The Last Cato (61 page)

We walked down the boulevard that bordered the river, watching people swimming happily at its banks. Apparently, like the entire grotto that formed
Paradeisos,
those dark waters maintained a constant temperature of twenty-four or twenty-five degrees centigrade. Given what I had learned about the rowers, I didn’t need to ask how those swimmers reached and surpassed many of the canoes that glided along, most propelled by two or three people. There was so much to learn, so many interesting things in
Paradeisos.
I was sure neither Farag, nor the Rock, nor I could ever expose these people. The Staurofilakes were right when they said we would be incapable of doing senseless, gratuitous harm to them, like all those who had passed that way before. How could we allow hordes of uniformed police to enter this place and end such a culture? We hadn’t considered that various churches would fight among themselves to appropriate what had been and what would be the brotherhood’s property or turn this place into a center of religious curiosity or pilgrimages. The Staurofilakes and their world would disappear forever, after sixteen hundred years of isolation. They would become a massive attraction for journalists, anthropologists, and historians. If they had stolen the True Cross, all they had to do was give it back. We would never denounce them. I was sure the captain and Farag felt the same way.

We strolled along peacefully. Stauros had numerous theaters, concert halls, exhibition halls, amusement centers, museums (of natural history, archaeology, plastic arts), libraries… Over the next several days, I was astonished to find original manuscripts by Archimedes, Pythagoras, Aristotle, Plato, Tacitus, Cicero, Virgil… in addition to first editions of
Astronomica
by Manilio,
Medicine
by Celsius,
Natural History
by Pliny, and other surprising incunabulars. Nearly two hundred thousand volumes were housed in what the Staurofilakes called “Rooms of the Life.” The strangest part was that the vast majority of people in
Paradeisos
could read the texts in their original language because studying languages, dead or alive, was one of their favorite pastimes.

“Art and culture increase harmony, tolerance, and understanding between people,” Gete said. “Only now are you starting to understand that up above.”

In Ufa’s stables—the largest of the five stables on the outskirts of Stauros—horses, mares, and colts stood in the wide corral. In the harness room were hundreds of halters and bridles of all types and countless saddles (all made of finely tooled leather) with strange, colorful cinches and wooden stirrups. Ufa served us dry fruits and
posca
made of water, vinegar, and eggs, which the Staurofilakes drank all day long.

They told us horseback riding was a favorite sport in
Paradeisos.
Jumping—at a trot or a gallop—was considered a high art. They also had races or contests of ability on horseback throughout the galleries.
Iysoporta
*
was very a popular game among the children. But Ufa’s job, and his passion, was taming the horses.

“The horse is a very intelligent animal,” he told us with conviction, softly petting the hindquarters of a colt that had docilely approached us. “All you have to do is teach him to understand signals with your legs, hands, and voice so he connects with his rider’s mind. Here we don’t need spurs or whips.”

As the afternoon was slipping away, he went on with a long explanation on the need to keep insufficiently trained horses from competing in jumping. As long as he had been a
shasta,
he had wanted to introduce the art of horse taming in the schools. It was the best way to know the natural movements of the animal before starting to ride or guide a horse.

Fortunately Mirsgana interrupted him discreetly and reminded him that Khutenptah had come along to show us the cultivation system. Ufa offered us the best horses in his stables, but since I didn’t know how to ride, he gave Farag and me a small buggy with which we were able to follow the others to a part of Stauros that had hectares and hectares of parcelated land. On our way there, Farag and I were finally able to be alone for a while, but we didn’t waste our time commenting on the strange things we were seeing. We deeply needed one another, and I remember we spent the whole trip laughing and joking. In fact, we discovered that horse-drawn carriages are much safer than cars since one can easily take one’s eyes off the road without there being any danger.

Khutenptah showed us her domain with the same pride as Ufa did his stables. It was a treat to watch her walk, enthralled, between the rows of vegetables, forage plants, grains, and all types of flowers. Glauser-Röist followed her with his eyes, engrossed in what she was saying.

“The volcanic rock,” she said, “provides excellent oxygenation to the roots and a clean substrate, free of parasites, bacteria, and fungi. In Stauros we have dedicated more than three hundred furlongs
†
to agriculture. The other cities have more because they use some of the galleries. Since
Paradeisos
lacks cultivatable ground, the first settlers had to go aboveground to buy food or procure it through the Anuak, running the risk of being discovered. So they studied in-depth the system the Babylonians used to create their wonderful hanging gardens and discovered you don’t need soil….”

I started to pay attention to what Khutenptah was saying. Farag and I had been caught up in our own conversation, apart from the rest. I hadn’t realized we were walking on rock, not dirt. All the products that flourished in
Paradeisos
were grown in large, long clay pots that contained only rocks.

“With the city’s organic crops,” Khutenptah explained, “we manufacture the nutrients for the plants and feed those nutrients to the plants in the water.”

“Up above that’s known as hydroponic cultivation,” Glauser-Röist said, examining carefully the green leaves on a bush and stepping back finally with a satisfied look. “They all look magnificent,” he pronounced, “but what about light? You need sunlight for photosynthesis.”

“Electric light also works. We also provide it by adding certain minerals and sugar resins to the nutrients.”

“That’s impossible,” the Rock objected, stroking the roots of an apple tree.

“Well,
Protospatharios,”
she said very calmly, “if that’s so, then you are hallucinating and you’re touching air.”

He drew his hand back quickly. He flashed one of his rare smiles, it was wide and luminous. Just then I recalled how I knew Khutenptah. No, I’d never seen her before, but in Glauser-Röist’s house in Lungotevere dei Tebaldi, in Rome, were two photographs of a girl who was identical to her. That’s why the Rock was so dazzled. Khutenptah must remind him of the other girl. The pair found themselves in a complicated conversation about sugar resins used in agriculture. In the same way that Farag and I had so rudely stood apart, they walked off from Ufa, Mirsgana, and Gete.

We returned to Stauros very late in the afternoon. People were strolling home after a long day of work. The parks were full of shouting children, silent onlookers, groups of teenagers, and jugglers throwing objects in the air and catching them. Juggling helped them be ambidextrous and being ambidextrous made them fantastic jugglers. I don’t know if they knew it or if they intuited it, but using both hands for any activity increased the simultaneous development of the two hemispheres of the brain, thus increasing artistic and intellectual capabilities.

Finally Ufa, Mirsgana, Khutenptah, and Gete led us to the last stop on our tour before we returned to the
basileion
for dinner. Despite our pleas, they wouldn’t reveal our destination. Finally the Rock, Farag, and I decided it would be more enjoyable to be obedient disciples and follow along without question.

The streets abounded with chaotic vitality. Stauros was an unhurried, relaxed city, but it vibrated with the pulse of a perfect ecosystem. These Staurofilakes we had long pursued looked at us expectantly since they knew who we were. They smiled and called out friendly greetings from their windows, carriages, and mosaic sidewalks. The world in reverse, I recall thinking. Or was it? I squeezed Farag’s hand tightly. So many things had changed. I had changed too and I needed something strong and safe to hold on to.

Our carriage turned a corner and came suddenly to an immense plaza. At the plaza’s back behind a garden, you could see an extraordinary building six or seven stories high. Its facade was covered with stained-glass windows; its many towers were topped in pointed pinnacles. I knew we had come to the end of our journey, the end of a long journey we had started so impetuously many months before.

“The Temple of the Cross,” Ufa announced solemnly, waiting for our reaction.

It was the most emotional and grandiose moment of my life. None of us could take our eyes off that temple, stunned by having reached the last stage of our journey. I was even sure the captain harbored no intention of reclaiming the reliquary in the name of factions we no longer cared about. Reaching the heart of earthly paradise, after all that effort, anguish, and fear, with just Virgil and Dante as guides, was too important a moment to squander a single ounce of emotion.

We entered the temple seized by the grandiosity of the place. It was brightly illuminated by millions of tapers, which cast a gold and silver light on the mosaics and domes of the cupola. It wasn’t a conventional church; it was exceptional for its decorations, a mixture of Byzantine and Coptic styles, a harmonious mix of austere simplicity and ornate excess.

“Here,” Ufa said, holding out some white scarves. “Cover your heads with these. Here, one shows maximum respect.”

Similar to Ottoman women’s
turban,
one placed those long veils on the hair, letting the ends hang loose on the shoulders. It was an ancient form of religious respect we’d abandoned in the West a long time ago. Men also wore white
turbans
in the temple. Everyone inside, children included, were respectfully covered with white veils.

As I made my way down that immense nave, I caught sight of it. Directly across from the entrance was a hollow in the wall where a beautiful wooden cross hung. There were people seated on benches in front of it or on rugs on the ground, Muslim-style. Many were praying aloud or silently; some seemed to be rehearsing allegorical plays; and children, separated by age group, genuflected as they’d been taught. It was a pretty strange way to address religion and, more than religion, the religious space. The Staurofilakes had already surprised us so much we were no longer shocked. Still, there before us was the True Cross, completely reconstructed as an unmistakable sign the Staurofilakes were who they were and would always be.

“It is made of pine,” Mirsgana told us in an affable voice, aware of the emotion that paralyzed us. “The vertical wood measures nearly five meters, the horizontal cross piece, two and a half meters. It weighs about seventy-five kilos.”

“Why do you venerate the Cross so much and not the Crucified Man?” I suddenly thought to ask.

“We do venerate Jesus,” said Khutenptah, in a pleasant tone of voice. “But the Cross is the symbol of our beginnings and the symbol of the world we have taken great pains to construct. From the Wood of that Cross our flesh is made.”

“Forgive me, Khutenptah,” mused Farag. “I don’t understand.”

“Do you really think this is the Cross Christ died on?” Ufa asked.

“Well, no… Actually, no,” he stuttered. His certainty wasn’t so much about doubting that the Cross was a fake. He just didn’t want to offend the Staurofilakes’ faith and beliefs.

“Well, it is,” affirmed Khutenptah, very certain. “This is the True Cross, the authentic HolyWood. Your faith is weak,
didaskalos,
you should pray more.”

“This Cross,” Mirsgana said, pointing to it, “was discovered by Saint Helen in 326. The Brotherhood of the Staurofilakes was formed in 341 to protect it.”

“That is the truth,” said Ufa very satisfied. “September 1, 341.”

“So why did you decide to steal the
Ligna Crucis
now?” asked the Rock, vexed. “Why now?”

“We didn’t steal them,
Protospatharios,”
Khutenptah responded. “They were ours. The safety of the True Cross was entrusted to us. Many Staurofilakes died to protect it. It gives our existence meaning. When we went into hiding in
Paradeisos,
we had the largest piece. The rest was parceled out to churches and temples in various-sized fragments, sometimes just splinters.”

“Seven centuries have passed,” declared Gete. “It was time to return the Cross to its past integrity.”

“Why not return the pieces?” I asked. “If you did, you wouldn’t be in such danger. Many churches were founded on the faithful worshipers’ devotion to the churches’ fragment of the True Cross,” I exclaimed.

“Is that so, Ottavia?” inquired Mirsgana, skeptical. “No one pays attention to the
Ligna Crucis.
In Notre Dame in Paris, in Saint Peter’s in the Vatican, or in Saint Croce Church in Gerusalemmne, for example, they have relegated their relics to their museums of curios, what they call treasuries or collections. You have to pay to see them. Hundreds of Christian voices are raised to declare those objects fake, and the faithful aren’t very interested in them either. Faith in the holy relics has declined a lot in the past few years. We only wanted to complete the piece of Holy Wood we have, a third of the
stipes,
the vertical wood. When we realized how easy it would be to get all the rest, we didn’t think twice about recovering them all.”