by David McAfee
“Why am I here?" He asked. "I have not done anything wrong.”
Marcus stepped from behind the stocks and regarded Theron with a look so openly hostile Theron could almost feel it burrowing into his skin. By the Father, the man took the death of his men seriously! Theron was beginning to think the centurion would simply move to kill him while he was in the stocks without questioning him. He didn't fear for his life. The centurion couldn’t kill him, but it would certainly hinder his plans. No, he won’t do it. He can’t be sure I did anything yet.
Theron was right. After a prolonged silence Marcus spoke. “Do you know who I am?”
“You are Marcus, the centurion.”
“Yes. What is your name?”
“Ephraim. Ephraim of Sepphoris.”
“A Jew?”
Theron said nothing, allowing the centurion to draw his own conclusions.
“Well?” Marcus asked.
“Yes, Centurion.”
“Have you heard of the zealots?”
“Of course I have, Centurion. Everyone in Israel knows of the zealots.”
Marcus turned quickly and brought the back of his gloved hand hard into Theron’s face. It stung, but Theron was expecting it. So far, things were going exactly as he’d planned.
“That’s for your insolence.” Marcus spat. His face flushed, he reached his hand back, and Theron thought he was going to strike him a second time. But Marcus's expression calmed, and he lowered his hand to his side.
He’s unsteady, Theron thought. Good.
Marcus, having apparently regained control of his anger, continued. “Do you know of the recent zealot activities in Jerusalem?”
“No, Centurion,” Theron put what he hoped was just the right amount of fear and pain in his voice. “I am new to the city.”
“So my guards tell me. They say they have never seen you here before.” Marcus squatted on the floor, bringing his face right in front of Theron’s. “Why are you here?”
“I followed a rabbi from Galilee.”
“Jesus?”
“Yes.”
“So you are a follower of the Nazarene’s?”
“No, Centurion.”
“Don’t lie to me, Ephraim. You just admitted to following him here.” Marcus raised his hand as if to hit him.
“No, Centurion. I was a follower of Jesus, but not any longer.”
“You were captured just outside the Gardens this very night.” Marcus struck him again, and Theron had to give the man credit; the blow hurt. “My agent saw you there. You were listening with rapt attention to every word the Nazarene spoke. Don’t deny it.”
Theron felt a warm trickle on his chin, and he licked his lips. Blood. He was bleeding. The centurion split his lip open. He would pay for that later.
“No, Centurion. I do not deny it. I have decided this very night not to follow Jesus anymore. When your soldier attacked me, I was on my way here, to Jerusalem, to get my things. I planned to return to Sepphoris with the morning light.”
“Tell me why.”
Theron shook his head.
"Tell me." Marcus raised his hand for another blow.
“I... I don’t like the things he talks about, Centurion.”
Marcus frowned, “My men tell me he talks openly of love and forgiveness. Mercy and compassion. You do not like those things?”
This is it. Theron thought. Now was the time to get into the centurion’s head. He sent out half a dozen mental fingers. He pictured them reaching out toward Marcus and wrapping around his mind. He had to be very careful not to let Marcus know he was there, if he got the slightest notion Theron was manipulating his thoughts it would break the spell. With skill honed from centuries of practice, Theron sent a tendril of thought into the centurion’s head. It wasn’t much; the thought had to appear to be the centurion’s own. Theron wasn’t going for total control; just trying to implant a suggestion.
Marcus blinked, and his hand dropped a few inches.
Ha! Theron thought, I have you now!
Marcus regained himself quickly, then glared down at his captive. “Why are you silent, Ephraim? Answer me.” He drew his hand back again as if to strike, but Theron noted the troubled look that flitted across his face. “Do you not like love and forgiveness? Would you not wish to receive mercy and compassion yourself at this moment?”
“Yes. Yes, of course I do, Centurion. But Jesus does not speak of such virtues.”
“So my men are liars, then? Is that what you’re telling me?” Marcus hit Theron a third time, but the blow did not have as much force as the previous two, and Marcus didn’t look as sure of himself as he had only a few minutes before. “Do not lie to me again.”
“He only talks about those things when he knows the Legion is listening. He is a tricky one, Centurion. He has scouts all over the Gardens and along the roads leading into and out of the city. When legionaries are spotted, he talks of those worthy ideals. But when only Jews are present to hear, his words are very different.”
“Explain.”
“He talks about conquest, Centurion. Rebellion. Even war. He speaks openly against Rome and her legion. He talks of driving the Romans from Israel in blood. He tells the people he is here to free Israel, and that he is the Messiah. He… he even…”
Marcus's hand had dropped to his side as he stared at Theron. His eyes were wide and his mouth hung open. Theron guessed part of the man's reaction was shock, but some was the result of Theron’s mental fingers at work inside Marcus's mind.
“Yes? He what?” Marcus asked. This time he didn’t raise his hand.
“He tells the people that he is the Son of God. What is worse, they are starting to believe him. Many will follow him anywhere, even to war with Rome.”
Marcus didn’t look entirely convinced, but he didn’t accuse Theron of lying, either. He stood and walked to the door, which he pulled open and spoke to someone waiting outside. Probably Taras. Whoever it was, they handed Marcus something long and metallic. Marcus closed the door and brought the item over so Theron could get a look at it. Theron recognized his own sword, and was prepared for the next question.
“Is this yours, Ephraim?” Marcus asked.
“No, Centurion.”
“Yet you carried it to the Gardens of Gethsemane,” Marcus noted, a dangerous tone creeping back into his voice.
“Yes, I carried it.” Theron said quickly, “And I guess it is mine, now. But it only recently came into my possession.”
“Explain.”
Theron dropped his eyes to the floor and didn’t answer. Let him get angry again. His anger will only aid to convince him.
He felt a sharp pain in the back of his neck and knew the centurion had cut him. Not badly, but enough to draw blood. In a mortal man it would have been a serious cut that would require stitching, but to Theron it was only a painful annoyance. He cried out anyway, just for effect.
A strong hand grabbed his jaw and forced his gaze upward. Theron found himself looking directly into the eyes of a very angry Roman. A sharp point poked into his throat, and he knew Marcus had the sword poised to stab him through the neck, possibly with the intention of severing his head.
The entire time Theron had been making plans, it never occurred to him that the Centurion might simply cut off his head. He’d figured on the stocks and the beating, but decapitation was another matter entirely. That would put an end to him for good. Not even vampires can heal a severed head.
He fought back the instinct to smash open the stocks and attack, to rip through the centurion and tear his way from the dungeon. Instead he channeled his very real fear into his next lie. The lie that would finish the ruse.
“I…I killed a man with it last night! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!”
“I knew it! It was you! You killed the two legionaries outside the Middle Gate!” The point of the sword fell away from Theron’s neck, and he felt relieved. When he looked up, however, he saw Marcus holding the sword high above his head, ready to bring i
t down in a blow that would surely take Theron’s head from his shoulders.
“You killed my brother.” Marcus's voice was cold, empty.
His brother? His brother! Of course. That’s why he’s so angry. The eyes staring down at Theron shone with anger and grief, and he knew in that instant Marcus would do it. He would cut off his head. No trial, no fuss, just private justice carried out in a dank cell somewhere below the streets of Jerusalem.
The Centurion’s eyes blazed, the muscles in his arms tensed.
The sword started to come down…
Chapter Eleven
“Wait!” Theron screamed, feeling a trace of genuine fear for the first time since the night began. “I murdered no legionaries last night. It was Malachi I killed!”
“Malachi?” Marcus checked his swing just in time, but kept the sword resting on Theron’s neck. “The butcher?”
“Yes, that’s him. I killed Malachi the butcher. But he attacked me first. I swear.”
Marcus knelt in front of the stocks and brought his face level with Theron’s. “He attacked you? Why?”
“He knew I was thinking about leaving Jesus's faithful.” Theron tried his best to appear frantic, but inside he started to calm down. He’d cast the line, and despite a slight hitch, Marcus had taken the bait. Theron just had to pull him in. At least he didn’t have to pretend to be rattled; the Centurion’s sword had come far too close to his neck. “Malachi was also a follower of Jesus, and he came to me in my home last night. He said he knew I was thinking of leaving Jerusalem. He told me Jesus would not allow me to go. I asked him why, but he refused to say. Then he pulled his sword and tried to kill me.”
“Yet according to your story you killed him, not the other way around.”
“Yes. At first, when I saw the blade, I thought he was making a jest. But then I noticed a few spots of dried blood on it and I knew he would do it. He would really kill me if I let him. His mind had been poisoned by the Nazarene.
“I threw myself on him. He was a big man, so I knew I had to get the sword away if I was to have any chance of defeating him. I managed to wrestle it from his hands, but not before he cut me on the shoulder.” Theron cast his eyes to the shoulder that had been wounded the night before, now glad he hadn’t yet thought to heal it. “Then, when I had the sword, I told him to leave me be. But he pulled out that damn hammer of his and came at me a second time. I couldn’t let him kill me. I did what I had to do. I opened his throat with his own blade before he got close enough to crack my skull.”
“If that is the case, and Malachi attacked you, why did you go to see Jesus tonight? If you knew he wanted to kill you, why didn’t you just leave?”
“I only had Malachi’s word it was Jesus who wanted me dead. And that only after he tried to kill me himself. I had no way of knowing if it were true or if Malachi simply made excuses for his own desires. I had to see for myself.”
“And did you?”
“Yes. I decided to go at a time when Jesus would be surrounded by many others and thus unable to attack me, just in case. When I arrived at the Gardens, I walked near to the front. I didn’t fear for my safety because several legionaries were there; Jesus would not dare do anything with your soldiers present. But when I neared him, he saw me, and I knew it was true. The way he looked at me… it’s hard to explain. His eyes stared at me, into me. It made me feel like I was dead already, and just didn’t know it.”
Marcus turned the sword over in his hands, fingering the hilt and examining the spots of dried blood on the blade. “You say this was already bloodied when Malachi came to visit you?”
“Yes, Centurion. That is how I knew Malachi meant it. He really would have killed me if I had not acted.”
Marcus went silent. He looked into Theron’s eyes and the vampire had the distinct feeling he was being tested. Don’t… even… flinch. He told himself. Make this look good. He did a quick check to ensure the mental fingers he’d placed in Marcus's mind still held. Satisfied, he willed himself to be patient. Trust your skill. You have him. It’s only a matter of—
Marcus stood, and Theron noted with some relief the centurion replaced his sword in his scabbard. “Where is Malachi’s body?”
“I buried it. In my garden.”
“You will take me there and show it to me. If you are telling the truth, I will set you free. If, however, you are lying to me…” Marcus let the implication hang in the air.
“I will take you. Yes, I will take you. Thank you! Thank you, Centurion.” Theron did his best to prostrate himself while still locked in the stocks. He looked to the ground and said “thank you” over and over again until Marcus finally told him to be quiet, at which point he snapped his mouth shut.
Marcus went to the door and tapped on it twice. The lock turned, and Taras opened the door and stuck his head into the room. “Yes, sir?”
“Find Gordian. Have him assemble six legionaries who are wide awake and still sober at this hour without pulling any from the watch. Tell him to send the men here. As soon as you have delivered my orders, come back to this room. Once all six men are present, you will unlock the stocks and let our friend, Ephraim, out. He is going to take us on a little trip this evening.”
“Yes, Centurion,” Taras said, and stepped out. Theron heard the lock on the door turn. Marcus was not taking any chances. But it didn’t matter, his ruse was set. Once he led the centurion to Ephraim’s garden and dug up the body of Malachi, his story would be confirmed. Theron didn’t know much about brothers, but he knew anger when he saw it, and Marcus seethed with it. His rage will blind him, and he will see exactly what I want him to see. Theron smiled at Marcus's back. Less than an hour since his arrest, and he’d already succeeded in making the Centurion into a tool of his plan.
Soon Marcus would hunt Jesus himself.
* * *
“There it is, Centurion. Just as I said,” Marcus's prisoner said from inside the hole. He’d been digging for nearly half an hour. “Right where I said it would be.”
“Stand aside,” Marcus ordered, and shoved the dirty man aside to look in the hole. Sure enough, there was Malachi’s body, complete with a deep cut from one ear to the other, just as Ephraim had said.
Marcus stepped back from the hole and whispered a prayer to Pluto, the god of the dead. He looked at his prisoner once again. “Why did you not report this?”
“I am new to the city, Centurion. Had I come to you with this last night, would you have believed me?”
“I am not certain I believe you now,” Marcus replied. “Still, if what you say is true, there is a good chance this is the man who murdered my brother.”
Marcus tried to recall everything he’d ever heard about Malachi, which was surprisingly little. In a city the size of Jerusalem, there were plenty of butchers. But he did recall seeing the man’s name once or twice in connection with Jesus of Nazareth. He imagined the huge man coming at him with a hammer and wondered what he would do in Ephraim’s place. It took him only a fraction of a second to realize he would do exactly the same thing.
He looked from the shackled prisoner to Taras, and after a few moments worth of consideration he made his decision. “Remove the leg irons.”
Taras moved quickly and without question to the prisoner and unlocked the shackles around his ankles. “Shall I give him back his weapon, sir?”
“No,” he said. Then he turned to his former captive, “Ephraim, the sword belonged to Malachi. And while Malachi gave you the right to take his life when he attacked you, he didn’t give you the right to rob his corpse.”
Ephraim at least had the decency to look ashamed. His gaze dropped to the dirt and he fidgeted with his tunic. “It is a fine sword, Centurion. I had thought… that is… it is a long way to Sepphoris, and…” His feet shuffled back and forth like a child who’d been caught stealing a sweet before supper.
“So you thought to protect yourself?”
“I wish I could say yes, Centurion. But it was nothing so noble as that. I
would need supplies for the trip and—”
“And so you planned to sell it. Is that it?”
The man nodded, but didn’t raise his eyes from the street. “What will happen to me now? Am I to be arrested?”
Marcus shook his head. You’d think he’d have caught on after I had the leg irons removed. Some of the folks from the outer provinces were so… simple. “No, Ephraim. It’s not a crime to defend yourself. You’re free to go.”
The man smiled gratefully, then turned and shuffled down the street, going away from his house, which Marcus thought a bit odd. Certainly if he’d had a night like Ephraim’s, he would want to go to bed and rest. Maybe Ephraim thought a walk around the city would settle his nerves. Or, more likely, he craved a drink after his ordeal. Marcus couldn’t blame him for that; he wanted one himself.
As he watched Ephraim walk away, something nagged at him, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The man’s story checked out, and he appeared to be nothing more than an ordinary Jew. He certainly didn’t speak or act in any way odd that Marcus could think of, but for some reason he still didn’t quite trust him.
Then, as he watched his men walking around the site, gathering shovels and clinking and clacking in the cobbled street, he realized what it was that bothered him about Ephraim: his walk. He didn’t walk like a peasant from the outer provinces. His back was too straight and his bearing too… authoritative. Even now, shuffling away, Marcus could barely hear him. The whole way to the house he made hardly a whisper of sound, as though he had long ago grown accustomed to sneaking around. Marcus recalled Gordian had said as much when Lurio first spotted him leaving the Damascus Gate.
