Berenice from Cappadocia: the no hero's journey - dawn

By Adriana Martins and Rafael Ferrer Kloss

Berenice is not a hero; she is an ordinary person who had to go through tortuous paths, like all of us. But if Berenice experienced difficulties, like all of us, what does she have to teach us?
Berenice's lessons derive from the person she becomes regardless of so many stones in her life. This is the great teaching of Adriana Martins personified in her non-heroine.
Despite the storms we all go through, what really defines us is what we become during and after such storms. Overcoming daily pains and still allowing ourselves to live with joy and wisdom is not easy, but I assure you that a certain shepherdess from Cappadocia can help us on this journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Máquina de Escrever
• Release date: Mar 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9786587517230

Book preview

capa_ber_ingles.jpg

To the time, which teaches us all we need to know.

Each one’s life could be a book,

if the story was well told.

Contents

PREFACE

PROLOGUE

BERENICE

AN UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER

MISS KEBECHET

INTRODUCTIONS

THE FAVORITE DAUGHTER

FRIENDS AT LAST

KAYRIS

THE PRACTICE OF PATIENT

LOOSENING THE BONDS

A SHEPHERD'S LIFE

A TIME TO REMEMBER

SAYING GOODBYE

A DECISION MADE

RUNAWAY

TO AN UNKNOWN ROAD

THE PERFUMER

LICINIA

LEARNING A NEW PROFESSION

INDELIBLE MARK

A BITTER AWAKENING

LEWELLYN

AN UNPLEASANT SURPRISE

UNTAMED FURY

TEMPUS FUGIT

GOOD DEEDS BRING HAPPINESS

NIKEPHOROS (OR SIMPLY NIKO)

AN UNUSUAL GROUP

BERENICE & EZANA

WHEN EVERYTHING WAS GOING WELL

CUPIDITY OR THE GAMES OF APHRODITE

FEAR AND HOPE

A PAUSE TO LOOK AT THE STARS

LEX ROMANA

PREFACE

I am going to introduce this book as if I were a well-known writer. Please forgive my pretentiousness. It is just that I am the kind of reader who loves to learn the most I can about a book, and this acquaintance starts by the writer’s introduction of the story. If, of course, the book catches my interest. It goes without saying I hope Berenice will please you too as well.

There are many things I could say about Berenice from Cappadocia; the whys and the hows of this particular place and time. I can tell you about the fact that Berenice will not change the world, but it did not prevent her from being important to those who knew her*. I can tell you about many other things.

But they are not that important. Because the most important reason for this book to exist is Berenice herself.

Hers is the story of every woman, I dare to say. Each one of us found ourselves in the same situation of Berenice at some point of her history. After all, we are talking about decades of existence in an unsettled world. A harsh one. And she is a woman, which complicates her life in a way only a woman can tell.

The choice of dividing the story in chapters has its own reason too; a person is not the same in teen, adult, mature and old years. Better saying, we are always the same and another person at the same time, as layers of painting over the same picture. I am playing with words here, but I am sure you know what I mean. Did you not find yourself acting and thinking just as you did at your young age, then looked into the mirror only to think Oh, my! Who is this person so grown up? Where did they go, these years behind me?

So I am telling the stories of all those Berenices. And I do this because I have a point to prove: we can live thrilling lives until our last breath, no matter when it comes - as for Berenice, you will learn right on the first pages of this book that she lived long and so did her many adventures. Until her very last breath.

Moreover, we can be heroes, heroes of our own stories. But it is not up to us to see ourselves as so. Berenice did not think of herself as heroic, but you will find she was.

And at the end of the book, my hopes are that you will finally admit what your friends say to you: you too, you are a remarkable person and you are doing your best, *ups and downs*. We can say you are the hero of your own story.

Enjoy it!

mapchapter figure

PROLOGUE

It was the first year of Emperor Theodosius¹, and I was just a fifteen-year-old boy, a son of innkeepers, who lived in Mediolanum². I was also the only son of my parents who had survived childhood. But the gods demanded from me a ransom in exchange for my survival: a disease which made my right leg shrink, just as it did for the august Emperor Claudius³.

On the bright side, I escaped from joining the Roman army and was able to serve as a pillar, however awry, to my elderly parents. My father himself was thirty-nine years old! The first memories of my life were doing the dishes, pulling the heavy basket of freshly washed clothes for my mother or picking up empty beer and wine cups from the customers' tables. Like all the other children I knew, I had no idea about what it was like to have time to play or even to do nothing at all. Life in a big city offered more opportunities than the country life, but the price to pay was fierce competition with the other taverns around.

There was no respite if we wanted guests to be satisfied and thus prevent the landlord from passing on the tavern lease to another family (and there was no shortage of candidates, since our pension was very well located, right next to the Forum). We were not poor. Being honest, I have to admit we were lucky, so to speak. My mother was Great Flavius Timasius’s, magister equitum (then magister peditum), second cousin niece’s daughter, the Empress⁴’ brother himself. Although the magister - whose name I inherited in his honor - did not suspect of our existence, the mere fact we were related gave us some advantages. "Qui magis potest minus clamate"⁴ says my mother, and she uses this distant, yet precious, kinship whenever our landlord threatens to evict us or when former legionnaires, who formed militias to charge merchants for protection, came too often to collect their dues.

So, apart from the continuous and exhausting work, I had nothing to complain or to worry about, not even the future. Life was simple for me, I would even say unflappable. And I loved it that way. At least that was what I thought, until the arrival of Lady Berenice. She was quite old, perhaps the oldest person I had ever met. She was also, undoubtedly, the richest person I had ever known. She had arrived at our hostel asking, in very clear terms, for our very best room. After checking the accommodation was suitable, she paid for a year of rental in advance, not without first requiring politely but also firmly that her sheets and clothes were always clean and fresh and her food was good. From the very beginning, the old lady spent her days away, only returning at suppertime, which she would take alone in her room without talking to anyone. We all wondered who she was and what she did on her days being so old. The few old people we knew were sick or senile meaning no more than an extra mouth to feed and a burden to their families, but Lady Berenice was incredibly vigorous and lucid. She would speak in a firm voice with a piercing gaze which seemed to fathom our souls as she spoke to us. To tell you the truth, she was intimidating.

Whenever it was my turn to tidy up her room, I stuttered and did everything wrongly, slowly and disorderly. As a result, Lady Berenice became impatient, taking the sheets from my hands and telling me to leave, as she wanted to finish the work herself. This both embarrassed and relieved me; I simply did not wait for her to say it twice.

On the eve of completing a year of accommodation with us, Lady Berenice fell ill. What started as a quiet cough gradually became violent. The old lady became progressively thinner and got increasingly tired. Because she sometimes had fever, my mother, who did not want to lose such an important customer, took care of her devotedly.

The problem was the illness lasted several weeks: with so many customers and all the chores she had, my mother gradually delegated the care of the old woman to me. It was when I found out who our eccentric guest really was.

And that changed my life.

***

If before the illness I only saw Lady Berenice for a few days a month, now we had to see each other every day. In my mind, I imagined my presence was nothing but boredom for such a distinguished lady. She was a serious solemn woman, and I wondered why she had chosen to live among simple people. I confess I used to fantasize her as someone with an extraordinary past. I imagined her as the leader of a highwaymen gang who had plundered an imperial cargo, hiding herself by the end of her life in our insignificant hostel. Or she was a rich widow fleeing the power of pater familias⁵ to live a torrid romance with a young lover - which would explain her daytime absence. Every day I would imagine a different story.

As to Lady Berenice, I certainly did not offer the same interest nor did I have the same aura of mystery. I was none other than an ephoebus⁶, a cripple with a face full of pimples who could neither read nor write, and who had never taken a step beyond the Forum of Mediolanum.

It was with this feeling of inferiority, or should I say, insignificance, I entered Lady Berenice's room every morning to serve her breakfast - even though she was ill, she did not lose her impressive appetite.

However, every day I realized this old lady contempt was, perhaps, only in my head. Despite being impatient, she was never rude. On the contrary, she treated me with kindness and courtesy, thanking me for every task I performed with a siliqua⁷ (which I kept in secret), every week in recognition of my services. Little by little, I lost my shyness, trying to do everything well to please my employer. For the coins, certainly, but also because it was gratifying to feel valued, to feel I was doing a good job and being appreciated for it.

Soon I began to spend more time with Lady Berenice. She had so many beautiful things in her room: silk, jewelry (which she did not mind hiding), fine leather sandals and, what delighted me the most, and some of the most exquisite perfume bottles I have ever smelled in my entire life. Even nowadays, as an adult, when I close my eyes, I remember the sweet fragrance of sandalwood and jasmine that enchanted me, which I never got tired of.

One day, my mother came into the room to scold me in front of the old lady, Flavius, you are too slow! Our guest must be getting tired of your prolonged presence. From today on, Frøya will take care of the lady!

I was deeply disappointed to hear that the little slave girl would take my place. I did not want to go back to my usual chores, as well as to the other customers’ boredom.

To my great surprise, Lady Berenice intervened on my behalf, My dear Rosalina, I appreciate your concern for my satisfaction, but I must say I am delighted with Flavius' services. He does it at length that is certain, but also with great care and diligence. I would like to take this opportunity to request your son's permanent services as my secretary, she continued. "I have a lot of scrolls to organize, therefore, I need help. Flavius is my choice for this job. I will pay you a solidus every three months. Oh, before I forget, said the old lady in a deliberately careless tone, I have still not paid for my lodging. Here is a year in advance."

While saying those words, she took twelve solidus of shining gold from a small box and gave them to my mother, who enticed by such generosity, had no other reaction but accept them, This is more than we deserve, milady. May the gods protect you and reward you doubly. But...

Yes, what is it? Lady Berenice asked nicely.

"Unfortunately, not only for his paralytic leg but also for we are not rich, Flavius was never accepted in the ludus litterarius⁸. He cannot read or write. Forgive us, milady," said my mother visibly sad.

Five minutes ago, I was the happiest kid in the world. But now, I was the saddest.

I see it. What a pity your son did not have the chance to know the letters. But it is not a problem for me. On the contrary, I can teach him. It will also be an opportunity for me to exercise my mind before I become outdated. At the age of seventy-four, I am convinced the Fates forgot the thread of my life in a corner of the Hades and I will not die anymore. Having an apprentice will keep me busy while I am stuck in this room.

Even Apollo's chariot could not be as bright as my smile!

Learning to read? Learning to write? Escape from the daily chores of cleaning, brushing, collecting filth from customers' latrines? It sounded too good to be true.

This time my mother did not oppose the statement, Very well, milady. Flavius is, from now on, at your service. And you! she said, turning to me. Try to obey and respect Lady Berenice! Make yourself helpful whatever the circumstances are.

My mother then left us, not without first stating her gratitude for that gesture she perceived as a mixture of pity, kindness and generosity she had never known before.

"All right, my dear. Now you work for me. Your first task will be to go to the Forum market and buy some ceræ and a stylus⁹ to start your apprenticeship. After that, you can enjoy your free time. Take the opportunity to observe the life there: what people do, how they speak, how they behave. If you have the chance to follow a conversation between tribunes, listen carefully to what they say. You will learn to express yourself and, who knows, maybe overcome your shyness."

Scrupulously following my mother's orders to obey Lady Berenice to the best of my capacity, I went quickly to the Forum. I already knew where to buy the study material. In fact, since I was a child, I kept the desire of learning within myself. Whenever I had to go to the Forum, I would walk past the store façade and enjoy those waxed tablets captivated by the magic of the words carried, imprisoned, forever in a papyrus.

My joy was indescribable. I spent the afternoon looking at everything around me and I realized it was like being there for the first time to me. Never before had I noticed so many different people, so much life and so many things happening at once around me. When I came back, my eyes were still shining and my heart was light. My father greeted me and congratulated me for how lucky I was to have a tutor. My mother looked at me and smiled.

My apprenticeship was difficult. I did not start writing until I was fifteen years old, which means, I was too old. However, Lady Berenice was the kindest and most devoted tutor. She encouraged me and praised me for each slightest progress I made. Once, feeling tired and unfit, I thought of giving it all up. I could not help the tears to come nor could I hide them. Crying in shame and frustration, I begged my teacher for forgiveness and told her I would not continue with that. She lifted my face with her wrinkled fingers, looked at me with her incredibly light eyes and told me, "My dear Flavius, even the littlest one has the right to know. Knowledge saves us from many troubles, but precisely for being so important, it requires commitment and effort from us. Think of your mind as a great lake which now is very shallow. Words are the rain that will fill this lake to quench the thirst for many years to come. This rain must not be torrential; otherwise the lake will be unfit to absorb all the water. If not being able to withstand the volume, it will remain continuously thirsty. But if the rain comes slowly, it will gradually fill the lake, which will have adapted itself, becoming forever rich and abundant.

From that day on, I was never discouraged again. At each obstacle, at each difficulty, I thought of this lake that was none other than me. Within a few months, I was already able to copy, read and do simple calculations.

I showed my progress to my proud parents, who were now counting on me to help them with the administrative tasks of the hostel.

It was when I showed great progress that Lady Berenice spoke to me on a cold and grey winter morning, "Flavius, teaching you is itself a source of great satisfaction! But that is not the only reason I took you as my pupil. I am very, very old; my days are getting shorter towards a definitive winter. I have lived life as I wanted to, and I do not have much reason to blush when I look at my past. A rich person is a person who leaves a legacy. Mine is small and probably only of my own interest, but still I would like to leave it as a memoir. Perhaps one day it will be found by someone who thinks it is helpful. That is why, now you are ready, I would like you to be my gusan and record the story of my life."

Forgive me, Lady Berenice, but what is a gusan? I asked afraid of having to face my ignorance once again."

"A gusan is a storyteller. The person who taught me everything I know about this profession came from the Kingdom of Armenia, hence the name gusan. In Rome, they call them aretalogi or fabulatori."

But they are beggars, vagabonds who live by telling silly little stories in exchange for a few coins! I replied surprised and annoyed at the same time for suggesting I would be doing something so undignified.

With a serene look in the eye and with her very calm voice, Lady Berenice replied, My dear Flavius, stories, whether they are true or the fruit of our imagination, have a very special place in the hearts of men. They help us to forget reality - even if for just a moment - when they amuse us; they also inspire us to believe in better days when they talk about past events. Every time someone tells the story about the exploits of Achilles or the great Alexander or how the impetuous Leonidas and his disadvantaged army defied the mighty Xerxes, it inspires a listener to face his daily little battles. These stories told by gusans, who are often despised, are the ones which keep all the exploits that led us to the present time. These storytellers are the guardians of men's past treasures.

I listened to her with more and more interest.

Besides, there are not only the poor gusans you see on the streets. Many of them, because of their talent and seriousness, are requested by great lords or even by emperors to entertain prestigious guests in the great halls. I was myself a gusan, a humble one, but I was able to accumulate a small fortune. However, you will not know how this happened until you hear my story.

Being surprised and excited and having now a different vision of the new role I was given, I took the wax and the stylus and started writing.

I had spent many days writing her story on the waxes and then transcribed it onto papyrus scrolls.

And what I heard turned out to be the most extraordinary story I had ever heard in my long life. It was the story of Berenice.

chapter figure

BERENICE

This is the story of Berenice. Do not expect to find here a heroic type of protagonist. No, Berenice was no such kind. She was a shy sixteen-year-old girl.

If in the culture of her originally Greek family the idea of kaloskagathós¹⁰ was omnipresent, Berenice, unlike her sister Kayris, did not correspond to this ideal.

You could be with her for all your life and never know what she was thinking.

Or one could say she was remarkably bright. In general, her family had trouble to understand what she meant. From their view, she complicated things with what they called the habit of asking too many questions.

Berenice! her mother used to say. "What is the point of knowing where we came from and to where we are going? Knowing our daily work is not enough for us? Stop asking stupid questions and find