Alexander, proud of his eloquence, continued, but his words seemed to come from a great distance. My ears were smitten by the thunderclaps that frightened me in Jerusalem.
“Jesus is a Hindu divinity. Mary is a less imaginative conception of Venus. The very name of the goddess, risen from the foam of the sea, thrills and intoxicates! Venus—goddess of joy, goddess of beauty! Venus– —” He closed his eyes. His nostrils shivered. He reopened his eyes, and smiled. “Venus has become a mother—a virgin mother!”
The thunderclaps died in the distance. The Pope’s voice sounded clear and convincing.
“Jesus would have fared much better if infidels had presided over the Council of Nicæa! What a mess they made of it, Count! The bigoted Bishops disputed and wrangled and fought, and in their blind passion, they never realized that they included two contradictory genealogies of Jesus in the gospels! They should have edited either Luke’s or Mark’s. Besides, the attempt to trace the descent of Jesus to David, through Joseph, makes the immaculate conception preposterous. Jesus is either the Son of God, or the descendant of David. How can He be both at the same time?”
It amazed me not to be able to crush the shrewd and subtle Pope with powerful arguments. “You are surprised, Count, that the Vicar of Christ does not believe in Him? Why shouldn’t a Pope rise superior to his profession?”
‘I must make a dent in the armor of his conceit. I must defeat his logic by facts!’ I thought. ‘Besides, what subtle triumph for me if I, of all men, prove the existence of Jesus to the Bishop of Rome!’
Was it a racial trait which made me anxious to prevail in an argument? Was it vanity? Was it my passion for truth? I cannot tell, but “Your Holiness is mistaken,” I blurted out suddenly. “Jesus lived! I saw him! I spoke to him.”
Alexander laughed. “Many have spoken to Him.”
I shook my head.
“Many have seen Jesus. Our nunneries are crowded with brides of Christ…”
Whatever the consequences of my confession, I would confute and confuse this son of the Borgias.
“If Your Holiness will permit, I shall recount the truth about Jesus.”
He seated himself deeply in his chair, and playing with a diamond studded cross that hung around his neck, listened without interrupting me. Avoiding unnecessary details and sentimental reflections, I told him of my quarrel with Jesus. I described his trial and crucifixion, and in bold strokes, related the major incidents of my life, omitting only my excursion into Africa, Salome and Kotikokura.
When I had finished, he smiled. “In the archives of the Vatican, there is an account by a Bishop– —”
“An Armenian Bishop?” I asked.
“Yes! You have read it, Count.” He laughed, slapping his thighs.
“No, Your Holiness. It was I who confessed to the holy man, on the promise that he would not divulge my secrets.”
“He speaks about this promise, it is true, and he does not disclose the man’s history. He only recounts what was permissible for him to reveal,” the Pope said thoughtfully.
It pleased me that the Armenian Bishop had kept faith with me. I tried to recollect his face, but his features wavered in my mind like a torch in the wind. The face of Apollonius emerged, luminous and superb, instead.
“Ever since the story has become known,” His Holiness resumed, “we are pestered by Wandering Jews. Ordinarily, they are either ranting charlatans or dupes of their fancy. But truly, Count, a man like you—a thinker and a wit—should not indulge in so stale a farce…”
“I am telling the truth, Your Holiness.”
“What is truth?” Alexander yawned. “And how can you prove it?”
“Holy Father, it is difficult to prove the simplest proposition. Mathematics, even, must accept certain premises and axioms, must accept the possibility of drawing a triangle or a circle in a universe which permits neither circles nor triangles to limit its endless flow…”
“You have not mentioned the shoes, Cartaphilus!” His Holiness laughed.
“Shoes?”
“Did you not leave a pair of shoes with the Bishop?”
I searched my memory. “True, Your Holiness, a pair of sandals. My valet forgot them. I had to buy another pair as soon as I reached the first town.”
He laughed uproariously. “Of course. What is the Wandering Jew without the shoes? He must always leave behind him shoes—symbol of his wanderings and of his father’s profession.”
‘His father’s profession,’ I mused. ‘Can we never extricate ourselves from our ancestors?’
An officer entered, whispered something into Alexander’s ear, and left.
“Ah, you are fortunate indeed! Come to the window, and we shall witness a magnificent spectacle.” The sun was setting; its rays like delicate long fingers bedecked with many jewels, lay languidly upon the garden, making it glitter.
A soldier opened the large brass gate to the west of the garden. Four stallions, two black, two white, dashed in. They galloped about for a few moments, then trotted quietly, their fine heads erect, their step elastic.
The Pope nodded. At one of the open windows of the Vatican, a young man and woman, holding hands, were smiling at the spectacle.
They were nearly of the same height, had the same raven-black hair, large dark-brown eyes, which they squinted a little, due to the light or to myopia. Their noses were strongly aquiline, rapacious as the beaks of birds of prey. Their lips, heavy and shapeless, pouted in perennial mockery. Debauchery was beginning to erase the more delicate lines of their chins. Their foreheads, rising above their heads like superimposed structures, radiated remarkable intelligence and unsavory subtlety.
Cæsar and Lucretia Borgia were undeniably their father’s children.
His Holiness waved his hand. Cæsar answered the greeting by a similar gesture. Lucretia threw him a kiss. The young woman glanced at her incestuous companion,—a significant glance, pregnant with meaning. Cæsar crushed her hand violently. She closed her eyes, and clenched her teeth.
‘Poppaea!’ I thought.
His Holiness opened a little his mouth, and breathed deeply. I no longer doubted the rumor of the libidinous ties which united the Holy Father with his unholy family.
Meanwhile, the gate opened once more and two mares, as vigorous and proud as the stallions, rushed in. The latter stopped in their easy perambulation, sniffed and neighed noisily.
The mares ran to a corner of the garden as if seeking shelter. The stallions approached them. They ran away a short distance, and stopped again. The stallions dashed toward them. One of them touched a mare with the tip of his muzzle. The others rushed at him and bit him. He turned upon them, biting, kicking.
A terrific battle ensued. Blood and thick foam streamed to the ground. The hoofs, striking the earth, scattered sparks. The mares looked on tranquilly, chewing the sparse blades of grass, that grew between the crevices of stones.
A white stallion fell, his legs in the air. His enormous belly was ripped. The other three continued their warfare, neighing and snorting and stamping their hoofs. A black stallion looked up. Realizing, suddenly, the reason of the battle, he dashed toward the mares. His head was covered with blood and muddy foam, and his wet mane hung in clusters over his eyes. He pawed the ground and neighed vociferously.
One of the mares ran away. The other faced him for a while, then ran in a circle. He followed her, but not too closely for at every few steps, she made a threatening gesture.
The circles, however, became smaller and the kicking less vigorous. Suddenly the stallion reared into the air. The mare remained still accepting the virile tribute of her conqueror.