by David McAfee
No, more likely it was Simon who wanted him dead, and when he realized he couldn’t win he tried to distract Theron with the ruse of being summoned by the Council. That made far more sense. He looked down at the body of Simon, former clerk to the Council of Thirteen, and he could not stifle a laugh. Simon was a fool to attack him. the Council would know such an attempt would never succeed.
You have been lied to, vampire.
Yes. Lied to by Simon. Theron spat at the corpse, leaving a wad of red phlegm on Simon’s chest. You idiot, he thought. You deserved exactly what you received. He didn’t have time to bury the body like he had Ephraim’s; he would have to leave it someplace where the first light of the sun could dispose of it. A rooftop, perhaps.
He bent down to pick up Simon’s corpse and noticed the skin of his fist was still black. Strange, it should have healed with the intake of another vampire’s blood, which was typically stronger than a human’s. Theron pondered this oddity for a moment, then shrugged. Perhaps Simon’s blood had been too weak. He was, after all, only recently turned. In any case, the wound didn’t hurt, and he had more pressing matters. Like getting rid of Simon’s body.
He reached down and grabbed the corpse by the arm and hefted it over his shoulder with a grunt. Theron carried the body to the nearest building, where he tied the hands together and put the loop of Simon’s arms over his head. Then Theron climbed up the wall to the roof, where he left the body to wait for the dawn.
This done, Theron jumped lightly down to the street below. He still had one more piece of business to take care of before he could go back to the Council and claim his mission a rousing success. One last loose end to tie up.
Taras.
He stepped away from the building and walked up the street toward the New City, heading for the barracks.
Chapter Twenty Eight
Theron didn’t make it all the way to the barracks. Shortly after arriving in the Upper City he passed by Ephraim’s house, and there at the entrance to an alley just across the street stood Taras, leaning against the wall of a tailor’s shop and looking at something in his hand. Theron was surprised to find him there, and assumed Taras must be waiting for him. He walked up to the legionary and smiled.
“Is it done?” Theron asked.
Taras looked up, and Theron saw a flash of something blue in the legionary’s palm before he tucked it into his belt. “It is,” Taras said, and Theron noted the despondent look on his face. “Jesus of Nazareth is dead. I watched him die myself at Golgotha.”
“Excellent," Theron said. "Where is the body?”
“His family and friends are preparing it. They will entomb him shortly.”
“Take me there.” Theron turned and started to walk to Golgotha, thinking the Nazarene’s tomb must be nearby. He hoped there would not be many people there, it would easier to take a souvenir.
“No,” Taras said.
Theron stopped in his tracks and turned back to face the legionary. “What do you mean, no?”
“I won’t take you to his tomb. Mary—” Taras's voice cracked, “Mary wouldn’t have wanted me to. I won’t let you do any more damage than you’ve already done.”
“Mary? Mary who? What damage?” Theron demanded. “What nonsense have you gotten into?”
“Don’t say her name!” Taras's face turned bright red. “A murdering dog like you has no right to speak it.”
“Murderer? What the devil are you talking about, Taras? Have you been drinking?”
“You are not Ephraim.” Taras's expression hardened. “I saw Ephraim’s body. The head was removed, but I recognized the ring on his hand as the one used to seal a letter. A letter he’d written to Malachi. The letter warned that someone was coming to kill him.”
“I explained that, already. My ring was—”
“Stolen? Yes. You did mention that. But I never said the letter was sealed with Ephraim’s ring. I only said it had been secured with his seal. Ephraim had two seals, the one on his ring and a larger one in his desk. So how would you know which one he used to seal the letter, unless you had been there first and already seen it?
“I knew something was wrong with your story last night, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. But as I watched Jesus led to his death, the memory returned to me. Why would you bury the victim of another man’s murder? You wouldn’t, of course. It would only make sense to hide a body if the murderer was you. And why would you write a letter to Malachi if he intended to kill you in the first place? It didn’t add up. Do you know what I think? I think Ephraim wrote that letter to warn Malachi about you. The ring proves it. You killed Ephraim, and probably Malachi, too. Jesus was never aligned with forces of darkness, you were.”
Taras shook his head. A tear spilled from his eye and rolled down his cheek. “Because of you, I helped put an innocent man to the cross. I watched him die. I owed him that much after helping to put him there. I saw what they did to him. It took a long time. His suffering and his blood are on my hands. I will have to live with what I’ve done for the rest of my life.” Taras's face turned to stone, and he pulled his sword from his belt and advanced on the vampire. “But not you. You won’t harm anyone else, whoever you are. I will make certain of that.”
Taras lunged, and it was all Theron could do to step out of the way and avoid being skewered. The legionary had the benefit of strength and speed beyond his race, a gift Theron himself had given him out of necessity to speed the healing of his wounds. The vampire reached for the sword at his belt, then changed his mind and opted instead to use his favorite weapon; his claws. He felt the sharp twinge of pain as the bones in his fingers elongated, tearing through the skin of his fingertips and growing to about three inches long and an inch thick.
Taras took a step back at the sight, but he didn’t run. He stared at the claws on Theron’s hands for a moment. “Eight punctures,” Taras whispered. “Didius's head was ripped from his shoulders… there were eight punctures in his throat…” He snapped his eyes up from Theron’s hands to his face, and the vampire saw fire blazing behind the legionary’s pale blue orbs.
“It was you!” Taras shouted. He raised his sword and leapt at Theron, his blade swinging in a wide arc meant to separate Theron’s head from his shoulders. Theron parried the blow with the bony protrusions of his right hand, then launched his left at the legionary.
Taras, more agile than humanly possible, stepped to the side and managed to avoid Theron’s swipe, if only just. At the same time he brought his sandaled foot up and into Theron’s midsection. The blow loosened several items from Theron’s belt, and one of his pouches went flying, spilling its contents into the street. The strength of the kick forced Theron backward a step, but his claws managed to draw three bright red lines of blood on Taras's arm in the exchange.
“Very good, Taras. I killed Didius. Ephraim and Malachi, too. I kill a lot of people, it’s my job. But I couldn’t kill Jesus. Hell, I couldn’t even touch the man. To kill him I needed help. Roman help. Marcus was so angry at his brother’s death he was ready to believe anything I told him. Once the Sanhedrin became involved, I knew my plan would work.” Theron lunged, aiming for Taras's chest and hoping to pierce his heart and lungs with one strike. Taras deflected the blow with a downward slash of his blade and stepped away from the follow up strike of Theron’s other hand. He ducked down and stuck his leg in the vampire’s path, and Theron barely missed tripping over it and falling into the dirt.
“But you forgot about Passover, didn’t you?” Taras asked as he launched an attack of his own, swinging his blade at Theron’s legs. Theron jumped backward just in time to avoid having his left leg severed midway up the shin.
“Damn the Jews and their customs,” Theron said. “I couldn’t let Pilate set Jesus free.” He launched himself at Taras yet again, trying to distract him with a swipe to the soldier’s midsection and hoping to draw his guard down and bowl him over into the street.
“So you remembered me,” Taras said as he ducked under the s
wing, falling onto all fours in front of the charging vampire. The move surprised Theron, who was unable to check his momentum in time. He tripped over the crouching soldier and fell sprawling into the street.
He rolled over and found Taras standing over him. The outraged legionary stared down the length of the blade he held to Theron’s neck. “And what about Gordian?” Taras asked. “What did you offer him to betray the centurion? Silver? Gold? Power?”
This time, Theron didn’t have to feign confusion. “Gordian? Who is Gordian?”
By the look on Taras's face, it was his turn to be confused. His sword arm dipped about and inch and a crease formed in the center of his brow. Theron took advantage of the moment to shift his leg into a striking position. He needed Taras distracted for just a few seconds longer. “What about you, Taras? You were so eager to help, weren’t you?” Theron smiled, “How did you do it, anyway? How did you convince Pilate to execute Jesus instead of Barabbas?”
Taras's sword wavered, and his face lost some of its former steel. “Go to Hell,” he replied, and the sword drew back several inches. Theron could see the muscles in Taras's arm tense, poised for the killing blow. “Go to Hell in ignorance, whoever you are.”
Before Taras could plunge the blade downward for a killing blow, Theron kicked out with his right leg and connected with Taras's knee, which bent backward under the blow, the tendons giving way with an audible snap. Taras let out a pained yelp as he fell to the ground, dropping the sword and clutching his ruined knee with both hands.
Theron got to his feet and walked over to Taras's writhing form. He knelt by the fallen soldier, placing his knee on the doomed man’s chest and pinning him to the ground. He brought his clawed fist level to Taras's midsection and pushed the tips into the flesh of his belly just enough to draw blood. Taras squirmed underneath him and tried to reach his sword, but Theron held him fast. “Where are they entombing the body?” Theron asked, driving the points of his claws in just enough to make Taras gasp in pain. “Tell me and I will make this quick.”
Taras spat at him, and a sticky wad of bloody spittle hit Theron in the cheek. Theron frowned and wiped it off with his sleeve, then he drove his fist home. The curved, bony spikes tore through Taras's abdomen and dug into the earth beneath him. Theron entertained the notion of ripping the legionary in half and spilling his intestines out onto the cobbles, but decided to let the man bleed to death in the street instead. It wouldn’t take long, but it would hurt a great deal. Fitting. He withdrew his hand, and blood welled from the dying man’s belly like a crimson spring.
Theron stood up and looked at the dying soldier, who lay in the street holding his belly as though trying to keep his innards from pouring out of the holes. Taras tried valiantly to scream, Theron noted, but the only thing he seemed able to manage was a hoarse croak. “Thank you for your assistance, Taras,” he said. “I could not have succeeded without you.”
If Taras heard, he gave no indication. His head lolled over to one side. Theron thought he was dead, but his eyes fixed on a glittering object several inches from his face. Taras's expression changed from one of pain to one of confusion. Grimacing, he removed one blood-covered hand from his wound and reached out to pick it up. It was the gold and ruby ring Theron had taken from the woman. It must have fallen out when his pouch came loose. Taras's eyes squinted as he examined it.
“Mary?” He croaked, fresh tears falling from his eyes.
“Was that her name? Ah, yes… I see. She must be the one you spoke of a moment ago, the one whose name I could not utter, wasn’t she?” Theron nodded to himself , then reached down and plucked the ring from Taras's trembling fingers.
“I’ll take that,” he said, unable to suppress a grin. “It’s mine, after all.” He put it into another pouch and then set about picking up the rest of his things from the alley floor. He thought about taking the legionary’s sword but decided against it. He had enough to carry without donning a second sheath. Let anyone who might stumble onto Taras's body in the morning have the sword.
Theron turned his back on the gurgling soldier and walked out of the alley. With Taras's death, he’d tied up one more loose end, but now he had another problem. He still had to find Jesus's tomb. He’d planned on having Taras lead him there, but that was no longer an option.
Theron didn’t regret killing Taras, the legionary had it coming to him ever since he took Theron prisoner and put him into the stocks, but the timing was damned inconvenient. He needed to confirm Jesus's death with his own eyes, and without Taras to take him to the Nazarene’s tomb, he would have to find another way of locating it. He pondered his options for a short while before realizing it shouldn’t be too difficult to discover the tomb’s location from the inhabitants of the city. No doubt the crucifixion would be the most popular topic of discussion among the people of Jerusalem tonight. Theron would simply listen in to the conversations of others, at their windows, if necessary, until he was able to learn what he needed to know.
He reached into his pouch and pulled out his map of the city, trying to determine the best places to go where he might overhear something useful. This time of night most people were asleep in their beds, the only people usually awake were the patrols wandering through the city and a few unsavory elements. Theron decided to check the area near the Roman barracks. With several taverns and brothels, it offered the most hope of finding someone useful. He studied the map to see if any places in particular sounded promising.
Suddenly there was a searing flash of pain in his back and then the bloodied tip of a sword blocked his view of the map. The blade pierced his torso from the back and emerged from his chest, cracking his sternum and spraying blood and ooze all over the parchment and his fingers. He grunted in pain and dropped the map to the street.
“This is for Jesus,” a voice behind him said.
Fighting to focus through the pain, Theron realized he knew that voice. “Taras?” he croaked.
“And this is for Mary,” Taras said. The blade twisted, much as Theron’s had twisted in Claudius's chest several days earlier. Theron nearly screamed as the crack in his sternum widened, but he forced himself to keep quiet lest he attract more legionaries.
The pain drove Theron to his knees, and he gasped as Taras yanked the sword from his back and drove it through a second time, this time puncturing his side. Taras twisted the blade again, ripping and tearing the hole in Theron’s gut. He fell to all fours as Taras yanked his blade free again. Blood poured from the two wounds to puddle underneath Theron in the street. Dazed, he brought one hand up to the wound in his chest and poked his finger inside the hole. The blade had pierced his heart clean through.
“Die, now,” Taras said from behind him. “Die like Marcus and Didius. Like Claudius and Jesus. Die like my Mary; cut down like a dog in the street. May Hades spit on your soul. I hope you—”
Theron heard a grunt behind him. His teeth clenched in pain, he turned his head to see Taras on his knees in the street, propping himself up with his bloody sword. The legionary looked too weak to stand, but his injuries didn’t seem to ease his anger. His eyes bored into Theron.
“Die now, whoever you are,” Taras said. “And go to the Abyss with the knowledge that I am the one who sent you there.”
The smell of blood was heavy in the street. Theron tasted it in his mouth. Since it was his own blood, it did him no good at all. He couldn’t use it to feed or to heal himself. Even sol he looked on as Taras cursed him, and a rumbling, wet chuckle escaped his lips. “No, Taras,” he said. “I think not.”
He grit his teeth through the pain and forced himself to his feet, watching as Taras's ice blue eyes widened in shock. He understood the man’s confusion. By rights, his wounds should be fatal. They surely would have been if Theron was a mortal man. But Theron hadn’t been mortal for over nine hundred years. The hole in his chest and belly hurt like Hell, and he’d lost quite a bit of blood, but that was all. He would not die, though his pierced heart would take several days to f
ully heal.
Weak from loss of blood, he staggered over to the prone legionary, somehow managing to remain on his feet. He stood over Taras, wearing a bloody smirk, and looked down at him, his chest dripping gore onto the cobbles. Taras, after a moment’s surprise, tried to lift his sword arm for another blow, but Theron stepped on the blade, pinning the soldier’s sword arm underneath.
“You cannot kill me, Taras,” Theron said, his blood pouring from the open wound in his chest and splattering the cobbles by Taras's head. “You pierced my heart with steel. That is not good enough, my northern friend. Not good enough at all.” He knelt by the dying legionary, scowling down at him. “But you have slowed me down.”
He punched Taras in the face. A sharp snap reverberated through the alley as the legionary’s nose broke. Taras swooned, and his head lolled to the side, but he recovered and raised his head to look at Theron, one eye open and the other rapidly swelling shut, and spit at him a second time.
Theron punched him again, this time in the sternum. A burst of blood-flecked air issued from Taras's mouth, and the soldier’s eyes closed. His head rolled to the side, and this time it stayed there. There was blood everywhere, so much that Theron couldn’t tell how much was his and how much belonged to Taras. He looked the body over and nodded to himself. Satisfied that he’d finished the legionary off, stood on shaky legs. A few drops of Theron's blood fell on Taras's face. He paid them no attention as he turned and walked away, leaving Taras's body in the middle of the street for the looters to find in the morning.
He needed blood badly, and his wobbling steps proved it. He probably should have drained Taras, but in his current state he wasn’t strong enough to drag the body out of the city, and he couldn’t risk leaving an empty husk in the street. He would have to catch someone closer to the tunnels, or better yet, in the tunnels. Zealots ran through the passages all the time, Theron need only pick a likely spot and wait. It shouldn’t take long. But even with a zealot or two to feed upon he would need time to heal. Steel or not, his chest hurt, and a heart wound never healed quickly. Theron fumed at the delay, which would easily be several days, and cursed Taras's lucky shot. But he could do nothing about it. He would simply have to wait to learn of Jesus's fate.
