33 A.D.

by David McAfee

  The stone hallway stood empty in both directions. Doors were positioned on either side, which he assumed opened into other chambers similar to the one he’d just left. He heard men whimpering from behind several of them, but he was fare too weak to help them. He could barely stand and walk as it was.

  How do I get out of here? What was it the fat man said? The chamber is thirty feet down, about five miles from the city. If Taras could find his way to the surface, he should be able to find his way back to the city of Jerusalem with ease. He just had to get up there.

  With no better means of making a decision, he picked a random direction and started walking. The shakiness of his steps gradually stabilized as renewed hope lent him strength and purpose.

  * * *

  Behind the door to another cell, Gordian watched Taras leave with a sardonic smile. He clutched a piece of parchment to his chest as the wobbly soldier made his way down the hall. He hated to let Taras go, but Marcus had made it quite clear that he would not move to arrest Jesus without him. Of course, now that Taras knew all about Gordian’s involvement, letting him go meant Gordian could no longer show his face in Jerusalem, but once Jesus was dead, his brother would make good on his deal to turn him into a vampire. When that happened his standing in Jerusalem would no longer matter. Then he, Gordian, the former Second to the centurion, would kill Taras and Marcus both. Who would stop him from coming and going as he pleased, then? No one. Not even Pilate would be able to hurt him once his brother fulfilled his promise. Best of all, he would be able to spend time with his twin again.

  Go, Taras, he willed the departing legionary’s back. Find Marcus and repeat everything you heard. He looked down at the piece of parchment in his hand and smiled. Gordian dropped it and watched it flutter to the ground in a clumsy spiral. Then, when his former prisoner had gone far enough that he was certain he would not be overheard, he stepped out into the hallway and followed Taras. He needed to make sure the injured legionary left the dungeons alive; his revised plan depended on it. As he passed through the halls, Gordian went over his new plan in his mind, turning it over and examining it from all angles, checking for any weaknesses. His smile broadened. He could not find a flaw.

  * * *

  In the now empty cell, the piece of paper lay face up on the floor. If anyone had been in the room, they would have been able to read the large words scrawled across it: Octavius, the paper read, Call me Jesus, and do the opposite of what I tell you.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Taras followed the tunnel through a seemingly endless series of chambers before it finally ended in a stairway. Remembering what the fat man said about his cell being thirty feet down, he climbed the stairs, gritting his teeth with each step, and was relieved to see a small room at the top. A door stood closed in the far wall of the room, outlined by bright light. Taras hoped it meant the door led outside; the light seemed bright enough. But in his pain-fogged state, it could just as easily be another torchlit chamber like the one he’d just escaped. Still, he didn't have much choice. He could either go forward into the unknown, or backward to the fat man’s waiting hands. He limped over and pushed the door open.

  Taras stumbled out into the bright midday sun. He shielded his eyes with his left hand and steadied himself against the door with his right while his vision adjusted to the sudden wall of painful sunlight. After a while his eyes stopped burning and he could see. He lowered his hand and took a look around.

  Scrubland surrounded him in every direction. Small bushes crawled over low, rolling hills, while fields of patchy, tough grass waved in the soft breeze. Acacia trees dotted the landscape, their sinister outlines guarding the entrance to the dark passages he’d just left behind. A handful of wild olive trees could be seen, as well, their blossoms just beginning to flower in the spring air. Here and there, patches of pale green brush poked up from the rocky ground, battling the grass for sunlight and moisture. On the horizon, tall gray mountains pointed accusingly into the sky as though they, too, longed for escape. Standing in the open air, sweet and untainted by sweat or blood, Taras felt his heart race. He was free.

  He took a few steps away from the door and almost fell, but caught himself on the trunk of a nearby acacia. A low hanging branch poked its thorns into his arm, but he didn’t notice. He squinted and looked toward the horizon, but he could not see the walls of the city. He recalled the fat man saying they were about five miles east of Jerusalem.

  Taras shoved his body off the acacia with a grunt of pain and put the gray mountains at his back. Facing west, he scanned the horizon, but he could not see the city. Taras looked to the sky, trying to gauge the time of day by the position of the sun, then he set off, hoping he would live long enough to make his way to the Damascus Gate. If he had his bearings correct, the road to the city must be nearby, but he thought better of searching for it. Gordian – and probably Jesus – would be looking for him soon enough. No sense making it easier for them by being out in the open. Let them track him through the brush.

  He did all right for a while, but a long night of hunger, thirst, and pain soon overwhelmed him. Before Taras had walked more than two miles he fell face first in the dirt. He picked himself up and staggered a few more steps toward his goal before falling a second time. A small cloud of dust rose up to choke him, and he coughed, sending spasms of pain through his ruined body. Three miles to go. He would never make it. He raised his head and squinted toward the horizon. There, barely visible over the low hills and scattered trees, was the Damascus Gate. He’d found it, but was too weak to reach it.

  Taras lay panting on the ground, eyeing the stone walls of the city through the sparse patches of grass and brush. The city was so close. A trivial stroll on a normal day, but far beyond his reach in his present state. He tried to yell for help, but his dry throat could only manufacture a hoarse croak. His muscles and joints felt like they were on fire, and it was only a matter of time before Gordian or another of Jesus's cronies found him.

  “Help… me,” he rasped. His voice was not even loud enough to scare a field mouse that hopped into view beside him. Gods, he needed a drink! “Help…”

  It was no use. He was too far away from the wall; no one would hear him. Taras laid his head in the earth and waited for death, certain it would be along shortly.

  "Sorry, Marcus," he whispered.

  * * *

  Epidius was a new recruit, a mere three months into his time of service, but eager to do his part to serve his country. Unfortunately for men new to the Roman Legion, doing one’s part often meant running errands for older soldiers who’d been there far longer. This happened most often when the task in question included something unpleasant such as night duty, or helping in the kitchens, or even standing outside in the sun for hours on end, as it did today. Earlier that morning, an older soldier handed him a bag of coins and gave him the name and description of a man, then ordered him to meet the man on a trail outside the city. Gavros, the soldier who passed the job to him, was a large, muscular brute of a Roman. The smaller and woefully outranked Epidius hadn’t had much choice.

  Now he muttered curses as he stood in the midday heat several miles outside the city. His instructions were to wait for the man on a small path well off the main road. He recalled Gavros’ words: Take this bag and leave the city through the Damascus Gate. A mile outside the city, look for a path that branches off to the left. Follow it to a clump of bushes next to a big rock with a drawing of an asp on it and wait there for a mousy little man, smaller than you, with dark curly hair and brown eyes. He will be dressed in simple traveler’s clothes, and he will be looking for you.

  Then the bastard pushed Epidius out of the room. The raucous laughter of every soldier in the room followed him as he was shoved through the door like a rejected suitor. His face flushed, but there was nothing he could do about it; Gavros outranked him by several tiers. So he consoled himself my mumbling obscenities about the man who’d sent him outside. Confounded, mule headed son of a whore. How a
m I supposed to know who I am looking for?

  What Gavros failed to mention was the description he’d given could have fit any of a hundred thousand travelers in Israel. Dark curly hair and brown eyes? To Epidius, the Jews all looked alike. How was he supposed to know one from another? I’ll probably be out here all day waiting. And for what? To give away a pittance!

  Epidius had looked inside the bag shortly after having the job thrust on him. It contained silver. While he didn’t make a physical count, he estimated the amount at somewhere between twenty five and thirty five pieces. Not a life altering sum, to be sure, but enough for a few glasses of ale and an interesting night in certain sections of the New City. He’d much rather pocket the silver and tell the Jew to go to the Abyss, or wherever it was they believed they went when they died. Epidius could never remember the silly customs of these people.

  Only one god. Ha! As if a single god could have created the world or would have the time to run it. Blasphemy! Everyone knew Jupiter reigned in the heavens with his consort and a host of lesser deities. Scores of them watched over the world of Men, guiding or destroying them as whim demanded. Together, the gods had forged the earth and brought the seasons to the world so Man could live there. The idea that only one god sat in attendance over the universe seemed ludicrous. How would anything get done with only one Supreme Being to do it all? Crazy Jews!

  Still, as much as Epidius would like to take the money and leave, he knew enough of what the military did to thieves to not even dream of taking a single piece of silver from the bag. Odds were good he’d not live long enough to spend it. Or if he did, he would wish for death long before he received it. No, better to just find the man, give him his silver, and be done with it.

  He sighed and stared out into the field. He’d found the path and the rock with the asp painted on its side with no trouble, and now he had nothing to do but wait. He sat on the rock, partially shaded from the midday sun by an acacia tree, and settled in for the duration. He hoped the fellow would be along soon.

  He kicked at a loose rock and swore under his breath, wishing he were stationed in Carthage, or perhaps Caesarea, instead of this gods-forsaken place. Judea was, without dout, the lowest point of the Roman Empire. The absolute worst of the provinces. Jerusalem. Pah! He would rather be in Athens than here.

  After a time he grew bored, and decided to count the silver, after all. Thirty pieces. All Roman mint. Tiberius's profile stared off to the right as though lost in thought. Epidius thought he looked very wise on the coin, even if he didn’t deserve to be Caesar. But then, what was the opinion of a lowly legionary worth? Much less than the silver in his hand, to be sure. He spat at the ground, cursing the Jews, Gavros, Tiberius, and just about anything else he could think of to blame for his being stuck out in the wilting sun waiting on some man he didn’t even want to see. What was his name again? Jadas? Jipsus? Something like that. How the hell should I know? I should just give this money to the first Jew I see. Then I could—

  Epidius stopped short as he heard a noise from somewhere to his right. It sounded like a crow. He peered through the brush and, sure enough, he saw a couple of the black feathered birds bouncing around something in the dirt. Probably a dead animal. He stood and headed toward them, thinking to at least relieve his boredom for a short while by finding out what kind of animal it was. When he saw one of the birds come away with a shiny bauble, he realized the carcass was probably human. The thought made his heart beat faster.

  It was probably just some drunkard who wandered too far from the walls and ended up prey for roving bandits. But a dead body out here in the scrubland, far away from the city walls, would certainly give him a good excuse to abandon his wait and go back to town. Not even the centurion would discipline him for breaking orders in such an instance.

  The birds took flight as he approached, and Epidius got a good look at the body. He realized with a shock he’d been mistaken. That’s no Jew! Epidius had only been in Jerusalem a short time, but he’d seen the man before. He recognized the large, muscular frame, blond hair, and northern features of a soldier from his own barracks.

  “Taras!” he yelled, his boredom forgotten. “Taras, can you hear me?” He knelt in the dirt next to the body and put his hand in front of the fallen man’s mouth, checking for breath. It was there, but very faint. He’s alive!

  Epidius stood and examined Taras as best he could. The crows had gotten a few bites on him. Here and there were pocks of broken flesh, oozing lazy crimson in the noonday sun. But the carrion birds hadn’t been at him long enough to do serious damage.

  He knelt back down, grasping the unconscious legionary’s chin in one hand and reaching for his waterskin with the other. He thumbed the top off the skin and held Taras's face up to the lip. “Drink this.”

  At first, the precious liquid dribbled from the dry, cracked lips to pool in the dirt. Epidius pinched Taras's nostrils closed and tried again. After perhaps thirty seconds, Taras sputtered and gulped in air. Epidius let go the man’s nose and poured water into his mouth. This time the fallen legionary drank greedily, gulping as much of the fluid as Epidius would allow, which wasn’t much.

  “Slow down, you’ll get a cramp.” He looked around and saw there was still no sign of the Jew he was supposed to meet. Then he looked back at Taras, who still hadn’t opened his eyes. To the Abyss with Gravos and his silver. “I have to get you back to the barracks,” he said.

  Taras mumbled something, but Epidius couldn’t make it out. He leaned in, placing his ear right next to Taras's mouth. “What, Taras? What did you say?”

  “Marcus…” Taras whispered. “Must tell Marcus… Jesus.” He broke off in a fit of coughing.

  “Easy, Taras,” Epidius said. “Save your breath. I’ll get you to Marcus.” He reached for Taras's wrist, realizing for the first time how raw and stripped the skin appeared. Epidius had been around the military long enough to know what that meant; someone bound him. Someone had bound a Roman soldier’s hands. Probably left him out here to die, too. Zealots, most likely. Blast those bastards. Why couldn’t they just accept the fact that Israel was part of the Roman Empire now? He grasped Taras's forearm, careful not to rub the injured wrists, and hauled the body over his shoulders so the top half hung over Epidius's right shoulder, and the bottom half over his left. He secured his burden by putting both arms behind him and over Taras's back.

  “Oof! You’re heavy.” He looked in the direction of the Damascus Gate, partially obscured from view by low hills and scattered trees. He wasn’t sure if he could make it, but he intended to try.

  He hadn’t gone fifty yards when he realized that, unless the guards at the gate saw him and came to his aid, he would not be able to carry his fallen comrade the entire way. He stumbled more than once, and each time he did Taras groaned. He hoped he could at least get close enough to attract some assistance, but first he needed to get off this path and out onto the main road. Just a short walk, he thought. I can do this.

  He took a deep breath and forced his feet into motion, one in front of the other. He didn’t stop to catch his breath, and he didn’t slow his pace. If Taras was to have any chance at all, Epidius needed to get to the infirmary as soon as possible. He half-walked, half- jogged through the scraggly brush for what seemed like an hour, but finally emerged onto the road with his burden. He started walking toward the city, now only a mile distant, but was stopped by a voice from behind, coming from the direction of the path.

  “Do you need some help?” The voice asked.

  He turned to see a gangly man with olive skin and short, curly black hair standing about twenty feet behind him. He’d been making so much noise carrying Taras he hadn’t heard the stranger approach. The man’s thick accent, as well as his features, clearly marked him as a Jew. Probably one of the ones who did this to Taras. Well, you aren’t going to finish the job while I am around. “No, I don’t,” He said curtly. “Leave us.”

  “But I just thought you might… you looked like you were hav
ing trouble. Is... is he dead?”

  The man’s face twisted in anguish, and he wrung his hands nervously at his waist. He looked guilty. Guilty and sad, as though he’d just done something terribly wrong and the gravity of it was just starting to catch up to him. Epidius wanted no help from such a man. The fool was fortunate Epidius hadn’t arrested him yet. He could do it, too. He wouldn’t even need a reason; he could make up a charge and no one would question it, not with all the recent zealot activity in the city. Luckily for the newcomer, Epidius had bigger problems.

  “I said be gone, Jew. I don’t need help from the likes of you.”

  The man’s face reddened, and for a moment Epidius thought he was going to offer a stinging retort, but he didn’t. Instead he dropped his gaze to his shoes.

  “Very well,” he said sadly, “I guess no one needs my help. I'm just useless. That’s me. Useless Judas.” He turned to walk away.

  Judas? Why does that name sound familiar? Epidius searched his memory for a moment, and then it hit him. Judas, he thought. The silver!

  “Wait,” he called. “Judas Iscariot?”

  “Yes.” Judas turned to face him. “That’s me.”

  “I have something for you.” Epidius laid Taras gently back onto the ground, grateful for the respite. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the bag of silver, which he tossed to Judas. “From the Sanhedrin,” he said, remembering Gavros’ instructions. “You are to come to them after sundown tomorrow.”

  Judas watched, wide-eyed, as the small bag flew through the air. He made no attempt to catch it as it sailed toward him and landed on the ground by at his feet with a metallic clink, spilling silver pieces in the dirt and on his sandals. Judas’s face tightened. He didn’t look like a man who’d just been given thirty silver pieces; he looked horrified. He stared at the coins lying on the ground with an expression of fear and loathing. Then, with a sigh, Judas bent over to pick up the money. The tears in the man’s eyes surprised the legionary.