The hairy sixth to enslave the State
Shall be son, no son, of this hairy last.
He shall give Rome fiddlers and fear and fire.
His hand shall be red with a parent's blood.
No hairy seventh to him succeeds
And blood shall gush from his tomb.
22:55 29 May 2002
The Hyperion Hotel, Los Angeles
"Nero." Wesley took on the appearance of a general briefing his officers. He gripped one hand in the other behind his back and snapped his pointer against his calf muscles. "What do we actually know about him?"
Fred raised a hand. "He fiddled while Rome burned."
"According to tradition, yes. There are also rumours of incest, murder and many and varied references to a dissolute nature. And he was the last of his line."
Angel sighed. "Add a covered sedan chair and it all spells vampire to me. We're running out of time. I should go."
"The official story is that he was run through by a servant, at his own request, after the Senate had declared him a public enemy." Wesley continued as Angel got up and headed for the lobby. "Angel, be careful. I know you think you've seen everything, but they were turbulent times."
"Maybe we should go with him." Fred bit her lip nervously.
"There's only one token." Angel turned and gave them both a brilliant smile. "I'll be fine. Back before you know it."
The portal opened beneath his feet again, and the lobby fell silent.
Death of Nero, 68 AD
The Imperial Residence, Rome
The room is opulently furnished. Tapers burn extravagantly on all sides; silk drapings cover every conceivable wall space; intricate wooden screens divide the room into segments, and everywhere polished marbles of all conceivable hues contain reflections of the splendour.
I pick myself up and check for sunlight and injuries. It's dark. The room seems to be empty, but I can sense a presence. A familiar essence somewhere nearby. As I try to decipher its meaning, the door flies open and a young man hurries in, followed by his own billowing robes and an athletic male servant.
"Have a mind to your weapon, Sulla. The time is near."
The servant puts a hand to his belt, where a long sword is sheathed. The young man paces up and down, muttering in Latin, "Where is she, where is she?"
I peep out from my hiding place behind a screen. The presence is drawing nearer.
"The Sybil is close!" the servant whispers "Here she comes, Lord! "
Nero raises his hand until slow and deliberate footsteps echo in the corridor. As the door swings open again, he cries "Now!"
The blade is drawn in a flashing arch, and pauses, frozen momentarily in the air before the downswing. I can't watch it in cold blood. Murder, just as the history books describe. I can't allow it just to happen in front of me. I growl and leap forward from my hiding place, throwing myself between the servant and the master.
"There he is! STRIKE!"
The servant swings at me, slashing through my shirt and opening a wound from my chest to my waist. As I drop to the floor, I see Nero scurry behind the man. Into his protective circle. The pain.
The pain is everything. A pool of my own blood forms on the floor, and I realise I am on my knees, looking down into it, seeing a reflection of the ceiling. A blow with that weapon to the neck would sever my head from my body. I must get up and fight or flee. But the pain.
As I lurch to my feet and my muscles flex, the extremities of the wound give and tear. The gash extends across the skin of my shoulder. I hear myself bellow in agony, and when the sound dies away, I know from the horrified faces of the two men before me that I have changed.
"Again."
A third voice. A familiar voice.
Nero pushes the servant from behind, and he grips his sword and advances a shaky step towards me. I raise my hands in defence. "Stop! I'm not here to hurt you."
The sword glints again, and slices into my left hand, severing the knuckle between my third and fourth finger cleanly, and stopping with a jar at the wrist.
"Again."
Another blow. I hardly know where it lands. The pain: as sharp as a point. The fury: as clean as a blade.
"Sulla! It's enough! Leave us!"
It only occurs to me much later that the servant made no wounds that could have killed me. He was skilled and strong, and should have done it with a single blow. But I'm beyond rationality now.
Writers never get it right. There is no red mist descending, no loss of control, no period of absence where memory fails. It is clarity, always. For all the hundreds of people I've killed, I can remember. Every moment. Every drop of blood. Every single one.
The servant is gone before I can reach him, but the master remains and I make him pay for his orders. The blood is laced with fear, and in my present state of incandescent rage, he is a moment's work.
A laugh. Like glass shattering. So familiar.
My latest victim drops to his knees. As he descends, he takes my hand in both his, and kisses me, like a mafia hireling greeting his Don. He draws my blood into him briefly, before collapsing to the sullied surface of the marble floor.
"Welcome to your destiny, Angel."
I wrench my eyes away from the corpse in front of me. Darla stands nearby, watching me with mixed triumph and amusement. Her presence is like water dousing the flames. I try to speak and the blood froths and gargles in my throat. I swallow and manage to croak, "Destiny?"
"The founder of our Order. I've been meaning to tell you since The Master told me, but it never seemed to be the right time."
I understand her words, but her meaning is still opaque.
"When you were Angelus, you were conceited enough already. When you were cursed, well, what would have been the point? You would have run yourself though with a telegraph pole sooner than come here with me."
"This was... fated?" As I speak the word a fine mist of blood is ejected from my mouth. Disgust surfaces at last, and I wipe the gore from my lips with the back of my good hand. Disgust is followed, as always, by remorse. Remorse by guilt; guilt by fear.
"Foretold, my sweet. In that scroll your human friends are so fond of quoting."
"The Scroll of Aberjin."
Used to bring her back. To be made again. All fated.
"My shanshu."
She laughs again and the noise grates on my senses. "You poor dumb creature. You believed that? Why would The Powers reward you for making amends? They think you owe a debt to mankind. In their view, you're just running to stand still. Reward!"
She spits the word out as if it pained her to say it.
"This is shanshu, Angel. Birth and death. The birth of your Order, foreshadowing your death, leading inexorably to the birth of your Order again. Forever, in an eternal loop."
I look around me. The sword is lying by the door, where the servant cast it away.
"Why couldn't you do it? You had the token. Didn't you want... the honour?" (Couldn't you have spared me this?)
"Because it's you. It's always you. Without your blood the Order of Aurelius fades and dies in a few short years. With your blood, we outlast everything. The Roman Empire. Faith in God. The Apocalypse. Everything."
I stagger towards the door. I can put a stop to this now, if I can just get to the sword.
"I told you once before. Your evil is innate. You've never been just another vampire, Angel."
If I can stop him waking, it all ends here.
I hear Darla. She is chanting mirthfully; stumbling over the words as giggles break from her, one after the other. As I stretch my hand towards the hilt the ground opens beneath me, and I am sucked back to the present day.