DARK RESURRECTION, CHAPTER TWENTY: THE MIRACLE

This is the last chapter of a story that I wrote twenty years ago. I was told it was good, but alas, it never sold. That's why I give it away; I have notes for other sequels to Dark Resurrection, but I reckon those will go unwritten, as I am not in the habit of wasting effort on unproductive pursuits. I thank you for reading, and hope that those who read enjoyed the story.

Chapter Twenty: The Miracle

 

Jesus and Mary arrived home two nights later, Joseph greeting his son with a firm Roman handshake, standing on the porch in the evening twilight, half moon on the horizon.

“What happened to your clothing?” asked Joseph.

“We ran into a little trouble on the way back,” Jesus replied, the Magdalene chuckling, both looking no worse for wear physically.

“You took care of Caecus?” asked Joseph.

“He’s in Armenia, out of reach of the empire,” said Jesus.

“Good, at least someone has escaped the clutches of Caligula,” Joseph observed, more news of the Imperial maniac’s insanity having arrived from the courier.

“Incidentally, the maps of the garrison cartographer were inaccurate,” said Mary.

“They were?”

“Indeed so father,” Jesus replied, heading to the kitchen, Mary strolling to the bedroom to see Jesus’ mother and Julian, only weeks from his third birthday.

“How’s that?” asked Joseph, taking a seat in the warm kitchen, hearths blazing in the kitchen and common area.

“There are four mountains north, rather than two, before crossing the Euphrates is possible for a normal man.”

“So it’s a long haul to Armenia,” said Joseph.

“Probably 200 miles over nearly impassible terrain,” Jesus replied, taking a seat, his father grabbing a magnum of wine and two goblets.

“That’s why there’s nothing north of here.”

“Yes,” Jesus agreed.

“I do wish Caecus good luck in Armenia,” said Joseph.

“He’ll be fine, your suggestion of giving him a thousand aurei should bide well for him.”

“It’s the least we could do,” Joseph replied, pouring goblets and handing one to Jesus.

“Indeed,” said Jesus, taking a deep drink of wine.

Winter arrived quickly in Tibernum that year, a foot of snow coming on the kalends of December, another foot arriving the day after.

“It’s not even January and there’s two feet of snow outside,” observed an exasperated Joseph to Brutus, the slave and patriarch standing in the warm kitchen on the bitterly cold weekend.

“It’s a good thing we stocked up on firewood,” Brutus answered, “Electra said Athena Parthenos warned her of the coming winter in a vision.”

“I don’t believe in gods,” Joseph stated flatly, pouring wine for them.

“You don’t?” asked Brutus, taking a glass, he a devoted follower of Apollo and Athena.

“No, gods are bullshit,” said Joseph, taking a drink and leaning his head on an arm.

“You’re an atheist?”

“I’ve been one for over 40 years,” said Joseph, recalling his father’s lifeless body on as fall morning in Bethlehem.

“So are Cyril and Icarus,” Brutus observed.

“As is my son,” added Joseph, recalling when Jesus was a devoted follower of the god Yahweh.

“Well anyway, Penelope – ” began Brutus, changing the subject.

“You don’t believe in great Yahweh my father?” asked Jesus one sunny afternoon in Nazareth.

“I don’t know what to believe,” Joseph answered, sitting in the kitchen holding a cup of wine.

“What do you mean?” asked Jesus.

“I don’t know, follow your heart,” his drunken father replied, not wanting to condemn his son to the lonely road of atheism.

“ – says the latest hides will be cured by January,” Brutus finished, dropping the religious discussion.

“What did you say?” asked Joseph, broken from his reverie.

“Penelope says the latest hides will be cured by January.”

“Good for her,” said Joseph, dismissing Brutus, grabbing another bottle of wine on the cold afternoon, looking out to more depressing snowflakes descending on the farm.

As evening approached, Jesus and Mary came forth from their dark room, she heading to the bedroom, he to the kitchen, noting his father conversing with Cyril.

“Good evening Julius the younger,” Cyril greeted, looking up from his tea and offering his hand.

“A good evening to you friend Cyril,” Jesus answered, grasping his arm in a firm handshake, “What brings you here on this cold and dark night?”

“I am visiting and have good news for you and Maria, my transcription of Minoacles is finished,” said Cyril.

“It is?” asked Jesus as his father looked on, Joseph not knowing who or what Minoacles was, and not really caring either.

“Not one word has been lost in my copy, though a quarter of the original parchment was either water damaged or rotten,” a proud Cyril related. “In some places I had to unroll it inches at a time, even then it often cracked in two, splitting sentences down the middle.”

“I didn’t think you’d have it finished before spring.”

“It is amazing I was able to finish, considering the condition of the document.”

“Good work, you must have labored hard on it, I thank you,” said Jesus.

“You are quite welcome, lately I have found vampirism a fascinating subject,” Cyril replied, looking to Jesus, “I have used my evenings since the harvest to create the new copy, working often until two or three in the morning.”

“Care for wine son?” a drunken Joseph interjected, as he had consumed wine through much of the afternoon.

“Certainly,” said Jesus, Joseph filling a goblet and handing it to him. “I read Greek Cyril, you should have asked me for help, I’m always up at those times,” the vampiric Christ taking a deep drink of wine.

“I know, but the text is written in ancient Greek, some phrasing and syntax are different from spoken Greek today, I have placed footnotes at the end of the scroll explaining that.”

“Indeed,” answered Jesus, raising eyebrows at the thought of the elderly slave working by dim lamplight in the slave quarters, carefully preserving the writings of Minoacles the vampire.

Joseph retired to his room, leaving Jesus and Cyril in the kitchen, the Magdalene, leaving the bedroom, joining her consort.

“There was much I was unable to read in my first perusal of the document, during the transcription I found other information, such as in Minoacles’ time there were vampires among the Dacians who had no masters,” Cyril related as Jesus nursed another goblet of wine.

“There were?” asked Mary, looking to Jesus as he handed her a goblet.

“According to him they’re called Nochiveru,” Cyril replied, straining leaves from his latest cup of tea.

“Nochiveru – meaning?” asked Jesus.

“I am uncertain with regard to that term Julius,” said Cyril, “From research, the word Nochiveru seems to be related to another word Noshuvar, a term loosely meaning invincible night stalker, or unassailable walker of the night in ancient Dacian.”

“Ancient Dacian, you’re familiar with that language?”

“Not as much as with ancient Greek, but from the context, using conjecture and extrapolation, I venture Nochiveru means, for lack of better translation, powerful vampires having no masters.”

“Nochiveru, an interesting name,” said Jesus, folding hands.

“To continue, the scroll states unequivocally that the Nochiveru are consumers of blood, confirming the link to vampirism.”

“Really.”

“As far as I can tell.”

“Interesting, I have news for you too,” said Jesus.

“You do?”

“I recall you asking what would happen if we were transformed at the time of the sun rising.”

“I remember that,” said Cyril, looking to Jesus.

“Let’s just say sunlight reduces us to the form you see before you,” said Jesus, Mary laughing at the remark.

“I take it you found out the hard way,” a smiling Cyril replied.

“Quite correct,” said Jesus, looking to his consort.

“What happened?” asked Cyril.

“We hit the ground from fifty feet,” said Mary.

“Hard?”

“Very hard,” said Jesus, his consort giggling.

“Must not been much of a problem for you,” Cyril ventured, folding hands.

“No, excepting half my face was torn off,” said Mary, swirling the last of her wine in the glass and downing it.

“And you healed completely before sundown.”

“How did you know?” asked Jesus.

“Confirming the writings of Herodotus, Thucydides, and Minoacles,” Cyril observed.

“They all got that right?” Jesus asked.

“It must be common knowledge,” said Cyril.

Weeks passed, with the winter solstice due to arrive just after the third birthday of Julian, the Chrysippus clan rejoicing at the welcome day, even the slaves enjoying a feast at the house. Slaves Ruth, Electra and Penelope were charged with preparing a fine meal for the family, starting work well before sunrise. The equivalent of gourmet cooks, the slaves easily met the challenge, assisted by Jesus’ mother, helping them create the feast over the protests of the slaves.

“Why are you helping us with this Mistress?” asked Electra, looking to her.

“I like to cook, and I’ll bet I can show you a few tricks,” Mary answered, recalling her days in Nazareth.

“Really?” asked Penelope.

“Really,” said a smiling Mary, standing in the kitchen before the hearth, son Julian sleeping in his crib, waking shortly thereafter alone in the bedroom.

“I thought it was our job,” Electra replied. Ruth, confused at the conversation, headed to the bedroom to tend to the crying Julian. “Don’t worry Mistress, she’s just a kid, we’ll handle this,” said a confident Electra.

“That we will,” Mary replied, looking to a clump of moistened flour rising on a table.

On this overcast day, Jesus and consort had risen early to join in the celebration of his brother’s birth, walking out to the common area at a little after noon, the Magdalene heading for the kitchen and joining the women. Mary Magdalene was a very good cook, finely ground, delicately seasoned auroch tenderloin pudding her specialty, the dish surrounded by sliced parsnips, diced borage, and finely chopped onions, covered in parsley, the dish a past favorite of Jesus. Taking a little under three hours to create this delicacy, Mary held her creation after lifting it from the kitchen table, having been placed there to cool after removal from the hearth oven.

“It smells wonderful,” Jesus declared, looking to her as they left the kitchen, having eaten this fine dish with unleavened bread on many occasions when alive.

“Yeah, but you can’t eat it now can you?” whispered Mary, looking to the floor, recalling a time in Capernaum when he had complimented her fine cooking, especially this dish.

“Neither can you, we’re different today,” answered Jesus, regret in his voice.

“Today Julius my love, don’t you mean tonight?” Mary asked, blood their only food, walking out and sitting the Galilean dish on a low table in the living room.

Why is the world like this? thought a saddened Jesus, rubbing his forehead as his consort reentered the kitchen.

During the afternoon, with light snow falling, a present arrived by slave courier from prefect Gavinal Septimus, a miniature signet ring crafted from gold for the young Roman male. Sitting in the common area, the Magdalene was playing with Julian as a knock came on the door a little after three, the vampiric Christ nursing a goblet of wine while sitting on the couch.

Opening the door, Joseph asked, “Yes, what can I do for you?”

“I bear a gift from the prefect for your child’s birthday,” the slave answered, his breath a cloud of frost as he stood on the snow covered porch, his horse tied up to a porch post.

“Thank you and please come in,” Joseph invited, taking the package.

“You will have me in your home?” asked the slave, named Phaedus of Delphi.

“Please come in and get warm with us,” answered Joseph with a smile, prescient of happy Yuletide cheer in centuries to follow, a sort of first Christmas celebrated by pagan Romans.

“My master Gavinal – ”

“I’ll cover for you, we’re celebrating my youngest son’s birthday and the Saturnalia, our good prefect will understand,” Joseph offered, showing the slave in.

“If you say so sir,” said Phaedus, never beaten by the kind Gavinal or his wife Phoebe, nor had any other of his fellow slaves of the Septimus household, eight in all.

“The name’s Julius, no sir or such is needed, welcome to our home as our guest,” Joseph declared, closing the door.

Walking to the common area, Phaedus noted people enjoying themselves, slave and Roman alike seated in the large, warm room. Joseph’s dog was curled up next to the hearth, rising its head for a moment as it noticed the unfamiliar slave. Ganymede was sparring with Julian, the child armed with a tiny wooden sword, dressed in the clothing of a young plebian male.

“Got me!” Ganymede exclaimed, falling from an imaginary wound inflicted by the toddler. Seeing the friendly slave fall to the carpeted floor, Julian started to cry, looking to his brother Jesus, having become comfortable with him at last.

“You made him cry!” Penelope scolded, seated beside Brutus on a couch, his arm over her shoulder, a romance having developed between them even after all the years they had known each other.

“I’m okay,” Ganymede called, a determined Julian going after him in a hacking attack.

“He’d make a good gladiator,” Jesus observed from the couch, looking to his little brother.

“He’ll be fighting in the arena in fifteen years,” said a smiling Ganymede, dropping his wooden sword and lifting Julian high in his arms.

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” added a slurring Icarus, sitting across from Jesus, Cyril beside him enjoying auroch pudding on fresh bread and a cup of herbal tea.

“Milo of Croton would have loved you,” Ganymede declared, hugging the child, a happy Jesus and mother looking on.

“You let your slaves play with your child?” Phaedus asked Joseph while they stood at the entrance of the living room.

“Doesn’t your master allow your house slaves to play with their children?” asked Joseph, looking to the slave, snow melting from his cloak and pudding on the polished floor.

“Yes he does,” said Phaedus.

“Drop that cloak from your shoulders and come in,” said Jesus, having consumed two magnums of Gallic wine, finally feeling the effects of the alcohol despite his vampiric nature.

“You’re slurring,” Mary whispered, kissing him on the cheek.

“So, it’s my brother’s birthday,” said Jesus, grabbing a bottle, taking a deep gulp and passing it to his father.

“Thanks son,” Joseph replied, putting the bottle to his lips.

“Have wine fellow slave,” Ganymede offered, holding another bottle, practically an alcoholic thanks to the lax rules of the Chrysippus farm, Joseph looking on approvingly.

“I agree, get drunk friend Phaedus,” ordered Joseph, sitting down next to Jesus.

“It’s against Roman law for slaves to drink – ” began Phaedus.

“Bullshit, Gavinal told me you get drunk with him,” Joseph spat.

“He did?” asked the slave, recalling pleasant inebriation with Gavinal and Marcus Pertinax on more than one occasion.

“Yeah, so don’t lie about it, join us in our celebration of Julian’s birthday,” added Jesus.

“Very well,” a smiling Phaedus replied, taking a seat, Ruth handing him a filled goblet.

“Drink up man,” ordered Joseph, feigning sternness, his smile betraying him.

“If you insist,” the slave answered, enjoying the taste of the fine wine.

“I must say, this tenderloin pudding is one of the best dishes I have ever tasted Maria,” said Cyril, looking to the Magdalene.

“Thank you Cyril,” an embarrassed Mary replied, looking away for a moment.

“It’s Galilean cuisine, correct?” asked Cyril in Egyptian, a confused Icarus looking to the teacher while he spoke the unfamiliar language.

“One of my favorites,” Jesus answered in kind, the conversation returning to Latin.

Jesus conversed with Cyril well into the late afternoon. His mother had retired the bedroom to put Julian down for a needed nap, his father and the slaves getting loaded on wine. The subject of his brother came up, Julian a future student of Cyril. The Magdalene had wandered off, joining the other women in cleaning up from the day’s celebration.

“He is a very bright child, quite precocious,” Cyril observed, Jesus’ mother closing the bedroom door and heading to the kitchen, Julian sleeping soundly in his cradle.

“That he is,” replied Jesus, nursing another goblet, his father snoring away in a padded leather chair, having passed out, an empty bottle at his side. The other male slaves including Phaedus had joined him in drunken stupor, lying about the carpeted floor or on couches, empty wine bottles and goblets littering the common area.

“It’s high time for me to begin teaching him,” said Cyril, straining tealeaves from his latest cup.

“I thought you already were,” Jesus replied, filling his goblet, sitting the bottle on a table.

“I have, but it is getting near the time for a more structured atmosphere.”

“At three years old?”

“Yes, master Marcus had me instructing his children at that age.”

“He did?”

“Nothing truly cerebral, just fundamental concepts like numbers, the alphabet and so forth. This prepares the child for further education, later will I move to more advanced studies, starting perhaps at age seven or eight, depending on his maturity.”

“I see,” said Jesus, “What have you in mind to teach him?”

“For the curricula, first, reading and writing, then mathematics, after that, history, philosophy, oratory and rhetoric,” Cyril replied, having used this method to teach over twenty Roman children, one of his past students now a patrician Senator in Rome.

“They never start studies that early in Judea, excepting for religious instruction,” said Jesus quietly.

“And that is why Rome rules them and not vice versa,” Cyril observed, a devoted proponent of secular, scientific education for Roman children.

“Probably, and likely better for the peoples of the world,” Jesus declared with a contemptuous smirk, leaning back on the couch, agreeing with the elderly teacher.

“You hate the people of Judea, do you not?” asked Cyril in a low tone of voice.

“After what I’ve been through, thanks to those hypocritical, sanctimonious bastards, you could say that,” said Jesus, recalling his crucifixion, bitter at the thought. The room grew silent except for his father’s snoring and a loud fart coming from one of the unconscious slaves as he lay on his side.

“I recall my former master’s children having helpful learning aids at Julian’s age, educational toys, perhaps you can buy or make them for him,” Cyril suggested, dropping the unpleasant subject of Judea.

“How’s that?” asked Jesus.

“They had carved wooden blocks with numbers or letters painted on them, for example, numerals from one to ten, and others marked with the letters of the alphabet, children can learn easily that way, during playtime.”

“That’s a great idea!” a smiling Jesus exclaimed, having seen such toys at the villae of Roman friends when traveling through the empire in his mid-twenties.

“I would make them, but have no knowledge about wood or the carving of it,” said Cyril.

“I’m a carpenter, it’s easy, I’ll show you how to create them if you like,” Jesus offered, planning to make them for his brother.

“I would appreciate that,” said Cyril, forever wanting to learn new things, his thirst for knowledge still unsated, even as a septuagenarian.

“We’ll do it together,” Jesus replied, Ruth gathering empties from the common area onto a wooden tray, grabbing Jesus’ bottle. “That one isn’t empty,” he protested, taking the half-filled bottle from her.

“I’m sorry,” said Ruth.

“Please bring another from the kitchen when you get the chance,” ordered Jesus.

“Shall do,” said Ruth, heading to the kitchen.

“You drink a lot of wine,” Cyril observed.

“Yes, and my tolerance of it has increased over the past few years.”

“Do you think it is due to vampirism?” Cyril asked in Egyptian.

“Probably, Mary and I have discussed that too, either of us can drink perhaps five magnums and we feel almost nothing from it,” Jesus answered in kind.

“That is incredible, such an amount would probably kill a normal man, and there are no references even in the scroll of Minoacles to such a pathology among vampires,” Cyril observed.

“Perhaps they weren’t drinkers,” Jesus speculated.

“If they were they made no allusion to it,” said Cyril, recalling all he had read of vampires over the past few years.

“Really?”

“What of your friend in Rome, his name was Nacherine?”

“What of him?”

“How was his tolerance of wine?”

“I suspect he could have drunk a wagonload and it probably wouldn’t have bothered him at all,” said Jesus, wondering if this wasn’t he and Mary’s future, their tolerance of alcoholic beverages having increased nearly tenfold since becoming vampires.

“Interesting, we must talk further of this,” said Cyril, returning to Latin, staring into his empty teacup.

“We shall,” answered Jesus, looking to a window. Dark outside for several hours, he instinctively felt hunger for blood.

Finding thieves on the west road, Jesus and Mary exterminated them without the slightest word, hurling four bodies into a ravine after looting them. Cyril and Jesus continued their conversation the following evening, the teacher arriving at sundown with his copied scroll of Minoacles, together with scrolls of Herodotus and Thucydides. The weather unpredictable that week, much of the snow had melted, a total of perhaps four inches. Unexpected, spring like temperatures had occurred in the morning and early afternoon, creating a muddy mess around much of the house and slave quarters, the temperature falling fast to below freezing as evening arrived.

“Come in, how many times must I say you needn’t knock before entering,” said Joseph, answering the door.

“A habit,” Cyril replied, heading to the kitchen while Ruth was making supper.

“My son and his wife aren’t up yet,” said Joseph, leaning on the kitchen table.

“They will be soon, it is their nature,” Cyril answered.

“That it is,” Joseph replied, grabbing a bottle of wine and heading to his bedroom, leaving Cyril and Ruth alone.

“Would you have hot water?” asked Cyril, reaching for a jar of tealeaves on the kitchen mantle next to the water clock.

“I’ll get some from the hot tap,” Ruth offered.

“Not bathwater, would you have any in a bronze or iron pot from the hearth?” asked Cyril.

“Not presently, what’s the difference?” asked Ruth, turning to Cyril.

“Warm bathwater is piped in via lead, it is unhealthy for a man to drink such liquid,” the teacher answered.

“How do you know that?” an unbelieving Ruth scoffed.

“I simply do, if you doubt me, read the scroll of Hippocrates of Kos young woman, if you can read anything at all,” Cyril retorted, taking a seat at the table.

“For your information, I can read Hebrew and Aramaic script.”

“Yes, they are fine languages, I am sure much valuable information is recorded in such for posterity to peruse,” Cyril observed, they not caring for each other at all, ever since they had met at Callicles’ caravansary.

“Huh?”

“Never mind, may I please have some hot water from the hearth?”

“The Master always requests hot water in the same fashion,” Ruth observed, placing a bronze pot of cold water above the hearth.

“That is because he is intelligent, unlike some others residing in this domicile,” a dour Cyril retorted, resting his head on an arm.

“What are you saying old man?” asked Ruth, eyes narrowed, staring at the elderly teacher.

“Nothing child, do not worry about it, I believe it would tax you,” a frowning Cyril answered.

“Tell me what you mean, and I’m not a child, look at me, I’m a woman!” Ruth exclaimed, hands on her shapely hips.

“To me you are young lady at best, and such a conversation would be a waste of time, I am certain of that,” said Cyril, closing eyes in sheer boredom.

“Do I look stupid to you?” Ruth retorted, standing at the hearth, hands still on hips.

“That is a rhetorical question,” said Cyril, looking to the kitchen table while rubbing his forehead.

“Huh?” asked Ruth, heading to the counter to chop vegetables brought from the cellar, some dried, others in the condition in which they were harvested.

“Forget it,” Cyril answered, Jesus entering the kitchen. “Greetings friend Julius,” he remarked, thankful he had arrived.

“Greetings to you friend Cyril,” Jesus replied, sitting down at the table, opening a bottle of wine and pouring a libation.

“This old man says I’m a child master Julius,” Ruth spoke up, giving Jesus her most seductive glance.

“Verily I say, he is correct, you are indeed a child to us,” Jesus replied diplomatically, looking to the seventeen-year-old slave.

“I’m a woman,” Ruth retorted, Jesus looking to Cyril.

“Whatever you say,” replied Jesus, attempting to drop the conversation.

“I told you, she is very nosy, and quite precocious herself,” said Cyril in Egyptian.

“Indeed,” Jesus replied, hands folded in front of him.

“What a stupid old bastard,” Ruth spat in Hebrew, turning from them.

“What are you saying to him young woman?” asked Jesus sharply.

“Nothing,” answered Ruth, not realizing Jesus spoke Hebrew.

“You just called Cyril a stupid old bastard in Hebrew,” Jesus retorted, rising from the table, she staring at him in horror.

“Forget it, she does not know any better,” Cyril advised in the tongue of the pharaohs.

“I ought to kill her for saying that,” said Jesus in kind, livid at her remarks to the aged slave.

“What would that make you, a murderer, that is against your very nature,” Cyril replied calmly, hands folded.

“She’s my slave, I can do whatever I want with her,” a very Roman Jesus answered in anger, becoming more Roman all the time.

“You sound like Caligula, but would it be justice, think of what Plato would have done,” replied Cyril, defending the ignorant Ruth.

“What are you saying?”

“Verily I say unto you, what would Plato do in this situation?” Cyril asked, having no intention of mocking Jesus.

“He’d consider the source,” a frowning Jesus answered, realizing Cyril was asking him a question in a way only he would understand.

“Exactly, so would killing her be justice?”

“No,” said Jesus in Latin, sitting down, his anger abated by Cyril’s logical argument. Waving a hand and hypnotizing the slave, Ruth stood frozen before them.

“What are you going to do, make her hurl herself in the fire?” asked Cyril facetiously, glancing to the hearth.

“No, you’re right, she’s just a stupid child, aside from that, a very good caretaker of my little brother.”

“I was hoping you would say that, you are a brilliant man, any other answer would have compromised your intellect.”

“I may be a vampire but I’m not that bad.”

“I know.”

Looking to the teenager, Jesus intoned, “Verily I say unto you Ruth, you will suppress your animosity toward Cyril, and will follow his orders as if he were your master.”

“Always,” a stupefied Ruth answered, looking into his blue-gray eyes.

“You want to go that far?” asked Cyril, fascinated that Jesus Christ, a powerful vampire, could so easily entrance practically anyone.

“Knowing you, I can, with anyone else I’d never do such a thing,” said Jesus, looking to Cyril.

“Thank you for trusting me.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Jesus, “She still won’t like you, but will be powerless to challenge you in any fashion.”

“Thank you, she has been a pain in my ass for years; she is beautiful yes, but she is unbearably obtuse,” a frowning Cyril replied, looking to the statuesque Ruth.

“Go back to your work Ruth,” Jesus intoned, waving a hand.

“Yes Master Julius,” Ruth replied, blinking her eyes, returning to chopping vegetables.

“Please don’t try screwing her or something like that,” Jesus admonished in Egyptian.

“How dare you say that,” a laughing Cyril replied, Ruth bringing him the pot of hot water from the hearth using a pair of tongs.

“I’m just testing you,” Jesus teased, breaking into a smile.

“She is very good looking and quite tempting, tell me she is not.”

“You lecherous old bastard,” said Jesus, laughing.

“Like I have said, I may be old but I am not dead,” Cyril declared, regaining his composure.

“You did say that,” Jesus replied, pouring another goblet of wine, Cyril preparing his tea.

“You do not strike me as dead either,” Cyril added quietly.

“You’ve said that before, how do you know?”

“I do not know; I simply suspect there is much more to vampirism than meets the eye.”

“Hmm,” Jesus mused, taking another drink of wine.

Mary walked from the bedroom; Ruth occupied tending the evening meal. “Want to head out?” she asked, wearing a full-length leather coat, holding a warm cloak for Jesus.

“Mind if we take off Cyril?” asked Jesus, rising from the table.

“Why are you asking such a question, you can do whatever you want,” said Cyril, refilling his cup with hot water.

“I didn’t want to offend you, considering what happened earlier.”

“No offense taken, and what really happened, I will wait till you return.”

“You know, Ruth,” Jesus explained, jerking a thumb toward the master bedroom, she delivering Julian’s meal, a cooked pottage of grains, vegetables and meats.

“Who cares, you took care of that,” Cyril replied, dropping tealeaves into his cup.

“We’ll be back in a while,” said the Magdalene, taking Jesus by the arm, the couple heading into the frigid night, the temperature several degrees below freezing.

Cyril sat silently, three scrolls on the table, stirring the tea in his cup, the vampiric Christ and consort high in the air over Tibernum, heading west toward the Via Tiberius Romanus. Assuming human form on the dark road, they strolled the highway, skirting a large patch of ice at the side of the road. Stopping, a broad smile crossed Jesus’ face, looking back to the smooth-as-glass ice.

“Watch this,” announced Jesus, his breath a cloud of frost, running and sliding on the ice, coming to the end of the patch and stepping off.

Mary smiled, observing a childlike Jesus slide across the ice nearly a dozen times.

“Care to join me?” asked Jesus.

“I’ve never done it, I’ll probably fall on my ass.”

“I’ll hold your hand to steady you.”

“Okay,” an intrigued Mary replied, taking his hand.

For several minutes they slid over the ice like a pair of first century Roman schoolchildren.

“I love this!” the Magdalene exclaimed, sliding across the ice without assistance.

“It is fun,” said Jesus, sliding past his consort backwards, hitting a bump and landing on his behind, laughing as he rose to his feet.

“Are you all right?” asked Mary, sliding over to him.

“Of course, it takes a lot more than that to hurt me nowadays,” said Jesus, his consort helping him to his feet.

This pleasantry did not go unnoticed, for even on this cold and cloudy night, a pair of warmly dressed thieves decided to make their presence known to the playful vampiric couple.

“What are you doing out here?” asked one, walking up, sheathed sword at his side.

“Enjoying ourselves,” said Jesus, standing on the ice beside Mary, suspecting they were up to no good at all.

“Enjoyment is over Roman, give us your money,” the second thief retorted.

“We don’t have any, sorry,” Jesus replied, his back to the robbers, sliding across the ice.

“Give us your jewelry then,” ordered the first thief.

“No,” Mary answered with a smile, sliding across the ice.

“I’m serious,” said the man, pulling a sword, strangely feeling the situation was out of his control.

“I’m sure you are, but the answer’s still no,” Jesus replied, sliding across the ice again.

“Would either of you have any warm grog with you?” asked a playful Mary, getting in the spirit of the situation.

“Get off the ice now,” ordered the confused swordsman.

“Why?” asked Jesus, sliding across the ice.

“Let’s take them,” the second thief growled, pulling a dagger and moving toward Mary.

“Yeah, take me you simple bastard,” the Magdalene retorted, sliding to the thief, grabbing him by the hair and smashing his skull on the ice with terrific force, killing him instantly, his dagger skittering across the ice and colliding with a curbstone.

“I didn’t mean for him to hit that hard!” a surprised Mary exclaimed, the man’s skull so badly fractured that pieces of brain were scattered across the ice, blood pouring out in torrents.

“Look what you did to the ice woman,” a frowning Jesus observed, sliding along, aimlessly kicking a chunk of gray matter from the ice, part of the remains frozen to the puddle, his consort leaning down to suck the blood of her victim.

Witnessing this, the remaining horrified thief dropped his sword and ran, disappearing into a wooded area.

“Going after him?” asked Mary, pulling from the neck of the corpse with fangs showing.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” said Jesus, looking to the thicket and turning to fog.

Locating the cringing thief by body heat, Jesus noted the man attempting to hide in a shallow cave.

Entering as mist, he assumed human form directly in front of his victim.

“Hello friend,” said a smiling Jesus, fangs showing as he moved toward him.

“Ahh!” the terrified man screamed, beholding the righteous Hebrew vampire, heart exploding in his chest out of mortal fear, the body collapsing in a heap to the floor of the cave.

“Damn, I’ve never done that to one of them,” a surprised Jesus declared, staring at the unmoving form at his feet, the man dead as a coffin nail. “No matter,” he added, kneeling down and sinking fangs in the neck, sucking the body dry in seconds. Checking for loot, Jesus appropriated common Roman currency, a silver and olivine inlay belt buckle, and a strange looking, ornate silver pendant from around the corpse’s neck. “Interesting,” he muttered, eyeing the pendant, placing it and other loot in a cloak pocket. Leaving the cadaver to rot where it lay, Jesus headed to his consort, watching as she hurled the other body across the road into a thicket.

“Did he have anything on him?” asked Jesus.

“He had a few coins,” said Mary, dropping several denarii in his hand.

“We’d best head back, considering Cyril’s waiting at the house,” Jesus advised, slipping the coins in a pocket, the time a little after eight.

“Right,” said Mary, both disappearing from the deserted highway.

Arriving, they entered the warm home, observing Joseph conversing with the teacher, Cyril reading a passage from the scroll of Minoacles.

“He never told me that,” said Joseph, raising eyebrows and looking to his son.

“Told you what father?”

“That you and your wife could assume the form of a wolf, or become fog,” said Cyril.

“It never occurred to me to tell you, I didn’t think you were interested,” said Jesus.

“On the contrary, it’s fascinating, being able to transform from man to uh, whatever,” an overwhelmed Joseph replied, grabbing a bottle and rising from the table, hearing Julian crying in the bedroom. “I’ll see you later; I have to tend to the wife and child.”

“Of course,” said Cyril, putting down the scroll.

“Can I come in and see the baby?” asked Mary, very fond of Julian.

“Certainly, please join us,” Joseph answered, motioning Mary along with a wave of a hand.

“Well Julius, are you hanging around tonight?” asked Cyril, walking over and placing a pot of water over the hearth.

“Let’s talk,” Jesus replied, grabbing wine from the larder and reaching for a goblet.

Taking a seat across from Jesus, Cyril said, “I have cross referenced the various scrolls over the past few weeks, and I wanted to talk to you further of the Nochiveru.”

“The what?” Jesus asked, drawing a blank while taking a seat.

“The Nochiveru, do you not remember, powerful vampires having no masters.”

“Oh yes, I’m sorry,” said Jesus, recalling the ancient Dacian term.

“According to Minoacles they seem to have one thing in common,” Cyril replied as he attempted to unroll the scroll, pausing and rubbing his right hand.

“Are you all right?”

“My arthritis is acting up, it bothers me a lot in the winter,” said Cyril, flexing his hand and returning to the document as Jesus looked on. “Anyway, according to the scroll, all the known Nochiveru had a spiritual past during their mortal lives.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning during their lives they were either priests of a sort, or perhaps other kinds of holy men, and in some cases even women.”

“Very interesting,” said Jesus, opening the bottle and pouring a libation.

“You were a preacher of some kind when you lived in Judea, correct?” asked Cyril, folding hands, his arthritic right giving him trouble that evening.

“Yes,” said Jesus, “I was a follower of the Hebrew god Yahweh, deity of the temple at Jerusalem.” For another moment, Jesus bitterly recalled his failed ministry in Judea, a deep-seated hatred for Joseph Caiaphas erupting from his soul, even after the years that had passed.

“We talked of that deity before, Yahweh, or El, or Elohim, right?”

“Those are other names for him,” said Jesus, taking a deep drink of wine.

“He is the brother of the desert god Baal, according to the first scroll of the historian Pomponius Secundus the elder, the first Roman historian to record the Judean myths for posterity around 70 years ago,” Cyril observed.

“It’s been said in some circles he was, or is,” Jesus replied, dismissing the anger he felt. It’s the past; forget it, thought Jesus, calming his emotions.

“By whom?”

“Huh?” Jesus asked, swirling wine in his goblet.

“In which circles is he considered the brother of Baal?” asked Cyril patiently, conducting intensive research on the Judean myths in an attempt to find some explanation for vampire Jesus.

“By the Syrians, the Samaritans and the Philistines,” said Jesus, “To this day, many Samaritans and Syrians worship Baal, lord of the seasons and crops.”

“What happened to the Philistines?” asked Cyril.

“The Hebrews killed them off under General Joshua many hundreds of years ago. It’s written in the Pentateuch,” said Jesus, downing his goblet.

“The what?”

“The Pentateuch, the first five books of the mythology of my people.”

“I see, so why do not the Jews, I mean the Hebrews, worship Baal?”

“They once did worship him, but according to the priests, Baal demanded the sacrifice of their firstborn children, condemning them as infants to the fires of Moloch.”

“Moloch, who the hell is that?” asked Cyril, “Yet another bloodthirsty god, I thought the Greek and Roman pantheons were bad enough, but this is ridiculous, killing babies in bonfires?”

“Furnaces actually, and no, it’s just another name for Baal,” said Jesus, sitting his empty goblet on the table.

“I have to write this down, it is unbelievable!” Cyril exclaimed, flying from the table, producing a quill stylus, parchment and bottle of ink from his cloak, hanging on hook near the entrance door.

Returning to the table, for several minutes an engrossed Cyril scribbled notes on a piece of blank parchment.

“So Julius, from what I’ve read in other scrolls, El, or Elohim, or Yahweh finally killed his brother Baal, or Moloch, is that correct?” asked Cyril, looking up from the parchment.

“Yes, El killed Baal out of jealousy, according to an earlier book penned before Moses’ writings.”

“Who did you say?” asked Cyril, scribbling the name ‘Moses’.

“Moses.”

“Moses, you are telling me his name was ‘from the water’? That is Egyptian, it is a name for a man in Hebrew?”

“Yes, according to Genesis, he was raised in the court of Pharaoh, many hundreds of years ago, being a son of slaves,” Jesus replied.

“Genesis?”

“Genesis, the beginning, the very first book of Moses, out of the five in the Pentateuch.”

“The Pentateuch, this Moses was a prolific writer?” asked Cyril, wondering what the book of Genesis was like.

“Not really, Herodotus, Cicero and even Thucydides wrote a thousand times what he did.”

“How did he learn to write such epics as a slave?” asked Cyril, forgetting for a moment that he was a slave too, though well educated.

“He was not a slave,” Jesus clarified, “Otherwise they would have killed him, as he was originally the firstborn of a Levite slave woman of Egypt.”

“How could that be?” asked a confused Cyril, listening to the seemingly contradictory statements of Jesus.

“As the son of any other Hebrew woman he would have been killed, but as he was Moses, he escaped bondage and the wrath of Pharaoh.”

“He would have been killed as a slave unless he was named Moses?” Cyril speculated with hands out, not following.

“No, he was originally born a Levite of the Hebrew tribe of Levi, but his mother, out of fear, put him in a basket and placed him in the Nile,” said Jesus.

“Why, and what does that have to do with what you just said?” asked Cyril, making another note on the parchment.

“Because Pharaoh wanted to kill him, that’s why his mother placed him in the Nile.”

“In a basket?”

“Yes.”

“It didn’t sink?” asked Cyril, finding the story hard to believe.

“No, I believe it was covered with pitch.”

“Okay, I understand, I think, but in the end, Pharaoh could not kill Moses for whatever reason,” Cyril speculated, closing eyes for a moment.

“Yes,” said Jesus, “But he wanted to kill him.”

“The fates intervened?”

“Evidently,” said Jesus, pouring another goblet, “Pharaoh’s sister found Moses floating in the basket among the reeds and saved him, raising him as her own child at the palace.”

“Incredible, so aside from that, the Pharaoh originally wanted to kill Moses by throwing him in the fires of Moloch?” Cyril surmised, drawing on earlier revelations regarding Hebrew mythology.

“Heavens no, Pharaoh just wanted to kill him.”

“Why, he was only a baby!” Cyril retorted, rubbing his beard, staring at Jesus.

“Pharaoh was warned by a demon in a vision that a deliverer would be born who would free the Hebrews from slavery, so he decided to kill all the firstborn of Israel dwelling in Egypt,” Jesus explained, recalling the story from Exodus.

“A demon?” asked the teacher, making more notes.

“A lesser minion of Satan.”

“Who?”

“Satan, god of the underworld.”

“Like Pluto or Dis Pater is supposed to be?”

“Same guy, different name,” a nodding Jesus answered.

“Okay, Moses was a deliverer of whom?” asked Cyril, scratching out a few summation scribblings.

“Of the Hebrews,” said Jesus.

“Why did they need a deliverer?”

“They were slaves.”

“I see, so in conclusion, Pharaoh wanted to keep his Hebrew slaves, and therefore decided to slaughter their firstborn deliverers with the fires of Moloch?”

“No,” said Jesus, taking a drink of wine.

“What!” Cyril exclaimed, angered at the apparent absurdity of the conversation.

“The Pharaoh wanted to kill them all yes, but there was only one deliverer, his name was Moses, and he escaped destruction,” said Jesus, “Aside from that, Pharaoh was Egyptian, he worshiped Amun-Ra and Anubis, not Baal,” he added, familiar with Egyptian religion.

“That is true, I forgot for a moment, so how was Pharaoh going to kill them?” asked Cyril, resting his head on his upright left arm, stylus in his throbbing right hand.

“By killing them in whatever fashion seemed suitable I imagine.”

“The story sounds ridiculous, did this actually happen?”

“Who knows, I read the account when I was a teenager,” a shrugging Jesus replied.

“What kind of bizarre religion is this?” asked Cyril in exasperation, reviewing his notes, his mind reeling in confusion.

“It’s the Hebrew religion, and please don’t ask me to explain further, at least right now,” Jesus answered, disgusted with the subject.

“Okay, let us move on, what were the earlier books written before Moses?” asked Cyril, not wanting to hear more contradictory Hebrew mythology either, at least for the moment.

“Various books friend Cyril, books called Enoch, Jasher, and another called the Epic of Gilgamesh, passed down across thousands of years from my ancestors,” said Jesus, putting down his empty goblet.

“I have read a Greek translation of Gilgamesh, it is a creation story from the ancient empire of Babylon I believe,” said Cyril, having read it in his forties.

“Earlier than that, and probably bullshit too,” Jesus replied, resting his chin on an arm.

“It was an interesting story to read,” Cyril observed.

“You thought so?” asked Jesus, having found much of it boring.

“Yes, and for my research on Hebrew religion, I do wish there was a Greek translation of the Pentateuch,” said Cyril.

“There is,” Jesus replied, “It’s called the Septuagint, the Hebrew religious myths and history written in Greek.”

“Why did you not tell me?” asked Cyril, scribbling the word ‘Septuagint’, meaning ‘seventy’ in Latin on the parchment.

“You never asked.”

“Do you think we can find a copy of it?”

“Certainly, but it’s a large work of many scrolls, fifty-four I believe, we’d have to head to Byzantium or perhaps even Greece to acquire such a collection,” Jesus observed.

“Fifty-four scrolls, what does the Septuagint contain?”

“The Pentateuch section, the first five scrolls of Moses is considered the law, and the other scrolls contain the history and prophecies of the Hebrew people.”

“Prophecies, an attempt to tell the future like the oracle at Delphi supposedly does?” asked Cyril, visibly scoffing at the idea.

“More or less, it’s bunk, but interesting reading.”

“Perhaps that drunken rogue Callicles could obtain us a set in his travels,” said Cyril, his intellectual appetite whetted for the Septuagint.

“Good idea, I’ll ask him about it next spring,” Jesus replied, rising from the table, curious how the Greek translation would read in comparison to Hebrew or Aramaic.

“Do you think it will be expensive to purchase?”

“Who cares, I’ll buy it for you,” said Jesus, reaching in the cupboard for more wine.

“I would love to read it.”

“You will, my learned friend,” Jesus replied, taking a seat, opening another bottle.

“Enough of that, let us get back to you and the Nochiveru,” said Cyril, placing the worn quill next to his notes, ink contained therein staining the table.

“Okay,” Jesus replied, pouring another goblet.

“So, from what you have told me, you were a priest or something when you lived in Judea,” the teacher ventured.

“Not a priest, I was a preacher and shaman of the people.”

“Shaman, what do you mean?”

“I was a healer and a devoted servant of God, not man, like priests are,” said a smirking Jesus, disdaining being referred to as a priest.

“Really?” asked Cyril, raising eyebrows at Jesus’ revelation.

“Yes.”

“A healer you say, a healer of what?”

“Any number of ills, I learned the skill when visiting Kush,” Jesus replied, emptying his goblet.

“Skill at healing, are you a physician?”

“Physician no, healer yes.”

“A healer, I do not understand,” said Cyril, hands out.

“When I was traveling in India, I met a Brahman warrior named Arjuna. He was my best friend for nearly three years,” Jesus related, recalling his Hindu mentor as he sat in the brightly lit kitchen, the time well after two.

“And?”

“He and his fellows taught me of the ways of Vishnu of the Aryans, who he agreed was Yahweh,” said Jesus.

“Yahweh is also Vishnu?”

“It would seem so, Vishnu is their supreme god, apparently equal in rank with Yahweh.”

“I take it you do not agree with that?” asked Cyril, the water in his teapot having boiled away to nothing over the hearth.

“Agree with what, I no longer believe in gods, at least man’s gods, they behave too much like men,” Jesus retorted.

“Indeed, proving you are a wise man,” a smiling Cyril replied.

“If I were wise I wouldn’t have gotten myself killed in Judea,” Jesus scoffed.

“You said that a few years ago, and I still think you are wrong regarding that,” Cyril countered, walking to the hearth to retrieve the pot, sitting it in the kitchen basin, opening the cold tap to refill it, a puff of steam issuing from the pot.

“How’s that?” asked Jesus, turning to Cyril as he placed the pot over the hearth.

“Even then you were wise in knowing that mankind is basically an ignorant, untrustworthy and self-aggrandizing lot of barbarians, preying on each other to survive in this inexplicable world.”

“And?” Jesus asked, waiting for the inevitable antithesis to Cyril’s thesis.

“I submit where you were not wise was in your belief you could change them, it is obvious they will never change until the end of time,” a frowning Cyril answered, again taking a seat.

“You think so?”

“Yes I do.”

“So I was fool,” Jesus spat, attempting a synthesis.

“Not at all,” said Cyril, shaking his head, “You were an idealist, akin to Plato, thinking if you explained their folly in plain terms, they would see your point and learn from you.”

“They didn’t, I wasted my time even bothering,” Jesus retorted, steepleing fingers and touching the tip of his nose.

“Probably, but you gained immense wisdom from your experiences, and even that did not change your outlook or the way you conduct yourself,” said Cyril.

“That would be wrong,” a resolute Jesus answered, “Just because I was treated badly by some gives me no license to treat others in that fashion, excepting for the truly evil, and I simply kill them now.”

“Yes, from my studies and from our latest conversation, I feel certain you are a Nochiveru vampire, and those of the Nochiveru are very special indeed. I venture with prejudice those like you may be anointed by the gods, or perhaps even god itself, if such a being exists,” said Cyril.

“What are you getting at?”

“You were once a healer and preacher, and like others referred to in Minoacles, you died an unjust death at the hands of your enemies, yet you still walk upon this earth and are still just, as are the others referred to in the text,” Cyril explained.

“I was once, and they hated me for it,” Jesus spat, knocking his goblet from the table, the fine Etruscan crystal shattering against the firepit of the hearth, remains landing in the flames.

“You were once what?” asked the teacher, watching his pot move back and forth, spilling water on the fire, thanks to the speeding goblet brushing the side of it.

“I was a preacher and shaman, a man of God,” said Jesus, bitterness in his voice.

“By your actions you still are,” a smiling Cyril replied, “It is plain you cannot escape it.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I am certain you have helped and healed others since your rising as a just vampire,” said Cyril.

“I’ve helped many, but have healed none,” Jesus replied, looking to the hearth and noticing the swinging pot.

“I wonder if it still works,” Cyril speculated.

“What?”

“Your healing power.”

“I don’t know, I haven’t healed anyone since I died.”

“Perhaps you should find someone with an ailment to heal to find out.”

“Indeed,” said Jesus, taking a gulp from the bottle, staring at the elderly teacher.

“I guess our next project is to find someone for you to heal,” Cyril replied, walking to the hearth to retrieve his pot.

“I have found someone,” Jesus announced, downing the remainder and sitting the bottle on the table.

“Who?” asked Cyril, standing in front of the hearth.

“You,” said Jesus, rising from the table.

“Me, what is wrong with me?” Cyril asked with trepidation, staring at the vampiric Christ.

“Your hands, your back, your knees, and other places you don’t mention,” Jesus intoned, finger in the air.

“Arthritis is the consequence of old age,” said Cyril, smiling weakly.

“You needn’t feel such pain, I cured others with that ailment, I believe I can help you.”

“How?” asked the teacher, Jesus stopping before the hearth.

“Take my hand and I’ll show you,” said Jesus.

Cyril looked to Jesus fearfully, but as a teacher, scientist and philosopher, knew that he had to take the hand of the one called Christ for the sake of human curiosity.

Placing his right hand in the cool left of Jesus, Cyril felt an unearthly power flow into his body. May I free this man of his pain, thought Jesus intently, harnessing the power of the universe to accomplish his task.

Gripping the hand of the slave tightly in his, Jesus intoned: Verily I say unto you Cyril of Athens, forever gone be the pain wracking your limbs in your elderly years.”

Cyril felt strange, comforting warmth coming from the cold hand of Jesus the vampire.

“I shall not vanquish your suffering in the name of any god, but will only in the name of healing, may you for the rest of your days be free from the malady tormenting you,” said Jesus, closing eyes.

The teacher felt overwhelming power coming from Son of Man, something beyond his experience, the pain in his ancient body subsiding, a bitter, annoying pain he had known for the past fifteen years. Jesus released his grip moments later, no evidence of him having done anything, not a noise, nor a shudder, nothing construed as evidence of healing, contrary to writings in the New Testament. But Cyril of Athens was in fact healed. Jesus had performed another miracle, Cyril’s aged body free of pain.

“I feel wonderful!” Cyril exclaimed, a smile crossing his face.

“You should, I’ve healed you of arthritis forever.”

“How?”

“That I do not know,” said Jesus, “I simply know it worked in the past, and now know it still does, thanks to you.”

“Thank you, what you have done is real,” Cyril replied, moving his hands in a way he hadn’t in years, looking to his fully open palms.

“I know, but please don’t tell anyone else.”

“Why should I not, it is a true miracle,” said Cyril, shaken by the experience.

“Because I don’t need people lining up in a queue as they did in the past, expecting to have their ills healed by me,” an exasperated Jesus replied, “Verily I say, only those deserving shall be healed by me from now on.”

“Deserving, how will you determine that?”

“You will be the example I’ll rely on.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“I shall not tell anyone,” Cyril replied, his arthritic condition gone unto his death.

“And I’m not a god,” said Jesus, finger in the air, standing before the warm hearth.

“I know that, you are simply a man with a wonderful gift,” said Cyril.

“No, I’m a vampire with a wonderful gift,” Jesus corrected.

“You were once a man and had the same power,” Cyril observed, sitting down at the table with his pot of hot water.

“That’s a fact,” a smiling Jesus replied, grabbing another bottle and taking a seat at the table.

The conversation continuing into the wee hours of the morning, Cyril listened to Jesus relating his experiences with transcendental meditation, starting from his first visions as a teenager, other, more vivid ones having occurred in India and continuing to the present.

Jesus asked at four thirty, “Aren’t you tired yet Cyril?” The rest of the household had retired hours earlier, leaving Jesus and Cyril alone in the brightly lit kitchen.

“No, let us talk further of your altered states of consciousness,” Cyril replied, easily rising from his seat and filling the pot with water.

“Are you tired Julius?” the teacher asked, placing the pot over the hot embers.

“No, at least not till the sun is well above the horizon,” said Jesus, opening the bottle, seven empties on the floor.

Cyril returned to his seat, folding hands, intently looking to the undead Son of Man.

“Please tell me of your other visions,” Cyril implored.

“Why, they’re only a product of deep meditation or exotic drugs, nothing but dreams or hallucinations.”

“I agree, but they are fascinating for one to hear,” said Cyril, scribbling another note on parchment, his right hand free of pain.

“Well, in my last vision, occurring in my bedroom, I had an argument with Yahweh. Then the Leviathan came and told me I had much work left to do on this earth,” Jesus related, jerking a thumb in the direction of his sleeping consort.

“I recall the story of the Leviathan. It is the maker of all things in Sumerian legend.”

“Exactly,” said Jesus, “The Leviathan also told me to guard Mary well, for she is to me as the moon is to the sun.”

“That one is easy, she is your wife, she is very perceptive, intelligent, and your beloved woman, you rely on her and she on you.”

“That’s the impression I received from the experience, but how can one know if such visions are really true?” asked Jesus, resting his cheek on an arm.

“I venture one cannot know, but drawing on Democritus, perhaps there are things in this reality we cannot perceive with our senses,” Cyril replied, doubting his atheism for a moment.

“The atomist,” said Jesus, familiar with Greek philosophy from Latin translations.

“Precisely,” the teacher answered, “Never before have I doubted my own beliefs, but if there is one, you friend Julius must be a child of god.”

“How’s that?” asked Jesus, taking another drink from the bottle.

“I simply venture if there is such as thing as god, it must be your champion and must have been very displeased by your death on the cross.”

“Really?”

“Yes, in my opinion, various tribes for the other Nochiveru, or in your case, the Jews and the Pharisees of Judea, refused the gift of they and you being sent from god, into their midst, using the term ‘god’ for lack of a better description,” said Cyril.

“Are you kidding me?”

“No, so I conclude god, or the creator, if it actually exists, in its wisdom, or perhaps anger, has chosen you and they for yet something else.”

“What could that be?”

“I do not know, but it must be something very special,” said Cyril, “Otherwise you and the other Nochiveru wouldn’t be here on this earth.”

“Why me, of all people?” asked Jesus, feeling put upon.

“I cannot answer that either, perhaps you should talk to my good woman Electra, not only is she a healer of sorts, but is also a priestess dedicated to goddess Athena Parthenos,” Cyril offered.

“A goddess?” said Jesus, with Hebrew upbringing conceptualizing the gods as men.

“Athena is only an anthropomorphism, you of all people know that, most people have to see their gods as men or women to believe in them.”

“I understand, but I find god, any god, a hard concept to believe in now,” said Jesus.

“As do I, but I submit there is an unknown something, greater than any god, far beyond the scope of our perception, you and other vampires are proof of that.”

“You have a point there, even I think it’s weird that I would have died and then rose as a vampire for no damn reason at all,” Jesus observed, folding hands in a steepleing position.

My thoughts exactly,” said the teacher, taking a sip of tea, the time approaching six.

“Your woman Electra is a healer too?” Jesus asked in afterthought.

“Yes, but more or less a physician like Hippocrates was, you recall the ordeal with your mother when giving birth to your brother Julian, she has used herb concoctions to soothe my arthritis, and to ease Ganymede’s headaches.”

“I do recall, and you no longer have need for remedies for arthritis,” Jesus replied.

“I thank you Julius,” said Cyril in amazement, flexing his right hand effortlessly.

“You say Ganymede is having headaches?”

“As of late, Electra has used opium to ease his pain for the past few weeks,” said Cyril, straining tealeaves from his cup, no one knowing Ganymede was suffering from a brain tumor, having only months to live.

“I’ll have to look into that.”

“I thought you didn’t want to bother.”

“With most people I don’t, but Ganymede’s a good man, take me to him tomorrow night and I’ll heal him of his headaches,” said Jesus, sitting his latest empty on the floor.

“I shall,” Cyril replied, Jesus curing a hypnotized Ganymede the next night of a cancer that would have killed him at the end of March.

“The sun will be up soon, do you want to watch it rise?” asked Jesus, changing the subject.

“After this wonderful night, definitely,” said Cyril, again looking to his hands.

“Then we shall,” Jesus replied, pulling the shade back from the kitchen window, noting the lightening horizon.

Enjoying a cup of tea, Cyril, with Jesus sitting at his side holding a bottle of wine, looked from the window to the morning of December 22, 37 CE, thick frost surrounding the glazed panes. The aged slave and ageless vampire watched the orb of the sun break the horizon, rays entering the kitchen as the hearth burned low.

“It’s a beautiful sight isn’t it?” Jesus asked, bathed in early morning light.

“A light unto the world,” said Cyril, looking to the vampiric Christ.

In his bedroom, Joseph woke with a start. “What the hell?” he spat, throwing off the sheets, rising in the cool bedroom and putting on robe and slippers.

“What is it?” asked Mary, opening eyes in the dimly lit room, Julian sleeping soundly under a wool blanket in a cradle next to their bed.

“Nothing woman, I’ll be back in a minute,” said Joseph, heading for the door. Tiredly thinking her husband had to relieve himself at the outhouse, Mary rolled over and returned to slumber, clutching an extra pillow in her arms. Closing the door, Joseph walked into the hall, heading for the kitchen, grabbing a cloak from a hook as the house was growing cold, both hearths burning very low.

“Why didn’t Jesus stoke up the fires before he – ” Joseph spat, eyes opening wide, beholding Jesus, bathed in sunlight holding a bottle of wine, finger in the air, talking to Cyril.

“Get out of the sun!” Joseph exclaimed, leaping at Jesus and throwing the cloak over him. Colliding with him, the chair broke apart underneath them. Sprawling to the floor next to the hearth, Jesus’ bottle skittered across the floor, spilling wine before it shattered against the masonry of the fireplace.

“What’s wrong father?” a frowning Jesus asked, pulling the cloak from his head and kicking an annoying chair leg from beneath his posterior.

“Are you insane, the sun’s coming up, what are you trying to do, commit suicide?” Joseph exclaimed.

“Indeed not, Cyril and I were enjoying the sunrise,” Jesus answered, standing up and looking from the window to the rising sun.

“I’m missing something here,” said Joseph from his repose on the floor.

“You never told him about it did you?” Cyril asked, his tea spilled on the table.

“Tell me what?” an angry Joseph thundered, looking to Jesus and Cyril.

“That vampires can walk about in the twilight hours of morning or evening or on very cloudy days,” Cyril explained, Jesus instinctively moving from the window as the sun rose higher.

“No, he never did, you stupid bastard,” Joseph retorted, staring at Jesus.

“I’m sorry dad,” said Jesus, arching eyebrows.

“Sorry, are you insane, stupid or perhaps both?” asked Joseph, moving a splintered chair slat from beneath his leg, tossing it in the hearth.

“No father, I simply forgot to tell you, a good day to you,” Jesus answered contritely, nodding to Cyril and heading to his bedroom.

“What an asshole, he had me scared to death,” Joseph spat, rising from the floor, hearing the bedroom door slam.

“I should have told you,” said Cyril, wiping the kitchen table with a cloth.

“Why the hell would it be your responsibility, you’re not the vampire in this household, he is,” Joseph retorted, jerking his thumb in the direction of the bedroom door.

“Nevertheless, I should have told you for his sake, have a seat and we will talk for a bit,” said Cyril.

“Let me stoke up the fire before we freeze to death,” Joseph replied, gathering up pieces of the chair and tossing them in the hearth, then heaving several split logs on top. Grabbing a bottle of wine in disgust, Joseph took a seat at the table, digging out the stopper and drinking directly from the bottle, the hearth becoming alive, flames licking at the fresh logs.

“You are starting a bit early on the wine,” Cyril observed, dropping tealeaves into a cup of warm water.

“With all I have to put up with in this madhouse, why not, and why aren’t you asleep in your bed?” Joseph retorted, looking to the shattered bottle, the remains littering the front of the hearth.

“Your son and I talked all night, and incidentally, he cured my arthritis,” said Cyril, flexing his hands effortlessly.

“He did?” asked a thunderstruck Joseph.

“Yes.”

“He’s still healing people?” asked Joseph, taking another gulp from the bottle.

“He said I am the first he has healed since becoming a vampire,” Cyril explained.

“That’s good,” said Joseph, resting his chin on an arm.

“Are you upset about that?”

“No, it’s just that he almost gave me a goddamn heart attack, a vampire sitting in the rays of the sun like a common idiot.”

“He is lacking at times when it comes to explanations.”

“He certainly is, and if you only knew what we’ve went through for the past 37 years, I’d swear you’d think we were insane,” Joseph retorted, taking another drink and slamming the bottle down on the table, waking his wife.

“I can imagine friend Joseph,” Cyril observed, calling the patriarch of the Chrysippus farm by his true name.

“Don’t get me wrong, his mother and I love him anyway, the dumb bastard.”

“As do we all.”

“Is anything wrong?” asked Mary, opening the bedroom door and looking out to the kitchen.

“For god’s sake go back to bed woman, I’ve already had enough trouble this morning,” ordered Joseph, his wife closing the door in deference.

“Regardless of his deficiencies, he is a good and brilliant man and healed me of my arthritis,” said Cyril, adding honey and stirring his tea.

“I’m glad for you Cyril, enjoy the gift he gave you,” Joseph replied with a weak smile, looking to the elderly teacher.

“I shall, and you, Joseph of Bethlehem, have a very precious son named Jesus,” Cyril declared, fondly looking down the hall to the bedroom door of the vampire Jesus Christ and his undead woman Mary the Magdalene.

“Indeed, for all his faults, I know I do,” Joseph replied, grabbing the bottle and taking another drink, looking to the closed door on the cold December morning.  

THE END