I Am The Emperor

The assistant claims that last Friday, before leaving, he saw the eminent archaeologist performing land surveys in the pit and that the next morning he found him a little more down that slope, laying on the ground. He had a heart attack and then fell lifeless down the escarpment. The Turkish guy does not seem particularly sad about it, probably because working with the professor left him with the same disgusting sensation as I was. The assistant, a short guy with a fast pace, precedes us on the tragedy site: he really wants us to see the exact place of the finding.

«And that up there, what is it? A tomb?» I ask.

«Yes, he took pictures there. Very important: he found rock with writing on, when it happened» translates Fatih.

Panting I get up the small hill, followed by the other two. I see, crumbled to the floor, what could be the ruins of a funeral building. I cannot see though the epigraph that was supposed to be at the entrance. Only the engraved stone, found by the professor last week (about which he told me via email), could confirm that here lies Julian.

«What about the material you found here?» I ask with fake nonchalance.

«For short time still in the hangar where we were, then comes government officer and takes away everything» Fatih tells me in his uncertain Italian.

I must accelerate.

«I should go to the toilet» I say touching my stomach.

«Only in the warehouse.»

«I know the way, you can stay here, thank you.»

I run to the warehouse and start looking frantically among a pile of crates: I try to move some, they’re heavy. On each one there is a note written with a fading blue marker: these should indicate time and digging sector of the findings.

Which day was it when the professor told me about finding the tomb? I check the crate from 9 July: only pieces of plaster and common pottery. Of course: the discovery must be from the day before, since he sent me the email on the morning of the 9 and died that same evening.

I pull out the crate from 8 July and, I can’t believe it, I find the epigraph!

A marmorean fragment, less than one meter long, with Greeks carvings: I’m in a hurry, but it is hard to understand the letters badly preserved; I take some quick pictures with my inseparable Nikon.

With a flimsy paper that was left on a table and a pencil I improvise a tracing: it is a rudimentary but very efficient technique, learnt during my master in Germany. Rubbing the pencil on the paper put against the epigraph, the holes of the engraved letters leave a blank: all the paper looks grey, apart from the spaces left blank, outlining the shape of the letters.

I’ve lost too much time, I run back to the gloomy cliff: «Sorry… probably the curves of the trip or maybe the violent tale of the professor’s death… well I felt unwell, but I’m better now. So, is the professor here?»

The two look at me confused.

«Well, the corpse: can I take it? I am in charge of taking it back to Italy and…»

«No. It is in the public obituary. I know where it is, I can take there if wants» offers kindly Fatih.

We thank the assistant, who keeps looking at us while going away.

We get back on the moped.

«Gülek Boğazi» screams Fatih short after our departure.

Between the noise of the moped and my fear I can’t understand a thing.

«Gülek Boğazi» he insists, pointing at a canyon among the mountains.

I look down and I understand: it is the “Cilician Gates”, the only passage since ancient times from internal Anatoly and the coast. Crossed by Alexander the Great: a role leader for many, including Julian.

«Gülek Boğazi» I repeat, while the precipice makes me hang even tighter to the driver.

Going down is, as usual, worse than going up: the moped’s breaks seem out of control and at each bend, instead of admiring the landscape, I think about the possibility of falling when right before the cliff it turns and we proceed.

When we arrive at Tarsus’ hospital I am so pale, that they almost take me in as a patient. Fatih asks information to a nurse passing by: I follow my adventure mate, dragging my feet in the long underground corridors until we reach a big ice-cold room.

The anatomopathologist almost invisibly turns up his hooked nose when I show my embassy document. He still lets me sign a series of papers, probably looking forward to getting rid of the corpse. He gets up, gives me two copies of the medical report, then shakes my hand, my arm and then my hand again. Weird way of greeting.

«These documents you give to customs to take body to Italy» translates Fatih, then he adds: «Coffin is outside in the car and with that you go back in Ankara».

I thank him for the translation and all the help, hugging him: I got used to it due to the moped; I try to slip 100 euros in his pocket.

The engineer gets offended: «No… my pleasure, say hi to Chiara, no better, tell her she calls me if she wants. I don’t disturb, but if she… this my number».

«I really don’t know how to thank you, for everything. Greetings to your… mother, as well.»

Outside I find an ambulance: I guess the corpse is in there. I almost got in, when two highly suspicious and huge guys come closer. I try to get away. They follow me and, saying incomprehensible things, push me in front of a shabby white pickup: that’s the designated means of transportation. In open backside I can see the coffin. The two bullies, literally lifting me up, put me there, next to it, while they sit in the front.

The horrible trip of the night before was a joke compared to this one: that one was full of smokers and I had to put my head out, here I am out completely alone with a dead body as company! The coffin, roughly tide with small laces, seems to be jumping out at every hole; I remain holed up on the opposite side: I don’t dare approaching it. I have an absurd fear of finding myself face to face with the corpse: after I left, reluctantly, my job at the University, I never wanted to see again the professor alive, imagine once dead!

I think about the day that’s passed and the one that awaits: the only thought of going back to customs gives me goosebumps, but the task I was assigned from the Literature faculty director is to get back the corpse to Italy. I repeat this mantra to charge myself up along the way, while the wind hits me harsh on the face.

Sunday 18 July

It is around 3 in the morning when the van stops. I’m afraid they want to leave me there, in the middle of nothing.

The two get off and talk to me in an unknown language. The smallest, or to better say the least big, repeats the same sentence doing wide movements with his hands: I understand I have to get off. I follow them until a crumbling shack: it is some sort of motorway restaurant, half family half down at heel business. I run to the toilet. That’s what they call Turkish toilets: a filthy stinking loo without the WC.

Then I enter what, euphemistically speaking, should be the bar: a fatty lady is preparing a weird drink, while the two travel companions are sitting at a table smoking and drinking a huge beer. I take the chance to have breakfast, trying to avoid thinking about the driver drinking in the early morning. I slowly sip the umpteenth boiling long coffee, accompanied by a focaccia stuffed with an odd-coloured salami: it’s not the best taste, but I’m very hungry having skipped dinner due to the sudden departure from Tarsus.

It takes at least half an hour before the two finish another beer and decide to get back on the van. The less drunk offers me an old blanket: the air was hot when we left, now it is that biting one of the early hours of the day. It is the first kind act towards me: left alone in the backside of the van I felt like a spare wheel.

At sunrise we arrive in Ankara; I’m still stunned by the wind and the road, when they heavily unload the coffin from the van, giving it to a group of custom officers. Lieutenant Karim orders me to leave it there and go back the following day to pick it up with the embassy documents: I really don’t like this guy! I thank the two carriers with a lavish tip, that they do not refuse, while I say goodbye to Barbarino, who lays now in a sort of garage in the custom’s undergrounds.

I am exhausted. In front of the airport several hotels shine in the light of the beginning day. I choose the only one with four stars in its panel: Esenboga Airport Hotel. I don’t care if it’s expensive: the University director promised me to refund all expenses if I had taken our eminent colleague back to the mother land.

After two nights spent travelling, I “pass out” on the bed as soon as I enter the room. The sound of my phone ringing wakes me up: it’s six o’ clock! Who could ever call me at this time?

«Hi, this is Chiara Rigoni. Customs told me that you came back with the corpse: there is a series of things to do that I need to explain to you.»

I realise from the light that filtrates through the curtains that it is six, yes, PM. I try to recover: «Why don’t we talk about it later, maybe over something to eat?»

«That’s fine» says Chiara, after hesitating a bit.

«There’s a restaurant in the centre: see you there at 9.30. The address is Izmir Caddesi 3/17.»

«Pardon?» I say still a bit dazed.

«I-Z-M-I-R-C-A-D-D-E-S-I 3/17» she spells it.

«Ok, noted. At what time?»

«21.30-22, dinner time» she repeats.

They have special timings in Turkey; anyways, after breakfast at 3am and waiting for a nightly dinner, I immediately shove down a pack of peanuts and a juice from the minibar. Once I get my strength back, I take out from my man bag the tracing I did on mount Taurus; I carefully unfold it and start sight translating from Greek:

Julian, after leaving river Tigris, of the wild flows, here laid:

kind emperor and valiant warrior he was.

“Laid”, “laid”. This past tense, instead of the usual present, only implies one thing: already at the moment of the inscription, the corpse, or what remained of it, wasn’t there anymore!

Then the epigraph was on a cenotaph: a monument built to remind of an eminent man’s burial, but whose remains are elsewhere. But where?

To get away from this thought too, I decide visiting the famous illustrated column built in the Apostate’s city. I dress up quickly, get out of the hotel and call the first taxi: «Can you drive me to the place of Julian’s column?»

«Uhm, err…» answers with a wild look the young taxi driver. The square should be famous for Julian’s column, the only roman one still in situ. I start gesturing, borderline to the obscene, to indicate a column: somehow the guy understands correctly and leaves at full speed.

« Ulus, ulus» he repeats incomprehensibly.

He leaves me in an anonymous square surrounded by apartment buildings; in the middle stands the column, 10-15 meters high: on it they carved various episodes from Julian’s life. I go around it, admiring the scenes, until the low relief about the funeral procession of emperor Constantius hits my eyes. Behind the corpse, laying on a chariot, two crowned figures open the procession: form what I recall, they were recognised as Julian and, the bigger one, as the god Helios. Now, after finding the epigraph and the empty tomb, I formulate an alternative interpretation: what if the whole scene does not represent the funeral procession of Constantius, but the moving ceremony for the Apostate’s body? Maybe in the column that represents the main episodes of his life, they wanted to remind us of his last trip. In this case, Julian would not be the one standing, but the body laying down, while the crowned figures following him could be the new king Valentinian and the smaller one, his younger brother Valens. Probably the professor understood that too, certainly I can affirm something that the ancient authors did not pass onto us: once in Tarsus, Valentinian and Valens not only paid homage to the tomb of their eminent predecessor, but they also took him away. Probably they considered the place not suitable to receive the mortal remains of an emperor [they may have feared the same ending: buried in a forgotten corner of the Turkish mountains]. Thus, next to the river Cydnus, they got built the cenotaph with the inscription found by the professor and at the same time they had Julian’s body taken to a more fit place. But where?

I can’t take this question off my mind, not even while I walk to the centre: I arrive at the date’s place at 20.30, largely on time. Don Castillo: the name of the restaurant makes me think of a traditional inn. I sit on one of the steps in front of it: I can see women passing, many of them covered by long black burkas.

Chiara, in her usual heels, arrives after one hour and fifteen minutes: «Have you been waiting for long?»

«No» I answer standing up and stretching my stiff legs. «Nice to see you again.»

«Let’s go.» She takes me by the arm.

The place is dark, I can’t see well what I’m eating, but maybe that’s better: the names of the plates are enigmatic and, taking advantage of the surprise and of her desire to make me try Turkish kitchen, she avoids explaining until I finish the whole portion. She ordered meat in all sauces and of all kinds: I hope it’s just veal and not something else.

I must complete a task, even if unwillingly: «Your friend was very kind, he helped me a lot.»

«Yes, he is always kind with everyone» she replies coldly.

«Talking about Fatih, he’d like to hear from you, but does not want to bother.»

I give her the piece of paper: «He gave me his phone number and said… well, he would like if you…»

«Thanks,» she cuts me, «but no, keep the number, you might need it more than I do!»

I don’t insist, I clearly touched a delicate subject: «So, what did you want to explain about tomorrow?»

Chiara lists all steps in detail. First the embassy at 8am: I need to pick up a document and get a stamp on Tarsus’ hospital records, in order to get back the body. Then stop at the infamous customs to have my passport back and finally a special flight at 11am. She won’t be there, but I shouldn’t have any problems. I thank her heartedly.

«It was a pleasure» she says with a smile that seems malicious to me.

Monday 19 July

From the street, the embassy is just as I pictured it: big and white, with the looks of some of those big Victorian countryside villas in the southern USA. I expect the master with his slaves, instead a manager with his assistant and few time for me comes out. I give them the documents from the obituary, the secretary browses them absent-mindedly: she puts a stamp, staples a visa on them and with the same quickness resolves the other bureaucratic matters.

At the custom things go more smoothly than at arrival. The fearsome officer from Friday is not there, just a nicer one: I finally get back my passport. I will definitely make a copy of my documents before leaving in the future (you never know).

They accompany me until I am onboard the “special plane”: an actual merchandise cargo, short and stocky. I esteem very low chances of a successful take-off. I get up the stairs to a large entrance on the backside (and not on the side), I pass through the huge hold, charged with a bit of everything; behind a sliding curtain there are around ten passenger and then the pilot’s cabin. The seats are not numbered: I sit in the only free one, next to a guy who looks at me head to toes and then goes back to reading his newspaper.

We wait for a long time, before they authorise take-off. I forgot my mp3 in the suitcase; to avoid thinking about taking off I start reading that odd anatomopathologist’s report: page after page handwritten in Turkish, with at the end of the second copy an English summary. In forensic science language he declares that Barbarino died after the fall: he reports multiple compound fractures, the fatal one on the back of his head, but no heart attack.

I am shocked: the professor’s assistant talked about a sudden illness as death cause. Here it seems that death was due to a hit on the head, probably during the fall. I put the report away: the police will think about investigating.

In the meanwhile, unbelievably, the plane has reached its flight quote: I calm down. It lasts only a moment though, since I realise I haven’t seen the coffin when crossing the hold. Losing a suitcase is unpleasant, but what about a corpse!

Since I think no hostess is expected to be on the cargo, I get up, move the curtain and go back to the hold. There is a coffin, I approach it to be sure: the name is the right one. Something hits my eye: something has been written on the short side. Some letters have been engraved, poorly, on the wood: DDCF. Weird! Probably someone at customs, since during the long trip on the van I didn’t notice them. I am actually certain: they were not there before. It looks like an acronym: sounds gloom and familiar at the same time.

I take back my place: that smart gentleman keeps looking at me, on the sly.

I am slightly perturbed by that acronym and the end of Barbarino: I travel back in time during the period passed at his service, better said his “dictatorship”; I certainly do not miss him, humanely I should moan his passing, but I really cannot. After all I wrote and did for him, he wasn’t even able to get me a permanent contract at the University. He claimed I deserved it more than anyone else for my curriculum, but there was always someone with extra academic credits passing in front of me: I really did well to leave that world.

At arrival in Fiumicino, I go to customs with the Turkish documents. Luckily in Italy everything is easier: they just put a couple of stamps on them.

I think I saw it in a movie: a famous dealer used the coffins of American soldiers, died in battle, to smuggle drugs into the Unites States. In my case, no one would realise: they do not open the sealed crate and the only anti-drug dog remains curled up in his corner.

I deliver the report from the anatomopathologist: «They told me to give it to you in order to have it forwarded to the State Police».

«No worries» says the officer, «we’ll take care of it.»

He puts the paper on top of a pile on his left, those documents seem to have been there for months.

It doesn’t matter if no one investigates on that death.

Before leaving, the last question: «What am I supposed to do with the coffin now?»

«Are you family?» asks the dutiful employee.

«No, let’s say… a friend.»

«Then you have to deliver it to the heirs» his final sentence.

I get out even more confused. Among the crowd I notice a board with my name on: I always hoped to have someone waiting for me at the airport with a nice big panel.

I approach them: «Good morning, I am Francesco Speri».

«We were waiting for you» answers with false politeness a woman in her sixties. «We would like to thank you for all you did for us.»

At my questioning look, the lady indicates to a nearby boy to come closer and introduces herself: «Grazia Barbarino, nice to meet you. I am poor Luigi Maria’s sister and he is my son: we came to give a proper burial to our beloved».

Her courteous tone and composed ways do not inspire sympathy at all. «Did you have a nice trip?» asks her, with very little interest in my answer.

«I am deeply sorry for your loss.»

None of them seems particularly afflicted; I am not either, I’m actually glad I can get rid of the corpse.

«Thanks again for everything» repeats the boy.

Of course, they could have been the ones going to Turkey, I try to not let that thought shown in my face: «You’re welcome. It was the minimum I could do, after many years…»

«Sure, I can imagine» cuts short the lady.

«Here’s a copy of the report of the anatomopathologist, in case you want to show it to your lawyer» I add, articulating my words slowly.

With a last condolences gesture, I leave the odd group and go to the train station.

Only when the Intercity from Rome arrive at Chiusi station to change, I feel I’m in Italy again; at around 19.30, after taking a minibus from Sinalunga station until Bettolle, I get home: I am glad to be back to the quietness of the town I live in since when I won the research grant from Siena’s University.

I leave my bag and immediately go down to get back the cat from my neighbour, where I left it in these days. I knock vigorously. A kid around 5 or 6 opens the door.

«Hi, is grandma home?»

The baby says: «How do we say?»

I am speechless.

«Mum says you always have to say please.»

«She’s right. So, nice kid, is grandma home, please?»

«What’s my name?»

I never knew it, actually. «What’s your name?»

The little crook smiles: «I won’t tell you!»

«Come on, tell me.»

«And what will you give me?» he says all proud.

And my parents wonder why I do not want kids…: «A candy?»

«Mum says not to accept candies from strangers»

«But I am no stranger, I live upstairs.»

The kid then puts out his right hand, I give him the honey and mint candy that luckily I had in my pocket.

«Now, will you tell me your name?»

He crosses his arms and bends his head: «Gian…luca».

«Very well, Gianluca, is grandma home?»

«Well, apart from the fact that you didn’t say please» he specifies «What’s my grandma’s name?»

I knew he would ask that, but I really can’t keep her name in mind: «Federica?»

«No.»

«Elisabetta?» I try.

«Almost» he smiles, happy with this new game.

«Elisa?»

«Got it!»

«Ok, listen carefully: Dear Gianluca, is your grandma Elisa at home… please?»

«Nope» and he slams the door in my face.

While standing stunned in front of the door, I think about a scene from the movie Caro diario of Nanni Moretti: he’s on holiday in Salina and when ringing a friend, a kid picks up and before passing the phone to his parents, he forces him to imitate several animal sounds.

Luckily Elisa overheard everything: «Francesco, welcome back. How was it?»

«Well, bureaucracy aside…» I cut short.

She smiles: «Pallino behaved very well, here he comes: he heard you.»

A fluffy white cat comes out from behind my neighbour’s legs and welcomes me with whim, almost reproachful.

«Thanks again, I wouldn’t know where else to leave him.»

I go back home, with the feline in my arms. After a nice dinner, we both tired go to bed; it has surely been an adventure for him too, these days in a stranger’s house.

Tuesday 20 July

«Welcome back to work, had a nice holiday?» asks me the director, as soon as I enter the Montepulciano station branch.

Well, yeah, I didn’t mention it yet: after finishing my professor contract at the University, I ended up working as a bank counter clerk. Not the best, but it’s a permanent contract at least!

I didn’t tell anyone the real reasons of my trip, actually the two reasons: the research of the professor and the emperor.

«All good… a bit tiring.»

It is harder to get out of Vito Darino’s questions, he’s the cashier on the desk next to mine. As we say around here, “he’s a weird fish”: he’s generally quiet and gentle, but gets upset out of nothing, becoming all red, then purple and suddenly deflates. He is against the whole world, thinking no one understands a thing and, that’s the reason they get promoted, while he has always remained stuck. He claims to be single; I’d say more of a bachelor: he hasn’t had a girlfriend in ten years I think, always talking about women, but in a very misogyny way.

«Did you have fun? Have you met any nice Turk darlings?» is his first question.

«No, I just had some rest.» Couldn’t be falser.

«I’ve also visited some touristic places.»

«Where exactly have you been?» he insists.