The Cairo Codex

by Linda Lambert

  OLD CAIRO, 2 CE

  My young son holds tight to my hand and the basket used for our purchases. Across the Great River to the west, giant pyramids loom above the landscape.

  His eyes are wide, his mouth slightly open as he looks at the golden saffron from India, purple saffron from Persia, and green mint from the Sinai, all pressed together in canvas bags surrounding a one-eyed man in a turban.

  The local market, nestled in the center of our small, but expanding, village is always busy in the days before Passover. Double flutes and sistrums, rattles with soft metallic sounds to soothe the gods, are but breezes blowing through papyrus reeds, while the thundering voices of passionate speakers of all persuasions throb in the air. A cacophony of tongues and a distinctive mix of facial features and dress attest to varied countries of origin . . . many from the East have trekked across the desert from the Red Sea and will go north on the Great River to Alexandria, Crete, and Rome. Purple-skinned Nubians who have herded camels from the South now tether them at the edge of the village. Still others are the color of olive oil from The Fayoum.

  “Mother, where do all the people come from?” My son’s eyes are excited, sparked by the exotic peoples and products.

  “They come from many places—the East, Persia, Nubia, and villages in the desert. They meet here for today’s market. Tomorrow they may go on to Heliopolis or Memphis.”

  We walk among overflowing bags of oranges, lemons, and small bananas arranged together with local garlic, onions, and lentils. Tunics, prayer cloths, and tablecloths embellished with gold and silver threads are displayed on a large spread of fabric under the shade of a blue canvas awning.

  “What have we come for today, Mother?” he asks without taking his eyes off the flying, snake-shaped stick being thrown about by a group of small children.

  “To find some saffron for our fish stews, some olive oil from The Fayoum, a few pieces of papyrus, and a small gift for your father—that is, if merchants will accept a few coins and some buds of garlic.” Not unlike other families in the village, our family grows food, fishes, and makes most of our own clothes and furnishings. Barter is the usual medium of exchange, although the Romans have given my husband a small number of dinars for his work on the gates, and our eldest earns a few more from his work on the canal. Recently, we purchased a new donkey.

  I stop beside a seated man who is unbothered by the swirling fury around him. The scribe, surrounded by his papyrus, pallets, pens, and ink, sits in the middle of the market, ready to take dictation from travelers eager to send letters to their families. I ask for three pieces of papyrus.

  “Why the papyrus?” my son asks. “For writing to our family in Palestine?”

  “Yes, my son. Our family members are hungry for news from us. They ask about how you and your brother are growing up and what it is like to live in this land. They miss us. And your father misses his family.” I take a few clusters of garlic from my pocket to hand to the scribe.

  My son hesitates before asking the question I know has been pressing on his young mind. “I have noticed that Rachel and Noha do not write. Can only some women write?”

  “All women can write if they are taught how. Just as you were taught to read and write.”

  The scribe, a neighbor to the north, holds up his hand and gently refuses the garlic. “I do not need any garlic today. Why don’t you have your son bring me radishes tomorrow?”

  “It will be so,” I say. I direct us toward a large stone near the side of the market. As we sit down, a young boy appears and asks if we would have tea. I agree and he scampers off.

  “How did you learn to write, Mother?” my son asks, balancing on the edge of the rock and folding his tunic between his tanned legs.

  “It is unusual for women to learn to write. You have observed well. I was fortunate. My grandmother taught me when I was but a girl. She thought it important for women to be able to do many of the same things men do. Grandmother considered inequality the source of all evil. I wish you could have known her.”

  “What did she mean by ‘inequality is the source of all evil’?” he puzzles.

  The tea arrives in two chipped, mismatched cups. I hand the boy a cluster of garlic. My son has an inquiring mind, much like I did as a child. “What do you think she might have meant?”

  “I don’t know. To me, most people seem unequal: Noha is not like Rachel, Isaiah is not like Samir.”

  “I see the same things. But Grandmother also talked of inequality between the rich and poor, men and women, the educated and uneducated, the old and the young, Jews and pagans, Romans and Israelites. These inequalities lead to misery, hatred, and wars, which are evil. Her family came from Mt. Carmel and had many strong ideas about how life should be lived. Many of these ideas I carry with me.”

  “But why did God make us unequal if He wanted us to be equal? I don’t understand.”

  “I’m not so sure God made us so. Perhaps we did that to ourselves. It is we who choose to obey the powerful and deprive others of their rights. Perhaps God gave us these choices to test our compassion.”

  We sit silently for a while, sipping the strong tea to which the boy has generously added a little honey. As he always does when he is struggling with an idea, my son sits very still, as though hypnotized by some distant object. I try to follow his eyes, but they seem to rest in the air over the market. We finish our tea and set the cups on a small tray left nearby.

  No longer holding my hand, my son occasionally stops to look at displays of tools and musical instruments. Two Egyptians display amulets, ankhs, and djed pillars.

  “These adornments are tucked into the long wrappings of mummies for their trip to the afterworld,” I explain. “The Egyptians believe that when people die they go to a land far beyond the sunset and will have need of many tools and foods.”

  At the far side of the market square, narrow alleys lead to temporary living quarters for traders and other visitors. “Do you believe there is a land beyond the sun?” my son asks as he bends down to smell the bread baking in a public oven. Smells of the freshly baked bread, jasmine and mint, and human waste escaping from the alleyways blend into their own odor, neither repugnant nor fragrant.

  “I would be grateful if God prepares a place for us to be with Him after we die. But our people do not savor the idea as others do . . .” I let my words trail off as my son is distracted by a small child of about three who runs in front of us, almost knocking into me. The beautiful child has the face of an angel—curly golden hair, long lashes, and a mouth the color of pomegranate. She throws herself into the lap of a woman sitting among a few prayer cloths offered for sale. The woman’s black, uncovered hair glistens, and her unusual eyes are black with golden flecks.

  I cannot comprehend whether her eyes tell of contentment or resignation. Her tunic is old and frayed with broken threads, as though the garment has been washed with a rough stone. As the child cuddles deeply into her lap, the fabric draws back to reveal rough, uneven stubs ending just below her knees. With an air of dignity, she quickly shifts her position and lowers her tunic.

  “Good morning, my lady.” She addresses me with a confident air as my son clasps my hand and holds tight.

  “Good morning, my friend.” I return her smile. “These are beautiful prayer cloths. Did you make them?” I kneel to examine the fine needlework.

  “The Goddess has given me the gift of needlework. This is how I spend my days.” She beams with the pleasure of pride.

  “And how much do you want for such beautiful work?” I inquire.

  “Mother,” whispers my son, gently pulling on my sleeve, “don’t we have enough prayer cloths? Will we have enough dinars left?”

  “One can never have too many prayer cloths,” I assure him, keeping my eyes on the woman and handing her enough dinars for two cloths. My son and I exchange glances, and his furrowed brow changes to an expression of understanding. I realize I have not witnessed this gaze of wisdom from him before. He is beginning
to comprehend. I am pleased.

  As we walk away, I say to my son, “The woman has great pride and dignity. It is better to be charitable by buying her needlework than to give her alms. The giving of alms will only bring her shame.”

  He nods as if sharing an important secret with me. “Perhaps the men from the East will exchange some saffron for garlic.”

  “And the olive oil can wait for another day, although Noha will not be happy.” We both grin at the thought.

  The golden saffron glows among the more subdued spices of coriander, cumin, pepper, mint, dark paprika, and teas. Copper jewelry glistens beside ornate vests. The merchant, or rather the son of the merchant, must be about my son’s age, perhaps a few summers older. We stop in front of the colorful array of treasures.

  “Welcome, my Egyptian friends, how can I take your dinars today?” asks the young man in Aramaic. With his black curly hair and fetching smile, he could be Samir’s son.

  “We have something better than money,” my son quickly replies. “We bring you jewels of garlic.”

  “Ah, so. I have met my match! Next, you will offer me some rounded stones. What is your name?” His baggy pants, sash, and adorned vest give him the air of a youthful sultan.

  My son introduces both of us.

  “I am glad to meet you,” he replies, bowing from the waist and moving his right arm in a flowing movement up over his head. “My name is Ravi. I am here with my father. We have traveled from India. A long way from here.”

  “We live nearby,” offers my son. “I was born in Palestine and we traveled here to Egypt when I was a baby in my mother’s arms.” The two boys recognize something familiar in each other. A radiant curiosity?

  “We can always use some garlic, my father and I. I can offer you a small pinch of saffron for one stew, my lady.” The clever boy picks up a large sycamore leaf from a small collection he keeps under the display cloth and fills it with a generous pinch of saffron. He hands it to my son, who carefully folds the leaf over the saffron and places it in the basket, nestled beneath the prayer cloths.

  “We thank you, Ravi,” we both say, almost at the same time. My son moves on reluctantly as we bow and take our leave.

  “Perhaps Ravi and his father would like to try the fish stew made with the saffron,” I suggest. “Would you like to invite them to come to dinner tonight?”

  “Could we, Mother? May I invite them?”

  “As you wish, my son.” He turns and hurries back to the spice quarter while I slowly study other wares. I am glad to see my son’s confidence growing each day. He often reminds me of myself. I remember the day my mother told me that I would marry an older man. “He is a good man. He will take care of you,” she said.

  “I don’t need a protector,” I had insisted. Yet my husband is more than a protector. He is my friend. What will I do when he is no longer with us?

  My son quickly catches up with me. “Ravi was much pleased, Mother. He said he was tired of his father’s cooking. He will ask his father and let us know soon. I told him how to get to our home.”

  “That is good, my son. I’m sure the others will not mind. Your father is interested in new people and their ideas,” I assure him, feeling somewhat rash for not consulting my husband first.

  With the papyrus on top of the basket, we start home. “What about a gift for father?”

  “A prayer cloth?”

  “I’m sure he will appreciate a new prayer cloth.” My son gently takes my hand again, this time to help me over the rough terrain between the marketplace and home.

  CHAPTER 4

  JUSTINE AWOKE DREAMING OF A FIERY sunset and walls closing in on her, suffocating her. Startled, she sat up shivering and forced herself to take a deep breath. She picked up the remote and turned on the television. She needed another voice in the room.

  “Hamas, a splinter group of Egypt’s Muslim Brotherhood, was established in 1987. Since its victory in Palestine in January of 2006, it has shown no interest in changing its charter provision, that calls for the destruction of Israel. Mr. Netanyahu, how are Israel and the international community working with Palestine under these conditions?” asked Wolf Blitzer on the late edition of CNN news.

  “There can be no work with Palestine until Hamas agrees to—”

  Hardly comforting, she thought, turning off the familiar, strident voice of Bebe Netanyahu. She stretched and padded down the stairs to take a shower. The trip to the pyramids with Amir had been majestic, and today she felt the pull of Old Cairo, St. Sergius Church, and her past.

  As she sat at her dressing table, methodically packing her camera, notebook, and water into a canvas bag, she wondered, How long will Cairo be safe? Americans were already hesitant to travel to the Middle East, most of them limiting their visits to Egypt to cumbersome group tours. Islamic extremism was reaching epic proportions. The Egypt that she’d known as a young girl was rapidly disappearing, politically and religiously tearing itself into separate camps. The Cairo street called out for a hero who would stand up to the West, and Iran’s President Ahmadinejad was looking quite good to many who wanted a spokesman for anti-Westernism.

  Outside, though, it was a beautiful Sunday morning seemingly unmarred by political concerns. Justine headed to Tahrir Square, walked down the stairs into Sadat station, and purchased a ticket to Mars Girgius. The Metro, built by the French in the 1980s, was a spinal cord running underground through Cairo, with ribs branching across the Nile to Mohandeseen and Giza. The Metro was considered efficient, clean, and safe—qualities that would make New Yorkers envious.

  The ride south to Old Cairo—Babylon—took only fifteen minutes, a trip that would have taken an hour by car. On a good day. In spite of the growing anti-Westernism among Cairenes, this morning the people in the Metro seemed friendly toward Justine. Yet before that thought could fade, she sensed a critical stare from three young men standing toward the back of the car. She pulled her scarf up over her long hair and turned away.

  Stepping out of the Metro at Mars Girgius, she descended the stairs alongside Roman fortifications and the Coptic Museum courtyard. Massive round sandstone fortifications formed huge labyrinths that circled inside each other. Two thousand years ago, the Nile had lapped up against these shores, and the delta—which now began north of Cairo—had fanned out to Alexandria. For four hundred years, the Romans had found it important to build where they could keep an eye on the river and desert trade routes.

  The last time Justine had visited Old Cairo, her mother had explained to her why so many religious groups considered this ground sacred. Legend had it that the Holy Family had stayed here during their flight from Palestine. It was believed that this was where baby Moses had been found in the reed basket, and where he later collected the Children of Israel to begin the fateful march to the Red Sea. It was also rumored, although with less confidence, that St. George of dragon fame had been tortured in the catacombs below the Ben Ezre Synagogue before being sent back to Palestine for his beheading.

  Bypassing the Hanging Church built atop one of the Roman forts, where a small group of tourists listened to a German guide, Justine continued east on Mars Girgius. Stepping down onto the flight of stairs leading under the towering clay arch in the wall surrounding Old Cairo, she proceeded along a narrow cobblestone corridor past the St. George nunnery and a large antiquities shop, closed on Sunday. A few locals brushed shoulders with her as she walked. Muslims on their way to work; Copts readying for church. The narrowness of the alleys felt claustrophobic, their shadows cloaking the occasional beggar crouched silently in a corner. After several turns, she spied St. Sergius just ahead. Ducking under a low-hanging wall, she entered an even narrower passageway that was filthy with debris. Would she ever stop being surprised by such neglect of historic places?

  Five more steps and she entered the sanctuary of the fifth-century St. Sergius Church, supposedly named after one of two martyred Roman soldiers, Sergius and Bacchus. Justine, however, preferred to think that the church was n
amed for Pope Sergius I. It was he who, determined to stir the faith of the people of Rome, had initiated all-night candlelit processions through the city for the Virgin Mary on feast days.

  Her thoughts raced back to her earlier visit here with her mother—the day she’d become captivated by the life of Mary. Her mother had suggested it was the Egyptian goddess Isis—Theotokos, the Mother of God—who had created the context in which Mary and Jesus could be so easily accepted, worshiped. The magical qualities Isis possessed had spread throughout the Greek and Roman world. People were drawn to her tenacity in saving and resurrecting her husband, her ethereal qualities, and her devotion to her son, Horus. At that time, any god worth his or her salt was born of a virgin mother, Lucrezia had explained. Although powerful and all-knowing, Isis was most often depicted as holding and nursing her son. Her maternal tenderness, coupled with such strength, was irresistible. Thus the scene had been set for Mary and Jesus to come along.

  “Isis and Mary were even portrayed alike—long, ringleted hair falling luxuriantly, a crown of flowers, a mirror emitting a divine light. It was easy for many to transfer their loyalties, especially in Egypt,” her mother had said, sitting on these very steps and pointing toward the paintings. Where had her father been? Justine tried to remember. Off on his dig at Saqqara, probably. They’d been so caught up in her mother’s stories that it had grown dark by the time they left St. Sergius and returned to the hotel. She remembered opening the door and seeing the fury on her father’s face, the loud argument between her parents that night. And then Justine had been shuttled off to stay with her mother’s sister for the rest of their time in Egypt.

  Such thoughts crowded her mind as she stepped into the narthex of St. Sergius, a long hall on the side of the church reserved for those who were new to the church and needed instructions, those who had confessed to sins and were seeking penitence, and for women—considered sinners ever since Eve corrupted the Garden. Christian leaders and historians once feared that if the myths of Isis and Mary as virgin mothers were broken, somehow the religion would be broken as well. It must have seemed reasonable at the time. But today?