* * *
They acquired suitable clothing from a shop on the outskirts of Jerusalem, Jesus breaking into the structure by forcing the door down, setting about stealing the necessary items.
“You’re a bit noisy,” said Mary, standing in the doorway while he rooted around for the clothes.
“Everybody’s asleep and no one can stop us anyway.”
“You're right about that,” Mary replied, shaking her head at his carelessness, watching him ransack the shop. They bathed in a deserted Roman bathhouse at around four, donning their new outfits. Standing beside the pool, Mary gathered up their soiled garments, using her dirty dress as a sack and placing the other clothes within.
“Why are you doing that?” asked Jesus, pulling back his long hair, still drenched with water.
“Doing what?”
“Gathering those filthy rags.”
“They’re not rags, they’re only soiled, we can wash them and have a change of clothes for later,” said Mary, thinking ahead.
“I guess that’s a good idea,” Jesus replied.
“Good idea, I paid nearly five denarii for that dress not two weeks ago!”
“That was expensive.”
“I was trying to get you to notice me, but even now you barely do, even while nude in the bath.”
“Believe me, I noticed you woman,” said a smiling Jesus.
“Then or now?” asked the Magdalene, posing for him.
“Both,” Jesus replied while they headed for the bathhouse door.
They returned to their tomb near dawn. Jesus was dressed in a cotton tunic and tan robe, his consort attired in a light green stola, an outfit usually worn by Roman matrons.
Dropping their soiled clothes to the floor, Mary, who had been silent regarding Decius since leaving Pilate’s residence, asked, “Why didn’t you kill that Roman bastard, or at least let me kill him for you?”
“Centurion Decius is a man of honor,” said Jesus, “I believe those like him should be spared such a fate, for not denying his transgressions against me, and for facing me like a man, not like a sniveling coward.”
“What are you doing, forgiving him for crucifying you?”
“Forgiveness has nothing to do with it; he’s a man worthy of respect.”
“Weird,” Mary observed, refusing to allow the subject to drop.
“What do you mean?” asked Jesus, disliking that she might be questioning his honor.
“Your selective method of only killing people you hate. I don’t care about that, I look at them as food and don’t see any point in it.”
“I try to take only those who deserve it.”
“Deserve it? That sounds a bit hypocritical, after all, you killed Peter, not to mention Pilate, and he tried his very best to save you from the cross. Why did you blame him, he was a Roman, when it was the Jews and the Pharisees that had you killed?”
“We all make mistakes: may ye who are without sin, cast the first stone,” said Jesus, slipping into his vampire voice.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that before, you said it when they were going to stone me for being a whore – what does that have to do with anything?”
“It means you should not question me in these matters. Verily I say, woe unto those who deny or oppose the Son of Man as a vampire, such actions will vex me greatly, and they shall reap the whirlwind.”
“Is that a threat?” asked Mary, arms folded across her chest in unconscious imitation of Decius.
“No, it’s a promise,” said the powerful vampire, Jesus Christ, realizing they would ever be at odds on the subject of vengeance.
“You’re sounding strange again,” Mary observed, not intimidated at all by his threat.
“I am?” asked Jesus, annoyed by his troublesome vampiric accent.
“Yes.”
“Thank you for reminding me, what would I do without you?” asked Jesus, distracted from his anger.
“Sound like a weirdo I guess,” retorted Mary with a giggle, not wanting to argue with him. She relented and asked, “Are you hungry?”
“A little, but it can wait till tomorrow.”
“I’ll give you some of my blood if you need it,” she offered, instinctively preparing to slash a wrist with her fangs.
“No,” said Jesus, raising an index finger, “Vampires do not live by blood alone: but by every truth issuing from the mouth of –”
“You sound just like you did when you were alive, what gives?”
“I don’t know,” said a confused Jesus, “Such aphorisms seem to be a part of me.”
“That’s the truth.”
A few moments of silence followed, Jesus remarking as he ogled her, “You know Mary, you really look good in that stola.”
“I do?” she asked, embarrassed by the comment.
“It shows off the curves of your body well.”
The Magdalene could almost feel a blush coming on, but as real blood no longer coursed through her veins, the all-too-human sign of embarrassment could not show through to betray her.
“Thank you Jesus,” she replied, noting he had finally noticed her without prompting, feeling as if she were walking on air.
“Don’t mention it,” said Jesus, turning and leaning against a wall of their tomb, staring out at the cemetery.
“Yeah,” said Mary.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
The sun on the rise, Jesus said, “Let’s get sleep, we’ll find those other bastards tomorrow night.”
“Okay,” replied a sighing Magdalene, disturbed by his unrelenting need for vengeance, “I guess you’re still bent on revenge, right?”
“Right,” said Jesus, walking to a hewn granite slab, joined by her. Both relaxed on the cold stone slab, curled around each other in comfortable repose and settled into sleep.