Chapter Eight: Cyril’s Revelation
Waking shortly after sunset, Jesus made a point of visiting Cyril, greeting him in the common area of the slave quarters while Penelope was serving a meal for the group.
“Hello Cyril,” said Jesus as Icarus let him in.
“Greetings Julius the younger,” Cyril replied, looking up from a scroll of Diogenes, the cynic of Sinope, Penelope handing him a bowl of warm venison stew.
“Please eat it before it gets cold,” said Penelope, the teacher known to leave a bowl sitting for hours while he continued reading, at times asleep in the wee hours of the morning, food still uneaten, sitting beside him on a low table.
“Thank you Penelope, I will,” Cyril replied, rolling up the scroll.
“Would you care for some Julius the younger?” Penelope asked.
“Thank you just the same, I’ve already eaten,” Jesus lied, hoping his attentive slave would not be offended by the reply.
“Maybe next time,” Penelope replied, handing a bowl to Brutus.
“So, I’ve heard you’re preparing lessons for my brother Julian,” said Jesus, taking a seat beside the elderly slave.
“One can never start the education of a child too early,” Cyril answered, starting on his light dinner, “In these modern times, the young Roman must be quickly taught in the ways of the world.”
“Of course, and how are you this fine evening?”
“Quite well thank you. After I finish this meal, would you care to join me in discussing the sciences, philosophy, or whatever comes to mind?”
“For a while, certainly.”
“I think we should walk to the river for our discussion,” said Cyril, sopping up the remainder of the stew with bread.
“Why?”
“There is a matter of importance that I must discuss with you privately,” Cyril replied, rising slowly from his chair and handing the emptied bowl to Penelope.
“All right,” said Jesus, wondering what was of such importance that it must be discussed in private. They headed to the beach, jutting out to a huge boulder on the swiftly flowing upper Euphrates. Cyril, his back stiff due to advancing arthritis, sat on a fallen log with a wince, looking to the starlit sky.
“I have been a slave since I was eleven,” Cyril began, recalling not the best of childhoods.
“And?” asked Jesus, sitting on the beach and looking to the teacher.
“My first master intended me to be a scribe, but my teacher, the slave Hephaestos, stated I had an aptitude for more cerebral things.”
“That’s more than obvious,” said Jesus, agreeing with the long dead mentor.
“So they trained me as a teacher.”
“No better choice could have been made.”
“You think so?”
“Of course, I wish I’d been given a teacher as brilliant as you.”
“Thank you,” said Cyril, “Julius, I have never enjoyed discussions more with anyone than I have with you. You have incredible insight, like Socrates or Plato had; it has been an honor to have met a man such as you.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning there is much more to you than meets the eye. There are things you must hide from people, but can be detected by those like myself.”
“I don’t understand,” said Jesus, arching eyebrows in confusion.
“I think you do,” Cyril replied, turning to Jesus.
“What are you getting at?”
“You and your woman Maria are not what you seem to be; appearances can be most deceiving,” said Cyril, looking Jesus in the eyes.
“Don’t talk to me in riddles, what do you mean?” asked Jesus, wishing his undead heart could beat strongly at least one more time.
“The historian Herodotus of Halicarnassus wrote of it long ago, at the time of the Athenian statesman Pericles. Thucydides did as well, they helped defend the Athenians during the first Peloponnesian war, and you are one of them.”
“What is that?” Jesus asked, fearing the worst.
“You are a vampire,” said Cyril, “So is Maria, your mortal parents know this as well.”
Jesus Christ was taken back. Vampiric instinct told him he should kill Cyril, for perceiving his undead nature, but he fought off the compulsion, allowing the teacher to continue. “How did you discern that sir?” he asked, looking intently to the slave.
“I suspected you from the time you brought us to this farm, the pale complexions of you and Maria, your cool hands, moving about only at night, your heightened senses coupled with the precise movements of a predator: all are the qualities of a vampire.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Not to most people.”
“What’s so different about you?”
“I am incapable of being entranced,” said Cyril, “I recall you coming to our quarters shortly after you purchased us, telling us you were a late sleeping philosopher and thinker. I feigned entrancement and knew, according to Herodotus, that you were a blood sucking vampire.”
“So you can’t be hypnotized; why didn’t you confront me about this earlier?”
“I needed time to think, to size you up, and in time found you are a good man, even as a vampire.”
“But I was sure all of you – ”
“I have lived a long time, and with age not only comes wisdom, but cunning, assuring my survival. Do you have any idea how old I am, even though I am mortal, unlike you?”
“You’re fifty or so; my father’s age.”
“Wrong, I am nearly seventy.”
“I’ve seen you work unfettered in the fields, and Electra – a man your age – ”
“Electra is fifty-four and seems to go for older men,” said Cyril, “Aside from a touch of arthritis, I am more than capable of manual labor sir. Oh yes, she told me of the splinters she pulled from your hand and the swelling that ensued, they were made of oak, were they not?”
“You know.”
“Yes, you are a vampire, so is the pretty younger woman calling herself Maria.”
“Well, though you’re aware of our true natures, I feel you are no threat to us.”
“Not at all, I actually admire those such as you, especially yourself.”
“Why?”
“You are a brilliant man,” Cyril replied, looking down and flicking a centipede from the log.
“Mary – Maria to you, is not like myself,” said Jesus, “Not that she is unintelligent, but she’s very impulsive and does not limit herself to taking only those deserving.”
“And you do?” Cyril asked, unaware that Jesus had strict specifications when it came to his victims.
“I believe only those deserving of such a fate should be taken by a vampire; that is, evil people, criminals, thieves and such.”
“Interesting,” said Cyril, looking to Jesus, impressed by the words he was hearing, uttered by a vampire, a creature he had read of in the past, not usually known for mercy or decency, let alone kindness, virtues of which Jesus had in abundance.
“Maria does not have the same beliefs, you could almost say she’s amoral when it comes to that.”
“I understand, and she is obviously more in touch with her nature than you are,” said Cyril with a slight smile.
“She is?” asked Jesus, digging the heel of a shoe into the sand.
“Yes, I learned from the writings of Herodotus.”
“What else do you know about us?” asked Jesus, looking to the slave, sitting on a log by the riverbank, unafraid, not unlike Socrates.
“I know your woman’s true name is Mary Magdalene, and that your name is Jesus of Nazareth. Further, you are not Roman citizens, nor even Greek Etruscans from Gaul, but are actually Jews from Judea.”
“From when I entranced the others at the slave quarters; incidentally, Mary
is half Jewish and half Benjaminite, and I’m not Jewish at all, I’m a full-blooded Levite,” said Jesus, thinking of the evening when he had entranced them.
“You and yours hail from Judea, what’s the difference?” asked Cyril, not familiar with the twelve tribes of Israel.
“Not much, evidently,” said a sighing Jesus, finally realizing why Gentiles referred to his kind as Jews and nothing more, Judea was the key, inhabitants of that land referred to by Romans and others as ‘Jews’.
“No matter, I like you just the same.”
“Do the others know?”
“No, and I have no intention of making them aware.”
“Why are you telling me this?” asked an incredulous Jesus, staring at the aged slave.
“Above all Julius, like you I value truth and honesty. Due to your undead nature, you must masquerade as you do to survive in a world that despises you and all your kind. I truly think there is nothing wrong in doing that, and were I in your place I would do the same.”
“You could have said nothing and avoided this situation; I could have killed you for your revelations, why did you do so, risking death?”
“After much observation I deduced rightly that you would not kill me, and you are much too good of a man to lie to. Further, deceitful actions such as that are immoral in my opinion,” said Cyril, his personal morality binding on no others than himself.
“I see, do you want anything for your continued silence?” asked Jesus, knowing he could kill him if he wished, but realizing it would be terribly wrong to kill a man such as Cyril.
“What do you mean?” asked Cyril, insulted, looking to Jesus with a frown.
“Do you want freedom, or money, I’m very wealthy and can give you anything you wish,” said Jesus, figuring the slave had an angle.
“Freedom is a subjective term at best, and I do not need money as I am a slave, dependant on you and yours for my needs.”
“I can also give – ”
“You cannot give me immortality because I do not want it,” Cyril retorted, having already deduced what Jesus was going to offer next, “At my advanced age, I am perfectly content with my station in life. Perhaps in the distant past such offers would have made a difference, but not now. Further, if I live long enough, I look forward to teaching another child, your brother Julian. No, there is nothing I want from you, excepting for while you are here, we may enjoy more enlightening conversations together.”
“You want nothing?”
“No, excepting for your continued friendship,” said Cyril, looking to Jesus with a resolved expression revealing that he was telling the truth.
“You know we’ll be moving on?” Jesus asked, picking up on the subtle nuances of his replies.
“All vampires do, they have to according to Herodotus and Thucydides. It is written that it is your nature to behave in such a fashion.”
“I must look at this scroll of Herodotus and the one of Thucydides. My father said he read Herodotus’ treatise on legends, but he no longer has the scroll.”
“I have a copy of Herodotus. You purchased it from that Callicles fellow a while back, a coarse rogue he is, but the world must have rogues for those who are not to recognize them as such. Thucydides’ writings are much harder to obtain, I have not read of him since I was in my thirties.”
Jesus smiled at the pronouncement and asked, “May I read the scroll?”
“Why not, you bought it, and may study from the copy if you like, but why, even with the limitations you place on yourself, you are apparently quite a successful vampire as it is.”
“You may find this odd friend, but I’ve always tried to follow a proper moral outlook regarding the manner in which I conduct myself.”
“A proper moral outlook? All moralities are subjective determinations, you know that,” said Cyril, staring at the night sky, the elderly teacher more of a cynic than he would ever admit.
“True, perhaps I should call it self-discipline,” Jesus replied.
“A much better description.”
Both sat quietly for a while, listening to the flowing Euphrates, other noises from animals and insects adding their voices to the clear night. “Would you like to peruse the scroll tonight?” the teacher asked, breaking the silence.
“Not tonight, perhaps we can review it together later. I do need to make myself familiar with the finer points,” said Jesus. “So, you intend to stay on with us?”
“Of course, I have no other choice available, and truly enjoy the company of you and yours, even if you and Maria are vampires. I am an old man Julius, where would I go if I agreed to your generous offer?” Cyril asked, using the names Jesus and Mary now preferred.
“I understand. I’ll inform Maria that you are aware of us but are no threat, this will save you from possible harm by her.”
“What will that accomplish? If she is vicious like you say, as a vampire nothing can stop her, excepting for an oak stake to the heart, and I am too damn old for that.”
“I can stop her easily, I’m her master.”
“So you are the one who made her a vampire.”
“Yes,” said Jesus, placing a hand on the old man’s arm, “Always remember my friend, you have nothing to fear from us.”
“That is good to know,” Cyril replied, “So, who is the vampire that brought you to the realm of the undead?”
Jesus paused a moment. “I don’t know, Cyril.”
“You do not know - how?” asked Cyril, “All vampires have masters!”
“I was crucified a few years ago in Jerusalem; when I awoke in my grave I had become a vampire.”
“You were crucified; of what crime were you guilty?”
“Nothing in my opinion, it’s a long story. In short, the Hebrew Pharisees there convinced the Judean procurator, a man called Pontius Pilate, that I was guilty of the crime of blasphemy against the god Yahweh.”
“Yahweh, I have never heard of him,” said Cyril, raising an eyebrow at the unusual name.
“Neither has anyone else outside of Judea.”
“That is unfortunate, all wise men know the gods are not real, they simply exist to explain the vicissitudes of life to those who are not wise.”
“Definitely,” Jesus replied, realizing Cyril’s words rang bitterly true.
“It must bother you greatly that you were not guilty of the crime you were convicted of,” said Cyril, looking to Jesus.
“You believe me when I say I was not guilty of blasphemy?”
“Of course, there are no gods, at least none we can perceive as simple men. How can one be guilty of blaspheming that which does not exist?” asked Cyril, arching eyebrows.
“You’re an atheist.”
“All wise men are,” replied Cyril plainly, but not arrogantly, the learned teacher not knowing if such a being as God existed.
“I see,” said Jesus, looking to the Euphrates.
“And my statement does not mean that there is not the possibility of an entity or deity who may have created our existence. It simply means that God, if such a being exists at all, is unknowable and unreachable for us, something far beyond the realm of this reality.”
“Very, very true.”
“I take it from your reply that you did not feel that way in the past.”
“No, but I do now.”
“Such admissions are the mark of true wisdom.”
“Wisdom you say, had I been wise I would have listened to my father and wouldn’t have been murdered in Judea by my fellows for preaching about God,” spat a bitter Jesus.
“What did he have to say about it?”
“He said for years that I was wasting my time trying to change people’s attitudes toward each other and toward God, if such a being exists.”
“I am sorry to say you were wasting your time, and that your father was righ
t regarding that. Attempting to reason with people on such matters is bound to fail, as most individuals are irrational beings, especially when it comes to religion,” said Cyril, leaning back on the log.
“What do you mean?”
“Most people are like sheep, nothing more. They have their beliefs, taught to them by their parents, and if someone comes along and tells them differently, they are bound to resent, and perhaps even hate the one who contradicts what they have come to believe.”
“I understand that now,” Jesus replied, looking to the starlit sky.
“Proving the gift of wisdom comes only with age and experience Julius.”
“Very true, especially for me,” said a sighing Jesus, thinking back to his short-lived ministry in Judea.
“Especially for anyone who is wise,” Cyril replied, stroking his beard.
Jesus, relaxing, changed the subject. “So Cyril, the others say you do not drink wine.”
“I never touch it. Wine does not taste good to me, so I will not drink it.”
“An honest man, many of those who do not like it drink wine to fit in with their peers, Diogenes would have admired you,” said Jesus, he and the teacher rising and heading to the slave house.
“Diogenes searched for an honest man and never found one in all his travels.”
“I have found one in you friend.”
“Evidently, so have I, in you,” Cyril replied while they walked along.
Arriving at the slave quarters, Jesus offered his hand. “I’ll see you in a few evenings Cyril, and we’ll peruse your scroll of Herodotus.”
“I shall look forward to it,” said Cyril, shaking hands with the vampiric Christ.
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