by David McAfee
Visit David McAfee on the web at mcafeeland.wordpress.com or on his website:
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This book is dedicated to my infant son, Cole David McAfee, who joined us on January 30, 2011. I love you more than I thought possible.
Table of Contents
Taras
Theron
TARAS
On the road to Antioch, 33 A.D.
Taras stumbled down the dusty path. His flagging strength made every step a chore, but he was determined to reach his goal before sunrise. A month of traveling at night—sometimes all night long—as well as the lack of fresh blood in his body had taken its toll. He’d tried to feed on some passersby along the way, but each time he tried he remembered Abraham’s torn and bloody throat, and he stopped himself. What kind of monster had he become? What would Mary think if she saw him murdering innocent travelers? In the end he was left with his hunger and his weakness, wandering though Israel with only his memories for company.
Gods, how he had loved her. Even though he’d seen her torn and bloodless body with his own eyes, he still had trouble accepting her death as fact. Often, he would catch himself looking up at the sound of a woman’s voice, always expecting to see Mary’s face staring back at him. Of course, it never was. Mary’s body remained in her tomb at the Mount of Olives, hundreds of miles to the south and east, while he was on the road to Antioch.
It should have been me, he thought. He would trade places with Mary in a heartbeat if it would bring her back. Surely death would be better than his life now, if only he had the courage. What was it Jesus had told him that night outside her tomb? There is always an option, even if it’s not always a very good one. None of Taras’ options were particularly good. He could swallow his fate and start killing more people, or he could die. At the moment, only the latter seemed to offer any type of rescue.
By the time he reached the outskirts of Antioch he could barely stand. Still he managed to find just enough strength to take one more step, and then another, and another. But it couldn’t last. Without blood, he would eventually fall over and be unable to rise. Then the sun would come and burn him to ashes.
Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
The walls of the city loomed ahead. Taras would have to go over the wall or take his chances with the guards at the gate. At least the gate was open. That was a good sign. Several other cities he’d come to were locked tight against the spreading influence of the dead Jewish rabbi. The guards at those cities had chased him away with arrows and swords. They couldn’t kill him anymore, of course, but an arrow to the shoulder still hurt like the Abyss.
Taras decided to try the gate, mostly because he was too weak to climb the wall. As he approached, one of the guards looked up. The other leaned against the gate, his breathing soft and even. Asleep. Taras shook his head. The sleeping guard would not have lasted in Jerusalem. Marcus would have had him imprisoned for such an infraction. The other guard eyed him for a moment, then waved him through without asking a single question.
The difference in discipline among the Antioch city guard and those stationed in Jerusalem could not have been greater. Marcus had run a strict watch even though Rome continued to send him the dregs of the Legion to garrison the city. The soldiers in Antioch just didn’t seem to care. Yet despite his distaste for the two men, he was thankful for their lackluster attitude. It allowed him to walk into the city unmolested.
Thinking about Marcus brought new pain. The Centurion had been more than just a commanding officer, he’d also been a good friend. But for the treachery of his Second, he would still be alive today. But the Second, a man named Gordian, had betrayed him at the request of his long dead brother, and Marcus became another victim of the web of lies woven by the damnable Bachiyr.
Bachiyr like me, Taras thought, I am one of them now. He watched his feet as he wandered into the city, not trusting himself to meet the gaze of others. Could they see it on him? Would they know? Taras walked through Antioch with his head down. He might as well have the word “Evil” painted across his face. The Jews believed that a man named Cain, who murdered his brother, was sent out into the world with God’s mark on his face so that all would know of his heinous deed.
If Taras looked in a pool of water, what would he see? Did the Jews’ God mark him?
As he walked through the city, he felt many eyes on him, but he dared not look up to confirm his suspicions. If the people of Antioch stayed clear of him, so much the better. The hunger gnawed at him like a wild thing, and he didn’t know how much longer he could control it. So whether the people stayed back because they sensed his evil or because they simply distrusted strangers, they were safer for keeping their distance.
Safer than Taras, at any rate.
He passed a noisy tavern on his right. The sounds of drinking, laughter, and fighting poured from the doorway and out into the street, along with the smells of ale, wine, and sweat. Taras risked a glance up the street and saw that both sides were lined with taverns and brothels, all of which seemed to be doing a brisk business this evening. The people of Antioch certainly enjoyed their pleasures.
One dirty man in ragged clothing walked up to Taras and fixed him with a half-lidded stare. The sour smell of wine rolled off him like flies on a pile of dung. The bleary-eyed stranger wobbled on his feet, then fell forward, wrapping his arms around Taras’ neck to break his fall.
“You’re him, aren’t you?” the stranger asked, his slurred words barely discernible even to Taras’ keen ears. “You’re the one she talks about.”
Taras blanched, not sure what the man might have heard. He tried to pry the drunk’s hands away, but the man grabbed his shoulder and shook him.
“Don’t lie,” he said. “I know it’s you. She’s mine, so stay away from her.”
Taras stared at the man’s flushed face and blotchy red nose. His eyes moved to the man’s throat, and he found himself wondering if he would taste the wine in the drunk’s blood. His belly rumbled, and a sharp pain stabbed through his gut. He could feel the fangs in his upper jaw start to extend, and the claws on his fingers itched, as though they, too, wanted to taste the man’s blood. Taras stared at the man’s neck. So hungry. So weak. The man was too drunk to feel the sting of his teeth, it would be so easy to—
No!
Taras squirmed away, finally freeing himself from the man’s wine-induced grip. “I will,” he said, as he gently pushed the drunk away. Then he turned and walked as fast as he could down the street. The man’s voice followed him, but Taras didn’t listen. He wanted to get as far away as he could lest he give in to his hunger.
He rounded a corner and stopped, trying to calm the angry buzzing in his head. Across the street, the sound of music poured out from another brothel, while men and ladies danced in the common room. A rumble in his belly rivaled the noise of the brothel, and another sharp pain flared through his abdomen, worse than the last. Taras sunk to the street in agony, leaning against the wall and clutching his midsection. He shook his head, trying to clear the vertigo, and was surprised by the wetness on his cheeks. It couldn’t be tears, he could no longer make them. Taras reached a trembling finger to his face, rubbing the wetness under his eyes, and then examined his hand.
It was red.
Blood. That’s what’s on my face. Blood was leaking from his eyes.
Another spasm of pain sent him the rest of the way to the ground, and he swallowed a scream. His hunger hollowed him out, scooping up his innards and throwing them aside for the rats. He realized then that, despite his best efforts, his hunger was going to win.
He’d tried to resist it, even if it meant his death, but he wouldn’t make it much longer. In Jerusalem, the Bachiyr who killed him had stabbed him in the gut with his claws, leaving Taras to die in a pool of his own blood and innards as both leaked out onto the cobbled street. At the time it had been the worst pain he’d ever experienced. T
his was worse. This pain came from inside, and it ran dizzying circles through his mind as well as his body, lighting little fires everywhere it touched. If dying felt like this, he didn’t think he could do it. He wasn’t strong enough.
There is always a choice.
Lying in the dirty street, Taras made his.
He would have to feed, after all.
***
The next night found him standing in darkness, hiding behind the corner while waiting for his victim. The light of the city’s lamps did not penetrate the shadows of his hiding place, which suited him fine. He’d long ago grown accustomed to biding his time in dark places while he waited for his victims to reach just the right spot. Long before he’d become one of the Bachiyr, his years as an assassin in the Roman Legion honed his patience to a fine point. He stood watching the drunkard who would be his next meal, his muscles coiled like a tightly woven rope, waiting for the right moment to spring into action.
His target stumbled near the alley, a cracked mug of mead or wine in his hand, and sang a bawdy tavern song as he leaned against the building. The smell of sweat and alcohol drifted toward Taras. Almost time. A few more steps and Taras would have his meal. The emptiness in his belly screamed at him to attack, but the time was not right. The man needed to be directly in front of the alley so Taras could take him without being seen. This particular street had too many taverns and far too many brothels to ever be truly empty.
A woman in a garish dress caught up to the man and, laughing, placed a bright red flower in his hair. He turned and grabbed her by the waist, pulling her close for a drunken kiss. The two laughed together, and then they turned away from the alley and walked across the street, entering a brothel that sported half a dozen brightly dressed women just outside the door and double that number in men looking for entertainment.
Taras watched them disappear into the building. The hunger in his belly faded to an insistent rumble, but he ignored it. He had eyes only for the red flower, which the man had removed from his hair and stuck into the woman’s cleavage. It was the same kind of flower as those he brought to Mary’s tomb. Had it really only been less than a month ago? It seemed like a thousand years had passed since the events in Jerusalem. His life had taken a turn for the better when he met Mary and a turn for the worse when he met the Bachiyr, Theron.
Not even a month, he thought. Yet his clothes were as ragged and threadbare as if he’d been laid to rest years ago. Upon his death in Jerusalem, the Legion had buried him in uniform. On his third night as a Bachiyr, he had acquired clothing from one of the Judean peasants. The man had not willingly given up his clothes, of course. He’d been one of Taras’ first victims, just before some of the people in the city began to glow in that strange, unearthly manner. Taras had no idea what the glow meant, but it made him uncomfortable enough to leave those people alone.
Not everyone glowed, of course. Here in Antioch, very few people did, especially in his current location. But it seemed like every evening Taras would see at least three or four of them walking through the city. Even now, one such man walked through the middle of the street, keeping his distance from the brothels and taverns, and talking to a young boy who did not glow. Taras had seen this before, too. Sometimes the other person would begin to glow, as well, and sometimes not.
He thought it had something to do with the dead rabbi, Jesus.
Thinking about that—and his part in the man’s execution—caused the rumblings of his hunger to fade further, leaving only a queasy feeling deep in the pit of his stomach. He’d killed so many people already, and none of them had deserved to die. But he was weak. He couldn’t help it. Yet somehow he had managed to avoid killing for the last twenty nights, ever since he left the Mount of Olives and Mary’s tomb for the last time. Every time he found a new victim, he would think of Mary, and he would lose his stomach for the kill and walk away. He knew it was the right thing to do, but the lack of blood was taking a heavy toll on his mind and body.
Taras turned around and walked down the alley, using the wall for support. If anyone had seen him, they would probably take him for a drunk, as well. His unsteady steps faltered at every turn, and more than once he had to pick himself up off the dusty, dirty street and force his body to keep moving.
Twenty nights without blood. How much longer could he last? Perhaps it would soon be irrelevant. Maybe he would fall to the street and lie there until the sun burned his corpse to ash, mingling it with the dirt of Antioch’s busy streets. Maybe that would be better. Maybe that’s what Jesus had meant when he said Taras had options.
An hour later Taras reached his door, a creaky, rotting piece of oak that led into a crumbling, abandoned dwelling on the outskirts of the city. He had discovered this long abandoned section of Antioch after leaving the tavern district the night before, and found it to be a perfect place to wait out the day away from human eyes. Here, all the buildings stood in a similar state of disrepair, and his dwelling looked no different than the many others that lay around the place falling into ruin. With one exception.
His had a cellar dug into the earth. A stout oak door, unweathered by the elements because it remained inside four walls and under the tattered roof, led down into the cool, dark place where Taras slept away the daylight. It wasn’t perfect. Other homeless people wandered this area of the city, as well. Sooner or later, a vagrant or brigand would find his hole and try to use it for his own purpose.
He dreaded that day. If they came while he slept, they would probably cut his throat in the night and steal his few possessions. If they came while he was awake, he would have a difficult time defending himself against them in his weakened state. They probably would not know how to kill him, but they would make his life uncomfortable.
More uncomfortable, he corrected, as the hunger in his belly rumbled, echoing off the walls of his cellar home.
Taras sat in the corner, waiting for the sun to rise, and reflected on his status. Once proud and strong, he had served Rome from the shadows, making certain her enemies could not rise against her. Now here he was, huddled and afraid in a dark cellar, helpless and hungry while starvation slowly claimed his life.
What would Mary think if she saw him now? Would she be ashamed? Would she hate him for what he had become? Or worse, would she pity him?
He shook the thought from his head and closed his eyes, waiting for sleep.
***
The next evening, Taras woke to find he was not alone in his hole. During the day, a beggar had found his hiding place and fallen asleep a few short paces from the slumbering Bachiyr. For a wonder, the newcomer hadn’t tried to kill him. The man’s breathing was even and deep, the pattern of a man deep into his cups. The occasional snore crossed his lips, and every once in a while he would belch in his sleep. It was this very noise which had woken Taras to begin with, although the night would have done so soon enough, anyway.
Taras would never have a better chance. They were isolated, hidden, and in a part of the city where a man might scream for hours and no one would come to investigate. If he was going to feed, now was the time.
He crept over to the sleeping drunk, wrinkling his nose at the smell of old wine. As the hunger swept through his entire body, his canines seemed to extend of their own free will. Taras crouched over the prone beggar. The man’s clothes were tattered and dirty, much like Taras’s own. His matted, filthy hair hung over his face in stringy brown tangles. He lay barefoot in the dirt, his left hand clasped around an empty jug. It would be an easy kill.
Except...
There is always a choice.
Jesus’ words came back to haunt him. Gods help him, his hunger was driving him insane. It felt like a white-hot knife in his abdomen, and the one thing that would ease the pain lay helpless at his feet, and still he heard the words of a dead rabbi who may or may not have been completely mad. Worse yet, he knew he would heed those words regardless of his pain. It went against every instinct of self-preservation he had, yet he could not deny that s
omething had tempered his violence since that night outside Mary’s tomb.
He did have a choice. His hunger might make it a difficult choice, but the decision was still his to make. If he killed the beggar, he would be doing it of his own free will, and thus he would have to accept the responsibility of that. Could he do it?
What would Mary say?
Cursing, he turned his back on the prone beggar. Taras had killed men in their sleep before. As an assassin for Rome he had done many things he preferred to forget, but this was different. Before, he had done his duty for Rome and her cause. Now, it would just be murder. Taras was many things, but he’d never considered himself a murderer. Even the many people he killed the night he fled Jerusalem had been because of a malady of the mind.
Sooner or later that malady would return, and he would be unable to stop himself.
Maybe he should find a nice, comfortable perch in the city and wait for the sunrise. It would be nice to see the beautiful orange glow of the morning sun again, even if it would only be for a very short time. His entire world had become a constant array of grays and blacks. Torchlight only brought the faintest whiff of color to his eyes, and the acrid smell of pitch always accompanied it. But true sunlight... he hadn’t thought he could miss it so much.
Taras gathered up his meager belongings and stumbled up the stairs to the cellar door. He would have to find a new place to wait out the day. Just because the beggar hadn’t tried to kill him this time didn’t mean that would be the case every time. In addition, the man might have friends accompany him someday, and Taras did not like the idea of being surrounded by strangers while he slept on, helpless.
He plodded through the streets of Antioch’s forgotten houses, his once tall and strong frame bent halfway to the ground in hunger and pain. His mind battled back and forth between wanting to go back to feed on the beggar and looking for a place to lay down and die. So far the latter held the edge. Would he see Mary again if he died? Was there room for someone like him in the afterlife?
