Just then another Roman soldier approached, a legionnaire, not wearing the cape or the helmet crest of the centurion. He said something to Justus in Latin, then looked at Joshua and paused. In rough Aramaic he said, “Hey, didn’t I see that kid on some bread once?”
“Wasn’t him,” I said.
“Really? Sure looks like him.”
“Nope, that was another kid on the bread.”
“It was me,” said Joshua.
I backhanded him across the forehead, knocking him to the ground. “No it wasn’t. He’s insane. Sorry.”
The soldier shook his head and hurried off after Justus.
I offered a hand to help Joshua up. “You’re going to have to learn to lie.”
“I am? But I feel like I’m here to tell the truth.”
“Yeah, sure, but not now.”
I don’t exactly know what I expected it would be like working as a stonemason, but I know that in less than a week Joshua was having second thoughts about not becoming a carpenter. Cutting great stones with small iron chisels was very hard work. Who knew?
“Look around, do you see any trees?” Joshua mocked. “Rocks, Josh, rocks.”
“It’s only hard because we don’t know what we’re doing. It will get easier.”
Joshua looked at my father, who was stripped to the waist, chiseling away on a stone the size of a donkey, while a dozen slaves waited to hoist it into place. He was covered with gray dust and streams of sweat drew dark lines between cords of muscle straining in his back and arms. “Alphaeus,” Joshua called, “does the work get easier once you know what you are doing?”
“Your lungs grow thick with stone dust and your eyes bleary from the sun and fragments thrown up by the chisel. You pour your lifeblood out into works of stone for Romans who will take your money in taxes to feed soldiers who will nail your people to crosses for wanting to be free. Your back breaks, your bones creak, your wife screeches at you, and your children torment you with open, begging mouths, like greedy baby birds in the nest. You go to bed every night so tired and beaten that you pray to the Lord to send the angel of death to take you in your sleep so you don’t have to face another morning. It also has its downside.”
“Thanks,” Joshua said. He looked at me, one eyebrow raised.
“I for one, am excited,” I said. “I’m ready to cut some stone. Stand back, Josh, my chisel is on fire. Life is stretched out before us like a great bazaar, and I can’t wait to taste the sweets to be found there.”
Josh tilted his head like a bewildered dog. “I didn’t get that from your father’s answer.”
“It’s sarcasm, Josh.”
“Sarcasm?”
“It’s from the Greek, sarkasmos. To bite the lips. It means that you aren’t really saying what you mean, but people will get your point. I invented it, Bartholomew named it.”
“Well, if the village idiot named it, I’m sure it’s a good thing.”
“There you go, you got it.”
“Got what?”
“Sarcasm.”
“No, I meant it.”
“Sure you did.”
“Is that sarcasm?”
“Irony, I think.”
“What’s the difference?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“So you’re being ironic now, right?”
“No, I really don’t know.”
“Maybe you should ask the idiot.”
“Now you’ve got it.”
“What?”
“Sarcasm.”
“Biff, are you sure you weren’t sent here by the Devil to vex me?”
“Could be. How am I doing so far? You feel vexed?”
“Yep. And my hands hurt from holding the chisel and mallet.” He struck the chisel with his wooden mallet and sprayed us both with stone fragments.
“Maybe God sent me to talk you into being a stonemason so you would hurry up and go be the Messiah.”
He struck the chisel again, then spit and sputtered through the fragments that flew. “I don’t know how to be the Messiah.”
“So what, a week ago we didn’t know how to be stonemasons and look at us now. It gets easier once you know what you’re doing.”
“Are you being ironic again?”
“God, I hope not.”
It was two months before we actually saw the Greek who had commissioned my father to build the house. He was a short, soft-looking little man, who wore a robe that was as white as any worn by the Levite priests, with a border of interlocking rectangles woven around the hem in gold. He arrived in a pair of chariots, followed on foot by two body slaves and a half-dozen bodyguards who looked like Phoenicians. I say a pair of chariots because he rode with a driver in the lead chariot, but behind them they pulled a second chariot in which stood the ten-foot-tall marble statue of a naked man. The Greek climbed down from his chariot and went directly to my father. Joshua and I were mixing a batch of mortar at the time and we paused to watch.
“Graven image,” Joshua said.
“Saw it,” I said. “As graven images go, I like Venus over by the gate better.”
“That statue is not Jewish,” Joshua said.
“Definitely not Jewish,” I said. The statue’s manhood, although abundant, was not circumcised.
“Alphaeus,” the Greek said, “why haven’t you set the floor of the gymnasium yet? I’ve brought this statue to display in the gymnasium, and there’s just a hole in the ground instead of a gymnasium.”
“I told you, this ground is not suitable for building. I can’t build on sand. I’ve had the slaves dig down in the sand until they hit bedrock. Now it has to be back-filled in with stone, then pounded.”
“But I want to place my statue,” the Greek whined. “It’s come all the way from Athens.”
“Would you rather your house fall down around your precious statue?”
“Don’t talk to me that way, Jew, I am paying you well to build this house.”
“And I am building this house well, which means not on the sand. So store your statue and let me do my work.”
“Well, unload it. You, slaves, help unload my statue.” The Greek was talking to Joshua and me. “All of you, help unload my statue.” He pointed to the slaves who had been pretending to work since the Greek arrived, but who weren’t sure that it was in their best interest to look like a part of a project about which the master seemed displeased. They all looked up with a surprised “Who, me?” expression on their faces, which I noticed was the same in any language.
The slaves moved to the chariot and began untying the ropes that held the statue in place. The Greek looked to us. “Are you deaf, slaves? Help them!” He stormed back to his chariot and grabbed a whip out of the driver’s hand.
“Those are not slaves,” my father said. “Those are my apprentices.”
The Greek wheeled on him. “And I should care about that? Move, boys! Now!”
“No,” Joshua said.
I thought the Greek would explode. He raised the whip as if to strike. “What did you say?”
“He said, no.” I stepped up to Joshua’s side.
“My people believe that graven images, statues, are sinful,” my father said, his voice on the edge of panic. “The boys are only being true to our God.”
“Well, that is a statue of Apollo, a real god, so they will help unload it, as will you, or I’ll find another mason to build my house.”
“No,” Joshua repeated. “We will not.”
“Right, you leprous jar of camel snot,” I said.
Joshua looked at me, sort of disgusted. “Jeez, Biff.”
“Too much?”
The Greek screeched and started to swing the whip. The last thing I saw as I covered my face was my father diving toward the Greek. I would take a lash for Joshua, but I didn’t want to lose an eye. I braced for the sting that never came. There was a thump, then a twanging sound, and when I uncovered my face, the Greek was lying on his back in the dirt, his white robe covered wi
th dust, his face red with rage. The whip was extended out behind him, and on its tip stood the armored hobnail boot of Gaius Justus Gallicus, the centurion. The Greek rolled in the dirt, ready to vent his ire on whoever had stayed his hand, but when he saw who it was, he went limp and pretended to cough.
One of the Greek’s bodyguards started to step forward. Justus pointed a finger at the guard. “Will you stand down, or would you rather feel the foot of the Roman Empire on your neck?”
The guard stepped back into line with his companions.
The Roman was grinning like a mule eating an apple, not in the least concerned with allowing the Greek to save face. “So, Castor, am I to gather that you need to conscript more Roman slaves to help build your house? Or is it true what I hear about you Greeks, that whipping young boys is an entertainment for you, not a disciplinary action?”
The Greek spit out a mouthful of dust as he climbed to his feet. “The slaves I have will be sufficient for the task, won’t they, Alphaeus?” He turned to my father, his eyes pleading.
My father seemed to be caught between two evils, and unable to decide which was the lesser of them. “Probably,” he said, finally.
“Well, good, then,” Justus said. “I will expect a bonus payment for the extra work they are doing. Carry on.”
Justus walked through the construction site, acting as if every eye was not on him, or not caring, and paused as he passed Joshua and me.
“Leprous jar of camel snot?” he said under his breath.
“Old Hebrew blessing?” I ventured.
“You two should be in the hills with the other Hebrew rebels.” The Roman laughed, tousled our hair, then walked away.
The sunset was turning the hillsides pink as we walked home to Nazareth that evening. In addition to being almost exhausted from the work, Joshua seemed vexed by the events of the day.
“Did you know that—about not being able to build on sand?” he asked.
“Of course, my father’s been talking about it for a long time. You can build on sand, but what you build will fall down.”
Joshua nodded thoughtfully. “What about soil? Dirt? Is it okay to build on that?”
“Rock is best, but I suppose hard dirt is good.”
“I need to remember that.”
We seldom saw Maggie in those days after we began working with my father. I found myself looking forward to the Sabbath, when we would go to the synagogue and I would mill around outside, among the women, while the men were inside listening to the reading of the Torah or the arguments of the Pharisees. It was one of the few times I could talk to Maggie without Joshua around, for though he resented the Pharisees even then, he knew he could learn from them, so he spent the Sabbath listening to their teachings. I still wonder if this time I stole with Maggie somehow represented a disloyalty to Joshua, but later, when I asked him about it, he said, “God is willing to forgive you the sin that you carry for being a child of man, but you must forgive yourself for having once been a child.”
“I suppose that’s right.”
“Of course it’s right, I’m the Son of God, you dolt. Besides, Maggie always wanted to talk about me anyway, didn’t she?”
“Not always,” I lied.
On the Sabbath before the murder, I found Maggie outside the synagogue, sitting by herself under a date palm tree. I shuffled up to her to talk, but kept looking at my feet. I knew that if I looked into her eyes I would forget what I was talking about, so I only looked at her in brief takes, the way a man will glance up at the sun on a sweltering day to confirm the source of the heat.
“Where’s Joshua?” were the first words out of her mouth, of course.
“Studying with the men.”
She seemed disappointed for a moment, but then brightened. “How is your work?”
“Hard, I like playing better.”
“What is Sepphoris like? Is it like Jerusalem?”
“No, it’s smaller. But there are a lot of Romans there.” She’d seen Romans. I needed something to impress her. “And there are graven images—statues of people.”
Maggie covered her mouth to stifle a giggle. “Statues, really? I would love to see them.”
“Then come with us, we are leaving tomorrow very early, before anyone is awake.”
“I couldn’t. Where would I tell my mother I was going?”
“Tell her that you are going to Sepphoris with the Messiah and his pal.”
Her eyes went wide and I looked away quickly, before I was caught in their spell. “You shouldn’t talk that way, Biff.”
“I saw the angel.”
“You said yourself that we shouldn’t say it.”
“I was only joking. Tell your mother that I told you about a beehive that I found and that you want to go find some honey while the bees are still groggy from the morning cold. It’s a full moon tonight, so you’ll be able to see. She just might believe you.”
“She might, but she’ll know I was lying when I don’t bring home any honey.”
“Tell her it was a hornets’ nest. She thinks Josh and I are stupid anyway, doesn’t she?”
“She thinks that Joshua is touched in the head, but you, yes, she thinks you’re stupid.”
“You see, my plan is working. For it is written that ‘if the wise man always appears stupid, his failures do not disappoint, and his success gives pleasant surprise.’”
Maggie smacked me on the leg. “That is not written.”
“Sure it is, Imbeciles three, verse seven.”
“There is no book of Imbeciles.”
“Drudges five-four?”
“You’re making that up.”
“Come with us, you can be back to Nazareth before it’s time to fetch the morning water.”
“Why so early? What are you two up to?”
“We’re going to circumcise Apollo.”
She didn’t say anything, she just looked at me, as if she would see “Liar” written across my forehead in fire.
“It wasn’t my idea,” I said. “It was Joshua’s.”
“I’ll go then,” she said.
Chapter Five
Well, it worked, I finally got the angel to leave the room. It went like this:
Raziel called down to the front desk and asked him to send Jesus up. A few minutes later our Latin pal stood at attention at the foot of the angel’s bed.
Raziel said, “Tell him I need a Soap Opera Digest.”
In Spanish, I said, “Good afternoon, Jesus. How are you today?”
“I am well, sir, and you?”
“As good as can be expected, considering this man is holding me prisoner.”
“Tell him to hurry,” said Raziel.
“He doesn’t understand Spanish?” Jesus asked.
“Not a word of it, but don’t start speaking Hebrew or I’m sunk.”
“Are you really a prisoner? I wondered why you two never left the room. Should I call the police?”
“No, that won’t be necessary, but please shake your head and look apologetic.”
“What is taking so long?” Raziel said. “Give him the money and tell him to go.”
“He said he is not allowed to buy publications for you, but he can direct you to a place where you can purchase them yourself.”
“That’s ridiculous, he’s a servant, isn’t he? He will do as I ask.”
“Oh my, Jesus, he has asked if you would like to feel the power of his manly nakedness.”
“Is he crazy? I have a wife and two children.”
“Sadly, yes. Please show him that you are offended by his offer by spitting on him and storming out of the room.”
“I don’t know, sir, spitting on a guest…”
I handed him a handful of the bills that he’d taught me were appropriate gratuities. “Please, it will be good for him.”
“Very well, Mister Biff.” He produced an impressive loogie and launched it at the front of the angel’s robe, where it splatted and ran.
Raziel leapt to his f
eet.
“Well done, Jesus, now curse.”
“You fuckstick!”
“In Spanish.”
“Sorry, I was showing off my English. I know many swear words.”
“Well done. Spanish please.”
“Pendejo!”
“Splendid, now storm out.”
Jesus turned on his heel and left the room, slamming the door behind him.
“He spit on me?” Raziel said, still not believing it. “An angel of the Lord, and he spit on me.”
“Yes, you offended him.”
“He called me a fuckstick. I heard him.”
“In his culture, it is an affront to ask another man to buy a Soap Opera Digest for you. We’ll be lucky if he ever brings us a pizza again.”
“But I want a Soap Opera Digest.”
“He said you can buy one just down the street, I will be happy to go get one for you.”
“Not so fast, Apostle, none of your tricks. I’ll get it myself, you stay here.”
“You’ll need money.” I handed him some bills.
“If you leave the room I will find you in an instant, you know that?”
“Absolutely.”
“You cannot hide from me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Hurry now.”
He sort of shuffled sideways toward the door. “Don’t try to lock me out, I’m taking a key with me. Not that I need it or anything, being an angel of the Lord.”
“Not to mention a fuckstick.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“Go, go, go.” I shooed him through the door. “Godspeed, Raziel.”
“Work on your Gospel while I’m gone.”
“Right.” I slammed the door in his face and threw the safety lock. Raziel has now watched hundreds of hours of American television, you’d think he would have noticed that people wear shoes when they go outside.
The book is exactly as I suspected, a Bible, but written in a flowery version of this English I’ve been writing in. The translation of the Torah and the prophets from the Hebrew is muddled sometimes, but the first part seems to be our Bible. This language is amazing—so many words. In my time we had very few words, perhaps a hundred that we used all the time, and thirty of them were synonyms for guilt. In this language you can curse for an hour and never use the same word twice. Flocks and schools and herds of words, that’s why I’m supposed to use this language to tell Joshua’s story.
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