by Athanasios
“You sound so convinced, master. How can Satan not be plotting against God? Isn’t that his nature?” He seemed certain of that fact, though his certainty was decreasing.
“Satan or, rather, evil, isn’t some beast, following its own biological, instinctive or preordained path, young man. It is simplistic to think thus, as well as very dangerous.” Quentin hoped that the initiate was following. “There are many on earth — normal human beings — who are misguided enough to do the work of evil. In their own desire for power, they strive to give evil prominence.” Quentin stopped for a few moments, pondering if the initiate was capable of internalizing everything he had to share. He finally decided to share everything he understood; he hoped it would not unsettle the young man.
“Currently, we are seeing things progress toward more centralized governments. Those who work for this final one-world government — the New World Order, as it is coming to be known — are, mostly at any rate, working for noble ends. The true architects of this final end-plan are not. They are the ones who manipulate history, finances, governments and reality, itself, to fit their final goal of world dominance.” Quentin knew that he had lost his audience when he saw the initiate’s face go blank. “I am sorry, my lad. You were not able to accept that with which we work here. You will be taken care of, as a good soldier always is.”
Quentin got up and went to a waiting black telephone receiver. Picking it up, without dialing, he spoke directly to another. “I would like someone to come and take care of the initiate who has been helping me.” He listened intently and finished. “Yes, a quick end would be best. I don’t think he intended any harm; most likely, he was curious and read the wrong things. Thank you.”
Quentin replaced the receiver and went back to the slack-jawed young man. He had not moved from where they spoke. He informed the initiate there are certain things that cannot be viewed by everyone. Terrors and evil reside everywhere. Sometimes they are in words, between breaths and around thoughts. They remain that way until they are unlocked by a gesture or a conversational turn. Usually their terrible power and destructive potential remain dormant.
- Idammah-Gan Codex - Depth of Correction I -
TIME: AUGUST, 480 B.C. THERMOPYLAE, ELLATHA
The sweat inside my helmet makes it smell like the taste of blood — tinny, coppery and acrid. This same blood repeatedly spills around me and, more importantly, in front of my brothers as we lock shields and hold firm our line.
There are only 300 of us, standing against thousands. We told the rest of the Greeks to go and raise the alarm with the rest of our patriotes, while we buy them as much time as our lives are worth. Every one of us was given the choice to go with them and save ourselves, but none of us accepted the offer. If one of us stood and fought, we all did. Even the soldiers behind us, those with the crested helmets, all knew they would die on this field. My helmet bears no crest, neither does anyone else’s on the front line. Our spears are no less heavy, or sharper, than those of our crested nobles. Our armor is also as heavy and our shields as strong.
On this field, we are equal. Thermopylae has successfully united 300 men, creating one man with a single will. We are all Spartan and we will all die before the end of this day. The other Greeks who fled will sing paens of our sacrifice here, just as we sing paens of other fallen heroes. We sing to keep our spirits up as we face such daunting foes.
The Persians shoot at us from afar with their bows; some even find a manner of mark in our ranks, though the only openings are the eye slits in our helmets. At various intervals, someone falls and yet another takes his place. At others times, when someone falls, he gets back up and fights on. He knows that soon enough, he’ll die and then he can rest.
I saw others fall, but resumed fighting, because when our foes saw that their arrows had little effect, they sent their footmen against us and they crashed against our shields. Those who made it through were killed by our rear ranks.
We braced ourselves for their cavalry assault. They sent their horsemen against us, but we threw them back; the terrain was with us. The horses could not maintain their footing on the rocks and loose gravel around the field.
Two days of fighting passed. We began the battle outnumbered, the entire Greek army thousands strong. We held the hot gates against Xerxe’s host, until one of our own, Ephialtes, an Athenian, most likely gave us up.
Now, we fight alone — 300 men, with a few Thespians. This final day dawned with the inevitable sunrise and deathly struggle. Today, nearly every man I had ever known would die with me.
Leonidas fell early on. He had chosen to be in the front lines. He was three down from my right and we fought fiercely to recover his body. He would not die among the xenous, rather with us. Once he was safely at our rear, encircled by all his men, we were able to turn our attention back to the business of dying.
Again, they came at us in waves of footmen and arrows. Initially, none had any real effect, but after repeated entries they wore us down. Once we had broken our spears against them, we beat them with the shafts. When we could no longer use our shafts, we drew our swords and used them, until useless. It was at this point that an arrow caught me in my right eye. I grunted and fell to my knee, but kept my shield raised.
The Immortal that faced me thought I was an easy kill, but became mortal, indeed, when I slashed up and cut him from groin to neck. He screamed like a woman and fell, his blood making my footing slippery.
I could not see to my right, so from that direction came my end. I think it was more arrows, but I didn’t notice. I knew that even when our swords were useless, we would fight on with whatever we could find — rocks, our shields, our bare hands, even our teeth.
This struggle awakened a dormant part of me. Our 300 men will go down, along with 20,000 of our opponents. Yet, still will there be an endless supply of enemies, attempting to kill the spirit we showed to our last breath.
We never surrendered. We were beaten. We would be remembered.
“Go stranger, and to the Spartans tell,
That here, obedient to their laws, we fell.”
I did not fall because of obedience, rather, because I supported my brothers. For the same reason, I knew they would stand with me. Each of us stood shoulder to shoulder in defense of the other. We did not stand to defend any rules or laws. We stood for each other. In the end, nobody stood for principle. Whoever stands, stands for the people they hold dear, for those who matter. Principles and laws are just so much air and smoke. At Thermopylae, I saw past this. I hope to remember it.
TIME: AUGUST 16TH, 1961. ALEXANDRIA, EGYPT
Mesmerized, Kosta read on. The lives spoken of touched him and tugged at his consciousness. There was no doubt about the reality of the record. The emotions and attention the stories evoked were enough to confirm its authenticity. The author’s visceral telling of thoughts and passions exposed a longing. A need to stop the unending battles — battles where the foe never mattered, for it was never the same. The fight went on and on. The author wished to be able to stop, to not only live a life, but to also enjoy living it.
- Idammah-Gan Codex - Depth of Correction II —
TIME: 8TH MONTH, 17TH DAY, 4TH YEAR OF THE REPUBLIC. IBERIA
This time, they call me Remus.
It’s strange what you notice when you’re dying. At worst, the gash in my side was a distraction. Through the grill of my helmet, I see everyone in a shade.
This is what I notice.
I’m calm and that surprises me. I’ve dropped to my knees, while my opponent grabs my chin and snaps my head back. His blade touches my straining throat. I don’t care to look at the official decision. Soon enough, I’ll know.
As I wait, I encounter a familiar, errant thought.
Where will I end up this time? Once the gash my opponent just opened in my jugular stops pumping out my life, what will I be?
I know I’ll come back. I’ve been coming back since - I can’t remember when, though this is the first time I’ve tho
ught of this on the bright side of death. I know why and I’m dying. I know all of life’s answers. The reasons these people reveled in my death. They scream and jeer at my falling body. I represent everybody whom they hate. Everything that has ever hurt or pleased me no longer requires an explanation.
I’ve dropped forward to lie facedown. I see this from afar. I see my opponent step away from me and throw up his hands, basking in the cheering and adulation. I convulse three more times and am finally still.
It feels like I’m rising above this scene. It’s now growing dim and distant.
There is nothing here, but my awareness. There is only blackness, and beyond this blackness, there is void. There is nothing here, nothing. I’m the only one who can see this.
TIME: AUGUST 18TH, 1961. ALEXANDRIA, EGYPT
With the account of each subsequent life, the author’s wishes are deeper. Beneath the continued battle, the story of his lives floats on a layer of colossal frustration. He believes he can reach the light, which is his destination. Every time he thinks that he’s almost captured it, the distance is halved, yet he never succeeds. The light is always just out of his reach.
Kosta knew that he would never be able to reach it. He used the wrong vehicle. He finally saw, understood, the connection he felt to the author’s longing: it was the hope for peace. They shared a revulsion against the turmoil and chaos into which they were forced. The monumental, historic struggles for souls, world influence and control, were no longer appealing. The struggle Kosta now sought was more personal and, in the end, was merely that for which anyone ever really fought.
- Idammah-Gan Codex - Depth of Correction III -
TIME: AUGUST 19TH, 33 A.D. GOLGOTHA, JERUSALEM, ISREAL
My mind is in a complete fog. People are crying. I can’t tell how many and for whom. There is nothing of which I’m sure, except for the pain in my wrists and ankles. I try to look to my left and to my right, but I cannot see past my extremities. I only wish that I couldn’t see even that far.
Try as I might, my glance keeps returning to the nails that hold my arms and ankles to this cross. This is the only way I know they’re still attached. Hours ago, they went numb. Hanging this way, I struggle to breathe. I only think about pushing my weight back up. There is no way in creation I will go through this again.
When they first hammered me to the wood, the pain nearly drove me mad. My mind threw screams out of my mouth — screams that continued well past when they turned me over to hammer the nails back, ensuring I would stay on the cross. My mind gibbered disbelief at the fact that I was in this position.
I think these words came out of my mouth, but of this I am not certain. “Oh, no. This is not possible. No, no, no, no.” These three phrases repeatedly chased each other out of someone’s head, through their mouth, and out past their lips, though I don’t know if it was I, or one of the other two.
The crying continues and I hope to die. Now, this pain is everything to me. It has taken over both my vision and hearing. I no longer know what is happening around me. I could be the one crying, but I’m very confused.
Someone screams, startled by the thunder and lightning around the hill on which they chose to plant these trees of pain. Rain comes down like fat tears and gives me a small relief, but does not restore my grasp of sight and sound. Time crawls by and I’m still breathing, living this misery.
“King of Jews. Why don’t you call upon your God and save us?” One of us says.
Is it me? At such a time, could I be so cruel to another who shared my pain?
“He does not deserve to be here. We have done things in our lives to deserve this place. He has done nothing.” The response is instant and I instantly feel humiliated and exulted.
It must be days we’ve been up here; still, I don’t know how to interpret my own senses. The rain continues and my tears join it. I’m sure that I sob with relief, because I feel my strength and life finally ebbing. Endurance is overrated. I wish I were weaker and able to endure far less.
“Father, why have you forsaken me?” The voice is filled with sobbing and comes from everywhere. It brings further darkness and depression. The sky has come closer to my face and reflects the bruises and blood that now describe my body. The tears and sobs leave me, unheard amid the rain and thunder.
“Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do.”
Who does? Why does the voice seek this God, this treacherous Father, who allows this to be done to His son? For a few breaths, I am angry at the criminal violation, which this begged-for parent shows to all his children. Why do we look to Him for this withheld comfort and support?
My outrage continues and, in my death, it follows me to the void. In the nothing I now face, I am alone with my belief that no help shall ever be given, though it be earned a thousand times. I am on my own, to grow strong or be annihilated.
I also think that this seems oddly familiar. In my thoughts, this strange skewing of priorities is nothing new. A silent revelation envelops me and pushes all else aside. In violent death, this always happens. I remember past lives. I remember the death in the arena, as well as when I stood proud at Thermopylae. Not much else, apart from this, is important. Not my life then, nor any lives before, or since.
TIME: AUGUST 20TH, 1961. ALEXANDRIA, EGYPT
Long ago, Uncle George and Malone told Kosta everybody searched for truth. Many imposed their version so they could justify and prove it to be the only truth. Kosta wanted to show that the real truth needed no proof. It wasn’t confined to any single interpretation — not Christian, Jewish, or Muslim. The point was to not get distracted by historic or cultural and familial beliefs. The three most popular religions taught that the Antichrist would initiate a reign of darkness. Their belief was making it true. Kosta read this and saw it reflected in books and many prophesies. For millennia, the struggle between good and evil had been center-stage in our awareness. Some attributed the highest attainments of mortals to divine inspiration, while the basest and lowest crimes and behavior were defined as evil. This somehow cheapened or excused those achievements and failures.
This explanation was too simplistic. There should be accountability for actions, both collectively and individually. People were capable of both good and evil. Nobody pushed them to do one or the other. No singular, outside force existed. It became real because we didn’t want to accept our power for our actions; when we sin, we assign blame to others. We can’t even take credit for success. We thank God and never blame him for failures.
Kosta was glad that he had taken the time to find the Codex. Glad that wily, old Plethon had not said where to look. Had it been an accident that he didn’t ask him where it was before granting him his peace? Or did Kosta need to search through these other books, which led him to this moment of epiphany? In the intervening months, he went to library after library, yet wasn’t bothered by the setback. Through the mundane toil of the process, he learned more than he could’ve imagined.
For a second, he looked away from the Idammah-Gan and stared wistfully at the gathering twilight and the setting sun. He reminded himself he would have to stop for the day. His reading could not continue without the sun, which kept the book’s guardians imprisoned in its pages. As he closed it, he glanced down at the passage he finished and was struck motionless, awed. The passage was reassembling itself into something horrific, which tugged at the edge of his reason. With a start, he snapped the book shut and shuddered. If he had waited a few more seconds, who knows what would’ve happened. Ordering a bottle of Metaxa cognac, he wondered what he would see the next time he opened the Codex.
- Predatory Ethics -
TIME: AUGUST 3OTH, 1961. WHITTIER MANSION, SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA, U.S.A
The echo of a shot was followed by the sharp sound of a gun hitting the floor. Two men faced the one who fired, but were too shocked to be frightened.
“I don’t want to hear excuses for your incompetence” the high, raspy voice continued. “You find the boy, or y
ou won’t be as lucky as he!!” Mossy Akhbar had never seen his master in this state. He was used to a cold voice, which seemed to come from a great distance. Even in moments of great anger, it never rose above a monotone.
“Get that meat out of here.” Balzeer McGrath indicated the body, staining the carpet at his feet. Three rail-thin men appeared from behind heavy black velvet curtains. They picked the body up and carried it away from their master’s view, followed quickly by Mossy.
“Mordecai, what have the others reported?” He collapsed into a great chair. He had used a gun, and as distasteful as that was, the blood made up for it. He used an old massive Browning pistol. Fired five feet away from a target, it created a hole, large enough a full-grown cat could crawl into.
And the blood, oh what a splatter.
Mordecai came forward and, before answering, eyed the stain on the floor. There were reports of days like this, days that dominoed into complete carnage. He had to be mindful of what he said. If he needed to lie in his response, he had better be convincing. Supreme Tribunal McGrath was definitely in a mood.
“As Harold indicated, Master, the Redeemer did not come. Nowhere in Jerusalem were the signs for the monumental birth for which we hoped. It seems…” A halting hand silenced him. He looked away, then back.
“I don’t feel him,” the hand then went to his mouth. “We all know that he isn’t in Jerusalem, idiot. Where is he?”
The Supreme Tribunal had to answer to others who did not tolerate ignorance or explanations. They did not have horns and tails, as the initiates believed, but were no less ruthless.
“Guide us, sir. We do not know where to look.” Mordecai Aronovich could see that Balzeer was losing his grip on reality. This was the most monumental event since Christ’s birth and he had lost control. For the past nine months, he dispatched acolyte after acolyte to every corner of the earth. He could have made another Antichrist by now. One thing was clear — their master did not know where to find their Redeemer. He had relied entirely on age-old prophecies and the ramblings of shackled psychics. The head of Lucifer’s Church lost him, poof, just like the proverbial smoke and brimstone.