Death Casts a Shadow

By John V Mercurio

Markus returned with a report that prompted Post Commander Mercurius to roll his eyes. No sign of the assassins or missing emissary. While the PC reprimanded Markus, something caught Orel’s eye, something definitely out of place. Squatting next to one corpse, he discovered a small mark, a tattoo, but the body was too blood-smeared to make it out clearly. Using his thumb and spit he cleared away the blood covering the mark. There behind the dead man’s ear is the Hebrew symbol. This seldom used word had two parts, tsal meaning shadow and mavet, meaning death; it formed the compound, shadow of death. Orel decided to keep this discovery to himself, until he had time to make some sense of it. “Why?” he mused, “would a staff member in a Roman emissary have a Hebrew word tattooed in a place that would likely go un-noticed?”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781639614332

Book preview

Chapter 1

Phantom

At the fortress city of Sebaste, a cricket’s serenade amplified the stillness of the night. Seven hundred years earlier, Sebaste had a different identity; it had been known as Samaria. The ancient city had been the capital of Israel’s northern kingdom, but in the years that followed, it would be crushed by foreign invaders. The Assyrians were the first, descending like locusts destroying everything in their path. The Babylonians followed them, who in turn were subjugated by Persians. Samaria was reduced to rubble, except for one section that escaped detection. Hidden deep beneath the city, a series of underground mazes remained untouched and intact.

Thirty-seven years before the Roman Empire moved in, Samaria was rebuilt and expanded by Herod the Great, who renamed it Sebaste in honor of Emperor Augustus.

Within Sebaste’s city walls, a young Roman sentry sat on the cool stone floor of the watchtower, admiring the night sky. The cricket’s song had a tranquilizing affect, but for some reason, the soldier felt restless. He was troubled by an uneasy sensation, the kind of feeling a person got when they knew they were being watched. Glancing at the wall torch, he attempted to assure himself.

It’s nothing, he muttered, but the strange sensation persisted. Leaning forward, he scanned the compound below yet saw no movement. Getting to his feet, he moved around, trying to shake the eerie feeling. Gives me the creeps, he grumbled. Less than a second later, the torch went out, and the crickets abruptly ended their song. The hair on the back of his neck stood up straight. Reaching for his sword, his head pivoted right, then left.

The intense silence was interrupted by a high-pitched scream. The youthful soldier scarcely maintained his footing as he watched his fallen helmet bound down the stone staircase.

What in the name of… What was that? bellowed a voice below him.

It came from the ambassador’s quarters! he shouted back. Heart racing, he rushed down the stairs, joining the other legionnaire already on his way to the ambassador’s chamber. Together, they pounded on the heavy doors. Ambassador! they shouted. Are you all right?

No reply.

Ambassador Aurelius, please open the door! Panic began to set in as they tugged on the brass rings of the massive portals that would not budge. Sounds of panic erupted throughout the courtyard.

This can’t be happening! said the first soldier.

They’re barred from the inside! shouted the other.

Sound the alarm! We need help!

Tonight, the garrison was comprised of immunes, a rookie police force. The trumpet alarm did its job awakening the sleeping troops. Their quick response followed protocol. Minutes later, all exits are sealed off. As troopers scurried about the compound, Orel, a member of the Judean guard, assisted soldiers outside the ambassador’s door.

Not long ago, this compound had been a family mansion, the home of a wealthy Levitical priest named Lamech. Many Judeans were shocked when he offered to share a portion of his estate with the Roman military. Well-educated, intelligent and wealthy, Lamech had always picked up on the shifting winds of change, cleverly manipulating politics, religion and the military for his personal agenda. The Roman military happily accepted his offer, turning a portion of his ancestral home into a fortified fortress in return for certain promises. Lamech’s mansion had become the living embodiment of the ancient proverb, Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. A small contingency of Judean guardsmen remained in the compound to serve as Lamech’s personal bodyguard.

A full moon cast a shadowy light on the ambassador’s entry door. Orel raised his voice above the chaotic chatter, How can I help?

Axes, we need axes! Got to get through this door!

Nodding, Orel rushed away, returning within minutes with the requested implements. Wood chips flew like missiles as blow after blow struck the heavy cedar doors. But the sturdy portals held fast, refusing to yield ground. The process was impeded further as the arrival of additional immunes created congestion. Mercurius, the Post Decanus, arrived, issuing a singular order.

"Break it down—now!"

Axes were tossed aside as twenty soldiers planted their shoulders against those doors. Grunting, they pushed mightily, but the unrelenting doors stood resolute.

Next twenty! Mercurius shouted as the next twenty replaced the last perspiration-soaked crew. Moments later, a thunderous crack reverberated through the courtyard as the interior crossbar splintered. Swords drawn, the legionnaires rushed in, struggling to see through the darkness. There was no sound or movement in the dark chamber.

Ambassador! The cry echoed through the blackness. Except for the sound of soldiers panting, the room was eerily silent. We need light! Get torches in here! Mercurius shouted. The blazing pitch revealed the grizzly remains of the ambassador’s envoy, with throats slashed to the bone. The extent of savagery stunned immunes and guardsmen alike. Several rookie recruits gagged reflexively; others turned away, hands over mouths.

What…happened here? asked one trembling voice. No one dared to ask the more perplexing question of how this happened. Eleven people were massacred with such ferocity and stealth, and only one managed to scream before being silenced by a knife?

Orel scanned the ravaged remains for Aurelius. Post Commander, the ambassador isn’t here!

Mercurius, a man as nervous as he was ambitious, stepped forward to do what ranking officers did best: bully the next man down the chain of command.

Markus! I want an immediate report from all posted sentries! These men didn’t kill themselves. I want the ambassador and these assassins found. Stop standing around, they may still be within the compound!

While Markus dispatched immunes, Lamech’s personal bodyguard sent word to his compatriots to check on the safety of the priest, instructing them to stay posted outside the old man’s door. That being done, he couldn’t resist another look at the mystifying scene. Reaching for a torch, he popped his head inside the chamber. Mercurius was still poking around.

Did something occur to you? asked Mercurius.

Arms at his sides, Orel offered no comment.

Mercurius’ temper flared. I know you understand me. Without your help, we wouldn’t have gotten in here. What do you know about all this?

Orel replied in perfect Latin, Why should I help Romans?

I knew it! cried Mercurius. He had always regarded Judean soldiers as inferior to Roman but realized he was desperate for help. Smiling, he took a step closer to Orel. I’ve been asking myself that same question, and yet here you are. You’re obviously a capable soldier, so why are you still here?

Perhaps I have a personal interest.

All right, then let’s take a closer look together.

Orel nodded in agreement. Torch in hands, they surveyed the dimly lit room. What they hoped to find was a starting point, but instead, they were left with nothing—no clue to how the killers got in or out.

Markus returned with a report, prompting Mercurius to roll his eyes: No sign of the assassins or missing emissary. While Mercurius reprimanded Markus, something caught Orel’s eye, something that was definitely out of place. Squatting down next to one corpse, he found a small mark, a tattoo, possibly in Hebrew. The body was too blood-smeared to make it out clearly. Using his thumb and spit, he cleared away the blood covering the mark. Behind the dead man’s ear was something only a Jew would recognize: the symbol צלמות. The seldom-used word had two parts: tsal meaning shadow, and mavet meaning death, together forming shadow of death.

Orel decided to keep this discovery to himself, at least until he could make some sense of it. Why, he mused, would a staff member of a Roman emissary have a Hebrew word tattooed in a place that would likely go unnoticed?

It took several men to subdue so large a group as this! said a blustery Mercurius. It has to be the Zealots! He looked to Orel for a confirming nod but received no such support. His focus returned to Markus, his second-in-command. This suite has several connecting rooms equipped with oil lamps. Light all of them, and then clear out your men. They’re trampling on everything!

Assuming the order included him, Orel joined the exiting legionnaires.

Not you, Orel! Please stay. You’ve been extremely helpful. Your continued assistance would be much appreciated. He turned again to Markus. Send for the garrison physician. I want these bodies examined.

After another pass through mangled bodies and adjoining rooms, a frustrated Mercurius reached his boiling point. With his hand against the back of his neck, he cursed. How the hell did they get in and out of here unseen? This chamber has only one entrance and one exit. The sentry posted at the back reports that no one has passed in or out of that door and that both entrances were barred from the inside! The name of the Zealot leader leaped into Mercurius’s head, but he kept it to himself. Are we dealing with the dark arts here? Is there some kind of demon able to pass through walls and vanish into thin air? He was thankful Orel didn’t respond to such an outrageous postulation. But Orel was still preoccupied with the hidden tattoo.

Additional reports continued to stream in from tower and gate sentries, but all yielded the same useless information: no sightings, no clues. Somehow, the intruders passed in and out unnoticed. Inexplicably, all sentries reported all clear until the moment of that ghastly scream.

Search the outer walls, ordered Mercurius. I want patrols outside the compound. Instruct them to look for anything out of the ordinary. Once more, Mercurius turned to Orel. Can I depend on the assistance of your guardsmen to canvas the village?

Orel smirked, refusing to disguise his distaste for the way he and his men had been treated by these same Romans who were now asking for help.

You know the haunts of this place. How did those bloody goat herders get in here?

Someone knows, Orel cautiously replied. Someone either inside or outside these walls. They had help. I suggest you offer a reward to the people of the community for any information that leads to the capture of these butchers.

Excellent! Markus, take charge of this, and remember, my head is not the only one on the block for this. That insurrectionist dog, Barabbas, is surely behind this, he grumbled. It’s got all the earmarks. Looking like a man possessed, Mercurius grabbed Markus’s forearm. The ambassador may yet be alive. I need answers! Get me some! With a sharp salute, Markus moved quickly.

The immunes mulling around outside the compound were edgy. Soon, the whispers began to spread.

Flesh and blood can’t pass through locked doors or stone walls, whispered one soldier to another, muffling his words with his hand.

What kind of man could have done this? said another.

What if, the other said and swallowed, it’s not a man? What if the stories are true?

With his mouth hanging open, the first man warily asked, St…stories? Wh-what stories?

The stories of—he gulped, forcing his reluctant tongue to speak the word aloud—the Phantom.

Taking leave from Mercurius, Orel headed across the compound to check on the well-being of Lamech. He thought of the oath he’d sworn to protect the priest. That, of course, was before he knew the old priest the way he did now. For Orel, this was no longer just a job; he respected and cared for the old man. The aged priest and the young guardian shared a mutual admiration. With Lamech’s home in view, Orel spied fellow guardsmen, Judah and Seth, posted at the door just as he had instructed.

Is everything all right? asked an approaching Orel.

He’s suffered no incident. Everything is secure, answered Seth, the younger of the two. That’s all we know. He’s unwilling to talk to anyone but you.

This surprised Orel. Me, why? He kept his voice down as he moved closer to the guardians.

Judah, the elder of the two, shrugged his shoulders. You know why. The priest doesn’t see us the same way he sees you.

Orel didn’t try to deny it to spare their feelings; he knew it was true. They’d formed a special bond the others didn’t have. Stepping up to the door, he raised his fist but then hesitated for a second before knocking. The hour was late, and he wondered if he should risk waking the old man. Raising his fist again, he studied the door holder that housed a miniature replica of the Commandments, then knocked firmly, loud enough to be heard without sounding demanding. As he expected, there was no answer on his first attempt. Lamech was eighty years of age.

Sir, he called, this time pounding on the door, it’s Orel. May I come in?

Several minutes passed before there was a sound of rustling inside followed by a sluggish advance. The door opened slowly. Lamech stood silently at the threshold, his eldest servant, Ezra, standing beside him, scowling at Orel.

He would not let me answer the door, said Ezra, shaking his head. He insists on answering the door himself, claiming it is he, not I, with whom you wish to speak.

Lamech’s smile verified the accuracy of Ezra’s summation.

He’s a stubborn old man who refuses to give an inch either to me or his age.

As exhausted as the old priest looked, he couldn’t help but break into a chuckle, causing him to almost lose his balance.

Sir, I’m sorry to disturb you at so late an hour. I’ll come back in the morning. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. You need to rest.

Lamech made no reply. He looked at Seth and Judah, then back to Orel. Feeling a bit perplexed, Orel started to repeat himself, but Lamech’s raised palm stopped him. Placing his index finger to his lips, Lamech motioned for him to enter and close the door behind him. With the priest leading the way, they walked to a sitting room. The old man gingerly settled into a chair, motioning for Orel to join him. The two sat for several minutes before the priest finally spoke, Many things are in motion this night, are they not? Lamech stated fact over question. The priest’s eyes looked heavy. Orel was concerned that the strain of the night might have been too much for him.

Sir, why don’t I come back in the morning? You need your rest. I can— was all he could get out before Lamech’s eyes tightened his tongue.

As to the details, you may enlighten me tomorrow as I, in turn, will do for you when the hour is decent and our heads are clear. But for now, sit with me a few moments, for there is something you must be made aware of.

Though exhausted, the priest was calm, placid. Each word he spoke carried weight. "The events of this night have produced many questions but few answers. Neither you nor the Roman Decanus can make sense of them. However, this isn’t your first time to witness this kind of scenario, is it?" Again, the priest’s question was more rhetorical than inquisitive.

Orel inhaled and exhaled quickly. Lamech seemed to know more about what just happened than he showed, even though he was safely tucked away in his bedchamber.

No, it’s not, he replied hesitantly. Not the first time. A shiver ran through him, a warning that he was not going to like what came next. How do you know about that?

Ignoring his question, Lamech continued, You needn’t fear for my safety, my young friend. Pausing to take a breath, he raised his weary eyes to meet Orel’s. Of this, I am reasonably confident, though I admit there yet remains a small place in my heart that seeks to convince me otherwise. Lamech’s demeanor had captured Orel’s attention and silence. The Romans, however, are in grave danger. Aurelius should not have come here. No amount of planning or secrecy could have guaranteed his safety. He will eventually be recovered, but I am certain he is already dead. Lamech looked intensely at Orel. This was not a kidnapping as you and Mercurius have presumed.

Sitting motionless, a bead of perspiration trickled down the Judean guard’s temple. He swallowed involuntarily but could not bring himself to ask the priest what was running through his mind. How could he possibly accuse so great a man of conspiracy?

A silent chuckle highlighted the age lines of Lamech’s tired face. This isn’t a conspiracy, Orel. It’s a curse, an ancient evil which has not visited the enemies of Elohim for centuries. Not since… Lamech’s voice trailed off, his eyes moving about the room as though he sensed something unseen. Come back tomorrow afternoon. We have much to discuss.

Chapter 2

Vitus—the Beginning

Is the pathway of life predetermined? Or do we make our own destiny? Does a tragic event, such as the loss of a parent, create an obstacle so great it can’t be overcome? Or does it serve as a catalyst for greatness? Are life’s stepping-stones purely a matter of chance or part of a grand mystical blueprint laid out before we take our first breath?

Vitus grew up in the Tuscan province of Rome, the only child of parents who loved him as well as each other. His father, Decimus, was a gifted Roman officer who served in the remote region of Judea where Vitus was born. His Judean mother was breathtakingly beautiful and soft-spoken. She gave him the name Vitus for its meaning of new life. He inherited his father’s bronze skin, green eyes, six-foot frame, and chiseled features and his mother’s kindness.

Vitus was brilliant, a child prodigy waiting to happen until life took a drastic turn. His mother’s life was snuffed out by Judean Zealots seeking retribution against his father. Fearing his son might be next, Decimus sent Vitus back to Tuscany, their ancestral home. There he would be raised by Claude, his father’s elder brother.

Claude was a political reactionary who longed for the earlier days of the empire. A student of ancient Sparta, he despised excess in everything except discipline. A Spartan’s badge of honor was self-denial and arduous development. This was the code Claude employed in rearing his exceptional nephew. His reasoning: hard work would distract the boy from dwelling on his mother’s death. Claude never imagined that Decimus would fall victim to the same insurrectionists that killed Vitus’s mother.

As he did during many meals, eight-year-old Vitus grilled Claude for details about his parents. Please, Uncle, tell me about my father.

Claude shook his head. Again? You’ve heard the story many times.

Vitus nodded enthusiastically.

All right, he replied, squaring his shoulders with pride. Your father was a good man but an even greater soldier. He was commissioned to lead a special task force in a far country called Judea.

The place where I was born, Vitus interjected.

Yes. Claude smiled. Your father was very intelligent. He seemed to know what the rebels were planning before they did, making them furious! He was the only officer who understood the Semitic mind.

Excited to hear the story again, Vitus scooted closer, not wanting to miss a word or gesture.

Those evil Zealots knew Decimus would eventually destroy them. They schemed and plotted, trying to find a way to outsmart him, but they couldn’t. He was far too clever.

Claude paused, wishing there was a way to change the outcome of the story. The Zealots, he continued, realized the only way to defeat him was through his family. They slipped into your mother’s village and kidnapped her. She was never heard from again.

They killed my mother.

Yes, and that proved to be the death of your father as well. He asked for military leave to get you out of Judea. His request was denied. His leadership was too critical for him to be away, even for a short time.

Reaching up, Vitus wrapped his arm around Claude’s neck, wanting to comfort his uncle.

Fighting back a catch in his throat, Claude continued, Decimus remained in Judea while you were escorted to Tuscany. Knowing you were here with me was a comfort to him, but his concern for your mother caused him to lose his edge. This helped the Zealots to trap and kill him.

Anger ripped through Vitus. Did they make him suffer?

Claude’s jaw tightened. Yes. If you remember nothing else, remember the name of the Zealots. Perhaps, one day, you’ll repay them for the evil they’ve brought upon this family!

Eight-year-old Vitus replied, I will never forget, Uncle.

Claude was determined to raise Vitus in the ways of ancient Sparta. Even in his formative years, the child was extraordinary, showing superior intelligence, analytical ability, and instinctive reactions. Simply put, Vitus possessed skills that couldn’t be taught. Limitless potential linked to the finest military academy seemed providential, but his desire to avenge his parents became an obsession, an inner darkness that slowly engulfed him.

*****

On his seventeenth birthday, Vitus joined the Roman Legion, delighting his Uncle Claude. Possessing an extraordinary memory, he quickly became fluent in Aramaic and Latin, giving him yet another advantage. He was soon selected for a Special Forces training unit under the direction of Dmitri, a Greek general cut from the cloth of Sparta’s legendary 300. Dmitri liked to mix old-world methods with new-world thinking. The final exam was a rescue mission. The assignment, for what Dmitri termed the Ten, was to go behind actual enemy lines, rescue, and return with Roman legionnaires who had been slated for execution. Employing stealth, the Ten passed behind enemy borders undetected. They invaded the compound making fast work of a larger hostile force and rescued five legionnaires while sustaining no casualties. Vitus had distinguished himself as the leader of this remarkable group. This successful mission turned an already tight-knit unit into a band of brothers.

Destiny took a hand when news of a Roman ambassador’s kidnapping reached Dmitri. He knew the employment of the Ten would be too tempting to resist any longer. Sure enough, with the rescue mission just days old, Vitus and his nine compatriots were briefed for a secret mission to Judea. They were to locate, isolate, and execute Judea’s terrorist leader, a man the Zealots called the Phantom.

Vitus struggled to contain his excitement upon hearing these orders. In little more than a day, the Ten were introduced to their new commander, a former Centurion with legendary battlefield credentials known as Atticus. His failure to control his violent temper resulted in the derailing of a remarkable military career. He had no patience for self-serving officers who lacked real combat experience.

Those people, Atticus would say, don’t know the end of a sword from the crack in their behind. His failure to follow orders of pseudo-military bureaucrats hadn’t gone well. He was busted in rank and shelved. But when the situation in the outlying region of Judea became intolerable, the military turned to the soldier who had distinguished himself against insurgent uprisings. To those who regarded him with derision, putting him in charge of such a mission was an act of desperation. But with his rank restored, the Centurion intended to make the most of this unexpected second chance. Atticus was promoted and briefed on the mission.

News of the attack on the ambassador drew the immediate attention of Rome’s military hierarchy. It was this secretive group of Roman leaders that decided that the moment they’d been waiting for had arrived. Without delay, they deployed the special ops unit but provided only basic intel to the newly reappointed centurion. Atticus was told only that these men had received counterterrorism training and that their speedy arrival to Caesarea was critical.

The senatorial committee which commissioned Dmitri to train the Ten sent the Centurion the following orders: Do not inform your regulars as to the nature of this mission or the specialized training of the Ten.

Atticus was not dissuaded by the lack of information given to him. He’d find out what he needed to know, as always, in the field of action. As instructed, he kept his unit of regulars in the dark regarding the special Ten.

The Centurion’s speech to his slightly enlarged troop was brief. It’s critical we arrive in Caesarea as soon as possible, and that, ladies, is what we’re going to do! He gave them twenty minutes to eat and ready themselves before moving them out. After thirty minutes of double time, he barked at a member of the Ten he’d been closely watching.

Vitus! shouted Atticus.

Commander?

Fall back, soldier, take up the rear, and keep these dog-eared dust buckets from slowing us down!

Yes, sir! barked Vitus. Wasting no time, he broke formation, moving from the front to the back of the line. Atticus’s voice had an unmistakable raw bite to it with vocal assaulting orders. He was nasty, not the kind of man soldiers challenged unless they were crazy or had a death wish. Driving the troop at a relentless pace, they traversed the countryside in tight formation. An average days’ travel for a troop, carrying full gear was ten to fifteen miles. Atticus planned to cover twice that distance.

Pick up your feet, men! We have no time to waste!

Eighty pounds of legionary gear, plus a twenty-mile jog, equaled exhaustion. The regulars were nearing collapse, while Vitus and the rest of his unit barely looked winded.

Atticus finally barked out an order, Company, halt! Take five, ladies. The entire unit collapsed into a gasping heap, all except the newcomers, who quickly dropped to the ground, trying to blend in.

Chapter 3

No Time to Waste

Atticus was focused on one exhausted soldier. Keep up or we’ll leave you out here for the buzzards! Except for an early morning break, the Centurion had driven them relentlessly. The gasping sound of spent lungs grew louder by the moment. Unfazed, Atticus showed no sign of letting up. There was a method to this madness as well as a fine line between discipline and brutality. He knew he’d pushed these men to the edge.

Several legionnaires began to stumble from fatigue. Atticus had recognized the signs of dehydration miles ago. Vitus’s long-range conditioning allowed him to continue on, but he was sure the collapse of the regulars was imminent.

The Centurion was a master at getting past the facade to discover the underlying motive. It was clear that his sudden promotion in rank was directly tied to these ten new commandoes. The fifty regulars under his command had little to do with the Judean mission other than provide cover for the Ten.

As a young man, Atticus advanced rapidly in rank by demonstrating decisiveness in moments of crisis. On more than one occasion while facing a crucial moment of battle, he forged ahead while his superiors debated. He trusted his instincts, refusing to second-guess himself. He took risks that higher-ranking officers wouldn’t take. During the Varus Wars, at only nineteen years of age, he made himself indispensable. His cunning bold leadership could not be ignored.

Now suddenly, as if by sleight of hand, he was reclaimed from the scrap heap and restored to his former rank. It happened so fast that he wasn’t even awarded the customary hundred soldiers a Centurion commands; only the Ten had been added. He’d been told they were exceptional but nothing more. Atticus was once