L'Eglise Aristotelicienne Romaine The Roman and Aristotelic Church

[Bibiano]

Ao cruzar os umbrais da imensa Basílica de São Tito, o Arcebispo de Évora sentiu-se não como um sacerdote, mas como um grão de incenso lançado ao céu. Seus olhos, acostumados à modéstia da Catedral de Évora, dilataram-se diante da vastidão daquela nave romana — onde o tempo parecia deter a respiração, e a eternidade respirava nas pedras.

O mármore do chão, frio como a aurora, refletia as colunas coríntias como espelhos da fé dos séculos. Cada passo ecoava como um salmo murmurado pelos pés de gerações de fiéis que ali buscaram consolo, verdade e glória.

Ele olhou para o alto. E ali estava: a cúpula, mais ampla que o céu de Lisboa, enfeitada com afrescos que narravam o Triunfo da Virtude, a Ressurreição de Christos e o Julgamento Final segundo os cânones da Santa Igreja. Os querubins voavam entre as nervuras douradas e os vitrais filtravam a luz romana num arco de cores brandas, como se a aurora tivesse sido dissolvida em vidro.

Nas paredes laterais, nichos com os Doutores da Fé, seus olhos pintados voltados ao altar, como que aguardando a explosão da Alegria Pascal. Um turíbulo pendia do teto como um incensário dos céus, imóvel por ora, mas prenhe do perfume que logo envolveria o povo de Deus.

O Arcebispo caminhou entre bancos talhados por mãos que já dormiam, tocando discretamente as costas de madeira como se cumprimentasse santos anônimos. Encontrou um assento lateral, mais discreto, e ali se ajoelhou. Lentamente, seus olhos fecharam-se.

Senhor, que vencestes a morte com a vida,
Que transformais a pedra em pão e o túmulo em alvorada,
Que os sinos desta basílica sejam trovões da vossa ressurreição.
Que esta cidade vos proclame não com multidão,
Mas com humildade.
Que eu, vosso servo da do longínquo Portugal,
Veja neste templo a promessa da glória —
Não do Reino dos homens,
Mas do Reino da Virtude.

O murmúrio da assembleia crescente não o distraiu. Sentia a pulsação do altar no coração da basílica como se fosse o próprio pulsar do mundo renovado. Os sinos começaram a ecoar — longos, solenes, como trombetas em brasa.

O Capelão abriu os olhos e sorriu.
Era Páscoa. E ali, naquele altar romano, tudo seria Renovação.

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When he crossed the threshold of the immense Basilica of St. Titus, the Archbishop of Évora felt not like a priest, but like a grain of incense thrown into heaven. His eyes, accustomed to the modesty of Évora Cathedral, widened at the vastness of that Roman nave - where time seemed to stop breathing, and eternity breathed in the stones.

The marble floor, cold as dawn, reflected the Corinthian columns like mirrors of the faith of the centuries. Each step echoed like a psalm murmured by the feet of generations of believers who had sought solace, truth and glory there.

He looked up. And there it was: the dome, wider than Lisbon's sky, adorned with frescoes narrating the Triumph of Virtue, the Resurrection of Christos and the Final Judgment according to the canons of the Holy Church. Cherubs flew between the golden ribs and the stained glass windows filtered the Roman light in an arc of soft colors, as if the dawn had been dissolved in glass.

On the side walls, niches with the Doctors of the Faith, their painted eyes turned towards the altar, as if awaiting the explosion of Easter Joy. A turíbulo hung from the ceiling like a censer from heaven, immobile for the moment, but filled with the perfume that would soon envelop the people of God.

The Archbishop walked between benches carved by sleeping hands, discreetly touching the wooden backs as if greeting anonymous saints. He found a more discreet side seat and knelt there. Slowly, his eyes closed.

Lord, who overcame death with life,
Who transforms stone into bread and the tomb into dawn,
May the bells of this basilica be the thunder of your resurrection.
May this city proclaim you not with crowds,
but with humility.
May I, your servant from faraway Portugal,
See in this temple the promise of glory -
Not of the Kingdom of men,
But of the Kingdom of Virtue.

The murmur of the growing assembly did not distract him. He felt the pulse of the altar in the heart of the basilica as if it were the very pulse of the renewed world. The bells began to echo - long, solemn, like blazing trumpets.

The chaplain opened his eyes and smiled.
It was Easter. And there, on that Roman altar, everything would be new.
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• Conde de Ervedal • Capelão Régio • Arcebispo Metropolitano de Évora •

[Marilyse]

A la suite de la veillée, elle s'était retirée dans une hostellerie pour prendre un peu de repos et faire un brin de toilette. Marilyse revint ensuite pour l'office du Renouveau. Elle était toujours discrète et calme, recueillie. Elle profitait de ce temps de piété, cette petite pause dans son emploi du temps chargé qui lui faisait parfois perdre un peu de vue cette part essentielle. Elle sourit donc doucement, reconnaissante, et alla prendre place où elle se devait eut égard son rang.

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After the vigil, she retired to a hostelry to rest and wash up. Marilyse then returned for the Renewal service. She was always discreet, calm and contemplative. She took advantage of this time of piety, this little break in her busy schedule which sometimes made her lose sight of this essential part of her life. So she smiled softly, grateful, and went to take her place where her rank demanded.
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[Selinaa]

Selina entered the Basilica with quiet steps, her eyes drifting into the grandeur of the temple’s interior. The air was filled with the soft aroma of candle wax and incense, while the distant sound of the faithful moving about and the murmuring of priests created an atmosphere of serenity and anticipation. Soft sunlight filtered through the stained glass windows, casting colorful patterns onto the floor that danced as the worshippers settled into their places.

She found a quiet corner near the altar, where she could wait in silence. Sitting with her hands gently folded in her lap, she gazed at the altar, decorated with flowers that still carried the freshness of the morning. The murmurs of prayers and the movement of the acolytes’ silken robes created a harmonious silence, a prelude to what was about to unfold.

Selina felt a deep calmness as she found herself there, the weight of the past days slipping away as the beauty of the space and the occasion enveloped her. As she waited for the Mass to begin, her eyes wandered over the sacred images around her, feeling the anticipation in the air. The day was nearly perfect — the sky a clear blue, and a gentle breeze entering through the open doors, marking the beginning of a unique moment.

Soon, the bells would ring, announcing the start of the ceremony, but for now, she simply remained there, in silence, absorbing the peace of the surroundings, as her heart prepared for the spiritual renewal the Mass would bring.

[Melo03]

Un feu de camp. Une odeur de bois brûlée. La veillée pascale était passée par là ! Cela changeait de l'odeur de purin et d'urines qui hantaient les rues de cette magnifique ville.

Melo se rendit à pied sur les lieux. Elle craignait les bouchons de charrettes et ne souhaitait pas arriver en retard.
D'ailleurs, elle était à l'heure ! Ca changeait presque.
Elle s'avança donc d'un bon pas vers la basilique quand soudainement SPLACH ! son pied atterrit dans un énorme crottin.

Dommage qu'elle fut évêque ! A une autre époque, pour sûr que les jurons auraient résonné dans toute la place.

Melo tenta de s’essuyer son pied crotter au maximum avant de rejoindre le perron. L'odeur la poursuivait-elle ??

Pie était déjà là. Melo le rejoignit, rouge d'effort trainant toujours un pied pour tenter de se l'éponger au maximum.

Bonjour ! Bonjour ! Suis-je en retard ? Dîtes-moi que ça n'a pas commencé ??
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[Laodin]

-----It was the late morning, and Laodin was late... in appearance, at least. Fortunately for him, the Easter mass had not started; there was just a strange smell of stables at the majestic entrance, as if horses had walked inside the basilica, but he noticed nothing, except Melo with her foot sliding on the floor. Because it was always nicer to attend a mass alongside comrades, he sat just behind her and Pie, not too close to not disturb them. But why was the smell even stronger there?


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-----Il était tard dans la matinée, et Laodin était en retard... en apparence, tout du moins. Heureusement pour lui, la messe de Pâques n'avait pas encore commencé ; l'air sentait les écuries près de l'entrée majestueuse, comme si des chevaux avaient marché à l'intérieur de la basilique, mais il ne remarqua rien, excepté Melo dont le pied semblait traîner au sol plus loin. Parce qu'il était toujours plus agréable de suivre une cérémonie avec des têtes connues, il s'assit juste derrière elle et Pie, pas trop près afin de ne pas les déranger. Mais pourquoi l'odeur était-elle encore plus forte à cet endroit ?
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[Cathelineau]

Le vieux Breton avait fait la route depuis la Bretagne pour l’occasion et cela lui remémorait des souvenirs d’un passé qui semblait si lointain.

Allant se mettre à sa place il attendit patiemment la suite de la cérémonie.

The old Breton had traveled all the way from Brittany for the occasion, and it brought back memories of a past that seemed so distant.

Going to take his seat, he patiently waited for the ceremony to continue.
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[Cremonesi]

The young man remained silent, his thoughts turned inward, focused on the Most High. Cremonesi breathed calmly, each breath filling his lungs with a dense blend of scents — the sweetness of incense, the warmth of melting candle wax, the delicate fragrance of flowers arranged upon the altar, and even the faint human aroma of those gathered in prayer. It was a mingling of essences that created an almost ethereal atmosphere, as if the sacred brushed against the earthly.

Wrapped in this spiritual reverie, his gaze slowly wandered through the nave until it rested upon a familiar figure. His heart gave a quiet jolt — it was Selina. Her presence always stirred in him a deep and gentle affection, the kind that requires no words to be understood.

Without haste, and mindful of the solemn hush of the space, he moved with careful, measured steps. He glided forward with the grace and silence of a cat, taking care not to disturb the prayers of those around him. Upon reaching the pew where she sat, he quietly took a seat beside her, unnoticed. Selina remained immersed in her devotions, eyes half-closed, her expression inward, as though engaged in intimate conversation with the divine.

Cremonesi had no desire to interrupt her. He simply remained — there, by her side, in silence — and closed his own eyes once more. He resumed his prayers, waiting, with humility and faith, for the ceremony to begin.

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O jovem permanecia em silêncio, os pensamentos recolhidos diante do Altíssimo. Cremonesi respirava com serenidade, e cada lufada de ar enchia seus pulmões com uma mescla densa de aromas — o doce do incenso, o calor da cera derretida das velas, o perfume discreto das flores dispostas no altar e até o leve cheiro humano das pessoas reunidas ali em oração. Aquela combinação criava uma atmosfera quase etérea, como se o sagrado tocasse o mundo terreno.

Envolto nesse torpor espiritual, seus olhos vagaram lentamente pela nave do templo até repousarem sobre uma figura conhecida. O coração deu um leve sobressalto — era Selina. Uma presença que sempre lhe despertava um afeto profundo e sereno, daqueles que não precisam de palavras para serem sentidos.

Sem pressa, respeitando o silêncio solene do ambiente, ele caminhou com passos cuidadosos, quase flutuantes. Movia-se com a leveza e discrição de um felino, evitando interromper a prece dos demais. Quando chegou ao banco onde ela estava, acomodou-se ao seu lado com naturalidade, sem que ela percebesse sua chegada. Selina estava imersa em suas orações, olhos semicerrados, expressão recolhida, como se conversasse intimamente com o divino.

Cremonesi não quis perturbá-la. Limitou-se a estar presente — ali, ao seu lado, em silêncio — e voltou a fechar os olhos. Retomou suas próprias preces, esperando, com humildade e fé, que a cerimônia tivesse início.