who talked like you. He raised an army of slaves against Rome, beat back two of our armies, took over all the territories south of Rome. It’s a story every Roman soldier must learn.”
“Why, what happened?” I asked.
“We crucified him,” Justus said. “By the side of the road, and his body was eaten by ravens. The lesson we all learn is that nothing can stand against Rome. A lesson you need to learn, boy, along with your stonecutting.”
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
“Why, what happened?” I asked.
“We crucified him,” Justus said. “By the side of the road, and his body was eaten by ravens. The lesson we all learn is that nothing can stand against Rome. A lesson you need to learn, boy, along with your stonecutting.”
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
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