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

“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 with 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?”