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go.” He turned to us. “On your way.” And then, with a formidable fist to the chest, he sent first Jesus and then me to the ground. We scrambled to our feet. I was so angry that I took a step toward the Roman, but Jesus took my arm and pulled me away. What had I been thinking—that I would strike a Roman soldier?
    The soldiers descended the hill to join the rest of their comrades. A young villager of about sixteen years old―I think his name was Caleb, son of Hezi the goatherder―was walking near them when a blow from the hilt of a Roman sword sent the boy sprawling. Two soldiers lifted him onto the back of a horse, and the detachment galloped from town. My townsmen made their way down the hill but could do nothing except watch.
    Leah had remained on the hill and came and embraced me. “Thomas, I was so frightened.” She sobbed into my shoulder. Jesus put his hands on both our heads, almost as if he were blessing us in some way.
    â€œLeah!” her mother called. “Come!” Leah stepped back and wiped her eyes. Then she returned and pressed her face to my chest for an instant, pulled away, and ran to catch up with her mother.
    I trembled on the walk home. Jesus put his arm around me and said, “Be cheerful, my brother. Is this not funny, that we were saved by Romans?”
    â€œWe must leave Nazareth,” I said. “I have had enough of these hypocritical old men, enough of the Romans, enough of . . . of everything here.”
    â€œYes,” he said. “I agree. We are wasting our time here. But I don’t know where we should go. Where do you think?”
    â€œI don’t care. Maybe Bethsaida. We have family there. We could become fishermen.”
    â€œI’ve been thinking of another sort of work—work for our people. Something to give us all hope.”
    I stopped walking and squeezed Jesus by the shoulders, as if trying to wring something out of him. “What? What will bring them hope? This is something else I’ve had enough of, all this talk but no direction. Tell me what to do, and I’m with you.”
    Jesus flared his nostrils like an angry bull. I thought for a moment that he would strike me. Through clenched teeth, in part whisper, part growl, he said, “I . . . don’t . . . know.” He dropped his face to my shoulder and wept.
    This episode should make clear that anyone expecting a clichéd tale of sibling contests, like our decrepit myths of Cain and Abel, Jacob and Esau, the Romans’ Romulus and Remus, the Greeks’ Atreus and Thyestes, will be disappointed. Sometimes my brother bewildered me; often he tried my patience. At times, of course, we fought, as all brothers do.
    I recall one such fight when we were about five and were making some little human figures out of mud. Mother was angry (I suppose now, looking back, that she saw them as the same sort of dolls that witches were said to use). I said, “Look, Mother. Mine is a girl, and she is beautiful like you.” Mother’s eyes watered, and she kissed me on the head.
    Out of jealousy, Jesus pissed on my doll. I pushed him to the ground, and he cried. Mother scooped him up and took him inside, pausing to slap me across the face. Yet even when we argued later in life—we never came to blows—our devotion to each other never subsided. I would have died for him and, in these late years, I still lament missing the chance. It is my greatest regret from this long and woeful life.

Chapter Eight
    Verse One
    From time to time, we received news of our cousin John. He had a compound by the Jordan River where many came to hear him teach about a great judgment the Lord would render to restore our homeland. The rumor was that all who joined him would be safe from the Lord’s anger when the great cleansing of the land came. I’d always suspected that he’d cause some trouble sooner or later.
    â€œLet’s go to visit John,” I said