NicetiesLATER
The Cleanup Hitter
Hello again!
Decided to post my latest story, titled Bellus Animae, a historical fiction work set in fourth century Roman Egypt about a traveler venturing off into the domain of a saint, digressing on both the historical-cultural richness of Egypt and the psychological battles between saints and demons. Here's the synopsis, for those curious:
Deep into the sands of the desert in Roman Egypt, an Alexandrian scribe journeys by camel to the isolated alcove of a remarkable saint, and, inspired by the historical and religio-cultural tradition of the Egyptian land, conceives of the saint's mental warfare against demons within a hagiographical mindscape.
Part rich historical digression, part psychological analysis of Christianity and morality as derived from the setting of Late Antique Roman Egypt. Please, enjoy.
The smooth clop of the camel’s feet against the sand provided a backdrop of rhythm to my desert journey. The Sun scalded the brown fibers of my tunic like a viper stabbing at its prey, and I clutched onto the hump for dear life at some points, as if willing some of the contained moisture to splash against my brow! My driver chuckled at the desperate ruminations, his sleek white cloth shielding him from the full effects of the Sun’s rays—as if the angels themselves were taking the brunt of the damage for him.
“I see this is the first time you’ve been so far out into the desert sands, Marcus. A pity: I’d share some of my flask with you, if only you’d give me another denarius.”
“May the grace of God protect me, and smite you for your inimical greed,” I half-joked, ruffling through my leather satchel to grasp a circle of silver that gleamed against the Sun’s glow; Theodosius’ profile didn’t seem to mind the solar attention, and his diadem stayed firm across his hair. An obstinate disposition that melted the resolve of Pagans and hardened the spirit of Christians, and indeed, would grant me some liquid solace!
Tossing it over, I grabbed his flask, letting the water purify my scorched features. A baptism of fire, if there ever was one.
“You know,” Paulus mused, “you never did tell me where you were going. An honestioris like you should be answering city petitioners or building basilicas, I’d think. What’s brought you into this arid abyss?”
He stared back at me, inquisition deep in his black eyes, and I could only respond with a tight smirk and a gaze out into the golden horizons.
“Faith can do marvelous things to a man.”
While personally I had never ventured out so deep into the desert expanses of Aegyptus like intrepid merchants and adventurers had before, from the heart of the Nile I always wondered at the multiplicity of historical and religious landscapes that this land offered, its geography ever so stoic even as the soaring and scuttling of so many kingdoms had taken place across the dunes. Collecting books for the great library at Alexandria, the aged calligraphy of the papyri always stared back into my soul, probing me and my true connection to this ancient region.
I had never gone to many of the most treasured cities where Greek and Roman tourists flocked, but I did record a vast number of stories and recollections from travelers making their way in and out of Alexandria harbor, the Colossus casting a shade over the acturiae vessels and the glossy-eyed passengers contained within. I developed vivid mindscapes of the structures that the people beheld, and so I was able to walk by the limestone massifs that marked Giza, to sniff in the sulphuric scent of the Sphinx’s feet, to rest my hand against the surface of the obelisks at Memphis—all in a world of my own creation, brought to life by the registry of dozens of lived experiences, actuated by my psyche.
The province, the land, is as much a river valley of the imagination as it is of grain and crop. Indeed, how many of the Pharaoh’s scribes became versed in the pictorial language of the desert, and were spurred to memorize the images they inscribed as representations within their own minds? How many Greek settlers marveled at the history they set foot in, too, and brought with them the new Aristotles and Aristophaneses of the dunes, the Ptolemies and Galenses providing literary gales that rejuvenated the sands with a new appreciation for the old aspects of life. Greek medicine and astronomy intermingled with the apothecaries and astrological signs of the Pharaoh’s high priests, and philosophy sprawled like the leaves of the palm trees, flourishing from the papyrus harvests that brought in a surplus of food for the psyche. The cultures of Mare Nostrum delighted in the mixing as Egypt’s bloodshed subsided and Roman rule brought a pragmatic looking glass through which to view the land, housing the various peoples and persuasions under a temple of stability.
Even still, though, I know this is but the background for God’s will in the fertile supplement to the Holy Land that was this province. I think of Joseph’s eyes scanning over the annual grain reports in a tiny study overlooking the construction of the Pyramids, or Moses’ first gaze over that sacred set of ten stone tablets, beholding God’s law in word that was to prophesize the Word’s arrival. I cogitate the aghast expressions of the Lower noblemen, their sandals crashing against the desert sands as they examined the sanguine hue of the Nile’s streams; I even see the iron of the Pharaoh’s swords and spears squirming above the surface of the Red Sea, parted and given prey in the form of an Egyptian army to swallow whole.
That is why Egypt is so rich, so opulent for the anima; its history spans dozens of faiths and cultures, articulating a kaleidoscope of human experience between the monuments and the scrolls. And in my time, it seemed the sands sallied forth a new way to perceive that kaleidoscope, in the form of the domain of God’s men.
“We’re off to the site of the benevolent Martius’ dwelling, Paulus. Nestled deep in the desert, where one’s devotion to God is measured by their resistance to heat and death itself.”
Paulus shook his head good-naturedly, peering back with a humorous grin pasted on his face:
“You’re bold, Marcus, I’ll give you that. I’m not sure how pious, but there’s something to be said for a daring spirit.”
I pared back the chestnut strands of hair that obscured my view of God’s land. I knew that, somewhere between the dunes and drylands, there rested an oasis of providence, poured by His hands into the mold of the earth. Martius, the soul- and sand-mover, was just the type of man destined to heed this sanctuary.
Many saintly figures had risen to prominence in my time, burgeoning out from the life of St. Antony like divine beanstalks, working their miracles and dazzling the urban imagination of Lower Egypt—far be it from me to deny my astonishment of their feats.
Curing illnesses that even the greatest physicians of Rome and Constantinople couldn’t hope to heal. Pacifying lions and leopards just as they were about to strike, initiating the animal kingdom into God’s own through their connection to the will of Nature. They even defeated the Arab and Gothic raiders that trampled upon Roman soil, converting them in such a swift fashion: from lion to lamb in the flock of God.
But, for me, there was something to be said for a return to reality, a cessation of the fantastical feats, and instead a move towards something more mundanely Christian.
Martius had none of these spectacular accomplishments to speak of. Many derided at the attention he did get, calling him a pretender to the sanctimonious throne, and someone who vanished into the desert out of ego rather than piety.
“That Martius again? Really, Marcus? You’d be better off going to the forum soothsayers for miracles! A little coin, a little faith, yeah?” My brother Quintus wasn’t always fond of mincing words.
But then again, I wasn’t fond of resting on my laurels, either. Standing outside the beige brickwork of our apartment in Alexandria, street peddlers and priests alike hobbling by, I made my intentions to depart well known. Some thought it the folly of youth, others the result of a bibliophile's boredom, the tomes trying me to so that I wished to escape the realm of the written word for the literature of the natural landscape, vested with God’s portents.
“I’ll be making my inroads to Perdeumius. May God guide me through my journey,” my lips became lush with the nectar of providence, that day.
It’s been well over a month since. Paulus is only one of a long line of merchants and riders I’ve hailed for on the way to Martius’ sacred alcove; many a traveler indeed have I met venturing off to saints’ palaces, their eyes giddy with excitement at meeting one of the Lord’s servants.
But they haven’t met true bliss yet. I know that for a fact.
They don’t know what they’re missing with Martius. The few guests he has received—and the gossip that has trickled out from the majesty they witnessed—has been nothing short of transformative for me. They say he has an aura about him like no other when he clasps his hands together, his ebony robes casting a mellow shade over his features, like he becomes one with the fabric. The sways of snowy hair that feature along his face are almost crystalline in their composition, reflecting a marvel of wisdom and devotion in equal measure, limning his form in a saintly pallor. His agedness is clear, as the indentations below his eyes and the jaunty sag in his cheeks suggest, but there’s a uniquely youthful energy to his demeanor, eagerly combatting Nature’s forces as much as he acts on behalf of God’s will.
He possesses the frame and the psyche that only a saint could maintain. Or so I’ve imagined, anyway, countless times, scribbling my preconceptions about the man and his proclivities on my scrolls. They say sainthood is a sort of combat sport in some fashion, a constant struggle with the forces of Satan for control over the soul—an eternal war waged by the tendrils of the anima, the inner membranes of the capita, where words are the swords and memories are the shields. I like to think of it in this way, in my own creative vision, formulated by the arcane processes that work under my scalp:
Alone in Martius’ hut, the man sits down with his hands in his lap, a wooden cross sinking into the topsoil, and only the orange flicker of torchlight illuminating the quiet chamber. His eyes close, a meditative ambiance encompassing his surroundings, and his hands clasp, his breathing steady. Then the world begins unfolding before him, morphing in color and make as if painted, a fresco or mosaic—his mind’s eye captures the glossiness on the sandy walls, underlaid by a dark background, the blackness offsetting the brightness held in the foreground.
The room opens like a prism, leaning outward into infinity, the dunes outside forming steep, golden mountains; the sky dims to a blank canvas. Martius stands, now, gazing out, testing the outer world with the firmness of his posture, his shoes acclimating to the flatness of the terrain.
“I can sense you now,” he says, tone equally composed as it is chilling, like a well-shaven block of ice.
“Come out, forces of Satan! Face me, and let us do battle, to seek the approval of the Almighty. You cowards opt to tempt me in my sleep, salivating at the chance to slip into my mind when I least expect it: when my subconsciousness rules all.
But I am no normal man. Deliberation is my vocation; perception, my food and drink. Where others go about their lives with foolishness and daring, no moment escapes my contemplation. Every second is worth a treatise of the spirit, every minute, a folio of full concentration. Even the scorching embers of the desert provide their own motion when you look hard enough.”
The mountains shift and wave left and right, oscillating like they were being pulled on a string. They dance, spinning, lingering in a most strange formation of scrawled rock.
“They speak to me, in their own, mysterious ways. I am guided by the sashay of the winds over oases and head garments, the whimper of footsteps and the scribble of pens. I sense God’s grace in these things, for I take no observation for granted; to do so would be to devalue His project, to disarm what He has set in motion as pure chaos.
Demons, you seek to shatter this delicate balance! Your amorphic forms are mere facades, meant to tempt me into losing my way! Begone with you!”
The ground rumbles. Holes form from the emerging crevices, then chasms, as Martius stumbles back before regaining his grip on his patch of physical solace. At first, dislodged arms start climbing out from the depths below, and before long, tall creatures appear, with multiple appendages hanging out of hips and shoulders and dangling over the chest, mumbling something incomprehensible to themselves.
“I will not be deterred...!”
Martius breathes, beholding their forms with his mouth slowly gaping open. He crushed his fists together, willing something deep for a moment, unearthing something within his pectus, and he was able to shift his perspective of the scene to a conglomeration of the real and imagined.
The walls muss with fragments of stone and rubble once more. The ground becomes all the more grainy—and the demons, the more humane in their morphology.
He embarks on his campaign with a divine awareness granted to him by powers above, and faces off against his rivals, peerless in his grace.
Martius the saint marches on into God’s war for God’s battle.
Decided to post my latest story, titled Bellus Animae, a historical fiction work set in fourth century Roman Egypt about a traveler venturing off into the domain of a saint, digressing on both the historical-cultural richness of Egypt and the psychological battles between saints and demons. Here's the synopsis, for those curious:
Deep into the sands of the desert in Roman Egypt, an Alexandrian scribe journeys by camel to the isolated alcove of a remarkable saint, and, inspired by the historical and religio-cultural tradition of the Egyptian land, conceives of the saint's mental warfare against demons within a hagiographical mindscape.
Part rich historical digression, part psychological analysis of Christianity and morality as derived from the setting of Late Antique Roman Egypt. Please, enjoy.
The smooth clop of the camel’s feet against the sand provided a backdrop of rhythm to my desert journey. The Sun scalded the brown fibers of my tunic like a viper stabbing at its prey, and I clutched onto the hump for dear life at some points, as if willing some of the contained moisture to splash against my brow! My driver chuckled at the desperate ruminations, his sleek white cloth shielding him from the full effects of the Sun’s rays—as if the angels themselves were taking the brunt of the damage for him.
“I see this is the first time you’ve been so far out into the desert sands, Marcus. A pity: I’d share some of my flask with you, if only you’d give me another denarius.”
“May the grace of God protect me, and smite you for your inimical greed,” I half-joked, ruffling through my leather satchel to grasp a circle of silver that gleamed against the Sun’s glow; Theodosius’ profile didn’t seem to mind the solar attention, and his diadem stayed firm across his hair. An obstinate disposition that melted the resolve of Pagans and hardened the spirit of Christians, and indeed, would grant me some liquid solace!
Tossing it over, I grabbed his flask, letting the water purify my scorched features. A baptism of fire, if there ever was one.
“You know,” Paulus mused, “you never did tell me where you were going. An honestioris like you should be answering city petitioners or building basilicas, I’d think. What’s brought you into this arid abyss?”
He stared back at me, inquisition deep in his black eyes, and I could only respond with a tight smirk and a gaze out into the golden horizons.
“Faith can do marvelous things to a man.”
While personally I had never ventured out so deep into the desert expanses of Aegyptus like intrepid merchants and adventurers had before, from the heart of the Nile I always wondered at the multiplicity of historical and religious landscapes that this land offered, its geography ever so stoic even as the soaring and scuttling of so many kingdoms had taken place across the dunes. Collecting books for the great library at Alexandria, the aged calligraphy of the papyri always stared back into my soul, probing me and my true connection to this ancient region.
I had never gone to many of the most treasured cities where Greek and Roman tourists flocked, but I did record a vast number of stories and recollections from travelers making their way in and out of Alexandria harbor, the Colossus casting a shade over the acturiae vessels and the glossy-eyed passengers contained within. I developed vivid mindscapes of the structures that the people beheld, and so I was able to walk by the limestone massifs that marked Giza, to sniff in the sulphuric scent of the Sphinx’s feet, to rest my hand against the surface of the obelisks at Memphis—all in a world of my own creation, brought to life by the registry of dozens of lived experiences, actuated by my psyche.
The province, the land, is as much a river valley of the imagination as it is of grain and crop. Indeed, how many of the Pharaoh’s scribes became versed in the pictorial language of the desert, and were spurred to memorize the images they inscribed as representations within their own minds? How many Greek settlers marveled at the history they set foot in, too, and brought with them the new Aristotles and Aristophaneses of the dunes, the Ptolemies and Galenses providing literary gales that rejuvenated the sands with a new appreciation for the old aspects of life. Greek medicine and astronomy intermingled with the apothecaries and astrological signs of the Pharaoh’s high priests, and philosophy sprawled like the leaves of the palm trees, flourishing from the papyrus harvests that brought in a surplus of food for the psyche. The cultures of Mare Nostrum delighted in the mixing as Egypt’s bloodshed subsided and Roman rule brought a pragmatic looking glass through which to view the land, housing the various peoples and persuasions under a temple of stability.
Even still, though, I know this is but the background for God’s will in the fertile supplement to the Holy Land that was this province. I think of Joseph’s eyes scanning over the annual grain reports in a tiny study overlooking the construction of the Pyramids, or Moses’ first gaze over that sacred set of ten stone tablets, beholding God’s law in word that was to prophesize the Word’s arrival. I cogitate the aghast expressions of the Lower noblemen, their sandals crashing against the desert sands as they examined the sanguine hue of the Nile’s streams; I even see the iron of the Pharaoh’s swords and spears squirming above the surface of the Red Sea, parted and given prey in the form of an Egyptian army to swallow whole.
That is why Egypt is so rich, so opulent for the anima; its history spans dozens of faiths and cultures, articulating a kaleidoscope of human experience between the monuments and the scrolls. And in my time, it seemed the sands sallied forth a new way to perceive that kaleidoscope, in the form of the domain of God’s men.
“We’re off to the site of the benevolent Martius’ dwelling, Paulus. Nestled deep in the desert, where one’s devotion to God is measured by their resistance to heat and death itself.”
Paulus shook his head good-naturedly, peering back with a humorous grin pasted on his face:
“You’re bold, Marcus, I’ll give you that. I’m not sure how pious, but there’s something to be said for a daring spirit.”
I pared back the chestnut strands of hair that obscured my view of God’s land. I knew that, somewhere between the dunes and drylands, there rested an oasis of providence, poured by His hands into the mold of the earth. Martius, the soul- and sand-mover, was just the type of man destined to heed this sanctuary.
Many saintly figures had risen to prominence in my time, burgeoning out from the life of St. Antony like divine beanstalks, working their miracles and dazzling the urban imagination of Lower Egypt—far be it from me to deny my astonishment of their feats.
Curing illnesses that even the greatest physicians of Rome and Constantinople couldn’t hope to heal. Pacifying lions and leopards just as they were about to strike, initiating the animal kingdom into God’s own through their connection to the will of Nature. They even defeated the Arab and Gothic raiders that trampled upon Roman soil, converting them in such a swift fashion: from lion to lamb in the flock of God.
But, for me, there was something to be said for a return to reality, a cessation of the fantastical feats, and instead a move towards something more mundanely Christian.
Martius had none of these spectacular accomplishments to speak of. Many derided at the attention he did get, calling him a pretender to the sanctimonious throne, and someone who vanished into the desert out of ego rather than piety.
“That Martius again? Really, Marcus? You’d be better off going to the forum soothsayers for miracles! A little coin, a little faith, yeah?” My brother Quintus wasn’t always fond of mincing words.
But then again, I wasn’t fond of resting on my laurels, either. Standing outside the beige brickwork of our apartment in Alexandria, street peddlers and priests alike hobbling by, I made my intentions to depart well known. Some thought it the folly of youth, others the result of a bibliophile's boredom, the tomes trying me to so that I wished to escape the realm of the written word for the literature of the natural landscape, vested with God’s portents.
“I’ll be making my inroads to Perdeumius. May God guide me through my journey,” my lips became lush with the nectar of providence, that day.
It’s been well over a month since. Paulus is only one of a long line of merchants and riders I’ve hailed for on the way to Martius’ sacred alcove; many a traveler indeed have I met venturing off to saints’ palaces, their eyes giddy with excitement at meeting one of the Lord’s servants.
But they haven’t met true bliss yet. I know that for a fact.
They don’t know what they’re missing with Martius. The few guests he has received—and the gossip that has trickled out from the majesty they witnessed—has been nothing short of transformative for me. They say he has an aura about him like no other when he clasps his hands together, his ebony robes casting a mellow shade over his features, like he becomes one with the fabric. The sways of snowy hair that feature along his face are almost crystalline in their composition, reflecting a marvel of wisdom and devotion in equal measure, limning his form in a saintly pallor. His agedness is clear, as the indentations below his eyes and the jaunty sag in his cheeks suggest, but there’s a uniquely youthful energy to his demeanor, eagerly combatting Nature’s forces as much as he acts on behalf of God’s will.
He possesses the frame and the psyche that only a saint could maintain. Or so I’ve imagined, anyway, countless times, scribbling my preconceptions about the man and his proclivities on my scrolls. They say sainthood is a sort of combat sport in some fashion, a constant struggle with the forces of Satan for control over the soul—an eternal war waged by the tendrils of the anima, the inner membranes of the capita, where words are the swords and memories are the shields. I like to think of it in this way, in my own creative vision, formulated by the arcane processes that work under my scalp:
Alone in Martius’ hut, the man sits down with his hands in his lap, a wooden cross sinking into the topsoil, and only the orange flicker of torchlight illuminating the quiet chamber. His eyes close, a meditative ambiance encompassing his surroundings, and his hands clasp, his breathing steady. Then the world begins unfolding before him, morphing in color and make as if painted, a fresco or mosaic—his mind’s eye captures the glossiness on the sandy walls, underlaid by a dark background, the blackness offsetting the brightness held in the foreground.
The room opens like a prism, leaning outward into infinity, the dunes outside forming steep, golden mountains; the sky dims to a blank canvas. Martius stands, now, gazing out, testing the outer world with the firmness of his posture, his shoes acclimating to the flatness of the terrain.
“I can sense you now,” he says, tone equally composed as it is chilling, like a well-shaven block of ice.
“Come out, forces of Satan! Face me, and let us do battle, to seek the approval of the Almighty. You cowards opt to tempt me in my sleep, salivating at the chance to slip into my mind when I least expect it: when my subconsciousness rules all.
But I am no normal man. Deliberation is my vocation; perception, my food and drink. Where others go about their lives with foolishness and daring, no moment escapes my contemplation. Every second is worth a treatise of the spirit, every minute, a folio of full concentration. Even the scorching embers of the desert provide their own motion when you look hard enough.”
The mountains shift and wave left and right, oscillating like they were being pulled on a string. They dance, spinning, lingering in a most strange formation of scrawled rock.
“They speak to me, in their own, mysterious ways. I am guided by the sashay of the winds over oases and head garments, the whimper of footsteps and the scribble of pens. I sense God’s grace in these things, for I take no observation for granted; to do so would be to devalue His project, to disarm what He has set in motion as pure chaos.
Demons, you seek to shatter this delicate balance! Your amorphic forms are mere facades, meant to tempt me into losing my way! Begone with you!”
The ground rumbles. Holes form from the emerging crevices, then chasms, as Martius stumbles back before regaining his grip on his patch of physical solace. At first, dislodged arms start climbing out from the depths below, and before long, tall creatures appear, with multiple appendages hanging out of hips and shoulders and dangling over the chest, mumbling something incomprehensible to themselves.
“I will not be deterred...!”
Martius breathes, beholding their forms with his mouth slowly gaping open. He crushed his fists together, willing something deep for a moment, unearthing something within his pectus, and he was able to shift his perspective of the scene to a conglomeration of the real and imagined.
The walls muss with fragments of stone and rubble once more. The ground becomes all the more grainy—and the demons, the more humane in their morphology.
He embarks on his campaign with a divine awareness granted to him by powers above, and faces off against his rivals, peerless in his grace.
Martius the saint marches on into God’s war for God’s battle.
