My First Two Thousand Years; the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew

by George Sylvester Viereck

  Bewildered, the boy attempted to halt his mistress. She stepped upon his hand as if it were a thing of stone or an insect. The boy shivered from pain, but he crawled on, embracing her knee.

  The boy’s lips moved. “I love you, I adore you,” he whispered.

  The Empress motioned to a gigantic slave. Her face smiled but her lips said, “Flog him.”

  The boy disappeared between the great arms of the man.

  At the banquet messengers from the north and east reached the Emperor telling of the reverse of the Romans and the struggle with the Barbarians.

  Marcus Aurelius spoke of the superiority of virtue and intelligence over brute force.

  “I long for peace, Car-ta-phal,” he said to me. “Alas, the gods will it differently.”

  He lowered his head, and kept silent for a while. He liked to attitudinize. “Much worse than the Barbarians are our enemies at home.”

  “The Christians– —”

  “Particularly the Christians. I have burnt them and thrown them to the lions and hounded them as unclean beasts, but all my efforts have been in vain.”

  “Their religion, Your Majesty, glorifies martyrdom. If they are tortured to death, they are promised a whole eternity of pleasure in heaven. Who would not barter a few hours of agony for endless joy? The Christians, particularly, have the sense of the merchant. They were originally Hebrews.”

  “That is true. But how shall I exterminate them?”

  “What is more damning than half-praise?”

  “An excellent aphorism, Car-ta-phal, but I fail to discover its application.”

  He had already adapted several things I had said, and I knew that sooner or later my remark would appear in his Meditations.

  “Recognize Jesus as a minor divinity…some half-forgotten Hindu god.”

  “Perhaps,” the Imperator remarked, “he is a minor god. The world’s imagination is stale. People rarely invent new gods.”

  “Your Majesty, why not admit Jesus officially to the Pantheon? Make him one of the gods, and he will be no longer the one god. Both Christians and Romans will forget their political grievances, buy sacrifices, and by invoking one additional divinity, will triumph against the Barbarians.”

  “You are indeed my good counsellor, Car-ta-phal. I must propose your plan to the Senate.”

  The temple was crowded with soldiers and women. The priests were busy taking offerings and sacrifices to the gods. Mars, above all, was invoked. But Venus was not neglected. It was difficult to push through the crowd, but I was obstinate. I would not leave the temple until I had seen the statue of the new god.

  “Car-ta-phal,” some one called. I managed to turn my head, but could not swing my shoulders about.

  “Apollodorus.”

  “You are seeking what I seek, Car-ta-phal.”

  We reached an angle which had the shape of a large alcove. “This must be it,” I said. Apollodorus, a little near-sighted, asked, “Which one?”

  “The cross, look!”

  He approached and looked intently. “What a hideous thing! A god upon a cross! A god with a writhing face and holes in his hands and feet! Car-ta-phal, it is horrible!”

  Apollodorus laughed. “And I feared that Christianity would supplant our gods and our temples! A religion with a god on a cross, bleeding from his hands and his feet!”

  I joined Apollodorus in laughter.

  A woman, dressed in black, her face partly veiled, approached the cross, and knelt before it for a long while, then rose and, kissing the feet and hands, left.

  “Apollodorus, we may still be wrong. We have forgotten woman. She is the mother. She pities…”

  XVIII: THE EMPEROR-EMPRESS—HELIOGABALUS DANCES—THE GIANT

  MARCUS AURELIUS was dead. Heliogabalus, the crowned transvestite, cuddled himself daintily on the throne of the Cæsars.

  The people vociferated at the top of their voices that they were robbed to support an army too weak to cope with a band of undisciplined and uncouth Barbarians, and a monarch—from the East—who danced and painted his lips. Foreigners preferred not to accept the honor of Roman citizenship, and many Romans pretended to have been born in the provinces, for the taxes imposed upon the citizens were much higher than those upon subjects.

  The mother of the Imperator was too hysterical and his ministers were too frivolous to govern; while he himself had become engrossed in the friendship for his adopted cousin, a taciturn young athlete, Bassianus Alexianus. His grandmother, however, who still retained a modicum of serenity and common sense, insisted that something had to be done, or the nation would rise in rebellion.

  “What?” Heliogabalus shouted, exasperated.

  “Augustus, High Priest of the Eternal Sun, man appreciates an unexpected gift a great deal more than that which is due him.”

  The Emperor made no comment, but turned to me with the smile of a young coquette.

  I remained silent.

  He sighed, moved with profound pity for himself when I failed to respond. His effeminacy was too grotesque to intrigue me.

  “Her Majesty’s logic is convincing,” I remarked, somewhat flatly.

  “I hate logic.” Heliogabalus placed his small, soft hand upon his cousin’s shoulder.

  “We are all children, Augustus,” the old Empress continued, “and children must be placated with gifts.”

  “What shall I give them?”

  “Your ancestors used to give them the circus, but they are bored with the games.”

  “What shall I give them?”

  “Your ancestors waged wars and returned triumphant, followed by captive kings and princes and chariots overbrimming with precious jewels and gold.”

  The Emperor’s face, delicate and small, flushed. His nostrils shivered and his lips, fleshy but well-chiseled, lengthened in disdain. “I hate war! It is the work of butchers and cutthroats.” And addressing Bassianus, he continued: “Not that I dislike blood. The High Priest of the Sun knows the beauty of sacrifice. But it must be shed delicately, at leisure, amidst joy and merriment. Blood, like wine, should be drunk out of golden goblets. Am I not right, Bassianus?”

  He rose coyly from his throne, arranged the folds of his robe, and reseated himself. “Augustus,” the old woman began once more, “since you will not give them wars,—give them baths.”

  “Baths?”

  “It is a Roman fad. The physicians claim that bathing keeps people young. Everybody wishes to be young. Give them the baths. The water may quench the smouldering fire.”

  “The old woman is clever, Bassianus. Shall I give them the baths?”

  Bassianus nodded.

  “Let them have the baths.”

  “The gods are with the Imperator. The sun shines upon his High Priest!”

  A holiday to last three days was proclaimed. Roman citizens were invited to take possession of their new baths, the magnificent gift of their incomparable Emperor. Day and night the stones were to be kept hot that the steam might rise, dense like smoke; and the pools were to be replenished with spring water that the bodies might be refreshed and rejuvenated. Wine, too, was to be distributed without measure, and enormous piles of wreaths were at the disposal of the merrymakers.

  Rome had not been so joyous for a long time, and the Emperor, just turned eighteen, wished to partake of the gayety. He dressed himself in a flowing toga, embroidered with gold and studded with tiny jewels, which reached the ground in the manner of the robes worn by patrician women. Upon his head he placed a wreath of fresh roses. His fingers were covered with rings, and his arms were wound with long bracelets, the shape of fantastic snakes and grotesque crocodiles.

  “Any one recognizing me forfeits his life!” he exclaimed.

  We nodded.

  “I am Erotius, the son of a rich merchant.”

  “Erotius,” we all repeated.

  The moon, large and white, was encircled by an enormous aureole. Its reflection silvered a large part of the pool and overbrimmed the bank.

 
The people shouted, “No torches! No torches! It is light enough.” The torchbearers blew out their lights.

  The Emperor threw off the linen blanket which dried his body and warmed him, when he came out of the pool. “I am the brother of the Sun. I am the sister of the Moon!” he exclaimed.

  The people laughed.

  “Let there be music that I may dance!”

  “Your Majesty,” a Senator whispered in his ear, “I fear– —”

  “Tomorrow you die, wretch!”

  At first a little unsteady on his feet from the strong wine he had drunk, Heliogabalus managed to regain his equilibrium. People sang and played on various instruments, producing a strange cacophony, not entirely displeasing. The Emperor danced. He did not stir from the spot in the reflection, turning only his torso, delicate as a girl’s and twisting his arms in the manner of the Orientals. The slow sensuous movements became more and more rapid, more and more irregular, until they seemed the mad paroxysm of uncontrollable passion.

  The Emperor danced on. The moon wound about him like a white veil, torn in spots and blown by the wind. The people clapped their hands and stamped their feet, shouting from time to time, “Magnificent! Fine! Fine!”

  The music became more clamorous.

  The Emperor breathed heavily through his open mouth. His movements slackened, became disjointed. Exhausted, Heliogabalus fell, suddenly, his head between his hands. The people laughed, applauded, made obscene remarks, and dispersed. One man placed a wreath upon the Imperator’s head. “Terpsichore,—Queen of the Dance!” he exclaimed.

  Heliogabalus raised his head. A few steps away, he beheld a man of gigantic stature staring at him. The Imperator frowned. The man lifted his powerful arm slowly, and waved his immense fore-finger commandingly.

  Heliogabalus rose, fascinated. The man continued to motion to him. The Emperor made a movement to withdraw, but something mightier than his will kept him nailed to the spot.

  The two stared at each other; the giant’s eyes small but very sharp, stabbing the large dreamy eyes of the boy. The latter lowered his lids. The silent battle lasted for some time.

  What strange premonition troubled the Emperor? What stranger power overcame fear, anger, disdain? Heliogabalus, like a girl in a trance, like a bird spellbound by the glittering eyes of his ancestral foe, approached the giant, making slow, indeterminate steps.

  “Come!” the giant whispered.

  Heliogabalus wavered.

  “Come!” he said, and placing his large hand upon the Emperor’s shoulder, pulled him gently. They walked toward a dark corner,—two shadows, one long and broad, the other short and rotund, preceding them. An hour later a sharp shriek pierced the air, like the cry of a murdered bird.

  Cruelly lacerated, crushed by gigantic hands, the body of Heliogabalus, the Master-Mistress, the Emperor-Empress of Rome, brother to the Sun and sister to the Moon, was found in a pool made scarlet by his blood.

  “I shall not die tomorrow!” breathed the Senator, leaning upon my arm.

  XIX: I BECOME A GOD—PRAYERFUL BUTTOCKS—THE HOLY CAMEL—CAR-TA-PHA YAWNS

  AGAIN I turned my steps to the East. After a long sojourn at Palmyra, it pleased my fancy to bury myself in the desert. I amused myself by teaching a parrot to pronounce my name, “Car-taph-al.”

  “Carr-tarr-pharr” the bird shrieked back.

  Tempted to face fate alone, I dismissed my retinue.

  Toward dusk, I was within sight of what seemed to be a village or the home of some tribe. My only companions were my camel and my parrot, which had become quite tame, and perching upon the animal’s head, formed a bizarre and radiant crest. I waited until it was dark. Meanwhile, I drew upon the center of my turban the shape of the sun with a chemical an alchemist of Egypt had taught me to use and a large crescent moon upon the camel’s forehead; while the beak of the parrot I dotted with many points to represent the stars.

  A heavy smoke that smelt of tallow rose leisurely, punctured at times by sparks that were immediately stifled and devoured. Around the fire, in a wide circle, men and women were squatting, their heads bent. Their backs were black, and in many cases, scarred with wounds. At an angle, a white-haired man was beating ceaselessly a large kettle, with an iron stick, growling at intervals. The sound of his voice was like the mooing of a lonesome cow. My approach was unnoticed, for the steps of my camel were slow, and the ground was wet with recent mud. Suddenly my parrot called out: “Carr-tarr-pharr.”

  The natives jumped up: men with colossal mouths and jaws, and tiny eyes, and women with enormous breasts that fell below their big, circular bellies.

  “Carr-tarr-pharr… Carr-tarr-pharr…” They seemed paralyzed. The chemical I had applied to my turban and my companions, was shining like a white fire. A woman shrieked and groveled at the feet of my camel. The rest did likewise. Soon the entire tribe, swaying to and fro in rhythmic exaltation, prostrated themselves before me. For hours they continued the prayerful swaying of buttocks and bellies.

  Weary at last of this adoration, I motioned my worshipers to rise. I spoke to them in a dozen languages. They did not understand. I clapped my hands. They groaned and beat their heads. I urged the camel to move. They held his legs.

  “Divinity is a precarious occupation,” I thought. “I may be forced to die astride my camel.”

  My hope lay in the fact that human backs could not endure forever the same posture; also that the enormous nostrils of these people would soon detect, as I did, that the lamb they were roasting, was beginning to burn. I was right. One woman, by long instinct, no doubt, forgot the divinity she was worshiping, and turned her head, her breast beating against her side. I caught her eye, and bade her rise. She growled something. The rest growled in return, and rose. I made a motion with my fingers to my mouth. They began to dance. The old man, who had beaten the kettle, looked at the sky, then at me, and bowed very deeply. I understood that he meant that I was Heaven-descended. I nodded. He no doubt thought of me in terms of both the camel and the parrot. I was one, and yet three. It was an amusing idea, which pleased me greatly.

  “Carr-tarr-pharr… Carr-tarr-pharr…”

  They imitated him: “Ca-ta-pha… Ca-ta-pha…”

  My parrot was making my name divine, and no doubt immortal, but by the time it was uttered by these enormous mouths, it was hardly recognizable.

  The dance continued,—a wild lifting of legs, slapping of bellies, and waving of arms, accompanied by raucous sounds and the ceaseless beating of the iron kettle. Meanwhile, however, three of the women lifted the lamb from the fire and placed it upon the ground to cool.

  I descended. The people saw nothing curious in this disentanglement of the three personalities, nor did they consider it extraordinary that Heaven should accept the piece of roast lamb which they offered. My fingers were burnt, but to show my friendliness, I did not relinquish the morsel. They ate not alone with their mouths, but with their entire faces, including the hair that nearly reached their eyebrows. I was too amused to feel nausea, but I could not help thinking that my camel was more genteel in her habits. The parrot called out my name from time to time, and always the rest answered him, like a distorted echo.

  “What a High Priest you would have made in Jerusalem, my polly!”

  Their gorging over, they began to dance again, with even greater gusto. They were not at all embarrassed that Heaven was watching them, squatting on the stump of a charred tree. Heaven was kindly, it was quite evident. He did not broil them, like mutton; he did not blind them with the white fire of his turban. Like the stars above, he smiled upon them.

  I thought their dancing would be eternal. My head became heavy. I began to doubt my own consciousness. Perhaps, after all, I was the sun, and they colossal black stars dancing a mad dance in my honor. My eyes closed. I fell asleep…

  “Carr-tarr-pharr… Carr-tarr-pharr…”

  “Carr-tarr-pharr… Carr-tarr-pharr…”

  I woke up with a start. It was already morning. The parrot, perc
hed upon the camel’s head, was screeching my name and flapping his wings, while all about me, in a large circle, the natives kneeling, their faces to the ground, were echoing the bird.

  Already somewhat accustomed to the idea of my apotheosis, I stretched and yawned.

  XX: CA-TA-PHA UP AND CA-TA-PHA DOWN—I MAKE A SAINT—MAN OR MONKEY—KOTIKOKURA

  WHEN I had learnt sufficiently of the language, I engaged in conversation with the white-haired man. “Who is your god?” I asked.

  “Ca-ta-pha.”

  “But before he came among you, who was your god?”

  “Ca-ta-pha.”

  “How do you explain that?”

  “He was up, now he is down.”

  “Is he not still up? Look!”

  He pointed to a tree. “The tree is up.” Then to its shadow: “The tree is also down.”

  His subtlety pleased me. It reminded me of the priests in Jerusalem. “But during the day, the sun does not shine on his forehead. Is he a god during the day, as well as at night?”

  “Always. When he is tired of shining up, he shines down; when he is tired of shining down, he shines up.”

  “Is the camel also a god, and the parrot?”

  “You are the father, the camel is the mother, the parrot is the son.”

  “How can the camel have a parrot as a son?”

  He shrugged his shoulders, and his large mouth opened as if to swallow an enormous piece of meat. “Ca-ta-pha is god.”

  I gave him a gold coin. He did not know its significance, but his joy in receiving it was immense. He bent to the earth, rose, danced about me like a top. He shouted: “God Ca-ta-pha has given me the sun.”

  I thought, “You are doing the Universal Dance of the Golden Calf, my poor gorilla!”

  Ever after, he was considered as a saint by the rest, who trembled at his approach. He assumed the dignified air of a high priest.

  I was the mighty god of war. Marching at the head of my people, I vanquished tribe after tribe. At the sight of me, our enemies either ran madly away, leaving behind them booty and food, or falling upon their faces, accepted my divinity, and relinquished their independence. My tribe became rich beyond its wildest dream. The smoke, thick with the smell of animals roasting, mounted like an endless offering to the Lord of Bounties, and the dances and orgies never ceased.