Kitabı oku: «I Am The Emperor», sayfa 3
II
Friday 23 July
N eptunalia, these festivities included rituals on riversides or on seashores: the 23rd of July was, for the romans, a very special day. Today, though, I have other things in my mind: I was sure, or at least hoped, to find Julian’s remains at Tarsus’ site, but Valentinian had the great idea of moving them. He might have taken the body anywhere: the roman empire included most of modern Europe, northern Africa, Middle East and Asia Minor.
During a seemingly quiet moment at the bank, I ask via email to my doctorate professor from Heidelberg University where I could find anything about this hypothetical removal of the Apostate. Professor Gerrit Alföling answers only after one hour, confirming that there is actually nothing in the sources contemporary to the events. He suggests though to get more information from medieval authors: they might have taken them from that period’s sources, which then became lost. The Regensburg University central library possesses an archive of all “Universal Histories” drafted in the Middle Ages, published and un-published: I should go there to consult them; that’s the only way to find news, different from the ones I already have.
It may be crazy, but I don’t think about it too much: I thank my “doctorate father” (that’s how they call the professor who follows your dissertation in Germany), I check on the German railways’ website for train timetables and I directly print my ticket for that same night.
Living alone carries at least two consequences in the planning my free time:
1) I do whatever I want to;
2) Generally, I have nothing to do and it’s depressing to stay home during the weekend. Therefore, a trip, even if planned last minute, doesn’t worry me at all: I pick up what I need, leave and when I come back whenever I want, since no one is waiting for me, excluding the cat.
When I get out of the bank, I pack up my backpack with the bare minimum and drive fast to Florence, from where my train to Munich leaves at 21.49. Spending the night in a bunk is never great: during my Erasmus I did that often, and these sweet memories veil with melancholy the sordid smell of the train.
I share the compartment with two young guys, whom I presume to be German: in any case I am not in the mood for knowing new people and the classic train small talk is useless.
The ticket inspector collects tickets and documents: it is normal that he keeps them during the night in case of a custom inspection at the border, but after the Turkish experience, parting from my passport is very worrying (I really need to make a copy of it).
I get into my bunk bed, with paper linen, a raw wool blanket and a lilliputian-sized pillow. I open the medieval literature volume that I took from home, I used it for studying at the time of the exams and never picked it up again afterwards. I try to fill my gaps about that time’s German literature in one night: I discover an endless list of authors and of anonymous chronic writers, from the creation of the world until Middle Ages, that I never heard about before. I keep on reading on the precious text until, from the below bunk, one of the two Germans complains about the little light still on and, even, for the noise of the browsing pages. I turn off the light and try to sleep, in vain.
Saturday 24 July
At 6am the ticket inspector knocks to give back the documents: I sigh in relief, get dressed (I still put my pyjamas on, as it could help me falling asleep) and after a couple of minutes I get off at Munich’s train station. The connection to Regensburg leaves at 07.44, I have enough time to get breakfast in one of the stands. I deem German wurstel on any size and colours (red, white, black) too much, and opt for a likewise heavy Doner Kebab, the now mainstream Arabian bread filled with meat, mixed salad and hot sauce: it is a typical Turkish dish, but it reminds me of the years spent in Teutonic territory.
During my three years doctorate in Germany, I visited many cities, especially in the south, but not Regensburg. I avoid the castle, the walls and the typical medieval historical city centre, I am not in the mood to be a tourist and the rain is not really inviting. I go straight to the university’s library, where naming professor Alföling, and most of all showing my doctorate card (even if it’s expired) facilitates the access.
I spend the whole morning leafing through chronicles that do not extend to more than his reigning years and the presumed Christians “persecution” by Julian (who actually preached tolerance). When I’ve almost reached despair, I come across the Kaiserchronik, a sort of epic poem about roman emperors (and the Holy Roman Empire ones): only here Julian is widely discussed. Surprisingly, I realise that I cannot understand anything: I didn’t imagine it, but medieval German is a totally different language. Luckily on the side, written by someone else, I notice some Latin notes. It’s small summaries and clarifications of what has been written in that incomprehensible language. I read them all, until reaching one with a clear information about the emperor corpse’s burial site:
Alatus est corpus illius
et positum est in septemtrionali parte
in templo sanctorum Apostolorum,
in labro porfiretico.
Basically, the emperor’s corpse had been removed and placed in a porphyry sarcophagus inside the Holy Apostles’ church. That’s finally confirming my theory: he didn’t remain buried on the river Cydnus; unfortunately, this note does not mention to which city this church belonged. I will have to find a way to translate these verses from ancient German, in the meanwhile I try to photocopy this part.
You need to buy a card for it, explains Anke Fleischmann the librarian. When the only photocopier gets free, the industrious Anke (is that even a person’s name?) informs me that it is forbidden to copy medieval codes! After throwing away 10 euros for a card that I will never use, my first thought is: if I hadn’t picked up this Kaiserchronik from its shelf it would have remained there, rotting among the moths, for seven more centuries and you won’t let me take a few copies?
I avoid expressing this and other less polite feelings, I just thank her in a quite ironical tone. I go for a bite of the frankfurter I despised this morning, at the university canteen. Biting the enormous hot dog, I evaluate the possible solutions: a) I clearly can’t leave the archives with that huge volume to take copies; b) I could have taken pictures of the pages I need, if I hadn’t left my Nikon home (did not think I would use it in a library); c) rip the pages about Julien and pocket them: I have never done such a thing and I wouldn’t be able to now, even if it’s very tempting; d) the most obvious way is the last I consider: copying by hand all 500 verses about the Apostate.
A face from the corner table distracts me from my thinking: it looks familiar. He doesn’t look as young as a student; he might be a teacher I met at one of the thousands forums I’ve taken part to during my academical years. Still, I would swear he’s the same German guy from tonight’s bunk: not the one who told me to turn off the light, but the other. I am not very physiognomist though, and I’ve got very little interest in men.
Quickly finishing my lunch, I get back to the library to copy the verses, but, despite two exams in palaeography, I am too slow: I found someone with a worse calligraphy than mine! It is not only hard because of the gothic writing, but also because I can understand the single letters and not the words they form. I decide copying only the text next to those precious notes about Julian’s death, hoping that these incomprehensible medieval German verses indicate the burial site. I leave in any case a white page as a sort of bookmark in the Kaiserchronik, should I ever go back to consult it.
Before leaving, I make a stop at the restrooms. When I chose the city where I would attend the Classic Literature faculty, I visited many in the centre of Italy. A critical judgment factor for me, together with the academic ones (study plans, teachers, etc.) was the restrooms: from the faculty’s toilets you can understand everything! If they are clean and tidy, it is likely that the courses are well organised as well, but if there are few, dirty and smelly, then all the rest… The ones from Regensburg library are perfect: maybe in another life I’ll enrol there.
I’ve wasted a lot of time; I walk back to the train station. A light rain gives good reason to my carrying the umbrella wherever I go, even in summer: it’s a small orange tool I bought at the last village fair in Sinalunga. All the people I meet, ignoring the rain, keeps walking quietly, without covering or rushing: they must be used to it to the point of not even noticing. After all, I realise while waiting for the train, Regensburg means “rain city”.
Worried about finding shelter from the rain, I do not realise that not far from me the unknown guy from the canteen (and the bunk) is engaged in an unlikely phone conversation. This would be the translation from German:
«May the gods be with you».
«And with the divine spirit within you, brother.»
The German boy mimics some sort of reversed cross sign.
The dogmatic voice on the other side urges: «Did you do what was required?»
«Yes, your wish is my command and I am glad to…»
«All right» he interrupts «so?»
«He browsed many books, then he must have found something in a huge volume. He copied an entire page by hand: that’s absurd…»
«Which volume?»
«I don’t know. Don’t think it’s relevant.»
«You don’t think?»
The rain falls heavy while the young man looks around: «I’m at the train station now, following as you…»
«No!» exclaims harshly the mysterious voice. «The order I gave you was not to follow the Italian, but to precede him, anticipate his researches.»
«I do not understand.»
«It does not matter, you have to do what I say: go back to the library, find that book, tear the page he read and then send it to me, to our organisation’s branch in Frankfurt. I will think about understanding it.»
«Yes, but in the meanwhile he’s going on the train.»
«Don’t worry about it: he will surely head back to his little village. You just have to do what comes from me, I am your superior in grade.»
«Sure, I will obey.»
«May Mitra guide your path.»
«May Helios lighten up your mind.»
In the long wait for the correspondence in Munich I read the verses copied from the Kaiserchronik:
Der chunich wart hart ubele gevar.
Mercurjus chêrte ingegen im dar,
niemen newesse wannen iz gescach:
den chunich er durch den pûch stach.
Juljânus viel nider tôt…
It sounds like Arabic to me, I stop reading and put it away a bit deceived: this high-medieval German is more different from the modern one than Latin is from Italian. I don’t feel like reading anything else and I am not even hungry, which is weird. During the night I sleep well on the paper sheets, as the bunk is empty: clearly everyone wants to go, but no one wants to come back from Germany.
Sunday 25 July
When I wake up, the train has been stopping for a while in Bologna. I dress up quickly. The ticket inspector, nicer than the first one, offers coffee and snacks: I gladly accept, even if my ideal breakfast is a slice of pizza.
When at 6.30am I get off in S. Maria Novella the temperature is already on 30 degrees; from the 15 in Regensburg the thermic difference is considerable: luckily, I never suffered from the heat, while cold makes me sad.
I get back to my car and speed throughout the city: it may be because it’s a Sunday morning, all streets are empty. While listening to the radio on the highway, I always leave it on Radio Italia, I think about someone who could help me translate the text.
I lower the volume and connect headphones to my mobile: «Hi, Valeria. It’s Francesco, how are you?»
«I’m fine thanks and you?» answers my ex “misfortune colleague” at the faculty.
«How is everything? It’s been a while.»
«That’s true, I’m sorry, but I’m always on “field trips” let’s say» she answers laughing.
«I know, I figured so. Talking about which, how’s the new job?»
«I can’t complain, I’m always outdoors to accompany groups. You know being in touch with nature, its sounds give a different perspective to everything.»
She could go on for a while, but luckily changes the subject: «What about you?»
It’s always hard to answer this: «The bank is not much fun, you know… Very different from before».
«I really don’t know how you do it, how you did» she insists «to shift worlds completely.»
«We did well to leave the university and find a real job» I tell her, emphasizing the last two words.
«Sure» she says «and look, as a tourist guide, I earn much more.»
«Well, less than that would have been impossible! But let’s not talk about work. Would you like to have dinner with me… tonight?»
«I would really like to, but I can’t. I enrolled in a Nordic-Walking group: you know it is a complete discipline, for body and mind.»
«I know what that is» I say «but can’t see the connection.»
«Walking helps you focalising on yourself» affirms Valeria.
«I guess so» I reply sceptical.
«They give us a preparatory course to learn how to walk in an alternate way: right arm and left leg in front, then left arm with right leg.»
«Isn’t that how you normally walk? Can’t believe you need lessons for that.»
She doesn’t seem to listen: «I bought some pink sticks: really cute».
«Can’t wait to see them.»
«Maybe we can organise an excursion together sometime: on 21 November there is a walk in the Casentino forest planned, up until La Verna Franciscan sanctuary: they say it is a place of overwhelming spirituality and…»
When Valeria starts talking it is like a flowing river.
«I have been to the sanctuary, it is really remarkable, but let’s forget the excursion for now: it’s in four months! I will let you know further on if, on that day, I’ll be busy.»
«It would be a pity, since we’ll also practice an autogenic breathing training technique.»
«In that case, I’ll immediately pin it down in my calendar, but let’s get back to tonight.»
«I have the first Nordic-Walking dinner event, you know, just to meet everyone.»
A group dinner is not ideal to speak about medieval German: «I could come, but I don’t have any walking sticks!»
Valeria sounds embarrassed: «Well, I’m actually not sure you may like this kind of thing: the dinner is …»
«What is it?»
«It will take place in an abandoned castle next to Poggibonsi.»
«So?» I still can’t understand the issue.
«It’s a blind dinner!»
«Oh, it’s a romantic dinner then» I smile.
«No, you don’t want to understand.» She finally reveals it: «It is a mute dinner!»
«What do you mean?»
«You can’t talk!» she explains angelic. «You must remain silent for the whole evening.»
«Excuse me, it is a dinner made to meet other members of the group, but you can’t see them nor talk to them?»
«It is an experience involving all five senses: you let yourself go to the food tactile sensation, the perfumes and scents that it releases…»
«Actually» I correct her «if there is no light, sight is not included nor is hearing if it is silent…»
«There will be no distracting visions, nor unnecessary sounds» gets back Valeria.
«But at least the waiter, can he talk?»
«Why do you always want to trivialise everything? It is an experience meant to set the real self-free, often hidden behind masks…»
I cut her: «Actually, I wanted to see you because… well, I…»
«What’s wrong, tell me?» she encourages me.
«I need your help in your favourite field: German philology.»
«It has been long since I stopped teaching that. What is it about?»
As if this were a normal request, I ask: «Would you be able to translate some verses from early middle German?»
She doesn’t let it intimidate her: «I am a bit rusty on Frümittelhochdeutsch, but I can try. Will you send me an email?»
«I’d rather…»
«Tell me what’s on your mind and it will be faster.»
«What if we meet in person and I show them to you?» I ask in one breath.
«We could do that, but I’m very busy this week with several tours to the new exposition at Santa Maria della Scala. How urgent is this?»
«As they always told us at the faculty: “Take it is, I just need this on my desk by tomorrow morning”» I remember in a playful tone. I insist: «Jokes aside, if you cannot in the following days, what about… this afternoon?»
She thinks about it for a moment: «The dinner is at eight, but I’m free before. You come to my house; I will need my dictionary. Do you remember the address?»
«Of course. Is three ok?»
Valeria is kind of odd, that’s why she is so nice. Once I get back home, Pallino starts complaining: he finished all the snacks I left him. Once the feline is nourished and I am too, I get back in the car, destination Asciano. I go back gladly to Valeria’s house, which has been the scene of long discussions about our uncertain future as temporary teachers, me in Classic Literature and she in Foreign Languages.
I ring the bell at the Lovisi’s: «It’s Francesco, can I get up?»
Valeria welcomes me at the door: she is wearing a fluttering top and a black skirt with flowers, maybe not much fit for her young age. «Hey, it’s a pleasure to see you again.»
I hug her: «See, I found your home immediately!»
«Come in, get comfortable. I should have come to your prof.’s funeral» she apologises «but I had to lead a tour in San Gimignano.»
«Not to worry, you just missed the umpteenth series of the director’s empty promises.»
I give her the written page: «Here’s the text I told you about».
Valeria smirks a little: «It is unreadable».
«My writing is horrible, but the original one wasn’t any better! It is taken from an anonymous chronicle about Julian. The part I’ve copied should talk about his end.»
«If I’m correct you were obsessed with that emperor» she says. «Give me some time and I will translate it for you.»
«Sure, take your time. Sorry for jumping in here so… suddenly.»
Valeria pulls up her long dark hair with a pencil, puts on her red glasses and takes a pen from her case, a red one too.
I interrupt her “preparation”: «I know the name of the church, but not the one of the cities where that is and where Julian’s mortal remains were taken: it must say it, or at least I hope it does».
She is already focused on the text and hints me to shut up.
«Are your parents here? Maybe I can go say hello.»
Valeria gets up and takes from the library next to the window the early middle German dictionary: «They are in the other room, listening to music. Go on, I’m on it.»
I get in the semi-dark room: the blinds are down in order to avoid the sun. At the beginning I can’t see anyone, but I can clearly hear the voice of Beniamino Gigli, the greatest tenor of all, according to Mr Lovisi. Finally, I can see Valeria’s parents, sank in a small sofa; I do not dare to disturb them and sit, listening in silence, on the emerald green stuffed armchair:
Nessun dorma! Nessun dorma!
Tu pure, o Principessa,
nella tua fredda stanza
guardi le stelle
che tremano d’amore e di speranza...
Ma il mio mistero è chiuso in me,
il nome mio nessun saprà!
«Constantinople! It’s Constantinople the city you are looking for» exclaims Valeria entering the room and ending the “opera” moment.
I knew it, or should have guessed so, it was obvious: the new capital of the empire. Where else in the realm would have emperor Valentinian moved his predecessor? Curious for more information, I get up and enter the studio before Valeria, who sitting at her desk remarks: «You didn’t expect me to translate that fast, did you?»
«How so? I always kept you and your work in high consideration.»
She settles her shirt with one hand: «Let’s not go too far, it’s just a draft: it came out as it came».
«I cannot read your handwriting, could you please read it for me?»
«That’s typical of you: a compliment and right after a critic, here what it says.»
Valeria slowly states:
«The king took on a cruel look.
Mercury went towards him,
no one noticed when this happened:
he pierced the king’s stomach.
Julian fell to the ground, dead.
Then many cries and moans rose:
the Romans all ran away,
leaving the king laying there.
His corpse ended up in Constantinople,
in tar and sulphur.
Here it will lay until Judgment day
and nobody can or will change it».
All the story is very interesting, but one piece of information, fundamental: Julian’s corpse has been laid in Constantinople, today’s Istanbul. I have to go there as soonest, precisely at the Holy Apostles’ church, as per the Latin note on the side I translated.
«You have no idea how useful you were!»
«Thank you» she says with a half grimace «it’s a pleasure to be of use for something.»
«I didn’t mean…»
«I know what you meant. Thank you is enough.»
«Ok, thank you and I owe you. Now I have to get back home, you know, tomorrow at 8 I start over again!»
«Have a nice day then.»
On the corridor leading to the front door, I can still hear Gigli in the other room. «Say hello to your parents as well, I don’t mean to disturb them again. In any case we should meet again, maybe one evening…»
Valeria leans on the door jamb: «Whenever you want but call me in advance. You know, with the Nordic-Walking now…»
«See you soon» I kiss her on the cheek.
Monday 26 July
07.04: the radio suddenly turns on with a loud distorted music; it has been years since I haven’t programmed the alarm at the precise hour, setting it four minutes after: gives me the idea that my day will start with an extra kick.
«So, what were you up to this weekend?» is Vito’s greeting, as soon as I step in the bank.
«Not much, usual stuff» I try to end the conversation.
He does not give up: «How so? Your dark circles speak for themselves!»
Luckily it ends there: Monday is always a busy day and he too must concentrate on his counter tasks, and the line is continuous.
After the time of public closure, I start thinking about my new destination: Istanbul. If it depended on me, I’d leave tomorrow, but I can’t use all my leave days this way; I push it back to the weekend.
Once at home I receive an unexpected, and thus even more pleasant, text message:
How was everything at customs?
Did you manage to get the corpse back to Italy?
Greetings from Turkey.
I haven’t saved this contact, but I guess it’s Chiara. I don’t like texting; I always have the impression to need a hundred of them before understanding each other.
I think about it for a moment and then I call her: «Hi Chiara, I saw your text and… Am I bothering you?»
«No… but, where are you?»
«Next to Siena.»
I avoid specifying the name of my village, surely she never heard of it.
«It’s a surprise to hear from you…»
«A nice one, I hope» I interrupt her «thanks again for your help at customs. I’m calling you since I am thinking about going back to Turkey and… you know… we could meet.»
«Yes… it depends. When are you coming?»
«I should go to Istanbul for a research: I thought… next Saturday.»
«That’s a pity: I am already busy.»
My half smile falls back into my throat: «I get it, don’t worry, sorry if I asked, I probably dared too much.»
«Yeah… no, I have to think about it. I’m at the embassy now, maybe I’ll text you tomorrow and let you know» she says before hanging up.
I say goodbye and give her my email address: leostudiosus@libero.it. I already know that she will never write to me again.
Wednesday 28 July
Hi Francesco,
apologies for being a little hasty the other day: I could not speak freely.
That’s how goes the first email that I find opening my account at the branch.
As I said, Saturday I am busy, but if you could come on Sunday, I will be free all day: it would be a pleasure to see you again. I could come to Istanbul in the morning and go back to Ankara by night. What do you say?
As soon as the line of customers ends, I get back to Chiara, making plans for Sunday.
Then, in a quiet moment while thinking about my return to Turkey, I remember the days I spent there: a crossover of images of the coffin on the truck, Fatih’s house on the river, the customs office where they “recluded” me and again the coffin on the plane, when I saw those carved letters that weren’t there during that absurd night trip: DDCF. They keep sounding familiar, I must have read them somewhere… I look them up on Google and make an incredible discovery:
D.D.C.F. = Deo Duce, Comite Ferro.
Which means God as guide, the sword as a partner: it’s one of the central mottos of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn. It’s a neo-pagan organisation risen in the 1800s in Britain, to whom belonged some famous characters. The name of the Golden Dawn became renown especially thanks to Aleister Crowley who - even if in an occult and hidden way - profoundly marked all 1900. The “Order” has many branches around Europe, especially in Germany and Italy.
Why would the motto of an elusive pagan organisation be carved on Barbarino’s coffin? It is absurd, but it can’t be a coincidence! I don’t believe in chances, never have.
I would say there is quite a precise scheme behind this. The lines are still blurry, but some images are very clear: one of this sect’s fanatics must have gotten into the customs hangars to put their motto on the casket. If this were a movie, I’d think that one of the officers, maybe that unpleasant one that stopped me or his boss, is an adept of this group. But Americans always exaggerate with imagination and most of all with conspiracy theories. In any case it’s undeniable: DDCF did not carve themselves on the coffin. I finally give into the conspiracy theory: this Hermetic Order must be involved somehow in professor Barbarino’s death! Maybe I should go to the police and tell them everything!
If a follower of the Hermetic Order managed to enter the customs hangars, it may be possible that someone else has been sent to the archaeological pit to, let’s say, help the professor’s accident. The more I think about it, the more it becomes plausible. According to the medical report the cause of death wasn’t a heart attack, but a hit on the head: theoretically due to the fall. At this point I doubt it could have been an accident. What I don’t understand is why: what had Barbarino to do with this neo-pagan group?
Before turning to the police, though, I need some evidence and, the only one, lies underground in Poppi. I have nothing in my hands, apart from some ingenious ramblings: that won’t be enough to sustain a dissertation that looks crazy at a first glance. Who would believe that on an Italian professor emeritus’s coffin someone carved the motto of a British pagan sect in Turkey? Unless…
«Good evening, this is Francesco Speri, the professor’s assistant who… took him back to Italy.»
I’ve had his home phone number saved on my mobile for years.
«Sorry to bother you, madam. I would like to talk to you about… a project, to honour your brother’s memory.»
Mrs Barbarino is not very interested in belated celebrations: «Not sure, tell me: what is it about?»
I can’t tell her over the phone what really is on my mind: «I’d like to talk about it in person… I was thinking of publishing a miscellaneous edition of all articles and contributions written by the professor.»
I actually do not care about curating the nth volume for his eminency; and even so, if I collected all his latest publications, everyone would notice that he didn’t do anything but rewriting his younger age studies: from this point of view, actually, the book isn’t such a bad idea!
She gives up, even if not really convinced: «If you think that may be good, ok: let’s meet tomorrow».
«Great, I can come after work, around 18.»
That evening I cannot fall asleep. I think about the tragic death of Barbarino and then about Julian and his young life, that also came to a sudden end. He, unlike almost any other king in history, fought among his soldier in the first line and that’s how he was killed at only 32. Poor Julian, gone so soon, with all that he had in mind to change the world and bring back paganism as the empire official religion. Time wasn’t enough for him.
Thursday 29 July
During my whole day at the branch, I think about how to tackle the delicate matter with the family. I have to reveal that the professor was assassinated by some neo-pagan fanatics and, most of all, ask for authorisation to exhume the body. That’s the only way to show the police the carving on the coffin and maybe to convince them to perform a new autopsy. I do not trust the “Turkish” one and less than everything the one by that doctor in Tarsus: he may have left something out, we’d need the forensic pathologist from CSI!
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