The Last Cato (59 page)

“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.

“Please, Doctor, have a seat next to the professor,” said Cato CCLVII. “I really want to talk with you all, and there’s nothing better than a good meal to enjoy the conversation.”

Cato was the first to sit down; twenty-four
shastas
did the same. One servant after another entered through several doors hidden by fresco paintings, with trays and carts full of food.

“First, allow me to introduce you to the
shastas
of
Paradeisos,
men and women who strive every day to make this the kind of place we aspire to be. Starting on the right from the door is young Gete, translator of the Sumerian language; next Ahmose, the best builder of chairs in Stauros; next to her, Shakeb, one of the professors at the school of Opposites; next Mirsgana, the water master; Hosni,
kabidarios…”
*

He continued the introductions until he finished all twenty-four: Neferu, Katebet, Asrat, Hagos, Tamirat… All were dressed exactly the same; they smiled the same way when they were mentioned, greeting us with a nod. What got my attention most was that despite those strange names, a third of them were as blond as Glauser-Röist and some were even redheaded, some brunette, still others were dark-skinned. Their features were as varied as all the races and peoples in the world. Meanwhile the servants parsimoniously set out a huge amount of dishes with no meat in sight. Almost all the dishes held ridiculous quantities, as if the food were more for decoration—the presentation was magnificent—than nourishment.

The greeting ceremony concluded, Cato started the banquet. Everyone had hundreds of questions about how we passed the tests and what we thought about them. Yet, I wasn’t as interested in satisfying their curiosity as much as their satisfying ours. The Rock was like a cauldron ready to burst; I even thought I saw smoke coming out of his ears. Finally, when the murmuring had gotten rather loud and questions fell on us like rain, the captain exploded.

“I’m sorry to remind you that the professor, the doctor, and I aren’t aspiring Staurofilakes. We’re here to stop you.”

The silence in the room was impressive. Only Cato had the presence of mind to save the situation. “Calm down, Kaspar,” he said calmly. “If you want to stop us, do it later. Right now, don’t spoil such a pleasant meal with such bravado. Has anyone here spoken harshly to you?”

I was petrified. No one had ever spoken that way to the Rock. At least, I’d never seen it. Now, surely, he would turn into a wild beast and hurl the round table into the air. To my surprise, Glauser-Röist looked around the room and calmed down. Farag and I took each other’s hand under the table.

“I apologize for my behavior,” the captain said unexpectedly, without lowering his eyes. “It’s unforgivable. I’m sorry.”

The conversation started up again as if nothing had happened. Cato chatted in a low voice with the captain, who didn’t seem at all ill at ease, but listened attentively. Despite his age, Cato CCLVII still had an undeniably powerful, charismatic personality.

The
shasta
named Ufa, the horsemaster, came over to Farag and me to allow the Rock and Cato to talk privately.

“Why are you two holding hands under the table?” The
didaskalos
and I were petrified. How did he know that? “Is it true that, during the tests, you fell in love?” he asked in Byzantine Greek with all the naiveté in the world, as if his questions were not an intrusion. Several heads turned to hear our answer.

“Uh, well, yes… In fact…,” Farag stuttered.

“Yes or no?” the
shasta
named Teodros insisted. More heads turned.

“I do not believe Ottavia and Farag are accustomed to that type of directness,” commented Mirsgana, who was in charge of water.

“Why not?” Ufa asked, surprised.

“They aren’t from here, remember? They’re from the
outside,”
Mirsgana pointed her head upward.

“Why don’t you tell us about you and
Paradeisos?”
I proposed, imitating Ufa’s naiveté. “For example, where exactly is this place; why have you stolen fragments of the True Cross; and how do you plan to stop us from putting you into police hands?” I sighed. “You know, that sort of thing.”

One of the servants, who was filling my wineglass just then, interrupted me. “That’s too many questions to answer at one time.”

“Weren’t you curious, Candace, the day you woke up in Stauros?” Teodros answered.

“That was so long ago!” he answered as he served Farag. I realized that people I’d thought were servants weren’t that at all, or, at least not in the usual sense. They were all dressed exactly the way Cato, the
shastas,
and we were; they participated in the conversations with complete ease.

“Candace was born in Norway,” Ufa explained to me, “and he arrived here about fifteen or twenty years ago, right, Candace?” He agreed, wiping a dry cloth over the mouth of the jar. “He was
shasta
of foods until last year. Now he has chosen the kitchens of the
basileion.”

“Delighted to meet you, Candace,” I hurried to say. Farag did the same.

“Enchanted… Believe me: If you wish to get to know the true
Paradeisos,
start by taking a walk down its streets, without asking questions.” Saying this, he moved toward the doors.

“Candace may be right,” I said, resuming the conversation and taking the glass in my hands, “but taking a walk down the streets of
Paradeisos
is not going to clear up where this place is exactly, why you stole fragments of the True Cross, and how you plan to stop us from turning you over to the police.”

The number of
shastas
listening to our conversation grew; others listened to what the Rock and Cato were saying privately. The table was divided into two.

Waiting for the answers which had taken all the courage in the world for me to ask, I sipped more wine.

“Paradeisos
is in the safest place in the world,” Mirsgana said finally. “We didn’t steal the Wood since it has always been ours. Regarding the police, we’re not particularly worried.” The others nodded. “The seven tests are the entrance into
Paradeisos.
Those who pass them usually possess qualities that make them incapable of doing gratuitous, senseless harm. You three, for example, couldn’t either,” she added very amused. “No one has never done that, and we have existed for more than sixteen hundred years.”

“What about Dante Alighieri?” Farag sprung on her without warning.

“What about him?” Ufa asked.

“You killed him,” Farag said.

“Us…?” several shocked voices asked all at once.

“We didn’t kill him,” Gete, the Sumerian translator, assured us.

“He was one of us. In the history of
Paradeisos,
Dante Alighieri is a key figure.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Either they were artful liars or Glauser-Röist’s theory had collapsed like a house of cards.

“He spent many years in
Paradeisos,”
added Teodros. “He came and went. In fact, he began writing the
Convivio
and
De vulgari eloquentia
here in the summer of 1304. The idea for the
Commedia,
to which publisher Ludovico Dolce added the
‘Divina’
in 1555, arose during a series of conversations with Cato LXXXI and
shastas
in the spring of 1306, shortly before he returned to Italy.”

“But he recounted all the stories of the tests and paved the way so people could discover this place,” Farag pointed out.

“Naturally,” Mirsgana replied, with a bit of a smile. “When we hid in
Paradeisos,
in 1220, during the time of Cato LXXVII, our numbers started to dwindle. The only aspirants to the brotherhood came from associations like Fede Santa, Massenie du Saint Graal, Cathari, Minnesänger, Fidei d’Amore, and, to a lesser extent, from military orders such as the Knights Templar, Hospitalers of Saint John, or the Teutonic Knights. The problem of who would protect the Cross in the years to come was really alarming.”

“For that reason,” Gete continued, “Dante Alighieri was put in charge of writing the
Commedia.
Do you understand now?”

“It was a way to attract people capable of seeing beyond what’s in front of their nose,” Ufa explained, “nonconformists who like to look under rocks.”

“What about his fears about leaving Ravenna after publishing
Purgatory?
Those years when nothing is known about him?” Farag asked.

“They were political fears,” Mirsgana said. “Remember, Dante actively participated in the wars between the Guelfs and the Ghibelline. He was the attorney for the white Guelfs and faced the party of the black Guelfs. He always opposed the military policy of Boniface VIII, of whom he was a great enemy on account of the shameful corruption during his papistry. His life was in danger a number of times.”

“You mean the Catholic Church killed him on the Holy Day of the True Cross?” I asked sarcastically.

“Actually, the church didn’t kill him either, and we aren’t certain he died exactly on the Holy Day of the True Cross. We’re certain he passed away either the night of the thirteenth or the fourteenth of September,” explained Teodros. “We would like for it to have really been the fourteenth because it would be a nice coincidence, an almost miraculous one, but there’s no way to prove that. You are very mistaken about his being murdered. His friend Guido Novello sent him as ambassador to Venice. Upon his return, traveling through the lagoons of the Adriatic coast, he fell ill with malaria. We had nothing to do with it.”

“Well, it’s still suspicious,” observed Farag with distrust.

There was an overwhelming silence in our group’s conversation.

“Do you know what beauty is?” asked Shakeb, professor of the school of Opposites, who had been silent up to then. Farag and I looked at him in confusion. He had a round face and large, expressive black eyes. On his chubby hands he wore several rings that cast spectacular sparks of light. “See how the flame on that candle flickers, the shortest one, the gold one above Cato’s head?”

The torch he mentioned was barely a luminous spot in the distance. How could we make out the shortest candle and, on top of that, its flickering flame?

“Can you detect the scent of cabbage jam coming from the kitchen?” he continued. “How about the pungent aroma of marjoram they put in it and the acrid aroma of rhubarb leaves they cover the jam with in clay bowls?”

Frankly, we were confounded. What was he talking about? How could we possibly smell that? Without moving my head or lowering my gaze, I tried, without success, to guess the ingredients in the exquisite dish right under my nose, but I could only remember—and that was because I’d just taken a bite—that its flavors were very concentrated, much more intense than normal.

“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” Farag said to Shakeb.

“Could you tell me,
didaskalos,
how many instruments are playing the music accompanying our meal?”

Music…? What music, I thought. Then I realized a beautiful melody was coming from behind our seats. I hadn’t heard it because I wasn’t paying attention and because it was played so softly. It would have been completely impossible to distinguish each musical instrument.