by David McAfee
Taras broke from his concealment and drew in a breath to shout for the guards at Damascus Gate to arrest the stealthy peasant, but Ephraim surprised him. Rather than head for the gate, the man stopped in front of a small wooden house just inside the walls.
Taras froze. He stood exposed in the middle of the street with nowhere to hide. If Ephraim turned around he would surely be spotted. He ran several stories through his mind as to why he was there, then realized he was overreacting. As a legionary, a soldier in Rome’s great army and part of the occupying force in Jerusalem, he had every right to stand wherever he wanted. He would not make excuses for his presence. He straightened his posture, squared his shoulders, and waited for the man to notice him.
But Ephraim didn’t. Instead, he fished a golden key from his pocket and used it to unlock the door. Then he went inside. Taras didn’t see any light inside the building when the door opened, but a few seconds afterward light flared from under the doorway, then faded. After that there was nothing at all. Just a slightly run down, seemingly harmless house on the outskirts of the New City.
Taras walked over to the door and pressed his ear to it, straining to hear any noise coming from inside, but there was nothing. Only cool, rough wood against his cheek. But he did catch a whiff of something coming from the building that caught his attention. A smell every soldier comes to know if they have spent any time behind their shield: the coppery, earthen scent of blood.
Marcus had told him to find out where Ephraim went, and report back to him. But Marcus had probably not guessed he would go to another house in the city. The centurion had likely thought Ephraim would either leave the city altogether or just walk around for a while and return home. Taras could go back to his commander and report the location of this house and no one would say anything at all. As far as all involved were concerned, he would have done his job to the letter.
But he smelled blood. And that didn’t bode well. By the time Marcus returned with a group of soldiers, who knew what Ephraim would have done? Better to learn as much as possible. His mind made up, he straightened, keeping his eyes on the street. He looked around the area to make sure no one could see him. He heard the conversation of the guards at Damascus Gate, but just barely. Either they hadn’t noticed him, or they had recognized him and decided to leave him be. The important thing was, for the time being, no one was paying any attention to him.
With his right hand, he thumbed down the locking mechanism on his scabbard, freeing his blade. He drew it out just an inch to keep the device from latching again. He would probably need to pull the sword out in a hurry very soon. With his left hand, he reached down to the door handle and snaked his fingers under the cool brass.
Besides, what if he leaves while I am searching for Marcus? What would I tell the centurion if he came all this way only to arrest an empty house? And we did take away the man’s sword, so he should not be able to fight back once I get inside. The faulty logic didn’t make him feel any better. Ephraim could very well have a house full of swords or armed reinforcements on the other side of the door, but Taras had decided on his course of action and he meant to see it through. And so, with the faint smell of blood mixing with the loamy scent of earth and the dust from the street, he pulled on the handle.
It was locked.
“Gods take it,” he swore, and let go of both the sword and the door handle. He took another quick survey of the street to make sure he was still alone, and knelt in front of the door to examine the lock. I can open this, he thought after a cursory examination. He reached into a pouch on his belt and pulled out his tools. Like all men of his trade, he’d been thoroughly trained on locks and how to pick them in Rome. There was not a lock made, not even those on the great Caesar’s abode that Taras could not compromise in under a minute, and this one was rather simple. It would be easy enough to bypass it and gain access to the building.
Just as Taras put a slender metal pick into the lock, he felt the temperature of the air around him drop. Unconcerned, he worked the tool into the mechanism, shoving the thought of the increasing cold to the back of his mind. It wasn’t important. Focus. Only the lock mattered. Patience and concentration are the most important tools in any assassin’s arsenal, and life doesn’t show mercy to those of his occupation who never learn them. So although the air around the door felt like it had dropped to below freezing in a matter of seconds, Taras's attention remained fixed on the lock, even when his breath began to fog in front of his face and his flesh pebbled with the chill.
Almost there…
The lock gave with a light click, and the door moved inward a fraction of an inch. Taras sighed and sat back, now able to refocus on his surroundings. The first thing he noticed was it had gotten much, much colder than he’d thought. He wondered why the guards at the gate hadn’t mentioned it. Surely they could feel it, too.
A light scratching noise; similar to the sound a dog’s paws make when it scrapes them against a wooden door, drew his attention back to the house. He thought perhaps his sword might be rubbing on the wood, but it wasn’t. In fact, no part of him was even close to the door except his hand, which still grasped the handle.
He felt a chill creep into his bones that had nothing to do with the cold. His spine prickled and the fine hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stood on end as he realized that someone, or something, was on the other side of the door, separated from him by perhaps an inch of wood. A sense of malevolent evil flowed from under the door and floated upward like a chilly mist, and with it came the cloying, putrid smell of decomposing flesh. It swirled around his face like fog and as he breathed it in he knew a fear so deep it nailed him to the street and released his bladder.
The warmth of the fluid down his inner thighs went unnoticed as the handle moved. Taras jerked his hand away, but he could not bring himself to stand up. He could only watch as the door creaked open and a dread creature from his darkest nightmares emerged into the moonlight.
It stood as tall as a man, but where its flesh should be were only writhing, pulsing insect larvae, wriggling here and there upon the specter’s person. Empty eyes bored into him from beneath a tattered black hood. It made no sound as it reached for him with a decrepit, grub-covered arm. Taras watched the approaching fingers, and he knew it meant his end. Fear and despair wormed their way through his veins like poison, and still he could not bring himself to move or even speak.
Taras had seen many things during his time with the Legion, but nothing compared to the apparition before him. The sight of the thing and the smell of decay that surrounded it made him gag. As he looked on in a dark kind of fascination, he knew he was about to die. He forced his mind away from the thing in the house and thought of Mary, remembering her laugh and the scent of her perfume. He used those memories to blot out the image of the creature, wanting Mary’s beautiful face to be his last thought in this life. He braced himself for the thing’s touch.
“You there, legionary. Are you all right?”
At the sound of the voice, the worm-eaten hand paused. The clop of sandaled feet approached from the direction of the Damascus Gate. As they drew closer Taras, too numb to feel relief or amazement, watched as the creature retreated back into the house and pulled the door closed. A bar slid into place on the other side. Taras heard it as if from a distance, and he had a vague impression of hands on his shoulders just before the world grew dark.
Chapter Fourteen
Taras woke with a start as icy water splashed over his face. Cursing and sputtering, he sat up and wiped the fluid from his eyes so he could look around.
He lay in the street a few yards from the house where the worm-eaten creature almost grabbed him. Nearby, the two guards from the Damascus Gate stood anxiously discussing what to do about him. One of them wanted to carry him to the infirmary right away. The other held a dripping bucket in his hands and looked ready to run for more. The one with the bucket eyed Taras with a worried look on his face. “Are you all right, soldier?”
&
nbsp; Taras tried to stand, but his rubbery legs failed him, and he fell backwards onto the street. Embarrassed, he tried again, this time willing the muscles in his legs to hold. With an effort, he was able to bring himself upright and face the two men.
“What happened?” he asked, still a bit groggy.
“You fainted,” the guard with the bucket said.
“I know that.” Taras's patience hadn’t returned with his muscle control. “I meant what happened to that thing? Did you capture it?”
“Capture what?”
He gaped at the two men, for the moment unconcerned that he was supposed to be an ordinary legionary. “That thing! The creature. Don’t tell me you just let it go?”
The two men looked at each other, then back to Taras. By the looks on their faces, they thought he was still a bit dazed. One of them stepped closer and offered a steadying hand, while the other – the one with the bucket – took a step backward.
“There’s nothing there, soldier,” the first one said. “You were kneeling in front of that door,” he pointed a thumb in the direction of the house, “and then you fell into the street. We came right over, and Iovinus here ran to get a bucket of water. When he returned, we poured it on your head. You were out for two minutes, at most.”
Taras forced himself to calm down. He noticed his hands were shaking, and he willed them to stop. He needed to regain his composure. He reminded himself these two men didn’t know who he was, and thought of him only as another legionary. They couldn’t know he possessed instincts much sharper than theirs, and they obviously hadn’t seen the thing that tried to attack him. “Of course,” he said, forcing steadiness into his voice. “I must have hit my head. Thank you, Iovinus, for reviving me.”
“You should let me look at your head,” Iovinus said. “You might have an injury.”
“No, thank you. I’ll be fine. I think I’ll just go and lie down for a while.”
Iovinius eyed him, his skepticism clear on his face. “Be careful. Head injuries can be serious.”
“I will. Thank you.” Taras turned and walked away from the two guards without looking behind him. As he walked, his head finally began to clear. He hadn’t been seeing things. A hideous creature lived in that house. And Ephraim led him right to it. In fact, Ephraim even had a—
Taras stopped in the middle of the street, too stunned by his latest thought to keep walking. Ephraim had a key! He and that… thing… must be in league together. Marcus never should have trusted him.
So, you were planning to leave Jesus's followers and go back to Sepphoris, eh? Taras scowled, remembering how keen Ephraim had been to see the blame for Didius's death placed on Jesus's shoulders. It was so obvious! Why, that son of a whore had probably never even met Jesus. Most likely he…
Taras froze as the implications of this new train of thought sunk in. Then he swore loud enough that the soldiers at the gate heard him and turned to stare. He paid them no attention and sprinted for the barracks, his only thought being to get back and stop Marcus from arresting and executing the wrong man.
* * *
From his hidden vantage point atop a small shop across the street, someone else watched as Taras broke into a run. In the moonlight, the newcomer’s face split into a wide grin, revealing twin canines that were much too long and far too sharp to be human.
You have erred, Theron, the vampire thought. You led a human right to our door, and even let him see a Lost One. The Council will not be pleased.
He turned and walked to the other side of the building, then checked up and down the street, looking for any potential witnesses. Once assured he would not be seen, he arched his legs out over the side and jumped from the roof, landing lightly on the cobbled street some thirty feet below, then started walking.
The newcomer had a plan. One that would ensure his rise to the top of the Council’s esteem. No more debasing himself for Theron, that arrogant bastard. Finally, after many years of insults, he would get the respect he deserved. If all went well, soon he would be an Enforcer, maybe even Lead Enforcer. And Theron, if the Council let him live at all, would be a Lost One.
He laughed at the thought. The high and mighty Theron forced into servitude and reduced to playing host to thousands of insects as they feasted on his flesh for hundreds of years. It was too good to be true. He felt like dancing through the streets of Jerusalem.
Before he could see to Theron’s fall, however, he had to make sure his plan was carried out. He couldn’t just tell the Council how Theron had led the human to their domain. While that information would certainly get Theron in trouble, it would do nothing to help his own ascent to power. No, in order to facilitate that, he would need to succeed where Theron failed.
He would have to kill Jesus first, before Theron could complete his mission. The first step to reaching that goal was to make certain Taras didn’t get a chance to tell Marcus what he’d seen.
Chapter Fifteen
When Taras reached the entry to Marcus's chambers, he found his way blocked by four armed legionaries. As he approached, the four closed ranks in front of the thick oak doors, crossing their spears to block the doorway.
“Let me pass. I have important news for the centurion.”
“Move along, soldier," one of the guards said. "No one is permitted to see the centurion tonight, by his own order.”
Taras glared at the legionary who’d spoke, but the man never flinched. He looked around at the other three, and realized he didn’t know any of them. They looked like fresh recruits. They would not know who he was, and even then, they would only know him as a fellow soldier. There were times when the need to keep his position secret could be damned inconvenient. Looking at the firm set of the guard’s face, he would not get in to see Marcus, so he turned to go. Before he got more than a few steps away, one of the men called out to him.
“Wait,” the man said. Taras turned around to see the speaker. A young legionary eyed him from top to bottom, his eyes finally settling on Tara’s shoulder length wheat-colored hair. “Is your name Taras?”
“It is.”
“In that case, I have a message for you: the centurion expected you sooner. He finally had to retire, but he instructed me to give you this.” The soldier held out a rolled piece of parchment, sealed with Marcus's symbol.
“Thank you,” Taras said as he took it. He examined the tube, wondering if he should read it now or take it someplace private. One look at the eager expression on the guard’s face and his decision was made. Marcus had sealed it for a reason, therefore, Taras would take it someplace where he could read it in solitude. He turned around and, without offering anything in the way of a parting greeting to the four soldiers, walked away from the centurion’s chambers and out into the barracks.
Most of the legionaries were long asleep by the time he made it outside and into the moonlight. Their snores echoed through the halls of the barracks, a deep vibrato coming from behind every door. The two guards stationed at the entrance were not much better off; they stood mute guard, leaning on the doorway and almost asleep on their feet. Taras coughed loudly as he passed by, startling them to attention as he walked away from the compound and stepped out into the moonlit night.
He gazed about the city, wondering about the thing he’d seen earlier. It had to be a demon of some sort, because it clearly wasn’t human. He shivered as he recalled the fat grubs crawling over the creature’s skin. The sense of fear it inspired could still be felt in the slight trembling of his hands whenever he remembered it. If his suspicions were correct, and Ephraim was in league with that hideous apparition, the centurion needed to know.
Gods! He needed to talk to Marcus. But he couldn’t very well kill four legionaries to do it. He looked around at the empty street, as though it could provide him with a solution. It didn’t. Taras sighed. He would just have to stop by Marcus's office in the morning before he left to arrest the Nazarene. Although come to think of it, he was certain Marcus would want him along, anyway, in which cas
e it would be easy enough to give his news to the centurion in time to stop the arrest.
That decided, he eyed the rolled-up sheaf of parchment for a moment, then broke the seal and unrolled it. As he expected, it was a letter from Marcus. Taras sat in a doorway on the side of the street and read his commander’s instructions.
Taras,
The guards are in place to prevent anyone from waking me, even you. Before you take offense to this, I remind you that tomorrow will be a very important day, and we must all be rested for what is to come. This includes you. I suggest you retire soon after reading this, as I will require your presence tomorrow morning for a trip to the Gardens of Gethsemane. We will accompany the Sanhedrin and arrest Jesus of Galilee. I expect there to be a great deal of trouble from his followers. I have already sent word to the temple.
Before you sleep, however, I have one last task for you. Return to the home of our friend, Ephraim, and see to it that the dog Malachi is exhumed properly. I have left instructions for the undertaker to give him a proper burial, but that was only for the men. I want you, Taras, to take the man’s body outside the gates and leave it for the animals. I will not grant the murderer an honorable service, and he deserves none.
Do this last task, then return to the barracks and sleep. I will speak with you again in the morning. I do not think I have to tell you to talk of this to no one.
M.
Taras rolled the letter up and put it into a pocket of his tunic. Marcus had deliberately left his name off the document just in case. He had a feeling the four guards at his door would be reassigned to the farthest reaches of Judea in the next few days, just to make sure no one could connect the centurion to the request to dump a body in the middle of the desert rather than give it a proper service, a thing unheard of in Roman society.
