The Cabbie and the Cop – 20

“Good gods.” Simeon started to reach out to touch him but stopped when Vergil pulled back out of reach. “What happened next?” Simeon asked quietly.

“The war spread, the man who owned me fell to his attackers, his estate was taken by those fighting on my father’s side. Unfortunately they had no idea I was my father’s son. When I tried to tell them they just laughed. One of them took a fancy to me even though I looked like what I was by then—a menial slave, half-starved, clothed in nothing more than a thin shirt and a pair of worn breeches. He took me, in all the ways you can imagine.”

Again Simeon reached for him, managing to capture his hand. “No wonder you do what you do now. What I don’t understand is why you are here.”

“In the end the king and his forces prevailed. My… owner was captured. Since I was part of the spoils of war I was almost executed along with him and the rest of his followers. Only Andaer’s intervention kept that from happening. I was given a choice, use my power over animals in the service of the king, or be marked as a freed slave and then exiled.”

“Obviously you chose the latter. This ‘marking’, was it physical or mental?”

Freeing his hand from Simeon’s grip, Vergil unbuttoned the cuff of his sleeve and pulled it back to reveal a symbol burned into his wrist. Then he turned, lifting his hair. The same symbol had been burned into the nape of his neck.

Gently Simeon traced a finger over it. “To do this was cruel, but if it saved your life…”

“Andaer saved my life. The mark and my exile gave me a new life, a worthwhile one.”

“How do you explain this if someone asks?” Simeon touched the mark on Vergil’s wrist.

“A youthful bet with a friend. Kids do some strange things to their bodies. Look at all the piercings and tattoos they have.”

Simeon nodded. “I suppose you’re right about that. How long have you been in exile, if I may ask?”

“About… Damn, now that I think about it I’m not sure. I’ve moved around so much I’ve lost track.” Vergil tapped a finger pensively on the table, smiling slightly when Simeon covered his hand in annoyance. “I know I started out in New York. One of the gates is there, in Central Park. I was able to pass myself off as a German immigrant because of my looks.” He chuckled. “It was that or Irish and I don’t look Irish. Besides, saying I was German explained my not knowing the language. I got jobs as a laborer.” He smiled wryly. “Something I was very familiar with. Then I met a man, a policeman. He was bemoaning the lack of good men to recruit onto the new police force. From there, as they say, the rest is history.”

“By my rough calculations then I’d say you’ve been here since the mid eighteen hundreds.”

“That sounds about right.” Vergil stretched, picked up his cup and took a drink. “Damn.”

Simeon laughed. “Now it’s too cold.”

“Pretty much, yeah.” Setting the cup down, he looked at Simeon. “I know you said you’ve been around for two thousand years. How long have you been here in the city?"