Mad Gods - Predatory Ethics: Book I
Predatory Ethics
Book I: Mad Gods
By Athanasios
Copyright 2011 Athanasios
Kindle Edition
If you enjoyed Mad Gods please leave a review @:
Mad Gods Amazon Kindle
Predatory Ethics continues @:
Predatory Ethics - Book II:
Commitment
Tell everybody & help keep the Mad Gods story going.
Discover Other Work by Athanasios
- Hell in a Handbasket on Wheels -
Predatory Ethics
Book I: Mad Gods - By Athanasios
TIME: MAY 29TH, 1960, ISTANBUL, TURKEY
Father Antonio Quentin searched for the Truth.
He glimpsed it walk through the crowds of people
milling about the Istanbul streets. It stopped periodically as if searching for
something or someone. One second he would be walking in an aimless pattern and
the next the Truth was focused and intent. If Father Quentin didn’t know any
better he would think the Truth was a madman or possessed.
Father Quentin did know better.
He knew about madmen and as a Vatican Slayer he knew
about the possessed. He’d been sent to Istanbul to find the man he now
followed. The Vatican only knew him as the Truth, a magician, and sorcerer who
commanded the dead. Once Quentin spotted him however, he knew he was something
far worse than a mere black magician. Decades before, Aleister Crowley had
turned the world on its ear with a claim of black magician, yet the Vatican
Slayers left him alone because he was a harmless blowhard who succeeded only in
killing himself with the abuse of narcotics and hallucinogens.
The Truth at that very moment had a real name and was
part of a family known to be members of the Black Nobility. He was Kostadinos
Paleologos, the twelfth man to wear that name. The eleventh was the last
Byzantine emperor who lost Istanbul centuries before. According to Vatican
records the Paleologos family had fallen on worse times following their loss of
position and empire.
Written in ages old parchment held in the Vatican’s
Secret Archives, were accounts of unholy pacts to reclaim their former power
and glory. It was whispered in those condemned texts that in every generation a
member of the Paleologos clan came back to Istanbul to offer up the wandering
souls of the defenders of the city when it was Constantinople. That the name,
the Truth referred to something they would never share with their former
subjects. They lied and cajoled them into damnation for their own goals. This
was indeed the Truth, and he was a far greater threat than Quentin could deal
with.
The day before he had called ahead to his superiors
and requested a more direct response to the Paleologos threat. They dispatched
a strike team to enforce the elimination orders for any member of the Black
Nobility. Father Quentin saw his replacement amongst the crowd, stalking the
Truth and leading his team to corner him in a desolate and quiet alley. Father
Quentin turned and decided to let Mr. Paleologos find the Church’s Truth.
TIME: MAY 29TH, 1960, ISTANBUL, TURKEY
Istanbul bled history, images of ages past littering
its streets. Medieval sculptures and mosaics stood among electric streetlights
and movie posters. Kosta walked its crowds seeing the past amidst modern hustle
and bustle and felt
monaxia
- a longing for home and family. Everywhere, he saw faded glory, and turned
Istanbul to
Kostadinoupoli
:
Greeks to Byzantines.
He returned to the city every year on May 29th. It
was a duty handed down through generations of this family with brown eyes, and
brown hair. They were successors to Athens, Sparta, and Rome. Pericles,
Leonidas, and Caesars, evolved into the Byzantine Emperor. He was Christ’s
Caesar and ruled by divine decree, undreamt of by later pretenders. France’s
Napoleon, and England’s Charles paled in comparison to Justinian and
Constantine. They were history, gone in every way but memory. Nothing remained
as it was. No amount of prayer or hope 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
unfortunates 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.