At the Manger

by Peter Orullian

  Nius stooped a little toward me, causing his striped amulet to swing out from his chest in short arcs. He attempted an ingratiating smile. “You’ve no objection, do you, Julius?”

  I shrugged, hiding my trepidation by taking another nibble of fruit.

  “There, then,” said Nius. “He certainly bears his confidence well, if with a touch of indifference. Let us begin.” He leveled his gaze at me. “Son, who is our current Emperor and Lord?”

  I licked my lips. “I think his name is Caesar.”

  “Yes, yes, of course he is!” the man spat with impatience. “But his family name, you must possess this prevailing knowledge, living under an Etrurian roof?”

  I looked at both men, then my papa. No help was forthcoming. “Well, I hear the name Augustus all the time. I will guess that is his name.” I smiled and rewarded myself with a large grape. A squirt of juice splashed right on the stooping Roman’s nose and cheek.

  I felt Papa’s hand tighten on my shoulder. I’m not sure if it was because I’d soiled the man’s skin or because I’d guessed the wrong name. Or maybe because I’d guessed at something I should have rightly known. I remained straight and tall, keeping my eyes fixed ahead of me as papa had taught me. I’m certain the Roman emissaries thought me impudent.

  “One might guess,” Nius remarked acidly, “that your son is not the prodigy you describe, but more a rustic, well-suited to the labors of the soil.” He glared at me. “And what glory ought to touch the lips of every senator, merchant, every . . . vintner, my boy? Tell me.”

  This time I thought longer, trying to recall something from the endless lessons I had daydreamed through. A panic washed over me, and I stole a glance toward the stables. When I looked back, baleful eyes met my own, impatient and demanding. “I think . . .” I stammered.

  “Do no such thing, boy!” Nius interjected. “It is sure knowledge this. You live it, breathe it every day. Come! Do not hesitate!”

  I forgot to chew the rest of my mouthful of grapes. And I could not meet Papa’s eyes. I just wanted to run, get to someplace safe, flee those judging eyes. Beneath them I felt low, stupid. They knew I didn’t know the answer. Yet they would make me respond anyway, force me to humiliate myself. More than that. It would embarrass Papa; I would let him down. I didn’t want to upset him, but the high ceilings of Rome, its ornate handicrafts, its order and dignitaries meant nothing to me. Better to me were the fields, the smell of budding vines, sweet hay laid up in the barns, and talking to the animals stabled for the night.

  When I could delay no longer, I said, “The glory of a good wine.”

  Caustic laughter ensued. It came at my expense, but an awkward moment of real humor tempered the reality of my error. The smiles faded when the men realized I had not meant my response as a joke.

  It was Gaius’ turn to lean toward me. His heavily creased face, folding on itself like an old sow’s skin, frowned menacingly. “Brutus,” he addressed Papa, not faltering in his rapt stare into my eyes. “I will begin more fundamentally even than these basic questions. For the sake of your tenure upon this land, despite the homage you pay Rome with your product, we hope this child does not fail to identify our most primary concern.”

  His robes shifted as he took half a step closer. “Son, what hope do you bear, what feeling do you have about your own life, its purpose, your place as a citizen of this noble empire?” He narrowed his eyes. “I ask, you see,” he forced a conversational tone, “because each of us has aspirations, ideas about what we’d like to be when we grow up, the things we’d like to do with our lives.” His manner darkened. “Your father has lobbied us quite convincingly on your behalf that your future is bright in the circles of Roman influence. With some tribute and his finest bottles we have been persuaded to secure a station for one son of an Etrurian vintner. So you see, young man, it is simply natural that we would like to have your thoughts upon the topic of your own life’s path.”

  A thousand answers coursed through my head. I sensed that there must be one perfect response, but I did not know it. I wanted to share the feelings in my heart, but these had never been in alignment with Papa’s desires. So, I determined to say the things I believed they wanted to hear. Yet under the weight of their stare, I could not speak. My mouth grew dry. I prayed something would occur to me because I could not delay my reply any longer, but my tongue only clucked against my teeth, thick and numb. I stammered as I watched disapproval blossom in their faces. Papa’s grip relaxed on my shoulder; the light feel of disappointment was painful through my tunic.

  I turned and ran, racing with all my might for the stable. Not looking back, I burst through the doors and rushed to the far corner, where I cast myself facedown on a great pile of hay. Breathing openly through my mouth, I drank in the peace I had always found there.

  I don’t know how long I lay there in my grief, but when I finally turned over, the violet hues of dusk showed through the cracks in the walls. Several moments passed before I realized Papa sat quietly nearby. Crouched on a low milking stool, Papa wore eyes heavy with the threat of tears. I sensed that he wanted to say a great many things, but he never spoke. He only sat, occasionally looking up toward the peak of the rafter and down again. I tried to say something, to apologize, but the words would not come.

  Sometime after full dark, my dog, Fides, wandered in and snuggled beside me in the hay. His presence somehow made me feel complete, and I began to drift. Papa came over to gently pull several armfuls of hay over me to keep me warm. Without a word, he left the stable.

  I awoke the next morning with a sense of calm I hadn’t felt before. I lay enjoying the sweet smell of hay, the lowing of the cows, and the quite stillness all around. Nearby, Fides awaited what fun we would find in another turn of the sun. I could fairly smell grapes drawn fresh from the vine.

  A twinge of pain struck me at the thought of the prior day’s confrontation. But quickly I imagined those great pontificators drunk on our wine and slipping off their thrones. I found comfort in the thought that they were just as human as the rest of us.

  Papa’s loss of me rising to political station turned out to be his gain in the wine trade. I eventually discovered I was an excellent judge of good wine, and powerfully convincing as a salesman. Growing up so close to the work, I learned something more: to judge a man by the size of the sweat-stain at the armpit of his tunic. Never mind the perfumes the men of the court wore. I preferred the salty smell of real work.

  My favorite place remained the same all those years, with the animals we kept, the animals that fed us and were used to cultivate the soil from which we harvested the grapes. I don’t believe a day passed that I did not lounge there with my dog in the evening, eating grapes and just breathing the balmy, evening air. The company of animals always made me feel at home, and the sweet smell of grasses lying upon the floor filled the room with a pleasant and comforting musk.

  Our vineyard made Papa, Mama and me very wealthy. Yet it wasn’t by selling expensive bottles to Caesar and his court that we made our fortune. It was by selling the dregs to everyone else.

  At the age of twenty I took to the road with more than a hundred amphora jugs of our stock, embarking upon all the known trade routes. To help me protect my investment, I rode with scurrilous men upon the highways of the plains. I sang bawdy tunes with sailors as I worked back and forth across the Mediterranean. If a man hasn’t shouted ribald sea tunes from the side of an ocean-faring vessel with men of the sea, he hasn’t experienced the power of song, I say. My education became complete in the company of such fellows, and in a manner the tutors of my youth could never have achieved nor approved of.

  Wherever I went, I always first sought the district where the inhabitants’ tunics bear the largest sweat stains. Those fellows always drink with the most voracity and sang with the most volume. More often than not, those same fellows bellowed such attempts at song as to encourage my envy of the deaf. However, their thirst was always high because the fluid poured from them during th
e day. I could always make the trip profitable by selling enough in those areas of Caesar’s empire that anything the wealthy contingent purchased beyond that was simply froth on the goblet.

  ~ * ~

  One of the cities I visited was Bethlehem.

  I arrived at a meager inn, and went straight to the stables to unburden my horse. The men traveling with me pulled into the shade of several trees and drew themselves each a cup of wine. I left them to their hard-earned refreshment, and noticed a man standing a few paces off, staring in at me.

  “What can I do for you?” I asked.

  A concerned look pulled the fellow’s face into a scowl. “Nothing for me, unless you’ve got work for a carpenter’s skill.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you there.” I placed my saddle on a large rock and stood up to stretch. The man’s eyes never left a manger standing to one side of the stable.

  “Your horses pull a wagon filled with Roman amphora jugs and casks,” the carpenter said. “Do you mean to do business with the owner of the inn?” A hint of distaste flashed in his eyes.

  I strode to the entrance of the hillside stable and looked across at the inn. “That was my intention. Do you know him?”

  Finally, the man ended his vigil on the manger, and turned scrutinizing eyes on me. “I do. He is a shrewd businessman to be sure.” He eyed me up and down. “You’re Roman, so you may fare better than I did.”

  I tried to coax a smile from the tradesman, having learned that trust follows only after two men can share some levity. “Or perhaps I’ll lose my stock and work my way back across the sea,” I replied. “The men of Israel know their weight in coin.”

  The carpenter took another long look at the stable, pausing unduly on the small feedbox. “I caution you to fix a price and gather your payment before making good on your end of the bargain.” With that, he turned and strode away, anger and abasement equally measured in his gait.

  Fairly warned, I crossed the yard and entered the inn by its front door. A kind woman rented me a room for a meager sum. I stowed my personal belongings before making my way to the common room where food and drink could be found for an equally meager price. The proprietor had made no real attempt at decoration, leaving the walls virtually bare, the tables rough hewn and unstable. The lingering aroma of yesterday’s meals caused my mouth to water. I took a seat near the wall and drew a bottle of my own wine.

  Shortly, a frail man with a gaunt face approached wearing an oversized apron. He bore the unmistakable look of ownership: overworked, distracted, constantly on the edge of anger.

  One other patron occupied the common room, the hour being too early to begin preparations for evening’s supper. When the owner stopped at my table, I spoke quickly to set the tone of our conver-sation.

  “Please sit with me a moment. You appear tired, and the hour is slow enough to merit the rest.” I gestured to the empty room.

  The man raised a dubious brow, then cast an eye over the barren tables as though he’d not noticed them before. Without a word, he sat opposite me. I took the liberty of setting a cup before him, likewise placing one near myself. I poured us each a liberal cup and set my bottle aside.

  “Join me in a drink, my friend.” I took my cup in hand and raised it beneath my chin. “I’ll guess you are the proprietor here, and to your health I’ll raise a toast.”

  A skeptical smile ensued as the man picked up his cup and tipped it to scrutinize the contents. “No man pours free drink who doesn’t expect something in return.” He sniffed the wine.

  “True as day follows night.” I took a sip of my drink. “And the cup you hold is filled with the product I hope to sell you. But before you begin with your excuses, or prepare to haggle my price, I want to say two things.” He eyed me with suspicion and held the cup further from his lips. “First, I’d like you to taste my wine before you argue over its merits.” I paused, baiting the man as I began a relationship of confidence that would serve us both in the future.

  He hid his eagerness well. “And the second thing?”

  I smiled. “Only to tell you with all sincerity that I like a man who works his own trade, will wear an apron, and whose armpits show me the toil of his labors.”

  After a moment, the man laughed and took a healthy gulp of my wine. He betrayed himself in an expression of appreciation, and I knew we’d do business to our mutual profit.

  “I’m Michael,” he said, “and you do indeed make a fine bottle of wine.” He shook his head. “But I suspect it comes at too high a price for the clientele I take here. Travelers, passersby, and overland traders tight with their purses, don’t savor their drink as much as seek it by quantity to wash the dust from their throats.”

  “I am Julius,” I responded, extending a hand in friendship. “But my friends call me Grape. And I am sure we will meet on a price that lets us both serve our interests and become friends.” I refilled his cup, and we talked about the news in Bethlehem and my travels over the trade routes. Our bottle was gone when he stood to begin his supper preparations. “I’ll sit here tonight, if you’ve no objection,” I told him. “My pleasure is the people my work allows me to meet.”

  “By all means,” he smiled. “And you may carry in a few casks of your wine. We’ll settle on a price later.” He waited to see if the arrangement would stir any distrust from me. I thought of the carpenter’s words, and considered demanding payment first. Looking into Michael’s lean features, I guessed it would end our civility and squelch the deal.

  Instead, I laughed and countered. “Throw in a room for the night, Michael, and you’ll find me a generous man.”

  “Done.” He stood and began wiping tables on his way back to the kitchen.

  I loaded the wine into his storage area, then situated my things in a room before retaking my seat and setting a fresh bottle of wine on the table. Shortly, men began to fill the common room, buying up the last available beds for the night, and calling for plates of food. Before long, night had fallen, and the room rang with loud voices: some arguing, some laughing from deep in their chests, and others calling for more food and drink.

  The smell of work came in waves, pushed by the bodies of large men rushing outside to relieve themselves. The common area teemed with occupants, civility largely put aside, the concern of gain momentarily suspended. In the company of such men and women I felt wholly comfortable, though I often remained only an observer. I don’t think they had any idea how much money I had. I dressed deliberately to disguise my success.

  I did not remain an observer for long.

  “Thomas says he can answer any question we put to him,” a short, puffy man announced, rising up to stand on his chair so that all might see and hear him. “What’s more, he contends that such an ability qualifies him for Emperor. Now, in the spirit of fairness, I say we give him the opportunity to prove this ability and his entitlement to the vaunted position of Caesar.”

  A corpulent fellow stood, steadying himself against the edge of the table. I could see no less than three open bottles of my wine topple as he did so. They were empty. “It is true. And more!” he proclaimed, stabbing a finger straight up into the air. “Anyone that can confound me will earn my undying devotion. And,” he fumbled for one of the overturned bottles, “a free bottle of this beautiful drink, which he may share at my table.” He hiccoughed, and sat heavily.

  The man standing on his chair shook his head, his lips sliding into an inebriated grin. “Well said. Now, who will begin?”

  “I will!” shouted a man from the corner.

  “What is your question for our heir to the throne?”

  The fellow in the corner stood, puffing his chest in preparation to speak. “I’d like to know what he would do about our taxes. I can hardly support myself, and I’ve got a wife and child besides.” The man slurred his final words, practically falling back into his seat.

  “I’ll wager your financial difficulties reside in the number of empty cups upon your table,” scoffed the man atop the
chair. “But your question is a valid one. Let us have an answer.” He pointed an accusing finger at the would-be Emperor, who took his lips from his own cup and stood again to reply.

  “Taxes . . . let’s see. Currently, taxes come by way of . . . I mean, each man is accountable for . . . or rather, it is the responsibility of those who by trade earn a . . .” He scratched his head and sat down.

  A roar of laughter filled the common room.

  “A reasonable answer to so confusing an issue,” said the little, puffy man, still perched on his chair like a jocular owl. “Who will try our man’s intellect next?”

  “Me!” came a female voice from the kitchen, the bark resounding above the din of the crowd. “I’ve something more in keeping with the heir’s mental capacity.” She sauntered up to Thomas, pushing her face into his. “I’d like to know if he can successfully call a sheep gone astray. Because the good Lord knows his skills to tend herd aren’t what brought that scent to his neck.” She sniffed at him, souring her face at his stench.

  Another roar of laughter went up. Before the fat man could answer the question, bleats and sheep-calls filled the room. With each person trying to drown out the others, the chorus deafened me. I clasped my hands over my ears, while tears of hilarity wetted my cheeks. Never before had I seen such jovial folks, and most of them drunk on the wine I had brought to Bethlehem.

  When their own laughter and fun prevented them from continuing the sheep-calling contest, Thomas arose in affected majesty and drew all eyes to him. When the chuckles settled, and attention had been captured, he strode to the wall and swept the room with a stern gaze. With a quick turn he dropped to his hands and knees, butting his head against the wall and bleating like a cornered sheep. His head cracked repeatedly against the wood, interspersed with his mewling whines. The ensuing uproar might have lifted the roof from the walls. Everyone nodded at his winning sheep-call, acknowledging his qualification for Emperor. When Thomas stood again, he rubbed his head, wincing noticeably.