Mad Gods - Predatory Ethics: Book I (5 page)

“
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.

A light touch brought him to. “Get up.” A gentle
insistence revived him enough to stand. The same little man looked at him. The
malevolent, vulpine glint had vanished from his eyes, replaced with boundless
understanding. He looked at Kosta in the same way that a supremely efficient
public servant would an eager citizen. He was there to answer any questions and
proffer any help.

“Thank you for coming,” he said. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Kosta replied. “I’ll be fine.

“How did you know what to do? How did you…” He
replicated the motions Kosta had used to bind the demon.

“I’ve done more reading than any other Truth,” he
answered.

“More than all combined.” The old teacher nodded,
impressed. He walked to the edge of the rock pile, which had so recently been
his cell. “Thank you. I’m indebted to you. I have been imprisoned since Mystra
was abandoned to Turks, Venetians and traitors.”

“How? Why?” Kosta tried to be more precise. “How did
the demon take your form and why?”

“When bitter Dimitri, the emperor’s brother, handed
Mystra to Mehmet, we lost all protection. God completely abandoned the
Byzantines.” The old man felt bitterness choke in his throat. He stared out on
the
Evrota
Valley, with the
Taïyetos
Spire ranging
and enclosing it, looking silently at
Sparti’s
lights.

“It’s still there. After it’s ancient stones were
used to build Mystra, I thought that
Sparti
would never rise again. How ironic that we
look at its bright lights from this darkness.” He turned and smiled at the
Paleologan eyes.

“Without protection, we were all in danger,” he
continued. “Those dark ones used me to deceive any who came looking for guidance.
They lured them into their dark designs.”

“How did they manage it?” Kosta asked.

“It wasn’t through conjuring or magic,” he said,
ashamed. “They asked why the Catholics should rule the world since they let
Byzantines die.” He shook his head. “It all sounded so right. Why should we let
them win? Those upstarts didn’t deserve our place.” He smiled bitterly. Both
stood silently now, watching the
Evrota
Valley, completely shrouded in the dark of
night. Stars,
Sparti
and Neo Mystra’s lights, shone without horizon, enveloping them in a black
starry cover.

Under his breath, Kosta asked what Plethon wanted him
to do. He was breathless, fearing the reply.

“We take things so literally,” Plathon said. “There
is no task like the one in
Kostadinoupoli
. There are no souls to be given
peace. I only wanted to tell you where to go to satiate your thirst for
knowledge. Find Ptolemy’s Library of Alexandria. It’s a wonder beyond any
description.” He went on, “Nothing’s been lost; it’s all still there!”

“
Kostadino
said that you wanted to unite all
churches. This is what you waited centuries to say?” Kosta was perplexed.

“Yes. It is what you wouldn’t hear from anyone else.
You were led to this moment - to this place.”

“The Truth’s duties will be complete when the
emperor’s released. Then, I can embark on whatever life I choose.”

“Yes.” He answered instantly, watching intently,
because he was sure that Kosta understood.

“I had to find you to understand what I should do
next,” Kosta said incredulously, “More than obligations to family, friends,
more than anything, you think I’ll go of my own accord, because it’s what you
would do?”

“Precisely,” he exclaimed, overjoyed. “I spent all my
adult life pondering life - the why of it. When I found out that the Library
was still intact, I was too old to attempt the trip.”

The old man’s excitement was infectious. “Once I get
there, where do I begin?” Kosta asked. “For what should I look?”

“Look for a volume called
Idammah-Gan Codex
.” He
stared at him pointedly. “Once you’ve found it, you’ll know what to do.”

“Are you still…” Kosta asked suspiciously. “Is this
still part of what
Kostadino
said you wanted?”

“You had the choice to come here,” he answered. “You
also chose to leave your ancestor alone, walking in his empty city. We wanted
to show you a path you didn’t know you wanted. You can still have a normal,
uneventful life. You don’t have to go to the Library, walk amidst shelves and
stacks which have been undisturbed since Marc Anthony gave them to Cleopatra.”
He was blunt. “You don’t have to do anything that you don’t want.”

Kosta listened and knew that he wanted to see those
pristine shelves. Books and scrolls filled with thoughts and beliefs, which had
been unseen for millennia. He wanted to read the works of ancient masters, unadulterated
by translation or duplication. “How do I find it?” Plethon smiled at Kosta’s
question.

“It’s by the ancient harbor.” Plethon spoke softly,
even though there was nobody around to hear what he said. “The real treasures
are in the catacombs. Only copies were kept in the grand halls and reading
rooms. The originals were off-limits to any but the initiated.”

“Why now? Why me?” Neither of them expected these
queries. Kosta was more surprised than Plethon.