Three Last Tasks
“‘The Vikings?’ I repeated the new word, committing it to memory. ‘You know of these people?’
“He nodded. ‘They have raided my homeland, and I myself have spent time in their lands.’
“My lips curled in what I hoped was a pleasant smile. ‘My friend, I have a great interest in faraway lands, and I see that you do as well. The night is still young. If you have no other business, I would treat you to a goblet of wine and listen to your tales.’
“He smiled back. ‘Always a pleasure to share my tales.’
“We sat in a tavern and ordered three goblets of wine—for me, the priest and Idir, but Idir pushed his aside, shaking his head. The priest and I talked and talked into the night as we ordered more rounds. I lost myself in his stories of faraway lands. To my surprise, I realized that I admired him. He was a Christian priest, but he was also an intelligent and insightful man. I could have talked to him for hours.
“‘The Vikings are fierce and wild,’ he was telling me. ‘They worship strange gods in horrific heathen rituals. They swarm upon innocent shores like waves of darkness, and they even allow their women to join the raids.’
“Idir murmured something, his voice soft and insecure, and his eyes moved from the priest to myself. ‘What did he say?’ I asked.
“The priest took a long sip and put down his goblet on the table. ‘He begs that you allow him to wash and pray. He needs to be clean when he presents himself to his god.’
“‘Then I suppose I should allow it,’ I said.
“The priest smiled. ‘Why? His god is false—it will make no difference.’
“A strange coldness crept through my heart, and I forced myself to smile back. ‘Tell me something, my friend,’ I said. ‘You have spent time with the Vikings. Did you undertake such a dangerous journey simply to learn more about these people?’
“‘Learning in itself is a good reason to take risks. But the main reason I journeyed into this heathen land was to spread the word of Christ. I was successful, and many of the pagans have converted.’
“I froze. When I had seen the Vikings, they had seemed to me an island of independence among this sea devouring all. Was there truly no escape? I imagined these remarkable men I had seen at the docks, cutting off their fierce braids, hiding their tattoos and washing off the beautiful war paint. I imagined that determined woman putting aside her round shield and covering her golden braids with a veil.
“I kept smiling at the priest as I talked to him, slowly extracting all the information I needed. And when we left the tavern, I led him to a dark alley and drank him to the last drop.
“His blood tasted of wine and sin. I had killed one, but so many were left. Idir had seen me, and so I drank him too.
“A surge of strength ran through me. I was ready to be on my way to these strange lands where my hopes and dream lay. But I had three tasks to finish first, and so I left the city behind and continued northwest, trying to cover as much distance as I could in the few hours of darkness left.”
“Less than an hour into the second night, I neared the city of Preslav. The new capital of what had now become the Bulgarian Empire, and the seat of Simeon, Boris’s son and heir. He had earned the title of Tsar—the Slavic equivalent of an emperor. But I couldn’t care less about him or his rule. What I was interested in was a simple monastery on the city’s outskirts.
“Most monks had retired after the evening prayer, but the night prayer was still to come. I sneaked in, unseen. I stood in the shadows, watching and listening, until I learned where I could find the monk I was looking for.
“I crept along dark passageways and reached an old wooden door. I stood before it and took a deep breath. A part of me wished to run away and leave this behind, but then I would always regret it. I took the handle and pressed it down.
“Before me was a small, windowless cell, illuminated by a single candle. On the low cot sat a simple monk, with a book in his hand, dressed in a rough brown robe. A monk who had once ruled the world I had known. A monk who had once been Khan Boris, and later, Knyaz Michael.
“He looked up from his book, meeting my gaze. ‘Are you a demon?’ he asked, and his voice was calm and even.
“His calm unsettled me. ‘You never believed in angels or demons,’ I said, trying to match his even tone although I wished to scream. ‘You never believed in anything.’
“‘And yet, here you are,’ he said and snapped his book closed. ‘A man I ordered executed decades ago, who now lives and hasn’t aged a day. Are you a monster?’
“‘There is a monster in this cell,’ I said. ‘But it is not I.’
“‘You’ve come to kill me, then?’
“Could I kill him? I had sworn a blood oath, but the rule was I couldn’t hurt leaders of men. He was a simple monk now. His death would be of no consequence to the course of history. ‘You seem at peace,’ I said. ‘Do the dead never haunt you?’
“His smile was tinged in sadness. ‘Oh, they do. I see their faces every day. My son. Your family. The families of the other fifty-one of the boílas. But if you ask if I have regrets—I don’t. If I could go back in time and live it all again, I wouldn’t change a thing. History will forget about all the blood and the pain. Centuries from now, it will no longer matter.’
“He placed his closed book on the cot and stood up, taking the candle in his hand. The flames illuminated his peaceful, aged face. ‘People of the future will remember me as the ruler who brought unity. The one who brought faith, education, and the alphabet. The one who translated the Bible from Greek. No one will talk about those who died.’
“I felt tears come to my eyes and pushed them back. ‘Of course not,’ I said bitterly. ‘No one will care about those you murdered. They were, after all, pagans.’
“‘But you care,’ he said softly. ‘Because you loved your family. And I care, because, believe it or not, I loved my son. I did what I had to do for the good of our people, and I have no regrets, but it was never easy.’
“‘Was it worth it?’ I asked. ‘The lives of so many, so you can have your legacy?’
“His eyes were kind, but determined. ‘Legacy is all that matters. Do you know what my great-grandfather carved into his pillar of stone? Even if a man lives well, he dies and another one comes into existence. Let the one who comes later upon seeing this inscription remember the one who had made it…’
“‘And the name is Omurtag, Kanasubigi,’ I continued the quote from the column I had seen decades ago, but which was forever etched into my memory, just like everything else. ‘Let God make him live a hundred years.’
“Boris nodded. ‘He did not live for a hundred years. But he will live for a thousand. My great-grandfather understood the one true key to immortality: immortality is not in the afterlife, in some heaven people make up to comfort themselves. Immortality is what we built here, on earth. If we create things that last, we will live in our deeds, and future generations will forever remember us.’
“His eyes softened and turned sad. ‘Our tongue is dying. Perhaps, in a few decades, no one will speak it. Now I wonder if, in his great wisdom, my great-grandfather foresaw this. As a child, I often wondered why he made this inscription in Greek, a language of the ancient past. But perhaps he understood it was also a language of the future, in a way ours could never be. Perhaps he understood our people could never thrive here, in Europe, if we refused to change.’
“I looked at him, at this ghost from my past, and for the first time I noticed he was not as peaceful as I had first believed. His face was calm, but his eyes were staring far away. Was he looking into the past as I did every day? Did he see his son as a young boy, playing carefree in the open fields? You’ve come to kill me, then? Had it been a question, or a plea?
“‘I will not kill you,’ I said. ‘You must live with your choices and your ghosts, as do all of us.’
“I turned around and left before I had changed my mind. Centuries later, I learned that Boris had been right about everything. Long after his death, everyone called him a saint, the man who brought Christianity and knowledge. No one called him the murderer of Roxana, and Asmara, and Erniké, and my parents, and so many others. Boris’s legacy grew larger and larger, fertilized by the blood of the dead.
“Thankfully, at the time I had no idea this would come to pass. I had completed my first task, but I had two more to go. And so I set out to the northeast, guided by the bright stars that had once guided my ancestors in exactly the opposite direction.
“I arrived in Pliska just at the break of dawn and had to look for shelter. When I emerged from my hiding place at the next nightfall, I looked around in shock. I could barely recognize my hometown. Now that the capital had moved to Preslav, Pliska was much smaller and less busy, almost a dying town. And yet the churches were everywhere.
“It was springtime, the season when lambs were born, and so I walked around, knocking from door to door, asking if anyone was selling. Soon, I managed to buy a young lamb, together with all the other goods I needed, and I left the city behind.
“I set out on a road that Callisto had described to me, but I had never dared to take. And at the end of the path I found the place I had been afraid to visit all these decades. The barrow, where my family lay buried.
“I lit a fire, slaughtered the lamb, and roasted it on a spit. Once it was golden brown and cracking, I placed the lamb in front of the tomb and arranged bread, cheese, boiled wheat, and fruits around it. I took a waterskin filled with red wine and poured it onto the ground.
“‘Mother, Father,’ I said. ‘The spring equinox is almost here. I bring you your feast a few nights early. Remember, Father, you smelled the roasting lamb? Eat, drink, and enjoy.’
“I knelt down and pressed my palm against the ground. ‘Roxana, my heart,’ I said. ‘I have to go far away. I don’t think I’ll ever return. But I will never forget you.’
“I stood up and took a step to walk away but stopped and glanced back one last time. The grass-covered mound rose under the pale moonlight, a sad monument of a once-happy family. Years from now, it would be gone and no one would remember them. No one but me.
“‘Goodbye,’ I whispered and walked off into the night.”
“The spring equinox had indeed almost arrived, and I had to hurry. But would Callisto even be there? I had lost count of the years. Had an even number of years passed? And, if not, could I bear waiting for another year? And what if she had given up on me?
“I crossed the Balkan Mountains and entered into Thrace, as Roxana and I had done decades ago. But as I walked on, I stopped, staring at one point ahead.
“This was the place by the river where we had stopped to make camp. The fireflies on the fields formed constellations so different from what I remembered, and yet the stars in the sky were just the same as decades ago. Here, Roxana and I had discussed the future and the possibility of having more children once it was all over. Never in my wildest nightmares had I imagined it could end like this.
“You see, when you become a vampire, you gain a perfect memory. You not only remember all that has happened to you after turning, but you also get back many memories of your human life. Everything is vivid and clear as if it had just occurred. And so I stood there, looking at this spot and seeing it all, remembering all that we had said, and done, and felt.
“But the equinox was coming, and I could no longer linger. I ran on and on, covering in an hour distances a human would have walked in a day.
“I passed by forests and lakes and rocky peaks and reached my destination in no time. Khan Tangra. How long would this name remain unchanged?
“Callisto wasn’t there. But right at the top, next to a pile of broken stones that had once been an altar, stood a Christian priest.
“He had long black robes that appeared of good quality, soft and silky. Around his neck hung a large silver cross, as long as a man’s forearm. Multiple massive silver rings adorned his slender fingers. He wore no hat, and his very dark brown, almost black, curls fell around his youthful face and down to his shoulders.
“He was beardless and looked no older than seventeen. His face had a kind of a feminine beauty to it, with his delicate features, large green eyes and long, thick lashes.
“‘Who are you?’ I asked in this strange new version of Slavonic that had developed in these lands in the past few decades.
“‘I’m not so good in that language,’ he said in Greek, though I could hear it wasn’t his mother tongue either. ‘And who would you guess I am?’
“‘Some lost priest,’ I said. A priest, about to become a vampire’s dinner.
“He laughed. ‘No, not a priest. I simply like the aesthetic. Black and silver, what’s not to like?’
“A man dressed like a priest without being one? Wouldn’t a Christian man consider this a sacrilege? But was he Christian? And was he even a man? How could a man come up here in the middle of the night? ‘You are a vampire,’ I said.
“‘How insightful,’ he said, walking towards me in fluid, catlike movements. ‘What tipped you off? Was it my hair?’ A grin split his face, and he pointed towards his head with both index fingers. ‘And may I ask who you might be?’
“Who was I, indeed? A nameless shadow, lurking in the dark. But that time was past. I was ready for a new beginning and a new identity. And then I remembered my khan, my one true khan I would have followed anywhere. Years from now, his father and brother would be celebrated, and he would be scorned. But I would honor him. ‘My name is Vladimir.’
“The stranger laughed. ‘Ah. Callisto thought you might say that.’
“Relief surged through me at these words. My sire had not abandoned me. ‘Callisto sends you? Did she turn you after she parted ways with me?’
“He raised his graceful eyebrows. ‘Just how old do you think I am? My friend, I am centuries older than you. And, yes, I am younger than Callisto, but she is not my sire.’
“Ah, of course. He was the first vampire besides Callisto I ever met, and even though in my mind I knew he could easily look seventeen and be centuries old, I still found it hard to comprehend that this smooth-faced boy was older than me. I felt an unexpected sense of kinship. Someone like me. Someone I didn’t have to hide from.
“‘You guessed I was a vampire,’ he said. ‘But I’m more than that. I’m a vampire scholar and a student of Aristotle.’
“‘Is that your sire?’ I asked.
“A roar of laughter erupted from his lips. ‘What? You don’t know who Aristotle is? And Callisto said you received a Byzantine education.’ He threw his hands up in the air and snorted. ‘Why am I surprised? The empire has turned its back on its pre-Christian past, and only bits and pieces of the former knowledge reach people nowadays. There is so much I need to teach you.’
“His face turned south, towards the mountains and shores of Byzantium that only vampire eyes could reach through the darkness. ‘I use ancient methods to study our kind. I aim to discover what this force that gives us life is. Where does this dark magic reside?’ He approached me and placed a hand on my chest. ‘Is it in our dark, unbeating hearts?’ He removed his hand. ‘Or somewhere else? Or nowhere at all?’
“‘And what have you discovered?’
“He grinned. ‘Still searching. But never mind that. Callisto and I have been discussing you, and we have decided what is best for you.’
“Laughter bubbled inside me, threatening to burst out of my chest, but I suppressed it. I raised an eyebrow. ‘Have you, now?’
“He nodded. ‘Callisto is traveling in Armenia. We will go meet her there, and will then continue to central Asia. Some people there still worship your god. It will bring you comfort to meet them and spend time with them.’
“‘Oh, it will?’ I said. ‘I’m glad you seem to know me so well already. But if Callisto has told you anything about me at all, then you must know I find it very hard to follow orders.’
“‘It’s not an order,’ he said. ‘We merely thought—’
“‘Thought what?’ I interrupted. ‘That I’d be happy chasing a past I cannot bring back? The future is what I care about. I came here tonight to inform Callisto that I’m traveling north to meet the Vikings. You and she are welcome to tag along, but if you have other plans, I will go by myself.’
“He laughed. ‘You are indeed the man she described.’
“‘Then I have to wonder, what made you think I would have agreed to let you and Callisto drag me around, for my own good?’
“‘My mistake,’ he said, nimbly climbing back to the top of the peak and sitting on the destroyed altar. He patted the stone next to him. ‘Come, join me. The sun is still far. Let us enjoy this beautiful view.’ He raised a waterskin. ‘And let me share the wine of my homeland.’
“I climbed up the last few steps leading me to the peak and sat down next to him, facing north. ‘Your homeland?’ I asked and took the waterskin.
“‘It was called Gaul,’ he said, ‘But now people call it Francia. I’ve returned there many times since I first left. Are you hesitant to leave your land behind?’
“‘No,’ I said, and I realized it was the truth. ‘I’m ready to move on. And yet, I keep thinking, I am the last remnant of my homeland’s past. Once I leave, there will be nothing left.’
“‘Don’t be so certain,’ he said. ‘Look at these mountains far north. Callisto told me her people used to call them Haemus Mons, named after ‘haema’—blood. The god Zeus and the monster Typhon fought here, and Typhon’s blood fell on the mountains, thus giving them the name.’
“Something awoke in me at his words, something strange I had not felt in decades. Curiosity. The desire to know more about other cultures and beliefs. Zeus, Typhon… what other stories were there to tell?
“‘Why do you think I am telling you this?’ he asked.
“‘To show me that everything fades to dust,’ I said. ‘Callisto’s culture is gone and forgotten, as is mine.’
“‘If you believe Callisto’s culture is forgotten, you know nothing of this world,’ he said. ‘And this is not at all why I told you this story. What is the name of these mountains now? Balkan. And who gave them this name? Your people when they came here from Asia. It means ‘a mountain’ in your tongue, no? The name hasn’t changed after the Christianization, and perhaps it will stay.’
“‘Or perhaps not,’ I said, taking a sip of his wine. ‘Perhaps everything will fade.’
“He gave me a side glance. ‘This mountain we stand on is called Rila, and it was the Thracians who gave it that name. The Thracians have been gone for centuries, but the name still remains. Cultures come and go, and some disappear completely, but they always leave a trace for future generations to find and remember.’
“I smiled. His words were strangely hopeful. ‘You know,’ I said, handing him back his wineskin, ‘you never told me your name.’
“He looked off into the distance, his green eyes reflecting the light of the moon and stars. ‘My name is Lucien.’”