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 something had tempered his violence since that night outside Mary’s tomb.