by Athanasios
- Triumph of Xos -
TIME: JUNE 5TH, 1960, SPARTI, GREECE
Kosta was being followed. They were Papal assassins, who did whatever their masters ordered. Amongst those milling in the train station, there was a dark blue clad man who didn’t take his eyes off of Kosta, directing two others through furtive head and hand gestures. He should’ve spotted him earlier, and cursed himself for not being more careful. He tried to shake off the cloud he felt on his senses since Kostadinoupoli, and thought it gone, but it kept up to him, wearing a dark blue suit and fedora. All three were similarly dressed and proportioned, square jawed and shouldered. Their coordinator was a doppelganger for Robert Mitchum, in Night of the Hunter. This errant thought assured Kosta that he was regaining his senses; entertainment minutia always calmed him.
He heard a song, playing somewhere in the Spartan station, and was surprised that it wasn’t one of the heart-tugging melodramas about the eleftheria, war of independence, or katohi, German occupation. His mind raced with the task of recognizing the low violins, and trying to form a plan to get rid of the pursuers, who were now triangulating on him, as directed by Mitchum 2.
“Oh the Shark has perfect teeth, dear…” he mumbled under his breath as they closed in. He had to act quickly. He rushed to a nearby periptero, newsstand, and scanned the rack of newspapers. Going by Eleftheria, Hestia and Vema, he read that Eisenhower had met Khrushchev in Paris more than a week ago, and that they were still writing about it. This would soon be overshadowed by the distraction of the Olympics in Rome. Kosta registered this haphazardly, using it to focus his thoughts, feigning interest in the news, and keeping an eye out for Mitchum 2 and his cronies.
He picked up Vema, a few chocolate bars and tourist trinkets, paid for them and continued to deliberately read the front page. More than a week before, Adolf Eichmann had been captured in Argentina and brought to Israel to face justice.
He took the paper, rolled it around a ballpoint pen. This pen concealed a spring-loaded, poisoned blade, which would break upon impact. The sliver-thin shiv would then remain in the wound, minutes later, killing its victim. All he needed was something to distract the other two, who were still watching him. He approached a gang of scruffy boys, alites, urchins looking for easy targets, xenous to grift - to con them out of their money.
To the wiliest looking of them, Kosta handed 100 drachmas, and promised another 100 for each of his friends. In return, all they had to do was attempt to sell the candy and trinkets to the other two men. The boy smiled slyly and demanded all the money upfront, before he returned to his filous, pals. Kosta agreed and, seconds later, the boy gestured excitedly at his friends, conveying his plan.
Mitchum 2 saw that the urchins were distracting his Brothers and went for Kosta, himself. There was no time to waste on intricacies. So much the better, Kosta thought. Away from the door, and in denser crowds, any scuffle would be hidden by the natural distractions and confusion.
Each took six steps and collided, both making it look accidental. Kosta caught his wrist and Mitchum 2 caught the rolled up newspaper. The spring-loaded pen went off with a twist of his wrist. The man dropped the dagger he had been attempting to use, doubling slightly forward. Too late, Kosta saw that the commotion had attracted the attention of the other two men. This wasn’t optimal, but was still better than before. The odds improved, and very quickly, Kosta feigned a glance at his watch and ran out the door, leaving the crumpled Mitchum 2 behind.
Things continued to look up, as he saw the clean Laconian sky and walked into the tree-lined street, named after his imperial ancestors. He went at a brisk trot, chancing a glance backward to see that the other two men were coming out of the door from which he had just exited. They carried their leader, allowing Kosta to widen the distance between them.
He continued up Paleologos Othos, and quickly turned into an alley. He removed his jacket and reversed it, from olive to the tan inside. From an inside pocket, he also took out a matching hat. Thus disguised, he returned to the street and crossed over to the train station.
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 f
orm 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.
“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.
