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Jul. 29th, 2018 09:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thewidewideworldPalermo was Hannibal’s choice, a subtle manipulation on his behalf. His voice blowing softly in my ear like the wind which had guided me for so long.
But even so, I accept that guidance.
There were few people left in the world who remembered me. I have walked so far, drifted in and out of the destiny of others.
A shadow cast in firelight, dancing in the wind.
What harm was there in placing myself where someone who knew me would find me.
He would walk over my bones one day, an age from now. And he would remember me. The dust of my heart would beat in the hollow of his mind, in his palace of memory.
It wasn’t a bad place to rest.
The city had been Phoenician, Carthaginian, Greek, Roman, then Greek again under the Byzantines.
I lingered longer than I should. Longer than I had any right to. One lifetime should have been enough. But it wasn’t.
I stole time to watch the city pass from the falling Empire of my master, to the hands of the Caliphate.
So little changed, even as the borders did. Trade ports like Bal'harm as it was in the Arab tongue, change little. Because they change constantly. Like a river in a blending of its tributaries, so trade ports are of their people and goods and languages.
It was then I realised I had grown to love the city Hannibal chose.
Building his chapel was easier than it should have been.
I have always found myself in the circles of powerful men. Not always by choice. Even as aged and care-worn as I am, I still seem to draw their eye, their interest.
I have worn many masks on my journeys. The mask of piety is one of them.
I have never felt the warmth of God’s touch. Many other gods, some rather directly, but not the Christ time. And yet of all of the gods, it is easiest to pass as his acolyte.
Whispers in the right ears, soft praise of the right kind had built the foundations. The first of several small chapels. And with them, their libraries.
Like old friend, I gathered them. Histories, scriptures, translations of older texts. Lovely works of art.
The challenge was in hiding messages for Hannibal amongst the texts. Records of my journeys, my adventures, scraps of music. Loves found and lost. Memory encoded in time.
My soul as well as my bones.
I waited for the Normans. The new Romans – as much Norse as they were Carolingian. The blood of brothers, of Ragnar and Rollo both.
My heart ached for them both, so long gone as they were. I saw them sometimes – in the faces of the bold young Normans who had made Palermo the capital of their Roman Empire.
Just as I saw Athelstan in the noble young men of England. Alfred’s England.
I waited for the Normans, for Roger II of Sicily. He who would commission the chapel Hannibal would know.
I’d lingered long enough, waiting for this place to be ready. To find peace in time.
They buried me in reverence. As a patron of the church. As a humble servant of God. They who never truly knew me. Only the mask I’d worn to bring myself to this point. I think that would have amused Hannibal to know.
And even as my body became corruption and my bones decoration, my spirit lingered.
I’m here, Hannibal. Watching from the eyes of mosaiced saints.
I’ll wait for you, till I see you again.
But even so, I accept that guidance.
There were few people left in the world who remembered me. I have walked so far, drifted in and out of the destiny of others.
A shadow cast in firelight, dancing in the wind.
What harm was there in placing myself where someone who knew me would find me.
He would walk over my bones one day, an age from now. And he would remember me. The dust of my heart would beat in the hollow of his mind, in his palace of memory.
It wasn’t a bad place to rest.
The city had been Phoenician, Carthaginian, Greek, Roman, then Greek again under the Byzantines.
I lingered longer than I should. Longer than I had any right to. One lifetime should have been enough. But it wasn’t.
I stole time to watch the city pass from the falling Empire of my master, to the hands of the Caliphate.
So little changed, even as the borders did. Trade ports like Bal'harm as it was in the Arab tongue, change little. Because they change constantly. Like a river in a blending of its tributaries, so trade ports are of their people and goods and languages.
It was then I realised I had grown to love the city Hannibal chose.
Building his chapel was easier than it should have been.
I have always found myself in the circles of powerful men. Not always by choice. Even as aged and care-worn as I am, I still seem to draw their eye, their interest.
I have worn many masks on my journeys. The mask of piety is one of them.
I have never felt the warmth of God’s touch. Many other gods, some rather directly, but not the Christ time. And yet of all of the gods, it is easiest to pass as his acolyte.
Whispers in the right ears, soft praise of the right kind had built the foundations. The first of several small chapels. And with them, their libraries.
Like old friend, I gathered them. Histories, scriptures, translations of older texts. Lovely works of art.
The challenge was in hiding messages for Hannibal amongst the texts. Records of my journeys, my adventures, scraps of music. Loves found and lost. Memory encoded in time.
My soul as well as my bones.
I waited for the Normans. The new Romans – as much Norse as they were Carolingian. The blood of brothers, of Ragnar and Rollo both.
My heart ached for them both, so long gone as they were. I saw them sometimes – in the faces of the bold young Normans who had made Palermo the capital of their Roman Empire.
Just as I saw Athelstan in the noble young men of England. Alfred’s England.
I waited for the Normans, for Roger II of Sicily. He who would commission the chapel Hannibal would know.
I’d lingered long enough, waiting for this place to be ready. To find peace in time.
They buried me in reverence. As a patron of the church. As a humble servant of God. They who never truly knew me. Only the mask I’d worn to bring myself to this point. I think that would have amused Hannibal to know.
And even as my body became corruption and my bones decoration, my spirit lingered.
I’m here, Hannibal. Watching from the eyes of mosaiced saints.
I’ll wait for you, till I see you again.
