|
THE
BOMBARDIER SAINT (title of the original: O
Loumbardiaris)
By
Dimitrios Kambouloglou
Rendered
by: Vassilis C. Militsis
The
story is about an incident that took place on the Acropolis of Athens
during the time of the Ottoman Occupation. According to the
tradition, the Ottoman official, Youssouf Agha, attempted to bombard
the Church of Saint Demetrius, situated on a hill, a short distance
from the Acropolis, in order to destroy the church and kill the
congregation of the faithful who had gathered to celebrate the
Saint’s feast. But before the agha carried out his plan, a
thunderbolt in a sudden rainstorm hit the cannons and caused a great
explosion in the powder magazine on the Acropolis. In this way the
church was saved.
A
The
sun is about to set. Youssouf Agha, a savage ottoman official, sips
his sherbet sprawling languidly on a soft, thick carpet, in a sunny
place under the Propylaia of the Acropolis of Athens, of the castle
of which he is now, as it were, the overlord.
Close
by, there is a fragment of a broken column. From time to time the
agha sits up and leans on it stretching out his benumbed limbs. He is
all dressed in blood-red. Thick smoke belches out of his mouth, a
proper chimney, as he is smoking his hookah with relish.
Never
before has the agha been in a worse mood than he is today. Since
morning he has been swearing and beating up people. When there is no
one around to thrash, he is beating his arms and legs. He finds fault
in everything; the ground he stands on, but that is not enough! He is
looking around for someone to give vent to his fury on, and at last
he finds him: he is a poor newcomer, an outlander, whom his ill fate
impelled to pass by under the castle riding his mule.
The
agha clapped his hands three times and a dozen people of his garrison
sprang out of the ruins as though they had suddenly sprouted out of
the earth.
Now
the agha is walking up and down; he seems to contemplate the sort of
punishment to inflict upon his prisoner. All of a sudden, he stands
still, as if riveted to the ground, looks up and stretches his arms.
His lush beard, which covers his whole face, stands up bristling like
a thick mass of needles. He sneezes and coughs at the same time; he
trembles all over in his ire.
Hey
you, are you sleeping? Can’t you see that multitude plodding
uphill? Old men and women, young men and maidens – even babes!
Where on earth is this entire reaya rabble off to?
We
are new here, my Agha.
I’ll
go and ask some old timer, added someone nearest to the agha.
And
are you still here? It serves you right then!
And
the savage agha clouted him one.
He
went and returned in a flash.
My
Agha, tomorrow it is Saint Demetrius’ feast and that chapel you
can see down there is celebrating, so the infidels are going to
attend the vesper.
A
Greek feast! Before our eyes! Just right under our honored castle!
Allah forbid! After all, why am I here? I know what they deserve. We
have to get rid of this indignity once and for all…
His
eyes flash and his teeth gnash. His soul turns into a conflagration.
A
big idea flashed into the agha’s mind; his countenance softened now
to the degree that a wild beast can soften.
Β
They
bring the peasant half dead with fear. He falls to the agha’s feet
pleading for mercy.
Get
up, don’t be afraid. I was going to have you hanged, but I changed
my mind. You’re a lucky fellow. However, listen to what I’ll
order you to do, or else you’ll perish!
At
your orders, my Agha! At your orders…
Silence!
You talk too much! Be all ears and no mouth. It would have been
better if a church were not near our castle, but once it is here, it
should remain and be officiated by a priest. It must have been built
by our kind forefathers and presented to yours as a gift… As far
as I’m concerned, it is true that I rule the castle and the devil
take whoever he dares to look askance at it! And I reckon this
little church, too, is under my authority as it is right in the
muzzles of my cannons.
He
knitted his brows meaningfully. ‘Poor Christians!’ he mused.
Your
bishop has not come to pay his respects to me. Let it be. It seems
he’s realized that I haven’t yet settled and I don’t feel like
wasteful palavering. Anyway, the master should be condescending to
his slaves, so go and pay my respects to him and tell him, since my
ill fate has destined me to rule his rocky place and it is the first
religious feast that is held in my tenure, I greatly desire the
feast to be carried out as it should…
Your
saint must have deserved his sanctity, and so I will honor him, in my
turn! There must be a joint service in honor of your Saint. The rest
of the churches shall not hold services, and priests of all parishes
shall gather here to say mass in honor of Saint Demetrius. Tell the
notables and the elders of your community as well as every
householder you’ll come across that this is my wish. Whoever won’t
come, he will insult my lordship. Now run off and get out of my
sight!
Just
a moment! Listen. Tomorrow morning as the hymn to your Saint will be
chanted, you’re to wave a red pennant so that we can fire our
biggest cannon along with the other smaller ones of the castle in
honor of your Saint. Eh, so be it done! Go now. I’ve had enough of
you. You’re a lucky fellow…
The
reaya bowed down till his nose touched the ground. Not sparing a
glance at him, the agha turned to his men and remarked:
Nodding
his head he looked at the reaya hurrying off.
C
‘Lā
ʾilāha ʾillā llāhu muḥammadun rasūlu llāhi.
There
is no god besides Allah and Muhammad is his prophet’
the muezzin’s voice was heard from the top of the Parthenon’s
minaret summoning the faithful to prayer.
Dusk
fell. The agha ordered all his men away. Only two remained and
started talking sotto voce.
Those two were the agha and Ahmet, his bombardier.
Look,
Ahmet; make sure to make it smoothly! This marble house of mine –
and showed the Propylaia – where I was destined to be the keeper,
is supplied with such quantities of gunpowder, innumerable cannon
balls of different size, you needn’t do much! All I’m afraid of
is that the weather might spoil our plans … After this Indian
summer, the sky has turned pitch black.
Do
not make dark thoughts, my Agha! All will be well; don’t you
worry… what does the mufti think, though?
Who
cares of what he thinks? He’s putting on airs. Tomorrow we’ll
see whose name will be famous all over the seven kingdoms. We’ll
put the whole affair down to a misunderstanding. What I’ve said
was about gunpowder only, do you understand? Now I’m off to eat
and then lie down. Let stones, earth and people turn into a
shapeless mass…
Those
were Yousouf’s last words before he left.
Ahmet
calls his gunmen. The Propylaia cannons are getting ready. The men
even carry the festive cannons from the part of the Erechtheion.
Right in the midst they place the big cannon – the so-called
bombard – just for show, according to the allegations of the
castle’s commander.
There
is a big commotion in the castle and they are all talking about the
honor rendered to the reaya by the agha. Most people deem his
decision wise.
The
Turkish kids are joyful. However, the imam of the Big Mosque of the
Parthenon and an official errant dervish are of a different mind.
But, as they can wield no power against this ‘great honor’, they
depart whispering only their opinions.
Only
Ahmet is privy to the secret.
It
is deep night. Everyone is sleeping. The last gunmen have left. It is
dead still on the cliff.
Shortly
a silhouette is drawing close to the cannons. It comes and goes. It
brings gunpowder, primes the cannons with it, and drives the balls
into them with the rammer forcibly but noiselessly. It loads the
bombard with the biggest ball and then lies down upon the marbles
exhausted.
A
large flash of lightning is rending the pitch-black sky revealing
Ahmet’s brutal visage while far in the north over Thrasyboulus’
fort a thunderbolt furrows the firmament. After a while, Ahmet is
also leaving. His job is finished.
It
is midnight. Once in a while peals of thunder shake the ground. A
chilly gust of wind is blowing as a presage of a rainstorm. After a
while, thick raindrops begin to fall. It is almost dawn but the dark
is still deep.
D
The
ill-fated and guileless stranger, accompanied by a full armed castle
guard, did what was told by the agha.
However,
Anthimos, the wise Bishop, conferred with the elders and found a
middle-ground recourse: thus it was decided not to celebrate jointly
at that particular church, but to hold services in all the churches
dedicated to Saint Demetrius.
The
twilight of dawn is breaking. Despite the bad weather some people
appear going uphill to worship their Saint. Gradually the caps of
working people begin to flash red and once in a while a notable’s
hat is seen. However, the number of the faithful is not up to
Youssouf’s expectations.
The
mass has started under a torrential rain.
The
agha rages in his bedroom and whirls around like a lion in his lair.
The
peals of thunder are ceaseless now. The agha is about to leave his
quarters. He tosses a fur cape on his back, goes in haste through the
room where his family is gathered and without uttering a word climbs
up to an embrasure with a view of the cannons.
Hailstones
hit his face and the wind gets on his nerves. He is about to burst
out in fury.
We’re
beaten, my Agha! This foul weather will blow us away along with the
cannons. Few reaya have gone by. The place is almost deserted. You
can hardly see anyone. There, I can see a threesome going uphill,
Ahmet
is yelling from downstairs.
The
agha is moaning.
Ah!
The priest is in a hurry. He must be chanting the Saint’s hymn.
That’s why the peasant is waving the red cloth as I ordered him
to! So, be quick, Ahmet. Turn all the cannons to the church and
fire! Let not a stone remain. Erase even the site where the church
now stands. That’s a good boy, Ahmet! Fire!
Like
a fiend, the chief bombardier turns the cannons around, moves them
left and right, stoops down, stands up, stoops down again and aligns
them to target. The rain now has grown stronger. Ahmet approaches
with a lit stick of spermaceti to ignite the bombard first.
However,
at that moment, above his head the sky belches fire. A terrible clap,
a furious, deafening din is heard. The entire Acropolis is shaken to
its very foundations. A thunderbolt hits the Propylaia, right on the
powder magazine. Destruction and Death!
A
good marksman as Ahmet is, the sky is a better one. The destruction
is horrendous. Various travellers write about it with fright and awe!
Once upon a time there was a castellan named Youssouf. He had a
mother, four wives, two sons and an adopted orphan daughter; no trace
of them was found.
Once
upon a time there was a chief bombardier. He also perished.
The
cannons were scattered and the bombard was blown to smithereens.
Stones, earth and men became one mass.
The
26th
of October 1658 has gone down in history as a memorable day.
The
castle people gather around the place of ruin. The Christians dash
out of Saint Demetrius’ church crossing themselves and only the
priest is left to finish the mass.
After
this devastation the rain stopped. The sky cleared as though nothing
had happened! What a miracle and who has not known of it!
Therefore,
Saint Demetrius has rightly obtained the befitting nickname – the
Bombardier.
Poor
Propylaia!
The
author: Born: 14th
October 1852 in Athens and died: 21st
February 1942. He was a Greek poet and writer. He was also a member
and chairman of the Athens Academy
|
