DARK RESURRECTION, CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: HOME AT LAST

 Chapter Seventeen: Home at Last

 

Traveling across the Anatolian plateau over the next weeks, Jesus and Mary stopped in Lydias on August 31, 37 CE. On a drizzling night at eleven thirty, a damp Jesus rented another room shortly after they had eaten, so to speak, also having purchased a magnum of Scipio’s finest white at a nearby tavern.

“We’re only sixty miles from Tibernum, why are we stopping here?” asked Mary as Jesus closed and locked the door.

“For one thing it’s raining, for another, I want to see my folks early tomorrow evening. They’re probably asleep and I don’t want to disturb them,” Jesus answered, pulling the stopper from the bottle and taking a deep drink.

“You’re right,” Mary agreed, flopping on the bed after dropping her bags to the floor.

“We’ll be home tomorrow,” Jesus declared, offering her the bottle.

“That we will, it doesn’t seem like it’s been almost two years since we left,” said Mary, taking the wine and downing a gulp.

“No it doesn’t,” said Jesus, joining her in bed.

“I wonder why?” asked the Magdalene in the darkness, handing the bottle to her consort.

“The passage of time seems to work differently for vampires,” Jesus replied, staring at the ceiling and listening to rain hitting the roof. Sitting up and taking a drink of wine, he ruminated on this apparent paradox regarding the fourth dimension.

“I’ll say, it only seems months to me.”

“Indeed,” Jesus agreed, sitting the bottle on a table, “But almost two years have passed, everyone we know is two years older.”

“That means Julian is a toddler,” Mary observed.

“He’ll be a grown man before we know it.”

Talking in the bed for the next hour, they finished the magnum, falling into slumber in the rented room. Waking at four on the cloudy but rainless afternoon, Jesus cautiously peered from an open shutter, noting the thick overcast as his consort snored softly in the background.

Returning to the bed, he reached down, lifting the wine bottle, noting it was empty.

“Shit,” Jesus spat, looking to the empty magnum. Sitting the bottle on the floor, a yawning Jesus reached over and roused Mary. “Wake up woman, it’s time to go,” he said, shaking her gently.

“This early?” asked Mary with a deep yawn, looking to the open shutter, “It’s still daylight.”

“Yes, but with a thick overcast, if you recall Nacherine told us on very cloudy days we can travel unfettered among the living.”

“That’s true, I forgot,” said the Magdalene, rising to a sitting position.

“Do you want to give it a try?”

“It’ll be different,” Mary replied, moving from the bed and slipping on a light green stola.

“At this rate we should be home by dusk,” said Jesus, putting on a fresh tunic while his consort checked her face in a bronze mirror.

“That sounds weird,” the Magdalene snickered, brushing her hair.

“Yes it does,” Jesus agreed, grabbing his sacks of money, Mary gathering their other luggage.

Stepping into broad daylight, they found to their delight that Nacherine had been right, the cloud filtered daylight not even bothering their eyes, which was the usual problem for the very sunlight-sensitive Magdalene. Walking to the check in office, Jesus returned the key, the vampiric couple strolling east through town, watching people going about their late afternoon businesses.

“Good afternoon citizen,” a centurion greeted as Jesus passed in his plebian tunic.

“Good afternoon to you centurion,” Jesus replied as they headed to the city gates. “We’ll take off when we hit the highway Mary,” he advised, the pair passing a packed open-air café.

“Right,” said Mary while they continued past a brothel, the pimp nodding to Jesus, he waving in acknowledgement. “This is really weird,” she observed, feeling very out of place as they headed through town in muted daylight.

“Indeed, but it’s very interesting,” Jesus replied, looking to the cloudy sunlit sky.

“Is that all you have to say?” asked the Magdalene, amazed they were walking about at all in daylight.

“What would you want me to say?” a shrugging Jesus asked, heading through the city gates, Mary shaking her head at the rhetorical reply.

Walking for a few miles on the tree-lined highway, occupied with horse and ox drawn wagons and carts, they observed the citizenry going about their lives in the late afternoon.

“With these people around we’re going to have to head to the woods to transform,” said Jesus, a centurion and contubernia of soldiers marching by, the commander nodding to Jesus as he passed.

“Yeah,” Mary replied, the couple waiting for a break in traffic and heading to the woods.

“Shall we?” asked Jesus a little after five thirty, making certain no others were present.

“Let’s go,” his consort replied, waiting to transform into fog.

“Nothing’s happening,” said Jesus seconds later, having concentrated on transforming with all his might.

“No it’s not,” a frowning Mary agreed, standing in the woods in human form.

“I wonder why?” said a confused Jesus, “It felt for a moment like I was changing, but it stopped.”

“Same here,” Mary replied, looking to the sky, “Do you suppose it has something to do with sunlight?”

“Probably, but it hasn’t affected our strength has it?”

“No, but we’re not going to do any flying it seems,” the Magdalene observed.

“Let me try to become a bat,” said Jesus, placing 600 pounds of currency at his feet, his consort carrying the remainder.

“I don’t think that’ll work,” Mary replied, rightly deducing that vampiric powers were diminished in daylight, regardless of cloud cover.

“Hold on, let’s see.”

“You’re right, that doesn’t work either,” Jesus declared after a minute of standing silently.

“I told you, and the form of a wolf probably won’t work, so let’s head to the road and wait for dark.”

“We learned something new today didn’t we?”

“Whatever,” said Mary, trudging to the thoroughfare, traffic having slacked off to practically nothing as the time approached six.

Dusk approaching after seven, they found themselves alone on the highway, almost ten miles outside of Lydias.

“The sun’s almost down, let’s try it again,” Jesus suggested as they walked along.

“Sure,” answered Mary, stopping and concentrating.

After a little mental effort, they felt chills go down their spines as their powers fully returned with the setting sun, transforming into ethereal fog.

It was the sun, I knew it, said an unsurprised Magdalene, miles of highway rapidly passing beneath them.

We’ll be home in a few hours, Jesus replied, noting a full moon on the horizon breaking through parting clouds.

They approached the thousand-acre Chrysippus farm from the north a little after nine, resuming human form at the mouth of their cave.

“Why are we stopping here?” asked Mary, about fifteen hundred feet from the house.

“It would look ridiculous lugging around 1000 pounds of money in front of our slaves wouldn’t it?”

“Yes it would,” the Magdalene agreed, a smiling Jesus walking into the cave.

Making their way to the open gallery, the vampiric Christ let the satchels go in a secure nook, dropping them to the ground with a heavy thud.

“Is that a load off of my mind,” a tired Jesus declared.

“And your shoulders too,” said Mary, sitting her satchels of money and jewelry beside them, handing Jesus his scroll bag and citizenship papers, leaving their bag of clothing and purse on her shoulder.

“Dad’s signet’s in there, right?” asked Jesus.

“Yeah, let’s go see your folks,” an impatient Mary replied, wanting to greet the family.

“Sure, we’ll fly to the entrance road and walk up, it’ll look better that way in case of the slaves or visitors.”

“Okay.”

Assuming chiropteric form, they headed to the entrance road, transforming about a thousand feet from the house.

One light satchel at his side, Jesus strolled up the family avenue with Mary, noting it was now as smooth as any Roman highway, paved with bank run, sides well trimmed and complete with hewn granite curbstones.

Coming to the house, he noticed a low stone fence around the perimeter of the building, and the porch had been extended thanks to the addition of another room.

During their absence, the house had assumed the form of a wealthy plebian farm domicile, beautifully whitewashed, with orange brown terra cotta roof tiles, glass windows and another recent item offered by trader Callicles, bronze and lead storm gutters, complete with downspouts on each side of the porch.

His father was sitting on the porch alone, enjoying the moonlit evening and a goblet of wine as they walked through a swinging gate in the fence, a chained dog acquired by Joseph during their absence barking loudly.

“Son!” Joseph exclaimed as he recognized Jesus, scrambling from a chair and leaping down the stairs, running to the couple.

“Hello my father,” Jesus greeted, giving him a warm embrace.

“Maria come quickly, our son and wife have returned!” Joseph shouted, his mother coming to the door while they stepped to the porch, the canine growling as it stared at Jesus and Mary.

“Quiet dog,” Joseph ordered, the obedient beast growing silent.

“Thank the gods,” declared his fully Romanized mother breathlessly, feeling faint and sitting down heavily on a porch chair.

“How are you my mother?” asked Jesus.

“I’m fine now, since you’re here,” she answered, sighing deeply.

“Is something wrong?” asked an oblivious Jesus.

“Wrong?” asked Joseph, sitting down beside his wife, looking about for a moment, “Christ son, we didn’t think you’d return in time so your mother’s been packing just in case, you did take care of the problem in Rome didn’t you?”

“Of course,” Jesus answered, patting his satchel as his mother looked to him.

“Good, the censor from Antioch will be here in less than two weeks,” said Joseph as Jesus sat down, “Sorry son, but you are cutting it a bit close.”

“It’s only the kalends of September and we are here, in my last letter I told you I would be.”

“Yeah you did,” Joseph replied, exhaling heavily, staring at his vampiric offspring.

“Where’d you get the mutt?” asked Jesus, observing the Magdalene patting the animal, more a tame wolf than any domesticated dog.

“Caius gave it to me, one of his guard bitches at the garrison had pups about a year back,” answered Joseph.

“Oh,” replied Jesus, looking to the dog.

“He’s quite tame,” said his consort, kneeling beside the animal.

“Yeah, but he’ll attack strangers on my order and it’s good for guarding the place when I’m not around or when we’re sleeping,” Joseph declared, having settled into the Roman way of life.

“An excellent idea,” said Jesus, recalling their ordeal with thieves over two years earlier.

“Would you care for wine?” asked Joseph, rising from his chair and helping his wife to her feet.

“Sure, or do you have any beer left?”

“Hell no, beer doesn’t keep, the slaves and I drank it well over a year and a half ago, come on in,” said his father, walking through the open door to the kitchen.

“Hello Julius the younger and wife, welcome home,” Ruth greeted from his parent’s bedroom, now sixteen years old and charged with caring for Julian, the Romanized Levite child almost three.

“Greetings Ruth,” said Jesus with a nod.

“I want to see the baby!” Mary exclaimed, she and his mother vanishing from the kitchen.

Leaving Jesus and his father alone, the vampiric Christ noted the house was furnished with fine Asian carpets and wrought bronze oil lamps, gravity fed by pipes attached to a large central tank. Overseer Brutus and Joseph had installed these advanced Roman lighting devices in each room along with the attic-mounted tank during the past year.

A pagan family altar dedicated to the Roman gods, more for show than anything else, had been constructed next to a second large hearth in the common area, this fireplace built during Jesus’ absence by Joseph and Ganymede.

Completing the plebian appearance of the domicile, a low dining table with three leather covered reclining stools were positioned in the common area near the hearth. Nailed to the lintel of the doorway, Janus, the two faced god of beginnings and endings, stood watch over the residence.

Raising an approving eyebrow while observing his father’s highly detailed attention to first century Roman home décor, Jesus reached in his tunic, pulling out his ankh charm and Janus amulet.

“Maybe they do work,” thought Jesus with a satisfied smile.

“It’s a good thing they’re occupied with the baby, what about our citizenship?” asked Joseph, demanding proof from his son.

“It’s right here,” said Jesus, broken from his reverie, pointing to a satchel and sitting down at the table while his father grabbed a bottle and two goblets.

“Let me see it please,” Joseph implored, handing Jesus a goblet of wine after sitting down.

Opening the satchel, Jesus produced three parchment documents, handing them to his father.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Joseph read that he, Augustus Julius Chrysippus the elder, his oldest son Bacchus Julius, and babe Julian were plebian Roman citizens with all the attendant rights and responsibilities, living in Cappadocian Tibernum after migrating from Etruria via Gaul.

“Thanks son, it’s not that I doubted you, I just needed to see it for myself,” said Joseph apologetically, again looking at the documents and handing them to Jesus.

“I’ll put them in the cave later for safekeeping,” an unoffended Jesus replied, “Incidentally, our family is on file at the Tabularium in Rome, so even if we lose these we’ll have no problems in the future.”

“That’s good to know, care for more wine?” asked a relieved Joseph, having refilled his goblet, resting his head on an arm and looking to Jesus.

“Please,” said Jesus, finishing his goblet and sitting it down for his father to refill, placing the documents in his satchel and feeling around for his father’s signet ring. “It’s in here, I know it is,” his expression changing to a frown, fumbling around in the bag between scrolls.

“What is?” asked his father, having filled his goblet, sitting the bottle on the table.

“This,” a relieved Jesus answered, locating the ring, pulling it out and placing it on the table.

“A signet ring,” said Joseph with a broad smile as he beheld the symbol of Roman citizenship.

“For you father, complete with your initials just like mine,” Jesus announced, showing Joseph the ring on his right hand.

“Thank you son,” his father replied, hands shaking slightly, taking the ring from the table and sliding it on the third finger of his left hand.

“Is something wrong father?”

“No, it’s just incredible all this has happened in the last few years,” said Joseph, folding hands, his golden ring reflecting light from the oil lamp above.

“I suppose, I’ve always wanted to make you and mother proud of me.”

“I’m damn proud of you son,” Joseph replied, looking Jesus in the eyes.

“Thank you father,” said an embarrassed Jesus, looking to the table for a moment.

“You know, it fits well too,” Joseph added, admiring the craftsmanship of his ring in the lamplight.

Spending the evening with his family, Jesus conversed with his parents from a comfortable repose on a down-stuffed wool covered couch, finding to his dismay that while Julian was very friendly to the Magdalene, he seemed reluctant to be held by his older brother.

“He’s just got to get used to you again that’s all,” said his mother, Jesus darkly thinking of the children he had met in Athens, offspring of Demia the scrubwoman. They hadn’t liked him either, much to his chagrin, for he had always loved children when he was alive. His father was saying something to him, Jesus ignoring the utterances while ruminating on the subject of children fearing him.

“Woe unto those who hurt my little ones,” Jesus admonished a crowd years ago, surrounded by children during his ‘Sermon on the Mount,’ given in the early spring of 33 CE. Perhaps it’s due to those slave girls I took at Pilate’s, thought Jesus as his father broke him from an almost trancelike reverie.

“Hey son – hello,” said Joseph, tapping him on the shoulder while he sat beside him in the brightly lamp lit living room.

“Sorry father, I was lost in thought.”

“I could tell,” Joseph replied, “As I was saying, did you hear the latest on our good Emperor Caligula?”

“What’s he doing now?” asked Jesus, fearing the worst.

“Gavinal told me in July he’s made it illegal for anyone to look down on the top of his head,” Joseph explained, passing a bottle of wine they were sharing.

“Why?” asked Jesus, forgetting about the subject of children and taking another gulp of wine, finishing their latest bottle.

“It’s said he’s going bald.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said an exasperated Jesus, sitting the emptied bottle on a lacquered oak table, “Verily I say, such vanity in the Emperor is not a quality which will bode well for the people of Rome.”

“Hell, that’s not the least of it,” Joseph continued, “Gavinal said he had a very bad fever a few months back, and when he recovered he had changed.”

“For better or for worse?” asked Jesus, already knowing the answer from his father’s candor, while his mother, the Magdalene and Ruth played with Julian on the carpeted floor.

“Ball!” Julian yelled, pointing to a small leather ball on the couch between he and Jesus.

“Yes, ball,” Joseph replied, tossing it to the floor, Julian picking it up and carrying it to Mary as Jesus watched. “For the worst it seems,” he continued with a frown, facing Jesus and returning to the conversation, “About a month ago he announced to the people of Rome that he is a living god.”

“A god huh, and we thought Tiberius was bad,” said Jesus, breaking into laughter, his father deciding not to make the obvious comparison between his son’s past and the emperor’s bold pronouncement.

“Yeah, and get this, Gavinal and I were told by Marcus Pertinax that Caligula has weird fits, falling down and rolling around on the floor, frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog,” Joseph added, chuckling while envisioning such a scene in his mind.

“He has epilepsy,” said Jesus, looking to the lamp, five small wells producing bright flames.

“What?”

“That’s what physicians call fits.”

“Oh, anyway, Marcus also said Caligula had a man beaten to death with chains right in front of him when he was visiting the Imperial Palace on business, and heard him tell his grandmother he has the right to do anything to anybody!” Joseph exclaimed with arms out.

“What a maniac, hopefully he won’t last long, and it’s a damn good thing we don’t live anywhere near Rome,” Jesus observed, shaking his head in disgust.

“That’s exactly what Gavinal said, he and the centurion are worried about it too, these are weird times,” Joseph replied, frowning over the tales of the insane emperor.

Rising from the couch, an inebriated Joseph headed to the kitchen, motioning for Jesus to follow him.

“Yes father?” asked Jesus while they entered the kitchen.

“I thought you might want to come out here and have more wine with me,” said Joseph, leaning on the table.

“Where’s Cyril?” asked Jesus, having expected to see his friend that evening in the house.

“He’s at the slave quarters, he moved out about a week ago in anticipation of your return,” Joseph answered with a slight slur, clumsily opening a bottle of wine.

“I see,” Jesus replied, his father filling two goblets with the fine wine of Gaius Scipio, spilling a small amount on the table between the glasses.

“I forgot to tell you something else, good Caligula’s doing something you’ll appreciate and probably find quite humorous, I sure did,” said Joseph.

“What’s that?” asked Jesus, taking a deep drink of wine.

“Get this, as a god, he’s ordered a bronze statue of himself to be placed in the Temple at Jerusalem for worship purposes,” Joseph declared, slapping a hand on the table at the bitter irony.

A choking Jesus, eyes bulging, spewed wine uncontrollably over the table, roaring with laughter so hard he fell to the floor from his chair, clutching at his sides.

“Is something wrong dear?” asked his mother, hearing the commotion, she and Mary standing at the entrance to the kitchen, the Magdalene staring at Jesus and smiling.

“I just told him what Emperor Caligula wants to do for the good people of Jerusalem,” a laughing Joseph explained, wiping tears from his eyes while Jesus continued to guffaw, beating fists on the floor.

“I didn’t think it was that funny,” she observed, returning to the living room with the Magdalene, Jesus rising to his feet, wiping tears from his eyes.

“I said it was funny didn’t I?” asked Joseph, Jesus attempting to compose himself and returning to his seat.

“I wonder what Caiaphas will think of that,” Jesus said breathlessly, chuckling and looking at wine splattered over the table.

“Who cares, they deserve it,” Joseph replied, brushing droplets of wine from his cotton tunic before they soaked in.

“Sorry dad,” said Jesus, noting his father’s wine stained tunic.

“Don’t worry about it, you needed a good laugh at those bastards, getting their just desserts for a change,” Joseph answered, refilling their glasses to the brim.

Father and son talked and drank wine into the wee hours of the morning, long after everyone else had retired, only the kitchen lamp burning in the darkened house.

“I have to hit the sack son,” Joseph slurred, rising unsteadily from the table at four thirty, looking to Jesus in double vision.

“So do I,” an inebriated Jesus answered, he and his father drunk, Jesus having consumed half a dozen magnums of strong wine over the last eight hours between latrine breaks.

“I reckon I’ll see you in the morning, oh, the evening,” said Joseph, blinking eyes in an attempt to focus, adding while pointing a finger unsteadily at his vampiric son, “Incidentally, did you and your woman have someone to eat tonight?”

“We didn’t get the chance,” Jesus answered, feeling hungry for blood.

“That’s the first thing you’ll have to do tomorrow night,” Joseph advised, turning and staggering to his bedroom, nearly missing the bed as he fell in next to his wife.

“It’s good to see you finally came to bed,” Mary said in the dim lamplight, having woke as a clumsy Joseph slammed the bedroom door against the wall while entering, cracking the lime plaster. A snore was the reply to her observation, his tolerant wife rolling over and falling asleep again.

Jesus headed to his room, falling in beside Mary on his stomach, passing out as he hit the sheets. The Magdalene, still awake in the pitch darkness, looked over and remarked, “Welcome home to Tibernum my Jesus.”

Awakening at dusk, a refreshed Jesus rose from slumber, slipped on a fresh tunic and emerged from his lair, finding Cyril at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of herbal tea.

“Greetings friend Julius, welcome home,” said Cyril, offering Jesus his hand.

Grasping the slave’s hand and shaking it firmly, Jesus answered, “Hello to you friend Cyril, I told you I would return.”

“I was certain of that, what I was not certain of is that I would still be alive when you did,” replied a 73-year-old Cyril with a slight smile.

“I was sure, you’ll probably live to be a hundred,” said Jesus, grabbing a bottle of wine and sitting down at the table.

“I wouldn’t mind that at all,” Cyril declared, taking a sip of tea as the Magdalene appeared in the doorway, fully dressed.

“Let’s find someone to eat,” said Mary, “Hello Cyril, how are you?”

“Never been better Maria, and you?” Cyril lied, his arthritis bothering him.

“I’m fine but hungry, we didn’t eat last night,” Mary answered, looking to Jesus.

“I suggest before we talk that you find sustenance for you and your lovely lady,” Cyril advised, “I will be here when you return.”

“My father said the same thing this morning,” Jesus replied, rising from the table.

“Indeed, the woods are full of game and the west road is usually full of uh, you know,” Cyril added, slipping into Egyptian as Ruth entered the kitchen to prepare dinner.

“Well put, we’ll see you in bit,” Jesus answered in kind, turning and heading out with Mary, the dog growling while they headed down the steps.

“That mutt doesn’t care for me,” said Jesus.

“He has to get used to you.”

“I hope so, for if he bites either of us and draws blood I’ll have to kill him.”

”You’d have to so it wouldn’t become a vampire, right?”

“Precisely,” said Jesus, the couple growing silent as they walked along.

Strolling from the house on the warm evening, they headed down the entrance road, the moon sitting low on the horizon.

“I guess its pigs,” Mary ventured.

“That or deer, considering it could take hours to locate suitable people thanks to Gavinal’s centurion,” said Jesus, crickets chirping loudly about them in the darkness.

Heading into the woods near the edge of their property, the vampiric Christ located a sow lying on its side about 200 feet away.

“Over there,” Jesus whispered, pointing to the pig and heading toward it.

“You can’t take that one, it has babies,” Mary admonished, noting the suckling piglets as they closed on the animal.

“You’re right,” said a defeated Jesus, looking about for other prey. “Look at the deer over there,” pointing in the direction of a small herd a few hundred yards off in the direction of the Euphrates.

“That’ll work, let’s fly over,” Mary replied, the couple assuming chiropteric form, dispatching a pair of the creatures seconds later.

Other deer scattering for cover, Jesus pulled a dagger from a sheath on his hip, quickly gutting the drained animals for their meat, leaving the hides to be removed at the smokehouse later.

Hoisting the remains to his shoulders, they headed toward the house, stopping at the edge of the woods, noticing slaves Ganymede and Brutus butchering two pig carcasses by torchlight while his father was conversing and sharing a bottle of wine with them.

“I forgot, they’ve been hunting during our absence,” said Jesus, quietly dropping the deer to the ground.

“What are you going to do with them?” asked Mary, looking to the carcasses.

“Leave them here, we can deal with them later tonight.”

“What if jackals get them?”

“I haven’t seen any, if you recall we killed most of them before we left. Further, with the slaves hunting the woods I doubt others have arrived to take their place.”

“Even if they do, there’s plenty more where this came from anyway.”

“Precisely, before we return to Cyril let’s say hello to Brutus and Ganymede.”

“Why not,” said Mary, the couple heading to the smokehouse.

“Hello my son, out enjoying the evening?” Joseph greeted as they walked up, having risen late that day thanks to a pounding hangover.

“That we are father.”

“Julius the younger!” a smiling Ganymede exclaimed, his deep voice booming as he offered his hand.

“Greetings my friend Ganymede,” Jesus replied, giving him a firm handshake.

“I’d offer you my hand Julius but it’s covered in blood,” said Brutus, occupied butchering the hogs.

“That’s no problem, put it there Brutus,” a smiling Jesus answered, offering his hand.

“If you say so sir,” Brutus replied, giving Jesus a firm Roman handshake, leaving swine blood on Jesus’ arm.

“Here’s a rag for your arm,” Ganymede offered, tossing a cloth to Jesus.

“Thanks,” said Jesus, wiping the blood off and enjoying the scent, pig blood his favorite flavor, after human of course.

“How’s your land in Gaul?” asked Brutus as he finished splitting the second carcass, recalling that was the excuse Jesus had given for his trip to Rome.

“It’s fine,” Jesus lied, looking to Joseph and adding, “Incidentally father, we have an offer from Gaius Scipio on our holdings there, we’ll need to discuss it, the offer is substantial.”

“Right,” his father answered with a nod, understanding the ruse.

As Joseph, Jesus and Mary stood there, Brutus, finished butchering the hogs, wiped his hands and picked up a pail of pig blood, sitting it on a weathered table. Looking to his fellow slave, he dipped a large wooden cup into the blood, pulled it out and began to drink it.

“That’s disgusting!” the Magdalene exclaimed, feigning displeasure at the sight, with Joseph, never having seen such a thing in his life, wondering for a moment if his son had made Brutus a vampire.

“I’m sorry mistress Maria, many hunters drink the blood of their kills,” said Brutus respectfully, holding his emptied cup.

“They do?” asked Mary with narrowed eyes, staring at the Greek slave.

“Yes,” Ganymede answered for his fellow slave, dipping another cup into the pail, “I’ve done it ever since I made my first kill when I was a lad in Greece.”

Joseph stood silently, watching Ganymede gulp blood as efficiently as any vampire.

“I’ve drunk blood too,” said Jesus, Joseph smirking and shaking his head in disgust.

“You have?” asked Brutus, looking to the vampiric Christ.

“Yes, from kills I’ve made,” Jesus answered, Mary looking to him as if he were insane.

“Would you care are for blood?” asked Brutus.

“Don’t mind if I do,” said Jesus, Brutus handing him a full cup of fresh pig’s blood.

“Oh for the god’s sakes,” Joseph spat, watching his eldest son drain the cup.

“I’m sorry, would you like some too Julius the elder?” asked an oblivious Brutus, thinking he had offended his master.

“I never touch the stuff,” a disgusted Joseph answered.

“Suit yourself dad,” said Jesus, looking to Brutus for another cup of blood.

“Really,” Mary scoffed, feigning nauseation at the revelations of the group, adding scornfully, “I’m heading to the house.”

“I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” said Joseph, walking off to the house with the Magdalene.

“You forgot your wine,” called Brutus.

“Keep it.”

“More please,” said Jesus, handing Brutus the cup.

“Sure,” Brutus replied, the three downing pig blood until the pail was empty.

“He’s a damn fool for doing that,” Mary whispered, standing on the porch, watching Jesus and the slaves drink blood by torchlight.

“Maybe, but they offered it, I don’t blame him,” said Joseph.

“He’s a vampire!” Mary exclaimed under her breath, watching Jesus down another cup of blood, the trio of blood drinkers chasing it with fine wine.

“That’s why I don’t blame him and from the way he can drink blood, I certainly don’t doubt he’s one either,” Joseph observed, entering the house with the Magdalene.

“It’s stupid,” said Mary, heading to the kitchen, Cyril sitting quietly nursing a cup of herbal tea.

“I understand, and must say I respect you for having more self control than my son does,” replied a tired Joseph, grabbing a bottle from a cabinet and heading to his bedroom.

“Why thank you Julius!” an embarrassed Magdalene exclaimed as Joseph disappeared into the hallway.

“Don’t mention it,” said Joseph, closing the door behind him.

“What is stupid?” asked Cyril, a frowning Mary sitting down and pouring a goblet of wine.

“Jesus is, that’s who,” Mary answered in Egyptian as Ruth entered the kitchen, an equally upset Joseph having forgotten glasses for he and his wife.

“What did he do?” asked Cyril.

“He’s out at the smokehouse drinking pig blood with Brutus and Ganymede,” Mary replied, returning to classical Latin as Ruth left the room.

“Drinking blood, oh yes, hunters often drink the blood of their kills,” said Cyril.

“Why?” asked Mary.

“It is said it gives them the strength and cunning of the animals they kill; nothing to worry about,” Cyril replied, sitting his cup on the table.

“I don’t care if the slaves drink blood, but it strikes me as stupid of Jesus to drink blood with mortals, considering he’s a vampire, wouldn’t you think?”

“I cannot argue with that,” Cyril agreed.

“Have you drunk blood before?”

“Never, for I am not a hunter; I do not believe in the killing of animals,” Cyril answered, folding hands.

“I’ve killed, animals and people, and you’ve eaten meat before. I’ve seen you do it, that makes you a killer too,” Mary retorted, not following the depth of the teacher’s reasoning.

“No it does not madam. I have eaten the flesh of beasts, but that does not make me a killer of animals in the literal sense.”

“You have sustained yourself from them,” the Magdalene observed.

“All of us, you included, must feed on the death of something else to survive, be they vampires, carnivores or omnivores, as well as vegetarians.”

“What do you mean?” asked Mary, confused.

“Even though I am not a killer of animals, when I have harvested wheat or barley in the fields of this farm, have I not killed something, a plant, in order for we and the family to survive?”

“I don’t follow you.”

“I simply mean the act of killing in whatever form is a necessary fact of life for all who live on this – ” Cyril began to explain, Jesus walking through the doorway, the dog curiously not growling at him.

“Did you enjoy drinking blood with your slaves?” asked Mary, looking to her consort.

“I did indeed,” Jesus answered.

“You’re a goddamn fool!”

“Why do you say that woman?” asked Jesus, arching eyebrows, hurt by the angry reply.

“They’re mortals, you’re a vampire, only an idiot of a vampire would reveal he drinks blood to such,” the Magdalene answered, Cyril looking to the low burning kitchen hearth as they argued.

“They offered the blood, I didn’t ask for it.”

“Yes they did, I wanted the blood too, but didn’t take it; I have self control.”

“Self control has nothing to do with it, they offered me blood so I took it.”

“Bullshit, they’re mortals, you’re a vampire, drinking blood with them is stupid, they could suspect you,” Mary retorted, Cyril listening to the argument and digesting it.

“I can hypnotize them if I have trouble later on,” Jesus declared, weakly defending himself.

“You have an answer for everything don’t you?” Mary spat, slamming her goblet on the table hard enough to break it at the base, wine spilling on the table.

“Now look what you’ve done, breaking fine Etruscan crystal,” said Jesus in another clumsy attempt to defend himself.

“Who gives a shit, we have enough money to buy Rome, along with a glass factory and a fleet of ships to bring the entire production here to Tibernum!”

“That has nothing to do with – ”

“Your wife is right, please stop in your obtuse argument with her,” Cyril interrupted, staring at the table.

“What?”

“She is right and you know it, drinking blood with mortals is foolish.”

“Why?”

“For the very reasons she stated, they are mortals, you are a vampire,” Cyril explained, looking to Jesus with a melancholy expression.

“But – ”

“But my ass, you know she is right, have a seat and we will talk,” Cyril retorted, staring into his teacup.

“You think drinking blood with the slaves is not a good idea?” asked Jesus, sitting down, Mary looking to him and shaking her head in disgust.

“Perhaps if you helped kill the animals it would be proper, but as a vampire, blood is your food. Not that I think Brutus or Ganymede would ever actually suspect you, but it would be best from now on to avoid drinking blood with them.”

“Why?”

“Because it is dangerous, why do you not get it, your woman sees it along with your father!” Cyril exclaimed, a stern expression on his face – he caring very much for Jesus and Mary, along with the rest of the family.

“I understand,” Jesus replied, Cyril’s wise words dawning on him. Someone could talk, endangering he, the Magdalene and the family.

“He’s brilliant in some ways but stupid in others,” Mary spat, taking a drink of wine from the bottle, broken goblet on the table, wine having dripped to the floor through the tongue and grooved slats.

Jesus looked to the floor, embarrassed at his lapse in judgment.

“Sorry woman, I wasn’t thinking.”

“Forget it, just don’t do it again, at least on a regular basis,” said Mary.

Talking into the late night, the trio discussed the events of their trip, of Rome burning, of the earthquake in western Anatolia, finally coming upon the meeting of their friend Nacherine of Koech, Cyril listening intently.

“You met another vampire?” asked Cyril, Jesus telling him of their experiences at the dilapidated villa.

“He told us one night vampires can transform into fog, along with being able to assume the form of a wolf,” said Jesus.

“Incredible,” answered Cyril, straining tealeaves from his cup, “None of that information is in the writings of Herodotus or Thucydides.”

“At times we can even walk about in the sun too,” Mary added, looking to the teacher.

“How?” asked Cyril, leaning forward on the table.

“When the sun is at the horizon on a clear day we can move about among mortals, and on very cloudy days we can move about unfettered, as if we are mortals, for a time,” Jesus explained.

“Interesting,” said Cyril, raising eyebrows and looking to Jesus.

“But we can’t transform into anything when the sun is up,” Mary observed.

“You cannot?” asked Cyril, reaching for honey.

“No, not when the sun’s up,” answered Jesus for his consort.

“I wonder if you were fog, a bat, or a wolf at the time, if the rising sun would prevent you from returning to human form,” mused Cyril, stirring his tea with a silver spoon.

“I don’t know,” a shrugging Jesus replied.

“It would be fascinating to attempt such a study in the future,” said Cyril, looking to the vampiric couple.

“Yes it would, I forgot, we have scrolls for you,” Jesus offered, looking to their bedroom where the satchel was sitting.

“You do?” asked Cyril, placing the spoon on the table next to his cup.

“I gathered all sorts of things, including the treatise of Thucydides on vampires,” answered a smiling Jesus.

“Let me read them please,” said Cyril.

“I’ll get your bag,” said the Magdalene, rising from the table.

Mary walking to their bedroom, Cyril remarked quietly, “I did not mean to insult you, but your wife was correct taking issue with you drinking blood with Brutus and Ganymede.”

“No offense taken, she and you are looking out for our best interests, I stand corrected on that,” said Jesus.

“Indeed, she has told me she tried to dissuade you from confronting those Hebrew fellows named uh, Pharisees when you were alive, is that what they are called?”

“Yes, and the Sadducees,” Jesus answered, recalling his ministry.

“She has good instincts regarding danger, why didn’t you listen to her?”

“Who knows, I thought I was right in what I was doing,” Jesus replied, rising from his chair and grabbing a bottle of wine.

“But you were not, it seems you are blind to danger at times,” Cyril ventured, folding hands.

“No kidding,” Jesus retorted, placing the opened bottle on the table, clearing the broken goblet and wiping the table with a dampened rag.

“No offense meant,” said Cyril.

“None taken, you’re being honest, besides, I told you before you may be candid with me at all times, there is no need of deference or apology.”

“But you are a vampire and my master.”

“I don’t care about that,” said Jesus, taking a deep drink from the bottle as his consort returned with the scroll satchel.

“What do we have here?” asked Cyril.

“Wonderful things,” a smiling Mary replied, handing Cyril the bag.

Reaching in, the teacher pulled out a religious treatise, titled ‘Ivppiter Maximvs Dominvs Rex’ – ‘Great Jupiter: The King of all Gods’, penned by a man named Gabulus Severus Pius in the second century BCE.

“What is this crap?” a rarely sarcastic Cyril asked, reading the first paragraphs and frowning.

“Tell me the title,” replied Jesus.

“It is some sort of horseshit about the god Jupiter,” said Cyril, reaching for the last of his herbal tea.

“Forget about that, it’s a bunch of shit written by an idiot named Gabulus something or other, I got it from Nacherine’s place.”

“Why did you bring it to me?”

“For laughs?” asked Jesus, hands in the air.

“Bad joke,” Cyril answered, sitting the scroll on the table and reaching for another.

“Homer,” said Cyril, staring at a copy of ‘The Iliad’ in Latin.

“The tales of Odysseus,” Jesus replied, chugalugging the bottle empty.

“Exactly,” Cyril answered, pulling out another scroll. “Virgil!” he exclaimed, staring at the script.

“Nothing but the best for you,” said Jesus.

“What about the garbage I sat on the table?” asked Cyril, looking to the partly unrolled scroll by his side.

“Everyone makes mistakes,” said Jesus, rising from the table to grab another bottle.

“You’re nothing but a common drunk,” Mary spat.

“No shit my good woman, verily I say, I was a drunk when I was alive, so is my dad,” Jesus retorted, digging out the stopper of his latest bottle with a fingernail.

“Whatever,” Mary replied as an engrossed Cyril perused the two dozen scrolls Jesus had saved from destruction at Nacherine’s villa.

“Thucydides!” Cyril exclaimed, unrolling the scroll Nacherine had given to Jesus.

“For whatever it’s worth, a very inaccurate treatise.”

“You read it?”

“Yes, while visiting Beneventum last year,” Jesus answered, “It’s bullshit written by a mortal who didn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground.”

“True,” Cyril agreed, having read Thucydides’ extensive writings on vampires decades earlier.

Reviewing his collection of scrolls, excepting for a very dilapidated scroll, lastly including the religious treatise, Cyril remarked, “Your father has a signet ring, I take it you took care of the problem in Rome.”

“And none too soon, the censor should be here in a little over a week,” said Jesus.

“Excellent,” replied Cyril, taking a sip of tea from his latest cup, “Incidentally, regarding citizenship, I suggested to your father it would be best to plant an olive orchard in one of the fallow fields, we have over a hundred seedlings planted as of two years ago.”

“So my brother can avoid the service,” Jesus observed, picking up on the brilliant tactical move.

“Exactly, considering you have only recently established citizenship,” replied Cyril, “Brutus and your father are also looking into the idea of planting other fruit and nut trees, and perhaps a small vineyard.”

“Good idea, with the way dad and I drink wine maybe we’d better make it a large one,” advised a smiling Jesus.

“You indeed have a talent for understatements,” answered Cyril, taking a sip of tea.

“It’s getting late,” Cyril observed, looking to an accurate Illyrian water clock on the mantle of the kitchen hearth, the time nearly four.

“Yes, I have a pair of deer for the smokehouse at the edge of the woods,” said Jesus, rising from the table.

“You do?” asked Cyril, rising from his seat.

“We took them earlier, but left them when I saw Brutus and Ganymede butchering the pigs,” Jesus explained as they passed through the front door.

“Don’t forget your scrolls,” said Mary, returning to the table and grabbing the bag, handing them to Cyril.

“Thank you Maria,” a tired Cyril replied, taking the satchel as Mary closed the door.

“Did you take our documents out?” asked Jesus as they left the porch, the sleeping canine ignoring him.

“They’re in the bedroom,” said Mary.

Coming to the slave quarters, Cyril stopped at the door, offering Jesus his hand.

“It’s been good to see you again,” said Jesus.

“I truly missed our conversations,” replied the teacher, Jesus shaking his hand firmly.

“So did I,” answered Jesus, “Please be sure to sleep late tomorrow, it’s only a few hours before dawn.”

“I shall, everyone here knows when we talk in the evenings, I often am unable to bed down until morning,” said a smiling Cyril, opening the door and standing in the threshold.

Through the open door, Jesus noted a bronze oil lamp burning dimly in the common area, the slave quarters having Asian carpets and glass windows.

“A good night to you Julius the younger, and Maria.”

“Good night to you friend Cyril,” said Jesus as the aged slave closed the door, the vampiric couple standing in the darkness, crickets chirping in the background and a lone bird calling in the distance.

“We’d best get to those deer,” said Jesus, pointing to the woods.

“Sure,” replied Mary, having enjoyed the evening with the Greek teacher, taking Jesus’ hand in hers as they walked from the slave house.

Strolling to the edge of the woods, Jesus carried the gutted carcasses to the smokehouse, skinning and butchering them.

“You’re good at that,” Mary observed, Jesus hanging the meat on hooks in the smokehouse. Tossing oak logs on the fire; he used a pair of wrought iron tongs to keep the poisonous wood from touching his hands.

“Thank you my good woman, I also thank you for pointing out my folly regarding slaves Brutus and Ganymede.”

“You’re welcome,” she answered, the couple heading to the house.

 

* * *

 

A little over a week later, the censor and his entourage of scribes arrived on a cloudy Wednesday afternoon. With them marched an armed contubernia of hardened Roman soldiers and their centurion, the group having made their way from Antioch in the early spring, recording the population and station of the citizenry and subjects of perhaps a hundred towns and cities in Galatia and Cappadocia provinces.

Their rooms, and naturally a suitable suite for the patrician censor provided by the garrison, Gavinal Septimus’ personal guard was informed of the censor’s arrival by Caius Felix, the guard heading to the prefect’s office at a little past four.

“What is it Tullius?” asked Gavinal, looking up from his desk littered with paperwork, a goblet of wine on his left, sunlight breaking through the cloud cover and brightly illuminating the room through open windows, silken curtains blowing in the light breeze.

“The censor has arrived at the garrison sir,” the guard answered, giving a salute to the prefect.

“I’d better put on a toga,” said Gavinal, preferring a plain Egyptian tunic at this outpost in the far reaches of the empire.

“Will you need a hand with it sir?” the guard offered, knowing arranging a toga was not the easiest of tasks.

“I’ll have the wife do it, I’ve never been able to get the hang of those things,” Gavinal answered.

“I agree with you, lucky for me I haven’t had to wear one since I was sixteen,” said the guard as Gavinal headed to the atrium.

“That’s because you enlisted in the service,” the prefect replied, finger in the air, disappearing down a hallway.

Heading into the residence, T. Gavinal Septimus walked up a flight of polished marble stairs to the second floor where the fall bedrooms were located. His petite wife Phoebe and two female slaves were occupied tending their children, a blonde girl of nearly six and her younger brother, an auburn haired boy of four.

Opening the bedroom door, Gavinal looked in on his pretty Romano-Illyrian wife of six years relaxing on a down stuffed couch, she recently having become pregnant again.

“I’m sorry to bother you Phoebe but I need help with my toga,” said Gavinal.

“The censor’s here,” answered his wife, rising from the couch and heading for the door, wearing a silk stola quickly becoming too small at the waist.

“Right,” Gavinal replied, the couple heading for their bedroom. “You’ll need a maternity robe soon,” he observed as they continued into a gigantic lamp lit closet stocked with their wardrobe.

“Thanks to you,” Phoebe answered, lifting his wool Equestrian toga from a cedar box on a shelf, a spotless garment the prefect hardly ever wore. “Are you going to have a bath?” she asked, folded toga on her arm.

“I haven’t time,” Gavinal nervously answered, current politics on his mind.

“Why, it’s probably that fat old queer from Antioch, he doesn’t care about anything except fondling boys and drinking wine,” an unconcerned Phoebe scoffed, walking to their bed and unfolding the toga.

“It may be someone else, and as the town prefect I should be prompt and proper,” Gavinal explained, keeping other concerns to himself.

“Listen to you,” Phoebe replied, lifting the toga from the bed.

“One day our town may be as large as Antioch, perhaps even the seat of Cappadocia, especially after Armenia is conquered,” a dreaming Gavinal declared.

“Not in our lifetimes,” said Phoebe, the population of Tibernum perhaps 350 citizens, most plebian, and 700 or so slaves.

“Please hurry up,” Gavinal implored.

“What is it with men, they wear the toga but can never put it on,” chuckled Phoebe while arranging the difficult folds holding the garment in place.

“I guess that’s why we have wives,” said Gavinal, she pulling the closing rear fold tight with a tug, making sure the thin purple stripe on the edge was the customary two inches from the floor, front and rear, above his feet.

“Really,” Phoebe replied, looking to her wealthy equestrian husband, duly appointed prefect of Tibernum for the past eleven years.

“Thank you, it looks good Phoebe, as always,” Gavinal observed, looking in a polished, full-length bronze mirror.

“If you’re going to dress up you should wear shoes instead of those worn out sandals of yours,” his wife suggested, staring at his favorite sandals.

“You’re right, please choose a pair, you’re much better at those things than I,” said Gavinal, she returning with a fine pair of polished brown leather shoes made by an Illyrian craftsman, and a pair of wool socks.

“I never wear socks,” Gavinal protested, always preferring sandals.

“If you don’t wear them your feet could blister from the shoes,” Phoebe admonished, placing the socks in his hand.

“Yes dear,” said Gavinal, sitting down in a chair, pulling the socks on and slipping on the shoes. The couple strolling down the hallway a few minutes later, his lovely wife stopped at the open doorway of her room. “These shoes feel funny on my feet.”

“That’s because you’re not used to wearing them.”

Turning from him to tend to her children, Gavinal said, “A kiss my good wife.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Phoebe replied, giving him a quick peck on the lips.

“I’ll see you later tonight, probably very late. The censor is here, Marcus Pertinax is coming by at seven with legal documents, and Julius Chrysippus the elder’s slave Brutus said he and his son are coming by sometime tonight to pay their property taxes.”

“Why, taxes aren’t due till the ides of October.”

“Julius never lets a debt go unpaid, always paying them off early in gold,” a shrugging Gavinal answered.

“Gold?”

“Yes gold,” said Gavinal, “I told you a few years ago his son Julius the younger bought their thousand acre farm for cash, they were once winemakers and merchants from Gaul.”

“Cash, you’re kidding!” Phoebe exclaimed, not recalling the conversation.

“He bought it with cash,” said an envious Gavinal, “The Chrysippus family of Etruria are probably the richest people in Tibernum, if not all of Cappadocia, and perhaps much of this part of the empire.”

“Do they have children?” she asked, already looking for wealthy mates for her children.

“Patriarch Julius the elder has a young son Julian of perhaps three or so, but they’re only plebians I think,” Gavinal answered, his wife’s father also from an old equestrian family.

“Who cares, what about Julius the younger, how old is he?” asked the upwardly mobile Phoebe, hoping to marry off their daughter to a wealthy local man as soon as she could.

“He must be in his thirties,” Gavinal replied, thinking of the tall Jesus, recalling the vampiric Christ wearing his plebian toga the night he had purchased the farm.

“Senator Quintus Pompeius married a fourteen year old Capuan virgin when he was well over forty,” Phoebe observed, wondering what Julius Chrysippus the younger looked like.

“True, but Julius the younger has a wife, a lovely woman named Maria Hittica of Galatia.”

“A Hittite barbarian, why would a Roman man marry something like that?”

“She’s quite pretty, if not a cultured woman,” said Gavinal, recalling the coarse and worldly remarks of Mary Magdalene, spoken when Jesus had purchased the Chrysippus farm with a leather sack of gold and silver.

“Okay, and don’t forget to cultivate your friendship with them, maybe good Julius the younger and wife will have a son or daughter between them soon,” a scheming Phoebe advised.

“They don’t seem to be the kind who want kids,” Gavinal observed, not knowing why he felt that way.

“They don’t want children?”

“It doesn’t seem so, Julius the younger and wife are cosmopolitan people, deep philosophic thinkers like Socrates was, but both strike me as sophists of a sort, they’re different,” said Gavinal, thinking of the detached Jesus and his woman Mary.

“Sophists like Protagoras was?” asked his well-educated wife, “Sophists are like cynics – they hate the concept of philosophy, read Plato’s Gorgias or Aristotle’s reviews of Plato.”

“I have, not all of them do, only Callicles truly did if I recall in his arguments with Socrates,” replied Gavinal, referring to yet another Callicles of Athens, a man who had lived over 400 years earlier.

“Don’t get too drunk with your friends tonight,” his wife admonished, ending the debate, turning from him.

“Of course, another kiss my lovely wife.”

“Sure,” Phoebe replied, kissing her important husband on the lips.

“I love you Phoebe,” said Gavinal, looking into the hazel-green eyes of his wife.

“I love you too,” Phoebe answered softly, closing the door.

Walking down the marble steps, Gavinal listened to the noise of his hard leather soles echoing off the polished stone walls.

“How can people wear these things?” he asked, noisily strolling across the atrium to his office, clad in cumbersome toga and leather shoes, heading out the door, walking to the garrison in proper Roman garb.

“Greetings prefect,” said a guard, opening a wrought iron gate and giving him a salute.

“Greetings soldier,” Gavinal answered with a hasty salute, not knowing the newly arrived enlistee.

Heading into the garrison barracks, Gavinal waved to Caius Felix, he walking over and staring at the prefect.

“You’re wearing a toga,” the smiling centurion observed, standing at the foot of the stairs leading to the censor’s suite.

“Don’t laugh at me Caius, one has to when it comes to official functions of the empire,” said Gavinal, disdaining the outdated toga as much as any modern first century man.

“I’m not, it’s just I last saw you in one maybe five or six years ago during the previous census,” the centurion replied, wearing polished dress armor for the censor’s arrival.

“That’s the last time I wore one, it was spring if I recall correctly,” said Gavinal while they ascended the stairs.

At the top of the steps were two ceremonial guards in full dress, standing at the door of the suite under a bronze lamp. An eagle topped Roman standard was in the hall between them, boldly marked in gold leaf with “SPQR – LEGIO IV HONORIVM GAIVS CAESAR DOMINVS REX” in raised high relief.

“It’s worse than last time,” Gavinal spat under his breath, reading the ridiculous gilded bronze standard from over twenty feet away.

“My sentiments exactly sir, but don’t worry, censor Nero seems to be his same old self,” said the centurion in a whisper.

“It’s Nero?” asked Gavinal, “I still don’t trust him, especially after what’s going on with Caligula in Rome.”

“He’s okay to a point, but I don’t trust him either,” the centurion answered quietly, the pair heading down the brightly lit hallway.

“Who goes there?” asked a guard, staring at the head centurion of Tibernum, Caius Felix.

“It’s me you jackass, can’t you see that for yourself?” the centurion retorted brusquely.

“Who is the equestrian citizen sir?” asked the guard by rote, saluting his superior.

“The town prefect, Titus Gavinalus Septimus, let us in the door you cretin.”

“Yes sir, I’m only following orders and procedure sir,” the guard answered stoically, stepping aside and moving the standard in military fashion while his equally disciplined underling saluted, unlocked the door and opened it.

“Thank you guards, you flawlessly followed due procedure,” Caius remarked with a nod, saluting them, “At ease for now, should others follow come to attention and inquire of they in the same fashion.”

“Yes sir,” both guards answered with another salute, one closing the door and locking it after they passed through, the other replacing the standard in the middle of the hallway.

“What would you have done if they hadn’t followed due procedure?” asked Gavinal.

“I would have had them killed on the drill field tomorrow morning by my immunes engineer, he beheading their sorry asses with a gladius.”

“I guess it’s a good thing they followed due procedure,” Gavinal observed, not a veteran of the regular Roman army, having received an inherited commission thanks to his important equestrian father.

“Exactly sir,” said the centurion, the pair walking to a reclining, heavy set, older patrician man next to an open window, the centurion moving aside and folding arms across his chest.

“If it isn’t Gavinal Septimus, standing before me in a toga,” Nero Maccius, or more properly, Augustus Nero Maccius Carthagus Magnentius, greeted with a broad smile, “Every time I come to Tibernum you arrive in the same flawless equestrian toga.”

“It’s proper procedure and tradition,” said a nervous Gavinal, giving his patrician superior a salute in the sunlit room.

“Forget the ceremonial horseshit citizen, have wine with me,” Nero retorted with a wave of a hand, he wearing a plain Roman tunic in private.

Looking to the centurion he added, “Get your ass over here Caius, and enjoy wine.”

“Thanks friend Nero, I don’t think I could have kept it up much longer,” said the centurion, relaxing and sitting down on a couch next to a low table.

“I don’t know how you could for as long as you did,” said Nero, handing a sealed bottle of Gallic wine to each man.

The centurion pried the seal from the bottle and took a deep drink of the fermented nectar, a standing Gavinal still attempting to open his.

“Where is a slave when you need one?” asked Nero, the prefect engrossed removing the seal.

“My slaves are taking care of my wife and children,” Gavinal replied, popping the seal, fine wine spilling on the hem of his toga.

“That’s what you get for wearing one of those silly things,” said Nero.

“My wife has two slaves downstairs looking after my kids,” said Caius, ignoring Nero’s observation, reclining next to the table, fresh fruit from across the empire, apples, lemons and grapes sitting in a large bowl before them.

“Whatever,” an uncaring Nero replied, already rather drunk, “Tell me Gavinal, what do you and Caius see in women, with their noisy kids and such?” the censor a committed aficionado of pederasty.

“We like them,” Caius replied.

“It must cost a fortune to care for them, I could never handle that in this expensive day and age, wasting money in such a fashion,” said Nero, recalling the distant time when he had a family to raise.

“It’s not a waste of money, it’s what we want in our lives,” said Gavinal as he sat down, neither man caring at all if the censor was homosexual.

“I’ll never understand it,” replied a smiling Nero, head on an arm, fondly thinking of his latest young male slave, recalling swimming in a clear and refreshing pool, his lover ‘nibbling’ at him, in what way is left for the reader to imagine.

“You were married once weren’t you?” asked Gavinal.

“I still am, but it was only to carry on the family name,” Nero replied, “All my sons and daughters are grown and married off, I haven’t seen them in years. The wife resides in Rome, I do send her a letter from Antioch every now and then.”

“I see,” said Gavinal, taking a deep drink from his bottle.

“Would you care for cheese friends?” an attentive Nero asked, producing a fine brick of ripened cheese from beneath the table, purchased from none other than Callicles of Athens.

“Sure,” Gavinal replied, the group gorging on fine wine and cheese until shortly before sundown. “We have to get to my office quick,” said an inebriated Gavinal a little before seven, “Marcus Pertinax and Julius Chrysippus are due to arrive there this evening.”

“Would you like me to accompany you?” asked a pleasantly intoxicated Nero, his latest bottle of strong wine not having hit him with full force yet.

“Come along friend, you’ll love Julius the elder and his son,” Gavinal answered.

“I will?” asked an expectant Nero.

“Not that way,” said the smiling centurion, rising from his couch.

“Oh,” Nero replied, rising with some effort, the patrician censor of average Roman height but weighing nearly 300 pounds.

They headed to Gavinal’s office, arriving there as Marcus was preparing to leave.

“Where the hell have you been?” asked Marcus, Nero and the centurion blundering in behind the prefect.

“I was at the garrison,” said Gavinal.

“Getting drunk?”

“I guess I was trying to.”

“Without me?” asked Marcus.

“You weren’t there,” a smiling Nero answered for the prefect, “Besides friend Marcus, the evening’s still young, I’m sure Gavinal has wine around here somewhere.”

“That’s true, but first I have some title papers that need to be signed and notarized – ”

“Who cares,” said a drunken Nero, “It’ll wait until tomorrow.”

“But these are time dependant documents for leading citizens, land transfers and other sundry items – ” Marcus insisted.

“Big deal, I’ll order one of my scribes to forge whatever you need later, let’s get drunk instead,” Nero advised, looking to the notary with blurred vision.

“That would be unethical,” Marcus protested.

“Who’s going to care in a thousand years,” Nero retorted as Joseph and Jesus entered.

“I – ”

“Forget it Marcus,” Gavinal advised, “Tonight is different, friend Julius and son!”

“Greetings Gavinal and friends,” said Joseph, nodding to the group.

“Who is this?” asked Nero, staring at Joseph while leaning against the prefect’s desk.

“Julius Chrysippus the elder, and son Julius the younger,” Gavinal answered.

“Welcome citizens,” said Nero with a clumsy nod, sitting heavily on the couch, cracking a supporting slat, his head reeling from the strong Gallic wine.

“He’s our censor,” Gavinal declared, thinking of the expensive couch while looking to the fat bureaucrat, Nero falling to his side unconscious.

“Welcome to Tibernum censor,” said Joseph, giving a salute to the patrician.

“I think he’s passed out father,” Jesus observed, looking to Nero.

“That he has, he’s been drinking for much of the afternoon, let’s have a drink too,” a smiling Gavinal suggested.

“Can you sign these titles before we do?” the honest Marcus implored, holding a deed in his right hand, others in his left.

“Of course,” said an equally honest Gavinal, looking at the first document.

“Let’s see, one mountainside, ten miles northwest of here,” Gavinal observed, staring at a lambskin parchment, first in a group of three.

“The procurator’s aide in Antioch, Flavius Germanicus, gave it to his son Rufus for a hunting preserve.”

“Has a title search been done on the property in question?”

“Sort of, it’s said the land belonged to a band of Cappadocian barbarians fifty years ago.”

“Who cares, we conquered them and took it, clear title is granted to Rufus of – ?”

“Rufus Anatolicus Germanicus of Byzantium,” said Marcus.

“Okay, the land is owned by Rufus Germanicus,” Gavinal announced, signing his name on the document.

“Rufus Anatolicus Germanicus of Byzantium,” Marcus corrected.

“Whatever, a mountainside northwest of town is now owned by a clown from Byzantium,” Gavinal retorted, handing the document back to his notary.

“So noted,” answered Marcus, notarizing the document by applying his signature and stamp from his signet.

“Next document,” Gavinal requested, still wearing his cumbersome toga, the bottom hem stained with wine.

“A transfer of land, five thousand acres, from an equestrian named Marcus Paulus Plinicus, to a plebian named Ptolemaeus Dolcemus Valgus of Sicily. The tract is unimproved acreage south of the Via Tiberius Romanus,” stated Marcus, handing him the second document.

“Five thousand acres west of here, let me refer to the land platte,” said a frowning Gavinal, walking over and staring at a gigantic papyrus map tacked in a frame on a wall, drawn by a Greek cartographer with an accurate depiction of the surrounding environs of Tibernum.

“That’s B-16 on the grid, the parcel’s over eighteen miles outside of town!” exclaimed Gavinal, looking to the notary.

“Emperor Caligula decreed in August all prefects east of Dacia have the obligation to transfer or deed land up to twenty miles from the seat of the prefecture,” Marcus explained, he familiar with all Roman law, as sworn notaries had to be, on penalty of death or perhaps worse.

“Are you kidding?”

“Never on legal matters such as this,” said Marcus, shaking his head.

“I imagine Caligula’s saving the treasury money by having prefects do the work of procurators,” Gavinal ventured, returning to his desk.

“Let’s hope that’s the least of it,” said a frowning Marcus, looking to the snoring censor, recalling the vicious smile on the face of the insane Emperor while his Praetorian guards had dutifully beaten a man to death with chains before him.

“I can handle this, title’s transferred to citizen whoever from citizen wherever,” declared Gavinal, signing the document and handing it back.

“So noted,” Marcus answered by rote, staring at the signature on the parchment, adding his own, and stamping it.

“How much did uh, Ptolemaeus pay for that tract?” asked Gavinal.

“Fifty-five hundred aurei,” said Marcus, folding arms behind his head, staring at a bright oil lamp suspended above the prefect’s desk.

“Fifty-five hundred, he was robbed, it isn’t worth a thousand, it’s in the middle of nowhere!”

“Caveat emptor, it’s not my problem,” Marcus replied, not caring in the least about that aspect of land speculation. After all, gullible fools purchased worthless land all the time, fine tracts like Tiber River swampland northeast of Rome, waterless Judean desert property on the beautiful but smelly Dead Sea, and even chunks of glacial ice sitting on tall mountaintops in Germania.

“I agree,” said Gavinal, not caring either about the folly of stupid people handing money to charlatans selling worthless land.

Marcus Pertinax, sworn notary, nodded to Gavinal’s reply. According to Roman civil law, it was neither the notary’s nor the prefect’s responsibility to determine the value or suitability of land vended to the citizenry. Their job was only to make certain they were vended properly to the buyer, together with clear titles issued for each, a kind of prototypical laissez-faire capitalism.

“What’s next?” asked Gavinal, looking to his friend.

“The last is a female German slave from Antigone’s brothel, located just east of the forum, purchased yesterday by Drusus the Illyrian for 900 denarii,” Marcus announced, handing over the third document, censor Nero Maccius snoring loudly in the background after rolling to his side.

“Why would Drusus buy another whore, doesn’t he have enough already?” asked Gavinal, staring at the parchment, knowing Drusus had purchased nearly a dozen whores from Antigone over the past three years.

“Maybe he wants to open up a whorehouse at his hardware store, or perhaps he already has?” asked Marcus.

“I’ll bet he’s building stiff competition for Antigone,” a smiling Gavinal answered, placing his signature on the document.

“It just occurred to me, if Drusus is running a brothel from his hardware store, it’s illegal unless he gets a license from you,” Marcus advised, “The fines for doing such are steep.”

“I know that, but Drusus is a friend, I’ll speak to him about it tomorrow,” said Gavinal, looking to Joseph and Jesus for a moment.

“We don’t care, what are you thinking?” Joseph asked, Jesus leaning against the doorjamb.

“It’s not you friends Julius and son, it’s the censor,” said Gavinal, jerking a thumb in Nero’s direction.

“What?” asked Jesus.

“We can’t tell you right now,” Marcus explained, almost in a whisper, holding up hands.

“He’s passed out drunk, he can’t hear anything we’re saying,” said Joseph.

“Believe me, you can never really tell about them,” Gavinal replied, never having fully trusted Nero Maccius of Antioch, Caius nodding in agreement.

“Gavinal’s right, after all I’ve been through I only trust citizens of Tibernum, not some fat old patrician from Rome claiming to hail from Antioch,” said Caius, looking to Joseph and offering his hand.

“As we trust you centurion Caius,” Joseph replied, giving the centurion a firm handshake, feeling a bit guilty at their subterfuge regarding citizenship.

“Is that all Marcus?” asked Gavinal, dropping his quill stylus to the desk and resting his head on an arm.

“Yes,” Marcus answered, taking the last document and notarizing it.

“Good, transactions are done for the day, and welcome again friends Julius the elder and younger, please have seats,” said Gavinal, pointing to several chairs in front of the desk, they having stood near the doorway for the past fifteen minutes.

“Thank you,” Joseph replied, they taking seats beside Marcus and Caius.

“Care for wine?” asked Gavinal, looking to Jesus and Joseph.

“I’d like to pay our taxes first,” Joseph declared, pulling twelve aurei from a tunic pocket.

“A prefect’s work is never done,” said Gavinal, taking the coins and adding, “You’ve given me twelve again.”

“Who cares, apply the remainder to next year’s bill.”

“I did that for the last three years Julius, that’s why you only owe us ten for this year,” Gavinal observed, writing out a receipt and handing back two aurei.

“Thank you Gavinal,” said Joseph, placing the coins and receipt in a pocket.

“Why thank me, it’s your money,” a smiling Gavinal retorted, sitting down and opening a bottle of wine, filling five goblets.

Enjoying the cool early evening with fine wine and conversation, the group spoke of events around the empire for the next few hours, carefully avoiding the subject of the emperor due to the presence of censor Nero, snoring away on the broken couch.

“There was a quake in July up by the Sea of Marmara, it’s said Nicomedia was leveled,” said a frowning Marcus.

“I heard that too,” said Gavinal, pouring wine for the group.

“So did I,” said Jesus.

“That’s right, you and Maria were in transit from Rome, were you near there at the time?” asked Gavinal, handing he and Joseph fresh goblets of wine.

“No, we passed through Nicomedia days earlier and were in Aneyrum on the river Lydius,” Jesus lied.

“A beautiful town and damn lucky for you friend,” said Caius, “According to the mail courier probably 75,000 are dead in Nicomedia and they still haven’t found all the bodies yet.”

“Indeed,” Jesus replied, recalling the pained look on the Nicomedian prefect’s face that terrible night, a man looking much like their own good prefect, especially while Gavinal was wearing an equestrian toga instead of his usual tunic.

“A damn shame, but I’m sure they’ll have it rebuilt in a few years,” said Gavinal.

“I wonder what causes them?” Jesus muttered, Joseph looking at him with narrowed eyes, knowing exactly what he was thinking, but certain no one else in the room did.

“Causes what?” asked Marcus.

“Earthquakes.”

“I don’t know, but my engineer Galen Aperius studied in Alexandria,” said Caius, “Scholars there state it may be malevolent vapors moving in the earth, or perhaps even – ”

“Oh,” Nero murmured, waking from slumber and sitting up a little after ten thirty.

“Welcome back friend Nero,” said Gavinal.

“Hello Gavinal and friends,” Nero replied, yawning and rubbing his face, shaking his head violently as if attempting to bring himself to full consciousness.

“Are you all right?” asked Caius.

“Quite fine,” said Nero, slapping hands on his thighs, “Let’s have wine shall we?”

“If you insist,” said Gavinal, pouring a goblet for the censor.

“How have you been doing without me?” Nero asked, downing the wine so fast it would make Callicles of Athens notice had he been there.

“We’ve been enjoying the evening, talking of current events,” said Gavinal, a light breeze blowing through an open window, “Julius the younger here was traveling earlier this year about the empire, we talked of the fire in Rome and the quake in Nicomedia.”

“The fire was bad, but the quake was terrible, it killed the prefect’s entire family and thousands of others,” said Nero, wearily rising from the couch and sitting his goblet on the desk.

“Leaving so soon?” asked Marcus, hiding his hopefulness.

“It’s much too early for that,” Nero replied, scratching himself, “I need to piss, where’s your lavatorium friend Gavinal?”

“Through the atrium, down the hall to your left.”

“I’ll return,” Nero declared, entering the atrium and disappearing down the hallway.

“I have to piss too,” said Jesus, rising from his seat.

“So do I,” Joseph added.

“Please don’t use the lavatorium, do it outside, I’ve never really trusted Nero,” Gavinal advised.

“I deduced that earlier,” said Jesus, he and father heading outside.

“Should I follow them sir?” asked the centurion.

“No, they’re trustworthy citizens,” said Gavinal with a shake of his head.

“They’re Greco-Roman,” Caius observed, unsure in the troublesome times of September 37, Common Era.

“How dare you say that Caius, they may have Greek ancestors but they also carry Etruscan blood,” Gavinal retorted.

“I’m only making sure, no one can tell these days, especially with Caligula.”

“They’ve provided the garrison and our families with good meat and vegetables, his slaves have forged iron for your spears, arrows, and gladii, not to mention strong shoes for your horses, Julius even giving surplus grain to you for free last fall, how can you doubt them?”

“I have to, I’m a soldier.”

“Julius the elder shook your hand,” Marcus interjected, defending the Chrysippus family while looking to the atrium.

“I feel I can trust them too,” Caius admitted, “We just have to get rid of the censor, then everything will return to normal.”

“Why worry, he should be gone tomorrow night,” said Marcus, folding hands in his lap.

“You’re crazy Marcus,” said Caius.

“A bit paranoid Caius?” asked Gavinal, opening another bottle.

“Why shouldn’t I be, especially after the stories the couriers have reported from Rome, Caligula killing everyone within his – ”

Joseph and Jesus walked through the door, censor Nero returning to the office several minutes later, adjusting his tunic.

“My friends!” exclaimed Nero, plopping his heavy body down so hard in a chair that all present thought it would collapse under his weight.

“All taken care of?” asked Gavinal.

“Of course, let’s have wine together,” Nero answered, the man truly harmless, contrary to the suspicions of Gavinal, Caius and Marcus.

Talking over the next hours, the group became very drunk, excepting for wine tolerant Jesus.

Conversing on many subjects, a seemingly indestructible Nero remarked during a political discussion with Jesus, “Yeah, he’s only 25 or so, and I do think young Caligula is a very pretty man certainly, but he’s becoming a bit extreme when it comes to administration.”

“How’s that?” asked Jesus while a fearful Gavinal looked on, the vampiric Christ engrossed in the conversation, his inebriated father ruminating on Nero’s odd observation of Caligula being a ‘very pretty man’.

“I find his actions revolting, having people beaten to death in the forum for all to see, opening a brothel in the Imperial palace, having sex with his own sisters, throwing innocent spectators at the Circus Maximus to the lions last month, how do you see it Julius?”

“It’s strange, I must admit that,” said Jesus stoically, Caius and Gavinal on seemingly on the verge of seizures.

“Strange, the man’s a maniac,” Nero retorted, “Look Julius, I’m so saint either, three of my friends in this room will tell you I’m a bit odd myself.”

“How’s that friend?”

“I’m a lover of young boys,” said Nero, “But at least I don’t get my kicks from killing dozens of people, further, all my lovers are willing participants. I could never force someone, even a slave, to do something that revolted him.”

“You don’t say,” a floored Jesus replied, his father staring at polished marble floor tiles, his son not having perceived Nero was that odd until the censor told him.

Romans Gavinal, Marcus and Caius sat quietly, not at all bothered by the revelation, what worried them was friendly censor Nero may be a spy for the insane monster Caligula.

“I do say, Caligula’s an evil madman and must be removed from the throne before he destroys the empire!” answered Nero sternly.

“I’m very sorry, I’m in no position to agree or disagree with you on that observation,” said an evasive Jesus, “My father and I are only two men, simple plebian farmers, living nearly two thousand miles from the mundane affairs in Rome.”

“I see,” a frowning Nero observed, “What of you friends Gavinal, Marcus, and Caius?”

“Like Julius the younger said, we’re two thousand miles from Rome, at the very border of Armenia,” Gavinal replied, feeling a bit guilty, folding hands under his chin.

“What are you, cowards, something must be done about Caligula!” an indignant Nero exclaimed, staring at Caius.

“No friend Nero, the Senate and Praetorian Guard will have to deal with him when the time comes. You must realize there’s nothing you or we can do about it, as we are only six men,” Jesus replied, knowing in his heart that regardless of his deficiencies, Nero was an honest man and truly cared about the affairs of the empire.

“You’re right, and I’ll bet since I opened my big mouth, one of you will send word to the emperor, it’s happening everywhere,” Nero ventured, fearing for his life and looking to the floor.

“Why would we do that?” asked Gavinal, offended by the remark.

“I don’t know, this world’s so screwed up I don’t know who to trust anymore,” said Nero, resting his head on an upright arm, elbow on Gavinal’s desk.

“You can trust me and those in this room, we will not betray you,” said Jesus.

“How can I know that?” asked Nero, staring at the vampiric Christ.

“In the same way I know I can trust you in this matter, verily I say, follow what your heart tells you and you won’t go wrong.”

Joseph, drunk, raised eyebrows at the suggestion.

“I don’t know why, but I believe you,” said Nero, surprised he would believe the tall and lanky man he had just met, regardless of his fear of the emperor, there was something about Bacchus Julius Chrysippus one could feel safe with.

“You can believe me and our friends here,” Jesus replied as Gavinal, Caius and Marcus looked on.

“I can?”

“Of course,” said Gavinal, “Look friend, we have no use for Caligula either, but what can we do, risk our lives over a spoiled bloodthirsty punk who won’t last a decade?”

“But – ”

“None of us will say anything to anyone, on our personal honor as Romans,” said Jesus, looking to the group with a penetrating glance, asking the censor while staring into his eyes, “Verily I say friend, will you join us in such a pact?”

“I will, on my honor as a Roman citizen,” Nero answered.

“So will I,” said Gavinal.

“I will,” said Caius.

“Marcus?” asked Jesus, also looking to his father.

Joseph nodded, Marcus replying, “Of course,” he the first to offer a hand to the censor.

Each man shook hands over the issue on their sworn personal honor, Jesus observing, “Since that’s taken care of, what do you say we drink to it?”

The censor smiled weakly, and nodded.

“Yes, it never happened,” said Gavinal, pouring libations for all, candid debate and conversation continuing on until well after three, none ever mentioning the earlier revelations among themselves or to anyone else for their entire lives.

Politely excusing themselves at four, Jesus and father left the compound, heading down the dark main street of Tibernum toward the south road.

“Did you and Mary have someone to eat tonight?” Joseph asked quietly, passing Drusus the Illyrian’s hardware store.

“We took a pair of thieves east of town,” Jesus replied as they leisurely walked the four miles to the farm, arriving at a little after five, crickets chirping slowly on the cool night.

“How do you know those clowns will keep the pact you made and not send praetorians roving all over Antioch or Tibernum, killing everyone in their path?” a tired Joseph asked, heading up the entrance road.

“Never underestimate a vampire my father.”

“You hypnotized them didn’t you?” asked Joseph, pausing and looking to his undead offspring.

“All save you, and don’t worry, there’ll be no trouble,” said Jesus as they continued on.

“Good, that’s all we’d need, a bloodthirsty legion coming here to slaughter everyone in Tibernum,” a sobering Joseph replied, walking past the gate to the porch, the dog dutifully guarding the residence, silently allowing his master and son to pass.

“That won’t happen, Nero despises Caligula as much as our friends in town do,” Jesus observed.

“I’d say he does, but he’s a pretty strange guy,” said Joseph, opening the door and entering the house with Jesus, stopping in the dimly lit kitchen.

“Many older patrician men go for pederasty these days,” said a frowning and revolted Jesus, reaching for a bottle of wine from a shelf and opening it.

“Is that what they call it – pederasty?”

“Yes, those like Nero Maccius are considered lovers of young men, if you want to call it that,” said Jesus, sitting the bottle on the kitchen table and reaching for two crystal goblets.

“I don’t call it that at all, a lover of men, what a disgusting thought,” Joseph spat, rubbing his forehead with his left, his gold signet reflecting the dim light into Jesus’ eyes for a moment.

“I agree,” Jesus replied, sitting down at the table and pouring a libation.

“That fat clown is nothing but a licentious sodomite – pederasty, a fancy name for a goddamn queer,” said Joseph, leaning against the hall entrance, his deep-rooted Hebrew morality and aversion to homosexuality welling to the surface with a vengeance.

“Indeed father, he’s a twisted character, I even considered killing him for a moment,” a nodding Jesus agreed.

“You did?”

“Yes, but it would have been wrong, he caused me no harm and we do need him to take the census tomorrow,” said Jesus, taking a deep drink of wine.

“True, but I’ve never cared for such as the likes of him,” a yawning Joseph replied.

“I don’t like them either, and if they get in my way I’ll take queers just like I take any criminal,” said Jesus.

“I don’t follow you, ‘get in my way’, what do you mean?” asked Joseph, arms folded across his chest as he leaned on the jamb, the time approaching five thirty.

“You know exactly what I mean, imagine one offering me a blowjob in a lavatorium while I’m trying to take a piss,” said Jesus, refilling his goblet.

“You’d actually kill someone for that?” asked Joseph, shocked at the blunt answer coming from his placid son, not caring all that much, but inquiring nevertheless.

“I have before in Jerusalem and Beneventum, so did our ancestors in Judea,” said Jesus, taking another gulp of wine, as if in attempt to wash away his disgust at the homosexual lifestyle.

“As a man or as a vampire?”

“As a vampire, I never killed anyone like that when I was alive.”

“Who did you kill when you were alive?” asked Joseph in jest, not expecting an answer.

“Thieves, highwaymen, those who attempted to rob me when I was traveling before I came home to Nazareth.”

A shocked Joseph stood there, never having known that his outwardly placid son seemed to have no real qualms at all about killing, and had killed several people when he was alive in self-defense.

“Uh, how many did you bump off, before you were crucified?” asked his father quietly, staring at Jesus.

“Maybe ten, all thieves and such,” Jesus answered, unsure as to the exact tally, “It’s a good thing you taught me how to fight with knives and swords when I was younger.”

“I never knew that.”

“It never occurred to me to tell you,” said Jesus, staring into his empty wine goblet.

“Did you really have to kill perhaps ten of them?”

“Yes, the world’s a very dangerous place, sometimes one must kill others in self defense or be killed,” Jesus explained, looking to his father.

“That’s true,” a nodding Joseph agreed.

“Indeed,” said Jesus, adding while he lifted the bottle and pointed at the other empty goblet, “Would you care for wine?”

“I’d better not, remember I have to see that fairy of a censor tomorrow afternoon, and I want to completely rested and sober when I speak with him.”

“I understand, good luck father.”

“Yeah, I’m going to bed, it’s a shame you can’t come along, at least for moral support,” Joseph lamented, heading for his bedroom and closing the door.

Sitting alone at the kitchen table, Jesus poured another goblet of wine, ruminating on the evening’s events, hearing his father bark a shin hard on the foot of the bed.

“Goddamnit if that happens again I’m going to chop this overpriced piece of shit up for firewood!” Joseph exclaimed, staring at their plush down stuffed bed.

“Please be quiet Joseph, you’ll wake the baby, he’s been up most of the night,” his weary wife admonished, Julian beginning to cry in the adjacent room.

“I practically broke my leg on this bed!” Joseph exclaimed, face contorted in pain, rubbing his shin and looking for blood on his hand.

“Now you’ve done it, how can I get any sleep with the likes of you and Julian around?” spat Mary as a dutiful Ruth appeared in the dimly lit room, holding a crying Julian in her arms.

“Bring him here child, I’ll put him to sleep again,” said Mary, sitting up in the bed.

“I’m sorry mistress Maria, but I have no milk in my breasts for him to – ” began Ruth, her nightgown fully open as she had tried to suckle young Julian, if only for comfort.

The innocent nudity of his lovely Jewish slave unnoticed by an angry and inebriated Joseph, the patriarch flopped down on the bed, falling asleep within a minute.

“Forget about that child, please sit with me, soon enough you will have beautiful babies to suckle at your breasts,” Mary answered, taking her son, Joseph snoring in the background.

“I will?” asked a hopeful Ruth, closing her nightgown.

“A young woman as pretty as you are, I’m sure of it,” said a smiling Mary, Julian taking a nipple and again falling asleep in his mother’s arms.

In the kitchen, rising with goblet in hand, Jesus walked to the porch and stared at the clear starlit night sky, not a cloud visible from horizon to horizon, Joseph’s dog opening eyes for a moment, then falling back asleep.

“I’d come with you to the census if I could dad,” said a frowning Jesus, staring to the east at the approaching dawn.

Joseph slept until late morning, waking to breakfast in bed served by Ruth. “Hurry up master Julius, the censor’s expecting you this afternoon,” she said, placing a goblet of wine on a nightstand.

“Where is my wife?” a startled Joseph asked, not realizing the time, rising from slumber.

“In the common area, it’s well after eleven,” Ruth replied, handing Joseph breakfast.

“And my son?” asked Joseph, wolfing down the delicious food.

“Baby Julian’s with his mother, Julius the younger and wife are sleeping like they always do at this time,” Ruth answered, the odd situation normal to her thanks to the powerful hypnotic power of Jesus Christ.

“Thank you Ruth, I was thinking about Julian, I’m quite sure my eldest can take care of himself these days, after all he’s in his thirties,” said Joseph, sarcasm in his voice.

“I’m very sorry, is there anything else you may need master?” asked Ruth, still finding the aging Joseph of Bethlehem extremely attractive, regardless of the huge difference in their ages and his earlier blunt rejection of her clumsy advances.

“No, tend to my wife and child,” Joseph ordered, giving her a terse glance, having put Ruth in her place over two years earlier but having given up making her call him Julius and nothing else. Rising from bed and slipping on a tunic and sandals, Joseph closed the bedroom chifferobe and downed his morning wine, stepping from the bedroom and heading to the common area. “I’ll be back in a while Maria, I have to head to town and see the censor,” said Joseph, kissing his wife on the cheek.

“Please hurry back,” an unconcerned Mary answered, holding Julian in her lap, Joseph turning and heading out the door.

I hope this works, thought Joseph, stepping from the porch to see Brutus at the reins of a light open wagon, purchased from Drusus a year earlier, one horse in the harness.

“I was going to ride to the forum on one of our geldings,” said Joseph, stepping through the gate and closing it behind him.

“I can unhitch and saddle the beast if you wish,” Brutus offered, the horse snorting loudly.

“No my good Brutus, I can use the company, thanks for being so attentive,” said Joseph, climbing aboard, the pair heading to town.

Walking into the forum with his slave just after noon, Joseph observed his fellow citizens standing in the bright, late summer sunshine, conversing with one another.

“Friend Julius!” called Gavinal, standing on the porch of the town Pantheon with friends Marcus and centurion Caius.

“Good afternoon friend Gavinal,” Joseph greeted, walking over and shaking hands with the prefect, clad in his usual tunic and sandals.

“You’re here a bit early aren’t you?” asked a tired Marcus, leaning against a column while Caius nodded to Joseph.

“Why do you say that?” asked Joseph.

“Nero’s still asleep, we drank strong wine till well after dawn, I’ve been here since eleven,” a weary Gavinal answered for Marcus, he having had only four hours rest and still feeling a bit drunk.

“Yeah,” the centurion added, “If I didn’t have census duty I’d be in my bunk passed out.”

“After Nero takes the census, go back to the garrison and hit the sack, and that’s an order,” remarked a smiling Gavinal, all in the group completely relaxed.

“Yes sir, but I’ll bet it’ll be dark before I do,” Caius answered, giving him a clumsy salute.

“What’s your wager on – ”

It worked! thought Joseph, Brutus standing quietly at his side.

Two hours later, censor Nero Maccius, slightly hungover, arrived in a patrician toga. “Let’s get it over with,” he said to his centurion, taking his place on an elevated chair, ten scribes, five on each side, seated beside him at two tables in the center of the town forum. Calling out names in alphabetical order from a parchment document, Nero quickly came to ‘C’, Joseph thankfully hearing the words, “Chrysippus, Augustus Julius, plebian patriarch of the Chrysippus family”, uttered by the fat censor.

“That’s your cue,” said Gavinal, Joseph nodding and walking up to Nero, leaving Brutus behind.

“Good afternoon, your name citizen?” asked Nero formally, recognizing Joseph, but aware of his sworn duties as a Roman censor.

“Augustus Julius Chrysippus,” Joseph answered, staring at the still inebriated patrician pederast.

Having been before Roman censors in Bethlehem and Nazareth, Joseph knew the ground rules, but this time it was different, he, a Judean common subject was appearing before one as a plebian citizen. A Roman citizen – plebian, equestrian, or patrician, was sworn to be loyal to the empire and to the emperor, Gaius Caesar Caligula, on the penalty of death by beheading. An agonizing death by crucifixion was the penalty for pretenders to such, the same death his son Jesus had suffered under Pontius Pilate over four years earlier.

Christ, thought a fearful Joseph, heart pounding in his chest, What if this queer bastard finds out who I really am?

“Signet?” Nero asked, adding quietly as he leaned toward Joseph, “Don’t worry, I know you friend Julius, you pass, just answer the stupid questions for the scribe sitting on my left, okay?”

“Here censor,” a nodding Joseph replied, not believing what he heard, showing Nero the gold ring on the third finger of his left hand.

“In order citizen,” said Nero, “How many dependants are in your household, excluding slaves?”

“Five, including myself,” Joseph answered, looking up to the censor, heart in his throat.

“Their names please?” asked Nero pleasantly, a scribe on his left scribbling down the data.

“My wife, Maria, a son, Bacchus Julius, his wife, Maria the Hittite, and my youngest son, Julian Marius,” replied Joseph.

“Thank you, the number and names of your slaves, if any, and their homeland of origin.”

“Seven all told, their names are Cyril, Icarus, Ganymede, Electra, and Penelope, hailing from Greece, Brutus, a Greek born in Rome, and Ruth, a Jewess from Judea province,” answered Joseph, hoping he had it right, Jesus having coached him in the evening during the past week.

“Very well,” said Nero, looking to the scribe and asking, “Have you got that Sextus?”

“Yes censor, his answers agree with records on file in Rome.”

“The original homeland of yourself and family?” asked a bored Nero by rote, glancing at a copy of the record from the Tabularium, not actually reading it.

“Etruria province,” Joseph lied.

“Hometown?”

“Volsinii,” answered Joseph, still lying.

“Your holdings in Cappadocia are?” asked Nero, resting his cheek on an arm in his opulent padded chair.

“One thousand acres, tract twenty-one, Tibernum, Cappadocia, Rome,” Joseph answered, heart pounding in his chest, hoping Nero would not ask any further questions of him.

“I thank you citizen, all is in order,” Nero declared after a short pause, a relieved Joseph feeling weak in the knees. Turning to a scribe, Nero added, “Please note the plebian Chrysippus family of Etruria are residing in Tibernum Cappadocia, as of the date September 15, 790 AUC, citizens Augustus Julius, Bacchus Julius his son, and Julian Marius his youngest son.”

“So noted,” said the scribe, scribbling away.

Further, according to this addendum document from prefect Titus Gavinalus Septimus, all the have good station, rights and privileges afforded Roman citizens, and their taxes for this year have been paid in full,” Nero declared, glancing at a sheet of papyrus at his left.

“Right,” the scribe answered, handing the document to the censor’s notary, he stamping the document with his signet and handing it to the censor.

“Your signature citizen, or signet stamp,” Nero requested, presenting the document to the Hebrew patriarch Joseph, an inked wool pad sitting before him on a table.

“I’ll use my signet,” said Joseph, stamping the document, unintentionally staining three knuckles with indelible ink.

“Citizen Felicus Claudius is next,” the notary announced, staring at a parchment before him.

“A patrician,” Nero observed.

“Yes censor,” said the notary.

Dismissing Joseph, the censor announced, “You may go, plebian citizen Augustus Julius Chrysippus, hail Caesar Caligula.”

“Thank you censor Nero, hail Caesar Caligula,” Joseph replied, giving a Roman salute to the patrician pederast, having seen several citizens before him doing the same thing.

Walking to the town Pantheon, a thankful Joseph observed Gavinal, Marcus, and Caius were still standing before the pagan temple conversing with one another, Marcus talking with Brutus.

“Julius the younger is a brilliant philosopher according to Cyril of Athens,” Brutus was relating.

“He’s certainly an introspective character,” said Marcus, having conversed with Jesus on several occasions.

“He’s a sophist isn’t he?” asked Gavinal.

“You’d have to ask Cyril, I don’t know about those things,” Brutus answered.

“All done Julius the elder?” asked Gavinal, dropping the conversation as he looked to Joseph.

“Yeah,” said Joseph, relieved he, thanks to Jesus’ subterfuge, had fooled the censor.

“The census is a pain in the ass,” Caius scoffed, waiting his turn before the fat patrician.

“That’s the truth,” Joseph agreed.

“But necessary too,” said Gavinal, speaking like a true bureaucrat, “Remember friends Caius and Julius, the census determines how many people are in a given area. Afterward Rome can assign people for needed services, military and governmental, sending engineers for building roads and aqueducts, or amphitheaters and circuses for entertainment purposes.”

“We know that, and regardless of what you say it’s still a pain in the ass,” an amused Caius retorted, chuckling over the prefect’s peroration, Marcus and Joseph laughing along with him.

“Well pardon me Dominus Caius Felix and fellow patrician gentry,” said a smirking Gavinal, looking to his friends.

“We wish,” answered Marcus, “After all, you’re the equestrian here, surrounded by us lowly plebians.”

“Only because my father was rich,” Gavinal retorted, looking to certified plebian Augustus Julius Chrysippus, formerly known as common subject Joseph of Bethlehem.

“Well friends, I’m through with the census, I have to head to the farm and get back to work,” said Joseph. Nervous, he wanted to leave the forum as soon as possible, perhaps before the censor changed his mind, an oblivious Nero and scribes having moved down the list to ‘E’, gathering data from other citizens.

“It’s harvest time, be sure and put your slaves to good use, we need more grain and meat from you for the winter,” Gavinal replied, “Will you need to borrow any of my slaves?”

“Yes please, we’ll have plenty of grain, I planted over a hundred acres this year,” Joseph answered, the Chrysippus farm now sole supplier of grain to Tibernum.

“Unless he sells it all to Callicles,” the centurion ventured.

“Callicles hasn’t room in his wagons to buy all his farm produces, and friend Julius would never do that anyway,” said Gavinal.

“I’m only kidding,” said Caius, slapping Joseph hard on the back.

“I’ll see you later friends,” said a smarting Joseph, motioning Brutus over, both heading for the wagon.

As evening arrived, Jesus and Mary came forth from their darkened lair, he stepping into the kitchen and greeting his father while she headed to the bedroom to see Julian and his mother.

“How did it go at the census?” asked Jesus.

“We’re still here so I imagine it went rather well,” Joseph answered, pouring him a goblet of wine.

“I said you’d have no problems,” said Jesus, sitting down.

“You did say that,” his relieved father observed, handing him a goblet.

A week passed, with Joseph, apparently from nervous energy alone due to the stress of the census, spending most of these days with Brutus the overseer, first watching, then assisting with bringing in the harvest of wheat and barley.

“Why are you toiling in the fields Julius?” asked a sweating Cyril, wiping his face with a cloth, clad in loincloth and sandals, holding an iron sickle while taking a break next to a wagon.

“Like you, I’m getting exercise,” answered Joseph on the sunny afternoon, taking a deep drink of water from a goatskin bag and passing it to Cyril, shocks of wheat sitting behind them for several hundred feet.

“Would you hand me some please, I need water too,” said an exhausted Ganymede, walking over, stabbing his sickle into the floor of the wagon.

“Sure,” Cyril replied, passing the bag to his fellow slave.

“How are we doing Brutus?” asked a sweat soaked Joseph, wiping his forehead on an arm and grabbing a crock of strength giving vinegar, taking a deep gulp of the acidic liquid.

“We’ve harvested fifty-two acres since the kalends of September and have seventy-four to go,” Brutus announced, glancing at a hand drawn map of the Chrysippus farm.

“That means we won’t be done till the ides of October,” Joseph observed, removing his soaked tunic and tossing it to the bench of the wagon, clad only in his undergarment and sandals.

“No, at this rate we’ll be done by the sixth, perhaps earlier,” said Cyril, figuring the schedule in his head, “Then we have to pick up the grain for threshing at the granary. That will take a week or two, providing you borrow some of the prefect’s slaves like last year.”

“You’re right, and I’ve spoken to Gavinal about it,” Joseph agreed, coming to the same conclusions moments later.

“Why are you assisting us, you don’t have to do this Julius, we do,” spoke up Brutus.

“I’ve never been one to turn down work, especially when it needs to be done,” said Joseph, the group heading back to a wall of uncut grain, all available hands working till sundown.

An exhausted Joseph, clad in his soiled tunic, headed into the kitchen at dusk, where Ruth was occupied heating water for his bath, Jesus and Mary at the table, enjoying glasses of wine.

“Hello father, Cyril told us last night you’re working in the fields with the slaves,” Jesus greeted, pouring wine for him.

“Thanks,” Joseph replied, taking the goblet, “I figured I needed exercise, and with the amount of grain we’ve planted this year every usable hand is needed. I even have Icarus out there when he’s not running the forge.”

“We’re going to need more slaves,” Jesus observed, a silent Magdalene looking to him darkly, disdaining the thought of human bondage.

“A dozen more would be nice,” Joseph agreed, “As it is now I’ve been borrowing a few of Gavinal’s hands for threshing, but we’re definitely going to need more of our own next year.”

“Your bath is ready master,” said Ruth, having carried her twentieth pot of hot water to a bronze tub in a small room adjacent to the kitchen, mixing it with piped cold water from a cistern mounted on the roof near the chimney.

“Thank you girl, tend to my wife and child now,” ordered Joseph.

“Please hurry master or the water will grow cold,” Ruth advised as she left the kitchen.

“Right,” said Joseph, sitting down at the table with Jesus and Mary.

“We need to get running water in this place,” said Jesus, resting his chin on an arm.

“We have running water in the kitchen and bathroom from the cistern,” Joseph replied, jerking a thumb in the direction of a bronze water tank, purchased from Callicles and installed during Jesus’ absence.

“I mean hot and cold, with a pump, rather than having Ganymede fill the cistern from the well every day, taking stairs to the roof,” Jesus clarified.

“A pump?”

“Yes, since there are no aqueducts in Tibernum, an Archimedean screw or baffle pump would have to serve, placed in the well with pipes heading to the cistern from it.”

“How do they work?” his curious father asked, a bored Mary leaving her seat, heading to the bedroom to visit Jesus’ mother.

“A slave or beast of burden turns a screw that lifts water from the well, pressure from the confined water causing it to rise, it then flowing to a tank mounted above a faucet like the one in your bath,” explained Jesus, describing the operation of an Archimedean screw pump.

“Where will we get one of those?” asked Joseph, looking to his evening bath.

“Callicles can probably get us one, have your bath father, we’ll talk later,” said Jesus, pouring another goblet of wine.

“I’ll see you later,” his father replied, downing his goblet, grabbing a clean Egyptian towel from a shelf and heading to his bath, closing the door behind him.

Disrobing and stepping into the tub, Joseph noted the water was still hot, sinking in slowly, washcloth and carved chunk of Gallic soap sitting on a nearby shelf.

“That feels good,” a satisfied Joseph sighed, relaxing in the refreshing hot water up to his chest, resting his aching arms on the rim of the tub. Smiling as he enjoyed his daily hot bath, he said, “This sure beats scrubbing off in that cold river out there.” Leaning back, he looked to the plastered ceiling rafters of his Roman home, thinking of his childhood in Bethlehem, then of his days in Nazareth, up to the time of his eldest son’s crucifixion.

“I can save them father,” his son Jesus had stated.

“Save them from what, themselves?”

Lousy bastards, I hope that nut Caligula puts a fifty foot statue in that temple and makes those Pharisees kiss its feet at the point of a gladius, thought Joseph. I guess we don’t have to worry about them anymore, he mused, reaching for the soap and washcloth, lathering it up.

Stepping from the bath an hour later, towel around his waist, a cleansed Joseph noted the kitchen was unoccupied, heading to his bedroom for a fresh change of clothes. “Where is my eldest son?” he asked, opening a large cedar chifferobe.

“He and Maria left on a stroll,” said Mary, Ruth sitting in a lacquered hickory rocking chair built by Jesus, holding Julian in her arms in an attempt to put him asleep.

“Please go to your room Ruth, I have to get dressed,” ordered Joseph.

“Yes master Julius,” Ruth replied, handing the baby to Mary, looking wistfully at the well proportioned, toned, 58 year old patriarch in his towel, having very warm feelings toward him. As a slave, Ruth knew her unalterable place in modern Roman society, vowing on this night as she closed the door to never tell anyone of her emotions regarding Joseph. I hate this, why do I find him so desirable, he’s an old man and married, the lovely Jewish teenager thought, sitting in her well-furnished room.

A refreshed Joseph had gotten his second wind, walking to the kitchen and pouring a goblet of wine, waiting for Jesus to return from his depredations upon the fauna or criminals of Tibernum. Downing two goblets during the next half-hour, Joseph, lost in thought, heard a light knock come on the door a little after nine.

“Who is it?” asked Joseph, looking to the door.

“It is your slave Cyril.”

“For the god’s sakes come in man, how many times do I have to say you may enter our home any time, I even gave you a key,” Joseph spat, the teacher opening the door.

“I am sorry Julius the elder, it is a habit, I have always announced myself before entering the master’s domicile,” said Cyril, wearing a spotlessly clean, plain tunic, he, like the other slaves, having washed up beside the cold Euphrates just after dark.

“Whatever, get over here and have a seat,” ordered Joseph.

“Thank you,” replied Cyril, “First I need to heat water for my tea.”

“Do it, you needn’t ask permission,” said Joseph, pointing to the low burning hearth with his thumb.

Cyril walked to the kitchen tap and filled a small bronze cauldron with water, hanging the little pot over the hearth just above the coals.

“How are you this fine evening?” asked the teacher, taking a seat across from Joseph.

“I’m very well thank you,” said Joseph, pouring another goblet of wine.

Both sitting quietly for several minutes, Cyril then asked, “Julius the younger and his wife Maria are out having dinner?”

“Exactly, they should be back shortly, I need to talk to my son about pumps and such,” Joseph replied, smiling at the euphemism.

“Pumps, devices for moving water from lower to higher elevations,” said Cyril.

“You know about them?” asked Joseph, staring at the aged slave.

“My former master had several on his farm,” said Cyril, folding hands at his chin.

“My son suggested we get one for the well.”

“A good idea, it will assure you always have water for your cistern,” replied a stoic Cyril.

“I swear Cyril, how can you be so goddamned – ” a frowning Joseph began, Jesus and the Magdalene stepping through the doorway.

“Hello Cyril,” said Mary, she and Jesus taking seats at the table.

“Greetings Julius and wife,” Cyril replied, rising from his chair as his teapot came to a boil.

“A good evening to you friend,” said Jesus, while Cyril, using an iron hook, lifted the cauldron from the hearth, sitting it on the counter next to the tap and tarnished bronze sink.

“How can I be so goddamned what Julius?” asked Cyril of Joseph, reaching for his pottery cup on the mantle.

“Never mind,” Joseph replied, turning to his son as Cyril dipped his cup in the pot, sprinkling herbal tealeaves into the cup afterward.

“Did you enjoy your bath father?”

“Yeah, I wanted to ask you, those pumps, you say they’ll make life easier for Ganymede?”

“Not only that, a pump will assure the cistern can be filled easily, leaving time for a slave to do more productive tasks.”

“I see,” said Joseph, “Okay, you’ve convinced me; I suppose we should ask Callicles if he has one on his caravan.”

“He probably won’t, we’ll have to order one from him for delivery in the spring, along with a hot water system to save Ruth from heating pails of water for your bath.”

“A what?” asked Joseph, not following.

“A system which heats water by using a large bronze pipe issuing from the cistern, placed in the flue of the hearth, using waste heat from the fire. The warmed water is sent to a large wooden barrel with a float valve, containing it for later use,” Jesus explained.

“You don’t say?” asked a stunned Joseph, Jesus nodding.

The conversation continued over the next hours, Joseph remarking at a little past eleven, “Gavinal Septimus says once the population reaches a thousand citizens, engineers will probably build an aqueduct from the north mountain, providing all with running water.”

“I wouldn’t count on that anytime soon, the population of Tibernum is only 379 citizens, including us,” replied Jesus, Cyril looking on, sipping his third herbal tea.

“I have to head to bed, there’s more harvesting to do tomorrow, it’s too damn bad you can’t cut some grain too,” said Joseph wistfully.

“We can, why didn’t you ask?”

“You will?”

“Sure, we can harvest grain for you at night after we feed.”

“Speak for yourself,” an annoyed Mary spat, swirling wine in her goblet.

“What do you mean, won’t you help my good father in his time of need?”

“Of course I will, but I don’t like being volunteered without my consent first, why don’t you try asking me next time.”

“I figured with nothing better to do, we could – ”

“Yes we can, just ask me first next time,” the Magdalene replied, pouring a glass of wine.

“You needn’t do it tonight or any night for that matter,” said Joseph, looking to her.

“I’ll harvest the whole damn crop if you want me to, it’s just Jesus speaks for others on occasion without permission, and that pisses me off,” said Mary, turning to her frowning consort, Cyril staring into his teacup.

“I’m sorry,” said Jesus, resting his head on an arm.

“Forget it,” the Magdalene replied.

“A good night to all of you,” said Joseph, leaving the kitchen and heading to the bedroom, carefully avoiding the foot of the bed as he entered.

“Joseph, is that you?” asked his wife, half-asleep.

“Yeah, good night woman,” Joseph answered, crawling in bed beside his wife.

Mary and Cyril in the kitchen, the vampiric Christ grabbed a bottle of wine and drank deeply from it, chugalugging the bottle empty.

“There’s no need to go on a binge,” said the Magdalene.

“I could drink a barrel of this stuff and not get drunk.”

“You probably could at that,” said Mary, she also having developed an incredibly high tolerance for alcohol due to vampiric nature.

“Say friends, I read a passage in the histories of Minoacles of Sparta,” Cyril announced, hoping to maneuver them from their sparring.

“Minoacles, he was an obscure historian hailing from Sparta wasn’t he, I didn’t have the chance to read that scroll, if I recall it was in bad shape,” replied Jesus.

“That he was, and he was a vampire too, where did you get it?” asked Cyril, having heard of this rare scroll in his thirties, but never having the opportunity to read it.

“He was a vampire?” an incredulous Jesus asked.

“Yes, where did you get it?”

“I got it from Nacherine’s,” said Jesus, rising from the table.

“What did it say?” asked Mary, looking to the teacher.

“That’s why I came here tonight, even though much of the parchment is in poor condition, from what I have been able to read, his history of vampires is very accurate, describing all facets of vampiric existence.”

“Is there anything we need to know?” asked Jesus, looking to the teacher while opening another bottle of wine.

“Not really, but his scroll is the only treatise alluding to what you have told me recently, such as your ability to transform to fog or a wolf. Further, he states vampires can move about at dawn or dusk, along with being able to move among mortals on cloudy days.”

“Incredible,” said Jesus, pouring goblets for he and his consort.

“I had heard of Minoacles when I was much younger, copies of his works on the first Peloponnesian war are very rare and the only ones told from the Spartan viewpoint,” said Cyril.

“They are?” asked Mary.

“Yes, further, our copy of Minoacles is written in manuscript, it is over 400 years old,” Cyril answered, looking to the vampiric couple.

“How can you tell?” asked Jesus.

“For one thing, much of it is falling apart, for another, it is signed by none other than Minoacles of Sparta, in blood.”

“We’d better copy it for posterity,” Jesus suggested.

“Indeed we should, near the end of the treatise he states he fought with a Dacian vampire as a Spartan soldier on a dark night, piercing him to the heart with an oak spear as he plunged fangs in his throat,” replied Cyril.

“What happened to him?” asked Jesus, suspecting the answer.

“He became a vampire, he writes of that as well.”

“He wrote it as a vampire?” asked Mary.

“Yes, toward the end he writes of blood lust, seemingly disdaining what he had become.”

“Why?” asked Jesus.

“The scroll states he felt remorse for killing innocents, and that he would try to take only the guilty or animals,” answered Cyril, looking to Jesus with a slight smile.

“Another idiot, just like you, being so picky,” Mary scoffed.

“Watch it woman.”

“Although she is being insulting, I must say she is right Julius, from what I have read, the vampire Minoacles seems a lot like you,” observed Cyril.

“How?” asked Jesus.

“Come on, if you recall Nacherine said there was a friend of his who behaved the same way,” Mary retorted, forgetting the name of the vampire.

“His name is Knossos of Crete,” said Jesus.

“Whatever, I don’t care, he’s a fool too wherever he is,” spat the Magdalene.

“You’re calling me a fool?” a sullen Jesus asked.

“Not exactly, it’s just I’ll never agree with sparing any we come across, they’re nothing but food to me,” Mary answered.

“I ask you, is good Cyril here food to you?” asked Jesus, a hint of vampiric accent in his voice.

“Uh – of course not, he’s our friend,” his consort replied after a short pause.

“He has hot blood in his veins, very tasty fare for vampires,” Jesus countered, finger in the air.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the Magdalene scoffed, staring at him with narrowed eyes.

“Are you sure madam, I noted a pause in your answer,” Cyril observed with a slight smile.

“You’re as bad as Jesus is at times,” retorted Mary, looking to Cyril.

“I am sorry Maria, I was trying to make a joke with you,” said a tired Cyril, looking at his empty cup and then to the mantle water clock, noting with alarm it was one thirty.

“And a very bad joke at that,” Mary replied.

“I have to head back,” said Cyril, “I have work in the fields tomorrow.”

“We’ll save you and my dad some trouble, it’s early yet for us,” said Jesus.

“You’re going to harvest tonight?”

“You bet, probably till dawn,” answered Jesus, looking to his consort.

“How much, and how will we explain it to the others?” asked Cyril, rising from his seat.

“Only a few acres, tell them you made a mistake in your calculations.”

“Brutus is the overseer,” said Cyril, opening the door and standing in the threshold, Joseph’s awakened dog trotting over from a porch corner for a pat from the elderly slave.

“So what, tell him he made a mistake too, you’re the accountant anyway, how will he know?” asked Jesus, resting his head on an arm.

“Okay, good night Julius and wife,” said Cyril, closing the door.

Sitting silently in the kitchen for a few minutes, Jesus poured another goblet of wine, topping off his consort’s as well.

“Thank you Jesus, Minoacles sounds like an interesting fellow doesn’t he?” asked Mary, attempting to break the ice formed by their latest sparring.

“Why do you say that, according to you he’s just another idiot,” Jesus replied with a melancholy expression as he sat beside her, goblet of wine in hand.

“I’m sorry, it does seem those such as you are not as uncommon as one would first think.”

“Really?”

“We’ve only met one other vampire in our travels, and out of the few others we’ve heard of, two seem to be exactly like you.”

“Friend Nacherine is like you are,” said Jesus, wishing to make her feel more comfortable.

“That’s true.”

Sitting silently for a few moments, Mary asked, “So Jesus, how would you, with your outlook, describe those such as Nacherine and I?”

“I’d call you indiscriminate killers, no offense meant woman,” said Jesus, hands out.

“None taken, it fits,” she admitted with a smile, not offended by the remark at all.

Later, Jesus and Mary made their way to the fields in pitch darkness, harvesting six acres of barley in the span of only three hours, stacked shocks sitting behind them.

“I guess they’ll like this won’t they?” asked a smiling Magdalene, not even having broken a sweat during the cool night.

“I suppose,” said Jesus, the pair assuming chiropteric form and flying to the house just before five.