by David McAfee
After a few minutes, Caiaphas exited the temple and walked over to Marcus. He fixed the centurion with a cold stare that told him all he needed to know. Caiaphas would work with him, but only because he had to. It was obvious to Marcus the temple priest would rather have dealt with Jesus on his own. He recalled once hearing Pilate mention something about the Sanhedrin not being allowed to put people to death. Ridiculous. Why have laws at all if you weren’t willing to enforce them? That’s why they need us, Marcus thought. That’s why they needed Rome. They had no idea how to keep their population in line. Well, Marcus would show them. Starting with the Nazarene.
“Centurion,” Caiaphas began, “You have come too soon. Judas has not arrived.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know. He should be along shortly.”
Another delay. Damn it all, didn’t these people know how to do anything right?
“Is he late?” Marcus asked. “I was under the impression you and your brethren would be ready to go upon my arrival.”
“He is not late,” Caiaphas bristled, drawing himself up and squaring his shoulders. “He was to meet us after supper and bring you and your men to the Gardens. He will be here.” Then Caiaphas looked behind the centurion to the group of soldiers he’d brought with him. “Is that all the men you will take with you?” He seemed nervous.
“Do you expect trouble?” Marcus did. He’d brought six of his best men, and had a further two score on alert should anything go wrong. “My men are strong, loyal, well trained and fully capable of subduing a single rabbi and his sheep. How about you, Caiaphas? Who will you send? More priests?”
Caiaphas’ face reddened, but he said nothing more. Instead, he turned his back to the centurion and stormed away. Marcus smiled. He might not be able to go into the temple, but he could still trade words with the likes of Caiaphas. He doubted Pilate would even hear of the conversation, and it felt good to remind these Sanhedrin just who ruled Jerusalem. The Romans owned Israel. Every rock, every blade of grass, every bush. The people of Israel, especially the Jews, needed to remember that. Marcus was happy to remind them from time to time.
He instructed his men to wait by the temple, then he walked away from the gates and found a spot nearby where he could sit alone with his thoughts, and wait for Judas to arrive. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to wait too long. Now that the time was near, he could barely keep his sword in its sheath.
He hoped the Nazarene refused to come quietly, and that he would get a chance to beat him a few times before the legionaries brought him under control. As Marcus watched the deepening gloom of the sky to the east, he prayed to each and all his gods that Jesus would force him to use his sword before the night was done.
I am coming for you, Nazarene.
* * *
As the sun fell below the western horizon, most of Jerusalem’s inhabitants sat at tables laden with roasted or broiled lamb, bread, dates, and in some houses, exotic fruits from the east. Much of the food had taken many hours to prepare. Families, free of the day’s toils, laughed among themselves and conversations flowed freely from person to person. Here and there, however, the celebratory mood was marred with dark thoughts of the recent events in the city. From the wayward rabbi many had come to call the Messiah to the apparent murder of several Roman guards the day before, which promised trouble for everyone. Still, those patches of darkness were few and far between as the majority of Jerusalem’s people concentrated solely on the vast amounts of food in front of them.
Underneath the city, in a rough stone chamber very few knew existed, Theron opened his eyes. He’d spent the day away from his chambers slumbering on a pallet of straw, wanting to be close to the city when he woke. Earlier, Simon had informed him of Jesus's pending arrest, and Theron didn’t want to miss it. It wasn’t quite what he had planned, but so much the better. Now he could actually witness the arrest and make sure nothing happened to jeopardize his plan. Now that dusk had finally arrived, he sat up, ready and eager for action.
There would be plenty of action tonight.
Theron stood and walked to the corner, where he donned his clothes. He looked down at the outfit he wore and was glad he’d had the peasant garb laundered. It would take too long and be too much trouble to find another peasant, kill him, and steal his clothes before he made his way to the Gardens of Gethsemane.
When he finished dressing, he checked his clothing over as best he could; making sure to tuck his new sword away in a secured fold of cloth. He wanted no more mistakes like the guards at the Middle Gate a few nights ago. True, he’d been clever enough to turn that to his advantage, but it galled him that he’d been detected so easily. Once satisfied his disguise would hold, he left the room and started down the hall toward the door that would take him to the surface. Then he would make his way to the Gardens, where Marcus would soon arrest Jesus.
There would be no escape. Theron meant to watch the arrest and make certain of the outcome. His carefully laid plan would come to fruition tonight, and damned if he was going to let anything derail it, not after everything he’d been through. Jesus would die tomorrow morning. Theron would see to it.
When he stepped from the tunnels into the cool night air, he couldn’t help but smile.
I am coming for you, Nazarene.
* * *
In the Halls of the Bachiyr, at just about the same moment Theron stepped from his hiding place and walked out into the night, twelve of the thirteen oldest vampires in existence sat around a great obsidian table and listened to the plan of one of their subordinates. All around the table, heads nodded as the vampire who stood on the stone dais revealed what he knew, and what he planned to do about it.
“Theron has failed,” he said. “Not only has he failed his mission, he has failed to protect the secrecy of our race.”
“We know this already,” Herris said. “Get to the point.”
“I know where Theron will be tonight. I only ask the Council for permission to go there and eliminate him.”
Several Council members laughed, while others simply shook their heads. The speaker on the dais fumed at their derision, but forced himself to remain composed. In truth, he hadn’t expected the Council to think he could carry out such a lofty task, not really. It would have been nice if they hadn’t laughed, though. He forced himself to remain calm. They could laugh at him now, if they wanted; they would stop laughing when he brought them Theron’s head as a trophy.
“Surely you don’t believe yourself capable of killing Theron,” Herris noted. “The Lead Enforcer holds a tremendous advantage of power and age. You, if I recall, were only recently turned. Ten years ago, was it?”
“Eleven, Headcouncil.”
“Ah, eleven,” Herris replied with a smirk. “My mistake.”
“I know it’s not long for our kind,” the vampire said, ignoring the obvious sarcasm in Herris’ words, “but it was Algor himself who turned me. Theron is powerful, but he is not as close in blood to the Father as I am. There is power within my veins. Great power. His power.” He pointed at Algor as he said this. “I can kill him. I ask only for the Council’s permission to prove it.”
The look on Herris’ face spoke volumes about his confidence in the young vampire’s ability to do as he claimed, but he said nothing to the contrary. Instead he deferred the issue to Algor.
“Well, Councilor?” Herris asked. “He’s one of yours, after all. What say you?”
Algor sat in silence. The vampire in question felt the elder’s gaze burn through him, searing away the layers of flesh and peeking into his heart. He knew the misshapen councilor searched for a weakness in him, and he also knew Algor would not find one. He was ready. He could do this. He’d been preparing for this moment for years. Tonight, the high and mighty Theron would finally fall.
“Very well,” Algor said, addressing the Council. “If Headcouncil Herris has no objection, I say let him go.”
“Are we all in agreement?” Herris asked the Council. When the r
est of the Council indicated their consent, Herris turned to the young vampire, who stood on legs that nearly trembled from a mix of excitement and pride. “You are hereby given the task of executing Theron, former Lead Enforcer to the Council of Thirteen. The Father go with you in this, young Bachiyr. It will not be an easy task.”
Herris pulled a piece of parchment and a quill from his robe. While the young vampire watched, Herris stabbed the quill into his wrist, drawing his own blood into the tip. He then wrote a message. When the scratchy sound of Herris’ writing ceased, the councilor folded the message into thirds, then removed a stick of red wax from somewhere in his robes. He held the wax over one of the torches until it dripped, then he allowed a few drops to fall on the seam of the folded parchment. Lastly, he pressed a ring on his right hand into the wax, affixing his seal to the document and making it official.
Herris then tossed it to the younger vampire. “Here is the order for Theron’s death. See to it immediately.”
The young Bachiyr bowed his head. “Thank you, Headcouncil Herris, and my deepest thanks, as well, to rest of the Council. I will not disappoint you.” With that, he turned and left the room, walking past the Lost One at the door without so much as a glance.
This was it! This was his big chance to prove his usefulness and skill to the Council. If he pulled this off, they might even make him an official Enforcer on the spot. Technically, he became an Enforcer the moment the Council of Thirteen ordered him to kill another vampire. But unless the Council held a ceremony to bestow the rank on him in an official capacity, no others of his race would recognize the title. But when he killed Theron, the Council would have to give it to him, and his stature among his people would double. No, it would triple.
He knew Theron would want to witness the arrest of Jesus, and he intended to meet him there and finish this business. First he had to meet with his brother, who had helped him cover up Theron’s mistake. He supposed he should be thankful to the former Lead Enforcer. After all, his error had given him the ammunition he needed to approach the Council. Soon he would be rid of Theron, and would finally have the respect he deserved from his peers.
A smile lit his face in the darkness.
I am coming for you, Theron.
* * *
In the Council chamber, Herris fingered a missive he’d received earlier. Ramah, Second of the Council of Thirteen, had completed his business in the east and would return in a few days’ time. Herris looked over to where Algor, Fifth of the Council, sat.
“Why did you let him go, Algor?” Herris asked. “There is no rush; we could have waited for Ramah. You know he has no chance of defeating Theron, no matter how eager he is.”
“No,” Algor agreed. “But it is for that very reason I sent him. Theron will kill him as surely as he did Ephraim.”
“You desire this? To see your offspring slaughtered?”
“He is a fool, and an impatient one, at that. His ambition has tricked him into thinking he can defeat a Bachiyr of Theron’s skill and power. I will not tolerate fools among my children. If he is so anxious to meet his demise, then let Theron cull the imbecile from our ranks before he does damage of his own.”
Herris nodded. He’d been expecting as much from Algor. Still, it was a valid point. The young vampire had spoken rashly, and in his eagerness to gain some much wanted respect he’d thrown common sense to the wind and ended up assigned to kill a foe he could not hope to defeat. Such a lack of wisdom was not a desirable trait in a race that depended, above all else, on secrecy. But that still left a nagging matter for the Council to decide. “And Theron? He does need to be dealt with, after all.”
“Let Ramah deal with Theron. He will return soon, anyway. He will likely foam at the mouth when he hears about the assignment.”
“Agreed. Are we in concurrence?” Herris looked around the room. Eleven heads nodded back at him. It made sense. Theron was one of the most powerful of their kind in existence. Who would be qualified to capture and, if necessary, execute him? In reality only a member of the Council would prove strong enough, and Ramah was the only councilor whom Herris would send on such a mission. Damn him for not fathering any offspring, anyway. Still, it suited the Council’s purpose to have so powerful an assassin at the ready. “Very well, then,” Herris concluded. “Ramah will deal with Theron upon his return. It is high time he learned what it means to fail the Council of Thirteen.”
Around the table, heads nodded. Herris dismissed the Council, and everyone filed out of the room.
Herris stepped through a door at the back of the chamber and into the halls beyond, making his way through the rough passages to an ornate, heavy door set into the wall. He pushed it open and stepped into a plush apartment, resplendent with treasures from all over the known world. Reams of purple cloth, gold statues from ages past, and even a few pots of rare eastern spices, although Ramah could not taste them. They were expensive; that’s why he wanted them.
He crossed the room and sat in a solid gold, red-cushioned chair that Tiberius himself would have envied. Then he reached for a rope hanging from the ceiling behind him and gave it a swift yank. Soon after, a Lost One entered the chamber from the left entrance.
“Bring me a woman,” Herris said. “A young one. And not from the public larder.”
The Lost One bowed, and stepped out of the room, making not a whisper of sound as it went.
Once settled into his private chambers, he thought about the nights to come. Ramah would return soon enough, possibly as early as tomorrow night. Things looked good to Herris. Soon his Second would be back from his mission, a foolish vampire with an excess of bravado would be culled from their ranks, and Theron would be a Lost One. Perhaps best of all, Jesus of Nazareth, who’d been causing the Council so much trouble of late, would be dead.
Herris smiled. Things were looking up.
PART III
Chapter Twenty One
When Judas finally showed up at the temple, Marcus was not impressed. The man seemed frail and weak, as though a stiff breeze would carry him away and free him of the invisible burden stooping his shoulders. Judas’s dark, sad face was framed by curly black hair and a shaggy, unkempt beard. His watery brown eyes lived under a heavy, worried brow and never stopped leaking. Marcus tired of listening to his morose ramblings long before they left the city. He decided if he had to hear one more despondent whimper from his new informant, Jesus would not be the only one in trouble tonight.
“Can’t you shut him up?” He asked one of the temple guards.
“He has betrayed his friends for thirty pieces of silver. No matter that it was the right thing to do; the man still bears the weight of his decision on his shoulders.”
More foolish morality, not that he’d expected anything less from a temple priest. Marcus snorted. No wonder Rome rules here. He continued in silence, thankful at least that, noisy though the trip might be, he was finally getting somewhere.
When they arrived at the Gardens of Gethsemane they found a small group of people gathered there. One man spoke quietly to the rest, and the eyes of everyone present, save Marcus and those who came with him, gazed at the speaker in rapt attention. Marcus guessed the speaker to be Jesus. Most of the gathered crowd had tears in their eyes. To Marcus, the gathered men and women looked like they were under some sort of spell. Having never been to see Jesus speak before, he figured this was normal, and he was glad they’d come to put a stop to it. If that is Jesus, Marcus thought, the man wields a great deal of power. It’s good I brought soldiers with me. The Sanhedrin were apparently of a like mind, for they began to close ranks. It didn’t surprise Marcus to find the temple priests all held themselves separate from – and also behind – the armed Roman legionaries.
No one said a word, but the scant group of people slowly parted before Marcus's procession, allowing him to pass. He soon found his group facing off against twelve men, one of which was responsible for his brother’s death. Most of them looked sad, but one man, a large, burly fellow
dressed in sandals and a pale, coarse robe, stepped nervously from one foot to another. He held his hand too close to his sword for Marcus's liking. I will have to watch that one, Marcus thought.
At that point Judas stepped forward, tears glistening in his eyes and on his face. He walked up to a tall, willowy fellow in a white robe with a short brown beard and kissed him on the cheek.
“Judas,” the man said, “this is how you betray me? With a kiss?” Like Judas, tears flowed freely down his cheeks.
That was the sign. Caiaphas had told him Judas would identify the one known as Jesus by kissing his cheek. Marcus put his hand on his sword.
“Are you the one called Jesus?” One of the temple priests asked.
Jesus nodded. “I am he.”
“Arrest him,” The priest told the others. When they stepped forward, the burly man took out his sword and swung it at one of the temple priests. The priest, not as well trained as Marcus's men, couldn’t dodge aside in time, and the blow severed his ear. Marcus and his legionaries pulled out their own swords in response, and Marcus smiled. Jesus was going to make this fun, after all.
But Jesus disappointed him. He grabbed the burly man’s shoulder and held him back. “No, Peter. Do no violence. I will go with them.”
The one called Peter looked like he might argue, but at a second urging from Jesus he cleaned his blade and replaced it at his waist. His smoldering eyes never left the gathered soldiers. Marcus kept his sword out just in case, relieved to see his men did likewise. While Marcus was preoccupied with his men, Jesus reached over and touched the head of the temple priest who’d lost an ear. Several of the men nearby gasped, but Marcus was on the wrong side to see what happened. In truth he didn’t much care, anyway. He had his prisoner. His brother would soon be avenged. Once he told Pilate what he’d learned about the Nazarene, the Prefect would never release him. To kill a Roman soldier was one thing, to plot against Rome herself was quite another. He was confident Pilate would order Jesus executed at first light.
