61 A.D. b-2 Read online

  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 escaped 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.

  Reluctantly, he rose from the grass, putting his hand on her shoulder. Her deep blue eyes-so uncommon among his people, and the very reason many thought her a witch-watched him rise to his feet. Her smile faltered.

  “Do you have to go?” she asked.

  “I do. Mother will be awake soon.”

  Her eyes drooped at the mention of his mother. She would never allow them to marry, and they both knew it. By the laws of his people, he was bound to live in her hut until he married and took a home of his own, but the only one he wanted to marry was Neeya, the very woman his mother despised.

  “She hates me,” Neeya said, frowning.

  Ramah nodded. It was no use lying; Neeya knew the truth. “But I don’t.” He bent down and kissed her forehead. “I will speak with her today.”

  She turned away and reached for her clothes, but not before he caught the wetness in her eyes. “It will not do any good,” she said. “She will not listen.”

  A tear spilled down her cheek, sparkling in the early morning light, and Ramah heard her jagged breath. He reminded himself that, as hard as their love was for him, it must be harder for her. He was Houlo of his village, and as such had many friends and people he could confide in. She had only him.

  “I will make her listen,” Ramah vowed.

  Neeya shook her head, a sob escaping her lips. “It will not work.”

  His heart broke again as he watched her cry. It wasn’t fair. Neeya was no witch woman. The damn superstitions of his people scarred her and made her an outsider, but he knew the truth. She was a simple, lonely girl who only wanted what everyone else wanted; food in her belly, a hut to call her own, and a handful of children. As long as she lived in her father’s hut she would never lack for the first, but until she married, the other two would be forever out of her reach.

  Ramah watched her bare shoulders bob up and down and felt tears rising in his own eyes. She was right. His mother would not listen. He’d tried many times already, but she refused to allow him to marry a Chalika, as she was called. This time would be no different. His mother was as stubborn as the sand.

  He clenched his fist, feeling the old familiar anger rise up inside him. His mother would see him married to a woman of her choosing, not his own. But he would not be denied. Not this time. “Then I will defy her,” he said.

  A blast of thunder boomed overhead. Odd, there was not a single cloud in the sky. Ramah ignored it. There were more important things to deal with right now.

  “You what?” Neeya’s eyes widened.

  “I will marry you. With or without her blessing.”

  “You can’t do that,” she replied. “The law-”

  “Can’t I?” he asked. “I am Houlo, not my mother. My word is law. I will marry you and build us a hut on the far side of the village.” He reached down and grabbed her shoulders, gently pulling her to stand in front of him. “That is, if you will have me.”

  More thunder. BOOOM! Ramah looked to the sky, but could see no sign of an approaching storm. Perhaps it is hidden by the trees, he thought.

  “Will you have me as your husband, Neeya?” he asked.

  Neeya stood for a moment, her expression uncertain. “This will anger many people.”

  “I am not interested in sharing my hut with many people,” he replied. “Only with you. And our children, of course.”

  “But the law-”

  “The law be damned. It is time to change it.”

  “You would do this for me?”

  “I would do it a thousand times over. Marry me, Neeya. The time for hiding is done.”

  She nodded and sank into his arms. “I will,” she replied. “Of course I will.”

  “I love you,” he whispered. He kissed her
softly on the forehead.

  Neeya said something in reply, but the sound of her voice was drowned out by another burst of thunder. BOOM! BOOOOOM!

  Ramah woke with a start, his arms encircled around his soft, round pillow. Small puddles of blood had leaked from his eyes to soak the fabric, and he used his hand to wipe away the thin red trails on his cheeks.

  The gods-damned dream again, he realized. He shook his head, trying to clear away the memories. Bachiyr do not often dream, when the sun rises in the morning sky most of his people simply lay down and die for the day, but Ramah was different. His days were often plagued by visions of his past, and most of them revolved around Neeya, the woman for whom he’d given up everything.

  A loud, booming knock signaled that someone was growing very impatient on the other side of his chamber door. At least I know where the thunder came from, Ramah thought. He had no need to ask who it was. Only one Bachiyr would disturb him so brazenly. Not even the Lost Ones would be so bold. “Enter, Headcouncil,” he called.

  The door creaked open, and Headcouncil Herris stepped into the room, flanked by his personal Lost One. The thing stood rotting away next to Herris, dropping larvae and small spatters of flesh onto Ramah’s floor. The temperature of the room dropped as the thing carried its aura of cold into the room with it.

  “Headcouncil,” Ramah said. “Must that thing be present for this?” He pointed at the Lost One. “I do not care to have it in my private chambers.”

  Herris gestured to his servant. “Leave us,” he said. The Lost One bowed, then turned and left the room, taking its unnatural chill with it.

  Once it was gone, Ramah relaxed. Like most Bachiyr, he detested the Lost Ones, even though the other councilors enjoyed having them around. Especially Headcouncil Herris. The Lost Ones acted as servants for the Council and other prominent Bachiyr, but they also served as a reminder of what could become of vampires who disobeyed the Council of Thirteen. As a member of the Council himself, Ramah was immune to their laws, but the decaying, worm-eaten flesh of the Lost Ones still put him on edge.