“That old Greek fort of Euryelus,” he began, “I didn’t half see it the other day—the English officer I met in the catacombs says that Archimedes invented the catapult for its defence. He says it’s still so solid it could be repaired to stand a siege—an old-fashioned one of course—like the siege of Troy!”
“You more interested in an old ruin than a new acquaintance?” I cried. No use, for once Patsy deserted me.
On the way to deliver the letter I stopped at the cathedral, formerly a Pagan temple. The baroque façade is disappointing. Where are the remains of the temple, of the costly treasures Verres carried off to Rome, and got soundly scolded by Cicero for, in consequence? To get back to that time you must go over step by step what has happened since then. In the seventh century the temple was turned into a Christian church by Bishop Zosimus, in the eighth it became a Mohammedan mosque; temple, mosque, cathedral, it has served its purpose of worship well! When my guide, a bright-eyed boy, rattled off his lesson, the place immediately grew interesting. I found the temple’s superb Doric columns—they are whitewashed now and hard to discover—imbedded in the cathedral walls; at the sight of them the church vanishes, a splendid temple stands in its place. Near this deep-fluted column, may have knelt Simaetha, the deserted girl, imploring help of Artemis to win back false Delphis—hark, her old cry echoes through the ages:
“Three times do I pour libation, and thrice, my Lady Moon, I speak this: Be it with a friend he lingers, be it with a leman, may he clean forget them, as Theseus of old forgot the fair-tressed Ariadne!”
“There will be a baptism,” said the boy, “if the lady cares to see the font—“
I looked at the curious baptismal font, while the sacristan lighted his candle in preparation for the rite. The font is a classic vase, resting on twelve quaint Phoenician-looking lions of green bronze; an inscription states it was a gift to Zosimus. Who was he? A god, as one book says, or the Bishop, or a pagan historian, who criticizes Christian emperors over much? Either way, it was strange to see the ancient vase used as a baptismal font, to witness the casting out of the old Adam from a new-born baby by a cross apoplectic archpriest, who so frightened the infant that it roared horribly as Adam departed.
“You are the son of the custode?” I said to my guide, a lad perhaps eleven years old.
“No, I am the custode!”
“And your father, what does he do?”
“Oh, he is a custode too.”