The Man of Sorrows IV — Turin, 1889 AD

— Cornelis de Bondt

IV — Nicaea — 325 AD

Athanasius had departed from Rome on 21st April. Not for the first time, he thought as he gazed out over the Mediterranean Sea from the bow of the galley. Princes, emperors, generals, merchants, and even popes — something prevented him from spitting a big gob of phlegm into the sea — they all think it’s about gold, gold, and gold. For a brief moment, a triumphant smirk formed on his lips, but it quickly turned into an astonished grin. I wouldn’t exchange all the gold in the world for what I possess. The only thing that truly matters is time. He briefly directed his gaze at the sun, which had reached its highest point in the sky. And time, he pondered, I have in abundance; I have more moments at my disposal than there are grains of sand in the desert or drops of water in the oceans. And if I so desired, I could possess all the gold in the world. He thought of the courtesan again, the one he had rejected in Piombino. And immediately after, he thought of Eva. He would give up all the gold in the world if he could change her fate, but no matter how long he pondered on it, he had no idea how he could have done so. He was overwhelmed by a wave of melancholy. Would time eventually undo that wave, he wondered, or would such feelings remain independent of it? Emotions do not usually behave like devices, he realized with some regret.

The weather had been favorable to him, and he had completed the journey within three weeks. On 18th May, he met Alexander at a tavern by the lake. They looked out over the water as the sun set in a fiery red glow. Alexander was in good spirits, and Athanasius felt no unease in him. That was a good sign.

“Arius is up to something,” Alexander said, pondering. “My informant told me that he was on the trail of certain manuscripts by that accursed historian, Tacitus. In those texts, there were impious descriptions of our Savior. But it turned out to be mere rumors; the said manuscripts have been lost.” Alexander cut a strip of his fish with his knife. “The council begins the day after tomorrow, and we are excellently prepared!” He took a bite of his fish and savored it.

Athanasius knew enough; his first phase had been successful, and Arius would have no chance. Now, he had to follow up on Maria’s loose end. He asked Alexander if he could review the apocryphal texts of Toama and Maria Magdalena to further prepare himself for Arius’s arguments. As he read through the documents, he received confirmation of what he had already surmised: Maria had indeed departed for South France with Joseph of Arimathea to establish their own cult, related to that of Isis & Osiris. The cult initially spread prosperously, to the extent that Arius could play a significant role in it two centuries later, after his defeat at the Council. Athanasius had discovered this when he returned to his own time.

Ultimately, the cult would come to a dead end; it would prove unable to withstand the power of the Church. The only formal female element that would develop within the Church over the course of nearly two millennia was that of Maria, as the Mother of God. But that was a different Maria. He had not wanted to tell her this in Jerusalem, not only because he wasn’t entirely certain at the time — he would only gain that certainty once he was back in Nicea — but also because it was necessary to separate her from Toama. Due to the necessity of the ‘Ascension’, their love relationship had to be ended. Convincing her of this had required considerable persuasion and a significant amount of elixir… He often thought about Maria and Toama, just like Eva and Tacitus, and in fact, even Judas Iscariot, had paid a high price for the Holy Cause of True Faith. A price that couldn’t be expressed in gold, but in what, then?

Athanasius decided not to stay until the end of the Council; his presence was not strictly necessary for its successful outcome. He wanted to be back in Rome by 21st June, so he needed to arrange a boat trip in time. He had received all the answers to his questions; the first two phases had indeed been successful, and he had experienced that the interventions he had made through his time travel did change history in a way that made it appear as if the new version had completely erased the old. Except not on a personal level; this last aspect worried him.

Rome — 1656 AD

The answers Kircher received in Nicea had raised new questions. Would there ever be an end to the questions, he wondered. He feared not. He didn’t know why he feared it, nor where that anxiety came from. Shame, regret, or maybe guilt? Was this the price for his mad undertaking, the price that God demanded of him? Was it a case of megalomania?

He decided to set aside the questions and start focussing on his next task: the third phase. He had to venture into the future, a perilous endeavor because he couldn’t prepare for it. Unlike going back into the past, there were no texts available to him that he could rely on or derive guidance from. It was a shot in the dark, or a shot into blinding light, both with an equal and uncertain outcome. The deepest darkness, the absence of any light, and the most intense light ultimately turned out to be, just like everything and nothing being ultimately one and the same thing. In any case, he had to shoot without any sight of a concrete target. He pondered for a while, made calculations, and ultimately settled on a year that was 273 years ahead of his current time. The number could have been any other; perhaps the journey would yield little, but it was based on the product of the numbers 3, 7, and 13 — three prime numbers with significant symbolic value. Kircher liked it so much that he decided to give it a try. You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take, he thought. On June 21st, he put his words into action

Rome — 1929 AD

Over a month after his arrival in his secret chamber in the Pantheon, on July 25th, Athanasius witnessed a massive procession. Thousands of people lined the route leading to St. Peter’s Basilica. When Athanasius asked the enthusiastic people around him what was happening, he learned that he was witnessing the end of the 60-year exile of the popes. From that day on, the pope, known as Pius XI, resumed his position at the Vatican.

Athanasius decided to stay in this new era for a full year; he needed time to understand the future. He realized that the world had undergone significant changes in just a few months. Still recovering from a war unlike any in history, the world seemed to be heading towards a new disaster. On October 24th, the New York Stock Exchange crashed, leading to a massive economic recession. Until then, Athanasius had only known the word ‘economy’ in the context of God’s household. Doubts about his endeavor began to plague him.

It seemed to him that the speed of time had increased significantly, as if time were accelerating and becoming too fast for him to keep up with. He was surprised that during his journey back over 1600 years in time, he had not experienced the opposite effect. Was this sensation unique to traveling to the future? Or was something else at play? Could he be the cause of this phenomenon?

Less than a week after the stock market crash, Athanasius came across a curious book in the Biblioteca Angelica. It caught his attention solely because of its title: Nietzsches Lehre von der Ewigen Wiederkunft und deren bisherige Veröffentlichung [Nietzsche’s Doctrine of Eternal Recurrence and Its Previous Publication]. The phrase ‘Ewige Wiederkunft’ made his heart skip a beat. The author, one Horneffer, meant nothing to him, and the name Nietzsche didn’t ring a bell either. He immediately began researching both names, seeking out all the books and texts he could find by them. Athanasius discovered that Horneffer was particularly known as a Nietzsche expert, so it apparently concerned that figure. It didn’t take Athanasius long to realize that he needed to meet this man. He decided to read all of the philosopher’s works, focusing on titles such as Fatum und Geschichte and Willensfreiheit und Fatum, both apparently early works published when Nietzsche was 18 years old. He also delved into later works like Jenseits von Gut und Böse and Ecce Homo. It was peculiar that Nietzsche hadn’t published anything after 1889, during the last eleven years of his life. Gradually, the initial outlines of an ingenious plan began to form in Athanasius’s mind.

He chose to concentrate first on the titles that had initially appealed to him. Taking the works back to his apartment, he read them in chronological order over two weeks. After finishing Ecce Homo, he realized that one title was missing from his list: Also sprach Zarathustra. He obtained this title from the library and read it in one breath.

He didn’t understand everything in the texts, but he understood enough to further develop his plan. He felt that something was missing, an essential element that could be the missing link for his Grand Plan. All the texts he had read addressed topics like morality, truth, and falsehood, always through the lens of the Church, meaning Christianity. In essence, all the texts advocated for a reversal of all Christian values. Slowly, it dawned on him that what was missing was the discussion of the Son, the Savior — the figure whose contours Athanasius had meticulously prepared and shaped in the early stages of his Grand Plan. And suddenly, as divine inspiration goes — unplanned, uncontrollable, and unpredictable — the magnificent synthesis presented itself to him: a counterpart had to be formulated for the Son, the Christos — the Antichrist. It wasn’t Jezus/Toama who was the Savior, but he himself, Athanasius, in the form of their opposite. The Antichrist, Zarathustra, and the Übermensch would ultimately form the three phases of his Grand Plan. As he was the master of time, having acquired eternal life, he would become the definitive human, the Übermensch — he would fulfill Nietzsche’s dream! It would be a long journey, but the final step was within reach.

Athanasius had to wait for several more months, a time he would use meticulously rereading the texts and preparing for his encounter with Nietzsche. He would travel directly to the year 1887. On April 21st, 1930, Athanasius entered his cabin and precisely at 12 o’clock, he departed.

Turin/Sils Maria — 1887-1889 AD

Athanasius had departed directly from Rome to Turin, where he settled in an apartment not far from Via Carlo Alberto, where Nietzsche lived and worked. He decided to stay in Nietzsche’s vicinity for two years. Firstly, he needed time to ingratiate himself with Nietzsche, to become so familiar with him that he could persuade him to write a new text about the Counter-Savior. In the initial months, Athanasius set up his apartment and explored Nietzsche’s residential and working area, tracing his movements and mapping out the places where the philosopher liked to walk, eat, or drink. In June, Athanasius traveled to Sils Maria in Switzerland, where Nietzsche spent his summers in the 1880s. There, too, Athanasius rented an apartment and explored the vicinity of Nietzsche’s residence on Via da Marias. The fact that Nietzsche’s dwelling had a twofold connection to the name Maria seemed promising to Athanasius.

After mapping out Nietzsche’s walking routes, including the times of day, Athanasius devised a plan to meet the Philosopher with the Hammer. The procedure was similar to the one for Tacitus: he planned for a ‘chance’ encounter at a suitable point along the walk. He would have a book by Nietzsche with him, visibly reading it on a bench. It was inevitable that the philosopher would approach him about it. It was a beautiful sunny day, and Athanasius sat seemingly absorbed in the book when he noticed the man walking toward him in brisk strides.

Initially, Nietzsche seemed as though he intended to keep walking, but suddenly he saw the title of the book Athanasius was reading, Also sprach Zarathustra. Athanasius purposefully held the book in a way that made the title impossible to miss for anyone passing by. Nietzsche paused, hesitated for a moment, and then walked towards him, addressing him with a verse from the text.

Die Sonne ist lange schon hinunter,
Die Wiese ist feucht, von den Wäldern her kommt Kühle.
Ein Unbekanntes ist um mich und blickt nachdenklich.
Was! Du lebst noch?
Warum? Wofür? Wodurch? Wohin? Wo? Wie?
Ist es nicht Thorheit, noch zu leben? —
Ach, meine Freunde, der Abend ist es, der so aus mir fragt.
Vergebt mir meine Traurigkeit!
Abend ward es: vergebt mir, dass es Abend ward!

Athanasius immediately recognized it as a quote from the Dance Song. He quickly flipped through the book and recited a short fragment from the preceding Night Song:

Nacht ist es: ach dass ich Licht sein muss! Und Durst nach Nächtigem!
Und Einsamkeit!
Nacht ist es: nun bricht wie ein Born aus mir mein Verlangen, — nach
Rede verlangt mich.
Nacht ist es: nun reden lauter alle springenden Brunnen. Und auch
meine Seele ist ein springender Brunnen
Nacht ist es: nun erst erwachen alle Lieder der Liebenden. Und auch
meine Seele ist das Lied eines Liebenden.

Nietzsche looked at him with a penetrating gaze that quickly turned into a broad grin. “You know your classics,” he said.

Athanasius shifted and made an inviting gesture. “Perhaps you would like to share some thoughts with me about this remarkable book? You know it well.”

Nietzsche accepted his invitation and, after taking a seat next to Athanasius on the bench, he said, “I may as well, I am the author.”

“Well, well, how extraordinary!” exclaimed Athanasius with feigned astonishment. “What an incredible coincidence!” The connection was made, and the two men spoke with each other for over an hour about the book, its background, other titles, morality, virtue, truth, and, naturally, Christianity. Athanasius gave no indication that he was a priest; he suspected it would be wise not to bring it up unless an irresistible reason emerged that he could use to his advantage.

At a certain point, Nietzsche unexpectedly stood up and said he had to continue. “I am working on a text about who I am, which should already be known because I have not been silent. However, the disparity between the magnitude of my task and the insignificance of my contemporaries has been so apparent that they have not heard me, and they have not even seen me. Under such circumstances, it is my duty to say: Listen! I am so-and-so. Do not confuse me with anyone else!“

Athanasius promptly stood up as well and said, “You are by no means a bumbling fool, nor a moralistic monstrosity! Is that clear?!” Nietzsche looked at him in astonishment, and Athanasius quickly continued,

“That’s something you could have said if I understood your texts correctly. I believe I can properly assess your statements, positions, and even your writing style. Let us meet again!”

Nietzsche nodded at him and continued his walk with brisk steps. They did not set a date for a new meeting, but Athanasius had no doubt that the philosopher would be open to another appointment; the foundation for it had clearly been laid. He decided to give the man a week’s time, and then he would invite him for lunch. In the meantime, he could prepare some texts that could be useful for their conversation. The goal was clear: he had to entice the philosopher to write a new text, thus convincing him that an essential component was missing from the expression of his ideas. He could even suggest the title, The Antichrist, although he wasn’t certain if that was a good idea. Perhaps it would be better to frame the conversation in a way that would lead the philosopher to ‘conceive’ that title himself, Deo volente…

Seven days after the meeting with Nietzsche, Athanasius rang the doorbell at the house on Via da Marias. The owner, Mr. Durisch, answered the door. Athanasius explained that he wanted to invite Mr. Nietzsche for a meal and handed him a card in a sealed envelope containing an invitation to have lunch with him the next day at the restaurant Die Alpenrose, where Nietzsche ate almost daily. He signed the letter as Everyone and nobody. He suspected Nietzsche would appreciate the joke. “Moment mal,” the owner said and disappeared through a door. Five minutes later, he returned and said, “Gerne, um zwölf Uhr” (Gladly, at twelve o’clock).

The next day, Athanasius and the philosopher sat at a table in the garden of the restaurant, enjoying an aperitif. The sky was a clear blue, and it was pleasantly warm, so they chose to have lunch outside.

“And, what is everyone’s name?” Nietzsche asked after the menus were placed on their table.

“Nobody knows,” Athanasius replied.

“Is that clear?” The philosopher seemed to enjoy the game.

“It is the truth.”

“The lying truth.”

“Zum Wohl!” With a toast, Athanasius ended the game. There were matters to attend to.

Nietzsche reciprocated the toast and asked, “What is your name?”

“Arkana Huse-Christi,” Athanasius answered, deciding it would be better not to mention his real name, which the philosopher would undoubtedly know.

“The Secret House of the Followers of Christ,” Nietzsche said pensively. “That does indeed smell like everyone and nobody.”

“My parents had a moment of divine inspiration, let’s say,” Athanasius responded. He had decided to take Ecce Homo as the starting point for the conversation, which was risky since the philosopher had yet to write the book. In a letter to his sister Elisabeth, Nietzsche mentioned that he was writing it in the autumn, so it would still be several months away. However, Athanasius assumed he was already working on it, perhaps with sketches or at least in his mind during his long walks. Through casual and cautious hints, he hoped to penetrate the thinker’s mind. His signing of the invitation was more than a joke; it was a borderline reference. The mention of the term ‘inspiration’ was less risky.

“Interesting that you mention the concept of inspiration,” Nietzsche said. “Is there anyone at the end of this century who has any notion of this term used by the poets of stronger centuries?”

Athanasius immediately understood that his assumption was correct; the wording wasn’t exactly the same as that of the chapter on Zarathustra, but it was close enough. Nietzsche was indeed already working on it.

“I think I’m getting somewhere,” Athanasius replied boldly. “It’s something like a…” Here, Athanasius intentionally hesitated, as if he had yet to come up with the word. “…a revelation, a roasted dove that suddenly flies onto our plate,” he added with a grin.

Nietzsche appreciated the joke and nodded approvingly. “Exactly, a revelation! It’s something you don’t ask for but take when it presents itself; something that deeply affects you and unsettles you.” He scratched his hair and beard several times while saying this.

I hope he doesn’t have fleas, Athanasius worried. “I understand what you mean,” he said aloud. “It’s a kind of being outside of yourself, a wondrous symbiosis of profound pain and refined happiness.” He hoped he hadn’t overdone it, but Nietzsche looked at him delightedly.

“The word ‘symbiosis’ is well chosen,” the philosopher said. “It also applies to the involuntary nature of inspiration, the inevitable, while at the same time, we experience it as a stormy feeling of freedom, of indeterminacy, of power, divinity…” He paused for a moment, as if digging into his memory.

“To better understand what you mean, may I ask the following question?” Athanasius said. “Do I understand correctly that you primarily associate this with text, with words?”

Nietzsche scratched his beard again. “No, it goes deeper,” he said. “I’m referring to the image, to the concept of what an image is, what resemblance is, how everything that arises within you reveals itself in the most direct, the truest, and the most primary mode of expression. I think of a statement by Zarathustra: ‘Here all things come to you with enticing gestures, and they begin to flatter you, for they want to ride on your back. Here you ride on every conceivable resemblance to every conceivable truth. Here, in your presence, the words and word-shrines of all Being burst open—all Being wants to become Word, all becoming wants to speak through you.’ That is how I experience ‘inspiration’.”

“In the beginning was the Word…” Athanasius blurted out, hoping it would resonate well.

“…and the Word was with God, and the Word was God,” the philosopher added, laughing. “You are who you’re called, a true follower of Christ.”

“In secrecy…” Athanasius apologized. “But you are partly right in that I was a true follower for a long time, but recently my paths and those of the Church have diverged. However, even before I encountered your texts, your texts came to me in the manner you described, they jumped on my back and found words of similar meaning.”

In response to a question from Nietzsche, Athanasius shared more about his background as a priest without going into too much detail. He emphasized the doubts that had taken hold of him in recent years. He spoke about how he had started to criticize the Christocentric thinking of the Church, at least in his mind, as he hadn’t yet found the courage to express it openly. “I am not a priest who knows how to wield a hammer…” Nietzsche burst into uncontrollable laughter at this allusion. After that, Athanasius steered the conversation toward Paul, discussing his role in the development of Christocentric thinking. It was a preliminary step to lead the discussion toward the new text he had in mind for the philosopher, about the struggle within himself to break free from this most influential apostle of Christianity. “It seems to be my fate,” he complained finally, “not to say my doom.” A subtle hint toward what would later become the final chapter of Ecce Homo seemed fitting to him.

When Athanasius had mentioned the role of Paul, deep furrows appeared on the philosopher’s forehead. He fell into deep thought. They continued eating in silence for a while, but then the man scratched his wild hair once again and said, more to himself than to Athanasius, “That is an extraordinarily interesting thought; the role of Paul needs to be addressed! That man is not a hero; not a genius; there is another name for him: he is an idiot!” Then he plucked some food remnants from his beard.

Gradually, Athanasius nurtured the flow of ideas that Nietzsche had sparked, laying various themes on the table that were important to him to be included in the new text. Nietzsche seamlessly supplemented them with his own themes, perspectives, and ideas from his previous works, quickly revealing the contours of a new book. At one point, Athanasius brought up the figure of Jesus and pondered aloud how the antithesis of this Savior might appear. “That is evident,” the philosopher immediately responded. “It is the Antichrist!” The title of the book was born.

The lunch came to an end, and Nietzsche apologized, but he still had some writing work to do. He visibly reacted positively when Athanasius asked if he would appreciate a new exchange of ideas so that they could perhaps give more shape to the intended book, and even suggested that Athanasius could contribute some suggestions. The philosopher found it an interesting thought and proposed a new meeting during lunch. Nietzsche wanted to think about the topic himself first and had other things to do, so they agreed to meet again in a week, at the same time.

Athanasius stayed in Sils Maria throughout the summer, had regular appointments with the philosopher, and closely followed the progress of the new text. Nietzsche let him read all his sketches, usually listening patiently, but sometimes genuinely interested in the priest’s comments. When Nietzsche announced that he was going back to Turin, they agreed to meet there again.

In October, they saw each other for the first time since their meetings in Sils Maria. They met in a restaurant near Via Carlo Alberto. From that moment on, they saw each other regularly. The book was progressing steadily, and the other text, Ecce Homo, was already finished. During one of their many lunch appointments, Nietzsche mentioned that he had a plan for a work consisting of four essays, titled Umwertung aller Werte [Revaluation of All Values]. Athanasius had great difficulty hiding his astonishment. On the one hand, he was pleasantly surprised by the idea, but on the other hand, he understood that he had to prevent its realization at all costs. He had to write that text himself! He would have to intervene, but he didn’t know exactly how. Fortunately, he still had time because the text Nietzsche was working on was not yet completed.

By the end of the year, The Antichrist was finished. Now it was time for Athanasius to intervene. There should be absolutely no trace of the intended new book. He had devised a plan — a proven plan, in fact, because he would once again use the elixir. In the past few weeks, he had experimented with a new, improved variant. He invited Nietzsche for a New Year’s gathering at the end of the afternoon at his apartment. The philosopher accepted the invitation with appropriate enthusiasm.

Two days later, Nietzsche was walking in a confused state on the street. He saw a horse being beaten, embraced the animal, and collapsed in tears. Athanasius was far from proud of himself, but in certain cases, the end justifies the means, even when it involves a noble creature like a horse.

— Rome, April 21, 1997