Zeljko Prodanovic

Phoenician Myths

Prologue

The Secret of the Cranes Tear

It all began a long time ago.

When the Phoenicians built Byblos, the first town ever to be built, Baals gentle heart
swelled and he decided to give them an extraordinary gift. The first child to be born in
this town, he said, shall always be reborn! It happened and that child was I. I do not
remember exactly when it was, but if I replaced centuries with years, which seems quite
natural to me, I would now be sixty years old.
The Phoenicians considered my continuous rebirth as a natural thing. It was a gift from
their god and therefore they didnt envy me nor did they feel sorry for me. They named
me Phoenix, which meant the one who is always reborn, and some said that it could also
mean the travelling soul or the crying soul.
I spent my first life in Byblos and when I realized that my time was running out I went to
Baalbek, where, in the temple of gods tear, was my grave. From cedars branches,
incense and myrrh I made a pyre, and soon my body vanished in the fire and my soul
turned into a flock of cranes.
The priestess from the temple of gods tear gathered the remains of my body and buried
them beside the altar, and the cranes dropped a tear over Byblos, thus giving my soul
away to a newborn boy.
But when I was reborn I didnt know that I was Phoenix. I wandered the world and
thought that I was looking for happiness and some space under the sun, just like
everyone else. It was only when I came back to Baalbek that I realized who I was and
what my role in the universe was. I realized that I was Phoenix, the one who is always
reborn.
And so it was in every life I wandered the world, searching for something, only to
realize in the end that in all those years I was searching for my grave. But that is my fate
and I follow it bravely.
As the Phoenicians were the greatest sailors of the time they called themselves
Canaanites, which meant the ones who sail. However, during the course of time it
happened that the bedouins, as we called other peoples, began to call these passionate
sailors after me Phoenicians, the ones whose souls travel or the ones whose souls cry.
The Phoenicians were the most gifted people of the ancient world. They invented the
imagination, the wheel and the alphabet. They were the best builders and the greatest
sailors of their time. They were the first to realize that the earth is round and the first to

sail around it. And they never made war.

Unfortunately, they lived surrounded by the bedouins who didnt understand the
greatness of their exploits. They were alone in the cruel world and one could say they
lived in a wrong time; or more precisely, they lived out of time.
One day, when the Phoenicians role in the universe came to an end and they silently
sank into time, I suddenly realized that I was left alone. But what could I have done? I
could not, of course, sink along with them, nor could I become a bedouin.
However, I was lucky enough to discover the mysterious fate of the soul. One day, a flock
of cranes flew down onto the roof of the temple of gods tear in Baalbek and one of them
came to me and dropped a tear. I was stunned with surprise. Why did the cranes come
to the temple of gods tear? I asked myself. Why did the crane drop a tear and what is
this tear supposed to mean?
And then, in one shining moment, I discovered the secret of the cranes tear it was
somebodys soul! I was delighted. I realized that the great shining eye that sees
everything had chosen Baalbek as the home of the most beautiful souls. I realized that I
was not alone and that the beautiful and exciting story of the Phoenicians was to
continue.
What I have just begun is an exceptional undertaking I want to write Phoenician Myths.
When Baal gave Phoeni- cians the alphabet and told them to write the story of
themselves, they didnt understand him and sold the alphabet to the Greeks. That is why
they never wrote anything and remained an accidental and vague flash in the universe,
like a remote flash of lightning.
So, I want to do what should have been done so many centuries ago I want to outwit
death and stop time. But to do so I have to alter the whole of history, which, of course, is
not possible. History was written by the victors, the ones who so proudly used to say, We
came, we saw and we conquered! But if I should succeed
If I should succeed in doing that, it will be a just reward for all Phoenicians, the most
gifted and brave among people, the ones who by the flash of the mind and not of the
sword opened up new ways along which men had never gone before. It will also be a
reward for myself, brave and crazy in the infinite circle of time, a reward for all those
years of quest and longing, and for the torments in which I burnt.

The Rhapsodys First Part

The Princess with the Purple Voice

The Phoenicians believed that the source of everything was in the tear. One day, the

Great Architect of the Universe for reasons known only to him dropped a tear and out
of her the universe was created. Ever since then, in the glowing centre of the universe,
glitters the great shining eye that sees everything.
One day, when it cast a glance at the earth, cruelly lost in the universe, the great shining
eye dropped a tear. Out of this tear everything on earth was created: seas, rivers,
mountains, birds and monkeys. When the great eye saw rivers and monkeys roaming the
earth without aim, it felt sorry for them and dropped another tear. Out of her was created
Baal, the oldest of all gods.
The generous and wise Baal did many good deeds: he showed rivers the way to the sea,
taught birds how to sing and persuaded monkeys to become humans.
Afterwards, Baal wandered the world for a long time, looking for the most suitable place
to settle down. One day he came to the cedar forests of Lebanon and, surrounded by the
scent of the cedars and the sea, he realized it was the most beautiful place on earth and
decided to settle down there.
Many centuries later the Phoenicians arrived on the fertile shores at the foot of Lebanon.
When Baal saw how diligently they worked, how wisely they traded and how bravely they
sailed the seas, his gentle heart swelled and a tear dropped out of his eye. From this
tear, on a rock above the sea and at the foot of the cedar forests, arose Byblos, the first
town ever to be built.
The Phoenicians from Byblos believed that Baal had given them the most beautiful thing
in the universe the sun. Saddened because he couldnt give them eternity, Baal would
drop a tear every morning and behind the gentle cedar forests the sun would arise out of
her, in the most beautiful of all colours purple. That is why the Phoeni- cians on the
other side of Lebanon, where the sun arose, built a temple and gave it the name
Baalbek, the temple of gods tear.
Once a year, all the people from Byblos went to Baalbek to celebrate the biggest
Phoenician holiday, the week of debauchery. It was a festival of beauty, love and birth.
On the last day of the festival, they would choose the strongest young man and the most
beautiful girl and proclaim them king and queen of debauchery. The young man also had
to be the best flute player and the girl had to know how to sing beautifully.
The Phoenicians returned to Byblos the next day and continued to work, build and sail,
but the king and the queen of debauchery would stay in Baalbek for another year, to
wake Baal with songs and the sounds of flutes playing.
Delighted by the beauty of the singing Baal would shed a tear, which would drop into the
girls bosom and then turn into the sun. The young man would take it up onto his
shoulders and carry it to the top of Lebanon, and on the other side of the mountain, in
Byblos, a new day would begin.
The Phoenicians called the young man Alleluia (Baal-el-luia), which meant the one who
carries the sun or the one who brings the light, and the girl was called Astarta, the
beauty with a tear in her bosom.
One summer, a young man from Byblos was chosen as the king of debauchery and spent
a year in Baalbek. When the year was up, he sailed with his mistress to the
Peloponnesos, where he built a town and gave it the name Corinth.

The young man taught the Greeks crafts, trade and sailing, and like all Phoenicians, he
was a very gifted story-teller. Most often he talked about his stay in Baalbek and how he
used to carry the sun to the top of Lebanon every morning. In those days the Greeks
were very ignorant and didnt know what imagination was, so they didnt understand him
at all. They called him Sisyphus, the biggest of all liars.
Sisyphus lived a long and beautiful life. He was a wise and just king of Corinth, and when
his time under the sun ran out, he gave his soul over to the cranes. The Greeks, however,
later invented a strange story about Sisyphus, the most cunning mortal, who allegedly
competed with gods and defied them. Therefore, the gods condemned him to eternal
pains: he had to push a giant stone up to the top of a hill and when he finally reached the
top, the stone would roll down again, so that his efforts were fruitless.
As I said, the Greeks didnt understand Phoenicians at all. To the Phoenicians life was a
joy and every new day was a gift, deserved by nothing. The Greeks, on the other hand,
thought that life was not only hard but absurd as well.
And so, from the beautiful Phoenician story of Alleluia, the one who carries the sun, they
made up a myth about Sisyphus, the biggest of all liars, and about the absurdity of
pushing the stone up the hill. And fate, unfortunately, had played with my life in a similar
way.
One summer, I was lucky enough to be chosen as the king of debauchery and was named
Alleluia, the one who brings the light. My mistress was a girl of exceptional beauty with
a wonderful voice. The Phoenicians gave her the name Europa, which meant the princess
with the purple voice.
A year later we left Baalbek and sailed to the west, but misfortune befell us on the
voyage. The strong winds smashed our ship against a rock and my mistress Europa was
drowned. I returned to Byblos, but never recovered from the loss of my princess with the
purple voice.
And then, one day, the Phoenicians brought me miraculous news. In Phoenicia, there was
a belief that the soul of a girl drowned at sea turns into a birch. And some bedouins had
told them that on a hill, in a distant land, they had seen a birch singing with a purple
voice. As you may guess, I immediately went to seek her.
I wandered for years from harbour to harbour and from hill to hill, but I did not find the
birch with the purple voice. Yet beside every birch I came across, I erected a tombstone
with the name of my mistress on it. In the course of time it so happened that the
bedouins began to call all the lands I had travelled by one name Europa, that is, the
princess with the purple voice.
And in this I found at least some consolation for my misfortune.

The Beauty with a Tear in her Eye

If the Phoenicians considered my continual rebirth as a natural thing, didnt envy me

or feel sorry for me, it was not so with the bedouins from the surrounding countries. And
so, people from all four corners of the world began arriving in Baalbek with the desire to
discover the secret of eternal life.
Among the first to arrive were the bedouins from Egypt, emissaries of a pharaoh whose
name I cannot recall. They said they had heard of a man from Byblos with the
exceptional power to be reborn and that their ruler was asking the Phoenicians to reveal
to him the secret of eternal life.
The Phoenicians told them that it was true such a man existed, but from what they knew,
nobody else under the sun could outwit death and stop time, and suggested to the
Egyptians that they should go to the oracle of Baalbek.
It is true, said the prophetess whose name was Nefertiti, that is, the beauty with a tear
in her eye. Phoenix is the only man who is being reborn and nobody else can ask Baal
for the same gift. But I believe, she added, that we could also do something for your
ruler.
The Phoenicians, apparently, knew of the miraculous power of balsam (Baal-sam or the
suns tears), the fragrant resin obtained from trees on the slopes near Baalbek. They
discovered that the bodies of the dead, when sunken into balsam, would be preserved in
their shape for a long time. So will we, Nefertiti said, preserve the body of your ruler
forever.
And what about the soul? the Egyptians asked.
The body has to be stored in a coffin made from cedar wood, Nefertiti told them. And it
is then to be buried in a sepulchre built in the shape of a pyramid. By doing so you will
enable the soul to easily return to the body from which she escaped once she decides
to do so. The peak of the pyramid will be the best sign-post to her, she said and added,
It stands quite to reason that the higher the pyramid, the easier it will be for the soul to
find.
And so the Phoenicians by selling the secret of eternal life, the balsam and the cedars
made a fortune, and the Egyptians applied themselves to building an eternal home for
their pharaoh. And so the first of the great sepulchres of civilisation was built.
One of those who came to Baalbek in search for the secret of eternal life was Gilgamesh,
the famous king of Erech, whose exploits are described on the tablets from the Assurbaal-nipals library.
When my friend Enkidu died, Gilgamesh said to the prophetess, it was a frightful sight.
Poor Enkidu could no longer see the sun nor the moon, he could not hear the crickets
song nor could he speak. When I saw this, my heart trembled with sadness. Am I also
going to die some day like Enkidu? I thought. And would it not be terrible, my girl, if I,
the most powerful man under the sun, died and never saw the sun again?
It certainly would, the prophetess answered. That is why, Gilgamesh, you must go to
Byblos and ask the Phoenicians to take you, with their galleys, to an island at the end of
the world, where you will find a purple plant that has the power to give one eternal life.
And so Gilgamesh went to Byblos. There he took a galley and after several weeks of

sailing he reached the island at the end of the world, that is, the Ballearic islands (Baalel-yar or the horizon of the suns disc). There the Phoenicians gave him a stalk of sweet
basil, saying that it was the miraculous plant he was looking for. Its enough to smell it
only once, they said, and you will live forever. Gilgamesh gave them a handful of gold
and returned to Erech.
He spent the rest of his life convinced that he was immortal, so when Death knocked at
his door one morning, he was very surprised. Why are you staring at me so, Gilgamesh?
Death asked. Did you really believe that anyone else but Phoenix could outwit me? Come
with me, my boy, its time to caress my bosom.
Sad Gilgamesh went up to a hill near Erech and looked at the young sun. Oh sun, he
said, for whom will you now shine? And then, Death embraced him with her gentle arms.
One day pharaoh Amenhotep IV came to the oracle of Baalbek intending to discover the
secret of eternal life. He was fascinated with the beauty of the Phoenician cult dedicated
to Baals tear, but even more fascinated with the beauty of the prophetess with a tear in
her eye.
And when he realized that he could not get eternal life, he didnt despair but found a
reasonable solution: he asked the Phoenicians to give him the beautiful prophetess for a
wife. They agreed and so Nefertiti became an Egyptian queen.
The Egyptians welcomed the new queen with delight. They said that Egypt had never
seen such beauty. But the priests of the god Amon, the supreme Egyptian deity, did not
think so. They could not accept the fact that the priestess from a Phoenician temple had
become an Egyptian queen. And they began to conspire.
When the pharaoh learnt of this, he got furious with the priests. He ordered all the
temples dedicated to Egyptian gods to be destroyed and proclaimed the sun Baals tear
the only divinity. In the middle of Thebes he raised a huge temple and named it the
temple of the invincible sun-god, and he himself became the high priest of the temple.
Eventually, he renounced his own name and became Baal-Aton, the son of Baals tear.
So, it was out of immense love for Nefertiti that Amenhotep did what he did. When he,
one day, suddenly died (some say that he was poisoned), Amons priests came out of the
shadows and immediately took their revenge. And according to them, Nefertiti was to
blame for everything.
We will not expose the details of her death here, we will only say that she died in terrible
pains. But that was not all. So big was the hatred of Amons priests that they destroy- ed
every monument that bore her name, except for a beautiful statue made from alabaster.
They took the left eye out of the statue (Phoenicians believed that the prophetess wept
out of her left eye) and put the desecrated monument in the centre of Thebes as a
warning for future pharaohs. On the monument they engraved the inscription: the beauty
with no tear in her eye.
I dont know what happened to the soul of Amenhotep IV. As for Nefertiti, her soul went
back to Baalbek and turned into a palm tree. Since then, centuries have passed by, but
shes still standing on the hill above Baalbek, reminding travelers of the fate of the
beautiful prophetess with a tear in her eye.

Only sometimes, in the summer evenings, when the young wind descends from the cedar
forests, one can see her slender body trembling tenderly, and a tear dropping out of her
crown.

Thee Great Inventor

And now we shall learn how the alphabet was made.

According to one story, the alphabet was invented by no other than the Phoenician god
Baal. They say that Baal, day after day, looked upon the Phoenicians as they went about
bravely sailing the seas, wisely trading and building beautiful cities. And one day he said,
It would be a shame if such a nice people passed through time, leaving no trace behind
them. Therefore, I will give them the alphabet and let them write the story of
themselves, on the soft papyrus from Byblos.
But, as I said, this is only a story. The real truth is that the alphabet was invented by a
certain Elagabalus from Byblos, the same one who invented the imagination and the
wheel and stated that time was round.
One day Elagabalus (Ela-ga-Baal or the shadow of the suns disc) was sitting on the
shore, drawing peculiar signs in the sand. When the Phoenicians asked him what he was
doing, he replied that he wanted to make an alphabet.
I want to create a sign for every sound, he said. When I do that, we will be able to
move them around as we like and write in the sand any word. That way we will be able
to write the story of ourselves and leave a trail behind us. And so we will not remain an
accidental and vague flash in the universe, like a remote lightning.
Of course, the Phoenicians didnt understand him. But Elagabalus, they said, that would
mean that we want to outwit death and stop time. And who else but Phoenix has
succeeded in doing that? Eternal is only Baal and the sun that he has given us! Moreover,
Elagabalus, they added, even if we did write it all in the sand, wouldnt the sea wipe it
out overnight?
Oh, heavenly eye, Elagabalus thought, it is in vain that your shadow shines upon them!
However that may be, Elagabalus continued to draw in the sand and, after a certain time,
he invented the entire alphabet. But, as I said, the Phoenicians didnt know what they
would need it for and sold it to a Greek from Thebes.
One day I was lucky enough to meet this extraordinary man. I found him on a hill above
Byblos where he sat under a cypress tree, looking out to the sea.
First I invented imagination, he said. When they asked me what imagination was, I told
them it was the greatest of all gifts. We will now finally be able to escape reality, I said,
which is so boring and ugly. But they didnt understand me. Poor Elagabalus, they said,
keep dreaming, brother, and you will get nowhere!
Then I invented the wheel, he said and added, but it would have been better if I hadnt.

As you know, they sold it to the Hyksos, and these bedouins then made chariots and
harnessed their dreadful horses to them. And you saw what happened they swept
through Phoenicia like a storm!
And when, in the end, I invented the alphabet, they looked at me wonderingly again.
But Elagabalus, they said, if life is only a flash between two deaths, and we all know it
is, what do we need the alphabet for? And I dont need to tell you whats going to
happen. They will also sell the alphabet to some bedouins, who will then write stories
about their victories and our defeats, and in the end it will appear as though we were
bedouins.
When he realized that his role in the universe was coming to an end, Elagabalus turned
into a crane, the sacred Phoenician bird, and flew out to Crete. There he turned into
Aleph, the sacred Phoenician bull. More precisely, he was half man, half bull.
Tired of people and their stupidity, he wished to live in solitude. That is why he built a
miraculous garden, which had only one door, one room and numerous corridors.
At the entrance he placed the inscription Tan-ry-Baal, which meant the house of the
suns shadow. He wrote it in his own alphabet, from right to left. But the Cretans read
the inscription the wrong way, from left to right, thus changing the name of Elagabalus
garden to laabyrnat, which later became labyrinth. At that time Crete was ruled by King
Minos, and the Cretans, again by mistake, gave Elagabalus the name Minotaur, that is,
Minos bull.
And so, in the perfect silence of his house of the suns shadow or labyrinth, Elagabalus
spent 666 years. And then, having realized that day is nothing else but the child of night,
and that life and death are only the inside and the outside of the labyrinth, he drowned
himself in his own solitude.

Pythagoras Testament

One day the purple Phoenician galleys arrived at Rhodes and the Phoenicians told the
curious bedouins about their latest adventure. According to their story, some time ago
they set sail with the intention to discover what lay hidden south of Egypt, but the voyage
lasted much longer than they had expected.
Apparently, it took them two entire years to sail from the Egyptian port on the Red Sea to
Gibraltar (gir-Baal-tar or the guardian of Baals tear) on the other side of the
Mediterranean Sea. And when, after two years of sailing, they finally reached their
destination, the Phoenicians realized they had sailed around an immense and until then
unknown continent. They gave it the name Aleph-rik, that is, Alephs horn, which later
became Africa.
But, as I said, the Phoenicians also told them something very unusual. They said that at
one point, when they reached the end of Africa and began to sail to the west, to their big
surprise the sun remained on the right-hand side, in other words, in the north. This

sounded so strange to the bedouins from Rhodes that they could only shake their heads
and exclaim, Thats impossible!
If we sail from Rhodes to Corinth, they continued, the sun will always stay on our left, or
in the south. If we then keep sailing from Corinth to Syracuse, which, as we all know, is
farther to the west, the sun will again stay on our left and in the south. This is just
another Phoenician lie, they said, nothing else.
It probably would have remained just another Phoenician lie if the story had not reached
Pythagoras, the famous philosopher with the purple eyes. When the tyrant Polycrates
exiled him from his native Samos, Pythagoras took refuge in Croton, in southern Italy,
where he founded a school called the Semicircle of Pythagoras, in which he, among other
things, taught astronomy, geometry and music.
So, Pythagoras gathered his disciples and asked them how they would explain what the
Phoenicians had told the bedouins.
I think that the Phoenicians didnt lie at all, said one of disciples, a certain Empedocles
from Sicily. To me this is only a proof that the earth is much bigger than we think.
It happened, Calisthenes the cartographer added, that at one point during their voyage
the Phoenicians passed under the sun, and then sailed so far to the south that the sun
remained behind them. And when they then began to sail to the west, the sun as they
said was now on their right, or in the north.
But that would mean, Anaximander from Melos said, that the earth is round!
Exactly! Pythagoras cried. And, on the other hand, this is nothing else but proof for what
I am saying: that the universe is a geometrically ordered whole, or more precisely, an
infinite circle ruled by the harmony of the spheres.
When the Greek bedouins, who believed that the earth was flat, heard of Pythagorass
discovery, they laughed and said, Since the philosopher has proved that the Phoenicians have sailed around Africa, he could now undertake an even bigger venture. He
could sail with Phoenicians around the world and so prove that the earth is round!
However that may be, our friends from Croton continued to sail through the universe in
their search for truth. But soon after they set sail, Pythagoras had a very unusual
experience. One night he fell asleep under a cypress tree and awoke under a cedar.
Ha! Pythagoras exclaimed. But, how is this possible? And while he wonderingly looked
around, trying to comprehend what had happened, a flock of cranes emerged from the
cedars crown and flew to the south.
He immediately gathered his disciples and told them what had happened.
There is no doubt, he said, that observing the universe is a very exciting task but, as I
said, a dangerous one as well. Let me just remind you of what happened to our friend
Thales from Miletus, who watched the stars so much that he didnt see where he was
walking, and fell in a well. Therefore I would suggest, he added, that we stay on earth
for some time and try to discover the mysterious fate of the soul. So, how shall we
explain what happened to me?
As far as I know, Empedocles offered, cedars grow in Phoenicia, on the slopes of
Lebanon.
And I heard the Phoenicians say, Calisthenes added, that souls fly like cranes.

Does that mean, Pythagoras said, that my soul came from Phoenicia?
Its quite possible, said Anaximander. Phoenicians say that souls fly to Baalbek, a town
at the spring of two rivers Leontes and Orontes and at the foot of the cedar forests of
Lebanon.
Very interesting, Pythagoras mused. He then decided to go to the port of Croton and
wait for Phoenician galleys. When the Phoenicians arrived, he questioned them about the
souls mysterious journey to Baalbek.
Baalbek is the centre of the world, the Phoenicians told him. And for that reason the
great all-seeing eye chose Baalbek as the home of the most beautiful souls. But, as we
said, we are only ordinary mortals and dont know much about these things.
If you are lucky enough and your soul goes to Baalbek, there you will meet a certain
Baalzebub, the famous satyr from Phoenicia. He is the lord of the shades and the only
one under the sun who can talk with both the living and the dead. He will then reveal to
you the mysterious fate of the soul.
Thats interesting, Pythagoras said. But how can I be sure that my soul will go to
Baalbek?
And how can you be sure that you will wake up tomorrow, philosopher? the Phoenicians
retorted. If you, as you say, one night fell asleep under a cypress tree and the next
morning awoke under a cedar, this seems to us as quite a reliable sign that your soul is
from Phoenicia.
And if you need yet another proof, then, as we said, you will have to wait a bit longer. It
will come only once you have parted with your soul.
What do you mean? Pythagoras asked.
When you die, philosopher.
And so years passed, but Pythagoras unfortunately never managed to discover the
mysterious connection between the cedar from Croton and the cedar forests from
Phoenicia.
And when he realized, one day, that his time under the sun was running out, he took a
piece of parchment and wrote on it:
On this parchment Pythagoras of Samos leaves the message for the generations to
come. That he, out of his immense love for truth and wisdom, had found answers to
many questions from different fields of knowledge, especially in those of astronomy,
geometry and music. But that he, unfortunately, couldnt find the answers to two
questions: he couldnt calculate the circumference of the universe and didnt manage to
discover the mysterious fate of the soul.
When he died his disciples Empedocles, Calisthenes and Anaximander witnessed, with
their own eyes, cranes with Pythagoras soul in their beaks fly out to Baalbek, to the
spring of the two rivers and to the cedar forests of Phoenicia.
The Greeks later invented a story that Pythagoras had a golden hoof and a silver horn,
and that he was able to sojourn in two places at the same time. And that he, allegedly,
for 666 drachmas, sold his soul to a satyr from Phoenicia by the name of Baalzebub, who
as the story goes roams the world as a vagabond and buys the cheap souls of
unhappy rhapsodes and crazy philosophers.

And we shall later see that all this was utter nonsense.

The Conqueror of the Knot and the Tortoise

While Alexander the Great was preparing for the war against Persia, he heard some
unusual news: the Phrygian king Gordius was boasting that he had tied a knot that
nobody could untie. And the prophecy said that only he who loosened the knot would
become the ruler of Asia.
And Alexander hurried on to Phrygia.
I admire your skill, Gordius, he said. Youve entangled it quite nicely, there is no doubt.
But do we Macedonians not say that a hundred wise men cannot untie what one fool has
entangled! and with a lightning blow of his sword he cut the knot. So Gordius!
Alexander added. Now you can tie another knot and I am going to take what the
prophecy so generously gave to me Asia.
On the way through Phoenicia Alexander decided to pay a visit to the oracle of Baalbek
and see the famous prophetess Nefertiti, the beauty with a tear in her eye. His general
Seleucus tried to dissuade him from doing this, saying that, having cut Gordius knot, he
had already opened the doors to Asia, but Alexander was persistent.
But, Seleucus, he said, Gordius only promised me Asia, and I want to have the whole
world! Besides, I want to see the beautiful prophetess with a tear in her eye, he added
and went to Baalbek.
As far as I can see, Alexander, the prophetess said, fortune will favour you for the most
part of the way. You will conquer many lands, from Egypt in the west up to the big river
in the east, which is, by the way, the end of the world. In short, the world will tremble
under your feet.
Thats exactly what I wanted to hear! Alexander thought.
But, she went on, I also see a dangerous sign. At one point the way is suddenly
interrupted.
What do you mean? Alexander asked.
I will tell you only this, the prophetess replied. I see an old man carrying his house on
his back, like a tortoise does. And your fate is in a mysterious way connected with his
fate. Therefore, when you meet him and you will meet him, dont doubt at all! dont
scorn or humiliate him. And one more thing: dont realize all this too late!
Alexander laughed. Dont worry, my beauty, he said. I will certainly beware of the
mysterious old man who carries his house on his back, like a tortoise. Then he left. What
a pity! he thought while leaving Baalbek. How pretty she is, but what nonsense she
talks!
Alexander spent the next few years realizing his big goal conquering the world. First he
conquered Egypt and in the sacred oasis on the Nile the Egyptian priests proclaimed him

pharaoh and son of the god Amon. Then he went to Babylon and ordered that the
Hanging Gardens be rebuilt. Through Persia he swept like a storm and declared himself
the king of kings. Finally, he came to the big river in the east, which, he thought, was the
end of the world. Then he went back home.
When he arrived in Greece, the Greeks welcomed him as the greatest conqueror and the
indisputable master of the world. They proclaimed him son of Zeus and Poseidon.
But one man took a different view of Alexander. He called him the conqueror of the knot
and Asian fog. It was Diogenes, the famed philosopher-cynic from Sinope. That same
Diogenes who lived in a tub and stated that wisdom was frail but power even more so.
And Alexander, of course, went to see him.
I know, Diogenes, Alexander began, that you cynics despise us ordinary mortals. But
yet you could leave your tub for a while, at least to let the sun shine on you.
Diogenes laughed. But even if I got out, Alexander, he said, what good would that do,
when you are so great that you shield the entire sun.
Youve put it nicely, Diogenes, Alexander said. But Ive heard that you call me the
conqueror of the knot and Asian fog. What do you mean by that?
Its a metaphor, Alexander, Diogenes replied.
A metaphor! Alexander shouted. To you its a metaphor! Do you, philosopher, know that
I did what nobody has ever done I conquered the world! In Egypt I became pharaoh
and son of the god Amon. In Persia I was crowned king of kings and here they call me the
son of Zeus and Poseidon! And to you I am the conqueror of the knot and Asian fog. And
yet you call it a metaphor!
But Alexander Diogenes said.
Listen to me, philosopher! Alexander interrupted him. Do you want me to pierce your
tub with my spear, like a melon? Or do you want me to go up to the Acropolis and pierce
your heart from there with my golden arrow! Tell me, which do you prefer?
They looked at each other for a while, then Alexander turned around and left. When I
return to Athens, he told his general Seleucus, I dont want to see that lunatic here any
more!
A few days later Alexander left Athens and went to tour his empire. He made a stop in
Babylon and ordered that girls be brought to him and the old wine from Phoenicia. At
last, I can have some fun, he thought, and start living as it befits me as the king of
kings and the most powerful man under the sun!
Soon, Seleucus arrived with tidings from Athens. Whats the news? Alexander asked.
Everything is in perfect order, sir, Seleucus answered. You wont see the lunatic from
Sinope ever again.
What happened to him?
Oh sir, Seleucus said, you should have seen it. When we came to take him with us, he
refused to leave his tub. This is my house, he said and burdened it upon his shoulders,
and carried it so, on his back, as a tortoise carries its house. We later threw his tub into
the sea and him we sold to a tyrant from Corinth. But, only a few days later, he died.
Youve done it well, Seleucus, Alexander said, very well.
Seleucus then left, and the face of the pretty prophetess from Baalbek began to hover

before Alexanders eyes. He heard her whisper to him, When you meet an old man
carrying his house on his back, like a tortoise, dont scorn or humiliate him And dont
realize this too late!
He tried to understand what had gone wrong. He tried to discover the invisible thread,
which, in a mysterious way, connected his fate with the fate of the strange philosopher
from Sinope. For six days he sat in the splendid rooms of the Hanging Gardens, drinking
the old wine from Phoenicia and thinking it over But the answer he couldnt find.
And at dawn of the seventh day, his motionless body was found beside the statue of the
immortal god Zeus.
Thus, the same summer in the year 323 of the ancient era, the great philosopher
Diogenes from Sinope and the great conqueror Alexander from Macedonia died. As far as
I remember, Diogenes soul went to Baalbek and turned into a cypress tree, and what
became of Alexanders soul, I dont know.
After all, we are not dealing with the souls of ordinary mortals here.

Hannibal ante Portas

Here, Gargamel, is how it all began

One day the Romans arrived in Sicily and captured the Phoenician city of Messina. When
the Carthaginians asked them why they did it, the Romans told them that the Phoenicians
from Messina allegedly raped some girls from Neapolis and so they came to Sicily and out
of revenge sacked Messina. The Carthaginians accepted this as a reasonable explanation.
But shortly after that, the Romans sacked another Phoenician town, then another. Then
they began to intercept our galleys and in the end they began calling the great
Mediterranean Sea that, as you know, belongs to all of us Mare Nostrum or our sea.
And the prophetess from Baalbek sent us the message: Get ready, Carthaginians! Your
enemy, the beast with the wolfs eyes, is tightening a noose around your neck. And it
would be wise to cut it on time!
The Carthaginians realized that things had become very serious, so they decided to build
an army. A certain Anaxagoras, a descendant of the famous general Ptolemy, who with
Alexander the Great conquered Persia and Egypt, was brought in from Alexandria and he
began teaching Carthaginians the art of war. At that time I was nine years old.
One day Anaxagoras gave me a spear and said, Play with this until you learn to kill a
flying falcon with it! He then gave me a sabre and said, Dont leave it until you learn
how to cut the enemies heads as if they were sunflower stalks. If you want to surpass
Alexander the Great and we all know that a greater warrior never lived then you will
have to learn all this and much more.
And when my father Hamilcar was killed in a battle against the Spanish bedouins, I took
the lead of the Carthaginian army. I was twenty-five years old.

One day the Romans crossed the river Ebro and captured our city of Alcanar. I did not
hesitate much. I ordered my soldiers to take Alcanar back and throw the Romans into the
river. They did so and the Romans could barely wait for it: they immediately declared war
on us.
I must say that I took all this very calmly. I was young and did not know what fear was.
So, I mounted my elephant and with sixty thousand mercenaries and sixty elephants first
crossed the Pyrenees and, a few months later, the Alps as well. In the spring of the
following year, the famed general Cornelius Scipio waited for me at Trebia. He claimed
that I would end up like the Persians at Marathon but, as you know, he was terribly
wrong. I defeated him utterly and he barely managed to escape alive.
In autumn of the same year, at Lake Trasimene, Gaius Flaminius appeared before my
elephants, but it would have been better for both him and the Romans if he had not. The
Romans suffered another crushing defeat and Flaminius, in an attempt to run away,
drowned in the lake.
And the next year, in the great battle at Canae, I won a brilliant victory. Fifty thousand
Romans burnt in the flash of my sword, and a few days later at the head of my army
and on the back of my elephant I emerged on the hill beside the Tiber. And so,
Gargamel, after twenty years, I finally arrived in Rome.
Oh, oh! exclaimed the Bithynian king Gargamel. And what did you do then, Hannibal?
Of course, I could have done whatever I wanted. At the same moment I could have
descended to Rome and levelled her to the ground, as the Romans had done with our
cities. I could have gone to the senate and told those hawks why I had come. I would
have told them, Well, Romans I was a child when I left Carthage and I have not seen
her for twenty years. For twenty years I roamed the Spanish forests and chased the
bedouins like hares. I learnt how to cut mens heads like sunflower stalks and I am safer
on an elephants back than in a womans arms. And do you know why?
Because you are mean and think that everything under the sun should be solved by force
and meanness. Because nothing is sacred to you and because you have nothing else to
do but plunder our cities and kill our children. And yet you think that you are better and
stronger than others! But what now, Romans?
Or should I wait a bit longer, I thought, and let them tremble before me, like birch trees
in the young wind? I remained on the hill above the Tiber for some time, watching the
eternal city disappear in the gentle dusk, then I ordered that the tents be pitched and the
fires lit.
One day, I went to see the prisoners from the battle of Canae and among them I came
across a young man with a book in his hands. At first I looked at him, surprised, then
asked him what he was reading.
History, he replied, by Herodotus from Halicarnassus.
Interesting, I said, then added, And what does Herodo- tus say?
Herodotus is the father of history, sir, the young man answered. And in this book he
describes the dramatic clash between Greeks and Persians, or if you like, between Europe
and Asia. Here is, for example, what the great Greek says at the beginning of his book:

Here Herodotus from Halicarnassus displays his investigations, so that the achievements
of men do not remain forgotten in time and that the great and glorious deeds of both
Greeks and barbarians do not remain without glory. And especially to show why the two
peoples fought against each other.
And what does Herodotus say, young man? I said. Why did the two peoples fight against
each other?
Its a long story, sir, the young man answered. It all began a long, long time ago. One
day the Phoenicians raped some girls from Lesbos, but the Greeks, unfortunately, could
do nothing about it, because they did not know where the Phoenicians had gone. It then
was repeated on Rhodes and other islands as well.
When he saw that the Phoenicians were getting away with this, the Trojan prince Paris
went to Greece and stole the beautiful Helen, the wife of the Spartan king Menelaus. This
time, however, the Greeks knew were the girl was taken, so they raised an army and set
off for Troy. And this is how the glorious war between the Greeks and the Trojans began,
the war that Homer from Lydia described in such a moving way. As I said, the war lasted
ten years. Eventually, the Greeks cunningly and with the favour of gods defeated Trojans,
and then razed Troy to the ground.
And several centuries later the Phoenicians arrived in Greece again probably with the
intention to rape some more girls but this time the Greeks managed to intercept them
and sink their galleys. And the Persians, who disliked the Greeks, could hardly wait for it.
They raised an army and under the excuse of protecting the Phoenicians, set off to
Greece. And so began this famous war, which Herodotus, in his History, depicted in such
an exciting way.
Interesting, I said. But if I understood you well, young man, the Phoenicians were to
blame for both wars.
Unfortunately, sir, thats true.
And who is to blame for this war? I asked.
Which war? the young man said.
The one you and I are involved in, or if you like, the war between Carthage and Rome.
As far as I know, sir, it all began when the Phoenicians from Messina raped some girls
from Neapolis.
So, the Phoenicians are to blame again.
It appears so, sir. You know, the interesting feature of history is that it repeats itself!
Very interesting, young man, I said. But tell me, since I see that you know about these
things, what is, actually, history?
And without wasting a second, he answered, History, sir, is what you are doing right now
right now, you are writing history.
I smiled and said, What do you mean?
History, sir, is written by victors, the young man an- swered. And you have defeated us
I must say in a brilliant way. And when, soon, you descend to Rome and raze her to
the ground, as the Greeks did in Troy, you will write the last page of the glorious history
of this city. You will then return home and Carthaginians will welcome you as a great
general, who, in a victorious campaign, wiped off the face of earth one of the most

beautiful cities in the world. And you will talk about your exploits and enjoy the fame,
which I must say quite deservedly belongs to you.
So, thats history, sir, the young man added, the story about victories and defeats. He
who survives tells the story, and thats all. There is no wisdom in it or mercy.
I smiled again and the young man, confused, looked at me and said, Are you going to kill
me, sir?
I dont know, young man, I said, we shall see
And you ask me, Gargamel, what did I do. I ordered that the prisoners be released, then
went on the hill beside the Tiber and looked once again at the marble city that lay before
me. Well, Romans, I said, I will give you one more life. And you be careful how you
spend it!
And then I ordered a retreat.
We should, perhaps, end the story of Hannibal here. We should leave what happened
later in the darkness of the centuries long gone, we should not open the old wounds nor
disturb the souls of those who burnt in the infinite circle of time. For what happened later
is not a story, but life itself. More precisely, an unceasing and brutal struggle between life
and death, or if you like, between good and evil.
So, Hannibal (han-Baal or the singing tear) returned to Carthage, which he had not seen
for more than twenty years. Weary of the world and its glorious history, he went to a hill
beside Carthage and began to cultivate his garden. He grew fig and orange trees and, as
time went on, slowly forgot both Rome and the Romans. It seemed that the Romans had
forgotten about him as well.
I say it seemed For one day (Hannibal had already been in Baalbek a long time) the
influential Roman senator Marcus Porcius Cato, better known as the Censor, arrived in
Carthage. Many years ago, he had been among the prisoners from the battle of Canae.
Although it is quite possible, I cant reliably say that he was the young man with
Herodotus History in his hands.
I dont know why the Censor came to Carthage, how long he stayed there, or what he
saw, but here is what he did when he returned to Rome: he immediately went to the
senate and declared, Carthage must be destroyed!
When the surprised senators asked him what he was talking about, he briefly said, A new
Hannibal is rising in Carthage. And now you tell me: Do you want to sit here and wait for
him to arrive again at the gates of Rome and say, What now Romans? Do you want to
tremble before him again like birch trees in the young wind or are you going to do
something to prevent it? So, I repeat Carthage must be destroyed!
And indeed, in a matter of days the Romans raised a huge army and set off for Carthage.
At the head of the army was Aemilianus Scipio, grandson of the same Cornelius Scipio,
whom Hannibal had defeated in the battle of Trebia, many years ago.
So one morning the Roman galleys arrived at the port of Carthage, and before the
Carthaginians could realize what was going on, the Romans had already burst through
the gates of the city. And what did they do? As you may have guessed they killed all
the Carthaginians and set the city on fire.

And while the purple flames were cutting up the gentle Carthaginian sky, Marcus Porcius
Cato and Aemilianus Scipio stood on a hill watching this frightful sight. And when, in the
dusk of the sunny day, the last flame faded away, the Censor quietly smiled. Thats how
you do it, Scipio, he said. You come, you see and you burn it! There is no wisdom in it or
mercy.
This was oh, heavenly eye the story of a city and its people. Of Carthage and
Carthaginians, who, in their innocence, allowed the weak and wicked to not only surpass
and defeat them, but to erase them from the face of earth. Glory to those who burnt in
the infinite circle of time. Eternal is only Baal and the sun that he has given us!

The Stoic, the Consul and the Harp Player

This is a story about the complexity of dramatic circumstances that interlaced the fate
of a Phoenician with the fates of two lunatics. Although one could say that this is only the
Roman version of the Greek story of Alexander the Great and Diogenes, we will tell it
nevertheless.
One day a young man wrapped in a purple toga arrived at the oracle of Baalbek and
asked for the prophetess with a tear in her eye. I am Gaius Julius Caligula, the young
man said, the new Roman emperor. And you, my beauty, must certainly know why I have
come I want you to reveal to me the secret of eternal life.
My emperor, the prophetess said, only Phoenix has the power to be reborn.
Why only him? the young man asked.
Because Baal, the oldest of all gods, wanted it to be so.
You mean Bacchus? the young man said.
Yes, emperor, Bacchus.
Of course, Nefertiti knew that it was a misunderstanding. She was referring to Baal, the
Phoenician sun god, and the young man was talking about Bacchus, one of the lesser
Roman gods, whose feasts, so called Bacchanalia, had been forbidden in Rome for a
number of centuries. But why should she argue with the crazy young man, to whom the
great shining eye so incautiously assigned the role of Roman emperor.
So, its very simple, emperor, Nefertiti said. All you have to do is proclaim the god of
love and wine, Bacchus, the supreme deity.
And then Ill live forever? the young man asked.
Yes, Nefertiti replied. Bacchus will then, out of gratitude, give you eternal life.
When he arrived in Rome, Caligula to the amazement of the Romans erected a statue
of Bacchus in the middle of the Pantheon and proclaimed Bacchanalia the supreme
holiday. There is no other god but Bacchus, he said, and I am his messenger! On one of
Romes hills he built a temple dedicated to the unsurpassed god of debauchery and
asked Romans to send their most beautiful daughters to his temple.
When he heard one day that the Romans were angry with him, Caligula was very

surprised. But wouldnt it be a sin, he said, to let such beautiful girls fade in solitude,
instead of bearing children to the most divine man?
Thus Caligula did follies in Rome and the Romans kept silent, shaking their heads in
disbelief. The only one who dared to speak up was Seneca, the famous philosopher-stoic
from Cordoba. When he was asked, one day, what he thought of the young emperor, his
answer was brief, Fortunate is he who goes mad early on
And soon Caligula amazed the Romans again.
Im not happy at all with whats happening in Antioch, he said. So, I have decided to
appoint a new consul my horse. Ive already sent him to Antioch and told him, once he
gets there, to kick that donkey of a consul, Flavius, in the middle of the forehead and kill
him on the spot! And then he may quietly rule in the beautiful city of Antioch!
The Romans were silent again, managing only to shake their heads in wonder. Only our
Seneca spoke. He said, Like emperor like consul!
When Senecas words reached Caligula, he became enraged. Where is that scoundrel of a
stoic? he shouted. Ill strangle him with my own hands!
Caligula would certainly have done it and our story would end here had the news not
arrived in Rome that at the gates of Antioch Marco Flavius had killed Caligulas horse.
Instead of confronting Seneca, Caligula hurried to the senate. He did not know, however,
that his time under the sun had run out. By the order of the senate, the prefect of the
praetorian guard waited there for him, and killed him on the spot.
And so, by the complexity of dramatic circumstances, our Seneca saved his skin. Soon,
however, he had to leave Rome. Caligulas successor, Claudius, banished him from the
city just in case and he took refuge in Phoenicia.
Seneca spent ten years in Phoenicia, writing plays and fishing. And then, to his big
surprise, an invitation came from Rome. He was asked to introduce the young Nero
Ahenobarbus to the secrets of stoicism and prepare him for the dangerous vocation of
Roman emperor. So, Seneca slung the gentle Phoenician soul over his shoulder and went
to Rome.
In the centre of the universe shines the great all-seeing eye, Seneca said, that rules the
universe and, thus, our brittle lives as well. If it is so and we all know it is then any
fear is unnecessary. So, what would you do, Nero, if by accident Rome was to catch on
fire?
I would run to quench it, Nero replied.
Oh, Nero Seneca sighed. Does it befit the Roman emperor to run about Rome with a
bucket in his hands, quenching fires?
Nero only blinked his eyes.
Stoicism is an art, Nero, the philosopher continued, and you, as far as I know, want to
be an artist, above all.
Oh yes, Seneca! Nero shouted. Above all, I would love to be a virtuoso, the best harpist
in the world!
Very good, Seneca replied. Can you imagine this picture then: Rome is burning in a
terrific fire and you are standing on a hill and, with perfect peace of mind, you watch the
frightful sight. And in addition to everything, you find the strength to play, like the

greatest virtuoso under the sun, your favourite aria. Can you imagine that picture?
I can! Nero said and added that a more beautiful example of stoicism certainly did not
exist.
Yet it does, Seneca said. The story of the fire serves as an example for one of the
biggest virtues of a stoic, and it is to look life straight in the eyes. But what would you
do, Nero, if by accident you were to find yourself in a hopeless situation?
What do you mean? Nero asked.
If you, for example, were forced to look death in the eyes.
I dont know, Nero said and blinked his eyes.
Here is, Seneca continued, what our teacher Zeno did when the great shining eye
brought him in a hopeless situation. He looked at the sun and whispered, Good-bye!
then took his own life!
But Nero quickly got bored with both Seneca and stoicism and decided to take matters
into his own hands. First, he poisoned Claudius and proclaimed himself emperor. Then he
poisoned Claudius son Britannicus as well, so preventing the possibility that some day
this one should poison him.
When he decided to divorce his wife Octavia, his mother Agrippina opposed it, and he
ordered, without hesitation, that she be put to death. Then he got rid of Octavia also (she
was thrown in a well), and married the beautiful patrician Sabina. And so on, and so
forth
Nero then decided to build a palace the world had not seen yet. It will be bigger than
Cheops pyramid! he said. Of course, the senate did not agree, for to make room for such
an immense building, half of Rome would have to be destroyed.
Years passed, and then, one day, the senate was debating whether they should plant
orange or olive trees in the Ebro valley, in Spain, and whether Marco Flavius was a good
consul for Antioch.
Just look at those lunatics! Nero thought. What they talk about! Now, suddenly, its so
important to decide whether olive or orange trees should be planted by the Ebro and who
will be the consul in Antioch. And for my palace, there is still no room!
Then he remembered Seneca and stoicism.
That same moment he left the senate and went to his villa. From there he ordered that
Rome be immediately and without delay! set on fire, and he took his harp and went
into the garden. And bring Seneca to me! he said.
When Seneca arrived, fires were burning with full force all over Rome, and Nero was
playing the harp calmly and with dignity like a true stoic, he thought.
Look, Seneca! Nero said with a radiant smile on his face. Rome is burning in a terrific
fire and I am sitting here, in my garden, playing the harp!
Blessed be he, Seneca said, who managed to surpass his master and in such a
magnificent way manifest the virtues of a great stoic. He then turned around and left.
He went to the senate and told the senators what he had seen. They decided to bring
the comedy to an end and get rid of this lunatic, once and for all. But Nero uncovered
their plot and did what one could have expected. He ordered that the conspirators be put
to death and for his former master he had a special punishment suicide.

Well, master Nero said. Youve seen with your own eyes that the first part of the story
of stoicism I mastered brilliantly. But the part about Zeno and the biggest of all virtues I
didnt understand quite so well. And I thought that you could show me, with your own
example, what it looks like when a stoic encounters death and looks her straight in the
eyes, he said and handed him the shiny Syrian sword.
Seneca smiled. He wanted to tell him something, but what was the use? He had already
told him everything, and still this fool understood nothing.
Great spring, Seneca whispered, Baals tear shining on my face for the last time, goodbye! And then he thrust the shiny Syrian sword into his gentle heart.
Our story of Seneca ends here, and as for the crazy Nero, he ordered that the building of
his palace be started and then went to Greece, to the Olympic games and theatres. When
he returned to Rome, he was greeted by the news that the senate had condemned him to
death.
When he somehow realized that this was not a joke, he attempted to flee Rome, but
soon learned that all the gates were closed. Making the use of his affection for the
theatre, he disguised himself as a vagrant and went into hiding in the back streets of
southern Rome.
When he was finally caught, he told the prefect of the praetorian guard the same one
that had killed his uncle Caligula to tell those scoundrels from the senate, that they
have no idea what a virtuoso and a stoic the world is losing!
And then, imitating a great actor, he commanded his guard, Kill me centurion!

The Last Psalm

Some time ago, I visited my old friend Lucian of Syria and asked him to write for our
chronicle of Phoenicians a few words about himself. First he refused, saying that in
Baalbek there were many people more interesting than him, but in the end he agreed.
So, here is what he wrote
My name is, or more precisely my name was, Aranzabal ha-Nophri, and I come from
the famous city of Samosata in Syria. My name (Aran-za-Baal or the guardian of the first
rhyme) can even today be found in Phoenician descendants from the Basque Country,
and my ancestors were Orpheus, the greatest poet of Phoenicia, and Nephertari, the one
for whom the sun rises. Otherwise, the students of the ancient literature know me by the
name of Lucian.
As for my life, I have nothing to say in particular, except perhaps for the banal fact that it
lasted 66 years and that I devoted it to the most beautiful of all illusions literature.
After all, the most interesting things in my life happened only after my death.
So, in short I spent my childhood in native Samosata, on the banks of the Euphrates,

and my youth in Asia Minor, wandering Greek cities as a rhapsode. I was forty years old
when, tired of wandering, I decided to settle somewhere and start doing something
pleasant and useful. So, I went to Athens and devoted myself to the most beautiful of all
trades writing.
I wrote some sixty books and I can say that all of them were written with my own blood
and with the greatest of all goals to change the world with a quill. But, as I said, it was
all a long time ago and I dont remember my books any more. After all, the subject of this
story is something quite different: the book that I am writing right now the Last Psalm.
When I realized that my time under the sun was running out, I went to Alexandria and,
like the famous Apollonius of Rhodes, found refuge in the most sacred of all temples the
Alexandrian library. And while I waited for death, surrounded by books and with perfect
peace of mind, Baalzebub, the famous satyr from Phoenicia, who had the power to travel
through time, came one day to Alexandria. And what did he tell me?
Believe or not, he told me that the Christians would, in two centuries time, burn the
Alexandrian library to the ground! At first I laughed, then realized that this was quite
possible. I remembered that the Romans had already done it, about two centuries earlier.
But thats not all, the satyr added. Of course, the library will be rebuilt, but several
centuries later the Prophets robbers will burn it again.
And while I was listening to him in disbelief, the satyr as- ked me to come to Baalbek
after my death and set up a new library there. As you may have guessed, I accepted and
when my time ran out, I moved to Baalbek. And when my Greek friends heard of this,
they gave me out of envy, of course the nickname satirist, that is, the one who sold
his soul to the satyr.
So, I spent the next two centuries in the library of Baalbek, copying the books from the
Alexandrian library which, by the way, had been brought by the satyr trying to save
what still could be saved. Then, in the year 391, along with the books, the satyr brought
me the news that by the order of emperor Theodosius, the patriarch of Alexandria and his
Christian hordes had really burnt the famous library!
Fortunately, the satyr had already brought to Baalbek most of the books, and I kept
copying them in peace till the year 641. Then, something terrible happened. The
bedouins from Mecca or the Prophet's robbers as the satyr used to call them first
burnt the library of Alexand- ria, and then came to Baalbek and burnt my library as well!
Of course, I was astounded. But what could I have done?
It was then that I cast doubts on the purpose of my undertaking and literature in
general for the first time. This is folly! I thought to myself. Have all those books been
written by some, only to be burnt by others? People are fools, I said, and let them
remain fools!
I went to Last Chance, the famous tavern in Baalbek, and found company among the
bohemians and the old wine from Phoenicia. Soon after that, the satyr built a new library
and tried to persuade me to return to my work copying the books but it was all in
vain. I did not leave Last Chance for the next ten centuries.
And then, in the spring of 1614, Domenikos Theotocopulos better known as El Greco,
the famous Greek from Toledo, arrived in Baalbek. And, to the amazement of all, he said

that he wanted to paint a painting which would comprise all other paintings. As you can
imagine, everybody laughed. I realized, however, that the Greek was absolutely right. If I
wanted to protect from fools the beauty and the wisdom of countless books, I had to do
exactly that: to write a book that would comprise all other books!
As you may have thought, I left the wine and my friends from Last Chance, took refuge in
the silence of the satyrs library and began writing the Last Psalm. Since then, almost four
centuries have gone by, and I am still sitting in the library in Baalbek, writing.
Unfortunately, El Greco quickly understood the absurdity of his idea and gave up. As for
me
As for me, of course, I have no intention of giving up, whatsoever. As I said, the book will
have 666 pages. So far, I have written six.

The Tale of a Singer

One day I sat in front of the temple of gods tear in Baalbek, listening to the crickets
singing joyfully in the crown of the cypress tree, when a young man came along riding on
a two-humped Bactrian camel, a balalaika slung over his shoulder. As he came closer he
smiled at me innocently, then got off the camel and sat down beside me. And as if we
had known each other for years, I would even say for centuries, the young man sadly
sighed and began to talk.
Dear friend, he said, after all that has happened to me, I cant tell you for certain
whether what I am going to tell you has really happened. More precisely, whether it
happened to me or to some other man who lived instead of me. In other words, I dont
even know whether I have lived at all.
So, if I have existed or if I still exist, then my name is Ashug-Kerrib and I come from
Samarkand. And my sufferings began the day I met Alma.
Alma (Baal-ma or the crying tear) was and you can take my word for it the most
beautiful girl under the sun and I was the best poet in Samarkand. As you may guess,
love flamed my heart and warmed my soul.
But then shocking news came to me Alma got married!
She went to Cordoba, they told me, and there she became the sixth wife of caliph alGizah. At that moment it seemed as if I saw death itself, but I quickly pulled myself
together and made a salutary decision: I left Samarkand and, firmly decided, set out to
Cordoba. I had no foreboding, however, how long and troubled this journey would be.
First, I arrived in Shiraz where I met the famous poet and astronomer Khayyam and told
him about the misfortune that had befallen me. He listened to me attentively, and when I
finished, here is what he told me.
As far as I know, Khayyam said, the distance between two stars is smaller than the
distance between two hearts. So, your sufferings are in vain. But since Alma, as you say,

is so beautiful, then you, Ashug-Kerrib, can with good reason be proud of the beauty of
your sufferings, worthy of the best poet from Samarkand.
I took Khayyams words as comfort, then left Shiraz. I went to Palestine with the
intention to embark a ship that would take me to Cordoba, but soon a new misfortune
befell me. Apparently, the Christians and Saracens were fighting over their holy land, but
I didnt know that.
As soon as I arrived in Gaza some brigands intercepted me and, with no explanation,
clapped me into a dungeon. I tried to explain to them that I belonged to Zarathustras
faith and that I had nothing to do with their war, but they told me that it would be much
wiser to keep my mouth shut.
Among the prisoners, who, with no exception, were cruel and bizarre, I would single out
one man, whose fate in a strange way interlaced with mine.
I am from the Sahara, said al-Korta, as the man was called, from the proud tribe of
Tuareg. When I realized that the Arabian bedouins had forced my ancestors to accept
their faith, I raided the mosque in Fes and went abroad.
On the shores of the Red Sea I came across the Carmatians, who claimed that the
Prophet was a liar and that the world was not created by Allah but by Satan. I joined
them and when the caliph from Baghdad captured our chief and put him to death, we
ravaged Mecca and took the Black Stone with us. We threw it into the heart of the desert
and the soldiers of Baghdads caliph found it only twenty years later.
Soon, however, I realized that I was neither a robber nor a murderer and that I am
strongest when I fight alone. I went to Persia where I fought imam al-Sabah, because he
was a tyrant, but I also fought the robbers who robbed his caravans.
And when these bedouins arrived, carrying the cross in one hand and the sabre in the
other, I came to Palestine. They captured me in the battle by a purple river and that is
how I got to the dungeon.
Thats my story, al-Korta said. And you are going to Cordoba, he added, and you will
cover such a long way because of a woman. Im not going to persuade you that this is
folly, although I know perfectly well that love doesnt exist. But I have to tell you this.
It was in this very dungeon that Samson, the great hero from Phoenicia, also spent his
life. After leaving Baalbek, where he had spent a year as Alleluia, the one who carries the
sun, he left his mistress Astarta and went out into the world. He wandered from town to
town, flying from one woman to another, and then he arrived in Gaza and met Delilah.
And do you know what this bitch did to him? While he was asleep in her arms, she cut his
hair the source of his strength. The Philistines then blinded him and threw him into the
dungeon, where he spun the mill wheel and ground Philistine corn. And so he who felt no
fear when faced by sixty bedouins and six lions at the same time, was overcome by a
woman! And now you go to Cordoba!
I spent three years in the dungeon in Gaza. At the end of the third year we received
news that the Christians had suffered a crushing defeat and that, in retaliation, they
would put us to death.
The following morning they took us out and I watched with my own eyes as they cut off
heads, one after another. When it came to al-Kortas turn, he looked at me and smiled.

Death is a secret, he whispered, just like love, and then his black head rolled into the
dust.
The next moment, a glittering sabre blade flashed towards my neck. I closed my eyes
and when I opened them again I was sitting in the Gaza harbour and, illuminated by
the morning sun, playing the balalaika. That same morning I took a purple galley and
sailed to Provence.
There I met a young man whose tragic fate will shadow my heart forever. His name was
Jacques dAvignon and he was a troubadour, or a rhapsode, who wandered Provence with
a guitar in his hands, looking for love.
When I told him that I was on the way to Cordoba in order to find Alma, he was
delighted. Thats love! he cried and asked me to stay in Provence for some time, so that
he could learn to play the balalaika (Baal-al-laik or string of the suns tear) and I could
master the art of writing ballads.
Ballads (Baal-odes or the songs of love and death) originated in Phoenicia, he told me,
and were sung during the Phoenician holiday the week of debauchery. Young men,
skilled in playing the flute or the balalaika, would sing a song and the queen of
debauchery would decide which song was the most beautiful. The lucky performer would
then spend one year in Baalbek, as Alleluia and the queens lover.
Ballads are the most beautiful poetical form, he added, because one has to depict, in
very few words, two biggest secrets in the universe love and death. And then he sang
one:
For centuries I seek a woman
To give her my noble eyes,
my gentle soul, all my gifts.
Now I know that love I will never find.
For centuries I write a poem
About love and beauty I sing,
as for the pain, I keep silent.
Now I know that death will heal all wounds.
And only a few days later the white Provenal road brought us to Albi. But we did not
know that the soldiers of Pope Urban II had already arrived in this town, looking for some
Cathari, who allegedly claimed that the world had been created by the devil and that in
the eternal struggle between good and evil, evil would prevail. As I said, those cruel men
waited for us at the gates of the town and took us with them.
When we told them that we were simple rhapsodes looking for love, they laughed at us
scornfully and said, This is the very place to find it! Then, on the charges that we were
friends of the Albigenses and angels of evil, they condemned us to death. And on the
same evening, we were hanged.
The next morning, as the purple rays cast their light upon the hill above Albi, I sat under
the gallows singing a sad song and poor Jacques dAvignon was streaming in the young

wind. I dropped a tear, slung the balalaika on my shoulder, and went to Cordoba.
But as soon as I arrived there, a new misfortune befell me. This time they did not cut off
my head nor did they hang me, but if you thought that death was the biggest misfortune, then you were greatly mistaken. So, what happened? I learnt, my friend, that Alma
was not in Cordoba!
I learnt that the caliphs caravan by which she was travelling had been intercepted by
Moorish pirates from the tribe of Tuareg the same one which al-Korta, my friend from
Gaza, came from! who then took her into the heart of the desert. And the bitter
knowledge that Alma was not there and that my sufferings had been in vain was worse
than the worst death. But, as I said, I quickly pulled myself together and went to the
black deserts of Africa.
As absurd as it would be to describe this journey, I still must say that the sun did not
move from the sky for months and that flames burst out of the sand like the rays of a big
fire. So I walked through a living torch for months, dreaming of a deluge.
And then, one starlit night, I felt fear for the first time. It seemed to me that this time I
was going to die, truly and forever. I dont want to die! I whispered to myself and for a
moment closed my eyes. When I opened them again, I found myself lying in the heart of
an oasis, watching the young moon bathing in a spring. And when I turned around, Alma
was standing beside me, holding a jug in her hands.
Alma I whispered, and she smiled and gave me the jug.
I am sorry, Ashug-Kerrib, she said, I have caused you much pain. She came to me and
kissed me, and a tear dropped out of her eye. And before I managed to say anything, she
dropped another tear and then turned around and left. And with her also departed the
palms, the birds, the spring and the stars.
Alma I whispered once more, then fell into the sleep of a righteous man.
When I awoke again, I was riding on a two-humped Bactrian camel along the coast of
Phoenicia. And a few days later, I arrived in Baalbek.
And where are you going now? I asked.
Home to Samarkand, he replied. I want to rest from all this and try to answer the
question of whether Alma had really existed. Or did I only invent her in order to
accomplish this impossible journey and to realize that love is a secret, like death.
And if you want to, he added, you can try to answer the question of whether I exist. Or
was I, too, invented by some idle rhapsode, to do all this instead of him and to serve him
as a sign-post and a source of consolation.
He stood up and left, and I sat in front of the temple of gods tear for a long time and
watched him, slowly walking out of our story and disappearing among the young cypress
trees.

The Rhapsodys Second Part

The Allegory of Dante

One sunny day in the year 1321 Baalzebub sat in front of the temple of gods tear in
Baalbek, reading the Memoirs of the great Phoenician adventurer Giovanni Casanova,
when along the curvy road an elderly man arrived, wrapped in a purple cloak. The satyr
laid the book aside and smiled joyfully.
Oh, look who has arrived, he said, our new friend Dante Alighieri! (Baal-i-gher or the
guardian of Baals shade).
The old man halted and looked about, confused. Excuse me, he said, but where have I
arrived?
In Baalbek, Baalzebub replied, in Phoenicia.
The old man looked at the satyr with surprise, then smiled. You see, he said, how
unreliable life is. One travels half the world and ends up in Phoenicia. But tell me, please,
how did I get here?
My friend, the satyr replied, you have just died.
What do you mean, I died? the old man asked in wonder and thought, What a joker!
Im not joking at all, the satyr said. So what happened? As I said, a few days ago you
died. Your body was buried in Ravenna and the cranes brought your soul to Phoenicia.
And as you can see, you are now in Baalbek.
What do you mean in Baalbek? the old man shouted. What are you talking about?
Im talking about death, the satyr continued quietly. As you can see death is a big
change in life. But you dont need to worry, he added. Man is a strange creature and
quickly gets used to everything to death as well. But let me now show you Baalbek, the
city of shades and your new home.
It all began like this
As the Phoenicians believed that Baal had given them the most beautiful thing in
universe, the sun, out of gratitude they built a temple here and named it Baalbek, the
temple of gods tear. Baalbek was the centre of a Phoenician cult dedicated to the sun or
Baals tear, and it was here that the oldest oracle in the world arose, where the famous
prophetess Nefertiti lived, the beauty with a tear in her eye. As I said, it was so for
centuries.
And then the Greeks, led by Alexander the Great, arrived in Phoenicia and gave Baalbek
the Greek name Heliopolis, the city of sun. They destroyed the Phoenician temple and in
its place built a shrine dedicated to the most handsome of their gods Apollo.
Unfortunately, a mosaic depicting the six Greek sages is all that remains of the building.
A few centuries later, the Romans arrived. As they believed that Baalbek was the centre
of the world and that they were the greatest builders, they built several temples, of which
the one dedicated to Jupiter was the biggest structure the Romans had ever built.
Unfortunately, time and the bedouins took their toll. As you can see, its only remnants
are those six magnificent pillars.

As I said, the temple of Jupiter endured three centuries. Then the Christians arrived and
destroyed it, and in its place they erected a church dedicated to their first saint
Stephen, who was stoned by Jews at the gates of Jerusalem.
A few centuries later, the bedouins from Arabia came and transformed the Christian
church into a mosque. Eventually, the crusaders arrived and destroyed the mosque as
well. And so, all that is left of Baalbek is what you see here: a few ruins, which remind us
of the exciting past of Phoenicia and of the biggest virtues of men vanity and stupidity.
So, my friend, the satyr added, this is what is left of Baalbek or if you like, this is the
Baalbek that can be seen.
But now, let me show you the real Baalbek, as I said, the city of sages or the city of
shades.
Do you know who this man is? This is Elagabalus from Byblos, who invented the
imagination and the alphabet and stated that the world will never be lacking fools and
wars. He had two souls and when he died one of them came to Baalbek, and the other
turned into Aleph, the sacred Phoenician bull, and spent 666 years in the famous Cretan
labyrinth.
And the one chiselling the stone over there is the famous Phoenician mason Hiram, who
built Byblos, the first town ever to be built. They say that he also built the Tower of
Babel, Solomons Temple and the Colossus of Rhodes. Even now he leaves Baalbek from
time to time, wanders through the world and builds. Unfortunately, his efforts are quite
useless, for what he builds the fools immediately destroy.
And the one holding the globe in his hands is Phlebas from Sidon, the greatest
Phoenician navigator. He sailed around Africa, discovered India-in-the-east and India-inthe-west.
India-in-the-west? said the poet, baffled.
Yes, the satyr answered. As you know, India-in-the-east is the land in which cinnamon
and myrrh grow, and in which Krishna, a descendant of the Phoenician god Baal, is the
biggest divinity. And India-in-the-west is the land of endless steppes, governed by the
proud bird condor. When they discovered it, many centuries ago, the Phoenicians gave it
the name Amar-rik, or the cranes beak, in honour of the sacred Phoenician bird, the
crane, which later became America.
And these two The one playing with the young moon is Khayyam, poet and astronomer
from Shiraz, and the other, smoking a hookah, is Abul-Walid from Cordoba, the famous
philosopher whom the Christians called Averros. In a mysterious way Khayyam managed
to calculate that the distance between two stars is smaller than the distance between
two hearts and that Satan is not the angel of evil, as the Prophet claimed, but a star,
illuminating the mystical world of Islam.
And Abul-Walid said one day that many wise men lived before the Prophet and that one
of them, Aristotle from Thrace, had even surpassed him. But that claim almost cost him
his life. When his words reached the caliph of Cordoba the guardian of the Prophets
shade he ordered that the philosopher be immediately thrown into a dungeon. And who
knows what would have happened to our Abul-Walid if, one day, the mosque of Cordoba
had not collapsed.

The caliph brought in the best architects and astronomers and asked them what had
happened. They dug, they measured and they calculated, but they couldnt find the
answer. The caliph then summoned Abul-Walid and said to him, Philosopher, you
certainly know that your life is hanging by a thread. Now I give you a choice: if you tell
me what happened, I shall set you free. And if you talk rubbish, like those fools did, then
you will travel to hell with them, on my fastest camels.
Abul-Walid then turned to those fools of architects and said, What do you know, you
miserable servants of Allah! If Allah let you raise this temple in his honour, should he also
ask you when to destroy it? The caliph was very pleased with this answer and ordered
that Abul-Walid be freed.
And the one writing on the parchment the history of Phoenicia, is Herodotus from
Halicarnassus. In his lifetime he toured the whole world, from the Baltic (Baal-tik or the
blue-eyed nymph) in the north, to the source of the Nile in the south, and from the
Bactrian desert in the east to the Pillars of Hercules in the west. He then travelled
through Greece as a rhapsode and told the bedouins what he had seen and heard, but
they did not believe a word he said and called him the liar from Halicarnassus.
And, as you know, the Romans named him later the father of history.
Yes, I know, the poet said.
But, I must tell you something, the satyr added. He does not like Romans.
Oh, oh! the poet exclaimed. How come?
Its a long story, the satyr replied. But in short, he thinks that they knew no boundaries,
they were cruel, haughty and mean.
Oh, oh! the poet cried again. But how is that possible? He should know, better than
anybody else, that the truth is different and that the very Romans had, for centuries, led
the world towards progress and glory.
Dear Alighieri, said Baalzebub, let me tell you something the truth is always
somewhere in the middle. Besides, you must acknowledge that the Romans did many
things unworthy of men. Especially of those who, as you say, led the world towards
progress and glory.
I hope you will not misunderstand me, but it was myself who so many times witnessed
terrible crimes committed by Romans. I saw, with my own eyes, drunken Roman soldiers
kill Archimedes from Syracuse, the greatest mathematician the world had ever seen, and
only because he told them not to disturb his circles!
I watched Roman legions kill and burn everything before them in Gaul, Syria, Iberia,
Egypt, everywhere else they went always under the excuse that others were barbarians and that they only wanted to lead them towards progress and glory!
And I saw, with my own eyes, how they unfairly crucified the unfortunate Aramean from
Nazareth.
Oh, oh! cried the poet. But, please, what are you talking about?
What do you mean, what am I talking about? Well, come then and see him. Ask him why
did they crucify him?
My Lord! whispered the poet and crossed himself.
But, as I said, the satyr went on, the trouble was not that they crucified him. They had,

after all, crucified many an innocent and weak. The trouble was that they later
proclaimed him their only god and themselves the angels and guardians of his shade. And
that they in his name committed so many crimes that even poor Herodotus could not
count them. But you know all of this very well. You have experienced it all.
The poet made a deep sigh and said, Unfortunately, you are right.
Yes, my friend, the satyr said. While you were writing the Divine Comedy, while you
roamed the wilderness of their hell and paradise and wrote your most beautiful verses in
the chambers of their heavenly labyrinth, they were preparing a noose for you. And when
you uncovered it, that wretch of a Pope, Boniface VIII, banished you from your native
Florence and you never saw her again.
But, my Divine Comedy is an allegory, the poet said.
I know its an allegory, the satyr said. After all, what isnt? A stone, the spring, the
cypress tree, a bird, the stars, they are all allegories. Even you and I are allegories. And
yet You wrote them your most beautiful poem and they drove you away like a
scoundrel and a robber!
You see, my friend, Baalzebub continued, I dont hate anybody. I just want to call things
by their real names. After all, it was not only the Romans who did evil in the world. You
have seen poor Abul-Walid and heard how he barely saved his skin. You will see
Pythagoras from Samos whom the tyrant Polycrates exiled from Greece, only because he
said that the earth was round. You will also see Zarathustra from Bactria, who was killed
by the Persians because he told them that they were ignorant, and the most beautiful of
all women Nefertiti whose eyes the Egyptians took out, only because she was
beautiful.
You see, dear Alighieri The vanquished, the banished and the humiliated have come to
Phoenicia. The most gifted among people took refuge here, and out there remain the
caliph from Cordoba, Polycrates, Boniface VIII and their drunken soldiers. And they are
looking for a new Archi- medes and Pythagoras, a new Abul-Walid, Zarathustra and
Dante, to show them who the master is! Do you understand me, my friend? The problem
is that the world is ruled by fools!
Oh, oh, said the poet confusedly, but everything is exactly so!
Unfortunately, my friend, everything is exactly so!
But tell me, please, the poet remembered suddenly, which book are you reading?
Oh, yes, I did not tell you this I am Baalzebub, the lord of the shades. As you can see, I
am a satyr, and I am the only one under the sun who can converse with both the living
and the dead. Some time ago I went to the 18th century and the great adventurer
Casanova, your countryman from Venice, gave me his Memoirs. A very exciting book
indeed. He had also run away his whole life, ended up in prison, then ran away again.
And do you know what he was looking for all that time? Love.
But, dear Alighieri, the satyr said, I really have talked too much! And you, my friend,
have travelled a long way and surely must be tired. So, come over here, find a nice place
to lie down and have a rest. Stretch out under the old cedar and sleep as long as you like.
Or climb onto one of the pillars of Jupiters temple and enjoy the Phoenician sun. Or
sneak into the crown of the cypress tree and listen to the crickets. Now, my friend, you

are finally free. Now you are a shade.

Death of the Great Master

On the first day of May 1519, Leonardo da Vinci felt that his role in the universe had
come to an end and that his beautiful Phoenician soul was about to leave for Baalbek. So,
he decided to paint his last painting.
He was sitting in the purple rooms of the castle of Cloux near the Loire, painting, when
Pablo Fuentes came along, the young Spaniard appointed by Francis the First as the
painters right hand. Leonardo, as you know, was left-handed.
May I ask, Pablo said, what the master is painting?
Leonardo smiled and said, The cranes carrying my soul to Phoenicia.
You mean to Florence?
No, I didn't mean that, Leonardo replied. Its true that my body is from Florence, but my
soul is from Phoenicia.
Pablo was absorbed in his thoughts for a moment, then he said, I must admit, master,
that I dont understand you.
I dont expect you to understand me, Pablo, the painter said. But if you like, I could
picture for you, in a few words, the exciting fate of my soul.
I will listen to you with pleasure, Pablo said politely.
You have certainly noticed, Leonardo began, that I write from right to left and not from
left to right, like you and other people do.
Certainly, master, I did notice that. And I have always wanted to ask you why it is that
you do so.
It is because I am a Phoenician.
I apologize, but who are Phoenicians?
Phoenicians were an ancient people who invented the alphabet. As they worshiped the
sun, they believed that the alphabet should be written from right to left, that is, from east
to west, as the sun travels.
However, a few centuries later, they sold the alphabet to the Greeks, who by mistake
began to write it in the opposite direction. Therefore you write with your right hand and
from the west to the east, in other words backwards, and I am left-handed and write as
the sun travels.
True, Pablo said confusedly and thought to himself, Who would have thought that! He
then remembered that a few days ago some merchants from Italy arrived and told that
Leonardos famous fresco, the Last Supper, in the church of Santa Maria delle Grazie in
Milan, had begun to fade and vanish.
I would like to ask you something, master, Pablo said. Some people from Italy arrived,
saying that your Last Supper is slowly fading and disappearing.

Is it true? Leonardo asked.

Unfortunately, master, it is. According to those people, very strange things are
happening. The monks noticed that it was happening only at night, so they concluded
that it was the doing of nobody else but the devil himself. Therefore, they decided to
keep candles alight, but unfortunately this didnt help. The painting is still fading away.
Leonardo laughed. Pablo, my son, he said, those monks are fools. First of all, there is no
devil. There is, though, Baalzebub, the famous satyr from Phoenicia, whom they call
Beelzebub, Lucifer, Satan and the Devil, and to whom they ascribe all sorts of silly things.
But he, of course, has nothing to do with this.
You know what happened? I painted their Savior and all those angels and apostles only
because I had to. I was paid to paint them and therefore I painted them. But deep in my
heart I despised them.
That is why, while working on the Last Supper the work of my life, as they said I
deliberately let the plaster dry before I painted, instead of painting on the wet plaster, as
I should have done.
As I knew that the fresco would not last for long, I painted those fools of monks as the
apostles and they were joyful like little children. In the end, I painted myself as Judas
from Iscariot.
Pablo looked around confusedly, as if he wanted to say, Oh, master, what on earth have
you just told me? but only whispered, Who would have thought that!
Now I will show you the real work of my life, said Leonardo and from a nearby room
brought out a painting, later to be mistakenly called the Mona Lisa.
Oh master, Pablo exclaimed, I have always wanted to ask you, who is this lady with the
mysterious smile.
This is my Phoenician lady, Leonardo said, or if you like, the beauty with a tear in her
eye.
Pablo looked at him in wonder.
Many centuries ago, the painter went on, this woman was a priestess in a temple in
Phoenicia. The Phoenicians called her Nefertiti, the beauty with a tear in her eye. One
day she told me that I would be born again, that I would have a purple soul and that I
would become a great painter. She got it right, and then out of gratitude, I painted this
painting.
Pablo only blinked his eyes, then looked at the painting.
Seemingly, there is no tear, Leonardo said. But with a bit of luck, you can see a tear
shimmering in her eye.
Pablo gave a confused smile, then said he had a lot of unfinished work to do and left.
When he came the next morning, Pablo found his master lying in bed and thought he
must be asleep. He decided not to wake him and went to the nearby room to see the
beauty with a tear in her eye once again.
He stood before the painting, but a few moments later he trembled with fear out of her
left eye dropped a tear. As soon as he managed to pull himself together, the same thing
happened again out of the same left eye dropped another tear, then another.
Distraught and out of breath, he ran to the painter. Master, he shouted, master, your

Phoenician lady is crying!

He came to him, but the painter did not move. He lay with his hands clasped together
and with a blissful smile on his face. Master Pablo whispered once more and then
realized that the great master had died. He felt that he was short of breath and wished to
leave. He turned around and walked away, but stopped by the painting that Leonardo
had painted the previous day.
And he could not believe his eyes again the cranes were gone!

Torches of the New Age

One of the biggest delusions in the history of the world was the belief that the earth
stood at the centre of the universe and that the sun traveled around it.
The first man to realize that sunrise and sunset were illusions was Aristarchus from
Samos, the famed astron- omer with the purple soul. But when he revealed his discovery,
a poet by the name of Cleanthes accused him of impiety and asked the bedouins from
Samos to stone him.
Have you heard the ranting of that crazy astronomer? he said. He claims that the earth
moves around the sun! As if we are blind and as if all those famous Greeks, from Homer
to Aristotle, were also blind.
But Homer was blind, said the bedouins.
Cleanthes stopped for a moment, then went on, Such follies could be heard only from the
Phoenicians and I am telling you that this astronomer is not a Greek, but a Phoenician!
Fortunately, the bedouins did not understand what these two were arguing about, and so
our Aristarchus saved his neck.
But when he died his discovery descended into oblivion and sixteen centuries passed
before another Phoenician, one who would prove that the crazy astronomer from Samos
had been right, emerged Nicolaus Copernicus, the canon from Frauenburg.
When he discovered that sunrise and sunset were illusions, Copernicus wrote a book
about his discovery and, with the zeal that only the youthful can have, wished to publish
it. So, he went to see a publisher in Regensburg.
I will tell you immediately why I have come, he said. I have discovered that the earth is
only a small dot in the universe, which revolves around the sun. I have written a book
about this and now I want to publish it.
Is that right? the publisher said with a derisive smile.
Yes, sir, Copernicus replied. I want to destroy the old delusion that has followed us for
centuries, and tell the world the truth!
That sounds good, canon, the publisher said, but surely you must know how dangerous
destroying old delusions is these days.

Sir, Copernicus exclaimed, I do not fear the gallows or the stake! I am not afraid of the
Roman censors or the fires of hell they threaten me with. And if it is meant to be I will
be the torch of the new age!
The publisher laughed and said that, while he understood Copernicus desire, he was not
prepared to burn with him at the stake. Then this message arrived from Rome: Canon,
dont cut the branch you are sitting on and dont under- mine the foundations of gods
temple, which has been built for fifteen centuries!
And what could he do? Nothing, really. He resigned to fate and remained a canon.
However, in the loft of the cathedral he hid a telescope and from time to time watched
the stars, and so spent his life neither in heaven nor on earth.
And the great shining eye that sees everything assigned the role of the torch of the new
age to the philosopher with a purple beard Giordano Bruno.
Giordano spent his life in flight. When the Roman rats as he called the Inquisitors
finally caught him and put him in jail, he told them that they may have caught him but
they would never tame him. Although he had told them a thousand times that he would
not recant, the rats kept coming and tried to tame him, and this absurd game lasted for
almost ten years. Then, one day, they decided to try for the last time. The main censor,
whom Giordano called the chief of the rats, came to Giordanos dungeon.
Well, philosopher with a purple beard, what have you decided?
So, again this entertaining question, Giordano replied.
Well, you still claim that the mad canon from Frauenburg was right?
Copernicus, censor, was not mad.
Philosopher, the censor said, I didnt come to persuade you that Copernicus was mad. I
only came to tell you what you should expect if you dont recant the stake!
And do you, chief, really believe that you can scare me? Do you really believe that in
order to live a few more years, I would annul all that I have said and throw into the Tiber
everything I know? And, above all, that I would renounce the most beautiful death? The
game is over, chief. Tell your rats to build my pyre! The censor looked at him and
crossed himself.
But, for gods sake, he said, what about your soul? Where will she end up?
In Baalbek, Giordano replied quietly.
In Baalbek?
Yes, censor, in Phoenicia, home of the most beautiful souls!
He smiled and looked at the censor, who crossed himself three times. A few days later,
on the Campo dei Fiori in Rome, Giordano Bruno was burnt.
The purple flames were still burning when a curious youth arrived at the Campo dei Fiori
and asked a canon what had happened.
We just burnt the crazy Giordano, the canon answered.
Why? the youth asked.
Because he claimed that we were all fools and he was the only smart one!
Oh! gasped the youth with surprise.

Yes, yes, young man, the canon went on. This lunatic stated that the earth revolves
around the sun!
He spat at the fire and left, and the youth remained on the Campo dei Fiori for a long
time, watching the purple flames frolicking joyfully in the young wind. It was Galileo
Galilei, the young astronomer from Pisa.
Many years later Galileo wrote a book in which he claimed that Copernicus was right and
that the earth was only a small dot in the universe, revolving around the sun. As he had
expected, the Roman censors soon arrived and confiscated the book, and they took him
to be tried in Rome.
You have three options, astronomer, the chief censor said. The first one is to show us
that the earth really revolves around the sun. If you can do that, we will admit that we
were wrong and that we are blind. But because, as we all know, you cant do this, we will
give you a second option to recant and admit that Copernicus was mad, and that you
were deluded. There is also the third option, but I dont think you are as crazy as
Giordano Bruno, to burn at the stake. So, astronomer, what do you say?
I wasted my life, Galileo said, trying to tame with my eyes what nobody has ever seen
the universe. Of course, it was a delusion.
I wanted to embrace with my mind this endless space and discover the secret of its
heart. Do I need to tell you in what torments I burnt?
But what else can we do, he added and skimmed over the faces of the six censors, so
cruelly lost in the universe, but burn in the flame of our own delusions?
It took the censors six days to interpret what Galileo had said and to pass the sentence.
And it said: The astronomer has recanted and shall not be burnt. But, since he still looks
at us with the eyes of a heretic, we cannot let him go either. He will spend some time in
jail and then we shall see.
Some years later, when he was freed from the dungeon, Galileo retired to his estate and
spent the rest of his life in solitude. One night, when he felt that the cranes from Baalbek
were about to arrive, he walked up the Leaning Tower of Pisa and looked towards the
sky. Good-bye, dear stars! he said and kissed a star, and a tear dropped out of his eye.
And she is still, along with the earth, revolving around the sun.

St. George and the Vizier

The grand vizier Mehmed-pasha, known as the Falcon, sat on a hill above the river
Drina and with a joyful smile in his eyes watched the masons build the large stone
bridge, which he thought would finally connect the two banks of the turbulent river. The
silence was suddenly broken by a song coming from the nearby forest. The vizier turned
around and could clearly hear someone singing, The girl harmed the falcon, she set the
forest on fire...
A few moments later the soldiers brought before him a scared-looking young man. Leave

him, the vizier ordered, and the soldiers went away.

Where did you learn that song? the vizier asked.
I heard it from a monk from Zvornik, the young man answered.
Are you from Zvornik?
No, sir. I only spent some time on the wall of a monastery near Zvornik. I used to be a
fresco.
The vizier stared at him in wonder. And where are you going now? he asked.
Home to Phoenicia, the young man replied.
The vizier looked at him again. And where is it This Phoenicia of yours?
Phoenicia, vizier, was a miraculous land at the foot of Lebanon, but then one day she
mysteriously disappeared. But I know that she is still there, hovering above the cedar
forests, neither in heaven nor on earth.
What a crazy monk! the vizier thought.
I am not a monk and neither am I crazy, the young man said.
All right, youngster, muttered the vizier nervously, I see that you are not crazy. But if
you are from Phoenicia, how then did you get to Zvornik?
This is a long story, vizier, the young man said with a sigh. But if you wish, I can tell you
how it happened.
Well then, tell me.
One summer I was fortunate enough, the young man began, to be chosen as the king of
debauchery, and so becoming Alleluia, the one who brings the sun. In Baalbek, there was
also a girl of indescribable beauty with me. We used to wake Baal every morning and,
sad because he could not give people eternity, he would drop a tear out of which the sun
would arise. I would then take it upon my shoulders and carry it to the top of the
mountain, thus starting the new day.
One day the consul from Antioch came to the oracle of Baalbek and upon seeing my
mistress he became fascin- ated by her beauty. And like a scoundrel, he wanted to rape
her and take her with him to Antioch. We argued and when one of the soldiers swung his
lance to hit me, I snatched the lance from him and killed him on the spot. Then I killed
the other soldiers and, in the end, killed the consul as well.
Knowing that they would come to search for me, I went with my mistress to the cedar
forests of Lebanon and took refuge there. And so I spent life as a brigand, fighting the
Romans.
Later on, the Christians gave me the name Saint George and invented a myth about me
killing the dragon. And so, many centuries later, I arrived in Zvornik.
You have had a very exciting life, George, the vizier said.
Very exciting, the young man said, sighing unhappily.
The vizier then turned towards the bridge and looked at the white stone arches rising
over the river. Who knows how long he would have looked at them, had the young man
not spoken.
So, you are building a bridge, vizier, he said.
Yes, George, the vizier replied.
And do you know, vizier, that these two banks can never be linked?

What are you talking about, George? the vizier shouted. Do you not see that the bridge
is almost completed?
You can build a bridge, vizier, I dont doubt that. But these two banks you will not
connect.
What a crazy monk! the vizier thought again.
I have already told you, vizier, that I am neither a monk nor a fool, the young man said.
I am only telling you what I know.
What do you know? the vizier asked angrily.
Right from the very beginning, vizier, everything has gone wrong here, the young man
said calmly. When Baal taught rivers how to find their way to the sea, this river failed to
listen. Instead of flowing to the south and taking the shortest path to the sea, she chose
to go north, in other words, uphill. That is why Baal gave her the name Drina, the one
that flows uphill or the one that flows backwards.
Many centuries later onto the banks of the river a strange people arrived. When their
king, who had two sons, was killed in a battle, the two brothers started quarrelling
straight away. Soon such a frightful and cruel war broke out that the mountains trembled
like stalks in the wind and blood flowed down the Drina instead of water. The elder
brother slew the younger and people on both sides of the river were slaughtered.
It was only then, when he was left alone under the sun, that the elder brother realized
how foolish he had been. He roamed the wasteland, cursing the young sun, which,
saddened by this sight, dropped a tear.
I do not know what the unfortunate man was called, but the Phoenicians gave him the
name Baal-Cain, which meant the one who killed his brother, and all these lands were
named after him the Balkans, the lands above which the sun cries. And since then,
blood flows down the Drina instead of water, three times in each century.
The young man went silent and the vizier sensed a strange anxiety creep into his heart.
He looked at the bridge and it seemed to him that the white stone arches were fading
and disappearing under the mild morning sun.
You see, vizier, the young man added, how strange life can be. I spent it as a brigand
but became a saint, and you will build a bridge, but will never connect the banks!
He then stood up and smiled sadly. I must go now, vizier, he said, for Phoenicia is far
away.
He turned around and left and the vizier remained sitting on the hill above the Drina and
watched him slowly walking across the water. Then, from the mountains on the other
side of the river, he heard the song, The girl harmed the falcon, she set the forest on
fire...

Dreamer from Alcala

Having left Baalbek, the cranes flew to the west and a few weeks later they arrived in
Alcala de Henares, a small town on the banks of a river, the name of which I cannot
recall. The cranes soon dropped a tear over the town and gave the gentle Phoenician soul
away to a newborn boy. His name was Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, the one who
would many years later introduce to us the great Phoenician hero don Quixote of la
Mancha.
I arrived in Alcala de Henares on a hot day, without any foreboding that the great shining
eye had brought me to this town to meet these two exceptional men.
In front of a tavern in the centre of Alcala (Baal-cala or the purple town) sat an elderly
man drinking beer. I decided to join him, not so much for the beer as for the desire to
talk to someone after the long journey and to learn something about the town which I
was in for the first time.
Welcome to Alcala de Henares, seor, the man addressed me. Come, let me buy you a
drink. Seorita, dos cervezas, por favor, he called out to the waitress, while I got off the
camel and sat down at the table. May I ask, he continued, where seor has come from?
From Byblos, I said.
From Byblos! he exclaimed, smiling joyfully. From Phoenicia!
You have heard of Phoenicia? I asked.
Of course, amigo, he replied, the land of cedars and brilliant sailors! By the way, it was
the Phoenicians who gave the name to my country Spain, the land of the setting sun.
But, was all that not a long time ago?
You are right, I said, it was a long time ago.
As I see, seor travels in time.
Yes, sir.
And on a camel.
As you can see.
He smiled and I said, And seor is...?
Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, he replied, a Spaniard with a Phoenician soul! And then
he told me, in short, the story of his life.
He had been twenty-five years of age when, like every Phoenician, he was overcome by a
yearning for unknown places. He travelled to Italy where a cardinal employed him as a
scribe. Soon, however, he realized that the cardinal was a fool and that the cardinals god
was not his god. Thirsty for adventure, he became a mercenary in an army whose goals
he did not know. But soon after he was wounded and realized that war was alien to a
Phoenician soul.
He decided to go back home, but the galley on which he had been sailing was intercepted
by Moorish pirates and Cervantes ended up in a dungeon in Algeria. It took him almost
five years to persuade these bedouins to let him go. And so after ten gloomy years, tired
and disappointed, he finally returned to his native Alcala de Henares.
But if you thought that this was the end of my troubles, he added, you would be terribly
wrong. Haunted by a longing for remote lands, I began to wander again. The years flew
by and I wandered from bad to worse, cruelly tormenting myself and others. But peace of
mind and some space under the sun I could not find.

What are you going to do now? I asked.

I want to write, he replied. You see, all those years I dreamt of a story. I could even say
that I lived more in this story than in life itself.
Why do you not write then?
Oh, my friend, how easy it is to say that! I began a thousand times. I would write a few
pages, but then I would come to that fatal sentence: Then don Quixote arrived, the
famous knight of la Mancha. Here I wanted to introduce my hero, but I would get stuck
here and I would not write another word.
Don Quixote is the name of your hero? I asked.
Yes, he is my hero don Quixote, the famous knight of la Mancha.
We fell silent, each absorbed in our own thoughts, and we did not notice that a man on a
donkey had emerged before us, riding along the dusty road.
He was tall and skinny, on one shoulder he carried a lance and on the other a balalaika.
He smiled at us and said, Good morning, gentlemen.
Morning, brave man, Cervantes replied.
There is no doubt, the lanky fellow said, that the gentlemen know who I am. But I
prefer not to talk about my bravery, because it is not worthy of a true hero to talk about
his feats. I will only say that there is no windmill in la Mancha that I have not challenge
to a duel!
You are from la Mancha? I asked.
Please, let me introduce myself. I am Alonso (Baal-lonso or Baals lancer) Quijano, better
known as don Quixote, the famous knight of la Mancha! And this is Rocinante, my only
friend, he said, pointing at the donkey.
Cervantes stared at me in wonder, as if he wanted to say, Did your ears just hear what
mine heard? but the lanky one went on. Even the sparrows from la Mancha talk about
my bravery, he said, but those bedouins, my neighbours, mock my exploits with envy.
When Dulcinea from el Toboso, to whom I wrote my most beautiful verses, despised my
love, I left la Mancha forever. And here I am now, roaming the roads, fighting windmills
and singing.
You are also a poet? I asked.
I write poems, play the balalaika and I sing. But let me now sing you something, he
said, took the balalaika into his hands and started singing:
Has anyone, dear god, travelled such a long way
Wandering from bad to worse, like me!
Beside the roads, instead of birches
My spurs swing
Has anyone else, mother, lost so many battles
Yet went into a fight with no fear, like me!
Beside the roads, instead of birches
My spears swing

And who else, black earth, died so many times

But each time rose from the dead, like me!
Beside the roads, instead of birches
My graves swing
Here he halted and smiled at us lightly, and Rocinante, moved by this sorrowful song,
dropped a tear.
You see what hell I went through, don Quixote said, and yet some peace and some
space under the sun I did not find.
The donkey dropped another tear and then, as slowly as they had arrived, along the
dusty road they departed Alcala de Henares.
We watched them for long time and when they disappeared over the white Castilian
fields, Cervantes shook his head.
I have no doubt, my friend, he said, that your eyes saw the same as mine that was
don Quixote, the famous knight of la Mancha and my hero. But, tell me, please Was this
reallity or dream?
It doesnt matter, I replied. After all, what is the difference?
Youre right, the writer said and smiled, whats the difference!
He then raised the glass. Well, my dear Phoenician, cheers! he said. I wish you all the
best on your journey through time, and I am going to occupy myself with my story. For
the beginning, I have that wonderful sentence: Then don Quixote arrived, the famous
knight of la Mancha!
We laughed with boyish innocence, finished our beers, then parted forever.

The Court Jester

One day, when he saw cranes flying over Stratford with tears in their eyes,
Shakespeare took out a sheet of paper and a quill, and with perfect peace of mind, began
to write. But then, to his big surprise, Harry Hoffman came along, the actor from London
better known as Hamlet.
So, the actor said, I see it is not true that Shakespeare has left the quill forever and is
now breeding geese, as the London gossip would have us believe. May I ask what the old
master is writing tragedy or comedy?
My will, the poet replied quietly. But tell me, Hamlet, what trouble has brought you to
Stratford?
My dear friend, the actor said, I bring you joyful news we have decided to publish your
collected works!
Shakespeare laughed. So, he said, nothing less but collected works.
Yes, Shakespeare, we want to preserve the fruits of a brilliant brain for the future
generations to enjoy!

Shakespeare laughed again. You have put that very nicely, Hamlet, he said, but I think
it is a very bad idea. And right now I shall write a will that nothing I have written is ever
to be published, and that even my published works are to be burnt.
But Shakespeare! the actor shouted.
My dear Hamlet, the poet said quietly. I have written some nice verses, that is true, and
yet all that was gathering water with a sieve. You know what happened? While you were
only playing all those creatures, I took all of it too seriously. In this absurd game I fancied
that I was a king!
I strolled through London like a peacock, convinced that I was Caesar and that Brutus
was waiting for me around the corner, with a sword in his hand. I was Mark Antony,
craving Caesars death, so that I could conquer Egypt, and then Cleopatra as well. I was
Richard III, Henry IV and Lear. I was Hamlet and you only played me awkwardly.
When I realized, one day, that I was not a king but a court jester and that all those years
I did nothing but gather water with a sieve, I left London and came back to Stratford, to
breed geese. He smiled and looked at the actor. Vanity, my dear Hamlet, he added,
thats all.
Oh, Shakespeare, whispered the confused actor.
Therefore, the poet went on, if you really want to do something for me, then do this
Make a play about me and name it: Shakespeare, the court jester. And in order to
understand me the right way, I suggest that you play Shakespeare. I also suggest that
you place the action in Phoenicia.
Why in Phoenicia? the actor asked.
Because I am from Phoenicia, the poet replied. So, the plot goes like this
One day, young Shakespeare arrives at the court of the Phoenician king in Tyre.
Fascinated with the beauty of the purple castle, he realizes that this is his world and that
he has to stay there. He manages to secure the position of court jester and, using his
angelic beauty and brilliant gift for acting for lying, that is he soon wins the favour of
the queen herself, whom we shall call queen of Baalbek, in imitation of the famous
queen of Sheba.
And indeed, one day our Shakespeare succeeds to dethrone the king and thus achieves
an incredible feat he is the first court jester in history to become king! Of course, the
dethroning itself is the fruit of an exceptionally well-prepared plot, which, on the other
hand, is nothing else but the fruit of brilliant Shakespeares brain.
Having thus finally achieved what he had been longing for, Shakespeare thinks, and with
reason, that this extraordinary achievement deserves to be celebrated. He prepares such
a feast as has never been seen at the Phoenician court before.
But when he awakes the next morning, he gets a very big surprise. He finds himself lying
in his golden bed in chains. What kind of joke is this? he thinks. But when he looks up,
he is even more surprised above his head hangs a shiny Syrian sword, suspended by a
single horse-hair. Here we will make use of the exciting story of Damocles from Syracuse.
Now to the stage comes the queen of Baalbek. With her is Adonis, the kings nephew and
her lover. Shakespeare, of course, immediately realizes his tragic fate: the absurd and
dangerous desire to be what he was not and what he could never be, has brought him to

deaths bosom.
The play is over, Shakespeare, the queen says and kisses him, and a tear drops out of
her eye. Shakespeare smiles softly and then Adonis cuts the horse-hair with his golden
sabre.
But she tricked you, Shakespeare! the actor cried.
No, Hamlet, the poet reassured him, I tricked her. The queen of Baalbek was my soul.
Now I dont understand anything, Hamlet said.
And why do you think, Hamlet, the poet said, that you need to understand everything?
The beauty of life is precisely in the fact that we dont know who we are, what we want,
or where we go. We only play, like court jesters, gather water with a sieve and burn in
the flame of our own delusions. When we burn out, it is a secret in the universe that
burns out, and thats all.
They looked at each other for a while and then the poet smiled. So, Hamlet, he said. I
wish you a nice journey home and a lot of success in the role of Shakespeare. And now I
have to water the geese.

The Advisor with the Hoof

Herr Mozart, the stranger said, I apologize for troubling you at this time of the night.
I will tell you straight away why I have come. I want to ask you to compose a requiem for
our great friend, who will, in a few days time, pass his beautiful soul over to the cranes.
I apologize if I am too curious, Mozart said, but who is this great friend of ours?
Phoenix, the stranger replied, the one who is always reborn and the only living
Phoenician.
For a moment Mozart was absorbed in his thoughts, trying to recall who that could be.
If you would allow me, the stranger said, I can remind you of who Phoenix is.
Certainly, the composer muttered.
If I am not mistaken, you are a Freemason, the stranger began. And you must surely
remember the day when you, in the Great Lodge of Salzburg, entered this holy order. You
remember that you were then Hiram, the great master from Tyre, who had built
Solomons temple. And you were certainly proud of being in the role of the great mason
from Phoenicia, at least for a little while.
I dont doubt, either, that you know that the first great master and teacher of all
Freemasons was the Phoenician god Baal, the oldest of all gods.
When he saw how diligently the Phoenicians worked and how bravely they sailed the
seas, Baals gentle heart swelled and a tear dropped out of his eye. From this tear Byblos
was created, the first town ever to be built.
When the grateful Phoenicians built a temple on the other side of Lebanon and gave it
the name Baalbek the temple of gods tear Baals gentle heart swelled up again and

he decided to give them an extraordinary gift. The first child to be born in Byblos, he
said, shall always be reborn! As you may have guessed, it was our friend Phoenix, the
only living Phoenician.
How exciting! Mozart said and smiled innocently. I apologize if I am curious again, he
added, but, who are you?
Thats a very interesting question, the stranger replied, but a very complex one as well.
I am, if you dont mind a satyr.
I was born in Phoenicia, he went on, before the Flood, which, by the way, never
happened. I am the illegitimate son of Alleluia, the one who brings the light, and his
mistress Astarta, the beauty with a tear in her bosom. When I was born they named me
Baalzebub, which in Phoenician means the lord of the shades, and some malicious folks
changed it later into Beelzebub, the lord of the frogs.
Although my parents were of exceptional stature and beauty, the great shining eye
trifled with me in a very awkward manner. As you can see, I have horns. My right eye is
black and the other one green. And on my left leg, which is shorter than the right, I have
a hoof.
I left Phoenicia a long time ago and for some centuries drifted over Europe. A few years
ago I started working for the great alchemist from Weimar, Goethe. He is writing a play
about a certain doctor Faust, who allegedly sold his soul to the devil.
As I said, I met Goethe in a tavern in Heidelberg while I was gambling with some crooks.
When he saw me, he said that I reminded him irresistibly of Mephistopheles, the devil
from his story. He offered to employ me as an advisor and I had no reason not to accept.
My job entails visiting him from time to time and talk to him, so that he could describe
this enchanter as convincingly as possible.
If I understood you well, the composer said, you are in fact the devil.
Well the satyr replied. Goethe maintains that I am part of the dark force that always
wishes to do evil, but always does good. Whether this is true or not, you can judge for
your- self.
But let us start from the beginning. One day some bedouins arrived in the deserts south
of Phoenicia, bringing with them an absurd story about a promised land and the chosen
people. The Phoenicians named them Judeans, which simply meant the bedouins from
the south. It was in the primitive minds of these nomads that the story of the devil
emerged for the first time. And its heroes were, believe or not, our friend Phoenix and I!
Being unable to comprehend the story about Phoenix the one who is always reborn
the Judeans began saying that he was not a man but Satan, the one who deceives or, if
you like, a liar and a cheat.
Nevertheless, I liked this ridiculous story very much. As I was already a little bored with
the role of a satyr and secretly always wanted to be Phoenixs shadow, I seized this
unique opportunity with both hands. And so I became Satan, a liar and a cheat, the angel
of evil and the prince of darkness.
Centuries passed and I wandered through Phoenicia, frightening bedouins and amusing
the Phoenicians. Then I became bored with that as well. So, I went to Greece and asked
Hephaestos, the god of fire and blacksmiths, to employ me, but he refused, saying that

he himself was ugly and lame and that he had had enough of his own shadow.
For a while I roamed the Greek islands and then I had the incredible luck to meet
Dionysus, the god of wine and musicians. He gave me the job of advisor for drunkenness
and debauchery, and I can say that it was the happiest time I spent under the sun. And
then the Christians arrived.
The long forgotten story of Satan was resurfaced and, not wasting a moment, I went
back to Phoenicia. So, I became the devil again, and my fame spread through the world
at the speed of lightning.
But, as we talk about the Christians, I must tell you something else. It is about him, who,
through no fault of his own, laid the foundations of the biggest delusion in the history of
the world the Aramaean from Nazareth.
One day a young man on a donkey arrived in Jerusalem. I am a shepherd, he said, tell
me where my flock is! But the Romans arrested him on the charges of preaching a new
faith and condemned him to death. Soon after they crucified him and that is the end of
the story.
Later on, however, some suspicious characters appeared, claiming that the Aramaean
had been their teacher and that he was crucified to redeem the sins of all people. And
that his last words allegedly were, My god, my god, why have you forsaken me?
Since I have the divine gift to travel through time and in order to find out what really had
happened, I decided to go back to that shiny morning. And here is what I saw and
afterwards wrote down as well:
Oh heavenly eye, the great spring shining upon my face for the last time! the
Aramaean cried out. You are the witness that I, the son of the shepherds from the
Aramaic fields, guardian of winds and player on the flame, am dying not knowing why.
Sunshine, sunshine, why are you forsaking me?
He closed his eyes and a flock of young cranes flew out of his heart.
And I, who know the secrets of earth and the secrets of heaven, guardian of poets and
young cranes, have owls from Lebanon and crabs from the Orontes for witnesses , that all
I wrote down, really had happened in the year 666 after Orpheuss death.
This manuscript, titled The Gospel According to Satyr, exists even today and can be
found in the library of Baalbek.
The satyr fell silent and Mozart blinked his eyes and whispered, This is really exciting!
A few centuries later, the satyr went on, the prophet from Mecca arrived and gave me
the name Eblis, which is Baal-isa or Baals apostle. And here is what he said about me.
When Allah created the first man all the angels allegedly fell down in adoration before
him, except me. When Allah asked me why I too was not paying reverence to the one he
had made with his own hands, I answered, I am better than him. You have created him
from mud and I was made from fire! Then Allah banished me from heaven and now I
drift through the world deceiving people. And you know, of course, that this is all utter
nonsense.
Mozart blinked his eyes again.
But before I leave, the satyr said, I want to tell you one more thing. A hundred years
after your death, a man will be born who will describe me in a brilliant way Mikhail

Bulgakov or Baal-gakov, that is, the smiling tear.

But how can you know, Mozart interrupted him, what is going to happen in a hundred
years time?
Well the satyr said. You certainly know that time is round. More precisely, it has the
shape of an infinite circle. As I have been enclosed in this magic circle for centuries, over
time I have developed a perfect sense for space. And as your fingers glide so easily from
one key to another, so I, too, fly with ease through centuries.
So, what is going to happen? When you die, your soul will go to Baalbek and spend one
century there. Then the cranes will take it to the north and in 1891, in Russia, our new
friend Bulgakov will be born. So, he will have your soul and, remembering our encounter,
he will transform it in a brilliant way into an exciting story.
But, satyr, Mozart said, we are now in November 1791. Does it mean that my time has
run out?
Unfortunately yes, my friend. But you have quite enough time to write the requiem.
But I am only 35 years old, Mozart whispered.
My friend the satyr said. I have already told you that time is only an illusion. It does
not matter at all how long you have lived, but what you have done. And you played your
role in the universe brilliantly.
He stood up and out of his right, black eye, dropped a tear. So, my friend, goodbye he
said and as silently as he had come, he vanished into the night.
One month later, a little after midnight on December 5th 1791, Mozart interrupted his
work on the requiem for a while and lay down to have a rest. And only a few minutes
later there was a joyful cry of cranes over the roofs.
Oh satyr, satyr murmured the composer, smiling, and one crane flew down onto his
shoulder. Lets go, maestro, the crane whispered and dropped a tear, and then they all
flew to Baalbek together.
And one hundred years later, as I said, the great Phoenician writer Mikhail Bulgakov was
born, who, in his novel The Master and Margarita, gave his version of the story of the
famous satyr from Phoenicia.

Thus Died Zarathustra

One sunny day young Johann von Aachen was sitting on a bench beside Goethes
monument in Weimar reading Thus Spoke Zarathustra, a book by the Phoenician poet
and philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche. It is a pity, he thought, that this exceptional man
had met with such a tragic fate. He knew that a few years before Nietzsche had lost his
mind and had never regained it.
As von Aachen sat there reading, a man with a large moustache came and sat down
beside him. The youngster looked at the man and could not believe his eyes it was
Friedrich Nietzsche, in person.
You are reading Zarathustra he spoke.
Yes, the youngster answered.
Zarathustra was an exceptional man, the poet said, and one of the most beautiful
secrets in the universe. In fact, he was ein bermensch, one who arose above good and
evil.
But how is this possible? von Aachen thought. Did Nietzsche not go mad?
You are mistaken, young man, the poet said, I am not Nietzsche. Moreover, Nietzsche
did not go mad, but went to Phoenicia.
May I the youngster began, but Nietzsche interrupted him.
You want to ask who I am, he said. I am his shadow! You can call me Elagabalus the
shadow of suns disk. Believe me, young man, Nietzsche burnt like a torch and like the
suns disc.
The youngster looked at the large-moustached man and blinked his eyes.
You see, the poet went on. Nietzsche spent his life on a string stretched between two
stars. He walked so from one star to the other and then he happened to lose his balance
and he fell down. And they quite wrongly said that he went mad. What really happened
was that he went to Phoenicia and I stayed here, roaming around Weimar as his shadow.
I am sorry, the young man said, but I dont understand.
You see, the poet explained. While Nietzsche was here, they did not understand him at
all. And now the same thing is happening they do not understand me either. But I will
explain to you what is going on here.
You see When the great all-seeing eye dropped a tear, everything on earth was
created from her. But, as if the tear had split into two halves, two worlds arose out of her
both good and evil arose on earth. Wisdom arose and stupidity as well. The Phoenicians
arose, the ones who walk on the string and pull the world forward, but also the bedouins,
who dont understand the Phoenicians, who envy and despise them. The grasshopper
arose and so did the ants.
Oh, I must tell you what happened to me recently. I was hovering over the roads beside
Weimar, when from somewhere I heard the sound of the violin. I went after it and in the
shade of a cypress tree, where he had taken shelter against the hot sun, I found his
majesty, the grasshopper. He was playing the violin and singing, and the cypress tree
above him danced like a girl.
How are you, maestro? I asked him, and he laid the violin aside and gave me a sad
smile.
The world is unjust, sir, he said. Tell me, please Does someone who sings deserve

such scorn?
Of course not, I assured him. And who is scorning you?
The ants, he replied, those cockroaches and bedouins of the worst kind. The other day,
when I was walking by their catacombs, I clearly heard them saying, When that fiddler
and harlequin comes, with his chanting, dont open the doors to him. Who on earth needs
that rubbish!
And only a few days later, the poet went on, while I was hovering over the fields beside
Weimar, I came across a very exciting sight. A young ant was sitting under an oak tree
and with sadness in his eye he watched the white road in front of him.
How is it going, youngster? I asked him, and he smiled sadly.
As soon as I began to walk, he said, they loaded a grain of wheat on my back and said,
You will carry it till death! Then I laughed for the last time. And when that enchanter,
the grasshopper, came along, they smashed his head with his own violin.
Therefore I have decided to leave these catacombs, get a violin and find the
grasshopper.
Then we shall wander the world, the great enchanter and I. We shall admire the
sunshine and young rainbows, fly over fields of ripe wheat and sing so beautifully that
the cypress trees beside the roads will dance like girls
You see, the poet went on, if Nietzsche were here, he would certainly drop a tear. And I
dont doubt that you, too, were moved with the yearning of the young ant. The yearning
with which he wanted, in such an innocent and moving way, to connect two worlds that
can never be connected.
Now, young man, do you understand me a little bit better? Can you for a moment believe
that they lied to you? That Nietzsche did not go mad, but really went to Phoenicia. And
that I am only his shadow.
Von Aachen only sighed deeply and blinked his eyes.
Oh yes, the poet added, I have not told you how Zarathustra died
One morning he came out of his cave, caressed the lion, the cranes and the camel. Then
he went up to the hill and kissed the young sun. Oh heavenly eye, he said, the blazing
torch shining upon my face for the last time good-bye! Then Ahrimans angels came
flying on white horses and cut off his head with a golden sabre.
They say that the lion, upon hearing the sad news, roared like a wounded lion and shook
the universe. The cranes cried all the way to Baalbek, and the camel has not taken a sip
of water, to this very day. Thus died Zarathustra. And do you know, young man how
god died?
I am sorry, von Aachen said, but I have to go
Oh, no, young man, the poet said, I have to go. And you keep reading that exciting
book. Good-bye, he said and out of his left moustache dropped a tear.
A few days later Friedrich Nietzsche died and the cranes, with his soul in their beaks, flew
backwards to Baalbek.

Three Knights and a Girl

This is the story about two Phoenician poets and a painter who shared the same soul.
All three lived the same number of years, thirty-seven, and their lives were interrupted in
the same manner they died by the bullet. The gentle Phoenician soul first sang in
Pushkin, then cried in van Gogh and in the end burnt in Lorca.
In his novel Eugene Onegin, Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin brought his hero into great
temptation at one point he had to go to a duel. Since the hero cannot die in the middle
of the story, Onegin won.
Only a few years later, the great all-seeing eye played with Pushkin in the same manner
he had to go to a duel as well. As it usually happens, the cause was banal, and his
adversary was an officer of the French army whose name I cannot recall.
The die is cast! Pushkin said. Like my friend Onegin, Im also going to duel. And the
crazy gendarme is threatening me. He says that he may not be good at writing verses,
but he certainly knows how to shoot. But this does not disturb me. Im not doing this
because I am quick on the trigger, but because I want to show that he, who is so
beautifully playing with life, can even more beautifully play with death. After all, life is
nothing but a postponement of death.
If I kill that gendarme, fine there will be one fool less under the sun, and I will have the
memory of the moment when I encountered death. And if I lose there will be one secret
less in the universe, and thats all.
The next morning, in the street of Ivan the Terrible in St. Petersburg, the poet and the
gendarme stood one against another. As one could have expected, the gendarme was
quicker.
While the poet lay on the street, mortally wounded, a girl with purple hair came along
and caressed his face. Although he was more dead than alive, the poet smiled and
whispered, What happened, my little Gypsy girl?
Nothing, Alexander Sergeevich, the girl replied. We will have one secret less in the
universe, thats all She dropped a tear, then turned into a white bird and flew away.
Vincent van Gogh spent his life in a labyrinth. He roamed the dark chambers of
Elagabalus garden trying to find the exit, and when he realized one day that he would
never find it, he simply shot himself. And so he tore his own heart, the labyrinth and the
endless universe to pieces. This is how it happened
That day, van Gogh was sitting on the magic hill in Provence, wanting to express the
endless sadness and solitude of the universe with colours. He painted naked, dead girls
lying beside a river, and above them were flying winged tombs. In the distance, the dark
walls of a labyrinth could be seen.
As I said, van Gogh sat under an old olive tree, painting, when a girl came from
somewhere, wearing a beautiful purple dress.
You are painting, Vincent she said.

Yes, the painter replied. Im painting my house without doors and windows, my dead
mistresses and my winged brothers.
And you are waiting for Theseus.
Yes, Ariadne, the painter said, I am waiting for Theseus to come out of the tale and
open the doors of the labyrinth with his golden sword.
But what if Theseus does not come? the girl asked.
Well, if he does not come, the painter said and smiled, you will then marry the satyr
from Phoenicia and live like a Gypsy queen, and I will, like Elagabalus, spend 666 years in
a labyrinth, and then drown in my own solitude.
The girl looked at him with a sad smile in her eye, then pulled a gun out of her bosom
and quietly, as if she was picking a flower, shot him right in his heart. He died on the spot
and the girl dropped a tear. Then she turned into a white crane and flew away.
Federico Garcia Lorca roamed the slopes of Andalusia, illuminated by the sunshine and
the scent of the Guadalquivir, on whose banks the Gypsies raised forges, in which they
forged the golden suns and silver moons. He roamed and sang, and thus arrived at that
fated day.
The mild Andalusian sun was sinking into the Guadalquivir and our Lorca sat under an old
cypress tree, with a tear in his eye. Then the Gypsies came from somewhere and asked
him what misfortune had befallen him. He told them that his own soul had deserted him.
I do not know why, he said, but she simply went out of me and flew away.
Oh! the Gypsies exclaimed. And what then, poet?
I went all over Andalusia, the poet replied, searched through Granada, Cordoba and
Cadiz, I chased her with greyhounds and a falcon on my shoulder, but there was no trace
of her. And what shall I do without her, compadres?
While they were talking, on the other end, right on the spot where the sun had sunk into
the Guadalquivir, a girl came out of the river and went to them. In one hand she had the
moon, in the other a tambourine. When she approached them, the girl smiled and began
to rattle with the tambourine. Only for Lorca and the company under the cypress tree,
she said and began to dance.
What a beauty! one of the Gypsies whispered without taking his eyes off her and the
poet recalled the verses from his poem: The beauty is walking along the road, playing
the tambourine. Run away, my little beauty, the green wind is chasing you
When she finished dancing, the girl came to the poet and handed him the moon and the
tambourine. Good-bye Lorca, she said and kissed him, and a tear dropped out of her
eye. Then she turned into a purple bird and flew away.
The end of the story, although it may appear absurd, is only the logical solution of this
dramatic scene. One of the Gypsies, probably frightened by what he had seen, said
something like this, Maybe I dont know anything about life, poet, but about death I
certainly do. This is death! he said and killed the poet on the spot. He only killed the
body, though, because the soul, as we saw, was already on her way to Baalbek.

Epilogue

The Wandering Rhapsode

Thus, in the dusk of that sunny day, I finished Phoenician Myths. I sat for a while in
front of the temple of gods tear, then took the parchment and went down to Baalbek. I
wanted to find my friend Baalzebub, the famous satyr from Phoenicia, and give him the
manuscript.
As was usual for that time of day, the town was swarming with people.
At the square in front of Baals statue sat Homer of Lydia, narrating in his bronze voice
the famous story of Hector, tamer of horses. Beside him sat Calliope, playing the lyre.
A bit farther away, Leonardo was doing a portrait of the beautiful Nefertiti, and in the
shade of a palm tree Salvador Dali was painting the queen of Sheba, flying over the
desert on a winged Bactrian camel. Under the young cedar Orpheus was singing a
melancholy song, and on one of the pillars of Jupiters temple sat Khayyam from Shiraz,
smoking a hookah.
In the atrium of Baalbeks library, Dante and Balzac were discussing the purpose of
literature, and Lucian of Syria was writing Last Psalm, the miraculous book that would
as he claimed comprise all other books. A bit farther Zarathustra was walking on a
string stretched between two marble pillars, and Nietzsche watched him with admiration
and whispered with his left moustache, Ein echter bermensch!
By the source of the Orontes I found two great alchemists, Tesla and Einstein, as they
talked about eternity. The Serb stated that only two things were eternal the universe
and stupidity and the Jew said that he agreed, but added that he was not quite sure
about the universe.
Not far away Diogenes was repairing his tub.
Then I went to Last Chance, the best tavern in Baalbek, where my friend Baalzebub was
waiting for me. As usual, he was in a good mood. He drank beer and told the blue-eyed
nymph behind the bar a tale from the centuries to come. I gave him the parchment, and
with his left eye (with the right one he read from right to left) he scanned the first few
lines.
Excellent, my friend, he said, excellent! At last the world will learn something about the
Phoenicians!
While he was reading, I turned around to see who was in the tavern.
At one table Socrates, Shakespeare and Goethe were gambling for silver coins. At the
other, Giordano Bruno was persuading Hannibal to take revenge upon Rome, and at the
third Samson was relating don Quixote about Delilah. At a table in the corner van Gogh
drank alone.

By the bar, on my left-hand side, El Greco and Cervantes spoke with nostalgia about the
slopes of Toledo, and, on my right, Pushkin was trying to seduce Scheherezade with his
verses. By the door Mozart played the violin.
And while I was looking across the tavern, a strange young man came in and took a place
at the bar next to us. He ordered a beer and then turned towards me.
Excuse me, he said, whats the name of this town?
Baalbek, I replied.
Very good, the young man said, its the town I was looking for!
The satyr stopped reading and looked up curiously at the young man. Then he stretched
his hand and said, Hello, I am Baalzebub...
Oh, the young man exclaimed and smiled, the famous satyr from Phoenicia! Then he
turned towards me. And this must be Phoenix, he added, the one who is always reborn
and the only living Phoenician!
Very nice to meet you, I said, and the satyr asked, Excuse me, but who are you?
Thats very hard to say, the young man answered. But in short I am a wandering
rhapsode. I wander the world, looking for three chimeras: love, beauty and wisdom!
Oh! exclaimed Baalzebub and blinked his eyes. But, tell me, please, how did you know
who we are?
Well, its a long story, the young man replied. You see, I wrote a book about
Phoenicians. In it I described Baalbek, the city of sages or the city of shades, and
Phoenicia, the miraculous land, which, as you know, hovers neither in heaven nor on
earth. And then I decided to come to Baalbek and meet my heroes.
Interesting, the satyr said, and then asked, Whats the name of your book?
And the young man replied, Phoenician Myths.
Baalzebub and I looked at each other in wonder.
And who are your heroes? I asked.
As I said, Phoenicians, the young man answered, the most brave and gifted among
people. Here, he added and showed with a sweeping gesture of his hand across the
tavern, they are all my heroes. Of course, you two as well!
Interesting! exclaimed the satyr again. But let me ask you, do you know what this is?
he said and showed the young man the parchment.
Of course, he replied, a parchment.
Baalzebub smiled. You have inferred it very wisely. But, do you know what is written on
it?
The young man took the manuscript and glanced over it. Ha, he exclaimed, Phoenician
Myths!
Yes, the satyr said, Phoenician Myths! And what is this telling you?
The young man raised his eyebrows and suspiciously shook his head. I dont want you to
get me wrong, he said, but this parchment is apocryphal!
What do you mean? the satyr asked.
False, the young man replied.
For goodness sake! Baalzebub cried out. What are you talking about?
About reality, the young man answered. Or if you like about illusion. After all, he

added, its not upon us to judge what reality is and what is illusion. Therefore I suggest
that we listen to someone who knows about these things better than us. For example,
seor Borges!
Indeed, as soon as hed spoken, Borges came in and headed straight towards us. He said,
Good evening, gentlemen, then asked what the problem was.
Seor Borges, the satyr said, good that you have come. Here is the argument. Our
friend Phoenix has just finished Phoenician Myths. But this harlequin, who, I understand,
is in Baalbek for the first time, claims that the manuscript is false. He says that he wrote
the Myths and that we are his heroes. In short, he claims that all this is an illusion!
The poet mused for a moment, then shook his head anxiously. You see, he said, the
question of reality and illusion is very complex. Sometimes even the most wise men
cannot solve it. But, so far as I see, things are quite clear here this is an illusion.
Seor Borges! the satyr cried out, but the poet didnt hear him.
You see, he went on, writing is magic. And it often happens that we lose our way in that
magic. Readers think that what they read is reality. The writer fancies that he lives in the
world hes writing about, and sometimes strange as it may look heroes themselves
believe that they really exist. For instance, it happened to me several times. I will give
you one example.
While I was writing the story Immortal, my hero Joseph Cartaphilus of Smyrna came and
said, Seor Borges, you know what? I dont want to end my life in such a banal way!
I asked him, in wonder, what he meant.
As I understand, he added, at the end of the story I will drown in the Aegean sea. And
you must admit, what kind of death is it to drown in the Aegean sea?
As you may guess, I had difficulty explaining to him that it was only a story.
Seor Borges... Baalzebub wanted to say something, but the poet interrupted him.
My dear satyr, he said, let me explain. As I said, sometimes it is very difficult to
distinguish between reality and illusion. But you have to understand this is an illusion.
You do not exist, nor Phoenix, nor Phoenicia, nor this tavern. Nor do I, unfortunately. This
young man invented it all. Do you understand me? He is a writer, or if you like a
rhapsode, and we are his heroes.
Goodness me! the satyr cried out in disbelief.
Well gentlemen, the poet added, I hope we have the problem solved. So, I wish you a
nice evening!
He turned around and left, and the satyr and I watched after him, not believing our eyes.
And as if nothing had happened, the young man winked at the girl and smiled, then
turned towards us. Well, he said, do you believe me now?
The satyr blinked his eyes and whispered, What a harlequin! and I looked about,
confused. So, I said, all this is an illusion!
Yes, the young man replied. But to make the illusion look complete and in order that
our reader doesnt feel deceived I suggest that you read the last two passages from the
parchment, in which is described your death.
My death? I said in wonder.
Yes, the young man answered. I think it would be quite pretty to end our tale in the way

that you like the famous bird phoenix burn in flames! He then handed me the
parchment and I began to read in a low voice:
So, in the dusk of that sunny day, I went on the hill above Baalbek, where, in the ruins of
the temple of gods tear, was my grave. I lit the pyre, then sat down under an old cedar
and for a while listened to the crickets, singing joyfully in the cedars crown. And when
the fire was in full blaze, I stood up and, with a smile in my heart, looked at the bronze
city in front of me.
Dear Phoenicians, I said, dear shades, good-bye!
Then I turned around and with a slow, but steady step, walked into the fire. And while my
brittle body quickly vanished, my soul kept dancing with the flames and teasing the
young wind. And she whispered, O joy of dying and joy of birth! Blessed be the flame
that is ending one life and creating another! Good-bye dear sunshine, the beauty
whispered, good-bye dear universe! See you in the next life or in the next dream!
I became silent, and the satyr smiled. Well, mister rhapsode, he said, bravo! Youve
done it very nicely!
Thank you, the young man replied and smiled back. Confused, I asked, And what now?
Nothing, the young man answered, weve arrived at the end of the book. And if you
dont mind, I would like to buy you a drink. So, gentlemen, cheers! Thank you for your
company, and I wish you a long and exciting life and a lot of fame!
Then he turned to the girl. Give us something to drink, darling, he said, I am paying
tonight!
That night we drank till dawn.

Publication Date: March 10th 2010

http://www.bookrix.com/-fenix6