David McAfee - 61 A.D.

“Good,” she said, and sat back on the bed. “Theron is in town. He is here looking for you.”

The twitching in his muscles lessened, and he regained some control. “Me? Why?”

“Theron hates you almost as much as you hate him, if not more,” she replied. “Do you know what you took from him when you refused to take him to Jesus’ tomb?”

Taras shook his head. His body had resumed normal function, and he picked himself up off the floor and moved to the far side of the room. His visitor noticed, but her smile never faltered. “No, I don’t,” he said, “and I don’t care.” He thought of Mary’s face, and the familiar ache settled into his chest. “Whatever he lost, it is nothing compared to what he took.”

“He lost everything,” she continued. “He was on a path of glory; a servant of the Council, and a favored one at that. He’d made a few mistakes, but all he had to do was show up in the Halls of the Bachiyr with the rabbi’s head and he would have had everything he wanted.”

“Well,” Taras said, “we know how that turned out.”

She stared at him, a thoughtful expression on her face. “You and Theron are much alike, Roman. You are both skilled assassins who worked for a higher power. Both of you are dedicated to your tasks, and possessed of far more patience than most, yet your biting sarcasm has landed you in trouble more than once. And of course, both of you are Bachiyr who are running from the agents of the Council.”

Privately, Taras swore to himself he was nothing like Theron, but it was hard to argue the similarities with her. Time to change the subject. “So why do you need my help?” he asked.

“He will follow you anywhere,” she replied. “If you walked into the Council’s portal here in Londinium he wouldn’t hesitate, even though he knows the Council’s agents would swarm him. He hates you that much.”

“So?”

“I want you to lead him to me. Let him see you in the market, then run to me. Once he is nearby I can capture him.”

“Why do you want him?” Taras asked for the second time.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

Taras shook his head again.

She looked at him again with that same bemused smile on her lips. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

“Should I?”

“My name is Lannis,” she said. “Fifth of The Council of Thirteen.”

Theron walked into the tavern and surveyed the room, his head swiveling from one side to the other. The main room stank of sweat and old mead, with a hint of blood added, probably from a brawl. The walls were bare, unadorned wood, with not a single window to let in light or allow the stale air to circulate. Apparently the patrons of this place enjoyed their gloom.

A dozen or so wooden tables sat on the floor, most of them empty. Behind the bar, a stout Briton was deep in conversation with a plump young serving girl. The two looked bored, as well they might. The place was nearly empty, with only a handful of sullen, raggedly-dressed humans nursing their drinks.

These are the ones who stayed behind, thought Theron. The city is doomed.

A pair of soldiers stood alone in a corner, talking and drinking and casting wistful glances at the door. Probably ordered by Suetonius to stay behind and offer a token resistance. Perhaps to slow down the Iceni horde. By all reports, Boudica did not take prisoners, so the two soldiers were as good as dead. Judging by their faces, they knew it, as well. Having seen firsthand what the Roman Legion did to deserters, Theron understood why they stayed behind. Better a quick death in battle than a slow, painful one at the hands of a Roman Inquisitor.

Taras was nowhere in sight. Another wasted effort.

Theron turned to leave, but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

“Are you a coward, too?” said a gravelly voice at his back. “Afraid of a few barbarians?”

Theron turned to find himself face to chest with a very large – and very drunk – man in a dirty tunic and torn breeches. Theron recognized him as one of the men from the only occupied table in the tavern. Only a few moments ago the man’s face had been buried deep in a mug of ale. His craggy face revealed lines of dirt and sweat, and his odor testified to his lack of proper bathing. The man swayed on his feet, steadied by his hand on Theron’s shoulder, and bent his neck to bring his face close enough that the vampire could smell the rot of his mouth.

“Are you going to answer me?” the man asked, revealing a mouthful of half rotten teeth. He shook his hand, causing Theron to jerk back and forth like a toy.

Theron didn’t say a word. He punched the drunk in the solar plexus, delighted by the grimace of pain that sprouted on the large man’s face. He pulled his hand back and punched again, this time in the sternum. A loud crack echoed through the tavern as the bone snapped, along with several ribs. Theron grinned as the man slid to the floor, his breath coming in wet, choppy gasps. A thin line of blood trickled from the drunk’s mouth. Theron knew what that meant; he’d punctured a lung. The man would be dead in minutes, drowned in his own blood. No less than he deserved.

He looked up from the man, who lay on the floor coughing up large wads of blood and phlegm, and surveyed the tavern once more. No one met his eyes or even looked at him. The two soldiers continued to drink and talk as though nothing had happened. Most likely they simply didn’t see the point in arresting or even accosting Theron, knowing the city and everyone in it was doomed. Theron nodded to the gloomy barkeep and stepped outside, pulling his leg free of the drunk’s weakening grip.

Outside, he licked the blood from his knuckles, pleased at the outcome of the encounter. He hadn’t even had to use his claws.

His spirits lifted a little, he walked across the street to the next tavern, looking for Taras.

Taras, meanwhile, was on the other side of the city, trying to digest the strange news he’d just received. The woman said her name was Lannis. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite remember where he’d heard it. He thought he recalled something about a very powerful Bachiyr by that name, someone akin to Ramah, the monster he’d barely escaped in Jerusalem all those years ago. If so, he didn’t want any part of what she had to offer.

“I don’t need your help,” he said. “I can find Theron on my own.”

She nodded. “Of that I have no doubt. But can you defeat him?”

He was about to say yes, of course he could, but something about the bemused smirk on her face kept him silent.

“You can’t,” she said for him. “You have no idea what he is like. He would destroy you in less than a minute.”

“I almost killed him in Jerusalem,” Taras pointed out.

“That you did, but how did you manage?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was it a fair fight? Or was he preoccupied with something? Did you have his full attention?”

Taras didn’t like the smile on her face.

“Was he,” she pressed, “looking at a map or some such thing when you attacked him from behind?”

“How the devil can you know that?”

“Answer the question, Taras.”

He stared at her, willing her to look away, desperate for some sense of control, but she stared back. Her face gave him nothing. Eventually his eyes fell to his boots. “All right,” he said. “Theron had me beaten and near death. He’d all but discounted my existence when he turned to his map. It was only through the odd strength he’d given me the day before that I was able to stand and sneak close enough to plunge my sword through his back.”

“In the back, Taras?”

His eyes shot to her face. Her eyes sparkled with barely contained humor. Surely, she knew who he was in life. Stabbing a man in the back, while viewed as dishonorable, was often simply a measure of his profession. Caution kept you alive as an assassin.