From Alexandria's Shadow to Peking's Ink

October 18, 320 CE · Greece · A darkened sun falls silent over Alexandria.

In Greece, Pappus of Alexandria is unfolding. Pappus of Alexandria, Greek philosopher, observes an eclipse of the Sun and writes a commentary on The Great Astronomer (Almagest).

My stylus hovers above the wax as Master Pappus lifts his gaze from the Almagest scroll. We sit in his teaching chamber on the edge of Alexandria, where the afternoon heat presses against the open windows. He calls for me, Hermodorus, to bring the shuttered lamp-cloth because the light on the river is failing strangely. Outside, the harbor sky dims to a bruised copper, and the river birds fall quiet mid-cry. I watch him trace the Moon's path across the darkened disc with his fingertip, dictating notes in a low, steady murmur. A slave covers the courtyard well with a mat. When the shadow lifts, he sends me running for fresh ink to mark the hour. The light returns, and the courtyard stone gleams once more beneath the reappearing sun.

October 18, 1009 CE · Israel · Masons' hammers ring against the rock of Calvary.

In Israel, Church of the Holy Sepulchre is unfolding. The Church of the Holy Sepulchre, a Christian church in Jerusalem, is completely destroyed by the Fatimid caliph Al-Hakim bi-Amr Allah, who hacks the Church's foundations down to bedrock.

I steady the iron-bound door as the Fatimid workmen pry at the threshold stone with crowbars. The smell of mortar and fear fills the courtyard, and the chanting of the brothers has long since stopped. I am a Greek monk assigned tonight to keep the lamps burning on the tomb, but the lamps lie smashed against the wall. Fatimid soldiers drive chisels into the columns, and the marble chips fall like scattered teeth. The order of the caliph Al-Hakim is read aloud again, and the foreman nods, and the men hack downward into the bedrock beneath the floor. My abbot's whisper comes to me, saying that Golgotha itself will be brought to nothing. By dawn the foundations are rubble, and the rock lies open to the sky, dust drifting where worshippers once knelt.

October 18, 1016 CE · United Kingdom · Shields splinter on the Essex ridge.

In United Kingdom, Danes is unfolding. The Danes defeat the English in the Battle of Assandun.

I brace my round shield as the Danish axe bites into the ash wood at my shoulder. We stand on the ridge above Assandun, the English host drawn up beneath the dragon banner, and the morning frost still clings to the grass. My thegn beside me shouts for the fyrd to hold the line, but the line is already buckling where the Danish huscarls press forward. I watch a mounted rider fall with a spear through his hauberk, and the blood steams on the cold ground. The Danish shield wall advances with a great roar, and our ranks fold inward like a broken gate. By the time the sun reaches its peak, the standard is in Danish hands and I am running for the wood. By dusk the retreat horn echoes across the empty ridge, and the Danes light their fires on the field.

October 18, 1166 CE · Syria · Incense rises over the cloister of Mor Bar Sauma.

In Syria, Michael the Syrian is unfolding. Michael the Syrian, one of the most important Syriac historians, is consecrated as Syriac Orthodox Patriarch at the Mor Bar Sauma Monastery.

I kneel on the cold flagstones and swing the censer toward the altar as the procession enters the cloister. Today the new patriarch is being consecrated at the Mor Bar Sauma Monastery, and I have been chosen to bear the thurible before Michael the Syrian. His robes are heavy with embroidered crosses, and the deacons chant in Syriac as he is led to the patriarchal throne. I watch the bishops lay their hands upon his head, and the myrrh warms on the coals within my reach. Outside, a slow rain begins to tap the wooden shutters, and the doves stir on the rooftop of the chapel. When the liturgy ends, he rises to bless us, and the censer smoke curls upward through the lamplight, drifting out into the wet courtyard.

October 18, 1281 CE · Spain · A quill scratches a sentence of exile.

In Spain, Pope Martin IV is unfolding. Pope Martin IV excommunicates King Peter III of Aragon for usurping the crown of Sicily (a sentence renewed on 7 May and 18 November 1282).

I dip my quill into the iron pot of ink and wait for the cardinal to dictate the words aloud. We work in the papal chambers at Orvieto, the floor still littered with yesterday's petitions, and Pope Martin IV sits in his robes with his face unreadable. The sentence falls from his mouth without pause: King Peter of Aragon is excommunicated for seizing the Sicilian crown, and a crusade is opened against him. I write the Latin phrase for curse, the phrase for anathema, and the phrase for dispossession of fief, and I blow the ink dry before the next clause. The scribe beside me shakes his head, for he is from Provence and knows the Angevin cause. By vespers the bull is sealed with red wax, and a courier rides south at dusk into the rain.

October 18, 1377 CE · Turkey · Crowns are lifted toward two heads in Constantinople.

In Turkey, Andronikos IV Palaiologos is unfolding. Andronikos IV Palaiologos and his young son John are crowned by patriarch Macarius of Constantinople.

I hold the trailing hem of the imperial mantle as the patriarch Macarius raises the twin crowns above the altar. We stand in the great church of Constantinople, the marble still cold from the morning, and the chanters have been singing since dawn. The deposed emperor has been put aside, and today his eldest son Andronikos IV is acclaimed alongside his young son John. I watch the gold settle on Andronikos's brow, then on the boy's curls, and the chamber shifts with held breath. Candles gutter in the draft from the dome, and the incense smoke tangles in the painted saints overhead. As the procession begins to move toward the doors, the patriarch's crozier strikes the floor three times, and the cry of acclaim echoes through the bronze doors, spilling out into the morning streets.

October 18, 1561 CE · Japan · War-banners cross above the mist of Kawanakajima.

In Japan, Japan is unfolding. In Japan the fourth Battle of Kawanakajima is fought between the forces of Uesugi Kenshin and Takeda Shingen, resulting in a draw.

I tighten the strap of my lord's greaves and step back as the kettle-drums begin their long roll. We are camped on the plain of Kawanakajima, the morning mist still clinging to the river shallows, and the banners of Takeda Shingen flutter red against the grey. Across the valley, the Uesugi force under Kenshin is already forming into lines, and the war-cries carry across the water like birds startled from the reeds. I pass my lord his war-fan, and he studies the enemy's lines through the lifting haze. When the signal arrow flies, the cavalry surges forward, and the mist breaks apart beneath a thousand hooves. By midday the plain is churned mud and ringing steel, and by dusk the valley falls quiet, and the river murmurs softly on beneath the silence.

October 18, 1860 CE · China · Ink dries on the final page of an unequal treaty.

In China, Second Opium War is unfolding. The Second Opium War finally ends at the Convention of Peking with the ratification of the Treaty of Tientsin, an unequal treaty.

I lift the sand-box and shake the fine dust across the wet characters of the Chinese copy, then set the brush down beside the inkstone. We sit in the hall at Peking where the foreign envoys have come to ratify the Treaty of Tientsin, ending the Second Opium War, and the summer heat hangs heavy under the carved beams. The British secretaries are still signing the English copy on the far table, and our own delegation exchanges quiet glances over the unequal clauses already sealed. I watch the French interpreter lower his head, and a secretary on the far side pours tea without looking up. Outside, a horseman waits at the gate with the courier pouch. I listen for the gong that will close the convention, my hand still resting on the paper.