Bachiyr Omnibus

by David McAfee

  “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—”

  Marcus never finished his sentence. Faster than a snake, Theron struck him in the back of the neck with a clawed fist, slicing right through the throat and making it impossible for the doomed man to scream for help. Marcus gurgled and fell to his knees. Theron pulled his hand back, twisting it a little to make doubly sure the centurion would never rise.

  Then he turned to the pair of stunned legionaries, who had closed to within arm’s reach while Marcus told him about Jesus's arrest. Neither moved to grab their swords, and Theron was able to jab his right hand into the closest soldier’s torso, piercing heart and lungs in one blow. The man wheezed as Theron pulled his claws from his chest, sending a spray of crimson into the night air that coated the vampire like a warm mist.

  The smell of blood was strong, and it reminded Theron that he had not fed. To his heightened senses, the red mist in the air made it seem as though the whole world was made of the stuff. A few drops struck his skin and he could almost feel his body absorbing it like plants absorbed the morning dew. Hunger drove a hot blade into his belly. The lust to kill pressed in on him like a thousand pounds of stone, and it was only through an extreme effort of will he was able to let his latest victim fall and turn on the last legionary. By then the fellow had finally registered the attack. He fumbled for his sword with fingers that shook too badly to be useful.

  Theron grabbed the last man’s shoulders and pulled him close, like a lover. He sank his teeth into the soldier’s throat, tasting the sweet flavor of the dying man’s blood as it mingled with the sweat on his neck. He drank greedily, lost in the ecstasy of taking a life. Death whispered promises into his ear. This is what he lived for. Killing. Drinking. Living. For one sweet instant he held on and tasted the true nectar of the gods. His people had long ago found their Ambrosia, and he drank deep and long, filling his body with the unfortunate soldier’s life.

  * * *

  Gordian saw the doorway ahead. No more than forty paces down the hall. Soon he would be outside. He stifled the urge to shout a prayer of thanks, lest his brother hear him. He ran as fast as his legs and burning lungs would allow, and when he made it to the door, he breathed a sigh of relief. He still didn’t know where he would go once he escaped the passages, but anywhere was better than being trapped in the tunnels with his mad brother.

  He pulled the handle hard in his eagerness to escape and leapt forward, only to crash his upper body into the solid wood, cracking his head. Stupid! He’d forgotten to unbolt it. He looked for the latch, but soon discovered the slides empty. The bar stood off to the left, leaning against the doorframe. Confused, he yanked on the door a second time. Nothing. He braced his legs to either side of the doorway and pulled with all his might, still it didn’t move. Terror crept into his body as he realized the door was locked. Probably bolted from the outside.

  No, there is no bolt on the outside.

  Frantic, Gordian yanked on the door again and again, oblivious to the whimpering sound coming from his own throat. Why wouldn’t it open? Why in the name of the gods couldn’t he get out? He tugged and pulled and strained until his arms and back felt like they’d been filled with heated gravel, but still the door didn’t budge.

  “Open, blast you!” He said to the recalcitrant wood.

  “It won’t open that way, my brother.”

  Gordian whirled around, pressing his back to the door. There, not ten strides away, stood his twin. “Stay away from me. I want no part of this.”

  “It’s too late for that, Gordian. Soon Jesus of Nazareth will be dead, and your hands are stained with his blood, as well as that of Archarius, Epidius and Justus, the physician. Yes, Gordian, I know about Justus and Epidius. Their deaths cling to you like cobwebs. I can see their phantoms hovering at your side.

  “Curiously, I don’t see Taras, which means he must still be alive. You failed, Gordian. Taras knows of the house in Jerusalem. He knows about the Lost Ones. He is a danger to the Bachiyr race. You had only one simple task; kill him. And you could not even do that.”

  “I was going to,” Gordian said, too terrified to feel ashamed of the whimper in his own voice. “I couldn't fight the whole barracks. I planned to go back and finish him after our deal was completed.”

  His brother laughed. A sudden, sharp bark that speared Gordian and pinned him to the wall. “Did you really think I would share this gift with you? The Father take you, Gordian, you always were a fool.”

  Gordian slumped against the door with the realization that his brother had only used him for his closeness to the centurion; that he never had any intention of fulfilling his part of the bargain. Gordian felt the moisture building in his eyes. He’d betrayed everyone who had ever called him a friend, and the blood of so many was on his head, and all for nothing. He’d been a willing pawn in his brother’s quest for notoriety and revenge. “Dear gods, what did I do?”

  “You helped me, as you promised.” His brother laughed again, and stepped to within an arm’s reach. Gordian went for his sword, but the vampire was faster. He gasped as the thing that used to be his brother grabbed his throat and lifted him bodily off the ground. Stars burst into his eyes as his brother slammed his back into the door.

  Gordian felt his airway blocked, and he struggled to breathe as white spots appeared in his vision. He brought his hands up and grabbed his brother’s wrist, trying in vain to break the steel grip, but it was useless. He could no more budge his brother’s hands than he could open the door on which his back rested. Before long, he no longer had the strength to hold his arms up, and they fell limply to his side.

  His vision dimmed, and the last thing he heard before the world went dark was his twin's mocking laugh. “Thank you for your help, brother.”

  * * *

  Once Theron drank his fill from the soldier, he tossed the corpse into the brush, where he hoped some lucky scavenger would find it and clean up his mess. He then checked on the legionary he’d stabbed through the chest. The man was already dead. The wound would be strange, but at least his body still held plenty of blood. No threat of being discovered there.

  He then walked over to Marcus, and was surprised to find the centurion still alive, clutching at his ruined throat with both hands in a futile effort to hold his life’s blood inside. Theron’s well-aimed thrust had torn out the soldier’s vocal cords. His hateful glare as he saw Theron could not be mistaken, however, and when the vampire knelt next to the expiring man, he answered the question he knew Marcus would ask if he could speak.

  “Yes, Centurion. It was me,” Theron said, certain Marcus would know what he meant.

  Marcus did know, apparently. With more strength than Theron would have given him credit for, the centurion mouthed the name “Didius” and reached over to his belt, trying to pull his sword free. Theron noticed the familiar jeweled hilt and laughed. He grabbed the sword and pulled it free of Marcus's grasp.

  “I believe this is mine,” he said. He lifted the sword high behind his head, noting w
ith satisfaction the look of fear that bloomed in Marcus's eyes. He brought it down hard, the blade tearing through the flesh of the centurion’s neck and digging deep into the earth underneath.

  Marcus's head rolled free from his body, and Theron pulled his new sword from his sheath and tossed it aside, replacing it with his old one. He looked down at his tunic and frowned. The front of his peasant garb showed up bright red in the moonlight, soaked with blood. He’d never get into Jerusalem looking like this. He looked over at the soldier in the road. His clothes were likewise drenched, and would do him no good. Then he remembered the corpse of the soldier he’d drained. The uniform should still be intact and relatively free of blood. He stalked out into the brush, searching for the body. He needed clean clothes in order to get past the gate and into the city, and the soldier’s uniform would be especially helpful to get inside the dungeon.

  Theron meant to pay Jesus a visit.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Theron approached the barracks well after midnight. He’d timed it that way in order to catch the guards in the middle of their shift, hoping by this time the men would be so bored and tired they wouldn’t pay much attention to those who walked through the gate, even at this late hour. As it was, of the four guards huddled around a small patch of earth, only one bothered to look up at the sound of sandals in the street. Seeing nothing more alarming than another legionary, he returned his attention to the ground where, Theron noted, the men played at a game of dice.

  He walked between them and into the barracks with no trouble, and set about looking for the passages that would lead him into the dungeons. Fortunately he’d been held prisoner here the previous night, and he still had some memory of the layout of the place. He dared not ask directions, lest he give himself away. He didn’t fear being caught by the legionaries, but the idea of having to abandon his mission before he could carry it out terrified him. At present, that mission had a familiar name: Taras.

  Just before he died, Marcus told Theron that Taras lay injured and barely alive in the infirmary. Theron knew the infirmary was in the barracks, and since he wanted to go there to speak with Jesus anyway, it made for a convenient excuse to sneak into the place. Now Theron could kill Taras and have his words with Jesus in a single trip.

  It would be more prudent to go to the dungeons first, since killing Taras might set up quite a row and thus prevent him from being able to see the captured rabbi. So Theron wandered around the barracks, using his keen ears and eyesight to locate the passage that would lead him down into the bowels of the complex where, most likely, Jesus waited in the stocks.

  It didn’t take long. Soon he came to a stone corridor that slanted down, deeper into the earth. The dank smell of mold wafted up from the darkness. Mixed with it were the smells of burning coals, superheated iron, and blood. When he stopped to listen, he could hear the pleading screams of the men – suspected zealots, probably – whom the legionaries deemed fit to question echoing up the passageway. He pictured the pitiful souls in the dungeons; wretched prisoners strapped into the rack or held in the stocks as they begged for mercy, only to face the derisive laughter of their Roman captors. He smiled at the idea; he couldn’t help himself. Mercy? He doubted the Roman tongue even had a word for it. Theron continued down the dimly lit hallway, following the sounds of pain to the dungeons below.

  A short while later, the corridor leveled off and branched into two directions. To the left came the screaming Theron had heard earlier. From the passage to the right he heard a softer sound. Crying. Several people joined in the sad song, and every now and then a gruff voice would shout for them to be quiet or they would be next. Theron took this direction, and before long found himself approaching a chubby legionary at a wooden desk. The man had his back to him, and his head occasionally bobbed on his neck as he nodded off.

  Beyond the desk was a short corridor that ended abruptly in a stone wall. The air reeked of sweat, vomit and blood. Theron also detected the pungent odors of urine and feces, and he imagined the imprisoned humans would be in poor condition. The thought made him pause. What could the soldiers have done to Jesus already? He wanted to find the rabbi conscious and alert.

  Theron noted several doors made of sturdy wood and reinforced by steel braces on either side of the hallway. Each had a tiny hole in the front, barely big enough to fit a fist through. Theron had found the right place. He cleared his throat, alerting the snoozing guard to his presence.

  “What’s your business here?” the legionary asked.

  “Marcus sent me. I am to check on the prisoner Jesus of Galilee and make certain he is still alive. The centurion is most anxious for him to be brought before Pontius Pilate and face the ire of Rome.”

  The legionary looked him over briefly, then tossed a ring of keys to him. “Last door on the right. He’s still alive, though I’d wager he rather wishes he wasn’t.”

  Theron took the keys and smiled at the guard. “Oh? Have the Sanhedrin come to see him already?”

  The legionary shook his head. “The Pharisees. They were in there for about two hours. Those bastards did a fair job of trying to kill him before his trial. I don’t think they meant to, but they couldn’t seem to control themselves. In the end two other guards and I had to force them to leave. Not that we care what happens to him, mind you, but as you said, Marcus wants him to face trial. Is it true he’s leading the zealots? Anyway, the strange thing about it, no matter what the Pharisees did to him, he never screamed and barely spoke. He just sat there, quiet as a mouse. The only thing he said was something about paradise. I couldn’t make it out.”

  “Thank you.” Theron breezed past the talkative guard with a sharp smile. “I will see if I can get him to repeat it.”

  “Don’t kill him, now. The Centurion will have my head if that one doesn’t make it to trial.”

  Theron didn’t answer, but the guard need not have worried. He could never kill Jesus, and he knew it. In fact, he doubted he could even touch a man of such strong faith. But he meant to see the man in the stocks, nonetheless. The Nazarene had cost him a good friend and a great deal of trouble. Now, before the Romans executed him, Theron needed to know why Ephraim had turned his back on his race. What about Jesus bred such disloyalty among people – and vampires, apparently – that they would betray their own kind to follow his banner above all others? Theron had to know. Then he could return to the Council and tell them what to look for, so something like this could never happen again.

  He reached the door at the end of the hall and slid the key into the lock. After he unlocked it, he pulled the door open and stepped into the cell. There, shackled to the stocks in the center of the room, sat Jesus, looking up at him.

  At first, Theron didn’t recognize the Nazarene. The guard at the desk hadn’t exaggerated; the Pharisees had nearly killed him. The bright glow of the man’s faith seemed faint, somehow. It still shone in Theron’s eyes, but it was muted; diffused, as though the beatings of the Pharisees had doused the young rabbi’s faith with doubt or worry. His hair and beard were matted with blood, and his jaw and eyes were swollen and discolored. Dried blood ran from his right ear down to a point Theron could not see somewhere on the other side of the stocks. Beneath him lay a small pool of blood, and three of the fingers on his right hand stuck out from his palm at crazy, jagged angles, obviously broken. Theron had rarely seen a more ragged, pitiful sight than this wayward carpenter’s son. He chuckled.

  “I forget, Jesus,” he said. “What is it your people call you? The Messiah?”

  Jesus looked at Theron, his face sad, and said nothing.

  “You let yourself be captured,” Theron continued, “knowing what your fate would be. Your people outnumbered those who came to arrest you. You could have gotten away easily. Why didn’t you? What good can your death do for you or your followers?”

  Again, Theron received no reply. It soon became obvious Jesus didn’t intend to answer.

  “Of course. That would go against your words, wouldn
’t it? You couldn’t very well preach nonviolence and forgiveness and then turn around and start a battle, could you? It looks as though you preached yourself into a corner, rabbi.”

  Still Jesus said nothing. Theron was fast becoming bored with the reticent prisoner. He could see no reason for anyone to follow the man. Certainly no reason for Ephraim, a longtime servant of the Council of Thirteen, to forsake all he knew for the wretched creature bent into the stocks before him. Theron swore under his breath, and spat in the dirt beneath Jesus's face.

  “Well? Say something, damn you. Speak to me!”

  Theron fought the sudden urge to drive his sword into Jesus's face. He’d gone through a great deal of trouble, and nearly died in a room not far from this one over the aggravation Jesus had caused him. The least the man could do was speak to him. Plead for mercy; call him a bastard son of a whore. Anything. But he kept his silence, and fixed Theron with a gaze that spoke of a burden too great for any one man to bear. Theron saw no anger or fear in Jesus's pale, moist eyes, only sadness. He leaned in closer, there was something strange about the rabbi’s eyes, almost as if…

  Theron gasped and took a step back, realizing what was odd about the Nazarene. There was indeed sadness in his eyes, a great deal of it. But Jesus's despair was not for himself, the vampire noted with surprise, but for Theron. It reminded him of the look in Ephraim’s eyes just before he died. He shook his head in wonder.

  “Ephraim must have been insane. Farewell, Jesus. Hopefully you find Paradise to your liking, though I doubt you will enjoy the trip.” Theron laughed and turned to leave, determined not to waste any more time on fools and their followers. He reached out and wrapped his fingers around the handle.

  “I know you, Theron of Macedonia” a voice behind him said. Not weak or soft, as might be expected, but strong. Full. Powerful. The resonance of it weakened Theron. “I know your kind well, Bachiyr.”