Marcus Avitus, part 1

I do not tell this story in the hope of gaining some kind of absolution. Rather, I tell it in the face of the knowledge that for us there can be no absolution. We are an abomination — a perversion of the natural order. But then, so are you, and every living thing that walks this world. We are as dust, and to dust we shall return.

In my time I have been more of an abomination than most men, I have killed more men than most wars, and I have seen enough to know that true evil exists only in the hands of the righteous.

I tell this story, not to soothe any remnants of my conscience, not to find my soul in its baring, but only to see that the truth is recorded for those who care to seek it.

*****

A well-fed healthy adult has about five litres of blood that will continue pumping for somewhat in excess of a month with no external sustenance. To a vampire, such a meal will sustain for a fortnight or so. The victim, naturally, dies instantly. I was not so fortunate.

*****

The great and bounteous Roman Empire was built on power and excess. The power kept the whole engine running through sheer force of will, so long as there was space for it to expand into. When that space ran out the power turned inwards, and in the end it was the excess that was their downfall. That same excess was my downfall, too. I was a successful young merchant with a silver tongue, a blushing bride and a beautiful baby girl, along with drinking and gambling problems to match even the emperors themselves.

My business profits, as extensive as they were, poured into the bloodsport of the arenas, where it sang to the fires of baser instinct locked away inside myself. Blade and bone and blood. At the time I was ashamed, but I have long since lost the concept of regret. I did not, in the strictest sense, gamble myself and my family into slavery, but I did gamble myself onto the dirt of the arena floor: a free gladiator, yes, but one with a great debt owed to the pit master. There, with sword in hand, skull underfoot, and crowd cheering above, the fires within sang even louder.

On the dirt of that arena, stained dark with fluids spilled from dying men, I was as a god. Life was mine to take, and the crowds worshipped me for it. I loved my family as ever, but they withdrew from me as though frightened at what I had become. Still, in our marriage bed the passion my wife and I shared was fiercer than ever before.

Months passed and my debt lessened, then the sickness came. I grew weak and could not stomach even the food the pit master dished out to me specially as his star performer. I ran a fever and the light of the sun was too bright for my eyes, yet I had a full docket and still I had to fight.

For a man to become a vampire, two things must occur. First, he must drink deep of the blood of a vampire. This I had been doing for weeks without my knowledge by the machinations of the pit master. Second, he must die. Half-blind and weak, it was not long before my fights turned for the worse, and soon my guts were spilled in the dirt. Often I have seen in my mind’s eye my death in that dirt; wondered whether all since has been naught but a play staged by Dis for his amusement. But the crowd did not want my death that day. Badly wounded and delirious, I was taken by the pit master to a room where he left me, locking the door behind him. There I saw not food nor water nor care for the rest of my life.

*****

It took me days to die, though I know not how many. I descended into incoherent madness, retreating from the pain, until a moment came where I found myself awake and sane and painless and thirsty. And dead. Then the thirst grew and I edged toward madness once more. The next thing I can remember clearly is my wife being shown through the door. The lock clicked again behind her. It was clear she was sick with worry and concern for me, but that was soon replaced by fear when she saw whatever it is that lies behind my eyes now in place of that spark of life. I loved her still. Wanted her still. But I did not trust myself, for my lust for that place on her neck below and behind her right ear, so familiar to me, was tinged now with a wildness I did not remember. I lasted until nightfall.

We sat for hours huddled in opposite corners of the room, not speaking, her confusion just as obvious as her fear. When she finally slept, I drank from her. A mouthful or two, maybe, before she fought me off and my slackened thirst allowed me control once more. I retreated to my corner and cried rose-coloured tears. She pounded and screamed at the door, and before long I could smell the blood from her torn fists. Help did not come, but the dawn did, then night, then dawn again. She curled in a ball and cried from hunger. I cried from thirst and from the knowledge of the inevitable. The next night I drained her dry.

My new thirst slaked properly for the first time since my rebirth I came to realise what I had become. I had no name for it, nothing but whispered stories half-recalled from my childhood, yet I knew somehow that I was now that thing which causes men to fear the dark. I also came to realise who had done this to me, and in me grew a great rage.

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