by David McAfee
Marcus rubbed his chin with his fingers. That’s intriguing. Jesus was known for speaking of love and forgiveness; it would be interesting to discover if one of his followers had gotten the message wrong and slaughtered two Roman legionaries. Such a thing would not bode well for the Nazarene.
“Thank you, Gordian. You may go. Alert me the moment you have more news.”
Gordian bowed and left the room, closing the door behind him. Now alone, Marcus got to his feet and walked over to the fireplace. He leaned an arm into the wall, stared into the embers and thought about his younger brother. He thought of his brother’s wife and children. They would probably be in a panic right now, wondering when Didius would be home, if they hadn’t heard the rumors on the street already.
That thought brought him upright. Dear gods! I still have to tell Adonia she is a widow! His vision blurred as he imagined the look on her lovely face when he broke the news to the family. Teeth clenched, he gripped the handle of his sword, wanting nothing more than to run someone through with it. At that point, it wouldn’t have mattered who. He just wanted to lash out at someone. Anyone.
With a growl, he swept the bust of the god-like Caesar from the mantle, taking a small amount of satisfaction in hearing the clay shatter. He would have to clean that up before anyone saw it, lest he face charges himself, but it could wait. For now he was alone in his chambers, and it felt good to break something. Soon, he promised himself, he would be able to take out his anger on his brother’s killer. He hoped it was the man the guards saw leaving the gate, the stealthy man headed for the Gardens of Gethsemane. This train of thought soon turned to the other notable man currently staying in the Gardens, and the strange rumors that surrounded him. Ridiculous stories about healing and miracles that only a fool would believe.
“Are you involved in this somehow, Nazarene?” Marcus asked the empty room.
He didn’t know, but by the gods, he was going to find out.
PART II
Chapter Eight
Theron left the road and its throngs of people behind, opting instead to traverse the rocky scrubland to the north. He threaded his careful way among the rocks and pebbles, trying to be as silent as possible while he approached the Gardens of Gethsemane from the northwest. He didn’t want anyone to hear his steps. He had long ago perfected the art of walking in silence, and after centuries of practice it just came naturally. Most of the time he didn’t even realize he was doing it.
As he drew nearer to the Gardens, he heard a man speaking. The voice carried loudly, and every now and then when it paused, the space between his words filled with murmurs and rumblings from what sounded like a large group of people. He nodded to himself. The shepherd is addressing his flock. This is good. Theron would have the opportunity to view his target, and also to get a good look at many of his followers. His orders from the Council were not only to kill Jesus, but also those of his followers who knew the truth about Theron’s race. Since Theron couldn’t be sure which devotees would have such knowledge, he had already determined he would kill them all. Better to be safe than sorry.
As he rounded a corner he caught his first glimpse of the group, and right away he realized his mistake. The crowd of people who stood listening to Jesus as he spoke was not large; it was huge. All through the Gardens of Gethsemane people of all types stood, sat, or squatted in the grass, listening to the words of Theron’s next target. He’d been expecting a dozen, or perhaps a score of people to be present, but there were many, many more. By the Father, there must be hundreds of them! He doubted he could kill them all, at least not in a timely manner. The throng was so large it spilled into the street running in both directions.
Some of the people wore the coarse, earthy linens of Jerusalem’s poor. Others stood about in fine, colorful silks and satins. Here and there Theron even caught a glimpse of vibrant purple, a color made from such rare and expensive dyes only the wealthy could afford to wear it. He even spotted a few legionaries in attendance, their bright red capes fluttered in the cool breeze while their polished steel breastplates glinted dully in the flickering light of many torches.
And almost everyone in the crowd was focused entirely on Jesus of Nazareth. They stared at him in rapt attention, some in open mouthed astonishment. He spoke to them of forgiveness and love, of being kind even to those who have wronged you, and helping those in need. His words were not inflammatory, as Theron would have expected of a Jewish Messiah, but calm and peaceable. Even sedate. He didn’t call the Jews to war, he called them to faith.
He called them to God.
By the Father, he’s undoing everything we’ve worked for in Israel! The Bachiyr had long sought to sway the Jews from their faith, even going so far as secretly aiding the Roman occupation of Judea in hopes of spreading the belief in Rome’s gods through Israel. But this man, through the mere weight of his words, would undo all that. By the Father, he could set the Bachiyr influence in the region back hundreds of years. He had to be stopped.
Theron needed to get a better look, so he waded into the crowd. He still had not seen the so-called Messiah’s face. He needed visual identification in order to know who to kill. He wasn’t going to try anything while surrounded by hundreds of people, of course. But later, when the rabbi slept, Theron would find him. He would go to him while he lay in his bed, or on his pallet, or wherever he spent the night, and take his head from his shoulders as he’d done with Ephraim and the legionary in Jerusalem.
No, he thought. It must look like the zealots did it. He put his right hand on the hilt of his sword, remembering Algor’s request. He would make sure the Nazarene died brutally, but he would use a blade to do it. After all, his sword could remove a head just as well as his claws. Better, even, since he kept it very sharp.
As he walked among the followers, he watched the faces of those in attendance. Not everyone, it seemed, was swayed by the young Nazarene’s words. Here and there Theron spotted an occasional angry face, and more than once his keen ears picked up the words “blasphemy,” and “heresy.” This was good news; it meant Jesus's credibility wasn’t total. Some still questioned his words, and it would be those people who would make the strongest arguments against him after his murder. They would unknowingly help Theron and the Council to further establish their race in Israel. Theron thought it fitting. Pawns behaving as pawns. He grinned at the idea.
His smile faltered when he came to a break in the crowd and got his first look at the speaker. He stopped short and stared at Jesus in surprise and awe, his Bachiyr eyes picking up on something none on the humans in the crowd could see, and he cursed under his breath. Killing Jesus had suddenly become much more complicated. Not because the man was strong or powerful. Quite the opposite; in build and stature, Jesus was largely unimpressive. His simple linen robe swallowed his thin, spare frame. Theron would have thought him weak, even by human standards.
The problem lay in the fact that Jesus literally glowed with the strength of his faith. The kind of faith that only comes from a strong belief in a wise and benevolent God. It formed a halo around him Theron could see all too clearly, and it was exactly the kind of faith the Council wanted to keep from spreading, because it was the only thing in the world that could save a human from a vampire. That was the Council’s biggest obstacle in Israel. The Jews were so strong in their faith – though thankfully very few were strong enough to glow from it, as was this man, Jesus – and their collective strength weakened the power of Theron’s people a great deal. Things had improved with the arrival of the Romans and their archaic beliefs in the pantheon of gods, and the Council had long hoped to someday build on that success.
But this man could ruin everything. With just his words he could strengthen the weakening resolve of the zealots. He could bolster the confidence of the Jewish populace. He could— Damn it all! There were too many ways Jesus could thwart the Council’s will. Just standing in the man’s presence made Theron feel a little weaker, and he was nearly thirty paces away. He knew what wo
uld happen if he approached closer. His strength would flag until he would not be able to stand on his own legs. Then perhaps he would crawl, at least until he could no longer accomplish that much. In the end he doubted he would be able to get within five paces of his intended victim. No wonder the Council wanted Jesus dead, the man was dangerous. Killing him would prove immeasurably profitable for his people.
But how was he to do it if he couldn’t get close? Of course, there were many ways to kill a man from a distance: spears, arrows, even a sling. However, the Council wanted Jesus's murder to be brutal, and Algor wanted it to look like the work of the zealots. Granted, the last part was not a direct order from the Council, but Theron liked to please them. Algor was especially influential. If Theron could find a way to earn the misshapen councilor’s favor, he would make every effort to do so.
He stood in the midst of the crowd for a long while watching the rabbi from Galilee. He devised plan after plan, but none of them would bring the desired effect. His frustration led his mind into broad circles, but no suitable option presented itself. Theron’s fists were clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed to slits as he pondered ways to kill the Nazarene. With so much at stake, he could not fail. He had to find a way.
Jesus had to die a horrible death.
* * *
Taras caught sight of the dark stranger with the blood-spattered sandals shortly after leaving Jerusalem. The man headed straight for the path that led to the Gardens. A short distance from the Damascus Gate, he left the path, something few travelers dare to do during the night, and walked directly to the Mount of Olives and into the Gardens of Gethsemane. Taras followed him the whole way.
Privately, Taras marveled at the man’s ability to traverse the roads and then the scrubland in complete silence. Not once along the way had Taras heard a single crunch of gravel or broken twig. Very few indeed were the people who could tread so lightly; it was not an easy skill to learn. It had taken Taras the better part of a decade to learn it himself, at least to the point of mastery required of Roman legionaries in his particular field. That his quarry showed signs of being similarly well trained was both obvious and unsettling.
Taras watched the stranger enter the mass of people and work his way to the front of the crowd. At first he didn’t want to follow into the throng, fearing he would stand out. But as he looked around he noted several other Romans in attendance, including a handful of legionaries. Since they didn’t seem to generate any extra attention, he decided to risk going in. Taras swore under his breath as his quarry disappeared into the crowd. He needed to know how deep Didius's murder went. He had convinced himself the man he trailed was indeed the killer. The sneaky bastard was far too stealthy, far too careful, to be anything other than an assassin. Which left only one question in Taras's mind: Was Jesus involved? He would not return to the city until he found the answer. Taras checked the blade at his side, reassured by its heft at his waist, and stepped into the crowd to relocate the stranger.
It didn’t take long. Taras spotted his man seconds after shoving his way into the gathering. He was weaving and twisting through the mass, threading his way closer to Jesus. Despite the stranger’s ragged clothes, to Taras's eyes he stood out among the peasantry with his fluid bearing and feline grace. The rest of the people didn’t seem to notice him, so intent were they on Jesus's speech.
Taras hung back about twenty feet, watching as the object of his attention stared at Jesus. The stranger seemed deep in reflection, paying rapt attention to the rabbi and his words. Aha! So he is a follower of the Nazarene, probably a recent arrival from Galilee or some such place. One thing Taras knew for certain, even from where he stood; the man was no novice to battle. The confident way the stranger carried himself and the easy manner in which he wore his barely concealed blade spoke volumes about the man’s experience and skill.
In the flickering, dancing light of the many torches scattered about the gathering, the stranger always seemed to stay in the shadows. Yet another indication the man made his living dealing in death. Taras could relate; he preferred the shadows, himself. When a man spends a lifetime hiding from one shadow to another, it just becomes natural. The darkness has a way of etching itself into a person’s soul.
After a few minutes spent observing the stranger, Taras decided he could do nothing for the moment. So he left the crowd to find a suitable spot to sit and wait. The man would probably not take the main road on his way back to the city, so Taras found a spot where he could watch the most likely routes unobserved. Away from the torches, he had to rely on the moonlight to see where he put his feet. As luck would have it, the night was clear and the moon full and bright. He had little trouble navigating through the Gardens and back into the scrubland.
Once there, he hunkered down behind a large boulder and waited. The thick grass on the lee side grew several feet high, more than tall enough to conceal his body from view. Perfect. Sooner or later the stranger would return. And when he did, Taras would take him.
While he waited, he thought of Mary, and the idea that had struck him earlier. Tomorrow, he would ask Mary to come to Rome with him. Once there, they could marry without fear of her father’s disapproval. The reach of the zealots was long in Israel, but it didn’t extend into Rome. He would retire from the Legion and buy a small plot of land in the country. Then he and Mary would raise a family of their own. It was a beautiful dream, and he knew in his heart she would say yes.
Once he finished this business with the zealot assassin, Taras would speak with Marcus. He had no doubt the Centurion would approve his resignation; there were times when Marcus talked of it himself. It would be painful to leave his good friend behind, especially after the death of Didius, but if it meant he could finally be with Mary, openly and without fear of reprisal, then he would do it. Marcus would understand.
Taras smiled as he waited in the dark, his mind on the green fields of the Roman countryside. He could almost smell the tall wheat and the blossoms on the grapevines as they twined around the supports. The bees would buzz from one flower to the next, ensuring a fine crop, which he would turn into as fine a wine as could be found anywhere. By this time next week, he and Mary would be on their way to a new life together, and Abraham and his narrow-minded beliefs would be far behind them. Theirs would be a life of earth, wine, and olives, of children and laughter, of love and family. There would be no more death for Taras, no more killing. Perhaps more important, there would be no more sneaking around at night and hiding his love like a shameful thing. Finally, he and Mary would be free.
But first, he had one last job to do for Rome.
Chapter Nine
When the crowd started to disperse, Theron knew the time to leave had come. He'd stayed at the Gardens pretending to listen to Jesus for over an hour because he feared he would draw too much attention by leaving early. He spent the entire time trying to think of a way to accomplish his mission, but with no success. By the time the crowd began to thin, he’d almost resigned himself to using a bow or a spear.
He turned around and walked back toward Jerusalem, still unsure how to go about his task. Since it seemed he would have to strike from a distance, it meant Jesus's death would have to be quick. He could not afford to merely wound him and thus risk an escape. His best bet would be a poison-tipped arrow. The Council wouldn’t like that at all; it was much too easy a death. So even though they’d told him to make Jesus's death brutal, Theron was going to have to disappoint them.
The thought wormed its way into his mind and stuck like a thorn. I’ll have to disappoint them.
In his nine centuries of service, Theron had never disappointed the Council of Thirteen. He’d spent his existence making himself useful. Killing wayward vampires, capturing humans who knew too much, and all in all doing anything and everything he could to please his rulers in hopes they would one day accept him into their ranks. He knew that was unlikely, but one could only guess what would happen should one of them die. By ancient law passed down from t
he Father himself, the Council must have thirteen members. It wasn’t unthinkable to imagine that, should anything happen to one of them, they would put another in the empty seat.
It never happened, of course. No force known could destroy a Council member. But Theron had always clung to the belief that just because it had never happened before didn’t necessarily mean it couldn’t. He would just have to be there and make sure they knew he was available if it ever did. As Lead Enforcer, he would be the logical choice.
But now the Nazarene would ruin his standing. He would have to go back to the Council and explain to them that he could not get close enough to Jesus to give him the brutal murder the Council so desired. Less than a week at his new title and he’d already failed. He could picture the looks on their faces; the disappointment, the pity. Worst of all would be Algor’s smug, contemptuous expression. That would be the hardest to bear.
Theron put his fist an inch deep into the trunk of a nearby acacia as he passed, taking out his irritation on the tree since he couldn’t take it out on the Nazarene. There was a sharp crack, and he pulled his hand back immediately, taking a quick look around to make sure no one saw what he’d done. No one did; they were all too engrossed in Jesus's words to notice him.
By the Father, his claws itched to reveal themselves and shred someone. It didn’t matter who. It could just be some stranger who’d wandered off the road. He didn’t care. He just needed an outlet for his pent up frustration. Not here, though. Too many witnesses. He would wait until he was out of the vicinity of the Gardens, then he would vent his anger on the first person he met on the road back to Jerusalem.
He had just rounded a large boulder and started looking for an unfortunate soul to play his victim when he felt a sudden explosion of pain on the back of his head. It was enough to knock him off his feet, but mostly because it caught him off guard. He fell face-first into the dirt and lay there a moment, quietly assessing the situation. Someone had ambushed him. He could feel the wetness of his blood as it flowed in a lazy trickle from the wound. His mouth, only an inch from the dirt, widened in a smile. This was just the opportunity he had hoped for. You don’t know how bad a mistake you just made, friend, Theron thought. But you will soon find out.
