By Jon Croft
Paulus Hook, New Jersey, 2025 AD
A panoramic wall of security glass facing the bay gives Simon’s twelfth floor residence its much-coveted view of the Hudson River and Manhattan’s Battery. He adores the dynamic activity and technological wonders of this New World; he frequently uses social media and the tracking apps on his phone to find unsavory characters in New York who are linked to Vampires. Hubris and Vanity…Vampires aren’t immune. Pop culture has painted vampirism as some romantic affliction. Tragedy awaits mortals who play this game.
The icy waters and ships below make him think of years past when getting anywhere was a Herculean challenge and ships were – well, ships. Wooden, leaky and often manned by scoundrels ready to turn pirate themselves at the slightest reversal of fortune or first lucrative opportunity. Now, everything is complex. Surveillance is everywhere. Sometimes it aids Simon’s mission; other times it presents insurmountable roadblocks.
Quietly sipping his wine as the sun sets, he reflects back on his first hunt with Longinus. One day in 685AD he’s studying arcane grimoires in Constantinople and stealing away at night to savor the pleasures of a Persian Ambassador’s wife – and the next he’s thrown into a war against a fallen angel: Azazel.
Simon stares at his friend across the room who is clearly impressed by New York City in the distance. Thousands of glimmering lights define its skyline as the sun sinks low in the West. The breathtaking majesty and ambition of it all is, most times, unfathomable to men like Simon and Longinus – men for whom time and wealth are little more than irrelevant abstractions.
The irony of seeing an authentic Roman Centurion standing in his study – clad in a Brioni suit – isn’t lost on Simon. Of course, Cassius could say the same thing – sharing his time with a tattooed Magician of Karnak and Saqqara trained during Octavian’s stewardship over Egypt two millennia ago. Yes, they are angelic -inspired freaks of nature.
Cassius – his birth name is Cassius Gaius Longinus – still cuts a trim figure but his facial features have never softened. He’s a leathered, scarred brute who has been time-stamped by every impact that’s laid him low and every knife that’s cut him deep. His burned and maimed flesh is as menacing as ever – crimson red, branding his countenance with a forbidding mask-like quality. He’s hyper-aggressive…irritable…volatile. Longinus is a tightly wound spring of macerating, man-slaughtering and unremitting mayhem. Strike first is his motto. Archangel Gabriel consecrated Longinus a slayer – but Simon sees him for what he really is: a killing machine. This Centurian is an engine of destruction – a one-man Roman Legion.
Cassius Gaius Longinus keeps his American residence on the mansion’s Eleventh floor just below Simon. But while Simon’s quarters are an enormous museum of priceless, irreplaceable and wall-to-ceiling books and Eastern Orthodox Icons, Cassius’s living space is an armory. A celebration of death.
True to his military background, Cassius surrounds himself with every implement of weaponry ever devised by man. But pride of place belongs to his Gladius. Long ago in Palestine, the man who pierced Christs’ side with a spear and miraculously regained his sight awoke after three days of drinking and whoring to the blinding light of Archangel Gabriel’s presence. First the soldier cowered in fear and begged for forgiveness…for absolution. Then he wept, ashamed of his ingratitude and degeneracy. Gabriel let the pathetic soldier wallow in his wretched despair for a time and then addressed him.
“Hand me your Gladius, Longinus”.
Gabriel took the sword from his trembling hands – and thrust it deep into the Centurian’s ribs, excavating a gaping and fatal wound. The Angel then roughly withdrew the weapon, twisting it – intensifying the man’s suffering. Unlike Simon Magus’ conversion, Longinus screamed and writhed in agony – bleeding out his apostasy and sinfulness for three days as he was excruciatingly inducted into to God’s service.
His Gladius is now as mystical a blade as is Simon’s Seax. Longinus is never without it. All of his suit jackets are custom crafted in Saville Row, London, with a special Kevlar back sheath and nesting place for the cubit-long weapon. It’s always ready for Longinus to wield at a moment’s notice. Even the fabled gladiators of the Circus Maximus in Rome couldn’t match Longinus’ present-day skill with the weapon. Centuries of experience does that for a man.
“We’ve traveled many a long journey, Cassius”. Simon ruminates out loud to break the brooding assassin out of his funk. “When do you return to Rome?”
“His Holiness sends a Gulfstream for me tomorrow – after we finish our business with Cardinal Lazenby at Sacred Heart Cathedral in Manhattan. I’ll be taking back our latest crop of Vampire heads….in those sealed liquid nitrogen carboys.”
Longinus seems distracted, still mesmerized by the Manhattan lights but somehow off his game. Simon surmises his friend is pre-occupied by thoughts. Of killing…what else? Cassius’ words confirm the magician’s intuition.
“I dreamt again of Kiev last night…. we didn’t kill all of them, you know…We’d be better off today if we’d ended it then. Destroyed the whole colony. All the breeders. What do the Vikings call it? The End of All Things? Yes… Ragnarök. We should have found the Fallen Angel – the head of the snake – and killed him…Ended it there and then.”
Simon knows there’s no talking to his friend about the Kievan debacle. The most he can do as Longinus walks out of the study is appeal to his faith.
“May God Bless you and keep you, my friend.
Simon hears the door close behind Longinus and he, too, reflects on what happened in Seventh Century Kiev – that cursed time of their unfinished business. He chews over every detail, every puzzle piece of their stand-off with the Pentagrammon in that era when the Church was young and unprepared. Simon knows that Longinus is right – they should’ve killed them all. All one hundred villagers in that evil cesspit of a village called Sanok. And Azazel.
From the moment he learned Vampires were slaughtering Pagan Slavs in Kiev to prevent their conversion to Christianity, Simon knew he had to contact Rome. He needed another slayer at his side – someone consecrated. Someone called by Gabriel to their epic mission. A whirlwind of death-dealing. Who better than the man bathed in Christ’s actual blood at the base of the Holy Cross?
But in the end, the number of dead bodies was apocalyptic – but inadequate. The Slavs were converted – but at a terrible cost. The thought of it all makes him bitter even today. Like his Centurian friend, Simon’s dreams of Kiev haunt him. The magician wishes he could summon Gabriel and ask: Can a Fallen Angel be killed? How does one destroy a Lieutenant of Satan? Do slayers like he and Longinus have the Grace to destroy all Five Fallen Angels of the Pentagrammon by Seax and Sword? Is he and his Roman friend worthy enough?
But even the great Simon Magus cannot summon an Angel. His only refuge tonight is prayer.
Simon thumbs through his weathered Greek Bible. In his meditations, he ponders the Apostle John’s account of his friend’s abominable acts on the day of Christs’ Crucifixion. He also re-reads The Epistle of Barnabas. Hopefully, the good book can help him summon merciful sleep. But the nightmares of Kiev are never far…
John 19:31 KJV
“The Jews, because it was in the preparation (for Passover) desired that the bodies should not remain upon the cross on the Sabbath Day, besought Pilate that their legs might be broken so that those crucified might (die)…. then, therefore, came a soldier with a spear who pierced the side of Jesus, and forthwith came out blood and water…”
The Epistle of Barnabas, 121AD
“…And a soldier with his spear did pierce the side of Jesus, causing blood and water to issue forth. And this flow did cover the face and eyes of the soldier, called Longinus, who cried out in pain and anguish as if he was burning. Now this man was a Roman warrior of many campaigns and was slowly going blind after his years. All saw him fall to his knees and give thanks to God because his eyesight was at that very moment restored. And all who bore witness were amazed and greatly astonished.”
The Hunters, 685AD
Semyon, Thurn and Haaken reach the Port of Odessa just after sunrise. They are met in the bay by a compact Viking Knorr – an ambush vessel not meant carry a war party, but a small force of tactical warriors in search and destroy missions. It’s flying Rurik’s standard: a dragon against a blood-red background surrounded by Runic symbols. The ship is manned by seven oversized and intimidating Varangian berserkers, each more scarred and muscled than the next. They’re dressed like traditional Norsemen, covered in belted furs and leather bracing. Each man carries two short axes in his midriff corset and Nordic Seax knives are strapped to their chests.
Colorful round shields are mounted on the sides of the vessel just above its oars. The Knorr’s top prow beam is carved into a wild boar’s head with implacable fangs. The hellish beast’s face makes the ship resemble a wooden sea serpent with a demoniacal crew, ready to tear to pieces all who cross their path.
The Phoenician vessel they’ve just crossed the Black Sea in hasn’t even been lashed to a dock before the smaller Viking Knorr comes along side and one of their number expertly hurls grappling hook and tie line into it. Its teeth dig deep into the Phoenician vessels’ starboard rail. The Phoenician crew all back away. A burley, toothless giant with a flaming red beard scrambles up to their deck and approaches Semyon. He obviously knows what type of man he’s looking for. His odor arrives before he does despite the winds ripping across Odessa’s bay.
“You are Semyon Thaumaturgus?” He asks loudly in heavily accented Greek.
Semyon responds, guardedly. “I am.”
The giant continues speaking loudly so all can hear but keeps his eyes on Semyon.
“I am Ausgraf, Hetman of the Host. We are Ostmen in Jarl Rurik’s Varangian Guard. We are to take you on board our vessel and depart immediately for Kiev. Pressing matters require your presence in Rurik’s Lodge house before the next full moon. We have already reprovisioned our vessel. Gather your men and weapons.”
Father Semyon stands perfectly still, staring into the man’s eyes. He is riveted to the wooden decking under him by force of his sheer will alone. His right hand moves imperceptibly towards his Seax.
“How do I know you are who you say you are?” He slowly speaks in precise Greek so the gargantuan figure before him comprehends his meaning.
Ausgraf grimaces, baring stubs of blackened, demolished teeth throughout his ripe mouth. Somehow the question triggers pain in his battered jaws.
“Father Cyril warned me I might have to give this to you.”
Ausgraf hands him a silver ring with carvings on its flat top. It’s a ring Father Semyon hasn’t seen in ages. At the sight of it his eyes well up with tears. Engraved on it is the Eye of Horus, Eqypts’ most mystical symbol. Ausgraf’s guttural voice stuns him back to reality.
“He said you misplaced it in a temple at Saqqara in Giza long ago…that it had something to do with a Priestess who died by her own hand.”
Ausgraf’s face flickers a hint of disappointment behind his magnificent crimson warriors’ beard. Reminding this renowned “Holy Man” of an indiscretion – any weakness – gives the seasoned warrior no pleasure. As a commander of men, he knows human nature all too well. It’s not the Viking way to judge such things.
Semyon stares at the ring in his left hand, his trembling mouth slightly agape. His usually inscrutable face is somber. His eyes get dark and moist. His sadness is palpable. Even he is not immune to the ravaging effects of love.
Ausgraf isn’t interested in coddling the priests’ despair – he presses forward with his mission.
“We must leave – now – Father Thaumaturgus. It will take us almost two weeks to reach Kiev”.
Semyon asks a final question, his damp eyes now smoldering with purpose.
“And what of the priest – Father Vasatika – from Sanok?”
“We have him. He awaits your Holy…ministrations.” Augraf smiles through his broken teeth, nodding his head. He dramatically shifts his hand to rest atop a well-worn axe he has tucked inside his belt. It’s information he’s obviously delighted to share.
“We save the corrupted Priest for you, Father Thaumaturgus. For you and The Roman.”
Kiev
For the better part of ten days, they weave and navigate an inland waterway that Ausgraf only calls the Dneiper. They access it by following the coastline from Odessa Northward and then due West. At times the river is wide and formidable, at other times it’s placid and narrow. All along its shorelines are settlements and trading posts. The people are a curious mix of Slavs, Norsemen, Bulgars and Turks all engaged some kind of commerce. There’s a smoldering, dynamic energy in this place. It vibrates and hums with life. Semyon even sees Khazarian sloops flying their standard – a gold-fringed, purple banner bearing the Hebrew Star of David. They’re returning to the Black Sea, back to their home base in Crimea, laden with wares.
Father Semyon readily appreciates why Earl – or Jarl, in Old Norse – Rurik in Kiev seeks to solidify his ties with Byzantium; the river traffic is heavy in both directions – money is pouring into this region as its grain, rich furs, agricultural and crafted products head out to Black Sea ports throughout Asia Minor. War doesn’t generate this kind of commerce – only treaties and peoples free to come and go. Unhindered by religious or tribal bitterness and bad blood. It’s a brewing kettle, a human stew of cultures interacting and networking in their own best interests.
Their journey is arduous. High waters, low waters – rapids, mud banks – sometimes oars, sometimes sails. The Dneiper is a brutal whore of a waterway. Ausgraf’s Varangian Guard crew struggles to keep up their pace; they’re clearly pushing hard to get back to Kiev on schedule.
Thurn and Haaken study every detail intently. They confidently interact with the Varangian crew. Semyon is impressed with their ability to adapt, improvise, nuance their words and stoically engage in self-analysis. They’re free of hubris. Their minds are lithe and unpolluted by fantasies of lucre, glory or flesh. They are honest, trustworthy companions. Young men Semyon would’ve been proud to call Son in another time and place.
The towns and villages along the way all meld into a blur of landmarks – Mykolaiv, Orshkena, Grushka…. Then there’s two physically exhausting portages to drag their boat to feeder rivers. Everyone mans the block-and-tackle. They physically haul the boat through marshes and muck – until they reach a navigable shortcut to Damotkan that’s been swelled by recent heavy rains. From there, it’s a clear shot to Kiev. The Varangian guards know their countryside like the back of their hands.
Father Semyon is impressed. It’s two weeks to the day they left the Port of Odessa when they finally lash their boat to a dock in Keiv. Ausgraf and his men lose no time escorting Semyon, Turn and Haaken to the impressive Lodge House of Jarl Rurik, Chief of the Kievan Rus.
Though weary from their trip, Semyon bounds up the wooden stairs to the enormous arched doorways. Ausgraf leads him through the regally-carved portal into a foyer that opens into a cathedral-sized log structure, rough-hewn from at least one thousand trees. And endless procession of torches demarcates where he’s to approach Jarl Rurik’s elevated seat of power. Many warriors and retainers are already congregating at his dais, each vehemently arguing their case before the master of all Kievan Rus.
Semyon follows Ausgraf, whose large strides make their approach a brief one.
At long last, Semyon Thaumaurgus stands at the feet of the most powerful man in Keivan Rus. He remains silent and fixes his eyes on Rurik.
Jarl Rurik is the very image of a Norseman – read haired, red bearded, broad chested and clad in an entire forests’ worth of furs. He wears a simple crown and cradles an extravagant, bejeweled sword of authority in his left hand. He is bellowing mercurial oaths at the gaggle of persons demanding something or another from him in their Slavic tongue. Rurik is berating some, praising others like a true politician. His withering gaze falls on friend and adversary alike. Then Semyon catches his attention. Rurik’s face freezes into a mask of quiescent but still-smoldering rage. Red veins emerge from his forehead as he struggles to keep his inner warrior at bay and his mouth still.
Rurik suddenly thrusts his open palm up above him and barks out a command.
“Silence!”
The Lodge Hall is hushed in an instant. Rurik glowers at Semyon, then slowly turns his head to his right – drawing the priest’s eyes there, too.
Standing near a wooden column is a large, powerfully built soldier. Everyone sees where Rurik is directing his gaze – and slowly backs away from the stranger as if he’s poison or a snake ready to strike them.
He’s gray haired and beard stubbled. His facial skin is pock-marked, and a deep, hideous scar runs from his right eye socket down through to his mouth as if he’d been splayed open in battle. His left ear and neck is burned – almost melted in places. His lips are drawn tightly together, as if speaking is a gesture alien to him.
The man’s attire makes him stand out from everyone else congregating inside in Rurik’s Lodge this day. But anyone who’s ever raised a sword in battle on the Eurasian continent cannot mistake where this soldier comes from. He’s in very distinctive, full battle gear.
He wears a “Paludament” – a white officers’ cloak – fastened at his left shoulder with a gold Eagle badge of rank. Fitted animal skin “Braccae” – trousers – topped by a broad leather midriff belt or “Balteus”. An over-the-shoulder sling called a “Baldric” suspends at his side the most infamous blade ever forged: the Gladius short sword of Rome. He wears a red tunic under his cloak, interwoven with “Lorica Hamata” or mail armor. Around his neck is a chain mail guard or “Focale”. Heavy soled, closed toe sandals cover his feet, and he has lower legs shields or “Greaves” strapped to him.
The man cradles his impressive, fully plumed officer’s helmet in the crook of his left arm as a gesture of respect to his esteemed host, Rurik.
He looks at Semyon Thaumaturgus across the room which is now quiet as the grave. His scarred face is solemn, his lips tight. Standing erect as a stone monolith, he strikes his right fist to his left breast in a Roman salute and finally speaks – in Latin.
“Dio Gratias, Simon Magus”.
Semyon returns his salute and smiles. He responds in Latin.
“Dio Gratias, Longinus.”
Copyright, 2025 Jon Croft
Email: vlchek1@gmail.com
