I awoke. I rubbed my eyes and forehead trying to remember something—something incredibly beautiful and delicious. What was it? When did I…? Was it a dream? I felt a pressure against my thigh. The ruby—a frozen drop of flame—on the head of the serpent.
“Antonia,” I whispered.
I placed the ring upon my small finger. It fitted perfectly. I rose. Something fell to the floor.
“The other ring! Antonio?” I placed the ring on top of the other. They melted into one.
‘Who are you?’
‘We are Toni.’
‘Both Toni?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you one or two?’
‘We are one and two.’
‘Both one?’
‘Yes.’
How incredibly beautiful!
The Double Blossom of Passim—the almost impossible loveliness of John and Mary in one!
A courier arrived with a letter from Baron di Martini. Affairs of state compelled him to prolong his absence for a few weeks. Unfortunately, the presence of the “scatterbrains” was also essential. Meanwhile, he would consider it a special favor if I remained his guest.
“Are the children gone?” I asked.
“Yes, Count. Early this morning, a messenger from the Duke came to fetch them.”
“Kotikokura, we must go.”
He sighed. His eye caught my hand. He grinned. I felt a little uneasy.
“It is the gift of the children.”
Then, discreetly as ever, Kotikokura made preparations for our departure.
“Before I go I must see a goldsmith who will make two rings of this one—one for Antonio and one for Antonia. Alas, Kotikokura, we shall never see the children again—at least, never as they were…last night…never. Ah, the perfect hour of youth is more frail than the outer rim of the moon when the dawn kisses her lips!”
LXIV: MAN A RHEUMATIC TORTOISE—I TAKE STOCK OF MYSELF—I BRING THE HOLY GRAIL TO ALEXANDER VI—I DISCUSS THEOLOGY WITH THE POPE—THE HOLY FATHER AND HIS UNHOLY FAMILY—I AM TALKATIVE—ALEXANDER ASKS A QUESTION—TRAPPED
KOTIKOKURA and I walked along the shore of the Tiber which, heavy with recent rain, moved ponderously like a man newly enriched. Lonesomeness made me shiver with a sudden chill. I took Kotikokura’s arm and felt comforted a little. Strange that this queer being—captured almost like a wild animal in the African jungle—was my only companion.
Fourteen centuries! What profound change had occurred in me? I remained bewildered among my thoughts. I had learned divers magics, sciences, languages and philosophies. I had witnessed the rise and fall of emperors and civilizations. I had seen the colossal growth of Christianity—its physical power and its spiritual weakness. I had learned the meaning of history and the meaning of legend, and how truth and fiction mingled irrevocably together. I had experienced innumerable shades of love from grossest sensuality to a touch so vague that it would hardly graze the tip of a butterfly’s wing. Beggar, saint, prince, monk, god and devil, I had lived a thousand lives.
What new paths had I discovered? How was I different from Cartaphilus, the young captain in the Roman army of occupation in Jerusalem at the time when the young Jewish carpenter was condemned to die on the cross? Under changing masks I remained myself. In spite of all, I was still Cartaphilus!
What, then, was the purpose of traversing so long a road? Would sixty or seventy years have sufficed? Was everything relative in a world that would not or could not remain still for a fraction of a second?
Yes, that was my discovery: things only seemed, there was neither truth nor lie, neither good nor evil, neither God nor Devil.
“There is neither life nor death,” said Apollonius. “The feet that tread upon the dust and the trodden dust are not as different as they seem. Life and death are one!”
Progress? There was no progress. For every step forward humanity takes one step back. Man hurls his ideas far ahead of him, like golden discs, but he himself crawls onward like a rheumatic tortoise.
“Kotikokura, have I changed much since you first met me—you remember, in Africa—long, long ago?”
He shook his head.
“Am I still the same?”
“Ca-ta-pha god always.”
“Perhaps you are right, Kotikokura. Does not a tree, once grown to maturity, remain unchanged, even if it lives two thousand years? Time merely draws circles about its trunk to indicate that he has forgotten nothing and no one, that he still is the punctilious slave of Eternity, who sits unmoved upon the peak of the universe, and within whose shadow all things are.”
Kotikokura nodded.
“You, however, have changed considerably, Kotikokura. You are hardly recognizable. They even mistook you once or twice for my younger brother.”
Kotikokura grinned.
“When you reach maturity, will you become Ca-ta-pha?”
He laughed.
“Would that please you greatly?”
He nodded vigorously.
“Is Ca-ta-pha the highest peak to which man may aspire?”
He nodded.
“Then has Ca-ta-pha simply turned about himself, when he believed that he was climbing the staircase to the stars?”
“Ca-ta-pha god.”
“So be it then! Let Ca-ta-pha turn and turn, like the sun—and by turning, radiate light! Kotikokura shall be his moon—the reflection of Ca-ta-pha and”—Kotikokura grinned—”grin as a moon should.”
His Holiness Alexander VI, was financially embarrassed. The money received from the sale of indulgences fell far below expectations. Italy was overtaxed. Beyond the Alps, the people groaned and grumbled. Still, he had made a vow to finish the inner buildings of the Vatican during his lifetime. Who could tell how suddenly the Scissors of Time would snap the thread? Bricks and marble and cement remained like hills of debris in the yard of the Vatican, while the walls gaped and the rain splashed upon the foundation.
Rome felt the tension of her master.
Alexander intrigued me. He wore his sins—incest, sodomy, murder—gracefully like a cloak. His extraordinary political sagacity, his love for the arts, were woven into the pattern. I was anxious to meet the vicar of Christ and Priapus!
“Kotikokura, having gathered fame, let us profit thereby.”
Kotikokura looked at me, a thousand questions dancing in his eyes.
“The great-grandson of Count de Cartaphile shall profit by the exploits of his ancestor.”
Dressed in ancient armor, inlaid with crosses, and accompanied by Kotikokura, I rode solemnly upon a tall white horse through the main streets of Rome.
People gathered in clusters whispering, or followed us at a respectable distance. Some knelt, many crossed themselves, or bowed deeply. For three days, I repeated my silent and peaceful conquest of the city. On the fourth morning, I stopped at the gate of the Vatican, and begged admittance to the Holy Father. Meeting some resistance, I bribed my way to his door.
Kotikokura remained outside with our horses.
The Pope’s study overlooked his gardens, and from the open window came the delightful perfume of violets and lilacs. His Holiness was sitting at a long table whose massive legs were carved in the shape of young bulls, the coat of arms of the Borgias. A large copy of the Decameron, illuminated and encrusted, occupied the center of the table. His Holiness was dressed in white from head to foot. There was devouring curiosity in his eyes, but also irony played like lightning about his lips and chin, and his large wide forehead radiated intelligence.
I knelt. He lifted slightly his foot encased in a gold-embroidered white slipper. I kissed the sharp point. He made the sign of the cross over me and bade me rise.
“Are you indeed the great-grandson of Count de Cartaphile?”
“I am, Your Holiness—this is the very armor he wore when he delivered the Holy Tomb from the hands of the Infidels.”