Joseph was never anyone I had to worry about. Joseph was a nobody. He did his work, went home to his family. That’s as far as his ambitions went. If you needed someone to build a door, fix a stone wall—odd jobs like that—and you didn’t have much money, you hired Joseph. He had his regulars, but not enough to cut into my business. Most of the time, verily, I forgot he even existed. So, no, Joseph wasn’t my problem. My problem was his boy. I just didn’t see it coming.
The first sign came about ten years ago. I was walking through the market, and, lo, there was Philip, the son of Matthias, in his usual stall, chattering nonstop to everyone who passed by. The finest pottery in town! The lowest prices! But I wasn’t interested in his bowls and platters. My eyes went straight to two new cedar stools that he’d set out for customers. The seats, rectangular and contoured, were unlike any I’d seen before in Sepphoris. I’d already taken over most of the labor in town, and none of my people were capable of such craftsmanship. This was Temple-quality work. Whoever built these stools wouldn’t be selling to potters for long. He’d go where the money was, to a better clientele. My clientele. I’d seen it before. In fact, I’d done the same thing myself when I was breaking into the business.
I needed to find out who made these stools.
Philip fussed over me when he saw me coming, and I took a seat. I’m tall, nearly four cubits, and I eat well. Most stools would prefer a lighter load, but this one supported me easily. I picked up an oil lamp from among his wares and pretended to examine it.
“Martha will love it,” Philip said. He listed its many virtues in great detail and quoted a price we both knew was too high. He also knew I’d pay it, because I could.
I considered the offer, then rapped my knuckles on the empty stool next to me. “Not bad. Where’d you get them?”
Philip stammered, nervous he was about to lose a sale. “You know I always buy from you, Timothy. But—”
I smiled and held up my hand. “Just curious.”
When he said Joseph, the son of Jacob, I made him repeat it. Impossible. Where did Joseph learn how to make stools like this?
James arrived at my house early the next morning, as usual, to review my affairs for the day. Sepphoris was booming, and it was a good time to be in construction. I’d known James since school, but we were never what you’d call friends. Other boys mocked him and called him James the Lesser because he was the smallest of the three Jameses in our class and as meek as a lamb. But I tolerated him. He followed me around, hanging on my every word, and that came in handy sometimes—as
