A Quiver Full of Arrows

by Jeffrey Archer

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” I said, “and when you are next in Somerset you must come to Lympsham and meet my family.”

  “Lympsham? I cannot place it,” he said, looking worried.

  “I’m not surprised. The village has a population of only twenty-two.”

  “Enough for two cricket teams,” remarked the professor. “A game, I confess, with which I have never come to grips.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, “neither have half the English.”

  “Ah, but I should like to. What is a gully, a no-ball, a night watchman? The terms have often intrigued me.”

  “Then remember to get in touch when you’re next in England and I’ll take you to Lord’s and see if I can teach you something.”

  “How kind,” he said, and then he hesitated before adding: “But I don’t think we shall meet again.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Well, you see, I have never been outside Hungary in my whole life. When I was young I couldn’t afford to, and now I don’t imagine that those in authority would allow me to see your beloved England.”

  He released my hand, turned and shuffled back into the shadows of the side streets of Budapest.

  I read his obituary in The Times once again as well as the headlines about Afghanistan and its effect on the Moscow Olympics.

  He was right. We never met again.

  THE FIRST MIRACLE

  Tomorrow it would be 1 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 more than 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 spilled some cooking oil on his tunic. But that wasn’t much fun, because 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 favored 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, and listen 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 floor, 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 in his tunic and ran out of the house into the compound. The centurion 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 young officer.

  “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 toward the village while humming a tune that reminded him of home. He kept to the center 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 father’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 travelers 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, for 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 since 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 neighboring lands to obey his father’s order and be registered for the census, in order that they might be taxed. The boy dismissed the plebs from his mind. (It was Marcus who had taught him to refer to all foreigners as plebs.) When he entered the marketplace he also dismissed Marcus from his m
ind 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 father. 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 toward 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, imitating 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 off in 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, discarding the rind 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 toward 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 toward the village kept a respectful distance, leaving him a clear vision as far as the eye could see, which wasn’t all that far since 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 councilors as a place fit for paying travelers to dwell in. But the boy realized 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, since it was the last dwelling house on the road. Not that he was really interested; 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 that 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 center 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 fat 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.

  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 anyone 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 mesmerized, but then he knew what he must do. He walked through the open door toward 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 toward 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 onto 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 toward 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 toward 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 and 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.”