I Am The Emperor. Stefano Conti

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).