February 18th, 2020

 

 

Her scream still claws through my dreams, though two thousand years have passed. I have butchered kings, burned empires, ripped throats, and bathed in the blood of begging cowards. I have fucked death itself into silence and torn the souls from every bastard foolish enough to stand before me. Their blood never haunted me—only the shadow that claimed me. And I have come to love that shadow with a hunger beyond damnation. Who the hell wouldn’t? To be the hand of death itself—untouchable, eternal, wearing a man’s face.

For two millennia, love and loss have entwined within my immortal heart, each memory a whisper lingering in the shadows. Now, as I step into the room with my dear Brooklyn, ready to recount my tale, I find myself confronting the pain that time refuses to soften.

After rifling through journals that span two thousand years, I have—at last, after what feels like a century of her nagging—granted Brooklyn her wish to immortalize my story. This newest fancy of hers is to play the scribe—ahem!—an indie writer.

She insists that publishing a weekly online account of how I came to be might, somehow, draw him to me. And so, as ever, because I can never refuse family, I’ve settled into my favourite leather chair, my journals resting within the towering shelves that guard my study. Always close at hand, should my memory falter. “In case your ancient mind decides to fail you,” as my granddaughter so often delights in reminding me.

Brooklyn, meanwhile, has planted herself before that infernal machine, fingers poised, ready to transcribe as I speak.

Strangely, I am at ease. Perhaps it is the ambient glow of the stoked fire, perfuming the air with lilac incense, that summons ethereal memories of my beloved to drift before me as I sip my favourite vintage—the bottle breathing patiently on the table at my side.

For so long I have buried much of my past from her, fearing she might see me in another light. Yet Brooklyn insists—adamant as ever—that this is her project, that she must know everything if she is to truly know herself, no matter what shadows that knowledge may cast.

After countless ages of restless searching, I believe I have at last succeeded in restoring my lost lineage, for I encountered sweet Yedda on the night of this past Christmas Eve. And so, the hour has come for Brooklyn to learn of her origins. I shall indulge her.

Brooklyn glanced back from her seat. “Are you ready?”

“Dear granddaughter—one question first.”

She sighed, nodding as she turned back. “Okay, Papi. Let’s go. Spill it. What now?”

“My dear,” I said gently, “how are we to know that what you write will be believed?”

“As I told you before,” she smiled, “this is not the old world, Papi. Superstitions faded long ago when science took hold. No one believes anymore. If science cannot prove it, then it cannot be real.”

Turning back to her monitor, Brooklyn lifted her hands and laughed. “I mean, look—witch covens, zombie lairs, and now, Papi, actual vampire communities popping up all over the place. People even invite it now—they want you to suck their blood. To them, vampires don’t exist; it’s just some fantasy, some desire to live forever. A fictional escape. And Papi, we’re only doing this in the hope that they read it, or hear of it.”

“Very well, dear,” I said. “You may proceed. I keep forgetting this is meant to be written to attract them.”

Brooklyn giggled, her head bobbing. “And Papi, you know you don’t have to talk so… old school, right?”

“I know. But I have—”

“You’ve seen the world a hundred times over,” she cut in with a snicker, “met millions of people through the centuries, in every dialect imaginable, and… ha-ha…”

“You do realise I can hear you, dear girl,” I replied.

She turned, grinning. Of course she knew. That was why she made fun of me.

 

 

 

 

 

EGYPT

 

 

I was born Valentino Pompeius Magnus in Roma on September 22, 7 B.C.—and died on September 22, 33 A.D., only to be reborn hours later.

Seven months before that untimely rebirth, I came ashore at the Eastern Port of Alexandria, sailing through the Bay of Aboukir. The docks thundered with merchants shouting their wares, the air heavy with salt, sweat, and the spice of foreign perfumes. Waiting for me was a horse, and with it a contubernium of Roman soldiers led by General Gaius Potitious Calpurnianus, whose legion had held Egypt since Rome took her as protectorate a decade prior.

“Welcome… welcome, General!” Gaius called over the din.

“General.” I gave him a curt nod, slipping my journal into the breast of my cuirass before mounting the steed offered by a foot soldier.

“I trust your voyage was not too unpleasant?” he asked, turning his mount so that it paced beside mine.

“I prefer my feet on solid earth,” I answered, “but the sea did not treat me unkindly.”

We pressed through the clamorous market, centurions flanking fore and rear, their armour catching flashes of Alexandrian sun.

Gaius eyed me sidelong and chuckled. “Ha! I see you still keep that journal of yours?”

I tapped my cuirass. “Every general should. Writing the day’s events allows one to scrutinise, to weigh them properly. And when dealing with politicians and their serpent tongues, it pays to have a record of who said what, and when.”

The General laughed. “Hell, I don’t need that.”
He swept his hand with theatrical disdain, gesturing at the city around us. “Out here, far from the Senate, I can breathe—even in this damned shithole.”

“Well, you know…”

A centurion’s bark cut me short. “Hoooo!” His arm snapped up, halting the line. Our procession came to a rigid stop.

The general spurred his horse toward a nearby merchant’s stall. He leaned from his saddle, flipped a coin to the man, and waited. The merchant accepted it, then bent low to fetch a leather flask. That was when I noticed the ink. A mark, burned into the flesh at the base of his neck.

The man stiffened under my gaze. He turned quickly, dragging his frayed linen cloak high, hunching like a turtle to conceal the brand.

It was not the first I had seen. Since setting foot in Alexandria, I had marked the same sigil upon many citizens. Always half-hidden, always guarded, as though the skin itself were cursed to betray them.

The general secured his purchase, and I leaned closer. “These tattoos,” I said, tapping the back of my own neck, “I have seen them before. A handful of citizens, all with the same mark.”

“Ah…” He gave a knowing grunt, lowering his voice as we rode on. “That, my dear friend, is the mark of the House of Horus.”

“The House of Horus?” My interest sharpened.

His horse sidled nearer, his tone dropping to a whisper as his eyes swept the crowd.

“When the Queen had her brother slain and seized the throne, she exiled his high priests—along with their followers and families—to the northeastern wastes of this rain-forsaken land. These priests were of the House of Horus, marked with the blue eye, most often carved at the nape of the neck. Some, wiser, conceal it.”

“Found?” I asked.

“Found,” Gaius affirmed with a curt nod. “By the Queen’s dogs—the Sons of Set. They despise any creed that dares rival their deity. And so they seize folk at will, strip them bare in the streets, and scour their flesh in daylight before the eyes of the mob, hunting for the mark.”

He leaned close, lowering his voice. “Whispers abound, that such ‘inspections’ often end in disappearances. And when the bodies are found—if found—they are flayed, scalped of their markings, butchered so cruelly that they are scarcely men any longer.”

His calloused hand clamped suddenly around my forearm, his gaze locking hard upon me. He said nothing, yet in the silence I heard more than words could ever give—there was something deadly at work here, something too dangerous to name.

I inclined my head to show I understood.

Still, I could not be troubled by zealots in robes. I shook my head, lips curling. “I have always found it amusing—religion preaches forgiveness and peace, yet when challenged, its priests bare their teeth like any other beast: cruel, vindictive, and blood-hungry.

The General’s hand struck my wrist again, halting me. “Yeah, well, these hairless piss-ants rule Egypt. Mark my words. They’ve the ear of Cleopatra herself. Especially that snake Amenemhat, Set’s high priest. He’s a bitch. They say he traffics with demons.”

“Demons?” I scoffed. “Phantoms for the gullible. Shadows conjured by cowards who peddle fear from dark corners. Not demons, Gaius—men. Men who lust to play God. If I believed in gods.”

He slapped my shoulder with a laugh. “Valentino—such blasphemy! Careful, lest Jupiter strike you where you sit.”

I wiped the sweat from my brow and grinned. “Jupiter himself would wither in this inferno before lifting a hand against me.”

The General roared.

We pressed on toward Alexandria along the trenched path of the so-called Silk Road, hemmed by an endless caravan of frothing camels and hollow-eyed traders jousting with the sun beneath their umbraculums.

Surveying the chaos, I wondered why Rome had forsaken this place. Rome usually stamped its mark wherever it settled—law, order, marble, arches. Here there was none of that. Only a barren isle of shit, piss, and scorching sand. A dustbowl of cold-staring refugees, gaunt and watchful, waiting for nightfall to pounce and strip you of possessions—or your life.

Leaving the market’s shade, the sun hit like a hammer. Heat wrapped me at once, my tunic plastered to my skin, pores drowning in humidity. I thought I might slide from my horse, melt into the golden ground, and surrender to oblivion.

How do these people live here? Day after day in a furnace that warps the horizon into mirages, driving the mind half-mad?

Even worse, some walked barefoot—talking, laughing—as if the fire beneath them were nothing more than earth. My boiling thoughts reeled.

“So, Valentino, what of that beautiful wife of yours?” Gaius asked. “Does she look forward to coming to this piss hole?”

“Truth be told, she’s eager to arrive. Immersing herself in the culture became her obsession. She longed to stand before the monuments she had poured over in her studies—and to test the rumours of those ivory pyramids, sentinels in Giza.”

“The rumours are true,” Gaius said, shading his eyes and pointing south. “Five or six days on those spiteful camels. You can see the cap pointing to the sun.”

I raised a hand to block the glare—and froze. By the gods! Even from this distance their majesty struck me. Shivers cut through my overheated body as I drank in the sight: three colossal guardians rising from an endless sea of shimmering sand.

“Well,” I chortled, “I know where I’ll be heading when she arrives.”

“Ha! And when does she?”

“Tomorrow, on the next merchant vessel.” I could not hide my anticipation.

“And your twin daughters? They must be growing.”

“They are. Turned ten last week. They come with their mother.” The thought of my girls arriving tomorrow warmed me more than the sun could scorch. As fathers do, I found myself eager to boast of them.

“Siri, in fact, is the reason for my wife’s delay,” I said with a snicker. “She slipped off to explore again, throwing us all into a panic.”

“Haa! By the gods, she carries your spirit.”

“I swear, Gaius, Iris was a gift of Minerva. But Siri—if not for her mother’s features—I’d wager Artemis herself delivered her.”

A smile stole across my face as I pictured their laughter. “Each day they grow more into their mother’s likeness. I dread the years ahead, when girlhood turns to womanhood. Siri may bear her mother’s fiery hair and Iris my raven locks, yet in their beauty I will scarcely tell them apart.”

Our conversation devoured not only the loathsome sun but the hours themselves. When at last my thoughts were freed from tender images, I looked up and found a garrison of Roman soldiers saluting, waiting to welcome us into Alexandria.

“They look up to you here—the men,” said the General. “News of your victories in Gaul and Persia has reached these shores. Your celebrity precedes you.”

“You mean my father’s celebrity,” I confessed, resignation in my voice. “His victories invite endless scrutiny and comparison. I fear his shadow will follow me to the grave.”

“He was a great general, Valentino,” Gaius said.

“A great general, yes,” I whispered inwardly. “A father—never.”

We passed through the phalanx corridor to find yet more soldiers, their ranks lining a road of mudbrick homes.

“Whoa!” they cried in unison, spears tilting to guide me toward my new dwelling—a modest house crouched in the shadow of a majestic, brilliantly painted palace.

I reined in my steed, struck dumb by the splendour above, a grandeur that seemed to enchant the entire city.

The General lingered behind, indulging my wonder as my eyes roved over the host of golden deities guarding the palace. Among them rose two colossal figures I knew from my wife’s stories and sketches.

Flanking the palace doors stood the jackal god Seth—twin sentinels of flawless onyx, each armed with gleaming golden spears. Their bodies gleamed with a king’s ransom: golden shendyt, thick bands encircling their dark arms, opulence poured into stone.

Yet what most arrested me was the vision upon the roof.

Elegant and proud, she stood atop the colossal pyramid-shaped roof: a statue of such beauty it defied belief. Never, even now, have I seen its like.

It enthralled all who gazed upon it; even the relentless sun seemed to bow in reverence. Suspended against the heavens, it poured radiance over the edifice, a caress of light upon the city and the vast sands beyond.

“By the gods,” slipped from my atheist lips as my eyes traced the contours of the white-and-gold statue of the goddess Isis.

Her wings, black and gold, unfurled with a span nearly as broad as the roof itself. Her regal head inclined, eyes of diamond sparkling as they cast a commanding gaze upon the world below.

This, beyond question, was the Queen’s palace, perched upon a broad hill of more than two acres, rising high above the common dwellings.

Its architecture, its artistry, eclipsed every suspicion I had harboured of Egypt’s barbarism. In that splendour, Alexandria revealed the magnificence the desert beyond had long denied me.

My gaze lingered on Isis until shadows broke the spell. Across a balcony below, three men stood half-hidden, their jewels flashing in the dusk. I felt their eyes measuring me, weighing my worth. I indulged them, meeting their stares until they looked away—just as Gaius called.

“Here we are, General. Welcome.” He dismounted before a two-storey mudbrick home.

I guided my steed forward and was greeted by seven bowing servants. A bald, tanned man in a white loincloth stepped forth and lowered himself. “My lord.”

“Ah, yes—this is Anu,” said Gaius, tapping his shoulder. “He’s in charge of the servants and keeps the place as well ordered as it is.”

I nodded. Anu, still slightly bowed, shuffled back to the entrance where the thick wooden doors gaped open.

Extending his arm, he beckoned us inside and guided us toward the rear of the sprawling home. The other servants followed close behind, fanning us with wide plumes.

The women especially caught my eye. Their white linen dresses clung to bronzed skin, a single strap drawn taut across the shoulder, golden sashes cinching narrow waists.

What held my attention wasn’t their indifference to their dark nipples pressing against linen, but their faces—adorned with grepond and kohl, their eyes deep with a seduction that could hold any soul hostage at a glance.

We stepped into the open courtyard where roasted antelope and rich wine perfumed the air. A feast stretched across a massive marble table, tempting my mouth to water.

“Centurion,” I called, motioning him from the shade.

“General.” He saluted.

“Prepare a contubernium and summon servants, along with three lectica, to greet my wife, Alexandria. She arrives early morning.”

“General!” He stamped his breastplate before hurrying off.

“Might as well pamper the girls,” I muttered with a snicker.

Shedding our sun-baked cuirass, we sat in soaked tunics to eat, drink, and talk until dusk crept across the courtyard.

The General, having gorged, leaned back, tapped his stomach, and belched. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Good luck, General. I must see my men at the garrison before I depart.”

We rose and clasped arms. “Very well. Safe journey,” I said with a grin. “And don’t go getting fat in Rome.”

“Fuck that. That’s exactly what I mean to do—food and fucking.” We laughed, and he departed, while I lingered to grow acquainted with my new home.

As the servants drifted away for the night, I carried my wine and began my inspection.

My weary steps led me to my chamber, a sanctuary at the heart of the house. Its broad bed stood on cool marble, veiled by flowing curtains that swayed in the night breeze. Crickets sang their rhythm outside, and beyond the window the moonlit courtyard offered a quiet backdrop to my slumber.

The suffocating heat roused me at dawn, my mouth parched, my head pounding, eyes blurred, and skin drenched in sweat-soaked cloth. The servants had already returned, guiding me to the refuge of a cooling bath.

Perfumed and oiled with lotus and papyrus, I was dressed and stationed outside under guard, acknowledging curious passersby as I waited for my beloved.

As the dreaded heat of midday swelled, a sudden buzz rippled through the city. Citizens flocked south in eager droves.

I rushed to the second floor to peer down the street, my heart pounding with the certainty that love and instinct had guided me true. And there they were—the returning soldiers, escorting my beloved family.

Two of the three litters cradled my daughters, reclining behind sheer curtains, their small hands waving playfully to the mesmerized throng.

And then—a vision. My wife.

A chuckle escaped me. I should have expected nothing less. While my daughters rode in comfort, she boldly sat astride a horse, like a man, defying every convention. The spectacle left even hardened soldiers rooted in place, murmuring in astonishment.

If her audacity did not ignite the city’s chatter, her beauty surely did. Call me biased, but it was not only her striking figure that held them captive—it was her angelic countenance, her sun-kissed skin, her unusually light green eyes, and the cascade of fiery curls streaming down her back. Strands danced with the horse’s gait, brushing her freckled cheeks like flames kissed by the wind.

It was a scene so well-choreographed it etched itself into memory—and, I dare say, into the lustful hearts of the city’s men. Their admiration for her beauty could only be eclipsed by mine, as I marvelled that such a woman could love me.

As she trotted gracefully behind our daughters, smiling at her admirers, her gaze locked with mine from the balcony. My star-crossed eyes met hers, and her smile widened as she urged her horse forward, emerald eyes never breaking from me.

I rushed downstairs, heart hammering, and fell to my knees as my daughters leapt from their litters into my arms. Their fevered kisses and embraces smothered me as I stroked their perfumed hair.

“I missed you, my girls!” I confessed through laughter and a torrent of fatherly kisses.

“Eww, Dad,” they cried in unison, wriggling free. Yet their whispered reply—“We missed you too, Daddy”—burned sweeter than any victory. Then, like children do, they darted into the house, already forgetting me.

I closed my eyes, drew a breath of contentment, and turned just as my wife dismounted, ignoring the crowd to fix her gaze solely upon me—her infantilized, enraptured husband.

Her wide eyes and beaming smile met mine. “It’s only been a few days, Val.” She flushed, glancing at my men. “I mean… General Valentino,” she added, snapping a mock salute—before betraying herself with a snort.

Fuck the men.

I pulled her into my arms, coiling around her firm curves, lips tracing her neck beneath the veil of auburn curls. The faint perfume lingered, mixed with the salted dew of sweat glistening on her skin.

“Mmm, I missed you, my love,” I breathed into her ear, drunk on her closeness.

Her warm breath answered with a playful nibble, her body pressing against mine, breasts firm to my chest, her longing no less fierce than my own.

Shrewd Minx. She knew that, were it not for the cluster of people around us, I would have taken her right there and then.