by David McAfee
A few hours later Gregor stumbled out the door and into the street. He looked at the sky and realized for the first time that the sun would be up in a couple of hours. He’d been drinking with his friends almost all night. At least it was fun. After Zebhoim started buying drinks, the night got interesting. Gregor would have stayed longer except he had started seeing two tables where only one should be. That and he felt a pressing need to empty his bladder.
He walked into an alley near the tavern and untied the leather thong in front of his trousers, barely managing to free his cock in time to avoid wetting himself. A great sense of relief spread through him as the pressure on his bladder eased, and he sighed. Drunk as he was, he swayed back and forth, spraying his boots with piss.
“Damn it,” Gregor swore, lifting his leg and shaking his boot. This caused him to sway even more, and he nearly fell over. He only managed to catch himself by placing both hands on the wall. Of course, since he was still in the middle of urinating, this meant he splashed himself and the wall even further.
“Damn it,” Gregor repeated. He steadied himself against the wall, then reached down with his left hand and grabbed his flailing manhood. Thankfully he managed to finish the rest of the job without further incident.
His good mood gone, he re-tied his trousers and tried to shake some of the urine off them, but it didn’t do any good. He would have to have the girl at the inn wash them or he would spend the whole day smelling like piss. She wouldn’t do it for free, either.
Gregor grumbled about the cost of everything and turned to leave the alley. He froze in his tracks at the sight of the man behind him. The newcomer was dark, and hidden in the shadows of the alley, but Gregor could see the outline of sharp, high cheekbones and shoulder length dark hair. His eyes shone red in the middle of his face, giving off a surreal glow that only magnified the two sharp fangs in the stranger’s mouth.
Gregor had thought his bladder empty, but as he stared at the man’s eyes and teeth, he felt a tiny trickle escape and moisten the front of his trousers. He took a deep breath, ready to shout for help, while his right hand stole to the dagger at his hip.
The stranger’s arm shot forward, his hand clamping down on Gregor’s throat and shoving him back against the building. Gregor felt the moisture on his rump as the urine on the wall soaked the back of his trousers, but of more concern was the lack of air as the stranger’s hand closed around his throat. Gregor gasped and tried to pry the man’s fingers from his windpipe, but it was like trying to pry open a pair of iron shackles. Despite the lack of air, he couldn’t help but notice the color of the man’s hand. Black, like charred skin. It didn’t match the olive color of his face.
“Don’t struggle,” the man said. “It will not do you any good. Save your strength.”
Gregor gurgled. His vision swam and he was starting to feel lightheaded.
“You are mine until I release you,” the stranger said. “Do you understand?”
Gregor nodded.
“You have information I want. I am going to release your throat. If you scream, the rats in this alley will feast tonight,” the stranger said. With that, he opened his hand, allowing Gregor to suck in air. When Gregor caught his breath, he looked up to see the man staring down at him with those odd red eyes. His toothy mouth was curled into a sadistic grin.
“What do you want from me?” Gregor asked.
“Tell me about the tall Roman with teeth like mine.”
***
Theron stepped out of the alley, checking both directions to make sure no one saw him, and walked down the street with a spring in his step. It wasn’t just Gregor’s blood that had him in a good mood. The news that his old friend was hiding in Londinium caused him to smile all the way back to his sanctum.
From Gregor’s description, the tall Roman could only be one Bachiyr, and Theron had been looking for him for almost thirty years.
Taras.
His hand itched, as it did whenever he thought of Jerusalem. He reached over and scratched the blackened flesh. It looked charred, as though someone had taken a torch to it. It still functioned, and it didn’t hurt. The skin had even healed without a visible scar, unless you counted the color. It reminded him of the story the Jews in Judea told of a man named Cain, who had killed his brother and was thus, according to legend, given a dark mark on his forehead so that all who saw him would know what he had done.
It wasn’t quite the same, of course. Cain had killed Abel, but Theron had killed the so-called Messiah. The Son of God, some people called him. Supposedly he was anointed to free the people of Israel and lead humanity back to the path of righteousness. Ha! Those fools in Jerusalem would believe anything if it meant they could oust the Romans. Being the Son of God hadn’t saved him from me, Theron mused.
Still, he looked at his black hand and had to admit there was more to the man than he’d first imagined. Almost thirty years had passed since he’d burned his hand on the rabbi’s skin, and it still retained the pigmentation of a vial of ink. He could no longer exact revenge on the dead rabbi, but Taras was another matter.
Ever since Jerusalem, Theron had dreamed of finding the wretched northerner again, and now thanks to a drunken Spaniard he knew exactly where the bastard was hiding. The time had come to repay an old debt. Tomorrow night he would head to the coast. There he would buy passage on a ship to Britannia. In less than a month he would be in Londinium, and shortly after that Taras would be little more than a bad memory.
He wiped the last of Gregor’s blood from his chin.
“I will see you soon, Roman,” he whispered.
2
Londinium, in the Roman province of Britannia
61 A.D.
Taras opened his eyes, awakened by the sound of a late street vendor trying to make a profit before the sun went down. He’d chosen a sanctum near the market district because of the large number of people who congregated there. The crowds milling through Londinium’s busy market provided Taras with two things he desperately needed: food and cover. There was never any shortage of brigands and thieves in the market, and even one such as Taras could blend in with the throng.
He rose from his straw pallet, the scent of hay mingling with the spicy, earthen smell of the market nearby, and picked tiny twigs from his wheat-colored hair. His hair and height marked him as a northerner, and even here people noticed him from time to time. During its short history, Londinium had suffered attacks from Vikings as well as several tribes in the northeast, most notably the Iceni, who took offense to Rome’s attitude shift after the death of their King Prasutagus. Taras could have been a Viking himself for all the people around him knew. His tall frame and pallor spoke the truth of his heritage, and even though he’d long since forsaken his homeland to join the Roman Empire, no one in Londinium could know that.
In fact, he reflected, there is probably no one left alive who knows that.
His best friend Marcus, a Centurion in Jerusalem, had been killed nearly thirty years ago by a vampire named Theron. The same vampire who’d somehow tricked Taras into aiding the execution of Jesus of Nazareth. Taras didn’t like to think about that, how he’d helped put an innocent man to the cross. But more than that, he tried to dodge the memory of the strange encounter by the Mount of Olives a few nights later.
Jesus had died on that cross. Taras had forced himself to watch the whole thing, so he knew it was true. Had he really seen the same rabbi, even spoke to him, outside of Mary’s tomb a few days later? It sounded impossible, but he knew it was true. Could the dead really come back?
Taras had only to look at himself for the answer to that question. The dead could indeed come back. Unfortunately.
Jesus wasn’t the only one to die on that spring night twenty-seven years ago. Theron had killed Taras that night, too. But unlike his friend Marcus, Taras hadn’t stayed dead. He didn’t understand why, but for some reason he awoke in a hasty grave and had to dig his way out. He’d been terrified. And hungry. Now, of course, he knew the
truth. Theron had turned him into a Bachiyr.
Taras slipped into his tattered pants, sending small clouds of dust into the air, and thought about that first night. He didn’t know what the hunger was, then. He’d walked around trying to eat whatever scraps he could find in the street, but his stomach would have none of it. It wasn’t until several days had passed that he ran into Mary’s father, Abraham, at the entrance to her tomb and finally learned his hunger’s true nature.
He pulled on his rough, homespun shirt. He’d taken it from a tall bandit in the countryside a few weeks ago, and it was starting to show signs of wear. He would have to replace it soon, but it would have to wait until he found a tailor that stayed open late or came across another tall robber. He shrugged his arms through the sleeves and adjusted the front of the shirt to fit his chest, which was smaller than the bandit’s had been. It would have to do for now.
Bachiyr. That’s what the Jews at the Damascus Gate had called him. Taras spoke some Hebrew, the result of several years spent living and working in Jerusalem as a legionary for Rome, and he recognized the word. It meant “Chosen.”
He slipped the shirt over his shoulders as he pondered just what, exactly, he had been chosen for. For nearly thirty years, he had hunted robbers, thieves, bandits and worse, feeding only on those who deserved his ire. But that was a choice he made back in Antioch, not one that was made for him, so it couldn’t be that.
Maybe the name was just a coincidence, or an attempt by the Bachiyr to make themselves seem grander than they were. He would probably never know. He’d have liked to ask another of his kind, but every time he found one they tried to kill him. No questions, no talking, just an attack. He had no idea why. But he’d been running from them for nearly thirty years now, and he’d gotten pretty good at it.
In another life, he’d been trained to be stealthy, silent, and deadly. An elite assassin in the great Roman Legion. Now those skills seemed to have magnified a hundredfold, and he learned new abilities every night. He could silence the area around him for a dozen paces, grow claws from his fingertips, heal his wounds by willing blood to the injured area of his body, and many other skills that turned him from a mere assassin into one of the deadliest beings in the known world.
But not the deadliest.
He hadn’t bested Theron in combat. Nor had he beaten the other Bachiyr that night, a dark-skinned creature of indeterminate age that exuded power and strength beyond anything Taras had seen before or since. He never caught the other Bachiyr’s name, and he didn’t want to. He’d had enough of that one to last a thousand years.
But Theron...that was different. He relished the thought that someday he would meet up with that black-hearted bastard again. He’d learned a few things in thirty years, and wanted to try them out.
Someday, he promised, I will pick up your trail again, Theron. Then I will send you straight to Hell.
He pulled on his worn boots and frowned, examining the hole in the bottom of the right one. That wouldn’t do. The winters in Londinium could be very harsh. He’d need a replacement pair before the cold set in. He’d have to add a pair of boots to the list of things to watch for.
Taras stood and walked to the entrance of the building he’d used as a shelter for the day, passing the dried out husk of the structure’s previous owner. The dead man had been a rapist and murderer in life, and Taras had followed him here after witnessing an attack. When Taras cornered the man the bastard had begged for mercy. It was a cry the Bachiyr had heard hundreds of times over the years from a myriad of bandits, robbers, highwaymen, killers, and worse. They all sounded the same to him, begging for compassion they themselves would never give. He killed the man, as he had the others, and left his body to rot in a corner of the building. That was six weeks ago, and no one had come looking for him. Now as he passed the body, he stopped for just a moment to stare at the man’s feet. Too small. He needed bigger boots. Time to go hunting.
He stepped over the corpse, barely noticing the puncture wounds in the dead man’s neck, and set out for the Market. Most of the vendors would have closed up shop by this late hour, but Taras hoped he would be able to find one still out and about, and with boots and a shirt that might fit him. Afterward he would wind his way to the tavern district. There were always thieves and lightfingers near the taverns, and Taras was hungry.
***
Boudica watched the fires level the city of Camulodunum. Smoke filled the air and stung her eyes and lungs, but she refused to budge. The screams of the dying rang through the night like a song, and every once in a while a resident of the town would run down the street, screaming in pain and trying to put out the flames that engulfed his or her body. In the last hour she’d counted ten such human torches, and the sight never failed to amuse her.
Her hip-length blonde hair—dim with ashes floating by from the ruined city— hung in a tight braid down the center of her back. Her icy blue eyes pierced through the smoky gloom, waiting for confirmation that the town’s wealth was now theirs. She wiped the sweat from her brow with a soot-covered hand, feeling the sting as the salt and grime mixed and dripped into her eyes.
There goes another one, she thought as a man ran down the street trailing fire behind him. He ran for twenty or thirty paces before he fell face-first to the ground and lay twitching in the road. Boudica smirked. One of her soldiers started walking toward him with his sword raised, probably intending to put a quick end to him.
“Leave him,” she ordered. “It’s no less than he deserves.”
The soldier turned, saluted, and walked away, leaving the burning man writhing in the street, much to Boudica’s amusement. It’s a good day to die, Roman.
Her thoughts returned to her daughters, raped and beaten at the hands of the Romans after her husband died. The King had willed the Iceni kingdom to his two daughters as well as to the Roman Empire upon his death, and as part of the treaty Rome had agreed to honor their family’s sovereignty over their lands. But upon the death of her husband, King Prasutagus, the Roman Emperor Nero showed his true colors. After nearly two decades of mutual alliance, Rome had decided they wanted the Iceni lands for themselves, and the subsequent attack on her family had been just the beginning.
Nero’s men marched through her lands taking what they wanted and subjugating her people. The Roman creditors who’d been so helpful and benevolent during her husband’s reign turned into savages almost overnight. They lay claim to everything that rightfully belonged to the Iceni, including their princesses.
A single tear leaked from Boudica’s eye. The sight of her two daughters coming to her bruised and beaten, with trails of blood between their legs, had been too much. Every Roman in Iceni lands that could be rounded up was slain that very day, with more and more losing their lives to the sword as the days passed.
But it was not enough. It would never be enough. Not until the Romans were gone, fled from Iceni lands like the dogs they were. Her people were strong and fierce, as evidenced by the complete destruction of Camulodunum, and they did not cower or surrender. Rome had made a very bad mistake.
“My Queen.”
She turned to see her general, kneeling at her back.
“Yes, Cyric?” she asked.
Cyric rose to his feet. Even at six feet tall, he stood two full inches shorter than Boudica, and had to angle his face upward. “The attack is complete. The Romans are all dead or dying, save for a few who managed to escape.”
“Where will they run?”
“Londinium, most likely,” he replied. “That’s the nearest city large and strong enough to offer them some protection.”
“And Camulodunum’s gold?”
“Is ours, as is their livestock, food, and everything else of value.”
Boudica turned from her general and faced the town. The man who’d run out into the street while on fire now resembled nothing so much as a burning log. She wiped another bead of sweat from her brow as she contemplated her next move. Cyric had said some Romans escape
d with their lives. That wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all.
“Londinium, you say?” she asked. “That’s where you think they’ve gone?”
“It would make sense, my Queen. The city is walled and well fortified. The refugees would probably feel safe there.”
“Then that is their mistake.” Boudica turned on her heel, putting the burning town at her back and startling Cyric. “Send the caravans back home with Camulodunum’s gold and anything else of value that would not be useful to us on the move. The livestock and foodstuffs will travel with us. Inform the men we march for Londinium at dawn.”
“I’ll see to it personally, my Queen,” Cyric said, a slight smile on his lips. He saluted, then turned and walked back to the command area, where Boudica’s officers waited for instructions.
Boudica turned back to the town, but this time she cast her gaze on the distant horizon, barely visible through the flames and smoke. How many had gotten away? She would have to ask Cyric later. It didn’t matter. She would kill every Roman she found until they were wise enough to leave her lands and her people in peace. Nero’s dogs were about to get a taste of their own medicine.
“Go ahead and run, Roman swine,” she whispered. “You won’t get far.”
3
The sun peaked over the eastern horizon, filtering through the bushes and speckling the woman’s body with alternating patches of shadow and light. Ramah looked down at her as she lay naked in the grass. She had never looked so beautiful, and his heart almost broke as he remembered their lovemaking. The smell of their sweat lingered in the tiny clearing, mingling with the smell of flowers, brush, and soil. He wanted her again, but with the sun came the day, and he would have to go back to his hut before his mother realized he was gone.
