Chapter One


When I was young, I was innocent. As a mortal I craved no further purpose in life other then to live and enjoy existence. I had always thought that a simple life was the right life, and I loyally practiced that which I preached, never falling into the lusts of money or gold until my life had been stolen from me, and my time long stopped. In my years as a mortal, things such as wealth and power were irrelevant to me. With my innocent eyes I could see no purpose that such things served mankind and in turn looked down upon those that were contaminated with arrogance, and baited to their fates with trivial lusts…

Of course, my views were indicative of the time period, where I was born, and whom I was born as. A boy born into wealth in Rome during my time would certainly have found the life I lived pathetic, just as much as I found his ridiculous. I suppose that it was all in the manner in which you looked at the situation.

I was not born a human into money or royalty, but too a poor family in a small village on the seaside of western Italy. Though it is impossible to known now the date of my birth, I am able to estimate it at three hundred years before the death of Christ. I was given the name Salius, which I am told means salt, and has a connection to the sea that I knew as a child. It was my mother that bestowed such a gentle name upon the baby that lay in her arms, hours before she succumbed to complications of my birthing. I cannot remember her face, though at times I long to know what she did look like; I suppose such desires are just as trivial as a mortal’s lust for gold, and just as ridiculous.

All that I remember of my childhood is traumatic, and still pains my heart to this day. I have memories of being terribly abused by my father, who all but disowned me after my mother died. It was another one of our village that took care of me, and eased my hunger with the milk of her breasts until I grew old enough to walk. The day I returned to my father, still a toddler, and padded softly back into the hut, he threw me against the wall and whipped me. My father hated me more then anything he would ever come to hate, for it was I who killed his wife, and suffocated the flame of their early love. I was beaten daily, either with his hands or a whip, and by the age of six my back was no longer skin but a blanket of scars. As I grew he forced me to sleep outside and did not permit me to take refuge in the warm hut, and so I came to know my father less and less. My only sister, who was but two years older then I, came to pity me, and often would sneak me bits of leftover meat so that I would not starve.

I counted the years of my childhood with the passing of the seasons. It was the eleventh year that my father remarried. He no longer beat me then, for at that age I was already a man, and it would be a crime to raise his hand against me. There was no announcement of their marriage; my father simply came one day with a young girl, no older then twenty, and brought her into his hut. As they feasted inside with dishes of roasted meat and wild vegetables I sat outside the hut listening to their conversation, my mouth quivering at the thought of how delightful the food must taste. My sister had married a year prior to a handsome young farmer, and so I never tasted any of the feasts; I was not of my new mother’s blood, and so she saw no reason to take care to me and offer.

A year later they both died. A terrible sickness plagued our village, and no prayers we offered to the Gods lessened it. The fishers died first, and then it took the children and then the childrens’ mothers… My father went after his wife died. He passed away with her lying beside him in the bed, for I found no obligation to drag her corpse from the hut and burry it. Even when he died I left them there, and it was only after several weeks that they were finally put to rest by another in the village.

After three more cycles of the unending seasons passed, I was married. I wed a delicate wife by the name of Cassia, who had been left orphaned by the same plague that took my father, and she gave birth to two daughters. When they were born they were beautiful; their faces were so perfectly formed and round. A full season after they were born we gave them the names Acacia and Chryseis. As they matured into toddlers I was pleased, for I saw that my children were blessed with her dark hair and blue eyes, as well as her light complexion that was so valued in the eyes of men.

After their births we took over my father’s hut, since it was larger then Cassia’s. I quickly purged it of the bad memories I had come to know it for, and we started up our lives from their ashes. I took up the trade of fishing, as did many of the young men in our village, and would bring home buckets of fish to both eat and sell. The sea supported us with its bounty, and my children grew fat and healthy, never knowing what hunger meant. Like this we were poor, but also content.

For four wonderful years I lived with my Cassia, and for the first time in my life, I knew happiness. She brought indescribable joy to my life every morning when I opened my eyes and saw her face. The years passed swiftly and the seasons seemed to come and go nonchalantly, as intoxicated with its existence as we were. At night I would fall asleep wondering what my two daughters would look like as they grew older—whom would turn out to be the most beautiful, whom the most loving to their father? Who would the men propose to first, Acacia or Chryseis, and what status would this man hold? And, after having pondered and imagined the answers to these questions, I fell into a contented sleep.

To this day I wonder what they would have looked like.

I remember the dream I had the night my family was murdered. I stood alone by the edge of the sea, gazing out into the depths of its abyss, and watching as bolts of lighting lit up the black sky like tiny veins. I gazed down to the cool waters that brushed up against my ankles and saw that it was red. A great wind came forth, and the ocean leapt up in crashing waves. I turned and tried to escape them, fearing that one could knock me from my feet and drag me to sea, and yet they continued to accelerate. I tripped and was overcome with its pounding force, and as I felt the breath knocked out of me, woke up.

That night it was impossible to fall back to sleep, no matter how many comforting words Cassia offered. It was only when the sun rose and she and the children left to feed our village horses that I fell back into a fitful rest.

I was wakened by the terrified screams of children and the baying of frightened cattle. At first I thought that I was only dreaming, and believed that these events were simply fabrications of my mind. As the screaming intensified and was joined in chorus with women I became doubtful and rose silently to my feet. My heart began to race madly, as a man’s would when he is facing death. I found a small knife among our scattered belongings and went outside, raising it outward as if I was going to attack something.

Nothing could have prepared me for what my eyes witnessed. The huts were afire, and women and children lay dead at the entrances of their houses. A few men that were skilled with swords were engaged in mortal combat with warriors dressed in Etruscan armor. Blood flowed openly over the dry earth, as if the sea waters had swelled and reached our village. I screamed out Cassia’s name and raised my blade, cursing the Gods underneath my breath, and digging my teeth deep into my tongue. Faintly amongst a pile of other corpses that had been stacked by idle soldiers, I saw my daughter Acacia’s bloody body and to her side my wife’s. Their faces were contorted with a look of death, and their eyes seemed to bulge forth from their head. Acacia’s little hand grasped a small rag doll that I had purchased for her years prior in her hands, and even in death held it to her chest for comfort.

A logical man would have fallen to his knees and wept over the loss of his family. I was made foolish by my sorrow, and thus my emotions quickly turned to that of rage. As I saw a dim impression of a Etruscan solider amongst the clouds of dust, I flung myself toward him and rose my knife overhead. In my imagination, I thought that I could hear his steady heartbeat, and the desire in me grew to dive it deep into his chest and silence the noise.

I never had a chance to gain my revenge and kill him, for another of the soldiers fell upon me. A wooden club stuck me against the back of my head, and I collapsed to the ground and lay there stunned. As I felt the warmth of my blood drip down past my ears and down the sides of my face, the world seemed to become suddenly dim to me. The thunderous pain numbed, and I barely felt the tight rope that the solider bound me at the wrists with. When he pulled me to my feet, and forced me at the point of a sword to a collection of other captives whom were bound in the same fashion, I remained silent. The words were not in me to offer.

It was impossible to escape the beasts that guarded us. As I became once more aware of my surroundings, I watched while a man cleverly slipped the binds from his ankles and turned to run. I recognized him as a fisher that often accompanied me during our hunts. He was a small man, shorter then I, but blessed with agility that only Olympians could manage. Even he was helpless to outrun them, and they quickly caught and dragged him back to us. As one of the soldiers restrained him, another drew a knife across his throat. His bound hands were now no use to him, and he fell to the ground, choking as he died.

The warriors smiled amongst themselves, invigorated by his cries. They were truly beasts; there are no better words that can describe those Etruscan soldiers. They enjoyed the cries of death, the scent of flowing blood, and the sight of another’s vital life spilling toward the dry earth… And as we stood there helplessly, the warriors mocked the corpses of our loved ones, and jested as Chryseis was too thrown into the pile. Using our tongue, they claimed that she was the prettiest of them all.

That morning I left my entire life behind me, and began a death march to the nearest Etruscan city.

It was fated that I would become a slave to the Etruscans.

It pains me to linger for long on my past before meeting my first mortal master, and so I will not. I have long been able to recall these memories vaguely and manage feel no emotion as to them, and yet, when the name Cassia, or Chryseis, or dear Acacia rolls from my lips, my heart is pained, and I feel the same longing to die as I did on the march to my new city. And so I will not bother with more tales of my early mortal past, for in reality, I have told all that needs to be known. My life as a child, and even a young man with my wife, are completely irrelevant in the grand-scheme of my life. All that matters are the events that led me to become what I am, and have been for so many years. It would have been entirely possible to escape my fate of becoming a vampire many times, and if I had known of the opportunity, would have gladly taken it… And yet, I was never given such an advantage. What mortal truly chooses his own fate?

The soldiers forced me away from the sea I had come to know since I was child, after completely burning what was left of our village. The remaining women and children were found and slaughtered; I saw my own sister killed before my eyes. Men that were young enough and suitable for labor were bound and shackled as I was, while those that showed any sign of wrinkles were killed. One by one, in a line, and bound together by our ankles, we continued for many days toward the Etruscan city of Capua. The gentle hills turned to great mountains, and the weather scent of the sea disappeared with its moisture. We baked underneath the unforgiving sun, paining each night for the drink of water and taste of bread we were provided with as the sun rose. When one of us died, the soldiers would simply cut the rope connecting us and drag the man away, retying it after the body was disposed of.

I came very close to dying. Each day my pace slowed, and the young boy behind me would push in annoyance. One day I simply could take no more and collapsed lifelessly to the ground. A solider came to my side and exposed my neck; I felt the cold metal of his blade touch my skin and cried out. I am unsure who decided to spare me, but the solider sheathed his knife and hit me across the face. Another pressed a pouch of water to my mouth and let me sip from it before pulling me back to my feet. Contented with this, vigor once more pulsed through my veins, I continued ever onward, praying that I would soon come to peace.

I remember the first time I saw Capua. Though it was a small city and minuscule compared to the wondrous engineering of Rome that I would eventually come to see, it procured my amazement and delighted me. Never before had I seen a true home that was not built from hides of skinned cattle and tree branches. In Capua great houses of stone lined the streets and opened to them with entrances that were covered with expensive silks that were soft to the touch. The streets were paved with stones patted down into the earth, and felt strange to walk upon. Wagons drawn by sluggish horses bumped past us, and each time the people inside would glance and point, speaking in a language that was incomprehensible to me.

The marketplace was a further wonder to me. In Capua you could easily find meats and vegetables of any kind. Dried fish and fresh deer hung from walls, and women went up to them with coins and traded with the merchants. A stand of vibrant jewelry glistened in the afternoon sun, and potters sat out by the street side, molding clay into shapes. As we neared the center of the commons my eyes met with a great stage that one must climb steps to reach, and no sooner had I seen it then I was upon it. Strange men, speaking in a foreign tongue, knelt before us and put white chalk on our feet. Another that was richly clothed in a red robe came to the front and yelled out to the gathering crowd. After they responded with several cries, he motioned toward the captive nearest to him, as if to bid him to come. The poor boy—no older then thirteen—did so after being persuaded by the rough hands of men dressed in Etruscan armor. He was made to walk around for a bit, and was then stripped naked and forced onto a high block. Several men from the crowd argued over him in loud voices, waving their fists high in the air. Eventually all quieted except one, and then the boy was brought down from his stand. The paint was wetted from his feet before he was led away and into the captivity of his purchaser. The strange man addresses the crowd much more, doing such with each captive until he reached me. In a similar fashion I was made to walk around the platform before being stripped and put on the block.

Many men seemed to argue over me, and though I should have been terrified of what they argued about, I only watched the spectacle in stoic silence. Eventually this argument was also resolved, and I was cut free from the rope and painted white. Two men led me away back down the steps and toward a man whose likeness I had never seen before.

He wore a robe of a soft green that was stitched with intricate designs of lions fighting a pack of mad dogs. His face was round and very tan and his eyes were the hue of a cool blue that reminded of my missed sea. A light color of brown hair covered his head, and it contrasted deeply with two black eyebrows that were to be too bushy for his face. As the rope binding my hands was passed to him, and he led me away in silence, there was little I could do but follow him.

This was the day that I lost my name. He spoke to me in the broken language I was born into, and told me that my new name was Sergius. Though I did understand him, I pretended as if I was unable to understand his accent, and only watched him with a face of curiosity. He assumed that his speech was at fault, and expected nothing of me.

My master’s name was Lucretius. He was a wealthy farmer, who was born into riches as a young boy, and lived on the far boundaries of the Etruscan settlement. He owned and managed a small grape farm, and though it managed to pull in little profit, Lucretius lived well on his inheritance. There is no way to truly fit Lucretius into the category of Etruscan aristocracy, for even though he was rich, he never acted as though he was. A man of his status should have owned hundreds of slaves and have a sprawling mansion under his name, and yet he did nothing that was expected of him. Perhaps it was because he was nearing the age of death; if he were youthful, I am certain he would have been more willing to flaunt such entitlements.

We traveled through the sprawling hills and to his modest estate by carriage. Lucretius sat in the passenger’s seat, and I humbly at his feet, while another slave guided the horses. I refused to look at his face, and instead diverted my eyes away from him toward the wonderful view around me. My master’s land was truthfully a beautiful, and every hill that was visible to my eyes seemed to be enveloped in the rich color of the grapevine. The welcoming scent of greenery teased me, and for a moment, as I gazed upon this fertile land, I felt a bit of content.

“Have you ever seen a place like this before?” Lucretius asked me, his words broken while he struggled with my language.

I looked up at the man briefly, trying to hide my fearful eyes. Like a child I shook my head and looked to the floor.

“You are shy of me?” He questioned as his wrinkled hand fell upon my shoulder. “You will learn to overcome such timidity. If you are good, I will give food for you when we arrive, The other slaves will tend to you. You will not have to work the first three days. I want this wound to heal…”

He tenderly took my chin and pressed his finger against the back of my head where the solider had struck me with a club. I drew away from him and hesitantly bowed my head. His sympathy did not comfort my fear. I worried more then anything of being forced to work as mining slave; the poor things were certain to die within months of starting, and all for the price of silver. The thought of being worked to death in such conditions seemed worse of a fate then being burnt alive or crucifixion.

I watched with hidden jealously as Lucretius drew a handful of grapes from a pouch at his side and brought them to his mouth. When he saw my desire, he offered one to me, and I took it. Though he waited for the satisfaction of my response, I found it impossible to eat. I closed my hand around it and let my arm fall at my side, knowing that I would know hunger more later, and the grape would ease my pain.

“Will you not try it?” My master spoke, his voice weighing with pity.

Again my eyes turned away from him.

“You are far to stubborn.” He whispered as he shook his head. “Go to sleep. You will know when we have arrived, my slave.”

I managed to fall asleep within minutes, and for the first time since my wife’s death knew peace. His words were false; when I arrived I did not stir, and remained still asleep when I was carried by another to the slaves’ quarters. I wonder sometimes if Lucretius drugged me, for when I did wake I was incapable of speech. I remember opening my eyes to the handsome face of another slave, whose hair was as black as ebony. He examined my face as another slave covered me with a thin blanket and propped my head upon a folded cloth. I heard the soft voice of my new master speaking to them, still in my broken dialect.

“They have exhausted him. He will die if you do not tend to his needs faithfully, Agrippa. I believe the fractured part of his bone there—be gentle, he is awake…”

Two others came to my view and I watched them in indifference. The man beside me drew a dagger from his leather belt and washed primitively in a pan of water. I cringed at the sight of it.

“Do you have any wine, master? Have we nothing to subdue him?”

The words came, but in my disorientation I did not see the man’s lips move.

“I have plenty of wine in the cellar. He is sickly, and very dehydrated. If I feed him wine he will thirst even more.”

“Just a little, master—only a little wine. Just enough so that he will not fight us.”

I saw Lucretius nod, and he motioned to another slave to fetch a jar of wine. He turned his attention to me and scanned my body with his cold eyes.

“Are you tired? I cannot imagine you would put much of a fight up. Look, child—you are dying!” He pointed at my hand. “Do you see how pale your fingers are? Your blood is no longer reaching them. Your heart is straining to continue… Perhaps wine will help the circulation. You want to live, do you not, Sergius?”

Dying. His words were true, I was dying, and deep in my heart knew it was so. The feeling in unmistakable. The overwhelming pain of my losses that taunted my small will to live.

“Life?”

“Yes—life, my Sergius! It is I that is your ticket to life. Do you promise to obey me if I let you live? Do you promise never to go against my will?”

I forced a nod. With a smile Lucretius motioned, and a slave knelt beside me with a bowl of wine. The ceramic cup was pressed against my lips, and I swallowed it in chokes. It was only moments before my eyes grew heavy.

“Wine truly works miracles.... I doubt he even knows where he is…”

Lucretius’s words became disconnected, and I fell into nothingness.

I truly felt no pain as Agrippa’s knife dug deep into the back of my head. With the wine, my body became enveloped in a blanket of warmth, and I knew nothing—I understood nothing—and I wanted nothing.

I was at peace.