The ring!
He continued to look at it, his lids motionless.
“Save yourself, Cartaphilus! Save yourself!” Was it my own voice? Was it the voice of another? A fierce determination took possession of me. The desire to live, to rescue my body from the claws of the Inquisition, flared up with primordial intensity. Fear vanished. My strength multiplied. I was no longer a man, but an army.
“These,” the voice—this time clearly within me—cried, “are mortals, Cartaphilus. You are the stuff of which the stars are made…!”
I stretched forth my arms and fastened my look upon the Inquisitor at the left. The man blinked and tried to turn his head. He struggled. The tension was plainly tangible. I continued to concentrate upon him. The rays of the ring pierced his eyes. Suddenly he succumbed. His head dropped like a toy and he began to breathe with the regularity of a sleeper.
The man in the center droned on, without raising his head.
The Inquisitor on his right rose suddenly, and raised his arm to utter a malediction. I could almost hear the words: “Demon! Jew!” His fiery eyes sank into mine for a moment. In spite of the most desperate resistance, I held him. ‘Cartaphilus’ I shouted within myself, ‘Hold him! Hold fast.’ I summoned new reserves out of the depths of myself, as one wrenches a root deeply buried in the earth. An irresistible power, an overwhelming will-to-be, raw, invincible, like life itself, rose from its hiding place in the last layer of my being.
“Sleep!” I commanded. “Sleep! Sleep!” My eyes burned into his. The ring splashed him with fire. Suddenly, no longer a man but an automaton, he breathed deeply, reseated himself, placed his head upon his arm, and snored.
The Chief Inquisitor looked up, astounded. I waved my hands. I recited a passage from the Vedas to distract his attention from his two colleagues. Catching his eyes, I sucked them into mine. His self disappeared in the whirlpool. He struggled like a drowning man, but the waves of energy emanating from me robbed him of his senses. His eyes became as glass.
“Order the soldier who stands behind me to drop his sword and leave,” I whispered.
“Leave!” he commanded. The soldier obeyed.
“Order the Executioner to depart!”
“Depart!” he reiterated.
The executioner departed.
“Now sleep! Sleep!”
He closed his eyes and reclined in his chair.
I breathed heavily through my mouth, like a man who climbs a steep hill, a load upon his back. But I was not exhausted. New strength had flowed into me from the untapped reservoirs of my life—the life of centuries.
The three men, snoring mechanically, looked like crows, their heads half-hidden between their wings.
For the moment I was safe. The bayonet did not pierce my back, nor did the monster in red glare at me, his enormous nose shivering and creasing like an elephant’s trunk. But I was still within the chamber of the Holy Inquisition and outside, doubtless, were the sentinels of the Pope. Maybe Alexander himself, preceded by silver trumpets, was on his way to the court-room! I had to decide upon immediate means of escape.
As I was weighing one thing and another, half accepting, half rejecting, the door opened. A nun, heavily hooded so that hardly more than the lashes of her eyes and the tip of her nose were visible, entered. She looked about furtively.
Where had I seen her, and when? That gait…that carriage! Who was she? The nun approached me and lifted her veil.
“Kotikokura!” I exclaimed. I opened my eyes so wide that they hurt me. “Kotikokura, my friend! Is it possible?” I embraced him. He kissed my hands. “Ca-ta-pha! Ca-ta-pha, my master!” His eyes filled with tears.
“What is the meaning of this attire?” I asked.
He placed his forefinger to his lips and gave me a bundle. I opened it. Within it was a nun’s attire. In a few minutes, I was as orthodox a nun as walked the streets of Rome. Kotikokura made a gesture of admiration. “Oh, wait a minute, Kotikokura! One must not run away so unceremoniously from one’s host—if one’s host is the Pope.”
Upon the back of the scroll which contained the indictment for high crimes against me, I wrote in large letters: “To His Holiness, Pope Alexander VI from the Wandering Jew.” I put the scroll into one of my shoes which I carefully placed on the rack.
I looked at my judges. Suddenly the word “dance” reverberated through my mind. I approached the table.
“Dance!” I commanded. “Dance! Dance!” I repeated.
The Holy Inquisitors lifted their heads slowly, opened their eyes, and descended from the platform.
“Dance, dance!”
They raised their robes in the manner of elegant ladies and began to dance—a weird, disjointed, savage dance. In Kotikokura the dance aroused tribal reminiscences. He looked bewildered. His legs shivered.
The Convent of the Flaming Heart was situated upon a hillock, a few miles to the west of the Eternal City—a beautiful white building, surrounded by vineyards.
The driver urged the horses upward the narrow path that led to the stone gate.
“Is Salome here?” I whispered to Kotikokura.
He nodded.
‘Salome a nun—in a convent,’ I mused, smiling. ‘But not half so strange as the fact that Cartaphilus and Kotikokura are nuns!’ I looked at Kotikokura and it was with the utmost difficulty that I restrained myself from bursting into hilarious laughter.
We descended from the carriage. The driver opened the gate. A nun approached.
“The Mother Superior awaits you.”
We walked in silence in the large garden and were led into a waiting-room.
“The Reverend Lady will be here presently.”
A small door, almost that of a cell, opened to our right and Salome appeared. She raised her eyes and made the sign of the cross.
“Salome!” I exclaimed.
She placed her forefinger to her lips.
“In my cell, we shall be able to speak without being overheard. Follow me!”
Her cell was a large room whose window faced the Tiber. A crucifix of excellent workmanship hung from one of the walls. Underneath it, several shelves crowded with books and manuscripts. At an angle, test tubes and other delicate instruments. Here and there, a flower vase, a statuette, a painting.
She closed the door behind us.
“Salome!” I exclaimed again. I pressed her to my heart.
“I am an Abbess, Cartaphilus, and you a nun. We should be colder and more distant in our dealings.”
She laughed a little.
“Salome an Abbess!” I laughed in my turn.
“It is not so strange, Cartaphilus. Since I cannot be Pope and rule mankind, I can at least rule my nuns and pursue my studies. The nuns are obedient. Unlike the Pope’s subjects they do not rebel. Many are intelligent and beautiful. Unsoiled by the rude hand of man, they tremble at my touch. Their cheeks blossom at a glance. If Eros visits their dreams, they consider themselves wicked sinners. They kneel before me, place their heads upon my knees, and weep. My hand comforts them…”
Salome closed a little her eyes, and remained silent for a while. “Besides,” she said smiling, “Holy Orders enabled me to reciprocate your courtesy. Without my assistance, you would have suffered some unpleasant experience.”
“How did you know of my presence in Rome?”
“How did you not know of mine?”
“Salome is incomparable always.”
“You ascribe my knowledge to feminine intuition, Cartaphilus?”
I smiled, for such a thought had flitted through my brain.
“If intuition knows more than reason, it is superior to reason,” I remarked.
“It was not intuition, but reason. You are incorrigible and unchangeable, Cartaphilus! You still consider woman only a little higher than the animals. Feminine intuition seems to you an impersonal, unreasoned thing, akin to animal instincts.”
I was about to object, but she raised her forefinger to her lips. ‘An Abbess,’ I thought, ‘but a remarkably charming one, nevertheless.’