Dark Resurrection

by Frederick Preston

  * * *

  The year 35 arrived on a cold morning. After the new mother had recovered enough to walk about, Jesus and his parents, with the Magdalene, discussed on a January evening how the child should be raised, either secretly as a Hebrew or openly as a Roman.

  Dismissing the slaves from the house, including Ruth, the four gathered by lamplight at the kitchen table and debated the fate and education of the male child.

  “I’d raise him Roman,” said Joseph, opening a wine bottle, “We had enough trouble with the Hebrew religion in Galilee, practicing such a faith here would be a disaster.”

  “But Joseph, it was the religion of our parents,” Mary replied.

  “And a lot of good it did them,” Joseph spat, filling goblets for he, Jesus and the Magdalene.

  “My father was a priest in Bethlehem!”

  “And he died a pauper, accused of heresy by those goddamn Pharisees, who also gleefully murdered your firstborn son!”

  Mary looked to him, not knowing what to say.

  “Tell me I’m wrong woman, only a fool would practice the Hebrew religion here!” Joseph thundered, downing his goblet.

  “What do you think Jesus?” asked his mother, folding hands on the table and looking to him with an imploring expression.

  “I’m sorry, but I agree with father, to even mention something like Hebrew beliefs to the child would be inviting trouble for the family,” said Jesus, taking a deep drink from his goblet.

  “I admit you have a point, but it was our religion,” Mary replied, thinking of their experiences in Nazareth.

  “Forget it, it was bullshit,” Joseph retorted, “We don’t need our new kid growing up like Jesus did do we?”

  “Father!”

  “I’m sorry son, but you did go overboard with religion in the past.”

  “Yeah,” said Jesus, growing silent, reflecting on his admission, realizing his father, as usual regarding such things, was right.

  “What do you think?” asked Mary, looking to the Magdalene.

  “It’s none of my business,” said the Magdalene, staring into her goblet, swirling the wine within.

  “Yes it is, you’re my son’s wife and a member of this family, so it is your business.”

  “Jesus and I are vampires; you and Joseph are his parents, not us. The decision is yours, the child must be raised as you see fit.”

  “I don’t care what you are – I’d like your opinion please.”

  The Magdalene paused, carefully sitting her glass on the table. Frowning, she replied, “Very well, if you must know I agree with Jesus and Joseph. The Hebrew religion is obviously a fraud, and to mention such beliefs here would do nothing but court disaster.”

  Mary sighed, looking to the ceiling for a moment.

  “It’s the only way, we have to live in this town and think of the child’s future,” said Joseph.

  “It bothers me but I think you are correct,” Mary agreed, “Since we’re living in Cappadocia, we probably should raise Julian in the ways of the Romans.”

  “Then it’s settled,” said Joseph, “Julian will be raised Roman.”

  Over the following years, the young Levite male would be raised Roman, never circumcised nor hearing of the Torah and other Hebrew superstitions. When the time came, Cyril taught him of the gods. He told the lad of the myths of Jupiter and Saturn, along with the rest of the great pantheon of gods passed down from the Greeks and Romans, the child raised pagan.

  An early March spring arriving, the slaves prepared the farm, while Jesus and consort continued to rid the land surrounding Tibernum of thieves, cutthroats and highwaymen, along with the occasional boar, auroch, or deer. His mother and Julian were tended to by the female slaves, even the male slaves stopping in to check on the little one, vigorous and perfect he was, looking with bright eyes at his fellows one late afternoon.

  The baby dropped a rattle made by Jesus to the floor for the third time, sending Joseph scrambling from a chair to pick it up. Seeing this, Brutus remarked, “We know who the master of this farm is, it’s little Julian!”

  “It seems so,” said a proud Joseph.

  Even the town prefect, Gavinal Septimus, dropped by the farm one evening in late March to greet the latest citizen of Tibernum, on his way to Marcus Pertinax’s home to notarize land titles. Trader Callicles was also in town, the prefect relating this news as well.

  “By the gods, he’s three months old and has no bulla,” a superstitious Gavinal observed, looking upon the child and turning to Jesus.

  “Don’t worry, Maria and I are heading to Antioch to have a goldsmith create one for him so the gods will protect him from harm,” said Jesus, feigning just the right amount of concern.

  “He needs a bulla now to protect him from evil demons and malevolent vapors, you know that Julius.”

  “Our slave Electra has invoked Athena Parthenos to intercede until we get him one,” said Joseph, completely familiar with the Greek pantheon.

  “You mean Minerva,” Gavinal corrected, using the goddess’ Roman name.

  “Of course,” Jesus answered for his father.

  “I’ll take care of this,” said Gavinal, “My brother in Etruria is a goldsmith and can create a powerful bulla blessed by the Oracle at Delphi. Thanks to the Oracle my children are protected by the great and powerful Jupiter.”

  “They are?” asked Joseph.

  “Great Jupiter is King of all the gods and can do wonders far above other gods,” replied Gavinal with a nod.

  “How soon can you do this?” asked Jesus.

  “Within a month,” said Gavinal, “No Roman child should ever be without the blessing of Jupiter.”

  “Will you need money?” asked Jesus, reaching in a tunic pocket.

  “No, it will be my family’s gift to you and your family,” a solemn Gavinal answered.

  “We thank you kind Gavinal,” said Joseph.

  “Don’t mention it friend Julius, neighbors always help one another,” replied the prefect with a smile, beholding the Roman boy in his mother’s arms.

  Callicles and Demosthenes dropped by a few evenings later as his caravan was preparing to leave for Daphinos. Both enjoying getting drunk with Joseph and Jesus, the trader and nephew admired the child held at his mother’s breast – a still embarrassed Mary having been informed by her eldest that Roman women were not ashamed of their bodies when among friends like Hebrews were. “I must say, it’s a miracle,” said Callicles, walking from the bedroom, envious of the domestic bliss of the Chrysippus family.

  “Would you believe he was born caesarian?” asked Jesus.

  “It takes a highly skilled physician or midwife to perform such a feat,” said Callicles.

  “Don’t you remember, our slave Electra is a midwife,” Joseph replied.

  “I figured I sold her and the others to you too damn cheap!” Callicles said with a chuckle, sitting down in the kitchen, leaning to one side and farting loudly. “Sorry friends, I forgot we were inside,” he added, fanning his crotch, embarrassed at the foul odor filling the kitchen.

  “Shit happens,” replied Joseph, moving from the table and opening the front door, hoping the burning hearth would take up the noxious fumes.

  “I hope not,” Callicles retorted, looking to his crotch as Jesus laughed heartily. Later, he purchased excess meat in the smokehouse, paying the vampiric Christ in Roman gold. His slaves loading the wagon on the moonlit night, the trader produced a tightly wrapped package, handing it to Joseph. “A present for the baby.”

  “Thank you, what is it?” asked Joseph, taking the package.

  “Open it.”

  Joseph unwrapped the package, revealing a bolt of fine Egyptian cotton cloth, and another bolt of exquisite woven white Roman wool, threaded with gold.

  “For your son’s first tunics,” said Callicles. Nodding,
Joseph handed them to his son for inspection.

  “This is beautiful cloth,” said Jesus, looking at the fine fabrics, “Thank you very much friend Callicles.”

  “I got it cheap in Chrysopolis,” replied a winking Callicles, climbing in his wagon.

  “Take care Callicles, till next time,” said Jesus, heading to the house with the gift.

  “Right Julius,” Callicles answered, taking the reins.

  Bidding farewell to Joseph, Callicles and nephew left for their caravansary.