* * *
The next day Joseph drove the wagon to town, picking up salt, more tools, roof tiles, lime plaster and other provisions. Inquiring as to the availability of glass windows, Drusus told him Callicles the trader was due in town within weeks and that he would probably have those items aboard his caravan.
“Prefect Gavinal bought the last load of windows for his home,” said an envious Drusus.
“My son told me he carries slaves on occasion.”
“Most times, and off all kinds too, Greeks, Jews, Nubians, Egyptians, and sometimes ones from further east who have strange looking eyes. Along with slaves he carries most everything else too, over eighty wagons usually, some products coming from as far as Hispania and Cathay.”
“You don’t say,” Joseph replied, paying him, “I’m certain we’ll be doing business with him.”
As the weather warmed, Jesus and father used the next weeks to build a salting room, smokehouse, a large slave quarters for up to ten slaves and a stable for horses and oxen. The smokehouse was pressed into use as Jesus brought carcass after carcass of boars, deer and auroch to the farm nearly every night, Joseph remarking they may have to go into the meat business if they kept stockpiling such a hoard. They finished their work on the slave quarters and stable none too soon, for Callicles and his caravan came rolling into town only days after they had completed the structures. Drusus informed Joseph of this when he came to town on a late afternoon, relating that the caravan was a day away, and that Callicles was at the prefect’s mansion, getting drunk.
“Does he do business in the evening?” asked Joseph, knowing he would need Jesus for some transactions, especially for the purchasing of slaves.
“Callicles would do business at four in the morning if money was to be had,” Drusus replied with an amused smile.
“Excellent,” said a relieved Joseph.
Returning to the farm, Joseph unloaded the wagon and walked into the house. Jesus and the Magdalene had risen at their customary late hour, sitting in their dimly lamp lit room in the back, with the window openings shuttered up tight against the western sun. Knocking on the door, Joseph entered, excited about the news of Callicles being in town.
“So, his caravan will be here tomorrow,” said Jesus. “Does he do business in the evenings?”
“Yes, and that’s good for us, considering you can't walk about during daylight hours.”
“I’ll say,” said the Magdalene, “You certainly have developed a new talent when it comes to understatements Joseph – you sound like Jesus.”
Joseph smiled and said, “Like father, like son.” Looking to Jesus, he added, “I’ve never bought slaves before.”
“Neither have I, but buying slaves can't be much different from buying oxen.”
“True, Drusus says he has those too.”
“Good, Mary and I will stop by tomorrow evening to buy the slaves. Would you like to head to town earlier to purchase windows and such and we’ll meet you there after sundown?”
“Sure, I’ll get the horses and wagon ready in the morning and arrive there as soon as I can.”
At sunset, Jesus and the Magdalene assumed chiropteric form, flying from town in search of human fare, seeing Callicles’ long string of wagons proceeding southeast on a narrow service road about five miles from Tibernum. Noting heavily armed men on each wagon guarding the train, they headed south toward Mansahir, figuring that bandits wouldn’t have the stomach to attempt robbing such a well-defended group. Returning to human form thirty miles south of Tibernum, they strolled the road near a small village, attempting to lure the dregs of society into what they did best, stealing from those who worked for a living.
“Did you see those men guarding Callicles’ wagons?” the Magdalene asked.
“They’re mercenaries,” said Jesus, “I’ll bet the man has never been robbed, verily I say, he who guards diligently against his attackers shall never be attacked.”
Mary smiled, reflecting on the truthfulness of the statement.
Walking further, they came upon a pair of bandits blocking their path. The swarthy duo appeared as if the pursuit of robbery hadn’t been profitable profession as of late, looking as if they hadn’t bathed in years and acting as if they were moonstruck lunatics instead of thieves.
“Give us your money you Roman bastard!” one growled, drawing a short sword.
“Why?” asked Jesus.
“Because we’re robbers - that’s why!” the thief stammered, his partner moving to Mary, grabbing her arms and holding them behind her back.
“You are?”
“What are you, stupid?” asked the other thief, holding a blade to his consort’s throat.
“No,” said Jesus, “I just don’t feel like giving money to robbers tonight, so why don’t you try to take it from us?”
“Suit yourself,” the robber retorted, raising his sword.
Jesus stood unmoving as his assailant drew back to strike. The sword moving toward him, he put out his left and grabbed the thief by his wrist, stopping the weapon cold. Calmly taking the sword, Jesus threw it to his right, where it sunk deep in the trunk of a tree. Mary, overcome by hunger, slipped from the other robber’s grip, took his dagger and drained him on the spot while his horrified partner looked on.
“Woe unto you simple thief,” Jesus declared in his vampiric accent, “Verily I say, beware of Hebrew vampires dressed as Romans.”
Jesus plunged fangs into the neck of his tormentor, sucking him dry. Dropping the victim to the pavement, he asked, “Do they have any loot?”
“Not a shekel,” a disgusted Mary answered, finished checking the other corpse.
“Let’s dump them in the woods,” said Jesus. He grabbed one by his filthy tunic; the other by his matted hair and dragged the bodies from the road. Disposing of them fifty feet from the roadside, they transformed and flew toward Tibernum.
Flying over Callicles’ wagons a few hours later, Jesus noted they had reached town, slaves setting up a caravansary by torchlight on the main street in the fashion of an open market or bazaar. Transforming in a secluded area, they walked to the main street and browsed the items for sale. The merchandise offered was incredible, all varieties of household items, furniture, clothing, tools, jewelry, farm animals, beasts of burden and of course slaves, with other extended wagons piled high with casks of wine and preserved exotic foods from all over the empire.
“Drusus was right, he carries everything,” said Jesus, inspecting the items.
“We’re not open for business yet sir,” a young Greek of fifteen years announced while they walked among the wagons.
“I understand,” said Jesus in passable Greek, “I’m only taking a look at what you have. Is the merchant Callicles of Athens available?”
“No sir, he’s at the prefect’s residence getting drunk,” the teenager replied with a fond smile for his employer.
“That’s something I enjoy,” said Jesus.
Nodding, the adolescent continued, “We’ll be opening tomorrow at noon, I’m hoping he’ll be in some sort of condition to conduct business.”
“Will your bazaar be open tomorrow evening?” Jesus asked, making certain that he would be able to shop for slaves during the night.
“Of course, uncle Callicles makes most sales in the evening anyway, after everyone else has returned from their work.”
“Good, my father will arrive here around noon. He’s looking for glass windows and oxen. I’ll stop by in the evening, I’m looking for slaves, and do you carry plows for turning earth?”
“We have plenty of those items aboard the wagons,” the lad answered, “Tibernum’s one of the first extended stops we make on our trips from the ports of the Bosphorus. From here we head south to Antioch, and from there into northern Judea and back.”
“How long will you be here?” Mary asked, having picked up Gre
ek during their travels.
“A week or two, depending on sales.”
“Excellent, does your uncle speak Latin; my father doesn't understand Greek at all.”
“Most of us do, even the slaves,” said the lad in Latin, “Why didn’t you ask me earlier sir?”
“It didn’t occur to me,” Jesus answered, slightly embarrassed, “Please forgive me son, I didn’t realize you could speak Latin.”
“Latin’s the tongue of all you Roman folk,” the young Greek observed, “You guys run the world, if we couldn’t speak Latin we wouldn’t be able to sell much merchandise to you would we?”
“I reckon not,” said Jesus, feeling guilty for a moment; masquerading as a Roman citizen. His guilt passing quickly, he took pride in being citizen B. Julius Chrysippus, wealthy wine merchant hailing from Etruria with his wife Maria, they so much better than all lowly barbarians.
“So, what’s your name son?” asked Jesus.
“Demosthenes.”
“After the lawyer?”
“Yes, I was told my father always admired him.”
“You’re a young man, where’s your father?”
“He and my mother died in a plague in Thebes when I was a baby,” said Demosthenes, “My uncle took me in and treats me as if I were his own son.”
“Thebes, in Greece or Egypt?” asked Jesus.
“The city of Oedipus,” Demosthenes replied, a slave calling to him.
“Ah yes,” said Jesus, knowing where he hailed from. “We’ll see you on the morrow,” he added, the couple leaving the caravansary.
“Who the hell is Oedipus?” asked Mary as they walked from town.
“Was Oedipus; a legendary guy from Greece who killed his father, was afterward made a king, and then screwed his mother.”
“Really,” said a chuckling Magdalene, “Kind of kinky wasn’t he?”
“He didn’t know she was his mother when he was screwing her.”
“I find that very hard to believe, did he ever find out?”
“Yes, his mother killed herself upon learning of the news, and he blinded himself for whatever reason.”
“Why?”
“Who knows and who cares, legends like that come down from the past and they’re probably a pack of lies anyway.”
“Like the Hebrew faith is?”
“Precisely,” said Jesus.
Returning to the farm near midnight, Jesus found his parents awake, his mother feeling ill. She lay in their bed, an unconcerned Joseph remarking in the kitchen that she had always felt ill when pregnant. “She’s had seven kids and it’s always been the same way,” said Joseph.
“She gets sick while pregnant?” Mary asked.
“Only till the sixth or seventh month, after that she’s fine till the baby’s born.”
“I never had babies when I was alive,” said the Magdalene, thinking of children she would never have.
“The whole damn thing’s overrated!” Mary yelled from the bedroom, Joseph looking to the doorway.
“We stopped by Callicles’ market,” said Jesus.
“What did you find?”
“He carries everything; beasts, furniture, tools, slaves; you name it, he has it.”
“Furniture too?” Joseph asked, looking about their sparsely furnished home, he and Jesus only beginning to create chairs, tables and the like.
“Indeed father, all kinds, that’ll save us work.”
“What about glass windows?”
“He has those too,” said Jesus, “They open at noon, I reckon you should head to his market then. Buy the windows and a pair or two of draft oxen, along with anything else you want. I’ll meet you there at dusk and we’ll buy the slaves.”
“Okay, I’ll bring the wagon and tethers for the oxen.”
“Do you need money?” Jesus asked.
“Are you kidding?”
“Sorry, I forgot,” Jesus replied.
“Jesus,” Joseph asked, “Once you purchase them, how will we keep the slaves from discovering you and Mary are vampires?”
“Entrancement,” answered Jesus, “First, I’ll convince them that you and mother are the masters of this farm, then I suppose I’ll figure out some kind of story to explain Mary and I.”
“You can do that?”
“Never underestimate a vampire, my father,” said Jesus.
Dark Resurrection Page 32
