David McAfee - 61 A.D.

Baella had to be nearby. She had to be.

Boudica spotted the torches atop Londinium’s Eastern wall. The city’s lights flared into the sky, illuminating the place in a dull orange glow that could be seen for miles. Under cover of darkness, her army had moved, covered from head to toe in black clothing, and managed to sneak, undetected, to within three hundred yards of the city gate. Well within range of her ballista.

Beside her, Heanua nodded, and Cyric motioned to the Captain of the Ballista Regiment. The big, heavy machines stood in dark silhouette, looking skeletal and deadly in the weak light. They moved forward on well-oiled wheels that her troops had padded with animal hides earlier in the day. The hides had dampened the sound of the wheels on the ground, but they also made rolling the machines a great deal harder. The last few hours had been long and tedious, but as she watched the first of her crews load a stone the size of a sheep, Boudica felt it was all worth the wait.

Behind her, crews carried large balls of tightly packed rope soaked with black pitch. The buildings in Londinium were mostly made of wood, and the balls would be set alight prior to launch. They should create havoc inside the city walls, and hundreds would feel the sting of their burn and breathe their acrid smoke just before they died. Once the city was reduced to a pile of burning rubble, her people would storm the walls and put any survivors to the sword.

“Sleep well, Romans,” she whispered. “Those of you who are lucky will never wake up.” Tonight she meant to wipe Londinium off the face of the world.

Taras lay in a pool of his own blood, watching it spread out around him in an ever increasing arc across the stone floor. The smell of it wafted up from underneath him, making it hard to think. The metal pole through his chest had ceased to hurt, and now he felt only a slight pressure as the skin and flesh tried to mend itself around the foreign object in his torso.

Maybe he’d lost too much blood to feel pain. That seemed likely, given the amount on the floor and the fact that he hadn’t fed recently. What had that witch gotten him into? Baella. He remembered the name. She’d been using him to get to Theron, and he’d fallen for it.

Clemency from the Council of Thirteen. What was he thinking? He’d never met any of the Councilors, but from what he understood, they never made deals such as the one she offered. He’d been a fool to think he could gain acceptance into their race. And now he would pay the price by dying like a stuck pig on a dirty floor.

Taras had spent nearly thirty years learning everything he could about the Bachiyr. He’d studied everything from folklore to reported firsthand accounts, even traveling to the East to speak with a man who claimed to have killed one. Almost all his leads turned out to be a waste of time, but he had managed to acquire a rudimentary knowledge of the Council and its minions.

Ramah was the one who hunted him. Ramah and Theron. Of course, Theron did so for personal reasons. Ramah was another matter. Bloodthirsty and violent, he made Theron look like a Jewish rabbi.

But this Baella woman…he’d never heard of her before. Whoever she was, the mention of her name had sent Ramah running after her like a dog chasing a rabbit.

Taras felt weak. His vision dimmed. This is it, he thought. The end of my days. He knew what it was like to die, he’d done it once already, and now it seemed he was about to do it again. Did he have the strength to fight it? Did he want to? He didn’t think so. Maybe it would be easier to lay down and die, as he should have done all those years ago.

But something about the comparison of Ramah to Theron brought back a fuzzy memory.

A Jewish rabbi.

Another time he contemplated death…

“You were wrong, Abraham,” he said. “Some of us want to die. Some would find it preferable.”

“It’s not beyond you, you know,” a voice said from behind him.

Taras spun, yanking his sword from its sheath. It was too early in the evening; too soon after such a painful goodbye to kill again, but he would if he had to. When he saw the speaker, his mouth fell open and he dropped his sword.

“You remember me,” Jesus said.

There stood the Nazarene, just as Taras remembered from the night he’d tailed Theron to the Gardens. That night, Jesus had not yet been arrested, and thus he didn’t have the cuts and bruises Taras saw later as he was led to Golgotha. On the cross, his face was bruised and swollen, and numerous cuts and scrapes pocked his body. Now, however, the man’s smooth, unblemished skin showed no evidence of abuse. The crown of thorns was gone, and Jesus's dark hair spilled over his thin shoulders and down his back. But the biggest change in the Nazarene, Taras noted, was the light.

Jesus glowed, similar to the people of Jerusalem but far more intense. Taras felt weak just looking at him. It radiated from Jesus like the light of the sun, and he had to squint his eyes nearly shut against the glare.

Taras blinked, thinking his own situation had driven him insane, but when he opened his eyes again, Jesus remained in front of him. “It’s not possible,” Taras said. “You are dead.”

“As are you, if I’m not mistaken.”

Taras looked down at his hands, so cold and lifeless, and realized he didn’t have a reply. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right.”

Taras remembered his part in the man’s death, and shame filled him. He raised his eyes and looked at Jesus, so calm and serene in the moonlight. “Why are you here?” he asked. “Have you come to take your revenge on me, Nazarene? If so, please get on with it. I’m late; I should have been sitting with Pluto in Tertius four days ago.”

Jesus smiled, and the light around him intensified so much Taras had to turn his head. “That is not why I came,” Jesus said. “Your mistakes are not entirely your own, though you must still take responsibility for them. I hold no anger for you.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To tell you it’s not beyond you.”

“What isn’t?”

“You know the answer to that already, Taras.” Jesus folded his arms and fixed him with a stern look, as though lecturing a dense child. “Your wish; it’s not impossible. The sun can do it. So can fire. If I’m not mistaken, the Bachiyr can also die by having their heads removed, and there are other ways, too. In other words, you have options.”

“Options?”

“Yes, options. Allow death to find you, or spend eternity running from the other Bachiyr, killing and devouring innocent people. They will hunt you, you know. Ramah, in particular, will not rest until you have been destroyed.”

Taras pondered that for a moment. He’d known about the Sun’s ability to kill him; his burned fingers told him that much. But he hadn’t been ready. Of course, at the time he didn’t know the extent of what he would become, either. Was he ready now? Could he step into the sunlight, if it came to that? Could he willingly walk into his death?

Jesus had delivered his words and walked away, taking his strange glow with him as he headed toward Bethany. He probably thought he’d left Taras better off than he’d found him, but instead Taras was more confused than ever. He’d stood by the entrance to Mary’s tomb and wondered if he was strong and brave enough to die. In the end, the answer was no. And he still wasn’t. He willed his hands to move, and placed them on the floor, palms down underneath his chest. With a grunt of pain, he began to push his body off the floor and up the length of the steel rod. The pain flared in his chest like a white hot poker, and he had to stop for fear of losing consciousness.