DARK RESURRECTION, CHAPTER SEVEN: JULIAN OF TIBERNUM
Chapter Seven: Julian of Tibernum
Fall passed
quickly, becoming a colder than usual winter for eastern Cappadocia, snow
falling in early December for the first time in many years.
Electra now
visited Mary every day. She put an ear to her belly, listening for sounds of
the child moving and then put a hand to her forehead, checking for signs of
fever. Frowning, she sat on the bed, figuring the gestation time on a piece of
papyrus.
“Is something
wrong?” asked Mary.
“Not exactly
mistress, you say you missed starting in February?”
“Late February,
I figure I’m a week or two overdue.”
“Sometimes
children are late, but if the child doesn’t come soon I may have to induce
labor.”
“How?”
“Have no fear,
there are herbs one can use, causing no harm to the mother or child,” Electra
replied, placing a hand on her arm.
Jesus and
consort had taken to staying close to home, as his mother’s time would come
very soon. Another two weeks passing, it was now the third week of December.
The baby nearly a month overdue, it was only a matter of days before the mother
of Jesus would bring a new healthy life into the world, after some difficulty.
The male child,
born on the eve of the winter solstice, would one day run the farm with his
Roman wife Marcia Divia. She, yet to be conceived, would be born three years
later as the lovely daughter of their neighbor Marcus Pertinax. He, the future
patriarch of the clan, would be charged with carrying on the legacy of Joseph
and Mary, his Hebrew parents, and would also come to know and safeguard the
incredible truth about his eldest brother – the ageless man called Jesus
Christ, the vampire.
“Her time has
come!” a hysterical Ruth cried just after dusk on the twentieth, “Her water has
broken on the sheets, please fetch Maria, Electra and Penelope, I know not what
to do!”
A startled
Joseph, getting drunk in the kitchen with Jesus, quickly sobered up and
answered, “Right away, Maria’s in the slave quarters, I’ll bring them!”
“Shall I
follow?” asked Jesus.
“You’d better,
I’m pretty drunk, there’s snow and ice out there and you can catch me if I fall
on my ass,” Joseph answered, turning for the door.
“Right,” said a
sober Jesus, having much greater tolerance for wine.
Walking to the
slave quarters with his father, Jesus knocked on the door. The Magdalene was
conversing with Icarus, Electra and Penelope. Cyril was asleep from a long day
of reading scrolls Jesus had brought from Gavinal, Brutus was snoring away in
his room, and muscular Ganymede was sleeping in his room, exhausted from
chopping wood for their hearths and for the smokehouse.
“Yes Julius?”
the Magdalene asked, opening the door.
“Mother’s having
her baby, we need you women to assist her,” answered a stoic Jesus.
“My God, she
is?”
“Don’t worry,
I’ve delivered many babies,” said Electra, placing a hand on the Magdalene’s
arm, grabbing a satchel from a table containing a first-aid kit.
“I’ve never done
it in my uh, life,” Mary replied as the women scrambled for the house, leaving
Jesus and Joseph in their wake.
“What should I
do, I’m just a blacksmith,” said Icarus.
“Would you like
to come to the house for fine wine?” asked Jesus.
“Sure, I’ve
delivered calves and shoats before, but I don’t know anything about foaling
human critters.”
“Neither do we,
that’s why we’re leaving it to the women,” said Joseph with a nervous laugh,
the trio making their way to the house. During the next hours, cries of the
labors of childbirth came from the bedroom as Joseph, Jesus and Icarus sat in
the kitchen drinking strong wine.
The labor
growing difficult at ten-thirty, Electra remarked to Ruth, “Please bring me tar
of opium to ease her suffering.”
“Where is it?”
asked Ruth.
Electra looked
to her and retorted, “Ask the master, if he doesn’t know go to my quarters and
open my apothecary box, I have resin there wrapped in cotton cloth.”
Joseph was drunk
and Jesus didn’t know where any opium was, so Ruth headed to the slave
quarters, retrieving the painkiller. Mixing the strong drug with wine, Electra
handed the concoction to Mary.
“Drink this
mistress, it will ease your pain.”
“Thank you,”
said a tired Mary, downing the pain relieving opium.
“It’s a breach
birth!” the Magdalene exclaimed near midnight, beholding one of the infant’s
feet protruding from a screaming Mary, other still in the womb, trapping the
helpless child within her.
“It’s been much
too long, the child could die, bring a sharp knife from the kitchen,” Electra
ordered.
“Why?” asked
Penelope, not very intelligent when it came to such things.
“Get it stupid,
you’ve seen me do it before!” Electra exclaimed, using her authority as a
midwife to order family and slaves alike.
Penelope did as
told, the Magdalene asking, “I’ve heard of this, they call it caesarian,
right?”
“Yes,” answered
Electra, “Done properly both will live, done wrong, one or both will die,
should I proceed mistress?”
“Do what you
have to do!” a tearful Magdalene exclaimed.
Penelope
returned with a sharp steel knife, followed by Joseph, Jesus and Icarus.
“Hold her down,
I’ll do it fast,” Electra ordered Ruth, Penelope and the Magdalene.
“What’s wrong
woman?” Joseph cried to his delirious wife.
“Don’t worry
father, I’ve seen this done in Rome,” said Jesus.
“What’s she
going to do to her?” asked a terrified Joseph, ready to go to his wife’s
rescue.
“Save the baby
and mother.”
“With a knife?”
“It’s called
caesarian, it’s said Julius Caesar was – ”
“You men get the
hell out of here!” Electra barked.
“We should do as
Electra says,” said Jesus.
“She’s my wife,
she needs me!”
“No she doesn’t,
Electra knows what she’s doing more than we, verily I say, if there is a God my
father, all is in his hands now,” declared Jesus, he and Icarus helping Joseph
from the bedroom.
The Magdalene
holding Mary down, Electra cut into her belly, a shriek of pain coming from the
mother of Jesus. “I’ve got him, he’s okay,” she said seconds later, cutting and
knotting the umbilical, afterward freeing his right leg from the birth canal.
Lifting the boy from his mother’s womb and slapping him hard on his bottom, the
newborn Levite cried loudly. “Quickly Ruth, fetch my apothecary box, I’ll need
gut for the internal stitches,” she ordered, wrapping the babe in swaddling
clothes and handing the child to Penelope.
“I wish you’d
told me that earlier,” said Ruth, reaching for her cloak.
“Do it, I
haven’t time for your backtalk!”
A subdued but
dutiful Ruth made her way to the slave quarters, returning with the heavy box,
placing it at the side of the bed. “Open it and fetch fine silk thread and a
sharp needle of bronze,” Electra ordered her reluctant assistant in the manner
of a doctor ordering a nurse, the midwife reaching into her box for animal gut
preserved in strong vinegar. Producing the other items from a bedroom drawer,
Ruth handed needle and thread to her. “This shouldn’t take long,” the midwife
added, removing a threadlike piece of gut from the vinegar.
The Magdalene,
fascinated at witnessing her first caesarian section, had relaxed her hold on
the mother of Jesus. Electra threaded the needle with gut, removed the placenta
from the womb and proceeded to sew her up, starting with the uterine incision.
Mary cried out in agony, writhing at the stabs of the needle, threaded with
silk, piercing her nerve-laden outer flesh.
“Hold her down,
are you stupid?” Electra yelled, looking the Magdalene in the eyes.
“I’m sorry,”
said the Magdalene, tightening her grip while Electra continued stitching Mary
up, punctuated by cries of pain. She finally slipped into unconsciousness,
exhausted from the ordeal.
“That’s the last
baby she’ll ever have,” said Electra after closing the wound, wiping her brow
on a cloth.
“It is?” asked
Ruth.
“Hopefully,”
said Electra, looking to her fellow slave, “Another child would probably kill
her, if she survives this. Should she still be able to conceive there are herbs
I can prescribe which will keep this from happening again.”
“Why would you
do that?” a curious Ruth asked.
“For one thing,
caesarian birth is extremely dangerous and is damaging to the womb, for
another, this woman’s too damn old to have another child,” said Electra with a
loud exhale.
“Will she be all
right?” asked the Magdalene.
“Only the gods
know,” answered Electra, taking the newborn from Penelope and putting him to
his mother’s breast only five minutes after delivery, the little one latching
on and suckling well.
“You saved the
baby!” Ruth exclaimed.
“Perhaps,” said
a tired Electra, ‘”You’ve seen this before child?”
“No, it’s said I
was born that way but my mother died,” Ruth replied, for a moment wondering
what her unknown mother had been like.
“Forgive me, I
must pray to Athena Parthenos and Demeter for help in saving them,” said
Electra, nodding to the group. Walking from the house to her private altar in
her room, the devoted slave prayed for three long days to her powerful
goddesses, neither eating nor drinking during this time. Only leaving to clean
and care for the newborn and his mother, she carefully inspected and changed
the dressing on Mary’s belly at each visitation, her bedside manner comparable
with any physician of the time. Applying a fresh poultice of antibiotic herbs
to the wound every eight hours for a week, she noted with calm satisfaction
there were no signs of infection in her patient. Her skillful nursing and
humble supplications to the Greek goddesses of wisdom and fertility were
successful, for Mary and her son, named Julian Marius Chrysippus, survived
their ordeal and thrived.
* * *
The year 35
arrived on a cold morning. After the new mother had recovered enough to walk
about, Jesus and his parents, with the Magdalene, discussed on a January
evening how the child should be raised, either secretly as a Hebrew or openly
as a Roman.
Dismissing the
slaves from the house, including Ruth, the four gathered by lamplight at the
kitchen table and debated the fate and education of the male child.
“I’d raise him
Roman,” said Joseph, opening a wine bottle, “We had enough trouble with the
Hebrew religion in Galilee, practicing such a faith here would be a disaster.”
“But Joseph, it
was the religion of our parents,” Mary replied.
“And a lot of
good it did them,” Joseph spat, filling goblets for he, Jesus and the
Magdalene.
“My father was a
priest in Bethlehem!”
“And he died a
pauper, accused of heresy by those goddamn Pharisees, who also gleefully
murdered your firstborn son!”
Mary looked to
him, not knowing what to say.
“Tell me I’m
wrong woman, only a fool would practice the Hebrew religion here!” Joseph
thundered, downing his goblet.
“What do you
think Jesus?” asked his mother, folding hands on the table and looking to him
with an imploring expression.
“I’m sorry, but
I agree with father, to even mention something like Hebrew beliefs to the child
would be inviting trouble for the family,” said Jesus, taking a deep drink from
his goblet.
“I admit you
have a point, but it was our religion,” Mary replied, thinking of their
experiences in Nazareth.
“Forget it, it
was bullshit,” Joseph retorted, “We don’t need our new kid growing up like
Jesus did do we?”
“Father!”
“I’m sorry son,
but you did go overboard with religion in the past.”
“Yeah,” said
Jesus, growing silent, reflecting on his admission, realizing his father, as
usual regarding such things, was right.
“What do you
think?” asked Mary, looking to the Magdalene.
“It’s none of my
business,” said the Magdalene, staring into her goblet, swirling the wine
within.
“Yes it is,
you’re my son’s wife and a member of this family, so it is your business.”
“Jesus and I are
vampires; you and Joseph are his parents, not us. The decision is yours, the
child must be raised as you see fit.”
“I don’t care
what you are – I’d like your opinion please.”
The Magdalene
paused, carefully sitting her glass on the table. Frowning, she replied, “Very
well, if you must know I agree with Jesus and Joseph. The Hebrew religion is
obviously a fraud, and to mention such beliefs here would do nothing but court
disaster.”
Mary sighed,
looking to the ceiling for a moment.
“It’s the only
way, we have to live in this town and think of the child’s future,” said
Joseph.
“It bothers me
but I think you are correct,” Mary agreed, “Since we’re living in Cappadocia,
we probably should raise Julian in the ways of the Romans.”
“Then it’s
settled,” said Joseph, “Julian will be raised Roman.”
Over the
following years, the young Levite male would be raised Roman, never circumcised
nor hearing of the Torah and other Hebrew superstitions. When the time came,
Cyril taught him of the gods. He told the lad of the myths of Jupiter and
Saturn, along with the rest of the great pantheon of gods passed down from the
Greeks and Romans, the child raised pagan.
An early March
spring arriving, the slaves prepared the farm, while Jesus and consort
continued to rid the land surrounding Tibernum of thieves, cutthroats and
highwaymen, along with the occasional boar, auroch, or deer. His mother and
Julian were tended to by the female slaves, even the male slaves stopping in to
check on the little one, vigorous and perfect he was, looking with bright eyes
at his fellows one late afternoon.
The baby dropped
a rattle made by Jesus to the floor for the third time, sending Joseph
scrambling from a chair to pick it up. Seeing this, Brutus remarked, “We know
who the master of this farm is, it’s little Julian!”
“It seems so,”
said a proud Joseph.
Even the town
prefect, Gavinal Septimus, dropped by the farm one evening in late March to
greet the latest citizen of Tibernum, on his way to Marcus Pertinax’s home to
notarize land titles. Trader Callicles was also in town, the prefect relating
this news as well.
“By the gods,
he’s three months old and has no bulla,” a superstitious Gavinal observed,
looking upon the child and turning to Jesus.
“Don’t worry,
Maria and I are heading to Antioch to have a goldsmith create one for him so
the gods will protect him from harm,” said Jesus, feigning just the right
amount of concern.
“He needs a
bulla now to protect him from evil demons and malevolent vapors, you know that
Julius.”
“Our slave
Electra has invoked Athena Parthenos to intercede until we get him one,” said
Joseph, completely familiar with the Greek pantheon.
“You mean
Minerva,” Gavinal corrected, using the goddess’ Roman name.
“Of course,”
Jesus answered for his father.
“I’ll take care
of this,” said Gavinal, “My brother in Etruria is a goldsmith and can create a powerful
bulla blessed by the Oracle at Delphi. Thanks to the Oracle my children are
protected by the great and powerful Jupiter.”
“They are?”
asked Joseph.
“Great Jupiter
is King of all the gods and can do wonders far above other gods,” replied Gavinal
with a nod.
“How soon can
you do this?” asked Jesus.
“Within a
month,” said Gavinal, “No Roman child should ever be without the blessing of
Jupiter.”
“Will you need
money?” asked Jesus, reaching in a tunic pocket.
“No, it will be
my family’s gift to you and your family,” a solemn Gavinal answered.
“We thank you
kind Gavinal,” said Joseph.
“Don’t mention
it friend Julius, neighbors always help one another,” replied the prefect with
a smile, beholding the Roman boy in his mother’s arms.
Callicles and
Demosthenes dropped by a few evenings later as his caravan was preparing to
leave for Daphinos. Both enjoying getting drunk with Joseph and Jesus, the
trader and nephew admired the child held at his mother’s breast – a still
embarrassed Mary having been informed by her eldest that Roman women were not
ashamed of their bodies when among friends like Hebrews were. “I must say, it’s
a miracle,” said Callicles, walking from the bedroom, envious of the domestic
bliss of the Chrysippus family.
“Would you believe he was born caesarian?”
asked Jesus.
“It takes a
highly skilled physician or midwife to perform such a feat,” said Callicles.
“Don’t you
remember, our slave Electra is a midwife,” Joseph replied.
“I figured I
sold her and the others to you too damn cheap!” Callicles said with a chuckle,
sitting down in the kitchen, leaning to one side and farting loudly. “Sorry
friends, I forgot we were inside,” he added, fanning his crotch, embarrassed at
the foul odor filling the kitchen.
“Shit happens,”
replied Joseph, moving from the table and opening the front door, hoping the
burning hearth would take up the noxious fumes.
“I hope not,”
Callicles retorted, looking to his crotch as Jesus laughed heartily. Later, he
purchased excess meat in the smokehouse, paying the vampiric Christ in Roman
gold. His slaves loading the wagon on the moonlit night, the trader produced a
tightly wrapped package, handing it to Joseph. “A present for the baby.”
“Thank you, what
is it?” asked Joseph, taking the package.
“Open it.”
Joseph unwrapped
the package, revealing a bolt of fine Egyptian cotton cloth, and another bolt
of exquisite woven white Roman wool, threaded with gold.
“For your son’s
first tunics,” said Callicles. Nodding, Joseph handed them to his son for
inspection.
“This is
beautiful cloth,” said Jesus, looking at the fine fabrics, “Thank you very much
friend Callicles.”
“I got it cheap
in Chrysopolis,” replied a winking Callicles, climbing in his wagon.
“Take care
Callicles, till next time,” said Jesus, heading to the house with the gift.
“Right Julius,”
Callicles answered, taking the reins.
Bidding farewell
to Joseph, Callicles and nephew left for their caravansary.
* * *
Three weeks
later, a blessed bulla from the Delphic Oracle arrived for Julian, delivered by
a Roman Army courier riding an Arabian horse at breakneck speed for over fifty
miles along the Via Tiberius Romanus highway. Arriving in the late afternoon,
the exhausted horse collapsed and died on the spot when it reached the
residence of Gavinal Septimus.
“Thank you
centurion Pontius Illius,” said Gavinal while the officer handed him the parcel
and gave him a Roman salute.
The padded
package was marked: “SPQR - RUSH IMMEDIATELY UPON RECEIPT – OFFICIAL EMPIRE
BUSINESS – OF PRIME IMPORTANCE FOR PREFECT T. GAVINALUS SEPTIMUS”.
“We’ll have to
find you another horse won’t we centurion?” asked Gavinal, looking to the
carcass.
“I suppose so
sir,” said the centurion.
“Guard!” Gavinal
barked to his assigned enlistee.
“Yes sir,” the
guard answered, walking up.
“Tell the
immunes at the livery stable we need a horse for the centurion.”
“Right away,”
said the guard, saluting before leaving.
As summer
approached, the Levite infant was presented with great fanfare at the town
pantheon, wearing his protecting bulla, proving to all he was a Roman child,
blessed by the king of all gods, Jupiter. Jesus and his good mother Mary had
finally taken the road Joseph had long ago, one that simply accepted local
traditions without giving credence to them. It made for a much simpler, less
stressful life, and helped in being accepted by the local citizenry.
His mother and
little brother healthy and the farm running smoothly, Jesus, as of late, had
taken to the idea of moving on, or at the least taking an extended vacation
into Europe.
“I’ve never been
to Europe,” said Mary one evening just after dusk while they sat conversing on
the porch.
“You’ll love it
woman,” Jesus replied, “Especially Athens and Rome, they’re the greatest cities
in the Empire, Rome has a population of nearly a million people.”
“A million, I
imagine plenty of food with numbers like that.”
“Truly an
endless supply, we can prowl the slums at night looking for thieves like we did
in Antioch,” a smiling Jesus answered, recalling the seedier sections of the
Eternal City.
“When do you
want to leave?”
“Not for a while
yet, perhaps toward the end of this year or early next year. Once we reach Rome
I’ll have to head to the Tabularium – ” said Jesus, noticing his father walking
up.
“To do what?”
“I’ll tell you
later,” said Jesus, not wanting his father to hear the conversation.
“What are you
two talking about?” asked a tired Joseph, stepping to the porch, coming from
his fields.
“Vacation
plans,” replied Jesus, “I was telling Mary of interesting places in Europe.”
“You’re going to
take off again?” he asked, facing the inevitable.
“Not for a while
yet, and we will return quickly, perhaps in a year or two.”
“You call that
quickly?” asked Joseph with a stifled yawn, leaning against the porch rail.
“I was gone for
over seven years once.”
“You were at
that,” his father replied, heading into the house.
“Your parents
have come to depend on you,” said the Magdalene.
“It seems so
doesn’t it?” asked a frowning Jesus, looking to the fields.
“This is a
strange land, you are much worldlier than they; perhaps they still need you to
adjust.”
“But for how
long?” a sighing Jesus asked, rising from his seat, “Let’s find someone to
eat.”
“It’s rather
early isn’t it?”
“We have time to
fly to Daphinos or Heraclea, wouldn’t you like a change of pace?”
“Why not?” she
replied as they walked into the darkness and transformed.
Flying to
Daphinos took only a few hours, Jesus and consort alighting north of town and
walking into a tavern. A town originally founded by Greeks, it was quite
Romanized now, most inhabitants being Roman tenant farmers or craftsmen. The
bar they entered was quiet, Jesus sitting down and ordering a cup of strong
grog to pass the time, looking about for suitable victims while conversing with
Mary.
“Do you want
anything?” asked Jesus.
“Maybe Gallic
wine or beer, I can’t stand grog.”
“Bartender,”
called Jesus.
“Yes?” came the reply
as a man walked over.
“I need a beer
for my lady.”
“I’m sorry, your
wife seemed preoccupied talking with you, I didn’t think she wanted anything.”
“No problem,”
Jesus answered, tossing a denarius to the counter.
You only owe me
five dupondii for both drinks,” said the bartender, delivering the beer,
staring at the denarius coin.
“Keep the
change, bring a few more drinks if we need them.”
“Yes sir,” the
smiling bartender replied.
“There’s hardly
anyone here, I don’t think it’s going to work tonight,” Mary whispered.
“No matter, I
was just looking for grog.”
“Oh,” said the
Magdalene, nursing her beer.
Later, a group
of boisterous revelers entered the bar, laughing and talking, one ordering
three large pitchers of grog. As they appeared harmless, Jesus finished his
drink and stepped from the bar, nodding to the bartender. “Hey Roman fellow,
why don’t you join us?” one of the group called while Jesus was heading for the
door.
“No thanks, we
have to find supper friend,” Jesus replied.
“Come on, have a
drink with us,” said another.
Jesus looked to
Mary, who shrugged, the couple heading to their table.
“Have grog,”
said the man who had called him Roman, passing a filled cup to Jesus. “My wife
had twin boys tonight, just like Romulus and Remus. We’re celebrating.”
“Congratulations,” said Jesus, downing the grog and placing the cup on
the table.
“Would your wife
like some?” asked the new father.
“I never touch
it,” the Magdalene said with a smile, if only to lessen the sting of refusal on
such a happy occasion.
“Suit yourself
madam, have another friend,” he said to Jesus, filling his cup from the
pitcher.
“One more and
that’s enough for me,” replied Jesus.
“What’s your
name citizen?” asked the new father, handing Jesus grog, noting the golden
signet ring on the right hand of the left-handed Jesus.
“Julius
Chrysippus, from Etruria,” Jesus answered, “Yours?”
“Adrian of
Daphinos,” the man replied, offering his hand, a silver signet on the third
finger of his left.
Shaking his hand
firmly, Jesus said after downing the grog, “I’m sorry, but we must be going,
thanks for the grog, and may you all enjoy yourselves this evening.”
“We will, thanks
for having a drink with us,” answered a smiling Adrian as they turned and left
the tavern.
“That was
pleasant, they were nice people,” said Jesus, strolling down the main street.
“I suppose,”
Mary replied, more interested in finding dinner.
“Nice people are
a rare commodity, woman.”
“They are at
that,” said Mary, not commenting further on the statement. “So, what were you
talking about regarding Rome?” she asked while they headed from town, reminding
him of the earlier conversation he had stopped in mid sentence.
“Oh that, there
will be a census taken a few years from now.”
“And?”
“I’ll have to
head to Rome to establish citizenship for my parents before then.”
“Why?”
“Dire
circumstances await those who do not respond to the census truthfully.”
“No shit, how
are you going to do that?”
“Once we reach
Rome, I imagine I’ll hypnotize a scribe at the Tabularium and have him forge
the necessary records.”
“I guess that’ll
work, is it that important?” asked Mary, thinking they could move if necessary.
After all, one could hide in a city if one wanted to, becoming lost in the
population.
“Very important
indeed, not for us, but for mom, dad and Julian,” said Jesus, informing her of
the precarious position his family was in.
“What could
happen to them?” she asked while they continued along the dark road.
The penalties
very severe for those masquerading as Roman citizens, Jesus calmly told her
that for such a crime, his parents and little brother could be sold into
slavery or even killed by the authorities, using crucifixion. “Don’t worry
woman, we’ll take care of it.”
“We’ll have to,”
said Mary, very fond of Jesus’ parents and his little brother, knowing that
Joseph and family were quite content where they were settled.
Walking south of
town, they found sustenance in the form of thieves, dispatching and robbing
them, disposing of the remains in a cave. A delicately crafted gold and silver
necklace was among the loot taken on this hunt, Jesus handing it to his
consort. “Thank you,” she replied, looking at the necklace and putting it
around her pale neck.
“You’re quite
welcome, it’s beautiful and much better in your hands than in the hands of
thieves.” The Magdalene smiled and embraced Jesus.
“That takes care
of that,” remarked Jesus, holding her in his arms, “Shall we head home?”
“Sure, I’d like
to show this to your mother,” said a sighing Mary, knowing that Jesus,
unfortunately, was not the romantic type. They transformed and flew north,
arriving at the farm a few hours later.
Walking to the
house via the access road, Jesus said, “Something’s wrong, I feel it.” Looking
to the slave house, Jesus noted the door was blocked with logs and a huge
boulder.
“It doesn’t
smell right either,” Mary replied, looking about for anything out of place.
The whinny of an unfamiliar horse broke the silence, they
noticing it and three others by body heat. “Visitors?” she asked.
“At this time of
night I think not,” said a frowning Jesus, looking to the house.
“Hold it,” came
a voice speaking Anatolian accented Latin from behind the smokehouse.
“Who are you?”
Jesus asked.
“Shut up!” the
voice ordered, a man stepping from behind the smokehouse, gladius in hand.
“Robbers!”
exclaimed Mary, moving for the thief.
“Let’s see what
this idiot wants first,” said Jesus, blocking her with an arm and freezing him
to his spot. Walking to the statuesque thief, he intoned, taking his sword,
“You didn’t expect this did you? No matter, tell me what I want to know and I
may let you live.” He released him from entrancement and asked, “What are you
doing here?”
“Looking for
loot to steal,” came the frightened voice.
“How many others
are with you?”
“Three.”
“Where?”
“In the house.”
“How long have
you been here?”
“Only a few
minutes.”
“We don’t have
time for this,” said the Magdalene, “The family could be in danger.”
“Yes we do, my
father’s very good with blades, don’t you remember?” Turning to his assailant,
Jesus continued his questioning.
“What did you do
at the slave house?”
“We locked them
in by blocking the door.”
“Did you harm
them?”
“No, they were
asleep.”
“Very well, he’s
yours Mary.”
“I thought you
were going to let me live!” the robber cried.
“I am going to
let you live, but she isn’t,” said Jesus, walking from the thief as Mary
Magdalene lunged for his throat, sucked him dry and dropped the body to the
ground.
Walking to the
house, Jesus could hear his father’s voice in the brightly lit common area.
Mary walked to the bedroom window to check for his mother and little brother.
Seeing no one in the darkened room, she headed to the porch, joining her
consort at the door. Looking to Mary, Jesus motioned for her to follow him.
Walking to the window of the common area, they observed a stalemate, a thief
holding a knife to Ruth’s throat and another with a sword, towering over his
mother as she held his baby brother. His wounded father was armed, holding a
sword across the throat of another man. Heading to the door, Jesus turned to
his consort. “It’s now or never,” he whispered, “You go for my mother and the
baby; I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Right,” Mary
answered.
Jesus kicked the
door down, appearing in the doorway. The Magdalene transformed, flew to his
mother, returned to human form and grabbed the baby from her arms within a
second, an astonished robber dropping his knife from Ruth’s throat. Diving
through a closed window, she leapt to the roof, holding the child in her arms.
Joseph continued holding a sword to the throat of his assailant while a livid
Jesus, not uttering a word, determinedly walked toward the other thieves.
Moving an arm across his chest and releasing, he punched one in the face with a
backhand hard enough to break his neck, the body sailing through another
window.
“You dared to
attack my family on our own property!” yelled Jesus in his Dracula voice,
moving to the other thief, grabbing his sword and sinking fangs in the neck.
Sucking his blood in front of his mother, father and Ruth, he threw the corpse
to the floor in disgust.
Joseph stood,
sword in hand, never having seen his son so angry.
“Try me!” Jesus
spat through gritted teeth, turning to the man his father was holding.
“I can take you
vampire!” the thief exclaimed, slipping from Joseph’s grip, his father falling
to the floor.
“Go ahead, try,”
Jesus retorted, human blood dripping from his bare chin.
A muscular man,
brave beyond belief, the thief attacked Jesus with all his might, giving him
pummeling blows with his fists, the rapid flurry knocking him hard against a
far wall and to the floor.
Rising from the
floor unfazed, Jesus said, “Verily I say unto you, I have ten times your
strength, you’re no match for me.” He dove for the thief, missing and punching
a fist through a plastered oak beam as his quarry ducked for cover behind a
couch. Pulling his tattered fist from the broken wall, he grabbed the criminal
while crawling along the floor toward the kitchen, lifting him bodily. Holding
the helpless man two feet from the floor, Jesus slammed him against a wall. He
strangled him with one hand, yelling, “Die you bastard, die!” crushing his
throat in his grip. He threw the body to the floor and exhaled loudly, looking
about the room for other assailants. Seeing none, he turned to his father and
asked, “You all right dad?”
“I got nicked
but I took his sword,” said Joseph.
“Good,” Jesus
replied, turning to his mother. Ruth stood motionless, eyes wide, staring at
him. “Are you all right mother?” he asked, his left hand starting to give him
discomfort.
“Mary has the
baby, I think she’s on the roof,” his mother answered, looking to the ceiling.
Ruth continued
to stare at the vampiric Christ, her jaw agape.
“What’s with
her?” asked Joseph, wincing in pain from his wounded arm.
“She’s seen a
little too much tonight, but it’s nothing I can’t cure later,” said Jesus.
“You’re a
vampire,” Ruth stammered, unable to be afraid, shock dampening her fear.
“That’s right,
stay here and shut up while I fetch my woman.”
Ganymede
appeared in the broken doorway, asking, “Is everything all right, someone
locked us in our quarters. I broke out when I heard glass breaking.”
“Everything’s
fine Ganymede, go back to your quarters, I’ll talk to you in the morning,”
Joseph ordered.
“Are you sure
Master Julius, your arm is bleeding,” said Ganymede, looking at Joseph’s blood
dripping to the floor.
“Never mind
that, tell you what, I’ll come over to see Electra in a while, please rouse
her, I’m going to need stitches for this,” Joseph replied, glancing at the
gaping wound.
“Very well,”
said Ganymede, noticing a pair of bodies on the floor before he left.
“It was a good
evening,” Jesus spat, walking past the broken doorframe to the porch. “You can
come down Mary, it’s all clear.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I killed
them all.”
Leaping from the
roof with the child in her arms, Mary replied, “I’m sorry, I figured I’d save
the baby.”
“That’s nothing
to be sorry about, thank you my woman,” Jesus answered, fingers caressing her
face as they headed into the house.
The Magdalene
handing the baby to Jesus’ mother, Joseph said, “I don’t know about you son,
but I need a belt of wine, care to join me?”
“I want to get
rid of these bodies first, please give me a hand Mary.”
“Right,” the
Magdalene replied, effortlessly lifting a pair of corpses from the floor as a
shocked Ruth stared at her. “What are you looking at you stupid bitch?” she
asked, dragging the bodies from the house.
Jesus followed
her to the side of the house, unconsciously grabbing a body with his left and
quickly dropping it. Wincing in pain, he switched to his right, heaving the
corpse over a shoulder, following his consort to the smokehouse to retrieve the
other cadaver.
“Would you stack
the other one on my shoulder, I seem to have hurt my hand,” said Jesus.
“Maybe we should
have a look at you,” Mary replied.
“Not now, let’s
get rid of these bodies, the sun will be up in less then four hours,” said
Jesus, looking to low hanging constellations that set near dawn during the
summer.
“Okay,” answered
Mary, lifting the body to his shoulder, the couple heading to the river.
Dumping corpses on the riverbank, she observed, “Two still have blood in them,
shall we?”
“Of course,”
said Jesus, sinking fangs in the neck of one as Mary sucked the other dry.
“You’re right about them going stale,” he added, emitting a loud belch after he
spoke.
“Yeah, it’s not
the same,” she replied.
Looting the
corpses of nearly 400 denarii, they hurled the remains into the Euphrates where
they floated away in the swift current. “Rotten bastards, they ruined my
evening,” said Jesus as the bobbing cadavers disappeared in the distance.
“And we ruined
theirs,” Mary replied, Jesus looking to her and smiling at the remark.
Returning to the
house, he walked to the kitchen, stepping over the broken door and placing a
sack of coins on the table, nodding to his father.
“Got rid of
them?” asked Joseph.
“We dumped them
in the river father, no need to worry about them.”
Sitting down
with his son, Joseph poured libations.
“Let’s have a look
at your hand,” said the Magdalene, his mother appearing in the kitchen.
“What are we
going to do about Ruth?” she asked, Ruth standing in the background, unmoving,
apparently in shock.
“Let me tend to
that; take Ruth to your room mother,” said a tired Jesus, rising from the
table.
“Please come
with me Ruth,” ordered Mary.
The slave girl
followed, still staring at Jesus while she entered the bedroom.
“Sit down,” he
ordered after following them, placing a lamp on a bedside table, dimly illuminating
the room. Ruth did as told, Jesus waving a hand and entrancing her. “Sleep
child, a long restful sleep. When you awaken, you will remember nothing of what
has transpired on this evening,” he intoned in his vampiric monotone. Her eyes
closed, and Jesus lifted her slumbering body, moving her to the cot.
“That was easy,”
his mother observed.
“Yes, rest
mother, and take care of the baby,” said Jesus, closing the door. Walking to
the kitchen, he noted that Ganymede had returned with Electra, carrying her
apothecary box.
“When you didn’t
come by I feared something may have happened to you,” Ganymede explained while
Electra was tending Joseph’s wound.
“Thank you
Ganymede,” said Joseph.
“You definitely
need stitches, at least twenty,” Electra remarked, inspecting his gashed arm,
“It’s a wonder you haven’t bled to death from this.”
“It is?” asked
Joseph, drunk from consuming two bottles of wine in less than an hour.
“Stop drinking
that wine, it makes you bleed even more!” ordered Electra, pulling a bottle
from Joseph’s hand. “Please hold his arm Mistress Maria,” she added while
threading a needle.
“Sure, I won’t
mess up like last time,” Mary replied.
Luckily, the
wound was not particularly deep, and the alcohol had at least served to numb
Joseph’s arm. Electra closed the wound relatively painlessly, her drunken
patient watching her stitch him up like a garment. Jesus was next, he showing
her his left hand. Feeling the swollen hand, she said, “By the gods your flesh
is cold Julius the younger, nothing seems broken but these splinters will have
to go.”
“Indeed,” a
frowning Jesus replied.
Pulling
splinters up to an inch long from his hand with tweezers, a shocked Electra
remarked as Jesus looked on impassively, “Your threshold for pain is the
highest I’ve ever seen in my life.”
His hand hurt,
yes, not from splinters being pulled from his flesh, but because of what they
had been made of. After she removed the last of them, Jesus said, “Thank you
Electra, my hand feels much better now.”
“Then you must
be dead – if I did what you did my hand would still hurt like hell,” she
retorted.
His hand did
hurt like hell, but there was nothing Electra could do about it, so Jesus
simply told her it felt better.
“Is there
anything else you need?” Electra asked, moving graying hair from her face.
“No, thank you
Electra, get some sleep,” said Joseph, reaching for the bottle.
“Stay off the
wine till the skin knits!” Electra barked, grabbing the bottle.
“You should
listen to her, she knows what she’s doing,” said Jesus, Electra handing the
bottle to him.
“Yeah,” replied
Joseph, looking to the wound on his arm. Her work finished, Electra headed to
her quarters, leaving Jesus, his consort, Joseph and Ganymede in the kitchen.
“What happened?”
asked Ganymede as the Magdalene sat quietly, nursing a glass of wine.
“Robbers came by
so we killed them,” said Jesus.
“By yourselves?”
“It wasn’t easy,
but yes, and never say anything about it to anyone outside of this farm.”
“Of course, how
did you do it?”
“My father’s
good with blades, and I know how to use a sword as well,” said Jesus, hoping
Ganymede wouldn’t notice the lack of bloodstains in the house.
“I can use the
gladius, my former master taught me,” said Ganymede.
“You can?”
“Yes, and I’m
very sorry I wasn’t here to assist in defending our home,” Ganymede replied,
forgetting for a moment that he was only a slave.
“No matter, you
were trapped in your quarters,” said Jesus, pleased at his loyalty.
“They blocked
the door with logs and a boulder. I had to break through a wall to get out.”
“Oh,” said
Jesus, pouring wine.
“I guess we have
repair work to do over the next few days,” Joseph observed, rising from the
table, wincing from his wound as the wine wore off.
“You all right
dad?” asked Jesus.
“Yeah, I’ll see
you tomorrow, I’m going to bed,” his exhausted father answered, heading for the
hall.
“Good night
father.”
“Yeah,” said
Joseph, closing the bedroom door.
About an hour
left before dawn, the Magdalene retired to her room, leaving Jesus and Ganymede
in the kitchen.
“Well, that
takes care of that,” said a sighing Jesus, looking to his swelling hand.
“Takes care of
what?” asked Ganymede.
“The robbers and
such.”
“Incidentally,
what do you want me to do with their horses?”
“Take them to
the stable before you retire.”
“Shall I stable
them with our horses?”
“No, put them in
the corral, we’ll figure out what to do with them tomorrow.”
“Very well,”
said Ganymede, rising from the table.
“Would you care
for wine before you go?” asked Jesus, pouring a goblet for him, looking to
finish the open bottle.
“Sure,” Ganymede
replied, returning to his seat.
“You said you
can use a sword?” asked Jesus, looking to the slave.
“Yes, but
obviously not as good as you,” said an envious Ganymede.
“I learned from
Kushan warriors, would you like to learn their ways from me?” asked Jesus,
thinking it would be good to have someone else around who could guard the
family in his absence.
“Very much so,”
said Ganymede, downing his goblet, realizing there was far more to the placid
philosopher than met the eye.
“Once my hand
recovers, we’ll arrange for you to come by in the evenings and I’ll show you
the finer points.”
“I’d like that
very much master Julius,” said Ganymede, jumping at the chance to learn more of
the sword.
“Julius will
do.”
“Well, I must
deal with the horses, and have a lot of work to do tomorrow,” Ganymede
observed, rising from his seat, looking to the broken door and frame.
“I have to get
sleep too,” said Jesus as Ganymede left.
Retiring to his
room, a wounded Jesus settled into well-deserved slumber. He awoke the next
evening in agony, his left hand and lower arm was hurting and had swollen so
badly that he could barely move his fingers.
“Are you all
right?” asked Mary, rising from her slumber.
“No,” said
Jesus, sitting on the side of the bed, “My hand looks as if it’s grown to twice
its size and it’s torture for me to move it.”
“What do you
think it is?” the Magdalene asked, looking to his swollen hand.
“It took a while
to figure it out, but I believe I know what it is,” Jesus replied, flexing his
hand with difficulty.
“What?”
“The beam I
punched through last night was made of oak.”
“Meaning?”
“Legend has it
vampires can be destroyed with an oak stake through the heart. There seems to
be something in the wood of oaks that affects us; I recall some months ago when
I stripped bark from oak logs for the tannery, my hands itched for days.”
“I remember,”
said Mary, “What you’re saying is oak must be poison to us.”
“It seems so,”
Jesus replied, adding as it dawned on him, “The shoes in the cave, I know why
they made my feet red, they were tanned with oak bark, not urine.”
“But I wear
leather shoes too.”
“Perhaps some of
us are more sensitive to oak, or the shoes you have were tanned with urine.”
“I have eight
pair, I doubt all were tanned the same way.”
“Then,
evidently, some of us are more sensitive to oak than others,” said Jesus,
looking at his swollen left hand.
“Do you think
you’ll die?”
“I’m already
dead,” answered a weakly smiling Jesus, “If you mean do I think this will
destroy me no, but I don’t think I’ll be feeling very well for a while.”
“Oh,” said the
Magdalene, worried, wondering if only wearing oak tanned shoes should make his
feet red, what would happen with oak splinters having pierced his hand? Rising
from the bed, a pain-wracked Jesus walked to the kitchen, greeted by Ruth as he
sat at the table, forcing a smile to her while clumsily opening a bottle of
wine with his right.
“What happened
to your hand master Julius?” asked Ruth, preparing a meal for his mother,
remembering nothing from the previous evening.
“You don’t
recall the cutthroats?” Jesus asked, knowing what the answer would be.
“Mistress Maria
mentioned thieves happened by last night, when I saw master Julius the elder
and Ganymede replacing the windows and fixing the door.”
“Yes, I struck
one hard on the face, hurting my hand in doing so.”
“Have you seen
Electra about it?”
“She said I
bruised it, you don’t remember anything about last night?” asked Jesus, making
certain his hypnotic powers had done their job.
“Your father
said one of them hit me and knocked me out.”
“That explains
it,” said Jesus while the Magdalene entered the kitchen. “Ruth was knocked
unconscious by a bandit last night.”
“Indeed,” Mary
replied, looking to her convalescing consort, seating herself beside him. Ruth
left the kitchen for his mother’s bedroom. Joseph headed in from the porch, his
left arm in a sling. He greeted the couple, joining them at the table.
“The door and
windows are fixed, Ganymede did most of the work,” said a tired Joseph.
“If this shit
keeps up we’re going to have to stock at least a dozen extra windows to replace
the ones we break,” Jesus retorted, looking at his swollen hand in disgust.
His father
looked to Mary, tightening his lips. Mary shrugged, raising hands in a manner
signifying she didn’t know what to say. Changing the subject, Joseph said after
a long exhale, “You should see their horses son. Huge, strong, muscular animals
and swift for their size. Ganymede said he’s never seen such beasts, and
believes they may be related to cavalry horses, but are much bigger, they
strike me more as draft animals.”
“They’re
Scythian war horses,” Jesus replied, “I’ve seen them before, they have twice
the strength of an Arabian.”
“Can they be
used to plow fields?” Joseph asked, now much more comfortable as a farmer.
“Years ago I saw
Scythian farmers of the steppes using them in that fashion.”
“Then they’ll
come in handy for working the farm,” said Joseph.
“Once I feel
better, I’ll see Gavinal and Marcus about getting proper titles for them,” Jesus
replied, determined to keep up legal appearances.
“How will you do
that?”
“It’s easy, I’ll
apply for a claim to title as abandoned property, stating they appeared on our
farm one evening. That’ll work, considering their owners are no longer with
us,” Jesus answered with a weak smile.
“That’s true.”
Jesus nodded and
asked, “How’s your arm?”
“It hurts, but
not as much as before. How’s your hand?”
“Fair, I imagine
it will take a few days for me to recover.”
“He punched
through an oak beam last night and figured out that oak is poisonous to us,”
Mary explained.
“Really?” asked
Joseph, “I remember reading that a wooden stake through the heart was deadly to
those like you, but I never knew why.”
“It’s not so
much a wooden stake through the heart is deadly, it seems only an oak stake
through the heart is,” said Jesus, “Two years ago Judas Iscariot plunged a
dagger into my heart and it didn’t bother me at all.”
“He did?” asked
Joseph.
“Yes.”
“That’s why you
killed him?”
“No, I killed
him because he betrayed me.”
“I don’t blame
you, I would have killed him for that.”
“Spoken like a
true Roman,” a smiling Jesus replied, pouring glasses of wine with his right.
* * *
After a few days
of painful convalescing Jesus recovered, his hand returning to its usual
appearance. His father’s arm was healing, thankfully with no trace of infection
due to the skillful care of Electra, who applied a poultice of mosses and herbs
to the wound, changing the dressing every day. Not needing his sling after the
fifth day, Joseph resumed light duties around the farm, accompanied by Brutus
the overseer. Having plenty of swords to practice with thanks to the thieves, a
recovered Jesus walked out one early evening with a pair of oil soaked torches,
hanging them from support fixtures on the porch pillars. Attired in a light
Roman tunic, he headed to the slave quarters and asked Ganymede if he still
wanted to engage in innocent swordplay.
“Definitely,”
said Ganymede, “Has your hand recovered sufficiently?”
“Yes, thank you
for asking, if you like we can start this evening.”
“By all means,
let’s do,” Ganymede replied, stepping out into the warm evening. They arrived
in front of the house, where Joseph and the Magdalene were relaxing on the porch.
“Please fetch a
pair of swords for me father,” said Jesus.
“Why?” asked
Joseph.
“I’m going to
teach Ganymede some of the finer points of sword fighting tonight.”
“Mind if we
watch?”
“Not at all,”
replied Jesus.
“Its getting
rather dark isn’t it Julius, how will we see each other?” asked Ganymede.
“Please hand me
the lantern Maria,” said Jesus, pointing to a lit lamp on a table. Using it to
light the torches, the area in front of the porch was illuminated brilliantly
within seconds.
“How’s that?”
asked Jesus.
“It’ll do,” said
Ganymede.
Returning with
the swords, Joseph handed them to Jesus. Taking a fine gilded sword, he tossed
a lesser weapon to Ganymede, who deftly caught it with his right.
“What do we do
now?” asked Ganymede.
“Attack me,”
Jesus replied, raising his sword in the torchlight.
“You’re a
lefty,” said Ganymede, noting that Jesus was holding the sword in his left
hand.
“Yes, attack
me.”
“Are you sure?”
asked Ganymede, wondering if his master’s skill would be enough to protect him.
“I’m certain
that you present no problem for me, and I will be more than careful when it
comes to defending myself.”
“You will be
careful with me,” said Ganymede, holding his sword by his side.
“Exactly,”
replied Jesus.
Raising the
sword above his head, Ganymede came for Jesus, who easily deflected the
expected attack, both men responding fiercely, the mock battle lasting more
than twenty minutes.
“You’re pretty
good,” a smiling Jesus declared, easily fending off a sweating Ganymede’s
hacking attack.
“He certainly
is,” said Joseph, the Magdalene cheering them on.
Sidestepping the
slave, Jesus disarmed him with one stroke, Ganymede’s sword falling from his
hand and sticking in the earth. Looking to the slave, he said, “Your approach
is fine, but your style is all wrong.”
“What do you
mean?” asked Ganymede, out of breath.
“You fight like
a marauding gladiator, lots of force and power, but no real direction in your
attack.”
“My former
master fought as a professional gladiator when he was young,” replied a
panting, thirty-five year old Ganymede.
“That explains
it,” said Jesus, “To be an efficient swordsman you need not only power and
strength, but also grace, along with the ability to foresee what your opponent
intends to do.”
“How?
“That’s for
tomorrow evening’s lesson, if you wish to continue fencing with me.”
“I intend to,”
Ganymede answered, picking up his sword, with Jesus, not having broken a sweat,
walking to the porch. He took a seat, joining his father and the Magdalene.
“Here’s your sword,” the slave added, offering the weapon by the handle.
“It’s your sword
now,” said Jesus, “Would you care for wine before you go?”
“Please,”
Ganymede replied, stepping to the porch and leaning his sword against the rail.
“Have a seat
Ganymede,” said Joseph, pointing a chair next to he and the Magdalene.
The slave took a
seat, Jesus pouring and handing him a crystal goblet of wine.
“Thank you,”
said Ganymede, taking the goblet and drinking deeply from it.
“This man has
great potential as a swordsman, what do you think?” asked Jesus, looking to his
father.
“I’ll say, it’s
too damn bad we didn’t have him here a week ago.”
“We did father,
we just didn’t know Ganymede was good with a sword.”
“That’s what I
meant,” retorted Joseph, annoyed at his know-it-all son.
“You learned how
to fight with swords in uh – ” said Ganymede, not recalling the name of the
country.
“Kush,” said
Jesus, “I learned only the finer points there, my father uses the gladius and
taught me the fundamentals as a child.”
“When you lived
in Gaul.”
“Yes,” Jesus
lied, recalling blissful summer days in Nazareth, his father showing him and
younger brother James how to throw knives and fight with swords.
Ganymede sat
silent, drinking another goblet of undiluted wine on the moonlit evening. The
Magdalene walked into the house, joining Mary and Ruth in the bedroom with
Julian, knowing Jesus would soon grow hungry for blood and call her to his
side.
Later, Ganymede
asked, “I was wondering sirs, why do you treat us as if we are equals?”
“What do you
mean?” asked Jesus, looking to the slave.
“I and my
fellows have talked of this, and agree that you and your father are the
kindest, wisest and most decent Roman gentlemen we have ever met.”
“Thank you kind
Ganymede,” an embarrassed Jesus replied, answering for he and his father.
“Verily I say, as I told you and Icarus: you may be slaves but are people also;
kindness to one’s slaves brings the reward of good service and fine
companionship on a beautiful night like this.”
Ganymede smiled.
“You’re a remarkable man Julius the younger, Cyril has said you and your family
are very special people.”
“How is Cyril, I
haven’t seen him for a week or so.”
“Quite well,
he’s making preparations for teaching Julian, for when he grows older.”
“Excuse me, I’m
heading in to check on your mother and brother,” said Joseph, rising from a
chair after finishing his wine.
“Yes father,”
Jesus replied, turning to Ganymede, “Cyril will be a fine teacher for my
brother, please send him my thanks for his concern for Julian’s future.”
“Why not tell
him yourself?” asked Ganymede, “He’s been wondering how you were since your
injury and would very much like to see you.”
“Tell him I’ll
drop by early tomorrow evening,” said Jesus, pouring wine.
Languishing on
the porch for another hour, a drunken Ganymede clumsily made his way to the
slave quarters, collapsing hard on his cot, Cyril looking up from a scroll and
smiling.
Later, Jesus and
consort strolled out for their evening meal, finding sustenance on the Via
Tiberius Romanus highway, some miles west of Tibernum. Three aurei were in the
take, along with a cache of denarii and lesser coins, adding more loot to their
kitty. Dropping the pouch of money on a nightstand, they retired to slumber
shortly before dawn.