And Did These Feet

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Written by Philip Neale
Thursday, 01 May 2008

Last Updated ( Friday, 16 May 2008 )

My feet are killing me – I’ve been on them all day at that market stall and it’s been hot enough to fry an egg on a Roman’s breastplate. Mind you frying a Roman would be preferable right now considering all the restrictions they out on us these days. That Herod’s no good, he’s just a patsy kowtowing to the governor instead of standing up for his own people – still, I suppose someone’s got to be ‘numero uno’ as the Latins say.

I’m just so fed up with the constant bickering over prices though. Don’t these people realise that I’ve got a living to make, three kids all at school and a wife with fashion tastes certainly out of my pocket. Dear Miriam, I shouldn’t complain really she does her best and the Romans pay well enough if you know what I mean. Not too sure about our Brian though. He’s the youngest and I haven’t quite worked out when his birthday actually is. I’m sure I was doing my stint at national service at around that time, but there’s no-one to complain to anyway. The Romans just laugh at you if you do.

What I need now is a basin of cold water for my poorly tootsies and a read of the daily Blurb. I suppose we could go down the inn after dinner, but it’ll only be packed out with the ninth legion – I think it’s their quiz night tonight and I’m rubbish at Latin so there’d be no point in joining in. Sitting at the bar would be no good either – you can’t gossip with Augustus’s spies everywhere – God my feet ache and I’m famished!

Maybe I should have stayed on at school instead of going into the family business. Family business! Don’t make me laugh. One fruit and vegetable stall on the central market where every other trader is trying to cut your throat – what kind of business is that? If I didn’t supplement my income with the odd bit of wacky baccy where does Miriam think she’d get her new designer headscarves from? I tell you money’s so short at the moment that even the dwarves can reach it.

Ooooooooh that’s better. Doesn’t take long for this water to take effect. Is that a bunion? I wouldn’t be surprised if it was with all the time I spend at that stall. I wouldn’t mind if it were one of the newer ones but dad wouldn’t pay the rent. Oh no, not him – tight fisted git. ‘There’s years of life left in this one’ Never any consideration for anyone else – he’d turn in his grave now if he weren’t already dead!

“Oh, hello Miriam dear – just thinking about you. Have you had a nice day? Me? Oh not bad you know, takings a bit down but we won’t starve.”

That’s the wife, Miriam, just back from her mothers. Spend all day flipping through the latest catalogues from Rome they do. Have you seen those prices? It’s Ok for the troops, over paid, over sexed and over here. They’ve got money to throw away. Trouble is precious little of it gets thrown at me – all they do is walk up and down pinching produce off the stalls, and you daren’t say anything or they’ll have you off to jail PDQ (Pilate’s Palace we call it).

Still, I shouldn’t complain too much. It could be worse – could be stabbed, as they say. Talking of pinching, they nicked this guy the other day for writing all over the amphitheatre walls. Rumour is he belongs to one of these pressure groups who keep looking for a fight with our glorious Roman benefactors. Don’t know what it was that he wrote – I can’t read the language, but its still there despite all their efforts to clean it up. He hasn’t been seen for a while – in fact since Cyril sold him that false beard when the local plods were chasing him. Silly sod paid full price, but then again I suppose I would too if the filth were after me.

Oh, here comes trouble – school’s out and the kids are home. Wait for it, they’ll make a bee line straight for my wallet without so much as a ‘by your leave’ or ‘Hi dad, had a good day?’ Mind you, could be wrong, could be wrong. They’ve gone straight upstairs, wonder what they’re up to now. You never know with the youngsters of today. One day they’re all over you like a rash, the next you’re a complete stranger. Count your blessings Simon mate, you could still end up in pocket today.

Really need to get my eldest, Jacob, interested in the stall but he’s only got thoughts for that Rachel at present. She’s Paul’s daughter and they live next door. He fishes the lake and he’s been seen knocking around with some chap from Nazareth just recently. They’ve been spending a lot of time with the poor and sick, and one or two folks have been saying that a number of illnesses have mysteriously cleared up when they’ve been around. It’s not going down too well with the local quack, I can tell you. There’ll be tears before bedtime, just you mark my words. I need to make sure that our Jacob steers clear of any of that – the Pharisees are a funny lot and I can see them complaining to the governor if a stop isn’t put to it, and you never know where that will end up.

Right, a nice towelling down and a fresh pair of sandals. That’s better – now for some grub. I’m sure I heard Miriam preparing dinner just now, so if I sit down and keep quiet she won’t ask me to help. I’m a firm believer in keeping out of things I know nothing about, and I’ve spent a lifetime learning nothing at all about cooking. Anyhow, I just get in the way and then she’d shout at me and tell me to go and sit down, so I’m already doing as I’m told without the aggravation – simple isn’t it? I used to be expected to help with the washing up at one time, but Aunty Ivy taught me that if you ‘accidentally’ broke a few things, you would be shooed out of the way and it works like a charm. Haven’t washed up for years – must have a word with the two lads about that sometime.

Mind you, a funny thing happened today and I’ve only just remembered it. The stall’s on the corner of the Via Dolorosa and Market Street and trading had been slowish but there’s been a lot of folk about for the time of the week. Anyway, this chap comes up and starts poking and prodding at the produce and when I asked him what he was playing at, out comes this parchment with some fancy official stamp on it. He says he’s from the council (don’t ask me which one) and is ‘inspecting the foodstuffs to ascertain fitness for human consumption’. I tell him to pay up or leave it alone, but then he gets all high and mighty and tells me he can close the stall down if I don’t cooperate. I call him a Roman scivvy, but luckily I don’t think he heard.

So then there’s a sudden crush, the stall very nearly goes over and if I hadn’t got round the front sharpish the local urchins would have been away with my best stuff. I’m just restacking some oranges when this centurion barges into me and doesn’t even have the manners to apologise. When I told him what he’d done, all I get is a shove, a mouthful of abuse and the back of his hand – fortunately I’d already ducked. They can be a bit slow sometimes these NCOs and I nipped round the other side out of his way.

I’m just trying to ease myself around the back of the stall when this great chunk of wood catches me behind the ear. Well I’d had enough and I spun round, set myself, stuck both fists up and let him have it.

“Jesus, bloody hell mate watch where you’re going with that or I’ll sodding well crucify you.”

Well there’s this bloke on his knees in the dirt see, and he looks in a bit of a bad way. I goes to help him up and the same centurion muscles me to one side. You could have knocked me down with a feather when the chap replied

“I think you’ll find, my friend, that the Romans have beaten you to it.”