Pilatus the Damned

By R. D. Amundson

He wakes in a cemetery in front of a white marble gravestone that marks his resting place for the past three centuries. Although the letters are faded, he adopts the name Pilatus from the weathered stone faade. He realizes he is dead-alive and embraces the newfound power his undead existence allows. The consumption of blood increases his strength, and so, he is the first of his kind: vampire.

He soon begins to question: Who was I before I awakened to become this creature? Who made me and why? So begins a two thousand year journey in Pilatuss search for truth, fueled by horrific recurring nightmares. He travels far and wide in search of answers, making the acquaintance of both Bram Stoker and Charles Dickens. He even makes an enemy of the Roman Catholic Church, who pursues him relentlessly.

Pilatus eventually meets Phaedra, who becomes the partner he seeks. Although he feels love is out of the question, he allows her to guide him through his search for identity from Constantinople to Europe and all the way to New York City. The question remains: why did Pilatus awaken from his centuries-long sleep? And who is the deviant mind that would create an immortal monster who feeds on blood to survive?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491762882

R. D. Amundson

R. D. Amundson is the author of Twice upon a Time, a romance, and Under the Slaughterhouse, a horror story. He currently lives in Montana.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The man sat stone still on the marble bench at the top of the sloped and moon-bathed cemetery. He was easy enough to see in the moonlight, and it was easy enough to see he had a befuddled look on what once was a face, but now looked more like a skull with leathery skin stretched tight over the prominent cheekbones. He stood up, stiff and creaky, nothing more than bones covered with taut skin, and approached a grave marker ten feet away. Like a rusted hinge he bent at the waist to read the name on it, but time had weathered away some letters. It read:

P         us      ilat

He ran a bony finger across the text but felt nothing to give him more clues. The puzzled look remained on his face. It was apparent to him that the grave had been his for centuries, considering the faded name once chiseled into hard white marble.

A vulgar memory dropped into his perplexed mind. He watched himself fall on a sword, his bowels like a nest of red-coiled serpents spilling out onto the dry barren ground. He reeled backwards from the jolt of the shock. A misted memory of being mortal and dying flashed across his mind.

Why would I do such a thing? he asked himself. He did not know who he had been or who he now was. He did not know what he was. He felt as though he had awakened from a dream only to enter a nightmare, a paradox, a puzzle that perhaps was beyond solving.

Down the sloped hill, randomly scattered grave markers sat upright. Off to his right a whitened sepulcher stood bleached and stark against the night sky.

He pondered.

He reached down with a hand of bone covered in leather to feel his shroud. Grasping a piece of the once white cloth, he lifted it up and let it flutter in the newborn breeze. He looked left, then right, then straight ahead and over the tops of the grave markers to the hundreds of twinkling lights at the foot of the hill where a village nestled in apparent peace and safety.

A sudden furnace of rage, fueled by his confusion, shook him from head to foot. He stood up with remarkable swiftness, tore his grave marker from the earth, lifted it over his head, and hurled it against the trunk of a nearby stout tree.

That satisfied his burning rage and his mind returned to near rational as he looked at his arms which, like the rest of him, were nothing but skin and bones.

A live healthy strong man could not have torn that marker from its spot and hurled it against that tree, he thought with amazement. The very idea that he did filled him with vigor. He ran the fingers of his left hand over his right palm, and then ran the fingers of his right hand over the palm of his left, and felt no calluses. These were not the hands of a working man, but of perhaps an artisan or an official of some sort, he thought.

Whatever he was, it seemed he had no choice in the matter.

He walked with less stiffness through the velvety darkness of the night over to the door of the sepulcher perched silent off to the right of his grave. He grasped the bronze handle and gave it a mild tug only to find it locked. He gave a mighty pull, breaking the lock and opening the door. He stepped inside the dank and musty tomb. Three long narrow vertical windows allowed enough moonlight for him to see a coffin set upon a stone foundation. The top came to his waist. He paused a moment considering what to do next, and then with one hand tore the lid off the coffin, flipped it over and let it crash to the floor with a dull thud that rebounded off the walls as it raised a puff of dust that drifted like lazy smoke upwards to the top of the opened coffin.

Inside of it he found what he was looking for, a dressed skeleton. His face broke into a twisted version of a smile, revealing strong white teeth, all in place and perfectly aligned.

He took the black hat off the skull and placed it on his head, a perfect fit. Then he stripped the black coat and pants off the resting bones, and after removing his own burial shroud, tried them on. A bit large, but that would give him room to add some flesh to his bones, if that were possible. How could he know? How did he know anything?

Memories swam in the mist.

The black clothes were a bit beyond the commoner’s but not far enough to be extravagant. He wouldn’t stand out in a crowd.

The skeleton’s feet were covered with pull on ankle high black leather boots. He removed them, sat on the edge of the slab, first tugged on the right one and then followed with the left. Perfect.

He leaned forward and picked up his burial shroud from off the floor, folded it into a small rectangle and left the sepulcher, closing the splintered door behind him.

He returned to sit once again on the not well-worn marble bench. Who would want to spend time meditating in a cemetery? He placed the folded shroud beside him, hoping his faculties were sharp enough to remember that he had.

With sudden mercurial quickness he stood and began moving down the hill, meandering back and forth among the grave markers, thinking he may find more like him, or, and he hoped not, a fearful human being.

Human being? How do I know this? But what if I do meet one? Maybe they cannot see me, but if they can, I will surely give them a fright, and they would run down the hill screaming in terror loud enough to gain the entire village’s attention, and that would surely put me in danger. Who or whatever I am, I cannot be certain whether I am dead or alive or maybe somewhere in between, like dead-alive.

Finding nothing or no one, he moved back up the hill to stop at the tree where his grave marker lay, relieved it hadn’t been shattered. He picked it up, placed it back on its foundation, and then packed soil around its base. He took a couple of steps back to inspect it and was satisfied that it appeared undisturbed. He somehow knew not to have any attention drawn his way.

Do not let confusion turn to rage.

He sat on the marble bench and told himself he was no longer dead or alive or human in the strictest sense of the words. Along with that came the realization that to be dead-alive would require as much secrecy and anonymity as he could muster.

Yes, control your rage, for a while at least, for how long, I do not know. But what did it matter? At this point he didn’t know who he was or how he was or what he was. In reality, dead-alive was only an assumption and so he began to ponder what else he may be capable of doing. Could he control the elements, or morph into an animal like a wolf or a panther or a flying creature? All he could do was experiment and so he spoke, To mist, and to mist him and his clothes became. To flesh, he said and returned to the form of his fully clothed skeletal body.

Amused by his newfound ability he said, To marble, and to his delight, marble he became. Then with a sudden jolt of fear the thought struck his mind, What if I cannot speak, I will forever be an unmoving statue, my mind alive and trapped within this caricature of a body for centuries on end!

The idea was excruciating in its pain of possibility.

He tried to speak but could not. "No, no, no, do not let panic set in! He tried again, this time he could feel his lips move, but no speech came forth. The third try he spoke, To flesh, and once more he became his skeletal body. Relief flooded his puzzled mind.

Lesson learned. He must explore his new self with great care and caution, but he had discovered he had extraordinary strength and speed and could control at least some of the elements in relation to himself. How many, how far, and to what extent remained a matter of further exploration.

With that in mind he grabbed the folded shroud, stood up and began descending a path running alongside the cemetery, intending to accept the invitation of the twinkling lights in the village below. Halfway down the hill he stopped, tilted up a large boulder sitting on the side of the path, and placed the shroud underneath it, taking great care in letting the stone down. To his eyes it looked undisturbed.

In spite of not knowing what his appearance was, perhaps that of an emaciated old man, or a living skeleton, he continued down the hill to the village. The denizens were engaged in some form of a noisy celebration. For the moment he dared to get only so close to the festivities, but from what he could see of the revelers, he would not stand out in the crowd.

CHAPTER TWO

He stood silent and still at the town’s fringe, the festivities swirling and swaying out of proportion its size. It seemed all the townsfolk were engaged in them except for the smallest of babies.

Children scampered about, horse drawn carriages clattered up and down the street, old folks stood against a tree or sat on a bench to watch, dogs darted around loose and barked at what, only they knew, and down the alley to his left, the grunting sound and not forgotten scent of pigs. His mouth watered.

A new and foreign sensation flooded him with such force he could not fight against it. He turned down the alley and his nose led him to stop at an old abandoned unpainted wagon that had been so long against the side of a barn its tongue had formed a groove in the dirt after many years of rain and drought. It would take a team of mules to move it.

He stopped, bent at the waist and peered underneath the old wagon. Two piglets lived there, one asleep, one awake. He reached out and grabbed the one awake by the hind leg. The beast was small and easy to manage, except for its squeal.

He wanted the taste of its blood.

First I must stop its squealing, but how, gnaw on its neck and keep spitting out the thick, bristle covered hide, until I reach the artery?

He had not the patience for either as his need grew. He pulled his head back and then thrust it forward with all his might, his mouth open as large as it could go. To his surprise and delight a fountain of life giving elixir burst into his mouth and he swallowed as one starving. After gulping down the initial spurt he sucked and drank at his leisure until he had swallowed the last drop of the animal’s blood. He pulled the piglet away from his mouth and looked down at its neck. He saw two puncture wounds, such as would be made by a sewing awl. He checked his teeth, they were neither long nor pointed.

He tossed the bloodless carcass under the wagon. Somehow the other piglet had remained asleep.

Invigorated, he felt as if he were floating, but unlike being drunk, he was in control of all his faculties, physical and especially his mental ones. He could feel his physical ones strengthening and smoothing out. He walked to the end of the embedded wagon tongue, eased himself down, and leaned his back against the side of the weathered barn.

"Hey mister, why are you slumped down alone in this alley?

The party’s out here."

He moved his head slowly to the right to see the woman who had spoken quite loud, but the light was too dim to allow clarity of vision. He stood with the ease of a young man and stepped assuredly toward the main street where she stood.

Middle-aged, the streets had taken their toll on her, and who knew what she looked like underneath all the paint? He got within arm’s length of her and she didn’t recoil in fear nor run away.

My, my mister, it looks like you haven’t eaten in a month. How’s about you and me getting us something to eat and drink? Start putting some meat on those bones of yours.

He checked his pants pocket, found a coin and pulled it out.

How did I know that this would be needed? It must be an ingrained memory from…before. There seem to be many of them.

It was once one of substantial value, but perhaps that had changed. He showed it to the woman. She held her expression in check.

Will this be enough to buy us a good meal? he asked.

More than enough, she replied. My name is Lolita, by the way, but most folks call me Lola.

Alright Lolita, my name is…(his mind snapped back to his grave marker)…Pilatus, and shall we be on our way?

They hooked arms and headed toward the busiest part of the street.

Walking down a red tiled portico Pilatus’ attention was captured by a couple of boys in the street trying to keep their dogs from fighting. While walking and watching, he accidentally bumped into a man who was close to being the size of a bull.

Pardon me sir, I was watching…

…those two dogs out in the street as was I. No harm done, but I’m surprised I didn’t knock you on your backside. Not much meat on those bones of yours.

You’re the second person to say that to me tonight. I am going to begin working on it right away. Lola and I are going to have dinner at the…

…Sicilian, she interjected.

Pilatus etched the man’s features in his mind and then reached out with his being to feel his essence, a newly discovered ability of being dead-alive. He was one of those, Hey there friend how ya doin? types on the outside, but inside was vicious and would take everything he could from you, including your life.

Name’s Giovanni, said the large man, offering his hand.

My name is Pilatus, he said and gently laid his hand in the man’s huge paw.

Giovanni began to squeeze hard and to the point of causing pain in order to establish his superiority. Pilatus matched him increment for increment of applied force until the bull sized man reached his limit and relaxed his grip.

Pilatus leaned forward. I have more, he whispered.

Giovanni withdrew his hand and stepped back, his eyes grown large.

Uh-h-h, glad to meet you Mr. Pilatus, you and the lady have a wonderful evening.

Oh, we will Mr. Giovanni, and thank you, said Lola. Pilatus didn’t speak as he hooked arms with Lola and they continued their journey down the portico.

Out in the street, the dogs hadn’t spilled each other’s blood.

Entering the pleasant surroundings of the Sicilian, the waiter seated them at a table against a wall, a sconce oil lamp cast dim light on the red and white checkered cloth.

Are you in need of a menu? inquired the waiter.

I’ll have a filet mignon, very rare, a small loaf of bread, and a glass of your finest water, said Pilatus, wondering what memory those words came from. The waiter nodded and looked at Lola. I’ll have the chicken caccitore, a small loaf of bread, and a glass of your finest red wine please, she said. The waiter nodded and disappeared.

Lola?

Yes.

It seems that there is a very odd festive mood affecting the village. Is something special taking place or is this normal for…what is this village called?

Turin, she replied. The festival is called All Hallow’s Eve and lasts the entire night. As you have probably noticed people dress up like something from beyond the grave or from a different world; witches, goblins, ghosts, skeletons, animals and the like. Don’t ask me what it means or how it got started because I don’t know. It takes place once a year on this date.

The waiter set the plates of food on the table. Pilatus devoured the rare bloody meat and wiped up the left over juice with the bread. Lola was daintier and ate noiselessly. At one time she may have been a lady.

He discreetly ran his right index finger along his top row of teeth, taking extra care to stop and check his canines. They were neither long nor pointed. He concluded they must extend when needed and retract when not.

Lola ordered another glass of red wine and after emptying it the waiter retrieved the coin on the table. He returned with the change. They thanked him, stood, hooked arms, and headed out the door to the now very crowded and rowdy street, leaving the change on the table.

Pilatus turned to her. I think I’ve had enough of this whirling crowd for one night. Will you be alright if I leave? he asked.

Well, I’ll be damned, a gentleman indeed. Of course I’ll be alright. I’ve lived on these streets most of my life, she said.

He nodded and then turned and headed up cemetery hill. The rare steak had only whetted his appetite. Lola went the other way, the crowd parting for her as she moved through it to the center of the revelers.

The odds were far askew and against it but as he ascended the hill he met Mr. Giovanni who, for reasons known only to him, was coming down it. Pilatus instinctively knew the man was itching for revenge for being bested in the show of strength disguised as a hand shake.

Well, Mr. Pilatus, we meet again. Say, did you know Lolita, Lola, is one of the longest tenured whores in town?

Pilatus glanced around. No one was in sight.

I assume you know that from experience Mr. Giovanni, and I will also assume that you are the largest of the many pigs that dwell in the town.

Why you upstart piece of skeletal dung! I hope you enjoyed your last meal because I intend on crushing every bone in your body.

My last meal? No sir, not quite, he said as he let Giovanni grab him around his rib cage and at the same time pin his arms to his sides.

He reared his head back, thrust it forward, and bit into the thumping artery of the big man’s neck, this time ready for the initial spurt of the refreshing blood. Giovanni fainted and went limp. Pilatus, with one arm, dragged him into the bushes where he could drain the man’s elixir at his leisure.

An elixir? No, no, it is much more than that, it is life, the very structure of the universe, the force of all forces, the reason of all being, and the need of all needs.

He finished feeding and looked down at the puncture wounds in the dead man’s neck. Once again he checked his canine teeth. They were neither long nor pointed. Extend when needed, retract when not all in a matter of seconds, very convenient.

Power surged through his emaciated looking body, enough to overrun a town, to conquer an army, to rule the world; it could not possibly have an equal. He did not notice that he hovered a foot above the ground as he immersed himself in the ecstasy of his newfound life.

After a few moments—if time can be measured in eternity—he drifted back to earth, left the carcass in the bushes, and sauntered up the hill to sit on the marble bench, his heightened senses enfolding him in splendor. He could hear not only the roar of the crowd at the bottom of the hill, but if he listened intently, individual conversations. The night sky was no longer black, cold, and distant, but close, filled with light, and contained nothing to fear.

Perhaps I can touch the stars.

A woman’s scream shattered the night.

He stood and moved the few paces needed to look down the path. The moon’s brightness, increased by tenfold in his new eyes, revealed a woman standing on the path near where Giovanni’s carcass lay.

Maybe she went off into the bushes to relieve herself.

He chuckled at the thought, surprising himself. Not wanting any attention, he moved over to stand on his gravesite. To mist, he said and became a dense white fog covering the surface area of his grave. Within a few seconds he seeped through the ground to settle as flesh and bone in his coffin, at once falling into a deep and untroubled sleep.

CHAPTER THREE

From out of the deep and dreamless sleep Pilatus awoke, his mind untouched by confusion. To mist, he said and in seconds seeped up through the earth to stand on his grave as a man of flesh and bone. He sat down on the nearby marble bench and watched as the sun painted the sky different shades of pastel orange, pink, and lavender as it rose over Turin. The whitened wall of the sepulcher off to his right reflected the changing colors of the sun climbing the cloudless sky.

He stood up and looked down the cemetery path and then into the village below. No one was milling about. He cocked his head to the right and listened intently. No sound. Good. Apparently the shock of finding Giovanni’s corpse had passed.

They would find others.

He then pondered obsessively, asking himself over and over the same questions. Who was I before I died and was buried? How long ago have I lain in that grave and why am I dead-alive now? Until I find the answers I will wander about as one who is blind.

Perhaps one day he would find the answers he sought, but right now he was certain of one thing, he had an insistent craving for blood, a craving that was more than relentless, but instead promised and guided him to partake of the surge and to feel the preternatural power it gave him, and that was reason enough for existence, and although he had gratitude, he did not know where to direct it. He did know it was a gift and he would not take it for granted. Enjoying it will show my gratitude.

The odor of pigs wafted up from the town and made him salivate. He stood up, his movements fluid and easy, and headed down the path toward the village. He stopped along the way to peer into the bushes, no Giovanni. His mouth stretched into a wide grin and he noticed that the skin of his face had become more elastic.

Reaching the main street the evidence of last night’s party had left scattered remnants everywhere; empty and broken bottles, papers, and cloth colored ribbons strewn about, a dead dog lying in the street, but no people stirred in the early morning.

He pulled the brim of his black hat lower to shade his eyes and turned down the alley of the piglets. Stooping to look under the old wagon he spied the piglets, one dead, and the other asleep. He grabbed the sleeper by a hind leg, dragged it out with blurring speed and before it could squeal sank his fangs into its neck. But it was only an appetizer and he would need more.

Realizing without shock that his nature had turned predatory, the idea of slipping into bestiality did not repulse him, but rather, he embraced the possibility.

He would find a human to feast on toward evening, unless opportunity manifested and he found one for easy taking before dark fell.

The early morning sun felt hot to the extreme. He moved into the shadow of the roofs that covered the portico and walked silently on the red tile until he reached a bench in front of the Sicilian. He sat down to watch the day develop; taking note of all the trees in the village that could offer him shade.

Across the street, a young woman with long black hair emerged from the doorway of the Traveler’s Inn. She held the hand of a little giggling girl who skipped along causing her blond curls to bounce up and down in rhythm to her steps.

Pilatus tuned in his hearing. Where are we going today Mommy? she asked in the musical voice of children.

We will travel south, toward Rome, and it will take a few days to get there.

Is Rome a big place Mommy?

It is the biggest place you will ever see my dear.

Rome, Pilatus had heard that name before. He paused to wonder if the day would ever come when killing and feeding off such a child would not bother him. At the moment, the thought of such an act did.

But maybe it is a requirement in the journey of my new life.

He hoped not. Suddenly the sounds of whips ripping into bare flesh rang inside his ears. A crowd hollered and cheered each lash as screams of agony followed them. Then the frenzied crowd was silenced by the pounding of nails. People cried and wept as cheers revived and joined together with agony in a symphony of horror, growing louder with each passing second.

Was I a monster of some sort before they laid me in my grave? Were my atrocities so vile, so wicked, they were powerful enough to pull me out of it?

Of course the questions were without answers. But the memories resided inside him, somewhere, in his mind or in his soul, if he had one, but regardless, he knew they would surface to clarity one day.

Just accept it, a voice whispered inside his head.

Maybe this new life will not be all fun and games after all, he thought as he watched the young woman and her beautiful daughter disappear around the corner of the Traveler’s Inn.

He looked down at the backs of his hands resting on his knees. They were covered with large, rust colored age spots. He wondered at the rest of his appearance.

Standing with the ease of a feline, he crossed the street as fast as he could, which if anyone saw him would be a blur, and stepped up a flight of four marble steps, very wide and flanked by a white marble column on each side. He pulled open the heavy wood door. Stepping inside, the inn confronted him with a world of illusion. The lobby somehow appeared to double in size of what the outside walls suggested, and despite its rather common and colloquial name, the interior was plush and opulent and fragrant with the scent of roses. A blood red carpet covered the entire area except for a two-foot wide space between it and the walls, exposing a floor of white marble. No other patrons were present. At the far end of the expansive lobby loomed a large cypress wood desk, set up off the floor on a foot high dais of marble. Behind the desk sat a clerk with a pale and expressionless face.

May I help you sir? he asked, his voice carrying effortlessly across the well-designed acoustics.

Pilatus glanced first at the left wall and then at the right.

No, thank you, I found what I was looking for, he replied and proceeded over to the right wall. The clerk tracked him with suspicious eyes.

He stood in front of a large oval mirror and gasped. Looking back at him was not the face of an emaciated old man or a skull with skin stretched tight to cover it, but the face of a fortyish man. Somewhat pale and gaunt, yes, but not at all what he expected. He removed his hat to see medium length, thick black hair. He peeled back his upper lip and opened his mouth. His teeth were white, straight, in alignment, and he had no fangs…that showed. His eyes were wide apart, deep set, and as blue as glacial ice. They say the eyes are the windows of the soul. Mine must be very cold if I possess one at all. Feeling very pleased he put his hat on and turned to head out the door.

Hey mister! the desk clerk hollered at his back. He stopped and turned around.

Yes?

There was a murder in the village last night. The killer might still be around.

Pilatus reached out to feel the young man’s being and encountered only suspicion.

Thank you for the warning, he said, unconcerned at the clerk’s suspicions, and then turned toward the door, grasped the brass handle, and opened the portal to the outside world, the scale of his surroundings returning to what his previous perceptions had told him was normal.

Descending the four steps to the street he turned left, went around the corner and walked along the side of the inn to a crossroad. He looked south and with his high tuned vision could see the woman and the little blond girl riding alone in a one-horse wagon. They were close to the horizon, but there was only one road so he didn’t worry about losing them.

Returning to the shade of the portico he sat again on the bench in front of the Sicilian, pulling the brim of his hat low over his eyes.

He heard soft footsteps coming up the side porch. The person almost passed by him but came to a stop. A familiar odor touched his nostrils.

Mr. Pilatus?

He tilted up the brim of his hat.

Why Lola, it is good to see you survived the night and I can therefore see you again?

Certainly, and I must say, that rare steak you ate last night did wonders for you. You look so…robust, although still a bit pale.

Thank you my dear, perhaps we can dine together another time soon, but right now I must leave town for a short while, and although I cannot guarantee that I will return before sundown, I will try my hardest to do so.

Very well Mr. Pilatus, I hope to see you soon.

You will.

She flashed him a genuine smile. Pilatus acknowledged it, Lola continued her stroll down the portico, and he stood, and after crossing the street, began to walk along the side of the Traveler’s Inn until he reached the crossroads. Once there he looked for the wagon carrying the young mother and her darling daughter, but it had disappeared over a small hill that defined the horizon. He breathed in deeply to imprint their scent. It would be easy to follow.

Why not now? Looking back along the street toward town, he saw that no eyes were on him.

To wolf, he said and became a large male covered with gray fur streaked with several large strips of black. It surprised him how cool he felt in the skin of the animal. He began loping south on the dusty road, the scent of the woman impossible to lose. He moved along at an easy pace.

Dark fell.

Not far ahead dancing flames gave away the location of a fire. Creeping closer he saw that it was set within a ring of olive trees, and was much larger than he at first thought. He slowed. He approached the trees, stopped, and let out a whimper. The horse whinnied and skittered to the side of the wagon, moving closer to the firelight.

The woman and her daughter heard the whimpering sound. The woman turned to see ruby red eyes circled by a strange ice blue color glistening just beyond the ring of the trees.

What is it Mommy?

I think maybe a wolf has come by looking for scraps of food, she said, turning toward her daughter.

We will get you comfortable to sleep and Mommy will keep the fire going and stay up to watch, okay?

Yes Mommy, I am very tired, said the child, yawning.

The girl crawled into bed in the open-air wagon and was fast asleep before her mother could kiss her goodnight. The woman settled on a downed tree trunk by the fire. A soft rustling in the brush outside the trees startled her, pulling her attention away from her daughter. She looked up expecting to see the same ruby red eyes with the circles of ice blue around them. She saw nothing. She had a bow and several arrows, a lance, and a sword under the seat of the wagon. She stood and walked rapidly over to it never stepping outside the firelight or taking her eyes off her daughter. Reaching the wagon she pulled a two edged sword out from underneath the seat and remained standing by the wagon.

The little girl suddenly jolted awake and jerked her torso up to a sitting position. Mommy, over there! she pointed toward the brush. The woman looked and there were the red and blue eyes of the creature. It whimpered as if it wanted to join them by the fire’s warmth and perhaps find something to eat.

She did not trust its pretense; she had heard too many gypsy stories. Reaching under the front seat of the wagon she pulled out the bow and a quiver filled with silver tipped arrows. She turned to her daughter and said, Climb down out of the wagon and settle yourself by the fire. I will keep watch through the night while you sleep by the fire with the sword by your hand, just in case the wolf should charge and break past me. You know how to use it do you not?

Yes Mommy, I have been trained since I was big enough to hold one.

Hello the camp! a man’s unexpected voice hollered from outside the circle of trees and the halo of firelight within.

I am but a weary traveler and would seek warmth from your fire and perhaps a bit of food, the faceless voice said.

Grip the sword and stay under cover of the blanket.

The girl nodded, her eyes widened by sudden fear.

The woman reached behind her right shoulder, pulled a silver tipped arrow from the quiver and then nocked it.

Come to the edge of the firelight, hands empty and with palms out, that I may see you. If you advance any further I will bury an arrow up to its feathers in the middle of your chest.

The man stepped forward to the edge of the firelight.

His ice blue eyes put her on high-strung alert. She lifted up her bow and then pulled the drawstring half way back.

Halt there unless you want to see death before your time.

He stopped.

Name.

Pilatus.

Mine you will not know, nor that of my daughter. Your eyes, they are ice blue. I have heard it said that the eyes are a window to the soul. Is your soul as cold as ice, Mr. Pilatus?

I’m not sure I have one, he replied.

Nor am I, answered the woman, and as odd as it seemed to her, she felt no threat, but was rather charmed by the stranger. But you may come forward, she said to him.

He took a step toward her. She put more tension on the drawstring of her bow. Halt, she commanded. He did.

I thought a wolf was lurking near. You didn’t see one did you?

No.

Perhaps you were one. I have heard many gypsy stories.

I am only a weary traveler, said Pilatus.

You may share our fire and a bit of food if you agree to my terms.

Which are?

That you are chained to a wagon wheel, and I will watch you all night. It is only in the name of compassion that I make this offer, that you may stay warm but pose no threat. Do you accept?

I do. I pose no threat.

Come forward then, very slow, she said, keeping the bowstring up to her shoulder and following him with the tip of the arrow.

Pilatus stepped forward. She jerked her head to her right toward the wagon. Over there, she commanded. He walked over to the wagon wheel and stood, watching with what seemed to the woman to be amusement. Her eyes did not leave him. Sit, she said.

He braced his back against the wheel and slid slowly to the ground.

Without taking her eyes off him she said, Daughter!

Yes Mommy?

Come here with your sword in hand.

The little girl sprang up, sword in hand and on the alert, to stand by her mother’s side.

I am going to chain Mr. Pilatus to the wagon wheel. Should he even twitch, run your sword through his throat. Do you understand?

Yes Mother, the little girl answered, at the moment not seeming so little or vulnerable to Pilatus.

By the by, Mr. Pilatus, the edges of my daughter’s sword are made of pure silver as are the tips of my arrows. I would caution you, sir, to remain very still.

I pose you no threat, he repeated.

She stepped forward, her daughter by her side. When close enough, the girl placed the point of her sword on the side of Pilatus’ neck. He noted she did not need to be told.

Then the woman bent and laid her bow and arrow on the ground, straightened and then reached into the wagon box and pulled out a chain strong enough to bind an ox.

Pilatus felt more pressure applied to the point of the sword. He dared not draw a deep breath as the woman brought one end of the chain across his chest and arms and then threaded it through the wheel spokes and out again, grabbed the loose end on the ground, and bound them together with a heavy iron lock, tucking the key in the cleavage of her breasts.

The little girl eased up on the pressure she applied to the sword.

You may go back to sleep my dear, said the woman.

Yes Mommy, she said, no longer the miniature warrior, but once again the little girl. Withdrawing her sword from Pilatus’ neck, she turned and carried it with her, went back to her bed by the protective fire and crawled under the covers placing the sword on the ground by her side with her hand lightly grasping its hilt.

Her mother looked at her, she has indeed been trained well, she thought, and then picked up her bow and arrow.

She looked at Pilatus and grinned. He did not return one as he reached out with his being to feel hers. He pulled his head back with his mouth