The Cross and the Crescent: Nikoli Fenchetti

By Gregory Graves and Stephanie Tombs

In AD 458, a Roman general falls victim to the dark myths and legends of Europe. During his campaign in Germania, Nikoli Fenchetti is bitten by an unknown being, granting him immortality and dark gifts. In time, his sickness is revealed to him, unmasking the deep, raw truth.

As he becomes educated on who and what he truly became, Nosferatu, Fenchetti utilizes his dark, undead talent, questing across Europe and the Middle East in search for his reasoning with life. It was an inner torment that drives him to the brink of insanity.

While crossing the vast continents in the mid-ages, Nikoli meets two cursed Romans who crucified Christ, Maximus and Titus. Their journey through the years will bring them to the church, the Vatican, and its secrets. Only the dark gift Nikoli possesses is useful to the black pope and his allies. Only his immortal skills are needed to find the Second Coming of Christ. But when the unborn child is discovered, so undo the lies and deceit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 24, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543453966

Gregory Graves

Growing up in Baltimore, like any other city, was a struggle. The streets were tough and skewed no mercy. However I survived... barely. But through it all time taught me valuable lessons. One being true to your dream. I refused to give in or remain a victim to the streets so with family, friends, and my wife’s faith I overcame such obstacles. And saying that I would like to thank those special to me. Those who believed in my talent and persistence with this project. Stephanie Devenny, my wife and soulmate thank you for driving my creativity in bringing this book to life. I’ll love you forever and always. To my girls, Acacia and Sabrina two beautiful gifts given to me thank you for your support. Lastly to my mother Anna Reynolds and stepmother Debbie Devenny. Your warm faith keeps me alive. So many know of my struggle with life. And witnessing this accomplishment is testimony that dreams due come true. Thank you all. Never give up, never surrender. Through the door of darkness light exists, and in that light breaths hope.

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Copyright © 2017 by Gregory Graves ; Stephanie Tombs.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2017914907

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-5434-5394-2

   Softcover   978-1-5434-5395-9

   eBook   978-1-5434-5396-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

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without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 10/24/2017

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The corner coffee shop in a Sunday morning lacked the usual crowd it would normally carry throughout the week. It was quiet, relaxed, and held at the current time several couples focused on their breakfast.

The bell above the door jingled as I entered, grabbing the attention of everyone inside. As I walked down the aisle toward the back, I shook the rain from my long black London Fog trench coat. The patrons sized me up and then returned to their food and beverage. Only the small chatter and the clanging silverware broke the silence as I made my way to an empty booth at the back. My pale appearance and shoulder-length black hair brought curious stares from the customers as I passed by until I sat down. Of course, I stood out like some freak or alien, but it didn’t matter to me. If they only knew what I was … And even if they knew, it would be far worse. Sheer panic entwined with fear would take hold inside them, sending them all rushing for the nearest exit. You see, a vampire isn’t someone you warm up to. The thought of having one’s throat ripped open or being a food for an immortal terrified the average individual. It was the common outcasts that welcomed the fact and fantasized of being turned that truly worried me. They simply didn’t understand what they were in for.

However, I took a seat and patiently waited for the waitress to take my order. My piercing blue eyes, in the meantime, moved left to right, examining the layout of the small coffee shop I chose to be in. It was the typical 1950s decor, nothing fancy here. As my eyes roamed about, the young blond waitress appeared beside me, pen in hand. Good morning, sir, are you dining in?

I nodded then continued, A cup of black coffee, large, will do. That’s all, young lady.

She smiled, turned, and moved toward the main counter that seated a heavy-set man in his early seventies. I watched as she slipped behind the counter, grabbed a clean mug, and began filling it from a heated pot of coffee.

My attention was interrupted by the steady rain that bounced off the glass window to my left. Just outside, New York was alive and well with the hustle and bustle of mundane life. Countless umbrellas littered the streets and walkways as the average mortals went about their day. The presence of the supernatural among them was far from their minds and tattered thoughts. It didn’t exist as they knew it. The undead is a Hollywood concept or something from a Stephen King novel. For them, it went no further. The horror ended here, no more, no less. For me, that kind of thinking sat well. One, I was able to coexist with the living, and two, I went undetected like a dream, with no explanation. Thousands of years had passed, and yet I’m still breathing and interacting with mortals. At times, I would question myself how I succeeded, finding no real answer for the many twisted equations.

While I was lost in thought, my cup of coffee arrived. She placed it on the table, just inches away from me. A spoon and a napkin followed. With a smile, she went on with her work. I was left alone to enjoy the warmth of my choice of drink, specifically chosen for such a dismal day. I took a sip or two without pulling away from the window view. Once again, my tormented mind drifted in my memories—memories of a time when I was mortal.

***

It was AD 458, the age of the great Roman Empire. I was a young twenty-eight-year-old general in charge of five thousand soldiers of the Fifth Iron Eagle Legion. War was at hand as I marched my men north into Germania and her barbarian tribes. There, I would join my fifty thousand strong brothers in a fight to expand the empire. One thing I could remember vividly was her intensely cold climate. I never adapted well to chilly conditions. In fact, I despised the winter months. I longed to be home in Rome with my beautiful wife and my three-year-old daughter, Coral. But I was a soldier, and orders are what I followed and lived for. Not only that, but I was also an officer respected by many.

The journey was long and bitter as we traveled northward. Once we crossed into enemy lands, I led my legion west toward the Rhine River. There, we followed her further north until we met up with our sister legions of fifteen thousand soldiers. Our orders were to clear the western half of Germania of any tribal resistance. It wasn’t long when we encountered just that. Ten miles northeast of the river, behind a curtain of thick woods, congregated thousands of barbarians itching for combat. I repositioned my legion on the left flank, poised for action. Along our battle line, I rode up and down, shouting encouragement to my men who held firm in their formation. Their shields overlapped one another, with their swords drawn and spears set to advance. For Rome, my brothers, for Rome! I repeated loudly. The men cheered at the top of their lungs as they refrained from pushing forward. A well-oiled war machine prepped to be unleashed into the jaws of death itself.

Between us and the vast wooded tree line that ran for several miles or so was three-hundred-yard open field. The field was soft and muddy, unfriendly and unrelenting to an army’s standard cavalry. This would be an infantry engagement—one that favored our disciplined legions. Two thousand of the total fifteen thousand men were archers from the Third Iron Eagle, positioned directly in the center. Gen. Salvator Este’, a six–foot, 220-pound Spaniard born in Madrid, commanded the Third Iron Eagle and sat, resting upon his white steed a few feet behind his men. The quietness of the snow falling gently that morning was interrupted by the screams and battle cries from both opposing sides that would soon clash in combat. I kept my eyes on the field and Salvator. Eagerly waiting for his signal to send a shower of death to the enemy ranks, I rode to the rear. There, I patiently held my ground.

Suddenly, thousands of tribal warriors emerged from the shadows of the tree line. Their cries echoed for miles, it seemed, as they broke into full sprints across the murky field. General Salvator thrusted his sword he held high downward, signaling to his archers to release hell. Fire! he ordered loudly.

I watched the arrows black out the winter sun as they rained down upon the oncoming enemy. Hundreds fell instantly, but they kept approaching our line, unscathed. Forward, brothers! I ordered my infantry.

Like a wave rolling forth, unchallenged, the Fifth Iron Eagle charged. Our center stood motionless while the flanks entered the field.

It wasn’t long after the sound of steel and screams flooded the morning air. The hand-to-hand melee was brutal, unforgiving. Uncounted men littered the muddy ground, staining the earth’s natural color to bright crimson red. I rode into the fight with my sword slashing wildly. The steel ran thick with my foe’s blood as I made contact with their flesh. I became blood-drunk and blood-crazed, determined to kill as many as possible while staying alive. The battle surrounded me, and I found myself enveloped with soldiers locked in hand-to-hand combat. Without warning, my horse was impaled, and I was thrown from her saddle. Somehow, I managed to stagger through the chaos and confusion to the outer part of the conflict. I was dazed and bloody, weak and confused. While in this state of vulnerability, I was attacked from behind by pale and icy hands. Its bite sunk into my neck, taking me straight to the mud. I struggled and resisted to the best of my weakened ability, but my fight was futile. Everything grew dark and hazy as I felt my life flow out of my body. The faint sound of galloping hooves drew closer and closer, then nothing. Silence.

I woke from what seemed like a darkened dream. Feeling weightless, I floated freely with the winds that cradled me. My vision was bright and ever so sharp in contrast. All my senses heightened, alert to my surroundings. I could smell the sweetness of blood and the craving thirst that came with it. Roman soldiers stood around me with the stare of utter confusion, puzzled and mystified. I could smell their fear that ran through their veins. As I rose to my feet, they stepped back, avoiding any contact. Their eyes studied me, unable to come to any conclusion to what they were witnessing. I could hear their thoughts, each and every one of them, as if I were reading their minds. And I was. I could hear them—those who watched me fall—questioning my death at the hands of the unknown.

General Fenchetti, one soldier asked, are you okay, sir?

Everyone waited for my reply or an answer of any kind to this senseless occurrence. If they saw me die, then did I rise from the dead? Was I dead at all, and was my passing a mistake? Nothing made sense; reality was questioned. It seemed like I was losing my sanity. Was I losing my mind?

General, are you okay, sir? another soldier said in a more concerned voice.

I’m fine, soldier. Alive. Thanks to the gods. And with that response, they moved on, contented with their officer’s well-being.

Finally, I was able to evaluate the aftermath of the battle we eventually won. Thousands of Roman soldiers began to regroup; others assisted the wounded, carrying them from the field away from the hundreds of dead and dying. Bodies and body parts polluted the grounds. Blood mixed in with the wet earth as far as the eye could see. The chilled winter winds blew the stench of death through the air, alerting dozens of vultures to a meal that was still steaming warm. But the smell of blood drove me to a thirst I couldn’t control by any means. The smell watered my mouth, a taste I craved and lusted for.

At the base of my footwear, a few limbs with a portion of a torso lay hacked and cleaved. From a sudden glance, the person was hard to identify. The blood-craving enslaved my common thirst, bringing me to my bruised knees and scared palms. The smell drove me to the level of a wild animal—an animal with a bloodthirsty lust, unable to quench its thirst. The feeling was insane to the average mortal. My insides were being teased and tormented with the heat of a raging lava. I quickly removed my helmet from my throbbing head to the bloody mud to my right. Saliva dripped from my reddened lips as I thrusted my face into the shredded torso, lapping and ripping blood and flesh. The meal surprisingly fulfilled my hunger, yet my body wanted more. My barbaric actions went unquestioned by soldiers strolling and returning back into their ranks. I’m sure and certain that the event raised a few eyebrows or so. The more I continued to feast, the more I ate fast, casting pieces of flesh all around me. I couldn’t stop or slow my roll. My strength, it seemed to me, grew to a level I never encountered before. There was no end to the insanity I brought to the world I once knew existed.

As I indulged in the warm, steaming body, blood running down my lips, I was unaware of the unexpected visitor who rode on a horse. The deep snort and heavy breath of the mare startled my dining. My piercing bright, now bluish eyes followed the horse’s body straight up to her rider.

Resting comfortably in the saddle was Gen. Salvator Este’. From beneath his helmet, Salvator assessed the morbid sight. No emotion was expressed; a simple cold-like stare was all that he could muster.

I have no explanation for my cannibal behavior, General. My abnormal hunger and thirst not only frightens me. My entire being in this twisted state, old friend, also seats me beside the gods, like a god. Salvator held the mare’s reins steadily and tightly as he sat, pondering on what I nervously replied.

His mare rocked back and forth, side to side, attempting to settle her hooves atop the bodies beneath. She sneered uneasily, blowing warm puffs of breath from her nostrils.

The general, avoiding direct eye contact, looked at the previous battlefield from across his shoulder. I could read his nightmarish thoughts as they came through then left as fast as they came. Thousands of soldiers, friends and foes, lay stacked on top of one another in disfigured formations. Salvator absorbed the view, one of many, that would scar his memory once again. Partaking in such savage, heartless forms of combat was nothing new to him. In fact, he constructed numbness around his soul. You had to create a shell of some kind in order to survive. This sort of feeling was alive within Salvator’s eyes like any hardened Roman soldier at that time. His eyes were blank and cold.

I took the time to soak in the aftermath. We entered the engagement with fifteen thousand strong and ended with roughly eight thousand alive. Between the dead and cleaved, I estimated about seven thousand. The numbers were astounding but acceptable. I could recall the fighting was brutal and fierce. However, in the end, the day was ours.

You look as if the hands of Hades himself has claimed your soul, General, Salvator snapped in a cold but bold statement. Bring yourself to your feet, sir, and stand with pride Rome has bestowed inside you. An animal you are not, General. And saying that, I climbed to my muddied feet, brushing off my legs in the process. The attempt to clean myself did no good by any means. I merely smeared the mud and blood across my thighs and armor. And so I stopped.

Forgive me, brother. I stand before you shaken and bewildered in relation to my current state of existence. I know nothing of why I have come to act in such a manner or in the way of an animal. My hunger and thirst for human remains have me utterly confused, General. I’m lost and feeling disorientated, my memory hazy and fogged. I had answered to the best of my knowledge. And although that wasn’t enough, it had to do; my memory was limited and fractured.

Salvator, for the first time in our meeting, looked me in my blazing blue eyes. Nikoli, he said quietly as he slowly dismounted. We’ve been friends for some time, General. My word to you is sincere and pure. Not only am I here for military gains as you, but my understanding of the land and her customs are also put to use. He cautiously stepped over and between bodies and littered body parts so he could stand directly in front of me, eye to eye. His large muscular frame shadowed mine as he drew near, the mare’s reins still in his hands.

It was midday, and the winter sun was high and slightly warm. Steam rolled around the field, lingering above the countless bodies that generated its heat. The smell of corpses polluted the air, but for me, only blood infested my nostrils. It was strong and sweet. The battlefield, once a beautiful serene green, now barren and contaminated, became an open buffet for nature’s scavengers. Small groups of vultures and large black birds huddled here and there, picking the soon-to-be rotting flesh. In time, their feasting would clear the field and return it back to normal.

Among the devastation caused by the war, Roman soldiers sought out the wounded, friends and foes. Fellow Romans who were injured with a chance of survival were carried to the rear for medical attention. Unfortunately, many didn’t make it. A lost limb, impaled or hacked openly by an axe, sealed their fate and ended their future. Blood lost was astronomical. But our adversaries met a swift and certain fate—death. Their blood-gargling cries and desperate pleas for help snared attention from Roman soldiers in search for their kind. Each one, and down to the last barbarian, begged for life but received the thrust of a spear or the end of an axe. No quarter was given.

Nikoli, my friend and brother of Rome, once our day has ended here, we’ll prepare camp and give rest to the many brave soldiers who have valiantly fought today and rose victoriously. Later in the evening, you report to my quarters alone. There, I pray to the gods, and for your sake, an understanding can be reached. Salvator patted my left shoulder, cracked a smile, and then proceeded to walk his mare past and over several mangled bodies.

Confused but intrigued, I agreed with a nod. Funny thing, my hunger was satisfied. The strength provided from my brief blood-bingeing felt and matched that of twenty soldiers or more. I located my helmet, strapped it on, and then proceeded to cross the muddy field. With each solid step I took, mud and blood squeezed between my toes. The sound rang deep within my ears as I pressed forward. Halfway through, I finally linked up with my legion, the Fifth Iron Eagle. At a glance, I could estimate our loses, 1,500 approximately. The remaining 3,500 saluted then stood at attention. Their faces were bloody, worn, and exhausted. Various voices clambered my mind, battering it with questions pertaining to my encounter with death. I too questioned and entertained the very thought; in fact, it haunted me. General Salvator possibly could bear some form of light on such a darkened case, maybe a solution to this unknown disease I now harbored within. The answer to my prayers rested in the hands of the gods.

As you all can see, I’m alive and in the flesh, my brothers of Rome, I pointed out. Gaze upon your general who breathes before you. See the life inside my eyes. I have been touched by our gods who have blessed me with many of their gifts and power! Saying that, I turned to the tree line that ran thick behind me. One sudden thrust of my fist exploded through the trunk of the oak. The great, massive tree broke into two and fell. Undoubtingly, I could feel the strength and energy pulsating in my veins, or I surely would not have demonstrated such a feat. The soldiers jumped back, their eyes wide with fear and shock. They whispered among themselves, debating over what they had testified. Not one could produce a logical explanation. The unexplained now gave birth to an understanding—an immortal one, a godly one. Beneath my helmet, shadowed by the brim, I grinned in a wicked type way. I then turned and faced my men.

My soldiers witnessed the gods in the flesh, a mere mortal now transformed and alive among the living. To them, I became a vessel, blessed with an immortal gift. For me, this gift was one of many to come. At first, they stood still, frozen in fear. Soon they came to realize the amazing potential one of their own had come to possess. Their thoughts were followed by a burst of cheers that roared across the vast field and traveled through the dense forest in front of them. The soldiers of the Fifth Iron Eagle held their swords and shields high above their heads, honoring me, their immortal general. I played into their flattery by thrusting my sword into the air just above my head. Their cheers intensified. I was a legend in the making—a legend to be reckoned with—and this was simply the beginning.

The Fifth Iron Eagle, like their sister legions, regrouped and tightened their ranks. Their weary eyes watched as I climbed into my horse’s saddle. Pulling back her reins, I spun my steed to face the men. Their cheers sent the scavengers scattering into the sky, interrupting a feast fit for a king; however, their buffet wouldn’t relocate any time soon. It wouldn’t be long after they would return to finish their rotting meal.

Fueled and energized with my newly discovered capabilities, excited with the notion of being godlike, I screamed along with the men. Their shields rattled as they relentlessly struck the outer face with their swords. I pounded my chest plate, keeping rhythm with my legion that was jubilant and enraged, drunk and intoxicated with abundance. Although they were disciplined, their behavior at the moment was like a pack of timber wolves. I too joined in, rearing my steed back onto her hind legs. For Rome! For the Fifth Iron Eagle, my brothers! I cheered, waving my sword wildly. My encouraging bold statement enticed the men to become untamed and crazed. To add to their uncontrollable mentality, they contributed to a great Roman victory earlier that morning. Three legions went head-to-head with thousands and thousands of radical barbarians hell-bent on defending their lands to the last man or to death. Sharing the same air with their enemies didn’t and wouldn’t sit well. The mere thought of submission, slavery, and losing their country to unwanted outsiders drove them to accept the concept known as martyrs. Their heart and pride would allow each and every one to sign a pact with their gods and death in exchange for their souls after they had fallen in combat. Regardless, this was the way of a soldier’s honor: to die at the hands of a worthy opponent, sacrificing a life or thousands of lives in defiance, patriotic resistance to the last.

The battlefield began to empty. The Roman legions or what was left formed ranks and slowly marched north alongside the Rhine River. The men were tired and famished. Our march was slow and lacked any inner drive to push forward. By this time, it was dark and lightly snowing. The temperature dropped, bringing a harsh chill to the winter air. As we moved on, I couldn’t resist looking back over my shoulder at such a horrid sight that would be left behind and swallowed with time. The snow flurries and the butchered bodies that lay scattered about peppered the ground. The corpses, in some parts of the field, built mounds of mangled limbs and headless torsos. Nothing moved nor showed any kind of life. Only silhouettes, shadows, and darkened figures painted the horizon blended in with a variety of weapons here and there.

My memory of that day would always be etched or burned into my mind. With time, I would recall this place of my second birth so to say, my awakening. But for now, my or any understanding of my sudden illness had no explanation, no answer. I was excited for the overnight supernatural strength; that was a game changer. I felt godlike, immortal.

In the dark, my vision was twice as sharp and refined than during the highest point of the day. In fact, it was incredible. Nothing, and I mean nothing, escaped the grasp of yet another dark gift from the unknown. Lacking the proper education in relation to the unknown made me feel vulnerable; like a child, parental supervision was needed.

I scanned the one-time lush green scenery from left to the far right. The site witnessed by my intense vision was sickening and frightening. The stench was thick from the dead. The smell seemed to travel through the air, riding the breeze, pending on the direction of the winds. Flurries slowly fell, slightly layering the corpses that were stacked and scattered across the field. It was hauntingly lifeless. Only the whistling from the wind coming through forest broke the eerie silence of the evening. What felt like hours was nothing more than several minutes at best.

I pulled my horse around so I could retain a better view of the horror brought on by man’s bloody hands. The soldiers continued to march forward, ignoring me altogether. I couldn’t help but to take notice how weary and worn the men had looked. They desperately needed rest and soon.

The average Roman soldier, proud and tuned in to his personal discipline, was dirty, bloody, and weak from battle, was lacking the strength to uphold their shields. The sight in seeing my brethren in such a way gave me the incentive to ride ahead and notify the other two generals of the situation.

As I galloped past and alongside our line of shuffling soldiers, I finally trotted beside Gen. Salvator Este’ and Gen. Vito Cornelli. My startling appearance from out of thin air broke their conversation.

Generals, I opened respectfully, time has come to set camp and settle in for countless evenings ahead, agree? There was no argument or debate concerning my gesture. General Cornelli, a thick six-foot-one Italian, turned in his saddle, pulling back and hard on his horse’s reins. Captain, put together a scouting party, and ride ahead of our current position. Locate a more proper and suitable base camp for are comrades in arms.

The captain saluted, accepted the mission bestowed upon him, and then spun his steed around harshly, breaking into a full gallop, screaming, Third cavalry, Fourth Iron Eagle front and center for patrol duty! The captain’s orders echoed and relayed down the staggering line of foot soldiers and cavalry intertwined together.

It wasn’t long for the captain to gather up a ten-man scouting party. The small Roman cavalry reared and sneered, kicking up mud as they stampeded out in front of the marching legions. Their horses raced ahead of the generals who sat tall in their own saddles, saluting them individually as they vanished into the distance. The thunderous sound of their hooves faded off the farther they gotten away. The darkness with the twisted shadows from the dense forest running along their right swallowed the patrol eventually. Only the dragging of footsteps from the thousands and thousands of soldiers invested the night air.

Hours and hours had passed before the detachment returned safely. They immediately reported to General Cornelli, briefing him on a location just ten miles or so at the base of the first group of hills. The rocky hills ran in a horseshoe shape, creating a holler with one way in and one way out. Defensively, it was ideal for a base camp. The thick forest stood firm to our right or the east. It climbed up and into the rocky hills, north bound, before peppering off at the peak then sliding back down the western half, regaining her thickness again.

Within an hour or so, the army poured into the petite valley. Thousands of four-man tents overwhelmed the muddy earth sprinkled with a thin layer of freshly fallen snow. At the base of the rocky, sloped hill, the cavalry stalls and supplies were set up beside the officers’ quarters. For defensive purposes, thirty soldiers pitched tents at the peak of the fifteen-foot hill overlooking the grounds below and slightly beyond. Anyone or anything couldn’t come close without detection. The perimeter was fenced in then reinforced with twelve-foot stakes facing outward, thwarting all those unwelcomed. Roman infantry and archers positioned themselves on the inner side of the fence line.

General Cornelli, from what I knew and was informed of, was a master in fortifications. His skills proved to be legendary in the making. In past engagements, his capabilities survived and frustrated the invading Persians whom surrounded his forts but was unable to break the will or structures constructed. Catapults and ballistae, just to name a few projectiles, were at his disposal at the time, giving him a sporting chance against any oncoming siege. Although casualties were high and his eighteen-foot stonewalls were battered, his structure held out. Each fort housed roughly three thousand soldiers at best. They were expected to defend their position like animals and to the last man if necessary; they did just as ordered but never overrun in an engagement that seemed hopeless. General Cornelli’s reputation as a hard disciplinarian but a fair man went a long respectful way with his men. He scared his rivals from head to toe during combat, which suited his greedy persona and tough character. A broad Italian with an ear of understanding harnessed a short fiery temper. Although he patiently listened, accepting all those who came honest and direct, he had little heart for the arrogant and ignorant. Sadly enough, his time with the living was running thin and ever so short. A great man indeed, he was a general that was worthy of his rank and more.

It was late in the wee hours when I finally had the opportunity to visit General Salvator’s quarters. Outside are tents, and throughout the camp, torches softly lit the grounds. Small talk and chatter carried on around the grounds interrupted now and then by bursts of laughter. Spirits were high regardless of our dismal situation. The smell of roasting fowl, deer, and wild hog filled the cold, chilly night. But for me, it was the sweet order of open wounds seeping blood that snagged my hunger. My thirst and bloodlust was beginning to surge through my clammy veins like some modern street junkie of the twenty-first century. In the pitch black of the evening, I felt my eyes glowed bright and fixated on body heat or any warm-blooded creature for that matter. I quickly, at the very moment, shook the craving off then proceeded into the general’s tent.

General, are you clean and properly suited, brother?

At first, no response. Crackling of wood from the fireplace and the whistling of the wind was heard but no answer from the general. I stepped quietly across the Persian rugs as I moved in and about his elegant abode. Statues of gods sat lifeless atop marble columns around the carpeted tent illuminated by dozens of lit candles. His quarters were fit and decorated for an emperor, lavish and extremely extravagant for a field officer. But back in Rome, he was a hero, a legend. Salvator’s endeavors in the field of combat and the art of warfare went beyond the edge of the empire and into the many ears of his enemies. As I got caught up in my thoughts, my senses homed in and locked onto his whereabouts. I could smell and feel his blood and beating heart.

General Fenchetti, brother, come sit with me and quench your thirst.

I walked through a curtain, a very expensive silk, into another room equipped with table and chairs. Fruits, candles, wine, and chalices overran the top of his handcrafted cherrywood dining table. At the far end, laid back on his chair and dressed in a blue-and-gold-trimmed toga, the general picked at a bowl of freshly picked grapes. Salvator smiled then motioned for me to sit at the opposite end. Embarrassed to say, I was still in my battle armor and gear. Quickly, I respectfully removed my helmet before taking a seat.

My apologies, General, for my unprepared dress code, sir. It won’t—and I assure you—happen again.

Salvator busted out in a hard laugh, spewing pieces of unchewed grapes across the table. Sit, Nikoli. Sit! His laugh put a smile on mine as I finally took up on his persistent offer. We have much to discuss concerning your condition, General. As I sit here, I can see the various changes in your appearance as if your soul has died and cursed you.

General Salvator was—and to my knowledge—an educated man in various subjects ranging from history to poetry. His family held seats in the Roman Empire, mainly the local administration and regional governors. Salvator’s family ties gave him the opportunity to attend prestigious schools and receive the best education available. The gods truly blessed him at birth. With his family’s loyalty to the empire, their persuasion carried him through the ranks of the military. Salvator, in no time, proved his worth as a soldier and a natural-born leader. It was in his blood. His heart was open and passionate but not to be taken advantage of by any given means. A raw brutal temper came with such a pure heart that was soft—a temper that was fearless and unmerciful.

It was late in the evening and chilly. Snow had started to fall, layering the earth with a few inches or so. Luckily for us, we sat inside General Este’s tent beside a makeshift fireplace that warmed the coldest of cold. Once again, as a reminder, Salvator and I rose through the ranks of the Roman military. Our