* * *
“My aching head!” moaned Joseph as he woke at dusk, still drunk, afflicted with a severe, pounding hangover.
“Are you all right Joseph?” asked Mary, knowing the answer.
“No, Syrians brew a mean wine,” Joseph answered in throbbing pain.
His wife had risen earlier, cleaning up from the night’s revelry. Joseph sat up in the bed, holding his head in his hands.
“Give me some wine will you?” he asked with a cough, making his head pound even more.
“Yes dear, this should help,” said Mary, handing him a filled glass while he sat on the edge of the bed.
A seemingly loud knock came on the door, Joseph calling in agony, “Who is it?”
“Jesus.”
“Open the door Mary.”
She opened the door and the couple entered, Jesus carrying his sack of loot over a shoulder.
“It’s almost check out time dad, are you ready to go?” asked Jesus while his mother closed the door.
“Oh God,” Joseph groaned, “What’s the hurry, we don’t really have anyplace to go do we?”
“Are you sick?” the Magdalene asked, looking in his direction.
“I have a hell of a hangover,” Joseph moaned, finishing his wine. He looked to his placid vampiric son, focused and asked, “Aren’t you hungover too?”
“I’ve never felt better in my uh, life,” said Jesus, “That’s strange, in the past when I got drunk I always felt terrible the morning after.”
“Must have something to do with being a vampire,” Joseph replied, falling to the mattress with another groan.
“Probably,” said the Magdalene, looking to Jesus.
“I could fix it for you father, by bringing you to our realm.”
“No, I’ll manage, but thank you anyway. I wouldn’t make a very good vampire, life’s bad enough without that.”
Jesus looked to his father impassively.
“I don’t think your father and I should travel tonight,” said his mother, frowning at her husband.
“You’re right mother, I’ll rent the rooms for another night and we’ll leave tomorrow.”
“Thanks son,” Joseph moaned from his bed as they left.
They returned to their room, Jesus sliding his treasure-laden sack under the bed.
Reaching for a tan robe to wear over his tunic, Jesus advised, “It’s cool tonight woman. I think we should start wearing cloaks and the like when we’re about.”
“But I don’t feel cold at all,” said Mary, surprised that she had not noticed the change in weather.
“Neither am I, but it will look strange if we walk around without warm garments in wintertime, this way we’ll fit in better.”
“You learn fast,” said a smiling Mary.
Putting on the robe, Jesus replied, “I’m heading to the office to pay the rent. I’ll be back shortly, then we’ll go out for dinner.”
“Don’t be long,” said Mary as he passed through the threshold.
Jesus walked to the manager’s office, renting the rooms for another night. Crossing the street, he handed 13 sestertii to the stable manager, telling him to keep the change. During the exchanges, both men complimented his new hairstyle, the stable manager suggesting that he shave his beard to complete the transformation. Jesus acknowledged the suggestions politely and made his way to his room, troubled about his parents, especially his father.
“That’s the second time I offered to make dad a vampire and he’s turned me down on both occasions,” said Jesus, sitting down in a chair.
“Maybe he doesn’t want to be one,” the Magdalene replied, “I imagine some folks aren’t cut out for this kind of life, you know, killing people most every night, and sucking their blood and all.”
“That’s probably true, but he’s an older man, which means he will pass soon.”
“You love your parents don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” said Jesus, looking to the floor.
“Well, you’ll simply have to accept the fact that they’ll be gone one day, as will all who we have known. Both of my parents are dead and I miss them, but they’re gone forever, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“But I can do something about it,” said Jesus, looking to her.
“You haven’t changed one bit; you still think you have all the answers, and believe only your way is best.”
“I do?”
“Yes, it bothers you a great deal that your parents are content being mortal, and don’t seem to mind the fact that they will die.”
Jesus sat a moment, contemplating. “But I could save them from that.”
“You see? You haven’t changed at all, and remember you once thought you could save everybody.”
“No I – ”
The Magdalene pointed at him in emphasis. “That’s bullshit, you still don’t realize some folks don’t want, or even need to be saved.”
“They don’t?”
“Not at all, your parents are content with what they are, and they’re happy, so let it go.”
“But – ”
“No buts, one day you’ll realize that you can’t save the world, especially when it doesn’t even want to be saved,” she added, reflecting on the bitter truth of her statement.
Jesus sat silently, knowing in his heart that regarding such matters, as usual, Mary Magdalene was correct. Later, they headed into the dark night, dressed appropriately for the season, on the hunt for their version of the evening meal. Strolling along, they observed that Antioch was truly a decadent town, walking past packed brothels, accosted with offers by depraved members of both sexes. Ignoring the solicitations, they continued to the heart of the city, knowing they would soon run across suitable victims.
“Antioch’s worse than Sodom or Gomorrah ever was,” Jesus observed, making their way past a barbershop.
“Who cares, let’s buy you a razor,” said Mary, turning and heading for the establishment with Jesus following. They entered near closing time. The Roman owner was cleaning his instruments in a basin, and the Magdalene asked in fluent Latin, “Excuse me sir, do you have razors available for purchase?”
“Certainly,” the barber answered, drying his hands, “Two denarii for a bronze razor, three for a steel one; do you need a strop for it?”
“Yes,” answered Jesus.
“Ten sestertii for the strop, so what’ll it be sir?”
“Buy a steel one,” the Magdalene advised, “You don’t need to sharpen them as often.”
“The lady’s right sir,” said the barber, reaching for a gleaming steel example of a folding straight razor, “I exclusively use and recommend steel razors for my customers, made by Egyptian blacksmiths.”
“Yes, this is satisfactory,” Jesus replied, inspecting the razor, “We’ll take the strop too.”
“Three denarii, twenty sestertii,” the barber declared, wrapping the razor and strop in a cloth.
“Here’s five denarii, would you have a pouch for it?” asked Jesus, handing him money.
“Sure, but it’s only 5 sestertii,” the barber answered, looking at the coins in his palm.
“Keep the change for your trouble,” said Jesus as the barber handed him a leather pouch.
“Thank you sir,” the barber replied, Jesus placing his purchase in a robe pocket, and starting with the Magdalene toward the door.
“Your quite welcome,” said Jesus. Heading into the street, he looked to Mary. “I never knew you could speak Latin that well!”
“I couldn’t speak Latin at all till you made me a vampire and I listened to you speaking it,” Mary replied with an impish smile.
“Incredible,” said Jesus, “I imagine there’s more to being vampires than we first realized,” neither knowing that an inherent predilection to learn languages or skills fas
t was part of a vampire’s camouflage, an ability akin to a chameleon fitting into its surroundings.
“You can say that again, and I like it too,” Mary answered, taking Jesus’ hand in hers. They resumed their hunt for dinner, heading into downtown Antioch, and for the moment, seeing no one suitable, according to Jesus’ strict specifications. “Where the hell are they?” she asked a few hours later, looking about, beginning to feel hunger pangs.
“It’s early yet,” said Jesus near midnight, continuing their stroll around town.
“Where’s a criminal when you need him?”
Pausing to relax, they sat down on a stone bench, taking in the sights of the big city from a deserted central park. While Jesus sat in placid contemplation of life, the world, God and his vampiric existence, his reverie was broken by a poorly aimed dagger, the blade coming to an abrupt stop in a tree only inches from his head.
“There he is,” said Mary, seeing the assailant from body heat while he hid in the shadows.
Jesus, undisturbed by the attack, reached in his robe with his left, pulling a dagger taken from another thief. “Watch this woman,” he said with a sinister grin, throwing the sharp dagger underhanded from a sitting position. The speeding blade caught the man in his chest with an audible ‘thunk’, cleaving his heart in two. Clutching his upper torso, he staggered backwards and collapsed dead on the sidewalk.
“Good throw!” Mary exclaimed as they strolled to their quarry. Looking to the body, she asked, “Where’d you learn to throw a dagger like that?”
“Verily I say, the Son of Man can be a dangerous person when crossed,” Jesus intoned in his Draculaesque monotone.
“I know, but that doesn’t answer my question.”
“When I was a child, I didn’t have many friends outside of my family and spent a lot of time alone. So, among other things, I learned to throw knives as a pastime. Ask my father, he’s the one who taught me how to use knives and swords,” Jesus replied in his disguised voice, now usually coming to him naturally.
“I didn’t know that,” said Mary, staring at the corpse, dagger stuck in the chest, “I thought you were only a simple preacher in those days.”
“There are a lot of things you didn’t know about me then,” Jesus replied, recalling his childhood loneliness as only an adult could: for had he only felt complete when his brothers and sisters were around? When their family started to break up shortly after his return to Nazareth, with his sister’s marriages and his brothers starting their own families and businesses in Capernaum, the introspective Jesus had started to feel left out.
“Like what?”
“Like when I left India when I was 28, by that time I was an expert swordsman, thanks to the teachings of their warriors, the Kushan priests stating that I was an incarnation of the god Shiva.”
“Who’s that?” asked Mary, interested in the Hindu religion.
“Shiva the destroyer, sort of like the Hebrew lesser god Satan, that deity considered an aspect of their supreme god, a being called Vishnu.”
“Weren’t too far off were they?” the Magdalene observed, Jesus shrugging at her reply.
Reaching down, he pulled the dagger from the man’s chest. Hot blood poured from the gaping wound, and he wiped the blade on the rags he was wearing. Noting this, Jesus said, “You’d best get to your supper before it runs out on the ground.”
“Wouldn’t it have been easier to kill him in the usual way?” asked Mary, sinking fangs in the neck.
“He seemed to like knives so much, I figured I’d give the bastard one,” said Jesus, tucking the dagger in his robe while Mary drained the corpse.
Her meal finished, they dragged the body to an alley and checked it for valuables. Finding nothing, which was usual for the criminals of Antioch, Jesus grabbed the corpse by the hair and dumped it in a lavatorium, where it floated away in the current with other refuse.
“Come to think of it, I wonder if he was a robber,” said Mary as they left, “By the way he behaved he could have been a simple killer, or a rapist.”
“Who cares,” Jesus replied, heading to the stone bench and pulling the man’s dagger from the tree. “All I know is that he tossed a knife at me and I killed him for his efforts. Holding the blade, he asked, “Are you in need of a dagger woman, I already have one.”
“Why not,” said the Magdalene, taking the blade and placing it in a nook in her cloak. “What do you want to do now?” she asked, taking his hand, resuming their stroll.
“Find another I suppose, I’m getting a bit hungry myself.”