by David McAfee
The first thing he noticed was the smell. The scent of blood and body fluids hung like a thick cloud in the vicinity of the bodies. Flies zipped about, swimming through the air with their incessant buzzing and generally making a nuisance of themselves. They lighted on the gory parts of the dead and attempted to lay eggs in the red, swollen flesh. Still others hovered around Marcus's face. Having served in the Roman Legion for three decades, Marcus had long ago grown accustomed the smell of blood, as well as the many insects it brought. He swatted a few of them away and stepped up to examine one of the corpses.
Marcus recognized the first victim as Claudius. No great loss there. Claudius had always been a bit of a coward, and a very poor soldier. That’s why the Legion sent him to Judea rather than to the front for active duty. For some reason the Legate believed the provinces were safer than the battlefield. Marcus could have told him otherwise, but the Legate was a stubborn sort; the man would never listen. That was the problem with the officials in the Roman Legion; they always underestimated the determination and spirit of a local population in the grip of religious fervor. While most legionaries would fight for Rome and claim they loved her with all their souls, the zealots had gone so far as to give their souls over to their cause. It was only the sheer strength of Rome’s might and numbers that kept the zealots from overthrowing Roman occupation and pushing Pilate and his soldiers out of Israel for good. He’d tried to explain as much to the Legate numerous times, yet the man continued to send him soldiers like Claudius.
Marcus knelt next to the body and examined the wound in his chest. Right away he noted the cracked sternum and ripped flesh, which indicated the killer twisted the sword prior to removing it. Interesting. That meant the culprit had wanted more than just to kill; he’d wanted Claudius's death to hurt. But why?
A good question, which led to another: had Claudius known his killer? It seemed possible, even likely. The type of wound and the malice with which it was delivered hinted at something personal; a vendetta, perhaps. Marcus looked up from the body.
“You,” he pointed at the nearest legionary, “go back to the barracks. Get the names of every person Claudius has been spending time with. I want to know who his friends are, and I want to know where they were last night. Go.”
The soldier gave a crisp salute and left, winding his way through the crowd. Marcus watched him go, marveling at how young the man was. No more than seventeen, he thought, Just a boy, really. His face softened as he recalled his own investiture in the Legion thirty years before. Now, at forty six, Marcus had lived about as long as could be reasonably expected, and he’d given himself over to the Legion with every breath. He’d never taken a wife or fathered any children. Although he loved his country and never regretted his decisions, sometimes when he looked at the younger recruits he thought of himself all those years ago. Just a boy, with no idea of the things he would see and do in the next thirty years.
He longed to tell the younger recruits not to make a life of the military. Serve your years and get out, he would say. Find a woman and start a family. He could never bring himself to say it, though. Having ignored such advice himself, he would feel like a hypocrite.
Marcus shook his head and focused on the task at hand. He had one legionary dead with a gaping hole in his chest, and another body yet to inspect. He stood and walked to the next corpse, and when he reached it he couldn’t help his sudden intake of breath. Not because the head was missing – he’d known about that – but the manner in which the head had been taken baffled him. The torn and shredded flesh of the neck could not be the work of a sword, at least not one Marcus had ever seen. The man’s head looked to have been ripped from his shoulders. He knelt next to the body, his knee digging into the blood-soaked dirt, to get a closer look at the stump of the neck.
Eight wounds, he noted. The tear in the neck had been started by eight punctures roughly an inch wide. They were too jagged to be the work of knives, but he had no idea what else they could be. It seemed to Marcus whoever killed this soldier had stabbed him in the throat, then pulled the skin and muscle apart. But who would do such a thing? More importantly, who could do it? And how?
Marcus looked up from the body and noticed something else that struck him as odd. He stood and studied the wall behind the headless soldier. A great spray of coagulated gore seemed to track upward from about the height of the dead man’s neck, but there was none below it save for a few spatters and random droplets. Marcus looked down at the body again and noted the large pool of dried, rust colored blood that soaked the earth under him. So much blood. He turned back to the wall, and it hit him. The man was standing right there, by the gods! He must have been standing with his back to this wall when the killer tore off his head. He’d most likely been facing his attacker. Why didn’t he fight back?
Marcus checked the dead legionary’s body, wanting to see if his sword remained in his sheath. It was gone. A cursory look at Claudius's body confirmed his sword, too, was missing. That could mean the two did fight back and lost, or it could mean the crowd looted the bodies before he arrived. His lip curled at the thought, which was all too likely. Sure enough, a quick check told him both of the dead men’s sandals were missing. He didn’t bother to ask if either had been found with their purses, knowing the answer would be no. Of course, no honest Jew would steal from a dead man, and Caesar’s currency would be useless to most, but Jerusalem played host to all sorts of people: Jews, Romans, Greeks, and many others. Even a handful of merchants from the Far East called the city home. Truly, a myriad of people inhabited the city, not all of whom were devout. Any number of unsavory elements could have robbed the corpses; there simply was no way to tell.
With no way to track the killer’s steps thanks to the hundreds of people milling about the scene and no way to know if the two men died fighting, Marcus tried to think of a way to question the locals without letting them know the murderer remained on the loose. He would have to be circumspect; maybe plant a few soldiers in the city. He would order a squad of men to cease shaving immediately. It would take a few weeks before they could blend in, if even then, but at present their clean-shaven features would mark them as legionaries as clearly as their uniforms.
With the beginnings of a strategy in mind, he left the bodies and walked to the nearest living soldier. “Who is the other man? Has he been identified?”
The blood drained from the man’s face, and he lowered his eyes to the dirt. A tear squeezed from between his eyelids. “Centurion, I’m not certain. I…I think it’s…”
“Out with it!” Marcus didn’t have the patience for blubbering. If the man had lost a friend to the sword, so be it. Death and the Roman Legion walked hand in hand, and many soldiers lost friends every day. If this man could not handle it, he was of no use to the centurion, especially in a city like Jerusalem.
“I think, sir…that is, I heard—”
“Well?” Marcus glowered at the young man, surprised at how weak he was. How did he get to be in the Legion at all? He’s a sniveling—
“Centurion,” said a new voice behind him, “you should come and see this.”
Marcus turned from the young soldier and saw Gordian waving him over. He fixed one last glare on the weeping legionary and promised himself he’d see the man sent to the farthest reaches of Judea before the week was out, and good riddance, then stepped over to his Second. “What is it, Gordian?”
“The head, Centurion. It’s over here.”
“Bag it and bring it back to the barracks. Someone is bound to know who he was.”
“But, Centurion I…I really think you should come and have a look.” Marcus took a better look at Gordian and he noticed for the first time the man seemed shaken and worried. Marcus had known Gordian for fifteen years and had never seen him look troubled by death, not even when they’d been captured by Germanians eleven years prior and forced to watch as several members of their group were drawn and quartered. Gordian’s own twin brother had disappeared that day, and it
was widely believed he’d been killed. For as long as Marcus had known him, Gordian’s rock-solid presence could be counted on to help maintain order in the worst situations. If he was shaken up, then perhaps Marcus did indeed need to look at the head lying in the dirt twenty feet away. He started toward it.
“Who is it Gordian? Do you know him?”
“Yes, Centurion,” Gordian’s voice cracked, and Marcus noticed moisture building in his eyes, too. “So do you.”
“So do I? Just tell me—” His breath stopped short as he arrived next to Gordian. Now he could make out the features on the dead man’s face. They were features he’d seen nearly every day for most of his life, easily recognizable despite the dirty imprints of several boots upon it. The dark hair, the strong chin and cheekbones, the wide nose with the small scar from a childhood accident, and the dark brown eyes that looked much like Marcus's own. Except where the centurion’s eyes would still sparkle in the sun, a milky glaze obscured those in the severed head as they stared sightlessly up at nothing. A single fly landed on the left iris, and when the lid didn’t blink and no hand shooed the thing away, Marcus nearly fell to his knees. As it was, he swayed on his feet and only Gordian’s strong, steady hand on his shoulder prevented him from tumbling into the street.
“Didius,” Marcus whispered. He somehow managed to keep the choke out of his voice, but he couldn’t stop the tear that broke free as he stared down at the lifeless face of his younger brother.
Chapter Six
Theron didn’t have to wait long; the Council called for him a few hours after his report. He was easy to find, as he hadn’t left his chambers since. The Lost One who came to get him didn’t even have to knock; Theron sensed the thing approaching and, not wanting to let the creature into his chambers, stepped out into the hall to meet it. He stared at the writhing, slithering mass and shivered. He couldn’t help it; the damn things unsettled him, which didn’t happen often.
“I know the way to the Council Chamber,” he told it. “You are excused.”
The Lost One gave a slight bow of its head. The white of its skull showed through several patches of gray, worm-eaten scalp, dotted here and there with a few strands of long, sickly hair. Then it turned around and walked back up the hallway. Theron paused a few moments to give the thing plenty of time to get far ahead, and then he, too, turned toward the Council Chamber and started walking. He didn’t rush, there was no need. He already knew what they were going to say.
Theron would be back in Jerusalem before nightfall.
* * *
“Enter, Theron,” Herris called from inside the room. Theron didn’t have to ask how they knew he was at the door. They always knew. No ordinary vampire can begin to comprehend the vast power wielded by the Council of Thirteen. Although Theron was far from ordinary, comparing his powers to that of Herris would be akin to comparing a pebble to a fortress. He shuddered to think of the awesome forces at the command of the original thirteen vampires. In secret, Theron hoped he might enjoy such power someday, although he knew it wasn’t possible. Still, even a dead man can dream.
Inside the chamber, the twelve ancient vampires once again sat behind the U-shaped table. As was customary when facing the Council of Thirteen, Theron walked out onto the raised dais in the center of the floor and bowed his head. “You sent for me, Headcouncil?”
“Yes, Enforcer. We have another task for you.”
“Of course, Headcouncil. What do you wish of me?”
“You will return to Jerusalem and find the human rabbi known as Jesus. Once you locate him, you are to kill him.”
Theron bowed from the waist, he’d expected as much. “As you command, Headcouncil. Will that be all?”
“No. You must also find out who among his followers knows of our existence. They must die, as well.”
“Yes, Headcouncil.”
“Also, and this is very important, you are not to drain him. His body must be found so everyone knows he is dead. We do not want him to simply disappear and leave room for speculation in the eyes of those he leaves behind. There must be no doubt what happened to him.”
“Yes, Headcouncil,” Theron agreed, although he wondered why they were going through all this trouble. The Council never cared before if Theron’s victims disappeared. Not as long as he didn’t leave any empty bodies for people to find. But he knew the Council had their reasons, even if they didn’t share them with him. They never did anything without a reason.
“You may go.” Herris dismissed Theron in much the same manner as Theron had dismissed the Lost One.
“Yes, Headcouncil.” Theron bowed again and stepped from the dais. While privately annoyed at such offhanded treatment, he would never think to express such feelings aloud, not as long as he wanted to continue living. Theron turned and walked to the door. He’d just wrapped his fingers around the handle when Algor spoke.
“Enforcer?”
Theron turned. “Yes Councilor?”
“Make sure his death is especially unpleasant, even brutal. We want his pain and suffering plainly evident to those who find the body. And if possible, try to make it appear the zealots are responsible.”
“Yes, Councilor,” he said, smiling. Unpleasant? Even brutal? The assignment might be fun, after all.
* * *
“The zealots?” Mattawe asked after Theron had gone. “Why the zealots, Algor?”
“Because,” Algor replied, “the zealots have harassed the Roman legionaries to no end of late, as well as any non-Jewish inhabitants of the city, but for the most part they have left the rest of the Jews alone.”
“And?”
“And if the Romans believe the zealots are turning on rabbis and killing them, not to mention the rabbi’s followers, it would give Pilate a reason to crack down on them even harder. And if the people of Jerusalem can be made to believe this as well, they will be more likely to side with the Romans, and such a thing can only help us in Israel. Even Tiberius will be forced to address the deteriorating situation in Judea if it seems the zealots have taken to murdering the general populace.”
“You think the Romans might use this as an excuse to ban the worship of the Jews’ One God and try to force them into following the Roman faith?” Mattawe asked. “Shift them to the belief in the pantheon of gods?”
“Why not? If the Romans can convince the Jewish population the zealots are evil, then it would be a natural progression to suggest they abandon the faith shared by such criminals,” Algor replied. “Caesar might even give Pilate permission to outlaw the Jewish faith altogether. It wouldn’t be the first time the Roman Empire declared a religion illegal. Rome would simply impose a death sentence on anyone practicing another religion.”
“Will the people abandon their faith, do you think?” This from Herris, who for the first time seemed interested in Algor’s plan. “Many of them are quite strong in their beliefs.”
“I think,” said Algor, “that given the choice between not believing in God and being sent to meet him face to face, most of them will choose the Roman pantheon.”
“And those who refuse?” Mattawe asked.
“Those who refuse to convert will not be a problem,” Lannis said, seemingly catching on. “The Romans will see to that.”
Algor nodded. Lannis had a quick mind and agile wit. He liked that about her.
“I still don’t understand why you didn’t tell Theron about Jesus,” Taluk said. “Theron is our Lead Enforcer, and quite valuable. He should know the details of his mission.”
“What details, Taluk? We have no details. Rumors only. That is what we have. Miracles performed in the name of God? Jesus making blind men see and lame beggars walk? Ludicrous! Why bother Theron with such things when they have no bearing? Better that he not be sidetracked with such ridiculous claims. Killing Jesus will be difficult enough as it is.”
“I see your point.” Taluk conceded.
Algor smiled. Alone among the Council, he’d known all along what to do with the knowledge that Ep
hraim had betrayed them to the rabbi from Nazareth; it was just a simple matter of getting the rest to agree. He’d been planning to kill Jesus for several years, ever since he first heard rumors of miracles. Some people claimed he was the Messiah. Others called him the Son of God, sent from Heaven to free the Jews. Ridiculous, of course, but faith had a way of doing strange things to the human mind, especially when that faith was strong. Let’s see how strong their faith is when their “Messiah” is brutally murdered.
Chapter Seven
That night, while Marcus stormed his way through the barracks demanding to know who was the last to see his brother alive and where they’d been, a dark shadow broke from the doorway of an innocuous-looking house and made its way to the Damascus Gate. Theron didn’t know of Marcus's rage, nor did he realize one of the soldiers he’d killed was the younger brother of the centurion. Simon could have told him, but Theron had walked by the clerk’s desk without saying a word. Simon, still miffed by Theron’s earlier treatment of him, hadn’t acknowledged him, either.
In truth, he would not have cared. Another dead human was another dead human as far as he was concerned. The only real shame of the encounter was that Theron couldn’t drain the bodies, or even hide them as he did Malachi and Ephraim. He’d been too long into the night to take the time to cover up his deed.
He threaded his way through the crowds of people, mostly Jews visiting with family for the Holy Week, and shoved and jostled his way to the Damascus Gate. The sheer numbers of the Jewish faithful who found their way to Jerusalem each year staggered him. Even at this late hour, a horde of sweaty, noisy people choked the streets. Most were on their way to wherever they would spend the night. Two or three hours after the sun went down the streets of Jerusalem would be all but deserted, which suited him just fine.
