by David McAfee
As night fell on the city of Jerusalem, fewer and fewer people could be seen out of their houses. By the time the moon reached its zenith, Jerusalem’s cobbled streets were almost empty; her people long in bed and the only folks up and about were the soldiers who had patrol. None of them ventured near the place where the dead soldier was buried, and why would they? Nothing ever happened there.
Yet on this night, when the owls hooted and the mice scurried through the grass in search of something to eat, something did happen. Unknown to the city’s inhabitants, the freshly turned soil of a new grave began to move. Bits of loose dirt tumbled from the top of the pile. Soon a pale, waxen hand rose from the earth, clenching and unclenching in the moonlight like a macabre lotus blossom.
Chapter Twenty Nine
It took Theron four full nights to heal himself completely, even after feeding on a pair of zealots who happened by. Four nights spent hiding in the tunnels under the city, oblivious to the happenings above, of willing the gaping hole in his chest to close and the muscles and bones to knit together. It had been a painful, debilitating experience, and the process sapped a great deal of his strength and blood, most of which went to repairing his damaged heart.
Even dead, his heart was the source of his life, and his continued existence depended on it being whole and healthy. Now that it was so again, he could venture out into the city to feed, which was a good thing. After four days underground and his exhaustive healing process, Theron was ravenous.
He wandered through the stone tunnels until he came to the exit, which lay hidden in the scrub brush just outside the city. He would try and take a traveler on the road, if possible. Someone walking the path between the Gardens of Gethsemane and the Damascus Gate, if one could be found at such a late hour.
Luck was with him that night. Less than five minutes after exiting the tunnels, he spied a man walking alone down the path. Theron prepared to spring, but as the man drew closer he noticed something odd. The man glowed. Not as bright as Jesus had, but the glow of the stranger’s faith could be seen from ten paces away. With his left hand, Theron unconsciously touched the fingers of his right, which still bore a slight blackened look from his encounter with the Nazarene. He knew he would get a similar burn, albeit a less severe one, if he tried to prey on the person in front of him.
It was not unheard of, of course, for a human to possess such strong faith as to ward off one of his kind, but it was rare. Theron had been surprised to see the strong glow around Jesus, who’d been only the third such person the vampire had encountered in his nine centuries. But to find two in the same city? And so close together? Such a thing had never occurred before, at least not to Theron.
Common sense won out over his hunger, and he let the man go, hoping easier prey would happen by. He chalked the incident up to strange coincidence and settled in to wait for the next person to come along. What was one man, anyway?
Soon enough, a second person emerged in the dim moonlight. A woman this time. Theron gasped. She, too, glowed with faith. By the Father, how many such people could there be in a single place?
Theron let the woman pass unmolested, as well. When yet a third person walked along the path radiating a soft light, Theron could stand no more. He stepped out of his concealment and walked up to the stranger, wanting to test the man’s faith and make sure he was not simply experiencing some sort of hallucination brought on by his low blood.
The closer he got, the more his skin curled and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. This was no hallucination. The man’s faith was real. But how?
The man smiled as he approached, and Theron saw the purity of his emotions on his face. “Isn’t it wonderful?” The man asked.
Theron, struggling not to bolt in his weakened state, could only stare in awed silence at the stranger. Not knowing what else to do, he nodded, hoping to at least get some information.
The man continued to smile, his eyes roamed upward toward the night sky. “I was in my home when I heard the news, and I had to go see for myself. Have you been? It’s wonderful. He has risen. Just as he said he would.”
“Risen?” Theron croaked. “Who?”
“Why, the savior, of course,” the stranger replied, his eyes alight with wonder. “Jesus has risen from the dead. He will lead us all down the path of righteousness and into the Kingdom of God.”
As the man spoke, a group of three more people emerged on the path. Theron noted with alarm that two of them possessed the same telltale glow. Between them, the third listened to the words of the other two with rapt attention. Theron could make out pieces of their conversation. Words like “Resurrection,” and “Messiah” reached his ears. He realized with a start that all of the glowing men he’d seen so far had come from the same direction; the Gardens of Gethsemane. While he watched, the third man began to glow, as well. Softly at first, then increasing in intensity like opening a damper on a lantern.
The man apparently noted the confused look on Theron’s face and mistook it for illness. “Are you all right, brother?” He asked, reaching with glowing fingers toward the vampire’s shoulder.
Now Theron did bolt. He turned from the men in the street and ran for the Damascus Gate where, he was relieved to note, the two legionaries standing guard did not glow. He would have liked to kill one of them and have a drink, but there was no time.
Once through the gate Theron saw scores of people milling around the city, which was usually deserted this late in the evening. More troubling still was the number of people who possessed the same telltale glow. Everywhere he looked, glowing, smiling Jews dotted the crowd. Here and there he even spotted a legionary with the same affliction. He cringed as a small group of men, glowing like faint torches, passed no more than three or four paces from him. The effect of their faith in such close proximity sent a shudder through his body.
What the Hell was happening in Jerusalem? This was far, far more dangerous than the single Nazarene. When only Jesus possessed such a glow, the situation was at least manageable. And when Theron had managed to have him executed that should have been the end of it. There should no longer be such a threat to his people in Jerusalem.
Yet here it was. Or rather, here they were. Scores of glowing men and women, their faith lighting the night like small suns to Theron’s eyes, wandered through the city, unafraid of what might be around them. Just looking at all of them stung his eyes, and he squinted as he hurried down the street.
He had to get away from them and find some sustenance, so he wandered the streets, keeping his distance from any people he saw, until he approached an area of town that was largely deserted; the vicinity of the Temple. Here, at least, no strangers glowed. In fact, there were no people at all, which allowed him a moment to sit and think about this perplexing development.
Jesus has risen from the dead, the stranger had said. Impossible, of course. The only way to rise from the dead that Theron knew of was his way: the way of the Bachiyr. The way of the vampire.
He raised his palms to his head, trying to silence the wail of hunger rising in him, and saw again the blackened skin of his knuckles. He could not feed on those glowing bodies, and until the streets emptied, he would likely not have a shot at any others.
There was no help for it. He would have to go to the Council and tell them of the situation in Jerusalem. It galled him to know he would not be able to bring back a souvenir of Jesus's death as a gift to Herris, but the Council needed to know. Of all the things to befall his people in Israel, Theron could think of nothing worse than this. Somehow, someone had brought a tremendous amount of faith to the people of Jerusalem. But how?
Theron stood and, ignoring his hunger, started the walk back to the Damascus Gate and the small house that served as Jerusalem’s portal to the Halls of the Bachiyr. But before he left the area around the Temple he spied someone in the street walking toward him. Theron noted with some relief the man didn’t glow. The stranger was dressed in a long black robe that showed nothing of his fa
ce or stature, but his walk was calm and self-assured. He took a moment to study the newcomer, sizing him up for a potential meal. As he got closer Theron was able to see under the hood, and gasped when he recognized the man.
“Councilor Ramah?” He asked, and knelt to the cobbles.
Chapter Thirty
“Do you know what is happening in the city, Councilor Ramah?” Theron asked from his position, kneeling in the street. “Have you seen the number of people with the glow?”
“Do you know what’s happening in the city, Councilor Ramah?” Ramah mocked. “You should know, Theron. This is all your doing.”
“What?”
“You arranged to have Jesus crucified.”
“It was my mission,” Theron said. “Given to me by Headcouncil Herris.”
“Herris sent you to kill Jesus, not make a martyr of him.”
“Martyr? What martyr? What are you talking about?” Theron nearly rose to his feet, but remembered in time to whom he spoke, and remained on his knees.
“Where is Jesus's body?” Ramah asked.
“His what?”
“His body. Where did you put it?”
“I’m sorry, Councilor Ramah, but I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Ramah looked at Theron for a long while. Theron stared back, confused and growing more worried with each passing second.
You have been lied to, vampire…
Finally, Ramah spoke. “You don’t know, do you?” He chuckled. “Well, then. You should find this interesting.
“Your plan worked perfectly. Jesus was put to the cross and died a short while before sundown four days ago. His death was brutal, painful, and he died amidst rumors of being involved with the zealots. Pilate was pleased, the Sanhedrin were pleased, and the Council of Thirteen was pleased. But then, this morning, his body vanished.”
“Vanished? What do you mean? How?”
“No one knows. By all accounts the tomb was sealed, but on the third morning following his death, a few women went to pay tribute. When they arrived they found the great stone that sealed the tomb had been moved, and the tomb itself stood open. There were no marks on the stone, and no one chiseled through the seal. It was simply open, and Jesus's body was gone. I had thought you took it, meaning to bring it back to the Council as proof of your success, but when you didn’t appear I started to wonder.
“Then the rumors started. People claimed to have seen Jesus rise from the dead. There are even some who claim to have spoken with him. Can you imagine? They claim to have spoken with a dead man. It’s not possible, of course, but that didn’t stop a large number of people from believing it. The news spread through Jerusalem like fire, and before sunset thousands of people descended on the tomb to see it standing empty. In the last twelve hours nearly a quarter the population of Jerusalem has been swayed over to Jesus's cause, and the effects are still spreading. It is a disaster of the worst kind; the beginning of renewed faith in Israel.”
“By The Father,” Theron swore. This was serious. “Does the rest of the Council know?”
“Not yet. I have been looking for you for several hours and have not returned to the Halls. The Council sent me to find you when Simon failed to report. If I didn’t find you tonight I was going to go back and tell them of the situation myself, but now that you have resurfaced, you can have the honors.”
Theron grumbled. The Council would not be pleased to hear of this news. The only ‘honor’ he would likely find would be a severe reprimand. But he’d only been following orders. He’d been forced to improvise, true, but it couldn’t be helped. All in all he thought he’d done a good job, considering the circumstances. By rights the Council should be pleased. Except for the damn glowing citizenry. He prepared himself to journey back to the Halls when suddenly something Ramah said struck a chord. He stopped in his tracks and turned to face the Councilor.
“Wait, Councilor Ramah,” Theron said. “You said you were sent to find me when Simon failed to report.”
“Yes,” Ramah said. “That is true.”
“So Simon told the truth? The Council did send him after me?”
“You’ve seen him, then?”
“He attacked me,” Theron said, a little defensive. “I killed him.”
“Herris thought you might.” Ramah smiled, obviously unconcerned about the news of the clerk’s demise.
“Then why did Headcouncil Herris send him?”
“Didn’t you read the letter?” Ramah’s brows knit together.
“What letter?”
Ramah looked Theron up and down. Theron shifted from one foot to the other, uncomfortable with such scrutiny. He hated himself for being so nervous, like a child caught misbehaving, but he reminded himself it was Ramah in front of him. Ramah. The Blood Letter, himself. If he wanted to look Theron up and down, then by The Father, Theron would let him. To do otherwise was to invite a sure and swift death, and Theron knew it.
After perhaps a minute, Ramah completed his appraisal, and looked Theron in the face. “You don’t have it,” he said.
Theron shrugged, not having any idea what Ramah meant.
“What did you do with Simon’s body?” Ramah asked.
“I left it on a rooftop for the sun.” Theron replied. “By now Simon is a pile of ashes.”
“Show me.”
* * *
Taras wandered through the grass and dirt, as he had the last three nights in a row, carrying a single bright red flower he’d plucked from somewhere near the Gardens of Gethsemane. He could no longer stand to be outside during the day. Ever since he’d awakened three nights ago, the sun burned him. His hand still bore the scars from that first morning. Every evening, he woke at sunset, and every sunrise he retreated to the shelter of a nearby grave. His grave. He’d been shocked to discover his name etched into the marker upon waking that first night.
He’ awakened to find himself buried in the earth and, after a few moments of panic and confusion, dug his way out. At the time, he was too busy escaping his earthen prison to notice the cold that crept into his bones, but once free of the grave he couldn’t help but notice. Icy cold, like winter, settled into his limbs and chilled him to the marrow. But this was Spring; he should have been warm, even at night. No amount of huddling could make it stop, and no fire could chase it away. So to take his mind from the numbing chill, he walked through the Gardens and visited the tombs near the Mount of Olives.
His walks never took him into the city. He preferred to remain outside near the gardens, taking his company with the dead in the tombs nearby – one tomb in particular – even if they weren’t much in the way of companionship. He didn’t want to be seen by any of the city’s residents, knowing he looked frightful, but he guessed that’s what happened when you died and came back.
Taras still didn’t understand what had happened to him, but he remembered all too well the fiend – whom he still thought of as Ephraim even though he knew that name to be false – stabbing him in the belly with his clawed hand, and then punching him in the face until he lost consciousness. He thought he’d killed Ephraim when he stabbed him though his heart and gut, but he failed. Ephraim lived at least long enough to break Taras's nose and finish him off.
Taras looked down at his fresh tunic, most certainly a gift from whoever had taken Marcus's place as centurion. He lifted the hem between his pale fingers and examined the flesh underneath. The mark of Ephraim’s claws could still be seen on his abdomen; four gaping holes that, for some reason, no longer bled.
For some reason, indeed. Taras shook his head at his own naiveté. The holes didn’t bleed because he was dead. His blood, such as it was, no longer flowed through his veins.
He walked quietly along the path through the Gardens, thinking of all the wicked things he’d done in his life to deserve this fate. He’d hand delivered Jesus, an innocent man, to the cross, and aided a demon in killing not only the Nazarene, but also his friend Marcus and his beloved Mary. He knew something was wrong with Ephr
aim, yet he’d failed to act. He failed to protect her, and she paid for his mistake with a horrible death.
He would never forget seeing her body in that alley, torn to shreds by some foul thing. It had been all he could do to keep from killing himself on the spot. But instead of giving in to grief, he allowed a burning anger to fill him. First Didius, then Marcus, Jesus, and finally Mary. He’d tried to avenge them, but the holes in his belly testified to yet another failure.
Taras continued along the path, looking at his shoes and thinking his dark thoughts, for several minutes. Soon, too soon for his liking, he arrived at his destination. Another tomb. He didn’t want to see it; didn’t want to read the name chiseled into the marker. It wasn’t the first time he balked. Some part of his mind tried to pretend it wasn’t real, that he’d imagined the name on the tomb. If he looked, he would have no such illusions. If he looked, any hope he had left would die yet again. But if he didn’t look he would have to avoid the place for the rest of his days.
Nights, rather.
Numb, Taras raised his eyes from his feet to read the name etched into the stone.
Mary.
No tears came to his eyes. Tears, apparently, were one more thing denied to him, along with sunlight and companionship. But not love. That, at least, he could still feel. It burned through him, more painful than the sun and hollower than his own heart. The fact that he could not show his grief with tears somehow made it worse.
He laid the flower in front of Mary’s tomb.
“I’m sorry, Mary,” he said, and turned to leave.
