Chapter Four: The Hamlet of Tibernum
Arriving in Nazareth on a cloudy morning by way of Caesarea, centurion Decius Publius and his contubernia set about interrogating the few inhabitants left, at the insistence of Thucydides of Delos. After observing the burned and collapsed ruins of Joseph and Mary’s home, they pressed on, one wall of the structure having fallen into the street, scorched and broken stones still lying on the opposite sidewalk. Moving from house to house, the doctor questioned several Nazarenes about plagues and vampires, most looking at him as a deranged physician.
“I know nothing about any vampire. A lot of people died here recently yes, but I didn’t, and I don’t care,” a very elderly man named Jehoshaphat answered.
“What about her, did she see anything?” asked Dr. Thucydides, pointing to his wife, propped up on a dilapidated couch.
“Rachel, she’s not even here,” said the old man, his expressionless, senile wife staring into space.
“I’m sorry, just one more thing, can you tell me if it was a plague that killed the others?”
“Probably, all I know is one day they were fine, and the next they were dead and gone.”
“How did they die?”
“Who knows, but I certainly didn’t see any vampires lurking around, if that’s what you’re trying to imply,” Jehoshaphat retorted before closing the door.
“Thank you,” Thucydides said to the closed door.
They came to another occupied dwelling, a middle-aged man answering the door, rubbing his eyes, the scent of wine heavy on his breath.
“Have you seen this man?” asked the doctor, holding a parchment sketch drawn with the likenesses of Jesus and Mary Magdalene.
“Nope, who is he?”
“Jesus of Nazareth.”
“Oh yeah, the blasphemer. I haven’t seen him for a good while, didn’t they kill him in Capernaum or something?” the man asked, slurring his words.
“What about this woman?” asked Thucydides, pointing to a sketch of the Magdalene.
“Good looking broad, she was a whore named Miriam wasn’t she?” the man asked with another slur, leaning on the jamb.
“Mary was her name, she was once, but we now believe she and Jesus may be vampires.”
“Speak for yourself Thucydides,” said Decius as his second in command chuckled.
“Are you kidding?” asked the man.
“No I’m not, vampires are real.”
“Sure they are,” the drunk retorted, slamming the door.
“I told you,” said Decius, looking to Thucydides.
Passing a dozen empty houses once owned by Jesus’ vanquished enemies, they finally came to another occupied dwelling. A child answered the door, calling for his mother. She arriving, the doctor began his interrogation, the woman first listening, then looking up to the lintel in contempt of the absurd questions.
“What of his parents?” asked Thucydides of the matron, named Anna.
“They died in a fire, it’s obvious. If you don’t believe me, go down the main street and look at the ruins!” Anna exclaimed, slamming the door in the doctor’s face.
The group moved to another domicile.
“Are you insane?” asked a resident named Octavius Yeshuas, recalling Jesus while looking to the Greek physician, an amused Decius smiling at the remark
“No sir, I am not,” said the doctor, “Jesus of Nazareth was crucified last year in Jerusalem.”
“Who cares, I haven’t seen him for nearly five years. I heard about his execution too, and crucified people usually die don’t they?”
“Yes, but sometimes they rise as vampires,” said Thucydides while a frowning Yeshuas looked to Decius.
“I’m a Roman citizen, do I have to keep answering this idiot?” Yeshuas asked, showing the centurion a silver signet ring on his left hand.
“No you do not citizen,” said Decius, looking to Thucydides and motioning to him with his index finger.
“What?” asked the doctor, turning with arms out.
“That’s the ninth family you’ve bothered in Nazareth; no one here knows about this vampire you call Jesus,” said Decius, looking to the physician with disdain.
“But a woman down the street said that she saw him one night in the rain, just after the town rabbi disappeared.”
“Yes, and the rest of the people say she’s crazy,” Decius retorted as his fellow soldiers laughed in the background, the centurion knowing the woman was probably telling the truth.
“You think this is a joke don’t you?”
“No doctor, we don’t think vampires are real,” said Decius.
“But they are!” Thucydides exclaimed as a frowning Yeshuas closed his door.
“So, where are you going to drag us to next?” Decius asked, folding arms across his chest.
“North to Gennesar, and beyond.”
“Why?”
“It’s said by Herodotus that vampires prefer to move in straight lines, and if he came here he would head north.”
“You have no proof he was even here, are you mad?” asked Decius.
“I don’t need proof, I simply know that Jesus of Nazareth is a vampire,” said the doctor with firm resolve, looking at the well-drawn depiction of the couple.
* * *
Passing through small towns over the next weeks, Jesus and family finally arrived at their destination, a verdant valley in northeastern Cappadocia, situated on the Upper Euphrates River. On an early evening just after dusk, Joseph drove the travelers into the outskirts of a Roman outpost town named Tibernum, for Jesus to check out the local surroundings and find if real estate was available. Intent on settling in the area, Jesus had donned his appropriated Roman toga, having been cleaned along the way at a watering hole used by generations of caravans, along with his stolen signet ring and leather shoes. His entourage had also acquired clothing, mannerisms and aliases more appropriate for those wishing to pass for Roman citizenry.
Thinking ahead, Jesus had made a point during this time to teach his parents Classical Latin, so they too could converse in the common language of the Roman Empire. His father was already familiar with spoken aspects of the tongue, having forced himself to learn the reading and writing of Latin during their trek. Intent on fitting in with the populace, it was only a matter of time before Joseph would abandon Aramaic and Hebrew completely. His mother picked up the language quickly, a determined Joseph now speaking to his son only in Latin, asking the fluent Jesus to correct any defects in his pronunciation. After several months of total immersion, his father not only understood Latin well, but was speaking it idiomatically.
Joseph pulled into town and parked the wagon in front of an inn on the main street. Jesus stepped from the rear and rented suitable lodging for the group, while the Magdalene saw that his parents were settled in for the evening. Later, Jesus headed to the garrison to inquire of the centurion if land was available in the area.
Easily gaining admittance to the garrison by his plebian appearance, he walked to the centurion’s torch lit quarters, noting the eagle-topped Roman Standard at the entrance, ‘SPQR’ boldly emblazoned on it. Shaking off the chill gripping him at the sight of the standard, Jesus forced himself to continue into an atrium serving as an office for the commanding officer. Firmly shaking the centurion’s hand, Jesus introduced himself to him and his aide-de-camp.
“Greetings, my name is Julius Chrysippus, a traveler migrating from Etruria. My family and I are looking for land to purchase for use as a farm, could you tell me if any is available locally?”
“Yes indeed, my name’s Caius Felix, welcome to Tibernum,” the centurion answered, pleased to see more citizenry moving to the remote Cappadocian outpost. “You must have heard of this area while living in Rome, it’s being opened up by the government as a colony for people of the empire.”
“I heard that land was available on the Upper Euphrates, this area looks good as any to me.”
“It’s become quite popular among our wealthier citizenry, many people from the Italian and Greek peninsulas are migrating here,” the centurion observed with pride, the formerly lonely garrison of Tibernum having become a sort of boomtown during the past decade.
“Really,” said Jesus, thinking wherever there were people and money, there were also plenty of criminals – bandits, thieves and their more organized brethren, highwaymen.
“So, you’re a farmer?” Caius asked.
“Not presently, my family made our fortune importing wine from Gaul, and my father has decided to try his hand at farming.”
“The land here is very good, but you’ll need a strong team of slaves to prepare and work it, tall trees are everywhere,” said the centurion.
“I suppose we’ll need to purchase a few,” Jesus replied, “So sir, whom do I see for such, and with regard to land?”
“Our prefect Gavinal Septimus is in charge of real estate sales, you can see him this evening if you like. Slaves are not so easy to come by, but a Greek trader named Callicles passes through here with his caravan once every six months or so, usually in spring and fall.”
“He deals in slaves?”
“On occasion, Callicles of Athens and his procurators ply much of Cappadocia and surrounding provinces in search of commodities. He’s known to deal in practically everything.”
“When’s he due in town?”
“He should arrive within three months, but always stops by Gavinal’s first to get drunk with him.”
“I’m rather fond of wine too,” said Jesus, Caius nodding in agreement.
Jesus received directions to the prefect’s home, bid his farewells, and headed to a nearby two story marble mansion. A guard was posted at the entrance, which informed his superior of the presence of ‘Citizen Julius Chrysippus of Etruria’. The guard returned a few minutes later, let Jesus into the compound and led him to the prefect’s office.
“So Julius, you’re looking for land?” a tired Gavinal remarked at the door, shaking his hand and raising an eyebrow at the smartly attired, toga-clad Jesus. Outside Rome and other major cities of the empire, the Republican toga was quickly becoming anachronistic, excepting for holidays and official functions.
“Yes sir, the centurion said I could talk to you this evening, am I too late?” asked Jesus.
“No, it’s just been a long day citizen,” said a yawning Gavinal as he headed to a gigantic oak desk, “Paperwork for the procurator in Antioch, payrolls and the like, please sit down.”
Jesus sat down, Gavinal remarking as he took a chair at the desk, “So, you’re from Etruria, that’s interesting, you have a Greek cognomen.”
“My great grandfather Cephalos Chrysippus was a wine merchant from Athens, and married a Roman woman from Etruria. The surname has been passed down from then to my family,” Jesus swiftly lied.
“Small world isn’t it friend, Etruria’s my homeland too,” said Gavinal with a tired smile.
“What part?” asked Jesus in a cunning defensive move.
“Northern, by the lakes,” the fair complected, blue-eyed blond Gavinal answered, “I haven’t seen my home since I was assigned here by Tiberius eight years ago, so, what part of Etruria are you from?”
“Volsinii,” Jesus lied, “About a day’s journey north of Rome.”
“In southern Etruria, I could tell by your accent,” said Gavinal, not knowing Volsinii, mistaking it for the more southerly town of Vesuvii, much to Jesus’ relief. “Anyway, what sort of land are you looking for Julius, lots, homesteads, acreage?” he asked, reaching in a desk drawer for a list of available real estate.
“Acreage, my father and I want to start a farm.”
“You came to the right place, the centurion’s surveyors have staked off several tracts a few miles south of here, right on the Upper Euphrates, quite suitable for farming. With the way this area’s filling up, you’ll make a lot of money here.”
“Excellent,” said Jesus, “One should never work without the idea of making a profit.”
Gavinal acknowledged the statement with a nod while perusing land platte and official price list parchments. Jesus sat quietly, noting the opulence of the prefect’s office, furnished with glass windows, a recent invention of Roman craftsmen, and walls paneled in oiled Lebanese cedar. Fine Asian carpets lay on the polished marble floor, a large oil lamp was suspended from the ceiling, and a darkened winter fireplace was on the north wall, complete with logs sitting in an iron grate.
“Due to the popularity of this area, prices have risen to high levels, there’s a note on this parchment reflecting that. Do you have a moneylender who will back you on a note?” Gavinal asked, staring at the price list.
“Money’s no problem for me at all friend, what’s the price?”
“Well, the largest tract is priced at 2,562,500 sestertii, payable to the procurator in Antioch,” Gavinal answered, reaching for an abacus to calculate the figure to a more manageable amount in silver denarii or gold aurei.
“That would be uh, 25,625 denarii,” said Jesus, figuring the math mentally, “In gold it’s 1,025 aurei, I think.”
“It is,” an impressed Gavinal replied, arriving at the same amounts on the abacus moments later, “Don’t worry Julius, with tracts the size of these we’re open to reasonable offers.”
“The area of the tract?” asked Jesus, not caring about the price in the least.
“Hold on, the area’s listed here somewhere,” said Gavinal, leafing through the documents. Pausing, the prefect looked over a papyrus document. “The area is one thousand acres, eighty-four of them riverfront,” he finally answered, looking up from the paper, “Enough land for twenty farms. According to the addendum, most is arable, excepting for cliffs on the north end. A quarter is cleared and you can split it up for tenant farmers if you like. Property taxes are low too, roughly one percent of accessed value, in your case, they would amount to a little over 10 aurei a year.”
“When are taxes due?”
“In fall, just after harvest on the ides of October, if you buy the tract, you’ll only owe about eight months for this year.”
“Sounds good to me,” said Jesus, rising from his seat, “More than likely we’ll take it tomorrow evening, first I want to consult with my parents and my uh, wife.”
“Don’t you want to have a look at it first?” asked Gavinal, covering his ass while pressing gently, so no one could say that he had misled Jesus. After all, caveat emptor might work in most places in the empire, but never when a town prefect was accused of malfeasance or dereliction of duty.
“Yes I would, come to think of it,” Jesus answered as the prefect’s words dawned on him, he never having bought land before.
“Good, I’ll draw you a map,” said Gavinal, taking out a fresh sheet of papyrus. Tracing the path for Jesus to follow, he added, “Head down the main street, continue about four miles south, turn left at the pond and look for a sign marked “Tract XXI.”
“Thank you kind Gavinal,” Jesus replied, taking the rolled up map, “I’ll look at the land tomorrow, you should rest assured I shall buy it.”
“That’s fine, if you decide to take the property, what form of payment will you be making?” Gavinal asked, placing a neat checkmark on the document next to Jesus’ choice.
“Cash, in Roman gold and silver.”
“Okay, Julius,” Gavinal remarked slowly, impressed by the forthright candor of the wealthy Jesus, “I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Correct, in the evening after dusk, would you like a deposit on the land?” Jesus asked, reaching in a tunic pocket for money.
“That’s not necessary till I draw up the contract,” said Gavinal, holding up hands, “When you return we’ll take care of it then.”
“Very well,” Jesus replied, “I’ll see you tomorrow evening.” He again shook the prefect’s hand, let himself out and headed to the inn. Knocking on the door to his parent’s room, he was let in by his consort, she enjoying the evening conversing with his folks. “I’ve located a thousand acre farm for only 1,025 aurei!” he exclaimed as he entered.
His mother looked up, her jaw agape at the amount of money Jesus was so casually referring to.
“Only 1,025 aurei,” said Joseph, “I don’t think I’ve made 1,025 denarii in my entire life, let alone 1,025 aurei.”
“I have, though I haven’t counted it recently. I figure we’ve amassed at least two thousand aurei in various valuables, not to mention all the silver we’ve been lugging around.”
Joseph smiled and replied, “I never thought I’d hit the jackpot, it’s as if this is a dream.”
“It’s no dream dad, it’s reality; though you may have doubted it in the past, I’ve always wanted to make you and mother proud of me.”
“It’s a miracle these things have happened,” his mother declared in very passable Latin.
“I don’t believe in miracles anymore mother, I simply put it in my mind to make them.”
“I told you he’s a genius,” said Mary, looking to her Jesus.
Planning his next move, Jesus said, “Tomorrow evening I wish all of you to accompany me to prefect Gavinal’s residence. He’s the real estate manager for the area and will be selling us the property. Incidentally, I told him we’re wealthy wine merchants migrating from Gaul via our homeland of Etruria, hailing from the town of Volsinii.”
“Telling more lies?” asked Joseph.
“Why not,” said Jesus, “None of them know we’re lying, and as far as anyone knows, we’re Romans.”
“Yeah, screw the bastards,” Joseph agreed as Jesus raised an eyebrow, a dark thought crossing his mind regarding Roman citizenship and its attendant responsibilities. I’ll have to take care of that problem when I return to Rome in a few years, entrancement should work, he thought.
His parents settled in for the evening while Jesus and Mary ‘went out for dinner’ so to speak, assuming chiropteric form in the shadows. Hunting was good that night, Jesus correct in his observation that wherever people and money were, opportunistic thieves followed. Predictably, about ten miles south of town lurked a pair of bandits, dispatched in the usual way by the vampiric couple.
Looting and dumping the victims in a wooded ravine, Jesus asked, “Would you like to have a look at the property, it’s only a few miles up the road.”
“Sure,” Mary answered, “I think it’s a great idea to buy a farm for your folks, they’re nice people.”
“It’s also for us Mary. We could use a base of operation instead of wandering about all the time. Further, with the amount of loot we’re gathering from our victims we’ll need a permanent place to keep it.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” the Magdalene replied, “It’s a good idea, we’ll have a place to return should we run into trouble, along with easily available money.”
It was in fact a very good idea, for the purchase of this property was only the beginning of Jesus’ underground empire, which would last for millennia, he and his relatives controlling this small plot of land in northeastern Turkey even unto the 21st century. They walked along the dark road for a time, coming across a crude sign nailed to a tree, marked with Roman numerals ‘XXI’. A path had been cleared next to the sign, Jesus and consort walking onto the property. Scouting about, they headed to the north end, marked by 100-foot high cliffs, Jesus noting the solid sandstone promontory contained several useful caves, perfect for containing loot.
“This is the northernmost part of the tract,” said Jesus, folding arms across his chest, “What do you think woman?”
“It’s huge; I like it, and we may as well buy it.”
“My thoughts exactly. Let’s head to the inn and I’ll tell my folks we’re going to take it.”
“Okay,” said Mary, staring at him in awe, Jesus looking to the sky at the North Star.
They knocked on his parent’s door, his father letting them in.
“We looked at the parcel father,” said Jesus.
“And?” asked Joseph, pressing for information.
“It’s beautiful,” said Mary.
“I want to buy the land tomorrow evening if you both agree.”
“That’s fine with me,” Joseph replied, “I’m tired of traveling anyway.”
His mother raised hands and shrugged, allowing Joseph to speak for her.
“Well, I guess that’s settled,” said the Magdalene.
“Have you uh, eaten son?” asked Joseph.
“Yes father, thank you for asking. We found a pair of bandits lurking outside town.”
His father nodded. “Would you care to stay over for wine and latrunculi?”
“Certainly,” said Jesus, his father getting out the board and a bottle.
Sitting at the table, Jesus beat his father six times in a row, Joseph glowering at the game board. Becoming content with simply getting drunk, a resigned Joseph put away the board and its pieces, the pair conversing about life’s vicissitudes and drinking strong wine all night long, while Mary and his mother talked and watched a replay of the night in Antioch.
Toward sunup, a drunken Jesus staggered to his room with the Magdalene and collapsed into bed, snoring loudly as he hit the sheets.
“He’ll never change,” said a smiling Magdalene, joining him in bed.
* * *
“My head,” came the cry as Joseph rose the following evening, holding his head in his hands.
“You really should stop drinking so much wine dear,” said Mary, handing him another glassful as a hangover panacea. She was not feeling particularly well either, for the past week or so she had been feeling slightly nauseous after waking, but it passed quickly, becoming her usual self after a short time.
“Thanks woman,” Joseph groaned, sitting on the side of the bed, ignoring her advice and quickly downing the wine. “Give me another.” She came over and refilled the glass. “Aren’t you going to have something to eat?” he asked as she sat down beside him.
“Not yet, perhaps later,” Mary replied, though feeling better, she was not quite ready to face food.
Jesus and consort had arisen from slumber at sundown. Refreshed, he pulled his treasure sack from beneath the bed, producing 930 aurei and 2,375 denarii, equivalent to the prefect’s asking price of 1,025 aurei. Placing the money in a leather satchel, he added another hundred denarii to cover any hidden costs.
A short time later, a seemingly loud knock came on his parent’s door, as Joseph winced and told his wife to let Jesus and Mary in.
“Hello father,” said Jesus, “Are you hungover again?”
“What do you think?” Joseph retorted with a weak smile.
“I suppose you’re in no condition to accompany us to prefect Gavinal’s residence,” answered Jesus, wishing that Joseph could at least witness him buying the property. A humble man, he never, even in life, was one for boasting, but did want his father to see he had finally made something of himself, at least as a vampire.
“I’m sorry son, I feel like shit, you don’t need me there do you?”
“Not really,” said Jesus, “You and mother stay here while Mary and I purchase the land. We should be back in a few hours, and we’ll probably fetch someone to eat along the way.”
“Terrific,” Joseph groaned, falling back into bed.
Jesus nodded to his mother and left for Gavinal’s, quietly closing the door behind him.
“Your father really hits the bottle hard at times doesn’t he?” asked the Magdalene.
“Yeah, so do I, what can you do,” Jesus replied, walking along in the cool evening.
“But you’re a vampire, heavy drinking doesn’t seem to bother you at all.”
“I’ve noticed that,” said Jesus, neither realizing that their tolerance of alcoholic beverages was increasing due to vampiric nature.
“Why do you bother to drink like that anyway?”
“I don’t know, enjoyment perhaps.”
“You enjoy that?”
“Of course, verily I say unto you, vampires do not live by blood alone: for only by the drinking of hot blood, followed by cool wine, along with killing, lying and robbery, do we survive,” Jesus intoned in macabre jest.
“That’s the truth.”
Arriving at the prefect’s residence, the guard let them in.
“Good evening Gavinal,” said Jesus, shaking his hand firmly. “This is my wife, Maria Hittica, a Hittite tribeswoman from Galatia.”
Mary Magdalene smiled and politely bowed her head to the prefect.
Gavinal returned the bow, coveting the beautiful Magdalene, and asked, “Did you look at the site?”
“Yes, we’ll take it,” answered Jesus.
“Excellent,” Gavinal replied, “Have a seat, the notary’s on the way, he should be here presently.” With those words, the notary arrived in the doorway.
“Greetings Marcus Pertinax,” said Gavinal, “This is Julius Chrysippus and his wife Maria, they’re buying tract twenty one next to your place.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you Julius,” said Marcus, firmly shaking Jesus’ hand and taking a seat.
“Let’s get down to business,” said Gavinal, pulling a parchment document from a drawer in his desk. “The contract’s filled out, excepting for yours and the notary’s signatures, and I also took the time to draw up the title too; everything’s in order. The price is 1,025 aurei, plus a notary fee of 10 denarii.”
“Very well,” said Jesus, placing a sack of money on Gavinal’s desk, opening it and dumping a small mountain of gold and silver before them.
Gavinal and Marcus stared at the hoard of precious metal, not believing their eyes.
“When you said cash you meant it!” Gavinal exclaimed, the notary continuing to stare at the pile of glittering money. “I’d best call the guard in here with a strongbox to safeguard this money,” he added, walking to the door. Ordering his guard to fetch an iron strongbox and lock from the garrison, he returned to the desk and resumed his seat. “Signature or signet?” he asked, handing Jesus the contract and title parchments.
“I’ll use my signature,” said Jesus, taking a quill stylus from the prefect. Reading the contract, with his left Jesus dipped the stylus into an inkwell and then signed ‘B. Julius Chrysippus’ on the documents. The notary added his signatures as well, the Magdalene and Gavinal signing afterward as sworn witnesses.
“So, what’s the ‘B’ for?” asked Gavinal, very interested in the new arrival in his town, a tall man who paid cash, in gold and silver, for land. After all, B. Julius Chrysippus was a wealthy Roman citizen; sooner or later one could get his own to marry into the family, enriching one’s own by proxy.
“Bacchus, god of wine.”
“Oh yes,” said Gavinal, looking to Marcus and explaining, “His family made their fortune in Etruria as wine merchants.”
Marcus smiled and nodded.
“You’ve just bought a farm, welcome to our town Julius!” exclaimed Gavinal, rising and shaking Jesus’ hand.
“Let’s toast the sale with wine,” Marcus suggested.
“Absolutely,” said Gavinal, producing a fresh bottle of Gaul’s finest. Placing four goblets on his desk, he broke the clay seal, pierced the wax stopper and opened the bottle. “This is Gallic wine, Julius probably imported it,” he added while filling the goblets.
“No I didn’t,” Jesus lied, which was actually the truth, reading the Latin inscription on the bottle, “This wine was imported by Gaius Scipio Magnentius, a competitor of my father and I.”
“Is it good wine?” asked Gavinal, holding his goblet up to the lamplight, looking to Jesus for his opinion.
“Of course,” said Jesus, taking a deep gulp, “Scipio Magnentius and sons import only the finest Gallic wines, none ever adulterated or leaded, using only beeswax-lined amphorae.”
“Leaded wine’s much too sweet for me,” said Marcus, “Some have said it makes people crazy!”
“Hippocrates of Kos said that too,” Jesus replied, pouring another libation, “I don’t know about you folks, but I like wine to taste like wine, not like sweet lead, honey, or fruit.”
“That’s the truth,” Gavinal agreed, downing his glass, “The folks in Rome drink leaded and perfumed wine by the cask. I can’t stand the stuff, it tastes like shit!” The group broke into laughter, Gavinal quickly apologizing to Mary for his lapse in taste, embarrassed by his utterance before a Roman matron.
“What the hell, I’ve heard worse, I don’t give a damn,” said the Magdalene, Marcus choking on his wine as he heard the coarse reply, a perturbed Jesus shaking his head almost imperceptibly to her. She, a very worldly woman, smirked at her consort and fell silent.
Looking to Jesus with a raised eyebrow, Gavinal poured and drank another glass of the Scipio brand, sitting down with the notary and counting the pile of money, while Jesus and the Magdalene sat quietly, the guard standing at attention near the door.
Shortly thereafter, the honest Gavinal frowned and remarked, “Julius, there’s 1,029 aurei here, you’ve overpaid us by ninety denarii.”
“Split the extra with friend Marcus, I have plenty of mone