Stefano Conti - I Am The Emperor

© Copyright 2021 by

Stefano Conti

Translation by Arianna Vanin

of Io sono l’imperatore , Ancona 2017

Imprimé en janvier 2021 par

Rotomail Italia spa

On the cover:

graphic elaboration from photos of the author

of the Ponte della Maddalena or Ponte del diavolo .

Borgo a Mozzano, Lucca (Italy).

Stefano Conti

I am the emperor

UUID: a1b86bee-a976-41b6-aa2e-a4efc93c7ee6

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26 June 363 AD

T he battle between the roman army and the Persians is raging. Suddenly time seems to stop: a javelin pierces Julian’s abdomen.

«Come quick, the emperor has been hurt!»

The young king sways on the saddle of his horse and falls. Lying on the ground he tries to take out the sword, blessing his fingers.

«Leontius, take off this spear.»

«I cannot, my lord. You would die.»

«I am already dead.» The blood flows incessantly. «I am just asking to finish my days as a warrior: help me get back on my horse.»

The trusted soldier, for the first time, does not obey: «Call Oribasius, quick!»

Julian understands this is the day marked by fate: «I did not want to listen to the haruspices, but I knew that falling star was announcing my end».

Oribasius, his personal doctor, tries to stop the haemorrhage in vain.

The prince looks at him benevolently: «Do not trouble yourself. The gods are waiting for me… I’m ready».

His doctor and friend takes him from under his arms: «Leontius, help me take him back to camp.»

«No!» Julian stops them. «I ask a last favour of you: take me to the Tigris’ shore.»

In the meanwhile, Maximus arrives, he is the spiritual guide of the emperor-philosopher: «He is inspired by Alexander the Great. He wants to throw himself in the river and let his corpse disappear among the waves. When his body has vanished forever, we will say he ascended to the Olympus on a fire chariot. Thus, we pagans will celebrate a new god: Julian!»

But a squad of soldiers blocks the access to the river: «Stop! We Christians won’t let this happen. No one dares, now or never, let the Apostate’s body disappear. We will forbid anyone to lie about him ascending to heaven».

Julian looks at the earth soaked with his blood and turns his eyes to the sky: «Helios, here I come!»

Friday, 16 July 2010

T oday’s terrible heat really does not make it a suitable day for flying, but none of them is: I am always afraid when I’m not the one driving, even if it was a little sleigh on a field of soft snow. In Dustin Hoffmann/ Rain Man ’s list, was Turkish Airlines among the companies that fall?

While I’m standing in the corridor of the plane, waiting for a couple of elderly people taking care of their bags, a steward arrives. He addresses the lady, who just sat: «Apologies, madam, you cannot sit there».

«It is my husband’s seat, but…»

«I left the window seat to my wife» says the man, in his seventies. «You know, she likes watching outside.»

«I understand, sir, but you must take that seat» the guy insists.

«And why is that?» asks the lady, who does not want to get up again.

«Because» explain politely the steward «that window is also an emergency exit and you would not be able to open it, in case of…»

«There is… that possibility?» I ask.

The steward answers to the elderly tourist: «Just in case… you would be able to force the door open, I don’t think that your wife could».

«Ah, just in case » I repeat, moving away from them, clearly preoccupied.

I sit down. I hide my mp3’s headphones with my hair, covering the ears (I am sure it does not make any sense to turn off electric equipment). An old song from Vecchioni covers the sounds of the most critical phase: take-off.

The landing in Ankara is smooth but, in any case, when I get off, I wish I could kiss the land, just as the pope did. The air is unbreathable, the tar of the airstrip is scorching. All airports are the same: same panels, same gates’ disposition. Will I find my suitcase or would it be lost somewhere around Saint Petersburg? Unbelievably my case is there and, at the second attempt, I catch the right one (suitcases too all look alike: I should attach a name tag sooner or later).

The queue at customs is slow; when my turn arrives, having done my PhD in Germany finally turns out useful: no one speaks Italian abroad.

« Sprechen Sie Deutsch? » I ask.

« Ja » answers the officer, bluntly.

I take my passport out of my man bag and give it to him. He carefully looks at the picture, then turns up his eyes to meet mine and looks at the picture again, finally he asks if I am Francesco Speri.

I nod. I actually don’t really look much like I did 5 years and 12 kilos ago.

The look on his face becomes suddenly serious.

« Können Sie mir folgen? » he says in a martial tone.

Surprised by his request to follow him, I ask, maybe a little unkindly, why. The customs officer insists relentless and I am forced to follow him.

We cross a long dark corridor, many doors on its sides, all closed: it looks like a gloomy ancient hospital, of those you only find now in little villages. With a sign of the hand, he invites me to get into the last room on the right: here a small man, standing on his military boots dictates something to another man, who is in turn busy typing on an ancient machine. Despite his height, the first man must be a major, a coronel, some big shot. With a half-smile under his black moustache, he shows me where to sit gripping with his fat hand onto the back of an uncomfortable wooden chair. This “bossy” then loudly starts arguing with the man who took me here; the third officer stops typing and joins the conversation, but they immediately shut him up. For the first time since when I left, I think about professor Barbarino, who is the actual reason of my trip: he insisted I should have learnt Turkish to come here digging with him. I always answered that I am not an archaeologist but an historian and that in order to dig archaeological sites, speaking is not required; for all the rest it sufficed that he could be able to speak with the authorities.

Anxiety takes over, while the minutes slowly go by. The officers are literally screaming now and I suppose they are talking about me: from time to time they point towards me with a slight movement of the head. I look around: a brownish wallpaper has been poorly glued to the white tiles. On the wall behind the general (I have upgraded him in the meanwhile: he seems to be the one in charge) hangs a huge painting of someone wearing a high officer uniform.

« Haben Sie verstanden? »

[How could I understand, if you only speak in this Anatolian western mountain lost dialect!]

They explain someone from the Italian embassy is on their way; I ask them why, but no one deems worthy responding. This “general” smiles a lot and talks very little: I don’t trust him instinctively!

The officer who took me here asks, or better orders me, to follow him again. On my way out I realise that probably the painting on the wall pictures the same younger general; after all men with moustache all look alike to me.

We walk back the same corridor up until a room that seems even gloomier: no bars, but still looking like a prison cell, probably because there are no windows or, mainly, due to the officer standing right on the door, as to block it with his body size.