Azazeel (12 page)

The afternoon shadows had lengthened, so she rose to light the lamp and then came back to nestle in my embrace and continue her tale. ‘When the followers of the Christian bishop they
called Theophilus destroyed all that remained of the great temple which stood at the western end of Pharos island, where the harbour is, the remaining priests of the temple fled and scattered
across the land. An old priestess from there took refuge in our house because she knew I revered the god Poseidon and always prayed to him to protect the ships of my Sicilian master. The priestess
stayed with me, here on the roof of the house, for the final weeks of her life. She spent most of her time at this wall, looking out to sea. A few days before she died, she called me to her room
and, as she lay on her death bed, in a voice as true as an oracle, she told me: “Octavia, do not be sad, Poseidon will send you from the sea a man for you to love and who will love you. He
will wipe away your tears and fill your days with joy, and he will come to you after two signs.”’

When Octavia asked what the two signs might be, the priestess told her that they would be two signs in the course of time: two days, two weeks, two months, two years. The priestess died and the
days passed slowly for Octavia until two full years had passed and she began to doubt the prophecy. When she saw me drowning, then survive the drowning, and come out naked but for my wet
undergarments and my unknown fate, she was convinced of the truth of the prophecy. She smiled at the memory, as though a mysterious joy had suddenly swept over her, and she added, ‘For the
last two years I thought my man would be a sailor coming off a ship but then I found you coming to me carried on the wings and the waves of the great god.’

‘Is that why you called me “my love” as soon as you saw me?’

‘Yes, because I fell in love with you two full years before I saw you, and maybe even before that,’ she said.

At the time I did not know how to answer her. I pulled her close, wrapping my left arm around her lazily. She rested in my embrace, then fell asleep like an infant, leaving me to a storm of
thoughts and fancies. I wondered, ‘What shall I do with this white woman who is sleeping against my chest and whose naked legs give me such strange ideas or, should I say, drive me wild?
Should I give up what I have set my mind on for years and stay in her bed for the rest of my life? Is her ample love a substitute for my great dream – to excel in medicine and theology? When
her husband died I was an adolescent in Naga Hammadi, thinking of marrying a Nubian girl in the same way as my uncle, whose house I was living in. The Nubian people marry their daughters only to
their own menfolk, except on rare occasions. My father’s father came to their country from the centre of the Nile valley, lived among them and died among them after becoming one of them. My
father and uncle were born there. My uncle married one of their women, while my father chose a wife from the villages of the Delta and she later became my mother.

At the age of eighteen I was excited to see the mating of the birds and the farm animals and my uncle brought up the question of marrying me to a girl from the Nubian people, since he was
popular among them, and he could have arranged it for me if he had been enthusiastic. But for some reason, which escaped me at the time, he advised me to keep studying medicine and theology. My
uncle was a good Christian and very ill. It was he who enrolled me in the church in Naga Hammadi and in the school and church in Akhmim. He must be dead by now. I wonder if he wanted me to become a
monk to make me forget what my father’s killers did. They killed my father and one of the thugs married my mother. How can the memories be erased? My mother... how could she consent to marry
one of the killers? My father was a good man, and I never saw him reproach her and he never beat her. He used to take me out to throw his nets in the Nile from the oval rocks which are thought to
be sacred heavenly eggs which descended with the waters of the Nile to protect those who stand on them from crocodiles, which are also sacred. I used to delight in the fish trapped in his nets, and
he delighted in my delight. Why did they insist on killing him in that way? Jesus the Messiah, I can feel the pain in the heart of the Virgin and her grief for you. I feel the depths of her torment
the day they knocked the nails into your hands and feet splayed on the Cross, and I am splayed like you on the cross of memories, and overcome by the agony of loss.

‘My love, are you crying? I have saddened you with my story.’

‘No, Octavia. Stay sleeping. I am weeping at the misery and despair of this world.’

‘Never mind, my love. Please don’t cry. Come to the arms of Octavia who loves you.’

We embraced and drifted off to sleep in each other’s arms. Sleep is a heavenly mercy for all creatures. But that night I did not sleep at all and woke up early to find her moving
gracefully around the room, happily coming and going. When I opened my eyes, she threw herself nimbly towards me and stretched out on her stomach next to me. Her face was beaming with a beauty
which reached from the middle of her bed to the ends of the universe.

I noticed that my brown skin had taken on a slight ruddiness, and my body was now the colour of a copper vessel, and at first I thought the reason for that was the obscene things we had done
together. But Octavia, rocking with laughter, told me the secret behind that was the sun the day before, combined with the salty sea air. Then I understood why the whiteness of her body was tinged
with red. I lay next to her, comfortable in my nakedness, and that was the second time I felt that my body was beautiful, the second time and the last of my whole life.

She flirted with me and kissed me on the mouth, then invited me to a bath she said was full of hot water and aromatic herbs which are brought from the countries of the east. As she got out of
bed, she told me she was going to take my clothes from my bag to wash them, and I screamed out as though scalded, ‘No! Don’t do that.’ I added in panic, ‘I don’t like
anyone to wash my clothes. I’ve done that for myself for years.’

‘But my love, Octavia wasn’t with you all those years.’

‘Please, don’t contradict what I say.’

She did not contradict me. She wrapped her arms around me, a hug big enough for me and all my memories, with all the secret agonies and the few moments of happiness. In fact her hug was big
enough for the whole world. She whispered in my ear that I was not used to her yet and that our time to come would see to that. Her breath was warm on my chest and her lips were hot on my neck,
kindling my desire for her.

When she undressed me again in the bathroom next to her room I detected in her eyes a look of desire. I too was desirous of her, and confused. I felt the water and found it warm and so inviting
that I was happy to sit at length in the marble tub with the four carved legs. I rested my arms on the sides and stretched out my legs in the water. She started to massage my shoulders gently yet
with passion. I closed my eyes and tried to distract myself and to calm down by thinking about anything from my past, but the memories eluded me as though Octavia’s touch had erased
everything I had ever seen before I met her.

Gently she had me lean forward so she could massage my back, and I followed the guidance of her hands. The panic that hit me when she had almost emptied out my bag had now subsided. The
monk’s cassock and the wooden cross would have shocked her, but I had stopped her at the decisive moment. Dark thoughts and questions churned in my mind: how long would this disturbing state
last, this transient happiness, this delusion? I am not deceptive by nature and I had never lied in my life. So why had I been misleading her, and going astray with her, since the moment I saw her?
The Lord could see me, and see her, and He would not forgive me for what I was doing. He would not spare me His punishment unless I repented and He showed mercy. If He wished, He could pardon me.
If He wanted, He could torment me in punishment for my sin. He had tormented me before without me committing any sin. Or perhaps all that was the penalty for this. What about Octavia’s sins?
Would the Lord punish her for them or let them pass because she was pagan and did not believe in Him? Did He punish only believers, I wondered? I think that in the end He will forgive everyone
because He is compassionate.

I suddenly decided to stand up and put on my original gown. I would ask her to come and visit the cave between the rocks, and in the place where I saw her for the first time I would tell her
everything about myself, and everything would end where it began, and I would go back to the purpose for which I had come – medicine and theology. Then I would go back one day to our village
and open up my father’s house, which had been closed for years, and live there a monastic life treating the sick. At my hands, miracles would take place to confirm the existence of the Lord,
and the people there would forget what had happened to my father and my mother. I would choose for myself an ecclesiastical name that I liked and was comfortable with, and I would...

‘What are you thinking about, my love? Are you thinking about me when I’m with you?’

‘I want to get out of this big bathtub and visit the rocky cave by the sea,’ I said.

‘We’ll go later. Come, my love, and I’ll dry your body.’

The questions kept churning in my mind. Why was this woman pampering me? How could she give me such effusive love, enough to drown the world, although she did not know me, and I knew nothing of
her other than what she had told me? She must have hidden things from me and these things she had hidden must be terrible. Anyway, she is a pagan woman and believes in the foolish myths about the
Greek gods, the gods who trick each other, wage war on mankind, marry often and betray their wives. What sick imagination produced the gods of Greece? And what is stranger still is that there are
people who believe in them – such as Octavia, who believes that the sea god Poseidon sent me to her. But the sea has no god and nobody sent me, yet how can I know for sure that she is wrong
and I am right? The Old Testament, which we believe in, is also full of deceptions, wars and betrayals, and the Gospel of the Egyptians, which we read although it’s banned, contains material
which contradicts the four orthodox Gospels. Are the two of them fantasies? Or does it mean that God is secretly present behind all religious beliefs?

‘Put on this clean gown, my love, so you don’t get cold. I’ll wash the seawater out of your own gown.’

I awoke from my musings and firmly refused to put on the Sicilian master’s clean gown which she offered me. I would feel ill at ease if I wore a flowing silk garment. Only women wear silk,
but the men of Alexandria have strange ways of dressing and affectations unfamiliar to us Egyptians.

I quickly picked up my gown and threw it on my naked body, embarrassed at the way she was watching. I beat her to the door of the bathroom and as I shielded my eyes with my hands from the glare
of the midday sun she hugged me from behind and began to rub the palms of her hands across my chest, resting her head on my back. I stood there motionless and she stood there purring with pleasure.
After a long moment of silence, I turned to face her and told her sullenly that she still did not know my name and had not even shown any interest in asking me what it was.

‘My love, I know the name which I have given you and which no one else will share: Theodhoros Poseidonios.’

Octavia took me by surprise with her boldness and her headstrong temerity. Did she think herself a god, giving people names? It’s true she had chosen for me a distinctive name, which in
Greek meant ‘divine gift from Poseidon’, but I reacted angrily, and she then acted playful. If I didn’t like that name, she said, she would give me another name instead –
Theophrastos, which literally means ‘divine speech’.

‘Octavia, stop your madness, because that’s not my name either. These are all Greek names, but I have an Egyptian name.’

‘Forget about Egypt and Greece now. You are the one who proves that the god speaks the truth, so your name from now on is Theophrastos, or Theodhoros Poseidonios. Choose one of the two and
tell me so I know what to call you. Come now and let me show you the house.’

At the time I did not know how to answer her. But she did not give me a moment to hesitate. She took me by the hand and left the bathroom, saving me from my own confusion. A part of me wanted
her, and loved her intelligence, her cheerfulness and the smell of her body. Yes, Octavia was clever, honest and desirable, but she had brought me to perdition and I had done the same to her,
twice. Ah, who can put an end to the storm of my sorrow? I am going to stop writing now and rest a little. I’ll resume writing if I wake up.

What does Azazeel want from me, and why is he pushing me to record the past, and the present? He must have some evil purpose, in line with his nature. He has already tricked me
and tempted me into writing about the sins and obscene things I did with Octavia. Now my soul is defiled and befouled.

‘Was your soul immaculate, Hypa, before you began to write?’