He raised his fist. “Shameless bitch!” he shouted. “I’ll kill you!”
“Don’t touch her!” I remarked quietly.
“What? You! You! How dare you step between husband and wife? Yes…that is true…first I must kill you! Then I shall square my account with her.”
It was a novel situation. Should Cartaphilus, lord of a thousand women, suffer injury for the sake of one?
“Calm yourself, sir. I can explain my presence—”
“Cur!” he shouted, and drawing a knife from his belt, raised it, ready to strike me. Ulrica screamed, and trying to divert the blow, received it full in the chest. Without uttering one sound, she fell in a heap.
He bent over her, caressed her face a little, closed her eyes, arranged her hair. He motioned to me to help him. He held her head, and I her feet. His back turned toward me, he led the way to the rocks. We climbed the highest of them. We swung the body and threw it as far out as we could into the sea. A small jet of water splashed our feet.
I planted myself firmly on the rock, expecting a furious combat. Instead, however, he turned about quickly, descended the rock, and walked off. It was too dark to see the direction he took.
“Ulrica!” I called. “Ulrica!”
No answer! Only the echo of my voice striking the rock and mingling with the waves.
I seated myself on the rock, and meditated on my life. What was it, save a panorama of dreams and of graves? What could it ever be but more dreams and more graves?
It became chilly. I shivered, and rose with a start. I walked toward the house where Ulrica had nursed me to life, that she might forfeit her own. I looked in. It was empty and quiet, as if nothing had happened.
“Nothing matters, Cartaphilus,” someone seemed to whisper in my ear. “Everything flows.”
“Ulrica,” I muttered, “farewell.”
XL: CHARLEMAGNE HAS A PAIN IN HIS LEG—INCESTUOUS LOVE—I PREPARE TROUBLE
AACHEN fluttered with pride. Charlemagne had recently returned, crowned Emperor of the West by the grace of God, and possessor of the key to the grave of St. Peter. To show his gratitude to the Pope, he issued an order to behead all subjects who refused to accept baptism. He founded several schools of theology and paid large salaries to teachers of Greek, Latin and Hebrew.
Charles had chosen Aachen because of its warm springs. In spite of his Herculean figure, he suffered from rheumatism. But the springs did not prove as miraculous as he had expected, and a new physician, I knew, would be welcome. Dressed as a monk, but wearing around my neck a large cross studded with precious stones to indicate opulence, I begged admission to the Great Monarch, claiming to be a doctor of medicine as well as a master of theology, conversant with all languages. The messenger, an officer of the Guard, whose large hand I filled with gold, bade me wait at the gate. A little later he reappeared.
“His Majesty will receive you at once.”
I was ushered into a large hall, in the center of which at a long table, Charlemagne and a dozen men, officers and bishops, had evidently just finished eating, and were munching nuts now, and drinking wine.
I knelt. The Emperor bade me rise. His voice was sharp and thin, curiously out of harmony with his enormous body and his short, heavy neck.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Isacus, Your Majesty. I was born in Rome, a descendent of the early martyrs who were burnt and tortured for their love of Jesus. Several of my ancestors are buried in the catacombs. Early—in childhood, almost—I heard the Lord command me to travel to all parts of the world, and preach His Holy Word. I have been in every country of Europe, Asia and Africa. I studied the mysteries of drugs in India, and of the stars in Arabia, and everywhere I preached the truth of the Lord Jesus Christ.”
“In Arabia, Isacus, I have a great friend, Haroun-el-Raschid, Caliph of Bagdad. Although an infidel, he is a man of courage and heart. Have you met him?”
“He sends greetings to the Great Emperor of the West, and this large ruby, whose scarlet symbolizes brotherly love.”
The Emperor showed the jewel to his guests, while eulogizing the Caliph.
“Tell me, Isacus, is it true that you speak all languages?
“It is, sire.”
“My friends who are masters of various languages, will speak to you, and see if it is really possible for one man to possess as much knowledge as you claim.”
The Emperor’s companions addressed me in several languages. I answered each in the tongue he selected. The sounds we uttered made the Emperor laugh uproariously.
Suddenly the Emperor’s face twitched. His enormous hand gripped his leg. The rest stopped midway in their laughter and drinking, and looked at one another, distressed.
“You are a doctor, Isacus?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Can you relieve my atrocious pain?”
“Your Majesty, I have brought with me strange and secret drugs from Samarkand, the country of marvels. With the help of our Lord Jesus I shall relieve your pain.”
“Try your drugs, Isacus.”
I massaged the Emperor’s leg, whispering passages from the Vedas and invoking Jesus and Mary.
Gradually, Charlemagne’s face relaxed, and he breathed freely.
I was offered a cup of wine, and we drank the Emperor’s health.
“Will the cure be permanent, Isacus?”
“I dare not hope it, sire.”
“How long must the treatment continue?”
“It is not possible to say, Your Majesty, but at least a year or two.”
“You shall remain with us, Isacus.”
His Majesty’s rheumatism necessitated frequent massages. He showered me with gifts and praises, and had I been ambitious, he would have included high honors.
“You are a fool, Isacus, not to desire a bishop’s mitre.”
“I aspire to no higher honors than to serve my sovereign.”
“You have served me well. My leg is much better. Though the pain has not disappeared entirely, I have not had any violent attack since good fortune sent you to the gate of my palace.”
“Lord Jesus be praised!”
The Emperor struck me lightly on the back, and bade me accompany him into the garden.
“What is your opinion, Isacus,—should the Emperor be the head of the Church or should he relegate his spiritual authority to the Pope?”
“It is very difficult to rule a great empire, Your Majesty.”
“It is.”
“Should the Emperor be concerned as well with the souls of men?”
“Perhaps not. But who should be supreme,—the Pope or the Emperor?”
“Is it not self-evident, great King? The sword is mightier than the cassock.”
“You are the only man of the Church who holds this opinion.”
“I am not ambitious, Your Majesty.”
A young woman whose hair glittered in the sun like gold that’s poured from one vessel into another, was walking slowly, bending now and then over a flower. The Emperor whispered: “Is it a sin to love one’s own sister, Isacus?”
“It is not a sin, but a duty, sire.”
“I mean—as a man loves a woman.”
“In Egypt it was considered sacrilege for a royal brother not to marry his sister. Thus the dynasty was kept undefiled.”
“Very interesting,” the Emperor remarked, his eyes following hungrily the slim figure, whose blue silk gown fluttered a little in the breeze, like an enormous leaf.
“The daughters of Adam and Eve, our first parents, were the wives of Cain and Abel, their brothers,” I added.
“You are learned indeed, Isacus. I had never thought of this before. I always wondered how they had populated the world. But,” he added after a while, “would the Pope approve of this—now?”
“The Pope? The Emperor can make and unmake popes. Laws, Your Majesty, are for the people, dispensations for Kings. If the Pope does not admit this, he must learn the lesson…”
“I shall teach him his place! “ Charlemagne shouted, his voice breaking like a thin needle.