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APOLLO OF A THOUSAND YEARS
Kindly donated to the Chthonios Site by Stephen
Attragon
© 2001 Stephen
Attragon
What are you pointing to? What?
Damascius abruptly awoke from his dream — awoke from the same dream he had since he was a child: always the same little man standing beside a tree, and always pointing downward.
It was 3 AM in Athens, in the springtime of the year, 529 AD. With a gruff, the 40 year-old Damascius arose from bed. He poured himself a cup of krasee (watered-down wine) and made his way outside, down the slope of Mt. Areopagus where he lived at the Dean’s House, and then to the university — now an empty ghost of its former self, and soon to be demolished. Nevertheless, here he sat on its garden swing, contemplating his rise to professorship. It seemed ages ago since he’d become dean of Plato’s 1000 year-old Academy upon acceptance of his thesis paper, First Principles, which was selected in a fierce competition among other students to win the presidency of Plato U. Next to being the Byzantine emperor, being Dean of Plato’s Academy had been the most prestigious job in the world.
His thesis had been radical too. It had turned the teachings of Platonism on its head, particularly those of his prestigious predecessor, Dean Proclus (now long-dead), who believed that man passes through elaborate spiritual stages on the road to God. Not so, claimed Damascius. Rather, man finds God instantly, though in a mysterious way. The spiritual life only seems to unfold in stages because it takes so long time to find God, but when He’s found, all our struggles — indeed our whole life — will seem to have been, well, a dream.
But is being a dream, and thinking it’s a dream, the same thing?
It was the old Platonic opposition of thinking and being; of rhetoric and philosophy; of Protagoras and Plato; of man as the measure, or God as the measure of all things. Damascius moved on to other thoughts — like guilt. Sure, he felt guilty too. For in displacing Dean Proclus, he was displacing Platonic tradition.
Mysticism does that sort of thing, he told himself.
It was like Moses entering into the dark cloud of God’s super-essential being, or an Egyptian hierophant entering into Nut, the first dark principle whence the world sprang.
In any case, shortly after writing his thesis Damascius wrote the untitled work, known as The Dionysian Corpus, under the pseudonym of Dionysius Areopagita, in which he once more gave credence to Proclus’ pantheon of Greek gods and multiple realities — thus transforming Proclus’ nine levels of being into nine orders of Christian angels.
Proclus would roll over in his grave if he knew!
But then there was that nagging problem The Emperor Justinian had recently closed the Academy. What to do now? — a suicide solution maybe. Damascius had been contemplating it for months. Indeed, since the closing, sleepless nights have consumed his life, and drink, and hopelessness, and...
Presently, Damascius farted, dropping his wine cup; and on bending over to retrieve it, he suddenly realized he was seated beneath the Academy’s ancient oak from which the garden swing was suspended.
Could this be the tree?
Using his cup, he dug beside the tree and unearthed an amphora, then cracked its hardened pitch top. Sand — a desiccant — poured out, along with some letters, and a note which unraveled beneath the moonlight to read:
It’s about time, idiot!
How could they ever
elect a drunk as Dean?
How could I ever
become that drunk?
You’d better quit
messing with those sisters
and marry one of them.
And angels? You traitor!
By the gods, I’m so
ashamed of myself!
Nevertheless, you have
a mission to fulfill...
* * *
The next day, two women sat beside Damascius on the swing, giggling in their wine — Theodora and Porphyria, two 33 year-old cousins from noble Athenian families who had assisted Damascius as teachers of philosophy and literature.
“Damas, why did you call us here?” asked Porphyria.
“To talk about old times or to fool around?” added Theodora, patting Damascius’ hand.
Damascius flashed his handsome smile. “Ladies, you know that Proclus once sat on this bench swing, and Aedesia and Hypatia too. You also know that Proclus means prophet (Gr. ‘forward-looking’).
“Okay, so more than our asses sat here. What’s your point?” remarked Theodora.
“Just this: we have lived before,” he replied with a grin.
“What?” asked the cousins, shaking off their doldrums. “Yesterday I unearthed this vase in the garden,” he stated bluntly. “What’s in it?” they asked excitedly.“Items buried by Proclus fifty years ago, including letters directed to us.” Damascius handed each a letter, and they began reading.
“By the gods!” shouted Porphyria. “Proclus states that I had been his fiancé’, Aedesia, the philosopher!”
Theodora shouted, “He says that I was Hypatia the philosopher!” Damascius chuckled. “And get this. He writes that I was him — Proclus.” “You were that midget?” they asked. “...and Plato, and Pythagoras, and Apollo...,” added Damascius.“Pshaw!” the women laughed. Obviously, Damascius had let the big-man-on-campus syndrome go to his head over the years. Now he was being brought down to size. The fact that Dean Proclus had been a ‘little person’ was neglected in his biography, though that was the word in the Academy.
“There’s more,” Damascius stated. “These belonged to Hypatia and Aedesia. The little Professor wanted them returned to you — and so do I.” Damascius now placed an emerald ring on Theodora’s finger, and a ruby ring on Porphyria’s, adding, “Would you marry me?”
“What, both of us? But we’re cousins. We live in a Christian empire!” remarked Porphyria.
“Which one of you should I marry and the other forsake?”
The women looked at each other. Then Theodora whispered to her cousin, “Well, Porry, we would be marrying Apollo, the god of truth.”
“You mean, Dionysius, the god of wine farts.” The two giggled.
“I heard that,” said Damascius.
“We hear it all the time.”
Damascius smiled. Now perhaps there was something to live for...
* * *
They married in Egypt and eloped during Lent, visiting all the sites of the city. At one point during their tour, however, Theodora suddenly shuddered, became trance-like, and began chattering, “This is the villa where it began, where I lived, where Hypatia lived. It was early morning — still dark outside. I...I entered my chariot when the mafia (the parabolani) grabbed me and began dragging me, pulling me...”
Theodora gestured feebly, wishing to walk on. Porphyria and Damascius supported her in her ecstasy as they escorted her down the streets and passed the bazaars that were once the via dolorosa of Hypatia’s passion. At another point Theodora froze again.
“They brought me here — to this church, the ugly Caesarion! It was being renovated at the time.” Damascius and Porphyra entered the church with Theodora as she continued in her ecstasy.
“Awaiting inside were more Mafioso. Their leader, Petros, stood before them, and a tarp was spread on the floor. They formed a circle, stripped me, and began shouting, ‘Convert or die!’ I shouted in return, ‘A forced conversion isn’t what Jesus taught!’ They laughed at my presumption, as Petros now ordered each man to pick up a roof tile and begin slicing me. I screamed, ‘Have you no nails or cross?’...They rolled my lifeless body into the tarp, grabbed their torches, and marched to the beach.”
With Theodora pointing the way, they then walked to Cinnaron Beach. There, the fishermen fixing their nets watched them curiously beneath the hot Egyptian sun. Theodora finally slumped down on the sand in tears, her ecstasy ended. “Here’s where they torched my remains.” A Jewish girl from the fishing community suddenly approached Theodora.
“Would you like to hug my doll?”
* * *
Afterwards the newlyweds sailed to the coast of Syria, visiting Apamea where they knocked at a certain home. Two women and two men appeared at the door.
“Dimashk!” shouted one of the women.
“Umi (Arabic, Mom)!” Damascius shouted in return.
“Dimashk!” shouted the other woman.
“Umi!” shouted Damascius.
“Dimashk!” shouted the young man.
“Akh (Brother)!” shouted Damascius.
“Dimashk!” shouted the older man.
“Abui (Dad)!” retorted Damascius.
Amid hugs and laughter, Damascius escorted Theodora and Porphyria inside, saying, “Everyone, I want you to meet my new sister wives.”
“Come in! Come in! Let’s take a look at them!”
After dinner Damascius and his father, a Hellenized Arab from Damascus, were standing over the sink eating sweetcakes, as fathers and sons do.
“You should have invited us to your Egyptian wedding,” said his father. “Will you stay a week and celebrate according to our traditions? Your mother and her sister miss you.”
“Sure, Baba (Pop, borrowed Persian).”
“You did good, Dimashk.”
“Thanks, Pop.”
“Will you make the journey of our people for me — just once before I die?”
“Sure,” replied Damascius. Why disappoint the Old Man?
His father poured some krasee. “Share a glass with me?”
“Sorry, Pop. That I can’t do — ever again.”
After the wedding ceremony, they bade farewell to the family and visited several religious shrines in Syria, particularly the temples with sacred aerolites. Then, after purchasing camels for the extremity of their journey, a brief squabble broke out.
“Damascius, I’m jealous of your black camel!” stated Porphyria.
“Why, cousin, haven’t you ridden it yet?” replied Theodora, adding:
“My love is like
the bitter desire
of the she-camel,
un-reprieved beneath the stars,
roaming where
the scorpion’s sting
may bring some relief.”
Finally at the end of their pilgrimage, they arrived at Mecca and circumambulated the Kaaba with its large aerolite stone. Always the philosopher, Theodora complained, “These Arabs are heathens! Just look at their gods hanging like so many shingles from a roof. There is but one God. We should instruct these barbarians as to His nature, His modes of operation, His penchant for women...”
Damascius laughed. “Nah. Arabia has no prophetic precedent.”
“Oh come on, Damascius. Why can’t we open a daughter Academy here? We want some adventure!” said Porphyria.
“Yeah, we’re bored!” added Theodora.
“We’re bored. We’re bored,” Damascius fired back. “Maybe in another lifetime, by Allah, if you’ll both promise to return as my wives to help me!”
“How can we get rid of you?”
* * *
Their new lives began sooner than they expected — but in Mesopotamia!
Attempting to outdo Emperor Justinian’s recent Christian conferences, the king of Persia, Chosroes I (Sha Koshro), convened a universal conference of all religions in his empire. Damascius and the women, along with their former colleagues, arrived in Ctesiphon in the summer of 532 AD, intending to speak at the meetings.
Papers were prepared by each religious delegation, having been translated into Syriac, Greek, and Pahlavi for the benefit of all. Each day the delegates would hear the contending parties’ arguments and would either formulate a response or read from their pre-arranged theses.
On the first day the king entered the hall and said to the delegates, “I’ve kept the mazdaks and maktaks (Mazdakeans and Manichaens) from these proceedings. Hasn’t Justinian done the same? Yet unlike him, I will hear from every other religion. The shahanshah (king of kings) is broad-minded. Let the proceedings begin.”
During the first week Priscianus of Aphrodisias gave an opening statement for the Greeks; the Brahmin priests lectured on the Brihadarnayaka and Yajnavalkya. The Nestorian priests spoke on their form of Christianity, outlawed by Justinian (a dig at Justinian by the Shah). The Samarkand Buddhists lectured on Gautama Buddha, Nagarjuna and the Heart Sutra. The Babylonian Jews reported on Moses and the Tanach. Lastly, the Zoroastrian mobadan (priests) spoke on Zoroaster and the Zend Avesta.
On the following week the atmosphere became heated, as Isidore of Gaza, Palestine spoke about a gnostic Zoroaster, and was waylaid by the mobadan.
“Tell us Zarathushtra’s surname? The name of his mother?” asked the Zoroastrians in Syriac.
“I don’t know,” replied Isidore.
“Then we don’t know your Greek Zarathushtra.”
It became apparent that the conference, which was a brief one, was really about the Zoroastrians outstripping the other religions to win the title of “the king’s religion”. Therefore the Greeks arrayed their remaining time and resources against the mobadan. On the following days Simplicius spoke on Plato, Theodora on Homer, and Porphyria on Hesiod. The mobadan countered with the Gilgamesh and the Hymns of Zoroaster.
That night the Greeks held conference, nervous and uptight, as Isidore asked, “Dimashk, how could we imagine this shah to be Plato’s philosopher-king?”
Damascius turned to his old teacher. “My Hierotheos, these priests are the king’s best men. Have you seen halos around them? I haven’t. Be patient. Tomorrow Yoshy (Josiah, Gk. name Hermias) argues against Zoroaster’s philosophy.”
“What do I know of his philosophy?” replied Hermias of Palestine.
“Simplicius, do you it?” asked Damascius.
“It seems to be Heraclitean, so we should concentrate on the shortcomings of Heraclitus’ teaching.”
“To hell with it!” replied Hermias.
Two more colleagues, Diogenes of Greece and Yakov (Iacobus) of Palestine agreed. The women coughed in resignation.
Simplicius shrugged. “I’ve already spoken.”
Battle-weary, they withdrew to their respective rooms. Now later that night Damascius took a walk and visited a fire temple outside the capitol where he questioned a priest.
The day the king sat in session for the last time. He once more took his seat at the head of the table of delegates and said, “All persons who wished to speak have been heard before the great king. I am now closing — ...”
Suddenly Damascius arose. “Spitama was his surname, Dughdova his mother! The Persian prophet of fire, Zarathushtra, became Eliyahu (Elijah), the Jewish prophet of fire!”
The Zoroastrians looked confounded.
“What is this, Dimashk?” asked the Shah.
Damascius turned to the king. “And you, oh Shahanshah, were Shah Vishtaspa who protected Zarathushtra! Oh, great molech (Aramaic, king), allow me to speak at your parliament of world religions!” Damascius now handed the king his two theses: The Book of the Holy Hierotheos Areopagita and The Dionysian Areopagita Corpus. The Shah bowed his head in consent.
Damascius turned to the Buddhists. “You call him Nagayuna (Nagarjuna) Boutta, so he was — the reincarnation of Siddatha Gotama, who had been Spitama Zarathushtra and Eliyahu! And you, oh Shahanshah, were Shah Kanishka (King Kaniska), Nagayuna’s protector when he appeared at your court and defeated all participants!”
Damascius turned to the Nestorians. “Three saviors prayed Zarathushtra, three saviors to come. Two of them were Yeshua Ha Natzrati (Jesus the Nazarene) and Nagaryuna, his reincarnation.”
Damascius turned to the Indians. “Yanavaca (Yajnavalkya of the Brihadaranyaka) appeared at the religious conference of Shah Yanaka (King Janaka) and defeated all participants. You, oh king, were Shah Yanaka, his protector!
The delegates stared in disbelief as Damascius concluded, “Oh Shahanshah, you are Plato’s shining philosopher-king. I beg you, do not abandon my delegation to Justinian, but allow my friends and I to open an Academy in Mesopotamia. We have nowhere else to go.”
Damascius kneeled and kissed the king’s feet. The king lifted him up in surprise. “You have no need to kiss me. Have I condemned you?” The shah then bolted an angry eye at the modadan, his own ministers. “Which of you has kissed the king’s feet with such compassion?” All heads were lowered. No answer came.
The king now leaned back in his chair and, after some moments, asked Damascius, “Was I actually all of those great shahs?
“Yes.”
“How does Carrhae (Harran) seem to you?”
“Yes.”
“Then you have my protection. You may open your new Academy in Harran, and I will give you the title of the Great Mobad of Harran.” The king smiled, arose, and left the hall.
Damascius called after him, asking, “Oh Shahanshah, may we return to see our friends and family?”
The Shah turned. “Indeed. You shall become my ambassador to the court of Justinian. Bring back all the Greeks who wish to escape Justinian, and warn him that all who harm you will answer to me.”
The Platonists jumped up and cheered “Opa!” Theodora and Porphyria ran to Damascius and hugged him.
“Now we can teach!” the women replied.
Now Sufism begins.
Inspired in part by the song, If I Ever Lose My Faith, by Sting
Kindly donated to the Chthonios Site by Stephen
Attragon
© 2001 Stephen
Attragon
