The Last Cato

by Matilde Asensi

  I had been wanting to talk to Pierantonio since the moment he arrived, but hadn’t gotten the chance. I suddenly found myself corralled in a corner of the garden where we were having coffee, to take advantage of the nice weather. My brother was not his usual good-natured self. He had dark circles under his eyes, wrinkles on his brow. He shot me a piercing look and then grabbed me by the wrist.

  “Why are you working with Captain Glauser-Röist?” he said pointblank.

  “How do you know I work with him?” I replied, surprised.

  “Giacoma told me. Answer my question.”

  “I can’t give you any details, Pierantonio. It has to do with what we talked about on Papa’s saint day.”

  “I don’t remember. Refresh my memory.”

  With my free hand I shrugged, raising my palm and holding it in the air. “What’s wrong with you, Pierantonio? Are you sick in the head or what?”

  My brother seemed to wake up from a dream. He looked at me, disconcerted. “Forgive me, Ottavia,” he babbled, letting go of me. “I’m a bit nervous. Forgive me.”

  “Why are you nervous? Is it about the captain?”

  “I’m sorry. Forget it,” he replied, moving away.

  “Come back here, Pierantonio,” I ordered, sternly. He stopped abruptly. “Don’t walk away without an explanation.”

  “Is little Ottavia rebelling against her big brother?” he crowed, wearing a very strange smile. But I wasn’t laughing.

  “Out with it, Pierantonio, or I’ll really get angry.”

  He looked very surprised and took two steps toward me, frowning again. “You know who Kaspar Glauser-Röist is? You know what his job is?”

  “I know he’s a member of the Swiss Guard, but he works for the Sacred Roman Rota. He’s coordinating the investigation I’m participating in.”

  My brother slowly shook his head several times. “No, Ottavia, no. Don’t be fooled. Kaspar Glauser-Röist is the most dangerous man in the Vatican, the black hand who carries out every single one of the church’s disgraceful acts. His name is associated with… This is great. Why is my sister working with the person most feared by heaven and earth?”

  I was frozen and couldn’t react.

  “What do you have to say for yourself? Can you not give me an explanation?” my brother insisted.

  “No.”

  “Well, this conversation is over, then.” He walked away to join some cousins chatting around the table in the garden. “Be careful, Ottavia. That man is not what he seems.”

  When I recovered from my shock, I glimpsed over at my mother and Farag off in the distance, in an animated chat. With a faltering step, I headed their way. Before I could reach them, the captain’s huge mass blocked my way.

  “Doctor, we should leave as soon as possible. It’s getting very late, and soon there won’t be any light.”

  “How do you know my brother, Captain?”

  “Your brother?”

  “Look, don’t put on an act. I know you know Pierantonio. Don’t lie to me.”

  The Rock looked around, nonchalant. “I gather Father Salina didn’t tell you, so neither will I, Doctor,” he looked down at me. “Can we please go?”

  I nodded and rubbed my face in consternation.

  I said good-bye to everyone, one by one, and got in the car that the captain and Farag had rented, a silver Volvo S40, with tinted windows. We crossed the city and got on Highway 121 headed for Enna, in the heart of the island. From there, we took the A19 to Catania. Glauser-Röist really enjoyed driving. He turned on the radio and played music till we left Palermo. Once we were on the highway, he turned the volume down, and Farag, who was sitting in the backseat, leaned forward over the front seats and rested his arms close to each of our shoulders.

  “Actually, Ottavia, we don’t know why we’re here. We came to check out a hunch, but we may be completely mistaken.”

  “Don’t pay any attention to him, Doctor. The professor has found the entrance to Purgatory.”

  “Don’t pay any attention to the captain, Doctor,” the professor interjected, “I seriously doubt that we’ll find the entrance in Syracuse, but the captain is hell-bent on verifying it in situ.”

  “Okay.” I sighed. “At least give me a convincing explanation. What’s in Syracuse?”

  “Santa Lucia!” celebrated Farag.

  I turned toward him, annoyed. “Santa Lucia?”

  I was so close to the professor that I could feel his breath. I was paralyzed. A terrible feeling of shame suddenly suffocated me. I made a superhuman effort to turn back around to watch the highway in an attempt to hide my distress. Boswell had to have noticed, I told myself fearfully. It was an awkward situation. His silence was unbearable. Why didn’t he continue telling his story?

  “Why Saint Lucia?” I finally asked.

  “Because…” Farag cleared his throat, dumbstruck. “Because…”

  I couldn’t see his hands, but I was sure they were trembling.

  “I can explain, Doctor,” intervened Glauser-Röist. “Who takes Dante to the door of Purgatory?”

  I ran through my memory of the text. “Saint Lucia. She transports him through the air from Pre-Purgatory while he’s asleep and leaves him by the sea. What does that have to do with Sicily? Okay, Saint Lucia is the patron saint of Syracuse, sure, but…”

  “Syracuse looks out onto the sea,” the professor observed, seemingly recovered from our momentary awkwardness. “Also, after setting Dante on the ground, Saint Lucia looks in the direction to the door with the two keys.”

  “Well, sure, but…”

  “You know, of course, that Lucia is the patron saint of sight?”

  “What a question! Naturally!”

  “All images of her show her carrying her eyes on a small plate.”

  “She ripped her eyes out when she was martyred. Her pagan fiancé, who denounced her as a Christian, adored her eyes, so she ripped them out and had them delivered to him.”

  “May Saint Lucia preserve our sight,” recited Glauser-Röist.

  “Yes, that’s the popular refrain.”

  “Nevertheless, the patron saint of Syracuse is always depicted with her eyes wide open. On the tray, she seems to be carrying an extra pair.”

  “Well, that’s because no one is going to paint her with empty, bloody eye sockets.”

  “You think so? In my opinion, Christian iconography never seems to have shied away from emphasizing the blood and physicality of pain.”

  “Well, that’s another matter. Where are you going with this?”

  “It’s simple. According to all the Christian martyrologies that describe the saint’s torture, Lucia never plucked out her eyes nor lost them in any way. The truth is, Roman authorities who served Emperor Diocletian tried to rape her and burn her alive; but because of divine intervention, they were unable to, so they finally stabbed a sword in her throat to kill her. That was December 13, 300. But there was nothing about her eyes, nothing at all. Why, then, is she patron saint of sight? Could it be another type of sight—not of the body, but a vision that leads to a higher knowledge? In fact, in the language of symbols blindness symbolizes ignorance, and vision equals knowledge.”

  “That’s just an assumption,” I answered. I didn’t feel well. Farag’s long-winded commentary burdened me deeply. My father’s and brother’s deaths were still very much on my mind, and I didn’t feel like listening to enigmatic subtleties.

  “Just an assumption? Listen to this: The celebration of Saint Lucia honors the supposed day of her death, December 13.”

  “Yes, I know. It’s my sister’s saint day.”

  “Maybe you don’t know that before the ten-day adjustment introduced by the Gregorian calendar in 1582, her day was celebrated on the winter solstice, December 21. Since ancient times, the winter solstice was when light’s victory over darkness was commemorated, because the days started growing longer.”

  I didn’t say a word. I couldn’t grasp any of that rigmarole.

&nb
sp; “Ottavia, please, you’re an educated woman. Use all your knowledge and you’ll see that what I’m saying is not some foolish notion. Dante made Saint Lucia his mysterious porter all the way to the entrance of Purgatory. After she left him on the ground, still asleep, she points out with her eyes the path to the door where they find the three alchemic steps and the guardian angel with the sword. Isn’t that crystal clear?”

  “I don’t know. Is it?”

  Farag remained silent.

  “The professor isn’t sure,” murmured Glauser-Röist, pushing down on the accelerator. “That’s why we’re going to check it out.”

  “There are many Saint Lucia sanctuaries in the world,” I grumbled. “Why the one in Syracuse?”

  “Besides being the saint’s birthplace, where she lived and was martyred, there are other facts that make us suspect Syracuse is the correct place,” the Swiss Rock emphasized. “Cato of Utica suggests to Dante that, before appearing before the guardian angel, he wash the dirt off his face and gird his waist with rushes growing around a little island near the shore.”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “The city of Syracuse was founded by the Greeks in the eighth century,” continued Farag. “At that time it went by the name Ortygia.”

  “Ortygia?” I replied, trying not to turn around to look at him. “But isn’t Ortygia the island across from Syracuse?

  “Aha! Right! Across from Syracuse there’s an island named Ortygia. The famous papyruses and rushes still grow there abundantly.”

  “But today, Ortygia is a suburb of the city. It’s totally developed, and joined to land by a huge bridge.”

  “True. That doesn’t take away one iota from the importance of the clue Dante put in his work. And you still don’t know the best part.”

  “Really?” I had to admit they were beginning to make sense. As I listened to that string of theories, I was putting off the pain I felt over the tragic deaths in my family and, little by little, without realizing it, was getting back to reality.

  “After the Roman Empire disappeared, Sicily was captured by the Goths. In the sixth century, Emperor Justinian, the same one who had the fort built around the Monastery of Saint Catherine of Sinai, commanded General Belisario to retake the island for the Byzantine Empire. The moment the troops from Constantinople arrived in Syracuse, do you know what they did? They built a temple in the place where the saint was martyred. And that temple—”

  “I’m familiar with it.”

  “—is still standing today after many restorations over the centuries, of course.” Farag was unstoppable. “But the old Saint Lucia Church’s greatest attraction is located in its catacombs.”

  “Catacombs? I had no idea there were catacombs under the church.”

  Our car had just sped onto Highway 19. The sun began to set.

  “Remarkable catacombs from the third century. Some of the main sections have hardly been examined. They were extended and modified during the Byzantine period, when there were no longer any persecutions and Christianity was the faith of the empire. Unfortunately they are only open to the public during the celebrations of Saint Lucia, from December 13 to the 20th, and, even then, the access isn’t open to all of them. There are several floors and galleries left to explore.”

  “So how are we going to get in?”

  “Maybe we won’t have to. We don’t actually know what we’ll find. We don’t know what we’re looking for, the way we did in Saint Catherine of Sinai. We’ll look around and then decide. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “I refuse to gird myself with rushes and wash my face with the dew from the grass of Ortygia.”

  “Don’t be so stubborn,” Glauser-Röist’s angry voice reverberated. “That is, indeed, the first thing we’ll do when we get there. In case it hasn’t occurred to you, if indeed we are right, we’ll be completely immersed in the Staurofilakes’ initiation process before nightfall.”

  I kept my lips zipped the rest of the way.

  It was late when we arrived in Syracuse. I was afraid the Swiss Rock would want to descend right then into the catacombs. Thank God, he drove across the city, directly to the island of Ortygia, at whose center, a short way from the famous Aretusa Fountain, was the archbishopric.

  The church of the duomo was quite beautiful despite its unique blend of architectural styles piled on top of one another over the centuries. Its huge baroque façade had six enormous white columns and an upper vaulted niche with an image of Saint Lucia. But we didn’t go in. We parked the car in front of the church and followed Glauser-Röist on foot, headed for the nearby archbishopric, where His Excellency Monsignor Giuseppe Arena received us in person.

  That night we were feted by the archbishop with an exquisite dinner. After chatting about matters concerning the archdiocese and paying a very special tribute to our pontiff, who would turn eighty that next Wednesday, we retired to our rooms.

  At four in the morning, with not one lousy ray of sunlight entering the window, I was snatched from a deep sleep by loud knocks on the door. It was the captain, ready to get started. I heard him knocking on Farag’s door as well. Half an hour later, we were all in the dining room, eating a big breakfast served by a Dominican nun. As usual, the captain was his alert and ready self, while Farag and I could barely utter a few words. We wandered around the dining room like zombies, bumping into chairs and tables. There was absolute silence in the building, broken only by the nun’s soft steps. After a few sips of coffee, my brain began to process information again.

  “Ready?” asked the imperturbable Swiss Rock, setting down his napkin.

  “I’m not,” mumbled Farag, grabbing hold of his coffee cup the way a sailor grabs the mast of a ship during a storm.

  “I don’t think I’m ready either,” I answered with a conspiratory look.

  “Good, I’ll go get the car, and I’ll pick you up in five minutes.”

  “Okay, but I don’t think I’ll be here,” warned the professor.

  I laughed as Glauser-Röist left the dining room, oblivious to us.

  “That man is impossible,” I said as I noticed that Farag hadn’t shaved that morning.

  “We’d better hurry. He’s capable of leaving without us. What can you and I do in Syracuse at five o’clock on a Monday morning?”

  “Catch a plane and go home,” I said, determined, as I got to my feet.

  It wasn’t cold outside. The weather was springlike, although humid and with a stiff breeze that ruffled my skirt. We got into the Volvo and drove all the way around the plaza, then down a street that led us directly to the port. We parked and walked to the end of the road to a spot where, by the light of the streetlights, you could make out very fine, white sand and where, of course, there were hundreds of rushes. The Rock carried with him a copy of the Divine Comedy.

  “Professor, Doctor…,” he murmured, visibly moved by the moment. “It’s time to start.”

  He set the book down on the sand and headed for the rushes. With a reverent gesture, he passed his hands over the grass and wiped his face with the dew. Then, he yanked out the tallest of those flexible stems, pulled his shirttail out of his slacks, and tied it around his waist.

  “Okay, Ottavia,” Farag whispered, “it’s our turn.”

  The professor marched over and repeated the process. Wet with dew, his face took on a special glow, as if he were in the presence of the divine. I felt troubled, uncertain. I had doubts about what we were doing, but I had no choice but to follow their lead; any rejection on my part would be ridiculed. I set my shoes in the sand and walked over to them, brushing my palms over the grass and then rubbing them on my face. The dew was cool, and it woke me up and left me lucid and full of energy. Then, I chose the rush that looked the greenest and prettiest, and tore it at the root, hoping it would some day grow back. I raised the hem of my sweater and held the plant against my waist, above my skirt. I was surprised by how delicate it felt. Its fibers were so elastic that I was able to easily tie it around my waist.
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  We had completed the first part of the ritual. Now we needed to know if it had served any purpose. If we were lucky, I told myself, trying to be calm, nobody had seen us. Back in the car, we left the island of Ortygia by the bridge and got on Avenue Umberto I. The city was beginning to stir. You could see lights lit in apartment windows and the traffic was already getting snarled. A few hours later it would be as chaotic as in Palermo, especially around the port. The captain turned right and headed toward the Via dell’Arsenale. Suddenly, he seemed surprised by what he saw.

  “Do you know what this street is called? Via Dante. Isn’t that strange?”

  “In Italy, Captain, every city has a Via Dante,” I replied, trying not to laugh. Farag’s laughter, however, clearly pierced the morning air.

  We arrived at the Plaza of Saint Lucia next to the soccer stadium, in no time. Instead of a plaza, it was an ordinary street that circumvented the rectangular church. Adjacent to the solid, white stone building and its modest three-story bell tower was a very small octagonal baptistery. Despite the Norman reconstruction of the twelfth century and the Renaissance rosette on its facade, this building was as Byzantine as Constantine the Great himself.

  A man of about sixty, dressed in old trousers and a worn jacket, paced the sidewalk in front of the church. When he saw us get out of the car, he stopped and looked us over carefully. He had beautiful, thick gray hair and a small face covered with wrinkles. From the opposite side of the street, he waved his arm high over his head and broke into an agile run toward us.

  “Captain Glaser-Ro?”

  “Yes, that’s me,” the Rock said amiably, not correcting him and squeezing his hand. “These are my companions, Professor Boswell and Dr. Salina.”

  The captain had a small canvas backpack slung over his shoulder.

  “Salina?” the man smiled amiably. “That’s a Sicilian name, not from Syracuse. Are you from Palermo?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Ah, I knew it! Well, come with me, please. His Excellency the archbishop called last night to advise of your visit. This way.”