What to make of this? He felt deeply uncomfortable returning to that unwholesome place but he pushed all thoughts of it out of his mind as the insistent throbbing in his leg began again. Ishmael soaked the linen to loosen the dried blood and removed the bandages carefully. Most of the muscle of his calf had been cut away and neatly cauterised, leaving good, pink flesh to scab over and heal. Though the wound was ugly and frightening in its rawness, Christian marvelled at the surgeon’s skill.
That he had not lost his leg or even his life was truly a miracle.
*
His eyesight took longer to recover. He did not seek out the Jewish merchant, his vision too poor to make good letters, so he stayed with Ishmael and did what he loved best. They criss-crossed the city, feeding the hungry, bringing the most needy back on a donkey donated by the Caliph, Ishmael all the while laughing and joyful. He would greet even the lowliest beggar with loving words “Thanks be to Allah that you are still with us! How poor the world would be without you in it.” And eyes would light up and pain and hunger fade. And Christian, though Damascus like all cities was filled with suffering and human tragedies, lost some of his earnest seriousness and learned to laugh.
Life was good. The plentiful food put meat on his bones and the company of clever, cheerful men gave him such satisfaction that he imagined spending his life here, tending the sick. Perhaps he could meet a pretty girl, start a family, become a respected physician like Ali and have riches heaped upon him. His astrolabe remained in its pouch. And as young people do he began to forget, the monastery and its kindly brothers, the abbot, even Andre’s face became indistinct in his memory.
He watched the shy, doe eyed maidens in the bazaar, tantalisingly covered, attended always by brothers and fathers and uncles and wondered what it would be like to lift a flimsy veil to kiss soft, parting lips or move his hand up a slender thigh to rest on the warm, moist deepness between. These thoughts took hold of his daytime and haunted him into the night, so that his dreams were turned into lustful imaginings, all else fading into unreality.
And one day, as he sat furtively watching the women gliding by and listening half-heartedly to the instruction of the mullah, an old woman tottered toward him and dropped a handful of walnuts in his lap. His stomach sank. He could not have been more horrified had a scorpion fallen there instead. Though the morning sun shimmered on the hard packed ground and flies were drinking from the perspiration standing on his brow, he shivered with dread.
When he looked up, he saw the shrewd eyes of the mullah fixed on his. He readied to leave but a hand was raised in a gesture of command. “Stay, young traveller, and listen to the story of the ant-lion, for I tell it just for thee.” The teacher held up a long, bony finger to still the murmurings of the children gathered at his feet and went on, his high, reedy voice carrying clearly across the square.
“Such a sorry being is the ant-lion. He, of all God’s creatures, is the most to be pitied, for he has the face of a lion and the body of an ant.” He illustrated with his hands the features of a lion and the small body of an insect, and the youngsters giggled. “And although his father the lion is a mighty hunter who relishes the flesh of his prey, his mother the ant is a gatherer of crumbs, a dweller in low places. She can eat only grain.
But alas, the ant-lion cannot eat flesh because of the nature of his mother and he cannot eat grain because of the nature of his father. So, this wretched mistake of nature…starves to death.”
Once again he stilled the exclamations of his pupils but the wise eyes never left Christian’s as he spoke. “Thereby every double-minded man, unstable in all his ways, perishes.”
Now he understood. He had lost sight of his dream in the comfortable life he’d found. He stood, humbly bowed his thanks and departed for the house at the end of the lane.
This time, the door opened swiftly to his knock and the same bundle of greasy rags stood on the threshold, haloed by the dim light. He did not look as fearsome as at their first meeting but still Christian hesitated.
“Praise be to Allah, you have come! Welcome… welcome to the home of Artephius.” He laughed and guided him through the door and Christian imagined he was being drawn by a will that might not be his own, into a poisonous spider’s web.
*
He had never entered such a place. Soot blackened pots and clouded vessels, bulbous alembics and twisted retorts bubbled on stoves, giving off eye watering, pungent fumes. Scrolls and books and rolled up charts piled on rickety tables had begun to spill over into the rushes on the floor. Compasses, callipers, scales and writing implements jumbled together on wooden benches and tools hung from hooks from the roof beams. A furnace blazed in one corner inside, an earthen vessel glowing white.
Christian’s head swivelled from the walls to the ceiling and back again. Crossed and recrossed on the stained stonework were stars and planets and astrological markings, with words and mottoes scribbled around the walls. A legend written in some tarry substance over the mantle of the furnace caught his eye…’Sapere aude…Dare to be wise’ and V.I.T.R.I.O.L. was painted in thick dark lettering across the doorway. Jars and bottles lined narrow shelves, each neatly labelled and clothed in thick dust and cobwebs ‘ Hyle…Ras Celi…Azoth…Sanguis draconis…Primordial Matter…Dew of the Heavens…Dragons’ blood.’
Unfamiliar names tingling with mystery.
Bones lay strewn among the cinders, some he recognised as animal, some other, making his hair stand on end.
Yet this place did not have the cloying smell of an apothecary’s workroom, or the fierceness of an ironmonger’s or sword-smith. It was something in between.
The heat from the furnace seared his skin and the whole vast space flickered and wavered in the firelight, giving it an unreal, dreamy quality, confounding his eyes.
He wished he had not come. It reminded him of stories the brothers told of Satan and his infernal dwelling place.
Artephius brushed the dust from an ornately carved chair. “A noble chair for a nobleman’s son… be seated.” He saw Christian’s brow rise in astonishment and smiled. “Yes Christian of Bebenhausen, there is much about thee I know…I know that the blood of princes runs in thy veins, yet life has been meagre and full of hardship. And I know that the knight who came with thee across the waters dreamed of thee before thy father’s seed took root in thy mother’s womb.”
Then his eyes became fixed and staring and the words came out dully, without expression “The book is hidden with the jewel. Such treasure is not for the eyes of the profane but for those who have partaken of the bitter draught of knowing. Soon thou wilt understand and know their value and only then will thee be able to light the dark places.”
Christian felt a shiver of apprehension as Artephius placed before him a bowl of plums and a jug of wine. He wanted to stop his ears to the words. How did this man know such things? His own voice echoed back across the room. “What manner of place is this?”
Artephius smiled again “It is a place where men turn base matter into gold.”
He couldn’t hide his disappointment. He’d expected another kind of knowledge.
“I see disapproval in thy eyes. Dost thou not wish for gold?”
Christian shook his head “The abbot said the Lord places it deep in the earth, for it is worthy only to be trodden underfoot. I value other things.”
“Yes, yes, learning and truth and upright ways. Have we not all yearned for that ideal…when we were young and wanting in wisdom? The truth is man is base and greedy and would cut his mother’s throat for a circlet of gold around his own. Take that small ingot there.” He pointed to a block of gleaming metal atop a worm eaten book “What wouldst thou have, that mould covered tome…or enough gold to feed all of Damascus in a famine?”
He hesitated and Artephius laughed “I see thee cast aside simple philosophies when thy ears prick to the voice of reason. Good! Thou art ready to learn.”
Christian did not want the plums or the drink. In fact he wanted nothing this man offered. He stoo
d to take his leave and reached out a hand to the door but Artephius’ voice boomed out in the hollow space.
“Be still!”
His dark eyes bored into his own. “Where is thy courage? Dost thou not know that we of Damcar claim knowledge that no others possess? Angels fly to us on gilded wings to instruct us, demons cower at our feet! Our amulets cure all diseases; our elixirs prolong lives through generations. What arrogance possesses thee that thou refuse such riches?”
Christian did not answer. He felt as if his arms had been bound, his feet fixed to the floor. He felt panic at this unholy bondage and struggled to move. Artephius towered over him, clutching a weathered staff, his eyes blazing. He was every inch the magician now.
“Stop thy quivering boy. I will allow thee to remove thyself, for mine eyes do not wish to rest upon thee more this day. But take heed…before the cock crows in the morning, thou wilt return… and hearken to one who would open thy eyes to the truth.” There was madness in the eyes now…and threat. “If thou do not, I will send to thee a nightmare such as thou hast never known, one that will leave thy childish eyes awash with tears and trembling for thy mother. Dost thou hear?”
Christian still strained against his invisible bonds, twisting and turning in a futile effort to break free. And then he remembered Andre’s constant instruction, that anything could be overcome by the strength of the will. He took a deep breath and willed himself to action. His feet came free and his arms unlocked. He reached for the door, flung it open and hobbled outside, hearing Artephius’ ominous words ringing in his ears. “Before the cock crows…”
When he reached the hospice and related his experience to his friend, the soft eyes grew grave “Yes, I admit I was disquieted. A man cannot hide his true nature behind clever tricks. I have heard that he was once a man of shining virtue, that he spent his days offering aid and comfort to the suffering. I have also heard that he was seduced by the power of magic. He is possibly very dangerous, if you believe in such things.”
He took up a metal fleam and bowl and moved toward a fat man snoring on a pallet by the door “Come, assist me to bleed this worthy gentleman. I fear he has overindulged in the delights of this fair city and looks as ready to burst as an over-ripe melon.
Christian put the events of the morning out of his mind, until the early hours when he began to toss on his mattress, conjuring myriad horrors visiting him in the night. He rose, rubbed his face with his sleeve and hobbled out into the dark. He walked on through the great gates, toward the mountain standing like a giant in the moonlight and sat down on the banks of the stream, allowing himself a quiet moment of contemplation, and the sweet, earthy scent of forget-me-nots surrounded him, bringing a sharp unexpected memory of home.
Artephius had made him uncomfortable and wary but what had caused this fear? He’d travelled all this way. Now he was being offered knowledge beyond his wildest imaginings and he was frightened. He heard again the mullah’s lesson of wavering and inconstancy and made up his mind. He would visit Artephius again, listen and sift his teachings as if through a sieve of reason, keep the good, wholesome kernels and discard the chaff. Even if one tenth of it could be used to aid others, it would be worthwhile. He made his way back through the gates, down the gloomy laneways and in through the open door.
A figure moved suddenly by the furnace, poking at the dying embers. Artephius did not turn around though he knew Christian was there. “Come, boy and see the glorious wonder arising from the fire that Prometheus stole from the sun.” He took a set of long tongs from the wall and clamped them around the neck of the vessel resting on the coals. “This is the first firing. There will be six others.” His voice seemed softer now, almost reverent as he gently placed the pot on the bench, resting it on a thick pad of goat’s hair, which steamed with a rancid stink from the heat. Then he perched on a narrow stool, took up a quill and ink and began to write, mumbling to himself “Negrido, albedo, citrinas, rubedo. Ah…dragon, thou must shed thy obscurity… for I wouldst clothe thee in heavenly garments.”
Christian watched and stayed quiet, noting that the hand was steady and the Arabic script neat and precise. Without looking up Artephius pointed to the tools over the mantle “Bring me that mallet, boy.” He fetched it and the tongs were placed around the vessel’s neck again. “Now, knock the top off! But have a care. Should the bottle explode, it will flay the skin from thy face and boil thy eyes in their sockets. Many a clumsy workman has been turned into food for worms by the capriciousness of the genie that guards this treasure.” Christian began nervously, using tentative taps with the hammer, standing well back.
The ash encrusted top flew off and he moved closer as a waft of steam escaped.
“Stand back! The vapour of heated mercury is deadlier than the metal! Have thee no grounding in the sciences? Alchemical sublimation is fraught with danger. Sit here, where I can see thee and try not to meddle.” Christian smiled. He was not so frightening after all. He watched as Artephius wrapped his face in a stained muslin cloth, donned heavy mittens and poured the grey sludge into another earthen jar, nodding approvingly. He plugged the opening with new clay and buried the vessel in a tub of sand sitting over a slow fire. He had a question he wanted to ask but Artephius seemed to have forgotten him, shuffling from worktable to bench and back again, lifting glass vials and examining their contents, grinding and sifting powders and salts, then writing it all in his book. He remembered Gaspard mixing herbs and seeds, counting and weighing, measuring precise amounts into folded parchment packets and saw the same concentration, the same sense of purpose.
“Are…are you making gold sire?” There was no answer. “I have no interest in the making of gold. I will be on my way.”
“Be still!” The command came clearly and Christian obeyed, though he knew he could move if he desired.
Artephius spoke again, gentler now “The making of gold is of no consequence. It is the transmutation that is the important matter, the changing of the one into the other. Have thee not thought on this miracle?” He could see Christian did not understand. “Wouldst thou not wish to change the sick into the well? A heart shrivelled with hate into one glowing with love and pity?” he put down the quill and rubbed his eyes with the back of a grimy hand. “I have spent my whole life, given my blood, my very soul in search of the magic stone of the philosophers. I would have that men could see what glories surround them if they were not struck blind by the sight of gold. I would return my dust to the sands and be done with it, but the world is in dire need. I have only what was left to Pandora when she opened her golden jar and all the evils of the world fell out…a shred of hope.”
Christian hung his head in shame “Forgive me, sire. It is a great failing of mine that I do not look deeply enough.”
“Nay, it is I who must ask forgiveness.” He waved his arm, taking in their strange surroundings “For hiding my true purpose under this…this sham…and for my lack of courtesy at thy first knocks at my door. Alas, it was necessary. Always there are those who would not understand, who would twist and make ugly and use this knowledge for ill. It is as the Holy books say ‘Cast thee not pearls before swine’ and I must guard it for the great treasure it is.” He moved again to stand at his workbench. “It is not gold I wish to make but a panacea for all ills, a balm for all cares. It is so close; I can feel it calling to me from heaven. Yet all that I have brought forth is this accursed metal.” He wiped at his eyes again “Let us talk of other things.” He uncovered a small table set with bread, fruit, a dish of yellow butter and a jug of milk. “Forgive me also, for my threats and fearsomeness. Thy rectitude and lack of awe for the golden metal made me fearful thee would not return.”
Christian smiled “Were I able to put my fear of night terrors out of my mind, I would not. Though I am very glad now sire, that I have.” He bowed his head briefly in thanks as he broke off a piece of the still warm bread and spread it thickly with butter.
*
They sat together through the day and C
hristian became enthralled by Artephius’ learning; Euclid and Pythagoras, Plato and Democritus, the politics of civilisations, the true age of the moon, Egypt and its mysterious beacons in the desert, enshrining knowledge, disguised as tombs. There was no thing that Christian uttered that Artephius could not provide him with more of it to think on. He pulled out tattered books and parchments in illustration of his words, traced the outline of the skull on his bench as he talked of man’s place in the universe and the impermanence of all things.
This was the knowledge Christian craved and he fell on it like a starving man to good, wholesome food. By the time he took his leave at sunset, his head was reeling from wonderment and his face ached from smiling. Artephius asked that he come again, every day if he had a mind to and slake his thirst in the deep well of his knowledge.
So he divided his time, helping Ishmael in the hospice, just as he had at Cyprus and at night making his way through the dark, winding laneway, for never again would he think of the wizened man who stood waiting patiently by his door as a wretch worth only pity.
One night he took up his astrolabe and showed it to Artephius, who examined it carefully, admiring the workmanship. “Indeed, I have one similar but not so finely wrought as your own. Come, we will go to the roof and take down the heavens.”
They ascended the stairs together and stood gazing out over the sleeping city, while Artephius sighted the instrument with expert care. He smiled contentedly and whispered to Christian “Long ago, the kings of the East were led by the light of a new star; even to the cradle of Him thy people call the Sun of Righteousness. Soon my friend, new stars will again be sighted in the heavens, in the constellations of Cygnet and Serpentaria and they will portend great things, perhaps even an explosion of wisdom or a burst of compassion for others. Who can tell?”
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