The House of Iron: Who Are You?
The Monastery of St. Theodoros Megas, near Didymoteichon, Thrace, April 19, 1639:
Iskandar looked up from the piece of wood he was carving to gaze again on the landscape sprawled out before him. He was sitting in a chair on a hill crowned by a copse of trees, below him a small lake. At the opposite end of the lake a stream exited, winding its way down to the shimmering ribbon that was the Evros River near the horizon. It was a clear warm day.
Next to the lake by a small dock where two small boats were moored was a square wooden structure. The ‘guests of Theodoros Megas’ used it as their hesychastic lodge while they were here; the monastery, like several others dedicated to Theodoros Megas, helped care for veterans who had…dreams. The members of their lodge had come here as a retreat.
He could see Odysseus seated down by the lake, nibbling the end of his brush while he pondered the canvas. Iskandar could make out the broad strokes. It was a landscape painting of the scene spread before him, but that was too simple, too plain, too boring for Odysseus. His lake had dinosaurs watering themselves, triceratops drinking deeply while their dismounted riders, great iron-tipped spears and bows slung over their backs, filled their canteens. It was a mix of the real world, and of a world that his father Demetrios had imagined.
Iskandar heard movement behind him and looked over to see one of the older monks, Brother Anastasios, headed towards him. He was pushing a wheelbarrow with pieces of firewood in it and halted at a splitting stump set back behind Iskandar’s chair. “Do you need any help with that?” Iskandar asked as Anastasios hefted his axe.
“No, I’ve got this. But thanks.”
Anastasios started splitting the wood while Iskandar went back to his carving, but the monk constantly muttered words under his breath as the wood was uncooperative. Iskandar couldn’t make out most of what he said, but the little he got was all profane. Iskandar turned his head to look at the monk, who had his axe bit deep into the last piece and was hammering at the back with a hammer to split the lumber. “For someone who’s taken vows, you swear a lot.”
Anastasios looked up at him. “Clearly you don’t spend much time around nuns.”
“What?”
He grinned. “I refuse to explain that.”
With a solid thunk he finished breaking apart the wood and wiped his brow. He walked over and plunked down in one of the other chairs, breathing heavily until his chest settled down. Then he looked over at Iskandar. “Is that one of those dinosaur things you’re making?”
“It is,” Iskandar replied, showing him the almost-complete wooden carving. “It’s a stegosaurus.”
“Looks like my mother-in-law.”
“I strongly suspect you have some strange stories you’re not telling me.” The white-haired monk grinned evilly at him.
“The back-plates don’t seem the best defense,” Anastasios added. “They cover the upper back, but it’s got those exposed flanks.”
“Yeah. I figure the flanks are protected by this.” He pointed at the tail with its four wicked spikes. “While the plates protect the part that can’t be reached with the tail.”
“Good explanation. Makes sense. And unsurprising from you, considering your father.” Iskandar raised an eyebrow. “Speaking of strange stories, I met your father before you were born.”
“Really, when?”
“Well, met is probably the wrong word. We never spoke but I tried to kill him. I was at Astara. I had a good shot on him but missed, obviously. Clipped his turban, although I don’t know if he noticed.”
“Do you wish you had killed him?”
“No. Are you surprised by that?”
“Not really. If you did, I doubt you’d be telling me this. Although I don’t know why.”
“If it had been God’s will for your father to die at my hand, he would have. Obviously it was not God’s will. So be it. I have enough blood on my hands; I have no need to wish for more.”
“There are some Romans who would be quite angry to hear you say that.”
“I know. And my fist would be happy to discuss this with their noses if it comes up.”
“I thought you said you didn’t want more blood on your hands.”
“Don’t want to kill anyone. But punching people, especially stupid ones, I’m open to that.”
“You are a strange monk.”
“I’ve got nothing on nuns.”
“Are you going to explain that one now?”
“Nope.”
They sat there in silence for a while. “You were at Astara, and other places, I assume?” Iskandar asked.
“Yes.”
“Do the dreams ever stop?”
Anastasios breathed out heavily. “They come less often, but no, they do not stop.”
“How do you deal with that?”
“Still trying to figure that one out myself. I guess you learn to live with them. Or you don’t. And I do not condemn or judge anyone who cannot.”
* * *
The Monastery of St. Theodoros Megas, near Didymoteichon, Thrace, April 29, 1639:
Iskandar was back seated on the hill, looking out as the sun crested over the horizon. He had the finished wooden dinosaur carvings in his hands; Odysseus had painted them once he was finished with the woodworking. In his left he had the stegosaurus and in his right he had the triceratops he’d made after the stegosaurus.
He held up the stegosaurus. “A new day dawns, and a new land for us to claim and call our own,” he said.
Then it was the triceratops’ turn. “Yes, yes, a new land for us. We must name it. We should call it Fred.”
“Fred? Fred? Are you serious?” Steg ‘replied’.
“Of course,” Tri ‘answered’. “It’s a great name.”
“Well, then it’s official.”
“Wait, are you serious?”
“Yup. You’re not allowed to name anything, ever.”
“That doesn’t seem fair.”
“Says the one who wants to call our new land Fred. No, we’re going to call it Steve. That’s a much better name.”
Iskandar smiled as the horn called from the lodge, interrupting him. There were reasons he preferred to keep his thoughts to himself.
* * *
Dyulino Pass, Theme of Bulgaria, May 5, 1639:
The three of them rode up to the hunting lodge, currently empty and locked up. Odysseus looked over at his companions, Michael Pirokolos and Iskandar of Persia. “Are you sure you wish to do this?” Michael asked.
“Wish, no,” Odysseus replied. “But have to, yes.” He dismounted, handing the reins over to Iskandar who took them silently.
It was just the three of them in the yard; their attendants had stopped a kilometer down the road. Odysseus had no desire to stay here.
The hunting lodge now belonged to his brother-in-law Alexandros but he rarely used the place, which was just fine with Odysseus. This was where Andreas, Emperor of the Romans, his brother, had died.
He wandered around to the back of the building, not willing to step inside. It was silly, ridiculous, arguably pathetic, that he had come this far, and yet couldn’t make that last little step, but that was the way it was. He still wasn’t entirely sure why he was here. He hadn’t been here since that hateful day, and it wasn’t a special anniversary even. The trip had been out of the way, and he needed to go to Constantinople. His father had called for him, and it did not seem the Emperor would long be in the land of the living.
That was why Odysseus had come here, now. To do so during what would be likely his last chance before he was Emperor of the Romans, before he took the throne that had once been that of Andreas III, back in what seemed like another lifetime.
He just stood there silently, staring out into the silent woods, his thoughts tumbling and crashing over each other, arguing and pleading and pondering inside his head.
He felt shame at the first thought he’d made at seeing Maria after Andreas had died. He felt grief at the loss of his friend, his brother. Yet he was also angry at Andreas, angry at him for dying. That was what had started it all. And he felt guilt for feeling that anger. But he also felt relief, for perhaps the nightmares would’ve come anyway, and at least this way Andreas had been spared them. But while Odysseus shuddered at the nightmares, he could not deny that war and battle called to him. He yearned for it, for it was the only time he truly felt alive, the only time he truly felt free from fear. Yet he knew that was wrong, for it only spread the nightmares even more, and so the guilt and shame returned.
He felt…tired.
There were some promises to keep, and a thing or two for himself he wished to do, but he was tired. “See you soon, brother,” he whispered, then turned and walked back to his companions.
* * *
The White Palace, Constantinople, May 9, 1639:
The smell was the first thing he noticed. It wasn’t very strong, but there was a distinct tang of it in the air. The smell of human excrement, wet, hot, new. Odysseus knew from where it came.
His father was seated on the opposite side of the room, a thick black curtain set between them. The window was on his father’s side, so Odysseus’ part of the chamber was dark, making it even harder for him to see. All he could make out was an outline, a thin old man in a chair, a small desk in front of him, a glass and small plate set on top. Along with the excrement was a smell of milk and shrimp.
Demetrios III Sideros, Emperor of the Romans, had been worried about his wrecked digestive system incapacitating him during the key negotiations with the Latins over Italy. To keep that from being a problem, he’d lessened his already low food intake, to decrease the amount of matter scraping over ulcerated intestines. It had worked, but like all things, it came at a cost. Three days after the treaty signing, he’d collapsed. He’d been so weak he’d been unable to hold his bowels. Somehow he’d not died then, and with some more regular food intake he’d recovered a bit, but even now, the Emperor of the Romans, one of the most powerful men in the world, could only with difficulty and with limited success keep from fouling himself. Odysseus did not blame his father for hiding away from the world.
“Thank you for not saying anything,” Demetrios said. Odysseus opened his mouth. “Don’t patronize me; I know what I smell like.”
The voice was weak, but that of his father, but not quite. Odysseus knew immediately what was off, for he had heard that voice many times. It was the voice of a man who had already died inside, and was waiting for that one merciful bullet to come and finally end it. Odysseus knew that voice well. He had sometimes wondered about that one merciful bullet himself.
“You wished to speak to me,” Odysseus replied, coming up close to the curtain.
“You’re going to be Emperor soon. I had some words of advice from a man who, in theory, is supposed to be intelligent, although I have my doubts.”
“What would those be?”
“Don’t end up like me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t be like me, someone who had his life decided for him by others. Find the story you want to tell with your life, tell it, and then get the hell out of here.”
“Was it, was it really that bad, your life?”
“No, it could’ve been worse. But this was my one life, and it was not the one I would’ve wanted, and it was not the one I was meant for. Purple is a good color for your mother, and your sister, but not for me. Nor is it a good color for you. You know I’m right. This place is not for you or me. If you stay here, you’ll end up like me. Promise me you won’t.”
“I promise. I promise I won’t end up like you.” A pause. “That sounded wrong, coming from me.”
Demetrios actually managed a chuckle. “A bit. But thank you. Goodbye, my son.” There was a bit of strain in his voice in the last word, Odysseus guessing that he was trying to hold his bowels.
“Goodbye, Father.”
As Odysseus left the chamber he could smell that his father had failed. The last thing he sensed as he exited was Demetrios’ pained whisper, “please, don’t end up like me.”