by David McAfee
“Do you think he suspects?”
She nodded. “I’m sure of it. Two days ago I left the house to run an errand at the market, and he insisted Zechariah accompany me. He’s never done that before.”
He continued to stroke her hair, which slid through his fingers like strands of satin. “It could be due to the recent increase in zealot activity. Last week, Prefect Pilate ordered every legionary in the city placed on extra alert. With the coming of Passover and the greater numbers of people in Jerusalem, Pilate fears the zealots will become even more aggressive.”
She looked at him then, and he noted the moisture rimming her eyes. “No, I don’t think that’s it.”
“But you don’t know for sure.”
“Yes I do,” she said firmly, and pushed him back to arm’s length. “He knows you by sight, somehow. I see the way he looks at you when your patrol goes by. He watches you, and his face... I’ve never seen it like that. It’s like he’s made of stone.”
“He is probably just watching the patrol. Your father, as I recall, is none too fond of Rome and her legionaries. I’ve had to step in on his behalf to prevent the Centurion from taking action against him several times already.”
“I know.” She smiled, and brushed the fingers of her right hand against his clean-shaven cheek. “But it isn’t the patrol he watches when your unit walks by, it’s you. I overheard him speaking to mother several nights ago. He even mentioned you by name.”
“What did he say?” Taras asked.
Mary shook her head, and by her posture he knew she would never tell him. She could be very stubborn at times. But her hesitation did tell him one thing: whatever her father said about him, it was not good.
It didn’t surprise him that her father would feel such animosity. Taras walked on dangerous ground by continuing to see her. Men in Jerusalem had been killed for less than the short kiss they shared only moments before. When Rome’s forces took control of the city such executions became illegal, especially on a Roman soldier, but that didn’t mean it never happened. The zealots loved any excuse to make the Romans’ lives miserable, and Taras knew for a fact Mary’s father, Abraham, had strong connections to zealot circles. If Abraham took a mind to, it would be easy enough for him to try and have Taras killed in what would likely be seen as just another zealot uprising. The threat of her father’s ire forced Taras to walk a very fine line with their budding relationship. For the time being, it could not become public knowledge.
Still, one look at her face, and he knew he would walk that line as long as it took. The risk was a small price to pay for the pleasure of her company. He longed for the day he could do better by her. Her father would never be persuaded to let him marry her by any normal means, of course. But there were always alternatives.
“Taras?” her voice was soft, hesitant, “What do you think of when your face gets that way?”
Taras shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the thoughts he’d been entertaining. “What do you mean?”
“Your eyes…sometimes when we talk, especially about father, they become so hard.”
He pulled her close. “It’s nothing. Just something I will need to discuss with the centurion later. As for your father, he is only trying to protect you from the great evils of the Roman Empire.”
“Evils like you?” She asked.
“Exactly like me,” he replied, unable to suppress a grin.
She returned his smile, and the two shared another kiss. This time it was Taras who broke it, albeit reluctantly. “I have something for you. A gift.”
Her smile widened, and although she protested such a thing was unnecessary, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a small wooden box. “It’s not much. Beautiful as Rome is, she does not pay her soldiers as well as I would like.” He held it out to her.
Mary took the little box in both hands and gently opened the lid. Her eyes widened when she saw what lay inside. She reached her fingers into the box and came away with a gold ring. A single ruby sat inlaid into the gold, surrounded on either side by two triangular onyx panels. Taras had saved his salary for months to pay for it, but the delight in her deep brown eyes was worth every copper. She slipped it onto her finger and looked up at him, moisture brimming in her dark eyes.
“Do you like it?” He asked.
“I love it, Taras.” Mary threw her arms around his neck. “And I love you.”
Taras pressed his face into her dark, curly hair, reveling in the scent of her perfume and the soft feel of her skin. She shuddered in his arms, and he thought his heart would burst. “I love you, too.”
They stood in the alley, locked in their embrace, for a span of several heartbeats. If he could have his way, they would have stayed there the whole night. But Taras knew if she didn’t get home soon her father would discover her missing, and knowing Abraham, he would rouse half the city to look for her. With a sigh, he pulled away.
“You should go. It would not be good if you were caught out so late. Your servant might not be able to keep herself quiet if you are gone too long.”
“Elizabeth will not say a word, of that I’m sure,” Mary said. “But you are right. Father told all the servants he wanted to wake early to make the preparations for his trip to Bethlehem. If he rises and I’m not there, she will be hard pressed to find an excuse.”
She leaned forward and gave Taras one last kiss. “Will I see you tomorrow evening? Father will be on the road and will not return for several days, and he will have to take Zechariah with him.”
“Of course. I will meet you at your front gate tomorrow evening after my patrol is finished.”
She favored him with a nod, then turned and walked away down the alley. He watched her go with a mixture of love and frustration. How he ached to share more than a kiss with her, and he knew she felt the same. He could feel it every time they were together in the shudder of her arms and quickening of her heartbeat. But her father hated him, and Jewish law forbade her to marry without her father’s blessing. Even if Abraham were more amenable, that same law would not allow a Jewish woman to marry a Roman. A Jewish man could marry anyone he wanted, but a Jewish woman must marry a Jewish man. Not even Pilate would dare to bend that rule, not for a single legionary of no discernable rank. The outcry of the locals would be incredible.
The only way to circumnavigate that law would be for Caiphas himself to authorize an exception, but the High Priest would never do such a thing, at least not without a very large donation to the Temple (or to Caiphas’ personal coffers). Taras didn’t know how large a sum it would take, but he did know it would be far more than he could offer on a legionary's pay. He blew out a frustrated sigh as he fingered the hilt of his sword, wondering what sort of persuasion it would take to change the old man’s mind. He pictured himself standing over the portly priest, sword in hand. How long would it take for the man to give in? Would he ever? If it came to it, would Taras have to kill him?
He jerked his hand away from the sword, surprised at his own malice. As much as he would like to, killing the old Sanhedrin wouldn’t do him any good; he would just have to deal with the next High Priest, who would likely be every bit as stubborn as Caiphas. He sighed as he looked at the bronze hilt sticking out of his leather scabbard.
I’ll just have to find another way, he thought. Then he, too, left the alley, headed for the barracks and a few hours’ sleep before the morning report to Marcus, the Centurion.
Chapter Four
Theron carried his macabre burden through the streets of the New City. He walked with haste through the long shadows, his only refuge from the sun now that it had begun its ascent. He finally stopped in front of a small, unimpressive house not far from the Damascus Gate. There he dropped his burden to the cobbles and searched his pockets, taking from them a small gold key. He grabbed the bag containing Ephraim’s dismembered head and lifted it over his shoulder, then inserted the key into the lock and stepped through the door.
Inside the house there was no light, b
ut Theron didn’t need any. His sharp eyes, more adapted to night than day, could make out the gradient walls in perfect detail in even the poorest illumination. In addition, he’d been here often enough in his long years that he could find his way blind. He walked down a narrow hallway to another door; a heavy oaken monstrosity adorned with a carving of a wolf, and pushed his way through. Light poured from the doorway and into the hall, casting aside the prior darkness and bathing the inside of the house in a soft glow, revealing numerous bas-relief images of wolves and the moon carved into the walls.
The carvings were exquisite; the work of true masters whose time and skill had been bought and paid for with their very lives centuries before. The poor souls worked diligently for years to bring this hallway into its present splendor, only for Theron to kill them when the work was complete so there would be no witnesses.
Theron chuckled at the memory. How they begged me to spare them. How they cried and screamed. He hadn’t spared any. Not one. He couldn’t. The Council ordered him to kill every last one of them. By that time Theron’s hands were so covered in blood he no longer cared if he added more. He reached out with his right hand and traced the contours of a wolf’s head carved into the wall, relishing the feel of the smooth stone beneath his fingertips.
A voice from the room interrupted his thoughts. “Don’t linger in the doorway, Theron. Come inside and report.”
Theron turned and entered the room, closing the door behind him. Inside, the stone walls gave way to a deep, varnished wood that glowed in the restless light of several lamps, which burned from all four sides of the room. Theron wrinkled his nose at the acrid scent of lamp oil. He’d never cared for lamplight, preferring the dancing light of a torch or, even better, his enhanced night vision.
On the walls, portraits of various sizes depicted the thirteen members of the Council. Small statues stood like miniature sentinels upon a shelf on the back wall. From Herris’ brassy, chiseled features to Algor’s twisted and misshapen profile, every member of the Council of Thirteen was represented here, in the Council’s Jerusalem Receiving Room.
In the center of the room stood a large granite desk, the top of which lay strewn with sheaves of papyrus and various other writing materials, most notably a vial of human blood with a quill dipped into it. A psalm placed on the vial kept the blood from coagulating, making it perfectly suitable as ink for the Council’s steward, who sat behind the desk eyeing Theron with curiosity and excitement.
“You’re a mess,” the clerk said.
Theron frowned and looked down at his clothing. Rust-colored splotches of dried blood stiffened the fabric and plastered his hair to his scalp. He could feel the stiffness around his face from the layer of dirt and yet more blood. His hands and arms, too, were covered with the stuff. All in all, he resembled the wall of a slaughter pen. He looked up from his torso and shrugged. “Sometimes my work is messy, Simon.”
“Did you get him?”
“That’s a foolish question.” Theron hefted the bag containing Ephraim’s head, making sure to point out the stains where the blood soaked through the burlap. “Of course I got him. I always do.”
“That you do, Theron. That you do. That’s marvelous. May I?” he stood and walked over to the Enforcer and pointed at the lip of the bag. Theron sighed and opened it so Simon could have a look.
“Dear Gods!” Simon said after he peeked inside. “Did you actually rip off his head? The wound is not from any sword.” He peered at the Enforcer, wearing an expression halfway between fear and envy.
“No, it’s not.”
Simon waited, obviously expecting more, but when Theron didn’t elaborate, he turned back to his desk and sat in his chair. He pulled a sheaf of parchment from a drawer on his right, took the blood-dipped quill from the vial and recorded the information. The sweet, heady scent of blood wafted up from the paper and teased Theron’s nostrils, giving him a pointed reminder that he needed to replenish himself as soon as possible. The quill moved across the parchment with an itchy sound that never failed to make Theron’s skin feel like it was being stretched over a washboard. The combination of smell and sound made him eager to leave the room and enter the Halls.
“Did you discover the identity of the person or persons assisting the traitor?” Simon asked without looking up.
“I did.”
“Who was it?”
“That information is for the Council, Simon, not you.”
Simon ceased writing and glared at Theron, who pretended not to notice as he examined several of the paintings in the room. Simon was just a steward, after all. Theron owed him no respect. Besides, he’d just killed one of his oldest friends for betraying his people. That, combined with his growing hunger, put him in a sour mood. He had no intention of catering to the inflated ego of a lowly clerk, who’d never done anything more strenuous or dangerous for the Council than drawing up a dissertation or penning a letter. “Are you going to announce me, Simon? Or should I stroll into the Council Chamber and hope they are all seated in their proper places when I arrive?”
Glowering at Theron, Simon reached behind him and pulled on a thin rope that hung from a hole in the ceiling. The faint peal of a bell sounded from somewhere in the Halls beyond, summoning whichever Lost One was assigned to assist Simon. Before the sound died away the door on the back wall opened.
The temperature of the room dropped twenty degrees before the Lost One even stepped through the doorway. Clad in the tattered black robes of its station, it floated through the room like the specter of Death. Hordes of squirming larvae feasted on its person, roiling and undulating like miniature waves on a lurid ocean. The curse of a Lost One meant there would ever be just enough flesh on its bones to keep the larvae fed and itself animate, and no more. As Theron watched, a fat green grub perhaps an inch long chewed a hole in the decayed skin of the creature’s left forearm and loped upward to the elbow, where it met with more of its ilk and burrowed beneath the gray flesh once again.
Theron detested the Lost Ones. The horrid things prowled the Halls of the Bachiyr, the ancient home of Theron’s race, tending to the needs of their masters and waiting for either salvation or death, whichever came first. They were once like him, but they had run afoul of the Council and paid the ultimate price. Their bodies no longer held the power to keep the flesh from rotting away, and they were not permitted to feed. As a result the grotesque things spent their time in excruciating pain, their hunger twisting inside them like a viper. Their presence served as a constant reminder to others of the hefty price the Council exacted from those who broke their laws. It was not a price Theron wanted to pay. Ever. Death would be better, he was sure of it.
Simon handed the Lost One a rolled sheet of parchment. “Take this report to Headcouncil Herris. Hurry, now. The Council will be eager to hear the Lead Enforcer’s news.” He said “Lead Enforcer” with a noticeable sneer. Theron didn’t care. What was the opinion of a clerk to him? Nothing. When the Lost One departed back through the doorway, he cinched up the sack and followed behind, not even glancing at the steward on his way through. Theron thought he heard Simon mumble something just before the door closed, but he paid no attention.
The Lost One led him through the meandering hallways that were as much defense as anything else. From the outside, the old building appeared to be nothing more than a modest, slightly worn down house, much like many others in the city. It had been designed not to attract notice. The inside, however, told a different story. Halls and passageways far too long and wide to fit inside the structure roamed freely about, unconcerned with the limits of time and space. Chambers large enough to hold half the city of Jerusalem appeared here and there, along with many smaller rooms. This was made possible by the fact that the Halls of the Bachiyr didn’t exist in Jerusalem, or Judea, or even Israel. Few knew the actual, physical location of the structure. Only Theron, the Council of Thirteen, and a handful of others were privy to such knowledge. Even the many individuals who worked inside the immense
structure had no idea where in the world they were.
Access to the Halls was granted via a network of portals, which were spelled to allow entrance from anywhere. Nearly every major city in the world had one, and from these gateways Theron’s people could enter the Halls for purposes of petition, judgment, or, like Theron, to report on various tasks that had been completed. The passages that led to the Council’s main chamber twisted and turned in a preposterous myriad of directions, making navigation without a guide impossible unless one knew the way.
After centuries of traversing the hallways, Theron knew the way. Thus when he came to the passage that led to his personal chambers, he broke off from the Lost One and headed for his rooms. He didn’t want to appear in front of the Council looking like a muddy rat. The Lost One would not be able to assemble all thirteen members of the Council quickly, anyway, which should give him just enough time to clean up. On the way, he intended to stop by the Larder to feed, hoping he would find clean humans there for a change, rather than the more common unwashed variety the staff usually captured. But Theron’s hunger gnawed at his insides; he would feed on whatever humans waited in the tiny room, clean or otherwise.
* * *
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.
