“His Majesty will receive you at once.”

I was ushered into a large hall, in the center of which at a long table, Charlemagne and a dozen men, officers and bishops, had evidently just finished eating, and were munching nuts now, and drinking wine.

I knelt. The Emperor bade me rise. His voice was sharp and thin, curiously out of harmony with his enormous body and his short, heavy neck.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Isacus, Your Majesty. I was born in Rome, a descendent of the early martyrs who were burnt and tortured for their love of Jesus. Several of my ancestors are buried in the catacombs. Early—in childhood, almost—I heard the Lord command me to travel to all parts of the world, and preach His Holy Word. I have been in every country of Europe, Asia and Africa. I studied the mysteries of drugs in India, and of the stars in Arabia, and everywhere I preached the truth of the Lord Jesus Christ.”

“In Arabia, Isacus, I have a great friend, Haroun-el-Raschid, Caliph of Bagdad. Although an infidel, he is a man of courage and heart. Have you met him?”

“He sends greetings to the Great Emperor of the West, and this large ruby, whose scarlet symbolizes brotherly love.”

The Emperor showed the jewel to his guests, while eulogizing the Caliph.

“Tell me, Isacus, is it true that you speak all languages?

“It is, sire.”

“My friends who are masters of various languages, will speak to you, and see if it is really possible for one man to possess as much knowledge as you claim.”

The Emperor’s companions addressed me in several languages. I answered each in the tongue he selected. The sounds we uttered made the Emperor laugh uproariously.

Suddenly the Emperor’s face twitched. His enormous hand gripped his leg. The rest stopped midway in their laughter and drinking, and looked at one another, distressed.

“You are a doctor, Isacus?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Can you relieve my atrocious pain?”

“Your Majesty, I have brought with me strange and secret drugs from Samarkand, the country of marvels. With the help of our Lord Jesus I shall relieve your pain.”

“Try your drugs, Isacus.”

I massaged the Emperor’s leg, whispering passages from the Vedas and invoking Jesus and Mary.

Gradually, Charlemagne’s face relaxed, and he breathed freely.

I was offered a cup of wine, and we drank the Emperor’s health.

“Will the cure be permanent, Isacus?”

“I dare not hope it, sire.”

“How long must the treatment continue?”

“It is not possible to say, Your Majesty, but at least a year or two.”

“You shall remain with us, Isacus.”

His Majesty’s rheumatism necessitated frequent massages. He showered me with gifts and praises, and had I been ambitious, he would have included high honors.

“You are a fool, Isacus, not to desire a bishop’s mitre.”

“I aspire to no higher honors than to serve my sovereign.”

“You have served me well. My leg is much better. Though the pain has not disappeared entirely, I have not had any violent attack since good fortune sent you to the gate of my palace.”

“Lord Jesus be praised!”

The Emperor struck me lightly on the back, and bade me accompany him into the garden.

“What is your opinion, Isacus,—should the Emperor be the head of the Church or should he relegate his spiritual authority to the Pope?”

“It is very difficult to rule a great empire, Your Majesty.”

“It is.”

“Should the Emperor be concerned as well with the souls of men?”

“Perhaps not. But who should be supreme,—the Pope or the Emperor?”

“Is it not self-evident, great King? The sword is mightier than the cassock.”

“You are the only man of the Church who holds this opinion.”

“I am not ambitious, Your Majesty.”

A young woman whose hair glittered in the sun like gold that’s poured from one vessel into another, was walking slowly, bending now and then over a flower. The Emperor whispered: “Is it a sin to love one’s own sister, Isacus?”

“It is not a sin, but a duty, sire.”

“I mean—as a man loves a woman.”

“In Egypt it was considered sacrilege for a royal brother not to marry his sister. Thus the dynasty was kept undefiled.”

“Very interesting,” the Emperor remarked, his eyes following hungrily the slim figure, whose blue silk gown fluttered a little in the breeze, like an enormous leaf.

“The daughters of Adam and Eve, our first parents, were the wives of Cain and Abel, their brothers,” I added.

“You are learned indeed, Isacus. I had never thought of this before. I always wondered how they had populated the world. But,” he added after a while, “would the Pope approve of this—now?”

“The Pope? The Emperor can make and unmake popes. Laws, Your Majesty, are for the people, dispensations for Kings. If the Pope does not admit this, he must learn the lesson…”

“I shall teach him his place! “ Charlemagne shouted, his voice breaking like a thin needle.

This was what I sought—to instil in Charlemagne a desire to dominate the Church, without being part of it. Thus sooner or later the two powers would clash and destroy each other. The proverb about a house divided against itself still held true.

My position at the Court was all the more important and influential because of its indeterminate character. I was merely a monk, officially,—but in reality, I was His Majesty’s physician and chief adviser in scholastic and political matters: also frequently in religious controversies. It became very soon apparent that I was impervious to bribes of all kinds. My enemies sent maidens, delicate and voluptuous, to gain my confidence. When the feminine messengers failed, the subtle priests entrusted their mission to ingratiating and complaisant young men. When those seductions proved equally ineffective it was whispered about that I was a eunuch.

My experiments with a balloon inflated by gas proved my undoing. It gave the church a pretext to accuse me of witchcraft, and to rob me of my wealth.

Even the Emperor resented the invention which, crossing the borders with impunity, reduced the might of princes to nothing.

Once more I fled.

FOR a long while I lived among prostitutes and beggars. I experienced stark poverty, even hunger. It was a new, and therefore not unwelcome sensation. I regained wealth, however, by being a saint and dwelling in a tower curing the lame and the blind in the name of the Cross.

Two generations passed. Once more I was a rich man. Fortune, like an obedient bitch, comes to him who waits.

Weary of incense and sanctity, I sailed upon the Mediterranean! Oh beautiful sea, eternal and unchanging, and unperturbed! Cartaphilus may also be eternal, but he must change always, and always in his heart must be a storm and a great wind, and now and then, a shipwreck.

Whither? To what part was the boat sailing? What did it matter? All things were relative,—time, space, and Cartaphilus. Cartaphilus more than all else. Just now, he was a Greek of Constantinople, a merchant of moderate means and moderate tastes.

Several merchants, tried to interest me in their business, promising me great fortunes. One in particular was persistent. He was a very handsome Arab, who had read much and travelled extensively. What he desired to do, if only he could obtain sufficient funds and a partner as clever and as presentable as I, was to open an establishment—very exclusive and elegant, of course—where men and women could find delectation.

“Nothing is as profitable in this world, sir, as sex and religion. A young man like you,” he added, “must be very careful how he invests his money.”

I smiled. “I am older than you think.”

He scrutinized me. “Not one day older than thirty.”

“True. But is not thirty a sufficient age for understanding?”