“We have reconstructed the cosmos, have we not, Cartaphilus?”
“We have forgotten Jehovah.”
“True… Jehovah and Eve.”
“Eve,—is she not merely the earth?”
“And Jehovah the clouds?”
“How easy it is to build a universe, Salome! How difficult to know whether one has kissed the lips of Salome or the libidinous lips of a Succubus who steals the strength of men’s loins in their sleep…?”
We were in sight of civilization again. I took Salome’s hands in mine. I looked at her long. “You are beautiful beyond compare, Salome. Your mouth inflames more than the kiss of a thousand lips…but it is no doubt best for Cartaphilus not to taste it, except in dreams…”
“You say this, Cartaphilus, because you no longer desire me.”
“It may be I no longer desire you,” I said, irritated. “It may also be that we have analyzed ourselves too minutely, to accept love as reality… We have crushed a star into fragments, and the winds have blown the flames and the ashes across the cosmos.”
“Cartaphilus and Salome are the two sides of a coin…forever together, yet never facing each other,” Salome replied.
“Neither,” I conceded, “is complete without the other.”
“Quite so, Cartaphilus.”
“We shall soon part.”
“Yes.”
“It is best so.”
“It is.”
“This time, however, let there be no pranks when we meet again…no magic.”
“Perhaps, a little before infinity, the two parallel lines will meet…” At the gate of the city, we embraced. Her lips tasted like Mary’s lips, and as I looked up into her eyes, they were John’s.
“It was not a dream,” I whispered.
She smiled.
XLV: COUNT DE CARTAPHILE AND BARON DE KOTIKOKURA, KNIGHTS—THE ARMY OF JESUS—ETERNAL SCAPEGOAT
WE rode slowly on our small Arab horses. Our armors creaked and moaned gently, while our long swords swung against our sides, like pendulums of clocks that have not been wound and are about to stop. We raised our helmets, looked at each other, and burst into laughter.
“Kotikokura, we have lived long enough to become Christian Knights, fighting for the deliverance of the Holy Sepulchre. Who knows what other curious and ridiculous things we shall fight for in years to come?”
Kotikokura slapped his thighs in merriment.
“Remember, my friend, that I am Count de Cartaphile, and you Baron de Kotikokura, of Provence. Remember, Kotikokura, that we are infinitely more precious than all the princes and the knights of the world and all armies put together. They are mere shadows, moving grotesquely about for a while, and vanishing into the abyss of nothingness. We shall use our swords only in self-defense and remain at a respectable distance always, when a fray is on, for a wound may plague us forever…”
Kotikokura grinned, and clanked his sword.
“Do not forget the magic powder concealed in your belt, in case we are disarmed and in danger. Hurl it against the face of the enemy. He will totter for a few moments. Then gently, silently, he will cross the fine line that separates being from not-being…”
In front of us, the Crusaders, the clamorous army of Jesus,—pedestrians, riders on horseback, on asses, on oxen; wagons and carts, loaded with people and food,—and crosses, crosses, always crosses, rising above the heads of animals and people, stiff like masts of boats, undulating with the rhythm of the carriers, leaning to one side or another.
The army of Jesus! What a strange and uncouth army! Murderers escaping the noose; thieves; bankrupts; unfrocked priests; monks whom even the Church, best of mothers, would no longer shield from the wrath of secular penalty; gamblers; squires whose lands had been confiscated; the younger sons of noblemen, titleless and empty-pursed; and now and then, a poet, a mystic, a mountebank, a jester too caustic for a prince’s court…
Apart from these, as if fearing to be smothered by the stench and the dust and the noise, small companies of knights, luxuriously caparisoned, riding to conquest and fame, or death.
Attila redivivus! The Scourge of God! More terrible the footsteps of these than the horses’ hoofs of their predecessors! Nevermore shall the grass grow again upon these lands! Ah, Jesus, was it this you meant by ‘love ye one another?’ Was this your conquest; were these the followers you dreamed of; was it for this you allowed yourself to be nailed to the Cross?
Are delicate John and beautiful Mary sitting at your feet, Jesus, and approving of this? Do they exclaim triumphantly to the stars that dance about you forever: ‘Master, you have conquered the Earth.’
“Kotikokura, I cannot rejoice in the defeat of my enemy. It is too terrible, too inhuman…and my heart is still the heart of man! This was a city, Kotikokura, a Christian city. Look at it now, my friend! Look at the ruins, the corpses, the awful devastation wrought in his name! Our horses are splashing through blood, as if a scarlet rainstorm had flooded the place! I cannot laugh or jubilate, Kotikokura… I am not a god!”
“Ca-ta-pha god.”
Slowly the army moved, swaying clumsily like a wounded rhinoceros.
“The army of Christ, Kotikokura,—decimated, but trailing after it still death and torture and disease! The army of Christ! What irony, Kotikokura! How he abhorred soldiers and princes and governors and high priests!”
“High Priests!” Kotikokura exclaimed angrily.
“Don’t be offended, my friend. He never realized that there could be a high priest like Kotikokura.”
Kotikokura smiled, delighted.
A number of women and children were running in our direction, screaming. They were followed by three men on horseback from whose raised swords blood dripped.
We interceded to save them from the wrath of knights who accused them of sniping. The women blessed us in the name of the Saviour.
We had ridden a few minutes, when once again we heard shrieking and shouting. The women we had just saved from the sword were running after an old man, white bearded and almost naked.
“There he is! There he is! The Jew! The cursed Jew! Kill him! Kill him! He brought the wrath of the Lord on us. Kill him!”
I thought it would be too hazardous to try to save the Jew, and I was too weary and too disgusted to help humanity in distress.
“Kotikokura, by saving the life of a human being, we merely endanger the life of another. It is futile to be kind and generous. ‘Homo homini lupus.’ Wolves all,—devouring one another,—and always the Jew the final scapegoat. So be it! We cannot help it. We must laugh or go mad.”
Kotikokura laughed heartily. I joined him.
“Kotikokura, I am weary of splashing through blood and tumbling over ruins. Besides, it is becoming increasingly more dangerous. We can go to Jerusalem by far safer and pleasanter means. The Mediterranean still runs on as calmly as ever.”
Kotikokura grinned, delighted.
“Let us cast off this armor, and become merely prosperous citizens, unconcerned with the Holy Sepulchre, with doing chivalrous deeds, with witnessing this horror, in the name of Jesus. One glance suffices. We need not witness the entire performance.”
XLVI: I REVISIT JERUSALEM—THE PLACE OF SKULLS—IS TIME AN ILLUSION?—THE TEMPEST—THE RED KNIGHT—“DON’T YOU KNOW ME, CARTAPHILUS?”—TREASURE TROVE
“KOTIKOKURA, I do not understand it at all. How did this army, ragged, famished, undisciplined and almost weaponless, defeat the splendid troops of the Mohammedans? What magic did it use? What strange power? Is it true indeed that Jesus wished to free his Sepulchre from the hands of the infidels? Did he strike fear into the hearts of his enemies, or…? But why rack our brains, my friend, to understand a game which seems to have no permanent rules, and whose players—the gods—have no sense of honor?”