by David McAfee
* * *
Taras saw the soldier running toward him just as he rounded a corner onto Ephraim’s street. It was Gordian, the centurion’s Second and the only other person in the barracks that knew Taras's secret. The last Taras had seen of him, Gordian was on his way to bed. What was he doing up and out at this late hour? No matter, Taras was relieved just to see a familiar face.
When Gordian saw him, his eyes grew wide, and he ran all the faster.
“Taras,” the man panted for breath. “Hurry. You must see this.”
“Gordian, I’m in the middle of something for Marcus. I’d come with you, but this is pretty important.”
“You’ll want to see this, Taras” Gordian said, still struggling for breath. “I guarantee it.” Then he turned around and ran back up the street.
Taras said nothing, but he broke into a run and followed Gordian, trusting his judgment. Before long he found himself back at Ephraim’s house, which is where Marcus wanted him to go, anyway.
“Here?” Taras asked.
Gordian nodded and led Taras around to the back, where the body of Malachi lay facedown in the dirt, loosely wrapped in a coarse blanket. The smell of freshly turned soil filled the area, along with the beginnings of decay. Taras wrinkled his nose as he rounded the rear wall. He expected to see the undertaker, but no one else was near the house. “Where is the undertaker?” he asked.
“I dismissed him,” Gordian said. “The other soldiers, too. I thought it best to keep this a secret until Marcus could be told.”
“Keep what a secret?”
“Look over there.” Gordian pointed into the pit where Ephraim had dug out Malachi’s body earlier. He expected a sword, or perhaps more evidence of the man’s crime, and was not quite able to keep from giving a start when he discovered a second body. As with Didius, the new body had also been beheaded. Taras bent over to get a closer look at the flesh around the neck. Bits of skin and other tissue hung from the ragged stump. The wound looked very familiar. Just like Didius, he thought.
He stood and looked at Gordian. “Recognize the injury?"
"Yes. Just like the centurion’s brother,” Gordian replied. He looked to the ground and shook his head. “Malachi was busy last night.”
Taras almost told Gordian his suspicions, but he kept his doubts about Malachi’s involvement to himself until he could talk to the centurion. After that, if Marcus wanted Gordian to know, then Marcus would tell him. If not, then so be it. Gordian didn't need to know everything. However, this second body posed several new questions.
“Have you found the head?” Taras asked.
“No,” Gordian replied. “Just the body.”
Taras nodded. He'd expected as much. “So who is this? And why was he killed?”
“I don't know who he is, not yet. But I have two men trying to find that out right now. As for why he was killed, I don’t pretend to understand the minds of men who are capable of such things, Taras. Perhaps Malachi killed this man, as well, and buried him before Ephraim arrived and killed him.”
“Perhaps,” Taras admitted, but he wasn’t convinced. Something about the whole story had seemed off from the beginning, and the discovery of a second decapitated Jew, in the original suspect’s garden, no less, did not ease his concerns at all. Had Ephraim killed this other man? If so, why? And why would he bring the centurion to the site at all and risk it being discovered? It didn’t make sense.
Unless Ephraim hadn’t killed the man, and Gordian’s suspicion that Malachi had done it before Ephraim arrived was correct. But that didn’t make sense, either. Why would Malachi kill a stranger and bury the body here, then wait for Ephraim? Taras couldn’t think of a single reason.
He stepped out of the hole and took in the surrounding area, looking for a clue. Any clue. “Did you search the body?”
Gordian hesitated a moment before answering, “No, Taras. Why would we?”
Taras snorted. Why, indeed? Though normally quite intelligent, there were times when Gordian could be a bit dense. He knelt down and searched through the corpse’s pockets, but found nothing. He checked the dirt around the body and that’s when he noticed a small bit of what looked like parchment sticking up from the dirt by the dead man’s foot. “What is this?”
Taras pulled out a rolled piece of parchment. Two small pieces of red wax fell from the roll as he raised it to his eyes. Probably the seal. Ignoring the shocked look Gordian gave him, Taras unrolled it and began to read.
Malachi,
I write in haste because time demands it. The Council of Thirteen, those I told you about, have sent one of my own to destroy me. In case I am unable to escape I wanted you to know, so you do not waste any time searching for me.
You must warn him, Malachi. I spoke of him to the Council, thinking I could sway them. While I did not tell them his name, they may still try to find him. Above all, he must be kept safe. I know you can do this.
I must pack. I pray to see you again, but if not, please remember this letter and inform Jesus of what has befallen me.
Ephraim
There it was, proof that Ephraim and Malachi were involved with Jesus, and that Ephraim had lied about wanting to leave the Nazarene’s followers. I knew we shouldn’t have trusted you, Ephraim. Taras couldn’t wait to see the treacherous bastard again. He would die a horrible death, as befitted a traitor to Rome.
As damning as the letter was, it still didn’t explain why Ephraim killed Malachi, or tell Taras who the other body belonged to. Perhaps it was someone sent to kill them both. There was no way to know for sure. And what of this Council of Thirteen? Who in the blazes were they? And what interest did they have in Jesus? There were too many damn questions.
He looked up from the letter and saw Gordian staring at him wide eyed, the shovel clutched in his hands.
“It’s just a letter, Gordian.”
“Of course. What… what does it say?”
Taras handed it to him. “Here, read it yourself.” Then he bent down and resumed his examination of the body.
After a few more minutes’ digging failed to turn up anything else of interest, he was about to step out of the hole and tell Gordian good night when he noticed something shiny on one of the headless body’s fingers. A ring? He cursed himself for not even looking at the man’s hands, an oversight if ever there was one. It just showed how exhausted he was.
He knelt in the dirt, thinking that after he took the ring off the man’s finger he was going to follow Marcus's order and get some sleep. Gordian could see to the disposal of Malachi’s body. He slipped the ring off and examined it. It wasn’t much, just a simple steel ring, but there was a single filigreed letter E engraved into the top. The design looked familiar.
“Wait, I know this symbol...” He scrambled around in the dirt, looking for the broken pieces of the wax seal from Ephraim’s letter. When he found them, he put them back together, and there in the wax was a stylized E. Taras compared it to the ring in his hand. A perfect match. The ring even showed a few red wax flecks in the grooves of the E. It had obviously been used to seal the letter.
But that didn’t make sense. If this was the ring used to seal Ephraim’s letter to Malachi, then how did this person get it? Did he steal it? Or something else? What if…
“Ephraim,” Taras breathed. “By the gods, this is Ephraim! But then who did I follow to the house by the Damascus Gate?”
The answer was simple: a killer. Probably the same man who’d killed Didius, Claudius, Malachi, and apparently Ephraim, as well.
He had to tell Marcus right away. This time the guards at his door would let him in even if he had to force them to do it. He started to rise but a blinding flash of pain on the back of his head knocked him back into the hole. He fell face-first to the ground and lay next to the real Ephraim’s body.
“Very good, Taras.” Gordian’s voice, but it sounded hollow, like it came to him through a pipe. “You weren’t supposed to figure that part out. That blasted ring! I should have thou
ght to remove it.”
Taras lifted his head, trying to get a better look. He put his hands under him and was surprised to feel not dirt, but a soft, rubbery substance. Some of the soil fell away as his scrabbling fingers disturbed it, revealing the pale, waxen face of Archarius, the undertaker.
Another blinding flash of pain exploded on the back of his head, and Taras's world went dark.
Chapter Sixteen
A thousand miles away from Jerusalem, in a chamber buried deep within the earth and secured by centuries of secrecy, Algor, Fifth of the Council of Thirteen, held a private meeting with his fellow councilors Lannis and Mattawe. As the rest of the world slept, the trio discussed their plans for the Nazarene.
“Jesus will be arrested in the morning,” Algor said.
“That is not what Theron was sent to do,” Lannis pointed out.
“True, but it will suffice.”
“But Algor,” Mattawe said, “You instructed him to make it seem as though the zealots killed Jesus.”
“That I did. An error on my part, actually. I hadn’t realized he wouldn't be able to approach the Nazarene. My own fault, I should have known Jesus's faith would protect him. But with his pending arrest, it does not matter. The Sanhedrin will demand he be crucified for blasphemy, and faith will not protect him from them. He will die soon enough, and the Romans will still connect him to the zealots.”
“But will that be enough to enrage Rome to the point of forcing the pantheon on the people of Israel?” Lannis asked. “That was your objective, if I recall.”
“No need for such disrespect, Lannis. Even if the death of Jesus in this manner does not force the emperor’s hand, we have other things to gain from it.”
“What are you thinking, Algor?” Mattawe asked.
“We cannot pin a crucifixion carried out by the Romans on the zealots, it is true. But Jesus's death will still serve us. Look how many have fallen under his sway with his talk of the one true God. If nothing else, his death in such a brutal fashion can only diminish the number of people who believe in him. In addition, many in Rome, including Caesar, already believe he is linked to the zealots. If the people of Jerusalem can be made to believe the same – and I’ve no reason to doubt they can – so much the better. Jesus's influence in Israel will die soon after he does.”
“But what about Theron?” Lannis asked.
“What about him?” Mattawe asked. “He’s just the Enforcer.”
“He’s been sloppy. Look at what he did this evening. He led that northern legionary right to our door. The man tried to break in. He even saw a Lost One. He was all but running to tell the centurion where to find us.”
“The legionary has been taken care of,” Algor said. “He will not be able to tell anyone about Theron’s lapse.”
“Is he dead, then?” Lannis asked.
“Yes,” Algor said.
“Are you certain?” Mattawe asked.
“Very. I received word from my agent only a few minutes ago. Taras, who by the way is no ordinary soldier, has been dealt with. He is no longer a concern.”
“But what about Theron?” Lannis asked, sticking to her point. “Don’t forget, he is the one who led Taras to our house in Jerusalem.”
“Yes.” Mattawe added. “New at his position or not, he has made too many mistakes. I can’t fault him for not being able to kill Jesus himself, but he has given far too much away and endangered us all with his reckless confidence. He will need to be punished.”
“He will,” Algor assured them. “After Jesus is crucified, we will turn Theron into a Lost One.”
* * *
In a similar chamber a great deal closer to the city, Taras, very much alive, was having a difficult time deciding if he was glad of that fact or not. Strapped to the rack, his muscles burning and his joints on fire, he almost wished he wasn’t.
The room around him was lit by a handful of flickering torches, as well as an open furnace on one wall that cast an evil red glow around the chamber. Embedded in the coals of the furnace were a number of steel brands. Their tips glowed red hot and they looked eager to taste flesh. Taras studied the various instruments of pain scattered around the room and moaned, knowing sooner or later he’d probably experience most of them.
A tall, obese soldier chuckled from underneath a black hood as he pulled the rack’s tension lever. A flab of fat under his arm jiggled with the movement. He was dressed in a sleeveless leather vest and loose breeches, but no armor, and he carried no sword that Taras could see. Taras only knew the man to be a legionary by the bright red cloak he wore, so out of place among his other accoutrements. Because of his size and the heat in the chamber, the rotund fellow's skin glistened with sweat despite his sparse attire
“Scream, Taras,” the man said, his voice like gravel in a flower pot. “If you scream I’ll ease the tension, just a little.”
Taras clamped his jaws shut, determined not to give him the satisfaction, but even he knew it was only a matter of time. Sooner or later he would not be able to hold back any longer. Then the screams would come in force. But he would endure the pain as long as he could before giving in. Besides, he doubted the bastard would keep his word and ease the pull, anyway. He shook his head.
The soldier laughed. “Do you know where you are, legionary?”
Taras remained silent.
“You are underneath thirty feet of solid earth, about five miles east of the Damascus Gate. Do you know what that means? When you do finally scream – and you will, do not doubt it – no one will hear you. Except for me, of course.”
Wonderful. Taras still didn’t speak, but his heart sank. He hadn’t had much hope of rescue, but if the man spoke the truth, Taras was done for. Worse, if his torturer could indeed act without fear of Taras's screams attracting notice, his death was likely to be very long and unpleasant.
“What do you want?” Taras asked, hoping to stall him.
“What do I want? I thought I told you; I want a scream. Are you going to give me one, now?”
Taras shook his head again. “Go to hell.”
“Good,” His captor said, and even though Taras couldn’t see the man’s face he had a feeling there was a broad smile underneath the mask. “It’s much more satisfying if I have to work for it. Motivation is important, wouldn’t you agree? Of course you would. Now, let’s see if I can’t change your mind.”
He gave the lever a sharp jerk. Taras's joints, already stretched to the point they felt like they would tear in two, pulled apart a little further. His muscles screamed at being thus treated, but he could not hear them over the rush of blood to his ears. Taras, ever the soldier, held his scream back as long as he could. But eventually he could take it no longer.
He couldn’t help himself. He gave the man what he wanted.
* * *
Gordian finished reburying the bodies of Ephraim, Malachi, and Archarius. It was difficult to get them out of the city without being recognized. He’d had to load them onto a wagon and drive through town as quietly as a stubborn burro could be made to travel, all the while dressed in the coarse garb of a Jewish peasant. The guards at the gate hadn’t recognized him, or they might have wondered what the centurion’s Second was doing dressed so poorly and driving a cart in the middle of the night. They hadn’t detained him long once he handed them a few silver pieces each. After that the way became much easier, at least until he got far enough away from the wall and had to stop and dig again. He hadn’t wanted to bury the bodies at all. He’d much rather leave them for the desert fauna, especially Ephraim’s, which would burn away in the sunlight anyway, but his brother’s instructions had been explicit.
The bodies must never be found, Gordian. The Council of Thirteen does not forgive mistakes. Gordian had nodded, the thought of Theron’s upcoming punishment fresh in his mind. A Lost One. Just the thought made Gordian shudder. Far better to be dead than to be turned into one of those things. Gordian, battle-hardened as he was, could almost feel sorry for Theron.
But Theron had failed to maintain the secrecy of the vampire race. He'd led Taras right to their front door. He might as well have invited the legionary in to have a look around. Not Gordian, though. He would not fail. No one would ever find the bodies of Malachi, Ephraim, Archarius, or Taras. They would disappear forever into memory, and he, Gordian, would reap the rewards of his brother’s people.
As he tamped down the last of the soil over the bodies, the shuffle of boots in the dirt behind him caught his ear. Fearing he’d been discovered, he whirled around, holding his shovel – which still bore a few drops of Taras's blood – in front of him. He was somewhat relieved to see his twin brother behind him, watching as he finished his work. “It’s you,” he said. “You scared me, brother.”
“My apologies, Gordian,” The newcomer replied, “I just wanted to see how everything was coming along.”
Gordian lowered the shovel to the ground and walked up to his brother. “All is going well. Taras is in the Hole, tied to the rack and very likely screaming like mad at this very moment.”
His brother frowned. “He’s in the Hole? Why? He was supposed to report to Marcus that he’d discovered Jesus was indeed involved in Didius's murder, as we planned.”
“Taras discovered the truth. He saw Ephraim’s ring and figured it out. I was forced to improvise. I hit him with a shovel and snuck him out of the city.”
“You couldn’t think of anything better than hitting him with a shovel? Something that wouldn’t jeopardize my plan, perhaps?”
“I panicked,” Gordian admitted.
“All right, but why did you put him in the Hole? Why didn’t you just kill him? We can’t afford any careless mistakes, Gordian.”
