DARK RESURRECTION, CHAPTER THIRTEEN: ROME

 

Chapter Thirteen: Rome

 

The city of Rome was proving a good place to be if you were a vampire in the First Century, Jesus and Mary having taken hundreds of criminals occupying the Esquiline by early September.

Cold, bloodless bodies, courtesy of the insatiable vampiric couple, coursed their way from the Cloaca Maxima to the Tiber nearly every night, an accompanying precipitous drop in the crime rate occurring in this section of the city.

This wonderful fact came to the attention of Fabius Crassus Torquatus, head administrative centurion of Rome. After perusing a report from the Esquiline proconsul one late summer morning on the Capitoline hill, he headed for the Imperial Palace on the Palatine.

Giving his Praetorian Guard superiors a salute, he walked into the palace atrium for an audience with acting Imperator Tertius, as the reclusive, paranoid Emperor Tiberius was living out the last of his days on the Isle of Capri.

Entering the opulent palace of the emperor’s closest aide, a patrician First Citizen and prefect named Gaius Tertius Maximus Rufus Germanicus of Pompeii, the centurion remarked, looking to the papyrus document, “This is incredible prefect, crime on the Esquiline has fallen by forty percent since early May.”

“That’s good, thanks to panem et circenses,” the prefect observed, dismissing the proconsul’s report with a wave of a hand.

“Perhaps sir, but I think we should look into this situation,” the centurion advised.

“Don’t bother, who cares,” said Tertius, his attitude resembling the future Caligula or Nero, the fat bureaucrat being hand fed seeded grapes while reclining on a couch by a mostly nude, attractive female Gallic slave, she reaching for yet another bowl.

“More grapes slave,” ordered Tertius, annoyed at the interruption in his morning gluttony.

“Yes master,” answered the dutiful slave, placing grapes in the fat Roman’s mouth.

“But sir, we must verify the proconsul’s findings, then we should – ”

“No we don’t Fabius, I’m running this city and all Rome at present, crazy old Tiberius stroked out in his villa at Capri, thank the gods for that,” said an exasperated Tertius, looking to his slave for more grapes.

“My point exactly, his many infirmities may at last give you a free hand in administering – ”

Narrowing eyes at the ludicrous suggestion, Tertius waved away the grapes for a moment, retorting, “That’s a crock of shit, I value my head where it is, not dead on the ground cut off, covered in blood in the dirt of a circus! If you ask me that senile maniac is faking his strokes just to see if anyone will challenge him for the throne!”

“Well, that may be – ”

“Well what, are you crazy, I’m certainly not going to take a chance on provoking that ugly old monster, why the hell doesn’t he die and let young Caligula take over?” asked a frowning Tertius, arms in the air.

“This shouldn’t cause any problems prefect,” said the centurion halfheartedly, wondering if this statement was even true, especially with the suspicious Praetorian Prefect Macro always showing up unannounced from Capri, ever on the lookout for the Emperor’s enemies. After all, Tiberius hadn’t been himself lately, at least for the last nine years, having slaughtered hundreds of enemies, real or imagined, while languishing in absentia on the Isle of Capri.

“Really Fabius, don’t you remember what he did to good Lucius Aelius Sejanus five years ago, when he simply wanted to implement needed tax hikes without consulting him first?”

“Yes I do friend Tertius, Tiberius had him killed at the circus for high treason, as he is paranoid of losing power to others, but this situation is different. Ever since April – ”

“Who cares, I’m not going to take one chance on provoking that crazy old bastard, and who gives a damn about the filthy Esquiline slums as long as the rest of the empire functions smoothly!” Tertius exclaimed, terrified of the evil Tiberius.

“But you Tertius Germanicus are the acting Imperator of all Rome, you should at least do a follow up on the proconsul’s report.”

“Perhaps, but look friend, regardless of the silly title they’ve bestowed on me, I’m only a Patrician administrator, and a young one who wants to die an old man.”

Fabius nodded, averting his eyes as the acting Imperator’s tunic had slipped aside, exposing most of his nether regions.

“So why bother, crime on the Esquiline is down for a welcome change and the people of Rome are fed and happy,” Tertius observed, smiling and resting his head on an arm while his slave fed him more seeded grapes.

“They’re happy, I’ll give you that,” said Fabius.

“Well then, why should we question such a wonderful revelation, let alone take the chance of arousing that evil, drunken, senile, pimply old monster lurking on the Isle of Capri?” asked Tertius, breaking into laughter, leaning forward, choking and coughing out pieces of partially chewed grapes onto the soldier’s forearm.

“Procedure of the Senate states that citizens, even if criminals, must be given due – ” began Fabius, also breaking into a hearty chuckle over the insane Tiberius’ myriad misfortunes.

“To hell with procedure, thank the gods, and you can bet your ass if crime was up on the Esquiline I’d check into it!” a still laughing Tertius exclaimed, waving over another slave to bring him a wholesome lunch. Centurion Fabius brushed away the uningested debris from his arm, chewed pieces of grapes also blotching the papyrus document.

“But Tertius, regardless of our Emperor, I must point out the report says known criminals are vanishing from the streets, off the record, it may be a good idea to at least check into their – ”

“I’m glad, it means we’re rid of them, ask me if I care.”

“Very well, I don’t really care either,” said the centurion, giving up, wondering what was causing criminals on the Esquiline hill, citizen and barbarian, to disappear from the streets without the slightest trace.

Jesus and Mary, unfettered thanks to the uncaring prefect, continued in their nightly depredations, seemingly never running out of deserving victims on the Esquiline.

“I want to stay here forever,” Mary declared, waking and stretching luxuriously in their rented suite at the Epicurus Luxury Hotel on the Capitoline, Jesus having located this fine chain establishment north of the Palatine and the bloody Circus Maximus in early May.

“I thought you hated it here,” said Jesus, seating himself on a cloth covered down stuffed chair.

“Not anymore,” said Mary, a female Nubian slave having brought them dinner and two bottles of Gallic wine, the fine room costing the vampiric Christ one aurei every night.

Rising from the bed, Mary strolled to the table, opening a bottle.

“I suppose you’re going to find more idiots to feed this crap to tonight,” Mary ventured, pouring goblets.

“Of course,” said Jesus, loading the plates from the tray into a large compartmented satchel he had purchased one evening for this very purpose.

An efficient Jesus, following beliefs forged during his travels and ministry, had found a better method for disposing of their nightly meals other than the latrine, much to Mary’s chagrin. Wandering about the desolate slums, he would give food to an assortment of drunken bums and burnt out prostitutes who congregated at the city dump south of town, handing out loaves of bread, cooked vegetables, and fine roast meats to any hungry takers who happened along. Not wanting to help only them, other times he would provide sustenance to another group of indigents clustered in a grotto near an overflow pipe of the Cloaca Maxima, one much too small for bodies to pass through.

Finding another group of unfortunates, Jesus gave their latest supper to these people on a cool Friday evening.

“Verily I say, enjoy this fine meal friends,” said Jesus to an old whore and three drunken bums living under an aqueduct arch passing the Aventine hill.

“Why are you wasting time on these worthless assholes, giving them food?” asked Mary in front of his recipients.

“Because they’re needy people,” said Jesus, handing a tray of food to a bum.

“They’re drunks and street urchins, better off dead,” a callous Magdalene spat, pointing at the feasting quartet of human failures while the retired whore looked to her wistfully.

“At least they’re not criminals, and we need to get rid of this food,” said a shrugging Jesus, bidding farewell to the group.

“Give them time, once the food stops coming and their bellies start to rumble they’ll learn to steal,” Mary retorted as they walked off.

“If that is so, look at it like this, we’re fattening them up until we can take them later,” said Jesus, smiling at the bitter irony.

“You’re kidding!” Mary exclaimed, bursting into laughter.

“Not at all,” replied Jesus, smiling at the thought of fattening future victims up like so much cattle.

“That’s weird.”

“Why, the farmer always provides good nourishment for his animals and tends his fields diligently, assuring a bountiful harvest in the fall.”

“People are not cattle, nor are they vegetables.”

“Some actually seem to be, what do you care?”

“I don’t care, that’s the point, all I’m saying is you’re wasting time feeding vermin who are probably latent criminals anyway.”

“Perhaps, and verily I say, should they in their squalor turn from their drunken and sluggardly ways and start to prey on the innocent, they will be fair game to us.”

“They’re all fair game to me.”

“Not to me,” said Jesus, the pair passing an unconscious drunk lying in a gutter.

“You’re the one wasting time feeding them, and I still think a latrine would be a faster way to dispose of useless food,” said Mary, attempting to change the subject while they continued toward the Palatine hill.

“That would be a waste.”

“So are all these people living in the streets around here,” said Mary, noticing another nearly unconscious drunk as they passed a retaining wall near the Tiber, his face in the dirt.

“Nevertheless, they need food,” a resolute Jesus declared, having pity on the dregs of humanity littering Rome.

“It’s like throwing pearls before swine,” the Magdalene retorted.

“You think so?” asked Jesus, darkly noting her out of context quote.

“You’re the one who said it first,” said Mary, “Remember my dear Jesus, you also said to the disciples in Galilee, and I quote you: Verily I say unto you friends, the poor and the stupid you will always have among you, I you shall not.”

“I didn’t exactly say it that way,” said a frowning Jesus, the couple heading down the deserted Via Sacra, skirting a pile of horse manure in their path at the exit.

“Whatever,” the Magdalene spat in disgust, looking to a recently deceased drunk lying facedown in another gutter, passing through a deserted alleyway on the lower Esquiline, the couple on their nightly hunt for suitable victims.

Another revelation came to the vampiric Christ the next evening, languishing in their opulent suite.

“Hey Mary, let’s buy real signet rings for my father and I tonight,” said Jesus after a slave delivered their latest meals, two bottles of fine wine sitting on the tray.

“What do you need those for?” asked Mary, prying out a bottle stopper with a fingernail.

“To fit in with the rest of the populace,” said Jesus, taking the opened bottle and filling a pair of goblets.

“Like your father has said to you before.”

“Right,” a nodding Jesus answered, handing her a goblet.

“Don’t you want to take our meals to the drunks at the dump first?”

“Not on this night, to hell with them I say. This is more important, heave it down the latrine,” said Jesus, downing his wine.

“You’re lucid for a change,” said Mary, putting down her goblet and taking their dinner to the latrine.

“Why do you say that?” asked Jesus, crossing arms and looking to his consort indignantly.

“Never mind,” said Mary, dumping the inedible food in the latrine.

Returning from the lavatorium, a confused Magdalene observed Jesus prying out the stone on his signet with a well-worn dupondii coin, the stone skittering across the floor into the latrine. “Why did you do that?” she asked, looking to his damaged signet ring.

“So I can get a stone put in it engraved with my current initials, instead of whatever that one-eyed asshole in Anatolia had his stone engraved with,” Jesus explained, never having bothered to take note of the initials.

“Oh,” said the Magdalene, looking to the small stone lying next to the tub.

Strolling from the hotel shortly after dark, they headed for a goldsmith’s shop he had noticed in their earlier tours of the city, just down from the Forum of Augustus, coming upon a hired armed guard standing at the doorway, gladius in a scabbard at his side.

“Is he open for business?” asked Jesus.

“Yes, he usually works until after eight,” the guard replied, “Shall I announce you?”

“Please,” said Jesus, giving him their aliases and entering the establishment.

“Good evening friend,” Jesus greeted the goldsmith as they walked into his shop, the man looking up from a lamp lit desk, occupied cold forming a golden anklet for a customer.

“Good evening, what can I do for you?” asked the goldsmith, putting down a small hammer, noticing the pretty Magdalene.

“I need a new stone for my signet, and want to buy a gold signet for my father.”

“I don’t do stonework but my friend Marcus does; do you have your documents with you?”

“Of course,” said Jesus, producing his forged citizenship parchments from a satchel.

“These are in order citizen, but why do you need a signet ring for your father?” the goldsmith asked, perusing the documents.

“His is silver, I want to buy him one of gold for a present,” Jesus lied.

“I can think of much better things to do with money,” said the goldsmith, handing the documents back to Jesus, “I can create one for you nevertheless; five aurei will cover the 18 carat ring, along with ten denarii for each initialized stone setting of olivine granite.”

“That’s a fair price,” said Jesus.

“Thank you, it’ll take a week to make it and order the stones, the payment must be in cash, one half due presently, the other half due on delivery.”

“How about if I pay you for them now?” asked Jesus, a silent Mary looking on.

“You can if you want, but it won’t make it any faster or cheaper.”

“I don’t care, take your time,” said Jesus, handing the man six aurei in gold.

“I owe you five denarii in change,” the honest goldsmith observed, rising from his desk.

“Forget it,” said Jesus with a wave of a hand.

“Are you sure?”

“I certainly am, just make a fine ring for my father.”

“Let me write a receipt for you, and what initials would you like carved on the stones?” asked the stunned goldsmith, pocketing the coins and taking out a small sheet of papyrus, inked stylus in hand.

“For my father, AIC, for myself, BIC.”

“Right, and thank you sir. Come back next Monday, I’ll set the stone in your ring while you wait,” said the goldsmith, taking down the instructions and writing out the receipt.

“We shall see you then,” said Jesus with a nod as they left the establishment.

“What do you want to do now?” asked Mary, heading in the direction of the Esquiline.

“Find a few folks for supper I guess,” said Jesus, a full moon rising in the evening sky.

“This early?”

“Why not, if we’re finished soon enough we can take in the evening circus tonight,” replied a smiling Jesus.

“Oh yeah, that,” said Mary, still not a fan of the bloody Circus Maximus.

“You don’t like the races Mary?” Jesus asked, knowing the answer.

“I don’t mind the races, but do mind the intermissions.”

“The world isn’t perfect, what can you do?” asked a shrugging Jesus, the couple continuing on their hunt. Unlike his consort, a night at the circus was exactly what the vampiric Christ needed, wholesome entertainment from thundering racehorses, with accompanying human butchery during the intermissions. Regarding the blood-drenched carnage of the arena, Jesus had found that he could take or leave such dull, civilized exhibitions of death like those offered in Rome and the surrounding empire, labeling them amusing to anyone asking his opinion, including his consort. This blunt dismissal was due to him witnessing incredible gore filled spectacles performed as entertainment, held before bloodthirsty, cheering crowds in India and Cathay during his mid-twenties, these displays of painful death much worse than any gladiatorial battles could ever be. Telling his consort one evening in their room over a magnum of Gallic wine that he had never found any of these bloody exhibitions truly entertaining during life, or even in his vampiric existence, Mary came to know the bitter truth regarding this darker side of Jesus. While they conversed, she found he had simply come to accept this dubious fact of human existence, people slaughtering one another for fun and profit.

“Like I’ve said, there’s nothing I can do about it,” said Jesus.

“But if you could, would you change it?”

“You know me woman, of course I would,” Jesus answered, taking a drink of wine.

“That’s all I needed to know,” said a smiling Magdalene.

“What do you mean?” asked Jesus, offering her the bottle.

To Mary, Jesus was unknowingly following in his father’s footsteps, she stating he had perhaps become desensitized to such thanks to witnessing many exotic slaughters during his travels.

“Probably, but that’s the way of the world,” agreed Jesus.

“I’ve told you before you’re a lot like your father, finally accepting that which you cannot change, whether you want to admit it or not,” Mary reflected on that hot and humid night.

“Perhaps,” said Jesus, rubbing stubble on his chin.

Her usual self, a pliant Magdalene had become used to their mundane routine, each monthly full moon heralding another fine evening at the circus, Jesus betting an average of five aurei on each race, much to the baldheaded manager’s relief. Winning another two thousand aurei between May and September, giving away half the take to the manager and his employees, Jesus came to be well liked by the staff, they always making sure seats in alpha row at the gates just under the Emperor’s box, were available for them.

“A good evening to you friend Julian Cassius,” the smiling manager greeted Jesus while they walked into the circus atrium with a horde of others at half past eight, having dined on two members of the garbage of humanity on the Esquiline hill.

“How are you tonight baldie – I mean friend Decimus,” asked Jesus, giving him a firm handshake, he and they heading to the betting booths.

“I’m fine, by the way, the odds are 200 to one on the Nubian contestant tonight,” said the thick-skinned Decimus, ogling the sensuous Magdalene.

“There’s a Nubian racer in tonight’s heats, who’s he?” asked Jesus as a noisy crowd of race enthusiasts continued into the circus.

“Some giant Nubian slave named Zubo they dredged up from somewhere or other, he’s a fairly good racer, but Commodus and Quintellius are also in the race tonight, together with your man Lodacer Germanicus, they’re competing in the usual three heats,” Decimus answered.

“Lodacer’s a damn good racer,” said a smiling Jesus.

“Yes he is, incidentally, it’s said by those in the know that First Citizen Tertius may even adopt him as a patron,” added Decimus, recalling the cool night Mary had handed him 114 aurei, evidently for being ‘baldie’, manager of the circus.

“Slave Lodacer Germanicus a citizen?” asked Jesus, playing the part of Roman plebian citizen.

“I’m sure you remember stranger things have happened in Rome,” his fellow plebian replied.

“What are his odds tonight?”

“Two to one, Lodacer or Senator Commodus will win this one if you ask me,” said Decimus, “Quintellius probably coming in third. I’m putting five aurei on Commodus, he has the best horses.”

“How about ten on the Nubian?” asked Jesus.

“Ten, you are a mad gambler friend Julian, if he wins that’s 2,000 aurei!” exclaimed Decimus.

“And for only ten,” said Jesus, intent on betting money on the Nubian.

“Are they going to kill the Nubian if he loses?” asked an interested Mary.

“No my good madam, but his master Aulus Galba will probably flog him severely for losing, he’s betting 50 aurei on the contest,” said Decimus.

“That’s ten grand if he wins, so I take it there’s plenty of money available for payoff this evening,” Jesus ventured.

“Yes, and as an added attraction, they’re going to have eight condemned criminals beaten to death by gladiators during the first intermission,” a smiling Decimus observed, “Do you still want to go ten on the Nubian slave?”

“Sure, put me down for ten on the Nubian,” said Jesus, Decimus taking the funds from Jesus and handing them to the clerk.

“So noted Julian,” the clerk answered after the notary stamped the papyrus, handing Jesus his slip.

“If I were you friend Decimus, I’d put five on the Nubian, that’ll be a thousand aurei for you,” Jesus suggested before they walked to the stands, filled on this evening with about 30,000 spectators.

“Are you serious?” Decimus asked.

“From what I’ve seen being flogged is a rather painful affair, so I’m sure good Zubo will do almost anything to avoid that,” Jesus answered with a callous smile, personally recalling his own harrowing experience with the Roman art of flogging as they headed to the circus entrance.

“Quick Juvenus, change my bet to five on the Nubian, Julian Cassius never loses!” Decimus ordered the clerk.

“Right, you made it by a hair boss, it’s two minutes to post time,” answered Juvenus, looking to an hourglass as he handed Decimus his slip, he also betting five aurei on the Nubian.

The three heats and butchery sideshows followed the usual pattern on this torch lit night at the Circus Maximus, with the exception that the chariot races were conducted in a totally fair manner and without bloodshed.

Senator Commodus was eliminated in the first heat, having chariot wheel trouble, with Lodacer the German foiled in the second by a limping horse, leaving Plebian Quintellius and Nubian Zubo as contendants for the final heat.

“Vadere!” yelled the starter, Quintellius and his giant warhorses pulling into an early lead.

“I think he’s going to lose Jesus,” said Mary, pointing to the Nubian as he and Quintellius sped around the track.

“No he’s not, and even if he does it’s only ten aurei,” Jesus replied above the roar of the crowd, noting the Nubian was pacing his horses, he and the animals not even breaking a sweat.

In the fourth lap, Zubo was gaining ground, as it was plain his adversary Quintellius’ horses were tiring from being driven too hard. At the start of the fifth lap, the Nubian even with him, Quintellius cracked his whip hard over his horse’s heads in an effort to again take the lead.

Zubo pulled ahead, Quintellius forced to do something he preferred not to do. Hesitating a moment while he drew the whip back, he struck his lead horse on the back with a loud crack, the warhorses putting on a surge of power, closing on the Nubian as they approached the finish line.

This effort proved futile for Quintellius, the Nubian slave winning by a nose as the chariots thundered across the finish line, a trusted slave stationed there turning to the crowd, pointing a large torch lit sign representing the Nubian and giving a thumbs up with his other hand.

“I knew he’d win,” said Jesus stoically over the cheers of the crowd, Mary smiling and looking to Jesus in awe.

Arriving at the payoff booth a few minutes later, Jesus noted five armed guards were standing beside several strongboxes, containing the evening’s winnings, almost 20,000 aurei in gold to be paid to various gamblers, including himself.

“You did it again Julian,” observed a smiling Decimus, offering a hand to Jesus.

“Did you bet on the Nubian too?” asked Jesus, shaking his hand.

“Yeah, that’s a thousand for me, a thousand for Juvenus, two thousand for you, and ten thousand for Aulus Galba, not to mention payoffs for hundred or so smaller bettors.”

With those words Aulus Galba walked up with his Nubian slave, Decimus nodding to the guards to commence handing out payoffs.

Patrician landowner Aulus Galba the star of the show, Jesus presented his slip, taking a bag containing 2,000 aurei and stuffing it in a satchel, he and the Magdalene nodding to Decimus and leaving the atrium.

“Who was the tall plebian?” asked Aulus after presenting his slip to a guard.

“Julian Cassius and wife, he’s been a regular at the full lunar show for the past few months. Get this Aulus, he’s never lost a bet and made 2,000 aurei tonight!” exclaimed Decimus.

“He’s a professional gambler, like Tiberius’ nephew Titus Augustus is,” Aulus ventured as two heavy strongboxes of gold were placed at his feet.

“Probably,” said a nodding Decimus, looking toward the atrium exit.

Carrying their latest winnings to the hotel, they entered the dimly lit room, the vampiric Christ sitting the gold and silver laden satchel on the nightstand and reaching for an open bottle of wine.

Sitting on the bed and looking to her consort, Mary asked as Jesus sat down in a chair, “How much money do you think we have now?”

“In this room, probably about five thousand aurei, in Illyricum about twenty five hundred, and in Tibernum another six, maybe seven thousand,” answered Jesus, taking a drink, passing the bottle to his consort.

“What will we do with all this money?” asked Mary, taking the bottle, looking to a pair of stuffed satchels on the floor next to the nightstand.

“We’ll need it in the future I’m sure of that,” Jesus observed, “Remember Mary, if we’re careful we’ll be around a very long time and large quantities of lucre can buy almost anything, material, favors, loyalty, even silence.”

“Very true, I found when I was alive most people were easily bought,” said Mary, taking a drink from the bottle.

“An unfortunate fact of the human condition,” Jesus agreed, not mentioning his beloved Magdalene had once been an easily bought prostitute.

“How will we carry it to Tibernum?”

“As bats it would be quite impossible, traveling as fog it may be feasible. I had a large amount of cash when we came to Rome from Nacherine’s and the weight of it didn’t bother me at all.”

“Really?”

“Yes, it seems in that form we can accomplish even more amazing feats,” said Jesus, “The scrolls say nothing about that, perhaps one day I’ll write a scroll on vampirism.”

“It’s definitely needed, at least for novice vampires without a master,” Mary observed, looking to Jesus, imagining him sitting at a desk penning a vampire manual.

The week passed quickly, Jesus and Mary heading to the goldsmith’s shop on an early Monday evening in mid-September just before dusk.

“Here’s your father’s new signet,” said the goldsmith, handing the finely crafted ring to Jesus, “I have the stone setting for your ring, give me a minute and I’ll set it for you.”

“Certainly,” Jesus replied, taking off the ring and handing it to him.

Returning in a few minutes, the goldsmith returned the ring, sporting the initials “BIC”.

“What do you think?” asked the goldsmith, proud of his craftsmanship.

“Excellent,” said Jesus, “You’ve done a fine job, let me give you another aureus for your trouble.”

“There’s no need, you’ve paid me already,” the goldsmith replied, declining with his hands.

“Have one anyway,” said Jesus, tossing an aureus to the counter.

“Thank you sir,” replied the stunned goldsmith, staring at the counter while they headed from the shop.

“Don’t mention it,” said Jesus, sliding on his signet ring.

Strolling the forum, a bored Jesus and Mary, hand in hand, headed to a theater hall just down from the Via Sacra.

“What’s playing tonight?” asked Jesus of a clerk selling tickets at the door.

“A comedy routine performed by the Saturnalia acting troupe, poking fun at old Emperor Tiberius,” answered the clerk.

“Why would they do that?” asked Jesus.

“Everybody hates him, especially after he had Sejanus and his family killed a few years back,” replied the clerk, “I don’t blame them, the vicious bastard should have died ten years ago; if you want to see it citizen it’s five sestertii.”

“Make it two please,” said Jesus, handing the clerk a denarius, pocketing the change.

Heading into the darkened theater, they took seats about ten rows from the torch lit stage, roof vents open above to conduct the smoke from the building.

“Oh my dear Macro, I’ve had another stroke,” a writhing actor playing Tiberius cried out from the stage floor, the crowd laughing loudly.

“Shall I call the physicians pimply one?” asked the actor playing Macro.

“What can they do, I’ve had a dozen others, all they say is I’ll have more,” replied Tiberius with a contorted grin, clumsily sitting up, laughter erupting from the crowd.

“Since you’re not going to die, should I have more people killed in Rome to satisfy your insatiable need for vengeance my monster Imperator?” asked Macro with a smile.

“Yes indeed, gather up an innocent crowd from the Forum and have them drowned in the Tiber,” a slurring Tiberius answered, crossing eyes for the crowd while rising unsteadily to his feet, the audience howling with laughter.

“Right away,” replied the sycophantic Macro, turning from his emperor.

“Hey Macro, hold on,” ordered Tiberius, clumsily sitting down on a stool serving as a throne.

“Yes my Imperator?” asked Macro.

“Before you go, will you squeeze a loathsome and odoriferous carbuncle offending my right shoulder?” implored Tiberius, rubbing his shoulder, padded as if swollen with a gigantic boil.

“Of course, your wish is my command,” answered a smiling Macro, producing a pair of blacksmith’s tongs to deal with his emperor’s eruption, the crowd laughing hysterically at the scene.

“Jesus Christ, they find this tasteless horseshit funny?” an appalled Magdalene whispered.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” said an equally revolted Jesus, the couple exiting the theatre, a debauched, bisexual Tiberius requesting cute little boys from loyal Macro for his sexual pleasure, the crowd howling with laughter.

The vampiric couple moved to the Esquiline slums, encountering criminals lurking in a dark alley. Draining their blood and looting them, they disposed of the bodies in the usual fashion, the vanquished assailants making their way to the Tiber via the sewer.

Relaxing in the deserted forum a little after midnight, they discussed future plans, a half moon overhead.

“I figure we could tour the lower peninsula this winter, stopping off at Nacherine’s in the spring, then head to Cisalpine Gaul for a while and back to Tibernum,” said Jesus.

“What are you going to do with the money we have, I agree we should take it home but do you want to lug it all over Italy and Gaul?”

“We’ll hide it somewhere, retrieving it before we head home,” said Jesus, looking to the honorary columns and noting maintenance scaffolding surrounding the Temple of Jupiter.

“Jesus, why do the people of Rome rank on Tiberius so much?” asked the Magdalene, staring up to the night sky.

“Because he is an evil man,” said Jesus, “Gavinal told my father and I of his actions the night before we left, stating most of the citizens have come to despise him.”

“I wonder what happened?” asked Mary, unfamiliar with contemporary Roman politics.

“It’s said he has had killed perhaps a thousand of the citizenry of Rome during the past few years, some for only carrying his coins into the toilet,” explained Jesus.

“What an asshole!”

“Really, from what I gather, Tiberius is little more than a senile, paranoid old man, unlike his earlier self. Hopefully young Caligula will do a better job once he takes the throne.”

“One can hope,” said Mary, the couple rising from the marble bench and heading to their room.

Nodding off at dawn, they fell into deep slumber, the sun climbing into the sky as they slept.

Lying on her back, the Magdalene awoke midmorning with a start, the vampiric Christ snoring beside her.

Something’s wrong, thought an alarmed Mary, sniffing the air, smelling smoke.

Sitting up, she shook Jesus awake.

“Jesus wake up!” exclaimed Mary.

“Goddamnit what do you want at this hour woman?” Jesus murmured, rolling on his back.

“Wake up, I smell smoke!”

“They’ve lit the furnace downstairs,” said Jesus, still half-asleep.

“It’s late summer you jackass!” exclaimed Mary, rousing him from the arms of Morpheus.

“Uh, what are you saying?” asked a sleepy Jesus, sitting up.

“I smell smoke,” said Mary, leaving their bed and looking to a closed shutter, thin barbs of sunlight showing through.

“So do I, what time is it?” asked Jesus, sniffing the air.

“Who knows, all I know is the sun is out and I smell smoke.”

“I’d better check,” said Jesus, heading unsteadily to the closed window sash.

Unconcerned, a groggy Jesus opened the shutter – morning sun hitting him in the face.

“Ahh!” screamed Jesus, sunlight burning his undead flesh, staggering backward and falling to the floor.

“What’s wrong?” asked a frightened Mary.

“Sunlight!” exclaimed an angered and fully awake Jesus, face contorted in agony, his forehead, left cheek and upper chest burned from the merciless sun, wisps of smoke pouring from his blistered face.

A brilliant sun illuminating a rectangle on the carpeted floor, Jesus crawled to the safety of their bed, sitting down hard on the overstuffed mattress.

“Are you all right?”

“Hell no, the high sun almost burned off my face!” spat Jesus, staring at the open shutter.

“Why are we smelling smoke?” asked a frightened Magdalene.

“I don’t know, if we’re lucky someone’s having a bonfire close by, if not, there’s nothing we can do unless you want to be burned up by the sun out there,” Jesus answered, putting a hand to his blistered face.

“You’re burned bad, it must be late morning,” said Mary, looking to her wounded consort.

“Ten or eleven I reckon,” Jesus replied, deducing the angle of the eastern sun on the plush Asian carpet.

“What are we going to do?” asked a fearful Magdalene.

“Wait, and hope the fire, if there is one, is nowhere near this place,” said a steepleing Jesus, reminiscent of Nacherine, a hint of his accent returning.

Having nothing better to do, a blistered Jesus gathered up their possessions to facilitate a quick exit, not knowing exactly how they were going to vacate the hotel at the time.

Luckily, the fire, in the process of burning down nearly a third of Rome, was far enough from the hotel that it presented no present danger, so they decided to attempt waiting for nightfall, the smoke becoming thicker over the next few hours.

This was not to be the case, for shortly before three the manager of the hotel beat on their door, yelling, “Wake up Julian and wife, run for your lives, fire’s heading our way!”

Pushing on the door, the manager yelled, “It’s locked Marcus, get slaves up here to break the door down, a citizen may be trapped inside!”

“What are we going to do, that heroic idiot’s going to break down the door!” Mary exclaimed under her breath, looking to the door in panic.

“Let me look out the window,” whispered Jesus, carefully avoiding light touching the floor.

“The whole goddamn city seems to be on fire,” a shocked but strangely calm Jesus observed, frowning as he felt searing heat coming in through the open window, noting fifty foot orange flames on the Capitoline perhaps three blocks from the hotel.

“How the hell are we going to get out of here?” asked a frightened Mary, looking to the open window and to the door.

Jesus stood silently, thinking. Such a dilemma, certain destruction by sunlight, or annihilation by searing flames had never faced him. Life, or at least their undead existence was never looking darker for Jesus and his woman Mary, a brilliant sun shining outside and hot flames approaching their sheltering hotel, both Hebrew vampires trapped in an apparently inescapable paradox.

What am I going to do, I’ve got to do something, thought a frowning Jesus, rubbing his burned chin while thick smoke blew into their room from the open window. Dread crossing his mind, he continued to search for a solution, a way out of their dangerous predicament. Compared to this the cross was easy, he thought as the manager returned, slaves throwing their bodies hard against the door.

“How the hell are we going to get out of this one Jesus?” asked a terrified Magdalene, her face covered in the sweat of fear.

“Shut up woman I’m trying to think!” Jesus retorted, looking about the room, his eyes focusing on the lavatorium. Then it dawned on him, a very simple solution, so simple as to be easily overlooked.

“To the lavatorium,” ordered Jesus, looking at the door moving in its jamb as slaves were attempting to break through.

“What?”

“For God’s sake don’t question me on this,” said Jesus in his vampiric accent, grabbing his satchels and heading into the bathroom, the Magdalene following obediently.

Closing and locking the lavatorium door, Jesus looked to the open latrine.

“That is our exit,” Jesus declared, pointing to the toilet as slaves crashed through the first door, breaking it in half, the shattered part falling to the wood covered stone floor, the other half flying back on hinges and hitting the plastered wall.

“You want me to go down the shitter?” asked Mary, momentarily forgetting the blazing sun and searing flames outside.

“Can you think of a better way?” asked Jesus, pursing lips before lifting the lid and seat. Determined to survive, he leapt into the latrine, landing in the sewer with a loud splash.

“They may be in the lavatorium!” yelled the coughing manager, his dutiful slaves, smoke burning their eyes, hurling themselves at the bathroom door.

“It’s now or never woman,” Jesus called, looking to his consort from thirty feet below.

“I never thought it would be like this,” spat the Magdalene, leaping into the sewer as slaves broke through the door.

“There’s no one here master Gnaeus,” said a coughing slave, looking about the smoke filled bathroom, Jesus’ discarded signet stone sitting forlorn near one foot of the bronze tub.

“Maybe they checked out, let’s get the hell out of here!” exclaimed the choking manager, the vampiric couple standing in the sewer thirty feet below, hearing the conversation.

A dank sewer protecting them from the sun and flames above, they headed in the direction of the flowing water toward the outlet of the Cloaca Maxima.

Pausing and checking for his citizenship papers and Thucydides scroll in a small leather bag, Jesus breathed a sigh of relief, thankful he not forgotten them.

“I’ve got to keep these from getting wet or dirty in this sewer,” said Jesus, also laden with satchels of money.

“Good luck my wise rabbi,” Mary answered, looking at her favorite stola, the lower part of the dress soaked with filthy water.

“You’re right, we’re going to need it,” said a sighing Jesus, glancing about their surroundings.

“Look at the rats on that pipe, they’re as big as cats,” Mary observed while they waded through knee-deep water, refuse and other foul matter flowing past as they made their way through the labyrinthine sewers of Rome.

“Verily I say, they will survive unlike many of those above.”

“Spare me the poetic rhetoric, do you know the way out of here?” asked Mary, her words echoing off of the tunnel walls.

“Not really, but if we follow the flow it will eventually come out at the Tiber,” answered an unconcerned Jesus, looking up another latrine shaft, noting flames consuming a bathhouse or brothel, a piece of burning timber falling to the sewer from a collapsing rafter.

Extinguished by the filthy water, the piece of charred wood floated away in the current, heading toward the Tiber.

The sewers of Rome were huge, Jesus and Mary wandering about the dank tunnels for hours.

“I thought you said they came out at the Tiber,” said the Magdalene after she plunged into a deep section, brushing drenched hair from her face.

“They must,” Jesus answered, attempting to skirt the deepest part of the water, holding his scroll bag above his head, “But I’m telling you, this system is old, deep, and covers much of Rome.”

“Really,” said the Magdalene, looking to her soaked and dirty garments, stained with God only knew what.

Rounding a bend, they came to an atrium in the gigantic sewer, spotting a service carving marked in bold Roman script:

 

“SENATVS POPULVS QUE ROMANVS: YOU ARE ENTERING THE CLOACA MAXIMA SOUTH CAPITOLINE – PALATINE CHANNEL – LEADING TO THE AVENTINE SLUICE AND TIBER RIVER EXIT. OUTLET IS 1500 FEET AHEAD IN DIRECTION OF FLOW – TWO DEGREES GRADE NOMINAL.”

 

An arrow pointed to the exit, and noted underneath the announcement were the rulers, builders and financiers of the section of sewer, Republican Roman citizens who had lived centuries earlier.

“We still have 1500 feet to go in this filthy mess?” asked Mary, reading the script.

“Evidently,” said Jesus, turning from the carved travertine block.

Walking on, they came upon a body lying on its side at a branch of the system, one bloated, pale arm submerged in the water.

“Is he one of ours?” the Magdalene asked, eyeing the partially decomposed corpse while passing by.

“No, he was an equestrian citizen,” said a frowning Jesus, looking back to the soaked and filthy striped toga surrounding the corpse. “I imagine he was murdered by a criminal in this godforsaken city. I do pity his family, not knowing where their kindred is.”

“What’s bugging you?”

“Nothing, why do you ask?” Jesus replied, sounds of splashing water accompanying them.

“The way you responded regarding the body, it seemed to bother you.”

“It does, innocent people murdered by common criminals.”

“What can you do about it?”

“Nothing,” said Jesus as they came to the exit, heading into the evening while Rome burned in the background, illuminating the night sky.

“Do you think the whole city will burn down?” asked Mary, looking to the spreading conflagration while ascending an embankment.

“Who knows, but I imagine it’s time for us to get out of here.”

Jesus standing on the embankment, a drunk who knew him staggered up, expecting his dinner, looking to the soaked and disheveled Christ.

“Do you have a meal for me tonight friend Julian?” slurred the drunk.

“Are you kidding, Rome is burning to the ground, get lost,” a disgusted Jesus retorted, the couple heading south, avoiding as best they could crowds evacuating Rome.

Trudging along the Tiber for several miles, they happened upon a deserted, clear flowing tributary. Sitting down in the darkness to rest, a tired Jesus dropped his soaked money satchels and looked to the Eternal City, his favorite of all cities, being destroyed by fire.

“At least there’s a stream here we can wash in,” said Mary, looking at her filthy stola.

“Huh?” asked Jesus, staring at the flames consuming Rome.

“We can wash up in this stream here.”

“Yeah, we can,” said a sighing Jesus, staring at burning Rome, reminiscent of Lot’s wife looking back at Sodom.

“Don’t worry, they’ll rebuild it.”

“It’s still a damn shame,” said Jesus, turning from the destruction and placing his scroll bag on the ground, the important contents having survived the ordeal in the sewer, emerging dry and unscathed.

“Let’s get a bath,” said the Magdalene, attempting to lighten the mood.

“Good idea, considering we’re probably covered in shit from head to toe,” Jesus observed, breaking into a smile, his badly burned face, chest and arm having healed during their travels through the sewer, returning to their usual appearance.

They disrobed and waded into the flowing water, cleansing themselves of the filth of the Cloaca Maxima, spending several hours in leisurely conversation and physical contact as Rome burned in the background.

Returning to the bank, a naked Magdalene washed out their garments while Jesus dunked his other waterlogged satchels in the pool several times, watching brown water issue from them in the beginning, finally running clear.

“We’re going to need to wash these too,” added Jesus, handing his consort their change of clothes from one of the satchels.

“Yeah, I lost my overcoat back there.”

“I lost my cloak, they were hanging in the lavatorium weren’t they?” asked Jesus, slipping on his Janus amulet and ankh charm.

“I’m sure they aren’t now,” said Mary, taking the soiled clothing, Jesus dressing in a wet, but very clean tunic.

Roughing it that night, they took a pair of boars and retired to a cave near midnight, falling into deep sleep until sundown of the following day. Again the Magdalene woke with a start, having dreamt she and her beloved Jesus were trapped in a hotel, while Romans and Sanhedrin Pharisees armed with torches were approaching during the day, with the latrine, their only exit, cemented shut.

“Did you think crucifixion was the only way to get Jesus you common whore?” asked a spectral Sadducee Caiaphas, folding arms across his chest.

“Why must you kill him again?” asked Mary, bravely standing in front of Jesus in her vivid dream.

“Because the one called Christ is a threat to us, and always will be,” answered a Pharisee Annas specter with glowing, demonic eyes, moving closer with a torch.

“He’s right, those like Jesus of Nazareth must always be destroyed,” added a smiling Pilate with a nod, washing hands in ethereal water.

“Ahh!” cried the Magdalene, awakening in Jesus’ arms, breathing hard and looking out to the cool evening.

“What’s the matter woman?” asked a waking Jesus, looking to his frightened consort.

“I was dreaming, a nightmare,” said Mary breathlessly.

“What about?” asked Jesus.

“They were going to kill you again,” said a frowning Mary, brushing black locks from her face.

“Don’t worry my dear Mary, they could only kill me once,” a smiling Jesus reassured the Magdalene, kissing her on the cheek.

“We were in the hotel, with the city burning during the day. Caiaphas and the Pharisees had us trapped and were going to burn you up with torches,” Mary continued, her forehead covered in beads of cold sweat.

“Burn me, it only a dream, we killed those bastards, excepting for Caiaphas, unfortunately,” said Jesus, looking out to the inviting evening.

“It was?”

“Certainly, we’re here in this cave aren’t we?” asked Jesus, holding his beloved.

“That’s true,” said a relieved Mary, looking to Jesus.

“Don’t let a silly dream bother you,” said the vampiric Christ, releasing her and rising to his feet.

“It seemed so real to me.”

“Dreams or reality, can anyone tell the difference objectively?”

“Come to think of it no,” said Mary, standing up, understanding her vampiric rabbi.

“My point exactly, you’re a good and wise woman,” replied Jesus, noting a disarticulated human skeleton a few yards further back in the cave, an unknown murder victim from nearly a century earlier.

His killer, a plebian thief once named J. Marcus Etribus of Capua had never been caught for this capital crime of his youth and had eventually died of old age 47 years later, surrounded by a loving family and 11 grandchildren, in the year 16 BCE.

Leaving the cave, Jesus looked north to Rome, noting the city was still burning but not with the brightness of before.

“It looks like they may have the fires under control,” said Jesus.

“That or the whole city has been consumed,” the Magdalene observed.

“I doubt that, Rome’s a big place.”

“Hmm,” snorted an uncaring Mary, looking to the nearby road.

Rome no longer habitable for the undead in its present state, they made their way to the Appian Way, heading southeast toward the city of Beneventum.

“What’s ahead?” asked Mary, strolling the moonlit road, the fires of Rome fading in the distance.

“Southern Italy, Capua, Pompeii, the island of Sicily,” Jesus answered, his shoes still wet from his consort washing them in the river.

“Sicily, I’ve never heard of the place.”

“It’s an island off the west coast of southern Italy,” said Jesus, looking to a stand of stately cedar trees, seeing a wild boar in the undergrowth.

“Are we going there?”

“No, we have to be in Tibernum by this time next year.”

“That’s true,” Mary replied, continuing down the Appian Way.

Touring southern Italy over the next months, they replaced their lost outerwear in Capua, Jesus sending home another letter of greeting to his parents and Cyril from there. Slaughtering countless thieves and highwaymen along the Appian Way, enriching them physically and monetarily, they settled in Beneventum in late December to pass the winter, checking into the local Epicurus Luxury Hotel. Strolling in after sundown, Jesus walked up to the clerk, an unkempt looking fellow, inquiring if rooms were available to rent.

“We have twelve fully equipped rooms to let, for twenty one denarii a night,” answered the clerk, lustfully staring at the gorgeous Magdalene.

“We prefer to stay in our room during the day, probably for several weeks,” replied Jesus.

“That’s fine, we have a weekly rate for our deluxe suites, only five aurei,” the clerk offered, pulling at his nose.

“We’ll take one of the deluxe suites for a week,” said Jesus, producing the funds from a tunic pocket and placing it on the counter.

“Here’s the key for room two, third door on your right down the hall,” the clerk advised, handing Jesus a key, still pulling at his nose, Mary staring at him. “There is a complimentary meal served each day to our guests,” the clerk added, crudely sticking a finger up his nose.

“We won’t need those, we eat out most times,” said Jesus, observing the man shove his soiled finger in his mouth, the Magdalene turning a light shade of green at the sight.

“Suit yourself,” the man answered, still picking his nose while they headed to their room.

“What a disgusting bastard, digging his nose and eating it in front of us,” spat Mary, flinging her lambskin leather coat to the bed.

“My disciple Bartholomew had the same bad habit,” said Jesus, locking the door.

“He did?” asked a nauseated Magdalene.

“At least he had the common decency to practice his distasteful hobby out of the sight of others usually,” said Jesus, plopping down in a chair, wondering as to the fate of this particular disciple, Bartholomew not having even crossed his mind since his crucifixion.

“Why do people do things like that?” asked the Magdalene, face contorted in disgust.

“Who knows, why do people do anything at all?” a sighing Jesus replied, leaning back in the chair.

“I thought you might.”

“Thank you for thinking so, but I’m a philosopher, not an oracle,” said Jesus, rubbing his temples.

“What are we going to do here?”

“I suppose we’ll take in the sights, kill a few folks, watch gladiators slaughter each other in the arena, the usual stuff.”

“The games can be interesting at times,” said Mary, having grown used to his adopted Roman ways.

“Of course, deducing the winner beforehand can be quite a challenge, not knowing who is going to get killed in the ensuing battle,” Jesus observed.

“Exactly,” said Mary, making certain the shutters in their room were closed to sunlight.

Jesus sat silently, ruminating on his consort’s new appreciation for Roman slaughter, idly wondering if he was not corrupting her.

“We won’t have wine since you told the nose picker we won’t need our meals,” said Mary, flopping on their latest bed.

“Wine is available anywhere and I didn’t want to bother with finding drunks to feed them to.”

“What do you know, you’re learning too,” said a smiling Magdalene, folding arms behind her head, Jesus looking to her impassively.

Relaxing for a few hours in their suite, the vampiric couple took a leisurely stroll around the chilly city of Beneventum, taking in the sights and instinctively heading to the seedier section of town in search of suitable prey. Passing a brothel, Jesus nodded to a pimp at the door and asked, “Say friend, are there any bars around here?”

“Go to the end of this street, take a right at the bathhouse and you’ll find several, the best one is called Club Venus,” the pimp answered.

“Club Venus?”

“I love Club Venus, they have nude broads dancing there 24 hours a day, seven days a week.”

“Interesting,” said Jesus, breaking into a smile.

“It sure is,” the pimp declared, making eye contact with Mary, imagining her as one of the nude dancers.

“Thanks,” said Jesus, continuing down the street.

“You don’t really want to go to Club Venus do you?” asked Mary while they passed the bathhouse and turned right.

“No, we need to find supper, perhaps we’ll head there later on.”

“Why would you want to go to such a place?”

“That question answers itself,” said a smiling Jesus, walking past the popular Club Venus, a line of patrons, male and female, standing outside the entrance.

Finding dinner, they came upon a pair of thieves a few blocks from Club Venus, blocking their path.

“Give us your money!” one demanded, sporting a ten-inch dagger, a small man barely five feet tall.

“Where have I heard that before?” asked Jesus, smiling as he looked to the Magdalene, continuing toward their assailants.

“Stop!” the other yelled, a taller man.

“Why?” asked Mary.

“Maybe we should, after all they are robbers,” said Jesus, playing along, stopping in his tracks.

“Whatever,” replied a shrugging Mary.

“Okay, we’ve stopped, what do you want?” asked Jesus.

“We want your money, I told you that,” the small man answered.

“You cannot have it,” replied Jesus, folding arms across his chest.

“I’ll kill you if you don’t give it to me,” the dwarflike thief threatened, waving his dagger.

“I seriously doubt that,” Jesus scoffed, smiling and looking down at his assailant, well over a foot shorter then he.

“Why?”

“For one thing you’re much too small, for another, because we are vampires,” said Jesus, freezing them to their spots before they could utter another word.

They descended upon their assailants, sinking fangs in their necks, sucking their blood, the corpses collapsing to the alleyway seconds later.

“So much for them,” said Jesus, staring at the bodies.

“That little bastard sure had a lot of guts didn’t he?” Mary observed, looking to Jesus’ victim.

“That he did, to the latrine,” said an efficient Jesus with a belch, lifting the little cadaver over a shoulder while his consort grabbed the other body by its hair. Dumping his victim headfirst in the sewer after looting it, Mary followed with the other, her victim’s skull colliding with a lead pipe and shattering as it entered the sewer.

“Damn, that one’s head broke like an eggshell,” Jesus observed, staring into the latrine at the mangled corpse while it floated away.

“I aimed for the pipe,” said Mary, a sheepish grin on her face.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Good aim, woman,” a smiling Jesus added in approval, grabbing a purse of coins taken from the thieves.

“They were loaded, why did they want to rob us?” asked Mary while they exited the lavatorium, Jesus slipping a hundred denarii in a tunic pocket.

“Greed,” said Jesus, intent on heading to Club Venus.

Arriving in minutes, they took their places in the queue outside the entrance.

“This place must be packed,” the Magdalene complained, not desiring to see nude dancers of the female variety, or even of the male variety.

“No, they have a cover charge,” Jesus explained as the line moved forward.

“What’s that?”

“An entrance fee.”

“Oh,” said Mary, resigning herself to the inevitable.

Coming to the clerk a few minutes later, Jesus paid the man 10 dupondii for he and consort, walking into the dimly lit but gigantic tavern filled with noisy people.

Painted on a far wall was a pornographic fresco depicting the most licentious of debaucheries, with a high-relief, oil lamp illuminated ‘Club Venus’ logo plastered above. “I think we’ve stepped into the bowels of Gomorrah,” Jesus announced in the warm building, removing his cloak and slinging it over a shoulder, the pair passing a lit central fireplace.

“I’ll say,” Mary agreed over the din, removing her overcoat, observing a man purchasing the favors of one of the many whores lining the walls.

The pimp had been right; perhaps a dozen nude women were dancing to harp and lyre music on a center stage surrounded by a bar populated by gawking men. A man at a set of drums was keeping time for the string players, three of the nude women doing a prototypical bump and grind for their slack jawed, drunken audience. Finding two seats unattended, they took places just down from a bartender.

“Welcome to Club Venus,” a bare-chested, muscular man remarked with a smile, looking to the Son of Man with wide and glassy eyes, Jesus feeling uncomfortable from his penetrating stare.

“Do you have Gallic wine?” Jesus asked, ignoring his uncomfortable feeling.

“Sure,” answered the man, “Shall I bring you two?”

“Yes please,” said Jesus, folding hands on the bar, looking about the establishment, a pair of pretty young women passing by smiling at him. Returning quickly, the bartender sat the drinks on the counter, not pausing to tell Jesus the price, heading to another patron waving a denarius. Jesus sitting a denarius on the counter, they enjoyed their large, diluted, as was Roman fashion, Gallic wine. Surrounded by revelry and lasciviousness, looking to the stage, a placid Jesus listened to a naked woman sing of the joys of being a prostitute for several minutes.

“I never thought it was that good,” a scowling Mary remarked. Jesus laughed at the observation, taking a deep drink from his glass.

“What are you laughing at?”

“Her, not you,” said Jesus, pointing to the whore, finishing his wine.

“Another friend?” asked the bare-chested bartender, appearing from nowhere, staring him in the eyes, an unnerved Jesus focusing on the man’s prominent nose.

“Yes, here’s your money – ” started Jesus, the man vanishing into the shadows.

“He didn’t let me pay him for the first drinks,” said Jesus, growing suspicious of the bartender’s motives.

“He’ll get it,” Mary replied, looking to the whore singing her explicit soliloquy, holding out an ornately carved, gilded ivory dildo for all to see.

“She isn’t going to – ” exclaimed a shocked Mary, averting her eyes.

“I wouldn’t bet against it,” Jesus replied, the bartender appearing and placing their drinks on the counter.

“Here’s your – ” started Jesus, coins in hand, the bartender putting up hands and shaking his head while walking off, the Magdalene staring at the bar top.

“She’s doing it,” said Jesus, grabbing his glass and observing the woman employing her phallic prop.

“Thanks for telling me,” Mary answered in disgust.

Observing the ‘Club Venus’ logo, Mary took a deep drink of wine and turned from the bar, only to see a couple having sex on a nearby table, another man, bereft of a partner, pleasuring himself at the sight.

“Jesus Christ!” Mary exclaimed, turning back and closing her eyes as she glimpsed the dancer, silent and occupied with her piece of ivory, sitting on the floor of the stage, pleasuring herself for the assemblage.

“Yes?” asked Jesus, looking to his appalled consort.

“You can’t tell me you’re enjoying this, the games of the circus maybe, but not this!”

“Not really, I’m only enjoying this wine,” Jesus replied, pursing lips in a frown while swirling wine in his glass, noting the odd bartender staring at him in the distance.

“Why are we here, surrounded by these human pigs?”

“Verily I say woman, that’s an insult to swine everywhere.”

“So?” asked an incredulous Magdalene, looking to him with eyes narrowed.

“I think I again needed to see if my father was right regarding people,” said Jesus over the din, turning around on the stool and somberly glancing at the lewd trio his consort had observed, the masturbating one stealing a long and passionate kiss – from the man.

“And?”

“He was and still is, I was wasting my time wandering about Galilee, wanting to save these licentious bastards from what God only knows,” Jesus conceded bitterly, turning to the bar, finishing his glass of wine.

“Do you want to go?” asked the Magdalene, placing her hand on his.

“I want to deal with the bartender first,” said Jesus, hungry for blood, as his previous victim had been little more than a snack, only five feet tall and a very thin seventy-five pounds.

“What do you mean?”

“Watch, he’ll come to me, I know it,” a disgusted Jesus answered, knowing exactly what the man intended to propose, perhaps not at that very time, but would before the night was out.

“He’ll come to you?” asked the Magdalene, not understanding.

“Uh huh,” said a nodding Jesus, holding up his hand to her as the bartender approached.

“Why?”

“You’ll see,” said Jesus.

With those words, a lovely blonde woman staggered by, finding Jesus compellingly attractive.

“Hey good looking, want to make it with me somewhere?” asked the drunken wench with a smile, grabbing Jesus by his side.

“You are indeed a beautiful woman,” a smiling Jesus observed, coveting the pretty girl and putting an arm around her side.

“And you are a most comely man,” the woman cooed, kissing him on the cheek.

“Take off you worthless bitch,” said a jealous Magdalene, staring at the Saxon daughter of a wealthy Beneventum merchant.

“Make me old woman,” teased the girl, a debauched libertine of perhaps twenty.

“Old woman you say, I will,” Mary retorted, fangs beginning to bear as they always did when she was angered.

“I’m sorry, I’m married to this good woman here,” Jesus explained, looking to the girl.

“A pity,” said the girl, pulling an arm from around Jesus’ waist.

“For you bitch,” Mary retorted.

“I meant no offense, he’s a gorgeous man,” said the girl, brushing hair from her face in a seductive manner.

“He is mine, never forget it,” the Magdalene retorted, staring down her competitor, she walking off.

“You needn’t be so jealous of me,” said Jesus, looking to Mary.

“Why, lots of other women wanted you in Galilee.”

“You have me, why fight with sluts who accost me?”

“Because they’re a threat, you are a man.”

“Meaning?” Jesus asked, ogling a brunette walking by in a tight dress, she looking to him and winking back.

“Men will take any pretty woman they see given the chance, of all women on earth I should know.”

“You think so?” asked Jesus, watching his latest attraction disappear through a doorway.

“I know so you horny bastard,” said Mary, having noticed his roving eye.

“I looked but didn’t touch her.”

“You wanted to,” said Mary, looking to the doorway.

“How do you know?”

“Because I’m a woman,” the Magdalene retorted.

“Whatever,” said a defeated Jesus.

Spending time at Club Venus until nearly four, they had consumed almost half an amphora of Gaius Scipio’s finest between latrine breaks, a neat pile of denarii stacked on the bar top.

Not even slightly inebriated, a patient Jesus awaited the bartender’s next move as his equally sober but confused consort looked on, the bar nearly deserted.

“I’m getting off in a few minutes, would you care to join me in a téte a téte?” the bartender asked with a wink after walking up.

“Where friend?” asked Jesus, resting his head on an arm, knowing the answer.

“In the lavatorium,” said the smiling bartender, enthralled with Jesus, staring into his eyes lovingly.

“I’m a married man,” said Jesus.

“So what, I am too, everyone knows women are for babies, and pretty men and boys are for carnal pleasure,” the bartender answered with a broad grin.

“That’s what Plato and Tiberius have said,” said Jesus, winking to Mary, who nodded, instinctively knowing the plan.

“What’s your answer, pretty man?” asked the bartender, staring at Jesus with a dreamy look.

“Lead the way, my lascivious friend,” said a smirking Jesus, stepping from the bar, his right outstretched while grabbing the denarii from the bar top with his left, returning them to his pocket.

Heading into the dimly lit, unoccupied lavatorium, the bartender asked after Jesus barred the door, “What is your woman doing in here lover?”

“She likes to watch,” said Jesus.

“I see, what does she like to watch?” asked the bartender, falling to his knees in front of Jesus, Mary leaning against a wall, staring at the victim as if he were so much vermin.

“Do you want to know the truth?” Jesus asked, having trouble keeping a straight face.

“Yes gorgeous man,” said the bartender, looking up to the vampiric Christ.

“Well, she’s kind of strange, she likes – ”

“Strange, would she wish to join in?” the bartender interrupted, looking to the Magdalene licentiously while she giggled at the enraptured bisexual man, his confused libido recklessly going either way depending on the situation presenting itself.

“She’s not into that at all, but if you must know she likes to watch me kill people,” said a hungry Jesus, fangs plainly showing.

“Kill me with your stiff phallus stuffed in my anus,” the man declared, not noticing vampire Jesus, turning around, bending over and pulling aside his loincloth, exposing his nether regions.

“My God!” an exasperated Jesus exclaimed, moving a hand to his forehead while shaking his head, recalling the reckless pair of enraptured queers he had taken at Pilate’s residence.

“What?” asked a confused Mary, holding out hands, looking to the nude man using his hands to spread his personal pair of gluteus maximus.

“Verily I say woman, they’re completely depraved and without reason aren’t they?” asked a frowning Jesus, staring at his victim, noting the ornate mosaic tile covering the lavatorium floor.

“You could say that, I’ve heard dykes can be that way as well, why don’t we start taking them too?” Mary replied, the uncomprehending bartender staring at her quizzically.

“Sure, if we run into any of them like this in our travels,” Jesus agreed, looking to his lovely consort.

“Aren’t you going to take me lover?” the bartender asked impatiently, turning his head and looking to Jesus.

“Yeah, but not in the way you may think,” Jesus retorted, pulling the man’s head back hard by the hair, exposing the throat for the kill.

“What the – !” exclaimed the bartender, neck snapping loudly as a cervical vertebrae fractured, his body going limp as the cracking sound echoed off the walls of the lavatorium.

Sinking fangs deep in the throat, Jesus sucked his blood, exhaling loudly as the emptied, naked body collapsed to the floor, dead as a coffin nail.

“That was good,” said Jesus with a smile.

“I guess the little guy didn’t have enough blood in him did he?” asked Mary, smiling as she looked to Jesus.

“I’d say this guy came in handy tonight,” said a satisfied Jesus, belching loudly.

“Did you kill him because he was queer?” asked Mary, leaning against the wall of the lavatorium, arms folded across her chest, staring at the corpse.

“Yes, and no, my good woman, I did it because I was hungry for blood and had no desire to hunt for anything else in this godforsaken city,” an evasive Jesus answered as truthfully as possible, confused as to what the real answer should have been.

“I see, you’re still learning,” said Mary, Jesus dumping the body in the latrine, the remains landing with a loud splash in the sewer forty feet below.

“Let’s get the hell out of this debauched place,” said Jesus, unbarring the door and hurling the oak bar to the far end of the lavatorium. The speeding projectile collided and bounced off a far wall, shattering several ornamental tiles in the process, heading down an open commode and landing in the sewer, the counterweighted door slamming shut behind them.

“He called you a pretty man,” said the Magdalene as they made their way across the gigantic atrium, passing snoring drunks of both sexes, nude dancing whores still on stage, surrounded by several gawking men.

“He did didn’t he?” Jesus replied, shaking his head as they headed for the exit.

“I think you’re a pretty man too,” said a smiling Mary.

“Big deal, it’s different with a woman!”

“Imagine that,” the Magdalene retorted.

Leaving the hedonistic Club Venus, they made their way to the Epicurus hotel, falling into blissful slumber near dawn. Waking in the evening, Mary grilled Jesus as to the reason for taking the queer bartender.

“I’m sorry Mary, I’ve never cared for brazen queers, perhaps he just bothered me, staring at me the way he did,” a scowling Jesus admitted, looking to her sitting across from him while he lay on their bed in his underwear, hands folded behind his head.

“He meant us no real harm and you killed him anyway, even breaking his neck before you took him,” said an admonishing Magdalene, clad in a silk nightgown.

“Perhaps that is so, but I still have no use for them, especially when they stare me down like he did,” said a defensive Jesus, rolling to his side.

“That’s a little out of character for you isn’t it?”

“Maybe it is, what do you care?”

“I don’t, but you usually do.”

“I imagine this time was an exception, considering the facts,” said Jesus, rising from the bed.

“So I take it you understand my feeling about lesbians after all.”

“Yes dear Mary, that I do.”

“Good,” a satisfied Magdalene observed, crossing legs as she relaxed in an overstuffed chair in their opulent suite.

Languishing in the amoral city of Beneventum until mid-April, they decided to journey back to Rome to see if any of the Eternal City was left at all. Heading into town after staying in the same cave they had on the night of the fire, Jesus noted the city seemed to be having some sort of festival. Regardless of the rampant desolation, he observed happy citizens dancing in the streets leading to the forum, the marketplace, the Tabularium, and the surrounding temples having escaped the destruction.

“What’s going on friend?” asked Jesus of a smiling centurion holding a bottle of wine as a gigantic crowd laughed and celebrated in the torch lit forum.

“Didn’t you hear the good news citizen, that rotten bastard Tiberius finally did us a favor and died!” exclaimed the soldier, offering the bottle to Jesus.

“No I didn’t, the wife and I were traveling from the south,” said a shocked Jesus, taking the bottle from the soldier and drinking deeply from it.

“He died two weeks ago in Capri,” the soldier added with a laugh, Jesus handing him the bottle.

“Thank the gods that evil monster is gone, long live Emperor Caligula!” another exclaimed with a thumb up, walking by with his wife and children, having overheard the exchange.

“They hated Tiberius that much?” asked Mary over the noise of the jubilant throng.

“Evidently,” replied Jesus, nodding to the centurion and moving on.

“I’d dance on his grave if they hadn’t cremated him first,” said a drunk Decimus to his clerk Juvenus, recognizing Jesus while the vampiric couple strolled by the temple of Jupiter.

“Julian Cassius!” exclaimed Decimus, Jesus turning while Decimus shook his hand with both of his, an empty amphora falling to the sidewalk and shattering as the manager blundered into it.

“That’s twelve sestertii down the latrine,” Juvenus observed, having lost the deposit on the amphora.

“How are you Friend Decimus?” asked Jesus with a broad smile, shaking his hand warmly.

“Still bald, but alive, unlike old Tiberius, thank the gods,” answered the manager while a smiling Juvenus looked on, “Where have you and your lovely wife been?”

“We went to Capua on business before the fire,” lied Jesus.

“The fire took out most of the circus too, but Emperor Caligula is at the palace and says he’ll have the whole thing rebuilt by spring of next year,” Decimus declared, pointing to the Palatine Hill.

“That’s good, what about other places like the Epicurus Hotel?”

“It’ll be back, Caius Galba had insurance, full coverage,” said Decimus, looking to the shattered amphora.

“Any relation to Aulus Galba?” asked Jesus.

“His older brother,” replied Decimus, Jesus and Mary starting on.

“Will you be at the grand opening next year?” Decimus called, Jesus pausing and turning to him.

“Probably not, the wife and I have to head to Cappadocia.”

“Why?” asked Decimus, arms outstretched.

“I own a thousand acres of farmland there,” said Jesus, raising his voice and cupping a hand to his mouth.

“Good luck citizen,” yelled Decimus, waving a hand in farewell as the vampiric couple moved on into the crowd.

Finding nearly a third of the city in desolate ruins while surveying their surroundings in the wee hours of the morning, Jesus noted to his dismay much of the Esquiline and its useful slums had been destroyed, homeless indigents squatting in the blackened ruins, thieves nowhere in sight.

Observing destroyed bathhouses and latrines while they walked along, Jesus noticed open holes leading to the sewers, surrounded by burned marble and fractured granite.

The fire had ravaged much of the Palatine Hill excepting for the Emperor’s palace, and the Epicurus Luxury Hotel had been totally destroyed. The marble façade reduced to powdered lime from the intense heat, gigantic granite and travertine superstructure blocks from the hotel were lying shattered in the street, choked with rubble from collapsed buildings.

The Aventine Hill and the Circus Maximus had been severely damaged by the conflagration, Jesus sadly observing the games would not be held for a while.

“That’s what Decimus said, why don’t we head to Capua, they have games there all the time,” Mary suggested, having grown fond of the gory contests.

“We can’t, we have to head home from here,” said Jesus, walking to a room they had rented on the lower Aventine.

Relaxing on their bed at sunup, Jesus was still lamenting the destruction of his favorite city.

“They’ll rebuild it all in a few years, who cares,” said the Magdalene, rolling on her side.

“Yeah,” Jesus replied, closing eyes, arms folded behind his head.

Heading north on foot with his moneybags and scroll satchel a few nights later, they came to a fork in the road, a sign pointing eastward marked: Volsinii, 24 miles.

“What do you know, our hometown,” said Jesus, looking at the sign.

“Where?” asked Mary, confused by the utterance while they stood on the deserted highway.

“Volsinii, I told Gavinal and the scribe in Rome it was our hometown,” said Jesus, pointing to the stone sign almost overgrown by weeds.

“Really,” the Magdalene replied, “Would you care to check it out?”

“Why bother, we do have a schedule to keep, after all dear Mary we were living in Gaul for such a long time,” said Jesus, shaking his head.

“We were?”

“Yes, so I guess I don’t remember much about my hometown anymore,” said a smiling Jesus.

“You don’t remember anything about Volsinii at all, you’ve never even been there!” the Magdalene exclaimed.

“My point exactly,” said Jesus, turning from the sign and continuing up the road.

“Whatever,” Mary retorted, leaving Volsinii and its thieves lurking the roadsides behind, thankfully for them.

Not that it mattered; they found suitable victims along the Via Appia Flaminia over the next evenings, enriching themselves physically and materially.

“If this keeps up we won’t to be able to carry this crap home in any form,” Jesus observed, handing a sack of silver coins to her after slaughtering a pair of thieves.

“If you hadn’t won all that money at the circus it might be a little easier,” said Mary as Jesus dumped the bodies in a cave.

“I did give a lot away,” Jesus replied, stepping from the cave.

“True, do you think we’ll be able to return with the rest of the loot?”

“That’s problematical,” said Jesus, looking at two overstuffed satchels bursting with gold and silver, “If we take any more we may not be able to retrieve the loot stashed in Illyricum.”

“Are you sure?”

“I don’t know, I guess it depends if we can cross the Mare Adriaticum with the money we have,” said Jesus, rubbing his stubbled chin and looking to the night sky.

“As fog it shouldn’t be a problem,” Mary replied, having easily carried one of the sacks on their tour of southern Italy.

“Perhaps, but will we be able to cross the Bosphorus with the extra from Illyricum?”

“I guess we’ll find out when we get there,” said Mary while they pressed on, arriving at Nacherine’s villa near five.

Knocking on the door, they heard no answer, and after a few minutes of silence Jesus opened it and headed into the atrium.

“Hello, Cuspius Valgus?” called Jesus, his voice echoing in the large room. “Hello?”

No answer came.

Dust and cobwebs had collected on the furniture, the dilapidated villa appearing as if it hadn’t been occupied for at least several months, perhaps a year.

“He’s gone, he took off,” said the Magdalene instinctively, looking about the silent and darkened structure.

“I wonder what happened to his slaves?” asked Jesus, his consort walking to the central courtyard as the sky lightened.

“They’re still here,” said Mary, noting a pair of skeletons beside a marble bench, almost hidden by overgrowth.

“I’d say he took them before he left,” Mary observed as Jesus joined her.

“I can see that,” Jesus replied, staring at the sun-bleached bones and shaking his head.

“I’d have done the same thing if I were him,” said Mary, rising to her feet.

“I know,” a tired Jesus replied, looking to the bronze clad doors of Nacherine’s sanctuary.

Mary looked to him indignantly.

“Since there’s no one here, shall we get sleep?” asked Jesus, in no mood for debating her on the subject of suitable victims.

“Sure,” the Magdalene agreed, yawning.

Opening the doors on creaking hinges, Jesus looked about the pitch-black room with vampiric eyesight, finding their friend Nacherine was indeed gone.

“You’re right, the place is empty,” said Jesus.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Mary replied, observing the deserted room.

Nacherine had left everything, including his scrolls; the darkened oil lamp perched directly above the overstuffed couch Mary and Jesus had slept on.

The roof had begun to leak, an inch deep puddle of stagnant water having soaked most of the Asian carpets on one side of the room, hastening their decay. Jesus noticed a pair of sealed amphorae on the desk with two dusty goblets and an inverted pitcher, a parchment underneath the goblets, ends curled.

“At least there’s wine here,” a smiling Jesus observed, walking to the desk.

“If it hasn’t turned to vinegar,” said Mary, following him.

Opening an amphora, Jesus sniffed the contents and remarked, “It’s still good, let’s have a drink.”

“Okay,” said Mary as Jesus blew dust from the glasses, filled the pitcher and poured libations, handing one to her. Taking a drink of the undiluted beverage, Jesus noticed writing on the parchment, addressed to them.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“What?”

“Nacherine left us a note,” said Jesus, lifting the parchment, quickly reading it and handing it to Mary.

The note read:

 

                                                                                25 April 789 AUC

 

My Julius and Maria,

I am using your assumed names in case someone else finds this letter instead of you.

If you are in fact reading this, please enjoy my villa for a few evenings – as you already know I have left Gaius Scipio’s finest white for you and your wife to partake of.

As for myself, after disposing of my slaves, I am heading to Gaul and Hispania for a while; I have languished in this place much too long. While you are here, feel free to take any scrolls that may suit your fancy. I shall not be returning to the Italian peninsula for a long time, and all they will do without me is rot.

Good luck to you, and try not to take too many animals for sustenance friend Julius, verily I say unto you, it will give you a bad reputation among us!

I hope you don’t mind me mocking your prose in jest; alas, my good Occto could never get over me making sport of his voice and unctions – he admonishing me regarding such on more than one occasion.

If I don’t see you in our travels before then, I shall try to get over to Anatolia in the future, perhaps in a hundred years or thereabouts, to see how you and lovely Maria are doing.

 

Your Nacherine

 

“A very good letter wouldn’t you say?” asked a smiling Jesus, unoffended by Nacherine’s words of jest, downing his wine and pouring another as the sun rose.

“Indeed,” said Mary, fondly recalling Nacherine, seeing him in her mind at his desk debating Jesus by dim lamplight, an admonishing finger in the air while holding a goblet in his other hand.

Taking to the bed, they fell into blissful slumber, awakening toward the evening.

Staying until the wine was gone, they took local fauna for sustenance, with Jesus perusing various scrolls during the nights, finding priceless writings of Plato, Aristotle, Protagoras, a detailed medical treatise by none other than Hippocrates, and another by a physician named Hipparchus.

“Minoacles, I wonder who he is,” Jesus muttered with a raised eyebrow while staring at a tattered scroll, sitting it on the table next to others and taking another from the shelf.

Placing several aside to take with him, Jesus sat at the desk on an early evening, noting the titles of other scrolls. Stopping on a religious text, Jesus looked at the author’s name and the title, printed on the outside of the scroll.

Written in classical Latin during Republican times by a Gabulus Severus Pius, the composure was titled “Ivppiter Maximvs Dominvs Rex – Great Jupiter: The King of all gods.”

Opening the scroll, Jesus began silently reading, his consort enjoying the cool evening in the overgrown courtyard.

The scroll began:

Greetings to you citizen, and while you read this sacred script, may the blessings of the great and powerful Jupiter be upon you – he, the mighty god who protects our beautiful Rome and all its inhabitants. Our god Jupiter is truly king of all gods; nothing ever beyond his grasp, and those who follow great Jove shall always walk in the light of wisdom, knowledge and –

“I guess he’s a bunch of shit too,” spat Jesus, rolling the scroll up and sitting it on the desk, thinking of the mostly destroyed Rome 200 miles south. “Maybe Cyril will want to read it for laughs,” added a smirking Jesus, placing it in the save pile.

“Mary!” Jesus called.

“Yes?” replied the Magdalene from the courtyard.

“Since it’s early, what do you say we take off tonight?”

“Don’t you want to go through more of the scrolls?” asked Mary, joining him, the vast majority littering the floor around the desk.

“I’ve read most of them, excepting for these here,” said Jesus, pointing to a small pile of scrolls on the desk, “I’m going to take these with us.”

“You’ve read all those?” asked Mary, believing Jesus had read several hundred of the scrolls while they had stayed in the abandoned villa.

“Hell no woman, I’m saying I’ve read them when I was younger, excepting for these,” Jesus clarified tersely, pointing to the desk.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” an embarrassed Mary replied, Jesus stuffing the unread scrolls in a satchel containing his citizenship papers and Thucydides scroll.

Leaving an hour later, they found a bite to eat so to speak, and headed up the Via Appia Flaminia to the exact spot where they had met Nacherine.

“We have to fly over those mountains,” Jesus observed, looking to the eastern horizon in the moonlight.

“So?”

“No matter, but we could have taken the Via Salaria from Rome to the coast, and then crossed the Mare Adriaticum there on the ferry.”

“They have a ferry at night?”

“No, they have a ferry crossing once a week to Illyricum at dawn, usually on Mondays,” said Jesus, having used it in the past, “The ship is complete with fine cabins and good wine, it takes two or three days to get there depending on the wind.”

“Don’t they use oarsmen?” asked Mary, having seen Roman trireme warships in Capua.

“Yes, but they have sails too.”

“Sounds like more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Why do you say that?”

“For one thing the ship could sink.”

“So?”

“During the day,” his consort clarified.

“Oh yes, I see what you mean, but it is a very pleasant journey, I used it several times in my twenties,” Jesus explained, Mary rolling eyes at the ridiculous reply.

“Even if it didn’t sink, it could make port during the day, how would we disembark once we arrived?” Mary asked, hands on hips, attempting to get him to see her reasoning.

“I understand, I was simply recalling the past.”

“But we’re vampires and can fly across the entire sea in hours, what’s the point of even talking about it?” an exasperated Magdalene asked, finding his reminisces annoying at times.

“None really,” a defeated Jesus answered, transforming to fog and heading for the mountains, consort following.

Crossing the mountains much faster than on foot or as bats, they appeared on a coastal road on the Adriatic shortly before ten, a clear night before them. Having effortlessly carried their load of money as ethereal beings, Jesus noted crossing the hundred or so miles of open sea would be no problem at all.

“Are we crossing here?” asked Mary, leaning against a milestone, looking out to the Mare Adriaticum, the gentle swells illuminated by moonlight.

“No, we still have to head about thirty miles up the coast and cross at the shortest point, so we can arrive in Octavinum and get a room for the day,” said Jesus, thinking ahead.

“How long will it take us to get there?” asked Mary, looking to the eastern sky.

“At the rate we’re moving, probably four or five hours.”

Again transforming, they headed north, arriving at their crossover point near eleven, resuming human form near a small coastal village.

“I wonder what the name of this place is,” said Mary, looking to the sleeping village, the couple strolling from the road to the nearby beach.

“Who knows,” Jesus answered as a thief, dagger in hand, looked on from the shadows, watching the vampiric Christ occupied checking buckles and straps on his satchels.

“Can you carry our extra clothing?” Mary asked.

“Certainly, can you manage that satchel?” Jesus asked, pointing to a heavy bag of gold.

“Easily,” replied Mary, lifting it as if it were empty.

“Let’s go, we have a date in Octavinum,” said Jesus, disappearing and heading over the water as fog, Mary following, the beach again empty, only footprints remaining.

   “Maybe I was imagining it,” said the stunned thief, pocketing his dagger and trudging off to the village, unaware his worthless life had been saved by the fates themselves.