by Athanasios
I felt a tugging on it, but my muscles had contracted around it and he could not pull it out. That’s another thing you must remember in battle. A sword is best used to slash, because if you use it to impale, you then run the risk of having to fight against internal organs and muscular contractions in order to reclaim your weapon.
My earlier revelation was colored red by my own blood, as well as the bloodlust that washed over me. I would die, but so too would this panting Byzantine. I left my own sword in the horse, and with both hands on the axe; I turned and swung with all of my remaining strength. To my satisfaction, I split his axe halfway up the shaft. My swing and connection with the weapon had brought it to his feet and he stared down at his fragmented shaft, as well as my own fully intact steel.
My mouth was filling with the coppery taste of blood, yet I still smiled at his dawning knowledge of death. I didn’t regret granting the horse relief, for I had been the one responsible for its pain. I did regret that killing this man had brought me so much pleasure. He must have found my smile ghastly, coming, as it was, on the cusp of his own death. I even managed to laugh at his terror, coughing up a mouthful of blood in the process, before I lifted up my axe, catching him on the chin with its back spike. He stumbled backward from the blow.
I clasped the shaft in both hands and lifted it over my head. I brought it down on him and removed his right leg at the knee. Before he could reach the ground, I swung again, but this time from left to right, and removed his other leg at the knee. I stood over him for a few quick seconds as I enjoyed his anguish and cries, before I hacked at his upper body and head, like I was felling a tree. No armor stopped me, and when I was finished, nothing humanly recognizable remained.
When it was finally over, I gave the bastard another blow before I left the axe buried in the mound of carnage, which he had become. I did not fall to my knees, then to the ground, as I had at Thermopylae and in the arena, but I toppled from my standing position and fell onto my dead foe.
I resented him because he had taken me away from a new awareness of my own existence. Not about this life or any other, but about my own place within all of them and in the wider understanding of Man’s global influence. Each person’s accountability was only a microcosm of the whole. It wasn’t a simple smaller example but an exact reflection of the whole. Every action no matter how small was consequential to the rest of creation. It mattered.
How do I hold others, gods or devils, accountable for all of this? We’re the ones, not only committing these atrocities, but also placing the blame on other shoulders. If I were to forgive myself or God without understanding my own responsibility would this decision matter? Absolution is empty if it’s easy. It doesn’t have any weight or substance. It hasn’t been achieved through toil and trouble — with that I certainly was familiar.
Too much philosophy had taken residence in my raging thoughts. On such an intricate subject, I operated with a sword and scarred, calloused hands. My capacity to succeed in this self-appointed task was questionable. I lacked the sensitivity and insight to make enough of a difference to force understanding.
TIME: SEPTEMBER 5TH, 1961. ALEXANDRIA, EGYPT
Kosta stopped reading, tucked the Codex under his arm and, with a bolt of understanding, hurried home to pack his things. Without going any further, he knew he had to find this Antichrist, originally fated to begin his reign where, for centuries, a conqueror had lay dead. In Alexandria, he was to begin life — the conqueror who would put Alexander to shame. Kosta knew that the birthplace had recoiled from his reading, to the opposite side of the globe. He would continue his reading as he journeyed there and interceded, taking the infant into his care.
As Kostadino XI told him, his participation was his own choice. Kosta chose to involve himself. He wanted to steward, this terrible fate in another direction, which would be the child’s choice. Kosta wouldn’t impose any of his own Orthodox beliefs. Now he didn’t follow a path, but was operating outside any written or accepted dogma.
- Dark Genesis -
TIME: FEBRUARY 5TH, 1962. SAO PAOLO, ARGENTINA
A bald, goateed man, of average appearance, watched a small house where a difficult birth took place. Intent as another, Jose Savourez nervously eyed the house, crossing himself. Jose tightly held his crucifix with both hands and, once again, began his litany of prayers.
He begged God’s forgiveness for their sex before marriage.
He begged God to provide safety for both the baby and the mother.
He begged for a son.
He simply begged.
At the sight of the abhorred cross, the bald man fought the retching in his throat. Jose Savourez promised everything and anything with a devotion only shown when men feel desperate. When the screams became too loud for him to bear, he pocketed the crucifix, lit a cigarette and walked past another man who didn’t quite fit in the neighborhood. He was dressed in tan and olive drab and he moved to the shadows, unseen by the bald, goateed man whose eyes never left the house. In the darkness, the tan and olive drabbed man’s body coiled with shock. He hadn’t anticipated anyone else would stumble onto his plans. Discreet steps would have to be taken.
It became quiet inside the little house. All that was heard was the low drone of the radio and the mother Maria’s, labored breathing.
The news spoke of worldwide events.
French leader De Gaulle was talking about Algeria, but the midwife, Bonita, was too preoccupied to listen. She was trying to ease the mother’s pain and discomfort, as well as instructing the other two women. One woman, Gladys, was wiping Maria’s brow with a damp cloth and whispering soothing words of encouragement. Bonita asked if they could change the radio station to something besides the news. Some music might help them all.
Gladys was a large woman; dressed in a tan peasant frock, a brown scarf keeping her steel grey hair away from her drawn, gentle face.
The second old woman, Paula, was standing to one side, with a cauldron of boiling water and fresh linen. She was rail-thin, dressed entirely in black, including the scarf, which held back her hair. She was fidgeting, pacing, attempting to restrain herself from jumping into Bonita’s position. Paula had a way of adding anxiety to any situation.
“This is taking too long. You’re doing something wrong, Bonita.” Paula knew that she could do a better job than that heathen woman. It was whispered that she wasn’t even Christian. It was wrong to let her deliver little babies. It was wrong.
“Paula, hush, there is nothing wrong. Maria is probably having twins or something.” Gladys was barely maintaining her normally abundant patience with the kinetic little woman. She had been going on without a pause for the past two hours — this is wrong, that’s not right, that’s wrong. Over and over.
She focused on the laboring mother. “You’re doing wonderfully, dear. Now, just listen to Bonita and don’t worry.”
“No, no there’s too much blood. There’s much too much blood. Bonita, you’re doing something wrong.” Paula moved forward, shaking like a leaf, leaning over Bonita.
“Nggggnnaaa!!! Oh my god!! Bonita, I’m going to split in two!” Maria gasped between heavy breaths, her eyes racing about the room.
“Hush, dear, hush,” Gladys reassured the mother. “This is your first birth. It’s always hard. Why, Paula squeaked once and fainted straight away. When she woke four hours later, we handed her Anna to her. Nearly gift-wrapped, she was.” She saw that Paula was getting too close to Bonita and decided that she needed something else to distract her. A quick prick to her pride was just the thing.
“That’s not true. I was awake through it all!! You’re lying!!” That fat bitch, she thought, she’s probably in league with the heathen. Sometimes, Paula felt like she was the only god-fearing woman in all of Sao Paolo.
“Now, Paula. Every good woman in Sao Paolo knows you fainted with your first, and, for the next two, yelled as though they were your first. She wouldn’t let her poor ‘Beto near her for at least three months.” Gladys st
ifled a mischievous smile across her warm, wrinkled face. It didn’t take much to get Paula going.
“Liar! I was awake through all…” Paula’s heated defense was cut short by a scream and Gladys’ yelp of pain as Maria squeezed her hand for support.
“Arghh!! Bonita! How much longer?!!” Maria rasped out the words.
“Soon, dear, soon. I think I can see the head now. Not much longer.” Bonita tried to stay focused on the laboring mother.
“Aiee!! Bonita, there’s something wrong. There’s too much blood!! Too much!!” Paula renewed her litany of error.
“Paula, shut up!!” Finally, Bonita could no longer tolerate the crone.
“She’s right, Bonita. The baby should have been out by now. We have been here since yesterday’s dusk and it is sunset again.” Gladys was reluctant to agree with Paula.
“You’re right. The baby is too big to come out by itself. We will have to cut her open. Paula, heat the razor. Gladys, give Maria something on which to bite down.”
Maria’s pupils seemed lost in a mass of white. She was barely able to hold back her muffled scream. Paula looked on, smug that she had been right. Gladys’ face mirrored Bonita’s. Handing the now red-hot, steaming razor to Paula, Bonita looked at Gladys and nodded again. Gladys removed the gag and, at once, Maria let out a gasp.
“My God, please!! Gladys, please, I want to see my baby!! How much longer!?” She managed each word with an accompanying gasp.
“Easy, Maria. It won’t be long. You’ve been very brave. It will be just a little while longer. Bonita, hurry.” There was urgency in Gladys’ voice.
One day, the boy would remember.
He didn’t remember his mother, and only flashes of his birth — the screaming, the looks of horror, but not this. The piteous little woman, gasping for air, couldn’t be his mother. She gave up all her strength and he left her behind, weak and bleeding. It was the first of many deaths for which he held himself responsible.
“Maria, hold on. There. Here he comes, here he comes!! It’s a boy!! A boy!!” Bonita, intent on the baby, did not notice Gladys’ desperate eyes, glancing between her and Maria. The boy would remember.
“Bonita she’s…” Gladys could barely hold back her tears, suddenly welling up. The weakest of voices asked, “Let me see him, let me see…”
As Bonita lifted him to show her, there was a muffled gasp and loud crash from behind her. As she turned to face Bonita, she saw Paula, hands covering her mouth, her face drawn in horror.
“Bonita, please hurry.” Gladys implored God to end this quickly. The boy couldn’t ask for the same. Selfish as it may seem, this was the only time he would remember his mother. He knew that she was in desperate pain, nevertheless, this moment was always precious to him — precious beyond measure.
“Get him away!! Get him away!! My God, he’s a monster!!” Paula forgot her propriety. All she saw was a newborn, the size of a six-month-old baby.
“Oh dear. Hold on, Maria, please hold on.” Tears ran down Gladys’ plump face. The mother was barely alive; there was merely a whisper behind her eyes.
“Paula, you superstitious hag!! He’s a big boy, that’s all.” Bonita was too busy to bother with Paula’s delusions. The hag just wouldn’t shut up.
“Look at him!! He’s not human! He’s twice the size of a normal baby!” Horror replaced Paula’s earlier smug self-satisfaction. How could they not see that this was an abomination?
“Bonita, Maria can’t hold on any longer. Let her have her child!! Please!!” Bonita raised him and Gladys’ eyes widened in disbelief.
He saw his mother smile and reach out to take him. His fat, little hands reached for her and, for an instant, their hands met. The touch was electric. Whenever he recalled this moment, it pushed all else from his mind. This was his first memory; his mother’s tired, smiling face was his first glimmer of cognition. If he had been able to get to know her, he would’ve forgotten this moment. The memory and the moment were equally heart-wrenching and he began to wail. He was watching his mother die.
“The poor dear. She couldn’t hold out any longer.” Gladys looked at the mother. Speechless, Bonita stood, holding him, as Paula tried to take him away.
“Give the little monster to me. We have to expose him.” Paula was steeling herself to do the right thing. From the beginning, things had gone wrong. If she had been the midwife, she would’ve ensured that things were done properly. Now, it was up to her to do God’s work.
“No, get away from him.” Bonita snapped out of a daze and quickly cradled the infant, halting his wails.
“Bonita, give him to me!!” This was intolerable; the heathen bitch was protecting the little monster. Paula was filled with righteous anger as she advanced with purpose and the hot razor.
“She’s right, Bonita. The baby is cursed. The best thing to do is to expose him right now, before he brings ruin to all of us,” Gladys added, in a voice filled with sorrow and regret.
“No, there’s nothing wrong with him. Nothing!! He’s just big.” Incredulous, Bonita took a step away from the other women.
“He cannot be allowed to live! Bonita, he’s an abomination.” Paula was resolved. Her argument was strengthened by Gladys’ surprise agreement; now, she was certain that she was doing the right thing.
“Bonita, please, this is the easiest way, dear. Don’t you see?” Gladys pleaded with Bonita, attempting to convince her of this truth.
“No, I only see that this baby’s mother died bringing him into this world and that you want to nullify her sacrifice by killing him.” Bonita narrowed her eyes as Paula transferred the razor to her right hand.
“He stole his mother’s life so that he could live. Kill him!” Paula spoke to Bonita with the same authority she used with her children. In her opinion, this little heathen did not know what she had done. If she had died protecting the imp now, then so be it. It was God’s will.
“Gladys, listen to me. He is not cursed. Would you throw Maria’s life away by killing her son?” There was simply no reasoning with Paula. All Bonita could do was try to convince the only sane person who could help her. “Didn’t you see her before she passed on? She didn’t see an abomination or a monster, she saw her son.”
The expression on Gladys’ face transformed from regret to deep guilt. “I’m sorry, Bonita. That poor little wretch. You’re right. He’s barely five minutes old, his mother is dead and he was almost thrown to the wilds, himself.”
“What? Are you mad? Kill the little monster. Give him to me now.”
With Gladys’ change of heart, Paula’s resolve to do God’s will began to wane. Without additional support, Paula was once again the nagging crone.
In her confusion, she took a step in each cardinal direction until she was stopped cold by the sound of a man’s voice.
“Is that him? Is that my son?” Walking forward, he pushed past Paula and gently took the infant in his arms. Smiling, he turned towards his wife, lying on the bed.
“Oh my God. He’s beautiful, Maria. He’s so big and strong.”
The boy never remembered this tenderness and love in his father’s eyes. It was an alien, unconnected, implausible thing. His father gazed at him warmly.
Laying a hand on his shoulder, Gladys caught the father’s attention and her expression betrayed the reality of the situation. He looked away and rushed to the bed with his son in his arms.
“Maria? What is it? Why is she so still?” Looking back at the three attentive women, he slowly realized the truth.
“Bonita, Gladys, Paula what is it? She’s lying so still. Do something.”
Gladys came and comforted him while she handed the baby back to Bonita, who washed and wrapped him in fresh linen. At the first touch of water, he began to cry again.
“Listen to him. He cries for his mother. Oh God, what am I going to do?” Jose buried his face in his hands.
Paula had said nothing, nervously shuffling from foot to foot. Now, she rushed over and grasped his grieving fac
e between her hands. “Listen to me, Jose Savourez, this child is an abomination. He has killed your wife.”
“What are you saying? Get your hands off of me!” Jose stepped away and faced her. “There is nothing wrong with my son!”
“No. No. Not so! You’re a man. You do not know of these things. That boy is monstrous. Expose him.” As she spoke, she could feel everyone’s hatred towards her, but she knew that she was doing the right thing. Often, God’s will was difficult to carry out. History would prove that she was correct. She would be spoken of like Joan of Arc and St. Francis of Assisi.
“Get out of my house, you old bitch!! Get out of here before I throw you out!!” Jose couldn’t believe Paula’s demands. He watched as she reeled from his words, blinked twice, then continued as though he had said nothing.
“Listen to me!! He is touched by Satan. Kill him like he killed his mother.” The other saints had encountered worse opposition. Paula refused to be stopped by the emotions of a grieving husband.
“My wife died to give him life. He didn’t kill her, you old fool. Get out!!” He flew at her, but Gladys restrained him. Paula ran out of the house, slamming the door after her. He ran to the window and yelled at her retreating figure, “If you come near my son, you bitch, I’ll kill you!!”
“Come away, Jose, come away. Your son needs you now. Come away.”
He looked back at Gladys and then his dead wife, rushing forward to bury his head in her still form.
“Oh, Maria, how will I raise a son without you?”
Crying inconsolably, Jose didn’t lift his head until Bonita returned with his son, swathed in linen.
Jose looked at him with pride. However, this pride was quickly followed by the fear and confusion the boy would always remember. He never really felt hate; he just didn’t know what to do.
“Is there anything wrong with him? Why did Paula act like that? Why did she want to kill my Nino?” His questions were akin to a child asking how rainbows happened, or other imponderables.
