To Forget

Gabriel perched, elbows on knees, on the settee and glared at the floor, as if offended by the fine Italian marble. A thin sheet covered his groin. The room in which he sat was awash in bright silks and rich velvets, incredibly life-like statuary dating to the ancient Greeks, Egyptian busts, paintings, rugs from Persia, and carved tables and chairs from every corner of the world. He did not look as though he fit the room. His face was drawn in grim lines. Every muscle in his body tensed, ready to spring. A sword sat near his bare feet. A dagger rested on the cushions next to him.

His body ached. He was used to that, a soldier’s life was filled with little aches and pains, remnants of practices and battles and rowdy, drunken brawls. Miniscule scars marked his back, chest, arms, and legs; a detailed map of every campaign. His heart, too, ached. He was not used to that. No amount of training prepared him for feeling as though his soul had been sucked out through his eyes. No battle had ever left his spirit wounded near unto death.

Returning from campaign in Masada, Gabriel instantly fell in with the mercenary crowd milling about in the village along the eastern mountain range, like calling to like. He spent his night hours in bawdy houses and attending parties. His days were spent sleeping off alcohol and other vices to be had in the far reaches of the Roman Empire. Long nights of debauchery took a toll on his body and his spirit, turning his  mind fuzzy and his body weak. Day became night and night became day. He found himself more and more isolated from the familiar, only venturing out as the sun’s early rays stole over the mountains and returning to the villa to sleep until dusk. Even his evenings were spent inside the villa, surrounded with luxury soldiers only dreamed of and saw in the sacked remains of burning cities. Time became a word without meaning.

“Gabriel. Oh, Gabriel,” the soft voice, seductively masculine and eerily resonant, and reverberating with playful intent, called from beyond the room’s single door. Outside, beyond the narrow hall, darkness hung on the small Roman villa like a velvet cloak. The moon had long set and dawn was not far behind.

The dark head turned and dark eyes narrowed in the light of candle flames. “I know what you are.”

The slim, dark figure stepped in to the room. His features were narrow, fine. His hair was long, brushed back into a tail at the nape of his neck. Long, pale hands drifted beneath black silk sleeves and raised languidly to tuck away an unruly strand of hair. The head tilted. “What am I?”

“Undead,” Gabriel dragged the single word from between stiff lips. His eyes roamed the fine, chiseled body. Candlelight played on the pale face and Gabriel wondered how he‘d never noticed.

He leaned against the door jamb, arms crossed, and studied the mortal. He could hear Gabriel‘s blood beating in his veins in an intoxicating rush. “If I had told you the truth, would you have so easily fallen into my bed?”

“I’d have driven a stake through your foul heart,” Gabriel rose, the sheet sliding away, to reveal his nude body. Added to the usual scars and scratches were love-marks. He swayed a bit on his feet and kicked away the covers on the floor. His foot caught the sword and he frowned. It should have been sharp enough to slice his foot in half, but the blade did not leave even the smallest scratch.

Count Vladislaus Dracula ambled into the room. He was not afraid of the soldier or stakes through the heart. He couldn’t be killed by any means at Gabriel’s disposal. He could still be wounded by the man’s wicked-sharp tongue and the disdain in those dark eyes cut him deeply. “Tsk.Tsk,” he shook his head mockingly. “You would think like a soldier first and a lover second.”

“I am always a soldier first,” his hand snatched up the dagger by its elaborate ivory hilt--the delicate carvings yellowed and cracked. He’d brought it with him from Masada.

“Put it away, Gabriel,” Dracula ordered. “You cannot wield that weapon against me.”
He moved slowly forward, walking on the balls of his feet toward Gabriel. He deliberately moved forward until the blade’s point pushed against his silk-shrouded flesh.

“I can try,“ Gabriel did not move, transfixed by Vladislaus’ handsome face and hypnotic eyes. He held the knife, point out, elbow tight against his body. Only a part of him really wanted to use the weapon against his lover. He nearly stepped back as Dracula came to him, but held his ground with knees absorbing Dracula’s weight, a soldier even now. His dark eyes widened as his lover, an undead, an abomination, stepped into the blade. Dracula pushed and the point entered first, piercing dead flesh despite the dulled edges and sank deep, up to the hilt, in his chest.

“How did you discover my little secret?” Dracula asked.

“The men,” Gabriel shook his head. “There has been talk.” He indicated the mercenaries, professional soldiers, the villagers. Somewhere along the way, time had moved forward and Gabriel had not. He’d gone out in search of old drinking buddies and discovered they’d gone. But where, none could say, and many looked at him as though he were crazy. Some began to whisper about the vampire’s thrall. Gabriel caught their whispers on the wind and grew chilled by the expressions on their faces.

“Soldiers gossip more than old women,” Dracula forced air in and out of his lungs, much the same way he forced many of his body’s movements. Death was inertia and his body tended to want to remain inert, despite the strange and unholy vestige of life. He did not feel the knife in his body, but he knew it was there. “What harm have I done you, Gabriel? How has my love for you caused harm? Whence comes this rage?”

Gabriel stared down at his hand, still wrapped around the ivory handle. In his experience, blood should have spurted from Vladislaus’ body. He should be crumpled to the floor, wheezing out the remains of his life in slow agony. Gabriel looked up into eyes like pools of bracken water.  He thought of Vladislaus’ touch and shuddered. Those cool hands had soothed his fevered body with caresses that were harsh and sometimes brutal; Gabriel had welcomed those touches nonetheless. His worse fears confirmed, Gabriel wondered what else there was for him to discover. “You are evil. You have warped my mind, twisted me into your creature. You have corrupted my soul.”

“I did not lie, Gabriel. You believed what you desired to in your heart,” Dracula asserted, reading the thoughts in Gabriel’s eyes, as his hand came up and wrapped around Gabriel’s. His was cold, Gabriel’s was warm. “I am Count Vladislaus Dracula, of Romania. As for whatever else I am, you and I have shared too much for us to split hairs now.”

“You are…” Gabriel shook his head, unable to complete the thought. In his Roman world, Christianity held sway and in the Christian belief, every thing that Dracula was, remained an abomination under the eyes of God. Teachings and desire clashed in Gabriel’s chest. His mind reeled with the moral battle for which he was little prepared.

Vladislaus pushed and Gabriel stepped back, drawing the knife with him. The blade came out clean. The silk remained torn, but beneath the black shirt, pale skin gleamed. The wound slowly closed.  “What I am is your lover. Even that, too, is an abomination. No?”

Gabriel looked away. True. And even still, it went on in the ranks, despite teachings and priests. One more sin, more or less. “You should have told me,” he repeated, less emphatically. “I had the right to know.”

“You would have tried something foolish and I would have had to destroy you,” Dracula raised his hand and tugged at Gabriel’s hair. “I could not bear that, Gabriel, sweet Gabriel. Too long have I been alone. You, my lover, have been a light in the darkness for me.” His lips brushed Gabriel’s.

Gabriel wanted to pull away. How was it that he had never noticed the cold touch, the stiffness of lips? Had he simply not wanted to notice, squirreled away the knowledge with rationalizations? Or had Dracula placed some spell over his eyes so that he could not see? He opened his mouth and pushed his tongue against Vladislaus’. He moaned softly, his body responding to what his mind told him was wrong. His moral dilemma faded away as the kiss deepened and their tongues touched, tip to tip. For a moment, he didn’t care. Dracula had seduced him, body and soul. He wanted, craved, needed, his lover’s smooth caresses. The knife hilt bit the palm of his hand.

With a start, Gabriel opened his eyes and stared into Dracula’s. He was but a moment’s distraction in an eternity of hell. The bloodless lips curved into a sardonic smile as Gabriel stood, rooted and waging in internal debate. His sin was complete, for his love of this thing--this undead creature of darkness and unholy alliance--stretched beyond mortal comprehension. His mind produced image after image of he and Dracula, side by side, their bodies unclothed in the candlelight. Hands, sometimes languid other times frantic, touching and caressing, massaging. Vladislaus had touched him in ways Gabriel had never permitted another man. Gabriel closed his eyes and swayed a little on his feet. He was as condemned as his lover.

He shook his head, clearing away the images as a drunk tries to clear away the fog of alcohol. “I am a soldier of God.”

Dracula hissed and his fangs sparkled. “You are mine, Gabriel, I will not share you with any one--be he God or man.” His emotions, unlike his body, were not always his to control. Passion swept through him, blinding jealousy and rage, mingled with love, and his body rippled with the force of it.

Fearfully, Gabriel stepped back and the knife came up, a reflex born of years of training and soldiering. There was a bright flash of metal in the candlelight and Dracula howled with pain and rage. He clutched his hand to his chest and unearthly sounds were torn from his throat. He staggered back into a crouch, his eyes burning.

Gabriel bared his teeth as he panted, his eyes darting to the floor where Dracula’s finger lay. His signet ring still encircled the white, dead flesh. Gabriel stooped and picked up the digit and the ring slid off in his palm. He could barely comprehend what had happened. Looking into his lover’s eyes, Gabriel knew gut-wrenching fear. There were things worse than death. He dropped the knife and it clattered on the flags.

Gabriel lunged for the door, hoping to find safety in the quiet village streets. Praying dawn would hide him from the vampire’s eyes. His feet slipped and slid as he rushed through the heavy wooden door. Fog obscured the paving stone and distorted sound. He ran blindly, his ears strained for sounds of pursuit. He came to a square and gasped. A shadow flitted near him and he thought he heard his name on the still air. He looked around, frantic for a hiding place. A pink glow had begun on the horizon. Instinctively, he turned toward the brightness. His feet were numb in the cold and he did not notice the cuts on his feet or the bloody trail of footprints he left in his wake. In the distance bells tolled the hour; called the monks from their beds for morning prayer.

The shadows called his name and the air caressed him, reminding him of Vladislaus’ touch. He staggered on, his lungs burning, his vision blurred. He clutched he heavy ring in his hand until his palm bled.  The narrow streets twisted and turned--blind alleys offered illusionary safety. Gabriel made more than one wrong turn in his panicked flight. Always, the whisper of Vladislaus’ voice spoke to him on the wind.

“Gabriel, you cannot run from me forever.”

“I will not bow to you, Dracula. I will not spend an eternity in darkness.” Gabriel’s voice bounced off the stone facings and echoed his fear back to him. He wished he had his weapons, but he’d forgotten them back in the room.

Dracula’s laughter was harsh. “My beautiful Gabriel, I will show you such sights as you have never dreamed and you will learn to love the darkness.”

He felt cold hands grab his arm and he spun, a curse on his lips. He caught a glimpse of a white face and dark eyes. His cold lips recited the Lord’s Prayer and he backed away from Dracula. He caught his foot on an uneven cobble and went down to one knee.

“Please, God, have mercy upon this sinner,” he breathed as his heart thundered like a run away horse in his chest.

Dracula hissed as the sun rose a little higher over the tall buildings, his shadow elongated in the pale glow. “Yes, Gabriel, pray to God. For next when we meet, I shall possess more than your body.”

Gabriel looked up but saw nothing on the empty street. He rose and turned, fleeing again, toward the small churchyard in the village square. He hoisted his naked, aching body over the low stone wall and dodged between tombstones. He heard a slight hiss and his heart lurched, but it was only two monks, going to their morning prayers who pressed themselves against the wall and crossed themselves at the sight of him. Running around the church, he entered a small stable and threw open the first stall. An old mare eyed him sleepily. He ducked under her head and with a slap on the side of her neck, backed her from her comfortable straw.

In the yard behind the church, Gabriel pulled himself on to the animal’s back. The horse’s hide scratched his bare thighs and bottom. With his hands wrapped tightly in the animal’s mane, he kicked her sides, forcing her into an unwilling trot. Her shod hooves echoed on the stones and Gabriel bent low over her neck. The sun was higher now and Gabriel squinted to the east and the rising sun. How far was Dracula’s reach?

The horse moved through the gate, panicked by Gabriel’s frantic kicking of her sides. Her ears laid back as she scented something foul on the wind. She whinnied her nervousness to her rider. The cobbles gave way to dirt, the road having long sunk beneath the ground, over-run by weeds and grasses, carted away to build stone houses and churches. Several small huts huddled together on the edge of a field and Gabriel made for them. Planted rows of corn and wheat marched evenly over the field and a scarecrow hung limply in the middle, his cloak dragging in the still air. Quickly, Gabriel slid from the horse and gathered the straw man’s clothes.

“You don’t need these,” he said to the stuffed figure. He wrapped the cloak around his shoulders and held the shirt and pants close to his chest as he reseated himself in the small sway of the nag’s back. He turned the animal west, toward Rome. There he had contacts, soldiers and friends who could give him shelter.

All that day, Gabriel rode hard, allowing the poor horse little rest. He needed as much distance between himself and Dracula as possible. By the middle of the afternoon, the nag faltered and stumbled. She moaned softly, her large eyes rolling with fatigue. Gabriel slid from her back and patted her shoulder. The pants were too short in the crotch and barely came over his hips and the shirt was little more than rags, but Gabriel didn’t care anymore. He’d put some distance between himself and Dracula, but not nearly enough.

“You’ve been a great help, my friend,” he said to her, as he rubbed her muzzle. “But from here on I think I need something sturdier and you’ll be happier, I think, if I turn you toward home.” So saying, he turned her nose to tail until she was heading back the way they’d come and gave her a quick slap to set her in motion.

Turning, he set off down the road at a slow run, his feet kicking up dust. He past a farm and stopped long enough to beg bread and water. Later, near sun set, he stumbled into a Gypsy camp and was given stew and wine. Exhaustion kept him seated when he should have continued on. The sound of drums and tambourines and lutes lulled him and his head nodded to his chest.

It was quiet in the Gypsy camp when he came awake with a start. The picketed horses stamped their feet and shifted nervously. His eyes searched the gloom, his senses telling him something was out there.

“Gabriel,” the voice was silken and deep, resonating as much in Gabriel’s mind as on the air.

Instantly, Gabriel was on his feet, peering into the darkness, searching for a shadow among shadows. He edged toward the horses as voices shouted warnings in the darkness. Alerted by the animals, the Gypsy camp came awake.  Desperately, Gabriel sprinted for the pickets and grabbed the first horse he came to. Leaping onto the animal, he forced the its head west and thumped his feet against ribs. The animal bolted as Gypsies leapt into his path. He dodged them easily. More so than the sound of Vladislaus’ laughter.

After that, he dared not stop during the night. He rode until the sun peaked over the horizon and stopped at a lone farmhouse perched in a great muddy field. The farmer allowed him to water the horse and then he moved on, seeking shelter from the sun, much the way Dracula would. The irony of it was not lost on Gabriel’s tired mind as he curled into a ball beneath a juniper bush. The stems and leaves were prickly and itched, but they offered him concealment. Rising from his hiding place at dusk, Gabriel found his horse was gone. Either the animal had wondered off or had been stolen. Having no time to discover which, he set out on foot.

Gabriel avoided the traveled paths, fearful of Dracula’s presence. He cut over land and used small, little known trails. He traveled by night and slept hidden wherever he could find by day. He grew gaunt and his eyes were hollow. He drank from puddles and streams. He ate berries when he found them. When there was nothing to eat or drink, he did without. His clothes, rags to begin with, ripped and shredded and were dirt-caked. He stank. His beard was in full and itched his face. His hair hung thickly in his eyes. His feet were cut and bruised and he limped as he walked. He’d left his stolen cloak in the Gypsy camp and at night, he was cold.

He mumbled to himself. His mind raced in many directions at once. Sometimes he called out Dracula’s name, remembering only the untainted moments of pleasure, before he discovered his lover’s secret. Then sanity would briefly flare in his mind and he would remember the Count as a monster. In those moments, he longed to forget the time spent in Dracula’s company. Gabriel desired only to release his mind--his heart--from the torment of memories and shame and guilt.

During the hours of daylight, he sometimes prayed aloud, repeating the Lord’s Prayer. Other times he distracted himself with long conversations with God, offering bargains and promises in return for salvation and his life, as worthless as it seemed. Slowly his mind began disintegrating, fragmenting until reality and fantasy blurred and he sometimes wasn’t sure if he dreamed or remained awake. He trudged forward, placing one foot in front of the other with single-minded determination, his fear never letting go its grip on his heart.

“Please let me forget,” he begged as each mile came and went. Once he awoke from a deep sleep and opened his fist. A large signet ring rolled from his palm. Foreboding filled him as he stared at it. He placed the ring on his finger.

He lost count of the days, wandering the countryside, stealing food when he could. Clothes hung out to dry on lines strung between trees replaced the clothes he stole from the scarecrow. Eventually, those, too, needed replacing as he strayed from his course.
His memory was cloudy and he had only a compulsion to keep walking, although he didn’t know why. He knew, vaguely, that he must get to Rome. And he knew he feared the darkness. There had been a battle, in a place called Masada. He’d fought there, he knew. He remembered the blood and the stench and noise. How he came to great open meadows and ancient live forests from the desert, he did not know. He jumped at the slightest noise. There were few constants in Gabriel’s life: cold, hunger, fear, and God. And the desire to forget. What he prayed to forget, he could not longer remember. Still he prayed.

Following a small stream through the mountains, he clambered among snow covered boulders and the winter wind whipped his ragged clothes. At the base of the mountains, the stream joined a river. He walked along beside it, dazed, compelled to follow where the water led. Eventually, he came upon a great city and a small voice whispered in his head. Rome. His memory stirred. He’d been trying to get to Rome all along although he couldn’t remember why. Compulsion pushed him, forced his feet towards the ancient city-fortress, the bastion of God’s defenses. In the city itself, unnamed fear kept him going through the tangled streets--built and rebuilt over centuries of warfare and fire and internal struggles. The few people on the streets in the pre-dawn light gave him a wide berth as he shambled among him, whispering brokenly.

He staggered into St. Peter’s Square. Like a pigeon returning to its roost, he stumbled woodenly toward St. Peter’s Basilica, placing one foot in front of the other, his whole being focused on the great dome. At the steps, Gabriel collapsed face down. He skinned his knees on the stone stairs. He was cold to the bone and his soul nearly shriveled inside his body.  He raised his eyes, sighting the great dome. His lips formed a prayer as he struggled to crawl up the steps. His exhausted body could not cooperate with his frantic mind and he collapsed, trapping his fists beneath his body.

Two priests of a secret order strolling through the court spied Gabriel lying face down on the steps. His dark hair pooled around his shoulders, his feet cut and bloody. They struggled to turn him over and when they did so, found that he was pale and thin and unfamiliar to them. He wore a signet ring on his finger, but neither man could identify it.

“My son,” spoke the priest as he tried to lift the man’s head.

Dark eyes opened and stared at the sky and his lips moved in silent prayer.

“What is he saying?” asked the priest’s companion.

The first looked up, his brows arching. “He is praying for God to make him forget.”