He dreaded that day. If they came while he slept, they would probably cut his throat in the night and steal his few possessions. If they came while he was awake, he would have a difficult time defending himself against them in his weakened state. They probably would not know how to kill him, but they would make his life uncomfortable.

More uncomfortable, he corrected, as the hunger in his belly rumbled, echoing off the walls of his cellar home.

Taras sat in the corner, waiting for the sun to rise, and reflected on his status. Once proud and strong, he had served Rome from the shadows, making certain her enemies could not rise against her. Now here he was, huddled and afraid in a dark cellar, helpless and hungry while starvation slowly claimed his life.

What would Mary think if she saw him now? Would she be ashamed? Would she hate him for what he had become? Or worse, would she pity him?

He shook the thought from his head and closed his eyes, waiting for sleep.

The next evening, Taras woke to find he was not alone in his hole. During the day, a beggar had found his hiding place and fallen asleep a few short paces from the slumbering Bachiyr. For a wonder, the newcomer hadn’t tried to kill him. The man’s breathing was even and deep, the pattern of a man deep into his cups. The occasional snore crossed his lips, and every once in a while he would belch in his sleep. It was this very noise which had woken Taras to begin with, although the night would have done so soon enough, anyway.

Taras would never have a better chance. They were isolated, hidden, and in a part of the city where a man might scream for hours and no one would come to investigate. If he was going to feed, now was the time.