Dark Resurrection

by Frederick Preston

  * * *

  After a few days of painful convalescing Jesus recovered, his hand returning to its usual appearance. His father’s arm was healing, thankfully with no trace of infection due to the skillful care of Electra, who applied a poultice of mosses and herbs to the wound, changing the dressing every day. Not needing his sling after the fifth day, Joseph resumed light duties around the farm, accompanied by Brutus the overseer. Having plenty of swords to practice with thanks to the thieves, a recovered Jesus walked out one early evening with a pair of oil soaked torches, hanging them from support fixtures on the porch pillars. Attired in a light Roman tunic, he headed to the slave quarters and asked Ganymede if he still wanted to engage in innocent swordplay.

  “Definitely,” said Ganymede, “Has your hand recovered sufficiently?”

  “Yes, thank you for asking, if you like we can start this evening.”

  “By all means, let’s do,” Ganymede replied, stepping out into the warm evening. They arrived in front of the house, where Joseph and the Magdalene were relaxing on the porch.

  “Please fetch a pair of swords for me father,” said Jesus.

  “Why?” asked Joseph.

  “I’m going to teach Ganymede some of the finer points of sword fighting tonight.”

  “Mind if we watch?”

  “Not at all,” replied Jesus.

  “Its getting rather dark isn’t it Julius, how will we see each other?” asked Ganymede.

  “Please hand me the lantern Maria,” said Jesus, pointing to a lit lamp on a table. Using it to light the torches, the area in front of the porch was illuminated brilliantly within seconds.

  “How’s that?” asked Jesus.

  “It’ll do,” said Ganymede.

  Returning with the swords, Joseph handed them to Jesus. Taking a fine gilded sword, he tossed a lesser weapon to Ganymede, who deftly caught it with his right.

  “What do we do now?” asked Ganymede.

  “Attack me,” Jesus replied, raising his sword in the torchlight.

  “You’re a lefty,” said Ganymede, noting that Jesus was holding the sword in his left hand.

  “Yes, attack me.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Ganymede, wondering if his master’s skill would be enough to protect him.

  “I’m certain that you present no problem for me, and I will be more than careful when it comes to defending myself.”

  “You will be careful with me,” said Ganymede, holding his sword by his side.

  “Exactly,” replied Jesus.

  Raising the sword above his head, Ganymede came for Jesus, who easily deflected the expected attack, both men responding fiercely, the mock battle lasting more than twenty minutes.

  “You’re pretty good,” a smiling Jesus declared, easily fending off a sweating Ganymede’s hacking attack.

  “He certainly is,” said Joseph, the Magdalene cheering them on.

  Sidestepping the slave, Jesus disarmed him with one stroke, Ganymede’s sword falling from his hand and sticking in the earth. Looking to the slave, he said, “Your approach is fine, but your style is all wrong.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Ganymede, out of breath.

  “You fight like a marauding gladiator, lots of force and power, but no real direction in your attack.”

  “My former master fought as a professional gladiator when he was young,” replied a panting, thirty-five year old Ganymede.

  “That explains it,” said Jesus, “To be an efficient swordsman you need not only power and strength, but also grace, along with the ability to foresee what your opponent intends to do.”

  “How?

  “That’s for tomorrow evening’s lesson, if you wish to continue fencing with me.”

  “I intend to,” Ganymede answered, picking up his sword, with Jesus, not having broken a sweat, walking to the porch. He took a seat, joining his father and the Magdalene. “Here’s your sword,” the slave added, offering the weapon by the handle.

  “It’s your sword now,” said Jesus, “Would you care for wine before you go?”

  “Please,” Ganymede replied, stepping to the porch and leaning his sword against the rail.

  “Have a seat Ganymede,” said Joseph, pointing a chair next to he and the Magdalene.

  The slave took a seat, Jesus pouring and handing him a crystal goblet of wine.

  “Thank you,” said Ganymede, taking the goblet and drinking deeply from it.

  “This man has great potential as a swordsman, what do you think?” asked Jesus, looking to his father.

  “I’ll say, it’s too damn bad we didn’t have him here a week ago.”

  “We did father, we just didn’t know Ganymede was good with a sword.”

  “That’s what I meant,” retorted Joseph, annoyed at his know-it-all son.

  “You learned how to fight with swords in uh – ” said Ganymede, not recalling the name of the country.

  “Kush,” said Jesus, “I learned only the finer points there, my father uses the gladius and taught me the fundamentals as a child.”

  “When you lived in Gaul.”

  “Yes,” Jesus lied, recalling blissful summer days in Nazareth, his father showing him and younger brother James how to throw knives and fight with swords.

  Ganymede sat silent, drinking another goblet of undiluted wine on the moonlit evening. The Magdalene walked into the house, joining Mary and Ruth in the bedroom with Julian, knowing Jesus would soon grow hungry for blood and call her to his side.

  Later, Ganymede asked, “I was wondering sirs, why do you treat us as if we are equals?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Jesus, looking to the slave.

  “I and my fellows have talked of this, and agree that you and your father are the kindest, wisest and most decent Roman gentlemen we have ever met.”

  “Thank you kind Ganymede,” an embarrassed Jesus replied, answering for he and his father. “Verily I say, as I told you and Icarus: you may be slaves but are people also; kindness to one’s slaves brings the reward of good service and fine companionship on a beautiful night like this.”

  Ganymede smiled. “You’re a remarkable man Julius the younger, Cyril has said you and your family are very special people.”

  “How is Cyril, I haven’t seen him for a week or so.”

  “Quite well, he’s making preparations for teaching Julian, for when he grows older.”

  “Excuse me, I’m heading in to check on your mother and brother,” said Joseph, rising from a chair after finishing his wine.

  “Yes father,” Jesus replied, turning to Ganymede, “Cyril will be a fine teacher for my brother, please send him my thanks for his concern for Julian’s future.”

  “Why not tell him yourself?” asked Ganymede, “He’s been wondering how you were since your injury and would very much like to see you.”

  “Tell him I’ll drop by early tomorrow evening,” said Jesus, pouring wine.

  Languishing on the porch for another hour, a drunken Ganymede clumsily made his way to the slave quarters, collapsing hard on his cot, Cyril looking up from a scroll and smiling.

  Later, Jesus and consort strolled out for their evening meal, finding sustenance on the Via Tiberius Romanus highway, some miles west of Tibernum. Three aurei were in the take, along with a cache of denarii and lesser coins, adding more loot to their kitty. Dropping the pouch of money on a nightstand, they retired to slumber shortly before dawn.