The Gaza Incident, Part IV

The teenage years of Jesus

I have been on vacation helping my current owner the still and silent man from nowhere set up his beekeeping operation. It has been exhausting; but I’m finally ready to continue a bit with the story of the Teenage Years of Jesus.

I suppose you’re thinking that my flight into the crowds milling about the Great Pyramid—almost all of whom were there to see the Great Camel race—was the last episode in my surveillance assignment, because it’s unlikely Lucille would allow me to come anywhere near her again.

And you would be correct—aside, of course, from the fact that I am a master of disguise.

There was no way, you will understand, that I could possibly allow things to continue to continue to spin out of control between Jesus and Lucille… after all, it wasn’t just a matter of the Son of God having an affair with the Devil’s daughter— there was also a camel race to be won. And that, too, was in immanent danger. Jesus was so distracted that he might even miss the race… and we couldn’t have that. Despite the fact that when you absolutely have to win, you have the devil ride the camel, it was Jesus’ turn to ride the camel after Luke’s historic win in Bethlehem. And it must be said either one of them was entirely qualified to ride; Jesus, after all, was responsible for fifty percent of the wins that got them to Egypt in the first place, and the crowds knew the team well enough by now to know it was his rotation.

A bit of minor fame had proceeded the two, you see; but as the murmurs and rumors of the various teams circulated through the crowds betting on the Greeks (favorites this particular year), Romans (whom everyone hated but rode a very, very mean camel), Phoenicians, Macedonians, and even a flamboyantly dressed Scythian contingency, Team Bethlehem somehow stood out. Two extremely charismatic and unusually handsome young men were the team leaders, you see; and more than a few heartthrobs were aroused among the female fans. Girls from all over the known world attended the races; it was after all one of the biggest social events in the Mediterranean, with wealthy mothers and doting dowagers alike bringing their daughters and female charges to meet dashing camel racers.

Camel racing was despite its smattering of middle-and-even-lower class elements  in the end a sport of the elite, and more than a few men and boys of wealth and power— even the sons of Vissiers, Mamaducks, Bamitzvers, Dorkes and Pritnzes—were among those racing their thoroughbred camels this week. The mothers and chaperones hoped to make power-matches; and so the girls were allowed (on much shorter leashes than we shih tzus, of course) to circulate. Many an eyelash was batted at the men with the money; but even more were batted at Jesus and Lucifer, who exuded a strange charm that affected everyone.

It was talked about. Yes indeed.