Christopher Moore - Lamb - The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal

“The prosecution took forever. Jakan went on half the night, taking testimony from witnesses who had obviously never even heard of Joshua, let alone seen any crime.”

“What about the defense?” asked Maggie.

“Well, I put forth a defense of good deeds, but it was so overwhelmed by the accusations that it was lost in the noise. Joshua didn’t say a word in his own defense. They asked him if he was the Son of God and he said yes. That confirmed the blasphemy charge. It’s all they needed, really.”

“What happens now? Did you talk to Pilate?”

“I did.”

“And?”

Joseph rubbed the bridge of his nose as if fighting a headache. “He said he’d see what he could do.”

We watched as the Roman soldiers took Joshua inside and the priests followed. The Pharisees, commoners in the eyes of the Romans, were left outside. A legionnaire almost caught Jakan’s face in the gate when he slammed it.

I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, and I looked up to a high, wide balcony that was visible above the palace walls. It had obviously been designed by Herod the Great’s architects as a platform from which the king could address the masses in the Temple without compromising his safety. A tall Roman in a lush red robe was standing on the balcony looking down on the crowd, and not looking particularly happy with their presence.

“Is that Pilate?” I asked Joseph, pointing to the Roman.

Joseph nodded. “He’ll go downstairs to hold Joshua’s trial.”

But I wasn’t interested at that point in where Pilate was going. What interested me was the centurion who stood behind him wearing the full-crested helmet and breastplate of a legion commander.

Not a half hour later the gate was opened and a squad of Roman soldiers brought Joshua out of the palace in bonds. A lower-rank centurion pulled Joshua along by a rope around his wrists. The priests followed along behind and were mobbed with questions by the Pharisees who had been waiting outside.

“Go find out what’s going on,” I said to Joseph.

We waded into the middle of the procession that followed. Most were screaming at Joshua and trying to spit on him. I spotted a few people in the crowd that I knew to be Joshua’s followers, but they were going along silently, their eyes darting around as if any second they might be the next one arrested.

Simon, Andrew, and I followed behind at some distance, while Maggie fought the crowd to get close to Joshua. I saw her throw herself at her ex-husband, Jakan, who was trailing the priests, but she was stopped in mid-leap by Joseph of Arimathea, who caught her by the hair and pulled her back. Someone else was helping restrain her, but he wore a shawl over his head so I couldn’t tell who it was. Probably Peter.

Joseph dragged Maggie back to us and handed her over to me and Simon.

“She’ll get herself killed.”

Maggie looked up at me, a wildness in her eyes that I couldn’t read, either anger or madness. I wrapped my arms around her and held her so her arms were pinned to her sides as we walked along. The man with the hood walked along beside me, his hand on Maggie’s shoulder, steadying her. When he looked at me I could see it was Peter. The wiry fisherman seemed to have aged twenty years since I’d seen him Tuesday night.

“They’re taking him to Antipas,” Peter said. “As soon as Pilate heard Joshua was from Galilee he said it wasn’t his jurisdiction and sent him to Herod.”

“Maggie,” I said into her ear, “please stop being a madwoman. My plan just went to hell and I could use some critical thinking.”

Once again we waited outside of one of the palaces built by Herod the Great, but this time, because it was a Jewish king in residence, the Pharisees were let in and Joseph of Arimathea went in with them. A few minutes later he was back outside again.

“He’s trying to get Joshua to perform a miracle,” Joseph said. “He’ll let him go if Joshua performs a miracle for him.”

“And if Joshua won’t do it?”

“He won’t,” said Maggie.

“If he won’t do it,” Joseph said, “we’re back where we started. It will be up to Pilate to order the Sanhedrin’s death sentence carried out or to release Joshua.”

“Maggie, come with me,” I said, tugging at her dress as I backed away.

“Why, where?”

“The plan’s back on.” I ran back to the praetorium, with Maggie in tow. I pulled up by a pillar across from the Antonia Palace. “Maggie, can Peter really heal? Really?”

“Yes, I told you.”

“Wounds? Broken bones?”

“Wounds, yes. I don’t know about bones.”

“I hope so,” I said.

I left her there while I went to the highest-ranking centurion stationed outside the gates.

“I need to see your commander,” I said.

“Go away, Jew.”

“I’m a friend. Tell him it’s Levi from Nazareth.”

“I’ll tell him nothing.”

So I stepped up and took the centurion’s sword out of its scabbard, put the point under his chin for a split second, then replaced it in its scabbard. He reached for the sword and suddenly it was in my hand and under his chin again. Before he could call out the sword was back in its scabbard.

“There,” I said, “you owe me your life twice. By the time you call to have me arrested I’ll have your sword again and you’ll not only be embarrassed but your head will be all wobbly from your throat being cut. Or, you can take me to see my friend Gaius Justus Gallicus, commander of the Sixth Legion.”

Then I took a deep breath and waited. The centurion’s eyes darted to the soldiers closest to him, then back to me. “Think, Centurion,” I said. “If you arrest me, where will I end up anyway?” The logic of it seemed to strike him through his frustration.

“Come with me,” he said.

I signaled to Maggie to wait and followed the soldier into Pilate’s fortress.

Justus seemed uncomfortable in the lush quarters they had assigned him at the palace. He’d had shields and spears placed around the room in different places, as if he needed to remind anyone who entered that a soldier lived here. I stood in the doorway while he paced, looking up at me occasionally as if he wanted to kill me. He wiped the sweat from his closely cropped gray hair and whipped it so it drew a stripe across the stone floor.

“I can’t stop the sentence. No matter what I want.”

“I just don’t want him hurt,” I said.

“If Pilate crucifies him, he’ll be hurt, Biff. That’s sort of the point.”

“Damaged, I mean. No broken bones, no cut sinew. Have them tie his arms to the cross.”

“They have to use nails,” Justus said, his mouth shaping into a cruel frown. “Nails are iron. They’re inventoried. Each one is accounted for.”

“You Romans are masters of supply.”

“What do you want?”

“Okay, tie him then, only nail through the web of his fingers and toes, and put a board on the cross so he can support his weight with his feet.”

“That’s no kindness you’re doing him. He could linger a week that way.”

“No he won’t,” I said. “I’m going to give him poison. And I want his body as soon as he’s dead.”

At the word “poison,” Justus had stopped pacing and looked up at me with open resentment. “It’s not up to me to release the body, but if you want to make sure the body is unharmed I’ll have to keep soldiers there until the end. Sometimes your people like to help the crucified die more quickly by throwing stones. I don’t know why they bother.”

“Yes, you do, Justus. You of all people do. You can spit that Roman bitterness toward mercy all you want, but you know. You were the one who sent for Joshua when your friend was suffering. You humbled yourself and asked for mercy. That’s all I’m doing.”