Mad Gods - Predatory Ethics: Book I (2 page)

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, echoing 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. The Vatican Slayer waited patiently for an opportune moment. It might take
hours, days or weeks but he would see to his task with dogged obedience.

“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 Mehmet 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.