A Quiver Full of Arrows (8 page)

The colonel, who now sat in front with the
driver, did not venture to speak to either of the distinguished Brazilians for
the entire journey. The two men, he would be able to tell the new President
later, seemed to be preoccupied with a discussion on an Amazon road project and
how the responsibility should be divided between their two companies.

Customs were bypassed as neither man had
anything they wanted to take out of the country other than themselves, and the
fleet of cars came to a halt at the side of Eduardo’s blue and silver 707. The
staff of both companies climbed aboard the rear section of the aircraft, also engrossed
in discussion on the Amazon road project.

A corporal jumped out ofthe lead car and
opened the back door, to allow the two chairmen to walk straight up the steps
and board the front section of the aircraft.

As Eduardo stepped out of the Mercedes, the
Nigerian driver saluted smartly. “Goodbye, sir,” he said, revealing the large
set of white teeth once again.

Eduardo said nothing.

“I hope,” said the corporal politely, “you
made very big deal while you were in Nigeria.”

T
omorrow it would be I A.D., but nobody had told
him. If anyone had, he wouldn’t have understood because he thought that it was
the forty-third year in the reign of the Emperor, and in any case, he had other
things on his mind. His mother was still cross with him and he had to admit that
he’d been naughty that day, even by the standards of a normal thirteen-year-old.
He hadn’t meant to drop the pitcher when she had sent him to the well for
water. He tried to explain to his mother that it wasn’t his fault that he had tripped
over a stone; and that at least was true. What he hadn’t told her was that he was
chasing a stray dog at the time. And then there was that pomegranate; how was
he meant to know that it was the last one, and that his father had taken a
liking to them?

The boy was now dreading his father’s return
and the possibility that he might be given another thrashing. He could still
remember the last one when he hadn’t been able to sit down for two days without
feeling the pain, and the thin red scars didn’t completely disappear for over three
weeks.

He sat on the window ledge in a shaded corner
of his room trying to think of some way he could redeem himself in his mother’s
eyes, now that she had thrown him out of the kitchen. Go outside and play, she
had insisted, after he had spilt some cooking oil on his tunic. But that wasn’t
much fun as he was only allowed to play by himself. His father had forbidden
him to mix with the local boys.

How he hated this country; if only he were
back home with his friends, there would be so much to do. Still, only another
three weeks and he could... The door swung open and his mother came into the
room. She was dressed in the thin black garments so favoured by locals: they
kept her cool, she had explained to the boy’s father. He had grunted his disapproval
so she always changed back into imperial dress before he returned in the
evening.

“Ah, there you are,” she said, addressing
the crouched figure of her son.

“Yes, Mother.”

“Daydreaming as usual. Well, wake up because
I need you to go into the village and fetch some food for me.”

“Yes, Mother, I’ll go at once,” the boy said
as he jumped off the window ledge.

“Well, at least wait until you’ve heard what
I want.”

“Sorry, Mother.”

“Now listen, andlisten carefully.”

She started counting on her fingers as she
spoke. “I need a chicken, some raisins, figs, dates and... ah yes, two
pomegranates.”

The boy’s face reddened at the mention of
the pomegranates and he stared down at the stone Door, hoping she might have
forgotten. His mother put her hand into the leather purse that hung from her
waist and removed two small coins, but before she handed them over she made her
son repeat the instructions.

“One chicken, raisins, figs, dates, and two
pomegranates,” he recited, as he might the modern poet, Virgil.

“And be sure to see they give you the
correct change,” she added. “Never forget the locals are all thieves.”

“Yes, Mother...” For a moment the boy
hesitated.

“If you remember everything and bring back
the right amount of money, I might forget to tell your father about the broken
pitcher and the pomegranate.”

The boy smiled, pocketed the two small
silver coins This tunic, and ran out of the house into the compound. The guard
who stood on duty at the gate removed the great wedge of wood which allowed the
massive door to swing open.

The boy jumped through the hole in the gate
and grinned back at the guard.

T;k Firs’ Mirack “Been in more trouble again
today?” the guard shouted after him.

“No, not this time,” the boy replied.

“I’m about to be saved.”

He waved farewell to the guard and started
to walk briskly towards the village while humming a tune that reminded him of
home. He kept to the centre of the dusty winding path that the locals had the
nerve to call a road.

He seemed to spend half his time removing
little stones from his sandals.

If his father had been posted here for any
length of time he would have made some changes; then they would have had a real
road, straight and wide enough to take a chariot. But not before his mother had
sorted out the serving girls.

Not one of them knew how to lay a table or
even prepare food so that it was at least clean. For the first time in his life
he had seen his mother in a kitchen, and he felt sure it would be the last, as
they would all be returning home now that his father was coming to the end of
his assignment.

The evening sun shone down on him as he
walked; it was a very large red sun, the same red as his other’s tunic. The
heat it gave out made him sweat and long for something to drink. Perhaps there
would be enough money left over to buy himself a pomegranate. He couldn’t wait
to take one home and show his friends how large they were in this barbaric
land. Marcus, his best friend, would undoubtedly have seen one as big because his
father had commanded a whole army in these parts, but the rest of the class
would still be impressed.

The village to which his mother had sent him
was only two miles from the compound and the dusty path ran alongside a hill
overlooking a large valley. The road was already crowded with travellers who
would be seeking shelter in the village. All of them had come down from the
hills at the express orders of his father, whose authority had been vested in
him by the Emperor himself. Once he was sixteen, he too would serve the
Emperor. His friend Marcus wanted to be a soldier and conquer the rest of the
world. But he was more interested in the law and teaching his country’s customs
to the heathens in strange lands.

Marcus had said, “I’ll conquer them and then
you can govern them.”

A sensible division between brains and brawn
he had told his friend, who didn’t seem impressed and had ducked him in the
nearest bath.

The boy quickened his pace as he knew he had
to be back in the compound before the sun disappeared behind the hills. His
father had told him many times that he must always be locked safely inside
before sunset. He was aware that his father was not a popular man with the
locals, and he had warned his son that he would always be safe while it was
light as no one would dare to harm him while others could watch what was going
on, but once it was dark anything could happen. One thing he knew for certain:
when he grew up he wasn’t going to be a tax collector or work in the census
office.

When he reached the village he found the
narrow twisting lanes that ran between the little white houses swarming with
people who had come from all the neighbouring lands to obey his father’s order
and be registered for the census, in order that they might be taxed. The boy
dismissed the plebe from his mind. (It was Marcus who had taught him to refer
to all foreigners as plebe.) When he entered the market place he also dismissed
Marcus from his mind and began to concentrate on the supplies his mother
wanted. He mustn’t make any mistakes this time or he would undoubtedly end up
with that thrashing from his &then He ran nimbly between the stalls,
checking the food carefully. Some of the local people stared at the
fair-skinned boy with the curly brown hair and the straight, firm nose. He
displayed no imperfections or disease like the majority of them. Others turned
their eyes away from him; after all, he had come from the land of the natural
rulers. These thoughts did not pass through his mind. All the boy noticed was that
their native skins were parched and lined from too much sun. He knew that too
much sun was bad for you: it made you old before your time, his tutor had
warned him.

At the end stall, the boy watched an old
woman haggling over an unusually plump live chicken and as he marched towards
her she ran away in fright, leaving the fowl behind her. He stared at the
stallkeeper and refused to bargain with the peasant. It was beneath his
dignity. He pointed to the chicken and gave the man one denarius. The man bit the
round silver coin and looked at the head of Augustus Caesar, ruler of half the
world. (When his tutor had told him, during a history lesson, about the
Emperor’s achievements, he remembered thinking, I hope Caesar doesn’t conquer the
whole world before I have a chance to join in.) The stallkeeper was still
staring at the silver coin.

“Come on, come on, I haven’t got all day,”
said the boy sounding like his father.

The local did not reply because he couldn’t
understand what the boy was saying. All he knew for certain was that it would
be unwise for him to annoy the invader. The stallkeeper held the chicken firmly
by the neck and taking a knife from his belt cut its head offin one movement
and passed the dead fowl over to the boy. He then handed back some of his local
coins, which had stamped on them the image of a man the boy’s father described
as “that useless Herod”. The boy kept his hand held out, palm open, and the
local placed bronze talents into it until he had no more.

The boy left him talentless and moved to another
stall, this time pointing to bags containing raisins, figs and dates.

The new stallkeeper made a measure of each
for which he received five of the useless Herod coins. The man was about to
protest about the barter but the boy stared at him fixedly in the eyes, the way
he had seen his father do so often.

The stallkeeper backed away and only bowed
his head.

Now, what else did his mother want? He racked
his brains. A chicken, raisins, dates, figs and... of course, two pomegranates.
He searched among the fresh-fruit stalls and picked out three pomegranates, and
breaking one open, began to eat it, spitting out the pips on the ground in front
of him. He paid the stallkeeper with the two remaining bronze talents, feeling
pleased that he had carried out his mother’s wishes while still being able to
return home with one of the silver denarii. Even his father would be impressed
by that. He finished the pomegranate and, with his arms laden, headed slowly
out of the market back towards the compound, trying to avoid the stray dogs
that continually got under his feet. They barked and sometimes snapped at his
ankles: they did not know who he was.

When the boy reached the edge of the village
he noticed the sun was already disappearing behind the highest hill, so he
quickened his pace, remembering his father’s words about being home before
dusk. As he walked down the stony path, those still on the way towards the
village kept a respectful distance, leaving him a clear vision as far as the
eye could see, which wasn’t all that far as he was carrying so much in his
arms. But one sight he did notice a little way ahead of him was a man with a
beard – a dirty, lazy habit his father had told him – wearing the ragged dress
that signified that he was of the tribe of Jacob, tugging a reluctant donkey
which in turn was carrying a very fat woman. The woman was, as their custom
demanded, covered from head to toe in black. The boy was about to order them
out of his path when the man left the donkey on the side of the road and went
into a house which from its sign, claimed to be an inn.

Such a building in his own land would never
have passed the scrutiny of the local councillors as a place fit for paying
travellers to dwell in. But the boy realised that this particular week to find
even a mat to lay one’s head on might be considered a luxury. He watched the
bearded man reappear through the door with a forlorn look on his tired face.
There was clearly no room at the inn.

The boy could have told him that before he
went in, and wondered what the man would do next, as it was the last dwelling
house on the road. Not that he was really in Tic First Mirarlc terested; they
could both sleep in the hills for all he cared. It was about all they looked
fit for. The man with the beard was telling the woman something and pointing
behind the inn, and without another word he led the donkey off in the direction
he had been indicating.

The boy wondered what could possibly be at
the back of the inn and, his curiosity roused, followed them. As he came to the
corner of the building, he saw the man was coaxing the donkey through an open
door of what looked like a barn. The boy followed the strange trio and watched
them through the crack left by the open door. The barn was covered in dirty
straw and full of chickens, sheep and oxen, and smelled to the boy like the
sewers they built in the side streets back home. He began to feel sick. The man
was clearing away some of the worst of the straw from the centre of the barn,
trying to make a clean patch for them to rest on – a near hopeless task,
thought the boy. When the man had done as best he could he lifted the At woman
down from the donkey and placed her gently in the straw. Then he left her and
went over to a trough on the other side of the barn where one of the oxen was
drinking. He cupped his fingers together, put them in the trough and filling
his hands with water, returned to the fat woman.