by David McAfee
“I owed Octavius a favor, so I left Taras in his care. Don’t worry, brother. I assure you, Octavius is skilled at his work. Taras will be dead by morning. As for his report, I can deliver the news to Marcus myself; we don’t need Taras for that. ”
His brother nodded. “Go on.”
“The bodies that would have proven Theron lied to Marcus are buried, so no one will ever find them, which will ensure Theron’s punishment remains a Council matter. Marcus will march with the Sanhedrin in the morning to arrest Jesus of Nazareth. He will most certainly be crucified, and the Council’s worries of his influence will be as dust.”
“You forgot one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Passover is coming. Tradition demands Pontius Pilate pardon one condemned prisoner. What happens if he chooses Jesus?”
“He won’t. I overheard some men in the street talking about that very thing on my way to the gate. A few of the city’s inhabitants, those sympathetic to the zealots, have been calling for the prisoner Barabbas to be released. We will use that to our advantage. Also, there are rumors of Jesus's involvement in the zealot movement, and he has been implicated in a plot to overthrow Rome.”
“Implicated by whom?”
“By some of my own men.” Gordian had to keep his face neutral, lest his twin discover the lie. He would not tell his brother it was Theron who’d actually planted that idea into the centurions’ head. Let him think Gordian was clever for a change. “Marcus is convinced the Nazarene is attempting to overthrow Rome, and Pilate will never release him under such strong suspicion from his favorite centurion. Rest assured, Jesus will walk to Golgotha with a cross strapped to his back.”
“Very good,” his brother said, nodding.
“Don’t forget,” Gordian said, “You promised to share your gift with me when this is over.”
“I won’t forget,” his twin replied. “You just make sure you do your part. Jesus must die. No excuses. That fool Theron can’t seem to do it without letting the entire city know about us, but once my plan is complete the Council of Thirteen will see who truly deserves their confidence.”
The tone of his voice raised the hairs on Gordian’s arms. His twin brother had been a vampire for eleven years, and Gordian still hadn’t gotten used to the way he behaved. Sometimes he was the same brother the legionary had always known. Other times – like tonight, for example – he was someone else. Someone dark, and evil. He shuddered to think what malicious course his twin’s mind traveled.
Still, he couldn't pass up the promise of immortality. When his brother had offered to share his gift and make Gordian a vampire, too, he had accepted gladly. It would be like old times. They would do things together, and have long conversations, and maybe they would both be awarded positions within the Halls for their efforts in Israel. It all seemed so wonderful.
But at times like these, looking at his brother’s half mad, twisted visage, Gordian had to wonder if he would become the same dark, hateful creature his brother had turned into. He thought, and not for the first time, that perhaps he’d made the wrong decision.
Much too late, now. There would be no backing out of the deal at this point; he’d already seen and done too much. The Council could never let him live, not with everything he knew. Gordian looked up into the sky and his eyes found the moon. I’d better get to know her, he thought. The moon and I will be seeing a lot of each other.
“I have to go,” his brother said. “Dawn is only a few hours away, and I will be needed in the Halls. You should go as well, brother. You will need to be ready for when Marcus marches to the Gardens of Gethsemane in the morning. I would suggest you go home and get as much sleep as you can.”
With that, the vampire disappeared into the night. Gordian watched him go, then climbed back into the wagon and urged the stubborn burro forward. Marcus would rise with the sun, as always, and would be ready to march less than an hour later. And although Gordian doubted the Sanhedrin could be roused so early, he knew Marcus would expect him to be awake and ready at the same time as him. That meant Gordian had about three hours before he had to wake up. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.
As he recalled the look in his brother’s eyes and the sound of his voice when he’d talked about Theron, Gordian doubted he would be able to sleep, anyway. Fortunately, the events of the day to come would be unnerving and exciting enough so that he should be able to stave off exhaustion until after his brother had kept his promise, and by then it wouldn’t matter anymore.
Gordian would be a vampire, too.
Chapter Seventeen
Marcus stood, fuming, at the door to the barracks. He’d been awake for over an hour and had been ready to move for half that. Taras was late, and that wasn’t like him. Where the hell is he? Normally, Marcus was a very patient man, but this morning he had an appointment with the Sanhedrin he didn’t want to miss. They would go to the Gardens of Gethsemane and arrest the man responsible for Didius's murder, and the attempted murder of another man, Ephraim.
If he was telling the truth. It wasn’t the first time Marcus heard the thought echo inside his head. Ever since he’d gone to bed the night before he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d been right to let the man go, even though he sent Taras to follow him. Now that Taras could not be found, Marcus heard that same thought buzzing around inside his head over and over again in a steady, annoying cadence. The doubt gnawed at his nerves.
But the body was right where he said it would be. If he was lying about his reason for killing Malachi, why would he show us the body? It doesn’t make sense.
“None of this makes sense,” he said aloud.
“Pardon, Centurion?”
Marcus whirled around, startled, and was considerably relieved to see his Second. Gordian had long ago stopped commenting on Marcus's habit of talking to himself. “It's nothing, Gordian. I am only thinking out loud. Has Barrius returned?”
“Yes, sir. Only moments ago, in fact.”
“And?”
“He found no sign of Taras, either. It is as if the man simply left Jerusalem and never looked back.”
“Blast the delay. He’s probably off somewhere asleep.” Marcus didn’t believe that. He’d known Taras a long time, and the man was as solid and dependable as they come. He wouldn’t miss an event this important, at least not voluntarily. Something had gone wrong.
“Why don’t we go without him, Centurion?”
“I would, Gordian. But Taras is the only person I trust who has actually seen the Nazarene. I don’t want to get to the Gardens and arrest the wrong man just because half the people in attendance claim to be Jesus themselves in an attempt to protect him.”
“But surely someone else can identify him.”
“No.”
“But, Centurion—”
Marcus's patience, stretched thin already, wore out. His hand seemed to shoot of its own accord. He grabbed his Second by the throat and shoved him against the wall, drawing stares from several passers-by as well as the handful of legionaries who stood with the Centurion. He paid them no heed, focusing all his attention on his Second.
“Let me be perfectly clear on this, Gordian,” Marcus growled, “We are not leaving without Taras. That is final.”
“Yes, Centurion,” Gordian replied, his eyes wide with shock and a trace of fear.
Marcus held him a moment longer, wanting to leave no further doubt about his position, then released his grip.
“Good,” he said. “Now, go and see if Jacobo found anything. He should be back by now.”
“Yes, sir,” Gordian saluted, then went to find Jacobo. Marcus watched him go. Something was definitely not right. Gordian had never pressed Marcus's authority in such a bold and blatant manner before, and certainly not in front of the men. Every soldier under Marcus's command knew he didn’t tolerate any questioning of his orders. The Gods knew Gordian should have been more aware of that fact than most, having been a frequent witness to the punishment meted out for
such violations.
He hadn’t told Gordian the whole reason he waited, of course. Gordian only needed to know so much. Marcus was beginning to think he’d acted rashly when he wrote to the Sanhedrin. A nagging voice in the back of his mind insisted he'd been misled, and it hadn’t left him alone all morning. Now he started to wonder if Jesus could really be part of all this. It was certainly possible Ephraim had lied to him, although Marcus interrogated the man personally. He hadn’t appeared to be lying, but…
…But where the devil is Taras?
Marcus reached into a pouch and pulled out a roll of parchment, which bore his personal seal and had Taras's name written on the outside. He’d written it up last night and planned to present it to his friend this morning before they went on to the Gardens. He stared at it for a long moment, then replaced it in the leather pouch at his belt, wondering again where Taras could be.
He shook his head in frustration and went back into the barracks. He’d skipped breakfast in hopes of getting an early start, and now his stomach informed him that it didn’t appreciate being left out of the day’s preparations. I’ll get something to eat, he thought. With luck Taras will have returned by the time I finish.
Marcus headed for the kitchens muttering under his breath. “Taras better have a good reason for this.”
* * *
Had he been able, Taras would have told the centurion he had a very good reason for being late. As it was, however, he was having difficulty enough just staying alive. His torturer had worked him on the rack for hours, bringing him to the brink of unconsciousness, then letting up only long enough for Taras to regain his senses, at which point the rotund legionary would start anew. By the time the knock came to the chamber, Taras felt like every joint in his body was on fire. He tried to open his eyes to see who had come, but his vision blurred from a combination of pain and exhaustion.
“What do you want?" his torturer asked. "I’m busy.”
“There’s been a change of plan.” The voice sounded familiar, but Taras couldn’t quite place it. He strained to listen, hoping it might help him escape.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s become too dangerous. You can't toy with him any longer. He must die, and soon.”
“But why, Jesus?”
Jesus! That must be why the voice sounded so familiar. He’d heard Jesus speak in the Gardens. So the Nazarene was part of this, after all.
“Because he knows too much. We can’t risk him escaping somehow. The centurion is starting to have second thoughts, thanks to a few words from some of our friends in the Legion. The word now is he might not come to arrest me, after all. We must keep building on that doubt in order to keep the Sanhedrin at bay for as long as we possibly can. Your prisoner knows all about the traitor Ephraim’s death. He knows about Malachi and Archarius, and he knows about the demon near the Damascus Gate. If he escapes and finds his way back to Marcus, the centurion will find out about us for certain. If that happens we are finished. I don’t want Rome to know what is going on in Israel until it is too late for her to fight back.”
“As you command, Jesus,” came the reply, then Taras heard the door close.
Friends in the Legion? Dear gods! How deep did this go? Taras needed to get word to Marcus, somehow. Gordian is involved, too. He nearly wept as he realized that knowing the truth and being able to do something about it were two entirely different things. The harsh reality was that Taras remained securely tied to the rack, and had no hope of escaping his dingy little cell to warn the centurion of Gordian’s treachery. In fact, he would probably never leave this room alive.
The shuffling sound of the fat soldier’s feet as he walked back across the room bolstered that assessment. “You heard the Nazarene, Taras,” the man chuckled, and Taras heard him walk around the machine toward the lever. “How would you like to die? The sword? An axe? Beheading? You should be grateful. I have been ordered to make it quick.”
Even weak, Taras had strength enough to tell him what he could do with his gratitude.
“Not terribly complimentary, Taras,” the man said after he’d stopped laughing. “Still, I guess I can’t blame you. We should take advantage of the straps while we have them. They will ensure you don’t flinch and make your death longer than necessary. I’d better check them.”
He walked around the table, making a show of checking Taras's bonds. On one of them, he stopped. “What’s this? Looks like this one is loose. Let me fix that.”
He bent over Taras's arm and made a slight adjustment. It didn’t matter; Taras couldn’t feel anything in either arm, anyway. “There. That should hold you. Now then, I hate to kill on an empty stomach. I think I’ll go get something to eat. You should take a moment to commune with your gods before I send you to meet them. Would you like me to bring you something?”
“Your black heart on a plate, perhaps?” Taras replied, though just speaking the words hurt his chest.
“Such venom, Taras. Not very civil. Well, I suppose I can't blame you, given the circumstances. I’m off. Don’t wander off."
With that, the fat man left. Taras heard the clank as the cell door shut and listened to his echoing laughter as it faded down the hall.
He fought the instinct to try and pull his arms free. He’d already strained against his bonds while the rack stretched his limbs, and all he’d managed to do was rub his wrists raw and bloody. The thirsty leather straps soaked up the blood and sweat and only became tighter. Finally, they’d gotten so tight they cut off his circulation, and now Taras couldn’t feel his hands at all; he only knew they were still attached because he could see them.
Gordian the traitor had blindsided him with a shovel and put him here, may the gods damn the bastard’s black soul. The fat man's, as well. Both of them. But most of all, Taras hoped the gods felt his anger and passed some of it along to the Nazarene. Gordian may have put Taras in the stocks, but it was Jesus who’d started this damn mess. Gods take them all. Traitors, every one of them. In his mounting rage, he shook violently, and soon he thrashed in fury like a fish on land. His wrists burned, and started to bleed again.
His energy lasted only a few seconds before his flagging strength ebbed away altogether, and he lay back down on the rack, while the fingers of his right hand tingled. He promised himself he would see his killers again in the netherworld. When that time came, he would make them pay.
“May the gods damn you all,” he said aloud, and chuckled in spite of the pain. “Now I'm talking to myself, like Marcus.”
He closed his eyes and wept softly. Not for himself, death was a danger all legionaries faced, but for his friend. Once Jesus had his rebellion, he would have no use for the centurion. Doubtless he would have Gordian kill Marcus in his sleep. It made sense. Gordian was the only one besides Taras and the centurion himself who had complete access to Marcus's chambers.
Then he thought of Mary, with her dark, curly hair and olive skin. He could almost smell her hair. She would be wondering where he’d gone. Worse, once the zealots succeeded in killing Marcus there would be no one left who could tell her the truth of his demise. Would she believe he had left her?
Tears flowed freely from his eyes as he imagined the pain she would bear for him. She would never know about his plan to give up his life as a soldier and take her to Rome to be his wife. She would likely marry some man her father chose for her and live out her days thinking Taras had abandoned her.
Taras had never been a praying man, but as he thought about Marcus and Mary, he sent up a prayer to whatever of his gods might be listening. “Please help Marcus,” he said. “Help him see the truth of the Nazarene’s scheme before it’s too late. And please help Mary to—ow!”
The tingling in his fingers had turned into painful spasms. It felt like someone had rammed needles into the ends of his digits. Gods, that hurts! He grew angry as he realized he wouldn’t even have the satisfaction of praying. The pain in his fingers was too distracting. He couldn't even...
My fin
gers! He realized. I can feel my fingers. He wiggled them experimentally, and although they hurt, he was able to move them. He looked up to his right wrist and discovered the bond was loose. He thought back and remembered the torturer adjusting it just before he left. The fat bastard must not have secured it properly.
Now, at least, he had a chance. He used his fingers to work the catch on the buckle. After several agonizing minutes, it came loose and his right hand swung free. Working as quickly as his stretched and aching joints would allow, he reached over and undid the catch on his left hand, also. Once that was done he attempted to sit up, but his body would have none of it. His lower back protested with a white-hot flash of pain.
Taras fought back a scream and looked for something to use as a bit. Finding nothing he could reach, he bit down on his tongue and tried again. He did his best to ignore the pain in his back, but by the time he’d succeeded in sitting up he could taste blood in his mouth. He spat a wad of crimson to the side of the table and set about freeing his ankles.
With his feet now free he swept his legs slowly over the side of the platform and lowered himself to the floor, standing for a moment on shaky legs. When he could be sure he would not simply fall over he took an unsteady step toward the door, which he noted, was not locked. And why should it be? He'd been strapped to the rack. No one would have thought he could escape.
Taras smiled. The fat man should have paid more attention.
Taras's things lay piled into a corner by the door. His uniform, his shield, his sword and armor gleamed dully in the weak, flickering torchlight, begging him to take them and use them to exact revenge.
Later, he promised them. Right now he couldn’t even lift them, let alone fight with them. As much as it galled him to do so, he would have to leave his things behind. At least he still had his tunic and sandals.
Taras walked to the door as fast as his abused joints and muscles would allow. He pushed it open just enough to poke his head into the hallway, the whole time expecting to hear an angry voice shout for him to stop. When no such command came from the hall, he stepped into it and looked around.
