The Making of the Lamb

by Bear, Robert

  With that, the king dismissed Jesus and his sons. As the king’s sons led him through the castle halls, Jesus noticed that most of the servants had tattoos on their foreheads. He asked what they meant.

  “That is how slaves are marked,” said Guiderius. “Haven’t you seen that before? I thought you had been in Britain for several years now.”

  “I have been in the land of the Dumnonii and the precinct of the Tor. Those people do not keep slaves.”

  “They are marked like that so runaways can be spotted,” added Arvigarus. “That mark is recognized all over Britain.”

  “What happens to runaways?” Jesus asked.

  “They are returned, unless it’s too far away,” said Arvigarus. “In that case they are killed. It keeps them from running. Most slaves are put to work in the fields. Our father is the only man in the hillfort rich enough to keep slaves just for servants.”

  “And you use the slaves for tasks you should do for yourself,” said Guiderius. “It makes you lazy and soft—just as you spend Father’s money too freely.”

  Arvigarus took umbrage at his sibling’s remark. They argued awhile, then burst out a door into the courtyard and drew swords. The contest swayed back and forth, but the advantage went to Guiderius.

  Arvigarus, laughing, handed his sword to Jesus. “Let’s see a demonstration of your skill.”

  The sword weighed heavy in his hand. The twins had used their swords to slash, while Jesus used his to thrust and parry as well. Nonetheless, Jesus had fallen behind with his practice, and his rustiness showed, forcing him to yield after a close contest.

  Guiderius bellowed, raising his hands. “Victory! And over the hero of Rumps, no less!”

  “I obviously need practice,” Jesus said, handing the sword back to Arvigarus. “Perhaps we could continue swordplay every day.”

  The princes readily agreed.

  Daniel

  The spring leaves came in thicker, and the days waxed longer. Daniel was at the first silver lode near Priddy as the sun began to set. The few workmen willing to barter their labor had left for the day. Without Roman coin to pay the men, how could Daniel blame those who had stayed away? They had the spring planting to attend to.

  Sweat and grime covered his body. Crawling through the shafts, digging, and carrying ore to the surface was backbreaking work. He wanted to lie down on the grass and sleep, but he could not. He looked over the pile of ore that had been brought to the surface. He picked up a small piece and threw it in frustration. All the ore he had at the surface was hardly enough to fire the smelter. The lode was done.

  Daniel gritted his teeth. Without enough workmen, there was no point asking Grengan about the new lode Jesus had discovered. He was stuck.

  And then there was the news that had arrived from Grengan earlier in the day. Esmeralda was starting to complain about Aunt Mary. Her house was too close to the Tor. It was impious, she said. Grengan thought it was silly, and he said he could handle Esmeralda and look out for Mary. Nonetheless, Daniel was reluctant to leave his aunt alone almost a day’s journey away in Ynys Witrin.

  Where is Kendrick? Papa said he would be bringing a new supply of coin from Armorica. But where is he? He should be here by now. I cannot do anything with the new lode until he gets here, and the first lode is finished. The natives will not keep feeding us indefinitely if I cannot make anything. Tears streamed down Daniel’s face. He felt overwhelmed and alone.

  Jesus

  A fortnight after Jesus had come to Caer Wysg, the arrival of the next bard was the occasion for yet another feast. King Cymbeline must be rich indeed if he can afford to buy all this food and drink. This is the sixth feast I have been to.

  Still, it was always fun to be among the Celts as the mead flowed freely. Jesus ducked just in time, to the cheers of all, to avoid a bone thrown by an inebriated guest. He was getting on well with Guiderius and Arvigarus. His swordsmanship had returned; he could beat the princes almost all the time now.

  He took a turn leading the men in raucous song as the good king laughed and belched above the sound of all the revelry.

  Jesus finished the song and looked over to the king, who was no longer laughing and belching. He was listening intently to a messenger. Then he summoned Jesus and the two princes.

  “I’ve just received word from the north,” Cymbeline began. “I am again betrayed by Belariux. The Cornovii say he has stirred up war between them and the Ordovices. The upper reaches of the Sabrina are closed because of the fighting. Arvigarus, you must go by way of the Avon and then the Great Trekway. Take Jesus with you to Caer Leir. Imogen will welcome the two of you, and Postumux’s people will know when it is safe to venture through the Snowden mountains.”

  “But Caer Leir is so far out of the way,” said Arvigarus. “It is more than halfway across Britain, Father.”

  “It is the only safe passage to Ynys Môn. It will take you through the lands of the Dobunni, the Corieltauvi, and the Cornovii, all tribes that are friendly to us. You should leave in the morning. With the detour to Caer Leir, you are late for the start of classes as it is.”

  Arvigarus tried once more to protest, but Guiderius grabbed him by the arm and pulled him away. “Stop arguing and start packing.” Jesus followed the brothers to the kitchen, where Guiderius tossed each of them a satchel and opened a pantry.

  “Who is Imogen?” Jesus asked.

  Guiderius took down a clay jar. “Our older sister. She’s married to a warrior named Postumux. They live among his people on the northeast side of the Midlands.”

  “And Belariux?” Jesus asked, “Why does his action require us to leave?”

  Guiderius peered into the jar and returned it, taking down another. “He’s a former courtier of Father’s. He was falsely accused of treason.” He handed his brother the jar. “Dried beef. Wrap that in cloth or something.” He turned back to the pantry.

  Jesus turned to the bowls of fruit lining the sideboard and started stowing some in his satchel. “If he was falsely accused…why did your father say he was betrayed?”

  “The falsehood was ages ago, when we were infants,” Arvigarus said. “In retaliation for the accusation, he…he stole us away and brought us up as his own.” He snorted, shoving the packet of dried beef into his bag. “We lived in a dank cave in the hills between the Ordovices and the Silures.”

  “How did you get back?”

  Guiderius brought a box from the pantry. “Imogen found us…” He shook his head. “It’s a long story. We were almost fully grown by then, completely unaware that we were the sons of the king.”

  “How very strange,” Jesus said, “to have been raised by a man not your father…and yet not know who your real father was.” Come to think of it, I felt something like that growing up. but somehow I always knew who my real Father was.

  They nodded solemnly, their expressions mirrors of one another.

  “Bread,” Guiderius said. “There’s a couple of days’ worth.”

  Jesus wrapped the loaves and put them in the satchel with the fruit. “So Imogen brought you home to your parents?”

  “To Father,” Arvigarus said. “Mother had died long before” He had found some cheese and wrapped it. “Father’s second wife wanted her son Clotten to marry Imogen, even though Imogen was in love with Postumux, but…” he glanced at his brother with a crooked grin. “We took care of Clotten.”

  Guiderius snickered.

  Jesus hesitated. “What do you mean?”

  Arvigarus tucked the cheese into his satchel. “Belariux, Guiderius, and I found Clotten while hunting. He insulted us, and Guiderius beheaded him.”

  Jesus raised his eyebrow.

  “We gave him fair warning,” said Arvigarus. “He was too thick-headed to back off.”

  The Romans had written about the hot-tempered Celts, and Jesus had seen with his own eyes how quick they could be to draw weapons. But usually someone backed off before matters turned deadly. Celtic warriors were generally tactful in defusing such
situations and getting back to their carousing.

  “You would have done the same thing,” said Guiderius.

  “That is not the way of my people,” said Jesus.

  Arvigarus sighed. “Belariux recognized Imogen as the king’s daughter. He came with us to the hillfort. At first, Father rejected Imogen because she had defied his wishes in betrothing herself to Postumux. And then Guiderius admitted he had killed Clotten, and that drew Father’s ire.”

  Guiderius snorted. “A bit.” He pulled a water skin from a peg and filled it from one of the mead casks.

  “Our stepmother died shortly thereafter,” Arvigarus said. “Then we were reconciled to the king and restored to our rightful positions, and Imogen married Postumux.”

  Jesus looked from one prince to the other. “I thought my life was complicated. How long has it been since you were restored?”

  “Just about a year,” said Arvigarus. “There’s a lot more. Like how our stepmother tried to poison—”

  “Please stop. I’m getting a headache,” Jesus interrupted. “But what happened, that Belariux is a threat now?”

  “Father pardoned him for stealing us,” said Guiderius. “Since then, he’s been away on some business with the Ordovices. No telling what he’s been up to with them.”

  “I would think such a crime would call for severe punishment,” Jesus said. “Your father is very merciful.”

  Arvigarus tied the flap of his satchel closed. “Too merciful, it seems.”

  In the morning, the twins parted with many hugs and some tears, but Jesus understood why Cymbeline was separating them. They could not both be king. Arvigarus needed to take another path, by immersing himself in the ways of the druids.

  Jesus and Arvigarus mounted a sail on a jury-rigged spar on the curragh, and the wind from astern carried them up the Sabrina, which steadily narrowed as they made their way upriver. As they traveled, Jesus told Arvigarus about his upbringing as a Jew in Nazareth, the Romans’ domination of Israel, and the expedition to Britain with Joseph and Daniel. He did not mention that he was the son of God or his destiny as the Messiah, but he revealed his uncanny knack for finding ores and for picking up languages.

  By nightfall on the second day, the river had begun to twist and turn among the low hills that rose higher toward the northeast. This made the sail impractical so they began to paddle.

  The next morning, as they paddled upriver through the land of the Dobunni, they passed many homesteads and farms, but no large settlements. Small sheep grazed in the meadows.

  “The farmers don’t seem to pay us any notice,” Jesus said.

  “Why should they?” Arvigarus replied. “The Dobunni are peaceful farmers and artisans. They have some warrior garrisons, but none round here.”

  They finally reached a settlement on the fifth day after leaving Caer Wysg. “It gets harder from here,” said Arvigarus. “That’s the Avon, where we’re going. We’ll have to portage the curragh.”

  “I did plenty of portaging with the Dumnonii when we searched for tin lodes,” Jesus said.

  “So you know it’s a lot of work.”

  The settlement at the junction of the rivers turned out to be a market town. “We need supplies, but what are we going to do for money?” Jesus asked.

  “No bother,” Arvigarus answered. “My father gave me a good supply of Dobunni coin.”

  “Uncle Joseph told me that some tribes in Britain make their own coins, but I thought that was only in the southeast, where tribes trade directly with the Romans. Can I see one?”

  Arvigarus opened his pouch. “Coin-making started to the east, but the Dobunni picked it up. My father is thinking of making coins, too, though it’s just as easy for him to use the coins of the Dobunni.” He dropped a coin into Jesus’s palm.

  Jesus was surprised to see that the small silver coin bore the name Anted. “Is Anted a ruler of the Dobunni?”

  “Yes, he is the high king for all of the Dobunni.”

  “These are Latin letters. Are the Celts learning to write?”

  “The ones that come in contact with the Romans are. The druids do not like it, but it is not impious unless someone writes a curse or anything about the gods.”

  The houses, built around open courtyards, were larger and more sophisticated than anything Jesus had seen in Britain before. A few even had upper stories. The merchants’ stalls took the form of daub and wattle huts, but some of the merchants operated from rooms in their courtyard homes. Arvigarus easily replenished their supplies, not even bothering to haggle.

  On their way back to the river, they came upon a house that smelled quite foul. Shouts and cries emerged from within. Jesus looked into the courtyard. It was the establishment of the local slave trader.

  Men, women, and children sat in the main room. Jesus walked among them. Most did not wear chains. These were the docile ones, he presumed, sufficiently restrained by the tattoos on their foreheads and the knowledge of the fate that awaited them if they tried to run.

  The slaver crossed the courtyard. He smiled as he approached, but Jesus waved him off.

  “This might not be a bad idea, after all,” said Arvigarus. “We could use some help with those portages.”

  “We can manage the portages,” said Jesus. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Just as Jesus reached the street, he heard his name called from the courtyard. He turned to see a thin, emaciated figure emerge from one of the back rooms. His ragged tunic was pulled down from his waist. His sides bore the unmistakable red marks and blood of a recent whipping, and Jesus could only imagine what his back might show.

  He was gasping for breath, whimpering more than speaking. He stumbled towards Jesus with an outstretched arm. “Jesus, I knew it was you when I heard your voice,” the wretched creature gasped.

  The slaver raised his whip. “Get back, slave. This man is not going to buy the likes of you.”

  “Hold on.” Jesus put his hand on the slaver’s arm to stay the whip stroke.

  The miserable creature fell to his knees as Jesus approached.

  Jesus looked into the man’s face. “Pirro, is it you?”

  “Please, young sir,” said the slaver. “You do not want to purchase this one. He’s all worked out. I bought him at one of the mines, thinking I could put some muscle on him and sell him, but he is too disobedient and lazy. I am just about to give up on him. I will probably kill him tomorrow as an example to the others. Come, take another look at the good slaves I have. Good teeth, strong arms, fair prices.”

  Jesus paid no attention to the slaver. He stared at Pirro, shaking his head. The memory of his treachery, his whining, his pathetic condition—it all filled him with disgust. Finally, he turned to the slaver. “I am sorry to disturb you. I have never been to a slaver before. I do not have any money.” Jesus turned away and walked out to the street.

  Arvigarus hurried alongside, asking whether he was all right.

  Jesus felt the tears streaming from his eyes. Shouldn’t it be obvious he was not?

  Behind, in the courtyard, Pirro’s anguished cries waned further and further into the distance.

  Arvigarus

  Arvigarus could tell something was still troubling Jesus when they arrived at their campsite on the riverside. Although he was going about the preparations for the night, he kept his teeth clenched and did not talk. “What is that slave to you?” Arvigarus asked.

  “I did not want to speak of it,” said Jesus, “but I will tell you.” He sat cross-legged on the ground and told Arvigarus about Pirro’s history with Jesus’s family and his treachery at the battle for Rumps. “They said it was up to me to pass sentence upon him. I sentenced him to be sold into slavery. I see, now, that I sentenced him to a living death.”

  “But for the traitor of Rumps? The sentence was just,” Arvigarus protested. “His life should have been forfeited for his treachery.”

  “That is what my head tells me. I still feel so angry with him. Somehow, though, I did not have the h
eart to take his life at the time, but I ended up sending him to a living hell, and now he will die anyway.”

  “You cannot blame yourself, Jesus. You did what you believed was just.”

  Jesus shook his head. “Did your father kill Belariux for kidnapping you? That would have been just, but he showed mercy.”

  “And look what has happened. Belariux has betrayed my father again. That’s why we have to go so far out of our way.”

  “There are many who deserve to die, and yet live. Sometimes, those who deserve to live are visited with death. So what do we say to those who should have lived? I was angry, perhaps justly so, but I should not have been so quick to deal out death, even a living death.”

  Jesus

  The next morning Jesus awoke to the sound of a cracking whip. In the fog of waking up, his first impression was that it must be a sound from the settlement—a farmer dealing with an obstinate mule, perhaps. Then, recognizing Arvigarus’s shout, he turned to look.

  “Oh, good! You’re awake.” Arvigarus tossed the whip to Jesus. “You take it, he’s yours.”

  “What?”

  “The slaver was right. This slave is useless. He’s lazy.”

  Jesus looked over to Pirro, whimpering close to the cooking fire. Then he turned back to Arvigarus. “How…?”

  “You were so unhappy last night. So I went back to the slaver after you were asleep. I woke him up and bought the slave. Now, I am giving him to you. He’s a gift.”

  “I don’t want a slave.”

  “Kill him if you like. You mustn’t refuse the gift, though. That would be an insult. You do not do that to a Celt, particularly a prince. Remember what my twin brother did to Clotten after he was insulted by him.”

  Jesus put one hand to his neck. “Suppose I think he has suffered enough, and I want to set him free.”

  “He belongs to you now, and you can do what you like, but with a slave’s tattoo on his forehead, that’s not possible. The first warrior who sees him walking loose will kill him as a runaway. That is what I would do. If you want him dead, just kill him. Practice your swordsmanship on him.”