Lamb by Christopher Moore Page A

Jerusalem was a Jewish city—it was the Jewish city. Sepphoris was the Roman fortress city of Galilee, and as soon as we saw the statue of Venus at the gates we knew that this was something different.
    I elbowed Joshua in the ribs. “Graven image.” I had never seen the human form depicted before.
    “Sinful,” Joshua said.
    “She’s naked.”
    “Don’t look.”
    “She’s completely naked.”
    “It is forbidden. We should go away from here, find your father.” He caught me by my sleeve and dragged me through the gates into the city.
    “How can they allow that?” I asked. “You’d think that our people would tear it down.”
    “They did, a band of Zealots. Joseph told me. The Romans caught them and crucified them by this road.”
    “You never told me that.”
    “Joseph told me not to speak of it.”
    “You could see her breasts.”
    “Don’t think about it.”
    “How can I not think about it? I’ve never seen a breast without a baby attached to it. They’re more—more friendly in pairs like that.”
    “Which way to where we are supposed to work?”
    “My father said to come to the western corner of the city and we would see where the work was being done.”
    “Then come along.” He was still dragging me, his head down, stomping along like an angry mule.
    “Do you think Maggie’s breasts will look like that?”
     
    My father had been commissioned to build a house for a wealthy Greek on the western side of the city. When Joshua and I arrived my father was already there, directing the slaves who were hoisting a cut stone into place on the wall. I suppose I expected something different. I suppose I was surprised that anyone, even a slave, would do as my father instructed. The slaves were Nubians, Egyptians, Phoenicians, criminals, debtors, spoils of war, accidents of birth; they were wiry, filthy men, many wearing nothing more than sandals and a loincloth. In another life they might have commanded an army or lived in a palace, but now they sweated in the morning chill, moving stones heavy enough to break a donkey.
    “Are these your slaves?” Joshua asked my father.
    “Am I a rich man, Joshua? No, these slaves belong to the Romans. The Greek who is building this house has hired them for the construction.”
    “Why do they do as you ask? There are so many of them. You are only one man.”
    My father hung his head. “I hope that you never see what the lead tips of a Roman whip do to a man’s body. All of these men have, and even seeing it has broken their spirit as men. I pray for them every night.”
    “I hate the Romans,” I said.
    “Do you, little one, do you?” A man’s voice from behind.
    “Hail, Centurion,” my father said, his eyes going wide.
    Joshua and I turned to see Justus Gallicus, the centurion from the funeral at Japhia, standing among the slaves. “Alphaeus, it seems you are raising a litter of Zealots.”
    My father put his hands on my and Joshua’s shoulders. “This is my son, Levi, and his friend Joshua. They begin their apprenticeship today. Just boys,” he said, by way of apology.
    Justus approached, looked quickly at me, then stared at Joshua for a long time. “I know you, boy. I’ve seen you before.”
    “The funeral at Japhia,” I said quickly. I couldn’t take my eyes off of the wasp-waisted short sword that hung from the centurion’s belt.
    “No,” the Roman seemed to be searching his memory. “Not Japhia. I’ve seen this face in a picture.”
    “That can’t be,” my father said. “We are forbidden by our faith from depicting the human form.”
    Justus glared at him. “I am not a stranger to your people’s primitive beliefs, Alphaeus. Still, this boy is familiar.”
    Joshua stared up at the centurion with a completely blank expression.
    “You feel for these slaves, boy? You would free them if you could?”
    Joshua nodded. “I would. A man’s spirit should be his own to give to God.”
    “You know, there was a slave about eighty years ago