Mad Gods - Predatory Ethics: Book I (4 page)

Back inside, he saw that his two pursuers still
carried their Brother, entering the alley that 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, let’s 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 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 were 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.