Salvos Angelos is a diplomat in the Byzantine Empire. He is about to stumble on a fantastic secret, one that may save his Empire from destruction, but only if he can convince the Emperor of its usefulness. At the same time, he is haunted by a ghost from his past. Check out this section from Orthodox Rising: The End of History:
"Don't stray too far, dearest," her silky soft voice caressed his ear. "I'll always be here, waiting for you, my love." She reclined on the couch, extending an olive tanned finger toward him and he felt absolute bliss pulsing through his veins.
"I won't be long, my plum," he returned. Everything was too good to be true, he thought. It was the wedding day he had always dreamed of, and he, Salvos Angelos, was making a name for himself before the very emperor in Constantinople. The year was nine hundred eighty and before the turn of the millennium, he'd be a minister at the emperor's feet, possibly even elected emperor himself. His bride, political marriage though she was, loved him genuinely and was quite agreeable in temperament and beautiful as well.
As he walked down the long, misty hallway, for the first time Salvos tried to remember why he had left the warmth and comfort of his bedchamber and his new wife, Etta. As he huffed for air, he realized the atmosphere was suddenly very heavy and acrid, smelling strongly of sulfur. A harsh red glow had replaced the orange firelight and seemed to surround him. A shadow crept up on the fringes of his peripheral vision, but as he turned to confront it, there was nothing but empty corridor and that hazy, red luminescence. "Is there someone there?" he called. Almost immediately, the same words returned to his ears, low and feral, almost like a growl, but undeniably in his own, distorted voice.
The hair on his arms and at the back of his neck raised as the air crackled around him. Again the echo of his own voice poured through the ever shrinking tunnel. Again and again it returned, growing in ferociousness and volume until it threatened to burst his eardrums.
Starting at a run, Salvos made his way back to the door to his bedchamber, having to stoop as the ceiling touched the top of his head. Slamming full force into the door, he fell painfully to the ground, his entire weight and momentum unable to break it down. For a moment, he lay there in agony, rubbing his sore shoulder. The echoes ceased abruptly, as did the compaction of the hallway.
The red light became more intense and Salvos realized it was becoming extremely hot. Sweat beaded and flowed down him, pooling beneath his prone body. The sulfur smell magnified until he was certain he would vomit. The temperature continued to rise and he felt as though he were being cooked alive.
"My love, Salvos," a welcome and familiar voice slipped into his ears. "Why don't you come to me? You have the power. Think on me, and you shall be with me. Close your eyes, dearest."
Without any more prodding, Salvos shut his eyelids tightly and tried to allay his fears with an image of his beautiful bride. He pictured her perfect, plump, olive skin. He imagined himself staring into her magnificent, black eyes as she averted her gaze in that come hither way she did in his presence.
Suddenly, smooth, warm flesh met the back of his hand. Fingers curled gently around, touching his palm. The thrill he felt was all too familiar; it had to be his beloved Etta. "I am here, my love." Her voice was barely a whisper and weaker than before, but laced with the same aesthetic quality he had grown to love in her. "Open your eyes and see me for what I am, Salvos," she said as her grip on his hand disappeared. This time, her words were hardly audible and he doubted he had heard her correctly.
Without further speculation, he did as she commanded. As his eyes focused he groped out to clasp her hand: it was as cold as ice and stiff, almost brittle. Frozen, pale skin met his stunned gaze. Sunken, dry eyes, wide with a terror unrecognizable in the mortal realm greeted his. Dry heaving, Salvos quickly backed away. Once more, he fell heavily to the ground, shocked by the corpse lying nonchalantly on his bridal couch just as Etta had lain there before. It was clearly Etta, decayed and desiccated, still in her wedding gown.
"What's the matter, dearest?" The sound that scorched his ears could hardly be called a voice, it was more like a hissing noise and he instantly and totally denied that it had come from the body at all. "Do you forget so easily; you did this to me." In horror, his gaze was drawn down to the dainty hands that so recently had held his; large, sharp wooden splinters stuck out from under fingernails stripped of color. Faint, dried crimson coated the wooden shards with ancient gore. "You did this to me, my love," the hideous croaking noise pervaded the entire room. "Soon it will be your turn!"
Salvos Angelos sat upright in the plush, purple silk decorated carriage that bore the standard of Constantinople. A bead of sweat trickled down from his saturated brow, stinging his eye, forcing him to blink it away. All was silent, except for the faint sounds of restless horses in the foreground. The slight orange-red flickering of firelight seeped through the violet curtains.
Grasping at the nearby ottoman, he picked up his handkerchief and generously wiped his wet forehead, running the last few moments over in his mind. It had been a while since his last nightmare; most of his dreams of his late wife were pleasant, but occasionally he would awake like this, not fully able to recall the horrors of his nightmare. This time, however, a few of the horrid images stuck with him, as if burned onto the retina. It seemed as though the dream was attempting to imply that he had buried his beloved prematurely, a thought that made him shudder outwardly.
"It's only a dream, Salvos," he told himself repeatedly for a few moments as he tried to push the terrible scene from his memory. He had more important things to focus on. The emperor himself had sent him to Trebizond on the eastern fringes of the Roman Empire to negotiate with the Turks, newly arrived from the wastes of central Asia. The Turks were strong but uncivilized and refused God's message in favor of the heathen Moslems. It was Salvos' task to see how reasonable they could be, or how much of a threat they posed to the empire.
"Have a nightmare?" his friend and traveling companion, Demetrios Kamateros, asked as he rolled over. Demetrios was two years Salvos' junior but every bit as sharp. The old friends had grown up together, although Demetrios was forced to act as assistant to be afforded the luxury of accompanying his friend. Demetrios took to the task with his usual aplomb.
"No thanks, I just had one," Salvos commented dryly.
"Funny," Demetrios chided. "You should give up this life of excess and become a traveling jester." Demetrios stood from his small bed of hay on the floor of the carriage and poured out some water in a fancy goblet which he held in front of his parched friend. "Down the hatch," he said, before drinking the water down himself, instead of giving it to Salvos.
"Some friend you are," Salvos retorted in a raspy voice.
"Oh, did you want some?" Demetrios answered. "You know where the goblets are."
"Well, why didn't I pour you something to drink?" Salvos admonished. "Would you like your breakfast in bed? I'd be ever so happy to accommodate you."
"Now that you mention it..." Demetrios answered, a sly grin upon his face before he took out a goblet and poured some water for his friend. "Here, Mr. Crabby needs something to keep him moist."
Salvos took the proffered drink but said no more. Thoughts of his upcoming negotiations fluttered through his mind and he absently peered through the break in the violet curtain. A horse brayed softly and several shadows passed by his line of sight, but silence continued to reign as he sat in contemplation. Without warning, a young pageboy crept inside with a sheathed sword and a small satchel clutched in his hands. "What are you-" Salvos couldn't finish because the boy put his hand over Salvos' mouth and put one finger to his lips.
"The knight in charge of the caravan told me to fetch provisions and give them to you, Master," the pageboy whispered. "He thinks there's trouble afoot."
"Nonsense," Salvos protested just as a calamitous noise began outside. Terrible screams and yelling in Greek and Arabic erupted almost at once. Daring to take a peek outside, Salvos flinched as a man running toward the carriage gasped, shouted in Egyptian Arabic and fell into the fire, an arrow sticking out of his back.
"Run, Master; out the back!" the pageboy cried, shoving the sword and satchel into his hands before jumping out the way he'd come in.
"I guess we'd better do as the youth says," Demetrios said. "Do you want me to carry that pig sticker?" Salvos immediately dropped the sword; he was no skilled fighter and there was at least a slim chance that without a weapon the attackers may only kidnap them. "I'll take that as a 'no' then?" Demetrios remarked.
"Now isn't the time for jokes, Demetrios," Salvos admonished. "We have to get out of here fast. If we can escape to the city we can get passage back to Constantinople or maybe make contact with the Turks again." Under Salvos' pillow was the royal seal which would prove his identity to anyone. Hastily, he threw the seal into the satchel and hurried out the back - which was in fact the front of the carriage - as the boy had suggested, Demetrios following closely behind.
Since they were on the opposite side as the fire, it was very dark and the two friends easily disappeared in the commotion. Pausing before slipping into the underbrush, Salvos turned to observe the scene, crouching low to avoid detection. He wasn't fluent in any of the barbarian languages, but he knew more than enough to distinguish one from another. What he had heard was most definitely Egyptian, but what were Egyptians doing so far north?
"This way, Salvos," his friend said, but the emissary barely heard him. His thoughts spun around the meaning - and reason - of the attack. Suddenly, he saw, but was not truly seeing what was happening all around; a vision of his late Etta returned, a worried look marring her pretty features. She seemed to be peering over his shoulder to his right, her eyes focused on some distant danger. A shrill cry behind him quickly drew his attention. Spinning to his right, Salvos spotted an Egyptian running toward him, his curved scimitar raised high above his head.
Paralyzed, Salvos could only watch the rapid approach of the heathen, until he was certain he was dead. At the last second, Demetrios stepped out from behind a tree, a sword in his hands. Swinging the weapon like a club, Demetrios struck the target in the midsection so forcefully that the sword seemed to disappear into the belly of the Egyptian. A look of stunned horror overtook the Egyptian's face as he fell to his knees.
"I thought this thing might come in handy," Demetrios commented, indicating the sword. He extended his hand.
"You went against my orders to leave that weapon," Salvos replied as he took Demetrios' hand and was soon on his feet.
"Well, what are you going to do, fire me?" Demetrios responded. Not waiting for an answer, he went on. "Now, before I was so rudely interrupted by your glazed eye look, we have to get out of here and this is the way," he said, pointing to the thick forest.
As they disappeared into the line of trees, Salvos asked, "Are you sure you know where we're going?"
"You shouldn't ask questions you don't want the answer to," Demetrios said.
"I was afraid of that."
