Bachiyr Omnibus

by David McAfee

  “No!” They shouted, “Free Barabbas!”

  “Crucify the false King of the Jews!”

  “Kill him!”

  “Free Barabbas!”

  Pilate stared at the crowd. His jaw fell open as he gaped at them in wide-eyed wonder. Clearly, the Prefect had expected a different verdict. But as little as Pilate might care for the idea, the people of Jerusalem had spoken. He would find it very difficult to go back on his word now.

  Pilate spent another full minute listening to the masses, perhaps trying to make certain he’d heard their wishes correctly. Then his expression soured, and he held his arms up to quiet the crowd. When relative silence ensued, Pilate again addressed the gathering. “Very well,” he said.

  He turned to the guards on the balcony and gestured toward the bound and gagged Barabbas. “Release him. Then take the Nazarene inside and make him ready.”

  Taras cheered along with the rest of the crowd. Finally, justice would be done.

  * * *

  Taras watched from the front of a shop next to Pilate’s house when Jesus was brought out. He’d had to shove and push his way through the crowd to get close enough to see Pilate’s door, but it was worth every scratch and scrape. From the many bruises and cuts on Jesus's body, Taras guessed he’d been beaten by the guards. The Nazarene wore a crown of thorns on his head, and Taras heard one of the soldiers snicker about ‘the King of the Jews.’ Several long, angry red gouges marked his forehead where the thorns had torn a path into his flesh, and blood flowed from his hair and into his face, where they mixed with the man’s tears. Truly, he was a pitiful site, but Taras was far too angry to feel any pity.

  “Here is the man,” Pilate said.

  In response, Caiaphas and the Sanhedrin shouted for Pilate to crucify Jesus, but Pilate shook his head.

  “You crucify him,” he said. “I find this man not guilty of any crime.”

  There followed a discussion between the Prefect and Caiaphas that Taras could not hear due to the overwhelming noise of the crowd. He did manage to catch a few words: ‘rebel,’ ‘king,’ and ‘Caesar,’ among them, but the rest was lost in the overall din. By the effect on Pilate’s countenance, the priest must have threatened to bring Tiberius into the matter. That seals it, Taras realized. Pilate would not risk Caesar’s favor or his position as Prefect for anything. Certainly not for a single rabbi whom the people of Jerusalem had already demanded be put to death.

  I did it, Taras thought. I kept my vow. Marcus, Didius, Epidius, Justus, and many others would be avenged. Jesus of Nazareth, leader of the zealots and orchestrator of the murders of Roman citizens, would soon die on the cross. Taras could now leave Jerusalem with a clear conscience, knowing he left it a safer place for everyone.

  The soldiers led the Nazarene and two other prisoners away, beating him and spitting on his back as he carried his own cross to Golgotha. Taras watched the procession go with a remote detachment, wondering why he didn’t feel as triumphant as he thought he would in the face of such a victory. Jesus's bent, bleeding body passed within a few feet of him. The Nazarene looked up, and for a moment their eyes met; Taras's hard blue eyes and Jesus's soft brown ones. Jesus's gaze held him rigid for the span of two heartbeats, then the Nazarene looked to the ground again as one of the soldiers prodded him forward with a crack of his whip. Taras jumped at the sound, unsure why he should suddenly feel pity for such an evil man.

  He turned to Pilate, who wiped a cloth across his sweaty forehead with one beringed hand. Taras marveled at the number of rings on the Prefect’s fingers. One of them, he knew, carried the Prefect’s official seal.

  Taras stopped short. The ring! That’s what I missed. His conversation with Ephraim came back to him in a rush.

  My ring was stolen from me three weeks ago while I slept outside of Jesus's camp. Those were the words Ephraim used when Taras confronted him with the letter. But Taras never said anything about a ring. He only mentioned that the letter was sealed with Ephraim’s personal seal. Taras had searched Ephraim’s house while Marcus watched the digging in the backyard, and there was another, larger seal in Ephraim’s desk. How, then, had the man known the seal used for the letter was the one on the ring? And now that Taras thought of it, why would Ephraim write a letter to Malachi warning him to be careful if he thought Malachi was coming to kill him?

  Now he knew what had made him feel so uneasy about Ephraim, and why a large piece of the man’s story had seemed out of place. The ring and the letter on the headless body. In his joy at being healed and his eagerness to see Jesus executed, Taras had forgotten about both. But now he knew the truth; Ephraim was dead. The man who came to him last night was an imposter.

  Likewise, his sudden clear headedness brought back the memory of his last few moments on the rack. He recalled how the voice that had spoken to the fat man sounded so familiar. He’d thought it was Jesus, but now he recognized it as Gordian’s voice.

  In that instant, Tara’s anger and hate evaporated, and he was left staring at the bloodstained, bruised back of a man he’d helped to condemn to death. Jesus was no zealot. Taras had helped send an innocent man to Golgotha with a cross strapped to his back.

  “Dear gods,” he whispered, “what have I done?”

  Among the raucous, bloodthirsty shouts and jeers from the people nearby, no one heard him.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  An hour after sunset, Mary grabbed her cloak and her bag. The time had come to leave. She’d been packing all day, but as she stared at the piles of clothes and mementos in her bedchamber, she came to realize she didn’t want any of them. She had no idea how large a cart Taras would secure for the trip, but she knew she couldn’t carry all her things to the market district. Besides, they were part of her past. Taras was her future.

  She walked away from her belongings and stood in front of her mirror. The dress she’d chosen for her flight to Rome was easily the most daring outfit she possessed. She had purchased it from a traveling tailor, who told her the style and cut were quite fashionable in Rome. But the blouse, with its plunging neckline that revealed quite a bit of her breasts, proved so bold she’d never had the courage to wear it. Her father would beat her if he ever saw her dressed like this. Far from discouraging her, the thought brought a smile to her face, and a small thrill shot up her spine. True, her father would hate the blouse, but Taras would love it.

  She turned away from the mirror and stepped through her bedroom door. As she passed the door to her father’s office she paused long enough to slide a letter under it. She’d written it earlier, and was careful to give no hint of where she was going. Despite Taras's reassurances they would be safe in Rome, she had her misgivings. Her father was a man of wealth and influence, and he would spare no resource to find her, especially if he thought she’d broken Jewish law and married a Roman.

  She stood and walked the rest of the way to the end of the hall, where she descended the stairway into the main room. She turned and took one last look at the house, the only home she’d ever known. Nervous despite her excitement, her fingers trembled on the door handle. Did she want this? Could she really leave her father’s house in the middle of the night?

  She thought of Taras, and the life he would be giving up for her, as well. He loved Rome, and he loved the Legion. Until they’d met, those two things were his entire life. Now he was prepared to walk away from everything he knew. She smiled as she thought of his deep blue eyes. They’d shone so bright when he asked her to marry him. How could she have said anything other than yes?

  Her fingers on the door handle ceased their nervous twitching. Taras wasn’t afraid, and by God she wouldn’t be, either. She turned from her house and stepped out into the night, thinking thoughts of a small cottage surrounded by olive trees and strong, golden-haired children. Mary floated down the street and never once looked back.

  * * *

  In a tunnel below the city, Theron awoke hungry. Although he had important business to attend to, like confirming Jesus
's death and getting to the Nazarene’s tomb for a souvenir to prove as much to the Council, he was forced to concede that a hungry vampire is a weak vampire. So, instead of looking for Taras, as he’d planned, he instead set off in search of food, walking through the dark streets on the city hoping for a lost soul. A beggar would do, or even a solitary soldier. Just something to keep his strength up for when he had to deal with Taras, who would, by this point, be much stronger and faster than an ordinary human.

  He was on his way to the market district when he saw her. A lovely Jewish woman out all by herself at a time of day when most reputable women were asleep or tending to their husbands’ desires. Her dark hair fell around shapely olive shoulders, which were free and visible for all to see, although the normal citizens of Jerusalem would have balked at showing even a hint of skin below the neck. Likewise, the woman’s blouse was cut far too low for a respectable Jewish lady. As a result her ample cleavage bounced and swayed as she walked, catching his dark eyes and making him hungrier.

  Given her attire, as well as the late hour, Theron took her for a prostitute, possibly out looking for business or returning from one of her encounters. In his many years as a vampire, he’d met many such ladies of the evening. In larger cities, they comprised the majority of his diet. They were readily available, easy to lure to a secluded spot, and best of all, no one ever missed them.

  Most likely, no one would miss this one, either.

  * * *

  Taras made his slow way to the market district, watching his feet plod along the cobbled street. He was late, but he couldn’t make himself go any faster. Elated as he was to be meeting his love and leaving Jerusalem, he could not get the day’s events out of his mind. The crucifixion of Jesus hung in his mind like a stubborn cobweb, refusing to be swept away. Although he’d wanted nothing more than to flee Golgotha and forget his guilt, he forced himself to stay and witness the whole thing from beginning to end. Thus he watched as the soldiers, laughing and taunting, drove nails into Jesus's wrists, and he continued to watch as one soldier stuck a spear in Jesus's side. Taras stayed on Golgotha until long past the moment Jesus's chest stopped moving and the soldiers cut his limp body from the cross. He owed the Nazarene that much.

  Taras wept the entire time. At one point Jesus's own mother walked up to him to offer comfort. Taras, ashamed, turned away from her. How could he face her after what he’d done to her son?

  After Jesus's body was carted off by his grieving family, Taras left Golgotha. He toyed with the idea of staying behind to help entomb the body, but he didn’t have the strength or the time. He was already late. He had to meet Mary in the market so they could leave. Taras couldn’t wait to put this wretched city at his back. The place had taken Marcus, Didius, and Gordian from him, and now it had claimed his self respect, as well. The city of Jerusalem had stolen almost everything Taras loved. Now Mary was all he had left, but she would be more than enough.

  When they reached Rome, he could forget about Messiahs and demons. There he could settle down with his new wife and start a family. In Rome, there would be no hill called Golgotha to remind him every day of his involvement in Jesus's death. Maybe then Taras could live with himself. He hoped so, not only for his sake but for Mary’s, as well. She was leaving behind everything she knew to go to Rome and marry him. He owed it to her to be a good husband and never make her regret the decision.

  In Jerusalem, with its gray walls and constant struggles, he doubted he could be that husband. But in Rome, with Mary by his side and Pilate, the Sanhedrin, and Golgotha far behind him, he thought he would be all right.

  He wiped a tear from his cheek, one of many to fall from his eyes that day, and continued on to the market district. If anything in this life could lift the weight from his shoulders, it would be Mary’s smiling face. He finally picked up his pace, anxious get to her and leave Jerusalem forever.

  * * *

  Mary stood in the market square, alone except for her shadow, wondering where her beloved was. It was not like Taras to be late. She would have to chide him for it when he arrived, just a little, but she could never be angry with him. She just wanted him to hurry. Now that she’d made her decision, she was eager to put Jerusalem behind her. And, she had to admit, she was very eager for him to see her in this blouse.

  She heard footsteps behind her and smiled, thinking Taras had found her. She turned around and held out her arms, ready to start their new life together.

  But it wasn’t Taras.

  A stranger stood in front of her, silhouetted from behind by a torch on the street. His features shrouded in shadow, she could only make out the outline of his head, which was framed by shoulder length, curly hair. His clothes, too, were dark, and made not a whisper of sound as he approached.

  She dropped her arms to her side, putting her right hand on the hilt of a knife she always carried with her, her one concession to the dangers of the city. Taras had insisted she learn to use it when they started their late night encounters. Until this moment she’d always thought it an unnecessary precaution.

  Not anymore.

  Evil rolled off the newcomer in waves, a dark blanket that billowed out like black smoke. She could feel it, writhing through the air between them and tainting it with a foul odor. Mary staggered; amazed that something so vile could exist in her city. What manner of being was it? She didn’t know, and she didn’t intend to find out. She pulled her knife from her waist and pointed it at the stranger.

  “Stay where you are.”

  He chuckled and took a step closer. When he moved, he stepped further from the influence of the torchlight, and his face came into view. She could just make out the dark features of the stranger’s face; the outline of his nose, the black hollows where his eyes glinted, even his faint smirk. But it was his mouth that caught her attention. Two fangs poked from his upper jaw, looking like the teeth of a viper in a human face. As a child in Jerusalem, she’d heard the legends, but she never believed them. The knife fell from her fingers and clanged to the cobbles below.

  “Bachiyr,” she whispered. The Chosen. Not a he, but an it. A demon. Something so evil it could not possibly exist, yet there it was. And it was coming toward her.

  She took a step back, trying to put some distance between her and the Bachiyr. Her knife lay in the street beside her foot, but she didn’t move to retrieve it. The knife would be useless, and she knew it. She could not fight the thing, not by herself. Escape was her only hope.

  The Bachiyr stepped closer, still smiling and showing off its fangs. Its eyes flashed bright red, then faded into the shadows of its brow. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. The area around the two of them had gone deathly quiet, as though the creature had sucked all sound from the city.

  She turned to run. It didn’t matter which direction; she just had to get away from the thing behind her. She needed to find Taras. If anyone could fight it, it would be him. He must be nearby; they were supposed to meet here, after all. If she could just stay away from the Bachiyr long enough to find him, she would be all right. Please, God, let me find Taras. She turned to look behind her, to see if the Bachiyr was close, but the street was empty.

  Distracted, she plowed right into the creature. Somehow it had gotten in front of her. It wrapped its arms around her body and drew her close. She fought it, beating her hands against its chest and face, but nothing she did seemed to harm the thing. It grabbed her wrists and forced her arms behind her back, then it maneuvered its body behind her and braced her in an awkward position with its leg. She was still on her feet, but overbalanced and unable to move. She opened her mouth in another silent scream, then felt a sharp pain at the base of her neck, just above the breastbone. The Bachiyr’s teeth.

  Fire coursed through her body, she tried to double over, but the Bachiyr held her rigid and upright. Desperate, she shuddered and fought and kicked at the thing’s legs as best she could, stomping on its instep and driving the heel of her feet into its shins, but it didn’t bu
dge. If the creature felt any pain at all, it didn’t show it.

  Taras, where are you?

  Her vision swam with images of Taras and small cottages. She saw their children playing underneath a grove of olive trees. She watched as Taras returned home from the market with a trinket for each of them tucked under his arms. He smiled at her; that dazzling, beautiful smile she could never resist, his blue eyes sparkling under the sun. They kissed while their children giggled at the display, but neither of them cared. They had each other. They’d made it. Despite all they’d been through; Messiahs and zealots, prefects and priests, centurions and murders, they’d made it. They'd left Jerusalem and her horrors behind them.

  I love you, Taras, she thought sleepily. She was so tired. All she wanted to do was sleep.

  “That’s a lovely ring,” a voice by her ear said. It sounded faint, but Mary knew it was her own hearing that was weak. She nodded and murmured her thanks, but the world went dark before she could finish.

  * * *

  Taras arrived in the market district almost an hour late. Mary was nowhere to be found. Had she tired of waiting and gone home? Or worse, had her father returned from Bethany early and learned of her plan? Perhaps Mary was even now trying to find a way out of her father’s house to meet him. Or maybe she was hiding somewhere in the market district waiting for Taras.

  “Mary?” He called. There was no answer. He dared not raise his voice lest he wake others in the city or alert any nearby soldiers to his presence. Officially, he was not yet released from service, and Pilate, fearing zealot retribution for Jesus's death, had placed all the legionaries in Jerusalem on extra alert. Thus he should be out patrolling with his fellow soldiers. If they saw him outside, he could be charged with desertion. But there was no other way; he and Mary had to leave tonight, before her father returned in the morning. He had enough gold to buy his way past the guards at Damascus Gate, if need be, and his papers would be official tomorrow. With the only guarded border from Judea more than a week’s journey away, he would not have any trouble leaving the provinces.