The Last Roman: Book One: Exile Read online

  They were sitting in silence, the jug of wine long gone, when a loud banging on the door startled them. Isabella looked from Thomas to the group near the fireplace. Several of them jumped when the banging resumed, this time more forcefully.

  Thomas stood and moved to the door, Nico by his side. He took a deep breath and unlatched it, then pulled it open and peered through the gap.

  A dark form hunched against the doorway, blocking out the night. Thomas recognized him and swung the door open just as the Roman fell into his arms. Dragging him into the room, Thomas motioned for Nico to close the door behind him.

  "Marcus?" Thomas pulled back his blood-soaked cloak. "My God…" He stared up at Isabella, eyes wide open as he realized the extent of the Roman's wounds. "We need water and rags."

  She disappeared toward the pantry.

  Thomas glanced at Nico, then to several of the men standing by the fireplace. "Help me get him to the back room."

  The men carried the unconscious Roman to a cot in the bedroom and left him with Thomas and Nico. Kneeling beside the Roman, Nico peeled away the strips of cloth that clung to his shredded midsection. There were five deep gashes with a dozen lesser cuts and scrapes. His left thigh was ripped open, the ivory bone visible in the pale torchlight. A gasp drew his attention to Isabella, who was standing beside him and looking down at the wounds.

  Nico took the rags and motioned for her to sit beside him.

  "Will he live?" Thomas asked.

  "Yes," Nico replied. "But this is bad. It will take several days."

  "Then we have to wait," Thomas said.

  "What?" Isabella asked. "We can't wait. The Emperor will be looking for us. We have to get out of Rome."

  "We won't leave him." Thomas placed his hand on the Roman's forehead and could feel the fever raging beneath. "He did this for us."

  "So what?" she said. "If he dies, then he comes back. Why would we risk that?"

  Thomas met her gaze. "Because it's the right thing to do."

  "He's a pagan and a murderer."

  "He's a child of God," Nico said.

  "The two of you can say anything you want." Isabella glared at the Roman, "I can't forgive him for what he did."

  "That is alright." Nico followed her gaze. "He may never forgive himself."

  "Stand still." Rebecca looked up at Marcus's bruised face.

  Marcus sat on a stool by the fireplace, watching as she pulled the bandage from one of the wounds. It was already starting to turn pink, so she did not bother replacing it.

  "Looks like you will be much better in a day or two."

  "Sooner," he replied.

  "So it seems."

  He pulled his tunic back on. "Thank you."

  "No, it is us who should be thankful for getting us out of there," she replied, her soft, brown eyes full of gratitude. There was no hint of anger or hostility.

  "You should thank Nico. It was his idea."

  "I already have. But it's you who got us out. Why?"

  Marcus turned away, his eyes focused on the floor. Then, after a long pause, he looked up and changed the subject. "How were you transformed?"

  Rebecca smiled and pulled up a stool. She dropped the bandages to the ground and sat across from him.

  "My sister and I were both very sick."

  "Your sister?"

  "Isabella. She is my older sister."

  "Ah."

  "We are from a town called Arimathea." She used her hands to smooth the folds of her dress in her lap. "Our mother had already died, as had my younger brother."

  "I'm sorry."

  "It was a long time ago," she replied. Her voice was lower and laced with sadness. "My father was so worried that we would die as well. Then he heard about a man, a Galilean, who was performing miracles. Several people in our village traveled to him and were healed. So my father took us as well."

  "How did you find him?"

  "It was not very hard…large crowds gathered wherever he went."

  "Those crowds drew the attention of the Roman officials."

  "Yes."

  "And what happened after you found him?"

  "Isabella was too sick to walk. My father stayed with her in the shade of a giant olive tree. I thought she was going to die." Rebecca’s expression fell, almost like she had seen a ghost. "I pushed my way to him, but he was already past. I knew that if I could only touch his cloak, I would be healed. Somehow I was able to get my fingertip on his tassel."

  "That's it?"

  "Yes and no. He turned around and asked me what I had done. At first, I was scared, but his eyes were so gentle, so loving. I told him that I was sick and that my sister was also sick. He smiled at me and said; because of your faith, your sister is healed as well. I returned to my father and Isabella, and she was completely recovered. Like she had never been sick."

  "Did you go back to Arimathea?"

  "No, all three of us stayed. Two weeks later, Jesus was killed."

  Marcus looked down as memories flooded over him. The heavy thump of the mallet. The look on Christ's face as he suffered on the cross. The sound of the earth splitting apart and the sweet smell of the desert rain. He looked at both of his hands, expecting to see the blood still on them.

  "Marcus?" She leaned forward, placing one hand on his knee. "Marcus?"

  Her gentle touch pulled him from the abyss. Closing his eyes, he looked up and opened them again. "Yes, sorry."

  "Are you alright?"

  "Yes. It can be overwhelming at times."

  "I'm sorry, I forgot you were there."

  "I wish I could forget as well." He forced a smile.

  "Someday, maybe." Her smile was genuine.

  "I don't understand."

  "Understand what?"

  "Isabella hates me for what I did. Why don't you as well?"

  She met his gaze, tears filling her eyes. He knew the tears were for him.

  "I know that he has already forgiven you, so how could I not?"

  He did not reply, but the gratitude in his eyes was enough.

  She gathered the dirty bandages and placed them into a sack. When she looked back at Marcus, he was staring at two young children standing in the doorway. They were making faces at him, hoping to get a response from the dark stranger. He raised his lip and snarled, which drew a chorus of giggles. Marcus almost smiled, and for a moment, Rebecca noticed a softer side to his chiseled features.

  "Did you have children?"

  His expression faltered, then, if possible, grew harder than ever.

  "I did."

  The two words were said with such finality that it broke her heart.

  Despite the warmth from the fire, the room had suddenly become ice-cold. Rebecca stood and, placing one hand on his shoulder, left the room. His eyes shifted to the fireplace, a single tear making the lonesome trek down his cheek.

  Is this how it's going to be forever? Thomas thought as they sat quietly in the wagon, a pair of mules pulling them along the narrow road. The rest of their small group was lying down or looking out at boulder-strewn fields on either side of the path. Marcus was scouting ahead.

  The Roman Empire might be the largest empire on earth, but there was no place to hide. They had managed to place the children with a family in Italia and smuggle most of the adults to Gaul. The remaining five had made their way to Greece. They stayed with church members when possible, but it was not safe to linger in any one place for more than a day or two. News of their escape from Rome seemed to follow them wherever they went. They’d had another close call in Thracia that required their protector's sword.

  "We have to leave the empire," Marcus stated one night as they sat around the campfire.

  "Where?" Nico looked up from the fire. "Gaul?"

  "No. It would be too hard to double back. We go to Parthia." Marcus poked at the embers with a crooked stick. "They hate Romans."

  "I like them already," Isabella muttered.

  Marcus ignored the comment. "We'll reach Corinth in two days. Aft
er that, we can take a ship to Tarsus. From there, we continue overland to Parthia."

  "Tarsus?" Thomas asked.

  Marcus looked up at him. "Yes, Tarsus."

  "We have a large following in Antioch. It would be safer."

  As Marcus glared at him, Thomas felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

  "We go to Corinth, or you can go alone."

  "Tarsus will be fine," Nico said. Then, he turned to Marcus. "He meant nothing by it."

  Marcus stood and threw his stick into the fire. "Be ready at dawn."

  As the fire crackled between them, Isabella looked to the darkness where the Roman had been, then back at Nico. "What was that all about?"

  "Nothing," Nico replied.

  "Don't tell me that…we're sitting right here."

  Nico picked at the grass near his feet, then threw the blades into the fire. They lingered for a moment, then curled up as the fire consumed them.

  "Antioch was where his children were taken."

  Thomas leaned his head forward and rubbed his temple. "I didn’t know that."

  "Of course you didn't."

  "What do you mean his children were taken?" Rebecca asked.

  Nico looked at Isabella, who shook her head. "I didn't tell her."

  "Tell me what?" Rebecca looked around the fire, trying to get someone to meet her gaze.

  Finally, Nico responded, "Marcus lost his children to slavers."

  Rebecca gasped. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "I'm sorry," Isabella replied. "I didn't think about it."

  "No wonder he's so broken." She stood.

  "Rebecca—"

  "No, don't Rebecca me. He's protected us, the others, the child. He almost died getting us out of there." She glared at Isabella. "And I don't want to hear about his past and what he did. I know all that. But that was a long time ago, and he has paid the price, a higher price than any of us." She looked around at the faces lit by the firelight. "And if you can't forgive him, then you didn't learn anything from Jesus."

  Before they could respond, Rebecca disappeared into the darkness, leaving behind the crackling of the fire.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  And out of darkness came the hands that reach thro' nature, moulding men.

  —Alfred Lord Tennyson

  Modern Day

  Paris

  Lazarus cut into his steak as Thomas sat down across from him. The tiny restaurant was empty save for the solitary server standing a dozen feet away. Thomas motioned to him as he scanned the wall behind the nearby bar.

  "Double Macallan 18, neat."

  "Oui, monsieur." The server scurried away.

  Lazarus set down his knife and fork, then took a sip of red wine. "When did you get to Paris?"

  "Thirty minutes ago."

  The waiter brought his drink and set it down.

  "Merci." Thomas took the glass into his hand, swirling the caramel contents. "I was hoping we would have something to toast."

  "I'm afraid not," Lazarus watched as Thomas took a healthy sip, "at least not tonight."

  "What happened?"

  "We tracked the phone this morning."

  "Why not last night?"

  "The fucking French. They wouldn't give us access until we had a court order."

  "I'm surprised we got an order that fast."

  "We have several judges on retainer. But apparently, none of them work nights. Anyway, we traced them to a block in the Champs-Élysée district. We were doing a sweep of the buildings when he started moving again."

  "And?"

  "We had him cornered in the Grand Palais. He was unarmed."

  Thomas raised his glass to his lips, his smirk disappearing as he took another sip.

  "He took nine of my men with him."

  "Elusive motherfucker," Thomas noted.

  "Yeah."

  "Well, at least he'll be out of action for three days. And when he comes back, it will be somewhere east of Paris. Search for him there. And Rome. That's where he's going."

  "How do you know?"

  "Because that's where I'd go."

  "Okay. We made a move on his network, any connection we could find. Assets frozen, contacts eliminated, locations seized. But I couldn't find the priest."

  "Keep looking. And put out the word. Marcus is not to receive help from any agency or organization. If anyone violates this, I want to know."

  "Will do."

  Thomas shook his head and finished his drink, holding it up to the waiter.

  The taxi drove through the gate and onto a long, narrow driveway. They passed row after row of grapevines that followed the soft contour of the rolling valley. In the distance, a large grove of trees was the only remnant of what once was a massive forest. Within a few minutes, they crossed a small bridge across a bubbling creek and pulled up to a well-maintained chateau.

  The driver put the car into park and hopped out, opening the trunk. Sam slipped out from the back seat and, handing the driver a one-hundred Euro bill, took the bag he had pulled from the trunk and nodded. The driver looked down at the note and then tipped his hat several times in appreciation.

  She turned toward the chateau, but before she could reach the top of the steps, the door had already opened. A middle-aged man, dressed in what looked like a newly pressed suit, stepped from the doorway and bowed at his waist.

  "Welcome, madam!" His accent was not quite French, not quite German. Quite common for this part of France. He reached forward and took her bag. "It has been quite some time since we have had a guest in the Charlemagne suite. How long will you be staying with us?"

  "Just the one night." Sam followed him through the door. "I'm just passing through."

  "Yes, of course. Also very common for the guests of this suite." He motioned her to the right side of the foyer. "We will go through here. First time with us, I believe?"

  "Yes, it is."

  "Wonderful. Then perhaps you do not know the history of our winery?" He led her down a narrow hallway, with several doors on either side, and did not wait for her reply. "We are one of the oldest wineries in the Lorraine region. Legend has it that some of our grape varietals were brought here from Rome by the original owner centuries ago."

  Sam appeared skeptical.

  "But of course, that is just a rumor." He stopped near the last door. "Here we are!"

  He leaned forward, opened the door, and stepped aside so she could enter.

  The room was large, with a series of enormous windows that looked out across the grounds, including the creek that meandered through the property. There was a set of double doors that led to the bedroom and bathroom.

  "I have opened a bottle of our finest vintage for you to enjoy. Shall you be joining us for dinner?"

  "No. I'm exhausted. Perhaps I'll order something later."

  "Of course. Enjoy your evening with us, madam. Please call if you need anything."

  With that, he left. Sam picked up her bag and brought it to the bedroom, closing and locking the door behind her. She moved across the room and into the nearby closet.

  It looked just like the picture Cormac had shown her. She moved to the back of the small room, lifted one of the clothing rods from its base, and inside she found the button as instructed. Sam pushed it and heard an invisible lock click. Next, she pushed on the wall, and it swung back, revealing a stone staircase leading down into the darkness. She used her phone as a flashlight and stepped down the short flight of stairs, which ended with a large metal door. On the wall next to the door was a scanner the size of an iPad. It jumped to life as she placed her hand on it. When it finished scanning, she could hear a subtle clunk as multiple bolts unlocked and the door swung inward.

  She stepped through this entrance and found herself in what she could only describe as a bunker. A light had come on as she entered, and she shut the door behind her. It locked shut.

  The room was large, at least forty feet across and thirty feet deep. Thick metal support beams held up the chateau above. To t
he far left was a bed, next to a small kitchen. The opposite corner was walled off, creating a small room. An open door revealed a bathroom within.

  On the right was a metal workbench, with several cabinets above, now closed. Next to the bench stood a desk, surrounded by monitors, with a computer station below them. To her right sat a couch, with a remote on a glass coffee table and a large TV occupying the wall opposite.

  But the strangest feature by far in the room was the ten-foot by ten-foot patch of dirt in the floor. It was not compact dirt; in fact, it resembled loose potting soil. The hair on the back of Sam's neck stood up as she walked past the area and set her bag down on the couch. She sat and switched on the TV, settling on a local soccer match. Looking at her phone, she noticed the timer had a little less than two hours remaining. She grabbed the remote, scrolled down and opened a saved video file on the TV, but paused it as soon as it played. Setting the remote down, she leaned back and stared at the patch of dirt. Within a few minutes, she had drifted off to sleep. Soon after, the light switched itself off. A single night light cast the entire room in a pale blue glow.

  "Who the fuck are you?"

  Sam bolted awake to see a dark figure standing above her, the whites of his eyes visible in the pale light.

  "Marcus?"

  "I said, who the fuck are you?" Dirt covered most of his body, and clumps of mud-caked his hair.

  "I'm Sam! Hold on!" Her hand reached for the remote. "Let me show you something."

  "Sam? Sam who? And where are we?" He looked down at himself. "Why did you bury me in that fucking hole?"

  "No!" She picked up the remote. "I can expl—."

  Before she could finish, he leaned forward and grabbed her by the throat. Stunned, she tried to pull his hand away without dropping the remote. Sam realized she would never break his vice-like grip, so she focused on hitting the play button.

  He pulled her closer, rage filling his eyes. "Who are you, and what have you done with Natalia?"

  She tried to avoid his rabid eyes and finally got the video started.

  "Hello, Marcus."