DARK RESURRECTION, CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: THE RETURN OF CALLICLES

 

Chapter Eighteen: The Return of Callicles

 

Over the next weeks, the harvest chores continued unabated, Jesus and Mary assisting on occasion, cutting a few acres here and there in the wee hours of the morning. Cyril easily made certain the tally was accurate by making the calculations when they arrived in the morning, instead of the previous evening. By his figures, he determined Jesus and Mary had harvested 26 acres of grain out of 130 or so planted. Stepping from the house on a warm, late September morning a little after seven, his wife and slave Ruth still in slumber, Joseph headed to the slave house, already animated with the din of Electra and Penelope serving breakfast to their fellow slaves.

“Good morning Julius, you’re up early,” said Ganymede as he opened the door, showing him in.

“Good morning to you, I figured since we – damn, that sure smells good, what are the women cooking?” asked a smiling Joseph, the aroma of food entering his nostrils.

“The usual,” Brutus answered for Ganymede, “Fried eggs with a slice of cured ham, a stew of boiled carrots, cabbage and meat broth, and goat milk along with fresh bread for soaking up leftover juice on the plates.”

“I’d say you folks eat better than I do, at least for breakfast,” Joseph observed, taking a seat.

“Men harvesting crops need a good start in the morning,” the matronly Electra declared while serving the meals, she and Penelope having risen at five, slaves Cyril and Icarus now appearing from their rooms.

“Indeed so,” Joseph agreed, nodding to a yawning Cyril as he walked into the common area.

“Have you eaten breakfast Master Julius?” asked Electra, also uncomfortable calling her owner by his given name.

“No, Ruth’s still asleep,” said Joseph.

“That child couldn’t cook a decent meal if her life depended on it,” said Electra, preparing a full plate and bowl for Joseph, handing it to him.

“Thank you Electra, and Ruth is a very good cook,” said Joseph from his chair, defending his lovely slave, sitting the plate on a low table, starting on the bowl of stew using a wooden spoon.

“When is she due master?” asked Electra, back turned to Joseph, fixing plates and bowls for Icarus and Cyril.

“Due for what madam?” mumbled Joseph, mouth full of stew.

“Due with your next child,” a smiling Penelope answered, “Everyone here knows Ruth loves you, she has for almost two years.”

Cyril, knowing better, looked to the ceiling, waiting for Joseph’s response.

Joseph swallowed hard, almost choking on the stew, and asked, staring at Penelope, “What are you saying?”

“You needn’t be shy with us master,” Electra replied, handing breakfast to Cyril and Icarus, waving a hand as she returned to her pots, finally serving meals for her and Penelope.

“I have not touched her madam,” Joseph stated flatly, finishing the stew and sitting the bowl on the table, reaching for the glazed pottery plate of ham and eggs.

“Really?” asked Electra, not believing her ears, sitting her food on a table near the hearth.

“I haven’t done anything outside of my marriage to Maria. I have a wife and I love her, and will cleave only unto – ” a smirking Joseph began, the slaves staring at him excepting for Cyril.

“You’re saying you haven’t taken her in bed?” a stunned Electra interrupted, turning from Joseph and fearing bitter reprisal, staring at her cooling breakfast.

“Certainly not, I’m not a rapist, regardless of how good looking she may be,” said Joseph, sternness in his voice, after inhaling his slice of smoked ham.

“We are your property, such would not be rape, if you desired me, I would have no choice but to accede to your demands,” observed the usually dim-witted Penelope, looking to Joseph. A pragmatic woman, Penelope was fully aware of her low station in life, having been taken by her former master Marcus many times, even delivering a stillborn child by him several years earlier.

“Men who would do that are nothing but animals, and never speak of such disgusting acts to me again or you will see what kind of a man I can be,” retorted an insulted Joseph with eyes narrowed, staring at her.

“But I am your slave, you are my master, giving you my body if it is your desire is the duty of a loyal slave, I wouldn’t mind in the least if you took me in bed,” said Penelope, not understanding his anger.

“What?” asked Joseph, not believing the words he heard.

“I’m at your service master Julius, you may use me for chores, entertainment, even for sex.”

“What are you, a common whore?” Joseph thundered.

“No, I am a slave, master Marcus found me comely and came unto me many times, such is not whordom, it is your prerogative as my master,” said Penelope as Joseph stared at her, his mind filling with rage.

“I say Marcus was depraved vermin, and I’m not a whoremonger you simple bitch, nor a goddamn rapist!” Joseph exploded, shattering his plate on the floor, broken yolks flowing from the shards to the carpet.

“Such is within your – ” began Electra, a frightened Penelope retreating to her room.

“Shut up Electra, other men may force themselves on their female slaves, or even their male slaves for that matter, but not I, nor will my good son Julius!” Joseph thundered, glaring at her, she having been carnally debauched by Roman men most of her life.

“Very well master Julius,” said Electra quietly, turning to the other slaves and asking, “Are your morning meals satisfactory?”

Each uttered a voice of approval, most still eating.

“I’ll see to Penelope’s needs,” Electra declared, bowing to Joseph before she left the common area.

“Get to it old woman, and kindly inform that half-wit bitch I’m not a rapist!” Joseph spat, his male slaves sitting silently in disbelief.

“I’ll tend to the broken plate and spoiled eggs,” Ganymede offered, rising from his stool and picking up the shards from the carpeted floor.

“Get the bread too – Jesus Christ, what kind of a society is this?” Joseph exclaimed, folding arms across his chest.

“What?” asked Icarus, a frowning Cyril looking to Joseph, giving an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

“Never mind, it’s getting late, let’s get to work in the fields,” retorted an understanding Joseph with a wave of a hand, rising from his chair.

Climbing on an open wagon fifteen minutes later, overseer Brutus at the reins behind a pair of Scythian warhorses, they proceeded to the furthest fields of wheat, perhaps twenty acres left to harvest thanks to the vampiric Christ and his lovely consort.

Ironclad wheels rolling over deep ruts in the access trail, Joseph and slaves held on for dear life in the unsprung wagon, Brutus avoiding ruts as best he could, pulling the reins right and left.

“I’ll end up with a broken back if this keeps up,” said Joseph, thrown to one side with the others, the wagon rounding a bend and heading to fields beside the Euphrates, leaving a billowing dust trail in their wake.

“No, but it will certainly feel like it,” Cyril replied, looking to Joseph as the wagon came to an abrupt stop next to a tall cedar tree where the harvesting tools had been left in plain view.

“Hey Brutus, do you think you can drive us here a little faster next time?” asked Joseph, stepping from the wagon.

“I was pushing them to the limit sir, Scythians are strong, but not fast,” the slave answered, oblivious to the sarcasm.

“Whatever,” retorted Joseph, each man grabbing a sharp scythe or sickle.

“I could have sworn we stopped at least a hundred cubits ahead of this cedar,” observed a confused Brutus, staring at the gigantic evergreen tree.

“Indeed not overseer, we stopped here yesterday evening, leaving perhaps twenty acres left to harvest,” Cyril corrected, covering for Jesus.

“Are you sure?” asked Brutus, looking to rows of neatly cut sheaves sitting behind them.

“Look at the map I have drawn, the fields stop at the river bend where the woods start,” answered Cyril.

“I thought we stopped north of here,” Brutus replied, scratching his head.

“We have been moving fast thanks to the master’s help, perhaps you did not realize it,” said Cyril, glancing to Joseph for a moment, he staring at the Euphrates and neighboring Armenia.

“I suppose,” a shrugging Brutus replied, glad their latest backbreaking chore was almost over.

Finishing the harvest on the next evening, the following week was devoted to loading the remaining sheaves into the wagon, the last brought to the granary on October 12, the operation nearly a month ahead of schedule. Electra, Penelope and the borrowed slaves, five in all, were occupied separating wheat from chaff as the last wagonload arrived during late morning.  A small mountain of grain was sitting to one side, a mountain of chaff on the other, the chaff to be later used for animal feed. The barley had been dealt with, the seven granary slaves having plucked barleycorns from the stems during the past weeks. As a reward for their toil, slaves Brutus, Ganymede and Icarus were given necessary funds by Joseph and given permission to visit the town brothel and bathhouse.

“On to Antigone’s,” a smiling Ganymede announced as they climbed aboard an open wagon, this fine coach having a leather strap box suspension, and was coupled to a healthy pair of Arabian geldings.

As usual, Brutus took to the reins, Icarus and Ganymede sitting in the rear.

“Try out Drusus’ place, he opened his whorehouse about a month ago,” Joseph suggested.

“That’s strange, we’ve been partaking of his brothel for nearly two years,” called Icarus as Brutus drove off.

Satisfied with the accomplishments, Joseph leaned against the granary wall, arms folded across his chest, remarking to Cyril they would have more than enough grain for the winter, with ample surplus to sell to the garrison and Callicles.

“Indeed we will, but you’re a very wealthy man and have no need of money. If I may ask, why do you bother planting so much grain?”

“The game,” said Joseph, reaching for a bottle of wine hidden nearby, watching the women and borrowed slaves carrying baskets of wheat seed to the granary.

“The game?”

“I need something to do, this is as good as anything else,” Joseph answered, opening the bottle and taking a deep drink.

Cyril stood quietly, watching his master drain half the bottle within ten seconds.

“Have a slug, you worked for it,” Joseph offered, holding out the bottle to the elderly teacher.

“I do not drink wine,” said Cyril.

“I forgot, sorry,” Joseph apologized, quickly finishing the bottle.

“No apology needed Julius,” said Cyril, watching Joseph reach for another hidden bottle of Gaul’s finest.

“You don’t use whores either do you?” Joseph asked, opening the next bottle.

“No.”

“No wine, no whores – what do you do?”

“I work and study scrolls in the evening, along with enjoying conversation with your eldest son and his wife.”

“You’re not one of those queers are you, like that censor from Antioch?” asked a frowning Joseph.

“Certainly not, Electra and I are very good friends,” said an insulted Cyril.

“I’m sorry, you’re saying you and Electra, you – ” began a stammering Joseph.

“I may be old but I am not dead,” Cyril retorted, looking Joseph in the eyes.

“Forget that I asked,” said an embarrassed Joseph, turning to watch his other charges threshing wheat.

Jesus walked to the kitchen just after sundown while his father was finishing supper, his mother having retired to their bedroom, the Magdalene, as usual, joining her, Julian, and Ruth. “Good evening father,” he said, reaching for a bottle of wine and finding the cupboard empty.

“We’re out up here, if you want a drink you’ll have to hit the cellar. I bought a wagonload of Scipio’s last spring,” Joseph advised.

“Right,” said Jesus, heading from the house and opening the cellar entrance, stepping down into the cool, pitch-black cellar beneath the kitchen, cases and amphorae stacked to the ceiling, containing hundreds of gallons of Gaul’s finest. Grabbing a heavy wooden case of Gaius Scipio’s Gallic wine, each containing a dozen wax sealed pottery magnums, Jesus left the cellar, closed the door and returned to the kitchen. “Here you are father,” he said, sitting the pine case on the table.

“Open it up, let’s have a good belt,” his father suggested.

“Sure,” Jesus replied, ripping slats from the top of the case and lifting a bottle from a corner of the box.

“Will you do the honors?” asked Jesus, handing him the bottle.

“Sure,” said Joseph, Jesus replenishing their larder with the remaining bottles and tossing the empty case into the burning hearth, watching his father fill a pair of crystal goblets.

“Let’s get drunk, the harvest is finished,” his father declared, handing Jesus a goblet.

“Has it been threshed and stored?”

“Most of it, another few days and they’ll be done.”

“We’ll have to sell some off, where the hell is Callicles?”

“He should have been here by now, he usually arrives in mid-September,” Joseph replied, taking a deep drink.

“Maybe the quake in Nicomedia – ”

“Killed him?”

“I’m hoping it only delayed him, the road west of Nicomedia was blocked.”

“With what?”

“Boulders, some the size of houses,” answered Jesus, downing his goblet.

“Maybe he was crushed to death by one, along with his entire caravan,” Joseph conjectured morbidly, reaching for the magnum and refilling his son’s goblet.

“I doubt it, by his schedule he was probably in Chrysopolis, purchasing goods auctioned off the docks.”

“Wasn’t Chrysopolis leveled too?” asked Joseph, not understanding the generally local nature of earthquakes.

“Aneyrum was unscathed, it perhaps a hundred miles from Nicomedia, Chrysopolis is about hundred miles from there too.”

“Then he should be okay.”

“Probably, but even if he isn’t, someone else will come to fill the void, they always do.”

“True,” Joseph agreed.

“We don’t need him anyway, we have enough money to buy anything we want from anyone, along with tons of grain and thousands of pounds of meat.”

“Only fifteen hundred or so, I sold forty sides to Gavinal in the early summer.”

“Like I said, more than enough,” said Jesus, holding up his empty goblet for a refill.

Conversing for the next hour regarding the farm’s production, Jesus rose to grab another magnum, having drunk most of the first, handing the new bottle to his father.

Pouring libations, Joseph remarked, “I need to talk to you about something son.”

“About what?”

“I blew up at Electra and Penelope a few weeks back.”

“Meaning?” asked Jesus, finally realizing which side of the family he had inherited his ambiguity from.

“I went to the slave quarters one morning during the harvest, to head to the fields with the slaves.”

“And?” asked Jesus, looking to his father after draining the goblet.

“Uh, I don’t really know how to say this,” began an embarrassed Joseph.

“The simplest way is usually the best,” Jesus advised, grabbing the magnum to refill his goblet.

“Indeed, um, they told me some disquieting things about Ruth.”

“Who did?”

“Electra and Penelope you idiot.”

“I’m sorry, what did they say?”

“Penelope said Ruth loves me and Electra suggested I was fornicating with her.”

“By your statement I gather you haven’t touched her,” said Jesus, taking a gulp of wine.

Joseph stared at Jesus with a look that could kill.

“What do you think you introspective cretin?”

“All right, you haven’t touched her, what did you tell them?”

“The same thing I just told you.”

“What did they say?”

“Penelope said Ruth loves me,” a frowning Joseph reiterated.

“From what I’ve seen father, she does.”

“Really?”

“I’d say so, you did talk to her before I left, right?”

“Yes, I told her to stop being a cock tease and that I am a happily married man.”

“What did she do?” asked Jesus, finishing his latest goblet.

“She stopped being a cock tease and I’ve had no problems since, she’s a very good slave, and cares for your brother quite well.”

“None?”

“None at all.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” said Jesus, reaching for the magnum.

“I’m not worried about it, can’t you hypnotize her and make her forget she uh – ”

“Loves you?” asked Jesus, raising eyebrows while filling his goblet.

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t work that way, I can entrance those who are a threat to me, the Magdalene, or to our family, but I cannot suppress primordial emotions which can occur in people, especially one such as love,” answered Jesus.

“That figures,” Joseph spat, grabbing the bottle and refilling his goblet.

“You’re concerned for her feelings aren’t you?”

“Of course, it’s ridiculous, a sixteen year old girl infatuated with an old man of 59 years who couldn’t care less about her, hell, I’m old enough to be her grandfather.”

“I thought you were 58.”

“I turn 59 in January, what the hell’s the difference?”

“I understand,” said Jesus, looking to the table.

“You do?”

“Indeed so father, and I respect your concern for her, but you’ll have to deal with this situation without help from me, as there’s nothing I can do about it anyway.”

“Sometimes you have a way of saying things that sound good on the surface, but afterward leaving one feeling as if you said nothing at all,” Joseph observed, resting his head on an arm.

“Simon Peter said that to me at times too.”

“And you killed him after you rose as a vampire didn’t you?”

“Yes, at the temple in Jerusalem.”

“Why?”

“Please, let’s not get into that now,” said Jesus, staring into his wineglass.

Father and son sat quietly for a few minutes, Jesus breaking the silence by remarking, “I noticed you haven’t named your dog.”

“What are you saying?” asked Joseph.

“Romans usually name their pets, not common animals on the farm mind you, but they usually name their pets,” Jesus explained, taking another drink from his goblet.

“Why would one name a pet?” asked a smirking Joseph, still very much a Hebrew at heart, seeing animals only as creatures kept for their ability to serve and nothing more.

“Who knows,” said Jesus, not understanding the practice either, “But in Roman society, one usually names familiar animals like dogs, and even horses or oxen sometimes, it may behoove you to come up with a suitable name for the animal.”

“How?”

“Try recalling the traits the dog displayed when you first encountered him,” Jesus suggested, motioning his empty goblet to his father.

“He was the dominant one in the litter, all the other dogs deferred to him, excepting for the mother of course,” Joseph recalled, grabbing the bottle and refilling Jesus’ goblet.

“His name is obvious.”

“And?”

“And what?” asked Jesus, not following.

“What do you suggest for his goddamn name?”

“Oh, perhaps Dominus Rex, or Rex for short.”

“Rex it is, that’ll work, I don’t care as long as he has a name,” a shrugging Joseph replied, looking to a shooting star in the kitchen window.

“You do know Rex means king in Latin,” added Jesus, speaking Aramaic.

“I’m quite aware of that, after all I speak Latin quite fluently thanks to you,” Joseph retorted in utter disgust.

“Sorry dad, I forgot for a moment.”

“Whatever,” spat Joseph.

 

* * *

 

Three days later, Callicles came rolling into town on a bright Saturday afternoon, delayed due the Via Tiberius Romanus having been rendered impassable by the quake.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” a smiling Gavinal remarked to Marcus Pertinax as he rose from his seat, a drunken Callicles standing in the doorway.

“Is that the kind of welcome I get, risking life and limb to bring my fine goods to Tibernum outpost?” asked Callicles, offering his hand to the prefect.

“Care for a drink friend?” asked Gavinal, giving the trader a firm handshake.

“I thought you’d never ask,” said Callicles, clumsily sitting down in a padded chair.

“Are you sure, it looks like you’ve had enough for today,” Gavinal observed, Callicles staring at him with blurred vision.

“One can never have enough wine,” Callicles retorted, the scent of alcohol heavy on his breath.

The trader took a filled goblet from Gavinal, downing most of it on the first gulp.

“We were wondering where you’ve been, you were due in September,” said Marcus.

“The road leading to Nicomedia was destroyed by the quake, forcing me to move south to Antioch, taking the northeast road from there to Aneyrum,” Callicles explained, handing his emptied goblet to the prefect.

“Your old route, before the west road opened,” ventured Gavinal, refilling the goblet.

“No, in those days we turned south at Kaserium, several hundred miles east of Nicomedia,” replied Callicles, taking the filled goblet and sitting it on the table, realizing he had to talk of news and business.

“I know Kaserium,” said Gavinal, having been considered by Tiberius Caesar to be prefect of that central Anatolian town.

“Anyway, shortly after we left Chrysopolis we found Nicomedia had been destroyed. It took a day to turn the caravan around and head south from there,” said Callicles, having stopped at the exact place Jesus and Mary had, the fractured road ahead a deep ravine.

“Nicomedia was a beautiful town,” Marcus observed.

“Was, and that’s not the least of it,” continued Callicles, “As we were leaving Chrysopolis, huge waves came through the Hellespont, swamping the docks and warehouses, perhaps fifty people were killed there that night.”

“Tidal waves,” said Gavinal, having been in a coastal earthquake in Italy years before.

“Is that what they’re called?” asked Callicles, reaching for his goblet.

“Yes.”

“Well, for whatever it’s worth, I’m glad I bought plenty of stock in Chrysopolis, most times I also buy at Nicomedia, but the prices at the Dardanelle warehouses were damn good this year,” said Callicles, taking another drink of wine.

“That means your prices are low?” asked Marcus.

“Not as low as the last few years,” replied a shrewd Callicles, “Since Nicomedia’s gone and the docks and warehouses are wrecked in Chrysopolis, I’ve had to raise prices on most goods by twenty percent or more.”

“Why?” asked Gavinal, a wealthy Roman bureaucrat mostly sheltered from the capricious forces of first century market capitalism.

“I’ll have to make a good profit this fall, considering it will be slim pickings next spring, and I’m sure those bastards in Chrysopolis will be asking twice what they were asking before the quake,” said Callicles, taking another deep drink of wine.

“Can’t you buy elsewhere?” asked Gavinal.

“The only ports of note in Anatolia are the cities of Chrysopolis, Nicomedia, and a smaller one further southwest on the Mare Internum called Tarsus,” spoke up Marcus, Callicles nodding in agreement.

“On the way to Judea I’ll stop off at the ports in Syria to see if anything good is for sale,” Callicles explained, rubbing his red forehead, “After that, I’ll drop by Marcellus’ port at Caesarea.”

“How is good Marcellus?” asked Gavinal, resting his head on an arm, knowing the equestrian man well.

“He’s fine, but he had to order a century to kill a bunch of Jews and Samaritans in Galilee last spring for the crime of insurrection.”

“Really?” asked Marcus.

“Some preacher called Lucius the Christ was causing trouble there, claiming he was a king or something, some of the followers who survived say he’s the Son of God,” related a smirking Callicles, holding his goblet up for a refill as Marcus did the same.

“What god would that be?” asked Gavinal.

“Who knows and who cares,” said a shrugging Callicles, arms in the air.

“How many were slaughtered in Galilee?” asked Gavinal, refilling their goblets.

Four or five thousand according to centurion Flavius Maximus, not enough if you ask me, revolutionary fanatics interfere with business,” Callicles replied, slurring his words.

“Judea’s a strange place,” said Marcus, “Why can’t those Jews accept the rule of Rome and leave it at that?”

“They think they’re special, if I recall correctly, another one of their Christs caused quite a stir only few years back, I think his name was Joshua Christ,” Gavinal replied, handing filled goblets to his friends.

“No, Jesus Christ was his name, the name Jesus a Greek diminutive of Joshua, he was a competitor of Lucius Christ,” Callicles corrected.

“Christ?” asked Gavinal, wondering what ‘Christ’ meant.

“Christ, Christos in Greek, meaning the anointed one,” explained Callicles.

“Iesus Christos, an interesting name,” said Gavinal.

“I heard about him a few years back from Flavius while vending in Jerusalem,” continued Callicles, fluent in Aramaic and Hebrew and though drunk, still lucid thanks to years of drinking alcohol in excess.

“What did they do with him?” asked Gavinal, folding hands on his desk.

“Jesus, they killed him, just like they’ll do with Lucius Christ if they can catch him,” said Callicles, “The locals of Galilee told me he fled to Syria with his closest disciples after his other followers were butchered.”

“Not a very sporting man is he, running away like a scared rabbit,” spat Marcus scornfully, fleeing in the face on one’s enemies considered revolting and a sign of cowardice in those days.

“That’s the truth, unlike that Jesus Christ guy, Lucius Christ is a coward,” said Callicles, downing a gulp of wine.

“How’s that?” asked Gavinal, listening intently.

“Flavius told me that before he was killed, Jesus rode into Jerusalem one day with his followers, picking fights with officials and religious leaders – even going to a temple in broad daylight and vandalizing the place while cussing out the priests.”

“That takes balls,” Marcus declared with an approving smile, he like any Roman of the day having respect for a brave man of action, as Jesus had been.

“True, but rooting out Lucius Christ will take time, considering he hasn’t the guts to stand with his followers,” retorted a disgusted Callicles, “From what I heard in Antioch, a fresh century from Jerusalem is heading to Damascus in search of him.”

“I hope they catch him,” said Gavinal, “We don’t need fanatics in Judea screwing everything up for advanced Roman civilization.”

“I’ll say, it seems every few years the Judeans have one of those Christ characters showing up, claiming they’re God, my father told me when I was a kid the first one appeared during the reign of Augustus,” Callicles replied, finishing his goblet.

“Who was he?” asked Marcus, looking to the trader.

“Some clown called Aaron the Christ.”

“Aaron, that’s a weird name,” observed Marcus.

“No weirder than the name Jesus, and all their Christs seem to claim they’re God after a time for whatever reason,” Callicles replied, grabbing the bottle.

“Hmm,” said Gavinal, turning in his seat and looking out a window to the garrison compound. In the distance he observed Caius entering the barracks office with two other officers. The room became silent for a few minutes, Marcus pouring another goblet, offering the bottle to Gavinal, who held up hands and shook his head.

“I don’t know about you guys, but I don’t think there are gods, at least not ones like are in the temples,” a yawning Gavinal confessed, leaning back in his chair.

“Probably not,” agreed Marcus.

“I mean like most Romans I believe in the fates, and head to the Pantheon every month to pay homage to Jupiter, but I don’t think he actually exists, at least not in the way we envision him,” Gavinal explained.

“Neither do I, Jupiter and the lesser gods are bullshit to keep the people in line,” Marcus declared, leaning back in his chair, pleasantly inebriated as the sun was setting.

“I don’t waste time pretending they’re real, I’m an atheist,” said Callicles, finishing his latest goblet.

“So is Julius Chrysippus the elder,” said Gavinal.

“Really?” asked Callicles, looking to the prefect in double vision.

“He told me how he felt about gods at the pantheon last month.”

“What did he say?” asked Marcus.

“After the priest left Julius said Jupiter didn’t exist, and to prove it he dared the god to strike him dead where he stood, swearing at him and giving his statue the finger,” said Gavinal, a grin appearing on his lips as he recalled the situation at the pantheon.

Feeling much more comfortable as a plebian Roman citizen, Joseph had noticed a bored Gavinal one afternoon as the priest bowed before the idol, his eldest daughter making faces at him. Joseph smiled back, and after the service had ended, stood conversing in the empty temple with the prefect, his wife Phoebe having taken the children back to the mansion.

“Sometimes this religious stuff gets to me,” said Gavinal, jerking his thumb at the idol, even though a very superstitious man, not believing a bronze statute made by men could be any sort of god.

“How’s that?” asked Joseph, his wife home with Julian.

“I believe the fates are real, but I have a bit of trouble believing Jupiter is actually here, that is if he even exists at all,” a frowning Gavinal confessed, looking to the idol.

“He’s not here and doesn’t exist, I can prove it to you once and for all,” said Joseph, looking to the ten-foot tall god seated before them on his granite throne.

“How?”

“Watch this,” Joseph retorted with a wicked smile, turning to the idol.

“Hey Jupiter wake up, one of your subjects is standing before you,” a smirking Joseph taunted the statue while Gavinal looked on.

No response came from the lifeless idol as they stood in the deserted temple.

“Oh well, since you evidently can’t hear my supplication – come on prick, try and strike me dead Jupiter, you’re so full of shit that it’s coming out of your gilded bronze ears,” spat Joseph, breaking into a vicious laugh, his middle finger out before the statue.

The prefect stood shocked at the blasphemous utterances of Joseph.

“See Gavinal, nothing’s happening, he’s only a chunk of metal, better off used for armor or pipes,” Joseph declared, pointing to the silent and unmoving statue.

“I do this out of tradition, don’t think I believe in him either,” a cringing Gavinal replied, wondering if a lightning bolt wasn’t going to fly from Jupiter and strike down Joseph any second.

“I don’t believe in him at all and I come here for exactly the same reason,” said a confident Joseph, folding arms across his chest.

A drunken Callicles laughed at the revelations, taking another drink from his goblet. “That proves he has brains,” replied Callicles, fondly thinking of Julius and his son Julius the younger, once known in Judea as Jesus Christ, King of the Jews.

“Why are you an atheist friend Callicles?” asked Marcus.

“You imply I need a reason,” said Callicles, leaning over clumsily and grabbing the bottle, refilling his goblet and gulping it down quickly, intent on getting completely drunk.

“Not really, I was just wondering,” Marcus replied, “I don’t believe in gods because the myths handed down strike me as absurd.”

“That’s the way I’ve come to feel about it too,” said Gavinal, “If anyone is blessed by the gods, it is I and my wife Phoebe, along with good Marcus and his lovely wife Drusilla.”

“You equestrian folks usually are blessed, if not only by your station and your inherited money,” Callicles retorted, illustrating the distinct class divisions in Roman society. However wealthy Callicles was, he much richer than Gavinal or Marcus could ever be, he was only a plebian citizen like Jesus and Joseph were. His father Callicles the elder and brother Demosthenes, father of the younger Demosthenes, had been adopted by the procurator of Antioch as their patron, Callicles the elder as a man of 32, and his brother Demosthenes of 24 years, made legal citizens at the turn of the Common Era.

“Why do you say that?” asked Marcus, a plebian from an old republican family.

“I’m sorry friends, no offense meant,” said Callicles, “The subject of gods pisses me off, worthless superstition keeping lazy priests in jobs,” reaching for the bottle and filling his goblet.

“None taken,” replied Gavinal, “But why are you so ill disposed toward the gods?”

“My first wife died while giving birth to my firstborn son twenty years ago, who died three days later in the arms of a midwife,” answered a frowning, 44 year old Callicles.

“Forgive me, I didn’t know,” said Gavinal, looking to his polished desk.

“I apologize too friend,” Marcus added, men of that era not usually asking about another man’s personal life, especially one as unfortunate as Callicles’ had been at times.

“My second wife Helen is a barren woman, the only children I’ve sired are bastards spat from the bellies of whores, what kind of god would allow that!” spat an angry Callicles, looking to his friends in double vision.

“We are very sorry for asking,” said Gavinal.

“My nephew will carry on my name!” Callicles declared, falling to the floor unconscious as his empty goblet shattered beside him, the side of the desk breaking his fall for whatever it was worth, drops of blood issuing from the left side of the trader’s forehead.

“Is he all right?” asked Marcus, assisting Gavinal in moving Callicles to the couch, still broken thanks to the obese censor Nero Maccius.

“He just scraped his head on the desk, I think we now know why friend Callicles drinks so much,” a frowning Gavinal replied, staring at Callicles, snoring loudly as he lay on his back.

“Yeah,” said Marcus, looking to the shattered goblet.

Waking in the lamplit office several hours later, Callicles sat up, wincing as he felt pain coming from a spot in front of his left temple. Touching at the minor cut, he looked to his hand for blood.

An efficient Gavinal had resumed his work of figuring the monthly payroll for the garrison, an Egyptian abacus before him, notary Marcus having left shortly after sundown. The shattered goblet had been cleaned up, a dutiful slave having been summoned to deal with it.

“You okay Callicles?” Gavinal asked, looking up from his paperwork.

“Yeah, I’ve got to get to the caravansary, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Callicles answered with a sigh, rising from the couch unsteadily, still rather drunk.

“Take it easy,” said Gavinal, going back to his loathsome paperwork while Callicles let himself out, slamming the polished bronze clad door behind him.

“I’ve got to ease up on the drinking,” the trader observed with a frown, stopping at the wrought iron gate, again touching the cut on his forehead.

“Good evening Callicles of Athens,” the guard greeted, opening the gate.

“Good evening to you,” Callicles answered with a nod, heading from the compound.

Walking to his torch lit bazaar, he noticed most of the tents and awnings had been set up, a fully bearded Demosthenes occupied talking to a half-drunk Kago, the head mercenary, his latest duty to oversee the slaves erecting the remaining awnings over the wagons.

“I’m sorry Kago, hopefully my uncle will return soon, if he doesn’t, just have the slaves finish – ” an equally inebriated, frowning Demosthenes was intoning, each having a cup of strong Gallic beer in hand.

“Have no fear nephew, I’ve returned,” a smiling Callicles declared, walking up.

“Good evening uncle, how are the prefect and his friends?”

“They’re fine, what’s up Kago?” asked Callicles, looking to his employee.

“The slaves are almost finished putting up the tents, I was wondering if I should have them unhitch the wagons from the oxen and move them into the caravansary.”

“That can wait till tomorrow morning, let them get something to eat when they’re done with the tents if they haven’t eaten already,” Callicles ordered, sobering up a bit and looking to a group of industrious slaves, diligently working by torchlight at eleven thirty.

“Right,” said Kago, turning and heading to the other end of the bazaar.

“What happened to your head?” asked Demosthenes, noting the abrasion on his forehead.

“The last thing I remember is I fell off a chair at Gavinal’s, let’s get a drink,” said Callicles, having forgotten his earlier remarks regarding alcohol. They headed to his personal wagon on the recently paved main street of Tibernum, two chairs and a full amphora of Gallic beer sitting in front of his gilded coach.

“Want to get drunk?” asked an eighteen year-old Demosthenes, looking to his uncle while holding an empty cup, following in his footsteps on the path to alcoholism.

“You bet your ass I do, let’s have beer,” Callicles replied, taking a seat next to his personal amphora.

 

* * *

 

Joseph, sitting aboard the enclosed wagon, arrived at the caravansary at a little after noon with Brutus, a bright sun high in the sky.

“Stay here, have wine if you want, a bottle’s in back,” ordered Joseph.

“Yes Julius,” said Brutus, tying the reins to a stone hitching post.

Joseph headed into the caravansary, looking about for Callicles or Demosthenes.

“I’m sorry, they got drunk last night,” said a Syrian slave named Mito, employed as a chef, standing in front of a pair of huge, smoking, wagon mounted open-air grills laden with cooking food.

The aroma of the food catching in Joseph’s nostrils, he noted sides of fresh pork, venison, fowl of various kinds and assorted vegetables on the grill, along with Callicles personal favorite, horsemeat tenderloin.

“Demosthenes too?” asked a salivating Joseph, fondly looking to the horsemeat.

“Yes,” answered the slave.

“Why am I not surprised,” Joseph replied as Gavinal walked up.

“Greetings Julius the elder,” said Gavinal, offering his hand.

“Greetings to you Gavinal,” Joseph answered, taking the prefect by the arm in a firm handshake.

“Where are the vendors?” asked the prefect, looking about.

“Drunk evidently,” Joseph replied.

“That figures,” said a smiling Gavinal, just as the indestructible Callicles stepped from his gilded wagon.

“I’m a bit late friends, forgive me I got drunk last night,” Callicles explained with arms out, still inebriated from the previous evening’s revelry, he and his nephew having drunk beer with mercenaries Kago and Aeschesles until well after sunup.

“Really,” a smiling Gavinal replied.

“Five will get me ten you were loaded too last night,” Callicles retorted, again touching at the cut near his temple.

“Not really, I had work to do after you left, no offense meant.”

“None taken,” said the trader, “What can I do for you folks this afternoon?”

“I’m just looking around, perhaps friend Julius wants to buy something,” Gavinal answered, heading off to see what items were for sale, Greek slaves on his list.

Callicles turned to see the prefect heading into the bazaar, asking Joseph, “Well then, perhaps I can sell you something?”

“Yes, but I doubt if you’ll have all of the items I need, my son Julius wants to put a hot water system in the house.”

“He’s back?”

“He and Maria arrived on the kalends of September.”

“Good, I’d like to see him again,” Callicles replied, liking Jesus and Mary Magdalene, especially the pretty Magdalene.

“We’re expecting you at our home friend, as we have meat, grain and other items to sell, and are more than welcome to visit with your nephew for food and drink.”

“I shall, as for a hot water system, you’ll need a bronze flue pipe, assorted fixtures and sealing pitch, lead pipe for conducting the heated water to the fixtures, and a bronze clad oak barrel for holding the heated water,” Callicles surmised, rubbing his clean-shaven chin.

“How come everybody knows about those devices except me?”

“I have to as I’m a vendor, I probably have everything you’ll need for the installation excepting for the lead pipe, I’m sure Drusus has that at his store.”

“He does?”

“He should, I sold him two wagonloads last spring, standard one tenth cubit by eight cubit household plumbum, along with a thousand pounds of lead bars for sealing. Your blacksmith should be familiar with the setting of pipe,” said a nodding Callicles.

“He is, you don’t have any?” asked Joseph.

“I only carry it in the spring, shipments of finished pipe from Rome are sent to Chrysopolis once a year, but don’t worry, Drusus will take care of you,” the trader replied.

“Do you have pumps?”

“Perhaps, Archimedean screw or Egyptian baffle?” asked Callicles.

“I don’t know, talk to my son about it when you see him,” a frustrated Joseph answered, feeling out of touch when it came to modern Roman machinery.

“An Archimedean screw pump is the most efficient but they tend to wear out after a time, especially if you use animals to drive them, the iron shafts wear out the bronze bearings by moving to and fro,” Callicles explained, looking up to the taller Joseph.

“Talk to my son about it, I’m sure he’ll know what kind we need,” said a confused Joseph, the pair heading to wagons containing components for a hot water system.

“Here it is, everything you’ll need for warm water for your bath aside from the pipe,” Callicles declared while a pair of slaves produced the needed items, including a heavy, tightly covered wooden bucket marked in Latin with ‘sealing pitch’.

“Sealing pitch, what’s that?” asked Joseph.

“It’s used for sealing and insulating the connections and pipes coming from the bronze holding tank,” answered Callicles.

“Pitch usually melts when heat is applied,” Joseph scoffed, looking to the bucket.

“Not this stuff,” explained Callicles, “Once applied, you let it sit on the pipes for a week or so and it hardens to a stone like consistency.”

“What’s in it?”

“It’s written on the bucket if you want to read it, but basically it’s clay, with virgin olive oil, horsehair, bitumen and lime added.”

“Incredible,” said Joseph.

“Keep the bucket sealed tight or it’ll harden before you can even use it, and use it quickly, the shelf life’s only a year.”

“Shelf life?” asked Joseph.

“The time from manufacture until it’s considered useless, if you keep the bucket sealed tight you can use it for perhaps a year, after that forget it, it hardens on its own,” Callicles explained.

“It really works?”

“It does indeed, and vendor Halcycus of Dacia even guarantees it or your money back, if used properly of course,” replied Callicles.

Joseph noted the trade name ‘Thermarium plumbum Halcycus’ branded on the side of the wooden bucket, together with an illustration of a pipe bathed in flames. Use within one year of purchase was below the illustration.

“What the hell, I’ll take a chance on it,” said Joseph.

“Remember, it’s guaranteed or your money back.”

“Have you ever had to refund money on this product?”

“No, and I’ve been selling it across Anatolia and Judea for ten years, ask Gavinal, he bought some last year for his slave quarters plumbing,” Callicles answered, looking to the fine example of advanced Roman technology.

“Sold,” said Joseph.

“The bill comes to uh, 320 denarii,” the trader announced, inflating the price by another fifty.

“Three hundred twenty, you’re kidding!” Joseph exclaimed.

“For you Julius, 275 will do,” Callicles dickered, thinking of the destroyed docks in Chrysopolis, hoping to make an extra five or so.

“That’s more like it,” Joseph replied, reaching in a tunic pocket for gold, the farm having earned so much that it was beginning to render Jesus’ additions moot.

“Thanks friend,” said a shrewd Callicles, having tripled his money on the sale, Joseph dropping gold in his hand.

“I’d best collect my slave,” said Joseph.

“Never mind that, my slaves!” Callicles yelled.

“Yes master,” answered a German male, three others of various ethnicities having also appeared.

“You four, take these goods to the wagon of Julius Chrysippus,” ordered the trader, “His conveyance is located just north of the forum, right Julius?”

“Perhaps we should accompany them just in case,” Joseph suggested.

“Go ahead uncle, I’ll handle sales,” called Demosthenes, stepping from a personal wagon Callicles had given him on his eighteenth birthday, an Anatolian prostitute sleeping within.

“Right,” Callicles answered, walking off with Joseph.

The wagon quickly loaded by efficient slaves, Joseph joined the trader in a wholesome lunch, Brutus accompanying them, all wolfing down delicious horsemeat tenderloin, baked vegetables and Gallic beer into the late afternoon.

As dusk approached, Jesus and Mary appeared, his father not noticing the sun was just dipping below the horizon.

“Julius the younger!” a drunken Callicles exclaimed, rising from his seat and shaking the vampiric Son of Man’s cool hand with both of his.

“Greetings friend Callicles,” said Jesus, returning the hearty handshake, Mary nodding to him.

“Welcome lovely Maria,” Callicles greeted, nodding to Mary as he returned to his seat. “Would you care for beer?” he asked, reaching for a wooden cup.

“Don’t mind if I do,” said Jesus, sitting down with his consort, looking to his sober father and asking, “What have you purchased today?”

“Most of the hot water system,” Joseph replied, looking to an unconscious, drunken Brutus lying on a cot, “Excepting for the connecting pipes, Drusus has those.”

“Callicles has none available?”

“Nope, he sold it all to Drusus last spring.”

“What about pumps?” asked Jesus, looking to the trader.

“We don’t have any in stock, I’ll pick one up for you in the spring, do you want Archimedean or Egyptian?” asked Callicles, handing Jesus a filled cup of Gallic beer.

“Archimedean.”

“Callicles said Archimedean pumps wear out faster than uh – ” began Joseph.

“Baffle pumps, I know that father,” said Jesus, “But the volume of water pumped by a screw is five times that of a simple baffle pump.”

“Quite true,” Callicles agreed, “If you have a shortage of slaves or beasts of burden, an Archimedean pump would be best.”

“Speaking of slaves, do you have any Greeks for sale?” asked Jesus, downing his cup.

“Gavinal asked me that too, I have only Egyptians, Nubians and Jews at this time.”

“No Greeks?” asked Joseph.

“None at all, but I do have Jews and others from Judea called Samaritans, captured last spring in Galilee when Marcellus went after a clown called Lucius the Christ,” said Callicles.

“Lucius Christ?” asked a thunderstruck Jesus, having been a Christ before his crucifixion and a bitter rival of the worldly Lucius.

Thinking, Jesus recalled his one and only confrontation with Lucius the Christ in Galilee, just outside Capernaum in the early fall of 32 AD.

Both had been preaching on a sunny afternoon, Lucius hoping a skeptical Jesus would come over to his way of thinking, their sermons ending just after four thirty.

“If you don’t want food from my supporters, how are you going to feed these hungry people Jesus?” Lucius scoffed, looking to a crowd of perhaps 5,000 people.

“I’ll feed them,” said Jesus, not having the means of the half Roman Lucius the Christ, a carnal man only in the game of preaching for money and earthly glory.

“We have two fish and a loaf of bread master,” said John.

“You think you’re so much, it’ll take a miracle to feed all these people,” a smiling Lucius declared, overhearing John’s remark.

“Then I shall make one,” a confident Jesus replied, looking to the Magdalene and nodding.

Having spent her life savings to feed the multitude, several ox drawn wagons laden with food appeared.

“There friend Lucius is my miracle, thanks to my beloved on this earth, she sent from my father in heaven!” Jesus exclaimed, narrowing eyes at the worldly Lucius.

“You apostate, I’m the Son of God and am not your friend!” Lucius retorted, rebuffing Jesus’ proclamation.

“Spare the rhetoric and tell me something I don’t know, verily I say Lucius, you and yours are the sons of the devil,” said Jesus.

“Go to hell!” Lucius exclaimed, both preachers standing on a bluff before the multitude.

“Go to hell yourself, such as you only build treasure on this earth to glorify yourselves, which will pass away, without regard for the father in heaven!” Jesus retorted.

“Yahweh is my father!” yelled Lucius.

“In a pig’s ass he is, you Lucius are an evil liar and bastard son of a jackal: a true Son of Man has a pure heart when proclaiming the love of Almighty God to the people!” exclaimed Jesus.

“You call me a bastard, look who’s talking,” a smiling Lucius retorted, raising arms before the crowd.

“My parents were duly wed before my birth, and you sir, regardless of what you say to these people, are the very son of Satan,” Jesus declared, pointing at Lucius before the crowd.

“How dare you say that!”

“I dare, and the Lord above will know his Son by his actions on this earth and by the fruits of his labors,” a smiling Jesus replied as the multitude lined up for their free meals, Mary and other women serving fresh water, fish, and bread.

“I’m a rich man from my preaching, you’re nothing but a poor Levite carpenter, our God favors me, it’s obvious!”

“Earthly wealth is not a measure of the Lord’s favor, verily I say, be gone vermin, you and your evil minions. May the one true God make you pay for your arrogance, by roasting forever in the bowels of hell!” Jesus declared, finger in the air, supporters of Jesus gathering around Lucius and his disciples.

“Take off Lucius, you and yours, or I’ll kill you where you stand for your insulting remarks to our master,” said Mark, drawing a gladius, having been an enlistee in the Roman army and made a citizen at the age of forty-five.

“What?”

“You heard him,” said the physician Luke, Peter and Matthew drawing swords along with several other armed disciples not mentioned in the New Testament, they outnumbering Lucius’ group better than three to one.

“You and your thugs,” spat a defeated Lucius, he and his followers preparing to leave.

“I ought to kill you for that remark barbarian,” said Mark, raising his gladius in righteous anger while Lucius turned from them.

“Barbarian you say, pauper Marcus of Capernaum?” Lucius asked, turning back with a contrived grin.

“Aside from my station, I’m a citizen and you’re not, regardless of your money or your worldly remarks to these people here,” a smiling Mark replied, holding out his left hand, a bronze signet ring on the third finger, several in the crowd laughing loudly at Lucius Christ.

“Go to hell you arrogant Roman bastard!” an embarrassed Lucius retorted, walking off from Jesus and his loyal disciples.

“Kiss off you half-breed,” yelled Luke, an amused Jesus smiling at the remark.

“I ought to kill him just for the hell of it,” said Mark, looking to Peter and the Magdalene while replacing his gladius in its scabbard.

“You should,” agreed a disgusted Mary, hands on hips, Jesus arching eyebrows in disappointment to the one woman he truly loved.

“Verily I say, do not hate him friends, for those deluded by Satan will be forgiven by our Lord in heaven,” said Jesus, Lucius and cronies skulking off.

“You’re crazy Jesus, Lucius is a charlatan and he hates you because he is, he belongs in hell with the Philistines,” replied Mary, folding arms across her ample chest.

“For God’s sake, don’t argue with me on this woman,” said a frowning and exasperated Jesus, disciple Mark looking to her for a moment.

“It’s the truth!” Mary exclaimed.

“She’s right friend Jesus, Lucius is an evil bastard, concerned with the trappings of this life on earth, not the future in heaven or hell,” said Mark.

“I do wish Lucius would follow we and the Lord instead of pursuing lucre,” Jesus answered, looking disdainfully to his adversary in the distance.

“He’s such an idiot at times,” said Mary to a shrugging Mark, jerking a thumb at Jesus.

Walking off, unknown to Jesus, an angry Lucius Christ remarked to one of his followers, “I swear Mahaliel, I’ll get that rotten son of a bitch if it’s the last thing I ever do!”

“You may, Jesus has a friend named Judas Iscariot, and Judas leans more to our side than he does to his,” said Mahaliel of Capernaum.

“He does?” asked Lucius, looking to his disciple.

“He told me privately he thinks Jesus is an asshole.”

Hey Julius, what’s the matter?” asked a slurring Callicles, breaking Jesus from his reverie.

“Nothing, I was just thinking,” said Jesus, looking to the trader.

“He thinks about nothing sometimes,” said Joseph, afterward realizing his statement was ridiculous.

“Does he, oh well, as I was saying, Lucius the Christ is a preacher in northern Judea who fled to Syria a few months ago,” Callicles reiterated.

“You don’t say?” Jesus replied.

“Yeah, he’s just another Jewish troublemaker screwing up business in Judea.”

“I thought he was a half Roman hailing from the tribe of Lev – ” Jesus ventured absentmindedly, Mary kicking at him hard in the leg.

“What?” asked Callicles.

“May I have another?” asked Jesus, raising his empty cup, looking to an angered Mary.

“Sure, I always have beer for fellow Romans,” said Callicles, thankfully dropping the conversation, filling his cup with Gallic beer.

Drinking until nearly midnight, a very drunk Joseph left the caravansary, Brutus flopping in the rear next to the components of the future hot water system.

Jesus took the reins, driving the wagon to the farm while a snoring Joseph rested his head against the Magdalene’s shoulder.

“I swear to Christ, sometimes you say the stupidest goddamn things, it’s a sheer wonder they didn’t kill you earlier,” Mary scoffed as they turned onto the drive leading to the house.

“What do you mean?” asked Jesus as they rode along.

“Lucius Christ you moron.”

“Oh yes, I’m very sorry, thank you woman,” said Jesus, recalling his verbal blunder.

“Thank you, I could have broken your leg with that kick.”

“Not at all, our strengths are also from the interior, verily I say, though your blow would have probably killed a mortal man, you could hurl stones at my head and they would do no real damage to me whatsoever.”

“How do you know that?” asked a smirking Mary.

“From Cyril telling me of the writings of Minoacles, he was once in an avalanche and deflected boulders by using only his right arm.”

“Really?”

“He wrote some even hit him on the head, burying him, and he crawled from the rubble the following evening.”

“I’ll bet he looked like hell, like you did with the bear.”

“Yes, you should read it,” said Jesus as they came to the house.

“Get it from Cyril,” Mary replied, attempting to rouse Joseph.

“The copy we took from Nacherine’s is old and rotten, Cyril’s copying it for us verbatim, in Greek,” said Jesus while his father came to momentarily.

“I can read Greek, when will he be finished?”

“In a few months, it’s a long scroll,” said Jesus, helping his drunken father from the wagon. “Please see to Brutus will you Maria?” his consort nodding and heading to the rear of the wagon.

Jesus and Mary saw that his father and Brutus were placed in their beds, meeting in the kitchen at a little before one.

“Let’s find someone to eat,” a hungry Magdalene hissed with bared fangs, looking from the open doorway to the porch.

“The west road?”

“Of course, I’m tired of taking pigs,” said Mary, running her tongue over exposed fangs.

“By all means,” Jesus replied, closing the door, both turning to fog and heading from Tibernum.

“There, they have to be bandits,” said Jesus, flying over the road almost twenty miles outside town.

“Let’s take them,” Mary replied, assuming human form on the deserted road with Jesus.

Walking to the location of their next victims, a playful Jesus said, “What if they aren’t thieves, perhaps travelers encamped at the side of the road?”

“They aren’t, you know that,” Mary answered as a highwayman stepped from a thicket.

“What are you doing out here?” asked the thief.

“We’re walking about, what is it to you?” asked Mary.

“I was asking your man,” said the highwayman, looking to Jesus for an answer.

“Like she said, we’re walking about, what is it to you?” asked Jesus.

“You’re twenty miles from Tibernum,” said the thief, his compatriots emerging from the thicket and joining their leader.

“That we are, and as to your reason for accosting us in the middle of the night?” asked Jesus, feigning ignorance, fangs emerging from his gums.

“We want your money,” said the leader, five in his band.

“There’s plenty of food tonight, I told you,” a smiling Mary observed, beholding five highwaymen.

“Indeed,” Jesus replied, staring at their victims.

“What are you saying?” the leader asked, hearing what he perceived as mumbling.

“That you can go to hell to get your money.”

“What?”

“You heard him, try to take our money,” Mary taunted, hands on hips.

“Take her first, to show that overgrown Roman bastard who’s boss,” the native Anatolian leader ordered his charges, a pair of his men grabbing the Magdalene by her arms.

“They’re going to take me Jesus,” said an unconcerned Mary.

“I wonder how?” asked Jesus.

“We’re going to rape her to death in front of you,” one of the thieves answered with a vicious laugh, ripping the silk stola from the Magdalene’s chest, exposing her breasts.

“You bastard, that stola cost me forty denarii!” Mary exclaimed, playing the situation for all it was worth, not caring if her breasts were exposed, standing half naked before their assailants.

“Indeed, any man who would destroy such a fine garment deserves death,” Jesus observed, freezing three thieves to their spots, leaving the closest assailants unentranced.

“You care only about her clothes?” asked one, staring at Jesus, unaware his comrades were little more than living statues.

“Not at all,” said Jesus, “Her fine stola did cost us a lot of money, that’s a fact, but I care about her, and her very lovely teeth, look at her friend, she’s quite beautiful, standing before you half nude, her sharp fangs protruding – ”

“Her fangs?” asked a man to the right of the Magdalene.

“Yes, her fangs, look at her,” Jesus replied, smiling broadly, exposing his fangs.

“By the gods, they’re vampires!” one exclaimed in horror, beholding Mary while she effortlessly slipped from their hold.

“Quite correct,” said Mary, grabbing her victim and sucking down his blood in seconds, the other man so frightened he collapsed to the pavement due to his heart almost stopping in its tracks.

“I’m still going to kill you,” Jesus declared, lifting the man from the ground and sinking fangs in the neck, dropping the emptied cadaver to the ground.

“This is so much fun,” said a smiling Mary, checking her victim for loot.

Finding nothing of value, she hurled it toward a cliffside, the body tearing into pieces as it collided with the rock face, landing in a heap at the bottom.

Grabbing Jesus’ victim from the pavement, the Magdalene checked it for lucre, disposing of him in the same fashion.

“They barely had a denarii between them,” said Mary, holding bronze coins in her open palm.

“Let’s help ourselves to the remainder,” replied Jesus, the couple dispatching, looting and dumping them beside their confederates, providing sustenance for local jackals.

“A little over two denarii is the take tonight,” said Mary, counting the money, embossed with likenesses of emperors Tiberius and Caligula, handing coins to her consort.

“It adds up after a time doesn’t it?”

“It does indeed,” said Mary, she and Jesus vanishing from the highway.

Appearing on the porch, Jesus remarked, unlocking the door, “You’d best fix up your dress woman.”

“I’ll do it in the bedroom,” said Mary, pulling torn fabric over her chest and entering the house.

Jesus strolled into the dimly lit, deserted kitchen, grabbed a bottle of wine and a goblet, seated himself and poured a libation. Taking a deep drink of the fine beverage, Jesus sat silently, pondering the evening’s events, ruminating on his former rival Lucius the Christ. It’s incredible he’s still around after all this time, he thought, having figured Lucius too would have been quickly challenged and arrested by the arrogant Pharisees of Jerusalem. As had happened with many other Judean messiahs, a frowning Jesus figured the Romans would crucify Lucius, which was the usual way of the High Priests dealing with threats to their profitable religious hegemony. I imagine they’ll get around to that after they catch him, he thought, refilling his goblet, not knowing the wealthy Lucius had paid off most of the priests, one none other than the evil Joseph Caiaphas. In fact, the Roman authorities were not hunting Lucius for religious reasons, but for the crime of insurrection against Marcellus, duly appointed procurator of Judea. During the spring, several of his followers had murdered officials in Bethlehem and Beersheba, in the name and on the order of Lucius Christ, King of the Jews.

Tending their morning chores, Icarus was standing by the kitchen chimney as Joseph walked out at a little after nine, Ganymede removing the water system components from the wagon.

“How much pipe do you think we’ll need?” Joseph asked of his blacksmith.

“Fifteen cubits of standard one tenth by eight should do for the installation, I’d pick up twenty extra for the pump while you’re at it,” said Icarus.

“I’ll get fifty, where’s Brutus?”

“Feeding the beasts,” said a straining Ganymede, sitting the large, heavy, bronze clad, iron banded oak barrel on the ground, the capacity a little over 100 gallons.

“Would either of you wish to accompany me to Drusus’ store?” asked Joseph, more in the manner of talking with friends than as a Roman slave master.

“It would be best if Icarus did, he knows a lot more about plumbing than me, and I have chores to tend at the stable,” said Ganymede, closing the wagon door.

“One of the Scythians threw a shoe yesterday, and Ganymede’s much better with horses than I am,” Icarus agreed, looking to Joseph.

“Let’s go Icarus,” said Joseph, climbing aboard and taking reins as Icarus followed, Joseph waving to Ganymede as they pulled away. Arriving at Drusus’ hardware store, Joseph walked in with Icarus, another license tacked to the wall in a frame, posted next to a trader’s license for selling hardware goods.

The second license read in very plain words:

 

SPQR: CLASS TWO BROTHEL LICENSE

OWNERS OF BROTHEL: FABIUS DRUSUS ILLYRIACUS AND SON

LOCATION OF BROTHEL: MAIN STREET, TIBERNUM, CAPPADOCIA

NUMBER OF WHORES EMPLOYED ON PREMISES: UP TO TWENTY

ISSUER OF LICENSE: T. GAVINALUS SEPTIMUS, PREFECT OF TIBERNUM

NOTARY: A. MARCUS PERTINAX, SWORN NOTARY OF TIBERNUM

WITNESS: V. CAIUS FELIX, CENTURION, ROMAN REGULAR ARMY

DATE OF ISSUE: 17 SEPTEMBER 790 AUC

FEE: 15 DENARII

ISSUED ON THE AUTHORITY OF GAIUS CAESAR CALIGULA, ROMAN EMPEROR

 

“Welcome to Drusus’ full service hardware store and brothel,” Drusus’ eldest son announced at the door, looking to Joseph, “Are you looking for a whore this morning sir?”

“What are you saying lad?” asked a frowning Joseph.

“That’s Julius Chrysippus the elder you stupid bastard!” an angry Drusus exclaimed, flying from the counter and slapping his son hard on the face with the back of his hand, the lad falling to the floor with a thud.

“I’m sorry father,” said a smarting 17-year-old Gnaeus Drusus, struggling to his feet, blood coming from a fattened lip and dripping from his chin.

“Get out of here or I’ll have you beaten to death, and send up a slave to take your place!” yelled Drusus.

“Yes father,” Gnaeus answered, turning and heading toward the rear.

“Hold on!” Drusus bellowed.

“Yes father?” asked a frightened Gnaeus, turning.

“Don’t get smart with me you punk.”

“Yes father,” answered a tearful Gnaeus, upper lip quivering.

“Don’t cry on me either or I’ll give you something to cry for.”

“Yes father,” the terrified lad replied, disappearing through a doorway as Joseph looked on.

“Kids, what’s wrong with them today?” asked Drusus of no one in particular, rubbing his balding forehead.

“I guess it’s the times,” said Joseph, not understanding the reason behind Drusus’ brutal attack upon his son, recalling his own angry episodes with his many sons and daughters, especially his eldest son Jesus.

“He should have recognized you as a leading citizen, not some drunken wastrel or common slave looking for one of my whores,” an exasperated Drusus replied, explaining his anger.

“I follow you,” said a nodding Joseph.

“Don’t ever doubt it, I love my son, but I must make him aware of the customers who patronize us, he will inherit this upon my death,” explained Drusus.

“I understand,” said Joseph, recalling a similar circumstance that had occurred when Jesus was sixteen, on the night prior to him leaving the family for almost thirteen years.

“Go to hell!” yelled Jesus, struck across his face by Joseph, the angered patriarch throwing a scroll of Malachi in the kitchen hearth, his mother crying in the background.

“You lazy bastard, you need a trade – what are you trying to be, a Pharisee, all this will be yours one day!”

“No father, you’ve taught me all you know, but I have another trade, a mission sent from God almighty.”

“Are you crazy?”

Rising from his seat and looking down at the slightly shorter Joseph, Jesus answered, “No father I’m not crazy, and I swear if you ever strike me again I’ll knock you on your ass!”

“Lousy ingrate,” Joseph spat, walking to the courtyard, knowing in his heart Jesus had been pushed beyond his limit, expecting him to leave for parts unknown.

“Hey Julius are you there?” asked Drusus, breaking Joseph from his reverie.

“I was just thinking for a moment,” said Joseph.

“What can I do for you?” asked Drusus pleasantly.

“Pipe, we need lead pipe,” Joseph stammered, still thinking of his eldest.

“What size?”

“I don’t know, ask him,” said Joseph, jerking a thumb at Icarus.

“One tenth by eight standard,” replied Icarus.

“How much?” asked Drusus, looking to the slave.

“Fifty will do,” answered the slave.

“Anything else?”

“A hundred pounds of sealing lead, preferably in one twentieth by one half standard plumbum bars,” said Icarus.

“I have them, say Julius, your slave’s an intelligent man, would you like to sell him to me?”

“Never, I need him on my farm,” said Joseph, winking to Icarus.

“I’d pay a very good price,” Drusus insisted.

“No, he’s not for sale,” Joseph retorted flatly, shaking his head.

“Very well, anything else?”

“Pine rosin, flux for mating the pipes to the bronze water heater,” said Icarus.

“Okay, hold on,” replied Drusus, walking to the back as one of his slaves arrived and assumed his position at the entrance door.

“You know a lot about this stuff,” said Joseph, looking to Icarus.

“I did hot and cold water installations many times for my former master Marcus, he even hiring me out on occasion to others for their systems,” said Icarus.

“So, this place is now a whorehouse too?” asked a fidgeting Joseph, glancing at the license as he leaned against the counter.

“Yes, my favorite whore in this place is a German girl called Hilde, she’s gorgeous,” Icarus replied.

“Really?”

“She could suck the bark off – ”

“Indeed,” said Joseph, dropping the subject as Drusus returned with a pair of slaves pulling a cart laden with lead pipe, sealing bars and bucket of pine rosin.

“Here you go, the price is 130 denarii,” said Drusus, holding out a hand to the cart of quality merchandise.

“Would you take a hundred?” asked Joseph.

“Sorry, this isn’t Callicles’ bazaar, the price is firm,” Drusus replied, folding arms across his chest, “I have to make a living for myself.”

“Sold,” Joseph replied, counting out 130 denarii.

“Thank you Julius the elder, load this purchase in his wagon,” Drusus ordered to a slave after the transaction was completed.

“Do you want me to help him master?” asked Icarus, he in the presence of another Roman slave owner.

“I’m paying for it so we’ll use his slave, relax man,” said a smiling Joseph, leaning on the counter while Drusus watched his charge place the heavy pipe in the wagon.

Arriving at the house, Joseph pulled the wagon close to the chimney, helping Icarus unload the heavy lead pipe and bars.

“You are different Julius,” said Icarus after the wagon was emptied, sitting the bucket of rosin at his feet.

“How’s that?” a sweating Joseph asked, even though the temperature was rather chilly.

“I’ve hardly ever seen a wealthy Roman man bother with work, let alone assist a slave unloading a wagon.”

“Hard work keeps a man healthy.”

“Cyril believes that too.”

“He’s right,” said Joseph, both tired men taking a seat next to the chimney.

“I think I need to ask you something Julius,” said Icarus.

“Ask me,” Joseph replied, staring at the pile of pipe.

“If Drusus offered you enough money would you sell me to him?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“A blunt one?”

“I’d free you rather than sell you to a maniacal bastard like Drusus,” Joseph replied, having mellowed a bit across the long years.

“You would?”

“Absolutely,” said Joseph, “Say, I think we’ve worked hard enough for now, let’s head to the kitchen and have wine.”

Over the next days, the beginnings of the hot water system were installed, stonemason Jesus carefully opening the sides of the kitchen flue with hammer and chisel by torchlight on a cool evening, bits of masonry occasionally landing in the cold hearth below.

“That should do it,” said Jesus, holding a torch and looking through the opened chimney as Icarus sat beside him on a scaffold.

“Are you ready for the water heater?” called Ganymede.

“Yeah, send it up,” said Jesus, the time a little after eight thirty.

Sitting the bronze heater pipe five cubits above the hearth on the recommendation of Icarus, Jesus cemented it in place, with Ganymede, standing on a ladder, passing him trowels of mortar.

“It’s recommended the entire system be enclosed upon completion, as it helps save heat for the water,” Icarus advised, standing on the scaffold, looking to Jesus as he finished.

“That makes sense; please have Ganymede build it at his convenience.”

Shall do,” said Icarus, “Say Julius, if we’re going to continue our work, we’d better freshen up the torches, they’re burning low.”

“Yes,” Jesus replied, not having noticed the lack of illumination due to vampiric eyesight.

“I can hardly see where I am, I don’t know about you,” said Icarus, standing fifteen feet above ground on the scaffold.

“Neither can I,” Jesus lied, descending a ladder and lighting a pair of fresh torches, tossing one to Icarus.

“Do you want to mount the tank tonight?” asked Ganymede as Jesus stood beside him.

“That’s the idea,” said Jesus, handing his torch to him and ascending the ladder. “Send the tank up as soon as you can.”

“Right, catch this,” Ganymede answered, tossing a coil of rope to Jesus, he threading it through a block and tackle mounted on the chimney.

Ganymede attached ropes to the tank to facilitate hoisting the unit to the perch next to the chimney, built by Jesus the previous night. Raising the tank with block and tackle, Jesus and Icarus eased it on its mount, detaching the ropes and dropping them to the ground.

“It’s in place,” said Jesus, “Now it’s up to you to handle the plumbing connections.”

“You’ll have hot water for your bath within two weeks,” said Icarus.

“Yes, the pitch does have to set first,” Jesus answered, the pair descending a ladder.

Soon the system was completed, only needing time for the sealing pitch to cure. Actually a form of concrete, a reaction between the ingredients occurred in the open air which would eventually create an insulating watertight seal on the hot water tank inlet and outlet pipes.

Callicles, Kago and Demosthenes came by just before dusk the next evening with several wagons and slaves, leaving mercenary Aeschesles in charge of the caravansary, the trader looking to purchase meat and grain.

“You got the system installed rather fast,” said an impressed Callicles as he opened a bottle of wine, observing Ganymede constructing the insulating enclosure.

“My son and the slaves have been working on the project, in a couple weeks they’ll open the valves,” Joseph replied.

“Your son too?”

“He likes to work these days, and is a talented stonemason,” said Joseph.

“Do they have the taps in?” asked Callicles, already drunk.

“That’s for tomorrow,” Joseph replied, the group making their way to the porch, Rex growling at the unfamiliar scents of the vendors.

“Quiet Rex,” ordered Joseph as they headed to the lamplit kitchen, taking seats at the table.

Ruth was preparing the evening meal over the hearth as Joseph grabbed a magnum and goblets with the efficiency of a bartender, Callicles remarking, “I’m very sorry, your dinner hasn’t been served yet.”

“Don’t be, have wine and maybe we can get you some food too,” a smiling Joseph answered, filling goblets for his guests as Jesus walked into the kitchen.

“Good evening son, care for wine?”

“Please,” a yawning Jesus answered, taking a seat.

“Looks like you’ve had a long day,” Callicles ventured, looking to Jesus.

“One could say that,” an amused Jesus replied, having spent most of the day sleeping beside his consort in their pitch-black, locked bedroom.

“Your father said you helped the slaves installing the hot water system over the last few days,” Callicles related.

“I have been helping them with it,” Jesus replied, neglecting to add he had been assisting them at night.

“Here you go son,” said Joseph, having learned to insert himself into a conversation as a tactical maneuver for preventing any suspicion of Jesus.

“Thanks dad,” said Jesus, “So Callicles, I imagine you’re looking for meat and grain?”

“That’ll wait, let’s get drunk,” Callicles replied, raising his glass for a refill, Ruth carrying plates of pork tenderloin and vegetables on a tray for Mary and herself, with a smaller portion for Julian.

“Do you want your meal now master?” Ruth asked, making eye contact with Demosthenes, he staring at her in awe.

“Don’t worry about it, tend to my wife and child,” ordered Joseph.

“Yes master,” said Ruth, again looking to Demosthenes before leaving the kitchen.

“What a good looking broad,” said Demosthenes, floored by Ruth’s seductive glances, Joseph looking to him and smiling.

“Too young for me,” remarked a forty one year old Kago, downing his goblet.

“That she is,” a nodding Joseph agreed, refilling the goblet for the mercenary.

“I sold her to Julius a few years back,” said Callicles, grabbing the magnum and refilling his goblet.

“You did?” asked Demosthenes, finding the seventeen-year-old Ruth enthralling, her birthday having occurred in early October.

“She was a kid then,” Callicles replied, looking to his nephew, recalling he had considered deflowering Ruth, but figured as pretty as she was she would bring a better price as a virgin slave.

I should have screwed her; I sold her for nothing, thought Callicles.

“She’s a very pretty girl,” said Demosthenes.

“They’re a dime a dozen, if you like I’ll buy one like her in Caesarea,” said Callicles, downing his goblet.

“Not like her,” Demosthenes replied, hoping for another look at the lovely Jewess.

Hours passed, the discussion covering all facets of modern Roman life, settling on politics a little after one. Joseph’s cold dinner was on a counter with another plate set out for Jesus. A buffet tray had been prepared for their guests by Ruth, Demosthenes drooling as she passed, she having freshened up and put on a scent for him, if only in an attempt to make her oblivious master jealous.

Great Zeus she’s beautiful, thought Demosthenes, the conversation continuing into the wee hours of the morning.

“He’s nothing but an insane maniac, but who cares as long as he doesn’t bother us or interfere with business in Anatolia,” a slurring Callicles declared, referring to Caligula.

“Gavinal and Marcus are worried about him, they fear he may go after people outside Rome,” said Jesus.

“How, he has so many enemies in Rome these days I bet he’ll be dead in a year,” a very well informed Callicles replied, staring at Jesus in double vision.

“But – ” attempted a sober Jesus.

“But what – he’s an incompetent idiot, and a punk who knows nothing of the world!” exclaimed Callicles, “If you ask me his uncle Claudius will be on the throne soon.”

“Who’s Claudius?” asked Joseph.

“He’s a clubfooted patrician related to Julius Caesar, he can’t even talk without stuttering,” Callicles said with a loud belch, feeling for a moment like he needed to puke.

“Shouldn’t we buy the meat and grain now uncle?” a drunken Demosthenes spoke up, an unconscious Kago sitting with his head on the table, snoring away.

“Are you kidding, I’m too drunk to even think properly, let alone buy goods from friend Julius,” Callicles replied, feeling the scab on his forehead, recalling his earlier observations regarding alcohol.

“We have to leave in three days for Mansahir,” Demosthenes advised.

“We’ll leave Tibernum when I’m damn good and ready!” retorted Callicles, pointing a finger at his nephew and falling to the floor unconscious, the thud of his body shaking the house.

“No sale tonight,” a drunken Joseph observed, looking to the unconscious trader.

“Maybe tomorrow father,” said Jesus, staring at the form on the floor.

“I’m very sorry,” Demosthenes apologized, looking to his unconscious compatriots.

“Don’t worry about it,” a slurring Joseph replied, “Would you like us to help them to your wagons to sleep it off?”

“That may not be a good idea as it’s late in the season, one could – ” began Jesus.

“Oh yes, it’s cold, they – ” Joseph attempted to add.

“The slaves out there, they’ll freeze to death!” Demosthenes exclaimed, not knowing what to do as he looked from a window to their wagons.

“Get them in here,” said Joseph, looking to the fogged kitchen window, knowing an overdue killing frost would arrive soon, if not that very night.

“We have a warm hearth here, bring them in before the fire,” said Jesus.

“Are you sure?”

“If I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t have offered it,” Jesus answered, his father rising from his seat.

“Deal with it son, I’m going to bed,” said Joseph with a wave of a hand, the Magdalene looking into the kitchen after leaving Joseph’s bedroom.

“Forget it, not tonight Maria, you okay with that?” asked Joseph.

“I can handle it,” replied Mary, heading to her bedroom.

Four cold, shivering slaves, an unconscious Callicles, Kago, and Demosthenes took or were positioned in places beside the warm hearth, Jesus tossing several logs on the fire.

“Poor drunken bastard,” said Jesus under his breath, shaking his head, placing a warm wool blanket over the incurable alcoholic Callicles.

“What?” asked Demosthenes.

“Nothing, if the fire dies down, take the poker and – ” began Jesus.

“I’ll have one of our slaves tend it,” a grateful Demosthenes replied, Ruth still on his mind.

“Very well,” answered Jesus at a little after three, turning and heading to his bedroom.

“I take it you did your good deed for the night?” asked Mary after Jesus entered and locked the door.

“It’s cold outside, Callicles and his fellows need lodging.”

“They’re a pack of drunks, who cares,” scoffed Mary, sitting on the side of the bed.

“His four slaves aren’t drunks and they were cold, would you prefer they freeze to death?”

“Uh, no I wouldn’t, can we find someone to eat before sunup?”

“It’s late, we’ll have to hit the woods,” said Jesus.

“We’ve done it before,” answered Mary, rising from the bed.

 

* * *

“Hell, it’s morning,” said Callicles, staring at the white plastered kitchen ceiling, sitting up at seven thirty, the rest of his entourage snoring away in the cool kitchen. “I have to stop drinking so much,” he added, throwing off a blanket and rising to his feet. Looking out the frosted kitchen window while rubbing his lower back, he observed Joseph’s slaves tending their morning duties as a tired Joseph opened his bedroom door.

“Good morning Callicles, would you care for breakfast?” asked Joseph, stepping into the kitchen.

“Heavens no, I’m sorry for getting that drunk on you last night,” said an embarrassed Callicles, reaching into a pocket, “Please friend, let me give you money for lodging us.”

“I’ll have none of that,” Joseph answered, “You are our guests; the least we could do is let you sleep over.”

“You’re serious?”

“What should we have done, dumped your asses on the porch and let you freeze to death?” Joseph asked, grabbing a cold hard-boiled egg, peeling it and placing the shell in a crystal bowl.

“This is your home Julius,” said Callicles, rubbing his balding head.

“What does that have to do with it?” asked Joseph, Ruth entering to prepare the morning meal.

“Gavinal Septimus is right, you’re very unusual people,” the trader observed.

“How’s that?” asked Joseph, taking a bite of the egg.

“Not many Romans would have a Greek, let alone his slaves in their homes overnight,” said Callicles.

“Why?” Joseph mumbled, downing the rest of the egg.

“Most Romans, especially patricians and equestrians, think we are a lesser people,” answered Callicles.

“A lesser people, they’re assholes and we’re only plebian,” a smirking Joseph replied.

“You think so?”

“Why not, you’re a Roman citizen, besides, I don’t care who the hell you are, nobody, not even a slave, deserves to freeze to death if shelter is available,” said Joseph, looking to the larder for another egg.

“Really?”

“Incidentally, we’re half Greek in case you don’t remember,” Joseph lied, peeling the shell from a second egg, a silent Ruth sitting a pot of barley porridge over the hearth before preparing their daily bread.

“Especially with a name like Chrysippus, I forgot,” Callicles replied with a contrite smile.

“Don’t forget it next time friend,” mumbled Joseph.

A little over a half hour later, a refreshed Callicles and crew were boarding the wagons on a frosty late October morning, but only after Joseph had insisted each have a thick slice of day old bread, a chunk of cheese and diluted breakfast wine to wash it down.

“I thank you Julius, shall we return this evening for the goods you have to vend?” Callicles asked, still embarrassed he had drunk himself unconscious.

“By all means, we’ll see you after dark,” called a tired Joseph from the porch.

“Right,” a nodding Callicles answered, taking the reins.

Heading into the house, a yawning Joseph entered the kitchen and ate a few more eggs, announcing as he headed to the bedroom, “I’m going back to bed Ruth, bring food for my wife and son when you’re done, none for me, I’m going to sleep late.”

“Yes Master Julius,” answered Ruth, hearing the bedroom door slam.

“What a world,” said Joseph, returning to bed in the dim lamplight.

“Is that you Joseph?” murmured Mary, opening eyes for a moment.

“Who the hell do you think it is, Lucifer and his demonic minions, go back to sleep for god’s sake,” spat Joseph, pulling a wool blanket over a shoulder.

This terse discourse occurred as their guests were heading up the north road to Tibernum.

“Julius the elder and family are good people,” said Demosthenes as they approached the caravansary at eight thirty, a brilliant fall sun rising to the east, quickly taking off the early morning chill.

“Yeah, let’s get a drink,” replied Callicles, pulling the wagon to a stop at a curb on the main street.

Aeschesles walked up, having been up all night, sword at his side, asking, “Where the hell were you boss, Knosso and I were worried.”

“Sorry Aeschesles, we got really drunk over at the Chrysippus place – go get sleep,” said Callicles, stepping from the wagon.

“Right,” answered Aeschesles, motioning his twenty-year-old son Knosso to a nearby tent.

“I think I need more sleep too,” said a hungover Kago, rubbing his pain-wracked forehead.

“We all do, Demo, can you handle business for me until noon or so?” asked a yawning Callicles, turning to him.

“Sure uncle, if I can hit the sack in the afternoon.”

“Of course, I’ll see you before one, let’s have another drink first,” Callicles replied, walking to his personal wagon with his nephew for more alcohol.

“Sure,” Demosthenes answered, slaves starting grills for cooking the day’s food.

The trader and his entourage arrived at the Chrysippus farm in the evening as planned, Jesus extracting nearly 85 aurei from the trader.

“Here’s eighty-five, keep the change,” said Callicles, the transaction completed.

“Are you sure friend?” asked Jesus, looking to Callicles.

“What the hell, we probably drank an aureus worth of wine last night,” a smiling Callicles replied.

“Very well,” said Jesus, pocketing the coins, having sold Callicles three wagonloads of bagged barley and wheat along with 100 sides of cured meat, together with finely crafted, professionally finished leather goods created by Electra and Penelope.

“Most every time I come here you make more money from me than I do from you,” Callicles observed, holding an open bottle of wine, standing in the kitchen next to the hearth.

“You didn’t have beer to sell us this time.”

“I’ll have some next time, you can count on it,” replied Callicles.

“You said that last fall,” said Joseph, sitting at the table with a drunken Kago and Demosthenes, eight muscular slaves loading grain into wagons outside the granary.

“Forgive me, I didn’t know a storm on the Mare Internum was going to sink half of Scipio’s fleet off Macedonia,” Callicles replied, pained that twenty shiploads of beer and wine were on the bottom of the Aegean Sea, together with several hundred Roman and Gallic seamen.

“I heard about that in Beneventum,” said Jesus.

“You did?” asked a drunken Callicles, leaning against the mantle.

“Poor bastards,” said Jesus, recalling a time when he had nearly drowned in the Indus River during a monsoon flood.

“Have no fear Son of Vishnu, I’m here to save you!” Arjuna yelled from a ledge, grabbing an arm and pulling Jesus from the rising waters.

“I thank my father Yahweh that you were,” a smiling, half-drowned Jesus replied, looking to his Indian friend while rising to his feet.

“Who?” asked Arjuna.

“That’s another name for Vishnu,” Jesus answered, gasping for breath.

“We’d best head north to the mountains for your journey homeward to Judea,” said Arjuna over the howling monsoon wind – this man meeting his death a little over five months later in the Himalayas during an earthquake induced avalanche.

“Hey Julius!” Callicles exclaimed, raising his voice as his nephew was conversing with Ruth, finding each other fascinating.

“Huh?” asked Jesus, broken from his reverie, looking to the young couple.

“I was saying, the fleet sunk as they were approaching the Hellespont.”

“I heard you, I was lost in thought.”

“About what?”

“Nothing really,” a somber Jesus answered, recalling yelling to Arjuna in the Himalayas.

“I’m hoping there’ll be plenty of beer for us in the spring – ” continued Callicles into the night, goblet of wine in hand.