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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781566562485 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Interlink Publishing Group, Incorporated |
| Publication date: | 09/28/1999 |
| Series: | Emerging Voices Series |
| Pages: | 272 |
| Sales rank: | 916,897 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.28(w) x 8.01(h) x 0.71(d) |
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Chapter One
The child Mariam was carrying was Mani.
He is said to have been born in the year 527, as calculated by the astronomers of Babel, on the eighth day of the month of Nisan — the year 216 of the Christian era, April 14, a Sunday. In Ctesiphon, Artabanus, the last of the Parthian sovereigns, sat enthroned, and Rome was suffering under the barbarous Emperor Caracalla.
Mani's father had already left. Not gone so far by the road, but to a strange, closed world. Downstream from Mardinu, two days' walk along the great channel, dug out by the ancients to the east of the Tigris, was the palm grove over which Sittaï ruled as supreme master and guide. There, some sixty men of all ages and all origins lived, men practicing extremist rites, men whom history would have forgotten if Mani had not one day crossed their path. Like other communities springing up at that time on the banks of the Tigris, and also of the Orontes, Euphrates and Jordan, they claimed to be both Christian and Jewish, but the only true Christians and the only true Jews. They also predicted that the end of the world was nigh; there was no doubt that a certain world was dying.
In the language of the country, they called themselves Hallé Hewaré. Aramaic words meaning "White Garments."
These men had chosen to live in the proximity of water, expecting purity and salvation from it. They invoked John the Baptist and Adam, Jesus of Nazareth and Thomas, said by them to be his twin, and, more important than all these, an obscure prophet named Elkesai, fromwhom they took their holy book and teaching:
Men, beware of fire, it is naught but deception and imposture. You see it nearby, whereas it is far off; you see it far off, whereas it is nearby. Fire is magic and alchemy, it is blood and torture. Do not forgather around the altars where the fire of sacrifice burns. Keep away from those who slaughter God's creatures, believing that they please the Creator; dissociate yourselves from those who immolate and kill. Flee from the appearance of fire. Follow rather the path of water. Everything that it touches recovers its primal purity. It is from water that all life is born. If one of you is bitten by some harmful beast, let him hasten to the nearest watercourse and plunge in, calling confidently on the name of the All Highest. If one of you falls ill, let him dip three times in the river; the fever will be dispersed in the cool of the water.
The day after his arrival in the palm grove, Patek had been led in procession to the baptismal column, accompanied by the entire community. There were a few children, some hoary heads, but for the most part they seemed to be between twenty and thirty years old. Each one had drawn near to the newcomer to look him over and intone a snatch of prayer for his benefit.
Then, at a sign from Sittaï, Patek had plunged fully clothed into the water, up to his forehead and, drawing himself up, he had taken off his garments, one by one, finery from his godless period, of which he had rid himself in disgust, and waited for a gentle current to bear them away. And now a hymn rose up, as the young man, standing gaunt and naked among so many curious eyes, attempted to cover himself with shivering hands. For if the spring sunshine was already warm, the water of the Tigris still retained fresh memories of the snows on the Taurus mountains.
But this was only a first trial. He had to plunge a second time into the channel, then let his beard and hair be shaved before his head was thrust for the last time beneath the surface of the water, while the following words rang out: "The former man has now died, the new man has just been born, three times baptized in the purifying water. Welcome among your brethren. And, as long as you live, bear this ever in your mind: our community is like an olive tree. The ignorant pluck its fruit, bite into it and, finding it bitter, cast it away. But this same fruit, plucked by the initiate, ripened and cared for, will reveal a delicious taste, and, what is more, will provide oil and light. Such is our religion. If you lose heart at the first taste of bitterness, you will never attain salvation."
Patek had listened contritely, had run his hand without regret over his shorn head and the remains of his beard, had promised himself to turn his back on his past life and to submit to the rules of the community without wavering, without questioning. Yet he knew that life in the palm grove would be one long string of constraints. First the prayers, the chanting and ritual acts, daily baptisms, carried out stealthily or solemnly, diverse aspersions and ablutions, the slightest defilement, real or suspected being a pretext for renewed purifications; then would come the study of the Holy Scriptures, the Gospel according to Thomas, the Gospel according to Philip, or the Apocalypse of Peter, a hundred times read and re-read and commented on by Sittaï, tirelessly copied by those of the "brethren" who distinguished themselves as the most accomplished calligraphers; and to these obligations, which flattered Patek's zeal and his insatiable curiosity, were added others which were by no means to his taste.
The White-clad Brethren prided themselves in fact on having the best-maintained and most fertile lands in the neighborhood, which provided them with ample food for their own needs, as well as an abundant surplus which they would go to sell in the surrounding area. Patek abhorred the latter; to set out in the early morning with a load of melons or squashes, to display one's goods in a village marketplace, sitting in the sun waiting for some mangy customer, the target of a thousand gibes ... How could a scion of the Parthian nobility endure this? One day he opened his heart about it to Sittaï, but the latter's reply was final: "I know you love prayer and study, and that you find pleasure in this. Working in the fields and selling our produce in the villages are the only activities which you set yourself for the pleasure of the All Highest, and you would wish to be exempted from them?" The question was understood. For long years, Patek would toil to exhaustion plowing the community's fields, while two days' walk away, on the banks of this same channel, his own serfs were plowing fields which he owned but from which he had given up enjoying the produce.
For the White-clad Brethren observed very strict dietary laws: not content with prohibiting meat and fermented drinks, and submitting to frequent fasts, they never let their lips touch anything which came from outside. They ate only the unleavened bread from their own oven; anyone who broke Greek bread they considered ungodly. Likewise, they ate only fruits and vegetables grown on their own land, calling them "male plants," anything that was grown elsewhere was said to be a "female plant" and forbidden to the members of their sect.
Why be surprised at such a designation? Everything female is prohibited, everything prohibited is female; for them this was a perfect equivalence. In Sittaï's sermons the word female recurred endlessly, in the sense of "baleful," "diabolical," "unclean" or "a danger to the soul." He himself avoided naming the women of the Scriptures, except to illustrate the calamities they had caused. He was fond of evoking Eve and Bathsheba and especially Salome, but rarely referred to Sarah, Mary or Rebecca. Patek soon learned that in the palm grove the mention of his wife or his mother was frowned upon; even the word "birth" was decent only if speaking of baptism or entering the community; otherwise it was better to say "arrival." Yet the prohibition of marriage was unusual in the communities down the river; had not John the Baptist himself taken a wife? But Sittaï had wanted to establish a more rigid rule of which his disciples were proud: when, to reach Heaven, one has chosen the straight way, is not the most deserving the one who suffers the most, who abstains and denies himself?
That was why Patek did not even seek to find out if Mariam had given birth in his absence, and of what child he was now the father. How could he ask Sittaï for permission to go to visit the infant without giving the impression that he felt remorse, had hesitations or harbored thoughts of returning to his former life? So he resigned himself, his curiosity faded and eventually he gave it no further thought — or very little.
So, what was his surprise when, after a few months, Sittaï himself ordered him to return to his family.
"If a girl was born, she must remain with her mother; but if it is a boy, his place is with us. You cannot leave him in impure hands for ever."
Patek set out for Mardinu, chaperoned, it is true, by two "brothers."
* * *
When he reached his house, he stood in front of the gate and shouted, "Utakim!"
The servant came out barefooted, carrying an infant's swaddling clothes. She had to come close to the visitor to recognize him with his shorn head, which looked as if it had shrunk. Patek made no move as she stared at him.
"Tell me, Utakim, has your mistress given birth?"
"You don't imagine she's remained big with child for thirteen months!"
Patek's companions smiled. He himself simply continued his questions.
"Is it a boy?"
"Yes, a sturdy, greedy, squalling boy."
At the thought of the infant, the servant's face lit up suddenly with a delighted smile that Patek did not deign to notice.
"Has he been given a name?"
"He is called Mani, as you yourself had decided."
"Tell your mistress that I shall come to get my son as soon as he is weaned."
Having delivered his message, he was turning to leave, with the gestures of a sleepwalker, when Utakim shouted, "Don't you even want to know whether my mistress has survived or not?"
The effect was immediate. He started, turned around again, clearly upset at being unable to complete his mission as he had planned. He had to force himself to come out with, "Is Mariam in good health?"
Then it was Utakim's turn to turn away, in sudden distress. Without a word she made her way heavily back to the house, while Patek called to her anxiously, ordered her to stop, to answer him. But the servant had grown deaf. He hesitated, looking at his two companions as if for instructions. They were worried at the turn events had taken and advised him to leave. But how could he? He had to know what the position was. He jumped over the fence and ran towards the house as if it belonged to him again.
At that moment Mariam, who had been working in the vegetable garden behind the kitchen, rushed up, cupping her hands around her mouth in order to be heard from the distance. Utakim, in a panic, made desperate signs to her to be quiet, to disappear. She hoped Patek would enter the house, to escape for a moment from his guards, but Mariam did not see her. She was already shouting the name of her husband, who she thought had returned. Already reassured to know she was alive and asking nothing more, he hurried to rejoin his "brothers."
All three disappeared into the distance, gathering up the folds of their white garments. Mariam knew that she could never catch up with them.
* * *
In the turmoil to which she was now a prey, the young mother did not know to what god to turn for help, even if she immediately excluded Sittaï's god. Should she take her son far from there, to Media, the country of her birth? But where would she live? Her father was dead and her brothers had shared out the estate among them. She could not reasonably leave her property, her lands, her servants, give up all hope of getting her husband back, to wander the roads in search of anyone who would take her in. So, what could she do? Continue suckling her son while waiting for an unpredictable father to come and snatch him away from her for ever?
These times of anguish for Mariam were also times of desolation for Mesopotamia. Yet there had been talk of peace that year between the Romans and the Parthians. The Emperor Caracalla had even asked for the hand of Artabanus's daughter, which had been granted him. A ceremony was to unite them in Ctesiphon, in the temple of Mithras, the only divinity who was worshipped equally by the two sovereigns. So the city prepared to celebrate both the nuptials and the peace.
Caracalla arrived one day, clad in his long Gallic tunic, accompanied by the serried ranks of his Praetorian Guard and followed by his Phalanxes. But scarcely had they crossed the Seleucia bridge than a cry went up from their ranks. It was the agreed signal for every Roman to throw himself, brandishing his saber, on the nearest Parthian. All the sons of the nobility, painted and encased in their ceremonial garb, were massacred, including several members of the Kamsaragan clan, to which Mariam belonged. Then it was the turn of the citizens, men, women and children, who had thronged to witness this memorable encounter. The Romans looted and burned palaces and temples, that of Nabu first of all, as if to realize the ill-fated oracle of the statue.
Then, it is said, Artabanus and the heads of the seven great families assembled their troops in the park of Aspanabr to repulse the invaders. But to what end? This was no invasion, it was simply a trick in Caracalla's usual style. In an hour the Romans were already leaving the city to join the main body of their troops encamped outside the walls, around the Mahozé Pass. The Immortals, the elite corps, would have liked to pursue them, but Artabanus restrained them, fearing an ambush, persuaded that Caracalla's action was aimed only at provoking the Parthian army to leave the city and be cut to pieces.
After three days, doubtless disappointed that the confrontation had not taken place, the Romans undertook to wreak their revenge. For weeks and months, during the whole of Mani's first year of life, the Caracalla hurricane devastated Mesopotamia, shattering the sarcophagi of the former kings, burning the fields of corn, tearing up the vines, decapitating peasants and palm trees.
It was a miracle that Mardinu was spared. The Roman troops reached the outskirts of the village. Mariam had shut herself up in the house with her son, Utakim, her servants and a few serfs. They waited for the inevitable, but the inevitable was turned away. Then one day the rumor, spread by some means or other, ran through the deserted alleyways: Caracalla was dead, killed in Harran, in the north of Mesopotamia, murdered by his own soldiers. From Rome to Ctesiphon, the assassination was greeted with no outbursts of grief.
* * *
Throughout this year of agony Patek never set foot on the soil of Mardinu, never came for news. He reappeared only much later, when Mani had just completed his third year. As before, he turned up with two guardian "brothers"; as before, he remained outside the gate.
"Utakim! I have come for my son."
The servant gave little sign that he was welcome. She leaned against the door, shouting to him from the other end of the little courtyard, as countryfolk shout their messages from a distance.
"Mariam is suckling him. You can wait outside. Unless you want to come in to see them."
At the very thought of finding himself in the presence of the exposed body of his wife as she suckled her son, Patek flushed, forced to turn and look at his companions as if to excuse himself, while trying to keep his countenance.
"I shall not come in, Utakim, it is not worth while. Do you think she will go on suckling for long?"
"Your wife has only just given him the first breast. When he has finished that one, she will put him to the other. It takes time."
"I am not simply talking about today," Patek replied impatiently. "The child is entering his fourth year. I want to know how long she is going to feed him like this."
"So come and ask her, come in! She can't get up for the time being, but nothing prevents her from speaking to you."
"I did not come here to enter this house. Could you not give me an answer yourself? You must have suckled infants in your youth!"
"I have seen dozens of mothers suckle their children and I do not know two alike. Some have so little milk that their sons leave the breast without being satisfied; others can feed four children at once for years on end. Mariam has ample milk, her breasts are full and of a dazzling whiteness; her milk will not dry up so quickly."
"And yet the child will have to be weaned one day!"
"You are right, master. It will not be good for him to suckle too long: he must be weaned before Nowruz."
"Next Nowruz? But that feast is just over. I shall have to wait for another year!"
"Mani might possible be weaned before that, but what's the good of making ten journeys for nothing. If you come at Nowruz, the child will be dressed ready to leave and his things will be prepared, that is a promise."
* * *
Patek walked away, but he had barely reached the high path under the shady almond trees, whose branches were white with blossom, before the "brothers" began their reproaches.
"You must really be a gullible fool to let yourself be taken in by that barefooted old witch. We have trudged for two long days in the sun, we have another two before us for the return journey, and you let yourself be fobbed off with a few smooth words. What is mar Sittaï, our father, going to say? Even if we had to wait, you should at least have insisted on seeing the child, even if only to be sure that he is still here!"
Too distressed to be able to bide by any one decision, Patek agreed to retrace his steps. In the little courtyard, on the very spot where Utakim had been leaning, Mariam was sitting on a paving stone, holding a large bunch of fresh mint, out which she was picking the dead twigs.
The "brothers" laughed even more derisively. Patek felt humiliated.
"So Utakim deceived me."
Mariam reddened.
"I was feeding my son. He has just finished."
"When I arrived, he had just begun — he was going to be a long time. I've scarcely turned my back and now he's finished. You've already picked this mint and you've already sorted over more than half! Can I at least see my son?"
Mariam hurried off to call Mani, who suddenly appeared in the doorway, where he stood stock still, observing and letting himself be observed. In his face, it is true, the suggestion of delicate features, normal in children's faces, could already be distinguished. However, one was first struck by his wide, black eyebrows, which met in an arch above his nose, like a third eyebrow, and then by his candid, unswerving gaze, bursting with contained emotions and an infinity of questions.
And when, after a few moments, he walked towards the strangers, he was seen to drag his leg, his right leg. Not like a dead branch, but with dignity, as one might trail a ceremonial robe behind one.
"He limps," Patek declared, somewhat accusingly.
"He was born with this crooked leg. He will limp all his life. Do you still want him?"
Guessing at all the anger which his mother let transpire in her words, the child came back to crouch against her. And then he pointed at Patek, lisping, "Calacalacala."
"What is he saying?"
"Caracalla! That is the name they use in Mardinu to frighten children when they have no father to make them obey. If they refuse to go to sleep or eat their food, if they wander too far from the house or soil their sheets, Caracalla will come and kill them. As he slaughtered my cousins, as he almost slaughtered us all here, adults and children, barely two years ago."
"I did not know that the Romans came as far as Mardinu."
"What world are you living in, Patek?"
"In a world without fire or war." He then added, once more impassive. "It is in that world that Mani will grow up."
"And I, Patek? In what world shall I live, without my husband and without my son?"
"Trust in God's designs. And do not hold this child back any more. Give him to me. I am his father and he belongs to me."
He was approaching to seize the child when Mariam began to tremble. Utakim ran up.
"You promised me you would return next Nowruz."
"You who lied and deceived me, how dare you speak to me of promises?"
"I beg you, Patek," sobbed Mariam. "Where you are living you will find no wet nurse to suckle him. Leave him with me for a few more months. Are you not going to have him for the rest of your life?"
Patek's companions expostulated with him endlessly, producing a thousand arguments for him to take the child without further delay, but he himself weakened, faced with the tears of a woman whom he had already made suffer so much, faced by the frightened look of a child who took him for a bloodthirsty monster.
* * *
As soon as he returned to the palm grove, the culprit was summoned by Sittaï, who ordered him to listen on his knees to what he had to say.
"If I charged you with this mission, it was because I thought you the most capable of accomplishing it. But do not deceive yourself, Patek. Know that this son is no longer yours. He belongs to our community, he belongs to God, otherwise why would He have caused him to be born, when you yourself were leaving your home and your wife? Do you see no sign there, no command from the All Highest? Henceforth, my mind is made up. You will not go again to Mardinu. I shall go myself to fetch the child. Tomorrow I shall set out, escorted by twelve brothers, and I shall not waste my time parleying with women."
Table of Contents
| Translator's Note | vii |
| Prologue | 1 |
| PART ONE The Palm Grove of the White-clad Brethren | 17 |
| PART TWO From the Tigris to the Indus | 71 |
| PART THREE Closeted with Kings | 131 |
| PART FOUR Banishment | 185 |
| Epilogue | 241 |