by David McAfee
Taras's eyes closed, and before a full minute passed he was in a deep slumber, enhanced to no small degree by the psalm Theron cast on him. When the legionary was fully asleep, Theron opened his mouth wide, revealing his razor sharp fangs. His bite, if he didn’t use it to kill, would actually increase the human’s healing abilities. The vampire’s bite was the first step to creating a new vampire. The magic that kept him alive would seep into the human’s body and make him stronger and faster to heal. It wasn’t permanent. If nothing else happened to sustain the transformation the effects would wear off in about a month. But it would do for now. After all, Theron only needed one day.
He sank his teeth into Taras's neck, puncturing the artery just below the surface of the skin. The taste of blood sent a shiver through his body, and he couldn’t stifle a moan. Theron needed blood. He needed a lot of it, in fact. His ordeal with Jesus had left him weak and drained, and his manipulation of Taras's mind had weakened him further. Only blood could heal and replenish him.
Despite the ache in his chest, Theron drank only a little. He needed Taras alive, and the man would need his blood and his strength for the day to come. Also, Theron’s time ran thin, and he couldn’t stay much longer. Already the zealot “escape” had been thwarted, and the guards were on their way back to their posts. He left Taras sleeping in peace and went out into the halls, where he soon learned the results of his plan.
The roused legionaries managed to kill one of the escapees and recapture three others, but one of the prisoners escaped. A baker named Matthew who’d just come to the city last week. He’d been scheduled for execution tomorrow, but now he might never be found. During the escape attempt the fleeing zealots killed over a dozen soldiers. One zealot in particular, a burly, hard featured man known as Barabbas, had put his sword through no less than five. Theron thought he recognized the name as the fellow he’d handed the sword back in the dungeon, but he couldn’t be sure. His memory of those first few moments after his encounter with Jesus was cloudy.
Barabbas still lived, but Theron had a feeling the man would soon wish he didn’t. Roman legionaries could make death seem a true mercy when they wanted; it was one of the qualities Theron’s people most admired about them.
He left the barracks somewhat weak, but in a good humor, confident he’d set things right at last. Marcus was dead, Jesus soon would be, and Taras would help him see to it. Taras's words came to him as he walked away. I will make certain Jesus pays for his crimes, if it is the last thing I do in this life.
Taras could have no idea his proclamation would prove more prophetic than he imagined. The man was a loose end, after all. He would see to Taras's death personally tomorrow night. But for now he needed rest. He didn’t wish to go back to the Halls; doing so opened up the possibility of running across a Council member, which meant he might have to take time to explain his plan. The Council would not approve, especially since it relied on letting Taras – who knew the location of the Gatehouse in Jerusalem and had even seen a Lost One – live for another day. They would want him to go back and kill the legionary right away, but Theron had other ideas. Taras still had a job to do.
Rather than face a debate and risk the disapproval of his elders, Theron elected to find another place to spend the day, which presented its own unique challenge. Where could he go? The tunnels below the city were the obvious choice because they were cool and sheltered from the sun, and Theron knew most of the nooks and crannies very well. Of course, Theron was not the only one who knew about them; the zealots used them regularly. However, that could work to his advantage.
After all, he still needed blood.
Chapter Twenty Four
Taras woke about an hour before dawn, his muscles sore from the long night on the hard stone bench of the infirmary. The soldiers who’d removed the bodies of Justus and Epidius, not knowing what else to do, had wrapped him in clean white blankets and left him alone, perhaps afraid to make things worse. Taras didn’t know. His memory of the previous night was vague.
He grit his teeth together and braced himself for the pain, but it didn’t come. Curious, he lifted his right arm and held it in front of his face, expecting to feel a sharp jolt in his elbow where the fat man stretched his tendons near to breaking. But there was no pain. And his elbow, far from the angry red, swollen mass of tissue he remembered from the day before, now looked normal and healthy. He closed his eyes, not quite willing to believe what they showed him. He counted to ten and opened them again, positive the view would be different. But nothing had changed. The tendons in his elbow were not stretched and swollen, his hand didn’t tremble, and best of all, nothing hurt.
The previous twenty four hours were an eternity of suffering and agony. He vividly recalled the feeling of his joints popping out of place as the fat man pulled the lever, causing the two main sections of the rack to stretch apart. He shivered at the remembered fear and terror of knowing he would die there, his body literally torn in two. But the pain was gone; no trace of it remained to hinder him. Only the memory of the experience lingered to cause him distress.
But the torturer from the chamber wasn’t the only stranger crowding Taras's memory.
Ephraim, he thought, remembering the man who healed his wounds. He’d claimed the body buried in Ephraim’s backyard was another victim of the butcher Malachi. Taras believed him, though something nagged at the back of his mind. He felt he was forgetting something, but try as he might he couldn’t grasp it. Like a dust mote in a sunbeam, it fluttered away any time his hand got too close. After a few minutes spent trying to capture the escaping thought, he gave up. It wasn’t important, anyway. Not nearly as significant as the lack of pain in his limbs.
Ephraim had kept his promise; Taras felt whole and well. He laughed, giddy as a child with a new toy. It was true. The man had healed him. Completely. He’d saved Taras from a horrible, slow death. In fact, Taras realized with growing wonder, he’d never felt better in his entire life. He jumped out of bed and put his arms and legs through some exercises, marveling at how much stronger and faster his body felt now than ever before. It felt like someone else’s body. A gift from Ephraim, perhaps. A stronger, better version of his old self to help with his task.
He stopped. His expression hardened as he remembered more of the previous night’s encounter. This gift had a price, and now Taras must fulfill his part of the agreement. Jesus had to die. Today.
He ran to the armory and grabbed a uniform and a sword. The wide-eyed quartermaster in charge of provisions gave them to him without argument, amazed by his seemingly miraculous recovery. Taras thanked the man and left, headed for the kitchens, led by his grumbling belly. He would stop and grab some bread before he left the barracks. From there he would go and see the Prefect. Somehow, he would make certain Pilate didn’t free Jesus.
After he spoke to Pilate and ensured Jesus's execution he would go visit Mary. Damned if it was daytime and damned if Abraham didn’t like it. The last few days had taken him too close to death for his liking, and he would not waste any more time worrying about what Abraham might do. He would be with Mary, and the old man would not stop him. Not anymore. To the Abyss with Jewish law; tonight he would he would ask her to marry him, and tomorrow he and Mary would be on the road to Rome. All this and much more he decided on his way to see the Prefect.
But Taras never got a chance to talk to him. The sun was just peeking over the horizon when he arrived at Pilate’s house to find a dozen heavily armed legionaries standing in a semicircle around the Prefect’s door. They stood just outside the huge dwelling, barring the area in front of the house and keeping it clear from the many passers-by. Taras knew a few of the men, and noted that Pilate had chosen his guards well. The twelve legionaries standing around his front entryway were some of the best soldiers in Jerusalem. Taras walked up to one of them and asked to see Pilate.
“The Prefect isn’t seeing anyone this morning,” the soldier said, nodding his head to the street in a clear indication he was
not interested in conversation.
“Why not?” Taras asked.
“Didn’t you hear? Marcus the centurion is dead. A patrol along the road to the Gardens of Gethsemane found his body this morning. Someone cut off his head not far from the Damascus Gate. Fabian’s body was also found, stabbed through the chest. Every man in the patrol that arrested Jesus last night said Marcus, Fabian, and Hirrus broke off from the main group and never rejoined them. Hirrus has not been found, and Pilate is furious. Because of this, and also the murder of the dungeon guard last night and subsequent escape of the zealot prisoners, he now believes Hirrus is a traitor to Rome. He also suspects there are others. Thus he will not allow anyone inside until the treacherous dog is found and interrogated, as well as any of his comrades.”
Taras recalled Ephraim telling him about Marcus's death the night before, but he wanted to make sure he had his story straight.
“Marcus and Fabian? When? How did they die?”
“Last night, not long after they arrested Jesus. They must have been ambushed somewhere between the Gardens of Gethsemane and the Damascus Gate. Hirrus must have arranged for the three of them to become separated from the main group.”
“So Hirrus is a zealot? Are you sure?”
“It seems likely, don’t you think? In any case, Pilate believes it. He ordered his house sealed the moment he heard the news.”
Something about it didn't make sense, though. "I can understand why they would want to kill Marcus," Taras said, "but Filius? why Filius? What was he to the zealots?"
The guard shrugged. "Wrong place, wrong time."
Taras thought about Marcus, noble Marcus, who’d always been the image of a good leader and friend, lying headless in the street. Just like his brother. He wondered if anyone had found footprints on Marcus's cheek, as well. Probably. The thought boiled in his mind, and heat spread all over his body, pushing sweat from his pores and causing his hands to shake. He longed to hit something, or someone. Anything at all would be better than this helpless frustration.
Taras maintained control by reminding himself that the man responsible for Marcus's death was in custody, and unless he spoke with Pilate the bastard might go free. He whispered a silent goodbye to his fallen comrade. He would grieve later, right now he didn’t have time. He had to get in to see Pilate. If anything, Marcus's death made the matter more urgent than before.
“You have to let me see the Prefect,” he said.
The guard shook his head.
“But I must speak with him. It’s important.”
“I'm sorry, soldier. Orders are orders. Only Caiaphas and a few temple guards are allowed to see the Prefect. No others.”
Taras stood in front of the guard, not knowing what to do. He couldn’t fight twelve of Jerusalem’s best legionaries. He would have to find another way. Deflated, he turned to leave, but recalled his conversation with Ephraim. You must promise me, no matter what it takes, Jesus will not walk free tomorrow. He turned back to the guard. “What of the Nazarene Marcus arrested last night? What will happen to him?”
“Did you drown yourself in wine last night? By the gods, where have you been?”
“Just tell me.”
“Well,” the guard leaned close to Taras, probably trying to avoid hostile ears. “Pilate is under pressure from the Sanhedrin to have Jesus executed, but the Prefect has made it clear he has no wish to do so. In fact, he has publicly announced that he has no idea why Marcus arrested him in the first place. But the Sanhedrin are adamant the rabbi be crucified. So Pilate, in an attempt to compromise, has offered to let the people of Jerusalem decide the Nazarene’s fate. Since this is Passover, Jewish tradition demands one condemned man be set free. Pilate will allow the people of the city to voice their opinion by putting Jesus on his balcony with another prisoner and giving Jerusalem the choice between the two.”
“Who is the other prisoner?”
“Barabbas.” The guard grinned. “The people of Jerusalem are not likely to cast their vote for the likes of him. In just a few hours Pilate will have his way, I’ll wager, and those blasted Sanhedrin won’t like it one bit.”
By the gods, the guard was right. Like all the legionaries in Jerusalem, Taras had heard of Barabbas. The man was a zealot who’d been implicated in the deaths of over a dozen Roman soldiers as well as a few other residents of the city, even a handful of Jews he considered Roman sympathizers. Marcus had tried several times to capture him, but the zealot was a slippery devil; always escaping against seemingly impossible odds. Marcus finally caught him a week ago. Just having Barabbas locked up seemed to put the entire population of Jerusalem at ease, Roman and Jew alike. Or at least it had until Didius and Claudius were found dead a few days ago.
Taras recalled hearing from another soldier that Barabbas had murdered several Romans the night before while trying to escape from the dungeon. Only the zealots would respect such a thing. The rest of the city feared him far too much to allow him to walk free. All in all, from the Prefect’s position it was a clever move. He would not have to execute a man he considered innocent, he would rid himself of a dangerous criminal, and perhaps best of all, it would appear to all of Israel that he had made every effort to cooperate with Jewish tradition. Taras's respect for the prefect's mind grew.
But Pilate didn’t know about Jesus's plans to overthrow Rome. Only Taras and Marcus knew, and Jesus's people had killed Marcus before he could pass along his knowledge to the Prefect, leaving Taras as the sole Roman in possession of such knowledge. He had to find a way to get to Pilate and tell him of Jesus's efforts to start a civil war. Barring that, he had to find a way to convince Jerusalem to vote to set Barabbas free.
But how?
“Taras?” A voice from behind him said. “Is that you?”
“Yes?” He turned, not knowing what to expect, but then he saw one of Pilate’s guards step away from the house. The young recruit stood a foot shorter than Taras, with easy blue eyes and deeply tanned skin. His stocky frame and jovial features made him look soft, but Taras knew better. The man’s name was Pavo. The two shared the same barracks and sparred on a regular basis, often going out for a mug of ale afterward. They weren’t friends, exactly, but Pavo was certainly no stranger, and in this case it pleased Taras to see a possible ally. “Oh, it’s you. Hello, Pavo.”
“Hello, Taras,” Pavo said, “It is good to see you up and walking. I heard you were injured.”
“It was not as serious as it seemed.”
“So I see,” Pavo replied, looking Taras up and down.
“I’m fine,” Taras said, not wanting to waste time discussing the his injuries. The less he had to explain, the faster he could get to his task. “Can you get me in to see Pilate, Pavo?”
Pavo shook his head. “I’m sorry, Taras. Pilate himself gave the order. No one is to see him until the traitor is found and executed. But Captain Arius over there has something for you.” He nodded his head to the leader of the group. A captain who’d served under Marcus's predecessor.
Taras thanked him and walked over to the captain, where he stopped and saluted. “My name is Taras.”
“Is it, now?” Arius grumbled. He scrutinized Taras for perhaps a count of thirty, then reached into a pouch at his side and pulled out a rolled sheaf of papyrus. “Here. This was found on Marcus's body.”
“What is it?”
“I have no idea. It’s addressed to you.”
Taras took it and examined the rolled sheaf. Taras was written on the side in Marcus's bold, black script. The disk of red wax bearing the Centurion’s official seal lay in two pieces, each stuck to the paper. He looked up at Arius. “The seal is broken.”
“Pilate wanted to read it.”
“I see,” Taras replied. “Thank you, sir.” He saluted the captain again, turned, and walked away, not wanting to read Marcus's last missive to him in front of so many others. A useless gesture, he thought. While Captain Arius had said Pilate wanted to read it, Taras held little doubt that several othe
r pairs of eyes had read it, as well. With the seal broken, the information in the scroll became free game for anyone nosy enough to peek.
When he judged himself to be a safe enough distance from prying eyes, he opened the parchment. It was dated for the next day.
Effective on the date noted above, I Marcus Imbellicus, Centurion of the Fourth Barracks in Jerusalem, located in the province of Judea, hereby grant to Taras Aurelius, a legionary under my command, release of service to the Roman Legion. Taras's discharge is honorable, and he is to be granted full rights and privileges as accorded thereof, including…
Taras blinked, then skimmed to the top of the document, wanting to make sure he’d read it correctly. My release papers? He looked to the bottom of the paper and there, on the lower left corner, was the Centurion’s Official Seal. The papers were legitimate. Marcus had released Taras from his service to the Legion hours prior to his death. But why?
He thought back to his last conversation with Marcus. I have a request to make of you, he’d said.
Very well, Taras. Perhaps after you make your morning report? Marcus was smiling when he said it. Had he known what Taras's favor would be? Staring at the piece of parchment in his hand, Marcus's last official document, Taras knew he had.
Fighting back tears, he rolled the paper up and stuffed it into his pouch. He still had to do something about Jesus, but it would be several hours before Pilate brought the rabbi out to face the people. He desperately needed something good to lift his sagging spirits.
He turned and started walking to Mary’s house, thinking as he went that he’d changed his mind; he hoped Abraham would not be home, after all. Taras was in no mood for the merchant’s accusing stare, and he didn’t want to have to hurt the man on his last day as a legionary.
* * *
Luck was with Taras that morning. As he neared Mary’s home in the Upper City he saw her standing in the street twenty or so paces from her front door. She was engaged in conversation with another woman whose name Taras had never bothered to learn, and the two chatted animatedly over an ornate iron fence. When Mary spied him approaching she smiled and excused herself. She walked out into the street to meet him, and since she had her back turned she didn’t see the glare the other woman gave Taras.