* * *
“Centurion Decius Publius is at the top of the duty roster,” Maxentius Jovanius remarked to the new procurator of Judea, Titus Marcellus, as they stood in the summer palace in coastal Caesarea with the aide Antonias, the new procurator preferring this residence only.
“Call him here, Thucydides of Delos has connections with Tiberius,” said Marcellus, “If we don’t at least send soldiers to track this Jesus character, the Emperor will have my ass!”
“Do you believe Jesus of Nazareth is a vampire?” Maxentius asked, Antonias occupied reading an official document concerning yet another Judean messiah named Lucius the Christ.
“Hell no, there are no vampires, besides, he’s been dead nearly a year,” said Marcellus, “But Dr. Thucydides thinks he is and sent a letter to Rome.”
“So?”
“So Tiberius sent a letter from Capri, informing me that Thucydides is a good friend of his, and a learned genius, and that we are charged with tracking a vampire named Jesus of Nazareth.”
“Are you kidding?”
“If I were do you think I’d tell you this horseshit?”
“No, and would you believe that a few idiots from Jerusalem are wandering about, saying Jesus rose from the dead as the Son of God?” asked Maxentius.
“Who are they?”
“Some of his disciples, I think they call themselves Christians.”
“Are they claiming he’s a vampire?” asked Marcellus.
“Not at all.”
“I wonder if this Lucius Christ fellow is one of those,” Antonias spoke up.
“Who in hell is Lucius Christ?” asked the procurator.
“Another one of their messiahs, like Jesus Christ of Nazareth was, according to this,” said Antonias, handing his new boss the document.
“By the gods, it figures, why the hell did Tiberius send me here?” Marcellus groaned, rubbing his forehead as he stared at the report.
“Pilate said the same thing to Antonias,” Maxentius replied, jerking a thumb at his fellow bureaucrat as the aide nodded in agreement.
“Did he, well, please see to it that the centurion is called,” said Marcellus, quickly reading the document.
“I’ll tend to it immediately,” answered Maxentius, giving him a Roman salute.
A little over two days later, centurion T. Decius Publius and his eight men, traveling from Jerusalem, appeared before procurator Marcellus, informed that he was in charge of a contubernia ordered by Tiberius to track Jesus, the vampire.
“Are you serious sir?” Decius asked, feigning an incredulous look, knowing that Jesus Christ, the Son of Man, a former Levite rabbi, was in fact a bloodsucking vampire, but also a friend of his, sworn on his personal honor.
“Yes I am centurion, Tiberius ordered it.”
“I’m the one who crucified him, he’s dead as a coffin nail.”
“You did?”
“Yes sir, he died on the cross last spring.”
“That doesn’t mean he didn’t rise as a vampire,” Dr. Thucydides declared, walking into the atrium.
“Do I have to deal with this clown again?” asked Decius.
“I don’t believe him either, but Tiberius ordered it and we must follow the emperor’s directives,” Marcellus answered, looking to Decius with a sympathetic gaze.
“He’s a madman,” said Decius, looking to Thucydides.
“Be that as it may centurion, you are charged with tracking Jesus the vampire,” Marcellus replied, almost laughing as he uttered the order.
“Yes sir,” said Decius with a sinking feeling, giving the procurator a salute, their orders to march to the practically empty town of Nazareth.
Several weeks passed, Jesus and company pressing on into Anatolia, passing through small towns, his parents dining at taverns, he and the Magdalene dining out, so to speak, on worthless members of society that they came across.
“Where exactly are we heading son?” Joseph asked on a cool evening from the rear of the wagon, a full moon rising overhead.
“Northeast,” Jesus said over his shoulder.
“I know that,” Joseph retorted, “But where?”
“The valleys of eastern Anatolia, in the region of upper Cappadocia near the Euphrates River. The area is remote, wooded, and the land is good for farming.”
“You’re forgetting one thing son. I’m a carpenter, not a dirt farmer.”
“So what, we’ll buy slaves too, you can use them to tend the farm.”
“I suppose that’ll work,” said Joseph, falling silent, wondering where Jesus would find slaves for him, and what else his son had in mind for he and his wife.
They drove on to a desolate section of highway, not far from the town of Mansahir.
Mary Magdalene, like the hunter she had become, spotted a pair of warm figures in the distance, not waiting to ambush, they were lying still at the side of the deserted road.
“I wonder if they’re sleeping,” she asked as they drew closer.
“I think not,” said Jesus, pulling the wagon up to where they lay.
Stepping from the wagon, he walked to the pair, both alive but battered and bruised by a group of thieves, having been left for dead. “My name is Euripides, a trader from Macedonia, help us please,” one called in Greek, holding out an arm in a gesture of pleading.
“Do you speak Latin or Aramaic, I’m not familiar with Greek,” Jesus answered in Latin, half understanding the man’s sentence.
“Yes,” said Euripides, telling Jesus in passable Latin of his woes.
“Don’t worry friend, we’re here to help,” Jesus replied, giving him a pat on the shoulder.
“You’re Roman aren’t you?” asked Euripides, trying to focus on Jesus.
“No, I’m a Samaritan named James, what happened to you?”
“Highwaymen robbed us and took off with our horses.”
Joseph and Mary walked up, along with a hungry Magdalene, fangs baring in her mouth.
“What did they look like?” Jesus asked the bruised and bloodied man.
“There were four, I don’t remember exactly what they looked like, but one had an eye missing and wore a patch,” Euripides answered, trying to recall their faces.
Jesus raised his eyebrows, making a mental note of the statement.
“He sure looks like hell,” said Joseph, looking at Euripides’ battered face, “I imagine robbers beat the shit out of them, right?”
“Yes,” Jesus replied, “Let’s move them to the wagon, we’ll take them to Mansahir for medical attention.”
“My lord,” said Jesus’ mother, not at all used to such occurrences.
“Why are you bothering with them?” the Magdalene asked, annoyed at having to take in the men.
“It’s the right thing to do,” said Jesus, moved by his innate sense of justice.
“Oh well, no dinner tonight,” Mary retorted while Jesus helped Euripides to his feet.
“It’s early yet, perhaps we’ll find the folks who did this on the way to town,” said Jesus, “Please help the other man to the wagon Mary.”
“If you say so,” the Magdalene replied, walking to the other man, concluding that Jesus would never change his ways, even as a vampire.
Helping them into the wagon, his mother tended their wounds as best she could while her son took the reins, moving the horses at a gallop toward Mansahir, his consort and Joseph at his side. Entering the town, they pulled up to the first inn they found. Jesus headed to the office, asking the innkeeper if he had rooms to rent, and if a physician was available to tend to the injured men.
“We have rooms, but there’s no doctor available. My sister’s a midwife, will that help?”
“It’ll have to,” said Jesus, paying him for three rooms, asking if stabling was available for the horses and wagon.
“No,” the man answered, “Park the rig in front of your room, that will suffice, there’s hay next to the water trough. I’ll get my sister, she’ll meet you at the rooms.”
“Thank you sir,” Jesus replied as the man left the counter and headed to the back. “We have lodging for the night,” he announced, leaving the office, walking to the wagon and climbing aboard. Pulling in front of the rooms, he stepped down and tied the horses to a hitching post. The Magdalene walked to the rear of the wagon, opened the door and helped Euripides out, along with his partner and Jesus’ mother. Both men had recovered somewhat and were on their feet, but were in need of food and medical attention. Showing them to a warm room, Mary headed to her room as Jesus was placing his loot beneath the bed for safekeeping.
“This is ridiculous,” said Mary, “Why the hell did you bother with a pair of silly Romans when we have to find supper!”
“They’re Greeks woman; I think they deserved our help since it happened to them through no fault of their own.”
“Whatever, I said you’d never change, you’re still going out of your way to help stupid mortal people.”
“Please understand, it was the right thing to do, and remember I helped you out of a jam once in your hometown.”
“That’s true,” said Mary, “I guess there’s nothing wrong with having compassion once in a while, just don’t do it too often will you?”
“I don’t intend to, after they and my folks are settled in, we’re going out to find their attackers, then you’ll see how heartless I can be,” Jesus answered with a sinister smile.
Mary smiled back, leaving to tend to his parents, carrying their belongings to their room.
The innkeeper’s sister arrived while Jesus was walking the horses to cool them after the hard run. He pointed to the door of the injured men. She entered, cleaned them up and brought them much needed food.
“James the Samaritan is a kind man,” said Euripides to the midwife, named Sarai, as she wrapped a bandage around his head.
“That’s rare these days,” Sarai grumbled, “He’s either a saint or a damned fool.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Euripides, surprised at her surly attitude.
“You’re new to this forsaken place aren’t you?” retorted Sarai as she patched them up, “There’s so many thieves and pirates in this area that it’s ridiculous. The army won’t do anything about it, and that guy blunders into town thinking he can make a difference?”
“He saved us,” said Euripides, defending his benefactor.
“You’re one of the few. It’s practically anarchy in this section of the province, if it wasn’t for the whores in this town giving free pieces of ass to the soldiers to keep them here, we’d all be dead!”
“Really?” mumbled Thales, partner of Euripides, sitting up and looking to Sarai.
“You’re damn lucky to be alive,” she said, moving to Thales. She checked his jaw and remarked, “Not broken, only dislocated, lie down on your back and stay still. I warn you, this is going to hurt.” Placing her right palm next to the hinge of his jaw, she moved her hand below it toward his neck, moving her left arm back and striking her fist sharply against her right hand. Hearing a pop as the jawbone snapped in position, Thales moaned in agony, his hands clutching the bedposts. Producing a bottle of strong Anatolian grog laced with opium, she handed it to him and said, “Drink a few slugs of this, it will ease your pain.”
“Thank you,” a grateful Thales mumbled, taking a long pull from the bottle.
“Your jaw will feel better in a few weeks, watch it for a while when it comes to eating. Nothing hard, no chewing, only soup and such,” the midwife advised, Thales sinking into his bed. Gathering up her bandages and herbs, along with a few healing talismans, Sarai left and closed the door, not uttering another word. Euripides looked to his battered partner from his bed, yawned, and both settled into much-needed sleep.
Dark Resurrection Page 20
