by Sean Munger
We were working so hard that I’d hardly noticed Christmas was almost upon us. The first snow of the season, which fell on December 18, surprised me. That night after vespers—with great effort we’d been able to restore our chapel such that it was usable—Henoch and Gennadios approached me. “Brother Stephen,” said Gennadios, “the great holiday marking Christ’s birth is almost here, and it is not proper that we have no hegoumenos to lead the congregation in Christmas prayer. The time has come to select one.”
“I agree,” I said. “Who do you have in mind?”
“There is talk among the monks,” said Henoch. “No other name is mentioned as often as yours.”
I almost collapsed from shock. “That can’t be. I’m far too young to be hegoumenos. I have no seniority. I doubt the Patriarch would confirm me.”
“You are a hero, Brother Stephen,” Gennadios said. “Your bravery in fighting the ghouls is known far and wide. You also have a rapport with the Emperor, which would be of no small value to this institution. Theophilus similarly commands the respect and admiration of the monks, but as you know he’s returned to his own cloister at Chenolakkos. Please, Brother—let us put your name forward.”
“I’m flattered,” I said, “and if you want to do that, I guess I can’t stop you. But you’re wasting your time. The Patriarch has to approve the appointment, and he certainly won’t choose a twenty-one-year-old misfit from the boondocks to be the head of the most important monastery in Constantinople.”
“The Lord will provide,” Henoch shrugged.
He did. Two days before Christmas a parchment arrived from St. Sofia, spangled with the gaudy seals of the Patriarch. The monks of St. Stoudios had voted almost unanimously for my selection as hegoumenos, and the Patriarch approved it glowingly. The next day I found myself leading Christmas Eve vespers, wearing a brand-new robe and the cross on a golden chain that was the insignia of the head of a monastic order. I was the youngest hegoumenos in the whole of the Byzantine Empire.
It was not until after the services were over, and I retired to my new expansive quarters in lieu of the rude cell where I’d once lived, that I finally turned my attention back to the Empress’s secret icon. Since I now occupied the hegoumenos’s private apartments, I felt far more secure than I had in my cell. It was late and the snow was falling gently outside my arched window, but I lit the candles, washed my brushes and again engaged in the pleasing ritual of mixing my paints. I took the shroud off the icon and stared at it for a while. The arms of the Virgin Mary, outstretched to the people of Constantinople, were broad and inviting. The Virgin’s eyes—I’d made them sea-green, like Maria’s—were suitably sad and plaintive. But something was missing.
“It doesn’t look right,” I whispered to the picture. “Something about the background.”
I examined my work up close. I had begun to paint the small figures of the Saracen troops, teeming against the walls of the city in their chain mail and spiked helmets. On impulse, I took a small brush and took onto it a dollop of white paint. I mixed it with black, forming an ashy-gray color, and painted over one of the faces of the Saracen troops. Then, using a smaller brush, I edged the soldier’s eyes and mouth with bright crimson blood. In a few minutes I had painted over many of the Saracens in this manner, covering up their chain mail and helmets with hair, torn clothes and bare gray flesh. This was what was wrong—the Saracens should be ghouls.
But if the mere word “ghoul” is now forbidden, I thought as I painted, surely the image of one must also be. This gave me pause, but then I considered that since the entire icon itself was heresy, and to be kept secret, it made little difference. The icon might as well portray the truth accurately. The Virgin Mary had indeed delivered Constantinople, but not from the Saracens—she, and the Emperor, had rescued us from the minions of the Devil.
The following August, the Empress Maria gave birth to a healthy baby boy. Anna had by now returned from Bulgaria and was again betrothed to Artabasdos. Anna’s younger brother was born in the porphyry bedchamber of the Great Palace, and since he was born during his father’s reign, he was known as porphyrogennetos—born in the purple—the highest purity a Byzantine heir could possess. The Emperor Leo doted and fawned over the son that no one knew was not his. Maria certainly said nothing, nor did I, but I thought it interesting that the invitation I received to attend the child’s official baptism in St. Sofia was written by the Emperor himself. It was an intensely hot day, but in my long wool robes and sporting my new flowing beard, I took my place among the churchmen upon the altar of St. Sofia and prepared to see my son for the first time in the flesh.
He was a fidgety and vexatious little child. Maria brought him to the Patriarch in brocaded swaddling clothes, and his indignant wail seemed to fill the grand space of St. Sofia. The Emperor, in full regalia, wearing his crown of gilded laurels and for once without pistachio nuts in his hand, knelt on the porphyry disk set into the floor on which he’d been coronated. Patriarch Germanus took the baby, and I, on tiptoes, peered over his shoulder to see its face. The baby’s eyes were squinted shut, but I could see that his features rather resembled mine. I couldn’t help but grin slightly.
Murmuring in Latin, the Patriarch brought my baby to the edge of the marble font. He set the child on the edge of the font and dipped a golden cup into the holy water.
“I baptize thee Constantine Leo Konon the Porphyrogennetos,” said the Patriarch, dripping the holy water over my son’s head. “Blessed be the Father, the Son and the Holy—”
The Patriarch suddenly recoiled. There was something bobbing in the baptismal font—a gooey tannish-brown ooze. From its color and stench it was instantly recognizable as the fecal matter of a newborn baby. My son had taken a shit in the holy water.
“Er, the Holy Spirit,” said the Patriarch. Holding the baby at arm’s length, he quickly handed him back to his mother. As she took him, she glanced at me. She too was suppressing a smile. Our eyes locked for only an instant, but it was enough; we were connected now, and we always would be.
Leo III remained on the throne of Byzantium for another twenty-three years. In the years following the siege of Constantinople and the restoration of peace, he launched an assault against the veneration of icons which nearly tore the Empire apart. At the time of his death in June 741, at the age of fifty-six, he was revered by many of his subjects and hated by many more. The controversy regarding icons raged for another century and claimed many lives.
The Empress Maria survived her husband, but spent her final years in a convent on the Island of Lesbos. She remained firmly—though quietly—devoted to icons until the end of her life.
Constantine attained the throne in his own right in 741 upon his father’s death. He was officially designated Constantine V, but was nicknamed “Corpronymous”—“he who is named for shit”—as a result of the embarrassing incident at his baptism. He allegedly invoked the death penalty against anyone who referred to him by that name in his presence. Constantine V Corpronymous reigned for thirty-four tumultuous years and carried on his father’s campaign against icons. He died in September 775 while on a military campaign against the Bulgarians.
Artabasdos, the kouropalates under Leo III, married Leo’s daughter Anna. Shortly after Constantine V came to the throne, Artabasdos launched a revolt against him and attempted to take the throne for himself. Artabasdos was a believer in icons. His revolt failed, and Constantine had Artabasdos and his sons blinded and imprisoned at the Monastery of Chora. Anna followed him into exile and died there too, years later.
Stephen Diabetenos remained the hegoumenos of the Monastery of St. Stoudios well into the reign of his own son. He was removed from his position for refusing to support the Emperor’s persecution of those who still worshiped icons. He returned to Chenolakkos a common monk, and died there in 770. His remains were placed in the same ossuary as Theophilus who had died there peacefully fifty years before.
Maslama returned to Saracen lands and led many military expedit
ions over the years, some against Byzantine forces, though much of his later career was spent campaigning against the Khazars. He eventually fell out of favor with the Caliph, retired from public life and died in Syria in 738.
Khan Tervel continued to connive and scheme to take over Byzantium, though he was never able to mount an all-out military effort to conquer it. At one point he supported a rival of Leo, hoping to incite a rebellion, but this was unsuccessful. The date of his death is not known.
No history books mention the role of undead ghouls in the Saracen siege of 717. According to all historical accounts, the Saracens were thwarted by lack of supplies and the harsh winter. Although the Muslim world under various rulers long coveted Constantinople, none were successful at subduing it until Ottoman Sultan Mehmet II finally conquered the city on May 29, 1453. On that day, the Byzantine Empire ceased to exist.
About the Author
At the age of seven Sean Munger learned to type on a 1948 Remington Rand portable typewriter, and his earliest stories involved monsters, aliens and time travel. Since then he’s regarded books as time machines, able to transport the reader to fantastic worlds both real and imagined. He takes trips to both kinds of worlds frequently.
The son of a military family, Sean lived all over the United States before settling in the Pacific Northwest. Before attending law school he worked as a retail clerk, a go-fer for a professional sports team and briefly was a staff writer for a short-lived horror series on cable TV in the Midwest. He was a practicing attorney for twelve years before returning to his two first loves, history and writing. He now studies and teaches history at a large university in the Northwest.
Sean has been a dedicated fan of heavy metal music for most of his life. In addition to writing historical short stories and zombie novels, he has written for several metal-related publications, both digital and print. He was formerly a Western columnist for Painkiller Magazine, the largest heavy metal magazine in China.
Sean loves to hear from his readers. You can interact with him on his website, www.seanmunger.com, or through his Twitter account, www.twitter.com/Sean_Munger.
The horrors are all in your mind!
Psycho Therapy
© 2013 Alan Spencer
Craig Horsey's first visit to a therapist is hardly what he expected. Dr. Krone's unorthodox treatment began by hooking Craig up to a device the doctor claims can take him back to relive the memories of his past and mend his damaged psyche.
But instead the machine taps into Craig’s worst subconscious fears. Monsters, madmen and incredible terrors now turn his past into a nightmare. To survive the sadistic game, Craig must somehow uncover the truth about Dr. Krone and escape the machine while battling deadly visions determined to steal his sanity—and his life. Only one thing is certain: If he dies in his mind, he’ll die in reality.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Psycho Therapy:
Dr. Krone gathered a thick manila folder and plopped down across from Craig with a twin pop of the knees. “I don’t let my patients sit on a couch facing the other direction. I want to see their faces. There’s nothing to be afraid of, Mr. Horsy, and there’s nothing to hide from me. I’m a professional. Everything shared between us is confidential.”
“I understand.”
The doctor removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes, working the fingertips in for a good thirty seconds before stopping. “Listen, I know you don’t want to be here. Some judge sentenced you to chat with me for,” he peered at his sheet, “six months. Let’s make the best of this. You might even get prescription drugs out of it." He gave Craig a smirk. "Would you like that?”
Craig laughed awkwardly, caught-off guard by the strange offer. “Well, now you’re talking. I like the way you think, Doc.”
The doctor shuffled through the paperwork and located what he was seeking. “I’m going to read off your past criminal record. This is to get us on the same page as to what we need to discuss in our sessions. You admit what you’ve done, and we can continue on with the truth. This means I can better help you. The truth is key, Mr. Horsy. Without it, I’m not only out of a job, but the point of me being here is wasted.” He dabbed a crawling bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “I must have the truth from you, if nothing else.”
Craig mentally turned over the deeds of his past. “I only have one offense besides traffic tickets. This'll be a short conversation."
“Ah-ah.” Dr. Krone waved his finger. The man was clearly tickled by the chance to catch Craig in a lie. “I have access to detailed files, Mr. Horsy.” He turned over many pages before stopping to read one. “I’ll start with your childhood.”
“My childhood?” Was this what the receptionist meant by taking it slow? Hearing this, he was eager to learn what his childhood record contained.
What he heard had him reeling.
“In the first grade, you punched Tim Morgan in the stomach during lunch. He knocked over your lunch tray, and you slugged him. Tim was a bit of a bully, I understand.”
Craig threw his head back in one long nervous guffaw. “That was a long time ago, Doc. I mean, WOW. Tim and I made up afterwards. I couldn’t play at recess for two weeks, and I had to write him a letter of apology. I was really hungry, man. He knocked over my food on pizza day. Pizza day. And it wasn’t the first time he’d done it to me on the good food days.”
Dr. Crone moved on, satisfied by Craig’s reaction. “Third grade, you placed a whoopee cushion on Mrs. Steinman’s chair.”
“And she said ‘whoopee!’ She was asking for it. So book me, Dr. Krone. I can’t believe they documented this. What else you got? Now I'm really interested."
The doctor rattled the list off like a preacher at the pulpit. “You pulled the fire alarm three times at Parker Elementary. You lit a cherry bomb in the bathroom while you were being watched by a babysitter. Fifth grade, you removed a fire extinguisher from the wall and doused three girls as they were walking out of the bathroom. And then—”
Craig cut him off, overwhelmed by how funny his record was. “I didn’t understand why the girls always wanted to go to the bathroom together. They mentioned make-up, so I decided to apply my own kind of make-up on them. Makes sense for a fifth grader to do. So I did it. I know, I know, I’m a jerk. But I was a kid. It’s not like I seriously harmed anybody. And I didn’t do it again.”
The doctor became stern. “Seventh grade, you broke Drew Massey’s nose.”
Craig lowered his voice. “Drew Massey, yeah, I remember that jerk. Middle school sucks, man. You understand. Kids make new friends. Old friends break apart. People are labeled and form their own cliques. I won’t make excuses. Drew was pushing a kid in the locker room with a developmental disability. He punched the kid in the gut when he couldn’t work his combination lock open. Drew denied it. But I protected Jake the whole year. Drew backed off after I elbowed him in the nose during a flag football game in gym class. The bully deserved it. Kids can be cruel. I was crueler.”
“But you’re an adult now. You can’t win fights by starting them.”
“What kind of philosophical talk is that? I was a prankster. I played jokes when I was little. I’ve gotten into fights. Who hasn’t?”
“Tell me about Willis Young.”
Willis Young was his best friend, and maybe still was, but he wasn’t sure.
“I met Willis at Indiana University. I dropped out during the second semester. You know how it goes. You don’t know what degree you’re after, so you take your general education courses. The problem with me, I lost interest. Willis got his business degree and opened his bar called Half-Time. It’s a sports bar. I visited the place all the time.
“I lost my job working for the city. I picked up garbage. I came in late too many times, and off with my head, right? So Willis offers me a job, and I really need the money. What happened, Willis’s brother also wanted a job. He gave it to Joey without telling me. I depended on that paycheck, and man, the tips would’ve been awesome. Willis
offered me free drinks the night he told me about not getting the job, so I was drunk. I lost control, and, um,” he loosened his collar, “I threw a barstool at him. I broke his collarbone and nose."
Craig jumped to defend himself, "Hey, it’s nothing I’m proud of. I felt horrible afterwards. I had no right to do that. I lost control. I’d been drinking too much. I was lucky Willis didn’t press charges, but he made me seek counseling for the favor, obviously.”
The doctor scribbled notes actively. His tired features were animated. Craig wouldn’t call it a nervous tick, but it resembled one.
The doctor asked, “So what are you doing for work now?”
“Unemployed.” He wasn’t proud of it. Thirty-two years old, and no job, the next step in his life was undetermined, and a mid-life crisis loomed on the horizon. “It sucks.”
Dr. Krone finally made eye contact. “I’d worry about getting your house in order before pursuing a job. Unemployment can foot the bill in the meantime. We need you clear of mind. I wish the government would truly focus on the people who need time. They should give you a few months to recuperate from your ordeal. Visit me daily, for one. It’ll take more than a few visits to cure you—anybody, Mr. Horsy. Nobody wants to spend the time anymore to be well. That’s American society. Instant gratification, throw some pills at me, maybe shock therapy, and boom, you’re good again.”