33 AD

by David McAfee

  Gordian then turned his attention to his uniform, making sure everything was in place. He didn’t know if an order for his arrest had been given or not, but he didn’t want to chance it by being noticed. His uniform should help him blend in as long as no one saw his face. The storage room was very near the infirmary, which was rarely guarded. He should be able to get in, finish Taras, and get out before anyone realized he was there. Once the deed was done he would return to the tunnels outside the city and wait for his brother. Tonight the two would truly be together again for the first time in eleven years. His separation from his twin had been hard on him. But after tonight it would no longer matter. None of it would matter. After tonight Gordian would be Second to no one.

  He opened the door to the storage room and peered out. Just down the hall, he could see the open doorway to the infirmary. As he suspected, no legionaries stood guard. The smell of warm bread floated through the halls to greet him, reminding him he hadn’t eaten all day. The kitchen staff was working late baking bread for tomorrow, which would be eventful. Ignoring his rumbling belly, he stepped into the hallway and walked to the room where the injured Taras unknowingly waited for death. Now that you have passed along your message, Taras, your usefulness to me is finished. This wasn’t quite how Taras was supposed to die, of course, but it would do. Still, Gordian couldn’t let his brother know of his improvisation, or he might take offense. He had assured his twin that Taras would be dead by morning. It was now well past suppertime, and he had no intention of letting a little thing like Taras's still-beating heart stand between him and destiny. The time had come to keep his promise.

  When he arrived at the door, he poked his head into the room, which turned out to be larger than he’d expected, and was surprised to see not one, but two people inside. Justus sat at a small desk on the other side of the room from Taras. It had never occurred to him that Justus might still be in the infirmary. He hardly ever worked so late, and even then he would not miss supper. Why, then, was he still here?

  Marcus. Gordian knew. Marcus must have threatened him. It was so like the centurion. Unfortunately, that did complicate things a bit. Nothing he could do about it, though. Sorry, Justus.

  The physician had his back turned, and as Gordian entered the room, he trod lightly, stepping on the balls of his feet as he’d seen Taras do countless times. He’d removed his sandals earlier, knowing a little stealth might be in order, and now padded barefoot along the cold stone. As he advanced on the unsuspecting pair, he pulled a dagger from his belt; careful to slide the blade across the cloth of his tunic to ensure it didn’t make any noise – another trick he learned from Taras. He drew his hand back and plunged the weapon deep into the back of Justus’s neck, surprised at how easily the dagger sank into the man’s flesh.

  Justus gurgled and tried to turn around, but Gordian rotated the blade outward, keeping control of the dying physician’s head and opening the wound further. Gouts of blood pumped from Justus’s neck, spraying in every direction. It coated the bed, the walls, even Gordian’s hands and arms, like a fresh coat of bright red paint. Some of it managed to spurt across the room and land on Taras's surprised face, which Gordian noted was quite awake and alert. And afraid. Good.

  Gordian smiled and pulled the knife from Justus’s neck. The dead physician crumpled to the floor with a dull thud. Gordian paid the body no heed as he stepped over it and pointed his blade at the prone legionary. “Now, Taras. You have served your purpose.”

  “Why?” Taras managed to say. It was weak and barely audible, but Gordian heard it well enough. He shook his head. He would not waste time answering the ridiculous questions of a dying man. He walked over to the bed, holding his knife at the ready. He was only two paces from Taras when a shadow darkened the wall in front of him.

  “What in the name of Jupiter? Gordian? What are you doing here?”

  He turned to see Epidius standing in the doorway with a surprised look on his face. Epidius looked around the room, his eyes traveling to the bloodstained wall, the dead physician, and finally stopping to rest on Gordian’s bloody knife. The young legionary’s features twisted into an angry frown as he drew his sword.

  “Traitor!” Epidius yelled, banging the hilt of his sword on his breastplate. “Traitor in the barracks! It’s Gordian!” Epidius charged forward, his sword leading the way.

  “Damn it,” Gordian swore. He turned away from Taras and met Epidius's charge head on. The younger legionary had the advantages of youth, strength, and a longer blade, but Gordian had joined the Roman Legion ten years before his opponent was born. Experience and the tempering wisdom of age told him to wait. His young, hot blooded opponent would most likely go for the quick kill, and he was right.

  As Epidius charged, he raised his sword in what Gordian recognized as a strike meant to push through his defenses, puncture his breastplate, and open a hole in his sternum to pierce his heart. He waited until Epidius's body was committed to the move, then he turned sideways while simultaneously stepping into the fight, his dagger hand leading the way as it shot upward from his waist. Thus instead of having his heart pierced by Epidius, Godian drove his blade deep into the younger man’s side, just under his ribcage and into his lungs. It was a sound tactical strike that simultaneously ensured his opponent’s death and prevented him from pulling enough air in his lungs to scream. Gordian pulled his blade free and watched Epidius fell to his knees, gasping and coughing blood.

  “Boy soldiers,” he said as Epidius raised a trembling hand to the wound. “Always forgetting their training when their blood is hot.”

  Epidius smiled at him, and for a moment Gordian could not think what the man found so amusing.

  “I… didn’t forget… everything.” Epidius wheezed.

  Gordian heard the shouting voices of many legionaries.

  “I… sounded the alarm… first.” Epidius coughed, and then smiled, his teeth stained red by his blood. “Enjoy Hades… traitor.”

  Epidius's yell had apparently been heard throughout the entire barracks. Gordian could hear hundreds of sandaled feet tramping through the halls toward him. He wasted precious seconds trying to determine how close the soldiers were, and finally decided he didn’t have time to cross the room and deal with Taras and still make it out before they arrived. He muttered a curse at the dying legionary, who had still somehow managed to thwart him.

  There was no help for it. He would have to leave Taras alive for the time being. He ran out of the room and back toward the storage closet. He managed to get inside and close the door just as the sounds of angry soldiers reached the area. He lifted the trapdoor and stepped back into the gloom. He did his best to maneuver the barrel back on top of the door, no easy task from underneath it, and was finally satisfied. To any legionaries who looked into this room, it would seem as if the barrel had never been moved. He lowered the trap door to the ground gently, not wanting it to slam shut under the weight of the barrel and draw any unnecessary attention.

  Just beyond the door to the storage room, he heard the angry shouts of at least half a dozen soldiers. They’d found the bodies of Justus and Epidius. The last thing Gordian heard before the trapdoor closed fully and shut off all sound was the command to move Taras to another room and place a guard at the door.

  He cursed Epidius for ruining his plan. He only hoped his brother didn’t find out until after he’d kept his part of the bargain. By then it wouldn’t matter anymore, and Gordian could return to finish the job the following night, when he would be stronger and deadlier. Or maybe he and his brother would just leave. There were other places to be besides Jerusalem, after all. Carthage, perhaps, or even Athens. He’d always wanted to see Greece.

  He sent up a prayer to any and all of his gods that his twin would not discover his failure until after he’d made Gordian a vampire. Then he walked down the passageway to the tunnels where his brother waited to introduce him to the world of moonlight and near limitless power.

  Chapter Twenty Two


  Halfway between the Gardens of Gethsemane and Jerusalem, Marcus felt an unseen presence following his group. He caught small glimpses here and there; just shadows, mostly. Nothing he could lay a solid grasp on. But he hadn’t made it through thirty years in the Roman Legion, eventually rising to the rank of Centurion, by ignoring his instincts.

  “Fabian, Hirrus,” he said, motioning to two of his men. “Slow down.”

  The two legionaries did as commanded, and when Marcus drew level to them he spoke in a whisper. “We are being followed. You two go on ahead. When you pass that bend, fan out. One of you go to the right and the other to the left. Walk about twenty or so paces from the path, then circle back around so we can surround whoever is following us. I will continue on and stay behind the group. That should drag whoever it is along behind me.”

  “Won’t whoever it is recognize this as a trap, Centurion?”

  It was a good point, but Marcus had that covered already. He pulled a scroll from his belt, handed it to Fabian, and smiled. His next words were spoken quite loud.

  “You men, run ahead of the group and take this to Pilate. Do not let the Sanhedrin see it. It is for the Prefect’s eyes only.”

  The two legionaries saluted, and ran down the path after the Sanhedrin. Marcus walked behind them at a much slower pace. There was nothing on the scroll of any importance, of course, but he hoped his shadow would note it and be fooled into thinking Marcus was alone. The centurion himself would not have fallen for such a ruse. Neither would Taras, but Marcus hoped his pursuer would prove less clever. He plodded slowly along behind the vanishing party, whistling a raucous drinking song and trying not to let his nerves show.

  * * *

  Theron watched the exchange from the shelter of some bushes about twenty yards away. He saw Marcus and the two legionaries stop and heard Marcus order the two men to run and deliver the scroll to Pilate. When the two legionaries ran ahead Theron’s lips parted in a wicked grin, his canines gleaming in the moonlight. He knew a ruse when he saw one. Marcus hoped to trap him. Theron thought about it for a moment, then decided to let the centurion have his trap.

  He stepped from the brush and onto the path, making no effort to conceal the sound of his passage. His feet dislodged a number of pebbles and sent them rattling down a small slope. Marcus turned immediately, hand on his sword.

  “Hail, Centurion.” Theron said and started down the hill. In the weak light he could see Marcus's eyes narrow, probably trying to figure out who he was. Then recognition dawned on Marcus's face, and his stance relaxed. But, Theron noted, the centurion’s hand didn’t leave his sword.

  “Ephraim?” Marcus asked.

  “Yes, Centurion,” Theron replied, and walked toward him. “I have been looking for you.”

  * * *

  “You are late, brother.”

  “I’m sorry,” Gordian replied. “I had some last minute business to attend to.”

  “You kept me waiting too long, Gordian. The hour of Jesus's arrest has come and gone. I’ve missed my opportunity to deal with Theron in the Gardens and now I’ll have to hunt him in the city, instead. Tell me, what business could have been more pressing than ours?”

  His brother’s eyes narrowed as he spoke, and Gordian knew he was very, very angry at the delay.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I had to be sure that Jesus would be captured. He’s a crafty one. It required a few last minute changes of plan. A few words whispered in the right ears.”

  “And? Has Jesus has been arrested, then?”

  “Yes. Marcus left to arrest him earlier. He should be on his way back by now. Pilate will put him on trial him in the morning, and the prefect will almost certainly have him crucified.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “Because Marcus believes the Nazarene was involved in several zealot attacks and a plot to overthrow Roman rule in Israel. Once Marcus passes his suspicions along to the prefect, Jesus is finished. Pilate will consider it treason of the highest order. Most likely, the Nazarene will die before the sun sets tomorrow evening.”

  “Good. Very good, brother.”

  Gordian stared at his twin in the flickering torchlight. A deep cold radiated from the walls of the underground chamber, and his skin began to prickle. The fine hairs on his arms stood at attention, and his breath came in pale white clouds. His body began to shiver, an involuntary reaction to the chill and a feeling he couldn’t quite shake. Somehow the room, as well as the payment he was about to accept for his actions, suddenly felt profane. Unholy.

  He shook the unwanted thoughts from his head. He would be with his brother again. After eleven long years of feeling like only half of himself, he would be whole. How could that be a bad thing? He should be overjoyed. His happiness should spill from him like a fountain, spraying everything in the area with his mirth and making this cold, dark chamber warm and bright. It was right. It was true.

  Yet the feeling remained.

  Probably just nerves. He had, after all, killed two men tonight. That was bound to leave him a little jumpy. But soon it would no longer matter. Soon nothing could harm him, not even time itself. He would be immune to the passing centuries. He smiled.

  But what was taking so long?

  “What of our deal?” Gordian asked. “Will you do it now?”

  His brother turned to regard him, his face hard and frigid, the smile dark. “Yes, Gordian. Why not? Come here.”

  Gordian hesitated. Something about the way his twin looked at him kept him held him back, made him suddenly afraid.

  “Are you… is everything okay?” He asked.

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?” His brother walked up to him, and now Gordian could see the sharp points of his teeth flashing in the torchlight. He had known to expect them, of course, but seeing them still shocked him. For the first time, he began to comprehend exactly what it was he’d been offered in return for his services. He backed up a step.

  “Are those… necessary?”

  “These?” His brother smiled wide, revealing his fangs in all their grim splendor. “I’m afraid so, Gordian. This is what you asked for, after all.”

  “I… I think I’ve changed my mind.” Gordian said as he backed away. “I think I’ll just go back to the barracks, now.”

  “Oh, no, Gordian. I can’t let you leave without your payment; it’s much too late for that. You know all about us. The Bachiyr. The law of the Council is very clear on this.” His brother took another step forward, his arms reached out to Gordian. The fingers ended in long claws. “Come, now. A deal is a deal, brother.”

  Gordian had other ideas. He turned and bolted down the hallway. His brother’s laughter chased him through the dark corridor. What have I done?

  He sped through the passages, looking for a place to hide. He didn’t know where he was, his brother had only given him a cursory tour, but he knew the way out. He ran like mad for the doorway to the outside. He wasn’t sure where he would go once he made it outside. By now word of his treachery would be all over the city. He would find no place within the barracks to hide and no one outside would aid a legionary who was also a murderer and a traitor. It wouldn’t matter anyway. His brother would find him wherever he hid. The only place he could think of where he might be safe was the temple, and he was not allowed inside. He cursed his weakness and his brother as he ran along, knowing at any minute he would hear the sound of booted feet behind him.

  * * *

  Theron stepped to within five paces of the centurion before Marcus pulled his sword. “That’s close enough.”

  At that moment the two men who’d run ahead stepped from the brush behind Theron and pulled their swords, as well. Just like that, Theron found himself surrounded by legionaries. Of course, the two behind him made more noise while they circled back than a drunken man in a pottery shop, but Theron pretended not to know about them. Just as he pretended to be caught off guard and afraid. He h
eld his hands out in front of him to show Marcus he had no weapons.

  “Is something wrong, Centurion?” Theron asked. “Have I done something?”

  Marcus looked thoughtful. After a few seconds he lowered his blade. “No, Ephraim. Not that I know of.” His look hardened, and he raised the blade again, “Or have you? Why are you following us? Last time we spoke, you were about to leave Jerusalem forever and go back to Sepphoris. Yet here you are, sneaking around and following an armed escort in the night.”

  “I only stayed behind to make certain Jesus was arrested and does no more harm to the people of Israel, Centurion. I wanted to see it for myself, or I knew I would never feel safe.”

  “So you admit to following us, then. Why didn’t you announce yourself?”

  “Would you, in my place? A Jew? Coming in from the Gardens of Gethseman after an arresting party and following behind armed legionaries? Would you have made your presence known?”

  Marcus lowered his sword and put it away. “I guess not.” He looked behind Theron at the two soldiers. “Stand down. He’s not a threat.”

  The soldiers did as Marcus commanded, and Theron heard the sound of their swords sliding into sheaths. He stepped forward, and this time Marcus didn’t try to stop him. Instead the centurion turned away and looked to the west, in the direction of Jerusalem. “You needn’t worry, Ephraim. I arrested Jesus myself not even an hour ago. The fiend had my brother killed, then he tortured my friend, Taras, who even now battles for his life in the infirmary. I would have executed him myself had the Prefect granted me permission, but he refused. Not to worry, though, the Sanhedrin aren’t likely to release him, and Pilate will most assuredly demand his death tomorrow once I—”