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

“Gaius Justus Gallicus,” said the soldier. “And I’m at Tiberius now, and no longer an under-commander. The Sixth Legion is mine. I need your help, Joshua bar Joseph of Nazareth.”

“What can I do?” Joshua looked around. All of the disciples except Bartholomew and me had managed to sneak away when the Roman walked up.

“I saw you make a dead man walk and talk. I’ve heard of the things you’ve done all over Galilee, the healings, the miracles. I have a servant who is sick. Tortured with palsy. He can barely breathe and I can’t watch him suffer. I don’t ask that you break your Sabbath by coming to Tiberius, but I believe you can heal him, even from here.”

Justus dropped to his knee and kneeled in front of Joshua, something I never saw any Roman do to any Jew, before or since. “This man is my friend,” he said.

Joshua touched the Roman’s temple and I watched the fear drain out of the soldier’s face as I had so many others.

“You believe it to be, so be it,” said Joshua. “It’s done. Stand up, Gaius Justus Gallicus.”

The soldier smiled, then stood and looked Joshua in the eye. “I would have crucified your father to root out the killer of that soldier.”

“I know,” said Joshua.

“Thank you,” Justus said.

The centurion put on his helmet and climbed on his horse. Then looked at me for the first time. “What happened to that pretty little heartbreaker you two were always with?”

“Broke our hearts,” I said.

Justus laughed. “Be careful, Joshua of Nazareth,” he said. He reined the horse around and rode away.

“Go with God,” Joshua said.

“Good, Josh, that’s the way to show the Romans what’s going to happen to them come the kingdom.”

“Shut up, Biff.”

“Oh, so you bluffed him. He’s going to get home and his friend will still be messed up.”

“Remember what I told you at the gates of Gaspar’s monastery, Biff? That if someone knocked, I’d let them in?”

“Ack! Parables. I hate parables.”

Tiberius was only an hour’s fast ride from Capernaum, so by morning word had come back from the garrison: Justus’s servant had been healed. Before we had even finished our breakfast there were four Pharisees outside of Peter’s house looking for Joshua.

“You performed a healing on the Sabbath?” the oldest of them asked. He was white-bearded and wore his prayer shawl and phylacteries wrapped about his upper arms and forehead. (What a jamoke. Sure, we all had phylacteries, every man got them when he turned thirteen, but you pretended that they were lost after a few weeks, you didn’t wear them. You might as well wear a sign that said: “Hi, I’m a pious geek.” The one he wore on his forehead was a little leather box, about the size of a fist, that held parchments inscribed with prayers and looked—well—as if someone had strapped a little leather box to his head. Need I say more?)

“Nice phylacteries,” I said.

The disciples laughed. Nathaniel made an excellent donkey braying noise.

“You broke the Sabbath,” said the Pharisee.

“I’m allowed,” said Josh. “I’m the Son of God.”

“Oh fuck,” Philip said.

“Way to ease them into the idea, Josh,” I said.

The following Sabbath a man with a withered hand came to the synagogue while Joshua was preaching and after the sermon, while fifty Pharisees who had gathered at Capernaum just in case something like this happened looked on, Joshua told the man that his sins were forgiven, then healed the withered hand.

Like vultures to carrion they came to Peter’s house the next morning.

“No one but God can forgive sins,” said the one they had elected as their speaker.

“Really,” said Joshua. “So you can’t forgive someone who sins against you?”

“No one but God.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Joshua. “Now unless you are here to hear the good news, go away.” And Joshua went into Peter’s house and closed the door.

The Pharisee shouted at the door, “You blaspheme, Joshua bar Joseph, you—”

And I was standing there in front of him, and I know I shouldn’t have done it, but I popped him. Not in the mouth or anything, but right in the phylacteries. The little leather box exploded with the impact and the strips of parchment slowly settled to the ground. I’d hit him so fast that I think he thought it was a supernatural event. A cry went up from the group behind him, protesting—shouting that I couldn’t do such a thing, that I deserved stoning, scourging, et cetera, and my Buddhist tolerance just wore a little thin.

So I popped him again. In the nose.

This time he went down. Two of his pals caught him, and another one at the front of the crowd started to reach into his sash for something. I knew that they could quickly overrun me if they wanted to, but I didn’t think they would. The cowards. I grabbed the man who was pulling the knife, twisted it away from him, shoved the iron blade between the stones of Peter’s house and snapped it off, then handed the hilt back to him. “Go away,” I said to him, very softly.

He went away, and all of his pals went with him. I went inside to see how Joshua and the others were getting along.

“You know, Josh,” I said. “I think it’s time to expand the ministry. You have a lot of followers here. Maybe we should go to the other side of the lake. Out of Galilee for a while.”

“Preach to the gentiles?” Nathaniel asked.

“He’s right,” said Joshua. “Biff is right.”

“So it shall be written,” I said.

James and John only owned one ship that was large enough to hold all of us and Bartholomew’s dogs, and it was anchored at Magdala, two hours’ walk south of Capernaum, so we made the trip very early one morning to avoid being stopped in the villages on the way. Joshua had decided to take the good news to the gentiles, so we were going to go across the lake to the town of Gadarene in the state of Decapolis. They kept gentiles there.

As we waited on the shore at Magdala, a crowd of women who had come to the lake to wash clothes gathered around Joshua and begged him to tell them of the kingdom. I noticed a young tax collector who was sitting nearby at his table in the shade of a reed umbrella. He was listening to Joshua, but I could also see his eyes following the behinds of the women. I sidled over.

“He’s amazing, isn’t he?” I said.

“Yes. Amazing,” said the tax collector. He was perhaps twenty, thin, with soft brown hair, a light beard, and light brown eyes.

“What’s your name, publican?”

“Matthew,” he said. “Son of Alphaeus.”

“No kidding, that’s my father’s name too. Look, Matthew, I assume you can read, write, things like that?”

“Oh yes.”

“You’re not married, are you?”

“No, I was betrothed, but before the wedding was to happen, her parents let her marry a rich widower.”

“Sad. You’re probably heartbroken. That’s sad. You see those women? There’s women like that all the time around Joshua. And here’s the best part, he’s celibate. He doesn’t want any of them. He’s just interested in saving mankind and bringing the kingdom of God to earth, which we all are, of course. But the women, well, I think you can see.”

“That must be wonderful.”

“Yeah, it’s swell. We’re going to Decapolis. Why don’t you come with us?”

“I couldn’t. I’ve been entrusted to collect taxes for this whole coast.”

“He’s the Messiah, Matthew. The Messiah. Think of it. You, and the Messiah.”

“I don’t know.”

“Women. The kingdom. You heard about him turning water into wine.”

“I really have to—”

“Have you ever tasted bacon, Matthew?”