61 A.D.

1

A small tavern in Southern Spain, 61 A.D.

Gregor’s friends were laughing at him. “I’m telling you, I wasn’t drunk,” he said. “I saw him. He was seven feet tall if he was an inch.”

“You’re drunk now, Gregor,” Zebhoim said.

“So are you,” Gregor shot back. “Yet you see me just fine.”

“You’re a little blurry,” Zebhoim replied, winking.

“Maybe so, but I wasn’t drunk that night. He was seven feet tall and had long, shaggy blonde hair. Looked like one of those northerners, except for the teeth.”

“Yes, the teeth,” Boro said, laughing. “Tell us again how sharp they were.”

“They were like needles,” Gregor insisted. “And he came at me real fast, I almost didn’t see him. I barely escaped with my life.”

The serving girl brought the wine, and Gregor drank deeply of his cup before he continued. “The strangest part was when he spoke to me. A man like that, I expected to hear the language of the north, but he spoke in Roman.”

“What did he say?”

“He told me to run,” Gregor said. “It was the strangest thing. I thought I was a dead man, but he stopped about five paces away and told me to run. Looked like he was in pain or something, and his chin had blood all over it.”

Zebhoim laughed again. “A tall northerner, speaking Roman, with sharp teeth and blood on his chin came up to you and told you to run?” At this, the rest of the table joined in the laughter.

“It’s true, I tell you,” Gregor said.

Zebhoim laughed harder. When he finally settled into a series of chuckles, he wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “True or not,” he said, “it’s a story that deserves a drink.” He called to the serving girl and ordered another round, while several of the other men continued to laugh and poke fun at Gregor.

Gregor stewed in his chair until the serving girl arrived with the drinks, then he reached over and grabbed one. He might be angry that his friends refuse to believe him, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t drink their ale. He raised the mug to his mouth and downed it, much to the amusement of the other men at the table, who promptly ordered another round. Soon he forgot all about Zebhoim’s laughter.

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 hadnhe S7?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.