The Lost Centurion (The Immortals Book 1)

Monica La Porta

The Lost Centurion

Book One of The Immortals

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2014 by Monica La Porta

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

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To Roberto.

Marcus sat on the parapet bordering his balcony, his legs dangling outside into the darkness. Someone had broken the streetlight at the corner between his building and the main road, and the riverbank across from him was never illuminated. The breeze from the placid waters of the Tiber wasn’t enough to cool his mood, but the darkness suited him fine. Not even one day back home, and he already felt as if he had never left Rome. If he closed his eyes and tuned out all the noises from the modern city, he could see Aurelia walking down the cobblestoned street, her hair dyed deep red to please him. He had never stomached that color, but never told her.

The sound of a loud car horn followed by a swerve, the acrid stench of hastily hit brakes, and several swear words broke his concentration and he opened his eyes to the year two thousand fourteen, almost two thousand years too late to hear Aurelia’s melodious voice whispering his name at night. The altercation below had now progressed to the physical stage when men try to impress their companions waiting for them inside the cars. Marcus hated that humanity hadn’t progressed one single iota in such a large span of time.

He whistled, two fingers in his mouth as his father had taught him, and the two men—no more than boys—raised their faces toward him. “Get it over with and leave.” He didn’t move from where he was sitting, his hand caressing the growth on his jaw back and forth until it rested under his chin.

Two heads peeped out of the passengers’ windows of both cars at the same time, and Marcus heard young feminine voices calling the boys’ names. A minute later the two cars had left the scene. He had barely raised his voice to carry his words down to the two hotheads. It worked every time. His voice was a gift. He had been told countless times how, with a voice like his, he was destined to become a centurion.

“You have a commanding voice, but you never command me,” Aurelia had used to say to him, purred more than said, that brilliant light of hers shining only for him when she was in his arms. Fighting the sadness that usually accompanied those memories, Marcus decided a night out would be what he needed.

His phone vibrated in his jeans pocket as he walked past the Milvio Bridge, heading to the other bank of the Tiber for a drink or two. A look at the display confirmed his suspicion. Alexander had called him several times already and left a message Marcus hadn’t bothered listening to. He sighed and answered the call this time.

“Ave.”

“
Ave
back to you, Marcus. When are you going to live in the current century?” Alexander sounded breathless as if running.

“I’m talking to you using a cell phone. Isn’t that modernized enough for you?” Marcus pinched the arch of his nose. “Besides, I knew it was you. You do still remember how to speak Latin, right?”

A grunt answered his question.

“What do you want?”

“Where are you?” Alexander shushed someone.

Marcus heard feminine voices giggling. His friend was engaged in physical activity, but it wasn’t running.

Marcus wondered why Alexander had called when he had better things to do than bother him. “At the north end of Milvio Bridge, heading to a bar. Why?” People hurried past Marcus, eager to reach the other side of the bridge, laughs and smiles and holding hands accompanying their passing. He slowed his pace to a halt, the familiar feeling of not belonging tugging at the edge of his thoughts.

“That’s perfect—”

“I’m not coming over.”

“But you’re practically in my courtyard. You can just call a cab—”

“I apologize, but I can’t even stand my own company tonight.”

“Well, I was going to throw you a party to welcome you back home, and I have company…” Several laughs could be heard before Alexander put his hand over the phone and whispered, “Would you be quiet for a moment?”

Marcus smiled. Alexander was a sharer. “I appreciate the thought, but I’ll pass.”

“Is there anything I can do to make you change your mind?”

“No, there isn’t.”

Disappointed words echoed from the other side of the call, and Alexander said loud enough for Marcus to hear, “No, I’m sorry, girls. He won’t be coming tonight,” in a lower tone, then, “Just give me a moment.” A door was opened and closed. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Next time.” Marcus stopped by the balustrade overlooking the river and leaned to rest his elbows on the marble surface. Only a few meters from there a whole world of entertainment awaited him, but he would have rather dived into the black waters and disappeared. “Bye—”

“Wait! I would have told you later after a good chalice of Brunello and maybe something else as well, but I have news for you.” Alexander’s voice was now the only sound coming through the speaker.

Marcus’s stomach clenched. “Did you find him?”

Alexander didn’t answer right away.

“Did you find him or not?”

Another long, wordless moment, then Alexander broke the silence. “I found the name of the vampire who was seen leaving your house the night Aurelia died. Listen, it could be a dead-end—”

“Who is he?” Marcus’s left hand grabbed the edge of the marble baluster, his knuckles as white as the cold material under them. Two thousand years of combing the seven seas, looking for the name of his wife’s murderer had finally borne the desired fruit. He should have felt exultant, but felt bereft instead.

“His name is Claudius and he is the sire of an entire nest.”

“Where does he live?”

“I don’t know yet. My informant gave me the name only after I promised him I would grant him safety in case he needed it.” A knock on the door, and he answered they could serve dinner in five minutes.

Marcus’s blood had congealed around his heart, cold seeping through his body, spreading toward his limbs, and paralyzing him on the spot. “What’s the name of your informant?” Weariness regulating his actions, he released the hold on the marble and turned toward the city, forcing each movement to completion.

“I promised him he would be safe from us as well.”

“I won’t do him any harm. I promise.”

“Marcus—”

“I gave you my word.” He used his voice on Alexander, heard the loud sigh at the other end, and imagined his friend rolling eyes at him. “Even as a renegade, you know I’m a man of my word.”

“You’ve been playing the victim card too often lately. May I remind you it was you who gave the bird to the whole Immortal Council?”

“You may, but it doesn’t change the fact I was right.” Marcus’s temper rose inside of him, but he let out a long breath. Evoked by Alexander’s words, a distant memory played for him. Before voluntarily exiling himself from Rome, Marcus had been called to Castel Sant’Angelo, the Immortal Council headquarters. The year was fourteen ninety-two, the New World had been just discovered, and the paranormal society was trying to unify its ranks to survive. Renaissance was about to happen, but only humans had noticed. Paranormals were still living in the Dark Ages.

He wasn’t the only one in the big room, but somehow, he had the feeling the ten ancient immortals comprising the jury were talking only to him. “Immortals are required from now on to obey the appointed council’s new laws. There won’t be any form of personal revenge amongst immortals, were-shifters, vampires, faeries, elves, semi-gods, etc. All crimes will be prosecuted by an impartial tribunal. Open disregard to follow those rules will grant an individual the status of renegade. A renegade will have no status—”

Marcus had interrupted the session by explaining to them in great detail what they could do with their newly appointed laws. He had then sailed to the Americas and traveled the world ever since.

“Are you still there?” Alexander asked, bringing him back to the present.

He grunted his assent.

“How many times do I have to repeat the obvious? Under the Peace Pact’s laws, you
cannot
kill vampires without the Council’s approval.”

A long pause followed, but Marcus didn’t feel the need to fill the silence.

Alexander softly swore in Greek, then sighed. “I didn’t call you to fight.”

Marcus kept silent, but nodded. Since he had been shunned from his own species, Alexander had been the only one who had sided with him and plead Marcus’s case to the Council for his reinstatement.

“Anyway, my informant’s name is Virgil. But, Marcus, he contacted me earlier this afternoon asking to meet with him later tonight. He said he would be in need of a place to hide. That is why I’ve been trying to track you down.” A muffled voice cut Alexander at the end of the sentence and he yelled he was coming. He gave Marcus an address and the time of the appointment. “I’ll see you later.”

“Later.” Marcus was already running toward the Roman Forum—the informer had opted for a public place—the apathy he had felt a moment ago transformed into nervousness. He had three hours to spare, yet he feared he had no time. He could have driven to the Forum and chanced the parking-roulette around the historical center, but he needed the physical exertion to keep his dark thoughts at bay. Once or twice in the last two millennia, he had thought he had a lead on Aurelia’s killer, but nothing had come of it. Now, there was a testimony willing to talk. It couldn’t be a dead-end. The gods wouldn’t punish him further for his sins.

He followed the Tiber, his legs pumping through the humidity and heat of the late summer night. Amidst a chorus of “Get out of the way!” he merged into the bicycle track, and arrived at the Tiberina Island. There, he crossed the bridge to reach the Ghetto, then another breathless stretch toward Marcello Theater, and finally he saw the Vittoriano Mausoleum looming over Piazza Venezia. Rome was alive, celebrating a summer festival, and the square and nearby streets were crowded with pedestrians and cars fighting for the right of way. An orgy of sounds and colors met Marcus as he slowed his run. He was enveloped in the raw energy of the city, and any other time, he would have basked in it. During his voluntary exile from the eternal city, he had missed its magnetism, but now he wanted nothing more than to clear a path around it and find the man he was looking for.

Despite his desire, it took Marcus several minutes to navigate the square. Too many families with kids were strolling around, and he was conscious of his size and how people reacted to his presence. In his war days, being feared had equaled being respected by his soldiers, but the utility of it had expired long ago. Now, people squirming away from him was a reminder of how alone he was. A little boy peeked at him from over his father’s shoulder. Exasperated by the slow progress he had made, Marcus didn’t wait for the kid to start crying at the sight of the scar running over his left eye. He cut to the left and, without waiting for the light to become green for him, crossed the road, skirting the incoming traffic. The horns and swear words his action promptly elicited were drowned by a nearby open-air concert and the noises from the chanting crowd.

The Roman Forum was on his right. What was left of it was there, but Marcus had only to close his eyes to see it whole. The modern renditions of what the buildings might have looked like were accurate, but failed to depict the Forum’s true nature as the pulsating heart of Rome. He had met his friends there, discussed politics, and even planned some of his battles while strolling between the colonnades, seeking respite from the stiffness of his house. A scene played before his eyes—Aurelia in tears, breaking the precious pottery he had given her, plate by plate—reminding him how wretched his married life had been. He had decided not to remember the parts that pained him, but at the most inopportune times, they had a habit of haunting him. He swatted the memory away as he swatted the humidity clinging to his skin.