oddest information from the oddest of all books. Third, I would like to thank Luis Peñalver, the most conscientious and meticulous copyeditor an author can have. I will not tell here how far he is willing to go, but all those who appear on this page have countless anecdotes that have made us laugh out loud. Fourth, I would like to thank a group of people who read the book in installments, and who served as an experimental laboratory, of constant support (if they were unable to figure out certain things, neither would the reader): Lorena Sancho, Lola Guilas, and Olga García (from Plaza y Janés). Thank you also to Cristina Mora for going over the English translation of the book.

  It would be impossible for me to finish writing this page without mentioning my favorite editor, Carmen Fernández de Blas. People say that the two most personal things an author can have is her agent and her editor, and that’s true. Carmen has been my editor since I published my first novel, and I have always considered her to be my editor, even though the comings and goings of the publishing world have led her to take care of, cherish, and protect other authors, just as she once took care of, cherished, and protected me during her stupendous time at Plaza y Janés. I plan on calling her “my editor” for years and years to come. Amen.