— — —
Lucius had a vague sense that his return to Rome was inauspicious. At the gates of the city, he'd looked up and seen a vulture flying east, an unusual sight at night, especially a damp night such as this. He wondered if it was a sign he should have not gone west. Heavy rains the past couple of nights had impeded his progress, and though the weather had finally faded to no more than a fine drizzle, his cloak was saturated, making him shiver, though cold usually never bothered him.
Since Thebes, he had wandered, belonging nowhere, adrift like a ship on a windless sea. A deep and lonely need for the familiar had pulled him toward the heart of his homeland. Caught in that current, traveling to Rome had been nearly an unconscious choice.
He and Divia had avoided Rome, knowing he could be recognized there. He never had and never would have the chance to show her the city. That thought pained him, though perhaps, it was good to be in a place that would hold no trace or memory of her, assuming coming here had not been a mistake.
On the street, wrapped in his damp cloak, he spied a few young soldiers, infantrymen, laughing with one another, heedless of the weather. A campaign to Dacia was mounting, and Lucius could taste the anticipation of the soldiers on the air. He followed them to a warm tavern filled with more young infantrymen, and slipped into a table in a dim corner. The patrons buzzed with energy on these final nights before heading to war.
A young woman approached Lucius and he placed an order he would not drink. He watched her go, a loose red braid trailing down her back. The owner's daughter, or perhaps a slave.
He eavesdropped on the excited chatter in the room, and thought of taking one of these soldiers tonight. Youth and battle excitement were a heady mix. Would it not be better to die here painlessly in Rome at the height of youthful exuberance rather than in fear on foreign field, muddy with the blood of fallen comrades? No. He would have hated that for himself, losing the chance to claim victory over an enemy and cheat death at their hands. And it seemed somehow treasonous to be sitting here in Rome thinking about depriving the Emperor of a soldier's service on the eve of war.
Lucius shifted his attention to the young woman with the red braid, who was skillfully navigating the rough talk of the men at a table while cajoling them to part with more of their coin.
"Not going to have another drink, you lightweight?" she teased one soldier. She raised her voice to the table, "What about the rest of you? Are you boys or are you men?"
She had their egos at her mercy, and Lucius chuckled to himself as all the young soldiers at the table ordered another round. Perhaps he would enjoy her instead of one of them.
He let his gaze drift around the room until his eyes landed on the tavern keeper, a middle-aged man, standing behind the bar. The man was staring directly at him. Had he seen Lucius eyeing the girl?
The man was far too ornate for his station, wearing a tunic woven of fine cloth, a heavy silver medallion around his neck, broad silver cuffs at his wrists, and silver rings on his fingers. Ridiculous. Lucius was surprised no one had relieved the man of such finery. Though, with all the soldiers clustering in his tavern, perhaps he felt he had some protection.
The tavern keeper broke his stare as a customer demanded his attention. Though the hood of his cloak was still damp, Lucius pulled it up over his head and settled back to watching the soldiers and listening to their conversations. As the hours pressed from night to early morning, the soldiers started to leave. Lucius rose to depart as well. Though he had enjoyed a second-hand camaraderie by being amongst them, perhaps the first he'd felt of any kind of companionship since Divia, his appetite remained yet unsated.
Before he reached the door, however, the tavern keeper intercepted him, a hard, scrutinizing look in his clear, gray eyes.
Irritated at being stopped by this mortal, Lucius demanded, "Why are you looking at me that way?"
The man opened his mouth, stuttering slightly as he posed a one-word question, "G-General?"
Lucius had erred in returning to Rome, in assuming enough time had passed that his presence would draw no one's attention. He should have stayed in the east. Perhaps it had not been longing that had drawn him to the city, but rather foolishness and hubris, neither of which the gods were known to tolerate.
"You've mistaken me for someone else," Lucius said and moved to push past the tavern keeper, but the man grabbed his arm.
"No," the man said and shook his head. "I recognize you."
Lucius caught the man's gaze with his own. He dropped his tone, bringing a more resonant quality as he brought to bear the unnatural persuasion he had honed over the years. "You are mistaken. You'll excuse yourself and let me on my way."
"I…" the tavern keeper said, his voice slightly dazed. But then he shook his head and insisted, "No."
Lucius sighed inwardly. The man was one of those people who could not be persuaded; they were always trouble.
"No," the man continued. "General, I served under you. But here, you look nearly the same as you did 25 years ago. How can that be?"
Lucius forcibly pushed past the man, growling, "You. Are. Mistaken."
Though the tavern was emptying, there were still too many around to kill this man. Instead, Lucius slipped outside into the drizzly early morning darkness with the man calling after him, "General, General, wait!"
— — —
Two nights later, on an evening that had finally cleared of the dreary weather, Lucius returned to the tavern. He had been unable to shake the encounter with the owner. Though Lucius had scoured his memories, trying to place the man, who claimed to have served under him in the army, nothing came of it. Having no idea who the man was and yet being recognized by him had left Lucius vaguely unsettled, and he resolved that he would kill him and leave Rome.
Lucius returned to the table in the dark corner, suggesting in a way that brooked no argument, that its current occupants find another place to drink. This time, when the tavern keeper stared at him, Lucius stared back. The man did not approach him though; the soldiers were especially rowdy tonight, keeping him and the young woman with the long red braid completely occupied fulfilling orders. A large complement was due to march tomorrow and the soldiers were making the best of their last night in the city. Though the tavern keeper was kept busy, Lucius caught him repeatedly glancing in his direction.
In the early morning, as most of the soldiers began to disperse, the tavern keeper finally approached Lucius, sliding into the seat opposite him at the table.
"It is good to see you again, General. Will you come tomorrow? It will be a slow night." The man had an earnest and eager tone in his voice, and his eyes were guileless in a way Lucius found disarming.
Lucius was quiet, but then gave a curt nod before throwing some coins on the table and heading out. He could kill the man tomorrow just as easily as today.
— — —
The next night, no soldiers lingered outside the tavern and Lucius saw a wooden sign had been propped up outside the door indicating it was closed. Lucius moved past the sign, pushed open the door, and stepped inside. One of the tables in the center of the room was set out with bread, olives, and a covered dish. Centered on the table were two small carved figures, the household gods. Lucius's eyes burned to look at them and he averted his gaze.
The tavern keeper was behind the bar, but when he saw Lucius, he hurried over with a carafe in one of his hands. He had toned down his display of wealth, wearing a tunic of more modest fabric than before and wearing only a couple silver rings.
"I wasn't sure you'd come," the man said as he poured wine into the cups on the table and gestured for Lucius to sit.
Lucius remained standing and demanded, "Who am I to you?"
"General Lucius Divius Lucianus, commander of the 10th Legion. I served under you long ago."
Strange to hear the title and his full name spoken together again after all this time. Strange, but not unwelcome.
"I was just a young soldier then, so young," the man continued in a wistful tone. "Like the ones we've seen these past days."
"Your name?"
"Quintus Rufus," the man said, "a scout when under you." He touched the hair at his temples, mostly gray but with streaks of faded red, and chuckled. "The name used to fit better back then, hair as red as rust."
Lucius tried to picture the man decades younger, a red-haired soldier assigned to scout the enemy. But it was long ago and there had been many scouts. When he drained the man, Lucius would remember him and relive those old campaigns.
"Sit, General, please," Quintus insisted and gestured again to one of the chairs.
Lucius hesitated a moment, but then pulled out the chair and sat.
"You needn't have gone to all this trouble," Lucius said as he waved at the spread on the table. "I was not expecting this and already ate." The last part wasn't exactly true, he'd yet to enjoy any repast tonight, and his eyes narrowed on Quintus's neck for a moment.
"No bother," Quintus said amiably. "I didn't know myself that I was going to do this until today. You don't mind if I eat?"
"Not at all," Lucius replied, and watched Quintus remove the lid from the covered dish to reveal a baked fish.
Quintus served himself and took a few bites, before saying, "I have so many questions, General. I heard you died at Pompeii."
"My whole family died," Lucius lied matter-of-factly, "but I was not in town. After the disaster, I retired to a country estate southeast of Paestum."
"I'm sorry," Quintus said softly, a genuine sorrow underscoring his words. "Most of my family are gone as well. Only my niece and me left. A sickness eight years ago took the rest."
"Is your niece the young woman I've seen here?"
Quintus nodded. "Should be long married by now, but it's been hard to let her go. She's finally doing so at the end of the month with a healthy dowry from me." Lucius could hear in his tone that this was a point of pride for Quintus, as it should be.
Quintus cleared his throat and changed the subject as he scrutinized Lucius's face. "I thought it a trick of the light or my memory, but looking at you… surely, you cannot be in your 60s?"
"Close to 70 at that," Lucius replied with a low chuckle.
"No!" Quintus exclaimed. "You do not look it. Is there something in the water southeast of Paestum?"
"Something like that," Lucius answered, amused. He glanced at the two rings on Quintus's fingers. "What are those to you?"
"Won these off a fallen enemy in my first battle. My first plunder of a long career. That battle was under you, a victory, of course." He looked slyly at Lucius and said, "You probably think what I've been wearing is a little ostentatious?"
"I had noticed, yes," Lucius remarked.
"I like the young men on their way to war to see it, to see that they can make something of themselves. What I earned in war plunder let me buy this place, you see, and buy some fine things. They should know that, don't you think?"
"Indeed," Lucius answered. "Something to motivate them in the field."
"Exactly," Quintus replied. He was quiet for a moment before he said, "It is wonderful to meet with you, General. I transferred to the 9th after my days in the 10th. Earned a promotion, you see." He leaned forward and said conspiratorially, "Between you, me, and the gods," Quintus glanced at the carved figures at the center of the table, "General Marcus Pinarius was a bit of a fool."
Lucius laughed aloud at this reminder of the leader of the 9th Legion, who hailed from a respectable family, but whose mind was far from sharp and whose victories in battle seemed based on luck more than skill. He said, "The gods only know why Fortuna so favored that man."
"She can be a fickle goddess," Quintus responded with a grin. "I was grateful for a promotion, moved all the way up to centurion in the 9th, but I cut my teeth in 10th," he said and his smile broadened, "I'm glad to be reminded of those times. They were hard, but they were good, weren't they?"
Lucius nodded because those times had defined his mortal life and had to have meant something. Perhaps that was a ridiculous thought.
As they had talked, hunger had started to gnaw at Lucius, and though he'd come here to kill the man, he'd unexpectedly enjoyed his company. Lucius would let him live one more night. One more would make no difference.
Lucius rose from the table and said, "I should be going."
"I hope you'll come again" Quintus said eagerly. "I'd like to talk more with you about those times, one old veteran to another."
Despite himself, a part of Lucius welcomed the idea. He had not anticipated meeting someone who might, even if only in a small way, know him.
Quintus asked, "How long will you be in Rome?"
"I don't know."
— — —
Years slipped by from one to the next, but the time was no more noticeable to Lucius than a river would be aware of small, seasonal streams feeding into it. For him, one night was much the same as another: drain a mortal who would not be missed and then, more often than not, seek out Quintus's company as tavern business wound down in the darkness of early morning.
They would talk of old battles, of Quintus's niece living now south of Rome with a family of her own, and of the politics and poetry of the day. Lucius found a kind comfort in the rhythm they fell into, and it became easy to start to feel that he belonged.
For a time, Quintus became infatuated with the widow who owned the bakery at the end of the way, telling Lucius of his efforts to woo her. Though such a match made every bit of sense, Lucius did not like it and found himself growing annoyed at this woman he'd never met. When Quintus became more serious at the prospect of marriage, the annoyance twisted into something else.
Not long thereafter, a sorrowful Quintus reported to Lucius, "She died in her sleep, her servant said." He'd looked at Lucius with a heavy sadness in his gray eyes. "But she'd been perfectly well. It's strange. It doesn't make sense."
"Very strange," Lucius agreed, squeezing Quintus's shoulder.
"Thank you, General, for your support."
Quintus's grief passed, as Lucius knew it would, and they resumed the usual cadence of their visits.
Over time, Quintus stopped commenting on how Lucius only came in the middle of the night, how he never ate anything at the tavern, and how the drinks Quintus placed in front of him always seemed to go untouched. Though he would sometimes look at Lucius strangely, Quintus said almost nothing as the years left Lucius unchanged while Quintus's hair faded completely to gray and ever deeper lines etched into his face.
Quintus only joked once over a game of dice, "It must not be the water southeast of Paestum after all." He grew more serious as he said, "Someday, you'll have to tell me your secret."
— — —
On a summer night, with the soft breeze still warm even after the sun had long left the sky, Lucius was surprised to find the tavern closed. Quintus rarely closed, only doing so on those occasions he traveled to visit his niece, and he'd said nothing to Lucius about planning such a journey.
Quintus had been insistent on continuing to operate his business, though he had long had the means to retire, and had been invited by his niece and her husband to stay with them. Lucius had been glad that Quintus made the decision on his own without need for any persuasion.
"Can you really see me at leisure pretending I care what other old men think?" he'd asked Lucius one night.
Lucius had chuckled. "You seem to care what I think."
"But you aren't exactly an old man, are you?" It was more a statement than a question and he had continued, "I myself keep young by running this place and seeing what the young people are doing."
But now the tavern was dark and silent. Lucius entered and ascended the stairs that led to the apartment above, and found Quintus lying in his bed, rasping for breath. The room was lit only by guttering candles set before a small shrine in the corner. The air in the room was stifling, and Lucius pushed open the shutters to let the breeze inside before lighting a small oil lamp. He set the lamp on a side table and took a seat at the edge of the bed.
"It seems, General," Quintus said hoarsely, "that the sickness that took my brother, my sister-in-law, and my nephews all those years ago has finally come for me."
"Nonsense," Lucius said, though he had seen this malady spreading across the city for over a week, those stricken making easy and unsuspicious prey among the growing fatalities.
Quintus shook his head weakly. "Life's been good, I can't complain."
Lucius touched Quintus's forehead, hot and clammy to the touch. While he had known Quintus had grown old, the concept seemed like an abstraction. Only a moment had passed since Lucius had stepped into the tavern that first night back in Rome, a damp cloak over his shoulders.
"I can summon a physician," Lucius offered.
Quintus shook his head again. "Do not leave me here to die alone."
A sick feeling settled in Lucius's stomach and a strange sense of panic surged in his veins. Mortals died every day. Quintus was just one more. Yet Quintus had also been a constant for him in a world that wouldn't stop changing. He was both the only person Lucius knew and the only person who knew him, at least some of him.
Lucius took one of Quintus's hands in his, noticing the fine wrinkles in the skin that had once been smooth. How had that happened in so short a time? Though he was not certain how long it had actually been.
"You wanted to know my secret?" Lucius asked, looking into Quintus's eyes. "It is this: I will live forever."
Quintus let out a wheezing laugh, and Lucius remembered when he had laughed when Divia had made the same ludicrous assertion. Lucius closed his eyes for a moment and let them shift as he felt his fangs lengthening in his mouth.
Lucius opened his eyes, and Quintus started as Lucius said, "This is what I am."
"Oh," was all Quintus replied as though he had no other words for the moment.
Quintus seemed more surprised than afraid or disgusted, and that was good. For Lucius refused to be stranded alone in the world again. He leaned forward and turned Quintus's head to the side, exposing his throat.
"A final service to you, General?" Quintus whispered.
"No, old friend," Lucius replied, "a new beginning."
He sank his fangs into Quintus's neck and as the blood bubbled up into his mouth, memories flooded Lucius's mind. In those memories, he finally recalled the young red-haired scout standing before his general as he stammered out the location of the enemy's army.
"Well done, soldier," Lucius could hear himself saying, and felt how those few words of praise had fortified Quintus. "Are you prepared for the coming battle?"
"Yes, sir," young Quintus replied, nerves not entirely forgotten, but beaten back by Quintus's determination to make a decent showing of himself.
In that first battle, Quintus had been afraid and fought fiercely anyway, as any true soldier would. The fear eventually gave way to the exhilaration of victory, of killing that first enemy and taking that first plunder. Soldiering had defined a part of young Quintus in the same way it had Lucius, long ago.
"Going to the 9th, you traitor?" He heard one of Quintus's peers say, the accusation made in a tone of jest, before he slapped Quintus on the back. "Good luck under Pinarius, the idiot general."
Lucius would have laughed if he could, but he kept drinking, taking in more memories with each swallow. He heard again their own countless conversations, arguing or joking about the Emperor, commenting on the latest military news, or playing casual games of dice. Lucius lived it all again and again, not wanting it to stop. But then the memories started to fade, and with a jolt, he realized he could no longer hear the beat of Quintus's heart.
He pulled back and quickly bit into his own wrist before pressing it to Quintus's lips, but Quintus remained unmoving, his gray eyes unseeing.
"Quintus," Lucius murmured, almost a plea, but it was too late. He put a hand over Quintus's eyes and closed them, keeping his hand there for a moment, the skin still warm to the touch. "This is not what I intended," he said softly and then fell into silence.
No one in the world would know him from before, and Lucius had no words to define a loss like that. He removed a coin from the coin purse on his belt and slipped it into the dead man's mouth. If there was something after, Lucius would not let Quintus's fare go unpaid.
Lucius took one of Quintus's hands in his and pulled one of the heavy silver rings off, sliding it onto the small finger of his own right hand. He smoothed out Quintus's gray hair and leaned forward to press his lips to the cooling brow.
He arose from the side of the bed, blew out the oil lamp, and went to the window. Before he slipped out into the darkness, he turned to look at Quintus's still form one last time and said quietly, "And, forever, brother, hail and farewell."