After, Taras and Theron: Beyond Jerusalem
David McAfee
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. This 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.