by Athanasios
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.
“What new task? Nobody spoke of this; I wasn’t told!”
“Nobody knew. It was only to be entrusted to the final two emperors when we unified the churches. It was to be the first step to unifying them all.” He replied without ceremony and his tone never hinted at the enormity of Plathon’s scheme.
“All the churches? Unifying all religions in the world?” Kosta wished that his bafflement had struck him mute. He prayed that this wasn’t real, rather one of his many nightmares. “You can’t be serious.”
“They’re all one. Many opposing faiths are merely alternate interpretations of God. They’re more similar than they are different,” bartering his point and putting the explanation down as currency.
“What am I supposed to do with that?” Kosta saw no value in his words. “What do you want me to do!?” He couldn’t believe this turn of events. He had never fully dreamed of a normal life, but in the last few years, he had allowed a glimmer of hope shine through. That tepid thought was drowned in the tidal wave of confusion, with which he was now confronted. “Plathon chose you to tell me,” Kosta stated.
“You wouldn’t have listened to anybody else.” He confirmed the clever path, which the old teacher, Plathon, had chosen to take.
“Why should I listen to you? Why can’t I go ahead and live life like everyone else and have a family? Why am I always Uncle Kosta?” He gave full reign to his frustration. “Why should I sacrifice anything more!?”
“I sacrificed everything. I could’ve left and lived luxuriously in any European court for the rest of my days,” he countered, unmoved by his descendant’s plight.
“You would’ve been a spectacle. You would have been little better than a performer - an amusement for courtiers and pampered nobles.” Kosta could never see the once Byzantine Emperor presiding over any lesser post. Pride would never allow it. The highest rank in the world could condone nothing less.
“That doesn’t sound terrible. I would’ve been alive. Instead, I chose to die here, with my city and my people. I had to wait centuries to talk to you.” He added, returning to an earlier point, “If I hadn’t been the last soul, you wouldn’t have even listened.”
“What is it that you wish to tell me!?” Kosta exhaled, exasperated.
“Return to Mystra. Find Plathon. He will tell you what you must do,” the emperor concluded cryptically.
“Why can’t you tell me?” This confused Kosta more. What could they be expecting that they couldn’t say all at once? The build-up from his namesake, and this final edict, dictating that he must seek out another, was anticlimactic. He was enormously disappointed.
“I can only convince you to continue to another task after the Truth is done here,” he answered.
“What does Plathon want? What’s he after?” Kosta asked.
“He wants to continue what began on our trip to Venice. Where he convinced Cossimo de Medici to start his collegio, when we sought their help.” His eyes shifted down, remembering the betrayal that followed all the false promises by Doge, Medici and Cardinals.
“Where they promised aid, which never came.” Kosta poured salt on the wound, further bowing the emperor’s head.
“Yes.” His whispered answer boomed with the regret of centuries, emperors gone and a culture squandered, left to die. A culture built on commerce and diplomacy, not conquest. They watched as the west went on Crusade after Crusade, never, themselves, taking active part in war. It wasn’t good for trade, for which they were envied, their success and confidence despised as arrogance. Those, under their shadow, coveted their wealth and position in trade, and in Venice, bartered with them, winning them over with false assurances.
“Their Pope and Cardinals assured us,” he stated.
“They let you die to take your place. The Pope usurped your place as the Word of God, and Venice became the wealthiest and most envied city in Christendom.” Kosta added piteously, “You died so that they could inherit a fraction of your glory.”
“You’re right. They wanted our wealth and our place.” He took the blows and, unconquered, added, “The aid we expected was only one reason we didn’t just let the sultan have the city. The other was our teacher’s plan.”
“Georgios, Gemistos Plathon.” Kosta counted out the obscure name. “That’s all you can tell me? You died, sold out your culture and people for that?”
“We were desperate. We had no other choice, but we also saw an opportunity to further Plathon’s scheme.” He had never had to argue like this, to explain himself to any man.
“You want more of my life for something you won’t explain? I’ve done enough! I won’t do that!” Kosta turned away, his rage shaking his shoulders and neck. A second later, he added in a conspiratorial tone, “What if I don’t finish the Truth?” The emperor looked horrified. He continued, “The Truth’s job ends when the last soul of Kostadinoupoli is put to rest. You won’t say why I must go on.” Grimly, he finished his final bargain. “If you don’t tell me, you’ll never leave your city. You’ll stay with the Tourkos forever.”
“You are a Paleologos. Do whatever you wish. I’ve passed all the lifetimes, about which your family laments, and you complain of sacrifice?” The last emperor, the Dagoses, passed his descendant’s fury. “You don’t know what sacrifice is! If it is your pleasure to make me squander eternity here, because you don’t want to shoulder any more responsibility - to be a man - then so be your pleasure, sir!!”
Both men now faced each other, and had they been mortal men, they would no longer be talking. One a specter and with no physical form the other a normal man with a corporeal form couldn’t put their hands on each other. Their fight would remain one of wills, thoughts and words.
“Know this, your obstinance puts all creation in danger. What you refuse will still go on, even without your help or involvement.”
“What is it!?” he screamed. “Tell me!!”
“It is your choice - if you want to be a part of the sublime spectacle, or watch it engulf the world as Revelations foretold,” Kostadino XI answered, undaunted. “Plathon is the only one who can tell you and he’ll only appear if you agree to the task!!”
“If I don’t? What then?” The question was sharp and naked, lacking his previous guile.
“I don’t know that either,” the emperor replied to Kosta as he
began to turn away.
“I’ll find him in Mystra then? Where?”
“Follow the signs that Plathon left for you centuries ago.” He watched as he turned completely and began walking away. He didn’t ask if he would return and give him the same rapture, which the other Byzantines had earned. He was at the Truth’s mercy, waiting, hoping one day, he take pity and allow him to have peace. Three steps away, he turned. His face was darker than the night, which condemned him.
“You could’ve prevented most of this…”
“Nobody could have prevented any of it,” the Dagoses interrupted, further infuriating the Truth.
“Then lessened it, but you let it all happen!!” He rushed at him. “Because you saw an opportunity!? You vicious, cold bastard!”
“I am no bastard!! My mother was a queen and my father was an emperor! You whine and complain like a scullery maid, a common woman!” The emperor’s face twisted in contempt. “Why aren’t you wearing a dress?”
“Asshole!” Kosta yelled, eliciting a baffled expression from his namesake. “I’ll go to Mystra and I’ll find Plathon, but you’ll stay here!”
“I won’t beg for release, you dim speck of my blood,” he derided Kosta. “You’re merely a fraction of anybody who defended this city. You’re weak and I’m ashamed that you are of my line.” He spit on the ground and walked away.
Each word struck Kosta harder than the last and he was, in turn, ashamed. He tried to find Kostadino XI, but he had disappeared. Every Truth had always known there was no room for self-pity. Their job is their responsibility and must be dealt with accordingly. Complaining will only make things worse. He chided himself a tebely, lazy and looked ahead to finding the departed imperial tutor at Mystra.