The Last Cato (16 page)

“Utica! Cato of Utica!” I cried. “The old man is Cato of Utica!”

“Finally! That was what I wanted you to figure out!” explained Glauser-Röist. “Cato of Utica, who is the namesake for the archimandrites of the Staurofilakes brotherhood, is the guardian of Purgatory in Dante’s
Divine Comedy.
Don’t you think that means something? As you know, the
Divine Comedy
is composed of three parts:
Inferno, Purgatory,
and
Paradise.
Each one was published separately. Observe the coincidences in the text by the last Cato and Dante’s text in
Purgatory.
” He turned pages back and forth, and searched my desk for the transcript of the last folio of the Iyasus Codex. “In line eighty-two, Virgil says to Cato, ‘Allow us to go through your seven realms,’ so that Dante should purge himself of the seven deadly sins, one in each circle or cornice of the mountain of
Purgatory:
pride, envy, wrath, sloth, greed, gluttony, and lust,” he enumerated. Then he grabbed up the copy of the folio and read: “The expiation of the Seven Deadly Sins will take place in the seven cities that boast the terrible distinction of being known to practice them perversely: Rome, for its pride; Ravenna, for its envy; Jerusalem, for its wrath; Athens, for its sloth; Constantinople, for its greed; Alexandria for its gluttony; and Antioch, for its lust. In each of these cities, as if it were an earthly purgatory, they will suffer their faults in order to enter in the secret place we Staurofilakes will call the earthly paradise.”

“And does the Mountain in Dante’s
Purgatory
have at its peak earthly paradise?” asked Farag, intrigued.

“That’s right,” confirmed Glauser-Röist. “The second part of the
Divine Comedy
ends when Dante purifies himself of the Seven Deadly Sins and arrives at the earthly paradise. From there he can now reach the heavenly paradise, which is the third and last part of the
Divine Comedy.
Now, listen to what the guardian angel at the door of Purgatory tells Dante when he begs him to let him pass:

“Then with his sword he traced upon my brow
The scars of seven P’s. ‘Once entered here,
Be sure you cleanse away these wounds,’ he said.”
*

“Seven
P
’s—one for each deadly sin!” the captain continued. “Do you understand? Dante will be free of them, one by one, as soon as he expiates his sins in the seven cornices of purgatory. The Staurofilakes marked the aspiring Staurofilakes with seven crosses, one for each deadly sin overcome in the seven cities.”

I didn’t know what to think. Could Dante have been a Staurofilax? It sounded absurd. I had the feeling we were sailing on stormy seas. Could it be that we were simply tired and lacked perspective?

“Captain, how can you be so sure?” I said, unable to hide the doubt in my voice.

“Look, Doctor, I know this work like the back of my hand. I studied it in depth at the university. I guarantee that Dante’s
Purgatory
is the Baedeker guide, as you put it, that will lead us to the Staurofilakes and the stolen
Ligna Crucis.”

“But how can you be so sure?” I insisted stubbornly. “It could all just be a simple coincidence. All the material Dante used in the
Divine Comedy
is a part of medieval Christian mythology.”

“Do you recall that in the middle of the eleventh century various groups of Staurofilakes departed from Jerusalem bound for the main Christian cities in the East and West?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Do you recall that those groups made contact with the Catharists, the Fede Santa, the Massenie du Saint Graal, the Minnesanger, or the Fidei d’Amore, just to mention some of the Christian organizations?”

“I recall that too.”

“Well, let me tell you that from a very young age, Dante Alighieri was part of the Fidei d’Amore, and he came to occupy a very prominent position in the Fede Santa.”

“Are you serious?” stammered Farag, blinking. “Dante Alighieri?”

“Why do you think people don’t understand a thing when they read the
Divine Comedy
? They think it’s a beautiful yet extremely long poem loaded with metaphors students always interpret as allegories for the Holy Catholic Church, the Sacraments, or some crazy thing like that. Everyone thinks that Beatrice, his beloved Beatrice, who died at the age of twenty, was the daughter of Folco Portinari. However, that’s not true, and that’s why people don’t understand what the poet is saying, because they critique it from a mistaken perspective. Beatrice Portinari isn’t the Beatrice Dante refers to, and the Catholic Church isn’t the protagonist of the work. The
Divine Comedy
has to be read in code.”

He walked away from my desk and took out a piece of meticulously folded paper from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Did you know that each one of the three parts of the
Divine Comedy
has exactly thirty-three cantos? Did you know that each one of those cantos has exactly 115 or 160 lines, the sum of whose digits is seven? Do you think that’s merely a coincidence in a work of such magnitude as the
Divine Comedy
? Did you know that the three parts,
Inferno, Purgatory,
and
Paradise,
end with the exact same word,
stars
? This is but a small part of the mystery contained in this colossal work. I could mention dozens of examples, but we would be here forever.”

Farag and I looked at each other, stupefied. It never would have occurred to me that the pinnacle of Italian literature, one I abhorred in high school because it was required reading, could also be a compendium of esoteric wisdom. Or was it?

“Captain, are you telling us that the
Divine Comedy
is a type of guide book to initiation into the Staurofilakes?”

“No, Doctor, I’m not saying it is
that type
of book. I am saying it
is THE book.
Without any doubt. Do you want me to prove it to you?”

“Yes, I do,” exclaimed Farag, clearly frustrated.

The captain picked up the book he’d left on the table and opened it to a section he’d already marked.

“Canto IX of the
Inferno,
lines sixty-one through sixty-three:

“Men of sound intellect and probity,
Weigh with good understanding what lies hidden
Behind the veil of my strange allegory!”

“Is that it?” I asked, disappointed.

“Observe, Doctor, that these lines are found in the ninth canto—nine being a number of great importance for Dante. According to all his writings, Beatrice is the number nine; and nine, in medieval numerical symbolism, represents wisdom, supreme knowledge, and the science that explains the world beyond faith. What’s more, this mysterious affirmation is found in lines sixty-one through sixty-three of the canto. Add the digits of those numbers—six plus one is seven, six plus three is nine. Remember that in Dante, nothing is by chance, not even a comma.
Inferno
has nine circles where the souls of those condemned are lodged according to their sins,
Purgatory
has seven cornices, and
Paradise
again has nine circles… Seven and nine, don’t you get it? But I promised I would prove it to you, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

All his pacing was making me nervous, but it wasn’t the right time to ask him to stand still. He was deeply engrossed in what he was telling us.

“As most experts confirm, Dante was inducted into the Fidei d’Amore in 1283, when he was eighteen years old, a little while after his second supposed meeting with Beatrice (according to his very own account in
La Vita Nuova,
the first encounter occurred when they were both nine. As you will see, the second encounter took place nine years later, when they were both eighteen). The Fidei d’Amore was a secret society interested in the spiritual renewal of Christianity. We are talking about an era in which corruption had already made inroads into the Church of Rome: riches, power, ambition… It was the time of Pope Boniface VIII, with his terrible legacy. The Fidei d’Amore tried to combat this depravity and restore Christianity back to its primitive purity. Some actually believed that the Fidei d’Amore, the Fede Santa, and the Franciscans were three distinct branches of the same Tertiary Order of the Templar. This, of course, can’t be proven. What’s certain is that Dante was raised by the Franciscans, and that he always maintained close ties with them. Well-recognized poets such as Guido Cavalcanti, Cino da Pistoia, Lapo Gianni, Forese Donati, Dante himself, Guido Guinizelli, Dino Frascobaldi, Guido Orlandi, and many others were members of the Fidei d’Amore. Cavalcanti, who had the reputation of being extravagant and heretical, was the Florentine head of the Fidei d’Amore, and was the one who admitted Dante into this secret society. As cultured men, intellectuals of a new, unfolding medieval society, they were nonconformists. At the top of their lungs, they denounced the ecclesiastic immorality and Rome’s efforts to stop nascent freedoms and scientific knowledge. Could the
Divine Comedy
be, as they claim, a great religious work that glorifies the Catholic Church for its values and virtues? I don’t think so. In fact, the simplest reading of the text reveals Dante’s rancor toward numerous popes and cardinals, toward the corrupt clerical hierarchy and the riches of the church. Yet certain scholars have twisted the poet’s words and made them say what they don’t say.”

“But what does Dante have to do with the Staurofilakes?” Farag insisted.

“Sorry,” mused the captain. “I got carried away. Dante did indeed have a relationship with the Staurofilakes. He knew them and he may even have belonged to the order for a while. But of course, later he betrayed them.”

“He betrayed them?” I was surprised. “Why?”

“Because he revealed their secrets, Doctor. Because, in
Purgatory,
he explained in detail the order’s initiation process. The same way Mozart revealed the Masons’ initiation ritual in his opera
The Magic Flute.
In fact, Mozart’s death also presents numerous enigmatic aspects, still unsolved. There’s no doubt Dante Alighieri was a Staurofilax. He took advantage of his knowledge of the brotherhood to triumph as a poet and to enrich his literary work.”

“The Staurofilakes wouldn’t have allowed it. They would have broken off ties with him.”

“Who said they didn’t?”

I opened my mouth wide. “They did?”

“Do you know that after the publication of
Purgatory
in 1315 Dante disappeared for four years? Nothing is known of him until January 1320 when”—he took a deep breath and stared at us—”when he reappeared, by surprise, in Verona, and delivered a lecture on the sea and earth in the Church of Saint Helen! Why there after four years of silence? Was he asking for forgiveness for what he had done in
Purgatory
? We’ll never know. What we do know is as soon as he ended his lecture, he departed at full gallop for Ravenna, a city governed by his great friend Guido Novello da Polenta. Clearly he was seeking protection. That same year, he received an invitation to teach some classes at the University of Bologna; but he rejected the offer, alleging he was afraid that if he left Ravenna, he would be in grave danger, a danger he never specified and that, historically speaking, seems completely unjustified.” The captain stopped for a moment, reflecting. “Sadly, a year later his friend Novello asked a very special favor of him, to intercede with the doge in Venice, who was about to invade Ravenna. Dante set off, but on the road he became mortally ill with a terrible fever. He died a short while later. Do you know what day he died on?”

Farag and I didn’t say a word. I think we weren’t even breathing.

“September 14, the day of the Exaltation of the True Cross.”

CHAPTER 3

N
either the professor nor I showed up at the Hypogeum the next morning. We had gone home to sleep around six in the morning, on edge thanks to the captain’s incredible discoveries. By noon, we were back, gathered around a table in the Domus dining room. Our sleepy faces would have frightened ghosts. Glauser-Röist was the last to arrive. He looked more than sleepy; his lips were contracted into an icy smile that worried me.

“Has something happened, Captain? You don’t look so good.”

“No,” he barked. He took a seat and spread a napkin over his knees. That said it all. Farag and I read each other’s thoughts: Don’t push him. Instead, we talked about Professor Boswell’s future in Italy while the Swiss Rock remained mute. Only during dessert did he deign to pry his lips apart. Naturally, it was to give us some bad news.

“His Holiness is very upset,” he sprung on us.

“I don’t think he’s justified,” I protested. “We’ve been working as fast as we can.”

“That isn’t good enough, Doctor. The pope was clear that he is completely dissatisfied with our work. If we can’t get results in short order, he’ll put another team on the project. Besides, the press is about to leak the news of the thefts of the
Ligna Crucis.”

“How’s that possible?” I said, alarmed.

“People all over the world already know about it. Someone has been talking too much. We managed to stop the story for now, but who knows for how long.”

Farag pinched his lower lip, deep in thought. “I think your pope is wrong. I don’t understand how can he threaten us with another team. Does he think that will make us work harder? I wouldn’t mind sharing what we know with another team. Four eyes see more than two, right? Either your pontiff is extremely upset, or he’s treating us like children.”

“He’s very upset,” answered Glauser-Röist, “so let’s get back to work.”

In less than half an hour, we were in the Hypogeum, seated around my desk. The captain suggested we each read the
Divine Comedy
all the way through, take notes on anything that caught our attention, and regroup at the end of the day to compare notes. Farag argued that we were only interested in
Purgatory
and that, instead of wasting time, we should skim the
Inferno
and
Paradise,
focusing only on the relevant material. Seeing that as my only chance, I came up with an even more definitive approach. With heart in hand, I admitted I detested the
Divine Comedy.
In high school my literature teachers had really made me hate it, and I felt absolutely incapable of reading that hulking bundle of papers, and that the best I could do was jump into the heart of it and skip over the rest.

“But Ottavia, we might inadvertently overlook too many important details,” said Farag.

“I disagree. That’s what we have the captain for! He’s passionate about this book. He knows it and the author well. Let him read it clear through while we focus on
Purgatory.”

Glauser-Röist pursed his lips but didn’t say a word. He seemed annoyed.

With that we got to work. That afternoon, the secretary general of the Vatican Library gave us two more copies of the
Divine Comedy.
I sharpened my pencils and arranged my notebooks, ready to tackle, for the first time in over twenty years, what I considered the biggest literary bore in the history of mankind. I’m not exaggerating when I say I got goose bumps just thinking about that book resting threateningly on my desk, Dante’s skinny, aquiline profile staring at me from its cover. Sure, I could read Dante’s magnificent text (I’d read much harder things—complete volumes of tedious scientific journals or medieval manuscripts of tiresome, patristic theology); it’s just that it reminded me of the long afternoons back in high school when they made us read famous excerpts over and over while they repeated to us ad nauseam that that tiresome, incomprehensible work was a great source of pride for Italy.

Ten minutes later, I sharpened my pencils again. After that, I decided to go to the restroom. I sat back down, but five minutes later I was nodding off. So I went to the cafeteria, ordered an espresso, and drank it calmly. I dragged myself back to the Hypogeum, and it struck me that right then was an excellent time to straighten up my office, sort through a huge stack of papers and worthless odds and ends that seemed to have magically accumulated over the years. At seven that evening, racked with guilt, I gathered up my things and went home to the Piazza delle Vaschette. I didn’t even say good-bye to Farag and the captain, both of whom were absorbed and profoundly moved by that great work of Italian literature.

During the short trip home, I lectured myself severely about responsibility and fulfilling one’s obligations. I had deserted those poor men—that’s how I saw them—toiling away dutifully while I fled like a terrified schoolgirl. I swore there’d be no excuses the next day. Bright and early, I’d sit down at my desk and get busy.

When I opened the door to my house, the strong aroma of spaghetti sauce attacked my nose. My gastric juices awoke with a vengeance and my stomach began to rumble. Ferma appeared at the end of the apartment’s narrow hallway and smiled in welcome, attempting to hide the worried look on her face.

“Ottavia? We haven’t seen you in days!” she exclaimed overjoyed. “I’m so glad you’re home.”

I sniffed the delightful aroma wafting from the kitchen. “Can I have some of that deliciously scented sauce you’re making?” I asked, taking off my jacket, heading straight for the kitchen.

“It’s just some spaghetti sauce I whipped up,” she protested with false modesty. Ferma was probably cooking up something marvelous and grand.

“Well, then I need a plate of that spaghetti.”

“Relax. We’re just about to have dinner. Margherita and Valeria will be here any minute.”

“Where did they go?”

Ferma looked at me reproachfully and stopped a couple of steps from me. She looked grayer every day, as if her gray hairs were multiplying by the hour.

“Ottavia… Don’t you remember what happens next Sunday?”

Sunday, Sunday… What did we have to do on Sunday?

“Don’t make me guess, Ferma!” I complained, forgetting dinner for a moment and heading for the living room. “What happens on Sunday?”

“It’s the Fourth Sunday of Easter!” she exclaimed as if the world were coming to an end.

I stood there frozen, not reacting. Sunday was meant for our renewal of vows, and I had forgotten all about it.

“My God,” I whispered with a moan.

Ferma left the living room, wagging her head in sorrow. She didn’t dare reproach me, knowing that my disgraceful carelessness was due to the strange work I was immersed in, the work that kept me away from home and kept them and my family on my periphery. But I recriminated myself. On account of my failings that day, God was punishing me with a new guilt. Crestfallen and alone, I forgot about dinner and the pangs of hunger from my stomach, and went directly to the chapel to pray and ask for forgiveness. Forgetting the renewal of my vows wasn’t so much a legal problem, it was a mere formality really. I’d forgotten the very important ritual that had been enjoyable and fulfilling all the years since I professed my faith. True, my work and my order’s preferential treatment made me an atypical nun, but none of that would matter if my relationship with God weren’t the foundation and focus of my life. So, I prayed, my heart weighed down with pain. I promised to strive to follow Christ so that my upcoming renewal of vows was indeed a new chapter, filled with jubilation and happiness.

When I heard Margherita and Valeria come in, I crossed myself and got up off the floor, leaning on the floor cushions, aching in all my joints. Maybe it was time to substitute regular chairs and kneeling pads for the modern decorations in the chapel. My sedentary life was taking its toll: Besides my destroyed vertebrae, my knees were starting to hurt when I sat still for small periods at a time. Whether I liked it or not, I was quickly becoming a feeble old woman.

After dinner with my sisters, I retired to my small room, which seemed less and less familiar, and called home to Sicily. I talked to my sister-in-law, Rosalia, Giuseppe’s wife. Then Giacoma grabbed the phone and gave me a good scolding for being so out of touch. Suddenly, without bothering with niceties, she blurted out a sturdy “Good-bye!” Next, I heard my mother’s sweet voice.

“Ottavia?”

“Mama! How are you, Mama?”

“Fine, my dear, fine… Everything is fine here. How are you?”

“Working a lot, as always.”

“Well, keep up the good work.” Her voice sounded happy, not a care in the world.

“Yes, Mama.”

“Well, dear, take care. Will you do that?”

“Of course.”

“Call again soon, I love to hear from you. By the way, next Sunday is your renewal of vows, right?” My mother never forgot important dates in her children’s lives.

“Yes.”

“I hope you’re happy, my darling! We will all pray for you at Mass here at home. Kisses, Ottavia.”

“A kiss to you, Mama. Bye.”

That night I slept with a happy smile on my lips.

T
he next morning, at eight on the dot, just like I promised myself, I was at my desk, my glasses jammed on my nose, pencil in hand, ready to read the
Divine Comedy
without procrastinating. I opened to page 270, and in the middle of the page, in tiny letters, was the word
Purgatory.
Sighing and armed with courage, I turned the page and started to read.

For better waters, now, the little bark
Of my poetic powers hoists its sails,
And leaves behind that cruelest of the seas.

And I shall sing about the second realm
Where man’s soul goes to purify itself
And become worthy to ascend to Heaven.
*

Thus Dante’s first lines pointed out the way. According to a footnote, the trip through the second kingdom started on April 10, 1300—Easter Sunday—around seven in the morning. In Canto I, Virgil and Dante have just arrived from the Inferno and are in the antechamber of Purgatory, a deserted plain. They immediately meet the guardian of that place, Cato of Utica, who reproaches them bitterly for being there. Just as Glauser-Röist said, once Virgil offers him an explanation and tells him that Dante must be instructed about the kingdoms from the other world, Cato gives them all the help he can to start them on their difficult journey.

Go with this man, see that you gird his waist
with a smooth reed; take care to bathe his face
till every trace of filth has disappeared,

for it would not be fitting that he go
with vision clouded by the mists of Hell,
to face the first of Heaven’s ministries.

Around this little island at its base,
down there, just where the waves break on the shore,
you will find rushes growing in soft sand.
*

Virgil and Dante head off on the lower plain toward the sea. The great poet of Mantua brushes his palms over the dewy grass, then washes the dirt off his face left by his trip though the Inferno. After that, they come to a deserted beach. Across from it is a little island where Dante wraps a reed around his waist, just as Cato had ordered.

In the next seven cantos, from that dawn till nightfall, Virgil and Dante cross Pre-Purgatory, running into and having conversations with old friends and acquaintances. In Canto III they finally reach the foot of Purgatory Mountain. It has seven circles or terraces where souls are cleansed of their sins so they can enter heaven. Dante observes that the stone walls are so rocky it would be very difficult to climb them. As he looks on in awe, a mob of souls walks slowly toward him and Virgil. They are the excommunicated who repented their sins before they died and are condemned to walk very slowly around the mountain for eternity. In Canto IV, Dante and Virgil come across a narrow path and start their ascent. They have to struggle on all fours, but they finally reach a wide landing. As soon as they catch their breath, Dante complains of terrible fatigue. Suddenly, a mysterious voice beckons to them from behind a rock, and as they approach it, they discover a second group of souls, those who tarried in repenting. A short distance down the road, in Canto V, they run into the souls of those who died a violent death and recanted their sins at the last second. In Canto VI an extremely emotional meeting takes place: Dante and Virgil find the soul of the famous poet Sordello de Gioto who, in Canto VII, accompanies them all the way to the valley of irresponsible princes, and explains to them that on Purgatory Mountain they must stop their journey and seek shelter as soon as evening light disappears since “at night it is forbidden to ascend.”

After some conversations with the princes in the valley, Canto IX begins. True to his favorite number, nine, Dante places the real entrance to Purgatory in this canto. Needless to say, it’s not easy. Apparently it’s around three in the morning, and Dante, the only mortal there, can’t stay awake, and he falls asleep on the grass like a little boy. In his dream he sees an eagle swoop down like lightning, grab him with its claws, and lift him to the sky. Terrified, he awakens to discover it’s already the next morning and he is looking out at the sea. Calmly Virgil warns him not to be alarmed; they have finally come to the longed-for door to Purgatory. He tells him that while he was asleep a woman named Lucia
*
came and carefully carried him in her arms to where they were now. After setting him on the ground, she looked toward the road they should follow. I liked the mention of the patron saint of vision; she’s one of Sicily’s patron saints, along with Saint Agueda, which is where the names of my two sisters come from.