A Quiver Full of Arrows (9 page)

The boy was beginning to get bored and was
about to leave when the woman leaned forward to drink from the man’s hands.

The shawl fell from her head and he saw her
face for the first time.

He stood transfixed, staring at her.

He had never seen anything more beautiful.
Unlike the common members of her tribe, the woman’s skin was translucent in
quality, and her eyes shone, but what most struck the boy was her manner and
presence. Never had he felt so much in awe, even remembering his one visit to
the Senate House to hear a declamation from Augustus Caesar.

For a moment he remained mesmerised, but
then he knew what he must do. He walked through the open door towards the
woman, fell on his knees before her and offered the chicken. She smiled and he
gave her the pomegranates and she smiled again. He then dropped the rest of the
food in front of her, but she remained silent. The man with the beard was
returning with more water, and when he saw the young foreigner he fell on his
knees spilling the water onto the straw and then covered his face. The boy
stayed on his knees for some time before he rose, and walked slowly towards the
barn door. When he reached the opening, he turned back and stared once more
into the face of the beautiful woman. She still did not speak.

The young Roman hesitated only for a second,
and then bowed his head.

It was already dusk when he ran back out on to
the winding path to resume his journey home, but he was not afraid. Rather he
felt he had done something good and therefore no harm could come to him. He
looked up into the sky and saw directly above him the first star, shining so
brightly in the east that he wondered why he could see no others. His father
had told him that different stars were visible in different lands, so he
dismissed the puzzle from his mind, replacing it with the anxiety of not being
home before dark. The road in front of him was now empty so he was able to walk
quickly towards the compound, and was not all that far from safety when he
first heard the singing and shouting.

He turned quickly to see where the danger
was coming from, staring up into the hills above him. To begin with, he
couldn’t make sense of what he saw. Then his eyes focused in disbelief on one
particular field in which the shepherds were leaping up and down, singing,
shouting and clapping their hands. The boy noticed that all the sheep were
safely penned in a corner of the field for the night, so they had nothing to
fear. He had been told by Marcus that sometimes the shepherds in this land
would make a lot of noise at night because they believed it kept away the evil
spirits. How could anyone be that stupid, the boy wondered, when there was a
flash of lightning across the sky and the field was suddenly ablaze with light.
The shepherds fell to their knees, silent, staring up into the sky for several
minutes as though they were listening intently to something. Then all was
darkness again.

The boy started running towards the compound
as fast as his legs could carry him; he wanted to be inside and hear the safety
of the great gate close behind him and watch the centurion put the wooden wedge
firmly back in its place. He would have run all the way had he not seen
something in front of him that brought him to a sudden halt.

His father had taught him never to show any
fear when facing danger. The boy caught his breath in case it would make them
think that he was frightened. He was frightened, but he marched proudly on,
determined he would never be forced off the road-When they did meet face to
face, he was amazed.

Before him stood three camels and astride
the beasts three men, who stared down at him. The first was clad in gold and
with one arm protected something hidden beneath his cloak. By his side hung a
large sword, its sheath covered in all manner of rare stones, some of which the
boy could not even name. The second was dressed in white and held a silver
casket to his breast, while the third wore red and carried a large wooden box.
The man robed in gold put up his hand and addressed the boy in a strange tongue
which he had never heard uttered before, even by his tutor. The second man
tried Hebrew but to no avail and the third yet another tongue without eliciting
any response from the boy.

The boy folded his arms across his chest and
told them who he was, where he was going, and asked where they might be bound.
He hoped his piping voice did not reveal his fear. The one robed in gold
replied first and questioned the boy in his own tongue.

“Where is he that is born King of the Jews?
For we have seen his star in the east, and are come to worship him.”

“King Herod lives beyond the...”

“We speak not of King Herod,” said the
second man, “for he is but a king of men as we are.”

“We speak,” said the third, “of the King of
Kings and are come to offer him gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh.”

“I know nothing of the King of Kings,” said
the boy, now gaining in confidence. “I recognise only Augustus Caesar, Emperor
of the known world.”

The man robed in gold shook his head and,
pointing to the sky, inquired of the boy: “You observe that bright star in the
east. What is the name of the village on which it shines?”

The boy looked up at the star, and indeed
the village below was clearer to the eye than it had been in sunlight.

“But that’s only Bethlehem,” said the boy,
laughing. “You will find no King of Kings there.”

“Even there we shall find him,” said the
second king, “for did not Herod’s chief priest tell us:

And thou Bethlehem, in the land of Judah,
Art not least among the princes of Judah, For out of thee shall come a Governor
That shall rule my people Israel.”

“It cannot be,” said the boy now almost
shouting at them. “Augustus Caesar rules Israel and all the known world.”

But the three robed men did not heed his
words and left him to ride on towards Bethlehem.

Mystified the boy set out on the last part
of his journey home. Although the sky had become pitch black, whenever he
turned his eyes towards Bethlehem the village was still clearly visible in the
brilliant starlight. Once again he started running towards the compound,
relieved to see its outline rising up in front of him. When he reached the
great wooden gate, he banged loudly and repeatedly until a centurion, sword
drawn, holding a flaming torch, came out to find out who it was that disturbed
his watch.

When he saw the boy, he frowned.

“Your father is very angry. He returned at
sunset and is about to send out a search party for you.”

The boy darted past the centurion and ran
all the way to his family’s quarters, where he found his father addressing a
sergeant of the guard.

His mother was standing by his side,
weeping.

k first Mirack The father turned when he saw
his son and shouted: “Where have you been?”

“To Bethlehem.”

“Yes, I know that, but whatever possessed
you to return so late? Have I not told you countless times never to be out of
the compound after dark? Come to my study at once.”

The boy looked helplessly towards his
mother, who was still crying, but not out of relief, and turned to follow his
father into the study. The guard sergeant winked at him as he passed by but the
boy knew nothing could save him now. His father strode ahead of him into the
study and sat on a leather stool by his table. His mother followed and stood
silently by the door.

“Now tell me exactly where you have been and
why you took so long to return, and be sure to tell me the truth.”

The boy stood in front of his father and
told him everything that had come to pass. He started with how he had gone to
the village and taken great care in choosing the food and in so doing had saved
half the money his mother had given him. How on the way back he had seen a fat
lady on a donkey unable to find a place at the inn and then he explained why he
had given her the food.

He went on to describe how the shepherds had
shouted and beat their breasts until there was a great light in the sky at
which they had all fallen silent on their knees, and then finally how he had
met the three robed men who were searching for the King of Kings.

The father grew angry at his son’s words.

“What a story you tell,” he shouted.

“Do tell me more. Did you find this King of
Kings?”

“No, Sir. I did not,” he replied, as he
watched his father rise and start pacing around the room.

“Perhaps there is a more simple explanation
as to why your face and fingers are stained red with pomegranate juice,” he
suggested.

“No, Father. I did buy an extra pomegranate
but even after I had bought all the food, I still managed to save one silver
denarius.”

The boy handed the coin over to his mother
believing it would confirm his story. But the sight of the piece of silver only
made his father more angry. He stopped pacing and stared down into the eyes of
his son.

“You have spent the other denarius on yourself
and now you have nothing to show for it?”

“That’s not true, Father, I...”

“Then I will allow you one more chance to
tell me the truth,” said his father as he sat back down. “Fail me, boy, and I
shall give you a thrashing that you will never forget for the rest of your
life.”

“I have already told you the truth, Father.”

“Listen to me carefully, my son. We were
born Romans, born to rule the world because our laws and customs are tried and
trusted and have always been based firmly on absolute honesty.

Rornans never lie; it remains our strength
and the weakness of our enemies. That is why we rule while others are ruled and
as long as that is so the Roman Empire will never fall. Do you understand what
I am saying, my boy?”

“Yes, Father, I understand.”

“Then you’ll also understand why it is
imperative to tell the truth.”

“But I have not lied, Father.”

“Then there is no hope for you,” said the
man angrily. “And you leave me only one way to deal with this matter.”

The boy’s mother wanted to come to her son’s
aid, but knew any protest would be useless. The father rose from his chair and
removed the leather belt from around his waist and folded it double, leaving
the heavy brass studs on the outside. He then ordered his son to touch his
toes. The young boy obeyed without hesitation and the father raised the leather
strap above his head and brought it down on the child with all his strength.
The boy never flinched or murmured, while his mother turned away from the
sight, and wept. After the father had administered the twelfth stroke he
ordered his son to go to his room. The boy left without a word and his mother
followed and watched him climb the stairs. She then hurried away to the kitchen
and gathered together some olive oil and ointments which she hoped would soothe
the pain of her son’s wounds. She carried the little jars up to his room, where
she found him already in bed. She went over to his side and pulled the sheet
back. He turned on to his chest while she prepared the oils. Then she removed
his night tunic gently for fear of adding to his pain. Having done so, she
stared down at his body in disbelief.

The boy’s skin was unmarked.

She ran her fingers gently over her son’s
unblemished body and found it to be as smooth as if he had just bathed.

She turned him over, but there was not a
mark on him anywhere. Quickly she covered him with the sheet.

“Say nothing of this to your father, and
remove the memory of it from your mind forever, because the very telling of it
will only make him more angry.”

“Yes, Mother.”

The mother leaned over and blew out the
candle by the side ofthe bed, gathered up the unused oils and tiptoed to the
door. At the threshold, she turned in the dim light to look back at her son and
said:

“Now I know you were telling the truth,
Pontius.”

I
would never have met Edward Shrimpton if he
hadn’t needed a towel. He stood naked by my side staring down at a bench in
front of him, muttering, “I could have sworn I left the damn thing there.”

I had just come out of the sauna, swathed in
towels, so I took one off my shoulder and passed it to him. He thanked me and
put out his hand.

“Edward Shrimpton,” he said smiling. I took
his hand and wondered what we must have looked like standing there in the
gymnasium locker room of the Metropolitan Club in the early evening, two grown
men shaking hands in the nude.

“I don’t remember seeing you in the club before,”
he added.

“No, I’m an overseas member.”

“Ah, from England. What brings you to New York?”

“I’m pursuing an American novelist whom my
company would like to publish in England.”

“And are you having any success?”

“Yes, I think I’ll close the deal this week
– as long as the agent stops trying to convince me that his author is a cross between
Tolstoy and Dickens and should be paid accordingly.”