Bachiyr Omnibus

by David McAfee

  * * *

  When he arrived in the Council Chamber, twelve torches flared to life around a large, U-shaped obsidian table. Between the legs of the U, a small dais waited, just big enough for one person to stand on. Theron stepped into the room, noting as he did so that one of the torches sat dark in its bracket. The unlit torch signified the absence of one of the Councilors. Theron didn’t need to ask which one was missing; it would be Ramah, The Blood Letter. Ramah often spent months, even years, away from the Halls on some errand or another. The Council relied heavily on him as their primary assassin, sending him out to take care of any troublesome individuals none of them wanted to deal with; a task very well suited to his ruthless nature.

  But the world grew larger every day, and Ramah could not be everywhere at once. Thus the Council formed the Enforcers, an elite unit which policed the populace, enforced the laws of the Bachiyr race, and punished those wayward individuals who broke them. Individuals like Ephraim, who had not only had befriended a human, but had apparently sworn allegiance to one, as well. Theron didn’t think the Council knew about that last part, but they soon would.

  The dancing torchlight caused shadows to flit and canter around the room like leaves in the wind. The tiny crags and nooks in the gray walls flirted with the patches of light and dark, making an eerie pattern that waved as he watched. The reassuring smell of pitch from the torches and the feel of the familiar setting lent him comfort as he walked into the chamber where the most powerful of his kind waited for his report. He strode up to the dais in the middle of the chamber and stepped onto it.

  “Councilors,” he said, “I have found and punished Ephraim, as you commanded.”

  “Where was he hiding, Theron?” Headcouncil Herris asked.

  “Jerusalem, Headcouncil.” Theron heard the murmurs from those gathered around the table. he understood their reaction. Very few of his people lived in or even visited Jerusalem, or any other part of Israel for that matter. The many Jews in Israel, with their strong faith in God, made hunting there uncomfortable. Of late, the Roman influence had helped to diminish the problem, but all in all it was simply easier to feed elsewhere. “I found him packing his things for a trip. As the Council commanded, I waited until I knew who was involved.”

  “Well, don’t keep us waiting, Enforcer,” Lannis said, her dark eyes blazing. “Who was it? Was it Baella, as we feared?”

  “No, Councilor Lannis. It was not Baella. In fact, Ephraim didn’t betray us to one of our own at all.”

  “Are you telling us he was innocent?” Algor asked.

  “No, Councilor Algor. Not at all. He just didn’t go to a renegade Bachiyr. Ephraim betrayed us to the humans.”

  It took a moment for that to sink in. The Councilors all looked stunned, as well they might. The Bachiyr race, better known by the common term ‘vampire,’ relied on secrecy for their very survival. To violate that secrecy was to put the entire race in danger. In their four thousand year history, only twice before had one of their own intentionally revealed their existence to the humans. In both cases the Council captured those responsible and turned them into Lost Ones as a warning to others.

  It was Herris who recovered himself first. “The humans? Are you sure?"

  Theron nodded.

  "Blast," Herris' face hardened. "How many, Theron? How many of them know?”

  “I don’t know, Headcouncil. I executed Ephraim, as ordered. I didn’t interrogate him. The human who came to his room spoke of others. A man named Paul was to drive Ephraim to Lydda in safety. It is safe to assume there are more.”

  “And you didn’t investigate? You simply left without hunting them down?” This from Mattawe. Always quick to anger, that one.

  “Begging the Council’s pardon, but dawn was approaching. I thought it best to return to the Halls and report this immediately.”

  “Yes, Theron. That was the proper thing to do,” Herris said, fixing Mattawe with a glare, all but daring him to argue. Mattawe sank back into his seat and looked sullenly at the Enforcer. Theron had to be careful around that one. Lannis, Algor, and Mattawe were always eager to punish failures. That made the next part of his report much more difficult. He’d been saving the hard part for last, but he wasn’t sure how to broach the subject.

  Herris noted the look on his face and saved him the trouble. “Is there something else, Theron?”

  “Yes, Headcouncil. I’m afraid there is. It wasn’t just any human. Ephraim joined a group of them who follow one man, a man whose teachings attract more followers every day. If he knows about us, then it will not be long before many, many humans are aware of our existence.”

  The faces of the Councilors grew dark as Theron spoke. All present knew what would happen if their secret were revealed to the rest of the world. The humans would be relentless in their hunting. Though far stronger and much more dangerous than the average human, the vampire race was vastly outnumbered; they would have no chance against a widespread genocide perpetuated by the race of Man.

  “Who is it, Theron?” Herris asked. “Who did Ephraim betray us to?”

  “The man's name is Jesus, Headcouncil."

  "Jesus?" Mattawe spat. “The young rabbi from Galilee? I think you overestimate his influence.”

  “No,” Algor said, “he doesn’t.” He glanced at Herris as he spoke and raised his eyebrows in a gesture whose meaning did not escape Theron. It was enough to cause Herris’ face to darken further, and when he next spoke, his normally strong voice sounded troubled.

  “Theron, thank you for bringing this to us. You are dismissed. Do not leave the Halls. We will be calling for you shortly.”

  Theron bowed and stepped off the dais. As he grasped the handle of the door, he overheard Lannis’ voice.

  “Is he the one you told us about, Algor?”

  “He is,” Algor replied. Any other words the Councilor might have said were lost as the door closed behind him.

  Theron wasn’t concerned about missing the rest of the Council's conversation; he had a feeling they would call for him soon enough.

  * * *

  The discussion in the Council chamber soon grew heated, and it centered on a single question: was Jesus dangerous? Headcouncil Herris needed to know the answer, and soon. The safety of his people was at stake.

  “He’s nothing!” Mattawe said, “Just a rabbi with a few sheep. Even the Jews distrust him. How can he be a danger to us?”

  “You’re wrong, Mattawe,” Algor said, “Unlike you, I’ve been to Israel and heard the people talk about him. Many of them love him and follow him blindly. He gains more followers every day. There are even those who have taken to calling him the Messiah.”

  “Fools, Algor.” Mattawe banged his ebony hand on the stone table. “Only fools would believe that of him. And only fools would follow him. Are we supposed to be afraid of a band of fools?”

  “An army of fools is still an army,” Algor replied. “Would you stand your ground, Mattawe, as ten thousand fools with swords descended upon you? Who, then, would truly be the fool?”

  Mattawe opened his mouth, doubtless to issue a stinging retort, but Herris silenced the argument with a raised finger. “What do the Romans think of him, Algor?” Herris asked.

  Algor’s misshapen features eased. “The Romans do not think much of him at all, actually. They have their own gods, and as long as the taxes in Judea are collected they are content to let the people of Israel have their God, as well. But the Jews are another story. Many love him, as I said, but many of them also fear and distrust him; they claim he is a charlatan out to steal their money or property. Still others believe he is insane.”

  “You see, Herris?” Mattawe said, “Even among his own people he’s an outcast. He is not a threat to us.”

  “Are you counseling that we do nothing, Mattawe?”

  “Of course not! Our secret has been breached, but—”

  “Then why are we arguing? This Jesus knows about us. He must be dealt with. If he has any followers who
also know, they must be dealt with, as well.”

  “Agreed,” Mattawe said, calming down now that a decision had been made. “Shall we send for Ramah?”

  “No, the Blood Letter is in the northlands. There is no telling when he will return. We will send Theron. He should be able to take care of this with little trouble. Unless anyone has an objection?” Herris looked over the gathered Council. When no one objected, he continued. “It is settled, then. Theron will leave tomorrow night for Jerusalem. Once there he will kill Jesus.”

  Around the room, eleven heads nodded in response.

  Chapter Five

  Taras awoke with the sun. Though his trip into the city had left him only two hours to sleep, he woke refreshed and alert. Years ago, as a new recruit, his commander drilled into Taras and his classmates the idea that nothing in battle is guaranteed. Thus, a good soldier takes what food and sleep he can get, when he can get it. As a result Taras was rarely awake more than five minutes after his head hit the pillow, and he woke fully alert and ready to work or fight, as the situation dictated. This quality served the legionary well in the field, but was even more valuable in the city, where death was stealthier and far more treacherous. Jerusalem was an environment perfectly suited to a man of Taras's skill.

  That skill was death; Taras was an assassin. A rather important one, at that. No one in Jerusalem, or even Israel, for that matter, knew his position except for his Centurion, the Centurion’s Second, and the Legate. To everyone else, even Pontius Pilate himself, Taras was just an ordinary legionary. This level of secrecy was necessary for him to be effective in his work, especially since Rome could never acknowledge his existence in any capacity other than that of an ordinary soldier.

  But whenever Rome needed someone killed – a foreign official, or a recalcitrant Senator, perhaps – or information gathered in Judea, Marcus invariably called Taras first. When called, he did his best to serve his country in an unknown capacity, doing things for Rome she could not admit to having any part in. Men of his station had been integral in the conquest of dozens upon dozens of nations, including Israel. Masters of infiltration and stealth, they excelled at the silent kill: poisons, the quick turn of the blade across the throat, a crossbow bolt to the lungs, and many others. Taras, and others like him, had one simple job: prepare the arena.

  Caesar and the Legate often called the centurions the backbone of the mighty Roman Legion. If so, Taras and others like him acted as its fingertips. Always touching, exploring, and discovering the weaknesses of Rome’s enemies beforehand so her army could battle them with greater efficiency.

  He did not always enjoy doing the things his country asked of him. Sometimes the Legate called on him to make examples of innocents, an act for which he, unlike many of his hidden brethren, had never acquired a taste. But Taras's love of his adopted homeland overcame his misgivings. The greater good must be served, and when Rome needed his services, he obeyed without question. To do otherwise would be a slap in the face to the empire that had given him a home. Taras would die before so dishonoring his country.

  Outside the barracks window, roosters called a hoarse greeting to the new day. Taras stretched and rose from his cot. As usual, he was the first in his barracks to wake up. Typical. Many of the legionaries stationed in Jerusalem owed their presence there to the fact that the Legate could think of no other place to send them. There were a few notable exceptions, such as the Centurion and even Taras himself, but they were the minority. The majority of soldiers sent to occupy the outer provinces were a sorry lot. Leave it to the Legate to send soft men into a hard city like Jerusalem; the man never visited the province, so he had no real idea how dangerous Judea could be. The zealots took advantage of the slow and overweight members of the Roman Legion whenever the opportunity presented itself, often with mortal results.

  Taras frowned. He buckled on his sandals and his belt, making far more noise than necessary in the process. Not a single man stirred from his bunk, though one sleeping soldier grunted, then emitted a vile noise from his rear. The gassy fellow then reached around and scratched an itch on his bottom, and soon fell still as sleep reclaimed him.

  Taras looked around at the group of snoring, oblivious men and shook his head. Small wonder Mary’s father disliked the Romans so much, with such examples of slovenliness to be seen. The Jews of the outer provinces were, by and large, an industrious lot, and they tended to look poorly on laziness. No wonder the zealots and the people of Jerusalem held little respect for the typical Roman soldier. They rarely saw the real Legion; the hard, disciplined men who fought and died while spreading Rome’s glory across the world. If those soldiers occupied Israel, things in Jerusalem would be much different. But what did Israel get instead? Fat, gassy men who could not be roused before breakfast.

  He scowled. Sooner or later, the Legate would have to deal with Judea, and Taras hoped he would still be around to help bring the Jews into line.

  With that last pleasant thought, he snapped his helmet into place and left to gather the information he would need in order to make his morning report to Marcus, Taras's only real friend in the city. On his way out he kicked one of his comrade’s cots, breaking the leg and sending the surprised legionary to the floor with a yelp.

  * * *

  A young baker named Matthew, who had only arrived in Jerusalem two days prior to spend Passover with his family, was the first to find the bodies of Claudius and his friend in the early morning hours. Terrified by the sight of a headless corpse in the middle of the street, he sprinted to the barracks to report his find. But before the morning ended the unfortunate man found himself face to face with Pontius Pilate, much to his dismay.

  Several citizens witnessed Matthew running from the spot where the two soldiers were murdered. Those people reported this to the nearest legionary, who in turn reported it to the centurion. When Matthew finally managed to find the barracks he was quite surprised to learn an order for his arrest had been issued. Despite his pleas of innocence, he was a stranger to Jerusalem and thus not to be trusted. The centurion, none too pleased about being faced with the murder of two soldiers before he’d even had breakfast, wasn’t taking any chances. He ordered his soldiers to shackle Matthew hand and foot, and then he and his men dragged the poor fellow before Jerusalem’s Prefect.

  * * *

  Pontius Pilate, despite the claims of the zealots, was not a stupid or cruel man. He was, however, coldly practical and held no love for the Israelites. Upon interviewing the young man, Pilate knew in his heart Matthew was innocent. That meant the real killer was still loose. If the people of the city learned of this, it would make his job much more difficult. Pilate was under a great deal of pressure from Rome due to the constant harassment of the zealots. To allow the people of Jerusalem to believe a man could murder two Roman soldiers and get away with the act was unthinkable, so he pronounced Matthew guilty and had him thrown into stocks to await execution for the murders. It didn’t matter that the man was innocent; Matthew was just another Jew, after all. What mattered to Pilate was keeping order in a city that trod along the edge of rebellion with a reckless indifference to Rome and her glory. To that end he would sacrifice a hundred innocent bakers. More, if need be.

  But executing Matthew, while it would save face with the Jewish citizenry, didn’t solve Pilate’s problem that someone in the city murdered two of his men. After the guards marched the prisoner to the dungeon, Pilate called Marcus, the centurion, to his side. “That man didn’t kill anyone this morning,” he whispered.

  Marcus nodded. “I have come to the same conclusion, Prefect.”

  “How so?”

  “The man is a baker, not a warrior. He could barely lift a heavy blade, let alone swing it hard enough to remove the head from a trained Roman legionary and stab another through the heart. And not only that, there is no blood anywhere on him. If he’s our killer, then I am a Jewish rabbi.”

  “That you are not, Marcus,” Pilate said, a slight smile on his face. Pilate
wasn’t surprised at his centurion’s reasoning. He'd chosen Marcus for his intelligence and discipline, and the man had grown into as fine a centurion as could be found anywhere in the Legion. He’d proven an asset more times than Pilate could count.

  His smile didn’t last long, however. “You must ferret out the real killer, but do not let anyone know what you are doing.”

  “Yes, Prefect.”

  “When you find the man responsible, Marcus, kill him quickly and quietly. Then take the filthy bastard’s body out to the desert so no one will know.”

  Marcus blinked. “You don’t want me to bury the body, Prefect?” In Rome, all bodies were treated to the respect of a proper burial, even the slaves and the criminals.

  “No, not this one.” Pilate could not hide the anger in his voice. “This killer will receive no consideration from me. Not even after death. Let his soul wander the world forever. Understood?”

  “Yes, Prefect,” Marcus said, saluting. Then he left the Prefect’s chambers to carry out his orders.

  * * *

  Prior to his meeting with Pilate, Marcus had ordered a dozen of his best men to stand guard around the two bodies and prevent any of the city’s inhabitants from disturbing them. This meant traffic through the Middle Gate had to be routed elsewhere, which caused no end of trouble in Jerusalem, especially with travel through the city already choked with visitors during the Holy Week. The hordes of visiting Jews mixed with the other inhabitants of the city, and all of them jammed together, elbow to elbow, and complained loudly about the delay to any who would listen. But the grumbling of the people didn’t concern Marcus. It was only a temporary detour, after all, and the mild inconvenience it posed to a few hundred civilians meant little compared to the murder of two legionaries. He wanted the area around the deceased to be as preserved as possible, and to the Abyss with anyone who didn’t like it.