by Mark Jeffrey
“Ragazzo …” Cyranus said in astonishment.
“Tell us: what else do you know of Plato?” asked Aestrusia, switching to Latin.
“Only that I have studied The Republic,” Ragazzo answered in Latin, not missing a beat. And then he added, quoting Plato again, “As I should. ‘If a man neglects his education, he walks lame to the end of his life.’”
“Ragazzo …” Cyranus began. “Ragazzo comes to us under a mysterious star.”
“Indeed …” Aestrusia marvelled, her eyes boring into him. “Such wisdom in a boy his age. It is not unheard of, but it is quiet rare.” She leaned in closer. “And his eyes, Giovanni. Have you seen into his eyes?”
Giovanni regarded her for a time and then shrugged. “I have seen his eyes, yes. But to wit, I believe you must mean something deeper that I do not fathom.”
Aestrusia rose slowly, a servant pulling her chair out for her, never once looking away from the lock of her gaze upon Ragazzo’s. She came closer until she was leaning directly over the boy.
“Ah, Giovanni, you have been remiss. As a painter, you are expected to see every detail, and here in your strange and wonderful boy under your own roof, you have missed the most glaringly obvious detail of all.”
“Tell us, Aestrusia,” one of the others, a bald man named Noggoni who had been admiring Aestrusia all evening, said. “What tale do your eyes tell you of his?”
“He is old,” she pronounced. “An old soul dwells behind these amber eyes. Older than anyone in this room. And he comes from a land far away from here.”
Ragazzo did not react in any way.
“Ragazzo,” Aestrusia asked in nearly a whisper. “How old are you, really?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“And I suspect that if you did know, that knowledge would be false. You have lived many lives, perhaps you have been reborn many times. I have heard of such things. There is a deep past to you. The size of your soul cannot grow to be so large in the scant time afforded to the body we see now before us.”
“COME, RAGAZZO,” Giovanni said. “I wish to show you something.”
Ragazzo came as ordered. It was late into the night. All of the guests had left and the daughters were in their beds. And Giovanni had had his fill of the wine grown in his own vineyards. They were down in his workroom, which is where Giovanni always naturally gravitated when he’d had his fill of drink — or any other time, for that matter. It was here that he did what he loved most.
Giovanni waved his arm towards a painting. “Do you know what this is?”
The painting was not one of Giovanni’s. In fact, there were many things here that were not his own work, but rather objects he was studying, poking and prodding, extracting secrets from.
Ragazzo peered at the painting. This work was older; the colors had faded a bit. But the content was clear. “This is the Crucifixion, of course,” Ragazzo replied.
“Yes, but look closer. What else do you see?” Giovanni replied cryptically.
Ragazzo squinted at the artwork, trying to scry its secrets.
“This was painted in 1350,” Giovanni said. “In Yugoslavia. And besides the usual religious symbolism, it contains two very strange, irreligious images. Look to the sky.”
Ragazzo did so, and immediately noticed something new. There were two pointy teardrop-shaped craft, flying in the air, above the crucifixion. One craft seemed to be chasing the other. There was a person inside each, clearing depicted as piloting it.
“There are others,” Giovanni said with a twinkle in his eye. “Look at this. ‘The Madonna with St. Giovannino’. But look over her shoulder, in the sky beyond.”
Again, Ragazzo saw something odd: this time, it was a circular dark blue craft. Yellow lines of light or force emanated from it. As if to emphasize the strangeness, the small figure of a man could be seen, shielding his eyes as he looked up. A dog next to him seemed to be barking at the craft.
“And here, another.” This time, Ragazzo was handed a parchment manuscript. “This is from the 12th century. In 776, the Crusaders had surrounded the French. They were preparing the final blow, when all of a sudden, ‘flaming shields’ appeared in the sky. The Crusaders fled instantly.”
Giovanni next produced a painting of a small town. Several people were pointing in fear at the sky, which was filled with many black spheres. “Basil, Switzerland,” Giovanni explained. “Large, black ‘flaming globes’ fought over the city for more than an hour before vanishing.
“I will tell you a secret few know: history is replete with these sightings, Ragazzo. Even Alexander the Great speaks of them! He defeated Tyre only because five ‘shining silver shields’ shot a beam of light at the wall encircling the city. This destroyed a section large enough for Alexander to storm the city. What makes this even more convincing is that the historians of Tyre also record the ‘shining shields’!”
Giovanni looked at Ragazzo very intensely all of a sudden. “I very much wish to know what these things may be.”
“Do you have any theories, sir?”
Giovanni held his gaze. “I do. It is a strange theory.” He had a sudden look of fear as if he didn’t dare divulge his true thoughts on the matter. But then he only smiled and said, “I think that these craft may belong to the olden gods of the ancient world. The very ones we hear of from the Greeks, the Egyptians and even from peoples far older than they!”
Ragazzo took this in for a moment and then said, “Do such people exist?”
“I believe so,” Giovanni replied, and then added conspiratorially. “I would wish to meet them.”
Ragazzo looked slightly shocked at this. Then he regained his composure and said, “What would you hope to gain from such a meeting?”
“The peoples who have such craft – they must also have knowledge. They must have secrets. You were not here for the Pestilence, Ragazzo. Or if you were, you do not recall it. It fell upon me to try to heal those who fell under its lash. I was supposed to be the one with medical knowledge.
“And I was powerless! Powerless to save them!” Here, Cyranus broke down into sudden sobs. It was the wine, of course. But to see the usually jovial Cyranus come apart like this was unnerving, a rare peek behind the curtain of his exterior, and into deep into the soul-pain of the man himself.
“So many villagers of Cyranus died, Ragazzo. So many! I tried to heal them, but even with all my knowledge and experience, I could not.” He took a deep ragged breath and then said, “You have not asked me where the mother of Venetia, Allesandra, Bonfilia, Jina, Oriana and Eleonora is.”
Ragazzo looked snapped his gaze up. Then he said, “I would not presume to question you about your affairs sir. I’m sure that —“
“She died. In the Pestilence.”
“Oh. I am sorry, sir.”
“Yes. Well … I could not save her. I tried every art known to me.” Grief wracked him, and he sat forlorn at a desk, slumping into his own arms for a moment. Then he rose, defiant. “But that is the past! I wish to heal — now! The knowledge these people must have — I am sure it could help me! Sickness would not have to happen! Suffering — I could stop it!” He stood again and came at Ragazzo, taking him by the shoulders and gazing deeply into his eyes. “You, Ragazzo, you have secrets, even from yourself. Secrets, that if I knew them, I believe would unlock some of these mysteries. You have seen things — this ‘Pyramid of the Sun’ and ‘Pyramid of the Moon’. Ancient pyramids are connected to the mysteries of the gods and their knowledge as well — they knew more than we do now — why, even more than the Romans did, those of the Empire that we look back upon with such admiration!
“Things are possible now that have not been possible for a thousand years, Ragazzo. You agreed with me. And now you are here, some strange fate has sent you to me, and me to you as your guardian, a duty which I shall not shirk! It is meant to be. Yes. It is destiny.”
“I don’t believe in destiny, sir,” Ragazzo said.
“Ah, you believe in free w
ill then?” Cyranus replied. “The Church teaches us as much. Ah well. I suppose I do as well, you know. But I would say it like this: There is free will, yes. But it is also true that your destiny is already written in the stars. This is not a contradiction!”
Cyranus seemed to lose his train of thought then. “Ah. I forget what I was going to say next. Something pithy and clever no doubt, for I am a pithy and clever man. Never mind that, never mind. To bed with you Ragazzo! Sleep deeply and sleep long! For tomorrow we begin: tomorrow, you and I will begin to unlock all these secrets together!”
WHEN CYRANUS awoke the next day, it was well past noon.
He rose with a head full of fog; he realized at once he had had too much wine, even for him. He took a cold bath to wake himself up and then called for a servant to provide him with fresh clothes.
Still, he recalled his conversation with Ragazzo. But it was more than the conversation that stood out in his recollection; for Cyranus had found himself mesmerized by the boy’s eyes, as Aestrusia had been. Once that she had pointed it out, he saw that it was true: something very old slumbered behind that gaze.
What could it be?
At first, he’d assumed that Ragazzo was just a poor beggar boy. But the knowledge the boy displayed was not that of a street urchin. And in one so young? It wasn’t just rote learning; not mere memorization, no. The boy understood and appreciated what he knew. He could synthesize it, apply it.
Why, he was bantering casually at the dinner table with some of the finest minds in Florence! And he was at ease! It wasn’t even a challenge for him.
The mystery was tantalizing — as tantalizing as the workings of the human body, or how to achieve a flying machine, or what the secrets of his strange paintings were.
Where had this enchanted boy come from?
Who were his parents? Was he truly an orphan?
But no. He could not be. No orphan was learned!
Cyranus laughed to himself as he shaved. He could almost believe that the boy had emerged from a fairy-kingdom under a mound, as some of the old legends averred. Ragazzo was like a fairy Prince, lost wandering in a world of mortals.
If Giovanni hadn’t been a practical man, a scientific man, a man of learning and student of the ages … he might even have given credence to such an interpretation.
But there was also the matter of why Ragazzo had arrived here in his town.
That puzzled Giovanni. It seemed much more than a mere coincidence. And he had an instinct for such things — he knew when he had two pieces of a puzzle that fit together, alway, always — his subconscious mind knew it, even if he did not yet know how they fit at the top of his mind.
Giovanni wiped the lather from his face and rinsed, studying his own face. After the death of his beloved wife, he had longed for knowledge. He had thirsted for some kind of sign, something that would show him the way to go …
All these locked doors! And no key! It was maddening.
And then, at that exact moment, out of the sky, it seemed, had come Ragazzo.
When he was younger, Cyranus would have assumed such a thing was just a happenstance. Mere chance had brought the boy here. But as he grew older, and looked back on his life, he saw patterns that could only be seen with the perspective of distance in time from the events — and a keen mind at that. There were cycles in time, connections between things that did not appear to be connected — or could not be connected by mere cause and effect.
And yet … they were.
He was sure of it. There was no such thing as coincidence. A sublime order — perhaps one of Heaven, he did not know — permeated everything, and was somehow interwoven by the very spindles of the world.
He found Ragazzo wandering in his vineyard. The boy was talking with the grape-gatherers and planters, asking questions about how this or that was done. From a distance, Giovanni could see that his servants found Ragazzo amusing. They laughed and delighted in showing the boy the techniques of growing the very best crop for a winery.
He pulled up the straps of his pants over a crisp button down gray shirt and hurried down to meet the boy and speak some more with him. He was quite looking forward to it!
But before he was able to descend the long lazy walkway to the vast open lands of his vineyards, a young man sprinted towards him from the direction of the town.
Cyranus knew him: it was the butcher’s son Aldo. The boy came screeching to a halt in front of Giovanni, panting crazily. He suddenly remembered who he was in front of and tried to comport himself, combing his hair with his hand and tucking in his shirt.
“Yes? What is it, Aldo?” Cyranus said, seeing the alarm in the boy’s face. “What has happened?”
“My Lord!” Aldo gasped. “There is …”
“Stop,” Cyranus commanded. “Wait for a moment so that you can breathe.”
Aldo did as he was told, although it was clear that he was bursting with some news or alarm. After a moment, Cyranus said, “There. Now you may speak.”
“My Lord. Down in the village. Some men have arrived. A legion of them.”
Giovanni blinked. An army? Here?
He knew of no conflict nearby.
“Are they invading?”
“No Lord. They come peaceably. But they are … they are …”
“Yes?”
“Strange, my Lord. Oddly dressed. And they are not attacking, not exactly. But they are going where they will, into houses, and behaving angrily.”
“Angrily?”
“You had better come see, Lord. They sent me and bid me to run as fast as I could. And they beg for you not to delay.”
“I see,” Giovanni said, squelching his inner alarm at this turn of events. “One moment.” Then he turned and put two fingers to his mouth and sent a shrill whistle ringing into the vineyards. “Ragazzo! I have need of you! Come quickly!”
WHEN GIOVANNI AND Ragazzo arrived, they quickly heard the tale of what happened several times. It seemed that eight men had wandered into the hamlet of Cyranus in a daze.
They were dressed in chain mail and leather armor. Short swords hung from their sides. Each wore a dirty red tunic – now reduced to rags – beneath their armor. Their gaunt, weary eyes had stared at the town as though her buildings and edifices and even her people could not possibly be real.
And then they had broken into a rage, smashing storefronts, entering homes and shouting belligerantly at the inhabitants in some unknown language.
The people were understandably frightened. This was a town of farmers and shopkeeps, not warriors. Everyone just did their best to stay out their way.
Giovanni asked to be taken to these men at once, and Aldo did so. It did not take them long to find them.
They were eating in a huddle, seated on the cobblestones of the main town square. They had stolen this food, obviously, as though it were theirs for the taking, as though they had a right to it.
No one else had recognized them for what they were. That was understandable: the simple townsfolk lacked the learning. But Giovanni, a man of learning, of history, recognized them immediately. Or at least, who they appeared to be.
One still held a standard with an eagle at the top. The letters SPQR were clearly visible on the tattered flag that fluttered beneath.
Quietly, Giovanni breathed the words they stood for: Senatus Populusque Romanus.
He knew what his eyes were seeing, but he also knew that it was an utter impossibility.
Cyranus stepped forward and addressed the group. He knew Latin, but that did not seem to work. After listening to the confused replies, Giovanni deduced that these men spoke an earlier, more antiquated dialect that employed unfamiliar slang and idioms.
He was just wondering how he could form a method of communicating with them when Ragazzo stepped forward and said something to the man who appeared to be the leader. Instant recognition lit his face. A torrent of words came out of him. Ragazzo stepped back, startled, and opened his arms in supplication and replied. This seemed to calm
the man somewhat: he was now willing to listen.
“You can speak with him, Ragazzo?”
“Yes, sir,” the boy said, without explanation.
Curious, Giovanni thought. He would have to pursue this later. Now was not the time.
“Ask him what his name is.”
Ragazzo did so.
“Appius Quinctillia,” the leader replied, saluting with a fist on his chest.
“Giovanni di Cyranus,” Giovanni replied.
“Giovanni Cyranus,” the leader repeated.
Giovanni continued the conversation through Ragazzo.
“First things first,” Giovanni said. “Do you require water? It seems you have plenty of food but no water. Shall I have some brought?”
Appius considered this for a moment and then nodded. Cyranus snapped his fingers; Aldo appeared at his side and received instructions. In moments, he had returned from the well with several other fearful townsfolk, bearing the marvelous cold clean water that Ragazzo had experienced when he first arrived. Then men accepted with a grunt, and all drank greedily.
When they were finished, Giovanni asked, “Where are you from?”
Appius gave him a far away stare. “Here.”
Giovanni blinked. “Here?”
Appius nodded emphatically. “Here. Yes. This is our home.”
Giovanni considered and then asked, “How long have you been gone?”
Appius stared at the sky, counting. “Two … two and half years. We wandered in strange lands. But now we are home at last.” Appius looked disturbed. “Yet … everything is strangely changed. Who are you? Why have you torn down the buildings and built new ones?”
“Appius. Can you tell me who the Emperor is?”
“Vespasian,” Appius snorted, as though this should be entirely obvious.
Giovanni nodded, trying to hide his astonishment. He refilled the man’s water. Then, Giovanni politely signaled that he would return in a moment and left the group a small distance. Ragazzo followed.
