RETURN TO BYZANTIUM
A Cosmic Love Story
BY
ROBERT-BASIL WALLACE PAOLINELLI
Chapter I
Then shall I see God
without my flesh.
-Job
The moon was
in its last quarter when Constantinople fell
In ancient times there was a city, a newly built city, one not
under the aegis of the old gods of Olympus, that vast pantheon of immortals who
had held sway as from days of yore: But the new city was under the Beatitudes
and the parables which had heralded and revealed the mystical Christ, so the
city therefore, was under the aegis of the new religion, Christianity, crusher
of ignorance, bringer of a new spiritual light, kept burning by the followers
of Jesus Christ, whose following, threehundred and
more years after his advent had grown exponentially, planting itself into the
soil and sinking its roots into the bedrock of the old Roman Empire.
This new and Christian empire stretched from the Atlantic shores of Lusitania to beyond the Black Sea and north to Russia. All of the Mediterranean littorals, everything in between the
Pillars of Hercules to beyond the Nile River and across Sinai and still
further. Its influence reached even as far as India. This then was the
city: Constantinople-New
Rome: the first great city of Christianity.
The old Rome,
the Rome of the fallen Republic and the corrupted Caesars, whence all roads
lead to in the days of old, had been bathed in the blood of pagan sacrifices
for too many centuries and, therefore, unsuitable for the capital of the new
religion. Thus, New Rome was built in 330 A.D. on the site of
the town of Byzantium, known since olden times, but relatively insignificant
until it was chosen to be the capital of the new Christian state, founded by
Constantine the Great, Emperor, founder not only of a new city, but, also,
founder of a new empire: The Roman Empire of the East, ruled from New Rome,
which city came to be known as Constantinople-the city of Constantine, the
anchor, the centrum, the focal point of the new
religion. And while Antioch and Philadelphia
and Alexandria and other cities became great in their own way, it was
Constantinople to which all roads now lead.
Constantine
had wrested his great power from Maxentius, whose
army he had trounced at the Battle of the Milvian
Bridge. The battle decided who would be emperor of the old Roman Empire. Before
the battle, however, Constantine had a vision of a cross suspended in space
along with the words Touto Nika,
In this sign, conquer. And
Constantine, touched deeply by this vision, sent out an order to his commanders
that upon all shields and banners and flags crosses should be painted. and through the strength and new confidence of this
revelation, he gave battle with Maxentius, his foe
whom he conquered in the name of the vision of the cross. And
a new order was set into motion which changed the world forever.
And for more than a thousand years, Constantinople reigned,
sometimes majestically, magnificently; sometimes over-confidently, sometimes
treacherously, sometimes richly, sometimes with the coffers of the treasury
almost empty. Constantinople boasted of universities and lower schools,
seminaries and monasteries, hospitals, libraries, music schools; and
Constantinople was the home of thousands of Christians who laid the foundation
of the great churches; and the greatest of all churches of Christendom was Hagia Sophia, the Holy Wisdom, named after God's Word.
There the emperors were crowned and buried and there the Patriarches
orated to the masses and watched over the dogmas.
But in the tragic year of 1453, after a long and steady
decline, on the 29th of May, after onethousand, one
hundred and twenty-three years and eighteen days, the reign of eighty-eight
emperors and empresses who had sat on the first most powerful Christian throne,
came to an end.
For on that
day of lamentations, after six weeks of incessant bombardment by huge cannons,
the guns of the besieger, Mehmet II, the Turkish
Sultan, pulverized a section of what were once the heretofore
indestructible walls of Constantinople.
At the Romanus Gate, Military Gate Number
Four, which had taken the brunt of the cannonades,is
where the wall collapsed and where the fanatical troops of the Sultan broke
through the failed defenses of the long-besieged Constantinople, at which point
the enemy troops pouring into the city through the breeches began the wild
slaughter of men, women and children, the aged, the wounded. They raped
the women then killed them; they laid waste churches and violated monasteries,
killing monks and raping nuns, then killing them or keeping them as slaves. For
three days they pillaged and plundered anything of
value. They stripped the churches of icons; they opened walls in private houses
and dug up basements in search of treasures, buried during the siege. They
captured more than 60,000 citizens of Constantinople, then sold them, like so
much cattle to slave traders, who in turn sold them again to the highest
bidders. And those whom they did not sell into slavery, they
beheaded or tortured killing not only citizens, but killing the city itself,
the jewel of Byzantium, which would never be the same under the heel of the
Moslem Turks who became the new masters, who would rule the violated city for
over five hundred years, plunging a once enlightened city into a darkness from
which it never quite recovered.
When the
wolves of war captured the city of the blooded lamb, the soldiers of the
marauding Sultan entered the holiest church of Byzantium and defiled it in the
grossest ways. Then came Mehmet II,
riding his charger in all his piratical and conquistadorial
glory, and, at the doors of The Great Church, after paying proper obeisance at
the entrance by touching his forehead to the ground in the Moslem manner, with
that gesture and with a breath of a command, he completed the destruction of Constantinople
by simply declaring Hagia Sophia to no longer be a
church, but to be a mosque. And through force
of arms ignorance and egomania he too, changed the course of history.
For over fourhundred seventy years, the enchained church was used as
a mosque. But since, however, the reforms of Mustapha Kemal
Ataturk, St. Sophia has been demosqued,
and transformed yet again into something it was never intended to be: a
National Museum, thereby (oddly enough) being ironically saved from suffering
the further humiliation of having to be a Moslem mosque. Annually, thousands
and thousands of tourists and students from around the world come to visit and
to study Hagia Sophia, the surviving principal church
of Constantinople.
There is yet another ironic twist to this long
story: Most everyone thinks Istanbul, the new name for The City, is a Turkish
word. It is not. In spite of the long Turkish occupation and cultural
usurpation, The City remains Greek-named. For the word Istanbul, is a phonetic
corruption of the old Greek phrase: Eis Tin Polis,
i.e., To the city. This corrupted form might even be understand in its phonetic transmutation by the travelers of
old, who, when asked, "Where are you going?" simply had to say:
"Eis tin Polis", To the city, and everyone
understood that to mean, Constantinople, now called Istanbul.
II
Anna D. walked
down the Hilaiahmen Caddesi.
Anna was a tourist, an American of Greek descent, an amateur iconogra- pher. This was her
first trip to Istanbul. She was now on her way, wearing her favorite,
down-to-earth English walking shoes, to Hagia Sophia,
inside of which she would see her favorite icon: The icon of Christ Pantocrator. Back home, she had made an academic study of
this holy image and now she would see it personally. She knew she would find it
in the apse of the south gallery.
She had never
been overseas before and while she was here she was going to take advantage of
her position and visit not only such monuments as Hagia
Sophia, but, also, as many of the minor churches or, the remains of churches,
as possible. She was determined to visit every Byzantine ruin she could; to see
every relic and icon; determined even to visit a pile of seemingly indifferent,
long-forgotten Byzantine bricks in an out of the way neighborhood, the picture
of which had caught her eye in her guide book. Her
points of interests calendar was filled, but for the moment Anna was on her way
to Holy Wisdom, and she was thrilled. Her roots in this place were deep and she
was beginning to sensw the depth of those roots as
she walked toward the Great Church.
Now at hand
was a place which she had come to know only from oral
family histories, tomes of history reproductions in art and art history books
and Byzantine Studies journals and occasional papers and through maps and
photographic slides. She was thrilled. A dream was coming to life.
She'd waited many years to go to Hagia
Sophia. Now, as she walked, using her fine guidebook map and
her intuitions, she knew she was close, and in knowing this, she experienced an
onset of demureness, a deference to something beautiful, ancient and spiritual;
something filled with mysteries; something which made her lower her eyes, cast
down her dark brown eyes in honest, sincere modesty, by a woman from a good
family, paying a visit to the land of her ancestors, to the very city of the
generations of her ancient family. Anna was now face to face with her
genealogical and religious roots, for (originally) her family had continuously
resided in Constantinople, and had been Orthodox Christians since the 4th
Century A.D. This long residency was documented on the back of an icon, kept in
the family since that long-ago era. Each generation kept the
icon and passed it down to the next, hand to hand, family to family, and
eventually taken out of Constantinople during the upheavals therein and in Asia
Minor during the War of 1922, when her maternal grandparents fled the ancestral
home and took up refuge and residence in Athens, settling in until another war,
the Greek Civil War of the 1940s disturbed the family equilibrium and Anna's
parents decided to immigrate to the United States, where she was born, where
she was raised with the tales of the past transmitted to her in Greek and
English. She grew up and became an artist and a life-long student of
history. She was an art teacher at a small liberal arts college in
Pennsylvania. It had been the holy icon of Christ Pantocrator which had been
given to her remote ancestors which she loved most about her heritage. The
iconographer had written a note on the back to her remote great grandfather and
dated it with the year and month of the presentation. She carried that memorized note and
date in her heart as one would a secret meant only for her. But
through the love of the family heirloom, she cultivated her aesthetic and
spiritual love of iconography.
From afar she could see the tips of the four, superimposed
minarets, added on to the church after the conquest of 1453 so that the
muezzins could call out the daily prayers to the people. But, ironically: even
the minarets have been silenced and themselves belong to the imposed silence of
a museum, through the decrees of the new government bent on sapping the power
of imams and mosques in the early days of the Turkish Republic.
Closer she came
until from across the gardens she beheld the pearl of Byzantium, the Church of
the Holy Wisdom in all its splendor. All the photographs, etchings and woodcuts and oils on canvas,
depicting the ageless beauty of it; all the reproductions she'd seen through
the years and admired had all at once been rendered useless, merely inept
copies of the inexpressible beauty standing before her in this special place,
this holy place, this place still exuding a spirit of deep belief in the great
mysteries of the Christian faith--in spite of conquest and history.
Before her was an edifice of sublime creation of the Holy Spirit,
made manifest through the deft hands of those ancient architects and engineers
and craftsmen whose talents and faith took stone and space and color and form
and exalted mystery, and turned them into a glorious temple of worship, where
priests and laity sang hymns of praise to the Son of God and to his Holy Mother
Ever Virgin.
At first she thought that the odd feeling she began to feel was
that of her being very excited about seeing Hagia
Sophia for the first time. All at once, however, she gasped for air and felt a
sharp pain in her breast, and a dizziness came over
her which made her stop walking and to struggle for breath and balance. Her vision
was slightly blurred. "Am I having a stroke or a heart attack?" she
asked herself as she verged on panic. But in the
asking of the question she knew that it was neither thrombosis nor apoplexy she
was feeling. But something was going on in her body. For all at once there was an almost pins and needles sensation
starting from the base of her spine, like a coil unsprung,
traversing quickly, upward in the channels of her spine, up through her medulla
oblongata, and shoot straight across the middle of her skull; and at a point
just between her eyebrows the pins and needles sensation stopped, and in that
stopping there came to her, like a clap of silent thunder, a clarity of thought
and consciousness spectacular! Nothing in her life's experience could
compare to the heightened consciousness she now knew.
Her
equilibrium returned, and she no longer felt dizzy,
and her blurred vision was no more. There stood out before
her the recognition that within--somewhere--she didn't know where, or,
wherefrom, perhaps no one definable position--nevertheless, it was not her
mind, not her heart at any rate, but there was a someplace, and she was feeling
its physical effects, and deeply aware of its cosmic immensities, this
something, which might be best described as a great inner peace with a sense of
awe and a hint of an anxiety at the splendor of this boundless energy from
which she was so suddenly able to grasp knowledge of the past, present and
future, and a concomitant serenity heretofore unknown to her.
She had come into
a new dimension beyond time, form and space--yet aware of being in time, form
and space and out of it simultaneously. It was all too new and mysterious to
her. She looked about for some place to sit: She spied a bench nearby. She sat
to wait for Bessarion.
III
Among the more
than fifty-five tourists alighting from the silver-toned
Mercedes-Benz-air-conditioned tour bus, there was one man, one among many; an anonymous fraction among an anonymous whole. Outwardly,
just another curious tourist--so it would seem. But
that was not so.
He'd begun his tour from his hotel on the Galata Tower side of modern Istanbul, across the Golden
Horn. The tower, built by the Genovese and the skillful stonemasons of
Constantinople, yet stood in all its cylindrical glory in spite of wars, fires
and the ravages of time.
From his hotel
room he could see it quite clearly as he stood on the wide balcony of his room.
When, however, he gazed at the old stone tower he always felt both sad and
angry simultaneously--and he couldn't say why, could
not account for such feelings.
This particular morning, before his tour's departure, Michael stood
looking at the tower trying to understand why he was feeling the way he was.
When, however, he stepped inside his room, the sentiments seemed to fade and he
felt nothing in particular. Nevertheless, each time he saw it, the seeing of
the tower caused anger, sadness and oddly enough, a sense of shame. And as he stood facing the tower, he had a refinement of the
discernment of his emotions, which he realized, were not caused so much, per se
by seeing the tower, no; but in what he was seeing from the tower! How could
that be? That was impossible and incomprehensible! How could he possibly
perceive two things, that is, seeing the tower from his 20th Century hotel
balcony and seeing something from the tower, looking across the Golden Horn to
the 15th Century into old Constantinople--not contemporary Istanbul!
How? He felt stunned, puzzled and worried deeply. He shook
his head and went to the sink and splashed cool water
onto his face. As he toweled off his face he could remember what he had
"seen" (and "heard") from the Galata
Tower and it frightened him, making him reel from the recognition of it:--
A city burning, the incessant sound of cannon fire, the screams of
the wounded, the curses of the damned, and the last sighs of those dying by the
vicious and greedy swords of the Sultan's soldiers. He shuddered and broke into
a cold sweat and was half convinced he was going mad. Suddenly the ringing of
his telephone, however, brought him away from the brink of seeming madness and
a great question about his sanity. He gladly avoided the question and picked up
the receiver. The call was from the front desk telling him that the tour
director was making a last call to board the bus which
would leave in ten minutes.
As the
silver-toned, air-conditioned Mercedes-Benz bus passed the Galata
Tower Michael stared at it intensely, perplexedly, and suddenly he felt very
cold, then passed out, and did not wake up until the bus driver gently shook
his shoulder. "Sir, we have arrived at Hagia
Sophia. Are you not well, sir?" he asked solicitously.Michael
looked up at the concerned driver's face. Momentarily,
he was at a loss as to what to say to him, nevertheless, he managed to utter
something about jet lag and feeling sleppy.
Nevertheless, thanking the driver, he made his way out of the bus; when he was
in a position to see the church of Holy Wisdom squarely, he thrilled at the
sight of her.
He was an
architect from California and a perennial student of Byzantium. He never knew
why, he'd always been drawn to it, however. Through
the years reading about Byzantium became a thoroughly
enjoyable, consuming hobby, and then a spiritual curiosity lead him to study
some theology on his own then became a catechumen in the Orth
dox church and eventually was chrismated
and he took the name of Saint Bessarion of Egypt. He
never knew why he'd chosen that name, but he took it
and he liked being called after one of St. Anthony's students in the desert. So he thought it only natural to unhesitantly
go to Greece when a business opportunity presented itself. He jumped at the
chance; and when his business affairs were over, he booked a three
day tour from Thessalonike to Istanbul, primarily
to visit and study, at first hand, Hagia Sophia, his
most favorite of archetectual splendors of the past.
The tour included staying in a four star hotel near the Galata
Tower. He delighted in that, for he had read about this tower many times, and felt
he knew its history intimately.
Hagia Sophia: He felt an immediate joy at seeing this
architectural and spiritual wonder--more than he could have imagined. For
suddenly he was feeling great waves of bliss wash over him, and he too felt
woozy and sought a bench for his shaky legs.
Anna was now standing, strolling, living, as it were, in two
separate worlds: The contemporary circumstances of times, places, dates,
identities and passports and degrees and licenses, modern society which gives
status and legitimacy through classification to people and things, and at the
same time she could go beyond worldly limitations overcome them, they could be
suspended, for but a blink of her eyes she could go back to a certain day, at a
certain time, long ago, when she was waiting for someone named Bessarion--but she didn't quite yet know why or who this Bessarion was. But she
would look from within and from without and find him.
As she
strolled, she felt a nearness of something. What?
Something exciting and dangerous; she could feel this mystery in her bones. She stopped for a moment and looked behind her eyes and saw houses
ablaze and people in panic running for their lives helter-skelter while pockets
of Byzantine soldiers battled the Turks, whose six weeks of unrelentless
bombardment by the Sultan's cannons, had pulverized and crushed what were once
the mightiest of fortified walls, the Walls of Theodosius, which had lasted for
more than a thousand years; walls which had been besieged before--but that was
in the days before gunpowder and powerful siege guns which could hurl an iron
or stone ball, weighing more than a thousand pounds against the walls with
devastating results.
Now these selfsame guns (cast by the Hungarian mercenary cannon
maker, Urban, who'd sold his soul to the Sultan and aimed his cannons to
destroy the bastion of Orthodoxy), these tubes of destruction, broke the very
stones laid by the faithful, who had carried the icon of the Theotokos to commemorate the victory and salvation from
another siege long, long before the tragic year of Fourteen fifty-three.
In six weeks all the past glories of the city were nullified by cannon balls
and by the hordes of bloodthirsty swordsmen bent on the total annihilation of
the populace--if necessary-- to take and plunder, kill and rape for their
insane Sultan.
Opening her
eyes, Anna found herself back in the park in front of St. Sophia, and that
something which had eluded her was coming into focus in her mind's eye. She
could see a man almost dead with exhaustion after having swum from the Galata side in the middle of the night during the siege.
He had come to
live or die for for Anna and for Constantinople. She
recited the name, Anna and shuddered, for instantly she knew that aside from
her present identity, she had once been another Anna of another time and age;
and by or through some process she could not yet understand, the past and the
present were now at her beck and call. Anna knew that
she was, had been, was now again: Anna Doukas, daughter of Photios, now
a monk in the Monastery of St. John of Studium, once
a respected judge and scholar-antiquarian, poet, historian friend of prelates
and confidant of princes. An opened-minded observer of the human condition for
many years, who suddenly denounced the world, his position and his worldly
possessions--even his family, an only daughter, received the tonsure and
withdrew. Even his enemies were aghast that he threw up his world to lead a
life of penitence, fasts, prayer and undergo other monastic austerities and to
study and reflect upon the Scriptures. Anna knew in her heart of hearts that
she was the daughter of Photios Doukas,
returned nevertheless, was back in
Constantinople, about to reunite with Bessarion, her
lover of old, in the pay of the neutral Genevese, who
sailed and rowed back to Pera (the Galata side) and stayed away from the Sultans siege.
Bessarion followed the paymaster of false logic and
half-baked loyalties across the narrow channel to Pera--in
a burst of misdirected loyalty to comrades-in-arms and to a narrow, mercantile
neutrality, he crossed over to the other side, the other side of compassion,
the other side of love, the other side of decency. It had never crossed his
mind to desert; his solidarity, however, was costing him dearly; for on the
other side ravaged by war, was Anna, whom he had abandoned. It had been (and
continued to be) a cowardly act on his part. He had come to regret his original
decision: which was that, after all, he had no personal quarrel with the Turks,
and the Republic of Genoa, under whose authority he was had no quarrel with the
Turks. The Genevese only wanted to be merchants and
traders, and to be left in peace to trade, thereby becoming, instead, traitors
to humanity. He further reflected, that if the capital
of Eastern Christendom fell, well, such is the fate of empires and armies. Yes,
he had fooled himself with this false reasoning. Gradually, however, he saw the
meanness and the falseness of his reasoning and he was made humble by his
having come to grips with his original decision, even though it had been,
albeit, a painful process.
Two weeks
passed, then began the third week of the siege. And
his conscience would give him no rest, no respite from the sounds carried over
the water to his ears, and, too, how his heart ached for having left the only
person he ever truly loved in the world: Anna. Now he was paying for hisblockheaded reasoning, and his soldier's brashness, but
he would pay no more. He was repentant, and he used the power
of his repentance to redeem his cowardice in the only way he could: He swam
back in the dead of the night with the aid of inflated pig bladders to buoy
him, to conserve his strength for the final push to scramble up the steep rocks
to an old and almost forgotten, quasi-secret door, one rarely used; but he knew
of it and knew where was the key to open it. He also knew that he would
find Anna on the other side of the midnight door, for she had sworn that, God
willing, she would come every night at midnight and wait by the door until dawn,
until her lover returned. She would stay no matter what. She was prepared even
to die. She knew his act had ben cowardly, but she
also knew that he would one day see his error and return. Her love for him was,
therefore, great.
"Bessarion! Oh! I will see Bessarion," she said excitedly under her breath,
expressed with the excitement and joy of anticipation. "Darling,
blessed sweetness of my heart. Ah, the innocence of
our love, oh, the grandeur of our fidelity. Darling, how my heart
sings..." There was a lightness in her step as
she felt his closeness more and more. Closer and closer,
honing in on his beating heart, sending out its rhythm to her. "Oh,
Bessarion, beloved mine," she called out softly,
turning her head now one way searching him out in the crowds.
Michael, who
had taken to a bench to rest his wobbly legs, closed his eyes and within the
timeless space behind was a day in May, when his last ounce of strength was
used to turn the heavy bolt with the thick, cumbersome iron key
which he had to turn with two hands. Because the door
had not been used in a dozen years, its hinges squeeked
and the wood was tight in the frame because of the dampness, and it was not
easy, but open it did, and Anna heard the creak of the opening door and knew it
was Bessarion, her lover, returned to protect her and
to live or die with her. "Oh, he has returned," she whispered
and with her thumb and two fingers joined together, she quickly made the sign
of the cross three times and uttered a soft prayer of deliverance to the Mother
of God.
Michael opened
his eyes. In front of him a number of Norwegian
tourists stood for a group picture. He recognized them; they were also staying
at the Hotel Galata. He stared at them. On the other
side of the Norse visitors he saw her: saw Anna. Anna,
who had waited without judgement on him, knowing he
would return. For Anna there had never been any question of his returning: it
was only a matter of when.
Two grains of
the cosmos were about to coalesce in the material world: The past and the ever motile present would become one, recognizable, however,
only for Anna and Bessarion. All
about them would be the contemporary world with its many conventions and
conveniences and traditions of the human condition; but for the two of them,
they could live in two worlds seeming to be strangers outwardly, strolling (as
they were now doing) separately toward Hagia Sophia,
just two more tourists among the thousands, who come to visit and pay homage to
the past glory of Constantinople still alive in its glorious cathedral
dedicated to the mercy and the mystery of Jesus Christ, but be connected to a
source beyond human ken.
On the surface Michael was clothed with the cut and colors of his
time, and his body and gestures and idiosyncrasies were his contemporary
aspects, but inwardly was the consciousness of the past and the present
blended--he sensed the radiation of Anna, his Anna. Oh, it was all so clear what was happening, but also a little frightening. He saw
the Norwegians disburse after their group photograph, and now that they were
gone, she stood out as would a radiant star in a
darkened universe suddenly full of light.
She came out of
the darkness with a heavy cloak over her arm for him. She knew he would be not
only wet, but cold as well, so she'd brought along
some strong spirits and a hunk of bread, a small bowl of olives, a handful
covered with oil to feed his body after his strenuous swim.
He did not
have to ask whose arm it was touching him. He held onto her shoulders while she
let him sip from the spirits bottle she held. They did not speak, and because
of the darkness neither could see the other, but he
recognized her smell and the rhythm of her breath and the familiar warmth of
her body and the special way she touched his cheek.
They stood
holding each other for many minutes, and every minute of rest and silent
comfort from Anna restored his prowess. And with
Anna's spirit fusing with his, he commended his spirit to God and understood he
would die with her. This is what he was anticipating. They went to her home
where Ariadne awaited them, as she had done every
night since her young mistress started keeping her vigil--against Ariadne's better judgement.
Michael stood
up in front of her (in) time present and time past ad infinitum. It happened:
The coalescence of dimensions. Time ebbing and flowing; the dualities of the
human perspective replaced by the absolute connection to the center of
consciousness and time and the alpha of the limitations of time and the omega
of time eternal. Only inches separated them. His light tan sports coat was
unbuttoned. The white cotton shirt he wore was open at the neck and dependent
from his neck was a cross potent. He felt it against
his chest. It was the same kind of cross they had exchanged as pledges when
they understood they truly loved one another and that they would die together,
in Constantinople, long, long ago.
As he fingered the heavy gold cross around his neck, the inner
vision blossomed into familiar scenes of deeply pledged love between the young
Umbria soldier, a mercenary for the Genevese, and the
Constantinopolitan maiden, who lived with her devoted duenna and housekeeper, Ariadne, who had helped raise her after the child's beloved
mother, Theodora went to sleep and never woke up fifteen or more years ago.
It was then
that the recently widowed Photios usurped his
daughter's childhood and took her into his world of letters and ideas. He
guided her like a captain of a strict ship: She was made to study and learn by
heart old manuscripts and ancient scripts, old languages and long lists of
vocabulary words from civilizations no longer in existence. That was the
atmosphere in which she, little Anna, whose greatest loves were her mother, her
nanny and her dolls had been raised. Suddenly one pillar of her childhood, her
darling mother, went to sleep one afternoon in the cool summer garden, just
beneath the fig tree she loved best; went to sleep with a beatific smile on her
face and never woke up. But little Anna, not knowing her mother was dead kept
insisting she must be very tired and so the house should let her sleep longer,
and that she could eat after she had awakened. But she
never woke up.
Although her
father loved his scholar-daughter, she had very few girlhood friends, and as
she grew older,.she never had any suitors because she
was seen as an eccentric: Too scholarly for a women, too learned in things
which did not concern females and, had been raised in an atmosphere not correct
for a girl. For of what use would any of her erudite learning be as a wife
maintaining a domestic household, caring for children and being obedient to her
husband's wishes?
Yet Anna was
soft and gentle and yes, even passionate with flights of romantic fancies
seeing herself in some future as being a priest's wife perhaps, or the wife of
a learned man, a judge like her father, who would appreciate her learning. But
no one approached her, however. When her father incloistered himself, the social events at her home, where
her father's friends (who had also her friends) would come to discuss
scripture, the ancient philosophers and scripts and to recite poems, and debate
subtle theological points, stopped. Suddenly, the world of ideas and possibilities which excited and fascinated the brilliant
Anna came to an end. Rarely had they visitors
afterwards. She spent a lot of time alone in her father's studio cataloguing
his large accumulation of manuscripts and pieces of art and curiosities from
all over the world. She could read most of the foreign scripts she found. Her
father had been an unrelenting task master.
"Since I have no son, it is to you, my sweet daughter, to whom I must
transmit my learning, otherwise it is wasted." So
with the years she could speak, read and write several languages; she was able
to cite chapter and verse of the Holy Scriptures and she could hold her own in
discoursing the histories and the ancient dramatists--she knew them all. Even
the Latin poets flowed from her mellifluous tongue. One day, while in the
market place near the old Acropolis, she saw Bessarion
for the first time.
He was the son
of a Greek father and an Italian mother from Umbria, where he'd been born and
baptized into the Greek Orthodox church, but after his father's death raised as
a Roman Catholic by his mother,. Anna saw and heard
him haggling over the price of a sword with a Persian
speaking merchant. Bessarion's Persian was atrocious; Anna's was perfect, but nevertheless she
couldn't help but chuckle because his Persian was so god-awful yet a bit humorous the way he was speaking which
had a flair all its own, and she also found him to be handsome and dashing in
his military uniform and his voice, too, was melodious in spite of his
fracturing a perfectly beautiful language. She also took pity on him
because by his gestures, facial expressions and emphasis of his limited
infinitives, she knew he wanted the sword every so badly.
Boldly she stopped nearer the hagglers and offered her services as
interpreter to the Persian who gladly accepted her offer, for he wanted to sell
the sword and be on his way before the Sultan's army got any closer and closed
off all routes of escape for those who wanted to flee before the siege (which
was inevitable) was in place.
She knew by
his accent that the handsome soldier was Italian, which language she spoke most
excellently--her father had made sure of that. But she
did not suspect that the soldier also, spoke Greek; of course, not as good as
his flawless Italian, nevertheless, he spoke it, as she would soon learn. With
her help a price was agreed upon with the monolingual
Persian.
Ariadne was now anxious to get home and eat their midday meal which she was looking forward to; but her young
mistress had the audacity to stand and `continue to speak with this soldier
long after the sword transaction was over and her linguistic skills were no
longer needed. She could understand the words of the language they spoke; after
all, she, Ariadne, had lived in a scholar's house
since her youth and she had learned a thing or two herself.
She'd even been to Italy with the master, all the way
to Florence to some council or other. She hadn't quite
understood it; but what she did know was that the Eastern church and the Roman
church were now one. It was about time, too, she thought; after all, had there
not been one church once before? But Ariadne
in her simplicity had not understood the quibbling over subtle and not so
subtle points of theology which had taken place and the politics of the
council, which were also completely lost on her, and that the union of the
churches was no union at all, but a vain attempt to buy protection for
Byzantium against the menace of the encroaching, insatiable, barbarian Turks.
"Dear Ariadne," said Anna, turning to her duenna,
"Signore Da Scheggia
will accompany us to our home and will eat with us," she said, sweetly,
matter-of-factly. Ariadne was shocked. What was the
world coming to that a young woman of a good family would invite a soldier, a
mercenary, no doubt, to their home for the midday meal? And
at that moment she cursed her former master for having become a monk and for
leaving two women alone to fend for themselves and protect themselves.
Nevertheless, she also knew how lonely Anna was, how she longed for compnaionship. She grew up too quickly and had been raised
improperly--so thought Ariadne--by being taught to
read old tomes and scripts and not enough exposure to the domestic and womanly
arts, although Anna liked to bake bread and to make her own clothes. However,
she was more inclined to sit for many hours in her father's musty library and
read rather than sit at the rightful place for a woman: the household loom. And who knew what was in all those books she read, and what
did she see in those old maps she poured over and those heathen manuscripts she
studied, which the old master had collected through the years? Indeed, bring
him, this soldier home for the midday meal! How could she do such a thing? She almost turned red for the shame of it.Yet even though this great breach of morals and
convention had been made, she could see how happy and animated Anna was with
the young soldier. It was as if she had come alive from the
dreary scholar's life she lived and became the young and handsome young woman
she was. Very well, for th3 sake of the happiness of her young mistress
she would set an extra place for this Italian Adonis with his thick hair and
his noble bearing. Anyway, how much longer would any of them be alive what with
Mehmet's army on its was to
the city bent on capturing it?
The three
walked to the house. Ariadne walked a few paces in
front leading the way and was certain every busybody in the neighborhood was
watching them take a soldier into the once respected house of a judge and
scholar. She ignored the reproachful stares.
And it was while they ate that Anna discovered Bessarion was learned in architecture. But
he'd been drawn to and tempted by the adventurous life of the soldier--or so he
thought. He was yet untested in battle, He had done well on the drill field and
in the saddle using a heavy wooden sword to learn how to wield a saber. He was
a good swordsman on foot or on a horse. But he was
full of over confidence and gave no thought to death--as most green troops do.
They stood
staring at each other, these ancient lovers of long ago and in the seeing and
the remembering of each other, their hearts sang in the 20th Century with the
same ardor as when they had first loved each other those days long, long
before.
In front of
each was the contemporary manifestation of the body and soul of the beloved.
Michael stood
there gazing in amazement at this beautiful, incomprehensible creature from the
past who had all of a sudden appeared before him.
And simultaneously she was having similar thoughts. "I
knew I would find him, and there he is; we loved each other long ago. And I still love him But I'm a married woman with
children--yet I love him. What does it mean?".
"I still
love her, but what about my wife? How do I explain this to
her because she would never understand. Now I can't go back to her."
"How can I go back home to my family now that Bessarion is here?"
The two lovers
stared with pure bliss of becoming aware of the other and remembering thoughts
of the antiquity of their lives and their deaths and their now encountering one
another and living that antiquity inwardly and remembering that past with the
same clarity one remembers an event of just a moment ago.
But there was now compounded a moral issue each felt deeply,
for standing there remembering their ancient, very human and deep attachment,
they nevertheless did not forget their responsibility to spouses and children.
Yet there was now a precedence: Their former love .
Its age gave it precedence--or did it.?
"One
would think that we would be eternally happy now that we have refound each other, but now I feel snared by my past--but
it is not my past, because you are past, present and future to me."
"And I to you, beloved. How much simpler were our lives
this morning than they are now. I'm overjoyed and at
the same time wracked with pangs of conscience. I know by all the traditions
and laws and sentiments of people I should not feel so about another man
because I am a married woman. But is it wrong to love
and want to be with a man I loved centuries ago, and to whom I pledged my heart
for eternity? I don't know, I don't know. Do you
remember our vows?"
"Yes, I
remember our vows, we said them in Hagia
Sophia, in front of the icon of St. Mary of Egypt. Was it destiny to have sworn
our oath in front of her icon? I wonder. We swore we would love each other and
suffer, if we had to, in the same way she suffered for the sake of our Lord. We
were so naive; we deluded ourselves. We
swore a too strong an oath, I think, and somehow that's a reason for our having
to return to redeem that heavy vow."
"Yes, I
think you're right." And that's what makes me a little sad amidst our
great joy, my beloved BessarionMichael, I don't know what to call you."
"I don't
care. Call me what you wish, I only know you as Anna. But that was my
sister's name too. She was taken away when my mother died and I never saw her
again. This is the first time in many centuries that I've
remember that past family connection. Shortly before mother died she arranged
for me to be apprenticed to an architect, and that's
about the same time she gave my sister up. She knew she was dying and was putting her house in order. It was a sad time for me. My boy's world disentegrated. It
was too great a sorrow for a lad my age. She sent me to Torquato
Bartoletti, of Gubbio. He
was a good and fair man. I was able to find peace once again through the
kindness of his wife and his fair treatment of me in his house, and I came to love him like a father, and he treated me like
a son--and treated his other two apprentices like sons. After
three years he made me principal apprentice--quite an honor for a boy....and
reminiscing, he drifted from Istanbul back to a quieter time in Gubbio, the quietude and comfort of a secure place, being a
member of a family, eating at the Master's table, controlling the two
apprentices by watching how Mastro Torquato did, with firmness and also, gentleness, but
always with firmness and a smile for a reward.. But beyond the safety
and comfort of the architect's studio there was also a pull in him to seek
beyond the safety, leave the familiar and go out into the world beyond the
studio, beyond the family, beyond the walls of Gubbio.
He kept hearing of great tales of adventure. What he thought was adventure
however, were the great struggles and shifts of power going on; one age was
ending and a new one was beginning, and the birthing pains of the new age were
interpreted as adventure, the way a young man sees the world, sees it naively,
feeling it with the audacity and the prowess of youth. Adventure.
That is all he understood. He became restless and instead of concentrating on
his further studies of drawing, mathematics, metallurgy, stone masonry, the
principles of carpentry and decoration and the like, he had his head in a
romantic cloud of battles where he would not die and was always victorious.
When, however,
he saw a band of Swiss mercenaries passing through Gubbio
on their way to some war or other in the East, dressed in their shining breast
plates and helmets, he experienced first hand their attractive, rough,
down-to-earth ways and had been taken in by their coarse, sometimes, amusing
language. He admired their lusty, devil-may-care attitude and he compared that
camp life which he found so alluring to the relatively
safe, peaceful, sometimes monotonous alternately creative life of an
architect's apprentice--the best in the studio, the favorite of the master,
guaranteed a position upon completion of his studies. But
the call of the unknown, the strange, the exotic was strong.
The
opportunity to change came to him in a most unexpected way: His
dear master was thrown from a horse and died two days later from complications.
His bereaved widow, who was from Venice, decided to close the house, give the
apprentices the business and go north and live with her people. When Bessarion expressed a desire to move
on, instead, he was excused from his apprenticeship, given a small sum of money
left to him by his late master and, leaving Gubbio,
he took the road to Bari where he would take ship to
Constantinople, which seemed to figure so highly in the tales of the many
travelers and refugees from the east.
He was able to
hear the Greek language often and what he discovered was that a rich Genovese
was hiring guards for his ships and for his warehouses in both Constntinopele and in Pera, on
the other side of the Golden Horn from the city. The pay, so he heard, was good
and he had a month before the merchant's galley sailed. The reason for the
turmoil in the east was the continuous war made in that area by Mehmet II against the Christian world. Like a wolf, he
attacked lambs. Those who could, fled, and those who could
not suffered the conquest--but the merchants, who would remain loyal to their
goods and arbitrary standards, they gathered into their barns and hired guards
to save their precious goods, while others, of a higher mind, stood on the
battlements commending their souls to God and facing the dripping steel of the
Janissaries as they fought and died trying to save civilization from the
madness of the mad Sultan
So, falling in with another band of Swiss adventurers, he
used some of his money to receive some training in arms. He already knew the
rudiments of swordsmanship and with disciplined training excelled in it, but he
knew nothing of the crossbow, halberd, small cannons and mounted skills with
the saber. He proved however to be a good student and learned his lessons well.
The mercenaries, after a while, accepted him as one of their own and they tried
to convince him to join them on their way to Trebizond,
where the pay would be good and they would be surrounded by a beautiful city
and beautiful woman and the open sea and breezes of the Black Sea. Moreover, Trebizond had no quarrel with the Sultan.
But he did not want to go to Asia Minor. He was bent on
Constantinople. And when it came to enlisting in the
merchant's Constantinopolitan service, Bessarion
immediately signed on as a guard for the rich Genovese whose guards would
protect the inventories in Constantinople which were to be loaded onto ships in
the Phospherian Harbor. The very name, Phospherian sent thrills through his naive, adventurous
spirit.
He became a
regular guest at Anna's, for the warehouse he helped to guard at Phospherian Harbor was not far from the Gate of Eugenius where was the family home,
not far from the old Greek Acropolis. Often he stayed late and even Ariadne eventually came to like the well-mannered youth.
She also worried about what was to come of this relationship. Would he marry
her? Would she consent to marry him? And what of the impending
war the Sultan was to make on the city? The world, her world of simple decency
and predictable traditions and customs had collapsed. Now that Anna had no
parental restraints, what would she do if she got it into her mind
(strong-willed that she was) to do something rash with the young Umbrian? Ariadne, then, would pray that the Lord and the saints
would come to help her dear Anna.
The wind blew
and stirred the fine dust on the ground and small leaves were carried close to
it for short distances like small insects. Michael and Anna were holding hands
looking at Hagia Sophia. The could
hear many different languages. Together they each counted six languages, an
even dozen, making him remark:--
"I can
remember that when we used to stroll here we could hear a dozen languages
spoken in a short time. I always that it to be exotic and when I said that to
you, you thought it wonderful and you found out I also liked languages."
"Yes, I
remember when you came to me and asked if I could speak Armenian, because you
wanted to hire a goldsmith to make something, two crosses potent, with chains
for us as pledges for the vows of our hearts and souls."
"I still
carry that cross, and he reached inside his unbuttoned shirt and with thumb and
forefinger pulled out his cross potent; and she, reaching in between her
breasts, pulled out a cross potent of similar size and kind of chain.
Near to the
Gate of Eugenius was the Armenian goldsmith. Her
Armenian was not bad, she said, and Bessarion pulled
out a parchment and un rolled and showed the cross
potent he'd drawn to the deft goldsmith. Anna could see the talent that had
gone into the drawing of the simple cross and she knew that her choice of
staying with this brash man had been the right one for very often
he would do or say something which would endear him anew to her, anew the
freshness of their ever deepening love.
When the
crosses were ready, they took them to a priest for a blessing, and on their
own, having stopped in front of an icon of St. Mary of Egypt, they each in turn
placed the cross around the neck of the other; and two innocent hearts were
pledged beyond their own capacities of fulfillment. But what
he had pledged in front of the icon, he would denounce at the Phospherion Harbor, whence he took ship with his neutral Genoan merchant whose goods would now be propelled across
to the neutrality of Pera, while he stood guard on
the deck with his crossbow and a glowing match for the ship's small cannon,
while the Sultan's own cannoneer was leading 60 yoke
of oxen, dragging his monstrous cannon from Adrianople
to batter down the walls of Constantinople.
And later, when the cannon balls of the Hungarian cannon
maker, Urban were ramming against the walls of the Gate of St. Romanos, Bessarion and his fellow
guards sat safely by the Galata Tower. But even at that distance the sounds of the cannon could be
heard--though somewhat muted--and the flash and smoke issuing forth from the
muzzle could be seen. Every strike of the huge stone and iron balls against the
wall of Theodosius seemed to echo to him across the waters to the Galata Tower where he and the others were billeted. And
each echo he heard made his heart grow tighter and tighter until he knew that
if he did not act quickly, he would pay for his assumed neutrality, his
commercial cowardice, the rest of his life and he could not face that.
But that was yet to come. After their private ceremony she sent a letter to her father, via the abbot of
St. John in Studio asking for a visit. A favorable reply arrived. She wanted to
get his blessing for marriage. Their pledge in front of the icon was only the
first step in their plan. They would marry and when the war was over they would have a family and live in some quiet,
peaceful spot the rest of their lives.
The visitation
took place in a small courtyard where the sun shone in and the shadow of an old
olive tree gave them shelter. Father and daughter embraced and exchanged
cheeks. She introduced him to Bessarion, with whom he
exchanged a few polite phrases in both Greek and Italian.
The monk, Father Elias, the former Photios,
was not a large man. He was almost bald and his beard and hair were long. His
eyes looked like bright crystal lakes sharp on a winter's landscape. He had
made many fasts and stood long, all-night vigils and lived mostly on bread and water and a few olives. He'd
lost lots of weight. Anna had never known her father to be thin. But the monk's regimen had turned him into a leathery thin
man, almost a stranger to her who know him as a chubby, well kept and rosewater
smelling father of found memory. Now all that was changed.
"Father I
have come to ask for your blessing and permission to marry."
He looked at
her with unmoving eyes. Even before she finished her introduction
he knew the reason for her visit. When he had spied the young Italian with her he understood immediately their relationship and the
reason for their coming.
There was
nothing for him to deny. In his present state of worldly detachment
he had neither desire nor authority to either encourage or discourage their
union. He knew his daughter, and knew hers was a pure heart and sensed the
young man's good intentions. As Father Elias, he had surrendered the world to
God, but he could not tell his daughter and her suitor so. How could he tell
them, or help to make them understand the brightness of the uncreated light he
had seen a hundred times illuminatge the dark refuge
of his monk's cell? No; there was no explaining. Yet
he must say something. It was expected of him, and he would not disappoint
them.
"My children. A great calamity awaits this city. The
greatest blessing I can give you is to tell you to leave, leave now, and never come back. Go, get ye as far as ships and
money will take you, for when the gates are crushed nothing in this city will
ever be the same. I give you leave to marry daughter, and may the blessings of
our Lord Jesus Christ be with you and your husband. But
if you stay your honeymoon will be short and your lives, also.
"If that
is so, Father, then I must ask that you come with us to some safe place. I am a
good swordsman, I shall protect you."
Father Elias
almost wanted to smile, but he knew Bessarion the
swordsman was serious. "Thank-you, my son, but there is no harm that can
come to me. It is you, you two doves, which need protection. I am in the hands
of the Holy Spirit and no harm can come to me. But you
both are still of the world and all I can do is give you the benefit of my
insight. If there are any consequences for not listening, I cannot say; I am
not a soothsayer, only a simple monk. But if you stay
you will suffer dire consequences. Now embrace me my daughter for the last
time. My son, embrace your father-in-law for the last time."
They embraced.
The visit was over. The two lovers returned to the drums of war and the crossed
loyalties of oaths of unclear thinking about duty and honor.
The visit to
her father was sobering. They walked all the way back to the house and spoke
not a word. Their glum faces were an indication to Ariadne
that all was not well. Had the master not given her
permission to marry? Was it thinkable? She did not hesitate to ask this
directly to Anna. And when she heard that he had
blessed their coming marriage, and had advised them to flee, she pleaded for
Anna and her almost husband to leave. She would make all the arrangements, for
she knew people who could help arrange passage. They could go to Syracuse,
where she had deep family ties. But Anna would not go anywhere without Bessarion and he was troubled for he found himself in a
pull of loyalties and oaths and no amount of pleading from Ariadne
would change his mind and Anna simply said. "If he stays I stay." Ariadne could not leave her young mistress so she stayed,
adding that if this be their end, "Then let us celebrate your birthday on
the twenty-ninth of May."
Together they
walked into the latter day National Mmuseum. But when they entered, it was with the eyes of time past
that they took their place in front of the holy icons and lit candles and
prostrated themselves. A priest was censing them with billowing smoke from a
censer filled with pungent incense. They partook of the body and blood from the
cup of salvation, this they did as they walked about like other common tourists
listening to polyglottal guides. Too,
they stopped for long periods behind columns savoring the delicacy of their
time travel. They seemed to be just one more couple marching in the marionetten parade of the surreal human condition.
But that was not so; for they were inside themselves, Anna
and Bessarion and all of Constantinople were gathered
in Hagia Sophia for the last vespers. The emperor
himself, Constantine XI Palaeologus, the last of the
Roman emperors, was there. He asked forgiveness from the Patriarch and from all
of the bishops, both Latin and Orthodox. There were many Italians, Catalans. some French, Serbs, Bulgarians, even Genoans--some
from every nation who had come to die for Byzantium, were present for the last
service inside St. Sophia, the Great Church of Christ. While the emperor spoke
there was weeping and wailing. Everyone knew the morrow would bring death or
captivity to each man, woman and child and an epoch would come
to an end, and Byzantium would be no more.
"Oh my
love it is so sorrowful to see it all over again. My heart still jumps in
fright. If you love me take me back outside, lest my heart burst for this
revisited sorrow," she said.
They blinked
their eyes and back into the contemporary flow of time and decay
they went and out back into the sunshine.
"It's
kind of difficult to keep up with what's real, not real," he said.
"It's getting to me. I'm feeling disoriented. How about you?"
"When I'm
back in Constantinople I'm trapped in its decay and destiny and there's not
much to live for. But as Ann of Jenkintown,
Pennsylvania with a mortgage to pay and kids to send off to school and all of
my life there, I have no fatalistic direction. This going back in time goes against my belief in
free will. Back there I can't change anything. Here, I
can at least try and fall flat on my face--but at
least I can make a choice. I believe we can avert disasters. At one time I did not. My father tried to warn us, but we were too
wrapped up in our own enraptured egos to heed his prognostication--yet our love
was sweet, but selfish. I feel as if I'm on a rocking
boat in a storm. Hold me darling, before I float away from you." And for a long time they held onto each other anchoring
themselves one to the otherr.
Anna after a
while said: "I can feel freer holding you, than I can in our remote past
in Byzantium--and yet it lures me, lures us and I'm afraid for my destiny. We
must be strong. We are free as we are--but if we are drawn back into time I want to know the purpose of this reunion. Is it of
God or of some demon? How did we get this way? This morning I was just an
ordinary American art teacher and tourist on a summer holiday. And now we are ancient lovers reunited. Lovers sacrificed in
violence!" She screamed a short scream and sighed a long
sigh and fell into his arms weeping out a thousand years of tears and
pent up sorrows.
Michael held
her in the public park in front of Hagia Sophia, a
pair of tired tourists. But when Bessarion
held her he was himself wounded, but still strong enough to swing a sword.
"This is
where we died," she said
As two
janissaries pulled Anna away from him, he did battle with three others who
attacked him with a ferocity uncalled for. With a
final parry and a short thrust, wounded that he was, he was able to bring down
one--but then because of loss of blood, he went down, and in a trice he felt the blades go into him. But
he did not die. They thought him dead, however; and his two erstwhile
assailants sought other prey. He could her Anna screaming his name: "Bessarion! In the name of our Lord, save me!" over
land over he heard her pitiful invocation. And from a
merciful source he lifted himself up, and using his sword as a cane, he made
his way to the tumult of her screams and the grunts of her attackers. Anna was
struggling against one soldier while another removed his light body armor
preparatory to raping her.
Bessarion redoubled his efforts. With his last ounce of
strength, he lifted his sword in a last conscious act and sliced deeply into
the thigh of the would-be rapist, and cut his artery. Nevertheless, the fatally
wounded janissary made swift work of Bessarion, whom
he killed with a solid blow to his skull and down he went. The bleeding
janissary could not stop the flow of his severed artery and he sagged and went
down. When his comrade-in-arms saw him fall, he let Anna loose for a few
moments; and in that brief interval she took a short
dagger, a misericordia, out of her girdle and without
hesitation plunged! it to the hilt into her breast and
she was freed from the humiliation of savage rape. Her aim was true and she was
dead before her lifeless body touched the ground and rolled a little--not too
far from that of her lover's.
Her head
against Michael's shoulder was very real. He felt the warmth of her head into
his shoulder and this exchange of heat was comforting. Back in Constantinople,
from behind his closed eyes, the lifeless bodies sprawled out in grotesque
forms, were first visited by dogs, then rats and still later birds all wanting
a piece of meat according to its kind. Michael shuddered at this scene, this
remembrance, and through this scene he was finally able to understood why Anna
said she would rather be freed from this repetition of the damned, this
possessive and diabolical eerie and remote refinement of a past the were never compoletely free from. And if they
could not free themselves from their past, they could never have any future. except the cyclical tragedy of their last day in
Constantinople.. The realization came home to him with the clarity of a sudden
and unexpected bolt of lightning in a cool black night.
How could they
redeem their lives from the past for the sake of peace of their contemporary
personages? To whom or to what could they turn to aid them in their quest for
release from this insidious episode? Anna stirred and opened her eyes and
raised herself up. "I heard your thoughts, MichaelBessarion,"
she said. "We can find a way. But first I'm
suddenly very hungry and very thirsty. I find it ironic that
all of a sudden I am driven by the all too human drive of hunger for food,
while at the same time I am carrying the ages behind my eyes, but I would
gladly exchange all the splendor of Byzantium right now for a surcease from the
rounds of agony and sorrow and slaughter repeated like a Sisyphisian
stone of existential perdition--trade it all for something to eat."
"Come
beloved. We'll look for a restaurant. I have a small
guide book".
They walked
away from Hagia Sofia.
END,
PART ONE
PART II
"Rejoice with those
who rejoice;
mourn
with those who mourn."
-Romans
12:15
The cafe was
crowded. It was good to be back in Greece.
They had each
contacted their respecive spouses. Neither
her husband nor his wife had a clue as to what each in his and her own
way tried to say, stammered across the telephonic miles as they tried to
explain the transit between the two worlds each lived in. Tried
to explain the exchange of centuries and the reliving of the past while in the
present.
A twenty page letter to her husband, George, back in
Jenkintown, only confirmed to him that his wife had gone stark raving mad.With much excitation and grief, he showed her letter to
their family doctor. The doctor didn't have to read it
twice to realize that Anna Doukas needed help. George
gave Dr. Sutton permission to telephone the American Consulate in Istanbul to
see if someone at the consulate could locate her and get her to a hospital or
onto a plane back to the States.
Michael's wife
had no idea what he was talking about in his long letter, mailed from the
border city of Edirne. It seemed to be a meandering
jumble of fantastic tales of finding his bethroved
with whom he'd died on the 29th of May, 1453. She
broke down and wept. She showed the letter to her spiritual father; but the old
priest was just las much in the dark as she was. His
only consolation to her was that she offer up many
fervent prayers for her husband's healing and protection. Father Leo
volunteered to make inquiry for her and she agreed, gladly. But
he was unable to come up with anything other than he had checked out and had
taken the hotel's van to the train station and that was the last heard of him.
Her
brother-in-law, an attorney, only shook his head in disbelief and disgust
trying to understand how his brother could just throw up his life because he
had run into an old girlfriend. But why did he have to
fabricate the unbelieveable reincarnation nonsense
he'd scribbled?
Obviously, to have thought up the cockeyed story he'd written, he had to have written that insane letter only
after he had had too much to drink or had been high on some drug.
Anna and
Michael checked out of their respective Istanbul hotels and rendezvoused at the
train station. They had a last coffee at the station's cafe. The station was a
beehive of sounds and motions and emotions. People were being sent off with
hugs and kisses; arrivals were greeted with joy and happy voices; but the two
who sat sipping a last coffee had no one to send them off.
The floods of unhappy memories seemed to ebb, however, the further they got
from Constantinople. Even their timeless visions had abated. The strength of
the vision, although it was still there and still very sharp ahd impressive as an image, but it hd lost its imperative dynamic. They were no longer
drawn deeply into the awareness of their former lives with that tortured
density they knew all too well. They could now close their eyes and still see
all of the monstrous things that had happened to The City and to them, but now
it was as if lthey were watching the historical
events and personal tragedy of themselves as detached observers of lthemselves in some high cosmic drame.
Indeed, the
comparison to a drama had made them both smile almost out of fear of losing
their minds. Once their inward participation had been so
potent that it sapped them of their physical energy and swayed their emotions.
But now, however, far from the roots of their agonies, the
intensity of their visions had transformed from the heat of teh
fighting from the battlements at the San Romanos
Gate, to the gentle warmth of the island night wind wafting over lthe rocks and goats and villages of the small island
they'd come to for rest and recuperation from their trials in the two worlds
they lived in and the saddening long letters and phone calls of leave taking to
their respective families.
Anna wept for days incosoeably for the loss of
her family, the having to cut strong ties. Yet there was no going back to that
life--butthere was not expunged from her her maternal longings and the desire for family and home,
the domestic and professional life she had helped to creted
and nurture for so many years.
II
Michael was
leaning his back against a rock overlooking the small bay on the south side of
the island which gently sloped toward the sea. It was
almost sunset on the 21st of June. The prevailing
silence and the quality of colors in the sky and the dark blue of the almost
quiet sea gave everything a sense of peace and freedom from distress. It felt
good to be sitting with his back to the rock warmed by the sun and to be alive
and filled with the joy of a simple life after the hell of Constantinople,
thought Michael.
They were
living in an oddly built house part authentic peasant's stone hut and an artdeco addition with a large patio, designed by an
eccentric expatriate from Winnepeg, who fancied
himself a designer and an artist who had made the peculiar architectural
amalgamation his home circa 1925 or so. There was peace in the house. Their
choice of place and the acquisition of the house had bneen
aulspicious from the very start. It almost seemed
that they had been guided to the island.
Chance remarks
made lby a young Dutch tourist on the train to Thessalonike got first Michael, then Anna thinking the same
thought. (That became more and more common between them). The youth from Enschede said: "Hatera island is dead. It doesn't have a jhotel
and there's a kind of grocery store that also serves as a kind of cage and
smoke sho[p
and post office.There are only two telephones, no
cinema and no shops, and the beaches are kind of rocky. There's
nothing there, really, except a couple of villages of fishermen and farmers.
The people are kind of friendly, but no amenities, and
the mail boat comes but once a week." His reasons for
not wanting to stay on Hatera was why they
chose to stay: to heal in the isolation each knew would also be good medicine.
To the side of
the house there were no less than six fig trees; and nearby were apricot and peach
trees; and adjacent to the patio the eccentric Canadian had planted a peaceful
grove of twenty or so olive trees. He'd planted trees
every place he could. There had even been a kitchen garden at one time, but it
had not been cultivated for many seasons. But as soon
as they could, they turned the sould and planted a
few vegetables. A distant neighbor gave them two hearty tomato plants which took to their transplanting and soon were
showing yellow flowers. So in spite of a late start,
they would have a few vegetables for their table.
Michael was
waiting for Anna. She was in the bath, for she had been in the garden for
several hours and would meet him at the rock where they often went at sundown.
She stood in front of the mirror and donned a wraparound khaki skirt around her
waist, adjusted it, looked at herself in the mirror and nodding her head,
slipped her well-shaped feet into her sandals and went toward the rock.
From her angle she could see him, but he could not see her, so Anna
looked at the man who had joined her in tossing up their lives and live
together. In the early days of their arrival in Greece, she had not left his
side day or night--and he the smae; for each was the
other's rock, an island of sanity, a focal point in the bizarrre
events sicne the 29th of May
last.She could see his strong profile and saw how
handsome he was. And she had known him kindness, too.
He paid close attention to her needs often anticipating them. In every way he was decent with her. After all, they had been together
for over fivehundred years--at least in spirit and
now in bodily fact. That had to count for something. Often her heart beat with
a great love for him and that made her happy. He loved her; she knew that. His
caring ways were demonstration enough of his worldly love, and she loved him
since their initial encounter at Hagia Sophia, but it
was a strange kind of love, for in spite of their close proximity, they had
never been intimate. Even now in their first house
they stayed each in his own room. But they expressed
affection with embraces and by holding hands, like two young and shy lovers but
nothing more. There was a kind of polite reserve, a modesty
about them that did not emanate from their modern comportment. But there was beginning to be aroused in her a slowly
growing curiosity and glowing passion for him.
The evening
wind carried the smell of her rosewater to him. He drank deeply of it. He
turned his head and saw her walking to him. He gestured with his left arm
stretched out to greet her and invite her to sit close to him. Her back was
against his chest. She sat cross legged between him
resting her arms on his knees. His hands were on her shoulders gently massaging
her and she liked it.
"I've
fallen in love with you again, Anna." His voice had an almost sulty resonance and she liked that too. He stopped
massaging her shoulders and his hands slowly sled to her breasts; he cupped
them. She held his hands and felt a luscious thrill at his touch. It was good
to be touched as a woman is touched by the man who loves her. "And I've
fallen in love with you. There is no other man I wasnt
in this life. I never thought I would ever say that lbecause
I am a married woman, and I still love my husband in an odd sor
of way...But because of what has happened to us, my past is dead and all I have
is you and your love and its understadning of what
has happened between us. When you say you've fallen in
love with me, it makes me feel very special and wanted. I need to be wanted, Bessarion."
"And I
need you too; and you are special, Anna. Even though we were in love long ago, I'm just beginning to see my way clear to you from my own
perspective--that's important--and that's why I say I've fallen in love with
you. It's as if I've just become aware of you as an
individual person and not as a fixed entity from my remote past. Does that make
sense to you, Anna?"
"Yes;
lots of sense; I have thoughts like that all the time; and often I just have
feelings about things which I can't express and then you say something and it
all seems so clear.." She stopped as if to catch her breath and Michael replied:--
"You just
described perfectly my own sentiments and thoughts. We even think alike. It's
uncanny..."
"I wonder
if we'll ever get used to it, darling, she said, "I can't begin to
understand reading someone else's minds. It frightens me a little."
"Your're not alone."
Anna turned
and facing him kissed him. And holding her closely he put his nose deeply into
her hair and smelled the subtle rosewater, then put his lips first to one of her cheeks, then the other; and he kissed
each of her eyes, and all the time their hands were rubbing the back of their
necks. It had taken some time, but their physical attraction
was strong and as the summer Solstice sun set in the west, the newly aroused
lovers withdrew to the comfort and privacy of thier
home land consummated their love, adding to the celestial harmony prevailing
during this Summer Solstice; then they fell asleep in each other's arms and did
not wake until late the next morning.
III
"I am
with child," she said on the first day of September. It was the Feast of
Saint Symeon The Stylite, i.e., one who lives on a pillar. This weatherbeaten saint withstood forty
years of austerities while living atop a platform on a pillar sixteen miles
from the city of Aleppo on the road leading to Antioch.
This austere
saint's day was the day she announced her condition. They had been living a
quiet, semi-contemplative and reclusive life. They had made a small altar atop
a table which they had placed two icons, two candles
and two vases of flowers and a prayer book Anna had found in the house. Every
day they spent long hours in meditation and quiet in trying to come to some
understanding about their return to Byzantium, and twice a day they recited the
TRisagion Prayers and the Evening Prayers. One of
their conversations was whether they should go to a priest and seek guidance
from the church. But if the response from their spouses were any indication of
how people, generally, were going to respond to their plight by thinking them
gone mad, then it lws better that they keep their
secret to themselves. Yet they felt deep within that they needed to share this
curse-- or this treasure--with someone else. And it
was for lthis reason that they had withdrawn to the
relative obscurity of Hatera, so that they might
discover the reason for this confluence of their bodies and souls once again. But no matter how still or for how long they sat in
meditation, they could not plumb the depths of this mystery.
"We have
been blessed through this child. He will help, in some way--I don't pretend to
know how just now--redeem us," said Michael, as they walked out to the patio which overlooked the sea. It was late morning. Perhaps Ten a.m. For them it was late for they had gotten
into habit of rising at four thirty a.m. The sun was hot and the sea was blue
and clear and in the shallows the bottom could be seen
and just below the patio was a clear view to the bottom; and resting on the
bottom were broken, fluted columns. Local legend said that many centuries ago there was a small temple to Aphrodite on the island, but
it was used as target practice by pirates, and it fell into the sea. When the
tide was low one could see that the columns of the ancient temple were clearly doric.
"Our
child to be is older than that old temple," he said, putting his arms
across her shoulders and leaning over and kissing Anna gently on her lips.
"We will be good parents, but he must be raised away from the modern world
as much as possible without isolating him from it."
"She
smiled. "How do you know it will be a boy?"
He smiled
back. "I just know," he said, as he stood staring at the lsunken ruins from which he seemed to be hearing a distant
voice from the past. But he ignored the voice and
moved closer to Anna.
Why did you
say our son must be raised away from the modern world?"
"Because he is not of the modern world. His conception
is of another world. I don't have any other way of
saying that just now. Bear with me, dear."
"I shall.
But would it not be remiss of us to raise him in
ignorance of the world? After all, it's his world, too, his patrimony."
"I don't
argue the point. But for the moment it is a feeling that I have; but I know it
would be best for his spirit to be raised in isolation."
"I do not challenge your feelings, but I don't agree with you. I am the mother. I have my own feelings. I must have a say in this, too. And I cannot now agree to anything. Let us wait, my love. Only time will help us see the correct path in this matter