The Last Roman: Book One: Exile

by B. K. Greenwood

  The priest met his gaze but could not hold it. He started licking his lips again, then turned toward one of his companions. He leaned over, whispering something into his ear, and smirked in satisfaction as the young man scurried off.

  Marcus watched as the man disappeared into the crowd and thought; well, I'm certainly not going to break his legs now.

  His eyes dropped to the spear. The shaft was nicked in a dozen places; the wood had long ago lost its grainy hue. Near the blade, the surface was stained a dark brown from blood, mud, or both. The blade was six inches long, its dull gray surface pitted and worn. But the meticulously honed edge gleamed in the fading light. Marcus grasped the thick shaft near the middle, balancing it as he stepped toward the last prisoner.

  Marcus stopped at the foot of the cross, his attention drawn to a dozen mourners huddled just beyond the guards. Most of the group were weeping, unable to look at the man hanging on the cross. But one glared back at him, her piercing green eyes filled with hatred.

  He returned to the task at hand and studied the bloody torso, choosing not to look up at the prisoner's face. Marcus leaned forward, plunging the spear between two ribs. The blade disappeared into the flesh, sliding toward his unseen heart. As Marcus pulled the weapon free, a mixture of blood and fluid flowed down the shaft and onto his hand. Gasping, Marcus dropped the spear and buckled to the ground.

  The sky darkened as if the hand of one of the gods had reached down and blotted out the sun. The desert flowers sagged and exhaled, and a soft breeze whispered across the rocky mount. As the ground shook, a deep, narrow fissure split the barren earth and crept toward the distant city walls.

  The stunned crowd peered at the fading sky, then down at the jagged crevice. Most fled toward the city, while others fell to their knees, tearing at their clothes as they wailed. A few stared at the slumped body of Jesus and wept.

  The centurion knelt beside Marcus and looked up at the Galilean.

  "Maybe he was the son of their god."

  Marcus was awake, but he could not move. His eyes fixed on the angry sky and a cluster of shimmering raindrops. The raindrops grew more prominent as they descended, only to assume the shape of two winged figures. They hovered just above the cross and looked down on the fallen Roman. They seemed surprised when he met their gaze, and they stared back at him for what seemed an eternity before turning their attention to the dead Galilean. The two reached down and lifted what looked like a spirit from the sagging body. As they disappeared into the approaching night, the storm unleashed its fury.

  Modern Day

  Boston

  Marcus bolted upright, the bedsheet sticking to his sweat-covered chest. He drew a deep breath and looked down at his hands, half expecting them to be covered in blood. He looked over at a pill bottle sitting on the nearby nightstand. Marcus debated whether to reach for it when his cell phone buzzed. He glanced at the clock and picked up the phone but didn't recognize the foreign number.

  He accepted the call. "Yeah?"

  "Marcus?"

  "Yes…who's this?"

  "Julien Courbet, Interpol. We chatted a few months ago."

  "I don't remember."

  "You worked with my boss, Naomi."

  "Naomi? Oh, yeah, I remember her."

  "Well, we have an update for you."

  It piqued his interest. "Really? I wasn't expecting any help from Interpol."

  "Naomi appreciated your support with the ambassador's daughter and wanted to return the favor."

  "What do you have?"

  "We found a body, a young woman, here in Paris. Several elements of the crime matched the case files you sent. Based on the security tape, we think it's the man you're looking for. I sent a file to your email."

  "Thanks, I'll check it out."

  "Just to be clear, this conversation never happened."

  The agent hung up without waiting for a response.

  Marcus yawned and rubbed his hand through his disheveled hair, then grabbed a pack of cigarettes from the nightstand. Lighting one up, he took a long pull and moved to a dresser near the window, stopping to pour himself a glass of scotch. He sat at the nearby desk, took a sip of his drink, and picked up his iPad to check his email. He found one from an unknown Gmail account, opened the attachment, and scanned through crime scene photos until he reached a surveillance photo.

  Levi was staring right into the camera.

  Marcus took a deep breath, swallowed the rest of his scotch, and looked back at the half-empty bottle. He decided to shower instead. Entering the bathroom, he undressed and relieved himself, a cigarette dangling from his lip. The heavy odor of stale scotch drifted up from the bowl. He took one last puff, dropped the cigarette and flushed. As he waited for the water to warm up, he again ran his finger over the scar on his ribcage and shook his head. Although he had been cut a thousand times, this was the only wound that would not fade. He should have died on that miserable field, but he had not. And two-thousand years later, he still did not know why.

  He stepped into the shower and prepared himself to face another day.

  After showering, Marcus grabbed some coffee from the kitchen and headed to the garage. A black SUV was parked in the closest space, and next to it was a dark gray BMW. Marcus made his way to a door at the back of the garage. Inside was a well-stocked workshop with a variety of metal and woodworking tools. He continued through another door into a small armory. Here, a dark-suited man stood at a table, loading supplies into a duffle bag. Various pieces of tactical equipment and automatic weapons covered the walls of the room. Several spaces were empty, accounting for the contents of the bag.

  "How much ammo did you pack?" Marcus looked at the bulging bag.

  "For you? Never enough."

  Marcus could not help but smile whenever Cormac said the word never, car or fork. He could drag Cormac round the world, but he would never drag the Boston accent from the older man. Nor would he want to.

  Cormac was about 5'7", but you could tell by the way his shoulders slumped he used to be taller. He had a wiry frame, and his head was bald and shiny. In thirty years, Marcus had never seen the man with hair, but Cormac's face was nearly wrinkle-free, a surprise given his age. His nose was flat, with a single bump in the middle, a memento from his years in the boxing ring. His eyes were foam green and seemed to hint they were once much brighter. He lifted a magazine and inspected it before slipping it into the bag. Marcus could see his bright white knuckles, a visual reminder of the painful arthritis that was now ravaging his weathered body.

  Marcus leaned forward, placing both hands on the stainless-steel table. "Are you sure she's ready?"

  "What? Sam?" Cormac shoved two iPhone boxes into the bag. "We've talked about this. She's been out a dozen times, and she saved your ass in London—lord knows you were useless."

  "Both my legs were broken."

  "Yeah, like I said, fuckin' useless."

  "How did you become a priest? You swear like a sailor."

  "Hey!" Cormac pointed a crooked finger at Marcus. "I don't swear during mass or around kids or widows."

  Marcus shook his head and crossed his arms.

  "Look," Cormac shoved another couple of magazines into the bag, "she's my niece, and I wouldn't let her go if she weren't ready. She's tough as nails and smarter than the both of us put together. Plus, she can do all that tech stuff you refuse to learn."

  "You're right, but she hasn't been there when…" His voice trailed off.

  "What? When you get stinking drunk? Your metabolism is so crazy, it never lasts."

  "No." Marcus glared at him. "You know that's not what I'm talking about."

  "Ah, the dying thing. No, she hasn't." He zipped up the bag and looked Marcus in the eyes. "I went over everything. She knows what to do if you come back, you know, all fucked up."

  "Are you sure? It can be pretty ugly."

  "I'm sure." He pushed the bag toward Marcus. "I don't carry this shit anymore."

  Marcus picked it up and slung it
over his shoulder.

  "You want me to call Father Pierre in Paris?"

  "Nah," Marcus shook his head. "Let's do this one off the books."

  "Something bothering you?"

  "Just a feeling. I don't trust the new Cardinal."

  "You and me both. That guy is wicked fuckin' corrupt."

  "And a dick."

  "Yeah, that too." Cormac met him near the end of the table, "So, what's the plan?"

  "Go to Paris, stake out the club. Levi is a creature of habit. He'll strike again."

  "And then what? You gonna kill that bastard?"

  "I need him to find Thomas."

  "You shoulda killed that bastard years ago."

  "I know, I know." Marcus shook his head as he moved toward the door. "You get some breakfast. We'll keep you posted."

  "Will do."

  Marcus sat staring out the window of the chartered jet, holding his second glass of scotch. The dull gray clouds below were growing brighter by the minute. As he took another sip, Sam came out of the cockpit and stopped in the galley to grab a bottle of water.

  "We should be in Paris by early evening." She sat across from him, twisting the top off and taking a drink. "Hopefully, make it to the club by midnight."

  Marcus nodded and took another swig. Samantha, or Sam, was the same height as her uncle now that he had shrunk in stature. But she got her looks from her mother, who was French. Short, jet-black hair, piercing brown eyes, and sharp, clean features that would not be described as beautiful, but most men would find her attractive. She was smart, like her mother, but her stubbornness came from her father's family.

  Sam's mother and father were killed in a car accident when she was eight years old. She had no other family, so she came to live with her uncle, Cormac. Which meant she also lived with Marcus. Cormac had done his best to raise her, but he was not always up to the task. Luckily, they had found a wonderful nanny to help. Somehow, they got Sam through her teens and graduated from high school. There may have been a boyfriend or two who received unexpected visits from Cormac or Marcus, and on one occasion both, but it all worked out. She went to Carnegie Mellon and studied pre-med, then switched to cybersecurity, with a minor in poetry, which Marcus never understood. Cormac said it helped her write code. Marcus was skeptical.

  Marcus had never planned for her to take over for Cormac, but the longer he lived, the more he realized that life never goes as planned. They had always tried to shield her from their line of work, but she was as bright as she was nosy. By the time Sam was 14, there were few secrets. It was amazing that she finished high school or college, as she was constantly butting into their clandestine activities. Sam was managing missions remotely by 17. By 21, she was going along.

  "So…" Sam settled into her seat and took a sip from her bottle. She looked up. "I asked my uncle, but he said I needed to talk to you. That it should come from you."

  "And what is that?"

  "Everything." She took a deep breath. "Now that I'm fully on board, I think I need to know everything."

  He grimaced, then took another swig. "Okay, fair. Fire away."

  "The immortality thing. If you get killed, you come back three days later."

  "Yes."

  "But others don't? Like this guy we are chasing, Levi. If you kill him, he stays dead? Why?"

  "I'm not sure why, but there's a difference." He set down his glass. "Anyone who Christ healed was transformed. Lepers, the blind, the dead. They stopped aging, they don't get sick, and they heal almost immediately. They're also stronger and faster than normal people."

  "But they can be killed?"

  "Yes, but it's pretty tough to do. It's got to be traumatic. Decapitation, falling from a tall building, an explosion. If they survive, even for a moment, their body will begin to heal."

  "How many are there?"

  "I don't know. I wasn't with him those three years. I would guess dozens, maybe more."

  "And how many are left?"

  "Four, that I know of. Not including Thomas or myself."

  "Because you guys are different?"

  "Yes, we weren't healed. I'm the one that put the spear into Christ's side."

  "And that transformed you?" She frowned.

  "Yes, but I didn't know. Several years later, I was killed in Gaul. I resurrected after three days, and I haven't aged since. I've died more times than I care to count, but I always come back."

  "So, you're like a super immortal."

  "I guess if you want to put it that way."

  "Well, that makes it sound cooler." She shifted in her chair. "Why do you think you come back?"

  "I don't know. Perhaps it's my punishment for taking part in the crucifixion?" He shrugged. "Or maybe they haven't decided where I'm supposed to go."

  "You're exiled."

  Marcus paused, a curious look on his face. He bit his lip, then said, "You're right. I never thought of it that way."

  "And Thomas?"

  There was a long pause, and it was as if Marcus did not hear the question. Then he nodded. "He's in the same situation. He was one of the twelve disciples, but his faith wavered."

  "Doubting Thomas."

  "That's him. And he's stuck here, just like me."

  "So, what is he up to?"

  "I don't know. But Levi will tell us what he knows before I kill him."

  There was little traffic as they drove through the bright heart of Paris. Marcus said nothing as they crossed the Seine and pulled into a parking spot across from Notre Dame Cathedral. It was drizzling as Marcus shifted the car into park.

  "Are you meeting someone?" Sam asked.

  "No, not really."

  "Not really? What does that mean?"

  "It means I don't want to talk about it," Marcus said as he opened the door but paused, his eyes focused on the wet pavement. The rain dripped into the car. "I'm sorry…I didn't sleep on the flight. I'm just tired. I'll be back in a few minutes, and we can go to the club."

  Before Sam could reply, Marcus closed the door and disappeared into the darkness.

  He pulled his trench coat tight and moved into the shadows. High above, spotlights bathed the damaged cathedral in a steady, rapturous glow. The contrast made the darkness seem even darker. He slipped through the trees, following the path to a walkway overlooking the Seine. As he approached a short wall, Marcus could hear, and then see, one of the restaurant boats gliding up the river. A dozen photograph flashes erupted along its length as it passed the cathedral. Marcus turned his back to the boat and continued down the trail, over the Archbishop's Bridge and under several streetlights that tried and failed to hold back the deepening night.

  By the time Marcus reached the tip of the island, the drizzle had increased to a steady downpour. He sought and found a boulder near the water's edge. Marcus ignored the chilling rain, sat down, and let his gaze settle on the far bank as he drifted into the past. The city lights faded into the darkness.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Without a family, man, alone in the world,

  trembles with the cold.

  —Andre Maurois

  Fall 37 A.D.

  Gaul

  Marcus was alive.

  He wondered why, but he had more important issues. Something heavy pressed down on his entire body. He tried to take in a breath, but his mouth and nose filled up with dirt. As he choked and coughed, his anxiety intensified. His entire body squirmed, his hands clawing at the loose soil. He seemed to make some progress, but the exertion only made the lack of air more pronounced. He tried not to take another breath, but he was light-headed and seconds from passing out. As his body weakened, he felt his hand punch through the soil and into the open air beyond. But it was too late.

  Or was it? Someone grabbed his hand and pulled him from the earth. His head broke the surface and he emptied his bursting lungs, dirt flying from his mouth and nose. Marcus wiped his face, squinting against the sunlight as he looked around for the hand that helped him.

  Nicodemus was kneeling
beside him, a smile on his weathered face.

  "Welcome back."

  Marcus tried to reply, but his throat was too dry. Nodding, he looked down and realized his lower body was still buried in the dark, soggy earth. He wiggled his legs back and forth, and with help, squirmed free.

  His servant handed him a cloth to wipe his face, and then a water skin. Marcus took a short pull, swishing the water around in his mouth to clear the dirt. He spat it out, and then took a long drink, the cool water burning like fire as it flowed down his parched throat.

  "Can you stand?" Nicodemus asked.

  "I think so." Marcus stood on wobbly legs, his eyes shifting to the surrounding field. That's when it hit him.

  The stench of death. A stench that lingered for days after a battle. A stench that drew dozens of crows and vultures to pick at the bloated corpses. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of bodies scattered across the field. All of them were barbarians, as the Romans had already gathered their dead.

  "What happened?" Marcus pulled his gaze from the field.

  "Not here. The barbarians could come back. We need to leave." Nicodemus's tone had changed. He no longer talked like a servant.

  He handed Marcus a tunic and sandals.

  "Where's my legion?" Marcus slipped the tunic over his head.

  "Gone." Nicodemus picked up a small bag and walked away. "Left yesterday."

  Marcus stumbled after him, the two walking around the abandoned Roman camp and into the forest beyond. Nicodemus led them to a pair of horses tied to a tree. He secured the bag to one, then moved to help Marcus up into the saddle of the other.

  Within minutes, they were making their way back along the road they had traveled a week earlier when chasing the war party. As they rode side by side, Marcus looked over at his companion.

  "What happened?"

  "How much do you remember?" Nicodemus glanced over at him.

  "The barbarian stabbed me. I killed him. Then it gets fuzzy."