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Then the mactator arrives, the star of the show, the bull killer, the man who will finish the job. He is a mountain of a man, dressed in a simple, short tunic, arms bare and lower legs covered by protectors. In each hand, he carries a pole as long as his arm, decorated with ribbons and ending in a barb. He walks towards the bull in a straight line. The more determinedly he follows this invisible path, the more the crowd admires his courage. Most of them are sitting again now, and instead of the cheers and yells that made all conversation impossible moments ago, there is silence, as though they are collectively holding their breath. The bull responds to the new threat heading towards him by scraping the sand with its hoof. With a guttural roar, the mactator commands the attention of the whole arena. When he is within a few steps of the bull, it charges. The taurarius, the bullfighter,spins neatly to avoid the attack, and before he finishes his pirouette, he drives a barbed lance between the bull’s shoulder blades. The arena explodes with joy, so graceful was the parry, so perfectly aimed the lance. Now the mactator runs away from the bull. Then, he circles back towards it, and with an impressive leap, lands his second spear next to the first.
Those who assume that the bull has given up are about to find that they are mistaken. The animal seems to know that this is its last chance to wound his attacker. It summons all its strength to lift up its head, while blood gushes from its wounds and long, bloody strings of mucus hang from its mouth.
The taurarius approaches the editor’s box, bends one knee on the sand and bows his head. The editor gives a small nod of approval, upon which the venator at the eastern gate comes forward to place a special headcovering on the mactator’s head – a soft, red conical cap with a point that falls forwards – and hand him the linteum, the half circle of red flannel, draped over a wooden rod.
The taurarius walks back to the bull. He waves the cloth tauntingly, and from somewhere, the beast finds the energy to make a few desperate lunges. The enthusiasm of the audience’s reaction spurs the bullfighter on to take even greater risks. This is the most dangerous stage of the fight. One moment of distraction could be fatal. The bull, stunned by pain and fear, could still mortally wound the mactator in a last attempt to avoid death by goring his unprotected belly with his horns.
But the liberating blast of a trumpet is already sounding and the venator comes scurrying over from his post at the western gate. In one hand he carries a light, curved sword – with a hilt in the form of a snake, the falcata – and in the other, a flaming torch. He hands over the falcata and takes up position behind the bull’s left flank. This is the hora veritatis, the hour of truth, when the mactator will end the beast’s suffering by plunging the sword between its shoulder blades and piercing its heart.
He stands before the exhausted animal. It is too tired now to even lift its head. He places his hand on its forehead and forces it to the ground, a flourish which brings a sigh of admiration from the crowd.
A minister rushes over from the eastern side of the arena. He carries a silver chalice in one hand and, in the other, a blazing torch which he points at the ground.
The bull is lying in the sand now, and the mactator straddles it with his knee on its right haunch and his other leg on the ground. He pulls its head back by the horn with his left hand and raises his right arm in the air. The falcata’s blade flashes in the sun. And then, with a masterful stroke, he brings the sword down and expertly slits the beast’s throat. Blood spurts out, soaking the sand with a powerful geyser of red until the bull finally succumbs. The curved sword is buried so deeply that the snake on the hilt appears to lick the bull’s wound.
‘Sanguis eius super nos et super filios nostros.’ The old man in the stands murmurs a hopeful prayer. His blood be on us, and on our children.
The mactator rubs his bloodied hands across his face, as though washing himself with the blood. He is a terrifying sight now; the blood has mixed with sand and sweat, but he seems unmoved, and stares out at an imaginary point in the distance.
‘Et nos servasti eternali sanguine fuso,’ the old man whispers. And you have also saved us by shedding the eternal blood. The man pulls a hunk of bread from his sleeve and tears a piece from it as he stares intently at the spectacle in the arena.
The taurarius takes up the blade once more, this time to cut a chunk of flesh from the bull. He shows this to the audience then puts it in his mouth and swallows it whole.
‘Accipite et comedite, hoc est corpus meum quod pro vobis datur.’ Take this and eat; this is my body which is given for you.
The old man closes his eyes, puts the piece of bread into his mouth, and chews thoughtfully, as though he is tasting bread for the first time in his life.
The mactator takes the chalice from the venator behind him and fills it with blood from the bull’s neck. This he also shows to the audience before emptying it one, long gulp.
‘Bibite, hic est sanguis meus qui pro multis effunditur.’ Drink, this is my blood poured out for many. The old man retrieves a small, earthenware jug of wine from under his seat. He twists the cork from it and takes a drink, swirls the wine around in his mouth then swallows.
The euphoric crowd chants the name of the taurarius and he stands up to begin his victory lap. Meanwhile, a venator removes the bull’s testicles with a pair of scissors shaped like a scorpion. These are believed to be a powerful aphrodisiac and will be offered to the editor later.
‘Iste, qui nec de corpore meo ederit nec de mea sanguine biberit ut mecum misceatur et ego cum eo miscear, salutem non habebit,’ the old man ends his ritual. He who does not eat of my flesh and drink of my blood, so that he remains in me and I in him, shall not know salvation.
A dog that has escaped from the catacombs seizes its chance to get close to the bull and lick at the blood still streaming from its neck. A minister delivers a well-aimed kick to its belly and it scuttles away, its teeth and muzzle red.
The people stand on the benches, waving white cloths to show their appreciation of the taurarius’ bravery and the elegance with which he has fought. A group of men jump into the arena to lift the bullfighter onto their shoulders. They parade him past his audience as wreaths and flowers rain down on him. Two ropes are fastened to the hind legs of the lifeless animal. A portion of the applause is surely meant for the bull as it exits the arena, leaving a bloody trail in the sand. Its meat will be served at the tables of the city’s wealthy families tonight. A small fortune will be paid for its tail, a delicacy when stewed with onions and wine.
The old man gets up and takes a last look at the arena behind him where the trail of blood in the sand is the only evidence that an unfair fight has taken place here today.
‘Consummatum est,’ he says, satisfied. It is finished.
1 (#u8d2e7ba7-c236-5593-bda2-f31cab40cfcf)
CORAX
RAVEN
Leiden, 20 March 2015, 1:00pm
Technically, Peter de Haan’s lecture was already over. He had given a brisk overview of Leiden’s most important churches in his ‘Introduction to the History of Leiden’ for Master’s students. It was part of an elective module, but it packed the small lecture theatre every year. He had stopped being surprised by it years ago, but it always did him good to see the theatre so full.
Some of the students had started to pack away their things, but they hadn’t yet dared to leave their seats. One young man watched him like a dog waiting for a command from its master.
An aerial photograph of the Hooglandse Kerk was projected onto the screen behind him. At the start of the fourteenth century, it had been no more than a small wooden chapel. By the end of the sixteenth century it had grown into a cathedral so enormous that it had become too big for its surroundings, like an oversized sofa in a tiny living room. The photograph also showed the Burcht van Leiden, the city’s iconic eleventh-century motte-and-bailey castle. This six-foot-tall crenelated circular stone wall was built on top of a man-made mound about twelve metres high.
Peter raised his hand, and the quiet chatter in the room immediately stopped. ‘I know you all want to go to lunch,’ he said, with a hint of hesitation in his voice, ‘but which of you are going to watch the first underground waste container being installed at the public library this afternoon?’
Most of the students looked at him politely, but none of them responded.
‘You know that there’s a major project starting in town at two o’clock today, installing these containers?’
‘I didn’t know about it, sir,’ said one young man politely, keeping his hand in the air as he spoke. ‘But why would we be interested in that?’
‘Well now, I’m so glad you asked,’ Peter said.
This response drew some chuckles from his audience. The students stopped what they were doing and accepted that they weren’t going to be allowed to leave just yet.
Peter grabbed his laser pointer and drew a circle around the church on the screen.
‘This might come as a surprise to you, but not much is known about Leiden’s origins or how it developed. There aren’t many opportunities to carry out archaeological research in the centre of town. The simple reason for that is that anywhere you might want to dig has been built on, as those of you who go into urban archaeology later will no doubt discover. We might, very occasionally, be given a brief opportunity to excavate when a building is demolished, but it’s extremely rare. This project means that we can go down as deep as three metres, at literally hundreds of sites across the city. Who knows what might be hidden beneath our feet?’
‘Or which skeletons will come out of the closet,’ said the young man.
‘Exactly!’ Peter replied enthusiastically. ‘Now it looks like we’d rehearsed that earlier, but it was actually going to be my next point. Look …’
He traced a route along the Nieuwstraat with a beam of red light. ‘This street used to be a canal, but like many of the other canals in Leiden, it was filled in. Some canals were covered over, overvaulted, meaning that instead of being filled with sand and debris, they were just roofed over and then the roads were built on top of them. You can still walk through some of them, like tunnels, but this one was infilled. The cemetery was here, on the other side of the church. But people were sometimes secretly buried in this area, near what used to be the canal, next to the church. Those were people who couldn’t afford to be buried in the churchyard but who wanted to be laid to rest as close to the church as they could get.’
His mobile phone started to vibrate in the inside pocket of his jacket.
He looked around the lecture theatre. If he kept on talking, he’d become that uncle who endlessly droned on about the past at parties.
‘You can go,’ he said instead. ‘I’ll see you all this afternoon!’
The room sprang to life again, as though he’d pressed play on a paused video. As they made their way to the door, the students filed past his desk to hand in their work. The course required a fortnightly submission of a short essay about one of the subjects they had covered.
The room was empty. Peter turned off the projector and gathered up his things. When he picked up the sheaf of papers, a blank envelope fell out from between them. He picked it up and looked at it. It was probably a note from a student apologising for the fact that various circumstances had prevented them from doing their assignment this week.
He was about to open it when Judith appeared in the doorway.
She smiled. ‘You’ve not forgotten, have you?’
‘How could I possibly forget an appointment with you?’ Peter said, stuffing the envelope in his bag with the rest of the papers.
He had met Judith Cherev, a woman in her early forties, twenty years ago when he had supervised her final dissertation. They had become close friends in the years that followed. She had researched the history of Judaism in Leiden for her PhD. Now she was a lecturer in the history department, as well as freelancing as a researcher for the Jewish Historical Museum in Amsterdam.
Her dark curls, accented here and there with a charming streak of grey, were effortlessly tied back with a thick elastic band. She was still a beautiful woman, slim, and dressed, as always, in a blouse and long skirt. The Star of David necklace that hung around her neck glinted in the fluorescent lights.
‘Did you just send me a text?’
Judith shook her head.
Peter took his phone from inside his jacket and opened the message.
Hora est.
He smiled.
‘What is it?’
‘I think one of my students wanted to let me know that it was time to stop talking.’
He walked over to the door with the bag under his arm and turned off the lights. He showed the message to Judith on the way.
The hora est – the hour has come – was the phrase with which the university beadle entered the room exactly three-quarters of an hour into a doctoral candidate’s defence of their thesis before the Doctoral Examination Board. At this point, the candidate was no longer permitted to talk, even if the beadle had entered mid-sentence. To most candidates, the words came as a huge relief.
‘That’s quite witty,’ Judith said, handing back the phone. ‘Odd that it was sent anonymously though.’
‘Probably scared that their wit will get them marked down.’ He deleted the message. Just as he was about to lock up the lecture hall, he noticed that someone had left a telephone on one of the tables, an iPhone that looked brand new. He walked back into the hall, picked it up and put it in his jacket pocket. Its owner would appear at his office door soon enough. The students were practically grafted to their phones.
They walked outside and headed for the university restaurant in the Lipsius Building. It had been called the Lipsius for years, but Peter still called it the LAK, the name of the theatre and arts centre that used to be there.
‘Mark is probably there already,’ Judith said, tenderly. ‘You know him. One o’clock means one o’clock.’
Mark was a professor in the theology department, a brilliant man with a history of mental illness. He and Judith were in a ‘LAT’ relationship, living together in every way except that they had each kept their own little houses in the Sionshofje. Because of the hofje’s rules, actually moving in together would mean moving out of the Sionshofje, and neither of them wanted to leave the picturesque little courtyard.
Inside the restaurant, students and tutors sat at long tables. A monotone din of chatter and clatter filled the room. The warmth and smells from the kitchen made the air in the room stuffy and humid.
As Judith had predicted, Mark was already sitting at a table and saving two seats for them. He waved.
They visited the buffet counter on their way over to him. Peter chose an extra-large salad and a glass of fresh orange juice and Judith picked up a bowl of soup with a slice of bread and cheese.
‘Well done,’ Judith complimented Peter, giving his stomach a teasing little pat.
Mark was already half way through his meal by the time they sat down. Judith kissed him lightly on the cheek, something that still gave Peter a pang of envy, even after many years.
‘What are your plans for the afternoon?’ Peter asked.
‘I have an appointment with someone at two, sounds like an older gentleman,’ Judith said. ‘He’s inherited some bits and pieces from a Jewish aunt’s estate. He found me via the museum. I’m going to drop by and see if any of them are suitable for our collection.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Peter.
‘Oh, usually these things end up being a disappointment, to be honest. But every now and then something special turns up. A bit like The Antiques Roadshow. Diaries, letters from a concentration camp, or just interesting everyday bits and pieces like kitchen utensils, tools and so on. You never know. I usually enjoy it anyway. They often just want someone to talk to …’
‘Never a dull moment with you, is there?’
‘Never a dull moment, no,’ she agreed. ‘And I want to plan a lecture for Monday, nothing out of the ordinary, really. I’ve got the next few days to myself.’ She put her hand on Mark’s arm.
‘Yep,’ said Mark. ‘I’m off to Germany again. A week with no phone, no internet, totally cut off from the rest of the world. Heaven.’
Once or twice a year, Mark retreated to the depths of the German forests, beyond the reach of cell phone towers, to ‘reflect’, as he called it. Judith would tease him by suggesting that he had a secret mistress, but she knew that he needed time to recharge now and then. He always came back revitalised, full of energy. The only compromise he made was that he agreed to venture back into civilisation once a week to call Judith and let her know how he was.
‘And this afternoon,’ Mark continued, ‘I want to spend a couple of hours working on an article I’m writing with Fay Spežamor. You know her, right? The Czech classicist, curator of Roman and Etruscan Art at the Museum of Antiquities.’
‘I’ve met her a few times, yes,’ Peter said. ‘Funnily enough, hers is the only mobile phone number I know off the top of my head. If you remember the first two numbers …’
‘Then you just need to keep adding two,’ Mark finished his sentence.
None of them spoke for a while.
‘Were you planning to do anything this afternoon then?’ Mark asked.
‘I’m going to go into town to see them install the container in the Nieuwstraat. I’ve been following the project a bit. The Cultural Heritage Department invited me. Daniël Veerman, Janna Frederiks … They’ve promised to let me know if they come across anything interesting.’
‘Oh yes! I wanted to show you something!’ Mark said suddenly, as though he hadn’t heard what Peter said at all. He pushed his tray aside. Underneath it was a large envelope, addressed in neat, unmistakably old-fashioned handwriting.
‘To the most noble and learned professor doctor M. Labuschagne,’ he read with amusement. ‘I need to send the author of this letter a quick reply this afternoon.’ He took a large bundle of densely typed pages out of the envelope. They had apparently been written on an old-fashioned typewriter. ‘This is one of those things …’ he said, leafing through them as though he was looking for something specific. ‘Ever since I graduated, people have been sending me things. Amateurs writing to tell me that they think they’ve found the code that makes the Book of Revelation all make sense, or that they have definitive proof that Jesus didn’t die on the cross …’
‘Or that the Apostle Peter is buried in Leiden,’ Judith joked.
They laughed.
‘But this … Look, usually it’s nonsense and probably not worth holding onto, but I keep everything. I might do something with them one day. Sometimes an idea seems crazy, or the whole world thinks an author is mad, but sometimes these people are just way ahead of their time. I had another one today, a Mr …’ He looked at the title page. ‘… Mr Goekoop from Zierikzee, Zeeland. It’s about the Burcht. He says that it originally had an astrological function. Look, he’s even drawn some diagrams.’
Mark held up a sheet of paper with a surprisingly good pen-and-ink illustration of Leiden’s castle. The artist had left space between the battlements so that the whole thing strongly resembled a megalithic circle, like Stonehenge.
‘He has this whole theory about how the first rays of the sun shine through the Burcht’s main gate on the equinox on March twenty-first, taking the earth’s precession into account. The precession is the way the axis moves. The earth is like a spinning top, its axis is never exactly vertical. It’s a bit complicated … He uses all these calculations to try to show that the original castle must have been built more than two thousand years ago. According to him, the word megalith is derived from the Greek mega-leithos, or, Great Leiden.’
‘That should be easy to check. Tomorrow is March twenty-first.’
‘Yes. But actually, it’s not that easy. The earth’s axis has shifted since then. Anyway, that part about the megalith is bunk, and the rest too, probably. Look at this; he thinks he has further proof of his theory in the three trees in the middle of the castle. Because they’re arranged in exactly the same way as the three stars on Orion’s belt. You know, like the Pyramids in Egypt.’
‘And that would make the Rhine the River Nile, I suppose?’
‘He says that the Rhine is the Lethe, or the Leythe, one of the five rivers of the underworld in Greek mythology, just like the Styx. According to him, the name Leythe is connected to Leiden of course.’
‘And this is what you spend your time on,’ said Peter.
‘It amuses me. You never know what someone is going to come up with. Sometimes the amateurs make surprising discoveries. But what fascinates me about this story is his theory that the Burcht was a centre for sun worship. He does have a point about the name Lugdunum …’
‘The Roman name for Katwijk.’
‘That’s right. But he reckons that it was originally the name given to the hill that the Burcht stands on. Lug is the name of the Celtic sun god, and dunum means “hill” or “mountain”. “Lug Hill”, or if you want to translate it more loosely, “the hill where Lug is worshipped”.’
‘With that sort of reasoning,’ Peter countered, ‘you could prove that Mr Goekoop’s hometown of Zierikzee can be traced back to the Greek goddess Circe. And that would put the city of Troy somewhere in Zeeland.’
Mark put the papers back in the envelope. ‘All the same, I always send these people a polite reply. That’s usually enough to satisfy them.’
