Luke shivered. As he squinted, trying to focus his eyes against the glare of the sun and cold wind buffeting his face, he shaded his eyes with his hand, angling it to block some of the wind. He failed. The wind nearly seemed sentient, seeking out his defenses. He couldn’t be sure if his eyes were clearing, the surrounding white reflecting the sun. He clamped his eyes shut and took in a deep breath, the cold air biting his lungs, then released it slowly, opening his eyes gradually in time with the exhalation.
His vision sharpened, the tableau before him coming into crisp contrast. He stood on a field of snow on the side of a mountain, a reasonable sized stone shelf providing him a place to stand on the side of the ragged peak. Looking down, he realized why the cold sank into his core. He only wore a pair of pajama bottoms—the new ones Maggie had bought him with vertical black and silver stripes. Why would he be on the side of a mountain in his pajamas in Belgium, a country devoid of real mountains and certainly not these soaring towers of stone and snow?
Once again, he closed his eyes, pulling a more appropriate outfit from his memory to enclose him in the imaginary landscape. When he looked down, he wore a thick black cloak with shaggy bear hair covering his shoulders. Two gold medallions bearing the seal of Marcus Aurelius linked and closed the cloak with a gold chain. His steel armor caught the sun and reflected the sun and snow’s glare. Under his thick tunic, he wore black woolen leggings covered in white stars. They’d been his favorite set of woolens given to him by Marpesia during their mission into the Montes Sarmatici—the Carpathians—seventeen hundred years ago. The harsh wind pulled at the transverse centurions crest on his helmet, flicking the long hairs out behind him wildly.
Seeing the woolens and feeling their familiar texture against his skin nearly floored him, his knees trembling as a deep hollow pit opened in his stomach. The sight of the clothing she’d given him brought the feel of her hand against his cheek with it, the softness of her lips against his, the tickle of her hair against his nose as they snuggled together to conserve body heat in the deep cold of the harsh mountain winter during Constantine’s Gothic Campaign. As his breathing shallowed, coming in short bursts, the corners of his vision blurred and darkened. He covered his eyes with his hand and reached up to massage his temples with his thumb and middle finger but was blocked by his helmet.
From deep in his subconscious, the calming voice of Dr. Hamdi reached out to Luke, telling him to breathe and hold it, release it and hold it, then repeat. Working his way through the exercise his therapist had gone through with him, Luke brought himself back from the brink of despair. The feelings for his first wife had long been buried until more recently when he’d started talking about her with Maggie. He’d even mentioned a few snippets of their life together to his other friends.
When he’d returned himself to a state of relative calm, he opened his eyes, letting them readjust to the harsh sun reflecting off the snow. Across the ravine, motion drew his eyes. Squinting, he could make out two men dressed in the attire of the Roman legions, one holding up the other as they limped up a rugged path, one of them wore the crest of a centurion. Both men looked wounded. A young adolescent trailed behind them, a bow in one hand with the other holding the end of an arrow nocked and ready to be drawn and shot.
The wind carried on it shouts as the boy drew back and let his arrow fly, quickly pulling another from his hip quiver to chase the first. Luke blinked. When he returned his gaze to the running battle on the nearby mountain, the two Romans had disappeared. The boy had stopped to fire off several more arrows before running after the two men. Luke narrowed his eyes, keeping them glued to the young man as he darted behind a sharp column of stone to disappear into the cliff side.
Before Luke could decide what was happening, he felt fingers hook into his guts and yank him across the ravine. A scream died in his lungs before escaping past his lips as he cringed, turning his face and covering his head with his arms as the invisible force pulled him toward the side of the mountain. But instead of slamming into its side, he continued flying forward, pulled inescapably through the solid stone wall into a cavern.
Torches flared to life as he stood at the juncture of a natural cave and the carved columns and walls of a temple cave—a Mithraeum. Every element of the temple was carved from the mountain. Tall columns rose from the floor and ended along a barrel vault ceiling that, with the two narrow edge running down the length of the temple, looked like a long Omega extending from the front of the Mithraeum to the rear. In front of each column stood tall braziers flickering and releasing light, but they did so without fuel to burn or smoke to cloud the air. Benches jutted out from the wall diagonally, angled so those who sat could focus on the altar at the far end of the temple.
The altar caught every ray of light and reflected it back into the chamber, magnifying its brightness. The central figure, carved from stone, looked nearly alive save for his larger-than-life size. The man wore a green tunic over blue leggings with a red cape at his back and a Phrygian cap on his head. His face bore the features of a Persian, skin painted light brown with olive-tinged tones to match. Under his red cap, black curly hair cascaded down around his ears and shoulders.
The sculptor captured the intense concentration of the man as he heaved back on the head of a bull, holding it still as his short sword sliced the bull’s neck, spilling its lifeblood. Every muscle of the man and animal rippled in their struggle. Two painted and carved figures in chariots flew across the painted sky.
Sol Invictus drove his sun chariot led by a team of four white horses. Opposite him, on the right, hovered his celestial counterpart, Luna—though Luke preferred her Greek name, Selene—and her oxen-pulled moon chariot, one ox dark the other light. Along the walls on either side, murals of more deities of the Greek, Roman, and Persian pantheons looked upon the scene at the end of the temple.
Gasping, Luke’s eyes widened as the head of the statue turned, the black infinite pools of his onyx eyes seizing Luke. The statue extricated himself from the bull, leaving the animal mid-struggle, captured in its stony stasis. With each step toward Luke, the statue of Mithras softened into the form of a living being—an infinite, divine soul.
Mithras reached out with an open hand. Luke, not thinking, extended his in return but froze as Mithras quickly closed his fist around Luke’s spine. Although the deity stood thirty feet from Luke, Mithras held him firmly in his grasp. With a quick yank, Luke slid toward the god. Unsure if the god swelled in size only because Luke drew closer or if he was indeed becoming taller and broader, Mithras towered over Luke as he ground to a halt a few feet away.
Tremors rocked Luke’s body as his knees lost their battle with functioning, and he sank onto them, hanging his head to avoid the disappointed look on the face of his patron. The grip inside Luke lessened.
“You have failed to pay me the honors due to me in far too long, Roman.” The sound of Mithras’s voice boomed through the temple and inside Luke’s head.
“I know…” Luke whispered. “I am so tired, Father of Fathers.”
“I care not. The duties you owe me are unpaid. The role you accepted is unfulfilled. Darkness spreads across the world virtually unchecked. I am uninterested in the excuses of a less than diligent son.”
Eyes firmly fixed on the floor between himself and his patron god, Luke slumped, the last starch leaving his shoulders. “I have failed.”
“Not entirely, not while you still have air in your lungs and blood in your veins. Not while you have my sword and the muscle to wield it. You have not failed yet. Rise, son.”
Luke bobbed his head in a nod of obeisance. “Aye, Father of Fathers.”
He leaned forward and used a hand to brace himself, bringing one foot flat to the ground so he could push off and up. Standing, he swayed before catching himself. He spread his feet to stabilize his base. Although he stood, the stone floor between the two still held his gaze.
“What would you have of me, Father of Fathers?” Luke asked.
“WITNESS!” Mithras extended his ethereal hand and grasped Luke’s spine once again and pulled, flinging Luke at the altar.
Luke’s muscles tensed, though he couldn’t move his body to react or protect himself from slamming into the stone bull. Instead of shattering against the stone, Luke floated through it, coming to a stop in a chamber behind the altar. Before Luke could see what the room looked like, Mithras turned his body. He faced a different altar that disappeared into a series of translucent shadows and lines, as if he were looking through steam or undulating air of the desert heat. Once again, his body was not his to control as he stood as still as Mithras’s statue.
The Roman bearing the crest of a centurion stepped into the room. The journey he’d taken to arrive in this temple had taken a toll on the man in his late twenties or early thirties. A broken-off arrow protruded from his thigh just below the line of his tunic, blood soaking the wool of his trousers. Several slashes were visible on his arms, revealing skin and bloody gashes below the ripped wool of his tunic. The edges of his cloak were stained and ragged. Yet, he stood defiantly, his gladius naked, though it to bore the signs of hard use to get here—nicks littered the cutting edges.
Much like it had unfolded for Luke moments ago, Mithras transformed before the young Roman’s eyes, becoming a living, flesh being—a live deity eclipsing the room with his size and presence.
“Who comes before me in my home, my sanctuary?” Mithras’s voice boomed through the temple, practically shaking the mountain to its roots deep in the earth.
The centurion fell to his knees, grunting in pain as he bent over low to pay respects to the god who suddenly confronted him.
“Father of Fathers! Forgive me for intruding upon your sanctuary,” the man replied, his voice edging along the line between control and terror.
“Speak thy name,” Mithras boomed.
“Lucius, Father of Fathers, Lucius Silvanius Ferrata, a centurio of the Roman Legions. I have been sent on behalf of Roma’s Imperator and on the order of the Pater Patrum who serves the Imperator.”
“I ordered that the finest warriors of Roma be sent to me, yet you are alone.”
Lucius pulled back slightly. “I am not alone. A legionnaire of Roma is with me, though he is nearly unconscious and may soon succumb to his injuries, and an Armenian boy of noble blood.”
Mithras looked up and directed his gaze through the walls that separated Lucius from his two companions. “I have no use for boys or the nearly dead.” He returned his gaze to Lucius. “Rise to your knees, Centurio of Roma.”
Lucius obeyed, sitting on his knees while directing as much weight to his uninjured leg as possible.
“And what rank amongst my servants do you hold, Centurio?” Mithras asked, his voice slightly less booming and piercing.
“I have achieved the fifth rank of Perses, Father of Fathers.”
Mithras stepped forward and bent over. The centurion visibly held himself still—his body vibrating with the effort—not giving into his urge to pull away from the overwhelming presence of the deity. Mithras placed his hands on Lucius’s head, a palm on each temple. Lucius’s eyes shot open and froze as his entire body went rigid. His mouth slowly opening, Luke winced as Lucius unleashed a deep scream that started low and rose to vibrate off the stone. It reached through to the core of Luke’s gut.
Luke felt the phantom pains of his ancient self as he watched the old memory brought to life. His breathing shallowed and quickened, his body taut with tension.
When Mithras released Lucius, the man’s body slumped to the floor as his chest heaved to get air into his lungs. Mithras stepped away, caressing the neck of the stone bull before turning around to look down at the soldier. Life stirring in the centurion, he forced himself onto his hands and knees, his lungs still heaving as a line of spittle dripped from his lip until he forced himself back onto his knees, using the back of his hand to wipe away the drool.
Lucius raised his head, his gaze unsteady but with an edge of strength or defiance in it. He didn’t quite raise his eyes to Mithras’s, but this was the boldest he’d looked since entering. As he kneeled before his deity, his body swayed in a wobbly circle.
Mithras’s back straightened as he rose to his full height, fixing his eyes on the centurion. “Are you willing to serve?”
“Aye, Father of Fathers.” Lucius’s voice gasped out, raw and ragged from the soul rending scream he’d let out a few moments earlier.
“Until the task I lay upon you is done?”
Luke closed his eyes and hung his head. He hadn’t realized how long “done” would take. After nearly two thousand years, the mission he’d accepted blindly still looked nowhere near completion. Opening his eyes, he snorted. The illusion of choice.
“Aye, Father of Fathers. I will serve you until you release me.”
“DONE!” Mithras reached out, his hand disappearing into the centurio’s chest.
Lucius’s body convulsed, his arms thrown wide, as the god grasped his heart, his face locked in a primal but silent scream. When Mithras withdrew his hand, Lucius collapsed into a heap on the stone floor, unmoving save for the ragged rise and fall of his chest.
As Mithras turned, the altar slowly transformed, melting into a new shape. The bull, now dead, lay on its side, its tongue lolling out of its mouth, a stream of crimson blood extending from the gash across its throat. Sol Invictus dismounted from his chariot and glided forward, growing as he strode forward until he stepped out of the stone and joined Mithras as a being of flesh and enormity. The two gods clasped hands before taking a seat on the dead bull, one on each end of the carcass. A black kylix appeared in Mithras’s hands. The wide, shallow bowl had two handles and a base extending from its bottom. In intricate detail, several Mithraic scenes in the red-brown of the clay covered the outside of the kylix around its edge.
After taking a deep drink of wine, Mithras handed the kylix to Sol Invictus, who drank deeply as well. Above, Selene stepped down from her chariot and glided toward Mithras and Sol Invictus until she too joined them, standing tall and lively, a gentle rosy blush tinging her pale cheeks.
Selene nodded to Sol. “My brother.”
Sol smiled at the luminous goddess. “Sister.”
Turning to Mithras, she smiled. “Mehr, my friend.”
The corner of Mithras’s lips tipped up slightly as his eyes warmed into genuine affection. “My dearest, Selene.”
Sol handed her the kylix. Selene took it in both hands and bent her neck to place her lips on the edge, gently tipping some wine into her mouth. Sighing happily, she handed the kylix back to Mithras and turned around, walking to the lump on the floor.
Selene lowered herself gracefully, reaching out and running her hand along Lucius’s jaw until her fingers rested just under his chin. “Rise, my brave soldier.”
The centurion’s breathing calmed as he pushed himself off the ground, her gentle fingers aiding him until he was once again on his knees. A soft smile on her face, Selene leaned close to Lucius until her lips were barely a hair’s breadth from his left ear. She rested her left hand on his right cheek.
Luke felt the warmth of a hand on his cheek, but when he reached up, found only his own hand and face. When Selene whispered into the centurion’s ear, the words also fell on Luke’s ears.
“The night is your domain now. My gift to you is clear perception and bright vision. No more will the darkness shroud your eyes, nor will the creatures who hunt the night be able to cloud your mind. Now stand, my champion of the night.” Selene stood up and offered her hand to the Roman who took it and stood.
The soft words of the goddess coaxed the tension from Luke’s body as he watched the scene that had unfolded one thousand nine hundred and two years earlier. For the first time since he’d entered the temple, Luke let his lungs fill to bursting with air before letting it out to carry more rigidity from his muscles.
Lucius’s hand still in the goddess’s, she led him forward until he stood before the two gods reclining on the slain bull. Sol Invictus stood, extending his hand toward the centurion. Lucius took it, and the man and god shook.
“To you, soldier of Roma, I give you the intensity of the sun—the speed of its light, the strength of its fury, and the clarity of its purpose.” Sol Invictus released Lucius’s hand and returned to his seat on the bull’s hindquarters.
Finally, it was Mithras’s turn. He stood, also taking Lucius’s hand to shake. “My gifts to you will protect your body and extend your life. The steel that encases you shall be your sanctuary.”
Mithras snapped his fingers, and Lucius’s armor glowed intensely, forcing him to close his eyes. Standing on the other side of the altar, Luke was able to watch without having to squint. Sparks flew from the centurion’s armor. When they settled, Lucius’s segmented lorica and the manica running down his right arm were covered in engravings in Latin, Greek, and Old Persian. Luke reached down and rubbed his fingers over one of the bands on the armor he wore, feeling the engraved words that had protected him for nearly two millennia.
The centurion’s helmet, likewise, had received its own set of engravings, as well as several more brass ornamentations than it had before. The steel greaves, which had been simple steel wrapping around the front of Lucius’s legs, were transformed into works of art. On the left knee, the moon of Selene rose from the steel. On the right knee, the sun of Sol Invictus formed its companion. Along the shins, the scene of Mithras quelling the bull stood proudly.
“Your sword, Centurio,” Mithras said.
Lucius pulled it from its sheath and laid it across Mithras’s outstretched palms. The god’s palms flared with light, forcing Lucius to close his eyes. When he opened them, his simple gladius, with its long point and tapered waist, now featured elaborate engravings. Mithras offered the blade to his soldier. The dark wood of the pommel ball and hilt guard remained the same, as did the bone handle. On one side of the blade, another of Sol’s suns extended from the hilt guard out onto the steel, sending its rays of light flickering down to the tip. Lucius flipped the sword over to view the other side. On it, Selene’s moon balanced the sun from the inverse side, but instead of rays of light, stars flew from the embrace of the crescent moon’s arms.
Luke could see the reluctance in the centurion’s eyes when it came time to sheath the sword, not wanting to take his eyes of the beautiful weapon, but he put it away none the less.
“Lucius Silvanius Ferrata, do you know the story of a rudis?” Mithras asked, turning away from the centurion.
“Aye, Father of Fathers. They are given to a gladiator to free them from their slavery.”
Mithras turned around. A wooden sword lay across the god’s palms. “And so shall this one free you from servitude.”
Luke took it from the god when he extended his arms toward the centurio. “Free me from servitude to what?”
“Death.”
Lucius looked up, his eyes going wide as blood drained from his face.
“Its use shall extend your life and give you the power of your enemies so you may use it against them.”
Lucius, trembling, licked his lips. “How?”
Mithras leaned forward and whispered into his ear, “Place it into the heart of the monster you have defeated, then place your head upon the pommel and whisper the incantation. It will transfer the blood demon’s ill-gotten gains to you, giving you speed, strength, and life beyond what even Sol and Selene have granted you.”
Like Selene’s words, Mithras’s whispered words dripped into Luke’s ear as well. The tension he’d released earlier returned in some measure, thinking of the full implication of Mithras’s “gift” and the dark side of its practical applications.
“Father of Fathers, I thank you and Sol Invictus and Selene for these gifts, but I’d ask a boon of you…” Lucius bowed his head respectfully.
“What else would you have of us, my brave soldier?” Selene asked, a soft smile spreading across her face.
“My friend, he won’t live long, not once we leave this cavern. Can you heal his injuries?”
Seline gracefully bent her long neck, nodding. “It is done.”
The sound of a large bird’s caw drew everyone’s attention toward the wall to Lucius’s left as a spectral raven flew through the stone wall to land on Selene’s shoulder. Her eyes lost focus as the raven clicked its beak near her ear. When the bird finished, her soft smile was replaced with a frown that furrowed her brow.
Selene addressed Mithras and Sol. “Our enemies await our soldier outside, a great horde.”
The cavern trembled slightly, although Luke couldn’t feel the ground shaking. No dust flew or rocks fell, the quake a psychic reaction to the gods’ anger at having their mountain disturbed by the vampires that waited outside.
Sol stood and extended his hand. “Your sword for a moment, Centurio.”
Lucius pulled it out and handed it to him. Sol wrapped one hand around the hilt while covering the pommel with the other. He closed his eyes for a moment, then handed Lucius his sword back. Mithras stood and walked to the wall, rubbing his hand over a seam that appeared. A line of light formed on the stone until an opening appeared, a blast of cold air pumping through the door.
“Go gather your friends and leave through this exit,” Mithras instructed.
“Run, but when you have no choice but to fight, put your gladius through the heart of the first demon you can,” Sol said.
Lucius bowed deeply. “It shall be as you say. I will carry out your will and fulfill my pledge.”
Lucius rose and jogged out to gather the young man and the boy who’d accompanied him. Soon, they reappeared and ran to the exit. The man and boy ran through, ignoring the room. Lucius turned and took one last look, nodding to the three deities as they nodded in return. When the centurion disappeared, they turned to Luke.
Sol Invictus nodded at Luke and faded away.
Mithras’s gaze bore down on Luke, causing his knees to tremble, and nearly forced him to the ground. “REMEMBER.” Then he, too, faded away.
Only Selene remained. She walked forward and stood before Luke, the gentle smile returning to her lips. When Luke dared raise his eyes to meet hers, he was nearly overwhelmed by the sadness and empathy pouring from them. She brought her hand up and laid it across his cheek.
“Your journey has been far longer than any have foreseen. I am glad you have joined forces with some of my children. You were never meant to stand alone under this burden. Let those who are willing shoulder it with you. Keep going, my brave soldier. The world needs you, both your arm and your spirit. My blessing is still upon you.
“And one last word, look you to Camaracum, the center of power of your ancestors, and do not tarry long if you wish to save your friend. Time is not on your side.” She leaned down, placed a kiss in the middle of his forehead, and disappeared.