Mad Gods – Redux
Athanasios
Copyright 2011 by Athanasios
Review Edition
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Monaxia -
TIME: May 29th, 1960, Istanbul, Turkey
Istanbul conjured images of ancient history. Medieval Christian sculptures and mosaics stood among electric streetlights and movie posters. As he walked the city's streets, Kosta Paleologos saw the past amidst the modern hustle and bustle and felt grief, called monaxia - a longing for home and the familiar, which deepened in Istanbul. Everywhere, he saw faded glory, and turned Istanbul to Kostadinoupoli. Greeks to Byzantines.
Every year, he returned to the city on May 29th. It was a duty, which had been handed down through generations of this family with brown eyes, monaxia and brown hair. They were successors to Athens, Sparta, Macedonia and Rome. Pericles, Leonidas, Alexander and Caesars, from Julius to Constantine, evolved into Byzantine’s Emperor. He was Christ’s Caesar and ruled by divine decree, undreamt of by later pretenders. France’s Louis and Napoleon, England’s Henry and Charles, paled in comparison to Justinian and the First Constantine the Great. They were history. They were gone in every way, but in memory. Nothing remained as it was. No amount of prayer, hope or monaxia could change that.
Kosta knew this and came to Istanbul, because there were souls, still clinging to the history of their memories. Just as people prayed to God, Greeks felt monaxia and souls roamed Kostadinoupoli. To them, it was still 1453, and they fought desperately to keep their city. These unfortunate souls were unable to leave. They wandered and died in their memory. Over and over, they suffered lesser pain, than the total agony of death. They were terrified to face this absolute split from life. They were unable to accept the fact that they lived in history, because giving into its finality would utterly destroy them.
They were right. It was total destruction they feared - death. In order to stave it off, they existed in the past. Their frantic grasp of the belief that they would vanish kept them in Kostadinoupoli, when it was Istanbul.
Kosta and his family held no such illusions. They pitied the Byzantine ghosts, wandering their ancient, stone streets, but knew that history and Kostadinoupoli were gone forever. They were fabricated memory. They were similar, but not the past. A photograph isn’t the representation of reality we’ve come to believe it to be. God isn’t either. Our prayers make Him what we want Him to be. We’ve been told that history and God were and are, real, therefore, we believe.
Most in the Paleologos family believed. Even the extended families they married into believed in the Byzantine, Orthodox Theos: God. The Agelopoulos, Kazatzakis, Galanis, Gatzoyiannis and the rest believed like good, Greek Orthodox. Many envied that Kosta came to Kostadinoupoli every year - they didn’t call it Istanbul. Kosta rejected his uncles' and cousins' appeals to accompany him. This was something only he could do.
He looked up Yrebatan Caddesi and saw Hagia Sophia in the distance. The grand church was still distinguishable, between the later minarets and near the Ottoman, Blue Mosque. All about her, Turks, Greeks, Italians and too many others to list, walked on their individual ways. Some didn’t see the racial distinctions that Kosta noticed, but most didn’t care. They were that close to being racist and that far away from caring.
He ran a critical eye over them, trying to locate who didn’t belong, looking for someone who stood out from the living. Eventually, he did find her. She didn't see cars or any of the modern details, which through the centuries, eroded a remembered life. Someone who walked with a shuffle to her confused step, as the world around her seeped into the past, clothing her senses. He approached the woman who saw no one. She didn’t see the modern slacks, blue jeans and neckties worn by the living. Her face and clothes were pale and colorless. Her dress, centuries old, fell on her in a shabby mess, beneath the kerchief covering her head. She didn’t speak when she noticed Kosta, but stopped abruptly, struck motionless. Her eyes were shocked wide and her mouth fell open in silence.
Kosta reached forward and, with a touch on her shoulder, knocked her into himself. She did not stumble romantically into his arms, but fell into his body and was absorbed. Through his eyes, she saw that Kostadinoupoli was gone, and was confused by the alien assault on her senses. She saw nothing familiar, no one she knew, heard no known language and saw the impossible. Carriages moved by themselves. Light shone without sun or flame. Nothing made sense to her.
It was this way each time. He felt her internal chaos and let her adjust to his senses. He stepped out of his body and watched his head swing in every direction, reacting to the repeated blows to her memory. Slowly, he came back into himself; his consciousness enveloped her and explained.
Kosta began by sharing his thoughts, without the faulty translation of words, or the loss of context. Through their shared mind, she understood what no verbal explanation could impart. He revealed to her that she was dead. Nothing in her memory would help her, so she must pay attention to him. The quelling of her initial confusion allowed her to grasp his floating thoughts, amidst the storm of her senses. She experienced his mind as her own. She released her memories and moved forward from what she remembered. There was no going back. She moved with time and stopped festering in 1453. After moments, which seemed to last for hours or days, time and history finally lost meaning.
History and Kostadinoupoli no longer existed. They were no longer the anchors holding her, and she came to a unique peace. She wept when she found her children and family after her centuries of searching in Kostadinoupoli. They waited, just as she knew they would. All were gathered for paska, the Easter feast, laid out before them. Lamb turned on an open fire and she saw, smelt and heard that for which she longed. While she had lived in fragmented memories, centuries passed, but now in her paradise, it was all real, as she had known it would be.
Kosta smiled at her bliss and warmed to the peace that she gave herself.
She wasn’t the last. Two more souls still clung to history. This year for the Truth, there would only be three. Three souls would possess Kosta, who would then show them how to release their stubborn grasp on lives long past.
Since the fall of Kostadinoupoli, the Truth, a descendant of the last Byzantine Emperor, returned every year to guide spirits forward to their final rest. He never verbally spoke to them, but transferred his understanding and, by sharing his body, they understood that the world was no longer for the dead, but rather for the living.
Not every year was so light. Not all who were shown reality accepted it with little drama. Many still clung to rage and hate from their pasts. They still fought enemies and attacked them, even as they shared the Truth’s body. They still fought any who wanted to take their city. They still fought a six hundred year-old battle. Some of Kosta’s ancestors had been lost when they attempted to bring peace to the hate-mongers. They had lost control of themselves and, as a result, lingering hate had possessed the Truth.
Even after such loss, there was always another Paleologos, another Truth, ready to continue the mission. No calling was ever needed, and none was ever rejected. From the time at which they endured the fall of their city, the family had dispersed. They took jobs, married into other families and continued on with time and life, though they never forgot their heritage.
In every generation, a particular child would show himself to be adept in the Truth. It was never questioned, and only those properly compelled ever took the mantle. It came as naturally as eating and drinking. All of Kosta’s family - parents, uncles, aunts, cousins and grandparents - knew he was a Truth. The choice was no one’s to make. It came, as did his brown hair and eyes, squared shoulders, jaw and remarkable nose. He thought of this as he continued onto the next soul he would release, getting closer to Hagia Sophia.
One day, ten years previously, Kosta’s uncle, George, came with his bulbous nose, easy laugh and huge glasses to, tell him that he didn’t want to go on. He wanted Kosta to embrace their task and become the Truth. George knew that he, himself, wouldn’t see it to completion. His eyes sparkled, his smile tight, as they spoke. Kosta felt the same smile crease over his teeth at the memory.
His parents let them speak in private. They were always reverent when Uncle George spoke to him. They distanced themselves from the Truth, even their own son, never understanding the gift. His father even pitied him. They once told Kosta that they wished he had another fate. The Truth led a lonely life. Kosta’s father saw it firsthand with his brother, George.
That day, when Kosta heard that he would become the Truth, he felt a fear that he, as well, would be alone. Their task left no room for love or family. There was only the release of souls. This was merely an outside perspective. Very few people understood the full implications. Uncle George did; eventually, Kosta did as well. There was no room for self-pity. The Truth rejected all, but his particular task. It was that simple.
“It’s almost over now, ayori mou, kodevou meh, siya, siya, kodevou meh.” Uncle George chuckled at his terrible Greekglish. “Pack your memories and embrace your family. There is no need for any clothes or necessities, as everything will be provided at Alexandria. When we arrive, I’ll tell you everything.”
Kosta took a few minutes, putting three mementos into his left shirt pocket. They were pictures of his family. Of his parents and sister at the beach, around the paska - Easter feast, his sister’s baptism, and of them standing proudly in front of their restaurant. “I’ve got everything; I can go.” Kosta had already kissed his family, when he replied with a casual confidence.
“I know the hard part for anybody else.” Uncle George corrected himself, “The impossible, for anyone else, is, for us, instinctive. You’ll be taught how to maintain your life, so that you can complete our task. The arrangements have been made for you to look after all of our interests.” Kosta looked confused. “What interests?”
“Being the Truth is an all-encompassing job, ayori mou. You can’t flip pizzas in Restaurant Olympique in your spare time. You’ll come to understand this, as has every other Truth, and as have I.” The jovial man turned serious and Kosta listened intently. “The Truth, every Truth, must develop many skills, which free them to do their real work - releasing souls.” He continued, “A man will come to you after you’ve spent a while in Alexandria. He’ll teach you how to survive.”
“Aren’t you coming with me?” He held his breath, afraid of the answer.
“I can’t,” George stated. “I’ve decided to relinquish this task. I’m finished with it. I’ve done all that I can do.”
“Why can’t you show me these other skills?”
“I know how to survive; you need your own answers.” He smiled warmly. “You’ll do better that anyone can dream,” Uncle George assured him. “There are many who oppose what we do - those who don’t want peace for Kostadinoupoli’s souls. They’ve been working against us since before there was a Byzantine Empire.”
“The Catholics?” Kosta felt it in his stomach, as surely as the monaxia, about which the old Greeks spoke so bitterly. The Catholic Church had lived in the Byzantine shadow, since Constantine I moved the imperial capitol from pagan Rome to Christian Kostadinoupoli. Under his hand, Christianity had evolved from a cult, into the imperial faith. Through jealous centuries, they watched the Byzantine Empire grow to become the envy of the known world, spanning both east and west, Christian and Muslim.
The Byzantines never took part in Crusades. They lived in relative harmony, competing in trade with everyone around them. It was the ideal soil for the growth of a vibrant culture. This cast the stagnant Catholic west further into the dark. The Dark Ages were dark, because they lived in the Byzantine shadow, its light revealing their faults.
It went on until their Muslim neighbors no longer wanted to compete. In 1450, they wanted the golden city, wanted Kostadinoupoli, as their own. They tried bribes, cajoling and offered to let everyone live without harassment, as long as they left. All their attempts were rebuffed and, three years later, by force, they took what they couldn’t through either guile or diplomacy.
“The Catholics let it happen,” Kosta added. They exchanged parts of the story, just as every Truth did when they passed on the task. The retelling always renewed their determination to continue. Kosta already knew the story, but loved his uncle’s embellishments.
In 1452, while still attempting diplomacy, Emperor John VIII, and the best of Kostadinoupoli, went to Venice for help. They met officials from both the church and the state and bartered for their lives. The Venetians asked for trade and tariff agreements, which were small, compared to the Catholics' demands that the Byzantines admit spiritual obedience to the Papacy. After many negotiations with Doge, Cardinals, patriarchs and nobles, the Emperor ordered his delegates to accede every wish.
The Orthodox Patriarchs weren’t happy with forced fealty and shouted prophesies of doom to all who would listen. The coming invasion, near complete sale of their culture and impending church rebellion, proved too much for John VIII. He died a year later and left his younger brother, Kostadino, Constantine XI - a career soldier - to rule. His life, which had been spent fighting for his brother, only prolonged the siege. They tried to hold out for the promised help, but it never came.
Venice, Florence, Genoa and Rome let them die and inherited a percentage of their glory. For centuries, they had been business partners, because the Byzantines brokered east to west and vice versa. After such a long association with Muslims and Catholics, they lost their city and empire to one, their grandeur and wealth to the other.
Rome could now boast the sole divine voice of Christendom. The Pope was God’s only word on earth, but was just a fraction of the authors and editors of the Bible intended. Kostadinoupoli was the gateway for east and west, in both faith and commerce. That ended when the wily Venetians let them, and their glittering city, die at the hands of the Ottoman Turks.
After the total annihilation of the empire, the refugees who survived fled to the west, their vitality fueling the Renaissance. Their culture’s death breathed new life into the west. Byzantine loss was Europe’s gain, finally allowing them to move from under the shadow. Without Kostadinoupoli’s fall, there would not have been a Venice, Florence, Da Vinci, Galileo, Copernicus, Michelangelo, Newton. The tale of their beloved city’s fall was a mantra every Truth repeated. This conversation always exchanged with the transfer of one Truth to another. It reminded them that in Istanbul, those still in limbo, between life and death, deserved peace. They had fought long and hard, sacrificed, and lost, too much to be allowed to wander for eternity. They needed to continue on with their preordained fate. Remaining in history kept all fates still. It stopped their momentum. Many of those trapped souls might be reborn as pivotal individuals, over the course of time.
Kosta was often reminded of this initial talk. He found himself remembering his uncle, this year more than any other.
He still searched the crowd, looking at all the living passersby, but not finding anyone worth his attention. There were years, his uncle had warned, when there would be many. He had even warned that Kosta’s preparation wouldn't equal the desperation that some of the souls would have for contact with reality. For too long, they had existed in memory, not knowing their hunger, their monaxia, for life. Kosta attracted them with his empathy and insight into their despair. He watched each go from ignorance to bliss, resignation or terror. Each and every respective destination was unique. Their destination was determined by their beliefs. Whatever they believed that they deserved for decisions they had made, and how they had lived, was the end which they finally faced.
There was one who steadfastly refused the Truth. Over generations of Truths, stubbornly, he only saw what he wanted. At times, he glimpsed all that went on around Hagia Sophia, saw the minarets and new inhabitants of Kostadinoupoli. Kosta found him haunting the grounds around the very church at which he had been patriarch during life. Patriarch Athanasius didn’t want to let go of the past. He didn’t want to let it die. He wouldn’t let it pass to memory, for no one would then remember the defenders of the city as they were. No one would remember that they were successors of Hellas and Rome. Only history might recall the brilliance and grandeur that had been coveted by the medieval world.
He saw Kosta and rushed forward to rail at him. In Kosta, he saw what remained of the emperor, who had sold them to the Catholics. He was the ruler who had let an upstart church, from a provincial city, become their master.
“Why do you return to take souls away from their homes? There is no one left!” he spat. “You’ve brought more ruin on us than your cursed ancestor ever did!”
He brought Kosta up with a start, echowing the thoughts expressed during the final talk with Uncle George. The patriarch retold how John VIII, and later Kostadino XI, unified the Orthodox and Catholic churches, in hopes of military aid, which never came. Patriarch Athanasius led many citizens in open protest against the decision. Centuries after the ruin that befell them, Athanasius felt vindicated by time. It was the same discussion every Truth shared when he took the mantle fate held for him.
“I know what you think, Patriarch, and you might be right.” Kosta spoke to the invisible presence and drew stares from those passing. “You chose to stay, and that, alone, is your choice. You hold no sway over anybody. They made up their own minds; they made their own choices.”
“Why do you return and take those who fought so hard to defend their homes? Haven’t they been through enough?” Athanasius labored, exhausted from the effort of existence. Now that he was alone, he didn’t have the energy to go on.
“I’ve only tried to help those who want my assistance. They see the Truth and go to their judgment, which they have chosen.”
“What kind of a devil are you then, to judge thus?” He couldn’t comprehend how Kosta could be so presumptuous.
“I’m no devil and I don’t judge. They see the Truth and they see whatever they have already chosen as judgment.”
“You’re no angel then. I’ve seen enough of whom you’ve sent screaming into hell to know that you’re no angel.”
“Why do you say these things? I only show them the Truth. They’ve already judged themselves.” Kosta felt the presence of the man and hung on his every word. In life, and even now, he commanded respect, reverence. Athanasius could only try and hold onto whatever he believed. Kosta pitied that the patriarch, having lost everyone else, was also losing the consciousness to which he'd clung, in frenzied desperation, for centuries. With every passing second of isolation, he was dissipating. He was becoming less substantial and joining the all-encompassing ether.
“Even if they go to Satana? How could you damn them?” His anguish brought him back from the fading shade to which he was slowly drifting.
“How did the church?” Kosta shot back, without thinking.
“We were God’s will on earth!” the patriarch was outraged. “How dare you?”
“Your power came from the Emperor. No other could deal with God, except through him.” His response was shocking, even to himself. Kosta had never felt this authority, which lent credence to his argument. He was all that was left of the imperial office and proved it to the patriarch.
“You are no emperor, only pale remnants of the office,” he shot back, petulant.
“I’m enough to remind you that your church switched masters, quicker than a whore at an orgy. Once the city and emperor fell, they prostrated themselves before their new masters.” Kosta’s initial pity quickly turned to irritation, in response to obstinance of the old ghost. “Don’t pass any judgment on me when you can’t stand under the weight of the same.”
“You lie! That could never be true! Liar!!” he screamed in despair, refusing to listen. He simply could not, would not, believe.
“It was survival, Patriarch! I don’t fault them for it; it was what they had to do. If they hadn’t, there would be no church. It would’ve died along with Kostadino and his city.”
“You bear more than just his name. Your blood has the same arrogance.” Athanasius, not used to disobedience, forgot that the Paleologos were the few people whom he must obey.
On the Istanbul street, Kosta’s exchange appeared to be a monologue. He attracted attention and many people gave the man a wide berth. They suspected that he was mad, and avoided looking, but there was one who couldn’t take his eyes off of him. A priest, with military bearing, watched intently from the shadows as Kosta continued talking, as it appeared, to no one.
“I’m sorry you don’t see and won’t listen, but finally, it’s irrelevant. What I do is necessary, in order for those souls to find peace.”
“You’re damning them!” he screamed, but Kosta ignored him.
“I’m completing the duty which has fallen to the Truth. What the emperors have always done.” His words were firm.
“Ioanni and Kostadino damned us all when they gave into the Pope’s weakling church!” Athanasius railed, though he was slowly losing momentum.
“It was the only way! They needed the Catholics’ help!”
“None came! It was all for nothing!” he sobbed, feeling the full weight of the Truth. “No help ever came.”
In a bare whisper, Kosta asked, “Are you now ready?”
“They left us to die. Like lambs to slaughter.” He pleaded, “Kostadinoupoli will rise again, won’t it?” This forlorn, impossible hope escaped his lips. He wished that by saying it out loud, he could make it so.
“You’re history, you and Kostadinoupoli.” Athanasius heard Kosta's response and knew that it was true. He nodded and left, finally reduced to nothing. Kosta felt absolutely nothing from the patriarch’s thoughts. No heaven, no hell. There was nobody waiting for him from his past. He went into total emptiness. A void.
Minutes later, Kosta continued past Hagia Sophia, down Yerebatan Caddesi and Ordu, to Koca Mustafapasa Caddesi and the Yedikule Fortress. It was quite a walk, past grand Byzantine stone, still standing next to apartment tenements, with lines of wash drying on inset balconies. As he went from Koca Mustafapasa to Yedikule Caddesi, the buildings were medieval, two or three stories with overhanging upper floors and exposed, unpainted wood. Almost at the fortress, he passed a squat, stone construction that housed a convenience store, selling film and gum to tourists, on their way to the towers of Yedikule.
Kosta went between the tower, built by Theodosius I, another by Theodosius II, and past the five put up by order of Memhet the Conqueror. There stood Porta Aurea, the once Golden Gate. It was since bricked up, becoming a small doorway, through which a tall man could barely walk. Its gilding was gone. The mosaic Christ no longer presided over its lintel. It had been removed by the city’s conqueror, who had demolished it when he heard that angels kept the final emperor safe beneath its span. They said that he feared that if he left it intact, one day, Kostadino XI would return, saber in hand, and reclaim his city.
It had been a nice myth, which mere wishing could not make true, despite the hopes of the Greeks. They prayed that one day, Istanbul would be Kostadinoupoli and, once again, they would be Byzantines. No Truth had ever had that illusion. Until now, the task had never included their ancestor.
The Truth knew that his final charge was the armored figure, striding towards him from the once glittering gates and through the ruined stone walls. Beneath heavy brows and the steel crosspieces of his jeweled helmet, Kosta saw his grandfather’s eyes. They both recognized familiar features in each other as Kostadino XI faced Kostadino XII.
“It’s almost over for us. We’ll see if the Truth can finally have a life,” Kosta addressed his namesake.
Regret shook the emperor’s face from side to side. “No, I’m sorry, but there will be no rest for you. The Truth’s task will continue.” His eyes softened under his heavy brows.
“They always said that my task would be complete when all the defenders of the Golden City knew peace. What else do you want from me?” he yelled. “Haven’t I done enough already?!”
“No. Your current task has ended. You are to take on a different task - one that Plathon began years before our ruin.” He stated this with an effortless authority, against which Kosta fought anxiously. In life, this man’s word had always been taken as fact. His requests, never questioned, were carried out without thought of opposition. Kosta did more than think.
“What new task? Nobody spoke of this; I wasn’t told!”
“Nobody knew. It was only to be entrusted to the final two emperors when we unified the churches. It was to be the first step to unifying them all.” He replied without ceremony and his tone never hinted at the enormity of Plathon’s scheme.
“All the churches? Unifying all religions in the world?” Kosta wished that his bafflement had struck him mute. He prayed that this wasn’t real, rather one of his many nightmares. “You can’t be serious.”
“They’re all one. Many opposing faiths are merely alternate interpretations of God. They’re more similar than they are different,” bartering his point and putting the explanation down as currency.
“What am I supposed to do with that?” Kosta saw no value in his words. “What do you want me to do!?” He couldn’t believe this turn of events. He had never fully dreamed of a normal life, but in the last few years, he had allowed a glimmer of hope shine through. That tepid thought was drowned in the tidal wave of confusion, with which he was now confronted. “Plathon chose you to tell me,” Kosta stated.
“You wouldn’t have listened to anybody else.” He confirmed the clever path, which the old teacher, Plathon, had chosen to take.
“Why should I listen to you? Why can’t I go ahead and live life like everyone else and have a family? Why am I always Uncle Kosta?” He gave full reign to his frustration. “Why should I sacrifice anything more!?”
“I sacrificed everything. I could’ve left and lived luxuriously in any European court for the rest of my days,” he countered, unmoved by his descendant’s plight.
“You would’ve been a spectacle. You would have been little better than a performer - an amusement for courtiers and pampered nobles.” Kosta could never see the once Byzantine Emperor presiding over any lesser post. Pride would never allow it. The highest rank in the world could condone nothing less.
“That doesn’t sound terrible. I would’ve been alive. Instead, I chose to die here, with my city and my people. I had to wait centuries to talk to you.” He added, returning to an earlier point, “If I hadn’t been the last soul, you wouldn’t have even listened.”
“What is it that you wish to tell me!?” Kosta exhaled, exasperated.
“Return to Mystra. Find Plathon. He will tell you what you must do,” the emperor concluded cryptically.
“Why can’t you tell me?” This confused Kosta more. What could they be expecting that they couldn’t say all at once? The build-up from his namesake, and this final edict, dictating that he must seek out another, was anticlimactic. He was enormously disappointed.
“I can only convince you to continue to another task after the Truth is done here,” he answered.
“What does Plathon want? What’s he after?” Kosta asked.
“He wants to continue what began on our trip to Venice. Where he convinced Cossimo de Medici to start his collegio, when we sought their help.” His eyes shifted down, remembering the betrayal that followed all the false promises by Doge, Medici and Cardinals.
“Where they promised aid, which never came.” Kosta poured salt on the wound, further bowing the emperor’s head.
“Yes.” His whispered answer boomed with the regret of centuries, emperors gone and a culture squandered, left to die. A culture built on commerce and diplomacy, not conquest. They watched as the west went on Crusade after Crusade, never, themselves, taking active part in war. It wasn’t good for trade, for which they were envied, their success and confidence despised as arrogance. Those, under their shadow, coveted their wealth and position in trade, and in Venice, bartered with them, winning them over with false assurances.
“Their Pope and Cardinals assured us,” he stated.
“They let you die to take your place. The Pope usurped your place as the Word of God, and Venice became the wealthiest and most envied city in Christendom.” Kosta added piteously, “You died so that they could inherit a fraction of your glory.”
“You’re right. They wanted our wealth and our place.” He took the blows and, unconquered, added. “The aid we expected was only one reason we didn’t just let the sultan have the city. The other was our teacher’s plan.”
“Georgios, Gemistos Plathon.” Kosta counted out the obscure name. “That’s all you can tell me? You died, sold out your culture and people for that?”
“We were desperate. We had no other choice, but we also saw an opportunity to further Plathon’s scheme.” He had never had to argue like this, to explain himself to any man.
“You want more of my life for something you won’t explain? I’ve done enough! I won’t do that!” Kosta turned away, his rage shaking his shoulders and neck. A second later, he added in a conspiratorial tone, “What if I don’t finish the Truth?” The emperor looked horrified. He continued, “The Truth’s job ends when the last soul of Kostadinoupoli is put to rest. You won’t say why I must go on.” Grimly, he finished his final bargain. “If you don’t tell me, you’ll never leave your city. You’ll stay with the Tourkos forever.”
“You are a Paleologos. Do whatever you wish. I’ve passed all the lifetimes, about which your family laments, and you complain of sacrifice?” The last emperor, the Dagoses, passed his descendant’s fury. “You don’t know what sacrifice is! If it is your pleasure to make me squander eternity here, because you don’t want to shoulder any more responsibility - to be a man - then so be your pleasure, sir!!”
Both men now faced each other, and had they been mortal men, they would no longer be talking. One a specter and with no physical form the other a normal man with a corporeal form couldn’t put their hands on each other. Their fight would remain one of wills, thoughts and words.
“Know this, your obstinance puts all creation in danger. What you refuse will still go on, even without your help or involvement.”
“What is it!?” he screamed. “Tell me!!”
“It is your choice - if you want to be a part of the sublime spectacle, or watch it engulf the world as Revelations foretold,” Kostadino XI answered, undaunted. “Plathon is the only one who can tell you and he’ll only appear if you agree to the task!!”
“If I don’t? What then?” The question was sharp and naked, lacking his previous guile.
“I don’t know that either,” the emperor replied to Kosta as he began to turn away.
“I’ll find him in Mystra then? Where?”
“Follow the signs that Plathon left for you centuries ago.” He watched as he turned completely and began walking away. He didn’t ask if he would return and give him the same rapture, which the other Byzantines had earned. He was at the Truth’s mercy, waiting, hoping one day, he take pity and allow him to have peace. Three steps away, he turned. His face was darker than the night which condemned him.
“You could’ve prevented most of this...”
“Nobody could have prevented any of it,” the Dagoses interrupted, further infuriating the Truth.
“Then lessened it, but you let it all happen!!” He rushed at him. “Because you saw an opportunity!? You vicious, cold bastard!”
“I am no bastard!! My mother was a queen and my father was an emperor! You whine and complain like a scullery maid, a common woman!” The emperor’s face twisted in contempt. “Why aren’t you wearing a dress?”
“Asshole!” Kosta yelled, eliciting a baffled expression from his namesake. “I’ll go to Mystra and I’ll find Plathon, but you’ll stay here!”
“I won’t beg for release, you dim speck of my blood,” he derided Kosta. “You’re merely a fraction of anybody who defended this city. You’re weak and I’m ashamed that you are of my line.” He spit on the ground and walked away.
Each word struck Kosta harder than the last and he was, in turn, ashamed. He tried to find Kostadino XI, but he had disappeared. Every Truth had always known there was no room for self-pity. Their job’s is their responsibility and must be dealt with accordingly. Complaining will only make things worse. He chided himself a tebely, lazy and looked ahead to finding the departed imperial tutor at Mystra.
- Triumph of Xos -
TIME: June 5th, 1960, Sparti, Greece
Kosta was being followed. They were Papal assassins, who did whatever their masters ordered. Amongst those milling in the train station, there was a dark blue clad man who didn’t take his eyes off of Kosta, directing two others through furtive head and hand gestures. He should’ve spotted him earlier, and cursed himself for not being more careful. He tried to shake off the cloud he felt on his senses since Kostadinoupoli, and thought it gone, but it kept up to him, wearing a dark blue suit and fedora. All three were similarly dressed and proportioned, square jawed and shouldered. Their coordinator was a doppelganger for Robert Mitchum, in Night of the Hunter. This errant thought assured Kosta that he was regaining his senses; entertainment minutia always calmed him.
He heard a song, playing somewhere in the Spartan station, and was surprised that it wasn’t one of the heart-tugging melodramas about the eleftheria, war of independence, or katohi, German occupation. His mind raced with the task of recognizing the low violins, and trying to form a plan to get rid of the pursuers, who were now triangulating on him, as directed by Mitchum 2.
“Oh the Shark has perfect teeth, dear…” he mumbled under his breath as they closed in. He had to act quickly. He rushed to a nearby periptero, newsstand, and scanned the rack of newspapers. Going by Eleftheria, Hestia and Vema, he read that Eisenhower had met Khrushchev in Paris more than a week ago, and that they were still writing about it. This would soon be overshadowed by the distraction of the Olympics in Rome. Kosta registered this haphazardly, using it to focus his thoughts, feigning interest in the news, and keeping an eye out for Mitchum 2 and his cronies.
He picked up Vema, a few chocolate bars and tourist trinkets, paid for them and continued to deliberately read the front page. More than a week before, Adolf Eichmann had been captured in Argentina and brought to Israel to face justice.
He took the paper, rolled it around a ballpoint pen. This pen concealed a spring-loaded, poisoned blade, which would break upon impact. The sliver-thin shiv would then remain in the wound, minutes later, killing its victim. All he needed was something to distract the other two, who were still watching him. He approached a gang of scruffy boys, alites, urchins looking for easy targets, xenous to grift - to con them out of their money.
To the wiliest looking of them, Kosta handed 100 drachmas, and promised another 100 for each of his friends. In return, all they had to do was attempt to sell the candy and trinkets to the other two men. The boy smiled slyly and demanded all the money upfront, before he returned to his filous, pals. Kosta agreed and, seconds later, the boy gestured excitedly at his friends, conveying his plan.
Mitchum 2 saw that the urchins were distracting his Brothers and went for Kosta, himself. There was no time to waste on intricacies. So much the better, Kosta thought. Away from the door, and in denser crowds, any scuffle would be hidden by the natural distractions and confusion.
Each took six steps and collided, both making it look accidental. Kosta caught his wrist and Mitchum 2 caught the rolled up newspaper. The spring-loaded pen went off with a twist of his wrist. The man dropped the dagger he had been attempting to use, doubling slightly forward. Too late, Kosta saw that the commotion had attracted the attention of the other two men. This wasn't optimal, but was still better than before. The odds improved, and very quickly, Kosta feigned a glance at his watch and ran out the door, leaving the crumpled Mitchum 2 behind.
Things continued to look up, as he saw the clean Laconian sky and walked into the tree-lined street, named after his imperial ancestors. He went at a brisk trot, chancing a glance backward to see that the other two men were coming out of the door from which he had just exited. They carried their leader, allowing Kosta to widen the distance between them.
He continued up Paleologos Othos, and quickly turned into an alley. He removed his jacket and reversed it, from olive to the tan inside. From an inside pocket, he also took out a matching hat. Thus disguised, he returned to the street and crossed over to the train station.
Back inside, he saw that his two pursuers still carried their Brother, entering the alley which Kosta had just left. He didn’t waste any more time and crossed the station. He returned the urchin’s mischievous grin and exited from another door, facing west. He rushed to a motorcycle dealership near the station and rented a machine, solid enough to go cross-country. He had to go across the rocky and uneven Evrota Valley to get to Mystra.
He left Sparti and saw no sign of pursuit. His quick thinking had allowed him to escape, but he had to stay sharp, because Mitchum 2 probably knew where he was going. If he did, a head-start didn't matter. They could already be there, waiting for him. If Mitchum 2 died before he said anything, Kosta had nothing about which to worry. The chances were fifty-fifty he would be walking into a trap. Those military, Brother Catholics were nothing, if not relentless.
He thought back to his early training; about how to survive the Vatican hounds who hunted the Truth. When his uncle brought him from St. Pie to Alexandria, they went directly to meet his new tutor. So, it was with a mixture of excitement and regret, that Kosta faced an aged man, wearing a tan suit, with perfectly groomed beard and hair. George introduced his nephew to Dwight Malone, a friend to the Truth, who would take over his training.
On the voyage, Kosta learned that Malone had remained after the British occupation, which had occurred during the building of the Suez Canal. He had faked his own death in order to stay, intent on continuing his own research and discoveries.
“What research?” Kosta asked.
He searched for peace, his uncle answered. Most of Malone’s life was spent in patriotic duty, which, too often, seemed at odds with wherever he was sent. He was told to kill or hurt people, who weren’t who his superiors claimed they were. He distanced himself from his youthful ideals, searching for a reason to his life.
“The Truth, changing by choice. A rare moment, George.” In one fluid motion, the tanned man rose and offered his hand. Kosta noted how effortlessly he moved and wondered if this was something, which could be learned. “Could this change be unique?” Pursing his lips, he nodded. “Yes I do think it is,” he said as he looked from one Truth to another. “You are each unique in your own ways, Paleologous.”
“I give my task to a younger man. I no longer have the taste for it, Malone. Surely you can understand that?” The question was rhetorical, but still elicited a response.
“I can, indeed.” After amiably watching George for a few moments, he turned and focused on Kosta. The gaze was searching and made the young man uncomfortable. He stared back curiously, his gaze lacking the same intensity.
“He’s already good. He looks at me without preconceptions.” Malone smiled, revealing a short flash of upper teeth. “Sit down, both of you. George, for how long are you staying?”
When his uncle stated that he would be leaving for India the following morning, Kosta felt his excitement tempered with regret. Malone nodded with approval. “A good beginning. I hope you find all for which you’re looking. Until tomorrow, lets enjoy each other and become acquainted with the new Truth.”
Over the course of the night, the regret melted away. Their conversation rambled as the older men told Kosta that loss is something, which can only be understood through experience. Malone reached into his jacket pocket and removed a dog-eared copy of Kazatzakis’s Zorba. “Read it, my boy. It will prepare you.” In the coming months, Kosta did read it; he felt much better about his uncle’s absence, as well as the life he had left and the family he wouldn’t see for years. Life is loss, he realized. The impermanence is what gives it value.
That night was etched on Kosta's memory, even as he came within sight of Mystra. He recalled that Malone had added that loss and danger give life a particular value. Of course, danger comes in many forms. Physical danger is the most readily guarded against. It is something for which a person can prepare himself. For Kosta, this danger manifested itself in the form of the Vatican Police.
“The Catholics have police?” Kosta asked.
“Not in the badge-carrying, uniform-wearing sense,” Malone answered. “These agents do the bidding of bishops, cardinals and the Pope. Like MI-5, CIA and KGB, they act on the orders of their superiors.”
“Like you did?” Kosta asked.
“Yes, exactly,” he answered. Kosta read volumes into the way he shifted in his seat and rolled his shoulders. His actions confirmed that Malone had not only been British Intelligence, but one of the Vatican agents.”
“Who are they?” Kosta asked, intrigued. “How can I identify them?”
“They’re a lot like Malone,” Uncle George answered. A pained twitch in Malone’s eyes confirmed Kosta’s initial suspicion.
“You know so much, because you were one,” Kosta whispered.
“Kosta! Then drepeseh?!” Aren’t you ashamed, George exclaimed. Malone’s mouth fell open, but quickly snapped it shut.
“First and foremost, young man, you’ve got to learn to hide yourself.” he answered. “In any contest, it's critical to know when to fight. If you're able to control the timing, you will always have the advantage.”
He raised a hand to calm George and show that Kosta hadn't offended him. “He feels comfortable, George. Unlike you and I, he doesn’t have the armor or experience. This one will learn to fight without armor. He must work with agility and grace. Our days are done.” He turned back to Kosta, allowing George to calm down from the empathetic insult. Kosta, however, didn’t look pained or embarrassed.
“Yes, you’re right. Your nephew is very insightful, George.”
“I never knew,” George sputtered. “I had no idea.”
“You thought I was MI-5. There are few who ever know.”
“You’re a Templar then?” George asked and, mindful of their public forum, added under his breath, “Part of the Papal Grey Eminence?”
“Yes,” he answered pleasantly. “There are some in every agency.”
“Weren’t Templars a medieval order of knights, monks?” The new Truth asked.
“Originally,” Malone replied.
“Once a Brother always a Brother,” George stated ominously.
“Oh, come off it, George,” Malone answered, irritated. “I have been honest about why I left the service. Nothing’s changed.”
“Why should I believe you?” George asked.
“I can’t tell you. Which agency I left no longer matters to me. If it does to you, I can’t help that.”
George looked suspiciously at Malone, who ignored him and proceeded to answer Kosta’s question. “Yes, again. I’ll not go into the varied histories of the Templars. You could read up on them and form your own conclusions.” He nodded to the smoldering George, “Everybody has their own perspective about my past affiliations.” He continued, “The twelve years I was with them, they pushed their own agenda through MI-5, CIA, KGB.”
“It's possible that you have your own agenda,” George offered.
“I do. I’m helping you.” Malone's response elicited a disbelieving smirk. “If I had any other, you could easily both be dead.” This blunt fact did much to assuage George's suspicion.
“If I still followed the Templar agenda, to destroy the Truth, I could remove the last two this very moment.” After a long sigh, he added, “I’m sorry that Kosta perceived that which you did not. I never told you, because it doesn’t matter. My past is simply that - the past. It has no place in the present, except to help you.” He looked glanced at Kosta.
“How does the Vatican even know about us?” Kosta asked. “How does anybody know about the Truth?”
“Initially, the Templars were knights who protected visitors to the Holy Land. They remained long enough to absorb pagan and early Christian beliefs. These were the same beliefs that Catholics eradicated, only allowing their interpretation of God to survive.” He looked at Kosta to be certain that he understood. “These early beliefs evolved into different beliefs, which we only now understand weren’t heretic, merely different interpretations. They included Gnostics, Coptics, Cathars, Orthodox and many others which have since been forgotten.”
“In one way or another, the Catholics saw to it that they were destroyed,” George added.
“Because they were in constant contact, the Templars were very familiar with the Orthodox Church and Byzantine culture. After they were officially dismantled by Pope Clement in 1307, they became part of the Grey Eminence. They shared all that they knew with their new masters.”
“Why are we enemies?” Kosta asked. “What can we do to them? We’ve lost everything.”
“You’re the only remnant of a power to which they still feel inferior,” Malone answered.
“To which they are still inferior,” George emphasized.
“It’s all or nothing.” Kosta understood. “There can be no dissent. It’s worse with the Truth, because they envied the Emperor’s unquestioned, divine authority.”
“If you asked them now, they would say that you are a proponent of an ancient heresy, which should’ve been suppressed long ago,” Malone said.
The memory ended as Kosta brought his motorcycle around the bend of KatoHora, lower-town of Mystra. His eyes searched for any of the Templars he had left in Sparti, six kilometers away. It was late afternoon, the milling tourists were leaving through KatoHora to enter waiting buses. He saw no sign of his pursuers, proceeding through Kastro Gate. One side of the gate was cut out of the cliff, and the arched cover was two meters wide by six meters high. The slope of the hill was eased by stone steps, built up with rocks and worn smooth from centuries of use. The arch connected to a sizeable, squarely built, crumbled-topped, solid tower.
Kosta, still wary, continued to the second shorter arch of the gate. He also searched for signs of the last imperial tutor. Framing the steps on either side where solidly built rock walls, eroded by the weather and half crumbled, though they still blocked some of the wind that blew atop the hill.
The complex of churches, monasteries, cozy mansions, stone arches and firm fortification, were cut into the smaller hill of Mount Taïyetos. The stones were all from nearby ancient Sparta. Mystra’s builders had used the past to construct their defenses. At another time, Kosta might have paused to ponder the irony of Christian trees growing from pagan seeds, but now he had no time. Now he looked for zealots.
He passed more long, wide, stone steps, overgrown with grass, curving around the hill from which they were cut. He looked over steep slopes, interrupted by partial walls. Arched doorways and windows hid rock foundations. Only this hard stuff survived in the sheer, weather-beaten Taïyetos hills. The twists and turns of the steps and walkways recalled roads cut into the ravines of Pelloponisos, all through Laconia and Messinia. Kosta neared the Monemvasia Gate, separating KatoHora, lower-town, from AnoHora, upper-town, composed of nobles’ houses and higher churches.
He went left, straight for Agios Dimitrios, with its triple nave facing the gate, arch-windowed dome topped by red tiles. It was also cut into the hillside; its many parts and tall walls followed the slope of the hill.
He passed a group of visitors, amongst whom was a uniformed police officer. They smiled and bid him a kalispera, good evening. The cop even leveled a yia-sou, to your health. They emerged from Agios Dimitrios as Kosta entered. He walked straight down and to the left, up two steps, looking about the still visible, frescoed torture of the patron saint.
He searched the floor for a double-headed eagle, carved out of purple, imperial porphyry. This is where, purportedly, the last Paleologos was crowned. However, history is sometimes mistaken. Kosta knew this, as did the shape that sprung at him from behind a pillar. Kosta blocked a knife, coming up to gut him. He half expected to be tackled by another assailant, but was surprised when he merely had to step away from a slash, aimed at his chest. He smiled at his Templar attacker. Had he been wise, he would’ve waited until dark, when there were no others in the abandoned hill town.
“Voithia, help!” Kosta shouted. “Someone is trying to rob me. Tholophonos, killer!” The attack proved that before he died, Mitchum 2 had been able to tell his Brothers where Kosta would be. They had probably split up to cover more ground. His attacker faced the door, through which two men from the passing group came at a run. He desperately swung his knife to ward them off, but Kosta rushed and flattened him with a knee to the stomach, a full right-cross across his face. He was unconscious before he hit the floor.
“Pios einai, ton xeris? You know this guy?” They asked.
“No,” Kosta answered in Greek. “He wanted my money, and when I refused, he said he’d kill me.” Kosta thanked them, and the police officer, who had wished him yia-sou, handcuffed the still insensible man. Slapped awake, the Templar blinked blearily. As he was led away, the policeman said that Kosta would have to give a statement the following morning. He said that this akatharma, filth, would keep in a cell until then.
Once they were gone, Kosta continued to look for the porphyry. He finally found it and bent down to wipe it clean with his kerchief. As he wiped, he uncovered its deep luster in the quickening twilight of the early evening. After centuries of wear, the double-headed eagle was almost worn smooth. Kosta waited for some indication, a sign, that this was Plethon’s resting place. He found nothing. All was still. No spectral philosopher materialized from the stones and the frescoed scenes of Christ, or the life of his virginal mother.
He left and continued past the side of Agios Dimitrios, up a rocky slope of completely eroded stairs, and turned left, up more stone steps. They were more than three feet deep, as were all the steps through Mystra, but these were in better condition than the ones in KatoHora. The walls fared no better. Some of the corners jutted up and pointed to the sky.
A single arch spanned a stairway, leading Kosta through to the Kastro, castle. He followed a downhill course from the entrance, continuing past the Despot’s Chapel of Hagia Sophia. He didn’t enter the small doorway, inset in the center of the triple-arched, red roof-tiled portico. A church wasn't the place to look for a secular, humanist philosopher.
He headed down the path again and chose the right fork, coming upon the Palataki, little palace. This was where Plethon’s home would’ve been, considering his place in the imperial structure and importance to late Byzantine culture. It was at the Palataki that he taught the last academy of Greek philosophy. Future patriarchs of Kostadinoupoli, cardinals of Rome, despots, lords, dukes and emperors, had lived the last blossom of the ancients’ thoughts, beliefs and mysteries.
To the right of the entrance, Kosta could see Sparti in the Evrota Valley. The city was so high, it appeared to be a tan smudge on the darkening fields surrounding it. Roads led away to Tripolis, and to the left kiparisia, cypress trees, were tiny in the valley floor. He walked along the ruined walls and, in the far left corner of the little palace, he saw a wily old figure. Tiny eyes glinted in the darkness, indicating gleeful wit and cynicism. A clever smirk curled the man's thin lips as he asked, “Do you accept Xos as your savior and redeemer?”
“Yes,” Kosta replied, without a second thought.
“Fool. I thought the Truth would know better.” He laughed a short snicker motioning for Kosta to beware. He quickly turned to see the last Templar, who had followed him from Sparti. He rushed at him with enough momentum to send them both over the edge of the Palataki. He was moving very quickly, and not wanting to impede him, Kosta stepped out of his way. He didn't go over the edge, but ran into one of the walls with a sickening crunch of his face. Kosta pushed him over the edge, the limp body hitting the cliff six times on its descent.
Plethon looked at the body intently and added, “It was actually a mercy that you showed him. He would’ve died painfully from hitting the wall with his face.”
“He had it coming,” Kosta answered.
“Well, considering your first response, as well as your handling of that pitiful fellow, you’re not as imbecilic as your ancestors.” He smiled appreciatively.
“Thank you, I think.” Kosta was surprised at the familiarity of this specter. He was used to medieval finery, not the familiarity, the flippancy, this little man showed. He was very little, barely five feet tall, and wore the fur-lined, plain robes one would expect of a country noble. On his head was the brimmed, conical hat of Byzantine gentry, though it didn’t quite fit.
“Nobody calls me the Truth. Who are you? You’re certainly not the old teacher.”
“Oh, those clever, clever Greeks.” The smile, cleaving his face, was malignant, a gash that looked as though it would explode in a torrent of gore. He wasn’t pleased to be exposed; the grin belied any compliments that slithered past his tongue. His stare punctured Kosta’s imagination, as he saw this little man rending him limb from limb, ripping his skin from his body. He shook off the vision, taking a step backward as it slithered forward.
“I’m Old Nick and I’ve been watching you for quite some time.” He saw Kosta’s eyes widen in alarm. He pressed on emotions to exact his deepest fears, conjuring up perfect apparitions. He saw all of his family suffering, as nightmares come to life, carving off pounds of flesh and flaying skins off their writhing forms. This impostor didn’t relent as Kosta staggered from his molested senses. He jumped away from imagined things, made real all about him, however, the barrage of visions came too fast. None ever exacted a deep enough horror from him. They were locked in a desperate bid to overwhelm, which nearly succeeded.
“You’re not He,” Kosta said between gasps, recovering his self-control. “What would Satan be doing in Mystra? You don’t lie well enough, and boast far too easily.”
He continued to deride the evil spirit. All the while, he was tracing shapes into the night, which began to glow in the gathering dark. The spirit bared his teeth and lunged forward unsuccessfully. Something held him to the ground. The shapes, which Kosta had woven, dropped at his feet, clung about him and rooted him to the ground.
“What have you done with Plethon?” Kosta asked.
“He’s safe,” The imp answered defiantly.
“That’s not what I asked.” Kosta turned to the far corner of the ruined Palataki, where the little man had first appeared. There, he saw a pile of rock, stacked, instead of fallen from the surrounding walls. He walked to the pile and chanced a peek at the writhing little man, tugging at his feet in an attempt to free himself.
“Stop it,” Kosta commanded, gesturing for the binding roots of light to intensify, burning the man's exposed, cleaving fingers. He growled in agony, but no burns showed on the hands he now clutched to his chest.
“You don’t know what you’re doing!” he wailed. “Don’t let him out!”
Kosta paid him no heed and stopped before the unnatural pile of stone. Between chunks of the rock, he saw a blue light, trying to escape. After shifting a few stones, he was blinded by a brilliance, which he grasped.
This was Plethon. The other had merely dressed in the flesh of old philosopher. Clutching the light, Kosta walked to the hysterical, thrashing impostor, pushing the light into his face and rubbing it in. The resulting guttural screech and ferocious growl drove Kosta to his knees.
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