HOW FAR TO BETHLEHEM

BY

NORAH LOFTS

FROM THE COVER:

How Far To Bethlehem?

From the remote corners of the ancient world came a strange and
ill-assorted band of travellers ... Melchior, the ascetic scholar from
Asia-Caspar, the barbarian, more accustomed to horses than to people...
and Balthazar, the eunuch slave who had escaped from a cruel and
vicious mistress.  Through hazardous and violent country they journeyed
on, led by the visionary Melchior, each of them consumed with their
private torments.

And not until they reached Judea a turbulent land where Greek, Jew and
Roman lived together in an uneasy peace were their dreams and fears
resolved...

With backgrounds varying from the simple village life of Nazareth, to
the barbarian court of Caspar in Jexal, Norah Lofts has created a
fascinating and compassionate story of Israel in the year of the
Nativity.  Here, retold, is the story of Mary and Joseph, of the
innkeeper and shepherds, of the turmoil and passion that was the Holy
Land under Roman domination.

And here, above all, is the story of the three travellers from the
east--men in conflict with each other, and with themselves--each
searching for something--something they would only discover on a starry

night in Bethlehem...HOW FAR TO BETHLEHEM?

A CORGI BOOK o 552 08833 I Originally published in Great Britain by
Hutchinson & Co (Publishers) Ltd.

printing history Hutchinson edition published 1965 Corgi edition
published 1971 Copyright 1964, 1965 by Norah Lofts Conditions of
sale--this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by
way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise
circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding
or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar
condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent
purchaser.

This book is set in Granjon 10/11 pi.

Corgi Books are published by Transworld Publishers, Ltd.  Cavendish
House, 57-59 Uxbridge Road, Baling, London, W.5.

Made and Printed in Great Britain by Richard Clay (The Chaucer Press),
Ltd."  Bungay, Suffolk This book is dedicated with admiration and
gratitude to

EDWARD WAGENKNECHT


who suggested the theme ONE NAZARETH 90 miles At some time, too long
ago for even the oldest people to remember, the well in the village had
failed.  The heaviest rains in winter could not replenish it, so it was
abandoned, and for at least three generations water had been fetched
from a spring which broke out from the rocks on the other side of the
hill.  This meant that the water-carriers, always women and children,
must walk for half a mile, uphill, then down, with empty jars, and half
a mile, uphill and down, with full ones.

Women, practical and short of time, had soon found a way to shorten and
to ease that journey.  Avoiding the road and the hill they cut through
the fields that girdled the base of the rising ground, and over the
years had trodden a path which halved the length of the journey and was
all on the level.  In the rainy season the path was muddy and the daily
procession of feet churned the mud until it was as sticky as porridge;
and for that, too, the women had found a remedy.  Certain days in
Spring and again in Autumn were marked as stone-carrying days when
everyone using the path in either direction brought a stone, dropped it
and trod it in.  This custom was older than any memory, but it was
still faithfully observed, with the result that between his humble
village and its water supply ran a path as hard and firm and flat as
the new roads that the Romans were beginning to lay to link city with
city.

The solidity of the path had served the women in another way--and not
so long ago.  Former owners of the land had respected the path as an
established right-of-way, one of those ancient things protected by
tradition.  Seven or eight years ago the field had changed hands and
the new owner had questioned the right of people to use part of his
land as a public footpath.  He intended, he said, to plough up the path

and sow corn right up to the base of the hill.  The stones, layer upon
layer of them, dropped by hands long dead, had defied the ploughshare
and the straining oxen.  He had then, in a fury, declared that he would
fence the path off at both ends.  But before he had time to do so his
wife had been brought to bed with a child, and several of the village
women, pitying her because she was a stranger-and married to such a
churl!--had shown her small kindnesses.  And apparently even a churl
could feel gratitude for nothing more was said about closing the path;
indeed the right-of-way was tacitly acknowledged by the placing of
large boulders, smeared with ochre, at intervals between the path and
the arable land.

Nowadays not only women used the path; horsemen and the drivers of pack
animals were glad to take the short cut and avoid the sharp incline;
but they could only use it in winter when the field was bare.  The
packs were often wider than the path and would have brushed against the
standing corn, bruising and breaking it; also the animals would snatch
a mouthful in passing.  So every Spring, early or late according to the
clemency or otherwise of the season, on a day decided by the Rabbi and
village elders, posts were planted at each end of the path and bits of
red rag tied to them.  And there they remained, gradually losing colour
in the fierce summer sun until the harvest was in and the field
gleaned.

The daily journey for water though time-consuming, and on days when one
did not feel vigorous, tiring, had its happy aspect.  It was a social
occasion, a daily, communal outing.  Women mustered all along the
village street in little groups, greeting one another, calling
exhortations to haste, sorting out their children, sending those who
were old enough to do so running ahead so that their behaviour could be
overlooked and their ears out of hearing of the gossip.  There was
little chance that any woman could be sick or in trouble of any kind
and stay alone and neglected.  If she didn't come out, either to join
the group to which she belonged or to give some excuse for not doing
so, something was wrong and must be investigated.  On the path and at
the spring every bit of gossip was exchanged and repeated; there was a
good deal of laughter over homely, very parochial little jokes, and a
good deal of tongue clucking, some outbursts of sympathetic
indignation, sly eloquent glances, some nudging of elbows.  Every one
of them at some time or another had grumbled, to herself, at least,
about the daily trudge and wished that she had a well in her own yard,
or access to this mysterious piped water that was said to be available
in cities like Sepphoris; but there was not one who would willingly
have foregone, even in the worst of weather, this daily women's hour.

There was no acknowledged rule about it, but on the whole women walked
in groups according to age and status, it being unseemly for unmarried
girls to listen to talk about marital or obstetrical problems, and
boring for settled married women to be obliged to listen to the chatter
of the young and frivolous.

On this particular March morning everyone was unusually gay because, at
last, after a lingering winter, Spring had come.  Overnight the wind
had died down, the clouds had vanished and the sun was shining in a sky
the colour of hyacinths.  Soon, of course, they would all be tired of
the sun, would shrink from it and the all-pervading dust, would hide
from it in their little thick-walled, mud-roofed, vine-shaded houses
and long for clouds and cool breezes: but nobody thought of that on
this morning.  Spring had come and everybody welcomed it.  Especially
the young.

Four young women walked together; two and two because the path was
narrow.  They did not quite conform to pattern because one of them was
married, the mother of one child and pregnant again.  Rachel walked
with her friends for several reasons.  One was practical.  They could
be trusted to carry Joshua, turn and turn about.  He was a fat,
handsome, lazy little boy, nineteen months old, and he could walk but
preferred to be carried.  Married women had no patience with her; they
said she spoiled him: they said, set him down and walk away, he'll
follow quick enough: they issued really horrid warnings about what
would happen to the unborn child if she insisted upon lifting and

carrying that great lump of idleness.  Not one of them seemed to
realise that if she spoiled Joshua it was because he was the only joy
her marriage had brought her.  There was her other reason for wishing
to walk with the girls.  She'd had no wish to be married; she disliked
the man her parents had chosen for her.  Despite Joshua and the bulge
below her girdle, she still felt unmarried, wished that she were,
sometimes dreamed that she was, and on the daily exodus to the spring
liked to pretend that she was.

On this morning they were talking--as girls tend to do in Spring--about
clothes.  Not new ones, new clothes were rare in their lives, but about
the light-weight summer clothes now to be brought out and refurbished;
turned perhaps, or dyed, embellished by a few stitches of simple
embroidery.

Susannah, shifting Joshua from one hip to the other--really the naughty
little boy grew heavier from one day to the next--said:

"You, at least, are sure of a new dress, Mary.  What will you choose
?"

In Rachel's mind the word 'sackcloth' formed itself; but she did not
say it, because the others might see, behind the jest, something of her
own private little hell.  Nor would it be apt.  Mary's parents, unlike
her own, had allowed her to have some say in the matter, and the man
she should marry in two months' time was good and steady and looked
kind.  Ephraim, probably sensing Rachel's aversion to him, had not been
kind... .

Then Rachel and Susannah and Leah became aware that Mary had made no
answer to this, surely most important and easily answered question.
They looked at her and Susannah said, "She's off again!"

They had grown up together and the three others knew that Mary had
these curious lapses; times when she seemed not to hear or see or be
with them in any but the physical sense.  They'd learned from
experience to leave her alone; for five minutes or so she'd behave like
a sleep-walker, and then blink and smile and take up the chatter where
it had broken off.  But before they had learned this, when they were
still very young, they'd tried to rouse her.

Once, abruptly, she'd been very sick; and once she had cried, so long
and so violently that they had been frightened.  Mary's mother, Anne,
was well known for her sharp tongue and hard hand, and although she
herself was never overtly indulgent to her daughter, anybody who made
Mary cry was in for trouble.

So they'd learned.  Amongst themselves they'd talked about it
naturally, and reached their own childish conclusion.  Mary's
grandmother had been a woman of the desert who had fallen sick and been
left for dead by her tribe.  Mary's grandfather, a merchant in a small
way, had been coming home with his two camels, had found the woman,
brought her to his home and in due time married her.  Desert people
were known to be different; when they were thirsty or hungry or
exhausted or tired they could absent themselves from their suffering
bodies and so survive, in some mysterious fashion, where other people
would have died.  There was something about the desert, the three
little village girls had agreed, prophets and holy men often came out
of the desert.  And as they grew older, they noticed small differences
in their well-loved friend, a peculiarly free-striding manner of
walking, a way of holding the head, an outspokenness which was
startling in one so modest, and these lapses.

Rachel, looking at Mary and seeing her state, wished with all her heart
that she could similarly absent herself from the connubial bed.  Leah
said:

"Look the red rags are out.  Spring has come!"

"No more donkeys," Susannah said, shifting Joshua again.

"What a blessing.  I hate walking through dung!"

"We're lucky," Leah said.

"We have wood.  There are places where women have to gather it and use
it for fuel.  Imagine having to wait till a donkey passed before you
could cook your dinner."

"I don't believe it," Rachel said, and an argument began.

The girl named Mary had sighted the red rags and felt the now familiar
feeling of sadness and foreboding and desolation.  Spring had come; and
with the short smooth path closed to them, the donkeys, with their
heavy loads, must face the hill.  Uphill they slowed down a little,
downhill they stumbled, and their riders or their drivers were always

too ready to prod or strike.  For her the bad season had begun.

She did not hear the question about her wedding dress.  She was
thinking, with something very near resentment, why nobody else cared. A
donkey was a donkey, a thing, a beast of burden, provided by God to
help men with the business of transporting himself or his.  goods from
place to place.  If its pace slowed and a shout proved insufficient
incentive to greater effort, a stick or a goad must be used.  That was
how all reasonable people looked at it; and to think differently was to
invite scorn, wonder, amusement.  Once, at the sight of a piece of
quite gratuitous brutality, she had spoken out, and some of those who
heard had laughed, some had been embarrassed for her; the man she had
rebuked had been abusive, and, worst of all, had hit the poor donkey
even harder.

And perhaps ordinary people were sensible; it seemed a pity, almost
wrong to allow the sight of a red rag and all that it implied to mar
such a lovely morning of sunshine and birdsong.  Being miserable about
donkeys did them no service.  So stop it;

think about something else.  Think about Spring.

It had always been her favourite season, not merely on account of its
beauty but for its promise.  Every year, for as long as she could
remember, she had felt that before the first flowers faded and the
young leaves darkened, something wonderful would happen to her.  Many
times she had stood by a hawthorn tree, the green and the white just
breaking and been certain that some quite unique experience was about
to be hers.  The silken petals of the first anemones could affect her
in the same way--as though they held some secret which if she stayed
quite still, and waited, would be revealed to her.  Nothing had ever
happened, nothing had been revealed.  On one Spring day, wishing to
know whether this feeling were peculiar to herself or part of ordinary
human experience, she had so far overcome her natural reserve as to
speak of it to Susannah, the most wholly sympathetic of her friends.
Susannah said:

"Yes, of course, I feel it too.  Everybody does; even birds.  It simply
means that you're looking forward to getting married."

Mary had almost accepted that.  Susannah was a sensible girl, and
thoughtful, too, and the explanation was almost feasible, but not
quite; the expected thing was less ordinary, less capable of being put
into words.  In fact it had been silly to try to talk about it at all,
because there were no words.

And now it was Spring again, and she was not only looking forward to
being married, she was properly betrothed; she was in love with Joseph
and recognised her good fortune in that respect, was grateful to her
parents for allowing her to exercise some choice; she was looking
forward, with eager anticipation, to her wedding day, to having a
husband and a house of her own, and presently, by God's favour, a
child.  She pictured him, a sturdy little boy, rather like Rachel's
Joshua.  Yet for all this, the feeling of immanence, of waiting for
something wonderful, was with her still, and honesty compelled her to
admit that it had nothing to do with Joseph, her feeling for him, or
the little house adjoining the workshop.

At this point she returned to herself and her companions and reaching
out her arms took Joshua from Susannah, saying:

"My turn now."  She settled him on her hip.

"By Abraham's beard," she said, 'you're heavier today than you were
yesterday.  If this goes on we shall have to hire you a litter!"

The girls exchanged satisfied glances; that was the way, leave her
alone; she always came back, as sweet and good-natured as ever.
Susannah repeated her question about the wedding dress.

"It's blue," she said.

"And I didn't choose it.  It was my mother's.  Mother could never wear
it, it is too long for her and to cut it would have been a shame : it
is such beautiful stuff.  My grandfather bought it in Damascus."

"Just blue?"  Leah said.

"Isn't that Mary all over?  I never knew a girl who cared less about
clothes.  Her wedding dress; and it's blue, and beautiful stuff!  What
kind of blue and what kind of stuff?"

"It's about the colour of ... of flax flowers, and I think it is
silk."

There were sounds of appreciation, not unmixed with envy.  Leah said
sardonically, "She things it is silk!"  She and Susannah then began to

speculate as to when it would be their turn, and to describe the
dresses in which they would like to be married.  Rachel, looking back
sourly to her own wedding, thought how much more suitable a mourning
robe would have been than all the family finery in which she had been
decked; and, unwilling to talk about marriage, fell into conversation
with Mary about Joshua.

So, chirping like birds they came to the place just where the field
path and the highroad were divided by the out-thrust buttress of bare
reddish rock from which the water sprang.  A very ordinary Spring
morning in the twenty-fourth year of the reign of Augustus Caesar.

Years and years of wear from the pressure of the mouths of water-jars
held against the rock to catch the spouting water had altered the
formation of the spring which now gushed into a circle of eroded stone
which looked as though it had been placed there for the convenience of
the women.  Each woman rested her jar against the rim, tilted it
slightly and waited until it was full.  Newcomers to Nazareth, or women
who had had occasion to visit other villages, said that this was a
quick and easier way of getting water than hauling a bucket up from a
well by a rope.

Few people were in a hurry, most of them indeed were willing to prolong
the business, nevertheless there was some rough order of precedence.
Married women first, according to age; then girls.  And every morning,
as the women, like figures on a frieze, moved, stooped, waited,
straightened themselves and set their jars on their head, half-way
through the married women's line somebody was certain to say, "Michal's
turn."  And there would be laughter.

Mary, part of the frieze, standing aside with the other girls would
wait for the poor joke and wonder that now, after two years, it should
still have the power to amuse.  Sometimes she felt impatient with them;
at other times she would think--It is the measure of the fundamental
dullness of their lives.  She would wonder, too if twenty years hence
her life would have narrowed down to a point where she must relish an
ancient jest and one that had never, at first coming, been very good.

There'd been a time when Michal, a pretty, lively young woman, had
taken her rightful place at the spring; then her husband had died,
leaving her in a pitiful plight, no relatives at all, nobody to be
responsible for her or to fend for her.  She'd been reduced to doing
the most menial jobs about the village in return for a meal or a bit of
cast-off clothing.  Then suddenly she had ceased to solicit jobs or
charity, had appeared in a brand-new dress one day, the next with
scented oil on her hair, soon with bangles on her wrists.  There were
whispers and raised eyebrows and hard looks and suspicion, soon
confirmed.  Her tumbledown little house stood on the outskirts of the
village, almost next door to the inn on the road to Sepphoris, and men
had been seen going in, and coming out.

She must have been very stupid, Mary thought, or very brave, for
morning after morning she had joined the exodus to the spring, amazed
at first and then tearful to find herself treated as though she were
invisible, until she came too near; then she'd be pushed past or
jostled.  She seemed to think that if she persisted the morning would
dawn when she would find herself forgiven and accepted again.  She'd
had three new water-jars broken and two dresses soaked before she
realised that the women had outlawed her--for ever.

After the last 'accident' Mary, then very young, and strictly brought
up to respect her elders, had spoken out in a way that Rachel and
Susannah and Leah knew.

"It's a shame!"  she said, as Michal, finally admitting defeat, fled
back along the path, with no water and her pretty dress spoiled.

"She did try, until she was nothing but skin and bone.  We should be
sorry for her!

They'd rounded on her with an astounding ferocity.

"Shame is it?  I agree, so it is to hear a girl so young speak in such
a way."

Tm glad your mother didn't hear that," said the woman who intended to
inform Mary's mother at the first possible moment.

"I was sorry for her.  Many's the job I found for her, things I could

well have done myself.  And when we killed a sheep remembered her."

"And bread she never lacked; my husband saw to that," said the wife of
Hilliel, the Rabbi who was also the baker.

Susannah attempted to take Mary's jar..  "I'll fill it for you.  You
run home," she whispered.

Tm going to fill my own jar.  I haven't done anything.  I only said I
thought it was a shame.  And I still do!"

They were all going to say the same things again, but more vehemently,
when an old woman moved and stood near the girls and said to Mary:

"You're young, dearie, and very innocent.  You'll learn later that a
woman like that is a threat to every married woman.  Men are frail
creatures.  Let it go, now, let it go."

That morning the chatter on the return journey was loud and vociferous.
Imagine Anne's daughter, Anne's daughter, saying a thing like that! And
what was the world coming to when any girl so young should not only
rebuke her elders but, when in turn rebuked, be defiant?  Did you see
how her eyes flashed?  If my daughter ever dares ... Mary knew by the
expression on Anne's face that she had been informed.  What she did not
know and never would was that the informant had obtained little
satisfaction from the interview.

"Maybe she spoke out of turn," Anne said, 'and she'll hear about that
from me.  But as for sticking up for a harlot, worse nonsense than that
I never heard, even from you, Rebecca!  Why, the girl's so innocent she
wouldn't know what Michal's doing nowadays.  That wouldn't occur to
you, would it?  She thought it was a shame to treat her so because she
wouldn't understand why.  My daughter's been properly brought up, let
me tell you."

To Mary she said stern things about respect to elders and being careful
about one's reputation.  Michal she did not mention either by name or
reputation, still being careful of her child's innocence.  But of
course the girls knew all about it and often discussed it; they thought
it was a terrible way to earn a living.  Nowadays Michal drew her water
very early in the morning or in the afternoon; and every day, when the
procession reached a certain point, the joke about her turn was made,
and the women laughed and Mary thought of their dull lives, and of her
own, so like theirs, except, of course, for what went on in her head.

On this morning the four girls were last at the spring and then delayed
a little because it was Leah's turn to carry Joshua and he had decided
not to be carried by her; Rachel must carry him.  They argued about
this, saying, "You shouldn't; he's too heavy," and each in turn
inviting him, cajoling.

"Joshua, you ride on me; I'll be your horse," Mary said.  But Joshua
had his mind made up and knew already that one male mind made up is a
match for any number of women.

"I'll take your jar then," Mary said.  To carry two jars, one on your
hip, one on your head was easy enough, but it took a second or two to
lift and arrange both without spilling a drop, and the others had
rounded the rocky point and were on the path by the time that she was
ready to follow them.  She had her back to the highway when she heard
the hurried, stumbling hoofs, the laboured breathing of the burdened,
the cheerfully callous exhortations of the driver.

Don't look!  she told herself.  There's really nothing you can do about
it, and what you see will haunt you all day and even more at night when
you lie down and, shut your eyes.  Hurry round the rocks without
looking, get on to the path, join the others, think of something silly
to say.

But you always looked; you were compelled to, if only in the hope that
it might not be quite so bad as you feared.

She looked.  It was very bad.  An aged, decrepit donkey.  Three bales,
one on either side; a third poised across them.  The driver was just a
boy, not ill-looking; in his weather-darkened face his eyes were bright
and his teeth very white as he gave a rueful grin.

"The short way's closed, I see.  That would happen today of all days.
Now we've got to get up this hill."

"Oh, please," she said, 'don't prod him.  He's very old and very small
for such a load."


"Just what I said.  My very words, this morning.  I wanted the black
one, half his age and twice his size.  With a wreck like this how can I
make the journey in one day?  I mean to, though!"

He gave evidence of his intention and Mary made a sound of distress.

- "You don't want to fret about donkeys--pretty girl like you."  His
voice was friendly; his glance ran over her with approval, a
near-flirtatiousness.  Something in her shrank from the glance, but if
he considered her pretty, could she use his admiration to help the
donkey?

She said, "I do fret about them.  It may be silly but to see one hurt
hurts me.  Look, if you'll let him take his time up this hill and not
prod him, I'll walk with you, and when we come to my home I'll give you
a honey cake and a cup of wine."

"You're a funny one," the boy said.

"Where do you live?"

"Just over the hill; in Nazareth."

One part of her mind broke off to consider what her mother would make
of this offer of hospitality to a chance-met donkey-boy.

"I've got to make a stop there," the boy said; 'and any other time I'd
be only too pleased to eat and drink as well.  It just happens that
today I'm in a hurry.  My brother's wife has a child--a boy, and
tonight he's giving a feast.  It would be just my luck to get a long
journey, a half-dead donkey and an extra load, and the short cut
closed."

The boy was wasting no time; as he talked he kept moving and Mary
followed him.  They were now climbing uphill.

"If you really mind about donkeys," the boy said, giving evidence that
he did not, 'you could save us a few steps by telling us where the
carpenter lives.  That bag," he prodded the uppermost one, 'is for him,
iron stuff, nails and door hinges and handles.  And they're heavy.
These," he prodded the side bales, 'don't weigh much really, dyed
cotton stuff.  Then along comes my master and says--You'll be going
through Nazareth, drop this on the way.  Just my luck."

She said, "I know where the carpenter lives.  I am betrothed to him."

"He's a fortunate fellow," the boy said, concealing under gallantry a
certain feeling of surprise.  She had an elegance, not of clothing or
of manner, or speech, nevertheless an elegance and a delicacy that made
it hard to picture her as the wife of a village carpenter.  But his
interest in her was peripheral.  If he hoped to be at the feast tonight
he must keep moving.  The donkey struggled and made little sobbing
sounds.  In its browny-grey coat the places where the goad went home
ran red.

Suddenly she said, "I can't bear it, I can't bear it.  Please, please,
let me carry the heavy bag."

He was so astounded that he ceased prodding the donkey.

"Don't be silly.  Break your back, that would."

"No," she said, "I'm strong.  I'm really very strong.  I can carry that
bag and you won't even have to turn into the village street.  You can
go straight along and save time."

The boy realised the truth then.  He'd fallen in with a mad woman.
Pretty, young, properly dressed, she'd been alone at the watering
place; without asking his name she had invited him to eat honey cake
and drink wine in her house; she minded about donkeys and said she was
betrothed to the village carpenter.  Madness was the one and only
explanation.

And mad people must be respected; they were possessed by devils.  And
they were strong.  In his own village there was a madman who could
straighten a horseshoe between his hands.

He saw himself, at the feast this evening, making a bid for
attention--What do you think happened to me this morning, just outside
Nazareth?  I fell in with a mad woman.  And they'd all think of
somebody old, with staring eyes and wild grey hair.

He said, "If you want to carry it, lady, you may.  But it is heavy. And
nails make an uneasy load."

She had already set down the two water-jars she carried in the shade of
a bush at the edge of the road.

"I can carry it," she said.  The donkey, unprodded, had slowed, come to
a standstill, and stood, drawing breath.

Hardly believing what he was doing and yet thinking what a story this
would make, the boy unhitched the bag of iron stuff and laid it upon
Mary's back.  She put her hands over her shoulders and took the sack by
its ears.  The donkey, relieved of its heaviest bale, gave itself a

little shake.  "Here we go then," the boy cried.

"Oyl Oyl"

They moved, considering the incline of the road, at a spanking pace.
Mary walked beside the donkey; she could see its eyes, so gentle, so
entirely hopeless.  The knowledge that she had ,eased this load, this
one journey, braced and encouraged her.  And then, suddenly it seemed,
the donkey had tripped ahead and she was alongside the boy.

He tried to think of something that could be said to a mad woman.

He said, "You all right?"

"Quite all right, thank you."

"In some places," he said, 'where women carry heavy loads, they wear
head-bands.  They help, they take some of the weight.  But after a time
they leave marks, like pack galls."

She seemed to be making rather heavy work of it and an obscure feeling
of guilt afflicted him.  She asked to do it, he reminded himself.  He'd
told her it was heavier than it looked.

"I told you it was heavy, didn't I?  Had enough?  Let me shove it back
on him."

"I'm managing," she said, trying not to sound breathless.

She was amazed at the heaviness of the comparatively small sack.  Like
every other woman of her kind she was accustomed to carrying things,
bundles of washing, of firewood, of gleaned corn, baskets of winnowed
corn for grinding, baskets of vegetables, water-jars, Joshua; but none
of them had ever seemed a quarter the weight of this.  The position
perhaps; she wasn't used to carrying things on her back; and the boy
hadn't exaggerated when he said that it was an uneasy load; points of
some of the nails came through the sack and dug into her.

Think about something else.  That was a trick she'd learned early when
set to do tedious jobs like grinding corn or shelling beans.  So she
thought about the fine new house which Joseph was helping to build just
outside Cana.  The nails would be intended for decoration of the outer
doors, nail-studded doors were evidence of wealth in a country where
iron was scarce and expensive.  With rows of nails and iron hinges and
handles it would be a very imposing door indeed.  The thought crossed
her mind that Joseph would not be pleased if he knew that she had
carried this load uphill!  He was a very kind and considerate man--it
was that which had first attracted her to him.

Then, quite unbidden, another thought slipped into her mind.  A hideous
thought.  There was another use for nails; the Romans used them for
that slow, terrible punishment known as crucifixion.  The Jews stoned
their malefactors, and a man could be knocked senseless in three
minutes, and dead in five.  On the crosses men hung and suffered for as
much as three days.  Oh, why must she think of that now?  Wasn't this
load enough, pressing down, hindering the breath, making every step a
painful labour?

The boy could hear her breathing now--worse than the old donkey at his
worst.

"Give over now," he said, almost pleadingly.

"It was a daft idea.  You'll do yourself a damage."

She lifted her head and saw that they were almost at the top of the
hill which was marked by a group of trees, old gnarled hawthorns bent
by years of prevailing westerly winds.  And she saw the little donkey,
plodding on with his lightened load.  She shook her head at the boy and
the drops of sweat flew off and spattered the dust.  She drew in a
breath that hurt her chest like a knife-thrust and said:

' I-shallgettothe-top."

The maddest, most stubborn woman he'd ever encountered; but the guilty
feeling moved in him again.  He lifted his donkey goad, intending to
dig it into the sack and so lighten it for her.  But the stick slipped,
or the sack swayed and the point struck her in the side.  A little
blood from the goad, and some from the wound, crept out and stained her
grey gown.

The boy was almost crying.

"I didn't mean to do that!  It was an accident, an accident!"  he
cried.

"I was trying to help you!  Give up, now do I I should never have let
you try it."

She seemed not to hear, or not to understand.  And he knew that at the
feast tonight he would not entertain anyone with his encounter with the
mad woman from Nazareth; it wasn't amusing any more.  It would be quite
a time before he even wanted to think about it.


Mary plodded on, ten steps, counting now; change to seven,seven was a
special, mystic number; seven and another seven; must be almost at the
top now.  And then, swift as flame leaping through dry sticks, pain ran
through her, possessing, engulfing; a pain such as she had never known
before; a pain that made ..every other pain a mere discomfort.  She
cried out in a voice that was to ring through the donkey-boy's dreams
for years; the sack fell with a rattling thump and she stood swaying,
her hands pressed to her body, and then gently collapsed.

The boy stood and swore in three languages.  What now?  Sling her
across the damned donkey and take her into the village, That'd mean
carrying the sack himself, and a waste of time finding out where she
lived.  That wouldn't do.  He took her by the shoulders and pulled her
to the side of the road, under the shade of the new-leafed trees.  She
seemed very light and soft between his hands; and she was pretty.  It
was a shame that a girl like that should be so crazy.  He had half a
mind to get his water-bottle and wet her sleeve and dabble it across
her face, try to bring her round; but that meant a further waste of
time.  And he was a little frightened.  After all he had struck her and
she was mad; she might come round in quite another frame of mind and
accuse him of attacking her.  So with another half-guilty,
half-apologetic look at the pretty pale unconscious face, he left her;
took up the bag and refastened it to the back of the donkey which had
snatched this unusual opportunity to take a mouthful of grass.  He'd
better deliver the bag and get on his way as soon as possible.  She'd
come round, and she wasn't far from home; or somebody would come along
with more time and a less-loaded beast.  She'd be all right.  But he
wished it hadn't happened.

"Oyl Oyl" he cried, and was ready with his goad; but the old donkey had
got its second wind and the road was downhill now, there was hardly any
need to prod.

It was all exactly right, that was the beauty of it; the thing that she
had, through so many Springs, expected.  Colours sang, music was
sweetly scented, scent took on lovely shapes; there was snow, made of
white roses, and the stars fell like rain, the moon tasted of honey and
all the beanflowers were butterflies, and the hawthorn, from which she
had always expected a revelation, was an awning, green and white
against blue, over this wonderful place where beauty was one and
indivisible.  This was heaven and to see an angel did not astonish her
at all....

IV

Rachel said, "Where have you been?  We dawdled and waited; and Leah ran
back to the spring, but you weren't there.  Are you all right?  Have
you had a fall?"

She could truthfully say, "Yes, I had a fall."  Some explanation,
however makeshift and temporary, was needed.

"After you'd gone, somebody came along, taking the hill road, so I took
it too, and I fell.  But I've brought you your water."

"I was waiting for it," Rachel said.  If she'd had more time, if she
hadn't been so scared that Ephraim might come in and scold because his
dinner was belated, if.  Joshua hadn't been putting at her skirt,
Rachel would have questioned her friend more closely.  But she could
guess.  Mary had had another of those spells when her mind was
elsewhere, not seen some unevenness in the road, and stumbled; she'd
spilled the water and had to go back for more.  Following this line of
thought she said:

"How lucky the jars weren't broken."  And that sounded heartless, so
she added quickly, 'and that you didn't hurt yourself.  But you have
been crying."

Suppose she said--Yes, from wonder and joy, and went on to explain;
suppose she were Rachel, standing in the low doorway and Rachel were
herself, telling such a marvelous tale.  Would I, in her place, believe
it?  Will anyone believe me?

She held out her hands, grazed and dirtied.

Rachel said, with solemnity, "Mary, when you're married you won't cry
over a grazed hand.  Thank you for bringing the water, I must make
Ephraim's dinner now."

Moving on towards her own home she thought--Whom can I tell, with the

slightest hope of being believed?One's mother seemed the obvious
person, until one was face-to-face again with that practical, bustling
woman, waiting, at the moment, for fresh water and slightly
irritated.

"What a time you've been!  Every day it seems to take longer and
longer.  In my day we went straight there and back, with a good clout
if we lingered.  And what have you done to your hands?"

(I fell."

"Carrying the great boy of Rachel's!"  Anne said.

"So that's the end of that.  You can just say that I forbid you to do
it again.  God gave children legs to walk with.  Your dress is filthy
too, dust and grass stains."  The blood she did not notice for Mary was
careful to keep her arm close to her side.  At the first opportunity
she slipped away and changed her dress.

The day wore on; such a day as no woman had ever lived through.  The
sun and the warmth had induced a house-cleaning fever in Anne; every
mat, every blanket must be taken out into the yard and beaten, every
candlestick cleaned, the big chest rubbed with beeswax.  And Mary was
much less helpful than usual.  In the end Anne said, half serious "and
half sarcastic :

"You didn't by any chance hit your head when you fell, did you?  You're
acting as though you were half-witted.  What ails you?"

Turn to her and tell her the plain truth and what would happen?  She'd
drop dead.  She was pious in her way, and like all pious Jews knew the
prophecies about the Messiah and his virgin birth; but she would never
be able to believe that her own daughter, whom she was scolding for
letting the beans boil dry, was that chosen one.  So belief and
disbelief would work in her as new wine often worked in old, hardened
casks; they split; and Anne's limited, orderly mind, asked to accept
and contain this marvel, would split and she'd drop dead.

She realised, as this momentous day drew to its close, that the only
person she could tell was Joseph.  He must, in any case, be told
because he was so nearly concerned.  Would he believe her?  She
cherished one hope here; since he was so nearly concerned, since so
much depended upon him, God would surely have prepared him already. God
was omniscient, He would know that without Joseph's help and support
... Don't think of that!  God was just; Joseph, too, on the long walk
back from the house outside Cana, or in his workshop, would have been
visited and enlightened.

To be with someone who knew, who understood and believed, was such a
wonderful prospect that she could hardly wait for the moment when,
supper over, she could slip away and find him.

She knew, before a word was spoken, that that hope had been
groundless.

He was in his workshop, making the most of the last of the daylight,
setting his tools in order and brushing some shavings from the bench to
the floor.  When her shadow darkened the doorway he looked up,
recognising her with an expression of pleasure, and then, seeing that
she was alone, with surprise.

He lived by himself and properly brought-up girls like Mary, with
mothers like Anne, did not come visiting, almost at dusk, men who lived
alone, even if they were officially betrothed.  Once or twice a week
Anne, who believed that men left to themselves ate nothing but bread
and cheese, would invite him to supper, and sometimes, afterwards,
Joachim, Mary's father, would go to make his hens secure from the foxes
and Anne would absent herself for a little while, and they'd be left
alone; but she'd never come to his house unaccompanied and his first
thought was that something must be wrong.  Carpenters were often called
upon when accidents happened for people believed-not without some
reason--that a man who could dovetail two pieces of wood together so
smoothly that they seemed to have grown that way, could replace a
sprained joint or set a broken bone.

If God had informed him, she thought, he would have come to welcome
her, reached out his hands to hers and begun to speak of the wonder. As
it was he said:


"Mary!  Is anything wrong?""No," she said.

"Nothing wrong."  Disappointment made her voice sound small and woeful.
And it was impossible to avoid the thought that had she come to report
some physical disaster--the roof of the house fallen in, Anne's ankle
sprained, Joachim's leg broken--she could have counted upon him
absolutely.  Sympathetic, kind and sensible, in any ordinary situation
he could be relied upon to do the right thing and do it well.  But in
this situation ... The very sound of her voice dismayed her.  She had
come to share with him the most marvelous news that anyone, ever,
anywhere, had had to impart.  It should have been announced with joy
and pride and the singing of trumpets.

She said, a trifle more firmly, "I came to see you, Joseph, because I
have something to tell you, something for you alone."

His heart gave a great downwards thud.  He aligned the handle of a
chisel and the handle of a saw with meticulous exactitude.  He knew
what she had come to say.  She didn't, after all, wish to marry him.
All along he'd found it difficult to believe in his luck.  She was so
young, and so pretty, so well-brought-up.  He'd been immensely, and
pleasantly, surprised when her parents had seemed to encourage him; and
when, after quite a time of trying to pluck up courage, he had made his
formal request to Joachim and he had said, "You'd suit me; but we must
find out how Mary feels," he had suspected that Joachim was making an
excuse, not liking to say "No."  outright.

The trouble was that he was too old for her; age mattered in a society
where widows had a very poor time.  Any careful father was bound to
look ahead and choose for his daughter a man who wasn't likely to die
before he had reared a son capable of supporting his mother.  Of
course, with a rich man it was different; he could provide for a wife.
Unless they died early, in childbed, women tended to outlive men and
that fact must be taken into consideration when arranging marriages.

However, Mary, so pretty and graceful and gentle, Mary, who could have
married anybody, had agreed to marry him, a carpenter in his late
thirties, not a native of Nazareth, a man who had plied his trade in
many far places--he'd even been in Egypt--before settling down.  An
enormous gratitude had blended with his love for her.  Amazement too.
And if she had come here this evening to say that she had changed her
mind, thought better of it, he would not be truly surprised.  Sad,
disillusioned, but not surprised.  He'd bear the blow as a man should,
not whimpering; and for her wedding to some younger, luckier fellow,
he'd make her a chest, carved all over with lilies, her favourite
flowers.

Having, by the arrangement of the tools, gained time to brace himself,
he looked up.

He said, "You're shivering.  Come into the house and I'll rouse the
fire."

She preferred the workshop.  The little house that adjoined it, in
which once or twice she had, with her father and mother, on formal
visits eaten little sweet cakes from Hilliel's shop and drunk wine, had
the inexplicable pathos of a place where a man lived alone.  It had
always been, on those occasions, clean and tidy, but the scent of
over-cooked food had hung about.  And once--whenever she recalled that
visit, her heart moved and melted--Joseph had procured from somewhere a
bunch of the white, sweetly scented lilies that she loved; and he'd
shoved them into a jar of indescribable ugliness, so narrow-necked that
the lilies were pressed together, stiffly crowded, and coloured ochre,
orange, red and a peculiarly sharp yellow.

She said, "I'm not cold, and it is lighter here."  That was true, the
workshop faced west and the last, level rays of the sun--the sun which
had risen this morning on a seemingly ordinary day, and was now about
to set at the end of a day that had seen the miracle, the germinal
birth of a whole new world--shone in at the wide door.

"Sit then, please," Joseph said, and he brought forward the plain stool
on which, sometimes when he was tired, he sat at the workbench.  As he
carried it he brushed his hard work-hardened hand across it to remove
any dust or sawdust.

"Now," he said, and, moving backwards, perched himself at the end of
the workbench which was already in shadow.

"Tell me.  You look troubled."  She would be troubled, if she had come
to tell him what he suspected, for she had the tenderest heart in the

world,She said, falteringly, "It's a very hard thing to say.  So hard
to put into words..  .."

She looked so pale, he thought.  Despite the errand he attributed to
her in his mind his heart moved towards her; he Wanted to make things
easier for her.

"If it's anything to do with me," he said, stoutly, 'out with it.  I've
taken a few knocks in my time.  One more won't floor me.

She said, "Joseph, today I saw an angel..."

It was still light enough, even where he sat, for her to see his face,
shocked, then incredulous and presently frankly appalled.  She told him
everything, as though by adding detail to detail she could overcome his
disbelief.  When she mentioned the sack she had carried he turned his
head, she looked in the same direction and saw the bag standing there,
in the corner.  But that proved nothing.  She had no proof.  She had a
fantastic story which must either be taken on trust or rejected, and
even as she talked, even as she described the angel, she could see
Joseph rejecting it.  She could also, in her mind's eye, see herself
facing the women at the watering place.

She ended, "I'm not lying, Joseph, I am not mad and I was not dreaming.
It happened, everything, just as I have told you.  And it was
prophesied that a virgin should bear a child who would be our Messiah.
I don't know why I should have been chosen--I'm as confounded as you
arc; but the angel said I had been; he called me blessed amongst
women."

She stopped speaking and in the dim, sweet-scented workshop there was
silence which stretched on and on until at last Joseph said, as though
someone had him by the throat, choking him:

"It is written that the Messiah should be of the house of David.  I can
trace my lineage back to Solomon.  But if you are, as you say, already
with child, I am not its father and my lineage has nothing to do with
it."

She said, "He will need an earthly father, too."

No truer word was ever spoken, Joseph thought; and wondered that she
could speak with such gentle detachment.  What about her need for a
husband?  Why wasn't she weeping and tearing her hair ?

He could not rid his mind of the memory of the donkey-boy, young,
handsome, an obvious young rogue.  Horrible, almost impossible to think
of, but this was an evening of impossibilities.  Suppose that on this
Spring morning ... But then, how could she know, so soon, that she was
pregnant?  A moon must run its course before.any woman could be
certain.

But maybe she didn't know that.  Maybe she didn't know anything of such
matters.  Her life had been very sheltered.  He had heard of girls so
innocent that they thought babies were begotten by kisses.  Such girls
were rare, but they did exist, and Anne's daughter might well be one of
them.

Remembering the boy's shining eyes and white teeth, he thought,
magnanimously, that he could forgive a kiss or two.  Yet how out of
character that seemed!  And so did the concoction of such an elaborate
and impious story.

"Did he touch you?"  he asked abruptly.

"No.  He stood under the awning and spoke to me.  He said his name was
Gabriel."  Her voice took on an awed, remembering tone.

"He was almost too beautiful to look at, and he had a lily in his hand.
He told me another thing too.  He said that my cousin Elisabeth had
been pregnant for six months and she is well over child-bearing age."

This piece of evidence, susceptible to proof, carried less weight with
Joseph than it might have done, since he had never seen Elisabeth.  He
said:

"I mean the donkey-boy."

"Yes.  He hit me.  By accident he said, and I believed him.  But not on
the head, if that is what you are thinking.  Here under my arm."  Then
the full implication of the question struck her and she lifted her head
a little and spoke in a different voice.

"The boy," she said, 'was a young lout, ill-treating his donkey.  But
if I had so far lost all respect for myself and my family and yo ,
Joseph, do you really think that I am wicked enough to tell a story
involving holy things?  Or stupid enough to tell a story so difficult
to believe?  Think how much easier it would have been to have torn my

clothes and run screaming that I had been assaulted.  Then I should
have been sure of sympathy, and everybody would have believed me.  I
don't think you do."  She looked at his face, wrenched with indecision
and misery, and felt sorry for him.

"I cannot blame you," she said, more gently.

"You saw no angel.  And I, who did, still find it difficult to believe.
I know that the coming of the Messiah has been foretold, hoped for,
prayed for--and never more than now; but all day I have asked
myself--Why met Yet, when you come to think of it, God has made strange
choices before, Jacob and David, quite ordinary until they were chosen.
Now I am chosen.  I vow to you, Joseph that everything happened exactly
as I have told you."

She longed for him to say, "I believe you."  She waited.  And because
he loved her he wanted to say the comforting words for which he knew
she was waiting; but the whole matter was too great, too solemn to be
thus easily accepted.  He couldn't say that he did not believe, he
wouldn't say that he disbelieved; so he sat dumb, looking puzzled and
wretched.

She thought--I have failed.  And with that thought another came.
Isaiah, in his prophecy of the Messiah, had used the words, "He is
despised and rejected of men."  The rejection had begun here, tonight,
in this wood-scented workshop.  The first to reject him was the man who
might have been a father to him.  She unclenched her hands and folded
her arms across her body, protectively.  Not rejected by me, she
thought.  It is hard to believe but I know it is true, and if I must I
will manage alone, and still think myself blessed, despite all the
ridicule and the scorn and the pointing fingers.

Again Joseph wondered that she should be so calm.  If what she said
about her condition was true--however it had come about--unless he
stood by her she was in a sorry plight indeed.  Anne and Joachim loved
her, but their very love would be the measure of their shock and
horror.  In them, as in him, doubt would war with faith, credulity with
incredulity----He said, pitifully, "I don't know what to think.  I need
a little time to think things over."

She stood up then, and her veil slipped back from her hair, which,
freed of the confinement, loosened itself and caught the last rays of
the sun and made a halo about her pale, calm face.

She said, "I came, hoping that God, having chosen me, would have given
you a sign, or that you would have faith enough to believe without a
sign.  I was mistaken.  But there is no need to fret or be unhappy.  If
it is God's will that this child should have an earthly father, one
will be found.  It may be that he needs none.  My father is another who
can trace his lineage from David I Good night, Joseph."

Outside, with the sun suddenly sunk behind the hill's shoulder and the
dusk thickening, the night wind chilly after the warm day, she was
afraid.  Alone, and cold, and afraid.  No longer the blessed, the
chosen, but an unmarried girl with a child in her womb, and upon her
tongue a story that nobody could believe.

She could see now why the angel had said, "Fear not'.  There was so
much to fear.  Her parting words to Joseph had been bold, almost
defiant, but now thinking of her parents, her friends and her
neighbours, she quailed.

For the first time she saw the width of the gulf that divided what
people professed to believe from what they were actually capable of
believing.  At this very moment if someone went to her home and asked
her parents---Do you believe that Messiah will come?  They would
say--Yes, yes, indeed.  Put the same question to Hilliel the Rabbi and
he would answer--Indisputably, it is so written.  As late as this
morning Joseph, confronted by the question, would have professed his
belief.  Yet tonight he had been incredulous, despite all her efforts
to state her case in a manner likely to lead to belief.  She had forced
herself to speak calmly, not to weep, or gesticulate or plead; She had
known, instinctively, that had she cried and made an appeal to his pity
Joseph would have weakened and accepted the situation without accepting
the truth.  That would have been very wrong.  So quietly, rationally,
she had offered him the facts, and he had not believed her!

The night grew darker, the wind colder; the feeling of loneliness grew.
As she neared her home she knew that she must enter and present her

usual untroubled countenance; shecould face no more this day.  So she
leaned for a moment against the thorn fence which her father had
planted to keep out the foxes.  She felt the prick of the long sharp
thorns and thought of the donkey goad.  Chosen of God, and then
abandoned.  She sent a wordless cry, winging through the night--My God,
my God, why have you forsaken me?

VI

Joseph, left alone, first thought--I should have walked home with her.
But she'd gone so suddenly, and there'd been so much to think about.

He got up from the bench, moving slowly and heavily, like an old man
and went into his living-room.  He'd spent this day at home, so he'd
eaten at midday; bread and cheese would serve for his belated supper.
He set them on the table, brought a knife, sat down and felt sick.  Up
to that point his mind had been engaged in listening to the story,
trying to assess its truth and finding possible alternatives.  When he
had once glanced at the future it had been on Mary's behalf.  What of
his own ?

His own future, as well as that of Mary and that of an unborn child,
lay in his hands; he must make a decision and at the moment he felt
incapable of doing so.

His last task before taking on the job at the new house near Cana had
been to make a new gateway and a length of fencing for a man who owned
a small vineyard, and as part payment he had accepted a large jar of
wine which he had set down in the coolest corner of the workshop,
intending to save it and contribute it to the wedding feast.  He was,
by habit, an abstemious man.

Now he rose, took a jug, went to the jar and broke the stamped clay
seal, poured a jugful of the wine and hurried back into the house.  In
the workshop the stool on which Mary had sat was still in position, and
something of her presence seemed to linger there, too.  He thought
uncomfortably that if, at the end of his thinking, he decided that he
didn't believe her and did not intend to marry her, he would never
enjoy working in that place again.  In fact he doubted whether he could
go on living in Nazareth, where, even if he could avoid seeing her, he
would hear about her.

Get away, he thought.  And the question Where?  was easily answered. He
could go into the hills and join the guerrillas, the nameless ones, the
nightwalkers.

He thought about them as he sipped his wine and felt it warm and
sustaining after the shock.

It was almost sixty years since the Roman, Pompey, had intervened in
the Jews' disastrous civil war, had taken Jerusalem and made Palestine
a province of the Empire; the great majority of the Jews had settled
down, if somewhat warily and uneasily, under Roman rule.  But there
were others who refused to accept the fact that the war had ended;
there were men who remembered their families massacred, either by the
Romans themselves or by their tool, Herod, whom they had made King of
Judea.  There were ardent patriots, religious fanatics, men with
grievances, and they had taken to the hills and seized every
opportunity to make a nuisance of themselves.  They killed sentries,
destroyed stores, stole horses, sabotaged the new road and water works,
occasionally even ventured an ambush by daylight.  At infrequent
intervals individuals or small groups were captured and executed.  In
official quarters there was a tendency to underestimate their numbers
and to decry their activities; there were even Jews who deplored their
existence, maintaining that they consisted mainly of lawless men,
fugitives from justice; but most people admired their courage and their
cunning, and the stories of their reckless, spectacular exploits helped
to keep alive the spirit of even the tamest town-dwellers, backing up
the conviction that in the end nobody but Jehovah and his appointed
servants could govern the Jews.

Into the ranks of the nameless ones Joseph could disappear tomorrow and
be lost.  And if what Mary said about her state was true, nobody could
blame him; or, if they did, he'd never know.  % He drank again and was
seized by self-pity.  Wasn't it hard, he thought, that at his age,
having led a wandering life in youth, and now prepared to settle down,

he should have touproot himself again.  He liked his little house;
until this evening he had liked his workshop; he liked Nazareth and his
neighbours and his customers.  Never before had he felt himself to be
part of a community; seldom before had he stayed in any place long
enough to reap where he had sown in the sense of establishing a
reputation for good sound work.  Here he was known, Joseph the
carpenter, respected and trusted.  Must he abandon it all?

The alternative was to stay and face a very distasteful situation.  An
espousal was a serious thing; to cancel it was almost like breaking a
marriage.  But even if a couple had been married for twenty years and
hadn't cohabited for a time, due to separation or ritual abstinence and
the woman had said she was pregnant because an angel had spoken to her,
the man would be fully justified in putting her away.  Wouldn't he?
Wouldn't he?  He'd have to give his reason, of course.  And he could
just see Anne's face, wrenched by shock and horror, Joachim's distorted
by anger; and Mary's, full of sorrow and reproach.  His fundamentally
kind nature shrank from that prospect.

There was another alternative; he could accept her story.  He drank
again, and then, scowling, went through the whole account again.

He was now down to rock-bottom, weighing and measuring exactly the
faith in which he had been born and reared and to which he had paid
allegiance, always.

He believed in God; the one and only God who in six days had made the
heaven and the earth and all that were therein; the God of Abraham,
Isaac and Jacob, who had enabled Daniel to face a den of hungry lions
and Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego to walk unscathed through a fiery
furnace, seven times as hot as an ordinary one.  These, and a hundred
other miraculous stories, he had listened to a dozen times and never
doubted; they were now as much a part of him as the callouses on his
hands.  But they were all long ago, part of the fabulous past, part of
'once upon a time'.  Then, take the prophecies; did he believe them?
Naturally; every pious Jew did.  Messiah would come, in great power and
glory, to deliver His people.  But that was all in the future.  That
was to be one day.... There, you have it, he said to himself, lifting
the jug again, Belief in the past things and in the future things is
easy; but here and now, that's different.  Do I believe that Mary, the
woman to whom I am espoused, this morning was visited by an angel who
told her that she was to bear the Messiah, and that upon that word she
became pregnant?

And the answer to that was a downright "No'.

There it was, and there was no help for it.  No use blaming oneself for
one's disbelief, belief was there or it was not there; it could not be
commanded.  He wished with all his heart that it could be.  Because he
loved her; he wished he could have given her the answer she wanted.  He
loved her so much that he wished she had come to tell him that she
preferred another man.  That, he felt, he could have borne.  What he
resented--he was facing facts now--was the fact that she had tried to
deceive him.

She wasn't stupid; that was one of the things that had attracted him to
her.  Other women went to the Synagogue and, if they were young,
clattered their bracelets and looked covertly at young men from the
edges of their veils and thought their young, silly thoughts; if they
were older they were glad of a chance to be at peace and rest for a
moment, or watched how their children behaved.  She had listened and
remembered; and today had tried to use what she had learned.

And yet, and yet, trying to dismiss her as a light, deceptive creature,
he could not forget her calm, the dignity and assurance of her last
words.

Suddenly he thought--Poor girl, how she will suffer!  The thought of
it, and the wine he had drunk, made him break out into a sweat.  If he
repudiated her, what would they do, Anne and Joachim, so respectable,
so orthodox?  Hide her away, say she was ill, smuggle the baby away the
moment it was born and put it out to nurse somewhere far away?  Anne
was sharp-tongued, Joachim, if displeased--Joseph had once or twice
seen him so--sullen and surly.  What a terrible life, the poor girl
would have.  And as he thought of that the last alternative presented
itself, and even as he entertained it he knew that it was

somethingthat only a pot-valient fellow would consider.

Why not marry her?

He loved her and she needed him.  Why make all this coil about what you
believed and what you didn't believe, and God and the prophets ?  If
she had been frail, all the more reason why he should be strong.  And
he wouldn't, by any means, be the first man to rear another man's child
and grow to be fond of it.

She was very sweet and very innocent; somebody had taken advantage of
that sweetness and innocence; and she, in turn, had tried to take
advantage of him.  But that was because he was her only hope.  She had
agreed to marry him, and he owed her something for that.  And he
realised that he was, compared to her, old, and a very unromantic kind
of fellow.  He looked back on his own youth, remembering its fancies
and its passions, its moments of ecstasy; it would ill become him to
sit in judgement.... Yes, he thought; he'd marry her, because he loved
her, because he was sorry for her and because it was the easiest way
out for all.  And if by some fantastic chance her story should be true,
and nine months from now she bore a baby with ... Exactly how would the
Messiah be born?  With wings?  With a crown on his head, a sword in his
hand?  With a countenance of such shining glory that no man could look
on it?

How very peculiar that none of the prophets had given the slightest
information about that.  Dream-ridden, impractical men, they'd spoken
of a conception without sin, and of a virgin birth.  It had been left
to a carpenter in Nazareth, an ordinarily sober fellow who had missed
his supper and drunk more in an hour than he ordinarily did in half a
year, to ask--How?

He said to himself, Man, you're tipsy I Get to your bed.

But, tipsy or sober, credulous or incredulous, he had decided to marry
her; and for that he was always to be thankful.  In his ordinary,
human, unenlightened state he had, from love and pity, made his
decision.

He lay down, and fell asleep.  And presently the low dark room was
filled with a golden light, and there was the sound of music, and the
sweet scent of flowers.  There too, exactly as Mary had described, was
the angel, a dazzle of whiteness and beauty with great wings, and a
lily in his hand.  Gabriel!

He would have risen, would have fallen to his knees, but he was
paralysed.

"Joseph, thou son of David," Gabriel said, 'fear not to take unto thee
Mary, thy wife; for that which is conceived in her is of the Holy
Ghost."  If he could have spoken then Joseph would have said that he
had already decided; but awe held him speechless.

"She shall bring forth a son, and thou shall call his name Jesus; for
he shall save his people from their sins."

Then it was dark again, and silent.  The night wore away and in the
dawn Joseph woke.

Very often, he knew, dreams were conjured up out of what had happened
during one's waking hours; twisted, sometimes almost unrecognisable,
but you could, if you gave your mind to it, find the link.  It did not
seem to him unduly marvelous that he should have seen,"in a dream, an
angel exactly as Mary had described him, even to the lily.  But there
was one thing about this dream that could not have been the product of
anything he had been told or imagined.  That final phrase--'from their
sins'.  That was, and the sensible, practical carpenter recognised the
fact, something new, something he could never have imagined or dreamed.
Messiah, when he came, was, by common belief, to save his people from
their conquerors; he was to re-establish the throne of David, justify
and reinstate a proud people.  But Gabriel had said 'for he shall save
his people from their sins', and that was such an original,
revolutionary idea that it could only have come direct from God.

And although the idea that God, the one and only God, had through a
dream communicated directly with him, the village carpenter, just as He
had communicated with specially chosen people in the past, in the
once-upon-a-time, Joseph felt curiously calm.  He now understood Mary's
attitude on the previous evening.

"Rest in the Lord and wait patiently for Him."

"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want."  The certainty was like a
rock.  Yet, as over even the most solid rock, a climbing plant may

throw its comparatively unimportant growth, over thecertainty there
were the purely human considerations; he must get to Mary and assure
her; he must make arrangements for hastening on the wedding.

The village was hardly stirring when he walked to her house.  The door
was still closed and he knocked on it.  Mary opened it -and her face,
already pale, whitened when she saw him.  He took a step backward and
signed to her to follow him.

"Have you told them?"  he asked in a low voice.

She shook her head.  She had come home, feeling forsaken of God, and
thinking that she must tell them, the sooner the better, and found them
both busy, preparing the eggs that her father would, in the morning,
take into the market at Sepphoris.  Anne, with a damp cloth, was wiping
each egg clean from the clawmarks, the dung, the bits of nesting chaff,
and Joachim, taking them one by one, was holding each egg against the
candlelight.  To sell an egg with an embryo chick in it, or with a
blood spot or a meat spot, would be to lose custom.  In Sepphoris
ordinary housewives, or the slaves who bought for bigger households,
must always be able to say, "The eggs we buy from Joachim are always
fresh."

She'd stood there for a moment, visualising what would happen if she
suddenly gave them the news.  She'd tried Joseph the one to whom,
mentally and emotionally, she was closest and he had not believed her.
So from her parents she had turned away and gone to bed.

Tm glad of that," Joseph said, in answer to her shaking of the head.

"I've come to ask you a great favour."  He was aware that in the
shadowy room behind the open door somebody was moving, listening,
alert.  He raised his voice a little.

"I know weddings and the preparations for them mean a great deal to
brides and their mothers.  But Cana is seven miles away, I have to
leave early and I get back late.  I'm tired of coming home to a dead
hearth, tired of making my own breakfast..  .."  Whoever moved in the
shadow had come nearer, was listening intently.

"The day after tomorrow," he said, 'is the day for weddings.  I've come
to ask you, Mary, to marry me then, instead of two months hence."

Even had he not had his dream her face would have been sufficient
justification.  Joy, gratitude, wonder, completely transfigured it.  He
had thought it over, he believed it.

She said, "Oh, Joseph!"  and looked on him with love.

"What is this?  What is this?"  demanded Anne, able no longer to remain
a silent listener and coming to the door.

"I want to put the wedding forward," Joseph said.

"I heard you.  There's selfishness for you!  Marry the day after
tomorrow--with the guests bidden for eight weeks ahead.  So you're
tired of fending for yourself and to spare yourself just that short
time more you'd do Mary out of her wedding day.  In the whole of my
life I never heard anything so preposterous!"

As in the early days, faced by Mary's mother he felt all hands and feet
and angular elbows.  He said, as awkwardly as though his request had
been made from purely selfish motives:

"I thought if Mary didn't mind ..."

Mary said, "I don't, I'd be glad."

"You be quiet," Anne said.

"You're so soft, you'd stand by the door and give away your nose for a
whistle if anybody asked you!"  The tone in which she said that was
almost rough, yet she was expressing, for the first time, fully and
freely, her inmost opinion of her own daughter.  She was so
tender-hearted, so easily troubled, so altogether, in Anne's opinion,
unfitted for the hard battle that was ordinary life, that somebody must
stand up for her, protect her, save her from herself as it were.  And
Anne had hoped that Joseph would be that somebody.  That had been her
only reason for showing him any favour; he was getting on in years, he
wasn't and never would be rich; but she had thought him kind and
reliable.  Now he was the very one to come along with this most selfish
suggestion.

"We," Anne said, giving the contemptible fellow a fierce look, 'have
relatives, on both sides of the family, scattered all over Galilee and
Judah.  I have a brother in Capernaum and another in Bethsaida; Joachim
has two sisters in Sechem.  And there's Zacharias," she said, naming,
with some pride, the husband of Mary's cousin who was a priest in the
Temple.

"How do you think they're going to feel when they hear she's been
married without their presence?  It's all very well for you to come
strolling along and suggest getting married the day after tomorrow,

just, because you've spoiled your breakfast.  Things aren't done like
that in decent families."

Mary said, "At least my dress is ready."  .

"So it may be.  But nothing else is."

if Joseph felt rather than saw that Mary was looking at him with
appeal.  What could he say?

Speaking almost as the words came into his mind he said:

"What I said to Mary wasn't the whole of it.  When we set the day I
didn't know this job was coming up, did I?  Now I can see I'm going to
be so busy that it'd be very inconvenient to take three days off then.
This week I could do it."  From first to last a properly celebrated
wedding in humble families went on for three days, with richer people
it could extend to six.

"Too busy to attend your own wedding!"  Anne exclaimed.

"That's the first time I ever heard that."

From behind her Joachim said, as he fastened his girdle:

"What is going on here?"

Anne turned and in the short sharp words informed him.  Joachim looked
at Joseph, who appeared to be embarrassed and awkward, at Mary, who
seemed to be on the brink of tears, and at his own belligerent wife.
And he thought--Why of course, they're in love and it's Spring, poor
fellow he doesn't want to wait any longer.  On top of this
understanding thought he felt the instinctive impulse to side with one
of his own sex.

"Well," he said, when Anne had finished, "I can't see so much amiss
with that.  Unless Mary minds.  It's her wedding; it's for .  her to
say."

"I'd like to be married the day after tomorrow," Mary said.

"That's settled then," Joachim said before Anne could speak.

"Now perhaps one of you would come in and give me my breakfast."

Speechless, Anne flounced into the house.

Mary said, "Oh, thank you, Joseph!  I can never thank you enough.  You
do believe me?"

"I believe you," he said.

Her joy at being believed was so transcendent that he decided not to
mention the dream yet.  He'd save that for an unjoyful day.  Looking
ahead he could see plenty of that sort to come.

TWO

PYANGYONG

6,000 miles At the foot of the stone stairs that led up to his tower,
Melchior turned and looked at old Senya; she'd never been, in his
opinion, particularly bright, and now, with age, her wits, as well as
her hearing and eyesight, were failing.  He had to say things over and
over again, and even then could never be sure that she had heard and
understood.  Her own few remarks she repeated so often that had he
taken any notice of what she said, he would have found the reiteration
quite tiresome.

Wrapped up against the cold, muffled and shrouded in the remnants of
several garments, once of varying colour but now from age and dirt a
uniform dun, she crouched by the pitiable fire.

"Senya," he said.  She was his slave, but as always he addressed her
with gentle courtesy.

"Senya, you did understand me?"  Her head, like a tortoise's, emerged
from the carapace of wrappings and turned towards him.

"I am going up now and I shall not be down until tomorrow morning.
Don't call me and don't cook any supper for me."

He had told her that twice before and she had merely nodded and
grunted.  This time she said:

"Master, there is nothing to cook.  Nothing.  Nothing at all.  When
what we have is eaten we shall starve."

"I'll think about that tomorrow."

She had been muttering about the nearness of starvation for quite a
long time now, sometimes he took no notice, when he did he always
soothed her by saying he would think about it presently.

"The pig is hungry, too," she said in her flat old voice.  He was the
cleverest man in Korea, maybe the cleverest man in all the world, but

in many ways he could act like an idiot, and he wasacting that way
about the pig.  It was good housekeeping to have a pig in a pen to eat
the household scraps and a panful of meal now and again, and this year,
as in former years, she had bought a little pig, the runt of a litter;
very cheap it had been because the man who had sold it thought it would
be dead -before she got it home.  What she had been trying, without
success, to make Melchior see for the last fortnight, was that When
there was so little for people to eat there were no scraps for pigs,
and when there was no money there could be no meal.  The pig was
loosing flesh; and its hungry squealing, shrill enough to pierce the
constant buzzing in her ears, made Senya perpetually aware of its
plight.  However, Melchior was her master, the pig was his, bought with
his money--she looked at the little jar which stood in a niche in the
wall, an empty jar now--and she would never dream of doing anything
about the pig until Melchior told her to.

"I'll think about the pig, too; but presently."

In the bitter depths of her heart she said to herself--Always
presently, always tomorrow, shuffling things off; so he has brought
ruin to himself and hunger to us both.

But when he had disappeared around the first turn of the spiral
staircase and was reasonably certain not to turn back and tell her
again what she had fully understood in the first place, she roused
herself, took a knife and, with a savage, a self-mutilating cut, halved
the bit of stale bread, the bit of hard cheese that lay on the bench.
Then, opening the door, she stole out into the bitter wind and went to
where at the base of the tower there was a basket, attached to a long
rope.  She slipped her offering into it, covered it again and went back
to the fire.

Only a few minutes earlier, showing him the poor portions of bread and
cheese, she had said, "Master, this is all we have!"  And he had for a
moment brought his mind back from the wide fields of the sky where it
ranged, and he had looked closely at the food.

"Enough for today," he had said, quite contentedly.

"Halve it between us."  It had never occurred to him to say--Halve it
fairly because for years it had been understood that whatever there was
was to be thus divided.  And under his eye, attentive for once, she had
made a fair division.  Now she had given him half her portion; because
he was her master, and because she had loved him slavishly for more
than fifty years.  He wouldn't notice; he never noticed anything; at
least not anything on that level; that was why they were in this sad
state.

The pig, having seen Senya come out and go in again without throwing
him so much as an outside cabbage leaf, squealed angrily.  Senya, going
into another of the little rooms at the base of the tower to smooth
Melchior's sleeping mat and his blanket, thought--He did say tomorrow!
and thought how good a bit of roast pork would taste.

Melchior, climbing steadily, indeed briskly, the spiralling stairway
that clung to the tower's inner wall, deliberately put the old woman's
words out of his mind.  Poor, poor, yes, he knew they were poor; but
one good thing about eating scantily was that you stayed spry and
lively.  How many men of his age, seventy-five, could go up and down
these stairs as he did, he asked himself.  Very few.  Leading the
life,he did--he had not set foot outside the tower since he'd sold his
last bit of land, and that must be at least five years ago--if he had
eaten full, he would be heavy and scant of breath, an occupant of a
carrying chair.  As it was, only lately had he rigged the rope and the
basket as a means of getting things to the top; previously he had
carried diem.

Undoubtedly the worst thing about being poor was the cold.  It was
Spring now, the snows had melted, the frost-hardened earth was
softening, but this process added a dampness to the chill of the wind
which blew from far inland where it was much colder than in sea-girl
Korea.  He could see the damp on the stone wall, feel it in his bones.
Years ago, when the tower was newly built, there had been braziers here
and there on the stairs, and no fewer than three in the room at the
top.  When he'd moved here he had brought three slaves, Senya and two
young males who had scampered up and down the stairs carrying food and
water and fuel for the braziers.  In those days he'd had a bed in the
room at the top, and a big bell in an aperture; he had only to ring

it.... He did not grieve over the vanished service, the lost comforts,
but he did feel the cold.  He was glad to wrap rags like bandages over
his cloth shoes and well up his legs.  And all through the winter he
wore his one wadded robe, a good garment in its day, now stained and
faded.  But Spring was on its way; the winter solstice was three months
past.  In a rush the warm weather, would come, and he could wear his
other, unwadded robe, and Senya, as in other years, would take this one
and wash it, beat the lumped wadding into fluff; and the sun, shining
into the room at the top of the tower, would cherish and revive him.

Poverty, self-imposed, was tolerable.  He had, he knew, only himself to
blame for his state.  He'd been a most fortunate young man.  His
grandfather had come out of China in the train of that great, that
almost legendary warrior, Wiman, and in the carve-up of the conquered
territory he had received enormous tracts of land which had passed
eventually, undiminished, to Melchior.  If, when he had come into his
heritage, the tower had been built, he could have stood at the top of
it and looked in every direction and known that all he could see he
owned.

His father he could not remember; both his parents had died young and
he had been reared by his grandfather, who, because he was a Chinese
and had no learning, had a great respect for it.  One day the boy
Melchior had made some remark or observation--he could not remember the
exact circumstance--and his grandfather had said, "I think you may be a
clever boy.  You shall go to the university in Pyangyong."  Pyangyong
at that time prided itself upon being one of the most cultured cities
in the world.  Korea had, long ago, been colonised by Chinese who had
brought their own culture, their own learning with them.  General
Wiman's invasion had been a re-conquest, almost an invasion of
barbarians; and there had been times, when in the muted, learned
atmosphere of Pyangyong's schools Melchior, because of his ancestry,
had been made to feel that he was almost a barbarian.  That had made
him pursue his studies more diligently.  He'd learned eagerly,
everything, even some rudimentary Greek.  Less than a hundred and fifty
years before the great Wiman conquered Korea, a Greek named Alexander
had marched into Asia, intending to conquer India.  He'd
failed-Melchior now knew exactly why--but his tongue had spread along
the routes, had established itself in many places, become a means by
which men of widely diverse cultures could communicate.  In Pyangyong,
where no born Greek had ever been, a place that no Greek had ever heard
of, the young Melchior had learned Greek of a peculiar kind, together
with history, mathematics and astronomy.

Astronomy had been from the moment he was introduced to it, emotionally
his darling and financially his downfall.  The moment he had come into
his inheritance he had built this tower, at vast expense.  Glass; that
was the trouble.  He must have glass, and only one country in the world
knew the secret of its making.  Egypt, a place immeasurably far away.
But intrepid traders, voracious traders had held open the tenuous lines
between East and West.  Ask in Pyangyong--as Melchior had asked--for
glass, and it was like dropping stone into a pond; the ripples spread.
Months, even years, later, you had glass, fragile stuff, carefully
packed, gently handled, carried on the backs of camels, donkeys, horses
and mules,and men, moved by stages, paid for by stages, but arriving at
last and costly beyond all reckoning.  He'd grudged nothing; he had
planned a great tower with a glass dome, and he was not surprised or
dismayed by the fact that when at last it stood on the hill-top, just
as he had visualised it, nine-tenths of his heritage was expended.

And in a way he had been right not to care; he had what he wanted; and
he had a tenth of his patrimony left, and that would have sufficed to
keep any ordinary careful man for as long as he lived.  He simply
hadn't been careful.  Could he be expected to come down, in the middle
of some calculation, or the careful drawing of a chart, to deal with a
dishonest steward, a defaulting tenant?  The idea was absurd.  He'd
said--I'm busy.  He'd said--I'll deal with that tomorrow.  Now and
then, faced with the problem in some way that forbade escape or
deferment, he'd said, "I'll sell something."

With what remained of his estate he could not be bothered.  Nor could
he be bothered with friendships or any social contacts that made
demands upon his time.  When the tower was new there were men who had

known his grandfather, men who hadstudied with him in Pyangyong, men
with marriageable daughters.  All splendid people he was sure, but to
him as troublesome as flies in summer.  Hundreds of times he had said,
"Yes, thank you, I will come," in answer to their invitations.  Then he
had forgotten all about them.

So his fortune had wasted away and his life had narrowed.  Now on this
very cold morning, with Spring imminent, he owned his tower, a small
vegetable garden in which, presently, Senya would plant vegetables,
Senya herself and a hungry pig.  Nothing eke in the world.

And there was not a happier man in the world... .

Downstairs, Senya, having straightened Melchior's sleeping apartment,
moved back to the fire and looked at it with a gloomy eye.  It was
almost dead and she must go out in search of fuel.  She looked at the
miserable scrap of bread and cheese that remained and realised that she
must do something about food, too.

In the past she had been in the habit of going down into the valley and
hiring herself for some hours during the busy season, doing field work
for which casual labour was, welcome.  Bent double, she'd planted rice
in wet paddy fields, and then cut and carried it.  She'd planted
vegetables too, and gathered them.  She'd picked and packed fruit.
She'd cleared fields of stones and with the same stones built fences.
She'd spent hours and hours in the stinking place where hides were
scraped and the hair, mixed with glue, was beaten into felt from which
hats and shoes were made.

Of these activities Melchior knew nothing.  She'd timed her goings out
and her returns very carefully.  She never left the tower until he was
safely at the top, and she was always back by sunset which was the
usual time for the evening meal.  He had not, of course, noticed her
small but invaluable contributions to the household expenses.  It must
be at least five years since Melchior had sold that last strip of land
and had come in, trusting her absolutely, and put the money in the jar
that stood in the niche.  Even his bemused mind must have recognised
something of the situation, for he had said, "That's the last, Senya.
Make it go as far as you can."

Having said that and set the jar back in its niche he had gone straight
up the stairs to what he called his work and she, in her mind, called
his toys.  And she had gone across to the jar and counted the coins.
How wicked, she thought, the way good men are cheated; had that field
been mine I should have haggled and sold it for at least twice as much
as this.  And then she had realised, for the first time, fully, that
Melchior not only trusted her--she had known that--but that he was
depending upon her.

So, shameful as it was for a slave born in the family house and reared
therein, to do such a thing, she had gone and sought casual labour.
Always far down in the valley where she was not known.  And always, if
questioned, she had said that she came from Pyangyong.  Sometimes she
had added the information that she was a widow.

It had worked until last year.  Then something had gone wrong inside
her head; far worse than the buzzing in her ears.  When she
stooped--and all field work involved stooping---she'd turned dizzy.
Naturally she had ignored this, just as she had ignored her aching
back, her stiff knees and elbows.  But, working on through the
dizziness, she had fallen and lain unconscious.  She always came round,
as good as new, and no harm done; but she'd had such spells so often,
in so many different fields and orchards, that now no one would employ
her.  There was a superstitious belief that to have a worker die, at
work, brought bad luck.

There were still things she could have done, inside houses; she could
have cooked, preserved fish and meat, mended, done anything that did
not entail much stooping; but the trouble was that in the valley there
were only rich families who had slaves and servants of their own to do
such work, or poor ones who would never hire domestic labour.  The same
problem had bedevilled her one or two begging expeditions; the poor had
nothing to spare and in the big houses the servants had chased her off,
calling her a dirty old woman.  Today the situation was desperate, she

must go out to findfuel, and, if it were humanly possible, something
to eat tomorrow.

When she opened the door the pig squealed in anguished anticipation;
she gave it a calculating look as she passed.  Nothing but skin and
bone now, and it would be worse tomorrow.  Tomorrow she must, by some
means, gain Melchior's attention and make him understand about the pig.
It seemed strange that such a clever man should be so stupid about
simple things.

Still, she was his slave and she must do her best for him.  In
addition, she loved him very much.  She had lost her heart to him more
than half a century ago, when she was fifteen and he a handsome young
man of twenty.  Oh, how handsome he had been, tall and slim and
elegant, with such bright eyes and glossy black hair, and such
beautiful manners.  The old master had been alive then, the tower did
not exist and they were all living in the magnificent house that stood
half-way down the slope, overlooking the valley.  She was the youngest
of the female slaves, and the prettiest, and it was quite usual for
masters, young or old, to take a comely slave girl to bed.  She
remembered the dusks of summers long ago, when the young master was
home from his studies, and the night wind blew softly and she'd haunted
the courtyard outside his bedroom and yearned for him.  She'd done her
best to attract his notice, putting oil on her hair and scent on the
palms of her hands.  If someone then, with the gift for seeing, had
told her--You'll live alone with him for thirty years, sharing a fire
and a dish, how wrongly she would have interpreted it, how overcome
with joy she would have been.

Bodies grew old, she thought, shuffling down the hill; handsome young
men turned into thin, frail ones--but she still thought Melchior
good-looking, for his age; and in comely girls the sap dried up, till
they were like old twisted trees and nobody would believe that once
they had worn flowers behind their ears and been desirable, and almost
died of their own desiring.

In the end even desire failed.

But duty remained; and a kind of fondness, and that was why she was out
here in the biting wind with the mud seeping through the rags that
wrapped her feet instead of remaining indoors and thinking that it was
a master's duty to provide his slave with at least one meal a day.

After a time she drew level with the big house under whose
warm-coloured, curving tiled roof both she and Melchior had been born.
She had never visited it to ask for employment or charity; it was too
near the tower; she might be recognised and so bring shame upon
Melchior; and Melchior, looking out from his tower, might even have
seen her.  Also she had felt a curious reluctance to go back there
where life had run so comfortably in the old days.

This morning she thought about the past.  The old master had possessed
a sternness unknown to his grandson, but he had been just, and there
had never been a mistress to make things hard.  The old mistress had
died in childbed, and Melchior's mother had died, with his father, in
the time of the great sickness, two years before Senya herself was
born.  In the comfortable house life had been pleasant; plenty of fuel,
plenty of food, plenty of tea.  Of all the things she had lacked in
recent years Senya missed tea most.  It came from China and was very
expensive, so it had been one of the first things to be cut out.
Melchior seemed not to notice; he drank ..hot water without comment or
complaint, but Senya still yearned to see the green leaves uncurling
and yielding their flavour and fragrance, and the water changing
colour.  Between a bowl of hot water and a bowl of tea there was all
the difference in the world.

She came back to the present.  Either the wind was stronger than usual
or meagre feeding was telling at last in increased feebleness; she was
making very slow progress.  Ordinarily she would have been in the
valley by this time and here she was, still skirting the wall that
surrounded the big house.  It offered some shelter from the wind and
she paused to gather strength.  Through an archway she could see into
the main courtyard.  It wore its winter look.  The big tubs of lilies
had been taken indoors and every rose tree had been loosened from its
stake, bent over and swathed in sacking.  Very soon now it would look
very different.  Spring, when it came, came at a bound.  She remembered

how, for several years, she had watched the rosetrees being unshrouded
and straightened, and the lily tubs brought out, with excited
anticipation.  Maybe on some warm, scented evening this year Melchior
would notice her and she would be able to give her maidenhead where she
had already given her heart.  That was all she asked.

It had never happened; and all that wasted hope and emotion might have
been a sadness and a hurt to remember, but for one thing.  If she had
failed to make her humble way into his bed, so had women not so humble.
Many men, with silk-clad, tiny-footed, jewel-shining daughters, had
desired that rich, handsome young man as a son-in-law, and Senya had
watched fearfully, feeling that she could hardly bear it if he took a
wife without first taking her, yet knowing that she must bear it and
give no sign for fear of ridicule.  That misery, at least, she had
escaped.  Melchior had taken the sky as his bride, and such a rival any
woman could accept, not gladly, but with fortitude.

She stood in the shelter of the wall and realised with dismay that this
morning, even if she forced herself on, down into the valley, she would
never climb back again.  Old, yes, she was old, her ears buzzed as
though bees were swarming there, and when she stooped she grew dizzy;
but she'd never felt feeble before.  Now she did, her legs trembled
under her and she felt dizzy without stooping.  It occurred to her--and
it was a shocking thought--that if she was to have anything to offer
her master when tomorrow morning he came down from the tower, she must
ask for, and obtain it from this house.

She turned and looked back at the tower, a long grey finger pointing to
the sky with a glass dome at its tip.  It seemed far from where she
stood, skulking in the shelter of the wall, to where her master was,
high in the glass dome.  But he had that wonderful glass, the thing he
claimed to have invented.

Some years ago, but she could remember the day with clarity because it
was the one and only time that he had ever shared his real life with
her, he had come down with a tube, like a section of bamboo in his hand
and he had said, "Look through that, Senya, and tell me what you see.
No, put it to one eye and close the other, now what do you see?"  It
had been summer-time and the door in the base of the tower had been
open and he had handed her the thing with its end pointing outwards. So
she had obediently closed one eye and applied the other to the end of
the tube and seen nothing, a blue, and she'd been confused, torn
between her wish to please him, since the toy was evidently of
importance to him, and her inability to guess even what it was that she
was expected to see.  And then, suddenly, she had seen.  A tethered
goat, eating grass.  She'd said, "I can see a goat."

And that had been exactly the answer he wanted.  He said: "Now, take
the glass away and look in the same direction, Senya.  Can you now see
the goat?"  She could not.

"Try the glass again."

She did so, and there was the goat, so close that she felt that by
reaching out her hand she could have touched it.

"I see it now," she said.

Then he'd snatched the thing from her and said, "It brings distant
things close, doesn't it?  It will be of inestimable value to me in my
work."

After that she had felt less happy about her own work, fearing that
even when she was far away in the valley he might turn the glass in
that direction and see her as plainly as she had seen the goat and the
grass.  But in time she had realised that he only turned the glass upon
the stars or the moon, and the fear had left her.  This morning
however, because she was about to do something that outraged her own
standards, her fear of being observed sprang up again, lively enough to
make her turn and look before rounding the corner of the wall and
making, in a furtive way, for the entrance to the kitchen courtyard.

Although she had never yet been back; to what in her mind she always
called the house, she knew who lived there.  A big fat man who had made
a fortune from running houses of prostitution in Pyangyong.  A very
disreputable way of making money, as the man had realised.  So, with
one child born and another about to be, he had sold his houses, moved
into the country and bought Melchior's family house and several little
farms.  He was said to be an oppressive, unmerciful landlord.  It was
also said that his temper had been embittered by the fact that people

inother big houses would not befriend him, called him Bawd-master and
did not seek to ally their families to his by marriage.  All this Senya
had heard from the tongues of gossips.  She had heard it said, also,
that her master was at fault for so demeaning himself as to sell the
house of his fathers to such a man.

And now, after all these years, she was about to demean her master even
further, and demean herself too, by begging at the kitchen door.

It was terrible, and she knew it; and it was all her master's fault;
he'd wasted his substance, just as he was at this very moment wasting
the pig which, killed a week ago, would have provided several succulent
joints, and killed tomorrow would .hardly have enough fat in it for
basting.

The kitchen door was firmly closed against the cold; but even her
buzz-ridden old ears could hear the sound of voices, of laughter.  When
she knocked there was a momentary silence, then a voice said, "See who
that is."

Another voice said, "Ordering me about!  Go yourself, lazybones."

The first voice said, "Lazy-bones, am I?"  And there was the sound of a
scuffle and more, louder, laughter.

Senya knew, intuitively that there was no master, no mistress, within
this house.  She remembered hearing somewhere that the Bawd-master, old
now and his bones creaking, often took himself and his family south to
winter in a less rigorous climate.

Slaves left in charge, she thought, growing arrogant and fat in
idleness, the worst possible people to beg from.  This opinion-based on
experience--was confirmed when the door was opened by a young woman who
said, after one glance:

"Whatever you're selling, we don't want any."

With the suddenness of a lightning flash from a summer sky, the idea
came to Senya.  She said in a wheedling, cajoling voice, not her own:

"You'll want what I have to sell, dearie.  So will those within.  I can
read fortunes.  True ones.  By the lines in your palm, or by the
tea-leaves in a bowl, I can tell what Fate has in store for you."

And wasn't it marvelous!  She could have said, I'm starving, my belly
is empty, my legs shake and my head spins from hunger, and they'd have
turned her away.  A few words of rubbish and there was the girl at the
door all attention, and a voice from within saying, "A fortune-teller,
is it?"  And in less than a minute she was inside the warm, the
food-scented, the oh-so-familiar kitchen.

Melchior climbed the stairs and reached the one at the top, much wider
than the rest, with, straight ahead of it a solid door, and to the
right an aperture with a slatted shutter.  This he opened and hauled up
the basket, which, as was his custom, he had packed himself.  For some
reason quite outside his comprehension old Senya appeared to resent
this sensible labour-saving device; she had offered to toil up the
stairs with whatever was needed, and when he had pointed out to her
that they were both now too old for such needless exertions, she'd
turned sulky.  Whenever she packed the basket something went wrong with
the contraption because she seemed unable to understand the necessity
for packing the basket in a balanced way.  So now he did it himself. He
knew--or thought he knew--exactly what was in the basket today.  At the
bottom a few handfuls of charcoal for his brazier; the last of the
supply; a full jar of water, and as a counter-balance on the other side
a larger wine-jar containing a very small amount of rice wine, also the
last of the supply.  Between the two his half of the bread and cheese.
Ample for all his needs for the next twenty-four hours.  He carried the
basket into the glass-roofed, Circular room and set it on the floor.
Then he looked about him with that sense of satisfaction, of
home-coming, which the room never failed to evoke.

All around the room, broken only by the entrance door and another
leading to a little side chamber, ran a wide flat bench, set at just
the right height for a man standing or sitting on a high stool to work
at.  On this bench, this morning, several charts, drawn on paper or
parchment, and smaller pages covered with closely written figures or
words, lay exposed.  Others, neatly rolled, lay on shelves beneath the

bench.  In thecentre of an empty space stood a box without a lid; in
it lay his tools, his astrolabe, his compasses, his lodestone, and the
glass which Senya remembered.  There were pens, too, and sticks of
coloured chalk, ground to a fine point; there was a knife and an
ink-jar.

The centre of the room was clear except for the three-legged brazier
and a tall ladder with a stout strut at the back of it and at its Tip a
platform upon which a man could sit or lie.  The whole place was
noticeably neat, even clean.  Dust was never allowed to gather upon the
oldest, the least used chart or map.

It was noticeably cold, too, perched on the hill-top, and above bench
level all of glass: he looked wistfully at the brazier, already laid
with a few dry twigs and lumps of charcoal.  But he must not be
extravagant.  Soon, when the sun reached its midday height, the tower
would become warm; then when it went down and night fell it would be
colder than it was now; he must reserve his fire for the night.  So he
tucked his hands into his sleeves and went and stood by one of the
charts, studying it.

He wondered if there were, somewhere in the wide, outer world, anyone
who, looking at this chart, would understand it.  There were
astronomers in Pyangyong--it was there that he had gained a rudimentary
knowledge of the subject, but, and this thought roused no pride in him,
they were not of his calibre.  How could they be?  He had given his
whole life to the study; they were men of divided interests; they gave
lectures, reared families, took regular meals and spent a great deal of
time in useless talk.

There were astronomers in the West, too; he even knew the names of two
cities famous for their experts, Babylon and Alexandria.  But, a thin
smile moved his lips as he thought, they hadn't done very well by
Alexander.  If he had been on that great General's staff he could have
warned him that his attempt to conquer India was doomed to failure, a
waste of time and money.  Mars in decline, Saturn in the ascendant.
Hopeless!  He could have foretold, too, the break-up of the Empire
Alexander did succeed in establishing; in the third house there was
every augury of disintegration and division.

To be honest, though, there had in the last month or two been moments
when he would have been glad to talk to a really skilled, truly learned
fellow scholar; not in order to indulge in the futile, wrangling
arguments such as he had witnessed and sometimes taken part in during
his student days.  He would have liked to hold out this chart and say,
"What do you make of it?"  Not because he was unsure of himself; a
pregnant sky was as unmistakable as a pregnant woman; some new thing
was augured; probably a comet; he would have welcomed another opinion
about that.

He was now well away, and no longer aware of the cold; and Senya need
not have feared his observation.  If by any chance he had looked out
and downhill and seen her about to enter his old home he would merely
have thought that she had shuffled out to have a gossip with some of
her own kind.  There had been a time when she would go out with some
regularity and stay away for hours; women had an infinite capacity for
gossip.

When Melchior had decided that he could no longer afford the house and
the tower, and had also argued that to live on the spot would be more
convenient, he had .taken Senya, the two young male slaves, and enough
furniture and gear for their needs.  The rooms at the base of the tower
were small, however, and much had been left behind and sold with the
house.  So the kitchen looked very much as it had done when Senya left
it.  The great chopping block still stood in one corner; several
enormous cooking pots hung on the wall, and on a shelf were the blue
and white, lidded jars, 'left behind with some regret.  Not that she'd
have had any use for them lately, being unable to afford the spices and
exotic herbs they were designed to hold.  Onions and salt had been the
only flavourings she had used for years, and the onions had been
homegrown.

There were three people in the kitchen.  The young woman who had let
her in, an older woman with a full-fleshed face and hard-looking eyes,
and a boy on the verge of manhood.  Their easy, holiday-making air
confirmed her guess that they had been left in charge of the house; she

knew the situation; little to do,nobody to oversee them.  Here they
were, at midday, drinking tea and eating, what were they eating?  She
used her nose as well as her eyes.  Delicious!  Small savoury
dumplings, packed with chopped pork and herbs.  She'd made many in her
time.  And if her master would agree to the killing of the pig before
it starved to death, she would again--if by some means she got some
flour, some herbs.

The woman said, in a rousing, challenging way: "Well, what about these
fortunes?"

Senya, disturbed from her meditations, started and blinked.  What
fortunes?  Then she remembered, and said:

"Oh yes, the fortunes.  By palm or by tea-leaves?  And I have to be
paid, you know;' "We could have guessed that!  How?  In cash or in
kind?"  On any previous day asked that question, she would have said,
"Cash."  She was a Shrewd, shrill bargainer and down in the village
invariably managed to get more than her money's worth, but now--she
thought swiftly---she simply didn't feel able to walk the rest; of the
downhill way, face the bustle and shoving in the market, haggle, and
then, carrying bundles, climb all the way back.  And she thought of the
store-room that adjoined the kitchen; in the old master's day it had
been a treasure house of good things.  Hams and strings of sausages and
bunches of salt fish had hung from hooks, there'd been barrels and
sacks of flour and honey, soya meal, dried peas and beans, rice, jars
of oil and vinegar and wine.  She turned dizzy again at the thought of
the abundance.  And doubtless it was the same now.  The Bawd-master had
a bad reputation as a landlord but nobody had ever suggested that he
was a stinting, niggardly master.  So she said :

"Pay me in food."  And as she said the words she could see herself
carrying away food for two, perhaps even three, days.  And she could
see Melchior, tomorrow, coming down from the tower top and being so
surprised and pleased to find that she, whom he had left with a bit of
bread and cheese, had somehow, miraculously produced a real,
belly-filling meal.  He wouldn't ask how; he'd just enjoy it and say,
as always, "Thank you, Senya, a very good meal."

"Food it shall be, then," the woman said.  She was plainly the one in
command, probably the cook.

"I'll have mine in the tea-leaves."

The girl said, The too."

The boy said, "I think I'll have mine by hand."

Senya watched, enviously, mouth-wateringly as the two women drained
their tea-bowls.  And then she did her very best.  She knew absolutely
nothing about telling fortunes, but she did know what everybody wished
to hear--impossibly favourable things.  She was handicapped by her lack
of knowledge about this household; in kitchens you found born slaves,
like herself, bonded people, who must serve a certain term, and free
people working for hire.  And since status governed the future with an
iron hand, a would-be fortune-teller must needs be very careful.  She
was careful; and she managed to offend every one of them.  Staring into
the meaningless pattern made by the tea-leaves and thinking of what she
would have wished to hear when she was this woman's age she told the
cook that she would have children, beautiful children, and the cook,
now the secret mistress of the old Bawd-master, chanced to desire
nothing less.  She told the young woman what surely any girl would wish
to hear; many lovers, she said; and the young woman, who had one lover
to whom she was utterly devoted, heard in that her doom.  For the boy,
regarding the delicate, uninformative palm that he offered, she
foretold a future that was possible to any young man, slave, bonded or
free; because of all things the army was the most powerful; masters of
every kind were always being asked to contribute to the army--that was
a polite way of putting it.  So she told him that he would be a soldier
and a very successful one.  The boy, a homosexual, who was waiting for
one of his master's friends, a rich man of the same mind, to buy him
and dress him in silk, was not pleased by this prospect.

It struck Senya, as the boy withdrew his hand, and she abandonee!  the
trance-like attitude that all the fortune-tellers she had ever
encountered had adopted, that they were an ungrateful lot.  What had
they expected?  How had she failed?


The cook said, "Well, that is that.  Now we will pay you."  Shepoured
hot water into a cup and sprinkled tea-leaves on it; she took a
long-handled spoon and caught one of the savoury dumplings, and put it
into another bowl.

"There you are," she said coldly.

"Eat and drink."  The three of them withdrew a little, whispering
amongst themselves, saying each one speaking from his own inner
dissatisfaction, that this was no true teller of fortunes, just a dirty
old woman who shrank from downright begging.  Take no notice, they
said.

To Senya the bowl of tea was very welcome.  In good conscience she
could drink it and enjoy it; but the lovely little dumpling presented a
problem.  If only she could get it home, unbroken, what a meal it ,
would make for her master when he came down from his tower tomorrow
morning.  Five minutes in a pan of boiling salt water and it would be
as though it had been freshly made.  Draining her bowl of tea, looking
at the dumpling and repressing a fierce desire to eat, to taste it, she
said :

"I would like, if you please, to take it home with me, to eat just
before I sleep.  One sleeps ill on an empty belly."

She could see, by their faces, that they were now hostile.  And the
hostility took-the form of opposition, even to that simple request.

The cook, thinking what pregnancy would mean to her, said:

"Eat it.  You asked for food, and that is food.  Eat it!"

"I can't," Senya said, thinking how awful, how unthinkable, it would be
for her to eat a delicious savoury dumpling while her master ate stale
bread and sour cheese.  They whispered together.  The cook said: "Eat
it.  You shall have something to take home with you."

"Eat it," the girl urged, wondering how long it would be before the
one, the chosen, deserted her and she must console herself with the
many.

"Eat it," the boy said, contrasting what she had foretold with what he
had hoped for.

So she ate it and it was so delicious that she abandoned the restrained
manner of eating which she had adopted when, years ago, Melchior had
said--Come, sit and eat, Senya, while the dish is hot.  She allowed her
teeth to clash, her lips to slap audibly, and somehow that added to her
enjoyment of the dumpling.

Then, all suddenly, the boy said:

"I've seen you before.  It's bothered me, all the time.  You serve that
crazy old man who lives in the tower."

Shame and disgrace; Melchior's slave, going about trying to tell
fortunes, begging for food.

She said, "What tower?  What crazy man?  I come from Pyangyong."

"Then you must," he said, 'be sister to the old woman who awaits upon
the madman in the tower at the top of the hill."

She could not disgrace her master, so she denied him.

"I may have a sister of whom I know nothing.  And I know nothing of
madmen in towers.  I am from Pyangyong.  A poor widow."

The cook said, "And you want something to eat this evening, I will
fetch it."

Well, that was what she had come out for; something for her master to
eat tomorrow; and she had achieved it.  Scooping up the last bit of
dumpling, Senya said, "Thank you.  Thank you kindly."

The cook came back and handed to Senya one of those woven reed baskets
in which fish and fruit were often carried.  Such baskets were made by
blind children in Pyangyong; some charitable ladies saw to it that
there was always a supply of reeds, and they bullied shopkeepers into
buying the baskets.  A large household could collect four or five in a
single day, and it was regarded as an unworthy act ever to hand back
the baskets; if you had a use for them, well and good, if not they
should be burned or dug into the garden to rot and enrich the soil;
only thus could the orphans continue to eat, the ladies to be
charitable.  The basket she now had in her hand was closed by a sharp
wooden skewer which pinned its edges together.  And it weighed
beautifully heavy.  She was so glad that she had chosen to be paid in
food, for no sum she would have dared if asked could have bought so
much solid heavy provender.

She pushed her hands into her ragged multiplicity of sleeves and bowed,

expressing her gratitude again and again.  Thehostility she thought
she had sensed had vanished by this time, and they all smiled at her.
The boy said, "Enjoy your supper!"

"Oh, I shall.  I shall indeed.  There is enough here for many meals. On
the morrow's morrow I shall still be blessing you."

They smiled.

After the warmth of the kitchen the outer air struck even colder than
before; and because she had lied she was compelled to walk away,
downhill, as though making for the valley and the city beyond it.  That
was not all wasted effort, though, for she found, half buried in the
thawing mud, a sizeable log, and later, when she had turned and was
climbing back by a path which did not lead past the big house, she
found several small bushes which the winter had killed; she grubbed
them up, roots and all.  She was fully loaded as she made her way up
the steep incline below the tower breathless and rather dizzy, but too
happy to mind.  Food and fuel for two days.

The pig squealed when it saw her and then again, even more loudly, when
she passed it by without a glance.

She re-lighted the fire first, feeding the feeble flame twig by twig
and then putting one of the roots in place.  The log was damp, and she
laid it in the hearth where it could dry out a little.  Then, as
excited as a pampered wife who on New Year's Day had received a
prettily wrapped parcel the contents of which she could not guess, she
opened the basket and gave a yelp of dismay.  There was nothing edible
in it at all.

What had weighed so heavy were some shards, the broken remains of a
heavy jar, and a piece of dried plaster from a crumbling wall, and a
great bone, bare and bleached.

She remembered the way the three had whispered together-planning this;
the way the inexplicable hostility had given way to smiles; the latent
cruelty in the way they had forced her to eat what she had wished to
bring away.  Who could have believed that there were people in the
world so lacking in all feeling, so downright wicked as to have played
this heartless trick on her?  I did them no harm, she thought.  And all
at once she was crying.

Her life, pleasant compared with that of most slaves, and quiet, had
for years been a hard one; she had suffered her share of aches and
pains, but she came of a hardy stock, possessed of an animal-like
patience and fortitude and she hadn't wept since she was a girl, taking
the wilted flower from behind her ear, smelling the wasted scent on her
palms, knowing that it was all useless.  She had wept then, slow
sensual tears.  Now she wept tears of rage and disappointment, and
guilt because she had eaten the dumpling, because she had let herself
be deceived.  Oh, how she longed to punish them all; not realising that
she had done so; that the cook would lie down tonight counting days on
her fingers, and the young girl wonder how she could bear many lovers
when she loved but one, and the boy dream of .the harsh fabrics, the
discomforts, the rigours and dangers that made up a soldier's life.

She cried for some minutes, with harsh, angry-sounding snorts.  Then
she realised that the light was changing.  Soon it would be dark.

The day was ending.  What a wasted day.  The night would come, and the
morning; her master would come down from his tower and she would have
nothing to offer him except the half-portion of a half-portion of bread
and cheese--and they both seemed to have grown smaller while she was
away.  The thought brought her back to her ordinary dumb, doggedly
enduring self.  She mopped her eyes and blew her nose on one of her
sleeves and asked herself--What can I do?

Outside, the pig also saw daylight declining and cried aloud his hunger
and despair.

I shall kill the pig, Senya said to herself.

Never before, in all her years of servitude, had she acted in defiance
of an order, even an unspoken one.  Every time that she had mentioned
the pig, during these hungry days, she had been inviting Melchior's
order.  It had not been given.  That might be simply his usual
dilatoriness about everyday things, or it might imply that for some
obscure reason of his own he did that wish the pig to be slaughtered.
But she intended to kill it.  For many reasons.  ' One she recognised;
plain sense; an unfed pig lost flesh.

Another she recognised; there was nothing else to eat; and it took some

time to dress a pig carcass and make it fit for food.Another she
recognised; she now had fuel.One reason, good and valid, she never even
thought of.  The feeling of fury, the desire for vengeance, had been
building up in her ever since she opened that basket.  Rage must be
vented on something or somebody.  The pig was the only available
victim.

Savagely she sharpened the knife on the hearthstone.  A pig-killing is
never a pleasant process; and when the butcher is an old woman,
enfeebled by long malnutrition and already exhausted by effort and
emotion, and the pig is young and lively and madly hungry, several
macabre touches are added to what is at best a bloody business.  But
her mind was set, and she had him cornered at last and she cut his
throat, slash, slash, slash, one for each of the people who had made a
fool of her that day.  Once it was done she was calm.  Outside, in the
pen where the pig had spent his short, hungry little life, she
disembowelled him, carefully saving such of the offal as was edible.
Then, as dusk fell, she dragged the body indoors and with one last
expenditure of energy, managed to get it suspended from a hook.  She
added another root to the fire and set a pan of water to boil.  Soon,
slowly, because she was tired, but doggedly, she began to dress the
carcass.

For Melchior, high in his tower, the time had passed unmarked.  The
sunset, pink and purple, golden and a clear cold green, spreading all
over the sky to the west, brought him to his senses.  This day was
almost spent.  And inside the tower the cold had clamped down again.
The sky was still clear however.  He lit his brazier, not without
difficulty.  In his vague way, on the outer rim of his mind he had
never ceased to wonder at the fact that Senya, in many ways so witless,
could set flint to under and in almost no time have a fire going.
Whereas he, who could, had he been asked, have explained exactly why
flint struck on iron made a spark which lit the under, must strike
twenty times.  But in the end he had his fire, the twigs caught and he
blew upon them, gently, and presently the charcoal caught and began to
glow and give off a faint warmth.  He then took the water-jar from the
basket, and opened the door to the little side chamber which was a
stool room, with a chute which ran all the way down the side of the
tower into a cess-pit at the bottom.  He made use of it; then he poured
water into a bowl which stood on a tripod, a bowl which even then would
have commanded a good price and which presently was to be priceless, to
him just a pretty, useful bowl, and carefully washed his hands.  The
used water he poured down the chute.  Amongst all the other things
which he must deal with tomorrow was the bringing up of at least two
full jars of water so that the chute might be thoroughly flushed.
Senya's awkwardness about the rope had somewhat defeated him there.
Clever as she was at making fires and in other ways, she had never
quite' managed the business of sending up that extra jar of water that
was needed.  But no matter.  If he had been right in his calculations,
tomorrow he would be a free man, able to give his mind to things like
flushing the chute and providing food for himself, Senya and the pig.
He was not so stupid as not to have realised that Senya thought him
foolish over the pig.  He knew, very well, that a young pig must be
fed, must be fattened all through the months until autumn when it would
be fit to kill.  But until this moment he had foreseen a situation in
which he might need another sheet of paper, and the pig was his one
saleable asset.  So he had been able to ignore Senya's hints, and the
pig's squeals; for work came first, and he was prepared to say, "Take
the pig and sell it and bring me back a piece of paper or parchment
whichever is handiest."

He went back into the tower room and sat down by the brazier.  He
reached for the basket and found the bread and the cheese.  More than
he had expected to find.  Enough for twenty-four hours, he had told
himself, and here was enough for two days.  The old woman's whining
voice, talking about imminent starvation, came back into his mind.
Women worried so, he thought.  Food and fuel, the contents of the
cooking pot--that was about as far as their minds could reach, poor
creatures!  And he felt a little guilty pang; he might have seemed
oblivious to the plight in which he and Senya and the poor little pig
were involved; but actually he was not.  He'd seen this crisis coming

quite a long time ago, and he knew how he must deal with it.Tomorrow
or the next day he must go down to Pyangyong and offer to teach.  To a
man of his kind, after so many years of quiet, dedicated, study, of
separation from the world, the idea was appalling, but he had faced it,
and faced it now, without flinching.

He'd been, he realised, careless and remiss, especially lately, but
he'd been absorbed.  Tonight--unless his reckonings were very much
amiss, and after a day's final, critical scrutiny he couldn't see how
they could be--a comet would start on its elliptic course.  Melchior's
Comet.  He had foretold it, on his charts; he had marked its probable
course.  And having seen it, having proved his worth as an astronomer,
he would go down and hire himself out for regular salary; and old Senya
could have her tea, her honey and flour and soya meal and everything
else which he knew she had missed and craved.

Eating his meagre meal, slowly, fastidiously, he refused to think of
himself, back in his old age in the crowded corridors, the packed halls
of the university, facing all those lumpish young men, sent--as he
himself had been sent--to get a smattering of learning.  There might be
one, just one, similar to himself, just one who cared for learning for
its own sake, not as a means by which to gain respect from the vulgar,
or to obtain a job.  That one might be worth teaching.

Mumbling the stale bread, the hard cheese, he thought of that potential
one and refused to think of the hundreds who had no wish to learn.

Then he took one mouthful, no more, of the rice wine, to clear the
crumbs from his mouth.  And he was ready.  The sunset had died into a
faint yellow line between the earth and the sky.  Now, now, he thought,
I am about to know whether I was right or wrong.  He took his glass
from the box and carefully climbed the steps of the ladder.  For some
reason always oh the ladder, never on the stairs, he remembered that
old men were prone to fall and their bones were brittle.  One day he
was going to think about this oddity, it had something to do with the
solidity of what you climbed upon; on the stairs you didn't sec how far
away the earth was; climbing the ladder you were conscious of the
floor.  Also, of course, he must carry the precious glass as though it
were his child, his son, his first-born.  He mounted carefully, full of
expectation.

When he descended he came down the ladder like a cat dislodged from a
wall.  It was black night except for the stars and a small pink glow
from the brazier.  He found a stump of candle, made a light, pulled his
stool up to the bench, reached for the chart and his tools and set to
work.  He breathed in quick, shallow gasps and his heart thudded so
heavily that the vibration shook his hands.  He had been right; the sky
had been pregnant, and it had brought forth, not the comet that he had
expected, nor an ordinary star to add to the existing myriads.  He had
half foreseen, and then witnessed the birth of the star of stars.  Now
he must make certain adjustments to his chart and work out the full
meaning of what even his cautious mind recognised as a phenomenon.

When he had finished, in the bitter cold hour before dawn, he said to
himself--Greater than Alexander!  And he thought-It may be that I am
the only man alive who knows this, and if that is so ... He
straightened his bowed shoulders to take the weight of the enormous
responsibility.  The expression of awe upon his face gave way to one of
determination.

He reached for a map and spread it."  It was unsatisfactory; all maps
were; too many blank spaces.  It was curious that men had never yet
succeeded in making maps of the solid earth--which could be walked upon
and surveyed--anything like as complete and accurate as the charts
which he and others had made of the unreachable sky.  But no matter.
There would be other maps, in other places.  The one he held had been
made on the assumption that Pyangyong was the centre of the world;
map-makers in places blank on this map would have worked on some
similar assumption; he would have to find his way as he moved.

Now he must think practically.  Amusement brushed the surface of his
mind as he remembered that on this day, just dawning, he had intended
to be practical; had meant to go into Pyangyong and stick his head into
the scholastic yoke and work for his keep, like an ox.  There was a
joke, one which it was unlikely that he would ever be able to share

with anyone.  For amoment the completeness of his loneliness appalled
him.  And so did his penury.  He had no money, no friend from whom he
could borrow.

But he had one asset, his tower.  And for that there was only one
potential buyer--the University at Pyangyong.  He felt a momentary
regret that he had not bothered to keep on good terms with the
governing body of the University; he had refused or neglected
invitations to lecture to the students or to dine with the faculty.
Still, what he was offering to sell was unique, they must realise that.
If they failed to, if they hesitated or haggled he must sell it to a
speculator, not for what it was, the best observatory in the world, but
as a collection of stone from which many houses could be built, and a
collection of glass, enough to glaze many window openings .. . but he
hoped that it would not come to that.

Pushing away the distasteful thought he busied himself; he took his
chart and the map, rolled them tightly and slipped them into a hollow
bamboo case.  He pushed those of his tools that he thought he might
need into the loose front of his robe.  Then, holding the tiny wafer of
candle in his hand, he looked about the room in which he had spent his
life, his youth, his energy.  He never expected to see it again.  He
was, after all, seventy-five years old and he was setting out on a
journey such as few men had ever faced.  Destination unknown.  There
would be deserts and mountains and rivers; there might be wild animals,
robbers, places where war was being waged.  He thought of all the
hazards and did not quail.  Only one thing mattered, and that was that
he should get there in time and tell what he knew, what the stars had
told him.

From habit he closed the door carefully behind him and then hurried
down the stairs.

The room at the bottom smelt of smouldering wood, and of an old woman
who had not washed or changed her clothes since last summer, and of
something else which he could not identify.  Senya lay asleep by a
fire; in better days, with fuel more plentiful, she had often scorched
her outer clothing, but there was little danger of that now.  Against
the wall there was something pale, something that had not been there in
the morning.  He raised the dying candle and peered.  Ah, the pig!
Killed and dressed.

Even in his haste and excitement he had time to think how strange it
was that she had known!  When people lived in close company, as he and
Senya had for so many years, it seemed that they developed a
link--Greek expressed it best, telepathy.  He had sometimes thought
that this was a subject worth investigating.  Once, up in the tower, he
had been stricken with such pain in his back that he had only just
managed to crawl downstairs, and when he reached the kitchen Senya had
been brewing the stinking liniment that he needed.  And another time,
in Pyangyong, buying paper and ink he had suddenly thought--Salt!  and
had bought a block and carried it home and Senya had said, "I needed
salt, master."

Now she had known, by that same peculiar means, that he was about to
make a journey and would need food to take with him.

He roused her gently.  Credulous people believed in dichotomy, soul and
body; they believed that when a person slept the soul left the body and
that if the body were too abruptly wakened the soul might not find its
way back.  Melchior held no beliefs of that kind, but he was not a man
to scorn the beliefs of others, so he called her name, softly, then
more loudly and only when she stirred and groaned did he put his hand
on her shoulder and give her a little shake.  She opened her eyes and
said, in alarm:

"It is morning?"

"Very early morning.  I see you have killed the pig."

She gave him the lie which had come to her overnight, comforting,
sleep-inducing.

"Master, the pig died.  The pig died of hunger."

"You had the good sense to dress it at once.  It will be edible," he
said.  And she saw that he was pleased that the pig was dead and ready
to eat; she wished she had not lied about the manner of its death.

"I scalded and scraped it, master," she said with eager servility.

"If you wish you can have liver for breakfast."


He said, "I have no time for breakfast.  I must go intoPyangyong.  But
I should be very glad if you could cook some of the meat, cook it well,
with salt, so that it keeps.  I could take some on my journey."

"Your journey?  Master, what journey?  To me you said nothing of a
journey."

"I knew nothing, until a little time ago.  I must go now.  I must be in
Pyangyong early; to sell this tower and buy a camel."

"A camel?"  She had an irritating habit of picking a word from what he
had said and repeating it.

"Master, where would you be going on a camel?"

"That I do not know.  To the south-west.  I shall learn as I go. Senya,
I shall need my hat."

It was so long since he had been out of doors and needed his hat that
for a moment she stood, perplexed, saying the word 'hat' over and over.
Then she remembered that she had put it carefully away, and went and
fetched it, and offered it, respectfully.  He set it on his head and it
was incongruous wear with his soiled, faded robe, for it was a hat of
quality, made of good felt, black, and lacquered all over to make it
rainproof.  She wished she had had more warning; he could have stayed
in bed one day and she could have washed his robe.

"Now," he said.

"I don't know how long this business will take.  I shall be back as
soon as possible.  Meanwhile, cook some of the meat, cook it hard, with
plenty of salt, so that it travels well."

He stepped into the morning air, which though cold seemed a trifle less
so than yesterday's.

"And if you need fuel," he said, astounding her, 'there is a fence
around the pig-pen, and as there is now no pig, it may be burned."

She realised that she herself would have gone past the pen a hundred
times and never thought of that.

Then, picking over all that he had said in so short a time, she
recalled that he had said he intended to sell the tower.  And what is
to happen to me?  I'm old and feeble, nobody would give a handful of
meal for me.  I'm old, I'm useless, my ears buzz and if I stoop I fall
down; I am of less worth than a worn-out donkey.  The tower is my home.
When it is sold I shall be homeless, after all these years.  The
thought was all the more shocking because she had never, in all her
life, given her personal future so much as a glance; well-born families
such as Melchior's never discarded their slaves, however old and
tiresome they might become; broken in body and sometimes of mind the
old creatures squatted about, certain of their rice bowl and a
spare-rib to gnaw on.

I shall starve to death, out in the open, like a dog with no owner, she
thought; and again she wept.

Weeping she tugged up the stakes of the fence and made the best fire
the little kitchen had seen for years; weeping she hacked away at the
pig's carcass, choosing all the best pieces for him to take with him.
The salt of her tears fell into the brine as she cooked.  Yet she
cooked carefully.  He might be planning to abandon her, but he was her
master still, and her beloved.  He'd ignored what she had offered, so
shyly, so passionately, all those years ago; he'd ignored her warnings;
though courteous always he had ignored her warnings; and now he was
about to ignore her plight; but that made no difference.  ' It was
after midday when he came back, riding on a camel.  Not a good one.  A
single glance from her smoke-reddened, tear-blurred eyes told her that.
It was an old darnel, with a hard life behind it.  He would have done
better to let her do the buying; but then how could she?  Yesterday she
had been unable to even reach the village, she could not today have
walked to Pyangyong..  ... He was pleased with his camel, and with all
his other arrangements.  And he had not forgotten her.

"I realised," he said gravely, 'that this Had been your home for many
years, Senya; so I included you in the contract.  You are to be the
caretaker.  Students will come and go, because this is now the chief
observatory in Pyangyong, and so long as you feel able to stay here and
keep the place tidy, you are the caretaker.  But you are also a free
woman; and when you no longer wish to work you will receive a

pension--enough to live upon.  You do understand me, Senya?"She began
to weep again and to thank him; but he cut her short.

"Is the meat ready?"

"It is cooked, but still hot.  Master, you are not leaving now!  The
light is fading; soon it will be night."

"I intend," he said, 'to travel much by night.  And I must leave at
once."

"But why?  Why is there such haste?"

"Because of what I know.  I fear that only I know this thing.  There is
a warning to be given.  And not a moment to waste."

She packed as much of the still-warm, greasy meat as she could cram
into two of the reed baskets, and then went out and helped Melchior to
attach-them and the bamboo chart case to the camel.  Then she stood
back.

Now all was done; the last service rendered.  The heart which she had
thought broken on summer evenings long ago, broke anew.

Something of her 'dumb misery made itself known to Melchior.

He said, "You have served me so well, Senya, that I never missed the
others.  I think I shall call this camel by your name."

The misery was not eased; he tried again.

"You will be safe and comfortable.  I put it all in writing.  You are a
free woman and will be paid for what you do here; and when you can no
longer do it, you will still be paid.  You understand?"

She took his hand and bowed over it.

"May all the gods and the spirits of your ancestors and of mine, have
you in safe-keeping, wherever you go, my master."

He looked at her, seeing her properly for the first time now that he
was unlikely ever to see her again.  Poor old woman; poor faithful old
woman, grown grey and bent in his service.  He stooped and for a second
laid his cheek against hers.  A gesture of love.  At last!  she
thought, and felt repaid for everything.

The relatives to whom Anne had referred with pride, Mary's cousin
Elisabeth and her husband, a temple priest, lived in a hill village
within walking distance of Jerusalem; and there Elisabeth had made a
garden which was justly famous.  Elisabeth herself, by nature a woman
somewhat silent and reserved, warmed when speaking of her flowers and
herbs, her fruit and vegetables.  She would say that the garden was her
own creation; and that was true."  Just over forty years earlier, when
she had come, a bride of seventeen, to this house the ground around it
had been an unsightly waste, its thin soil trodden hard over the stones
that lay near the surface, and nothing grew except a few tough weeds.
Former occupants of the house had used the space as a drying ground for
linen and a place to throw rubbish.

She had begun to work on the garden immediately after her arrival, for
then she found time heavy on her hands.  She had been the eldest
daughter of a large family, always busy.  Now, with Zacharias so often
absent on his temple duties, she was much alone with little to do.  She
was not the kind of woman to make friends quickly.

Zacharias in his spare time had helped to clear away the rubbish and to
remove the largest of the stones and to dig a little.  He was a
leisurely mover and teased her about the haste with which she worked
herself.  Gardens, he said, weren't made in a year.  She was too
reserved and shy to tell him that she wanted all the heavy work done in
a month or two because she hoped soon to be in a condition which would
render digging and stone-hauling unwise.  As she worked she often
thought to herself-Next year!  She saw a plump healthy baby lying on a

mat in the shade, then taking a few tottering steps.But at the year's
end she was still able to work; to gather basketfuls of stones and take
them out and throw them amongst others on the hillside and then refill
the baskets with the fine silty soil which the rain washed down from
the hills.  She had plaited trees, a fig tree near the house door,
almond, apricot and plum and apple trees along her boundary; young
trees that would, grow as the child grew.  For she was certain of a
child next year.

So year had succeeded year and hope had died a long-drawn-out death. By
this time she' knew her neighbours and had more than once heard women
with several children mourn a new pregnancy.

"Another mouth to feed," they said.  Once, when her herb garden was
well established and known, a woman had come to her and after some
half-sentences and evasions had voiced an inquiry and a request.

"There are seven already and my man is poor; how shall we manage?"
Elisabeth, explaining with some embarrassment, that she had nothing of
that kind in her garden, had thought how inexplicable, how seemingly
unjust God was.  An eighth child to a woman already overburdened, and
her own arms still empty.

The woman had found what she sought and almost died of the bitter brew
and that child was never born.

Nobody, not even Zacharias, had ever heard Elisabeth repine.  Only her
garden knew how often, coming back from the well or from the market,
she would walk with rapid, agitated steps and wring her hands and cry,
"God, my God, why?  What have I done?  What has he, your servant, done
that we should be cursed?"  The flowers had held their innocent faces
towards her, offered their perfume for comfort.  Very slowly,
grudgingly she had abandoned hope, and, without realising it, had
allowed the garden to fill the empty place in her life.  In some ways
it was like a child; it needed constant attention; it progressed in
little steps; it was something that she had made.  In hot dry summers
she would go twice, three times to the well; on the much-travelled road
into Jerusalem she would gather dung.  The garden flourished and was
beautiful; even the fence that divided it from the road was a thing of
beauty, thickly covered with morning glories, so gloriously blue, and
thicket roses, coloured like a summer sunset.  And all within the
fence, the flower-beds, the herb patches, the vegetable strips were
neat and tended and precise, the living embroidery which she had worked
upon the stony hillside.

And it had been, appropriately, in the garden that the miracle had
happened.  It had been an autumn evening, mild and mellow, and she had
been gathering fallen leaves and heaping them in a corner where through
the winter they would rot into the cool, dark substance which in the
early summer of next year, spread around the roots of trees and
flowers, would help to prevent the soil from drying out.

Zacharias had come to her there, looking, as he always did after his
spells of duty in the Temple, pale and tired.  She had risen, rubbing
her hands together and said:

"Supper is ready."

And he'd mouthed at her, his lips moving but making no sound.  He used
his hands, touching his lips, beckoning her into the house.

She thought--He's had a seizure!  And a great weight of guilt fell upon
her.  She hadn't valued Zacharias as he should have been valued.  She'd
thought always about the child, and then she had transferred her
attention, to the garden, not realising that despite all she had been
singularly blessed, having a good husband.

"You're sick," she said.  But he shook his head and would not take the
arm she offered to help him into the house.  And she, watching him, saw
that he walked- as usual, if anything more vigorously.  ' "What is it?"
she asked, and he shook his head and smiled.

Inside the house he had gone straight to his own special table, taken
up a waxed tablet and his stylus and written something and held it out
to her.  She could read a little.  Early in their marriage, sensing her
unspoken discontent, he had taught her to read, even to write a few
words.  But her heart had never been with her studies, and his vague
hope of turning her into another Anne, a woman he knew, childless, a
widow, but happy because she was studious, had been defeated.  Still,
Elisabeth could read, and having read what he had written, and

reinexplicable, how seemingly read it, in case she had made a mistake,
she had looked at him and said:

"Can you hear?  Nod, if you can."

He had nodded.

She said.

"It is impossible.  I am too old."

He snatched back the tablet and wrote, "Remember Sarah."

She said, "Yes, I remember Sarah, but that was all long ago, "in the
days of the Patriarchs.  Nothing like that could happen now."

She was expressing the feeling of many Jews of her time; the age of
miracles was past.  Zacharias wrote again.

"Great things impend.  This child will be the forerunner."

She read the words and looked at him a little fearfully.  Except for
her barrenness they had been a happy couple, but there were great
tracts of his mind, even of his life which she could never hope to
understand.  He was a priest; he was allowed by right to enter the
inner court of the Temple where no lay person could go; he was deeply
religious, almost a mystic.  She asked, "How do you know?"

Bit by bit, writing brief, succinct sentences, he told her how, in the
middle of his duties at the altar, he had seen an angel, Gabriel, who
had said that their prayers were to be answered and that she would bear
a son, to be called John; a very special child who was to prepare the
way for the Messiah.

"And I was struck dumb," the last sentence read.  Her fear and her
uneasiness grew.  One did not contradict one's husband; one did not
argue with a priest of God.  But she was unable to rid herself of the
thought that he had been taken ill--visions often accompanied
illnesses.

"Otherwise are you well?"  she asked.  He nodded and wrote, "I am
happy.  You?"

"Yes," she said, untruthfully, "I am happy."  In truth she was puzzled,
incredulous, miserable about her incredulity and worried about him. All
that evening she fussed over him, treating him as she would treat a man
who had had some severe physical shock.  When, just before bedtime, she
presented him with a steaming bowl of her famous herb brew which her
neighbours had come to regard as a panacea for anything short of a
broken limb he had broken into silent laughter, and reaching for his
writing tablet, wrote:

"I am not sick.  I am to be dumb until the child is born.  Punishment
for disbelief.  Be warned!"

It was the first time in over forty years of married life that he had
ever shown any sign of levity, and that, somehow, increased her
uneasiness.

Long after he was asleep she lay by his side and thought it all over
and asked herself--How shall I know?  In her child-bearing days a
woman's life was ruled by the moon.  A disturbance, an interruption
could be noticed, interpreted with joy or with dismay.  She knew; there
was no woman in the world, she thought, who had more closely checked
her reckonings.  A day's delay and she had hoped .. . But it was a full
ten years since the moon's courses and hers had ceased to be connected.
Ten years ago since she had, at last, abandoned all hope.  And
Zacharias' admonition to remember Sarah had a peculiar sting.  For
quite a few months she had remembered Sarah with whom it had ceased to
be after the manner of women, and she envied that long dead woman very
greatly.  But ten years ... Zacharias remained dumb and
Elisabethremained dubious.  But changes came, things the most realistic
and incredulous of women could hardly overlook.  Her skin regained its
lost bloom, her hair its lustre; the early-morning made itself felt. 
And her body, like a ripening fruit, began to swell.

One day she could say to Zacharias, without any reserve at all, "It is
true!"

And on his tablet he wrote, "I told you!"

She was unthinkably happy, but embarrassed, too--and there again,
ashamed of her embarrassment as she had been of her disbelief.  Women
always pretended that they could not reckon, but they were sharp enough
where another woman's age was concerned.  There wasn't a woman at the
well or in the market who wouldn't know that Elisabeth, the wife of
Zacharias, was fifty-seven years old, and even if she could bring
herself to tell them the truth, was there one who would believe it? Not
one.  They'd look on her as a poor self-deluded creature,

afflictedwith one of those slowly killing growths in the womb,
pretending to believe that she was with child.  The herbs she grew and
the draughts she made from them had brought her into contact with many
people, sick of mind or body and she knew about life fantasies such
people wove.  She hated the thought of such a fantasy being attributed
to her.

So he had refused to leave her house.  Zacharias had written his
protests and she had said, "When the child is born, I will go out with
it in my arms, or ask them in to see."

Everyone in the village knew that Zacharias had lost his power of
speech and imagined that this fact had so upset Elisabeth that she was
unable to go to the well or to market.  A girl, extravagantly rewarded
for such service, delivered water daily and Zacharias bought everything
that was needed in the markets of Jerusalem.  That Elisabeth's distaste
for going out and exposing her state was no mere whim had been proved
to him by her attitude to her cousin Mary's wedding.  It was due to
take place when Elisabeth was in her eighth month; a good time, really,
all the early inconveniences and dangers over and done with, and a
pregnant woman, moving slowly, commanding deference, could take,
amongst friends and relatives, her rightful, proud place.

But Elisabeth had said, "I cannot go.  I love my cousin Mary, and if I
could see her alone I would gladly go.  But there's Anne--imagine how
she would look at me; and there'll be women of my age trying to arrange
marriages for their granddaughters.  Zacharias, I could not face it.
Please, write and say that your duties at the Temple will prevent us
from attending."  He had intended to write, but he had never been
obliged to do so, for in Elisabeth's sixth month, Mary's wedding date
still two months away, they had had word that Mary was already married.
Rabbi had communicated with Rabbi, link by link, a chain that reached
over the eighty intervening miles, and Zacharias and Elisabeth were "in
due time informed that to suit Joseph's convenience, the marriage had
been put forward by two months.  It had therefore been a small wedding,
and had lasted only one day.  Elisabeth was relieved, and yet
concerned.  It sounded as though Mary, that sweet, gentle creature,
might have chosen a selfish man.  After all, a girl's wedding day was
her one great day; and she shouldn't be cheated of it to suit the
bridegroom's convenience.  If a man had never given the woman he chose
any consideration and meant never to give her any, he usually allowed
her that one great day, thinking nothing of his own convenience.

"I hope she will be happy," Elisabeth said, looking back over her own
marriage which, apart from that one lack, had been so very happy.

"We must send her our gift."

They'd spent time and thought on it; nothing of wood, Mary was
marrying, they knew, a carpenter, so she would be well supplied with
anything in that line; and Elisabeth, though she had not seen her Aunt
Anne for some years, knew that anything practical, linen, blankets,
bowls, could be counted upon to come from her.

"She's very fond of lilies," Elisabeth said.

"And I will send her a dozen good bulbs; but from us there should be
something more."  .."

She knew that with Zacharias in regular employment and--as in Nazareth
they would still think--childless, something generous would be expected
of them.  And one day, without warning, Zacharias, setting down the
stores he had carried, and smiling, showed her the exact thing.  It was
a coin, known as a rose jekkal, the rarest and most valuable Coin in
the world.  Not only for its worth, for its beauty.  On one side, not
imprinted but embossed, there was a full-blown rose, exact, even to a
thorn; on the other there were symbols, words!  perhaps, in a language
nobody could read.  For the rose jekkals came from far, far away and if
four of them reached Jerusalem in a single year, that was the most.
They were eagerly sought after and the woman who could hang a rose
jekkal amongst the coins of her head-dress was a proud woman indeed.

Zacharias held the lovely coin on his palm and invited her approval;
dumbly, like a trained hound.

Elisabeth said, "For Mary ?"  and he nodded.

She said, "It is beautiful; and, with the lily bulb, a fine gift.  How

clever of you.  Where did you find it?"He wrote on the tablet which he
now always carried.

"At the money-changer's stall."

It was just right; a thing of beauty, a thing of value, a suitable
accompaniment to the lily bulbs.  And yet, Elisabeth thought, tupping
to the hearth, not right, in some mysterious way.  Mary, as she
remembered her, had such a lovely brow, so calm and smooth, with the
hair growing back from it in such a pretty way.  For some reason it was
difficult to imagine Mary, the young Mary, with the usual coin
collection dangling between the curve of her eyebrows and the curve of
her hair.  It would seem a deformity.

Nonsense, nonsense, Elisabeth told herself.  Mary, like every other
married woman, would now begin to make the collection of coins for the
head-dress which constituted in fact, every respectable family's
nest-egg.  And Mary, who loved even the wild cornflower, would love the
rose.

Lifting the pot from the hearth, she said, "We must find a trustworthy
messenger to carry it."  And she said again that it had been clever of
him to obtain it.  She said, "If I thought I could get in and out of
Nazareth without seeing Anne, who, though she is my aunt, is younger
than I, I would take it myself.  I think that Mary is the one woman in
the world whom I could tell, and be at ease with."

Zacharias wrote on his tablet, "Go."  He was sure that she had only to
cross the threshold and she would be released.  It was said--though
he'd never tested the theory, that one could confine a hen by drawing a
chalk circle; and there were times when Elisabeth, in her present
state, seemed to him to be similarly confined by a barrier of which
only she was aware.

While the subject was still under discussion they received a letter,
written in a large, squarish hand and in the black graphite with which
carpenters marked measurements on rough boards.  The journey had
smudged it but it was legible.  It said, simply, "My name is Joseph,
Mary my wife, who is your cousin, would like to visit you.  Friends
leave for Jerusalem on the twelfth day of the month and she could come
with them."  The bearer of the letter, a pedlar, in Jerusalem to stock
up with what he called 'pretty things'said that he was intending to
return to So Galilee and would carry their reply.  Zacharias wrote that
Mary would be most welcome.

Elisabeth, though delighted at the prospect of seeing Mary and having
her under her roof, was perturbed again.  In the first months of one's
marriage, if it were a happy one, one did not give much thought to
cousins, or propose an eighty-mile journey in order to visit them.  She
remembered how, last time they met, at the wedding of another cousin,
her Uncle Joachim had said that when Mary was old enough to marry he
hoped it would be to someone she loved.  Elisabeth, a conventional
woman, could see an clement of danger there; girls so often liked men
for all the wrong reasons.  How, at the age of sixteen or seventeen, if
properly reared, could they know anything about men, know what to look
for and what to avoid?  Such things were better left to parents who had
some standard judgement, some experience, and cool heads.  Mary might
have made a mistake, been misled by good looks or a persuasive
tongue.

And yet the letter had something frank and straightforward about it;
and would a selfish man--and such the wedding arrangements had
indicated Joseph to be--have written at all, been willing so soon to
spare his bride from his bed and his hearth?

She turned the letter about as though it might have some hidden
information to offer; and in a way it had, for it was written upon the
back of a draft obviously from the skilled hand of an architect; the
plan of a large house, almost a mansion, and in the lower left-hand
corner were the words--"House of Nathaniel in Cana'.  A possible
explanation occurred to her;, Cana was seven miles from Nazareth and if
Joseph were working under pressure he would not get home until well
after dark, on some nights perhaps not at all.  He might have qualms
about leaving Mary alone.  Mary might not wish to be left alone.
Against the explanation must be set the fact that Mary's parents were
in the village..  ..

Well, she must wait; when Mary came she would tell her everything, no
doubt, for despite the disparity in their ages on the few occasions

when they had met they had always beencongenial.

The family with whom Mary was travelling as far as Jerusalem was on its
way to attend a Bar-mitzvah of a young relative there, and they were
very merry.  The weather was fine and warm, not yet the blistering heat
of high summer; in the fields the crops were ripening, poppies and
cornflowers abounded, vetches and honeysuckles threw their tendrils
over every fence and post.  The father of the family had made this
journey several times before and knew many short-cuts, through fields
and by-ways, and Mary was always glad to leave the highroad where
sights, distressing to her, were to be seen.

After Gibeon, however, they kept to the road and joined up with other
foot-travellers, for the hills were full of robbers, apt to attack any
small party.

There was so much chatter and laughter that there was little chance to
think much.  A mile short of the city their ways parted.  The head of
the family issued a hearty invitation to her to enter the city with
them and partake of the hospitality in his relative's house--everybody
was welcome on such occasions; and it was a shame--he said to be so
near and miss a chance of seeing Jerusalem.  But she was anxious to see
Elisabeth, and anxious to be alone.  So, thanking him, she said that
she could see the city under Zacharias' guidance almost any day.  And
when they had made certain that she had only a short distance to go,
and that over a safe road, they left her.

It was now seven weeks since the angel had visited her and they had
been seven weeks of unreality and confusion.  The wedding, so hastily
arranged, yet, in Anne's capable hands, so correct; a girl's great day;
to her part of a waking dream.  Clad in her grandmother's beautiful
gown, receiving compliments and good wishes and gifts, she had felt
utterly detached from it all.  She thought of women she knew--some of
them women to whom marriage had brought little happiness--who cherished
some trinket or piece of clothing, whose worn faces would brighten,
whose harsh voices would soften as they said, "I wrote it at my
wedding."  Yet here she was, with as much reason to be glad and
grateful that she was being married as any woman ever had, looking at
the smiling, friendly faces and thinking--If only you knew!

She'd looked at Joseph, too--the one person who did know-and saw with
consternation how he had changed in a handful of hours.  He'd always
worn his years lightly, taking few things seriously except his work,
and her; he'd always worn a cheerful, care-free look, in accord with
his roving, foot-free life; it had been so easy to visualise him
shouldering his tools and going off to see what the next place had to
offer.  That was all gone now; and his new air of responsibility which
would have been right and only slightly touching in a young man just
embarking upon the serious step of marriage, in him was very touching,
giving him an elderly, almost a troubled look.  She made up her mind to
be the best possible wife, always cheerful, patient and kind; she would
love him forever and try to make up ... Her thought jolted to a
standstill.  Make up for what?  Being chosen by God?

And so it had gone on.

Rachel, with the lazy Joshua astride her hip, had offered her a
present, a handsome oil-jar.

"I'll hope you'll be very happy, Mary," she said, and all her willing
could riot prevent her voice from revealing her doubt that any woman
could be really happy in marriage.  Then, in a different tone, she had
added, "And I hope you'll have a boy, like this, but less lazy."

And Mary had thought, dizzily--Suppose I said that I knew I should have
a son, and that he will be the Messiah.  Rachel would recoil, and
probably be so shocked she'd drop Joshua.

The grooms lifted and carried her to her new home; and she thought--You
little know whom you are carrying beside me!  And there the ritual
vase, the symbol of virginity, was broken, and the feast began.  Joseph
had cleared the workshop for the purpose, and Anne, loudly complaining
that she had had time to do nothing, had done marvels.  There was wine
which Joachim had been saving for the wedding, and Joseph also had a
jar; he gave it a peculiar look as he produced it, saying that it was
not quite full... as though that mattered I The feast had been very
merry; most of the guests lived lives on or only just above subsistence
level and were as much exhilarated by the food as by the wine, though

there was plenty of that, the company being so much smaller than it
would have been if held on the appointed day.  (Years later, she was to
remember this, to think--There was plenty of wine at my wedding, and
out of kindly pity for the embarrassment of a family less
well-provided, make a suggestion that was to result in what was to be
known as the first miracle.) Then it was dusk; there were children to
put to bed, animals to feed, hens to shut up against the prowling
foxes.  The company began to disperse.  Anne threw her arms about her
daughter in one last protective gesture; from this hour on the kindness
and the chiding and the sheltering care must come from another, from
this fellow who, in Anne's view, suddenly seemed quite incapable of
taking her place as Mary's guardian.  She said, "My dear, I wish you
every joy," and then, hearing and despising the tremor in her voice,
said sturdily and rather crossly, "It has been a pleasant day.  But
there should have been three!"

The age-old feud between the loving mother and the husband had claimed
another victim.

Joachim, very slightly inebriated--and why not?  It was, after all, his
daughter's wedding--sobered up suddenly and took Joseph by the shoulder
and said in a voice not completely void of menace:

"Use her gently.  You understand me?"

"I do indeed," Joseph said.  And he thought--That is the final irony;
if only he knew I Quiet had fallen upon the little house, and on the
workshop, littered with the remains of the wedding feast.

Watching her own hands as though they were those of another woman, Mary
had lighted, in her own house, her own lamp.

Joseph said, "What a day this must have been for you!"

"And for you," she said.

And he had thought,; God is not blind.  Far better me than some
untried, amorous boy.

He said, "I shall sleep in the shop.  I've slept in many worse places.
You take the bed and I hope you sleep well."

She'd reached out and taken one of his big work-hardened hands in
hers.

"Joseph, this was not of my choice.  It happened.  It happened to us
both."

"Yes," he said.

"It happened."  Something almost like resentment tinged his voice as he
thought of what the present moment might have been, but for what had
happened.  Hard on them both.

"It happened," he repeated, 'and we have to take it as it is.  You
don't look to me as though you've slept much these last two nights. Try
to sleep now.  This is God's doing and we must leave the outcome in His
hands."

She said impulsively, "I know why you were chosen, Joseph!  You're the
best man in the world."

He said, "No.  I reckon I just happened to be handy."  He shouldn't
have said that, he knew as soon as he had said it, and made a clumsy
attempt at a joke.

"Praising myself!  It's the best thing you can say of a carpenter--he's
a handy man."

In the morning the struggle between the real and the unreal tilted a
little.  She was in her own house, using her own bowls and knife and
spoons, taking bread from her own crock and making Joseph his piece to
take with him to eat at midday.  He went off to work and presently
Rachel called for her to go to the spring.  She was grateful to Rachel
for having broken through the rule about married women walking with
married women; she dreaded their eyes, their sly questions.  They knew,
or pretended to know, many signs which told whether a marriage had been
successfully consummated or not.  Rachel said, "Are you happy ?"  and
she said, wholeheartedly :

"Very happy.  I have a good man."  And there was that thought again--If
only you knew how good.

Leah and Susannah joined them and chatted girlishly about the wedding;
and suddenly, there with her friends, on the familiar path she was
overwhelmed by loneliness.  She thought with longing of Elisabeth and
wished with all her heart that she lived nearer.

Towards evening, making a meal with which to greet Joseph on his

return, things seemed ordinary again and continued sountil, in the
middle of eating, Joseph said:

"Mary, I've been thinking, on and off all day.  What are we going to
tell people?  And when?"

"I don't know?  I wanted you to believe me, and you did.  Beyond that I
haven't thought.  But I suppose we must .. ."  She shrank from the
thought of the disbelief, the jeers, even from the commotion that would
be aroused by those who did believe.  Almost sternly she said, "It is
the truth.  And it is something that concerns every Jew."

"Every Jew," Joseph agreed quickly, 'and a lot of others as well:

"What others?"

"Herod for one."  As he spoke the name of the King, far away in
Jerusalem, she realised how narrow her own imaginative view had been;
limited to Nazareth, to--to be honest--the women by the spring.

"I thought of him on my way to work this morning.  He's got less right
to the throne he sits on than I have; and he knows that.  I can't
imagine he'd ,dance for joy to hear that the promised heir to David's
throne will be born in nine months' time."

"That is true--but I should never have thought of it."  You could see
why a child--even such a child as this--needed a father and a mother;
this was the kind of thing that men thought of, and women did not.

"There's another thing, too, the Romans.  I know our beliefs mean
nothing to them, but they'd see danger.  The Jews aren't all that
settled yet.  Start a story of Messiah about to be born and the.
national feeling would stir.  The Romans know that, and they'd stop at
nothing to forestall it.  This is something we should take into
account, Mary.  They, or Herod, might easily do you an injury.  Herod
is a master-hand at arranging accidents for people he wants out of the
way.  And there is yet another thing..  ."  There was the faint
hesitation, the near-embarrasssment with which she was to become so
familiar.

"Nothing you were told sounded as though we were to go shouting from
the house-tops."

"No," she said slowly, thinking back.

"That is true."

"Then why not wait," he said, rather as though they had been arguing.

"Once he's born he'll be the Son of God.  How he'll be born or what we
should expect is a mystery to me, but once he's born, God will take
care of him, or perhaps he'll be born able to take care of himself.
It's you I'm concerned with now, and I can see danger for you.  Silence
may be part of the plan.  After all, you didn't go running to tell your
mother, did you?  You came to me.  And now I have this feeling .. ."

She said, "I should be glad to tell nobody.  It's such a very difficult
thing to put into words."

He nodded.

"I know.  With most situations there's some guide, other people have
been the same way and left their tracks.  We're in a situation nobody
has ever been in before.  We have no guide.  I think it would be wise
to say nothing until we have some sign."

"Unless," she said, "I should see Elisabeth.  I might not even have to
tell her; she might know.  Gabriel told me about her, he may have told
her about me."

He was amazed, as he was to be again with again by the simple,
matter-of-fact way in which she spoke of the archangel-as though he
were a neighbour, not the awesome, shining presence from the thought of
which his, own mind shied away..

He said, "Yes, it is a pity she doesn't live nearer."  And there the
conversation ended for the moment: Into his mind, though, had flashed
the thought of how lonely .she must be with a secret of such magnitude
that he had urged her not to share with anyone.  It was different for
him.  He had his work, his workmates.  Now that the anxiety that had
been with him all day was allayed he knew that there would be hours on
end when he would not give the matter a thought.

But the thought of her loneliness, brief though it was, had dropped a
seed which rooted and grew, and one day--again as he ate his supper, he
said:

"How would you like to go and visit Elisabeth?"

She said, "I would like it very much.  But how can I?  Who would look
after you?"


"That same stout fellow who's looked after me since I was sohigh," he
said, measuring a height from the floor.

"Joseph, the carpenter."

She laughed.

"You couldn't be in better hands.  But think of my mother; all her
plans for the wedding spoiled because you didn't like coming home to a
dead hearth; and then, in a few weeks I go gadding off to make a
visit."

"My fault," he said.

"I underestimated--a thing that has brought many good carpenters to
ruin.  You could tell your mother, and anyone else who was interested,
that we're now working such long hours that it would be better for me
to sleep on the site.  The masons have reared a good lodge and they'd
admit me, I'm a craftsman.  I've only made that trudge in order that
you shouldn't be in the house alone... ."

"Is that true?"

"In part; for your mother, wholly."

"Then she'll suggest that I go back home."

"Not if I have made other arrangements.  And I have.  I've been keeping
my ears open.  Joel and all his family are off to Jerusalem very soon.
You could travel with them.  Suppose I wrote to--what is his name?"

"Zacharias'.

"To Zacharias, and made all the arrangements?  Then you could go to
your mother and say Joseph has done this and that and she will not
question it.  Would you like that?"

"More than anything in the world..  .."  And then she realised.  What a
cruel, what a dreadful thing to have said.  There were forms of
brutality that had nothing to do with sticks or goads.

"I didn't mean that the way it sounded," she said.

"I love you, as no woman has ever loved a man before--not having the
reason for love that I have.  But as we are ... and if you are sure
that in the masons' lodge you will eat well, .."

"Masons," he said, 'eat like kings, every day.  So much building is
going forward that when they contract they can stipulate two meat meals
every day.  Shall I write the letter?"

"If you would.  If you are sure.... You see, you know, you believe, and
you understand; but there are times when a woman needs another woman;
and Elisabeth is the only one, the only one to whom I could talk."

"I'll write it now," he said.

So now, here she was, within sight of Elisabeth's garden which she had
never seen, but recognised from descriptions given by various members
of the family and, more modestly, by Elisabeth on the rare occasions
when they had met and sat and talked together, quietly in the midst of
hubbub.  That a miracle should have happened to Elisabeth was not in
the least surprising to Mary; Elisabeth was a rare person; she had
borne that curse of a Jewish woman, childlessness, with great
gallantry, without a complaint, without jealousy of.  luckier women.
She'd endured loneliness--his Temple duties often kept Zacharias away
from home for two or three days together; and out of her frustration
and solitude she had made beauty on a bare hillside.

As Mary walked, swiftly now, eager for their meeting, towards the place
of colour and perfume that was Elisabeth's garden, she saw her cousin
emerge from the house door, empty a bowl at the foot of a tree and then
stoop and straighten up with a bunch of yellow flowers, marigolds, in
her hand.  And it was true, Elisabeth, in the fifty-seventh year'of her
age, was heavily pregnant.

She had never doubted it; Gabriel had told her and she had believed,
just as she had believed what he had said about her own state; but
there was a difference, a very great difference, between believing in
your mind and seeing with your eyes.

She hurried forward, calling her cousin by name and Elisabeth, on her
way back into the house, halted and turned and came to open the gate in
the flowery fence.

"Mary!"she said; and Mary said:

"Oh, how I have longed to see you."  They were about to embrace and
then Elisabeth took a step backwards and turned pale and sweat sprang
out, like beads on her brow and upper lip.

"You!"  she said.

"You, Mary!  You are to be the mother of the Lord to whom my son is to
be the forerunner.  You, blessed above all women."

Mary said, "You did not know?"

"Until this moment, no.  But the child did.  It leapt as I spoke your

name.  So late and never a movement, I was worried.  But he leapt,
recognising you and the child you are to bear."

"Gabriel did not tell you?"

"I never saw him.  He appeared to Zacharias, in the Temple.  He was
dumb-struck, and dumb he has been ever since.  Did you ... did you see
him, Mary?"

"Yes.  He told me about you."

"The chosen, the blessed one," Elisabeth said.  And because ordinary
words were too ordinary, too worn to be used at this moment, there in
the flowery garden they broke into one of those antiphonal chants of
the kind which from time immemorial their race had used as a vehicle
for praising God.  Chanting and extempore song-making came easily to
Jews in emotional moments.  Deborah, in song, had celebrated the defeat
of Sisera; David, in song, had lamented the death of Jonathan.

"Blessed is she that believed," chanted Elisabeth; and Mary sang: "My
soul doth magnify the Lord ..."

The meeting set the tone for the whole visit.  For two happy months
Mary lived in an atmosphere of understanding and acceptance so complete
that on one occasion she brought herself to mention to Zacharias some
of those prophecies that caused her such foreboding.

Zacharias reached for his tablet and wrote, "He shall see of the
travail of his soul and be satisfied, it is written.  You too."

Elisabeth read the words aloud, and added, "John may have a hard life,
also.  The path of the forerunner is never easy."

They agreed that all that they could do was to ensure the children a
happy childhood, to rear them to be strong.  They were oddly in accord
in never doubting that to begin with, at least, these would be ordinary
human babies.  Without realising it they were thus rejecting the pagan
ideas that had come to Israel with the Seleucid invaders, stories of
gods and goddesses born in some supernatural way, springing to birth
full-grown, armed, with winged feet and similar fantasies.

In Mary's company Elisabeth's reserve and fear of ridicule or pity
disappeared completely; she moved about the village again and allowed
Zacharias to write letters announcing her news.

Two female relatives offered to come and tend her in childbed.

"They are experienced; and it would be more seemly," she said to Mary,
almost apologetically, for it meant that Mary's room would be needed.

"I must go home," Mary said.

"Joseph will need me.  The house at Cana should be near completion,
now."

Zacharias, inquiring round through another priest, found a group of
pilgrims to Jerusalem, about to return to Galilee; and with them Mary
walked home, knowing that the first thing she must do would be to tell
her mother that she would have a child in midwinter.

Anne's feelings--greatly to her own surprise--were divided.  She was
delighted with the news, delighted at the prospect of becoming a
grandmother; to her delight she gave loud and repeated expression; but
she also thought--Poor Mary, so soon!  She'll hardly be accustomed to
being a wife before she'll be a mother, hardly be used to managing a
house before being called upon to manage a child as well.  And all the
natural fears that women have when told such news by their daughters
rushed uppermost, exaggerated in her case by her protectiveness towards
this child of hers who was so unlike her; not very robust, too
sensitive.  These feelings took expression in a great outpouring of
advice, some sensible, some sheer superstition.  She also said, again
and again, how fortunate it was that they lived so close to one
another; "I'll look after you," she said.

The visit to Elisabeth had bridged for Mary the gulf between the real
and what seemed unreal.  She knew now; and to her mother and her
friends she no longer felt the impulse to say--If only you knew!  She
could think of the day when they would know; when what had been
revealed to her would be revealed to them.  And she turned upon them

the smile that was to embrace the world.FOUR JEXAL 700 miles Every
time that Caspar rode into his city with its towers and its arches and
its tinkling fountains something happened between his shoulder-blades,
a prickling uneasiness, as though he were a dog whose hackles were
rising.  Always, somewhere between the Gate of the Rose and the
Fountain of the Maidens, he would turn to Kalim, or whoever rode on his
right, and make some remark.

"Jexal looks well today," or "How it stinks, this place," or "Still
standing, I see."  Such words would bring him reassurance; it was his
city, the heart-beat centre of the region he had won by his sword.

He never thought of it as his home; if he lived here and ruled for
sixty years, and went out .and came in again every day of those sixty
years, it would never be, he knew, with any sense of home-coming.  In
the desert three black huts, a few hobbled camels, a dung fire smoking
into the evening air never failed to move him with the sense that he
was rejoining his own; to a lesser degree he could feel it in the
grasslands, where a huddle of clay huts stood by a patch of bean and
rye, and there was the smell of sheep and dog barking.  In the city he
would always be a stranger.  Its people had accepted him with
despicable alacrity, had settled down, were smiling and placating; the
city itself stayed inimical.

On this morning, at the usual place, he turned to Kalim and said, "Our
city has put out the banners!"  It was true; in the ten days of their
absence the place had burst into bloom; trusses of flowers, pink and
purple, blue and white and yellow, hung over every balcony, sprawled
over every wall.  In the open spaces around the fountains the trees had
shaken out their green.

He had heard people say that it was the most beautiful city in the
world.  It was immensely old, and for the last thousand years had been
very rich.  The soft-living, careless people had planted trees and
flowers, had reared beautiful buildings, made fountains, when, in
Caspar's opinion, they would have been better employed in looking to
their defences and bringing up their boys to be hardy and brave.  He'd
watched the city for a long while before he finally moved against it;
more than once he had entered it on foot and mingled with its people in
the streets and markets.  They were arrogant in their assurance; buying
and selling, eating and drinking and making merry was all that mattered
to them.

When, at dawn on a summer morning, now almost four years ago, he and
his Five Hundred had swept in, the city had been taken as easily as a
peach from a tree.

Kalim, in answer to his remark, smiled, showing his splendid teeth, and
said:

"Very gay banners."

Caspar returned the smile with a ferocious scowl.

"You're riding behind me again!  How many times must I tell you that I
want none of that nonsense?"  , a Any hint of the formality that hedged
kings about roused the same uneasiness in him that the city inspired.
He was the leader of the Five Hundred; that he could accept, it was a
right he had won, being able to out-ride, out-fight, out-wit and, if
necessary, out-fast them all.  He expected loyalty and demanded
obedience, but lately they had tried to give him more.  There'd even
been a suggestion that he should wear the crown and call himself
King--and that suggestion had not come from the city people, but from
the members of the Five Hundred.  The idea filled him with horror which
was almost' superstitious.  The city rot setting in, he thought.  ;

To Kalim he now said:

"Nine times out of ten the man who rides second is plotting against the
one ahead I' "That I should live to hear you say that to me!"  Kalim
exclaimed.  Then he mastered his rage and said, "I'll tell you
something, Caspar: you're becoming a fearful man."  It was, and he knew
it, about as insulting a thing as one member of the Five Hundred could
say to another.  He hastened to explain.


"Fearfulnot of hurt or of death, but like a child in the dark, fearful
of what is not there!"

"What I fear is there, Kalim; I know its face, I know its name.
Anything, anything that could tend to make us like them!"

He jerked his thumb towards a group of Jexalians, out for the first
time in their summer clothes, standing idly admiring the prismatic
colours made by the sunshine in the spray of the fountain.

"You're still upset about Lakma," Kalin said shrewdly.  Caspar turned
in his saddle and looked towards the last riders in the group.

"Upset?  Not any longer.  I've settled him.  I hope," he gave a rueful
grin, 'that I've settled that for good and all.  I have only ten
fingers; Lakma broke one for me."

"You broke his head," Kalim said dryly.

Caspar allowed himself a more wholehearted grin as he remembered how,
three months earlier, Lakma, one of the Five Hundred and a man of
mature age, not a silly boy to be easily persuaded, easily forgiven,
had wanted to marry, to take as his legal wife, a girl of the city, a
daughter of the defeated ruling family, a princess.

"You want to marry such rubbish!"  Caspar had said, in horrified
astonishment.

"Take her, use her, such women were made for use; but to stand up in
the sun's eye and mingle your blood with her dregs!  Man, have you
thought?  If you do that, and she bears a boy, he will be entitled to
your place in the Five Hundred, to your horse and your sword.  A
half-breed, with soft straight legs and black eyes!"  Nothing more
scornful could be said of any man's potential offspring; the race of
which the Five Hundred was at once the remnant and the flower had eyes
as blue as a summer sky, and believed that boy babies were born with
bowed legs, ready shaped to a horse's barrel.

"That I will not take, even from you," Lakma said.

"It is a truth that I will not withdraw."

"Then we fight," Lakma said, leaning upon his immemorial rights.

"The weapons to be of your choosing," Caspar agreed.

They could fight it out on horseback, using staves or swords, or on
foot, barehanded.  Lakma had chosen a mounted contest with staves, and
he approached the conflict with a divided mind.  If he won he must be
prepared to accept the duties and responsibilities of leadership, a
daunting thought; on the other hand the girl, very young, very
appealing in her dark, exotic way, had fired his blood.  As soon as the
fight had begun he had no time for thought at all, for Caspar had
fought like a madman; his place as leader was at stake, and so was
something, to him equally important--the absolute necessity of
preserving, pure and untainted, the blood of his people.

In the end Lakma had taken the crack on the head which had dismounted
him, and it was some days before he was in a fit state to speak the
ritual words, "You are right.  I apologise."  Caspar had relented then,
and the errand from which they were now returning had been taken for
Lakma's benefit.  A small party of them, led by Caspar, who always took
advantage of any excuse to get out of Jexal, had ridden into the desert
and hunted until they found four black tents by ,& spring of water that
sprang from an outcrop of rock and then ran away and was lost; and in
the tents there were three females, not yet mated.

"Take your pick," Caspar had said, Lakma had chosen the youngest, the
most comely, and together they had stood in the Sun's eye at midday, he
had slashed his wrist, the girl's father had slashed hers, their blood
had been mingled and the marriage was made.  A sheep had been killed
and roasted, and at the feast Lakma had professed himself well pleased
with his bride, They were bringing her back now and within a year, with
any luck, she'd bear him a son, with blue eyes and red hair, and before
he could walk he would be riding on a sheep's back, getting ready to be
a horseman, in time 'to be one of the Five Hundred.

Now they were clattering across the bridge, so rightly called the
Golden Bridge, for, though nobody thought of it nowadays, it was to
this bridge across the tumbling river that the city owed its origin and
prosperity.  The bridge made possible the continuation of the trade

route towards the East, to the fabled landsof India and Cathay.  Once
a simple, serviceable structure of stone it had been many times
enlarged and beautified.  This morning the water swollen by the melting
of the snow in the mountains was emerald green, marbled with white
foam.

"Lakma," Kalim said with a pretence of resuming a conversation, 'left
marriage too late.  Whims multiply with the years."

Caspar's scowl returned.  He knew what that meant.  And in his heart he
admitted the Tightness of it; it was ridiculous that he should go about
arranging marriages for other men and remaining celibate himself.  But
marriage demanded intimacy, and he had never attained that, even with
his men, even with his grandfather who had reared him.  For as long as
he could remember he had been self-contained, self-possessed.  The idea
of going, unclothed, unarmed and submitting himself, even for the
briefest space, to the embrace of another human being was repulsive to
him.  Yet, paradoxically, he regretted not having a son.  If now he
ever saw a woman whom he could marry--and he simply could not imagine
what kind of creature she would be--and she bore him a son, the boy
would be handicapped by his youth in comparison with the sons of other
members of the Five Hundred; be he never so hardy and bold and worthy
of leadership, it would take him years to attain it.

He said, "Kalim, when you find me entertaining a whim, tell me; in
blunt terms.  Then you can break my finger and I'll break your head, if
I can."

Kalim gave a little snort of laughter.  That was what gave Caspar such
an ascendancy, not only over the bodies of the Five Hundred but over
their minds as well.  He always saw through what was said to what was
meant; he always went straight to the point and he never lacked an
answer.  Even when he was old and feeble--and let that day be long
deferred--he would be a man to be reckoned with.

They were now approaching the Palace, an ornate building to which
successive kings of Jexal had made additions and alterations.  Three
hundred years earlier, Alexander had marched through Jexal on his way
to India and the Jexalians, following their established policy, had
welcomed him.  The then reigning king had arranged for one of his sons
to go to Greece, 'to learn the ways of the West', and that young man,
when he returned had set his mark on the Palace, and to less degree on
the city.

Caspar hated the Palace more than he hated the city; it provoked in
him, in exaggerated form, the same uneasiness.  For more than a year
after his conquest he had slept in one of his people's felt huts,
reared in the Palace gardens, and he would have been sleeping there
still but for a rumour that had reached him.  The people of Jexal were
saying that he dared not sleep in the Palace because he was afraid of
the spirits of the old kings.  On the night of the day when that rumour
reached him he had moved into the Palace and slept in the vast bed, all
golden posts and silken hangings, in which the last king of Jexal had
slept on the night that had ended with a bloody dawn.  He'd slept there
alone, lying down as he always did in his tent, wearing his leather
breeches and with his sword to hand.  With the doors wide open and the
window unshuttered it had not been too unbearable, had not inflicted
too great an outrage upon his distaste for houses, his dread of being
shut in.  " In former days one wing of the Palace had housed Palace
officials; there were hardly any left now and the apartments were
occupied by members of the Five' Hundred who were unmarried, or whose
wives were amenable to communal life.  Some women had preferred houses
of their own and they had had wide choice of the splendid
establishments formerly occupied by Jexalian grandees.

Another wing had been given over' to administrative offices.  Caspar
had reduced officials to the minimum, he had seen no reason why a man
who checked the market dues shouldn't pour himself a glass of wine when
he wanted one, or why customs officers needed uniformed public servants
to help them on with their shoes.  The administrative service was now
much depleted and about three times as efficient as it had been.

One official Caspar had retained.  He had been known as the Grand
Vizier, and he was still the Vizier, but no longer Grand.  He was fat
and flabby, as all officials--indeed most Jexalians past first
youth--tended to be, but he had his wits about him.  He'd been cunning

enough to hide himself well away when thecity was sacked, and sensible
enough to appear before Caspar wearing a plain brown woollen robe, and
lucky enough to speak the tongue of the ordinary people who had
dealings with the country dwellers.  True he spoke it with a lisping
refinement, but it was understandable; and what he said made sense.  He
had said, "Lord, you have taken this city.  Fifty miles down the river
stand the ruins of a city similarly taken when my grandfather's
grandfather was a young man.  Trade died there and the people perished
or fled.  A few goats now graze there amongst the fallen stones."

"I know it.  I have camped there."

"A city lives by its trade," the Vizier said.

"And trade needs men who can read and write and keep accounts and make
visitors feel welcome and safe.  Fighting men are not shaped for such
work."

That was true, Caspar reflected.  And although he hated the city and
all its ways, he had taken it, he knew, because he wanted it.  As it
was, rich and prosperous.  Who wanted to be master of a mass of
deserted ruins?  What he wanted, he realised, was an ideal city, rich
and prosperous, lively and flourishing, but not soft and decadent.  So
there and then he and the Vizier had made their bargain, and it had
worked out very well; the Vizier had traded in his former grandeur and
its accompanying insecurity for a less obvious but far more real power
and Caspar had, here and there, abrogated part of his authority,
saying, "Maybe you know best about that."  Jexal Sad continued to
flourish.

In former days whenever the King of Jexal had moved in or out of the
Palace there had been a great commotion; trumpeters had blown upon
their silver trumpets, attendants had stood, evenly matched on each
side of the twelve shallow steps.  Caspar had done away with all that.
The small cavalcade clattered into the space between the fountains and
the serried cypresses flanking the Palace steps and Caspar swung
himself from the saddle and left his horse to the boy who had come
running.  The others, reining in, prepared to disperse.  Caspar waited
until Lakma, with the girl uncomfortably perched on the saddle before
him, drew level, and then put his hand on the man's knee.

"I wish you joy," he said, and turned, and began to mount the Palace
steps which were so shallow that any active man must take them three at
a time.

His Vizier was waiting for him, ready to report upon what had happened
in the departments for which he was responsible during the last ten
days.  None of it was important.  He had never been able to rid his
manner of servility, but at least he had learned to stand upright and
speak like a man, and not to keep saying "Lord'.  He ended his account
by saying:

"Benjamin, the carpet merchant arrived yesterday.  Is it your wish to
ask him to supper?"

Caspar brightened.  He liked the old Jew who visited Jexal every second
year with a long train of handsome mules and went away laden with the
choicest products of Jexal's looms.  On Benjamin's former visit he had
been scornful of the Vizier's suggestion that he should receive the old
man.

"A carpet pedlar!"  he had exclaimed.

"He buys our best," the Vizier had explained.

"He is a man of substance, noted for his honesty.  He is also a speaker
of tongues and a great carrier of news.  As you say, a carpet pedlar,
but an aristocrat of pedlars."

"That would be something to see I Caspar had said.

"Ask him to supper."  They'd had much interesting conversation then,
and he now looked forward to another.

"But two years!  How fast time flew in a place where it was reckoned;
in the desert, with little to mark one day from another, it had moved
slowly.

"And, Lord, there is one other thing," the Vizier said.

"Yes?"  He spoke sharply, knowing that nowadays the Vizier only used
the honorific term when broaching matters of importance--in his own
eyes at least.

"The boy, Malchus, very humbly asks if you could spare him a moment of
your precious time."

"Malchus?"  For a second Caspar was at a loss; then he remembered.  The
old king had had several wives and the youngest of them, when the city
was raided, had hidden herself and her two children; they had remained
in hiding for a week, and when they were discovered the blood-lust had

been appeased.The girl, Ilya, had been twelve or thirteen then, the
boy some two years younger, and Caspar had said, more in contempt than
charity, "I don't make war on children!"  And that, he now reflected
sourly, had cost him the use of a finger, for it was the girl, Ilya,
whom that fool Lakma had wanted to marry.

"What does he want with me ?  If my memory serves I told his mother to
apprentice him to a useful trade."

"She did so," the Vizier said in a voice carefully void of all
expression.  He could remember the two beautiful, pampered children,
their old father's darlings, petted by competitive courtiers and
officials, Prince Malchus and Princess Ilya.....Four years ago, and in
another world.

"He works as a smith.  He chose that, being fond of horses."

"Very sensible.  And what does he want from me?  Permission to set up
his own business?"

How he bristles, the Vizier thought, at any mention or reminder of the
old days in Jexal.

"He did not state his business.  Today is the spring Festival of the
Horse, and although it is no longer a public holiday--by your
command--the smithies are idle.  So he came and I allowed him to wait
and said that I would tell you he was here."

"I'll see him," Caspar said.

"In the Balcony Room."  It was the only place in the whole huge Palace
in which he felt moderately at ease, and that was because, strictly
speaking it was not a room at all; it was a bulge in the corridor which
led to the private royal apartments.  Once, more than five hundred
years earlier, a Queen of Jexal had paused there, looked through the
lacy marble of the wall and seen beyond the cypresses and the flowers
of the garden and the green river tumbling down.  It was, she had
declared, the best view obtainable from the whole Palace.  Her doting
husband had had the wall removed, the floor extended, so that she might
the better enjoy her view.  The doted-upon Queen and the King who had
doted upon her were long since dead and forgotten; for many of their
successors the balcony had been only a draughty place, to be hurried
through, between the public audience chambers and the private rooms;
but Caspar had seized upon it as a place where he could feel moderately
at ease and not suffer the shut in, stifled feeling that the rest of
the Palace inflicted.

The boy, Malchus, came in and Caspar looked at him with interest and
curiosity and distaste and grudging admiration, all mixed.  Fourteen?
Fifteen at most, but with none of the awkwardness of the boy-meets-man
stage.  He was roughly, even poorly clad in a tunic of undyed homespun,
now a trifle tight; his shoes were such as only the poorest wore in
Jexal, that prosperous city, wooden slabs shaped to the foot and held
in place by a thong which passed the great toe and its neighbour and
tied about the ankle.  And at the end of his thin boy's arms his hands
hung, disproportionately large, coarse, scarred, ingrained with black
that no amount of washing would remove.  Yet he seemed quite at ease
... at home.  At home!  Caspar thrust that thought away, but with a
commentary; he always felt at home in a felt tent, he'd been born in
one; this boy had been born here, so naturally .. .

"Well," he asked harshly, 'what do you want with me?"

Malchus said, "I was advised not to say "Lord" to you or to use any
other term of respect.  So please, do not attribute the omission to
incivility."

"What do you want?"

"I wish to call your attention to the plight of my sister Ilya."

"I know all about her.  She's given me quite a lot of trouble.  Lakma,
one of my men, wanted to marry her.  I made him think better of it."

"Yes," the boy said.

"That is why I am here.  Ilya is now almost seventeen years old; she is
very beautiful.  It is time she was married."

"Marry her off, then."

"That is easily said.  My ambitions for her are, I assure you,
moderate.  Our nobles fell in the battle.  Lesser men, but rich enough
to keep her in comfort, many look upon her lustfully, but they avoid
us, partly through fear of how you might regard their linking
themselves to the royal house.  I had one hope, which your man Lakma
seemed about to fulfill."

"And I prevented him."

"You did.  Could you tell me why?"


"I don't hold with mixed marriages.""Have you ever thought about them,
coolly, without prejudice?"  the boy asked.

"Believe me, I have not come here to anger you.  You rule, we obey; but
this is one city, it cannot for ever be occupied by two peoples.
Marriages would weld them into one."  Then, while Caspar was thinking
of some retort that would suitably express his anger at this audacity,
Malchus said quickly, "Not that I ever thought Lakma a fit match for my
sister.  It would be much more suitable if you yourself married her. As
Queen my sister would command the loyalty of all our people."

Caspar glared at him.  The audacious young cub!  He wanted to stamp, to
shout, to laugh and jeer; but there was something about the boy's
manner, so matter-of-fact, so fundamentally dignified, that he checked
himself, gripping his hands, hurting the stiff, ill-set finger.

"The loyalty of your people?"  he said sneeringly.

"And what's that worth?  Didn't I win it between dawn and midday?"

"The loyalty of fear," Malchus said.

"There is another.  The loyalty of the heart."

"And that made a brave show, didn't it--when we rode in?"

"More than three thousand died."

"So they did.  Like sheep, running this way and that."

"Taken unawares," the boy said hardily.

"For a thousand years my people had been here, living in peace in this
valley, cultivating the arts and the skills that can only flourish in
peace.  That is true, you know.  Your women can do no more than to
tread wool into felt; they never have time enough, or peace enough, to
set up a loom."

That was truth and Caspar faced it with distaste; but, skirting round
the situation in his mind as once he had skirted around Jexal on his
horse, he hit upon the boy's vulnerable spot.

"We're barbarians," he admitted.

"And now I'll ask you something.  Where's this loyalty of the heart you
talk about?  You would wish to marry your sister, first to Lakma, then
to me.  By the sun, if I had a sister I'd slit her throat sooner than
see her give a cup of water to those who had killed one of her kin!"

"That," Malchus said, "I do not doubt; but then--Lord, you said it
yourself.  You are a barbarian."

"And I rule here," Caspar said.

"Do you realise that for that saucy remark I could have your head?"

"My head," the boy said, 'you are welcome to.  For a long time it has
been nothing but a nuisance to me!  If you want to see me quake,
threaten my hands!"  He held them out as he spoke, unsightly with their
callouses, a half-healed blister, but steady.  Caspar had a fleeting
doubt whether he, unarmed and helpless in the presence of an
all-powerful enemy, would have been so steady.  To make up for that
doubt he spoke with increased gruffness.

"I want neither your head, your hands, nor your sister, boy."

"Have you ever seen her?"  Malchus asked.  Before Caspar could snap out
his answer, no and he had no wish to do so, the boy turned, gracefully,
without haste and called, "Ilya."  Evidently a prearranged signal, for
immediately from between the pillars that separated the balcony room
from the inner corridor the girl came forward.

Caspar's idea about what made a woman desirable were based upon
strictly practical considerations.  A marriageable girl should be
young, upright and strong, equally ready for childbirth or hard work;
she should bear the signs of health on her skin and hair, she must be
one of his own race.  That her demeanour should be modest and her
attitude meek was taken for granted; all decent parents saw to that.

In no way did this girl, born a Princess, conform to these standards.
She was pale, with the--pallor of an indoor life, of careful protection
from wind and weather; this, and her huge, artificially darkened eyes,
gave her a look of ill-health; she was very slim, almost frail, with
delicate wrists and ankles, narrow hands and feet.  Her black hair,
exactly, like her brother's, clung in little lustrous curls to her
head.  Caspar's sharp eye noticed even that her ears had been pierced
for the wearing of ornaments, but she wore none; and her dress,
something the colour of the water of the river just below the balcony,
though of silk, was worn, in places mended.  A fine wife she'd make, he
thought contemptuously, visualising her carrying and hauling, drawing
water, collecting dung for the fire, grinding corn and cooking, all

without interrupting the process of breeding andbearing.  What in the
world had got into Lakma?  he wondered.  Then the girl looked him
straight in the eyes and he wondered no more.... His first reaction was
one of genuine shock and horror.  If his sword had broken in his hand
at a critical moment, or his horse had failed to obey the pressure of
his knees, or as he set down a cup he had drained to the dregs he
realised that he had been poisoned, he could not have felt more sharply
the sense of having been betrayed.  He'd just looked at her, asking
himself what such a woman would be good for, and she had looked at him
and given the answer.  Made for delight!  The very marrow of his bones
moved and melted as he thought of the form that delight would take.

"Go now," Malchus said, as though aware that his object in producing
her had been achieved.

"You go, too!  Get out my sight," Caspar said, trusting that the
shortness of his breath would be attributed to wrath.  The boy stood
his ground.

"You see, she is beautiful; and she is ripe for marriage.  She had been
well reared; but now the jewels that she and my mother had on them at
the time of our ruin have all been sold.  I earn little.  What will her
future be?"

"That," Caspar said, 'is hardly my concern."  He was so angry, with
himself, with the boy, with the girl, with the Vizier who must have
connived, that he could hardly think of anything sufficiently spiteful
to say.  But he did his best.

"Lakma is safely married, now," he said.

"Maybe in six months' time he could take her as his concubine."

"Sooner than that I would kill her."  He gave Caspar a steady look, and
now the man could see the likeness between brother and sister; in the
hair, the shape of the skull, the way they held their heads.  A look of
race, unmistakable in man or beast.

"Have I your leave to go?"  Malchus asked.

"Just a minute.  You ... you work as a smith, don't you?  What about
your future?  Have you ever considered joining the army?"

He had reorganised the remnant of the Jexalian army, taken away most of
its privileges and trappings and officered it with his own young men
who were waiting their time to be admitted into the ranks of the Five
Hundred.  It was now fairly efficient and growing more so every day;
and he was always careful to have some part of it well to the fore when
he entertained travellers or emissaries from other places.  Let nobody
go away with false ideas; he had taken Jexal because he was the leader
of the finest fighting force in the world, and because Jexal had been
ready for the taking.  Nobody was going to take it from him.

"It is my intention to become a soldier as soon as I am old enough.
Sons of your men are admitted when they are fourteen; the rule is that
a Jexalian born must be sixteen."

"And how old are you?"

"Fifteen."

"Well," Caspar said, with sudden geniality, 'we'll make an exception in
your case.  I'll give the word and if you present yourself tomorrow you
will be accepted.  Soldiers earn more than smiths--so you'll be able to
look after your sister."

Why had he added that?

"I am indeed most grateful," the boy said, without looking grateful at
all; and Caspar knew that nothing he did, nothing would inspire true
gratitude in this cub; "if he fetched out the crown and set it on his
head, and bowed his own head and kissed his hand, he'd take it as no
more than his just due.  Such a boy could be dangerous; he must be
watched!

"We don't play at soldiers, now."  he said.

"You must work hard.  I shall keep my eye on you.  You may go."

"I thank you.  I shall work hard," the boy said.  He turned and walked
away, unhurriedly and with a lithe grace.  Somewhere in the corridor he
called, "Ilya, where are you?"  and it struck Gas-par that the words
were an echo of words spoken only four years ago, but in fact
unimaginably far away, the words of two children, silk-clad and
carefree, playing in the long corridor of the Palace that was their
home.  Getting fanciful, he told himself scornfully.

It was a relief at the end of the day to sit down to supper with

Benjamin, the old Jew who bought and sold carpets.In the old days, if
the Vizier was to be believed, supper in the Palace had occupied the
whole evening and lasted far into the night.  It had been a social
occasion, a nightly feast, with many guests and three or four times as
much food cooked as could possibly be eaten.  Caspar and his Five
Hundred had come straight from a life where they thought themselves
lucky if in the morning they could place slices of tough raw meat under
their saddles and at the day's end remove it, flattened and softened in
fibre, and find fuel enough to char it black on the outside.  Often
enough they had eaten it raw, tasting of leather and horses' sweat.
Bread had been a luxury, so had any vegetable or fruit.

From such a life they had plunged, in a single day, to life in this
city, which straddling the trade routes from East to West, offered
every delicacy known to man.  A wide belt about the city itself was
devoted to market gardens, to farms where pigs grew fat and calves were
bred to be eaten young.  There were imports, too; fruits from plants
too delicate to flourish even in this sheltered valley, and fish, not
the well-nigh indestructible salted and smoked fish which was a rare
luxury in the desert, but fresh fish, reared in great pools on the fish
farms, and other fish, cunningly preserved in oil and spices, brought
from far places.  There was even one delicacy, fish eggs in oil, sealed
into jars, that came, by painful stages, from some unknown place in the
north.

For a time they had all eaten gluttonously: and if they had simply been
sacking the city and intending to move on, gluttony would have been in
order, even a duty, since a man should build up reserves when he could,
against the hungry days, as a camel did, or a fat-tailed sheep.  But
they were not passing through; they were here to establish themselves,
and very soon Caspar, in whom the desert-bred respect for food was
lively, had issued orders.  Nowadays, even in the Palace, one main dish
was served, fish or flesh or fowl, with all the bread, cheese or fruit
that a man needed to attain the full-fed feeling.  The horde of master
cooks in the kitchens, mourning the waste of their acquired skills in
rearing airy towers of spun sugar, the moulding of marzipan into
flowers and animals, the making of small many-coloured cakes that
melted on the tongue, had been set to useful tasks, often menial.  And
in the Great Hall where parasitic officials had feasted Caspar sat down
to eat with those of the Five Hundred who had no homes of their own, or
preferred the company of their fellows, and any chance-comer upon whose
right to be there Caspar and the Vizier were agreed.

There had been a time when visitors showed obvious signs of
nervousness.  Jexal had been taken by barbarians and in many people's
minds barbarianism and cannibalism and reasonless killing were closely
associated.  But gradually the word had spread, the new regime was
different, definitely uncouth, but it was disciplined; and Caspar was
not a bad fellow; difficult to talk to, being ignorant of Greek which
Alexander's short-lived Empire had made almost a universal language.

On this evening, because, despite his embargo on the many public
holidays, people were still celebrating, in a muted way, the Festival
of the Horse, none of the Five Hundred was present and Caspar and his
guest sat down alone; not in the Balcony Room which would ordinarily..
have been Caspar's choice were the company to number less than ten, but
in a small room, on the ground floor, handy for the kitchens.  The
Balcony Room, his chosen refuge in this place, had been spoiled for him
by the morning's experience.  ;

The old Jew, who had washed his' hands and his feet in an ante-room,
gave his ritual greeting, "Peace be on this house."

"Peace be upon you and yours."  Caspar responded.  It was curious, he
thought, how, from the very first, he had felt an affinity with this
old man who came from the West, who was a trader.  It had been partly
explained when, during their first meeting, the old man had said that
his people had once, long ago, been a desert people; and they had taken
a city called Jericho in very much the same Way as Caspar had taken
Jexal.  Another partial explanation lay in the fact that Benjamin
reminded Caspar of his grandfather, though there was no physical
resemblance between that fierce old warrior, lean and leathery, all
scarred from his many battles, and the plump, peaceable Jew.  Yet there
was a likeness; perhaps it lay in the fact that both men gave the

impression that they had lived long, seen manythings and been little
impressed.  And there was the similarity of greeting and leave-taking.
True, Benjamin said, "Peace be upon this house," and Caspar's
grandfather said 'upon this tent', never having seen a house; but the
intent was the same.  And the ritual reply was identical.

"And now," Caspar said when the mutton and rice had been served.

"What is the news in the world?"

Benjamin had learned, on his previous visit, how limited Caspar's
knowledge was.  Tell him now, for instance, about the increasing size
and importance of the port of Caesarea--a thing of great importance to
one who regularly shipped cargoes of carpets and rugs to Rome and a
dozen other places, and what would it mean to Caspar who had never seen
the sea or a ship?  He considered and discarded several things and then
said:

"The news that most closely concerns me is a plague that has broken out
amongst the slaves in Tyre.  They are the ones who fish out the murex,
from which the purple dye is made; and they have died more quickly than
they can be replaced.  So for a year or two there will be a great
shortage of the true purple colour."

"Our carpets then, already dyed, should increase in value," Caspar
said, and was instantly ashamed.  City talk.  Tradesmen's talk!

"That is so," the Jew agreed placidly, 'and today, in my buying, I took
that into account.  I paid more for any carpet with purple in it; and I
warned your people of the shortage."

Caspar narrowed his eyes.

"Now why should you do that?  They couldn't know.  They'd have sold at
the old price."

"God would know," the old man said, simply.

"And the man who profits by another's ignorance can not lie down at
peace with his God."

Possibly in its far distant and now-no-more-than-legendary homeland
Caspar's peoples had had gods, religious beliefs and ceremonies, but if
so they had been left there, with everything else that could not be
carried on horseback or travel on its own legs.  All that remained to
them as drought after drought had forced them to move farther and
farther to the south-west, was a primitive kind of sun worship,
strictly practical in its purposes.  It was convenient to have some
form of ritual to mark a permanent marriage from a passing association;
it was convenient to know that when a man said, "I swear by the sun ..
." what he said thereafter was likely to be the truth.  There was no
mysticism about it; nobody imagined that the sun had any interest in
him or demanded anything from him.  They kept one festival, on the day
when the sun stood highest in the sky and meat was plentiful, since
that was the time when young bull calves and rams were ready to be
eaten, must indeed be weeded out to prevent over-grazing.  Caspar was
about as far from understanding what Benjamin meant when he said "God'
as any man could be.  He remembered that on his former visit, telling
stirring tales about famous men of his race, the old Jew had several
times mentioned God and some completely unbelievable things that he was
supposed to have done.

They talked of other things and then Benjamin, looking grave and
leaning a little forward, asked:

"Are Pella's activities known to you, or am I the first to bring the
news?"

"Pella," Caspar repeated, knitting his brows.

"Who is he?"

"From what I hear, he claims to be a son of the old King of Jexal.
There was a son, I remember, who got on very badly with his father and
went to live in Armenia.  That would be almost twelve years ago now.  I
have no liking for carrying bad news, but I thought a word of warning
wouldn't come amiss."

"A son of the King lives here, in Jexal.  He was in this place this
morning.  He's no threat to me, so why should I be warned against one
in Armenia?"

"Ah, but he is no longer there, or so they say.  He is in Rome, trying
to interest Caesar Augustus in his cause."

"His cause?"

"His claim to the throne, here."

Caspar knew Caesar Augustus by name; he ruled in some place half a
world away, separated from Jexal by deserts, by mountains and seas and
dozens of other kingdoms; and he had won his right to rule by his
sword, just as Caspar had won his.  So much he knew from talking to

travellers, and that was thesum of his knowledge.  He was not
perturbed, but he was puzzled.

"What does it matter to the King of Rome who rules in Jexal?"

"Nothing.  But that is the way the Romans work.  They seize upon
someone else's quarrel and march in to restore order, as they call it.
They did it in my country.  Order they restored, but not the ruling
house.  They set up a puppet king, Herod of Idumea, who is not even a
Jew.  Worse, he is not even a good man."

"And you really think it likely that they would come here?"

"Who am I to say?  Their decisions are unpredictable, their methods are
not.  They reach out and establish themselves and then they build a
road to link the new possession with the old.  And this I have noticed;
Augustus sees himself as a second and greater Alexander; Alexander
moved to the East; it seems to me not unlikely that Augustus should
turn his eyes this way."  Caspar made a grunting sound.

"This needs thinking about."

"It does.  In your place I should think of it often and heavily," the
old Jew said, gravely; he liked this strange young man, this barbarian
with whom from the first he had felt at ease.  The next remark must be
worded carefully, he thought.

"In Roman eyes Pella's claim is legitimate enough to justify action on
their part--if they wish to take action.  Of course, there is another
-possibility..  .."

"And that is?"

"Something else I have seen done.  An emissary may come to you,
secretly, and suggest that you pay tribute; a ten per cent levy on all
the goods that pass your custom houses.  Then, if you agree to pay, you
are Rome's friend, and Pella will one day be fished out of the Tiber.
Body of a man unknown."

"And we," Caspar exploded, 'who fight hand to hand and would never
betray those who had eaten our salt, are called barbarians!"

"My people," Benjamin said, 'were once equally scrupulous.  There was a
woman called Jael who killed, with her own hands, the leader of an
invading force.  It was a laudable action, but she is not reckoned
amongst our noble women; it is held no against her that she had first
fed him."

"In many ways your people and mine sound somewhat akin," Caspar said.

"Tell me, how do your people accept the rule of Rome?"

Like all really pious Jews Benjamin tended to overlook the vast numbers
of his countrymen who had settled down under Roman rule and
concentrated rather upon the few who were rebellious, the guerillas in
the hills who still actively carried on the war, the civilians who
thought up cunning ways to avoid taxes.  Unwittingly he painted for
Caspar an entirely false picture, leaving him with the impression that
Rome's hold on Palestine was infirm and feeble compared with his hold
upon Jexal.  By the end of the evening the conscientious old Jew
realised this and tried to give his host some idea of the strength and
magnitude of Rome, but it was like warning a child who had never seen
water except in a jar or a goatskin against the danger of drowning.
Caspar simply did not understand.  And somehow Benjamin let slip the
fact that in Jerusalem six hundred legionaries were stationed.  Caspar
said : , A "There are Five Hundred of us.  The Jexalians had an army of
seven thousand."  And it was all very well to say that Rome was
different.  How different?  And why?  This man was a simple soldier
from the desert, with no more; imagination than the table on which he
leaned his elbow, no more comprehension of politics than he had of
mathematics-and five hundred seemed to be the limit of his reckoning.

The time for parting came.  Benjamin said, "I thank you for your
hospitality.  Peace be on this house."

Caspar said, "Go in safety, and return soon.  In my tent you are always
welcome."

He realised that his tongue had slipped and smiled, waving his hand.

"My tent!"  he said.

Soon after he went to his bed and slept and dreamed that a thing,
brute-face and very hairy, but recognisable to him in some mysterious
fashion as Pella, was about to rape the girl called Ilya and that he
was going to her aid, with his knife in his hand, but someone from

behind hit him, a sharp chopping in blow on the wrist and his knife
had fallen to the floor and the noise of its falling had wakened him,
short of breath and sweating at every pore.

After that she had haunted his dreams.  Most often she was in some
distressful situation from which, always impotently, he tried to save
her; sometimes the situation was reversed; at such times most commonly
he was dying of thirst and she, ploughing her way through the sand, was
bringing him water.  She'd stumble and spill it, or she'd reach him and
the cup, the jar, the gourd she carried would be empty, or full of
something un-drinkable, horse's urine, mud, chaff, a crumpled silk
scarf which he desperately pulled out, yards and yards and yards of
it.

He never mentioned his dreams to anyone--to whom could he mention them?
Outwardly life went on.  He issued an order that he had been meditating
for a long time.  All the beggars in the city were to be rounded up,
confined in one place and given one good meal a day.  He'd hated the
sight of them himself and he had seen them through the eyes of
visitors, a blot, a scar.

The Vizier said, "But if it is known that we feed beggars they will
flock in, from Babylon, from Samarkand."

"Not on my terms," Caspar said, 'when I say beggars I mean those
incapable of making a living; the blind, crippled and witless.  Any
able-bodied fellow who wishes to eat the bread of idleness can be made
blind, crippled or witless."

So beggars had ceased to infest the streets and there were less than
twenty in the asylum he had provided.

He had issued another order, too.  Anybody coming into Jexal from the
West was to be brought to the Palace and interrogated.  He always asked
about the Romans, and so far he had learned nothing more than Benjamin
had told him; Pella's name had never been mentioned.

To the Vizier Caspar had mentioned Pella, introducing the subject by
demanding why he had never been informed of the man's existence.

"Because, to us, he is no longer alive.  Ten, twelve years ago, he took
his portion and went away, for ever.  Not only is his name never to be
mentioned; in the book of records it was blotted out; it is as though
he had never been born."

"Why?"

"He was..."  the Vizier hesitated, choosing his words carefully.

"I will not say a bad man, but a bad Jexalian, and a bad son and a bad
prince.  Always he was in opposition to his father and his family, so
much so that if his father said, "It is a fine day", he would say, "Not
so!"  He gathered about him a few of the same mind, young men who could
not agree with their elders.  Then there came the time when it is
necessary that he should marry and beget an heir.  Since he was so
high," the Vizier measured the height from the floor, 'he has been
promised as husband to a princess whose people have been our friends
always.  Peace and much trade had resulted from that promise.  But will
he marry her?  No, he will not.  He has fallen in love," the Vizier's
voice was edged with scorn, 'with a woman in the market, a woman who
sold doves for the temples; she was a widow.  On his knees his father
beseeches him, saying marry the one you are promised to and beget a
son, that is all I ask; the market woman can be your concubine.  But
that does not suit.  Prince Pella...."  The -Vizier's face turned pale
and sweat shone on his brow.

"If my old master could hear me, he would have my head for that!  No,
that does not suit him.  It is his wish, his intent, to bring the
market widow, the dove-seller, into the Palace and make her Queen,
crowned with his mother's crown.  The result of this you can imagine.
Every well-born lady in Jexal insulted; the-King whose daughter has
been passed over, ready to make war; the market people insufferable
from pride.  Not to be contemplated.  So he is given his portion, he
announces publicly that he is no longer prince, or heir, or any
connection with the ruling house and he goes.  To Armenia, it is
said."

Caspar listened to this sorry little story with a sneaking feeling of
admiration for Pella, a man of some spirit, he thought, not a Jexalian
at all.

"Suppose," he said, 'just suppose, that he came back, with an army
behind him, to claim what he claimed to be his right."

"He renounced all rights.  Between the dove-seller-and Jexal he chose

once and forever.""So you said.  But if it came to choosing between
him and me;

what then?"

"You," the Vizier said, 'valued Jexal enough to fight for it; he flung
it away like a worn out shoe.  Also, there is this to be said ... You
said I was always to speak the truth to you, and the truth now I dare
to speak.  We are subject to you and to your Five Hundred, but with you
we feel safe.  When the battle was over it was over, some lost their
positions, some their mansions, but our lives are safe.  With Pella
nobody would be safe.  He gave up Jexal once for a market woman; he
would give it again to the foreign army that re-established him.  He
was a man of no judgement.  May I ask ... is it likely that we must
make this choice?  Has he, in the face of all that he vowed, some plan
to return?"

"Not that I know of.  I was talking idly.  And still talking idly, I
ask this.  If Pella should ever come, the boy Malchus, the girl Ilya,
where would they stand?"

"Against him, whatever that involved," the Vizier said promptly.

"He and his mother and the two princes who were killed did everything
in their power to make life miserable for the young wife and her
children.  Malchus, I assure you,"has no ambitions; except to be a
soldier.  With three elder brothers he never expected to inherit the
crown and now that you have allowed him to be a soldier he is
content--and your devoted subject."

That Caspar doubted, but he let it pass, hoping that the Vizier would
now speak Ilya's name, since he couldn't without betraying his
interest, speak it again himself.

"For the girl I am sad," the Vizier said, 'as I am sad for any girl for
whom no husband can be found.  My old master so doted upon her, his
only girl child, that no offer made for her pleased him.  This one was
too old, this too young, this had bad teeth and the other was of known
bad temper.  Thirteen years old and not promised, when he died; for a
Princess, and so pretty, a thing unknown.  And now too late.
Unless--and this I do also dare to say because you said that from me
you would take nothing but the truth--if you would marry her.  What a
wonderful thing that would be, and how pleasing to all the people."

"When I marry," Caspar said, 'it will be to please myself, not the
people."

"But naturally," the Vizier said.

Time passed; no emissary came from Rome offering a ruinous friendship;
there was no news of Pella.  The year passed its peak and began to
decline; travellers from the West grew fewer; soon would come the
season when snow would lie on the mountains.  Caspar busied himself
with his army and his defences, never naming Rome as the enemy even in
his mind, but being ready because, as he had reason to know, all men
are enemies to those who possess something covetable.

Then, on a crisp bright morning, the Customs Officer in the post on the
north-easterly road out of Jexal reported the arrival there of an old
man, almost half dead from hunger, riding a lame camel: his name, he
said, was Melchior and he came from far away, from a place called
Pyangyong.  He seemed to be a scholar, he had spoken in two or three
strange tongues before trying the one which, with difficulty, the
Customs Officer had understood.

"And which tongue was that?"  Caspar asked the Vizier who had brought
this report to him.  " "Something between the market speech which I use
to you and the speech of the Five Hundred which you use to me."

Coming from that direction the old man could have no news of Rome or of
Pella; he was not, like" Benjamin the Jew, a rich and valued customer;
there was no real reason why Caspar should receive him.  But lately he
had welcomed any diversion which would prevent him, in the evening
hours, from brooding upon his own foolishness with regard to' a pale,
frail girl with great dark eyes.

So he said, "Kinship of tongue should indicate kinship of blood.  Ask
this Melchior to eat supper with me."

"If the report is to be believed," the Vizier said, 'he and his camel
may be dead by supper time."

"Where are they now?"


"A swift runner brought the message and I came straight todeliver it.
They may by this time have reached the bridge."

"Order a meal; bring the old man to me, and look after the camel."

Had the King of Jexal given such an order in the old days it would have
been relayed and subdivided and its execution delayed; but things were
different now and in a short time Melchior and Caspar made their
fateful meeting.  Caspar, well used to assessing a man's physical
state, saw at a glance that the old man was in the last stages of
exhaustion, and near starvation point as well.  But he was courteous.
He put his left hand in his right sleeve, his right in his left, and
bowed so that for a second his queer round hat looked like a shield.
Then he raised his wasted face to Caspar and said:

"It is charitable of you to invite me to eat with you; but you are only
prolonging a useless life."

The words, spoken in a weak voice, and, to Caspar's ear, strangely
accented, were only just recognisable.  Their meaning seemed obscure.

"Sit down," he said.

"Food is ready."

A servant brought in a dish, hastily prepared and the old man eyed it
so avidly that Caspar said :

"Take a mouthful or two of wine first, to make way.  Then eat slowly.
With fasting the belly shrinks."

"You have known hunger?"

"Many a time."

The wine ran down hearteningly and presently Melchior began to pick at
the food.

"You have travelled far," Caspar said.

"Where is Pyangyong?"

"To the East.  By the shore of the Yellow Sea."  Caspar had never heard
of the Yellow Sea but he was skilled now in concealing ignorance, so he
nodded and asked: "And where are you going?"

"That I cannot tell you, because I am uncertain myself.  This may sound
strange to you, but it is fact.  In Samarkand I consulted a map, said
to be new and accurate, and I think I was bound for Jerusalem or some
place a little to the south of it.  Not that it matters.  I know now
that I shall never get there.  I have failed."

"In what way?"

Along the road, making an ineffectual attempt to bargain, or--since his
money gave out--to beg, Melchior had tried to explain something of his
errand and its urgency; he had always been laughed at.  So now he was
cautious.

"I had a message to deliver," he said.

"A message of the utmost importance, something that only I knew about.
I realise now that I am an impractical man..  .."  He brooded for a
moment, ignoring his food, then said in a more vigorous voice, "On the
other hand, had I foreseen the difficulties and the expense or realised
how money becomes of less and less value as one moves westwards, there
was nothing I could have done.  I sold all I had.  My own wants are
meagre, but to keep a camel in condition is very expensive.  And the
ferries ..."

He looked at Caspar with his old unworldly-wise eyes and said with a
thin smile that looked as though it hurt:

"Have you ever been obliged to pay for a passage, with a camel, across
a wide river, by ferry?"

"No."

"You have then been spared the worst evidences of human rapacity.  I
have made five such crossings and they have ruined me.  It is not, one
admits, easy work, and there are certain risks, especially with a camel
aboard; but I- can see no excuse for saying that the ferry fee is so
much and then stopping in midstream and demanding as much again.  Or,
as once happened, allowing me to land on the farther bank and then
pushing away, threatening to carry my camel back to the other side
unless I paid more.  I hesitate to say that such practices are unknown
in my own country, I have led a retired life.  And it is possible, of
course, that strangers are exploited everywhere.  Oh, not here," he
added hastily, 'here I have been most kindly received, and I am
grateful indeed.  And I ask you to forgive, if you can, my showing a
miserable face at your hospitable table.  The thought of my failure
distresses me."

"I am interested," Caspar said, 'in your having a message to deliver to
some unknown destination.  How can that be?"

"Ah yes.  I am an astronomer.  I read the stars in their courses; and I

read this message plain and clear.  It is just possible thatothers
have read it and are now on their way, I can only hope that that is so.
But I was better equipped, I think, than most of my kind, so it seemed
to me essential that I should take action.  Perhaps you are one of
those to whom astronomy is foolishness.  In that case I will not bother
you with details."

"In the desert," Caspar said, and he felt a pang of the old homesick
feeling, 'the stars are a reliable guide.  That is all I know of
them."

"In the desert, as on the sea, for navigational purposes, certainly,
they have their uses.  And the star I follow has never failed me.  But
the stars have other purposes.  There are combinations, movements .. .
things which, if you will excuse me, can only be properly discussed by
those who understand.  What I cannot understand," some petulance crept
into his voice, 'is my position.  To this study I gave my life and a
considerable fortune and I read the message.  But it looks as though it
would have been better had I spent my time studying what it costs to
feed a camel or to charter a ferry boat, and why it is that in one
place a coin will buy a whole sheep and in the next, only a few miles
away, a mere bowl of weak mutton broth.  It is ignorance of such things
that has defeated me, not lack of will or weariness, frustrating as the
latter can be at times."  He gave a great sigh.

"You said that your destination might be Jerusalem," Caspar said.  He
recognised it as the home of Benjamin the Jew; the place which the
Romans had taken as he had taken Jexal, but the Jews had not settled
down tamely as the Jexalians had done; they were, by all account, still
rebellious, and he thought of diem as a potential weak spot in the
defences of a potential enemy.

"Do you know it?"

"Only by word of mouth."

"Who rules there?"

"A King named Herod; but I understand that he is a hollow man.  A tool
of the Emperor of Rome."

"Emperor," Melchior repeated thoughtfully.

"It is possible, then, that my errand concerned him and his family.
Does he live in Jerusalem?"

"He does not.  He lives in Rome, and from what I hear he is a rogue."

"Indeed?"  Melchior sighed again, "Oh well, no matter.  Whoever was
concerned, in whatever place, will have no warning from me.  I have
done what I could, I have spent all I had, I have begged, I have
starved, all to no avail."  But even as he said it the small quantity
of wine he had drunk, the food he had eaten had revived him and he was
willing to snatch at the faintest hope.  He looked at Caspar with a
calculating eye, and then took note of his surroundings, hitherto
ignored.

"You are a man of wealth and power; if you could bring yourself to
believe in the importance of my errand and help me on ... The child's
family would surely repay you, since part of my errand is to warn them
against his death by treachery before he is weaned.  If I could be
there in time, I would tell diem to whom they owed the child's life and
I would ask them to reward you------' He broke off, deterred by the
inscrutability of the hard young face of the man with whom he was
pleading.

"I am unaccustomed to begging," he said with great dignity, 'and,
believe me, for myself I would never do it.  But for the sake of a
child with such a destiny, and in such danger, I humble myself and ask
you, sir, to lend me a camel and enough money to take me to Jerusalem!
, That word again!

"Eat, while I think," Caspar said and leaned his chin on his hand.

His thinking was simple and direct; he had little imagination and was
incapable of visualising anything not related in some way to his own
experiences.  When he thought of the Roman army, said to be a great
one, he saw, in his mind's eye the old Jexalian army, a great mass of
strutting men with plumes and banners and silver trumpets, and
remembered how easily it had gone down before the charge of his Five
Hundred.  And when he thought of the guerrillas in the hills of Judea
of whom old Benjamin had spoken, he saw them as men like those of his
own Five Hundred in the days before the great battle, skulking,
watchful, hard men awaiting the chance to strike.


One of the first rules of fighting that he had ever learned was that
one should attack before one could be attacked, and that the battle
should take place in the enemy's terrain, so that his tents, his
flocks, his womenfolk and children suffered.  Another thing he knew was
that of all weapons surprise is the most deadly.

He sat there and remembered how, in the months before he swooped down,
he had come, on this pretence or that, into Jexal, mingling with its
people, marking the strengths and the weaknesses.  What he had done
once he could do again: and what better disguise could he adopt than
that of travelling companion to this star-bemused old man?

And deep under all these thoughts, so deep that he need not trouble to
face it, was another--that by absenting himself, by moving about and
making plans, he would escape from the spell which the girl Ilya had
cast upon him.  Finally he lifted his chin from his hand and said: "I
am minded to come with you."

"You do not trust me?"  Melchior asked haughtily.

"What?  With one camel and twenty gold pieces in a bag?  Do you think
that of me ... ?"  He had been about to tell .Melchior who he was and
what he owned.

"No," he said, "I have a fancy to see this city of Jerusalem.  And I
think that you would travel faster and more safely in the company of a
practical man like me."

"That is indisputable," Melchior admitted.  Hope was now lively in him;
the food and the wine had had their full restorative effect, his plea
for aid had not been rejected; he was himself again.

"When can you be ready to go?"

"Tomorrow morning," Caspar said, thinking of what he must first do.
Melchior shook his head.

"Oh no!  Haste is of the utmost importance.  I have lost time already,
with Senya so lame."

"This," Caspar said, 'is a thing I do not understand.  You say that
according to the stars this child has a destiny, and yet according to
the same stars, he may die before he is weaned.  One or the other may
be true, but not both."

"Ah, that is what is so difficult to explain to one like you.  The
stars indicate: they do not rule.  They say what may happen, not what
will.  There are indications, and counter-indications, always, and in
this case both are very clear.  It is--how shall I put it simply?  A
woman goes to market and buys a length of woollen cloth.  Let that
cloth represent what the stars indicate.  Now of that" cloth the woman
may make a gown for herself, breeches for her husband, a blanket for
the bed.  She cannot, of woollen cloth, make a silk robe or a muslin
veil, but within limits the choice is hers, and her choice can
represent the counter-indications.  Have I made that plain ?"

"As plain as it ever will be, to me," Caspar said, giving up.

"So, haste is of importance; but we shall make good speed.  We shall
travel on swift..  ."  He had almost said 'horses', but hastily
substituted 'camels, riding camels'.  It would never do to ride one of
his horses, if he wished to pass unnoticed; everyone who ever came to
Jexal noticed and commented upon the beauty, the strength, the spirit
and docility of the horses.  His tribe had brought with them from their
remote Mongolian homeland all the rules governing the treatment of
horses, and had preserved them strictly.  It was an offence to strike
one except on the rump and then only with a rod as thick as a woman's
smallest finger.  And if water were scarce and of horse or man only one
could drink, the horse drank, which was sense, since the horse could
carry the man; and a man could suck a pebble and reflect that privation
toughened him.

It was an irony, Caspar reflected, that because his horses were so good
he must ride a camel.

"Even so," Melchior said doggedly, "I should prefer to move on today. I
am already late."  If they were to travel together, on camels, and with
money provided by this man it was important that from the first he
should understand the urgency of the errand.  It was not a question of
whose will should be paramount--or at least that was not how it
appeared to Melchior's dedicated mind; but it was his errand, his
responsibility, therefore his must be the authority.  He was grateful,
in a fashion, but gratitude was irrelevant.

"Give me an hour," Caspar said.

"Lie down," he pointed to one of the couches, hardly ever used
nowadays.


"Rest yourself while you may.  I will go about my preparations."He
went out and sent for Kalim, Lakma and a third man, Temur, his three
most trusted comrades.  He told them that there was something to the
West that he wanted to look into, that he was leaving in an hour and
could not foretell the time of his return.  He left Jexal to them, he
said, and would not insult them by giving orders; they knew the rules
as well as he did; trivial matters they three could deal with; things
of importance must be discussed by the Five Hundred in solemn session,
each man speaking in turn.

Their absolute trust in him was evidenced by the lack of protest, of
questions.  He had always led them successfully and this proposed
absence fell neatly into pattern with his behaviour in the past.  To
the West they knew lay many petty kingdoms, similar to that of Jexal:
another raid in the Spring, perhaps; or maybe at last he had taken note
of their many hints, and was going to look for a wife.

"Go in peace and come back with joy," they said.

When he came back he would find everything as he had left it; they were
his brothers, bound to him by that which the boy Malchus had, in his
flowery, Jexalian way put into words, 'the loyalty of the heart'.

When all was ready, the camels already kneeling in the courtyard,
Caspar went to rouse Melchior; he did it by taking the old man by the
shoulder and was almost shocked to feel the bones so prominent under
the faded blue robe, and the bones themselves so frail and light.
Melchior, accustomed to sleeping lightly and brokenly, was awake at
once, on his feet and ready to go.

"There is one thing," Caspar said.

"Of Kings and courts I am ignorant, but I think that if we visit this
Herod he might expect gifts.  What shall I bring?"

"My gift I carry in my head," Melchior said.

"And I also am ignorant of Kings.  But all men like gold."

Caspar had a pouchful of it, but that he might need for the journey.
However, he knew the very thing--the crown that had rolled from the
dead head of the old King; the crown which, before they understood his
mind, some of his followers had wished to see on Caspar's head.

"It would impress people," they had said, and he had retorted that he
could impress people in his own hat, or know why not.

"Wait here.  Eat again," he said, remembering the bones; and he strode
along to the bedchamber where, unwillingly,he had slept to defy the
rumour that he was afraid.  The King of Jexal had died there, by his
own hand--which showed, Caspar had always thought, what manner of man
he was.  Seeing the battle go against him he had run to his room and
stabbed himself, and the crown had fallen from his head and rolled into
a corner.  It and all the other pretty, womanish things he had worn,
rings and necklets, armlets, jewelled pins, had been put into a chest
into which Caspar now thrust a hasty hand and brought out a crown.  It
consisted of three golden circlets, the largest just the size of a
man's skull, the others smaller, linked by curved struts; circlets and
struts were set with jewels, rubies, sapphires, emeralds.  The triple
crown of Jexal.  A pretty thing, but no wear for a man.  Now the other
... Caspar wasted a moment looking at the Queen's crown, a filigree
coronet, all set with pearls, was the right wear for a woman; at least
for some women; it was difficult to imagine it upon the head of any
woman he had ever seen in the market.  It was difficult, in fact, to
imagine it upon any but one woman!  Upon that thought he let the lid of
the chest fall with a crash.  The triple crown he slipped into a soft
leather bag and tightened the thong.  He was ready.

It was, by this time, not much more than an hour, before sunset, and as
they rode towards the western gate, called the Water Gate, Caspar
looked towards the mountains, measuring what remained of daylight, and
because he had as yet no experience of Melchior's method of travelling,
thought that really they might as well have waited until morning.  But
he did not resent the early start, for already he felt an up rush of
relief at leaving the Palace and the city, and all that they meant,
behind him.

The wide street that led towards the Water Gate was not a busy
thoroughfare at this season and the people who were in it were all
women, walking purposefully.  Caspar scowled at them; he knew where

they were going--to the temple whichstood just within the city wall.
In Jexal there were nine temples, dedicated to various gods and
goddesses, and Caspar regarded them all with distrust and suspicion;
but he had never issued an order that they should be closed.  What he
had done was to inculcate and foster the idea that no man worth the
name would go running, trying, to placate an irate, or cajole a
friendly, god, and his policy had worked so well that nowadays only
women and a few old men frequented the temples.  This had made
priesthood an unremunerative occupation, not attractive to recruits.
The time would come, Caspar told himself, when this superstitious
thing, conducive to fear and the shuffling off of responsibility, would
die out of its own accord.  Already in Jexal it was fashionable to
swear by the Sun, and to be married by the mingling of blood.

He was thinking this, not without complacency, when he recognised, in
one of the women, the girl Ilya.  Her walk was unmistakable.  He
intended to ride past without turning his head and he almost managed
it, but in the last second the temptation to look, to see whether she
was as lovely as his memory of her, was too much.  So he turned and
once again they looked into one another's eyes.

She made a little sound of astonishment, recognising him in his stiff
felt hat, leather jerkin and baggy trousers, the horseman, mounted on a
camel; then she began to move more swiftly, almost running beside him,
and lifting her face.  She said the word he had forbidden : "Lord," she
said, "Lord!"

And because he wished to conceal from Melchior, who up to this moment
had regarded him, he was sure, simply as a wealthy and charitable man,
his real identity, he checked his camel's pace; and because being
obliged to do so angered him he said gruffly, "What do you want with
me?"

"To thank you," she said.

"To thank you from my heart for what you have done for Malchus.  He is
so happy now."

She spoke the true Jexalian tongue, removed from his own by the
softening, refining influence of a thousand years; Malchus, who had
worked with common men in the smithy, had seemed to lisp, and there
were times when Caspar was obliged to ask the Vizier to repeat himself;
upon Caspar's ear what she said fell with all the appeal of a woman
speaking with a lilt, an intonation, just understandable and no more.

"I am glad to hear it," he said.

"Happy soldiers are good soldiers, as a rule."  Then he added the
little extra, "Temur speaks well of him."

Something flashed in her eyes.  It said--if he read it rightly and he
thought that he did--Because I thanked you for breaking a rule on my
brother's behalf, don't imagine that I value Temur's good word!

Then she said, "You go a journey?"  and she looked at the camel,
comparing it, he knew, with the horse he ordinarily rode.

"I go a journey," he said.

"Then take this," she said, 'to preserve your most precious health in
evil-smelling places."  She reached up and thrust into his hand a
little package, wrapped in linen.

"Ishtar will not grudge it," she said.  She stood back and raised her
hand, in perfect imitation of a member of the Five Hundred taking
leave.

"Go in peace and return in joy," she said.

He was having his first experience with camels; they were more
gregarious, less near-to-human than; horses.  The one he rode and the
one Melchior rode had always been a pair, measuring their paces.  His,
held back, fretted and fidgeted, and Melchior's ridden forward, was
fretting and fidgeting too.  In one wild moment of confusion, the
package in his hand, the camel restive, the mockery of her leave-taking
and his need to take one last look at her, all mingling, he could do no
more than call back the traditional, tribal response to the
leave-taking:

"Stay in peace; I shall return."

Then his camel, straining forward, drew level with Melchior's,
straining backward, and the two fell into even pace.  And as they did
so he realised the nature of Ilya's gift.  The scent assaulted him, the
dominating scent of what he called the city stink.  It was
frankincense.  In a curious way it represented all the alien way of
life, the ritual, the king reverence, the god worship, the decadence of

the city he had made his own and yetdistrusted.  And having it thrust
into his hand by that woman, of all women, roused such a violent
distaste in him that for a moment, wishing to throw it from him, he was
unable to do so; he was paralysed by disgust.

"The brazen slut!"  he said to Melchior as the two camels, order
restored, moved forward happily.

"Accosting me with her stinking rubbish!"

Melchior sniffed.

"Rubbish?  It smells like frankincense; believe me, in many places it
is worth more than its weight in gold.  This King--did you say his name
was Herod?--would find that an acceptable gift, I think."

"You give it to him, then," Caspar said; and to his relief found
himself able to move, to hand the package over.

"But so long as you carry it, try not to ride between me and the
wind."

hate the stuff."

"On which side of you I ride," Melchior said mildly, 'is of no matter
to me.  So long as we move forward.  Perhaps I should have told you.  I
am old, I need little sleep.  I travel by night.  Then, when the camel
must rest, I take my reckonings by the star and mark my charts.  You
are young; you may find my way somewhat tiring."

Never, since he was ten years old and about to be taken, as a great
favour, on his first desert raid in the company of men, had anyone
spoken in that mildly admonitory, challenging voice to Caspar.  And
then the voice had been his grandfather's, the voice of a man tried and
proven, tough as leather, tempered as steel.  To hear the echo now,
from this old man, so frail, so
just-brought-back-from-death-by-starvation, so sharply snatched back
from despair, wiped out Caspar's mind every thought, every emotion
except that of the primitive feeling of competition.  Rome, Herod,
Jexal, Ilya were all forgotten as he said:

"Ride ahead, my friend.  And when you are tired, let me know."

FIVE

EDESSA 400 miles Upstairs, in a cool airy room overlooking the terrace,
the Lady had settled down to gambling, and downstairs her slaves were
hoping, even praying that her luck might be good.  Her temper, at all
times disagreeable, became savage under provocation, and nothing
provoked her more than to lose at games-unless it was the failure of a
tenant to pay his rent.

Balthazar stood a little apart from the rest with his arms folded so
that the stiffened fingers of his right hand were held between his
other arm and his body in a cradling, cosseting gesture.  He was a
scribe, an accountant, and his right hand was most precious; its
gradual, increasing disablement gave him great anxiety.

He was not praying for the simple reason that he did not know to whom,
or to what to pray any more.  Years back, in Tyre, he tried all the
gods, and one after another they had failed him.  He watched, with
gloomy detachment as one slave killed a dove and offered it to
Aphrodite and another took four bleached bones from a bag and arranged
them in a pattern and made a ritual gabble.  Poor things!  Upstairs the
dice would fall as they would, indifferent to anything that was done
down here; and if they fell unfavourably for the Lady, tomorrow
everyone would suffer, more or less.  He Would suffer more than anyone
except the Lady's body slaves, for he must every day, sometimes many
times a day, go and stand in the dread presence.  He cradled his right
hand a little more closely, remembering what she had done to it on one
occasion, and might very well do again.

A great wave of hopelessness washed over him.  Lately he had been prone
to moods of miserable despair.  Being a thoughtful man he attributed

this, in part, to his age; he was forty years oldand the last of
youth's hopefulness had drained away; he was no longer capable of
feeling that around the next corner something better might be in
store.

I have, he admitted to himself, been disappointed too often.

The first of his disappointments had happened when he was twelve, a
happy though sometimes hungry boy living in some nameless part of
Africa, so far inland that on maps he had studied later it was just
blank space.  It was near a great river, not the Nile, and his tribe
had its home where the river spread out over the flat land, making
innumerable wide muddy shallows where the crocodiles had lurked, one
eye watchful above the water's surface, ready to snatch at women who
came to fill their gourds, and at men who came to fish.

The tribe had a god, the Great Crocodile, N'Zana.  They believed that
the ordinary crocodiles were his minions and that if they did certain
things and observed certain rites N'Zana would favour them and keep
them safe from his servants.  Once a year, at a time calculated by the
old wise men of the tribe, three girls, virgins, without any physical
blemish, were chosen and taken to a special hut where, no matter how
low the food supply might be, they were fed and kept idle in
semi-darkness, so that at another date they might be brought out, sleek
and fat; then they were oiled and garlanded with flowers, and to the
beating of drums and the yelling of their fellow tribesmen, they were
cast into the river and immediately torn to pieces.

Once a favourite sister of the boy who now bore the name of Balthazar
had been one of the chosen virgins and he had not accepted it in at all
the right spirit.  His father had rebuked him, telling him that it was
an honour to give a virgin to N'Zana, but he could not resign himself.
All through the fattening season he moped and pined and when the day of
sacrifice came he had hidden himself away and wept.  Not long after, a
woman going to the river for water had been snatched and drawn under
and devoured and the boy, fearful of his father's wrath, but curious
and rebellious, had asked how could this be.  The price of protection
had been paid and where was the protection?

"You are my son," his father said; 'but you do not always obey me. That
crocodile was a disobedient son of N'Zana.  He will be punished."

The forty-year-old Balthazar could tell himself that had he had any
sense he would have learned his lesson then and there and spared
himself much disillusionment.  But at the time he had accepted it, and
when, being twelve, he had been most painfully initiated into manhood,
he had received his pierced crocodile tooth--the badge of a full man in
his tribe--with pride, and had worn for some months; until the slavers
came, in fact.

The slavers came in the night, and N'Zana made no move to save or
protect the tribe who once a year had given him their choicest virgins,
and at all times the choicest joint of any beast they killed, the tribe
whose chief on ceremonial occasions had worn the symbolic crocodile
skull.  N'Zana, said to be many times larger than the largest crocodile
ever seen in the river, and to have four times as many teeth, had not
come up from his hidden place and lashed about with his great tail, or
snapped with his great teeth.  He had done nothing.  So the huts were
all burned, the very young and the very old were left to starve to
death with no one to care for them; the others were marched off, their
necks thrust into forked sticks.

They had marched for many days, a long chain of misery; some had died.
Those who lived were taken to the banks of another great river, the one
which Balthazar now knew as the Nile; and there they were packed into
ships, as closely as fresh-taken fish were packed into baskets, and
taken to a place called Egypt where everything was strange and
terrifying and the houses were as many as, and as tall as, forest
trees.

There someone had rubbed powdered chalk upon his feet and he had stood
on a block and several men had fingered his arms and legs, forced his
mouth open and studied his teeth.  Later that day, with other boys of
about his own age, he had been taken into one of the tall houses and
suffered something worse even than the initiation rites.  The pain had
been terrible and very hard to bear, with none of the hope, the pride,
which had enabled him to bear the elders' slashing and slitting; that
had been destined to make him a man; this was destined to make him
something less than a man.  All that the initiation rites had conferred
this more agonising process took away.


When he recovered--which every boy so operated upon didnot do--he was
tested as a singer.  One of the results of the operation was to
preserve whatever voice a boy possessed, and a slave who could sing and
play some instrument was of enhanced value.  Balthazar proved to have
no ear, nor any potential skill as a potter or a painter which, after
singing, were regarded as the employments most suitable for the truly
black, woolly haired slaves brought from far inland.

"You have no skills," the owner of the slave-school told him, not
angrily, but as a plain statement of fact.

"I see nothing for you but to be a guard and escort for women."

By this time Balthazar had acquired a smattering of several languages
and had talked to many people and learned a good deal; he knew that the
life of a harem attendant was not an enviable one.  It was tantamount
to being a human watchdog, and who cares for a watchdog?  Women, he had
been told, were profoundly cunning and deceitful, and when a deception
was discovered, who was beaten?  The watchdog who had failed to be
watchful enough.  Also women quarrelled amongst themselves, and who
must step between them lest they come to blows and damage one another's
looks?  Again the watchdog.  Women, again, seemed, from the tales he
had heard, to bear a curious, deep-rooted enmity against his kind. Some
of the tales he had heard were quite horrifying; and although amongst
his tribe he had been regarded as a courageous boy, courage seemed to
have left him with his manhood.  He was very sensitive now, both to
pain and to mockery.

All the things he had heard were not horrible, however; there were many
tales about slaves who had been clever, risen to positions of trust,
managed to save money somehow and had purchased their freedom, or so
endeared themselves to their owners that they had been set free.  There
was one whole layer of society which consisted of freed men.  Some of
these even owned slaves themselves.  It was, however, generally agreed
that once the harem curtains had closed upon a half-man, he would. stay
there, like the other inmates, for life.

So, timid as he had become, Balthazar thought he must risk making one
suggestion.  Bowing his head, he said : "Master, I am worthless.  But I
think I could learn the abacus."

The slave-trainer looked at him with astonishment.  The arts of
reckoning and of penmanship were regarded as too intellectual for
slaves from far inland who could sing, make pleasing patterns with
colours, mould pottery, mime amusingly and play the clown--all physical
things, extensions or refinements of what came naturally to them, of
what they would have been doing if left in freedom in their own
homeland.  The use of the mind was a different thing altogether; some
people doubted whether they even had minds.  Dubiously the old
slave-trainer cast an experienced eye over the boy; a good lively eye,
he reflected, and a promising forehead.

"We can but try," he said.

"Fetch an abacus."

Eighteen months later he was able to put upon the market a property
practically unique; a young, neutered slave who could read and write
and reckon accurately; who was docile and teachable and reliable; and
black, with the black's well-known powers of endurance and ability to
eat almost anything.  Most slaves who could read and write were Greeks
or Semites or half-breeds who resented their condition and were shifty
or sickly; often they were men who had fallen into slavery on account
of debt and tended to be followed about by hungry families, which made
them attempt to be dishonest.

To the Greek merchant from Tyre, in Alexandria on business, and
astonished by the price asked for Balthazar, the trainer said:

"Within three months you will think it too little."

And within three months the Greek was almost of that opinion; for in
addition to all his other qualities the boy proved to be completely
honest.  The Greek, himself a profoundly dishonest man, subjected
Balthazar to the most subtle and cunning temptations his wily mind
could devise and Balthazar never cheated him of a penny.  And when a
trader--bribed by the Greek to do so--offered him a bribe, Balthazar
refused it, with the extraordinary excuse that there was no column for
such things in his accounts book.

At the end of a year--it took so long to convince the merchant
completely--he was able to say to his wife:


"Now, when I go on business there is no need for you to godownstairs
and dull your pretty eyes checking the accounts.  Balthazar is quite
honest, or he has such a mania for accuracy that it amounts to the same
thing."

In his work Balthazar was happy; but within himself he was always aware
of a yawning emptiness.  The sense of loss which he had felt after his
mutilation had increased rather than diminished through the years.  His
sleep was haunted by dreams, pleasant in themselves but dreadful to
recall when he woke because he would dream that he was a whole man
again, back in his home by the great river, hunting and fishing with
the men by day, and at night snug and happy in his hut with a woman who
was always--this was the shocking part--the sister whom N'Zana had
taken.

He was now enlightened enough to see the Great God of the Crocodiles
for what he was, something that men in their fear of the ordinary
crocodiles, and their impotence, had invented for their own comfort.He
had lost his faith in N'Zana at the same time that he had lost his
freedom, but deep inside himself he had a hankering for the comfort
which only faith in something outside himself could supply.  As he grew
older and his need for an emotional- outlet grew, he began to think
about other gods, the gods worshipped by all these clever busy people
who had no fear of crocodiles.

In Tyre there was no lack of them; the flourishing polyglot port had
much to offer to anyone seeking a god or a goddess.  There was the
Phoenician Baal in his many forms; Baal Tamar of the Palm Trees, Baal
Perazim of the Wells, even Baal Zebub, Lord of the Flies.  His groves
were everywhere.  For the convenience of visiting Egyptians there were
temples to Isis and Osiris; for Greeks temples dedicated to Zeus,
Aphrodite, Artemis and a dozen more; the Romans had reared temples to
Jupiter and Venus; the Babylonian goddess Ishtar had her sacred place,
and so had the god recently brought from Persia, Mithras.

They all had one thing in common with one another, and with N'Zana,
Balthazar discovered; they all liked presents; and presents he was
prepared to give and able to give.  On certain days of the year it was
customary for masters to give trivial sums of money to their slaves;
females spent these sums on finery for themselves and whole men spent
them on finery for their women.  Then, occasionally, after some
particularly profitable transaction, the Greek would toss a coin or two
to Balthazar; open-handed merchants would do the same.  And he earned
money too, by writing letters or making a reckoning for some unlearned
fellow.  Many slaves, commanding such resources would have brought
delicacies to eat, but Balthazar, often hungry in childhood, was quite
content with the food in the Greek's kitchen, simple, monotonous, but
sufficient.  Nor had he any need to spend his little income on clothes,
the Greek took pride in his slaves' appearance, and Balthazar, in the
counting house, in the public eye, was better clad than most.  And
women, those ever avid, never satisfied creatures who made such demands
upon a man's pocket, meant nothing to him.

So, bearing gifts, he made a slow round of the groves and temples and
underground shrines; looking at first for a place to rest his heart;
for something to fill the great emptiness caused by the loss of
freedom, of manhood and belief in N'Zana.  It was much to ask, and he
never found it.  After his twenty-fifth year he asked something else,
something simpler, of the gods.  In his twenty-fifth year his right
hand had begun to trouble him.

Laying down his pen one afternoon, he had stretched his fingers as
usual, and they had resisted the stretching movement and remained
cramped, as though still clutching the pen he had laid aside.  It had
been a long day and he had written small, paper being expensive and the
cramp did not cause him much concern.  In an hour it was gone and his
fingers were as flexible as ever.  But day by day the condition grew
worse until there came a time when he went to bed with his fingers
still bent about an invisible pen.  In the morning, for a long time,
his hand was better; and then one morning he woke to find his fingers
still contracted, and in the centre of his palm a curious bony bump.
After that, offering his flowers, his doves, his expensive spices, he
had asked of the gods not a resting place for his heart but a cure for
his fingers, and the answer to the one request matched exactly the
answer to the other.  Nothing.


He could still write, which was something to be thankfulfor--but
thankful to whom?  His fingers were cramped into a writing attitude and
clenched about a pen could still do their work.  But they were growing
worse, and abandoning the gods, once and for all, he took other
measures.  He gave his money to a man who took his afflicted hand and
thrust it into a pan of almost boiling hot mud; to a woman who filled
his palm with oil and gently rubbed and pressed and prodded until the
oil had been absorbed; to a man who had attempted to press the fingers
and the bony protruberance of the palm, flat between two boards,
excruciatingly painful and quite ineffective.

He had tried to learn to write with his left hand, practising
surreptitiously; and his left hand could write, but in a fashion quite
unsuitable to the narrow columns of an account book.  It wrote a large,
sprawling hand, square and ugly, and no amount of determination, no
amount of practice, could make it write otherwise.  And looking ahead
into the future Balthazar saw himself like a chariot horse, injured at
the Races and sold, doomed to drag out a limping, ill-fed life,
dragging a heavy cart until it died.  He was a writing slave, and of
what use was a writing slave with a crippled hand?

He was in this particularly vulnerable state when one of the houses
slaves died, died mounting the stairs to the living quarters and
dropping, as he fell, a tray laden with porcelain dishes from Cathay in
the far East, which the Greek in one of his travels and transactions
had managed to acquire.  Over the dead man nobody had mourned, but the
Greek's wife's lamentations over the broken dishes had been loud and
long.

The slave bought to replace the dead man was a Jew, named Eliezer, and
he was, by his own account, a slave by choice.  His aged father had
fallen deeply into debt.

"He was seventy, I was his youngest son.  Unknown to me he had sold all
that we had, and borrowed money from a Samaritan who demanded heavy
interest.  He was about to be shamed and disgraced.  The Samaritan
agreed to take me, and to cancel the debt.  So I am a slave.  But my
father's debt was paid and I have obeyed the law--Thou shall honour thy
father and thy mother.  I was misled.  By our law no slave can be held
for more than seven years.  Whatever his value, in the seventh year he
must be set free.  But other people have other laws and I have now been
in bondage for twice seven years and my father, if he is still alive,
is doubtless in debt again, being a fool in business.  Still, I did
what I could."

Balthazar was much impressed to learn that a man could voluntarily sell
himself into slavery, that hated state, and even more impressed by
Eliezer's indomitable cheerfulness which was not the cheerfulness of
the light-headed and thoughtless kind which seemed to be the only kind
available to slaves, and which Balthazar himself had never attained.
This cheerfulness, he discovered gradually, was based upon hope and
faith, both rooted in a religion, which as it was revealed, bit by bit,
was astonishingly different from any of those he had sampled. Eliezer's
god was a spirit who had on earth no physical representation at all and
who demanded not the occasional present or the bowing down in this
place or that, but control of a man's whole life, from the moment he
waked in the morning until he fell asleep at night.

"It is the Law," was Eliezer's explanation of everything, down to his
refusal to eat certain kinds of meat and his frenzied attempts to do as
much of the seventh day's work on the sixth as was possible.  The
reward for keeping this law might come in this life.

"Jehovah never deserts a just man," Eliezer said, and it was plain to
Balthazar that Eliezer still, after fourteen years of slavery, was
hopeful for liberating action from his god; but this life was not all,
a just man could count upon life after death when he would be gathered
to his fathers and enjoy everlasting felicity.

It took some time for Balthazar to learn all this, since his work lay
in the counting house and on the docks, and Eliezer's kept him to the
domestic side of the house, but whenever they could they drifted
together and the talk took a religious turn.  One evening Balthazar
stretched out his right hand which he usually concealed as much as
possible and laid it on Eliezer's knee as they squatted together in the
dusty courtyard.

"Look," he said.

"A handicap to anyone," Eliezer said gravely, having looked.

"And doubly so in a scribe."

"If it were yours and you prayed for a cure, would your God answer
you?"


Eliezer hesitated and then said:"No.  In the old days there were
prophets who could work wonders; Elijah restored a dead child to life;
Moses made a dry path through the sea.  But there have been no prophets
for the last five hundred years.  Besides," he hesitated again, 'if
Jehovah answered that kind of prayer nobody would ever be sick or blind
or crippled ... or a slave."

"Have you ever prayed outright for your freedom ?"

"As I would ask for a melon from a stall?  No.  I have asked my God not
to forget His servant in his bondage and exile.  And that prayer He has
answered."

"How do you know?"

"In my heart," Eliezer said simply.

"In his heart a man knows whether he is forgotten by God or not."

"How?"

"He becomes melancholy.  Perhaps I can best explain to you by way of a
story... ."He told Balthazar the story that all Jewish children knew,
the story of their first King, Saul, who was forgotten by God and went
melancholy-mad.  And then by contrast he told another story, that of
Job.  He ended with a quotation, "Though He slay me, yet will I trust
in Him'.

Balthazar dimly realised that though this god of the Jews offered no
remedy for the contracting fingers, he might offer some remedy for the
apprehension with which he himself regarded the future, and also,
almost equally important, something to fill the emptiness within him.
When Eliezer said, "In my heart', Balthazar had understood, because his
need was the need of all men, all the temple-frequenters, the
sacrifice-offerers, the need to feel that somebody, somewhere saw you
as an individual and cared.

After that talk he became assiduous in his questions.  Did Jehovah have
a temple?

Yes, indeed, Eliezer said; it was in Jerusalem, the most beautiful and
holy building in the world.  It was the ambition of every pious Jew to
visit it, at the Feast of the Passover, at least once in his life.
Eliezer told Balthazar in great detail about the building of the
Temple--which he had never seen; its destruction by Nebuchadnezzar, its
rebuilding by the liberated Jews, under Ezra, by people who worked with
a trowel or a shovel in one hand and a sword, a club or a dagger in the
other--that made a stirring tale; and finally its enlargement and
beautification by Herod.

"And here, in Tyre?"  Balthazar asked.

"Your god has no temple here?"

Eliezer suddenly looked uncomfortable.

"One God, one Temple," he said.

"In other places we have a meeting house, a synagogue, where the Law is
read and expounded and the songs of praise chanted."

"There is one in Tyre?"

"There is one in any place where any number of Jews are gathered
together."

"And you go to it?"

"When I can--which is not very often.  A house slave has little
leisure," Eliezer said.

"Listen!"  He jumped up with what Balthazar could only puzzledly regard
as relief at the sound of the bell which summoned him.

There was then a time when Balthazar, hot foot after this, the last of
his gods, found Eliezer very odd and evasive, which was strange,
because to say the least a scribe-accountant by even talking to a mere
house slave, honoured him.  But the day came when Balthazar could say
to Eliezer:

"I am interested in all that you tell me of your god.  When next you go
to your synagogue, tell me.  I will ask leave to go with you."

Eliezer's face took on the peculiar colour which all pale-faced men
showed under any strain.

"That is not possible," he said, avoiding Balthazar's eye.

"Because I was not born a Jew?"

He could see Eliezer wavering between tact and honesty.  Honesty won
and Eliezer said:

"It is not that.  It would be better if you asked no more and accepted
my answer--it is not possible."

"Because I am black?"  He'd never been particularly conscious of his
colour; it was true that most of his kind were slaves but that was
because of their misfortune, not because of their colour, and there
were plenty of men, quite as black as he was, who came to Tyre to visit

or to trade and were regarded as the full equal of anybody except a
born Roman citizen.

"No," Eliezer said; and he lifted his eyes and looked Balthazar
straight in the face.

"It is written, it is the Law as given by God to Moses.  No man, maimed
as you are, can enter the congregation."

The forked yoke of the slave trader had fallen upon his neck, the
gelder's knife had agonised him; but neither had hurt him as these
words did.  This was the final blow, because he had been all ready to
give his heart, his whole being to this god of Eliezer's, who was a
spirit and who answered prayers by gifts to the spirit and not to, the
body.  He had been ready to say, with Eliezer, "Though He slay me, yet
will I trust in Him', and "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the
shadow of death, I will fear no evil'.  That was how he had always
wanted to feel, how he was prepared to feel.  And now ... "Your god is
a very unjust god, Eliezer.  And inconsistent, too.  If, as you claim,
he is a spirit, concerned with men's hearts and minds, that is a
senseless rule.  This thing," he said, in an angry voice that was in
sharp contrast to his ordinary mild utterance, 'was done to me without
my wish or consent.  No reasonable man would hold that against me, far
less a god who, as you claim, sees and understands all."

"I am sorry," Eliezer said, 'but I cannot help it.  It is the Law."

After that Balthazar had finished with gods.

About a year later the Greek came home from the docks where he had been
supervising the unloading of one of his ships, on a hot day, and
complained, in the counting house, of a headache and feeling of
stiffness in the neck.  His wife had sent for a physician who
prescribed some remedies and rest in a darkened room.  But next day he
was worse, with high fever and pains in all his limbs.  Downstairs in
the slave quarters somebody said: "Cleo, bring your ball and look into
it and tell us, will he live or die?"

Cleo was a young Nubian girl, recently brought into the household; she
was a skilled hairdresser and spent most of her time in the bedchamber
of the Greek's wife.  She owned a ball, about the size of an egg, but
rounded, of black obsidian, and she claimed that by looking into it she
could see events that were yet to happen.

Balthazar, from the first, had regarded her as a fraud, and her
fortune-telling as a means of gaining attention.  But twice--this was
undeniable--she had been right; once when one of the master's ships was
overdue she had cradled the ball in her hands and looked into it and
said, "It is wrecked.  It has gone down in the sea."  And once she had
foretold the sex of an unborn child.  Everyone else was much impressed
but Balthazar considered these prognostications to be lucky guesses.

On this evening she brought her black globe, warmed it between the
palms of her hands, stared fixedly at it and at last announced in a
flat, dull voice:

"He will die."

There was a general groan, for the Greek merchant was, as masters went,
lenient and conscientious.

"All men die," Balthazar said, a little sharply, the verdict being
unwelcome to him, too.

"He will die on the second day," the young Nubian insisted.  Then she
pushed the globe into Balthazar's hand and said, "See for yourself."

He stared and was overcome by amazement; there, pictured in the
polished black surface, was the bedchamber of the Greek, his dead body
on the bed and the embalmers busy with it.

After a long silence, during which he stared and stared, Balthazar
protested:

"Yes.  I see him dead.  But there is nothing to show whether he will
die on the day after tomorrow or in twenty years hence."

"Look closer.  How many white rings enclose the picture ?"

"Two," he said in exactly the voice he would have used if asked a
question in the counting house.

"So!"  the girl said.

"He will die on the second day."

As she spoke the picture faded from the globe, and standing there with
it, blank, in his left hand, Balthazar realised that he had just
experienced something new and strange; he had seen something that had

not yet happened as though it were alreadypast.  The obsidian was cold
and heavy in his hand; he gave a little shudder.

"Put it away," he said.

Two days later the Greek died and the house was filled with the
mourning wails of the slaves, to which were added, for a short time
those of the widow.  But she recovered rapidly and began in a
level-headed way, to turn all the assets she had inherited into cash so
that she could return, wealthy and independent, to her native Corinth.
She had always, she said, felt an exile in Tyre.

The slaves began to plague Cleo to look into the ball again and see, if
she could, what would happen to them who were to be marketed in just
the same way as the ships, the storehouses and the pack animals:
Several times she made unsuccessful attempts; "I see nothing."  But one
evening, having warmed the ball carefully, she looked into it, gave a
moaning cry and fell senseless.  The ball-rolled from her limp hand and
somebody picked it up and gave it to Balthazar.

"You saw our master dead.  See what is in store for us."

"It is better not to know," he said, remembering how Cleo had cried
out.  But they insisted and he was curious, in a way, himself.  So,
almost flinchingly, he looked, and he saw himself, rather finely
dressed, riding a camel in company with two other men who wore peculiar
hats; one round, the crown running steeply into the brim, very much, in
shape, like the roofs of the huts of his own tribe, the other a kind of
cap with a white crown and a black brim.  On his own head he wore a
turban, made from a silk scarf, and his robe was richly red.

"You see something," the slaves cried.

"Tell us.  Tell us what you see."

"A happy future for all," he said, wondering about the meaning of what
he had seen concerning himself.  They crowded round, demanding details,
individual forecasts.  In his hand the ball had gone blank again and
cold and heavy.

"I had no time to see small things," he said, handing the thing to one
of the women who stood by Cleo.

"I can only tell you that you were all happy."

But Cleo hanged herself from a beam some time during the night and what
became of the black ball nobody ever knew.

The widow retained Balthazar to the very last; there was a great deal
of reckoning to be done; he knew about the business, and her husband
had considered him to be honest.  Several times in the ensuing months
he was able to save her from those who would have taken advantage of
her sex and her ignorance.  Every time this happened and every time he
made a shrewd or useful suggestion, she said, "You shall be rewarded,"
and he would think about the money piling up, how enormously rich she
was, and dream that in the end she would write him his paper of
manumission and set him free.  In the globe he had worn the clothes,
ridden the camel, of a prosperous freedman and he knew that could he
once attain his freedom he could become prosperous.  He could set up as
an accountant and scribe, and charge for his services.  Perhaps the two
men with whom, in the vision, he had been riding, were clients of his,
merchants from far away, glad to make use of his knowledge of languages
and of currencies.

All this pleasant speculation ceased when the widow, wearing the aspect
of one who has performed a good action at some cost to herself, told
him that she had sold him to a Roman.

"I could have obtained a better price for you," she said, in warm,
complacent tones, 'but I bore in mind how well you have served me
lately, and the state of your hand.  With your new master you will not
be required to write so much, or so small.  Theodor Metellus is growing
old and losing his sight.  You will have an easy life with him, just
reading to him and writing a few letters.  I hope you are pleased," she
added, changing her tone as she saw the sagging disappointment in his
face.

He was bitterly disappointed, and also dismayed.  The Romans, as
slave-masters, had an unsavoury reputation.  Hardly two generations had
passed since the Roman world had been rocked by a great uprising of
slaves, led by Spartacus.  It had been put down with the utmost
severity, but it had not been forgotten; Romans still regarded their
slaves as potentially dangerous and behaved to them

accordingly.Contributing to his dismay was the knowledge that he had
been sold cheaply because, in slave-market parlance, he was 'unsound'.
And, as with pack animals, the way in which a slave was treated was in
direct relationship with value.  There was also the question of Latin;
his, picked up by use in the streets and the counting house, was not of
the kind that a Roman gentleman would require or expect.

He wondered once more, as he had wondered many times before, what Cleo
had seen in the obsidian to make death preferable.  And how reliable
was information from such a dubious source?  The black ball, like the
gods, like the widow, had let him down.

There was nothing to be done, however, and on the appointed day he took
his little bundle of possessions and moved across the city to the
residential suburbs where fine villas stood, remote from the noise and
bustle of the quays and the business quarters.  It was with a certain
amount of relief that he noticed that the slave who admitted him looked
well fed, well clad and cheerful.

Metellus was a lawyer who had enjoyed a considerable reputation, both
as a scholar and an orator; he was old now, and on account of his
eyesight, virtually retired, though still active in a consultant
capacity.  His great dread was that he should become dependent upon his
slave secretary--he had seen that happen with other ageing men--and for
a long time he resisted Balthazar's well-meant attempts to make himself
indispensable.

"I am still capable of doing that," he would say; or "Don't take too
much upon yourself, Balthazar."  And long after he had ceased to see at
all he would reach out blindly for a paper and say, "Let me look."  In
the end, however, he succumbed to his new slave's genuine ability,
desire to please and gentle manner.  As much friendship as could exist
between master and slave existed between them; Balthazar was made free
of Metellus' considerable library, and they spent hours together in
talk.

Metellus was a Stoic, and without in any way aiming to convert
Balthazar--for how can a man be persuaded into an intellectual
state--he introduced him to that stark, impersonal creed, the reverence
of natural principles, the respect for reason, the uncomplaining
acceptance of one's fate.  They talked of Zeno, of Cleanthes and
Chrysippus and of Posidonius whom Metellus tended to decry as being
'too mystical'.  It was a far cry indeed from the doves of Venus, the
groves of Baal, but after all, Balthazar would reflect, they had failed
him.  Stoicism could not do that.  It had one fault, however; it
underestimated the importance of a man's emotional life; it was a
creed, Balthazar realised, for whole men, for aristocrats, for men
whose emotional needs had been satisfied elsewhere.  Nevertheless,
adherence to it gave a man dignity; see how uncomplainingly Metellus
accepted his blindness!  In such company Balthazar found it easier to
disregard his contracting hand.  Also, the widow, greedy, false and
selfish as she had been, had also been right in one thing.  With less
writing to cram into constricted spaces his hand suffered less from
cramp.

This leisurely, comfortable, peaceful life lasted for five years;
towards the end of that time Metellus had become entirely dependent
upon Balthazar whom he called 'my amanuensis'.  Fewer visitors came to
the secluded house; every year there were new young lawyers appointed,
men to whom Metellus was merely a name, a man whose books could be
consulted in any library.

One young man, however, was a regular caller.  He was a lawyer named
Marcus, born of a Roman father and a Syrian mother.  Partly because of
his mixed blood--for though in a multi-racial Empire racial equality
was paid some lip service, truly Roman Romans regarded themselves as
superior to all others--and partly because he had indulged in practices
not considered strictly ethical in legal circles, he enjoyed small
esteem amongst his fellows and it pleased him to be received in the
house of a man, who, though old and blind, was of unblemished
reputation.

He was fond of saying, "I must ask Metellus' opinion on that."

Then his hearer would say, "Metellus?  Is he still alive?"


And Marcus would say, "Very much so; I dined with him yesterday."  To
Balthazar Marcus always behaved with arrogance.

"I have something to ask you, but that can wait until we are alone," he
said more than once.

Most often Metellus would say, "If you ask me something and I need to
refer to a book, Balthazar can find it quickly."  Or, "You can speak
freely before my amanuensis, I like to have him near in case I need
something."

Balthazar regarded the young lawyer with a dislike somewhat out of
place in a true Stoic and occasionally showed it, murmuring a
correction of a date or a name, sometimes even going so far as to say,
when asked to fetch a book, "There is no need, sir.  I have that
passage by heart."

Metellus would smile and say, "You see, Marcus; he is my eyes and my
memory, and, I suspect, a better lawyer than either of us."

But the evening came when, on Marcus' arrival, Metellus himself sent
Balthazar out of the room on a reasonable excuse: and as soon as he had
gone, he said:

"I want you to do something for me.  Write that man a paper of
manumission and I can sign it now.  Then you can hold it until I
die."

"I trust, sir, that that day will be far distant," Marcus said
politely, and truly, since his friendship with Metellus lent him
status.

"I think not," Metellus said calmly.

"I am older now than most men live to be; and I have had warnings."  A
Stoic did not waste time describing symptoms, except to a doctor from
whom he hoped for relief; nor did he invite sympathy.

"You know what to write," he said; then, as he felt for the edge of the
paper, fumbled it into position and signed it, he added.

"I am reasonably sure that if Balthazar knew of this it would not
affect his behaviour one iota except to make him grateful and more
doggedly devoted.  And that would irk me.  So you keep it and regard it
as part of my will.  The contents of a will should never be
divulged."

"I will hold it safe, and trust that it may prove an ineffective
instrument, sir."

"And what may that mean?"

"Only that you may outlive him."

"Then you wish me ill.  To replace him I should need a nurse and a
scribe, and still be at a loss for a companion."

A bare three months later Metellus died, in his sleep.  The young man,
Marcus, remembered his mother's sister, a woman of great wealth who
lived in Edessa and from whom he had expectations.  She was always in
trouble with her stewards; free men, freedmen, slaves, she'd tried all
and never been satisfied.  So he destroyed the paper of manumission,
and at the sale of Metellus' effects bought Balthazar very cheaply,
having ostentatiously drawn attention to his afflicted hand.  Then he
personally conducted Balthazar to Edessa so that his aunt might thank
him, face to face, for his thoughtfulness and consideration.

Knowing nothing of how nearly he had missed being set free, Balthazar
could hardly be said to be disappointed.  Now and again he thought that
if Metellus had not died so suddenly, had he had time to realise that
he might die, things might have been different.  On the other hand his
Stoic creed might very well have influenced him to think that Balthazar
was a slave as naturally as he himself was blind; unpleasant states
both, and to be borne without complaint.

He was glad to learn that although Marcus had bought him, he was not
taking him into his service.  Stoutly he braced himself to learn new
ways, to fit into a new household, to be obliged, probably, to learn
another dialect, to please, if possible, his new mistress.  He was
thirty-four now, the extreme adaptability, the resilience of youth had
gone.

Within a week he realised that he had fallen into the clutches of a
woman not entirely sane.  The Lady, as everyone called her, had been so
corrupted by great wealth and almost absolute power that she did not
know her own mind from one hour to another and her rages were frightful
to see.  In a rage she had no respect for anything, not even for
herself.  Balthazar had seen her, in a stamping temper, pull out her
own hair and throw it away from her as though it were obscene.  And
Marcus must have been disappointed by the reception of his present.

"I don't like eunuchs!"  the Lady had said.


"They're alwayseating."  She rapped out, in gross terms, the reason
for their thinking food so important.  Then she said:

"What's wrong with his hand?  What use to me is a steward who can't
write?"

In happier circumstances Balthazar would have gloated over Marcus'
discomfiture, and tasted to the full the irony of hearing Marcus, who
had always seemed to despise him, lauding his abilities and virtues.

"I'll believe all that when I have reason to," the Lady said.  And to
Balthazar, "Straighten your fingers, man I' "Madam, it is impossible.
They have grown this way.  For many years now."

"Let me look," she said, less sharply; almost kindly; and innocently he
had extended his hand.

She.  took it in hers which were satin soft, plump, decorated with many
rings, pretty, feminine, harmless-looking hands, but they were strong
as steel as, with a quick movement, she clutched his wrist in one hand
and with the other attempted to bend back the-crooked fingers.  It hurt
much more than the pressure between the two boards, for then the
contracture had not been so complete.  Balthazar's black face turned
grey, sweat sprang out on his forehead, he was obliged to lock his
teeth to prevent the escape of a cry of agony.  Worst of all, as she
flung him back his hand, was the sight of her face with its look of
pleasure, of satisfaction.  A person who enjoys the pain of others, he
thought, with a feeling of complete despair; and I belong to her!

To Marcus, immune from physical ill-treatment, she said: "And why
should you bring me a black?  You know how I loathe them.  They stink
I' "This one is clean," Marcus said placatingly.  He might have been
speaking of a pet dog, housetrained.

Balthazar realised that never until now had he plumbed the depths of
humiliation which being a slave involved.  How fortunate he had been
hitherto.  First the old slave-trainer in Alexandria, anxious only to
produce the most marketable product; then the Greek, busy with his
money-making and valuing anything which contributed to it; then the
Roman, reasonable and just, and in the end dependent.  He had been a
slave for a long time, but this was his first taste of slavery.

Now, at the end of six miserable years, he stood apart while his fellow
slaves called on their gods, and worked their magic, and upstairs the
Lady shook the dice-box.  And he was empty, of hope, of vigour, of
everything except what he knew now to be a nebulous dream.  Suddenly he
could not bear any longer the company of his fellow slaves, so he went
to the open door and sidled out into the courtyard.

This was a very different place from the dusty, dung-scented yard of
the Greek's house in Tyre.  Every corner of the Lady's house was swept
and scrubbed, polished, fussed-over.  This courtyard was enclosed on
three sides by the walls, with their arched openings, of the house
itself; the fourth was the terrace with its marble balustrade, upon
which, at intervals, were set marble vases filled with flowers.
Immediately below the terrace the land fell away, first to the Lady's
pleasure ground, and then, lower, the vegetable garden and below that
again, the orchard.  Still farther down the slope were the towers and
the roofs of the city.  On suitable days, midway between the winter's
chill and the summer's heat, people would sit on this terrace with the
Lady and congratulate her upon her view and she always accepted the
compliments as though she had made the slight slope with her own
hands.

Tonight, in the darkening, slightly purplish twilight, the rail, the
struts, the vases at the terrace's edge looked black against the sky.
From overhead came the sharp rattle of the shaken dice-box and the
shrill voices of excited women.  Balthazar moved to the edge of the
terrace and stood there thinking of tomorrow, and of all the tomorrows
that would follow after.  To a certain extent, during the last six
years, he and the Lady had come to terms, terms of her choosing.  He
was of value to her, he knew, and to a certain extent she trusted him;
in the service of any sane woman his position would have been assured
and he would have been immune from ill-usage; but in this woman there
was something dark and dreadful, unreasonable and perverse; the thing

which had once, when he had done her a service that nobody without a
knowledge of accountancy and law could have done, had made her,
thanking him, suddenly take off her shoe and hit him in the face with
it, and split his lip and make the blood run.

He stood on the dark terrace, thinking his dark thoughts and, without
realising it, staring at one of the black curving urns, freshly planted
that day with sweet-scented flowers.

And there he was, dressed as before, with those two men, instantly
recognisable; and this time they were riding into the gateway of what
could only be a great city; he could see the high walls to the left and
right, made of enormous blocks of stone and within the walls tall
towers and the upper stories of buildings that must be either temples
or palaces.  The gateway and as much of the street as he could see was
as crowded as the busiest parts of Tyre.

He stared and stared in amazement--not that he should be seeing a
vision, for while it was happening it seemed to be real, the only thing
happening in the world--but that the men with him should have been so
instantly recognisable, their faces as familiar as though he had known
them always.  The old man, very thin, with high cheek-bones and mild,
study-wrinkled eyes, the young man with a face like a hawk's: queer
company for one another, and queer company for him.

From the upper room came the sound of a slight crash, followed by a
cry.  Balthazar gave a little start and instantly the picture was gone;
there was the black, smooth-sided urn, no different from its fellows.

He at least had something to think about during the next day, when the
Lady who had lost heavily, was so intent on making everyone wretched
that her ill-will extended even to peasant farmers she had never seen,
men who wrested a meagre living from an outlying estate of hers, two
days' journey away to the East.  They were all, she shouted at
Balthazar, to pay increased rents, either in cash or kind, and he could
tell them so when he went, at the end of the next week, to do the
rent-collecting.  It was not a prospect that he relished.  They lived
such miserable lives already, that sometimes when he left them he would
compare their lot with his; a slave was reasonably certain of his next
meal, at least; then, as he walked and the distance between him and the
Lady decreased, his pity for them would change into envy.

Her losses on that evening had convinced the Lady that she was on the
verge of penury; everybody's ration was reduced, and when Balthazar
asked could he have a new pair of shoes before he set out on his long
walk to the estate she said, "No.  Wear what you have," and hit him on
the head with a heavy silver comfit box which happened to be handy.

"And don't pretend that hurt," she said as a slow trickle of blood ran
out of his hair down his forehead.

"A skull of wood, and woollier than a sheep!"

That evening he went, as he had gone every evening since that of the
disastrous gambling party, and stared fixedly at the urn in which he
had seen the picture.  He knew that by doing so he was merely inviting
yet one more disappointment, but he felt drawn to the place, to the
urn.  He remembered Cleo and how she had often said, "It has nothing to
tell me."  What governed such things?  he wondered.  Were those two
men--and himself--there, in the urn and he unable to see them?  Had he
merely imagined the experience which had now visited him three times?
Or was it, each time, a dream?  In which case, over the death of his
master, he and Cleo had dreamed the same dream almost simultaneously.

While he was thinking in this way, something moved in the dark depths
of the urn.  It was a "star, much larger, much brighter than any of
those that scattered the heavens and it moved, perceptibly, down, down
until it was very low; then it seemed to swell and splinter into
something that he could never describe, a great burst of glory and
beauty and wonder, very real and yet unreal, as though colour had
sound, and sound had taste and taste had shape.  An entirely new world,
he thought, obliged to close his eyes against the dazzle of the
revelation.

When, timid and dizzy, he opened his eyes again the urn was as it had
been at other times, and loneliness weighed on him like a sickness.  To
whom could he say, I saw a star burst and the world was made new, with

no more slavery, men of all coloursmade equal, the rich giving their
goods to feed the poor?  And if there had been one to whom he could say
it, how feeble and ineffective the words would have been, how
incomplete the other's understanding.  And how, even to himself, could
he explain that this vision was inextricably connected with the two men
in peculiar hats.  But it was.... And he must, somehow, find those two
men.

He went to his bed and lay and gave serious thought to a subject he had
not really considered since he was a boy in the old slave-trainer's
establishment in Alexandria--how to run away and not be caught.  In a
civilisation based upon slavery this was an extremely difficult thing
to do, and doubly difficult if you happened to be black.  And the
punishments devised for runaway slaves were deliberately designed to
deter all but those already made crazy by ill-treatment.  In addition
to being black he was a eunuch--and no free man, save an ecstasy-drunk
priest of Baal who had mutilated himself, was that.

Still he thought, sturdily, even a black man, even a eunuch, might have
bought himself free, or been manumitted.

Now, he thought, pursuing that thought, if my master the Greek, or my
master Metellus, or my mistress the Lady, had manumitted me, I should
carry a paper, signed or sealed.

The Lady had never troubled to learn how to write her name, but she had
a seal, a great square topaz set in silver, which, when she pressed it
into the hot wax which Balthazar had prepared, left in the wax a
sheep's head in the centre and in each corner the initials of her
personal and family names.  (Her father's wealth had been made from
sheep; once there had been a great sickness and thousands of sheep had
died; his had stayed healthy and he had been able to sell a ewe in lamb
for the price usually charged for a tiger, an elephant or a fully
trained performing bear,) She never, even in a temper, let the seal out
of her keeping, and demented as many of her actions were Balthazar knew
that there was no hope of presenting her with a forged manumission
paper, amongst several others and getting her to seal it.  Where
anything concerned with business or money was concerned she was very
shrewd.  But he had, in his possession, many of the little clay tokens
which it was his duty to give to tenants in exchange for their money,
their corn, their jars of oil, or wine which constituted their rent.
Every quarter, as he went round he issued new clay tablets, a different
colour for each new quarter, and collected the old ones.  It was just
possible that he could smear the face of one of these stamped tokens
with oil and press it against some fresh-dribbled wax.  He would then
have a replica of the Lady's seal.... Next day he wrote himself a
document of manumission, phrased, although he did not know it, almost
in the very words which Marcus, that clever lawyer, at Metellus'
bidding, had used.  Then he forged the seal.  Transferred from topaz to
clay and from clay to wax and then to wax again it lacked the sharp,
immediate impact of the original; but looking at it critically he
thought it would fool most people.

There were other cunning little moves to make.  In the ordinary way he
spent two days on his journey, two days rent-collecting, two days on
his way home.  But this time, before he left, with the forged document
tucked into his breast, he said:

"My Lady; the increase in rents that you have ordered will bother these
people and may cause some delay.  The usual rent they have, hidden in
the wall or under the floor, if it is in cash; put aside in barn or
storehouse, if in kind.  Faced with the increase most of the tenants
will be obliged to run to the moneylender, or fill other sacks and
jars.  I say this because this may take me more than six days."

She said, "Did I not make myself clear?  I want this increase; I need
it.  And you are to stay there until the last penny, the last grain of
corn, the last drop of oil or wine, has been yielded up."

"That might mean, my Lady, that I should be absent for two weeks."

"What of it?"  she said.

"Do you think that I shall pine for the sight of your ugly face?  I
know what you are thinking of.  In this house you eat full and sleep
soft.  For two weeks you'll miss your comforts.  Three even, if some of
them have to sell their children to meet my demands."


Yes, it might even be three weeks before she missed him and said,
"Where is Balthazar?"  And, after that, at least two days' grace,
waiting, wondering, expectant.  And then the hue and cry; runaway, a
neutered slave, black, the fingers of his right hand bent, aged forty,
hair turning grey, when last seen wearing... He knew it all, he thought
as he passed from the Lady's presence for what he hoped with all his
heart would be the last time.  Once she knew, and the news was out,
everybody would be on the alert, avid for the reward.

But he had at least two, at best three, weeks; he had, if challenged,
his forged document; and he had on the one hand his hope, on the other
his despair.  If he failed, if his dream like everything else in his
life simply led to disappointment and he was brought back, he would
take his fifty lashes and his branding, and he would die... On the
night before he left 'he gave sensible consideration as to the best
direction to choose.  The really practical thing, he knew, was to go to
the estate at Babila, spend a day collecting the rents that were
immediately available and then disappear from there; he would thus
acquire money for his journey, he could buy the camel and the clothes
which, in his vision, had seemed to be his.  But this procedure was
distasteful to him, not only because he had never stolen a penny in his
life, but because it seemed wrong to start out in pursuit of something
unspeakably wonderful by committing a theft.  Also--and it was amazing
how even a slave could find reasons for not doing what he didn't want
to do--to act in this way would be to act exactly as the Lady, when he
failed to turn up, would guess that he had acted.  She would send first
to Babila, two days' journey to the east; by moving westwards at once
he would add four days to the time he had in hand.  So he would go
west; taking with him the few coins he was allowed to purchase food.
Apart from that he had nothing, for in Edessa--or at least in the
Lady's household, the charitable custom of making small money presents
to slaves on certain days was not honoured; nor had she allowed him to
write a letter or make a reckoning for anyone other than herself.  He
had attempted it in his early days in Edessa, where there were plenty
of ignorant persons willing to pay for such a service.  The Lady had
said, simply and spitefully, "If you can't find enough work to keep you
busy on my business, just tell me, and I will help you."  He had known
what that meant!

So, meanly clad, his shoes already broken, and with just money enough
to purchase one evening meal, he set out, very early in the morning,
and turned west as soon as he reached the city's boundary.  Then, for
two days, he dared not use the highway for fear of being seen by
someone who knew the Lady and might recognise him and report.  Walking
across country in this way was a slow process, for he was traversing a
belt of highly cultivated land upon which Edessa depended for its
market produce and the plots were divided by walls of stone loosely
piled upon one another, by fences, by irrigation ditches.  Also there
were no shops where food could be purchased.  On the first day, except
for the 'dawn-bit' which he had eaten before setting out, he ate
nothing at all; on the second, seeing a woman outside a lonely little
house, milking a tethered goat, he had approached her and asked could
she sell him something to eat.  She rose to her feet, looked at him,
with fear and then, searchingly, all round; looking for his
accomplices.

"I am alone," he told her.

"And I am not a beggar; I can pay."

Her expression did not change, but she nodded, and taking up the bowl
of milk, went into the house, walking in the stiff-legged way of one
who wishes to hurry but deliberately refrains from doing so.  He heard
the bolt on-the inside of the door jolt into place.

He stood there, feeling disheartened; without eating he could not
travel; and he realised again that a slave's life, though full of
humiliation and, in the power of anyone like the Lady, pain, was a
sheltered one; he had been used to eating regularly.  Even in Edessa,
when the Lady was angry or needlessly economical and the quality and
quantity of the food had been reduced, there had always been something,
served up at regular times.

Resolutely he cast his mind back to the days of his youth, particularly
to the brief period between his initiation and his capture when he had
been allowed to go with the men on their hunting expeditions.  They

never went out until the food supplyof the village was almost
exhausted, and what little there was left in store stayed there for the
support of the women and children.  In the morning they would say,
"Tonight we eat full."  But often enough there were days when they had
no success and lay down with empty bellies.  They'd thought nothing of
it; nor had he, then.  The forty-year-old "Balthazar thought--I am not
the man my father was.  Then he thought--Naturally not; I am not a man
at all.  And he wondered whether the Lady had been right when she said
that eunuchs thought of nothing but eating.

Next day, still moving west and travelling across country he was
fortunate and fell in with a woman more brave, or more charitable, than
the first.  She sold him some wheat porridge, cold and set almost as
firm as bread, two small onions and a cup of goats' milk.  He carried
the onions with him, and ate them just before he lay down under a wall
and went to sleep.

On the third day, after a long laborious climb up a ridge or rising
ground, planted on its lower slope with olive trees, above that bare
and rocky and very damaging to his poor shoes, he found himself looking
down upon a road, carrying considerable traffic and running--he took
his bearing by the sun--slightly south-west-north-east.  He scrambled
down the ridge and joined the traffic that was going, so far as he
could judge, away from the direction of Edessa.  There were trains of
pack ponies and donkeys, trotting along in a haze of dust; camels
swayed under their loads.  There were mounted men and ladies being
carried in litters, and so many people on foot that Balthazar felt
himself to be reasonably inconspicuous.

Hunger bothered him again and presently he had proved that he had no
skill as a beggar; nothing came his way that day, and the situation was
made worse by the fact that all along the road people were eating, and
there were places where food could be bought.  Bread freshly baked in a
village shop smelt delicious and brought the water into his mouth; so
did the sight of a pedlar resting against his pack and eating the leg
of a chicken.

Towards evening he came to an inn.  Poor travellers who were prudent
and determined to get good places for themselves on the covered
platform that ran around the yard, and good places for their beasts in
the enclosure, were already settled and eating the food they had
brought with them; from the doors and windows in the inn itself came
the odours of the meal being cooked for wealthier people who could
afford to eat indoors, in comfort.  Balthazar paused.  There must be a
great deal of work to be done in an inn at such a moment; animals to be
fed and watered, dung to be swept up, dishes and pots to be washed.  He
turned in and at the door asked, most meekly, whether there was
anything he could do in return for a meal.

"I don't encourage beggars," the innkeeper said.

"Puts people off if they think they're going to be accosted and
bothered."

"I wouldn't accost or bother anyone.  I'd just do anything you gave me
to do, whatever it was, in return for something to eat."

To that the innkeeper did not even bother to reply; he pursed his lips
and whistled, and from somewhere a dog appeared, and without a bark or
a snarl or any evidence of hostility, sank his teeth into Balthazar's
wrist, and held him.

"That'll do," the innkeeper said; the dog loosed its hold,and backed
away.

"Now you be off," the innkeeper said, 'unless you want another dose."

Outside the place he was obliged to stop and tear a piece from his
tunic to make a bandage for his wrist which was bleeding profusely.  It
dawned upon him--and-this hurt more than the dog-bite, or the blisters,
just beginning to break on his feet, or the hunger-gnaw in his
belly--that he had come out on a ridiculous errand, hunting for two men
he did not know, who might even now be travelling in exactly the
opposite direction.  Even at this low moment he did not doubt their
existence; they were as real to him as the surly innkeeper, but he was
beginning to fear that he might die of hunger, and never find them.

Miserably he wandered on, and in a short time heard, from the side of
the road where there was a clump of myrtle trees, the sound of several
men's voices, laughing and cursing; the scent of charred flesh reached
him.  He ventured cautiously around the trees and saw that he had
stumbled upon a group of soldiers, Roman soldiers, who had bought, or

commandeered,a sucking pig, and made a fire and were now endeavouring,
clumsily, to cook it by using their swords as toasting forks.  Even as
he watched, it slipped and fell into the fire which spat and sizzled.

"Jupiter give you a pig for a first-born," one of the soldiers said.

"We want it for eating, not for a burnt-offering."  He reached out and,
taking the pig by its hindleg, retrieved it.

Balthazar moved forward, a shadow emerging from the shadows and said in
the faultless Latin he had learned from Metellus:

"I could cook it, if you would permit me."  At least they .were not
frightened and did not turn upon him eyes of fear or any of the
emotions that fear engendered.

"See," one of them said, 'didn't I tell you that this was enchanted
country.  We need a cook, and one walks in."

"In disguise!"  another said.

"As unlike a cook as any I ever saw--and I've seen a few.  Can you
cook, fellow?"

Balthazar had never cooked anything in his life, but he had seen
cooking done, "I can cook that pig," he said.

"Then cook it," said the man who held it by the leg, 'and shout when it
is ready for eating."  He gave the greasy, half-charred little body to
Balthazar and turned away.  The others turned away too, towards a dim
lantern that stood on the ground.  They were Romans, the dominant race,
and to them it did not seem strange that out of the dusk service should
come and offer itself.  One of them, just beginning to throw the dice,
was annoyed when Balthazar came behind him and asked could he borrow
his knife.  No slave of the Lady's was allowed to carry a knife or
anything capable in the most far-fetched circumstances of being used as
a weapon of offence or defence.

Handed the knife, Balthazar cut two forked branches and planted them
firmly in the ground, one at each side of the fire.  Then he cut a
long, stout stick and forced it through the body of the sucking pig;
the protruding ends he lodged in the forks of the branches and the pig
hung there, near enough the heat to cook, far enough from it not to
char.  He sat down by it, now and then replenishing the fire, now and
then giving the long stick a turn so that another portion of the pig
was brought in contact with the heat.  A mouth-watering smell
overpowered the scent of charring and spread about the little camp. One
of the men turned and called:

"How long will it be?"

"Not long now, sir," Balthazar called back.  He thought how tender the
white flesh would be, the crackling how crisp, the fat how sweet, and
was obliged to wipe his mouth on his sleeve.

For the first time in many years he remembered Eliezer, who would have
starved before he would eat pig-meat, or hare, or venison.  At the time
he had respected Eliezer's respect for his Law and admired him for it;
now it seemed ridiculous.  Though no more ridiculous, he thought, than
casting yourself into a hostile world on account of a dream, a waking
dream.  Then, because every man must attempt to justify his own form of
madness, he thought that after all his action might not have been so
ridiculous, even if he never found the men he was looking for.  If he
could keep alive and stayed on this road while the Lady hunted for him
around Babila, he might come to a city large enough to hide in and set
himself up as a street-corner scribe.  In that there'd be none of the
wonder and glory he'd come out to find but one thing he'd dreamed would
have come true.  No more slavery.  He'd thought that that had applied
to the whole world, but maybe he had been mistaken; maybe it applied
only to him.

Presently he tested the meat with the knife; the point ran in easily,
even in the thickest part of the leg.  He threw earth on the fire to
deaden the heat and then carefully lifted the forked sticks and planted
them again a little way away.

"The meat is ready for eating, sirs," he said, and walked a little
distance away.

"I want my knife," said the soldier who had lent it.

Balthazar, apologising, brought it back; by this time the others had
fallen upon the meat as though they were starving, and Balthazar licked
his lips.

"You hungry too?* asked the knife-lender in an off-hand, but
good-humoured way.

"Move over, Varro.  There you are."  He turned back to Balthazar and

offered him a chunk of meat from the point of the knife.  Nothing had
ever tasted so good.

He slept that night under the myrtle trees, and was wakened by the
clatter the soldiers made as they moved off.  He ran to the place where
the pig had been hacked to pieces and breakfasted on the scraps of meat
which still adhered to the scattered bones.  The meal and a night's
rest had restored his spirits and his hope of meeting the two men was
lively again.  He resumed his walk, studying carefully anyone who rode
a camel.

On that day he made less progress for the blisters on his feet had
begun to fester.  By midday the dog-bite on his wrist was troubling
him, too; when he let his arm hang it throbbed like the worst kind of
toothache.  But he refused to be discouraged by his sores, or by his
marked ill-luck in begging.  He was now on one of the great highways of
the world and anyone who lived beside it and had a charitable heart
could have stood and given away all that he possessed in forty-eight
hours; and those who carried their food with them were concerned lest
their supplies should not last to the end of their journey.  In three
days after leaving the soldiers he ate twice, once on a half-rotten
apple which a fruit-seller threw out because it might contaminate the
sound ones, once on a piece of barley bread given to him by an old
woman who was eating as she trudged along with a bundle of laundry on
her head.

He arrived at the caravanserai at the crossroads in the dead hour of
the afternoon on the seventh day.  It was an imposing place, occupying
the whole corner between two of the four roads that met.  Just inside
the yard which gave upon the wide open space where animals were stabled
was a stone drinking trough, and a little girl, with one shoulder
higher than the other and, he presently saw, one leg shorter than the
other, was emptying a wooden bucket of water into it.

He said, "May I drink?"  Finding anything to drink had also been
something of a problem on the highway; people were actually selling
water!

"It's for beasts, really," the girl said.

"I'm just going to draw another bucketful.  I'll bring you a cup, if
you like."

"This will do," Balthazar said, cupping his hands and drinking eagerly.
She limped away.  He splashed the lovely, the beautiful, the free,
cleansing water over his face and head.  He ripped off his makeshift
bandage and plunged his wrist, with its aching, festering wound, deep
down into the trough.  He was about to kick off his shoes, climb to the
edge of the trough and ease the sores on his feet in the same way, when
the girl came limping back.  His thirst slaked, he looked at her more
closely; she wasn't dressed like a slave.

"Are you," he asked, 'the daughter of the house?"  Her thin little
fingers touched first the folds of her dress, worn and dirty, but in
its day a dress of quality, and then the silver ornaments in her
ears.

"These are for show," she said.

"I am a slave."

"Oh," he said; and he was a little disappointed.  She was kind, she'd
offered to fetch him a cup, and a child learned its attitude from its
parents, he had hoped that the father might be kindly too, and let him
do a job and give him a meal.

"Could I speak to your master?"

"Not now.  Not for an hour.  He is asleep; or in bed with her."

"I wanted to ask is there any job I could do to earn myself a meal."

"A lot of people ask that.  He always says "No"--except to
fortune-tellers.  After they've eaten, most people like to have their
fortunes told.  If you can tell them," she looked at him dubiously,
'you would be welcome; but not otherwise."

"I'm so hungry," Balthazar said, 'that to get a meal I'd become a
fortuneteller."

"I can give you something to eat.  Every day we cook more than
enough."

She spoke eagerly.

"Wait there," she said and pointed to a nook made by the house wall not
running quite in line with the lower wall that enclosed the' place
where travellers' beasts were herded.

"That," she said, 'is a good place.  I go there when I cry."

He went and sat down, eased off his shoes, unwound the dripping wet
bandage and looked at his wound.  It was worse; that dog must have had
poison in his teeth!  His whole wrist was puffy and hot and from the
two punctured holes yellow pus was oozing, giving off an offensive

smell.The girl, and although she limped, she moved quickly, came and
presented him with a wooden platter, heaped, piled with what was
plainly the remainder of several main dishes.

"It doesn't look very appetising, but it is all good," she assured
him.

"I've lived on it for three years."

"It looks good to me," Balthazar said, digging his fingers into the
rice, the bits of gooseflesh and mutton, the leaves of artichokes, the
cabbage.  Looking at the girl he judged her to be about thirteen, so
she had been here, living on left-overs for three years, she must have
fallen into slavery at an earlier age than he had ... or perhaps she
had been born one.... "Three years," he said, 'you have lived here for
three years?"

"Three, thirty, three hundred.  I lose count of time.  She'--she raised
her eyes to the blank, recently whitewashed wall that jutted out above
this secluded little corner--'she marks every hour and one new wrinkle
under her eye rocks the house, I," she said, tapping her flat little
chest, 'am a slave, but sometimes I think less a slave than my master.
She is very pretty and has a heart of stone."

"Is it because of her that you come here to cry?"

"Sometimes.  Sometimes it is for my family in Antioch.  Sometimes," she
looked away from him, 'it is because of the things I have to do.  I
have to ... sleep with men," she said.

Balthazar, chewing on a gristly bit of mutton, looked at her and
wondered what sort of man it could be who would wish to go to bed with
her, so immature, so crooked?  She sensed, and indirectly answered his
question.

"In the dark," she said, 'when they are eager and inflamed by his
promises, they use me.  Afterwards they are ... ashamed, and angry with
themselves, and with me.  Afterwards, when a pretty girl would get
smiles and presents, I get curses, and blows.  You see," she said,
simply, 'she won't have a pretty girl in the house.  She uses her bed
as a stick to hold over my master; it would never do for him to have
another bed to go to."  She looked at him, saw comprehension and
sympathy in his eyes, and went on: "She wouldn't have another woman of
any kind in the house except that she, the wife of an innkeeper, the
daughter of a pig-butcher, thinks herself a lady and must be attended
in her bedchamber.  And it is impossible," she said, 'quite impossible,
for anyone to work as I do, in the yard and the kitchen, and still have
hands smooth enough to handle hair as it should be handled."

Something in the way in which she had said 'pig-butcher' prodded
Balthazar's memory.

"You are a Jew?"  he asked.

"Yes.  My father is a shoemaker in Antioch; three years ago he fell
ill; more than three years ago, I have been here for three years.  Jews
are well liked if they are thriving; when they fail to thrive they have
no friends except other Jews, as poor as themselves.  He owed money,
not much, but some, for leather, for thread and wax, also rent for the
house, and those to whom he owed came in a body and said he must sell
something and pay his debt.  He offered to sell his tools but they were
worth little.  My brother was four years old, my sister still at the
breast.  If my father had sold himself they would starve.  So, weeping,
and in great sorrow, he sold me."  She raised her chin a little.

"Sometimes a pedlar, a friend of my father,"passes this way and we send
messages.  Always my father says that he is saving to buy me free, to
be patient and keep the Law and work well and freedom will come; always
I send back a message to say that I am happy and have a good master and
mistress.  I think sometimes that this is contrary to the Law, "Thou
shalt not bear false witness", but it harms no one and comforts my
father and my mother."

"And observes the Law about honouring them."

"You know about that," she said eagerly.

"You know, when you came to drink at the trough, something in my mind
said, this is not a beggar, this is a prophet!  And it is strange that
I should think that, since you are not a Jew.  But you know our Law."

Balthazar nodded.

"A little."  He racked his memory for some words, used by Eliezer, and
applicable to this child's case.  He found it.

"Sorrow may endure for the night, but joy cometh in the morning!"

"Oh," she said, her ugly little face transfigured, 'you do know!  That

is a saying from-----' She broke off as a loud,ringing female voice
called, "Susannah!"

"I must go.  I've wasted time ..."  she said, and limped hastily
away.

Balthazar stayed where he was in the sheltered angle between the walls,
the hidden place where Susannah came to cry.  The meal he had just
eaten weighed upon him with a comforting, enervating weight.  His
wrist, freed of the rough, bloodstained bandage and recently cooled in
the trough, hurt less than it had done.  He dozed.  The somnolent, dead
afternoon hour ended with an inrush of travellers, anxious not to be on
the road after dark, anxious to secure room for themselves under the
tiled awning which sheltered the platform that ran about the enclosure
for animals, or, if they were rich a private sleeping chamber and a
place at the table where the meal was served for such as could afford
it.  Balthazar roused himself, not without self-reproach.  Indirectly
he had justified the Lady's jokes about eunuchs; out in search of the
indescribable, the wonder for which there were no words, he was still a
slave to his need to eat and sleep.

He rose and stretched himself and took a step or two out of the
secluded corner into the main entry of the yard.  He was thirsty again
and intended to take another drink from the trough.

He never took that drink, for as he emerged from behind the corner of
the house, two men, on camels, sagging, exhausted camels quite unlike
those he had seen in his vision, rode into the yard.  And their faces,
their hats, everything about them, except that they, like the camels,
looked utterly exhausted, was exactly as he had seen them in his waking
dream.  Even the hats, about which there could be no mistake.

He ran forward with all the joy, the incredible excitement of one who
finds a dream translated into fact.

"You are those I have been seeking!"  he cried, in his weightless tenor
voice.

"You follow the star.  I beg you, take me with you!"

They looked at him with blank, uncomprehending faces.  And of all the
bad moments in his life that was quite the worst.

six NAMELESS VILLAGE 500 miles Melchior and Caspar had not been
travelling a week before the younger man had learned one very useful
lesson--toughness had little to do with appearance.  The old man, so
frail and thin, was never the one to suggest that they had travelled
far enough for one day, and to Caspar, not yet accustomed to the motion
of his camel, the days, extending far into the night, seemed very long.
In the end he was compelled to protest, not on his own account--that he
would have been ashamed to do--but on account of the camels.

"By the sun," he said, 'no wonder you lamed your other camel!  These
will drop dead under us if you go on this way."

It chanced that he first said this in a desolate place; had it been in
a town or a village, Melchior would probably have answered that they
could buy fresh camels; but even he could see that here should the
camels fail, there would be nothing for it but to go ahead on foot.  So
he said:

"You were right when you said that I needed a practical man as a
companion.  I never thought of the camels!"

"But you must yourself be tired," Caspar said.

"My bones are tired," Melchior said; 'but they have been tired for so
long that I no longer notice them."

And when they halted, wherever that might be, by the roadside, to eat
food that they carried, or in the crowded caravanserais, the day was
still not ended for Melchior; he must take out a chart and make his
complicated reckonings, the results of which were never to his
liking.

"We must move faster," was always his verdict.  The need for haste
obsessed him, and soon another problem arose.

"Night by night," he said, "I grow more doubtful about our destination;

it lies south of Jerusalem.  Of that I am almost sure."Caspar, who had
come out with the intention of seeing Jerusalem, and Herod too, if that
could be managed, always tried to console him.

"You told me, on the first day we met that this child was to be born of
a royal house; and Herod is King in Jerusalem.  It may be that he has a
Palace for Winter and a Palace for Summer, or one in the city and one
in some quiet place, suitable for a breeding woman."  The Kings of
Jexal had owned a Summer Palace, on high ground above the river, and
Caspar spoke with some assurance.

"We must make first for Jerusalem, and there ask."

When he said this for about the twentieth time Melchior, who had never
denied that this might be the most sensible thing to do, suddenly said:
"And in what tongue?"

The matter of language was becoming a problem in itself.  As they moved
westwards the dozens of dialects and mutations of the tongue which was
common to them and which had been carried by the successive waves of
emigrants from their original homeland, had become less and less of
service to them, and Melchior had been obliged to fall back upon his
book-learned Greek, a language he had never heard used and every word
of which he must pronounce in all possible ways before he made himself
understood.  So long as they were moving, all unknowingly, along the
road which Alexander and his men had twice travelled, where wounded
men, exhausted men and various camp-followers had stayed and rested,
Melchior had managed, not without difficulty to make himself
intelligible enough to buy what was needed, to ask a few questions and
obtain answers.  As they moved south-westwards they had found that
nobody at all understood any variation of their common tongue, and
fewer and fewer people could understand Melchior's version of Greek.
When Melchior asked, with a slight bitterness, "And in what tongue ?"
they had been moving, for several days, through a region where educated
people spoke Latin and the common people some form of Aramaic--as
varied and as seemingly universal as their own tongue was in the areas
reached by successive impacts of the great Mongolian invasions.  Caspar
answered the question in his usual blunt way:

"That," he said, "I must leave to you, Melchior.  You are the scholar.
I am merely the provider."  And that, Melchior realised, was not said
as a reproach, it was, like most of Caspar's statements, plain fact.
Food, for man and beast, accommodation, tolls at bridges and ferries,
everything had been paid for from Caspar's pouch.  And the man himself
was a good fellow-traveller; tireless, uncomplaining.  And considerate.
Many times he had insisted that in a caravanserai Melchior should
occupy a private room.  Private rooms were few and costly.  Ordinary
travellers slept on a kind of platform, sheltered by an awning which
ran around the open space where animals jostled and brayed and
scratched and moaned.  Caspar always, when they slept in a
caravanserai, chose to sleep there, not in a private room.

"I like to sleep in the open; but for you I will buy a room," he would
say.

"You have your work to do, and coming back would disturb us all; also,
since you sleep so little, you must sleep soundly, undisturbed by a
child crying or an ass braying."  In many ways Caspar behaved to
Melchior like a son--the son he had never had.  They depended upon one
another, and it worried Melchior a little that though Caspar's
contribution to their journey, the gold he carried, was acceptable
everywhere, his contribution, his book-learned Greek, was becoming less
and less of value.  Also it was evident to him that Caspar's goal was
Jerusalem.

There was something else, also, that troubled Melchior.  Gas-par's
curiosity and interest in people that he himself would have passed
without a second glance.

"Are they soldiers?  Roman soldiers?"  Caspar had asked once, with some
excitement.

"Ask.  Find out."  And he had checked his camel, and Melchior's had
immediately slowed down too.  The men had been Roman soldiers---and
Melchior admitted that it was clever of Caspar to have guessed so
shrewdly; but what of it?  What did Roman soldiers matter?  You could
waste time, most valuable time, on things like that.  And some of the
soldiers, not understanding what Melchior said,made gestures that even
he understood, rude.... On the whole the standard of manners and of
hospitality declined as they moved westwards, and, unless they were
being grossly cheated, prices were still rising steeply.  Melchior had

realised before reaching Jexal that he had no skillas a bargainer;
Caspar had never bargained in his life and was, in addition, unused to
handling money, and seemed not to notice prices at all.

The strain, the haste and fatigue, differences in character and in
objective, even the sense of being so dependent upon one another, would
have resulted in bickering had Melchior not been so naturally courteous
and Caspar the heir of a long tradition of respect towards elders: but
on the day when their path converged towards that of Balthazar they had
almost quarrelled.

Caspar, who had always believed that he could out-ride and out-fast any
of the Five Hundred, which meant any man alive, was galled to find that
this old man, skeleton thin, was not only prepared to stay on the
jolting camel for at least an hour after he himself was reeling with
fatigue, but that he was also more indifferent towards food.  On the
morning of that day, having slept in the open, they had eaten the last
scrap of food that they carried, Melchior insisting that Caspar should
take the larger share; "You are young," he said, 'and accustomed to
feeling well."  But he had waited, with obvious impatience as Caspar
gulped down the stale bread, the bit of stinking cheese.  His overnight
calculations had been very unsatisfactory.

"We shall be late," he said, with dismal certainty, "This child will be
born, at latest, four days after the winter solstice, and after that
there are a few days' grace.  Then, if I am not there, all my efforts
will be wasted.  We must press on today."

They had pressed on and just as the sun was setting had reached a point
where the road sloped steeply down towards a huddle of roofs that
indicated a sizeable town.  Caspar pointed to it and said:

"We stay there for the night."

"Oh no.  We shall be there before it is full dark.  We must travel
until moonset, at least."

"Our food is exhausted, our water-bags are empty, our camels are spent.
To go farther would be folly.  Tonight we seek an inn and have a meal
of cooked meat.  We buy stores for tomorrow.  The camels restore their
strength.  Tomorrow we shall travel faster."

"I have no time to waste upon meat or stores or camels," Melchior said
stubbornly.

"I told you from the first that my errand was urgent.  Nothing else
matters.  I must press on."

"Then you go alone," Caspar said, and as soon as he had said it,
realised his folly.  It was now a long time since anything he said had
been understood by any save Melchior; difficult as it was to find in
these parts people who comprehended the old man's other language, such
people were to be found, and they constituted the sole hope of making
contact.  Melchior, equally dismayed, remembered that Caspar had the
money in his pouch.

He said, "This country is more thickly inhabited; if we ride on until
moonset we shall reach another town."

"That I wouldn't count on.  Unless you show some sense, Melchior, you
will arrive at the place after this," he jerked his head towards the
little town, 'in worse case than you arrived at Jexal."

"There was nothing wrong with me when I arrived there," Melchior said
petulantly.

"My camel was lame, that was all."

"You have a short memory!  You were so nearly starving that I was
obliged to warn you to eat little and slowly."

"Very well, I was starving and I am prepared to starve again.  A man
with his mind set can endure a little starvation and take no harm!"

That was the kind of thing which Caspar was accustomed to saying, not
to hearing said, and it irked him.

"Camels can't live on their thoughts," he said.

"Go ahead, if you wish to be stubborn, and see how far "you get!"

Melchior thought that over.  Something of the despair he had felt as he
limped into Jexal returned and made itself felt again.  From that
despair Caspar had saved him.

"You have been very good, very generous," he admitted.

"You are hungry and you are weary, and part of my mind tells me that
you are sensible.  Particularly as regarding the camel.  It occurs to
me that Senya may have gone lame because of an empty belly.  An empty
belly shows no symptoms, gains no sympathy; lameness does both.  If we
halt here ..."  the first houses of the town were now alongside, 'will
you agree to start out very early in the morning?"


"Very early," Caspar said.So, when they reached the inn, they had
turned into the yard, and had been immediately accosted by a beggar of
exactly the kind that Caspar most deplored, the kind he had banished
from the streets of Jexal.

Ignoring him, he nudged his camel forward, Melchior, more courteous,
even to a dirty stinking beggar, said in his rusty Greek, "I am sorry,
I have nothing."  And to that Balthazar replied in the Greek of the
counting house at Tyre.

"I ask nothing, except that you should take me with you as you follow
the star."

"Star!  Did you say star?  What do you know of the star?"  He gave his
camel the signal to kneel and dismounted with stiff haste.  He was
ready to think that this was a fellow-astronomer from some far, far
place, who having done work similar to his own had reached the same
conclusion, and the thought set his heart pounding from excitement.

Two lengths ahead, farther into the yard, Caspar's camel in some
extraordinary way had sensed that its companion had knelt and been
dismounted, and since what was right for one was right for both it
knelt without waiting for the signal.  The innkeeper, watching from his
doorway, saw two men, not impressively clad, and a third whose
appearance was a disgrace, and two wilting camels, obviously in the
last state of exhaustion; so before Balthazar could answer Melchior the
man rushed out, crying in Aramaic: "Not there!  You block the
entrance!"

Neither Melchior nor Caspar understood a word he said, but they
realised that they were being shouted at; Melchior turned upon the man
a look of dignified inquiry, Caspar one of a ferocious hauteur.  The
combination silenced him.  Balthazar said to Melchior: "He says we
block the entrance to the yard."

"Only for a moment," Melchior said.

"Would you tell him that we wish these beasts taken to the enclosure,
watered and fed, as much as they can eat?  For ourselves a supper, with
meat, and a room inside the house."

While Balthazar was obligingly translating these orders Melchior
watched him, taking more fully into account his poor condition: he'd
share his supper with him, he thought, though it was unlikely that he
would be welcome inside the house, either by the innkeeper or by
Caspar, with his so-sensitive nose.  But all that could wait.  They
must first discuss the star.

His first reaction to Balthazar's blurted tale was one of deep
disappointment.

"Ah," he said, 'a clairvoyant!  Not that I decry clairvoyance, but
unlike astronomy it is an inexact science, if indeed it can be called a
science at all.  Still you are here, and you recognised us; and you are
the only person I have met in many months who seemed to have an
awareness of this star at all."  He pondered the significance of
this.

"You will take me with you?  I beg of you.  I will serve you, wait upon
you, be your slave," Balthazar said, willingly putting his head back
into the yoke from which he had so recently freed it.

Melchior thought of Caspar and his money pouch; he looked back to the
time when he had been rich and independent, and to the time when he had
been poor but independent, and he gave a sigh that came from his
heart.

"That is not easy.  And it is not for me to say.  I have nothing of my
own.  All I ever had was spent in the pursuit of knowledge.  To
accompany us you would need a camel, a good camel.... But wait here.  I
will speak to my companion."

He went into the house where in a public room Caspar and a few other
travellers who could afford the luxury were consuming the mutton and
the onions and small crusty loaves of fresh-baked bread.  He intended,
as he took his place, to appeal to Caspar in much the same way as he
had dope in the Palace at Jexal, but looking sideways at the hard young
face, he had a better idea.

"There is a man who could be of inestimable use to us," he remarked in
an almost off-hand way.

"That black beggar I' "He is not a beggar by trade.  He is a man of
education.  He speaks the tongue that has served me fairly well, so
far, but has become less and less useful lately; and he also speaks the

languageof the country.  It has worried me, to think that we might
reach our destination and not be able to make ourselves understood."

"That is a thing to consider," Caspar admitted.  It was not a situation
which his own mind would ever have presented to him, but now that it
was put to him by someone else he was able to visualise it quite
clearly.

"Are you suggesting that we take him with us?"

"It would be a convenient arrangement."

"But he stinks!  Washed and re-clad he might be tolerable.  And he
would need a camel."

"He would need a camel," Melchior agreed, picking at his food and
looking at Caspar from the corner of his eye.

"Could he fit himself to travel with us, very early in the morning?"
Remembering the almost wild urgency in Balthazar's voice and eyes,
Melchior said with assurance: "Oh yes; he would be ready."

"Then he'll need some money," Caspar said, feeling for his pouch.  How
many?  Unconcerned as he had seemed about the cost of things he had
realised that his money had lost value as he moved westwards.  But even
here, surely, ten would be enough.  He passed the coins,
unostentatiously, into Melchior's hand.

"And tell him, from me, to do something about that running sore on his
arm," he said.

Melchior took the money with a feeling of relief and of triumph, and of
gratitude.

"I hope," he said, 'that you will have reason to regard this as money
well spent."  He picked up his plate and went back to the yard where
Balthazar waited, patiently, sitting against a wall.

"It is arranged," Melchior said.

"You are to come with us, if you can obtain a camel, and fresh clothes
and be ready to set out before sunrise.  Also you must wash and find
some remedy for the sores on your arm and your feet.  Here is money."

He held it out and Balthazar's eyes bulged.  He'd seen such coins--but
only on three widely separated occasions--in the counting house.  The
most valuable coin in the world, not only because it was so heavy, of
such pure gold, but because of its beauty.  It was greatly in demand,
not as currency, but as a decoration.  Men who could afford it hung
their women with gold coins both as a means of advertising their wealth
and as a form of investment; and a rose jekkal was of all coins the
rarest and most sought after.  Any woman lucky enough to own one wore
it in the very centre of her forehead, exposing the side which showed
the full-blown rose which gave the coin half its name.

"Ten!  I don't need ten," Balthazar said when he had caught his breath
again.

"Two will buy all I need and leave a great deal over."

"It must be a good camel," Melchior reminded him.

"We must travel fast.  And in this country everything is very
expensive.  When last we filled our camels' food-bags the man who
supplied us took one of these."

"Then he was a thief and you were cheated.  Grossly cheated.  There,
also, I can be of service to you.  I am an accountant, of great
experience.  I recognise even a rose jekkal, and know its worth."

"Take two then," Melchior said.

"And look, I have brought you some food."  He held out his hardly
touched supper.

"That was a kindly thought; but thank you, I have eaten.  Not long ago.
And even had I not, I could not waste time on food just now.  I have a
lot to do."

"You," Melchior said, 'are a man after my own heart."

"And you are one of those of whom-I dreamed.  I knew that once I could
find you, all would be well."

Melchior carried his plate back into the house.  The fat had congealed
as the food cooled and it was no longer the appetising dish that it had
been; he ate it without noticing, absent-mindedly and in haste.  He
still had his charts to consult, his reckonings to do.

"You still here?"  asked the innkeeper who had been called out of the
house to settle a dispute between the two men who each 'claimed that
the other's donkey had eaten his donkey's food.

"I

don't like beggars hanging about my yard.  But you did a good service,

speaking for those strangers, so take this.  And be off."He pushed a
penny towards Balthazar who pushed it away and said:

"I wish to buy a camel, a good camel.  Perhaps you can tell me where to
go."

Innkeepers always knew what was for sale and where; they advised
travellers, and if a sale resulted they were given their percentage.

"I myself have a camel to sell.  A prime camel, young and , swift.  A
merchant came here and fell sick; we nursed him tenderly, my wife and
I, but he died."  Balthazar gave a little inward shudder at the thought
of what that tender nursing had been.

"He owed us a great deal," the innkeeper went on, 'and we shall never
be fully paid.  There is the camel and some clothes of the kind that
there is no demand for in this place!"

"Show me the camel, and also the clothes."

"Show me your money ' Balthazar held out the two rose jekkals, gleaming
against his pinkish palm.  Two of them, the innkeeper thought: one for
his pretty wife to flaunt, one to sell!

"Come with me," he said.

Balthazar knew, even before he saw it, that the camel would be a good
one; and he knew with absolute certainty that among the dead man's
clothes would be a dark red robe, and a headscarf of the same colour,
striped with blue and woven with a silver thread.  And they were there,
together with everything else, down to the very shoes which he had seen
himself wearing in his dream.  Exultant, bemused, one half of him
gloated and rejoiced, the other half, the accountant half, stayed
unmoved and bargained shrewdly.  The innkeeper craved the two rose
jekkals and they were too high a price to pay for an untried camel,
however good-looking, and a dead man's clothes.  A full bath of hot
water must be included.

"Oh yes, yes," the innkeeper said, 'the maid shall prepare it."

"Also," Balthazar said, "I need ointment for my blisters and the place
where the dog bit me on the arm."

"We have, in this town, a woman most skilled in the making of ointments
and potions.  She keeps her own bees, and grows the pink Cistus that
yield myrrh," the innkeeper said, thinking of his percentage.

"She lives a little way along this street, in a house with a broken
fence.  It is late," he said, 'and when you are bathed and reclothed it
will be later still.  But if you tell her that I sent you she will open
her door."

"Very good," Balthazar said, spreading his open palm to which the two
rose jekkals were now stuck.

"The camel, these clothes, enough change to buy the ointment.  And," he
added in a fierce tone, alien to his own, 'the freedom of the little
lame girl-' "But consider," the innkeeper protested.

"Even for two rose jekkals that is much to ask.  Also the crooked one
does not belong to me.  She is my wife's slave."

"Then you must ask your wife; does she wish for two rose jekkals to
hang on her forehead or not."

For the first, for the only time in his life, Balthazar felt
omnipotent; on this side the fulfilment of his dream, on this the
possession of two rose jekkals..  .. And yet, thinking of the little
lame girl, he was sad.  Tomorrow the pretty, hard-hearted wife of the
innkeeper would buy just such another and treat her just as badly.  And
then he remembered what he had seen when the star splintered and
revealed the new world that was about to come.  Save the little girl
now, he thought, because it was obvious that unless something was done
she would not live to see that new world; the next poor creature to
fall into the hands of the innkeeper's wife might be stronger, more
resistant.  We must play for time, Balthazar thought.  He said:

"Well?"  in the stern tone he had cultivated for use with the Lady's
tenants.

The girl is clumsy and is always crying, the innkeeper reflected, and
Ophelia does nothing but grumble about her.  The next one may not be so
very unattractive and maybe when Ophelia is angry with me, and bars me
from her bed, I could ... "It is a bargain," he said, and stretched out
his hand, itching for the touch of the two rose jekkals.

"You must write the girl her paper of manumission," Balthazar said.


"But there is the difficulty.  I shall need the services of a scribe.I
myself cannot write,"

"I can," Balthazar said.

"You, I presume, can make your mark."

"I make a good mark; it is recognised and given credit as far away as
Antioch," the innkeeper said, with some pride.

"That is well.  Now, we will have the camel tethered alongside those of
the lords with whom I leave in the morning; my bath will be prepared,
and these clothes brought to its side.  When I am reclad I will write
the paper and you shall make your mark thereon," "It shall be done. You
wish to take the girl with you?"  The innkeeper was prepared to believe
almost anything by this time; for to a man who had seen two, two rose
jekkals in the palm of a filthy, sore-ridden beggar, nothing, but
nothing, could come as a surprise.

"No.  Once free, she will make her own way to where she wants to go,"
Balthazar said.

"Now, what about my bath?"

When he was dressed he wished that he had a silver mirror, as large as
the one on the Lady's dressing-table, in which to behold himself, but
there was none; however the way in which the woman herbalist received
him assured him that he looked respectable and well-to-do.  He smiled a
little sardonically as he reflected that had he arrived at her door
little more than an hour ago, begging a crust, she would have bolted it
against him in terror.

She made ointments of all kinds she said; he asked for the best, and
she said the best ointment deserved the best jar.  She had a number of
little pots on a shelf, most of them made of the coarsest, thickest
clay, one or two of fine, almost translucent alabaster.  As she turned
to take one of these down he stopped her indicating the ordinary
jars.

"What a pity," the old woman said, fretfully, "The clay pots break
easily; these," she laid her gnarled finger almost caressingly upon an
alabaster one, 'last forever, for all they look so fragile."

"But once my sores are healed and the ointment used I shall have no use
for so small a pot."

"This is my best ointment--smell for yourself; full of myrrh, my own. A
smear tonight and another in the morning and you'll never know you had
a sore.  And it keeps, in fact it improves with keeping.  Are you sure
you won't change your mind?"

"I am sure."

She was grieved, and spooned the ointment into the little clay pot
almost reluctantly.

He went back to the inn and anointed the broken blisters on his heels
and the inflamed bite on his arm and then wrote out a paper of
manumission worded exactly like his own.  The innkeeper made his mark
gladly; his Ophelia was delighted at the prospect of wearing a rose
jekkal in the middle of her forehead and had said that for such a coin
she would give six slaves, had she six to give.  He was anxious to get
to bed with her while she was in such a good mood.

"There you are.  Now you are free, child," Balthazar said.

"You can go and find your family in Antioch.  Never lose this; never
part with it.  It is your freedom."

"Even if it meant nothing," the little girl said, clutching it to her
flat chest, "I would keep it to remember you by.  It smells of you."

He had written it after using the ointment, without washing his
hands.

In the morning another and less favourable comment was made upon the
ointment odour.

"Yesterday," Caspar said, 'he stank of dirt and rotting flesh; today he
stinks like a harlot."  As he said that he became aware that for
several days he had not been conscious of the scent of the frankincense
which Melchior carried at the bottom of his camel-fodder bag.  When he
had caught occasional whiffs of the fragrance he had blamed them for
the way in which his mind reverted to Ilya.  Yet now, with the scent
forgotten, he still thought of her.  This realisation made him annoyed,
so he regarded Balthazar with disfavour.

"Come along, come along," he said irritably.

"I thought we were in a hurry!"

"It was you," Melchior reminded him mildly, 'who warned me against
pushing a camel too hard early in the day."


Yet although he regarded Balthazar as his protege, to beprotected from
criticism and in an oblique way spoken up for, he watched the black
man's fumbling mounting and inept management of the camel with some
dismay.  With money, with language, he would be a valuable companion;
but if he slowed down progress he must be jettisoned at once.  Nothing,
nothing in the world, must be allowed to delay them now.

Balthazar was aware that he was on approbation.  Melchior, so
considerate overnight, seemed different this morning, preoccupied and
remote; in Caspar he sensed a latent hostility--perhaps he felt that
his money had been wasted upon fine clothing.  If he could have spoken
to Caspar direct he would have explained that the clothes were not new,
that he had driven the shrewdest possible bargain.  But he did not dare
disturb Melchior's thoughtful intensity by asking him to translate; and
he could see that he must give all his mind to the problem of managing
this animal--he had never ridden a camel before.  He must also, for as
long as they were together, endeavour to be of service, to make himself
indispensable.

Caspar wished that he were on horseback.  A good horse could out-run a
man's thoughts.On the other hand, any man worthy of the name should be
able to govern his thoughts and prevent them from dwelling on the
charms of a pale, frail, entirely unsuitable girl.

"Ask him," he said, jerking his head towards Balthazar, 'whether he
knows anything about the Romans."

"Yes, indeed," Balthazar said, when this question had been
translated.

"For many years I lived in the household of a Roman lawyer--as an
accountant.  I speak Latin.  My Latin is very good; superior to my
Greek or my Aramaic."

Melchior gave this information to Caspar, hoping that it would cheer
him.  He attributed the younger man's mood to his having been compelled
to rise so early.  He was a rich young man, and rich young men were not
accustomed to rising at dawn.  He told Caspar what Balthazar had said,
and added:

"Is it not fortunate that we should fall in with one who knows so much
about the people in whom you are so interested?"  Thinking of Ilya
again, Caspar said, shortly, "Very fortunate."

SEVEN

NAZARETH 90 miles The announcement about the new taxes came as a shock
to everybody.  It was made in typical, sly, Roman fashion.  Probably
notices were put up in public places, probably the tax-farmers, already
informed, had begun to spread the news; but in Nazareth, and hundreds
of other small country places, it was left to the local Rabbi to make
sure that everyone understood.

Harvest was over, the heat of the summer was past when Hilliel the
baker, wearing his prayer shawl, stood up to break the news.  The Torah
had been taken out, read and solemnly replaced; the whole congregation
had joined in the last chanted praise and people were preparing to
disperse when Hilliel, at the raised reading desk spoke, not in his
formal, synagogue voice, but as though making a remark across his bake
house floor.

"I have been asked," he said, 'to tell you something.  It is not a
thing I wish to speak of in this dedicated place, so would you, please,
go out and wait under the sycamore tree.  It is," he added, 'something
of importance.  Please wait."

In the synagogue women and men sat separately; at the doorway Joseph,
joining Mary, slipped his hand under her elbow and said:

"Would you rather go home?  Your father or your mother can tell us
whatever it is this evening."

Anne came every evening, whether or not she had seen Mary during the
day.  She had been delighted, transported to learn that her daughter
was to have a baby.

"So soon!"  she had said to Joachim.

"To tell you the truth I always thought Joseph was just a mite old. But
no youngster could have done better."  Then, immediately she had fallen

into the ambivalent state of mind of women in her position; there was
nothing to having a baby,nothing at all, no need to fuss. If you were
sick, you were sick and you ran off to be sick in some private place;
and if your back ached, it ached and you bore it without complaint. 
Bearing children was what women were put into the world for, a pregnant
woman was a fulfilled woman and she should be joyful. But, there was
another, a darker side to this whole business.  There were women--Anne
could have named three or four-who had been careless, who had pushed or
pulled or heaved things and lost the baby in a welter of blood and
pain; and there were women who had craved things out of season and
either not mentioned their craving or been denied what they craved, and
their babies had been born too early, too late, ailing, deformed, even
blind.

"If you hanker for anything," Anne had said, on the first day when she
knew that with any luck she was to become a grandmother, 'you just tell
me.  Joseph is a good man, but no man can understand these things. Tell
me, and I'll sell a calf--after all I rear them, all by hand; and I'll
send to Sepphoris for whatever it is, whatever it is."  With her
managing nature she had been slightly disappointed that Mary had never
expressed any desire for something which, unobtainable in a village
like Nazareth, would be for sale in a great new city like Sepphoris,
only a good hour's walk away, and the most completely Romanised city in
Galilee.  On the other hand, she had been pleased, and proud that her
daughter wasn't being fanciful and whimsical.  Pleased and proud.
Puzzled, too, by Mary's disinclination to discuss her condition or the
actual date when it might be expected to end.

"But you must know," Anne had insisted, and she had gone in great
detail into the intricacies of that calendar which; never written,
never acknowledged, yet governed women's lives.  So many days and a
doubt, so many more days and a certainty, so many more and a delivery.
Every woman, however simple, could do that reckoning.

Mary had never contributed anything to Anne's reckonings, she had never
contradicted and Anne had thought--How fortunate that she will have me,
and not be dependent upon the midwife!  And every evening, every single
evening, she had walked down the village street, always with some
excuse, in order to make sure that Mary--we mustn't fuss or treat this
as anything but an ordinary happening, part of ordinary life--was well,
needed nothing and was taking care of herself.

She had joined them now and was subjecting her daughter to keen but
tactful scrutiny, speaking as she did so about the latest-acquired of
her many remarkable bargains, a length of the very finest linen,
straight from the loom and only needing to be bleached before being fit
for a baby's use.

"You'll be surprised when you see it," she said, 'it's not the kind of
stuff you see every day; it's more like silk.  Fit for a prince!"

What was wrong with that?  she wondered, seeing what she called 'that
funny look' on Mary's face.  In the next second she had explained it to
herself; Mary was frightened that the implied assumption of the child's
sex might be unlucky.

"Or a princess, come to that," she added.

At that moment Hilliel, divested of his prayer shawl, emerged from the
synagogue and moved towards the little mound out of which the sycamore
tree grew.  Joseph, in a lower voice repeated his question and Mary
said:

"No, let us wait.  It won't be long."

Hilliel cleared his throat and said:

"I've been asked to tell you, first that we're all to be taxed anew."
There was an outbreak of groaning and Hilliel, when it had died down a
little said, "Yes, it is unlikely that there'll be reductions--I've
never known them go down.  The second thing is this--there's to be a
new register, and to help with its making every man is to go back and
register at -the place where he was born."

This was greeted by a brief astonished silence broken by one voice
saying in dismay, "But I was born in Beersheba!"

Mary and Joseph looked at one another and each saw that the other's
face had whitened.  They'd never spoken about the matter--though they
had both heard the prophecies read and quoted often enough to know that
Bethlehem, David's city, was the destined place for the birth of the
Messiah.  The truth was that almost immediately after Mary's return
from her visit to Elisabeth, they had ceased to talk about the baby in
any but the most ordinary human terms.  This reticence had not come

aboutby arrangement, or by the imposition of the will of one upon the
other; it had simply happened: as though the truth would have been too
much to live with day after day and they must take refuge in the
presence that everything was ordinary and normal.  The people were now
battering Hilliel with questions.

"When is this register to be made?"

"By the last day of the month they call December.  For us mid
Tebeth."

Satisfaction stirred in Anne's heart.  As well as she had been able to
reckon---with so little help from Mary--that would mean that Joseph,
who would have to walk from Nazareth to Bethlehem and back again, might
be away at the time of the birth.  Men were nothing but a nuisance at
such times, so she'd be glad to have him out of the way; and his
absence would give her perfect excuse for having Mary home; with a
little persuasion she would stay there until her purification rite.  It
couldn't have been better arranged.  The crowd did not share this
feeling.

"What's the idea behind all this?"  a man asked.

"I know no more than you.  But I can guess.  I think the Romans are
using the tax as a cover for a census taking."

"By our Law forbidden.  On them the guilt!  But that could have been
done without uprooting so many."

"It's a scheme to ruin us all," said the disgruntled man from Beersheba
who had just counted how long he would be away from his smithy.

"It can hardly be that," Hilliel said.

"Ruined people can't pay their taxes.  It may have something to do with
our names.  I believe the Romans find them difficult.  Maybe they
thought that if all the David-son-of-Davids were together on a given
day it would ease matters.  But I don't know.  All that I was asked to
tell you I have told you."  He stepped down.

Anne, losing no time, said, "Mary, don't give a thought to being
alone.

You must come and stay at home, with me, until it's all over."

Mary said, "Thank you.  It was kind of you to think of that so quickly;
but I shall go with Joseph."

Surprise and the deepest possible consternation held Anne silent for
some seconds; then she said, in a voice that made the dispersing
congregation halt and turn and stare :

"Go with .. . Are you out of your mind?  Ninety miles, on foot.  In
your last month!  Child, it's impossible.  Never, in all my days, have
I heard such a witless notion.  Mid-winter, too!"

Even as she spoke she realised that she was making no impression.  To a
woman of her competent, managing nature, not to be able to manage
this--after her own marriage and child-bearing, the most important
event in a woman's life--seemed unbearably frustrating.  The hurried,
ill-attended wedding had been bad enough, but at least that had been a
challenge, and to arrange things in a short time as well as most women
could have done in a long one had given her a secret satisfaction. This
was quite different.  The possibility that her grandchild should be
delivered and swaddled by other hands than hers made her feel
positively ill.  Angry, more vehement sentences began to form in her
mind, but a glance at Mary's face informed her that railing would do no
good.  So she tried cajolery.

"You didn't mean that.  You spoke without thinking.  Suppose, just
suppose that your time should come when you were far away from me. What
would you do?  How would you manage?  You hadn't thought of that, had
you?  You come back home, my dear; back to your own room, so snug and
cosy, and let me look after you."  Then, without allowing Mary time to
speak, she added a cunning touch.

"If for no other reason, you must think of Joseph.  He could be there
and back in the time it would take you to get to Bethlehem.  You
wouldn't want to waste his time, would you now?"

Mary knew her mother.  When chiding, and coaxing and craftiness failed,
she could always fall back upon that reliable weapon, a fit of weeping.
It would be horrible to see Anne crying because of her.  Had they been
wrong not to take her into their confidence?  She said gently :

"Mother, I have thought of all these things, and I still want to go
with Joseph."

This would happen!  Anne thought furiously.  So good the girl had been

all through the early, the usually most trying days,while we can, let
us cling to the ordinary.  There's so much to come that won't be...."

So much, she thought.  All those dreadful prophecies about being
wounded, bruised and then slaughtered.  One said, "He is brought as a
lamb to the slaughter."  .Surely, never before, in the whole history of
mankind, had any woman conceived and carried a child whose fate she
knew from the first.  She'd known, of course, all along, but in the
early days, especially after her visit to Elisabeth, she had been
filled with ecstasy and mysticism.  But day by day, as the child grew
and weighed heavier, became more and more part of her, her sorrow for
him, her protective feeling, grew.  He would be great and glorious, he
would be the Son of God; but human, too, vulnerable to pain, and she,
his human mother, must grieve and suffer, for him.

But these were thoughts she could share with no.  one.  Alone in the
kitchen of the little house, laying out the Sabbath food, cooked on the
previous day, she did pause for a moment, gripped her hands together
and said, "God, I must leave it to You.  All I ask is strength to bear
what comes."  Then, carrying the dish she went in to Joseph and said,
gaily:

"Mother was annoyed, wasn't she?  Calling you a donkey!  If she only
knew, to my mind that was a compliment."

Smoothly, beautifully, she had made everything sound safe and ordinary
again.

Despite all the mutterings and the prognostications of ruin, the
carrying out of the latest order from Rome caused less upheaval than
had been anticipated.  The order was regarded as harsh and tyrannical
and, as always under any kind of threat, the Jews united.  Farmers who,
because they were born in or near Nazareth, need make no journey, or
only a short one, undertook to keep things going on the farms of those
who must face longer journeys.  An old smith who lived in comfort with
his well-married daughter in Sepphoris walked all the way from that
city to tell the man who must go to Beersheba that he would take charge
of his forge while he was away; he made no favour of it, it would be as
good as a holiday, he said, to get his hands on tools again.

Joseph was less fortunate in finding a substitute and was faced with
the closing of his carpenter's shop when he heard through Hilliel, who
had heard from the Rabbi at Japha, half an hour's walk away to the
south, that a carpenter named Aaron there would be willing to undertake
any urgent job, if Joseph would leave a chalked notice on his door
directing any possible customers to his shop.

In later days, amongst his many other worries, Joseph sometimes
wondered about Aaron and how long he had done two .men's work before
wiping that notice off the door at Nazareth.  But when he came back
there were the chalked words, renewed again and again, and one of his
first visitors was Aaron, carrying in his hand a small bag of money and
in his head an exact amount of every piece of work he had done on
Joseph's behalf.

Only men, the taxpayers, the putative recruits should there ever be a
general call up, were compelled to register, but Mary was far from
being the only woman to accompany her man; there were women who
disliked the idea of being left alone, women whose men did not wish
them to be alone, and a multitude of women to whom the prospect of a
family reunion was irresistible.  Relatives unseen for years could be
visited, children shown off, marriages arranged.  The women, less
politically minded and in many cases less informed about the Law,
would, with the slightest encouragement, have made the whole thing into
an outing--or in the case of those who remained in their own homes,an
opportunity to show hospitality.  The men took a more dour view,
looking upon the new taxation with dread and upon the census with
distrust.  ' In Joseph's household the preparations were complicated by
two incidental things.  The first was Anne's inability to accept the
idea that Mary's child might be born far away, under some other woman's
eye.  She wept, she cajoled, she threatened to accompany them, and then
withdrew the threat when she realised that two of her own brothers must

return to Nazarethwhile we can, let us cling to the ordinary.  There's
so much to come that won't be...."

So much, she thought.  All those dreadful prophecies about being
wounded, bruised and then slaughtered.  One said, "He is brought as a
lamb to the slaughter."-Surely, never before, in the whole history of
mankind, had any woman conceived and carried a child whose fate she
knew from the first.  She'd known, of course, all along, but in the
early days, especially after her visit to Elisabeth, she had been
filled with ecstasy and mysticism.  But day by day, as the child grew
and weighed heavier, became more and more part of her, her sorrow for
him, her protective feeling, grew.  He would be great and glorious, he
would be the Son of God; but human, too, vulnerable to pain, and she,
his human mother, must grieve and suffer, for him.

But these were thoughts she could share with no.  one.  Alone in the
kitchen of the little house, laying out the Sabbath food, cooked on the
previous day, she did pause for a moment, gripped her hands together
and said, "God, I must leave it to You.  All I ask is strength to bear
what comes."  Then, carrying the dish she went in to Joseph and said,
gaily:

"Mother was annoyed, wasn't she?  Calling you a donkey!  If she only
knew, to my mind that was a compliment."

Smoothly, beautifully, she had made everything sound safe and ordinary
again.

ii Despite all the mutterings and the prognostications of ruin, the
carrying out of the latest order from Rome caused less upheaval than
had been anticipated.  The order was regarded as harsh and tyrannical
and, as always under any kind of threat, the Jews united.  Farmers who,
because they were born in or near Nazareth, need make no journey, or
only a short one, undertook to keep things going on the farms of those
who must face longer journeys.  An old smith who lived in comfort with
his well-married daughter in Sepphoris walked all the way from that
city to tell the man who must go to Beersheba that he would take charge
of his forge while he was away; he made no favour of it, it would be as
good as a holiday, he said, to get his hands on tools again.

Joseph was less fortunate in finding a substitute and was faced with
the closing of his carpenter's shop when he heard through Hilliel, who
had heard from the Rabbi at Japha, half an hour's walk away to the
south, that a carpenter named Aaron there would be willing to undertake
any urgent job, if Joseph would leave a chalked notice on his door
directing any possible customers to his shop.

In later days, amongst his many other worries, Joseph sometimes
wondered about Aaron and how long he had done two men's work before
wiping that notice off the door at Nazareth.  But when he came back
there were the chalked words, renewed again and again, and one of his
first visitors was Aaron, carrying in his hand a small bag of money and
in his head an exact amount of every piece of work he had done on
Joseph's behalf.  Only men, the taxpayers, the putative recruits should
there ever be a general call up, were compelled to register, but Mary
was far from being the only woman to accompany her man; there were
women who disliked the idea of being left alone, women whose men did
not wish them to be alone, and a multitude of women to whom the
prospect of a family reunion was irresistible.  Relatives unseen for
years could be visited, children shown off, marriages arranged.  The
women, less politically minded and in many cases less informed about
the Law, would, with the slightest encouragement, have made the whole
thing into an outing--or in the case of those who remained in their own
homes,an opportunity to show hospitality.  The men took a more dour
view, looking upon the new taxation with dread and upon the census with
distrust.

In Joseph's household the preparations were complicated by two
incidental things.  The first was Anne's inability to accept the idea
that Mary's child might be born far away, under some other woman's eye.
She wept, she cajoled, she threatened to accompany them, and then
withdrew the threat when she realised that two of her own brothers must

return to Nazarethfor the census and would have to be looked after.

"Muddling about and walking just at that time," she said, weeping
again, 'the baby'll most likely be born by the roadside."

"That won't happen," Joseph said firmly.

"We intend to start early.  And she won't be walking, she'll be
riding."

"And being jolted, which is just as bad!"

Mention of the riding reminded Joseph of the other complication.  Over
the matter of the donkey he had yielded to Mary and in his heart felt
that in doing so he had made a mistake.  There was a donkey, very old,
more than a little lame, that belonged to a man named Micah who had a
little brick-kiln, and on this sorry animal Mary had set her heart.

"But it's lame," Joseph said.

"It wouldn't be if it had some rest.  If we could buy it now and feed
it up a little ..."

Joseph's mind underwent the by-now-familiar dichotomy; this woman, my
wife; this woman, chosen of God to be the mother of His Son.

"If only I could afford it," he said, 'you should have a white pony
with red harness."

�I�d much rather have Micah's donkey, who is already my friend.  I give
him crusts and cabbage leaves, and though he is so roughly treated,
he's very gentle.  Please, if you really think I need a donkey, let it
be that one."

Joseph had given in hastily because he was afraid that she was about to
cry--and in all the time he had known her he had never once known her
to use tears as a weapon as so many women did.  Actually she had been
on the brink of tears, thinking of the hopelessness of it all.  Micah
would buy another donkey, younger, stronger, which soon, from
ill-usage, would be as lame and dejected looking as this one.  You
couldn't save them all.

And then, for the first time, her mind touched upon the other side of
those direful prophecies.  He can, she thought.  He will be God,
all-powerful, and at the same time He'll be human.  He'll know about
pain and being hurt, about bruises and stripes.  And when all the
prophecies have been fulfilled and He emerges in glory, He'll do
something for humble, helpless things.  If necessary, she thought.  I
shall ask Him: I shall say-Please do this for me, your mother..  ..

It didn't do to pursue such thoughts, they made her feel frightened and
dizzy.

"I shall take some tools," Joseph was saying.

"You never know.  Most people have a job for a carpenter and never get
around to sending for him.  I could shore up a beam or respoke a wheel
in return for a night's lodging, maybe."  For with them, as with
hundreds of other Jews, ready money was short.  In the country a good
deal of trade was still being done by a system of barter and many
families had difficulty in gathering enough coined money to meet the
demands of the tax-gatherers.

As well as the tools they would carry food of the kind that would not
spoil by keeping.  The task of providing this was taken out of Mary's
hands by Anne who in the last few days before the departure never
visited without bringing some offering.  A smoked mutton ham, a great
jar of pickled eggs, a cheese the size of a mill-stone; dried figs,
raisins and dates, a string of salted fish; a huge honey-cake.... "At
least you shan't starve, you wilful girl!"  she said, beginning to cry
again.  Then mopping her eyes with the edge of her veil she said, "And
what, pray tell me, is this that I hear about that ass of Micah's?  Is
it true?  On that very first day Joseph said you should have a donkey
to ride.  Does he call that bit of carrion a donkey?"

"I chose it," Mary said.

"And it is now not a bit lame; there's gloss on its coat too.  It will
get me to Bethlehem."

"I no longer understand you," Anne said.

"I reared you well and you were always meek and amenable.  Now you are
very headstrong.  Rushing off to Bethlehem, without the slightest need.
At such a moment, too!  And on a broken-down donkey..  .."  She began
to cry again.

This was all such a far cry from annunciation on the hill-top, from the
moment of ecstasy in Elisabeth's garden, that one human mind could
hardly be expected to contain, to deal with it all.  Should I, Mary
wondered, have taken my mother into full confidence from the first? But

I knew then that she would think I was mad, and if I told her now she
would think the same.This predicament and the discomfort it causes me
is part of the price I must pay.

She said, "I want to see Bethlehem because it was Joseph's birthplace
and a place of importance in our history.  You yourself told me that
first children are often as much as two weeks late.  The donkey is
sound now.  Can you not take comfort in the thought that I may go, and
be back?"

"It is possible, I suppose.  But I wanted you to be with me, in your
own room, being looked after."

"Then my uncles, Dan and Asher, would have had to look for lodging
elsewhere.  Are you sure ..."  Anne, the provider, could surely be
diverted by any question concerning food, 'that in giving us so much to
take with us; you have not depleted your stores?"

"I never--as you should know," Anne said, instantly diverted, 'take one
mutton leg from the chimney without putting another one in.  And the
same with the cheese, before the ripe one is eaten another is ready.
For the lesser things I still have time in plenty.  They haven't so far
to come."

"Still, they'll be hungry and happy to taste your cooking again," Mary
said swiftly, for at the word 'far' Anne's eyes had filled anew.  But
her distress did not prevent her from being practical.

"You may be right about getting back to have the baby here; but don't,
for pity's sake, forget to take the baby's things.  And don't be brave.
Oh, I know I've brought you up not to make a fuss of an ache or a pain,
but there are times when a woman can be too brave.  At the first sign
of a pain, make for a respectable house with a decent woman in it. I
shall hope and pray that you're not taken on the road, but if you are
..."  She fumbled in her dress and pulled out a little bag.

"Twenty sestertii," she said, producing her horde with justifiable
pride.

"Enough to pay for your lodging and the services of a good midwife."

Overcome, Mary said, "You are the best mother in the world!"  and as
though the praise had in some manner restored her to herself, Anne
said, almost in her old sharp way:

"I only hope that your child will never bring you as much grief as you
have me, just lately."

They set out at first light on the appointed morning.  Mary rode on the
donkey which also carried two bags, one of food-the jar of eggs had
been left in the house, one of clothing, everything the baby would need
and one change of linen for each of them.  Joseph shouldered his bag of
tools.  To him Micah's old donkey resembled a careful housewife's bowl,
once broken and mended with strips of linen soaked in flour-and-water
paste.  It might look all right, but the flaws were there, and under
stress it was likely to collapse.

It worried him, and he worried that he should be worried.  It showed
such a lamentable lack of faith.  There was no need for anxiety, he
told himself, again and again.  It has been foretold that the Messiah
should be born in Bethlehem, and there he would be born, even if the
old donkey fell dead.

When he thought such a thought he would enjoy a feeling of relief, but
the carefree moments never lasted.  God will provide, he'd think, and I
do believe that; but through me.  I'm responsible; I was chosen.  After
all, he'd think, every pious Jew believes that Jehovah sent the ravens
to feed Elijah, and could do the same any day, yet we work for our
daily bread.  And I believe that Jehovah will bring us to Bethlehem,
but I must act and think as an ordinary, prudent man in my
circumstances would do.  And then, there he'd be, worrying away
again.

After a while, when the donkey flagged, Joseph added the bag of food
and then the bag of clothing to his own load; and that moment, which
might have been one of recrimination, was sweetened by a laughing
reference to Anne's sharp remark about Mary's two donkeys.  Then on a
long, uphill stretch Mary said she would walk for a bit and when Joseph
protested she said, "Walking is good for women in my state.  Remember
that one of my grandmothers was a desert woman, and when the desert
people are on the move between two wells they dare not stop and risk
disaster to all because a woman is about to have a baby.  She walks to
the last moment, bears her child, swaddles it and walks on."

"And sometimes dies," Joseph said sombrely.

That was another thing that worried him.  The sacred writings told of

an immaculate conception, a virgin birth, but theysaid no word about
what happened to the mother.  There were times, horrible almost
unbearable times, when he felt that death in childbed must be the
logical end.  Was it possible to visualise a woman, the ostensible wife
of a carpenter, going about her household tasks, with complete right to
call herself the Mother of God?  It wasn't possible, and the only
alternative was death; and whenever Joseph thought of that he plunged
deep into the pit of premature bereavement.  He loved her now, with a
love that was completely different from the love he had felt for the
pretty young girl who had caught his eye, and most surprisingly
consented to marry him.  These celibate months had taught him something
that very few men ever guessed, or imagined, however dimly.  He loved
Mary as a person, not as a woman, as a companion, not as a bedfellow.
And he had come to understand, grudging his own understanding, why she
had been chosen; beautiful, kind, gentle, intelligent, witty at times,
knowing when to speak and when to remain silent... Mary said, "I am not
going to die, Joseph; on that score put your mind at rest.  This will
be an ordinary human baby and God will know that he needs a mother to
suckle him and rear him.  I shan't die until I see him come into his
kingdom.  I shall be an old woman, with grey hair and nobbly knuckles,
and very probably a sharp tongue, like my mother's."

But she thought--A man of sorrows and acquainted with grief, and she
knew, with deadly certainty, that she would witness the death of this
child who now, vibrant with new life, kicked her in the ribs.  He would
be human, and as a human he would die; but he would also be the Son of
God, and as such immortal.  Difficult to understand, impossible to
communicate, but in her heart she knew.

So they moved southwards.  Every morning the old donkey set out
bravely, the finished product of at least four thousand years of
conditioning, from the free wild ass, stamping his hill beat, through
captivity, gelding, near-starvation, into this tempered slave, this
triumph of survival.  But each day, when he began to sag and limp, and
with any ordinary owner would have been given fresh impetus from pain,
whip or stick or goad, Mary alighted.  And each day she walked more
heavily.  Presently Joseph began to fret about the weather.

There were always a few weeks when, even as far south as Jerusalem, the
rain-laden winds were chilly; about once in every three years the rain
would turn to snow; even more rarely there would be frost.  Such times
were known as bad winters and helped to date things: before, or just
after, or during the last bad winter, people would say, recalling some
event.  Joseph hoped and prayed that this was not to be one of those
bad winters; but the signs indicated that it might be.  The wind veered
and came screaming down from the north, filling the sky with leaden,
swollen-looking clouds.  Then, in the evening, after they had found a
place to sleep--and for all his anxiety he always insisted upon
stopping early--he'd go out to attend to the donkey, or simply to sniff
the wind; and the sky, so lowering all day, would be swept clear of
clouds and the stars would shine with a frosty sparkle.  There was one,
particularly large and bright, which seemed to look down and say "Frost
tomorrow I' Frost or snow, and what would happen to the old donkey,
already making such heavy going that occasionally Joseph lost patience
with it?

"When he worked for Micah he carried heavier loads," he'd say.  Or, "He
takes advantage of you; he knows he has only to sigh and you'll get
down and walk."

It worried him greatly when people passed them in the road; and it
seemed that everybody passed them, even people on foot.  Mary walked
slowly and heavily now and easily grew short of breath.

"If all these people are bound for Bethlehem, the place will be
crammed," he said.

Mary always replied, "Don't worry, Joseph; there'll be a place for
us."

She said that on the last morning, just as Joseph, shouldering his bag,
took the donkey's head-rope and said:

"Come on, you!  We're having no nonsense today!"

And at that moment he felt, on his cheek, the first, soft, almost

caressing, deadly ominous touch of a snowflake.EIGHT

ON THE ROAD TO JERUSALEM FROM JERICHO

miles After Balthazar had joined them, Melchior and Caspar travelled
more comfortably and cheaply.  He did all their shopping, took on the
menial jobs of camel-tending, fire-making and cooking when they camped
in the open, negotiated all the arrangements if they slept at inns.  He
could also have made the journey much more interesting and instructive,
had Melchior not been so impatient.  Caspar was eager to exploit his
ability to ask questions and explain things, but Melchior often acted
as a buffer, saying.

"We have no time now.  That can wait."

The company of a third person brought the inevitable discord.  Two men,
however different in character, can, unless they are unreasonable, come
to terms between themselves; with two there can be no taking of sides,
and in an argument it is one voice against one voice.  With three it is
different.

Usually, as they pressed onward, Balthazar, in any argument, tended to
side with Melchior who had befriended him, who followed the star, who
was a man of education, the man to whom he could speak directly, the
man who, except when preoccupied or bothered about time, was friendly.
But when, as they came nearer to Jerusalem their arguments were no
longer concerned with such trivial things as to when to stop and where
to spend the night, but devolved upon their point of destination, then
Balthazar found himself siding with Caspar.

"I know now," Melchior said, coming back from a session with his chart
and his tools, 'that Jerusalem cannot be the place.  It is too far
north.  If we come to a road which branches off we should do well to
take it.  This road is crowded and leads to the city.  We have no
reason to enter the city at all."

There followed one of their awkward, three-cornered arguments.

Balthazar could recall, with complete clarity, the maps that had hung
upon the walls of the counting house in Tyre.  On them all the caravan
routes were marked, and every city with which the Greek did business
was ringed in red.

"There is no large city directly south of Jerusalem," he said with
what, for him, was assurance.

"South of Jerusalem there are a few villages, sheep country, then
desert and nothing else until you come to Egypt.  In my dream, or my
vision--call it what you will--I saw the three of us, riding into the
gateway of a city, a walled city with many towers.  There is no such
place south of Jerusalem."

"I'm inclined to discount what you saw," Melchior said, politely, but
firmly, 'as I told you, clairvoyance is an inexact science.  The star
has guided me, unfailingly, for thousands of miles.  Am I now to
disregard it because of something you saw in a dream or a trance?  With
no moment to waste, mark you."

"What is it now?"  Caspar asked, sensing contention.  Melchior informed
him, briefly.  And with almost equal brevity Caspar said:

"I wish to see Herod, and Jerusalem.  I do not like huckster's talk,
but it is a fact that you have come so far at my expense."

"That I do not deny," Melchior said sourly, 'but it is of no
importance."  He looked at his two companions and thought how
dangerously easy it would be to hate them both, the young man with his
money and his passion to see things and ask questions; the black man
with his chatter about visions; both of them prepared to waste time,
that most precious commodity of all, by going to Jerusalem, the one to
satisfy idle curiosity, the other to fulfill his dream.  Yet they were
both indispensable.

Balthazar looked at his two companions and thought how easy it would be
to dislike them both: the young man so arrogant because of his money,
the old man so stubborn about his errand.  He thought of his vision,
the risks he had taken-would either of them have risked such a flogging
as he would endure if recaptured?  Yet, in their separate ways, they
scorned, or were oblivious to, the thing which had made him risk his
life.


Caspar looked at his two companions and thought howpleasant it would
be to hate them; the old man, so physically inexhaustible, with all his
gabble about stars and his innate arrogance; the black man, so
emasculate and servile.  Yet there they were, his left hand and his
right.  Without them he could not ask for so little as a cup of
water.

"What you saw," Melchior said to Balthazar, 'could have been the
gateway to a Palace.  Perhaps with your real eyes you have never seen
one.  I have seen many, with great gateways and towers and turrets,
easily to be mistaken for cities..  .."

"With my real eyes I have seen palaces.  In Egypt, in Tyre ... places
that you perhaps have never heard of.  Believe me, I know a palace from
a city as you know a radish from a melon.  And I saw us, dressed just
as we are and riding the camels we ride, passing into the gates of a
city.  I know," Balthazar said, with the humility that has power
because, being so low it cannot be struck down, 'that you ridicule my
vision.  But I beg you, ask yourself; but for that vision, which
brought me to you, where now would you be?"

"Lost and penniless, in a strange land," Melchior said with equal
humility.

"That I admit, and so, when he understands, will he.  But I still say
that Jerusalem is not my goal and I am positive that to go into
Jerusalem will not only be a wicked waste of time, but, because of the
waste, dangerous to the child."

"Now I beg you to consider," Balthazar said, 'you look at the stars and
see a child, connected with a star.  I--dreaming, or tranced, what you
will, see a star and the gateway of a great city.  In ordinary terms,
which of us, I ask you, carries most weight?  He'--he nodded towards
Caspar--'has seen nothing, but he has paid and paid and paid.  And he
wishes, you tell me, to see Jerusalem.  Could we not oblige him?"

"It is the waste of time," Melchior said.

"That is all I deplore.  You have been useful, he has been useful.  I
would gladly oblige you both.  If you asked my right hand I would lay
it on the block, willingly.  But for nine months now I have followed
this star and it does not, I swear, lead to Jerusalem.  And time
matters."

"What are you gabbling about?"  Caspar asked in the voice that often
called the Five Hundred to attention.  Melchior told him, shortly,
honestly.  And that gave Balthazar time to think up a really clinching
argument.

"Suppose," he said to Melchior, 'you had not decided to halt at that
inn where you found me.  There was the twilight hour left; you could
have ridden on, and five miles along the road found a better inn.  Then
you would have missed me and by now every one of his rose jekkals would
have been spent, people cheating you as they did.  Is it not possible
that, leaving the intervention of gods and goddesses aside, there is
something that governs our lives?  Your stars, my dreams, his ... what
has he, poor man, except his money?  A wish to see Jerusalem.  To see
Jerusalem he has travelled far and hard.  May it not be that his will
has as much significance as your star and my dream ?  May it not be
that we are to go to Jerusalem because something awaits us there?"

"I

do not understand such talk," Melchior said coldly.  He added, with
reproach.

"I thought you were a sensible man."

As he read it, the place for which he was bound was only a short
distance from Jerusalem; he could travel so far without the help of
Caspar's money; what he feared was that he would reach his destination
and find that nobody understood his message.  Very soon Balthazar might
be of the utmost importance, and he set himself to argue, to cajole,
anything to win Balthazar round to his way of thinking.  But in his
humble, unaggressive way the black man was adamant.  The fact that he
had found these companions, was riding a camel, wearing the very
clothes of his vision, fortified his stubbornness.

"I shall know the gateway when we reach it," he said.

"And we must ride in."

Then, soon, there was another trouble; the roads became crowded, not
with the ordinary traffic, designed for speed, but by slow-moving
groups of people on foot, mainly men, but enough women and children to
be noticeable.  A few rode inferior donkeys, here and there there was a
cart with slow-turning, creaking wheels; everywhere there were bundles.
To Melchior they were merely a nuisance, but to Caspar, who was
interested in everything and only too willing to halt and order
Balthazar to ask questions, they were a prod to curiosity.

"One would think," he said, 'that they were fleeing from the sack of a

city, but that they go in both directions.  Ask him toask who they are
and where they are going."  The first question Balthazar could answer
immediately.

"They are all Jews," he said and hoped that Caspar would be content
with that, and not insist that he stop and ask questions and thus
provoke Melchior even more.  But Caspar insisted; so Balthazar gathered
as much information as he could in the shortest possible time, and
reported.

"They are going back to their places of birth in order to be taxed."

"By whose order?"

"By the order of the Emperor, Caesar Augustus."  Caspar looked at the
throng, moving this way and that, and gave his verdict.

"Then he is a fool as well as a rogue.  What a way to organise
taxation!  In Jexal, when I..."  He paused, on the brink of betraying
himself.

"When I lived there the whole tax system was reorganised from top to
bottom.  People were ordered to stay in their homes and the officials
went round.  It was quiet and orderly.  And all over in a day."  He
looked more closely at the people, finding, on the whole, little
likeness to the one Jew he knew.

"A miserable-looking lot," he commented.  Melchior passed this remark
on to Balthazar--as he passed, almost without thinking, these days, any
remark made by either man.

Balthazar said, "I think they are unhappy.  Not only about the new
taxing.  The believe that they are being counted and that is
displeasing to their God.  I was once well acquainted with a Jew who
told me many interesting things.  One of their own kings numbered them,
long ago and their God was angry and killed many people--to put the
numbers wrong again!"  He allowed his voice to be tinged by ridicule,
remembering the time when he had been anxious to give himself to
Eliezer's God and been rejected with contempt.

"If they really believed that, or in their God," Caspar said, thinking
of the old carpet merchant's honesty over the purple dye, 'they would
rebel."

"Rome is mighty," Balthazar said, "Also the Jews have no leader."  A
long-buried loyalty to Eliezer, and the memory of the stories with
which that fellow-slave had entertained him, made him say, "When they
had leaders -they fought well and won many battles."

Melchior, remembering that fantastic horoscope that he had worked out
at the top of his tower in a long ago Spring, said:

"The child who is about to be born might lead them.  If only we arrive
in time.  Which we may not if you insist upon wasting time in
Jerusalem!"

The three-cornered argument then began again and went on until, just
north of Jericho, something happened to give Caspar a temporary
ascendancy.

Lately they had abandoned any attempt to sleep in they were too crowded
and uncomfortable.  This was well-watered country and it was easy
enough to let the camels drink their fill at some public watering
place, and Balthazar could shop, well and shrewdly, for what food they
needed; he could also cook.  Sometimes the nights were chilly but an
unspoken competition in hardiness prevented any one of the three from
complaining of that.

On this evening, when Caspar pointed out as tie so often did, that the
camels were exhausted, and the truth of that was apparent even to
Melchior, they were on a narrow road which wound in and out and up and
down in bare, hilly country.  The road, for once, was clear--which made
Melchior all the more annoyed by the necessity to halt at all; none of
the three was informed enough to know that this stretch of road was
notorious and that nobody in his right senses would be anywhere on or
near it after sunset.  Looking for a place to camp they came upon a
break in the rocks which for a long time had enclosed the road like a
wall and Balthazar, the one who felt the cold most, and also regarded
himself as being responsible for most of their practical arrangements,
pointed out that if they pulled off the road here, they would be
sheltered by the rocks on either side; that he could hear the noise of
one of those curious little waterfalls which in this country appeared
from nowhere and disappeared again; that this would, indeed, be an
ideal place in which to spend the night.  Melchior, raising his eyes to
the heights on either side the little opening, agreed that it would be
a good place; on either side the rocks rose sheer, unclimbable,

butstraight ahead was a steep incline, covered with scree up which he
could make his way and so gain a clear view of the sky.  Caspar, though
accustomed to flat, open spaces, relished the loneliness of the place,
and looking at the hard, inhospitable terrain, felt respect for the men
whom Benjamin had mentioned to him: the nameless men, the
night-walkers, the rebels who had taken to the hills.

Earlier in the day Balthazar had bought some goat meat and he was soon
busy, making a fire and rigging up his makeshift spit.  He now carried
the two forked sticks and the cross-piece with him, having learned that
there were places where one could not count on finding even a bush.  He
was glad that the duty of provisioning the party had fallen to him, for
Melchior and Caspar, though willing enough to eat when food was handy,
never gave it much thought beforehand.  It seemed, at times, as though
they were trying to outdo one another in their indifference to it.
Balthazar, for the most of his life, had been accustomed to regular
meal-times; even when the Lady's temper had resulted in a reduction of
her slaves' rations, there had always been something to eat when
meal-times came round.  And he had enough to contend with in the mere
riding; he never complained, was never the one to suggest a halt, he
had no intention of being a drag on his company; but the stiffness in
his fingers had often, by the end of the day, communicated itself to
every bone in his body and sometimes when he alighted from his camel
the whole earth would swing and sway and reel around him.

He made the fire, lighting it with a little bundle of sticks which he
prudently carried, and then in the fading light began to hunt about for
something to keep it going.  Evidently, at some season of the year,
even these barren rocks bore some shortlived vegetation; all withered
and scorched and dead now, but with roots, waiting the winter rains and
the soft warmth of a brief spring.  He grubbed out an armful of them
and carefully replenished the fire.  Soon the savoury, peculiarly
pungent scent of roast goat meat filled the narrow place.  The camels
grunted and groaned as they slept.  Caspar indulged in one of the short
naps which Balthazar envied; he could sleep for a few minutes at any
time, in any place and wake instantly, with all his wits about him.
Melchior unrolled a chart and holding it close to the fire--so close
that once the sizzling meat spat fat into his eye-studied it,
gloomily.

They ate, pulling the meat apart with their fingers and passing from
hand to hand the goatskin of cheap wine mixed with water which
Balthazar had provided, each one careful to wipe his mouth on his
sleeve before drinking, and the mouth of the container afterwards. They
were half-way through their meal when Caspar lifted his head,
listened," seemed to sniff the air like a dog.

"We are not alone," he said to Melchior, and getting to his feet, put
his hand to his knife which he carried thrust into the belt of his
baggy trousers, under his leather jacket.

"See," he said, and pointed towards the slope of scree up which, as
soon as he had eaten, Melchior proposed to scramble.  Neither Melchior
nor Balthazar had heard anything, and looking into the darkness outside
the fire's range, they saw nothing for a minute; then they did, and it
was a frightening sight.  Three men, all looking larger than normal,
clad in tatters that fluttered as they moved, all carrying clubs, all
with wild, desperate faces.

"Robbers," Balthazar said in a breathy whisper, recognising the breed.
His legs had turned numb, his stomach quaked; one blow from a club like
that and you'd be dead, or hopelessly disabled.

Melchior, alarmed, but still thinking clearly, said:

"The camels.  They must not take the camels.  Caspar, give them
everything we have.  The camels they must not take."  Lose the camels
now and all would be wasted.

To Caspar these were the men he wanted to see, members perhaps of that
nameless, unnumbered army of rebels who might one day be his allies.

"Do not be frightened," he said.

"I am here.  Melchior, tell him to speak civilly.  Tell him to ask them
what they want."

The men were now within hand's reach and arrogance hung about them,
palpable, unmistakable.  One old, frail man, a soft, flabby merchant,
obviously rich and as obviously terrified, and one, younger and capable
of giving trouble but prepared, from his attitude, to be placating.  A
hired guard, perhaps, with no intention of risking a cracked head to

protect the interests of those who had hired him.

Balthazar asked the question and one of them replied:

"To begin with, a share of your meal."

"They wish to eat with us," Balthazar told Melchior, and Melchior said
to Caspar:

"Let them take the food, the gold, everything; but not the camels."

In the desert the rules of hospitality were strict; it came easily to
Caspar to say:

"Tell him to ask them to sit down and eat."  But it was plain that
these men did not know the rules.  They were already helping
themselves.  Most unmannerly!

"I have many questions to ask them," Caspar told Melchior.

"Tell him to ask them where they come from, how many they are, how they
feel about Herod and about the Emperor of Rome."  Never yet in all this
journey had Caspar so much regretted his inability to speak strange
tongues.

But with these men even Balthazar's skill was unavailing.  They
understood his quavering questions, that was plain by the way they
laughed and nudged one another and laughed again.

They gave no proper answers.  One said:

"We have no names; we are not numbered.  We know nothing of Herod, or
the Emperor of Rome."

Wary and dangerous as wolves, they squatted by the fire and ate all
that was left of the goat meat and the bread which Balthazar had bought
from a village bakery at midday, and they made short work of the
wine.

One of them said, "Tell the young one to sit down and take his hand off
his knife handle."

Already terrified, Balthazar felt considerable dismay in being ordered
to give Caspar such a curt command.  The young man with his haughty
looks and his money was still, to the slave, a figure of awe.  He said
to Melchior:

"The one with the most hair wishes that Caspar should sit down and
remove his hand from his knife."

Melchior passed on the words and Caspar sat down in an attitude that
any of his own men would have known to be potentially dangerous.  He
sat with his legs crossed and the outer edges of his feet resting on
the ground.  It looked relaxed enough, but the slightest pressure
against the sides of his soles would bring him upright.  His arms were
crossed too, but in such a fashion that in a blink of an eye his hand
would be back on his knife.

Such precautions were second nature to him; he felt no fear; only a
burning interest in the men who looked so hardy, who gave such cautious
answers; and a maddening frustration because he could only communicate
with them through Melchior and Balthazar How could he be certain that
the questions were rightly put and the answers rightly returned?  He
tried again.

"Ask them their names," he said.

The answer came back from the same man who had spoken before.

"We have no names."  All three laughed.

They were remarkably uncouth, Caspar reflected; a good deal of
discipline would be needed to turn them into anything like a useful
righting force.  But they looked hard and tough, quite unlike the
harassed, tame Jews who were hurrying about in obedience to Caesar's
command.  Something could be made of them, if it came to the pinch.

"Ask them if they follow a leader."

"We have no leader," the answer came back.

The wine, though watered, was still potent--Balthazar was a careful
shopper; and in the hills wine was a rarity.  The three men grew
hilarious, laughing at nothing.  One of them reached out and snatched
off Melchior's hat, set it on his own shaggy head, and exercising some
peculiar gift of mimicry, composed his body and features into a
caricature of the old man.

Melchior, unaffected by the mockery, said to Balthazar:

"Tell him he can have my robe as well.  Anything but the camels."

And why, Balthazar asked himself, as he translated this statement,
should they spare the camels?  It was plain to him that these were
robbers, bandits, who would take everything.  They would certainly take
the camels, drive them away over the hills and sell them somewhere,
cheaply.

But the laughter, the mocking of Melchior's dignity, affected Caspar;
leaning forward a little from the hips he said to the shaggy-haired

man:"Stop that; and give back the hat."

The shaggy-haired one, without understanding the words, sensed the
protest, and replied, mocking Caspar:

"Yack-yack-yack!  Yack-yack-yack!"  And they all rocked with
laughter.

"We'll have all your hats!  And everything else you have!"

Balthazar said to Melchior, "These are robbers; they will strip us of
everything."

Melchior said to Caspar, "They are bandits.  They will take all."

"They will take nothing!  Wait.  Leave this to me."

It had dawned upon him, with the snatching of Melchior's hat, that
these were not the dignified, dedicated men-of-the-hills of whom old
Benjamin had spoken with such respect, and whom he had come so far to
see.

And there were three of them, men in their prime, armed, against him
alone.  At a moment like this he couldn't count upon the frail old
scholar, or the easily terrified black fellow.  And what could one
knife do against three clubs?  Strategy was called for.

Suddenly he swayed back, laughing, laughing; his teeth bared in a grin
as wolfish as any of theirs.

"Laugh," he said to Melchior.

"Tell him to laugh, Laugh, I said, this is important!"

Melchior, wildly distressed at the prospect of losing the camels,
managed only a death's-head grimace; Balthazar, trained in obedience,
creased his face into a smile that was in ill-accord with the terror in
his eyes where too much white was showing.

"Now tell him," said Caspar, pretending to hold his sides with
amusement, 'that when I move my hat he is to offer his turban to the
one nearest him; but to loosen it first.  Say this as though you were
joking with him!"

Smiling pallidly Melchior passed on this order.

Still laughing loudly, Caspar took off his hat, held it a second in his
hand and looked at Balthazar, who immediately removed and loosened his
beautiful turban.  Caspar clapped his hat on to the head of one of the
men, pushing it down, still acting as though it were a joke.  Balthazar
put his turban upon the head of the third and a fold fell.... They were
still laughing, the two temporarily blinded when Caspar got to his
feet, drew his knife across the throat of the one who wore Melchior's
hat, and in less than a breath's space dispatched, in similar fashion,
the other two.  It was done so quickly, so surely, with such deadly
savagery, that neither Melchior nor Balthazar could believe that it was
done.  One second the throats were emitting laughter and the next
gushing fountains of blood.

Caspar wiped his knife on the rags of the last man he had killed and
straightened up, his face impassive.

Melchior, that civilised man, felt a single queasy heave of the
stomach, but it died away under the thought--The camels are safe.  He
said:

"By my father's grave, you are quick."

"In my country," Caspar said, 'a man is either quick or dead."

Balthazar, who had seen blood spilt before, was far more affected; he
hadn't the strength just then to stand up, so he shuffled backwards a
little on his haunches and, turning out of the firelight, threw up his
supper.

Then something extraordinary happened.  From the top of the rocky wall
to the left of the enclosed space in which, by the fire, three men in
grotesque attitudes lay dead, and one live man calmly sheathed his
knife, and one thought of his errand, and one vomited, something came
hurtling down, stumbled as it fell, recovered itself and made for
Caspar.

It was a boy, quite a small one, no more than six or seven years old,
but in such a blind, murderous rage that he was momentarily as
dangerous as a tiger.  Had he worn shoes the kicks he aimed at Caspar's
shins would have done real damage, the will to damage was there, but he
was barefoot.  And his teeth, directed at Caspar's throat, were
defeated by the collar of the leather jacket.  He had launched himself,
made the assault in silence, but under the double frustration he began
to scream.  Caspar took him by the nape of the neck and held him at
arm's length, as though he were a puppy.  The boy's legs and arms
thrashed about and he went on screaming.  Caspar dispassionately cuffed

him about the head until suddenly he hung, limpand quiet.

"One of their cubs," he said, dropping the boy to the ground, and
looking about.

"There may be others."

But all was quiet.

"We must go," Melchior said, standing up on legs that were not quite
steady.

"This is a dangerous place."

Balthazar wiped his mouth and his sweat-drenched face and turned back
into the firelight, carefully avoiding looking at the dead men.

The boy, who had stood, dazed and dizzied where Caspar had dropped him,
moved and went to the side of the shaggy-haired man who had taken
Melchior's hat.  He said:

"You killed my father.  I wish I could kill you."

Balthazar, falling into place again, said to Melchior:

"That man was the boy's father."

"The boy's father," Melchior said to Caspar.

"A spirited boy," Caspar said; but Melchior disregarded the remark.
They must get away from here.

"You killed him," the boy said again.

"He was only seeking food."  He began to cry.

"He was bringing me my supper.

Look!"

He fumbled in the dead man's rags; and Balthazar, the only one who
understood what the boy said, forced himself to watch, and it was true.
Under cover of the ravenous eating, the greedy drinking, the
horse-play, the man had remembered the child and secreted a good hunk
of goat meat and some bread.

"He had saved some for the boy," Balthazar said.  This remark Melchior
considered not worth passing on.

"Come," he said, 'let us go."

But Caspar and Balthazar seemed to be fascinated by the boy.  He held
the food in his hand and he looked at it with a tragic expression,
tears streaking his dirty face; but he was hungry, plainly very hungry,
for though he wept with his eyes, his mouth began to drool like a
dog's.  Then, suddenly he ceased to cry, his mouth folded in on itself,
and he flung the meat and the bread straight at Caspar's face.  Caspar,
with one of his swift movements, ducked and the two missiles went over
his head.  It was sad; so much Melchior admitted, in his mind.  But the
men were robbers and might have taken the camels and rendered his whole
errand abortive.  The boy had made his gesture; and probably, as soon
as they had gone, would hunt for the food, find it and eat it.

He said again, "Come.  Let us go."

But Caspar said, "I like this boy.  Ask Balthazar what other food we
have."

Impatiently, Melchior asked, and Balthazar said that all the meat was
now eaten; they still had bread and some cheese.

"Give him some."  Caspar said.  And while Balthazar opened the
food-bag, he retrieved their headgear; Melchior's first; the old man
took it and with an impatient gesture, slapped it on his head; then his
own, unsullied; the extreme end of Balthazar's turban, hanging down
over the robber's face, was damp and dark with blood.  Caspar, with a
delicacy of feeling that nobody would have given him credit for, took
out his knife, cut off the soiled portion, threw it on the fire, and
tucked the raw edge back.  Balthazar, returning with the food, accepted
the turban with fastidious suspicion, but it looked all right.... The
boy took the proffered food with a look in which sullenness and
something else warred for mastery.

"Ask him to ask the boy's name."

"Such a waste of time!"  Melchior said.

"What does his name matter?"  But he passed on the question and
Balthazar asked it, gently.

The boy said, "I am the son of my father.  My name is Barabbas."

Melchior, moving towards the camels, tossed this piece of worthless
information, as he had tossed many similar pieces, to Caspar.

"Tell him I wish I had such a son and that I am sorry his father is
dead.  But it was necessary."  As he spoke Caspar fumbled in his pouch
and brought out a rose jekkal.  The boy took it and said something.
Balthazar spoke, Melchior spoke.

"He says his father is dead but he is alive and he will be avenged."

They mounted their camels and turned them, and as the weary, unwilling

animals moved, grunting and protesting,down the defile towards the
road, the boy pelted them.  Two crusty loaves, a piece of cheese, a
rose jekkal and then lumps of rock, thrown with unerring aim, and with
all the impetus of impotent fury, hit the camels' hindquarters, so that
their pace, for a few moments, satisfied even the impatient Melchior,
who had just realised that with all this fuss he had failed to take his
nightly reckoning.

Next day, thinking over the incident calmly, he realised that but for
Caspar they would have lost their camels; and that even Caspar's speedy
trickery could not have succeeded without Balthazar's gift of tongues.
So his opposition to their desire to enter Jerusalem was rather less
obdurate than it might have been.  He gave in, grudgingly and
petulantly.

"One hour, then.  That is all I can spare.  And that is an hour
wasted," he said.

And then, of course, when they reached the great city, with the massed
towers, the many roofs showing above the walls of hewn stone, and
thousands of people going this way and that, halting progress in the
most infuriating way, Balthazar must choose to be difficult.  He said,
"This is not the one, I'm sorry," at gateway after gateway.  Caspar,
all agog, was quite willing to ride all round the city, but Melchior,
though the day was very cold, felt hot sweat prick out all over him,
even to his eyelids as they wasted time and wasted time.

Then, as they came towards the Gate of the Fountain, Balthazar said in
a tranced, ecstatic voice, "This is it!  This is the gate through which
I saw us riding."  He halted his camel and would have sat there,
staring, had not Melchior said peevishly: "Let us ride in then, and get
it over with."  Caspar had been assessing the city with a soldier's
eye.  It was a strong, fortressed city which, properly provisioned and
held by resolute men, would withstand a prolonged siege.  Not, compared
with Jexal, a beautiful city, but certainly strong.  To him, Melchior
said in the same peevish way: "I have not come so far to sight-see!
There will be time to stare later."

So they rode into Jerusalem; and even Melchior was slightly pacified to
find that Balthazar had chosen the gate that was nearest to the Palace
of Herod.

NINE

TYRE 200 miles Ephorus, Greek by birth, and once a sailor had been
stranded in Bethlehem for eleven years, and knew that he would die
there: yet there never was a morning when, blinking his gritty eyes,
licking his dry swollen lips with a dry swollen tongue and throwing
back the shutter, he didn't think--What a place!  How did I land here?
Why do I stay?  The answers to both questions would pour into his
momentarily sober mind, smooth as oil, and he'd take a cup, draw some
wine, add a few drops of water and drink.  The first drink of the day.
Then he felt better, able for about an hour to make himself useful
about the place.  An old sailor--he called himself that, though in
years he was far from old--was handy, could turn his hand to almost
anything; one hour of his time, every morning, every morning for eleven
years had made a great difference in the appearance of this place
which, though the smaller of the two inns in Bethlehem, was much the
more attractive because of the way in which he had made and mended,
plastered, painted and applied his natural Greek talent and his
experience to decorating.

But an hour in the morning was as much as he could bear.  Then, back to
the wine, this time without water; wine, more wine, and soon the real
Ephorus was drowned again.  Dead for one more deadly day.  Sometimes,
sheltering behind his own recognisable shape, but never one with it, He
was a merry man, ready to quarrel and, if necessary, fight; sometimes
he was a sullen man, brooding in silence.  None of these men was
Ephorus.  Ephorus woke, took a drink and worked for an hour because
after all he owed Eunice something; and then he took himself off.  And
what the merry, the aggressive, the sullen men "felt or said concerned
him very little.


Once, only once, had he struggled up out of his drunkard'shappy
anonymity and tried to talk sense and truth to a fellow being; and that
was when a neighbour, a man named Josodad, suffered a bereavement and
began to come to the inn in search of comfort.  He'd heard himself--to
his amazement--speaking in metaphors, like a poet.  He'd told Josodad
that there was no comfort lying in the bottom of a wine-cup; and that a
loss might make you a cripple but drunkenness made you a social leper.
It seemed to have worked, Josodad ceased to frequent the inn; and now,
after years, still looked as wretched as ever.

There'd been a little trouble with Eunice over Josodad; they hadn't so
many customers that one needed to be driven away, she said.  She also
said, "I heard you.  Talking about that whore!  After all this time!
After all I've done for you!"

He said, "I was only warning Josodad not to try to drown his sorrow or
he'd end as I have."

Eunice gave one of her short, rather cruel snorts of amusement, and
said:

"He'd be lucky!  What's wrong with where you ended, you silly drunken
clown?  What's wrong with this bed, eh?"

He could have told her--everything!  It was a trap, a cage, a baited
hook: it was the battlefield upon which he was always defeated; it was
the sandbank upon which his barque lay stranded.  But Eunice was not to
blame for that--or at least only in a small degree--so he'd gone
stumbling to the bed.  At that time he'd still been able to give Eunice
what she wanted, and the carping quarrelsome day often ended in
reconciliation.  Later on things had grown worse.

On this morning, in the middle of his eleventh winter in Bethlehem, he
rose, thick-headed and tremulous, opened the shutter a crack and looked
out.  The sky was greyish purple and hung just above the roof-tops.
Snow, he thought, unless the spiteful, bone-chilling wind succeeded in
driving it over.  He shivered, and thought, What a barbarous country!
How did I land here?  Why do I stay?  He looked back over his past,
boyhood and youth, before he came to Bethlehem, and saw it all in
sunshine, with the exception of one spell in the middle of a voyage.
Byblos, Tyre and Sidon, Delos, Crete and Rhodes, Alexandria, Carthage,
Marsala, dozens and dozens of places, and always in the sun.

He was born in Byblos, born an orphan, one might say.  Somebody must
have fed and protected him during infancy, but he had no memory of
whoever it was; he had come to self-recognition, awareness of his own
identity, and to the beginning of his memory, in a hovel, with a lot of
other boys, all older than he.  The owner of the hovel was an old
crone, and when there was anything to cook, she cooked it.  It was not
a home; his home always seemed to be the quayside.  Somebody must have
taught him a few professional begging phrases and as a small boy he had
haunted the places where sailors, just back from voyages, were paid
off.  They were always generous.  Possibly their seeming wealth and
their good-nature had inspired in him the desire to go to sea as soon
as he was old enough.  Possibly his unknown father had been a sailor.
Anyway, to be one himself was his earliest, his lasting ambition.
There'd been an interval when he was rather too big to beg; and during
that time he'd run with the other boys, stealing if a chance offered,
doing odd jobs and errands.  The old woman ran things in a simple way;
if you went home once with no loot and no coin she'd grumble and give
you a bit of whatever there was to eat, but if you were unlucky on the
second day then you were unlucky indeed, you got nothing.  It was a
hard, haphazard life, but he'd known no other, so he never felt sorry
for himself.  And somehow, he grew up to be big and strong and
remarkably good-looking.  Whoever his parents had been it seemed that
they had both been Greek, of pure blood; there was nothing of the
mongrel blur and conflict about his features or his colouring.

When he was twelve he went to sea for the first time in a very menial
capacity, a fetch-and-carry boy, even his name lost.

"You' they called him.  Do this, you!  Look sharp, you!  You, get out
of the way!  His upbringing had sharpened his wits, and while he
fetched and carried, and looked sharp and got out of people's way, he'd
learned a lot.  At fifteen he was a sailor.  And he, too, was always
open-handed with small coins for small beggars.

At twenty he was working on a ship which plied,regularly between Byblos

and Alexandria.  From Byblos they carried theEastern goods that had
already travelled for months on the overland caravan routes; spices
from the far islands, silk from China, from India jewels and a very
fine, almost transparent material which women liked for veils and
head-dresses.  To all these was added a certain amount of the precious
Tyrian purple dye.  Out from Alexandria they carried papyrus.  Byblos
and the papyrus trade were so firmly linked that the town had given its
name to the books made of the papyrus; Byblos softened down to bible,
meaning a book.  Also from Egypt the ship brought objects made of
glass, and from one of his voyages Ephorus had brought Dorcas a string
of glass beads which had cost far more than he could afford, but were
beautiful, curiously mottled, pink, purple and rose-coloured.  A
wonderful present, but of course, unworthy of her.

Unworthy .. . that was the key word; it ran like a song theme with many
minor variations, through all his dealings with her.  Women like Dorcas
weren't caught young and trained and schooled for the delectation of
common sailors.  They were the hetaira, designed for the delight of
men's minds as well as their bodies; they could all converse with wit
and intelligence; some could sing, some could dance or play musical
instruments.  They did not ply for hire, like the common prostitutes
who flaunted themselves on the quayside and in the streets; they were
not compelled to consort with any chance corner like the girls in
ordinary brothels.  Money was involved, of course, the hetaira were a
luxury, but the business side was very discreetly handled; and because
the girls were allowed freedom of choice, and were all so beautiful,
elegant and clever, an association with one of them was a thing to
boast about.

Ephorus knew nothing of this when one evening he saw an open door and
heard music, and saw men coming and going, and followed a group of men
in.  Once inside he knew that he was, as he termed it, off-course; his
pay was heavy in his pocket and he'd braced himself defiantly,
thinking--My money is as good as the next man's.  In the paved and
pillared atrium, prettily arranged with urns of flowers and singing
birds in cages, he'd braved some curious, some hard, some almost amused
glances, and then all at once he'd found himself in such company,
enjoying such happiness, as he had never dreamed existed.  He had never
talked to anyone, leave alone any woman, as he could talk to Dorcas.

She had never set foot on a ship, yet she seemed to be conversant with
nautical terms, with sea routes.  She had never been to Tyre or
Carthage or Alexandria, yet she knew as much about them and a dozen
other places as he who had visited them all.  He was astonished and
enchanted and at the same time humbled.  She was so lovely, so clever,
that she seemed to him almost like a goddess, and at first the idea of
using her as he had used other women here and there was inconceivable.
Later his astonishment and enchantment grew at finding her just like
other women, but infinitely sweeter, infinitely more skilled.  She
said, "What are you doing in a place like this?"

"You mean that this is no place for a common sailor?"  She laughed.

"Don't be so touchy.  That isn't what I meant at all.  I meant that you
are so young and so handsome.  Why should you pay for what any girl
would gladly give?"

He said, "After tonight there will never be another girl for me."

"I should have added a flattering tongue when I listed your
attractions," she said.

After that his sea-going life, hitherto his whole life, his chosen
life, his achieved ambition, meant nothing but enforced absence from
what he loved.  The voyages were vast desolate stretches between brief
joys.  He fretted incessantly.  To whom was she talking, now?  To whom,
at this moment, was she opening Paradise?  It was terrible to have set
the private mark of one's heart upon a public thing.  But he had done
so, and there was no help for it.

There came a time when he could bear it no longer; he asked her to
marry him.

He was not surprised that she should look amazed: he was amazed at his
own audacity.

"Don't laugh at me," he begged her.

"That I couldn't bear.  I've nothing to offer you except my love.  I

know..But don't laugh.""Why should I laugh?  Ephorus, how old are
you?"

"I'm not certain.  If the old woman reckoned rightly, and she's all I
have to go by, I'm about twenty-one."

Dorcas said, "I'm thirty.  Eight years from now you will be in your
prime and I shall be an ageing woman, with no beauty left:

He had never thought of her as being of any age and by this time he was
not particularly conscious of her looks.  There was the beautiful
facade, but that was largely artificial; hair elaborately curled, white
skin that the sun never touched, eyes made to look large and
languorous.  The real Dorcas, the woman he loved, lived inside this
pretty shell and was a different person altogether.  He often caught
glimpses of her behind all the decoration.  He tried to put this into
words and failed.

He said, "If you went bald, or were pitted by pox, you'd look the same
to me.  I love you."

She didn't say what he yearned to hear--that she loved him, though he
had sensed the possibility that she did, otherwise he would never have
dared to mention marriage.

She said, "I think you are a poet, Ephorus.  And that means you could
be dangerous to yourself.  You make statements like this inside your
head, and they sound well.  But you mustn't believe them."

"But it is true.  Let me prove it."

"By losing my hair and getting pox-pitted?  Dear Ephorus, what a thing
to ask."

"I'm asking you to marry me."

She moved, restively.

"Nobody marries women like me.  Well, now and then perhaps; some old
man, already provided with heirs.  You see, we are barren.  The
precautions we take, the draughts we drink if they fail, offend the
gods of fertility and we become barren."

"I don't want children," he said with great vehemence.

"I want you."

"But, my dear, you can't afford me.  I am a plaything, a toy.  I can
neither cook nor sew.  I have never in my life been in a market.  Until
I have it on a plate before me I can't tell a melon from a cucumber or
beef from mutton.  I sleep till midday.  Just imagine what a wife I
should make."

She spoke with sincerity, honestly hoping to dissuade him.  In her life
he struck almost as strange a note as she had struck in his, and for
the first time in many years she was unsure of herself.  He was young
and handsome, his devotion was very touching; it would, she knew, be
all too easy to love him; but what then?  Poverty, ugly in itself and
with an infinite capacity for making everything it touched ugly too.
Could love compensate?  Would it last?  Could a woman of thirty, reared
and trained as specially as a chariot horse, make the necessary
adjustments?  She didn't know; she wished he had not disturbed the nice
balance of their relationships by his simple forthright question.

Ephorus said, narrowing his eyes, "Suppose, just suppose, that I made
some money.  Not a lot, but enough.  Enough to hire a little white
house, and to buy you a slave who could tell melon from cucumber.  What
then?"

Why must he mention a little white house?  A lifetime ago, when she was
young, thirteen, fourteen, rebellious against her lot, a little white
house had been visible from the window of the room that had been
allotted to her.  It was gone now, torn down to make room for a great
tenement building; but she remembered it.  A small white house, a
woman, several children, a man who came home every night.  The woman
was always busy, cooking, washing, wiping a child's nose, picking up
one that had fallen, occasionally dealing out smacks all round; but the
girl Dorcas, busy then with mastering the Latin tongue and the playing
of the lute and how to look, how to speak, how to arrange her hands and
feet, had watched, often with envy, the simple domestic life in the
little white house.  A lifetime ago.

Now she said, "Ephorus I do not know.  I was taught early to avoid four
things: obesity, pregnancy, boredom and sentiment.  It may be that on
the last I have failed my teacher.  I do feel for you what no woman of
my kind should feel for any man.  But I am afraid.  It could so easily
be as it was when Psyche lit her lamp.  For us the lamp would be the
light of common day; in that light what should we see?  I should see a

young man andcount my years and be sad.  You would see an ageing
sloven and feel defrauded.  Leave it as it is, for a time at least.
Visit me when you can.  And look about for a girl of your own age and
kind.  Teach her, if you wish, something of what I have taught you, so
that kneading her dough and chopping her onions she will think of the
night's joy and feel her bones melt.  That way you will have a faithful
wife and may remember me with gratitude.  Better still, forget me
altogether."

Ephorus said, "That is nonsense, and you must know it.  I could never
forget you.  I told you, on that first night, that there would never be
another girl for me.  And it is true.  You know how sailors are
welcomed, set upon, wherever they go.  I swear that for me they might
be apes or goats or stone statues for all I care."

And that was how she had been trained to look at men.  Not as people.
Her indifference had been cultivated, but she understood exactly what
Ephorus meant.  Out of a world populated by shadows, one person
emerged, whole, real, as real and as dear as oneself.  So easy to give
in, to let oneself be carried away, to say yes, and yes, and yes, to
pledge oneself with a kiss and begin to make plans.  But there was this
eight years gap which poverty would only emphasise.  Oh dear, she
thought, I was taught so much, but never how to deal with such a
situation.

"I know," he said, 'how to make some money.  Real money."

"You're not to do anything dangerous, or illegal.  Please, Ephorus, I
have to live with myself, and if I thought that because of me you had
run into trouble, I should never sleep easily again."

He said, "It isn't dangerous .. ."  and whether that were truth or a
lie he couldn't tell; the whole thing was so shrouded in mystery and in
silence that nobody knew.

"And it isn't illegal.  It is the one way in which a sailor can make
money."

And although he had, from the first, appreciated her sharp intelligence
and wealth of information, he was startled, somewhat displeased, when
she said :

"The tin trade!  Ephorus, no!  That is suicidal.  Do you want to saddle
me with the responsibility for your death?"

He asked, truculently, "What do you know about it?"

"More than you do, I'll warrant.  Do you realise, Ephorus, that on a
tin-trading ship you have not only the elements, the wind and the
waves, lightning and thunder against you, but your own ship's master?
The secret is so valuable, so precious, that men swear to keep it, even
if it costs them their lives."

"How do you know so much about it?"

"Never mind that.  I know.  I could, but I won't, give you the name of
a shipmaster who, finding that he was followed by a spy ship, marking
his course, deliberately ran his ship aground.  Half his crew died,
drowned; he and those who remained with him walked for a month through
Iberia and many more died of starvation and exhaustion.  He
survived--and he was rewarded; a ship had been lost and many men had
died; but the secret had been kept and that was all that mattered.  I
know," she said, reaching out and taking his hand and beginning to
weave her smooth white fingers with his, 'that set in the scales
against possible profit a man's life weighs lightly anywhere, but in
the tin trade it does not weigh at all.  The tin ships are in the
charge of men who set no value on themselves, much less on their
crew.

He thought that she exaggerated.  In his time he had known several
reckless men, but they were, really, men who trusted their luck and
were inwardly sure that the risks they seemed to take were not risks at
all.  A deliberately self-destructive man he had never yet encountered;
frankly he doubted whether such a one existed.  Men owned ships for
profit, and other men sailed them for pay.  True, the whole of the tin
trade was a mystery, but he could not believe that any ship's master
would sacrifice his life to preserve his secret.

However, Dorcas appeared to believe it and to lift the look of trouble
from her face he said:

"Why are we talking about the tin ships?  That may be one way to make
money, but I know another, and much safer, way."

"What is it?"

"That is a secret, too."  And though she teased him and tried to trick
him into telling her he remained obdurate.  Had he been quick-witted

enough to invent a believable story--believable to awoman of her
intelligence--he would have told it; so he teased her back, saying that
she knew too much already and that no woman could keep a secret.  Then
he came back to his original question; if he were lucky and returned
with enough money to hire a house and buy a slave, would she marry him
?

She looked at him, her eyes very clear between their artificially
darkened lashes, their artificially lustrous lids.

"You are absurd," she said, "And very young, and very sweet."

"Good enough to wait for?"

"Oh, I shall be here," she said.

"I shall be here when you return, and we'll talk of it then.  How long
will this mysterious, profitable voyage take?"

"It could be a year," he said, knowing nothing about it but feeling
that in the circumstances it was better to guess at too long a time,
rather than too short a one.

"A year.  To me that will seem a short time.  Did you know that,
Ephorus?  As one gathers years, each one seems shorter than the last."
She put her hands on either side of his head, digging the tips of her
fingers into the crisp close curls.

"Swear to me," she said, 'that you are not embarking upon any dangerous
or difficult enterprise."

"I swear that.  It's a simple easy way of making money which would
cease to be profitable if more people knew about it.  And you will wait
for me?"

"If, during this voyage which will last a year, you promise to think
over what I have said.  And promise to consider yourself free; not
bound in any way to a woman who would make a bad, barren wife."

He said, "You are the one woman in the world for me.  As for children;
you can buy them, you know, in any market, choosing the sex, the size
and shape, the age, even the disposition that you prefer.  In Delos I
saw children with labels about their necks; one label read "This boy
bites if provoked".  He fetched a good price."

"Oh, why must we bother about the future?"  she asked.

"To go, to stay, to wait upon the morrow, which the gods hold in their
careless hands.  This is now, and you are here and I am here.  Let us
make the most of the moment that is ours."

So they made love once again, in the small, pretty, scented room.  And
then he had gone straight out and sold himself into the tin trade.

The place that one sailed for was called the unknown destination; the
world's end; the hidden place.  And before he was accepted he had to
subject himself to a strict inquisition, ominous in its implications
and very enlightening.  When he emerged from it he knew why the
shipmaster whom Dorcas had mentioned had wrecked his ship rather than
allow himself to be spied upon and followed--his family was his
hostage.  The tin-traders had a monopoly and they guarded it
unscrupulously; no man ever took ship on this enterprise without
knowing that not only his life was at stake, but the life of someone
beloved.

In the office where Ephorus offered himself, the man asked why he
wished to make this venture; and he gave an honest answer; he wished to
make money, so that he could marry.  Marry whom?  He gave her name,
just as every other man who sailed for the unknown destination, had
given the name of someone who mattered to him.

"Come back tomorrow," the man in the office had said; and when, on the
next day Ephorus presented himself, he knew that there had been a
check, to make sure that Dorcas existed and was there, in Byblos,
easily available, to be tortured, killed, if he should fail in any way,
or should utter an indiscreet word.  Tin was the most important
commodity, scarcer than gold, and the few Phoenicians who held the
trade in their hands knew the value of the secret.

The man in the office was quite blunt, as he could afford to be.

"A complaint," he said, 'or a misplaced question, a comment, a hint, an
unconsidered word, and ..."  He made the gesture of a man slashing a
knife across a throat.

Ephorus thought--With other men, no doubt he makes different gestures;
Dorcas is particularly vulnerable in this respect.  Any man with a
knife could enter that house.... He said, "I understand; no complaints,
I promise; no question, no loose talk."


"Very well.  You are hired.  Take this."  He handed Ephorus asmall
clay tablet, with, inset on its upper side, a tiny thread of tin, not
much thicker than a hair and in length the eighth of a man's thumb, 'to
Appolodorus, on the Dido."

When he handed the clay tablet to Appolodorus that stout cheerful man
had said, "Oh.  One in two hundred!  Well, boy, if we're lucky you
won't be able to buy up Byblos when we get back, but you should have
what it would take you ten years to earn in any other trade."

And that was exactly what the dockside whisper had said-one voyage on a
tin ship paid as well as ten in any other kind.  Ephorus, settling down
amongst his fellows, all for some reason desperate and committed men,
thought of the little houses, the busy slave, and Dorcas, enshrined.

He had known, for this was common talk in all the ports, that voyages
made to the secret place were not very pleasant.  Ships that went in
search of tin faced unimaginable dangers, places where the sea was a
sheet of flame and sails scorched; places where two-headed monsters
rose from the sea and crunched a ship in their jaws; places where there
were women with snakes for hair, and kisses that were irresistible and
fatal.

He'd heard all the stories; discounting some and believing others, he
had been prepared to risk all for Dorcas' sake.  When he had been
aboard Dido for a short time he began to suspect that old seamen were
paid to sit about in taverns and tell such discouraging tales.  Dido
sailed due west, holding roughly to a course that he knew; but she did
not go south to Carthage, or north to Marsala.  Soon they were in
waters farther west than any he had known, but the sea was not on fire
and there were no snake-haired women.  Finally they came to a place of
which Ephorus had heard but which he had never seen, the Pillars of
Hercules as it was called, where the known sea ended in a narrow
passage between high escarpments, Calpe and Abyla.  This was, to
sailors, the end of the world.  But not to Appolodorus.  He pressed on,
through the straits and into the sea beyond, which was ordinary sea,
though rougher than any Ephorus had yet sailed.  And--this was what
Ephorus, years later in Bethlehem, remembered--there was no sun.  They
moved now between a grey sea and a grey sky, a curious twilit world.
Soon they took a northerly course and then, turning East, headed for
the land which lay, tiger-coloured, on their starboard side, but they
did not make port.  They anchored and a swarm of little boats came out
from the tawny land, boats manned by men with Phoenician faces, clothes
and tongues.  This, then, Ephorus said to himself, is the unknown
destination, the source of tin.  But he was wrong.  What the swarming
boats carried were fresh supplies of perishable foodstuffs, meat,
vegetables, fruit and cheese.  With stores replenished, they headed out
into such a sea as Ephorus had never imagined, a sea which--by a fine
irony-took away the appetite of even the most hardened.  The grey sea
reared and tumbled, and every wave bore a crest of white foam which
often blew free and with the wind behind it stung faces and hands. Dido
plunged and rolled and every man in her, even Appolodorus, was grimly
sick; the wind flung foam, and rain, and worse than rain, small pieces
of ice at the sick, dizzy, reeling men who manned the tortured ship. 
But she survived, and so did they, and presently the seas smoothed out,
the wind eased, the belly muscles ceased their spasmodic contractions,
and Appolodorus, his face coloured as no human face should be, green
around the mouth and purple around the eyes, said, "We've made the Bay.
 And that is what we're paid for."

There was still no sun; a faint golden glimmer around midday sometimes,
a pink glow at dawn or sunset, but on the whole a grey, cool, sad light
divided from dark.  Spirits were low.  Even the inevitable quarrels
seemed muted and halfhearted.  Ephorus was the only member of the crew
making the voyage for the first time, and experienced men said that
often it was worse than this; sometimes the grey sky sank until it
joined the sea and progress was halted and men walked about through a
clammy cloud.

At last they sighted land; it rose from the sea, a blur of solid grey
in the greyness, and then slowly it revealed itself in colour and
shape, a red and rocky coast, with waves beating high and hard at the
foot of the cliffs and creaming over the small rocks with which the sea

was sown.  There seemed to be no harbour,no houses, no people.  The
jagged, rose-coloured coast, and as they came nearer, inland a
wonderful green became visible.  Ephorus had never seen a green so
vivid, nor quite such an inhospitable shore.

Appolodorus nosed the ship nearer, the man with the plumb-line calling
soundings every few minutes; then, just short of the outmost fringe of
rocks they anchored and a man ran to the ship's bows and blew a horn.
Blast after blast sounded through the sunless air, apparently into
empty silence.

And then, suddenly it seemed, the narrow fringes of the shore at the
places where the sea had beaten the red cliffs back, there were men,
running, running into the water and dragging with them dark, circular
objects which floated upon the sea, and into which, once they were
afloat the men jumped, took up paddles and came, with what seemed
incredible speed, towards Dido.  Ephorus stared with interest at these
boats, if boats they could be called.  What brave crazy people these
must be, he thought, to venture out, in such a sea in what were no more
than round baskets, fashioned from boughs over which hides had been
stretched.  These men were not Phoenicians, as the men from the
tawny-coloured land had been; they were a different breed altogether,
with round dark heads and very light skins, so light that the blood
showed, red in their faces.

Appolodorus opened the chest which had lain, locked, in Dido's hold.
There were knives and arrow heads, some lengths of brightly coloured
cotton cloth, copper bracelets and anklets, some articles of pottery of
the coarsest, cheapest kind, boxes of dried figs and dates and raisins;
a sack of almonds.  There were only three things of any real value; one
was a lump of amber on a silver chain, one a silver brooch set with a
piece of turquoise, and one a highly polished silver mirror such as
rich men used for shaving and rich women used for self-admiration.

The natives, very quietly and shyly, loaded Dido with lumps of tin,
some freshly mined and shining, some grown over with moss, as green as
the inland meadows, some white with encrusted sea-salt.  A year's hoard
at least.

It took some time since the flimsy round boats could carry only small
amounts.

Appolodorus said, "This could be done in half the time if everybody
dealt with them as honestly as I do.  There was a time when the women
used to come out too, then some wretched fellow grabbed a few, thinking
they'd fetch a good price at Delos--they're very pretty.  So now, when
they hear the horn, they hide their women and only men come out.  And
grabbing them, everybody knows, is sheer waste of time.  They can't
live in captivity."

There was no attempt at communication.  When the last lump of tin was
delivered a man who seemed to be the leader of the group--he wore a
wolf skin around his middle and his chest, upper arms and legs were
stained with a blue dye, simply spread his hands to signify that that
was the end.  Appolodorus with a similar gesture indicated the chest
and man after man took the object nearest to hand without any
discrimination.

"They share it out, later, amongst themselves," Appolodorus
explained.

Carrying their payment--pitiable in comparison with the worth of what
they had delivered, the men paddled back to shore; but Appolodorus did
not immediately give any order.  He waited; and soon the little round
boats were heading out again.  This time they brought fresh meat and
fish, baskets of berries, some horns hollowed out to make drinking
cups, ornaments of bleached bone, curiously carved.  These were
presented with eloquent gestures of the hands, and with the first
smiles Ephorus had seen on the pink and white faces.

"They always do that," the man standing nearest to Ephorus explained.

"They're very generous, gentlemen, in a savage sort of way.  It's a
pity they're doomed."

"Are they?"

"It's my guess that in twenty years or less this'll be Roman
territory."

"Then what about the tin trade?"

The man shrugged.

"All organised and taxed!  But by that time I shall be done with it.  I
had six daughters," he explained.

"I've dowered four and married them.  This trip should take care of the

other two...."Heavily laden, Dido headed south.  In the Bay the
weather was rather worse and she was no longer buoyant; everyone in her
was--which would have seemed impossible--more nauseated than before."
Then she slipped between the Pillars of Hercules, this time so close to
Apyla that one could see the apes bounding about on its rocky face, and
then they were back in the known world, making for Byblos.

There was a waiting time--to the impatient Ephorus a long, interminable
time--while the tin was assessed; then, according to his term of
contract, every man was paid off.

Walking so fast that he was almost running, Ephorus began to make his
way along one of the narrow alleys that led from the quay, one of his
childhood's haunts.  And there he was accosted not by a painted harlot
or a mendicant child, but by a young man, wearing the toga of Roman
citizenship, neatly groomed, well shaven, but apparently exuberantly
drunk.  He said, barring Ephorus' way:

"Welcome home, sailor.  I'll warrant you have a thirst.  Come and take
a cup of wine with me."

"I've no time," Ephorus said brusquely.

"Let me pass."  The young man reeled against the filthy wall and
hiccupped Then he turned about and was walking as near alongside as the
narrowness of the alley permitted.

"You think I'm drunk, don't you?"

"What is that to me?"

"You're right.  I am.  So would you be.  I've just come into a legacy.
All made out of sailors' sweat, so I thought I'd spend a little on
sailors."

"Find one who isn't in a hurry.  I am."

"Wife waiting?  Ha ha!  You been long away?"

"Six months," Ephorus said, untruthfully.

"Tell me; did you ever see a mermaid?"

"No."

"They say there's a rock off Sicily where they sit and comb their
hair.

You ever been to Sicily?"

"In my time."

"Not this time?  What a pity!  I dote upon sailors' tales.  Come and
drink wine with me and tell me a tale."

"I told you," Ephorus said impatiently.

"I have no time; I have no desire to drink and no tale to tell."

"Uncivil," the young man said in a maudlin, reproachful voice.

They had reached the point where the narrow alley opened into a wide
busy street, and stumbling as he turned, the seeming drunkard began to
retrace his steps.  Within three paces Ephorus heard the change in the
rhythm of the walk, and glancing back saw the man making for the quay
with a purposeful and completely sober stride.

It might have been a serious attempt to get him drunk and make him wag
an incautious tongue; it might have been a deliberate trap, kid by the
ship-owner.  Dismissing it thus, he hurried on.

It was still early in the day.  The house was shuttered and dark, and
very quiet, A slave was apathetically swabbing the floor of the atrium
and hardly bothered to look up as he entered.  He said:

"Rouse Dorcas.  Tell her Ephorus is here."

Now that the moment had come his heart beat with such excitement and
exultation that it shook him to his finger-tips.  All through his
absence--ten months and eighteen days--he had exercised a Spartan
self-control, knowing that it was useless to tantalise himself with
dreams and hopes and plans.  He'd gone from this place with the object
of making money, knowing that he might perish in the attempt.

He was back; in a few minutes Dorcas would come; he would show her his
money; assure her of his ability to provide.

He stood waiting; staring around the place which he had never before
visited in daylight hours.  For all its grandeur it had the sleazy,
somewhat furtive look of a place devoted to the pleasures of the
night.

She would be glad to be out of it.

The slave came back, gave him what he called a silly look-but she had,
by nature, a silly expression--and resumed the floor-washing.  Then,
through the arch came, not Dorcas, but another girl named Lydia, known
to him by sight and by name but hardly recognisable.  She had just been

roused from sleepand her unpainted face looked almost phosphorescent
in the gloom.  But she was a professional; she made an effort, said,
"Welcome back, Ephorus," and laid her henna-tipped fingers on his
arm.

"Where's Dorcas?"  he asked.  The dry-leaf rustling whisper was not his
own voice.

"She's gone."

"Gone," he repeated stupidly.

"Gone where?"

"I don't know."

"Then fetch somebody who does."

"Oh, if she'd told anybody, she'd have told me," Lydia said.

"But she wouldn't tell me.  So nobody knows."

"When did she go?"

"A little more than three months ago.  I miss her very much."

"You miss her!"  he said brutally.

"I came back to marry her!"

"Oh.  Then that is why she left you a message."

Stupid bitch, he thought.  Of course Dorcas would have left a message
for him; and anybody with any sense would have said so, at first.

"What was it?"

She closed her heavy eyes and said, like a child dutifully repeating a
well-conned lesson:

"She said--If Ephorus comes, tell him I wish him well and not to be
unhappy because he will live to thank me.  That is what she said."  She
opened her eyes and blinked.

"And that is all?  Think.  Try to remember.  Nothing else?"

"Nothing else.  Ephorus, you are distressed.  Let me get you a
drink."

"Who'd she go with?"

"Oh, a man."  The way she said that indicated what a stupid question it
was.

"What man?  What was his name?"

"How should I know?  He wasn't my customer.  He wasn't a regular.  He
came--twice I think.  The second time he gave her a bracelet.  She
said, "Look what my fat friend gave me."  He was fat.  Then she told me
she was going to live with him.  But she didn't say where, and she gave
me the message for you.  Oh, and she's gone to a palace."

"How do you know that?"

"When she packed.  She was in a strange mood, not like herself at all,
half laughing, half crying.  She took things out of her chest and said,
"Is this fit to wear for a palace?  No!"  and then she'd fling them on
the floor.  She took hardly anything."

"And you haven't any idea where the palace is?  Lydia, even if she
vowed you to secrecy, tell me.  I must know."

"She didn't tell me anything.  It was all very sudden; and I had my own
customers.  She just told me she was going and gave me the message for
you.  What she said about the clothes told me that she'd gone to a
palace.  And that, Ephorus, truly is all I know.  Except that it is a
red palace."

"Red?  Who told you that?"

"She did.  At least, I guessed.  You see, she had a red dress;' new;
she'd only worn it once.  She threw it on the floor with the rest.  She
said she wouldn't take it, there was enough of that colour where she
was going; even the stones there were red...."

She was more widely awake now, recovered from her abrupt wakening.

She said, "If you really thought of marrying her, I'm sorry, Ephorus.
And I think you need a cup of wine.  Come with me.  She's gone, but
we're still here."

Business as usual!

Repulsed with no word spoken, simply reading the look on his face, she
hunched a shoulder and said, not without malice:

"The way she went was understandable.  She's gone with a rich man, to
live in a palace; she wouldn't want anybody who knew her here to go
seeking her out.  Would she?"

Something must have happened inside his head.  He had no memory of
taking leave of Lydia or of leaving the house.  But here he was, in a
tavern, and pretty drunk too.  Folding his arms on the table, putting
his head down on them and crying.  Everything wrapped in a red mist.

And there was the tavern-keeper saying in a quiet, tactful way, "Go

elsewhere to weep, please.  It is such a bad advertisement."The man
was fat.  Noting this, through the red mist, Ephorus said:

"I hate fat fellows.  A fat fellow robbed me.  A fat fellow in a red
palace.  She said a year would go swiftly, but when I was sick in my
belly it seemed a long time.  And how many red palaces are there in
this world?  Because I shall find her if it takes the rest of my
life."

The tavern-keeper, experienced and reasonably honest, helped him to his
feet.

"You go home and sleep it off.  And look out for that money."

"I shall," Ephorus assured him.

"I spewed it up, every coin, out of my guts."

And so began the timeless time when he was never sober from the moment
he woke until he fell into sodden sleep again.  But in every day there
was a time when, sober enough to be coherent, drunk enough to be
confidential, he'd ask anyone who gave him a moment's attention if
they'd ever heard of a red palace.  And the day came when a man said:

"That'd be Petra, surely.  Red as a rose, they say it is.  Red as a
rose."

"They say?  Who say so?  Have you ever seen anybody who's been
there?"

"Yes, I have," the man said a little truculently.

"A man I do business with.  If you want to know, it's the capital of
Nabatea, a very busy place, with caravan routes to Gaza and Boara and
Damascus.  And it's all cut out of red rock: houses, palaces and
temples.  Quite a sight to see.  But it's a long way away."

Ephorus asked a few questions about direction and received
unsatisfactory and conflicting answers which worried him little.  It
was only a question of navigation, he told himself; he had a Greek
tongue in his head, and on none of his voyages--except to the tin
island--had he found a place where he couldn't make himself understood.
Money didn't bother him either; he still had some; less than he should
have had, for he had been drunk in dubious company more than once; if
the money gave out before he reached Petra he would have to earn some,
or beg or steal.

What exactly he intended to do when he reached the distant city, found
a red palace and Dorcas in it, he didn't know.  Shock and steady
drinking had rendered him incapable of making any coherent plans.  He
felt under a compulsion to see Dorcas again, to reproach her to her
face; he wished to do some real damage to the fat man who had, he felt,
robbed him.  Meanwhile he walked.

He was still drinking; his hearty appetite had vanished, and at the end
of the day's march he was often too tired to eat.  So he drank and
slept, woke in the morning with a queasy stomach and walked on.  The
weather was hot, and this was the first time he had experienced the
inland heat.  At midday or about then he'd buy bread or fruit, find a
shady place, eat and rest a little, then on again.  He was aware, in a
dull kind of way, that his hitherto superb health had deserted him;
there were times when he turned dizzy, times when he shook as though he
had palsy, times when he lost his sight for a few minutes.

He had such a spell one afternoon, just after he had resumed walking;
and the next thing he knew, he was lying on a bed and being tended by
Eunice.  She told him--oh, how often-how a decent honest man with two
camels had deposited him at her inn, senseless and naked but for a
breech clout.

"Nobody but me would have taken you in," Eunice said.  Over and over
again.  Somebody must have robbed him, even of his shoes.  And probably
hit him over the head, too, for he was now disabled in a fashion which
did, he knew, result from some head injuries, His left arm and leg were
almost powerless, seemed to weigh heavily and were afflicted, every now
and again, with a maddening tingling.

Eunice couldn't have been kinder.  She was Greek, which made a bond;
she was eight or nine years older than he, and not uncomely in her way.
She was so sympathetic that she invited confidences, and to her he told
what, drunk or sober, he had never told in full to anyone--the story of
his love and his betrayal.  She said, "You're young.  You'll get over
it.  Your mind will mend with your body."

His mind, if not mending, was clearing, because for the first time

since his talk with Lydia he was sober; and he could see thesense of
Eunice's argument when she said:

"Maybe it's a good thing you never got to Petra.  What could you have
done there?  If the man's rich, he's powerful.  You couldn't have hurt
him, and he could have hurt you.  Got you locked up for being a
nuisance if nothing else.  As for her, she made her choice, didn't she?
She'd laugh to think of you trudging all those miles just to have a
look at her.  That's all you'd have had, you know.  Just a look."

The room where he lay, with its thick mud roof, its thick, sun-defying
walls, its vine-shrouded windows, was as cool as Eunice's reasoning.

"You just lie and get better," she said.

"I'll look after you."  Getting better took a long time, and when he
could stand, and had learned to walk again, the left leg still dragged
and the left hand was not to be wholly trusted.  He was in no shape to
continue his journey and no longer felt the urge to do so.  Nor could
he ply his old trade again.  What should he do?

He talked this over with Eunice, and she had the answer.  For her it
couldn't have worked out better; she had always helped her father with
the inn, and he had died only a short time before the good-hearted man
had brought Ephorus to her door.  She'd been waiting for a purchaser
for the place, since innkeeping wasn't a job for a woman alone.  Why
shouldn't Ephorus stay and help her?

She did not, at that point, make any mention of what she had done for
him or imply that he'd owed her anything.  Ephorus, however, realised
that he was in her debt and felt that now he was almost able-bodied he
should stay and help her for a bit.

Eunice wove her net cunningly; she made him very comfortable, and
Ephorus, who had never known a home, was susceptible to domestic order
and ease.  She coddled him and flattered him, listened, seemingly
entranced, to his tales of his sea-faring days, forbade him to
over-exert himself; it was his presence about the place that mattered,
she said.

He drifted on; and when by little signs and hints she indicated that
her objective was to get him into her bed, he drifted there, too.
Grateful, not unflattered.  She was surprisingly good in bed.  He never
asked, never even wondered, where she had learned such tricks.  What he
did tell himself was that in the ultimate act one woman in bed was very
much like another.  And out of it there was nothing, not a turn of the
head, not a tone of the voice, to rouse an unwelcome memory or a
hurtful comparison.  When Eunice revealed her next objective, marriage,
he drifted will-lessly into that, too.

There was no visible reason why they should not have become just
another married couple, moderately happy, more than moderately
comfortable; but almost immediately after the marriage their
relationship deteriorated.  Neither he nor she changed overnight, yet
the changes came.  Some obscure dissatisfaction in her turned her sour,
she became a nagging scold; he sought refuge in the wine-jar and in
dreams, which even as he entered them he knew would come to nothing, of
making his escape.  For several years there was the bond of bed, but
that failed, at last.  Under her nagging his indifference changed to
active dislike, and that made him impotent; and that gave her something
else to taunt him with.

The inn prospered, however.  Eunice was a good manager, and Ephorus,
though he worked slowly and only a little each day, had improved its
appearance.  It was known as a respectable place, and Vatinius, the
centurion in charge of the small barracks not far away, always
recommended to it the newly arrived legionaries, at the same, time
tactfully avoiding it himself since men off duty are off duty and do
not care to be overlooked.

It stood at the end of the street, set back in what, before Ephorus'
time, had been a yard, dusty, unshaded, uncared for.  He'd planted
trees around it, made stands for lanterns, set benches and tables under
the trees.  He'd sawn old casks in half, painted them green, and in
Spring and Summer kept them filled with flowers.

Behind this pleasant courtyard stood the house; one big public room,
the kitchen, and opening off the kitchen two small rooms, one where the
two female slaves slept, one where Eunice and Ephorus fought their more
private battles and Eunice, when she was not otherwise busy, made and
mended clothes.  Above there were five rooms, one the connubial
chamber, the others for letting to travellers who could afford to pay

for privacy.At the back of the house, accessible from a side entry was
a yard with a large water-trough in the centre of it.  On two sides the
yard was enclosed by a low platform, roofed over, and it was on this
platform that most travellers slept.  The third side was open to the
orchard and garden; the fourth was occupied by a stable in which, in
winter, the house cow and the ass, which was used for serious
marketing, and for carrying firewood, lived.  In summer they were
turned into the orchard, often enough with a calf, a young pig, or a
sheep, which Eunice, careful housekeeper that she was, was fattening
up.  The inn animals were never allowed to mingle with those of the
travellers; transient animals had all kinds of diseases, from foot-rot
to the itch; and many of them were so perpetually hungry, so accustomed
to shouldering others aside in order to eat themselves, that any
well-behaved animal in the enclosure would have starved.  Eunice had
explained that to the ignorant Ephorus years ago when he had suggested
that their animals should share the yard and that the stable should be
floored, opened on the side facing the yard and made into extra
sleeping space.  That was in the days when she still explained things;
now she would merely have shouted and called him ignorant; but he'd
stopped making suggestions long ago.

The snow, which he had sensed when he opened the shutters held off
until almost sunset.  By that time the animal enclosure and the
platforms were almost full and Eunice was in a raging temper--and in
her element.  People who, had the weather been clement, would have
hoarded their pennies and slept at small cost under the awning, came
and asked for room in the house.  Poorer people who, had the weather
been clement, would have slept in the open, came and asked for room
under the awning; the good manager, the bully who shared Eunice's hide,
had enjoyed themselves hugely, Ephorus thought to himself.  She had
anticipated this invasion at about this time; she had heard about the
new tax rule some time before, and talking about it had betrayed her
latent scorn and contempt of the people amongst whom she had spent her
whole life.

"They'll obey," she said, 'like sheep.  Such a silly order, given to
our people, would have led to rebellion."  She had laid in stores;
enough to feed an army.  She could feed all corners, and their beasts.
But space she couldn't make, though she did her best.  She went to the
edge of the platforms and cried, "Move along there!  Move along, I
said.  You there, move along.  You're taking up room for three.  It's a
bad night, shelter must be found.  Take that child in your lap.  Make
room."

She was having a wonderful time; she came back into the house, the
snowflakes melting on her still-dark hair, and went into the room where
supper was being served.

"Eat up I Others are waiting.  I have many more to feed.  Eat up,
please."

With swift competence, aided by the panting slaves, she served supper
three times over, and then set about converting the big room into an
extra sleeping space.

During all this haste and confusion and noise Ephorus stayed, as was
his habit, inactive and apart.  It was a curious thing, but never, even
at her busiest, did Eunice make any demands upon him for help.  She'd
say, "Oh, get out of my way," in an irritable tone if she happened to
pass within a yard of him, but she did not suggest that he should carry
a dish, full or empty, or go out into the yard and by shouting, pack
one extra body on to the platform, or crowd one extra donkey into the
enclosure.  Her attitude towards his drinking was similarly negative;
she would remark, nastily, that he was drunk again, would say that he
had better lie down before he fell, but she never made any attempt to
persuade him not to drink, seemed to ignore the frequency of his visits
to the small, half-subterranean store where the wine was kept.  A
shrewd, impartial observer might have deduced 'hat as he was, idle,
drunken, will-less, she wanted him to be.

Tonight he had no place to sit; the house was crammed; his bed and
Eunice's and those of the two slaves would presently be spread in the
kitchen.  In every other place people, weary from travel, or, wishing
to make sure of their sleeping space, were lying down.  Because of the
weather it was impossible to have any shutters but two on the leeward
side of the house open, and soon the air was foetid, the stink of human

bodiesmingling with that of food.  He must have air, he thought.  He
stepped over and around the recumbent forms on the floor of the public
room and went to the wine store and poured himself not a cup but a jug
of wine, and carrying it in his hand went to the door.  He'd had some
intention of sitting on the bench under the trees for a few minutes;
but the wind was too bitter and snow was still falling; so he stood in
the shelter of the doorway, braced against the jamb, staring into the
night and lifting the jug to his lips every now and again.

There were lanterns on the two posts which he had set up at each side
of the entry, and another hanging from a hook over the door.  Each had
a faint golden halo of light in which the slow, spiralling flakes were
visible.  Like life, he reflected, his thoughts as idle and aimless as
the snow; out of the dark, a brief space in the light, and into the
dark again.  No permanence, and no point.

From the kitchen, where one of the shutters was open, he could hear
Eunice's voice, railing away.  He could catch no words, but he knew her
tirades so well that he could have repeated them perfectly.  She was an
ill-done-by woman who worked her fingers to the bone and had no
consideration from anybody, nor a word of thanks.  Customers were
demanding and greedy and prepared to be dishonest if given half a
chance; the slaves were idle and clumsy.  Why she should be expected to
work herself to death, she really didn't know and she swore that
tomorrow she'd sit down, fold her hands in her lap and see what
happened then.

She was capable of expressing these few simple statements in such a
variety of ways that she could grumble on for an hour.

He could hear, too, the clatter of dishes and bowls being washed and
stacked; once something fell with a thud and that sound was immediately
followed by that of a good smart slap.

He shivered, huddling in the doorway and lifted the jug, He'd wait a
little longer; then he could go in and help arrange the beds, and
Eunice, exhausted, would fall asleep.  That would be another day
done.

Then, on the edge of the forecourt, the darkness between the two
lanterns took on solidity, and shape, and movement.  Silhouetted
against the grey and the shift of the snow-filled air the figures
showed up black, surprisingly clear.  A man and a woman, their heads
bowed against the blizzard, and a donkey, limping so badly that only
the man pulling at its head-rope kept it in motion at all.  The woman
had her hand on its flank, whether to support herself, or to help its
sagging progress it was impossible to say.

They stopped.  The donkey dropped his head and looked as though it
would never move again.  The woman walked to the end of the bench and
sat down as though she, too, had expended her last bit of strength. The
man came towards the door, walking with a step that told of weariness
and haste.

He was quite near the door when he realised that Ephorus was standing
in its shelter.

He asked, in a deep, pleasant voice, "This is the inn?"

"It is.  But you're too late.  Not an inch left."

It occurred to him that he had never seen a more worried-looking man;
no ship's master, in the most hazardous situation, had ever looked more
anxious, more eaten up by fearful concern.

"Oh, please," the man said.

"Just room for one.  For my wife.

That's all I ask.  I know we're late; the donkey went lame.  But you
could find room just for one surely."

"We're full," Ephorus said.

"Packed like fish in a barrel."  He saw the expression of sheer despair
wrench the man's face and in a laconic, wine-muffled way he was sorry
for him; but he thought--We all have our troubles.  Still, he roused
himself enough to say :

"There's another inn on the other side of the town."

"I tried there.  We came in that way.  They were full.  They suggested
a private dwelling.  I've tried dozens.  All full.  My wife..."  He
looked at the woman on the bench, and back, pleadingly, at Ephorus.

"She can't go farther.  She must have a bed.  I can pay.  I'll pay
anything."  He was prepared, tomorrow, to go and sell himself into
slavery; anything so that Mary should have shelter and a bed tonight.

His insistence exasperated Ephorus.


He said, "Well, I'm sorry; but I tell you, we're full.  No roomfor a
dwarf.  We've been turning people away."

The man said, "Oh God!  God!"  It sounded as though he were praying;
and Ephorus thought sardonically that he was wasting his breath; it'd
puzzle even the Jews' God, that powerful Jehovah, to find a spare bed
in Bethlehem at this time of night, on such a night.  With that thought
he turned himself and took the handle of the door in his free hand,
which was his infirm, left hand, so he fumbled and was about to shift
the jug and lift the handle with his good hand, when the woman stood up
and came forward.

She said, "Joseph' and the man turned and said in a defeated voice:

"There's no room here, either."

She said, "Don't fret.  I'm rested now.  We'll find a place...."

And by that time she was within the radius of light cast by the lantern
over the doorway; and Ephorus' heart, quiescent for so long, gave a
great jump, and seemed to stop.  He had to put out his right hand and
catch at the door-jamb to save himself from falling, and the wine-jug,
entrusted to his untrustworthy left hand, did fall, and broke.

The face inside the blue hood was so like that of Dorcas--not the
Dorcas he had known, but a younger Dorcas, untouched, unsullied, the
girl whose existence he had always sensed, under the paint and the fine
clothes.

It seemed a long time before he could find breath to speak.  Then he
said:

"Wait here.  I'll see what I can do."

In the kitchen the dish-washing was finished; the slave girls were
laying out the makeshift beds; Eunice, having talked herself to a
standstill, was rubbing her mixture of honey and rose-water into her
hands.  She looked hot and flushed and formidable.

He said: "Eunice.  There's a woman wanting a bed.  Do you mind if she
has my place?"  Before she could protest he added cajolingly, "That way
you'd be all females together.  Better so."

"And where," Eunice asked, 'do you propose to sleep?"

He had not given that a thought, but he scrambled about in his mind and
found an answer..

"In the stable," he said.

"Her husband's with her.  We'll sleep in the stable."

"Alongside the donkey!"  Eunice's voice took on its sharpest cutting
edge.

"Very right and proper.  You and a fellow with a wife, hunting a bed at
this time of night.  You and him and the donkey--and the donkey with
more sense than either of you.  Well, if you don't mind, why should I?
They'll pay.  But I want to take a look at her first."

They went to the door.  The man and the woman stood under its shelter,
the donkey had hobbled forward and joined them.

"The best we can manage .. ."  Eunice began, and then she rounded upon
Ephorus.

"You great fool!  I knew you were a fool, but I didn't know you were
blind!  It isn't a bed she needs, it's a place to give birth in.  And
you'd have landed me with her, in my kitchen!  You daft drunken sot!"
She drew in her breath with the peculiar hissing sound that punctuated
her worst tirades.

"We have no room here.  No room at all!"

Ephorus began to shake.  Amongst all the other thoughts that battered
him at that moment, a horrible memory came.  Once, at Byblos, there'd
been a beggar woman, one of those who came, purely to beg, when a ship
was about to sail.  Women who met an incoming ship were all intent to
sell themselves; those who begged from an outgoing ship were old, with
no shadow of attractiveness left; they simply hoped that men with a few
remaining coins, men who had just left wives, sweethearts, mothers
behind, would be generous.  This particular woman, holding out her hand
with an imploring, ingratiating smile, had suddenly taken on an
agonised expression, bent over, groaning, and dropped to the gutter.
Most of the other women had drawn aside, but two old hags had gone to
her aid, and there in the gutter she had given birth.  Ephorus, fifteen
years old and safely aboard his ship, had watched it all; and it was
that experience as much as anything else that had made him glad when
Dorcas had said that she was unlikely to bear a child.  If Eunice, on
the other hand, had ever fallen pregnant he would have been pleased.
But how a man could knowingly doom a woman he loved to such agony he
could never understand.


And now, here was this woman, with the face of youngDorcas, about to
face that ordeal, with no roof, no shelter.

He said, "There is room.  There is the stable."

"Shut your mouth!"  Eunice said.

"Once get her on our premises and who can say where it'll end?
Childbirth fever.  Milk fever.  She might lie in our straw for weeks. I
ask you, would any decent woman be in such a pass?  Let her bear her
child in the ditch, where, like as not, it was begotten."

He said, "You shut your mouth!  I've done with you.  D'you hear me?
Done!"  He lifted his hand, which shook like a leaf, and unhooked the
lantern from over the door.

"Allow me," he said, 'to conduct you to the stable.  It is at least
sheltered and warm."

"And it's mine!"  Eunice shouted.

"So is that lantern and I absolutely forbid-----' He said, "Eunice, I
never yet have struck you; but another word and I will hit you,
hard!"

Both he and Eunice were completely bilingual, switching effortlessly,
sometimes even in mid-sentence, from Greek to Aramaic, from Aramaic to
Greek.  Ephorus, assuring Joseph that there was no room, had used
Aramaic; Eunice had spoken the same language when she said, "The best
we can manage ..."  But the altercation between them had been in Greek.
Joseph, the much-travelled man, had followed it, and in his heart been
deeply affronted; but the innkeeper had mentioned a stable, and even
the shelter of a stable would be welcome now.  So he had held his
tongue, tried to control his face and been thankful that nothing this
horrible woman was saying meant anything to Mary.

Eunice, quelled by the threat, opened the door and went in, banging it
behind her; and the three of them, with the donkey, were left in the
wind and the snow.

"If you will come this way," Ephorus said, and, holding the lantern in
his quaking hand, led the way to the side entry ami the stable door. It
was a low building, but deep and wide, with a manger along one side. To
the left of the doorway were some neatly ranged tools, to the right a
great heap of straw.  A cow and a donkey stood by the manger, and their
bodies had heated the place so that, coming in from the night, it felt
warm.  It some sweet too, of straw and the breath of the
non-carnivorous animals.

"It isn't much," Ephorus said, 'but it is the best I can do.  It's
quiet," he said, consoling himself, 'and you'll have it to
yourselves."

The woman turned to him with a smile, which, because it reminded him of
Dorcas, he tried to analyse.  If you said it was sweet, he thought to
himself, you'd wrong it, because sweet sounds insipid; yet there was a
sweetness about it, and a radiance which lit up her pale tired face.

"We're extremely fortunate," she said.

"And you are very kind."

"I meant it all to be so different," the man said.

"I aimed to get here yesterday, or the day before.  But we're thankful
to be under cover."

Ephorus' desire to serve outran his caution.

"I'll bring you a blanket," he said.

"And what about supper?"  She said, Thank you.  We have some food
left."

"Cold food," he said.

"You need more than that on such a night.  I'll be back...."  He looked
round for a hook on which to hang the lantern, and hurried away, his
lame leg dragging a little less than usual.

When he had gone, Mary said, "I knew that somehow a place would be
found for us."

"But what a place!"  He looked around him with distaste.

"Suppose your time should come, here on a bed of straw."

She said, "It must be the right place, the place God chose.  The pains
began hours ago, and they're getting harder now.  He'll be born by
midnight."

Something seemed to burst in his brain.

"You didn't tell me!"  he said, almost angrily.

"You walked and walked.  And all on account of that damned donkey!  I
didn't want to buy it in the first place.  It's ruined all my plans.
What baby was ever born in a stable ... leave alone such a baby as
this...."  And his thoughts ran about; in a crowded inn there must be
some kindly, experienced woman who could help; and how curious it was
that they'd been without any shelter until he'd said, "Oh God, God!"

Then the innkeeper had relented and he'd thoughtthat God had them in
His keeping, after all.  But the end was a bed of straw, in a stable.
Mystery added itself to mystery, enough to make a plain, ordinary man
run mad.

"It is the right place," Mary said confidently.

"For me, for him.

Look at that!"

Their old donkey had limped in behind them and made for the manger,
snuffing eagerly.  It had made for the manger and Eunice's well-fed
animal had edged away, making room for the newcomer at that portion of
the manger that contained food.

"He's prepared to share," she said.

"And the man is kind.  Where better could a child be born ?"

She'd tell him, she thought, when he was grown and Lord of the world,
just how he had been born, and ask him to look out for humble people
and animals.

In the kitchen the two slaves were abed and asleep.  Eunice was abed,
but not asleep.  When Ephorus entered and went towards the great black
pot which held the remains of the mutton stew she reared up and said
:

"Oh, so you've done with me, but you come crawling back for your
supper!"

He heard only the chiding, not the relief in her voice.  He said, "I
don't want your supper!  It's for her ... for them.  They're customers,
aren't they, like all the rest?  They're entitled to supper.  They'll
pay, don't you fret about that."

Ordinarily he defeated her by his apathetic silence, the best buffer a
man could rear between him and a nagging woman.  Now he was answering
back.  Happily she threw herself into what promised to be their first
real quarrel in years.

"That's right," she said.

"That's just like you.  Stand like a stuffed man when I'm serving
proper people, then hop about like a flea to serve a couple of feckless
no-goods that turn up late and happen to take your fancy.  Threatening
to hit me, too; after all I've done for you.  And that's about all
you're good for, biting the hand that's fed you all these years."

He moved the black pot on to what remained of the fire, took two bowls
and two spoons.  He said, "You can stow that talk, Eunice.  I've had
about enough of it.  You've fed me and housed me, but you did it
because you wanted to.  Don't deceive yourself about that.  Out there,
just now, you said things no man could bear.  Your lantern, your
stable.  Try that in a court of law and you'll soon learn whose this
place is, down to the last spoon!  But I want none of it.  It's all
yours.... I give it to you, with a glad heart and you can enjoy it, all
by yourself, tomorrow.  But tonight Tm dishing out my mutton stew and
I'll also have my blanket."

Astonishingly, she was silenced.  In silence she watched him dish the
stew into the bowls, cover them with a cloth and set them on a serving
tray.  In silence she allowed him to take the blanket, fold it over his
arm and go out.  When he had gone she turned on her pillow and cried
into it.  She cried and cried, weeping for the man whom she had seen in
that stripped, unconscious body, the man who had eluded her, never
coming to life, however coaxed or provoked, until now, when after
eleven years of skirmishing he was about to elude her for ever.

She was still crying, and her candle was still burning, when Ephorus
came hurrying back.  His face was bleached and distraught.  He spoke
her name, "Eunice," in a way he had never said it before.  Ha!  she
thought, he's had time to think things over, and has come back to
apologise.  She steeled herself.  Never let him think that he had got
the better of her!

"What is it?"she asked coldly.

"I want you to do something for me."

As she had guessed; he wanted to be forgiven and taken back, fed,
sheltered, kept in idleness.  This was what she wanted too, for him,
but it would never do to relent too quickly.

"Things'll have to be very different around here," she said.

"Oh, they will be," he promised hastily.

"I'll do anything you want me to, Eunice.  I'll work, I'll stay off the
wine.  I'll do everything I can to repay you, if you'll do this one
thing for me..,."

She was tired, she had been upset, she had been crying, and her
ordinarily sharp wits weren't at their best.  She could only think of
times in their earlier life when quarrels had been mended in bed.
Tonight, for the first time in several years, they'd had an open

quarrel, and he had been angered; he wasnow seeking what had formerly
served as a remedy.  A deep satisfaction moved within her; she had won
after all!  She had known from the first that their unions had meant
more to her than to him, that she, in a fashion, had always been the
supplicant, he the obliger.  And when the bed bond had been broken
under her nagging and his apathy, she had been, very decidedly, the
loser.

Even his threat to strike her, earlier in the evening, helped now
towards her self-deception; so did his behaviour over the stew and the
blanket.  That was real man's behaviour.  So was this.

She cast one look at the slaves; they were sleeping soddenly, worn out
by all they had done that day.  Her sense of propriety was satisfied,
and desire, the more powerful because so long unappeased, began to move
in her.  She gave in.  She smiled and lifted the blanket.

"Come, then," she said, invitingly.

He recoiled as though she had spat in his face.

"Not that," he said, "I want you to do something for me.  A favour.  I
know it's a lot to ask.  The woman out there--you were right; she is
having a baby; it's started.  And, Eunice, she's so young; it's her
first.  She'll need a woman's help...."

It was her turn to recoil.

"I never had a child," she said in a small, bitter voice.

"But you'd know what to do."

Her eyelids were swollen, still damp from her tears, but between them
her eyes were stony.

"I know nothing about it," she said.

"I'd tell you what to do," he pleaded.

"I'd help you.  And the man carries carpenter's tools, so he's a handy
man, too.  We'd help."

"If you're both so clever, do it yourselves.  Why bother me?"

"A woman should be there; for decency's sake."  While he pleaded he
reckoned the alternative; there was a woman, in the crowd on the
sleeping place beside the yard; a woman with a child.  But to rouse her
he'd have to wake a score of people; and he had no idea what kind of
woman she was.  Then there were the slaves, young, silly, heavy-handed.
Eunice, with all her faults, was sensible and competent; he thought of
how well she had tended him when he was helpless.

"Eunice, please If you'll just do this one thing for me, I'll... I'll
love you for ever.  I know you've had a bad bargain in me, but I'll be
different I swear.  I'll love you, Eunice."

Her whole life had been spent in trading one thing for another; you
handed over so much money and bought so much wine, so much food and
fodder, then you parcelled them out into smaller portions to be
exchanged for smaller coins.  Only once had she given something for
nothing, and that was when she nursed Ephorus--and she'd received
exactly nothing in return.  Upon that thought, her sound good sense
halted; she hadn't cared for the stranger for nothing; ill as he was,
starved as he seemed and poor, she'd seen possibilities in his youth
and good looks; so that had been a bargain, too.  All the same, she had
dreamed of something that wouldn't be mere payment, of something that
would have been an offering, a flower laid in the lap.  It had never
come.

Now here he was, promising what she had dreamed of, not as a gift,
another bargain.  But as things were, and at her age, a sensible woman
must compound for the best she could get.  She pushed the blanket aside
and heaved her weary body to its feet.  As she reached for her outer
clothing Ephorus gave a great sigh of relief.

"I've heard plenty of talk," Eunice said.

"There's nothing much to birthing a baby, really."

"And you're so clever," he said.

"There's nothing you couldn't do, if you tried."

She gave him a sidelong, sardonic look, intended to let him know that
she wasn't taken in by his flattery; and she was startled by the
expression on his face.  Never, not even in the early days, when he had
most reason to be grateful to her, had he looked so grateful, so
admiring, so almost ... almost adoring.

"It's cold out," he said.

"You'll want this."  He turned and unhooked her cloak from the door and
held it open for her.  As he folded it around her, his hands lingered
for a second, touching her; a middle-aged body, a trifle too solid, but

a goodcomfortable armful of woman still.

She bustled into the stable, with all her vigour and energy suddenly
replenished.

"Well," she said, briskly, but not unkindly, 'this is a fine to-do. But
don't fret.  We'll manage.  I don't want you, or you," she said to
Joseph and Ephorus.

"Go in the kitchen, make up the fire and heat some water.  I'll call
when I need it.  Better warm some wine, too."

In a momentary respite Mary unclenched her teeth and said:

"You are kind.  God must have sent you."

Eunice, the Greek, thought--What a typically Jewish thing to say!  She
felt like retorting that Ephorus had sent her.  But if faith in her God
was a help to the girl, let it go; she was going to need all the help
she could get.

"I don't think this will be a long job," she said.

"And if you want to yell, yell.  There's nobody to hear except me."

TEN

A FIELD

2 miles This would be his fifth winter of tending another man's
sheep--and to that he was not resigned, and never would be.  This would
be the fifth winter since his bereavement--and to that he was not
resigned, and never would be.

-People, meaning well, had said, "You have other children; another
son."  But a heart once given is given and cannot be retracted and
bestowed elsewhere.  People, meaning well, had said, "Time is a great
healer."  So it might be, for small wounds; but had time, he asked
himself, ever enabled a man to grow a new limb to replace one sawn off?
People had also said, "It was a hero's death."  And the reply to that,
in the depths of his heart, was always, "It was the wasted death of a
fool."

The would-be consolatory remarks had ceased within a year.  It seemed
to him sometimes that he was the only person who remembered at all; and
he thought that even he might have remembered less, had he taken on a
job where he had to be busy and bustling.  A shepherd, even a good one,
giving his flock every care, could think with a part of his mind, and
on the journeys from pasture to pasture, and between watering holes, he
must dawdle along with little to do but think.

On the other hand, what could he have done?  Nobody could learn a trade
overnight; to set up in business one needed money.  He was forty-three
when ruin came upon him, a big, slow-moving, seemingly slow-thinking
man, marked by weather and a scar or two--not everybody's idea of an
employee.  Except as a shepherd.  Sheep he knew about.  He had lived
with them and for them since he was seven years old.  Also, he had
wanted to stay in the district where Martha, his wife, had family and
friends.  Being a shepherd's wife could be a lonely business.


He had not been forced to the humiliation of actually askingfor a job.
He had sold his flock--a magnificent one--to a man named Ezra, and as
soon as the transaction was made, Ezra asked:

"And you, Josodad, what will you do now?"

"I must get to Jerusalem, and move heaven and earth to save the boy.
Beyond that I can't think."

Ezra had been the first, or almost the first, to remind him that he
still had a family.

Josodad said heavily, "I know."  He was fond of them all, two little
girls and a boy of two, but he had never felt and could never feel for
them the wholehearted love that he felt for Nathan, his first-born, who
had for a long time been his only child, who had toiled beside, watched
with him, through at least twelve lambing seasons, who was at once like
him, often so much like him as to seem his other self, and yet
endearingly unlike, being merry, and musical, and gregarious.  The
girls and the little boy were his children.  Nathan was his son.

"They must eat," Ezra reminded him.

"I shall leave their mother enough for their needs," Josodad said, and
was turning away.  Ezra understood that at the moment the man should
think only of his errand--in Ezra's opinion about as hopeless a one as
any man ever set out upon; but he was thinking of himself, too, and
what a pity it would be if, when Josodad was trudging, defeated, home,
somebody else should step in and offer him a job.

"If you want a job with sheep I can offer you one.  Be glad to."

"But I can't say when I shall be back."

"I can wait," Ezra said, with apparent generosity, knowing that the
waiting time would not be long.

"So long as I have your word."

"You have it," Josodad said.

He came back, in just about the time that Ezra had reckoned, with his
empty purse, and his empty heart, a lie in his mouth for the boy's
mother--that was how he thought of her, the boy's mother--and a memory
like a white-hot iron in the brain.  And without wasting an hour he had
gone to work tending Ezra's sheep.

He knew, almost at once, that he had been forced into the wrong job.
For twelve years he and Nathan had worked together, so everything was a
reminder.  And there was so much time.... In the morning you looked the
flock over.  One not getting to its feet?  One coughing?  One walking
on three legs?  Any sign of fly-blows?  Should there be anything wrong,
you dealt with it, glad of the break in the routine.  Then there was
the nice judgement of pasture, of water supply, and, in winter, where
the wind lay.  But there were great tracts of time when there was
nothing to do but wait and watch, listen to the monotonous bleating,
and think, and remember... .

He was working with other men now, he who had worked only with his own
father, by himself, and with Nathan.  He worked with two young men,
Arad and Ibri, hirelings, as he himself was now a hireling, but of a
different kind; men who had never been anything else.  For a week or so
they had borne his gloom and his silences.  They were local men and
they all knew his story and what had happened to Nathan.  Everyone in
and around Bethlehem knew.  Nathan had been crucified.  Josodad had
come home and given Martha his carefully prepared lie, "It was all over
in an hour."  It had lasted for sixty and all that time Josodad had
stood by the foot of the rough-hewn cross and prayed a single prayer,
"God, of thy mercy, let him die!"  and even as he prayed, had had
flitting memories of the things he had done to make this boy strong,
solid of bone and muscle.  More than once, when Nathan's plate was
empty and clean he had said, "Have this; I've made my growth."  And
more than once in summer he'd said, "Go and swim.  I can manage."  In
winter he'd been careful to see that Nathan's fingers were not
frost-bitten, as his own had been.  And the end of all his care, his
occasional self-denials, had been a strong body, dying slowly and
inevitably.

Arad and Ibri had tolerated him for a time; then they had decided that
he was surly and unsociable.  And that mattered little to them, they
were company for one another.  Then he made himself unpopular with
them.

In any flock, however tended, there were losses, but to Josodad, the

former owner of the flock, the attitude of his fellow hirelings was
shocking.  A lamb was lost, and Arad said, "The kites'll find it," and
settled down to trim his nails with his knife.

"That is a sure thing," Ibri said, and settled down to play with his
five stones.  Five stones, polished from much handling, which he held
in his palm, and then threw upwards, and tried to catch all five on the
back of the hand which he had turned palm downward; never yet had he
caught all five, but four, or the few occasions when he caught them,
made him jubilant; three was fairly good, two disappointing, and one a
mere inducement to try again.

On that occasion Josodad had gone to hunt for the lost lamb and found
it straddled over a rock which it had failed to jump.  It was exhausted
and he had lifted it, set it across his shoulders and carried it back
to the flock.

Then there'd been the time when three ewes, old enough to have known
better, had gorged themselves on a patch of vetchling and blown up,
huge, helpless, lying on their sides and gasping with glazing eyes.

Arad had regarded them dispassionately.

"All old; they'll be tough eating."

"You'd let them die?"

"They always do," Ibri said.

"Not in my flock," Josodad said, with a vicious snap in his voice.  He
drew his knife and went to the nearest ewe, set his left hand like a
fork over her neck and with his right made the small incision in the
blown-up belly.  The gas had rushed out with an audible hiss; the ewe
struggled and Josodad helped her to her feet before turning swiftly to
operate upon the other two.

Ibri said, "I never saw that done before."  But a few seconds later
Arad said, "Did you hear that?  My flock."  he said.  He looks on these
as though they were his."

"You'd think," Ibri said, catching Arad's mood, 'that he was married to
them!"  And in that remark lay the germ of a joke.

"The Old Tup," they called him, behind his back, but, as such things
do, the nickname reached Josodad's ears, and hurt and was resented.

But for a long time, surly, resentful, scornful of their attitude as he
was, he tried to be tolerant; but the time must come, and it came, when
he was bound to think--They are rubbish; they work for pay and whether
they earn it or not is a matter of indifference to them.  My boy, a
shepherd born, is dead.  They flourish, and hundreds like them.  Maybe
this is a world where only rogues flourish.

There were other petty annoyances, too.  Ezra, once he had him safely
hired, seemed to enjoy putting him in his place, in opposing him,
senselessly, in small things which merely said, my flock.  Lambs that
he, with his knowledgeable eye, had marked as good breeders were sent
off to market or to slaughter, others, of less potential value,
retained.  And there was a constant running warfare about the amount of
pitch needed to treat fly-blows.

"You must be heavy-handed with the stuff," Ezra said.

"A quarter of the amount served in the old days."

"Because half the blows were left untreated," Josodad snarled.

The little he had of home life was no happier.  Martha had vented her
grief over Nathan noisily, for a day or two, maybe three; then, exactly
as she would have drawn together the edges of a torn place in a
garment, she had set to work to mend her life.  Nathan was gone.
Martha, named for her, and Mary, and young Lazarus remained.  The girls
were the cleanest, the most tidily dressed, the most well-brushed of
all the girls in the village and the boy was being spoiled rotten, in
Josodad's opinion.

"You are fortunate; you still have a brother," Martha had said to the
girls once, in his hearing, 'you must cherish him."  Josodad had
recognised it as a back-handed slap at him, the father who had failed
to take comfort in his second son.  He had tried; he had waited, trying
not to make comparisons.  But the boy was seven now, afraid of the
dark, afraid of a thunderstorm, afraid of his father, a timid shrinking
creature, liking to sit in his mother's lap, to play girlish games with
his sisters.  When Nathan was that age, Josodad had fashioned a
miniature shepherd's crook for him who was stamping with impatience,

and then watched, how proudly and happily nobody would everknow, how
the boy had mastered the use of it.

These thoughts, and the memories of Nathan's final hours, occupied his
mind during the long days, the even longer nights.  He would wake,
abruptly as though disturbed by something, lift his head and listen, as
he was paid to do.  Arad and Ibri, Arad or Ibri, according to rota,
similarly paid, slept on; and Josodad would stand up, survey the
sleeping flock, dark humped shadows and know that all was well and that
whatever had roused him came from within his mind.  Then he would know
that the torture hour was about to begin, and he would do his best to
fend it off.  In winter he would mend the fire, but winters were short.
He would walk, with a shepherd's slow, noiseless steps, around the
sleeping flock; he would wet his finger on his tongue and hold it up to
find which way the wind was blowing.  He'd look at the sky and forecast
the next day's weather.  And all the time he knew that he was doing
these things in a completely futile effort to avert the evil hour when
in the hollow, the sharp-thinking night he must face his memories, and
his God.

He'd been a happy, a most fortunate and blessed man until the season of
the Passover when Nathan was seventeen.  It had been arranged, far
ahead, that Nathan should then go to celebrate the Feast in Jerusalem.
He was to travel with others of his age, and older people who had
either never been before, not being able to afford it, or a few who
were going for the second or third time.  Josodad had been once, and so
had Martha; they had remembered it and spoken of it often.  Then she,
busy with house and children, and he, busy with the sheep, had kept the
Passover at home.  Nathan had been very much excited by the project.

Non-Jews, of whom there were a few in the neighbourhood--the innkeeper
was a Greek, the blacksmith a. Roman veteran who had learned his trade
in the army--had the wrong idea about the Feast of the Passover;
because it was solemn they thought it dull and dreary, and thought the
word "Feast' misapplied.  But it was a feast, even for those who stayed
at home, and for those who went to Jerusalem it was an expedition, a
sightseeing visit, a holiday and often a family reunion as well.

That year Josodad had enjoyed the Feast a little less than usual.
Martha had put all the traditional things on the table, the unleavened
bread, the mutton, the eggs, lettuces and radish, and the sweet dish
made of raisins and nuts and spices; all the traditional things had
been said; but Josodad's mind, instead of being fixed on the Escape
from Egypt which the Feast celebrated, had been all the time marking
the vacant place and wondering how Nathan was faring, whether he had
fallen in with congenial company, whether he were being robbed or
cheated by the rascals who haunted the outer precincts of the Temple,
fattening on inexperienced pilgrims.

Nathan had come home changed in some subtle way.  He was still merry
and lively, but with thoughtful spells.  He seemed older, which was
right, he was growing up; and perhaps, the father thought, the Temple
had impressed him.  His mother had produced the obvious feminine reason
for the change; somewhere a girl had taken his eye; and she hoped that
it would be a daughter of one of the family's friends or distant
relatives to whom he had been charged to give messages, should he see
them.

This explanation Josodad could not accept.  Nathan would have told him.
He was not the kind of boy to cast his eye on an unacceptable girl, and
he knew that all he had to do was to mention his preference to his
father who would at once begin to make inquiries and approaches.  Then
they would build an extra room on to the house, prepare for and
celebrate the marriage, and as a gift Nathan would receive part of the
flock.  Josodad had already selected the breeding animals whose progeny
in a few years' time would form the nucleus of a new flock.  That was
how it had been in his family for generations, ever since the return of
the Jews from the Babylonian captivity; Josodad hoped that so it would
always be.  He was a Jew of the old-fashioned, orthodox kind.

But although their relationship was as sound and easy as it had always
been, there was no mention of any girl.  What there was a good deal of
talk about was a young man named Dan whom Nathan had met in Jerusalem

and who had proved to bealmost a neighbour, coming from Tekoa, a
village within an easy walk away.  Dan played the pipe, too; 'he made
songs; he was altogether congenial.  His father was a shoemaker and he
himself had learned that trade.

All through that summer Nathan, whenever he had any spare time, set off
for Tekoa to visit Dan.

Martha said, "You must invite him back."

Nathan said, "I will," but never did so until she began to nag.

"Why must you always go to him?  Isn't your company worth a walk?"

"Are you ashamed of your home?"

"Do I not cook as well as his mother?"

Thus pressed, Nathan had issued the invitation, and Josodad and Martha,
without knowing exactly what they had expected, were disappointed in
Nathan's new friend.  A hulking, awkward, dumb young man who seemed at
first painfully shy, and then suddenly, over supper, came to life when
he began to talk of the iniquity of the Roman occupation and the even
greater iniquity of the Jews' apathy.  Once his silence was broken,
words poured' out of him; he spoke bitterly about the Hippodrome that
Herod had built in Jerusalem, and of the Jews who attended it.

"In ten years' time," he said, 'you won't be able to tell a Jew from a
Roman or a Greek."

Nathan, looking very uncomfortable, listened, and when Dan, from lack
of breath, not invective, paused for a second, said: "Don't talk
politics over supper, Dan.  It spoils the taste of the food."

Then, for some reason, Dan had looked contemptuously at Josodad and
given a little grunt and relapsed into silence.

Next day, out with the sheep, Josodad said, "Your friend, Dan, is a
Zealot."

"He is that way inclined.  I think he'd be in the hills by now, but his
father's sight is failing and he has several sisters.  So he's needed
at home."

"Then I hope he doesn't say in the open what he said last night in our
house.  Such talk is dangerous."

"Maybe.  But everything he said was true.  And such things should be
said."

"That I doubt," Josodad said, mildly.

"I've never known talk like that do anything except stir up trouble."

"What would be your remedy, then, for our present situation?"

"Patience; faith in God; and the strength to survive, holding to the
Law and keeping our blood pure."

"You think that is enough ?"

"It has served, in similar situations in the past.  We were slaves in
Egypt, but we came out as a people; we were captives in Babylon, but we
came out as a people.  Now we have the Roman heel on our necks, but we
shall emerge, as a people."

"How long is it since you were in Jerusalem, Father?"

"Eighteen years."

"Then forgive me if I say that you can have no notion of the changes
that have taken place.  Life here goes on the same, so you think it is
the same everywhere.  Do you know what Dan calls people like you,
Father?  Happy-do-nothings."

"But what is there to do--except what I have just said?  Wait.  In His
own good time the Lord will deliver us."

"With what?  That is what Dan asks.  Who could free a whole nation of
happy-do-nothings, and worse?"

All around them the sheep were quietly grazing and Josodad jerked his
crook towards them.

"My boy, if God so willed he could turn that flock, in a blink of an
eye, into an army, ready and girded."

With some awe, but also with some curiosity and a slight disdain in his
voice, Nathan said, "You really believe that, don't you?"

"If I didn't I should not have said it."

"No.  You are a man of integrity," the boy said.

"And you are happy in your faith."  It was as though, suddenly, their
ages had been reversed.  This thought stung Josodad and he summoned all
the parental authority which in families like his seldom had to be
called upon because it was so implicitly acknowledged.

"Look here," he said, "I don't want that boy to go putting crazy
notions into your head.  Talk of resistance and of guerrillas is all

very fine, but what do they do except make thingsworse for ordinary
people?  So, they kill one Roman, or they steal three horses.  The
Romans can spare what they lose, but in the subsequent inquiries in all
the nearby villages we lose what we can ill spare.  The lesson taught
at Sepphoris wasn't wasted on sensible people, and, on a smaller scale,
every bit of revolt is similarly punished.  If I thought that you," he
said, very confident of his power over this beloved boy, 'went to Dan's
house to listen to such inflammatory nonsense as he talked last night,
I should forbid you to go."

"Often enough," Nathan said, 'we hardly talk at all.  We make songs and
sing them.  He has many friends.  And he plays the harp.  It's easier
for us to go to him, carrying our pipes."

Hundreds of times later Josodad was to reproach himself for being
over-confident, too easily satisfied, blind.  It hurt him sometimes,
even now, to remember that in her unwitting, female, jealous way,
Martha had been nearer the truth than he had.  The little group of
musicians had achieved a certain local fame and been asked to make
music for a wedding in Zilgah.

"Oh," Martha had said sharply, 'he can carry his harp so far!"

"There is a harp in the house of the bride's father," Nathan said.

On that occasion he had been absent for two days and a night--and why
not, He was young, and when he worked he worked; he was entitled to his
recreations.

For two years it had gone on, had become part of life; a wedding, a
Barmitzvah, a circumcision feast, all in need of music.

Looking back, in the light of hindsight, that most vivid and dreadful
illumination of all, Josodad could see that often around the times of
Nathan's absences, there had been incidents.  But what was there about
them to make connection with a boy who was always home exactly when he
had said he would be, who never had a mark on him, who never showed any
sign of excitement, or of interest in the incident; and who could
always supply, in the detail so dear to women, exactly what had been
worn and eaten at the wedding or whatever it was which he had
witnessed?

In the end what had happened was plainly the result of a thought-out
plan, a carefully laid trap.

Rachel's sepulchre lay to the north-west of Bethlehem.  It was regarded
by pious Jews not exactly as a holy place, there was only one holy
place and that was in the heart of the Temple, but as a place of
reverence, a landmark in their history.  There the patriarch Jacob's
favourite wife had died in giving birth to Benjamin, his favourite son,
and he had buried her and reared a pillar over her grave as a
memorial.

A small contingent of Roman soldiers, out on patrol from the subsidiary
barracks just outside Bethlehem, had chosen to camp by Rachel's
tomb--there was water and firewood handy.  They had leaned their
standard against the weather-worn pillar and two of them had succumbed
to that perpetual disease of soldiers-the necessity to leave their
mark, to carve their meaningless names.  The Rabbi of the nearest
village, accompanied by three elders, had gone out and asked civilly
that the standard should be shifted and that the pillar should not be
further defaced.  Some of the men had not understood a word, but one
had, and he had said, "Old men, go shave yourselves I' How had the ill
word spread?  Tekoa was even farther from the sepulchre than Bethlehem
was; who carried the news?  On what swift and fatal feet it had
travelled, how instant and unthinking had been the response.

Nathan, Dan and a third boy had taken axes and hacked the standard to
pieces.  The Romans had pounced; two had been killed and one injured.
The boys, outnumbered four to one, had been hauled off.

For Josodad the time immediately after had been a blur of misery,
self-reproach and conflicting advice.  Had he been able to feel
surprise he would have been surprised to find how many people in the
immediate vicinity had known what was going on under the pretence of
music-making, and believed that he did, also.  To the remarks of such
people, knowledgeable after the event, he paid no heed at all; but he
did listen to the wildly varying bits of advice.

There were those who said, "Do nothing.  To take any action now will be

to inculpate yourself."  Those he ignored.There were those who said,
"The Romans are great on law; even boys like this will be properly
tried.  Go to Jerusalem at once and hire a good lawyer, one who will
plead that the boys were taking a short cut home and that the Romans,
alarmed, attacked them first."

"Does such a lawyer exist?"

Dozens, they told him, men who would stand up and plead any cause, with
eloquence and passion, for a price.

There were others who said that in such a crisis the only possible hope
lay in the High Priest, He was very powerful; even the Romans, even
Herod the King, never wittingly went against him.  And the only way to
his ear was through a venal priest named Ephraim.

There were those who said, "Keep religion out of it.  Once mention
religion and you're done.  Hire a lawyer who will plead that Nathan is
younger than Dan, completely subservient to him and simply did what he
was told."

In any other circumstances Josodad would have questioned the ethics of
such pleading.  But he knew that he would sacrifice a dozen Dans to
save Nathan.  A dozen?  A hundred.  A thousand.

Plainly the one thing that all the advice had in common was the need
for money; money to buy, money to bribe.  So he'd gone to Ezra and sold
all that he had to sell, his flock.

Often now, in the slow-dragging nights, he could see that in love, in
panic, he had rushed into folly.  On the day after Dan's first visit he
had to Nathan decried desperate action and praised patience and trust
in God.  But when the moment came when he must choose between the two,
he'd gone into action that was just as futile, as anything those boys
had ever done.  And so he had injured his cause with God, He had
offered bribes, thereby breaking the law against not causing another
man to stumble.  They'd stumbled very eagerly, taken his money,
promised impossible things.  He'd lied too, borne false witness, sworn
that Nathan was a near simpleton, completely under Dan's thumb.

It was unavailing.  Afterwards, when he came to his senses, he realised
that men who had taken his money and given him promises and hope had
known how it would end.  Had Nathan not been concerned he would have
known himself.  The boys were guilty, the Romans could have killed
them, there by Rachel's -sepulchre, and committed no outrage; the
meticulous mockery of a trial, with its inevitable end, was designed as
a warning.  Nothing was left but to go to the Wailing Wall and ask one
favour of God--that the boy should die quickly.  And even that had been
denied.

These had been his memories for almost five years as he walked about by
day, or woke, with that abrupt jolt, in the night.

What followed the memories, grew out of them and seemed inseparable
from them, and were even more torturing, were the doubts which the
whole business had bred.  He'd always been a devout Jew, with the
religion of his fathers woven, firmly he would have said, into the
fabric of his life.  But he'd prayed that agonised prayer for one last
small mercy for his son, and the prayer had not been answered.  Had God
no mercy?  Was there no God?  And if no God, then no life hereafter;
which meant that Nathan was not gathered to his fathers, safe in
Abraham's bosom, but a dead thing, rotting in the ground.  To think
thus meant despair.

Night by night he fought that thought.  He would remember that psalm of
David's known as the Shepherd's Psalm.... There was a passage in it
that ran, "Lo, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil."  That seemed to imply that death was only a
phase.  Then not far away was a place called Endor, where in the
distant past a witch had summoned up Samuel's spirit and Saul, who had
known Samuel well, had recognised him.  If that wasn't proof of a life
hereafter, what was?

Hopes and questions and speculations span round and round in his mind
until finally he reached the most dreadful thought of all.  That over
the years the poems and the stories and the whole business of belief
had been invented by men, bereaved as he had been bereaved, who could
find no comfort on earth.  In the quiet dark the stars so far away, so

uncaring, the nightwind blowing, it was dangerously easy to harbour
such a thought: to see men as sheep, of no real importance, born only
to die.

Sometimes from exhaustion, he would reach this point and sleep again;
sometimes the torture lasted until the stars faded and the darkness
paled and the dawn lay rosy in the sky.  And never once, no matter what
dark paths he had trodden through the night--and might tread again, two
or three times during the day, had he ever failed to make the good
Jew's first prayer of the morning--"Blessed art thou, O Lord our God,
King of the Universe who hast sanctified us by thy commandments."

In part this was habit, but it was a great deal else beside.  Truth for
one thing; by the commandments of God the Jews observed them were
sanctified.  Nathan's friend might say that Jews were being corrupted
and absorbed and that might be true of a few, in cities; but the great
majority of them resisted the temptation to run after strange gods,
attended the simple, clean service in the synagogues, believed that God
was a spirit, kept the Law and were the Chosen people.  Josodad, even
in his despair, had no wish to cut himself off from them.  There was a
certain amount of caution, too, in his attitude; no man could fully
understand God's ways, and despite everything--and by that he meant his
doubts, his unanswered prayers--it was possible, more than possible
that Nathan was with his fathers, and there, when he himself died,
Josodad hoped to join him.  So all day and every day, he still lived
exactly in accordance with the Law, just in case his thinking had gone
a little awry through grief.

So, day followed day, and now it was winter again, his fifth of tending
Ezra's sheep and the flocks were in their winter quarters, near enough
to Bethlehem so' that should snow fall and cover the ground for any
length of time, they could be fed from Ezra's well-stocked barns.
Josodad did not appreciate, as Arad and Ibri did, this proximity to the
little town; it meant that he could make frequent visits to his home.
The boys--as he called Arad and Ibri in his mind--were rigorous about
claiming their free hours, and if he abjured his, always thought he was
doing so from the intention of presently cheating them; and everyone
knew where the flock lay, so if he didn't go home there would be
talk.

So on this particular day, very cold he noticed as he climbed down from
the sheltered place where the sheep were, he had gone home.  And he had
had a very miserable visit.

He blamed himself.  Something like hostility had long existed between
his wife and himself.  She had, very sensibly, mended her life and
unconsciously blamed him for not mending his, and read into his
not-mending a criticism of her for having made almost a perfect job of
hers.  She was wrong there, he was glad to see her happy; but he could
never bring himself to say so.  The children, awed perhaps by his face
which grief and the constant thinking had scored deeply, or perhaps
warned by their mother, were always too well behaved in his presence.
He was the stranger; the father who came and went; came--they must
sense it--without joy, and left without regret.  And for him the small,
comfortable house was haunted by Nathan's invisible presence.  On the
door-jamb were the marks which Josodad had scored with his knife,
measuring Nathan's height from time to time.  He had said, "Yes, you
shall sit up with me through a lambing, when you are so high!"  And
he'd marked the height, against which the boy would measure himself,
standing on his toes, stretching his neck.  And hanging on a hook in
the wall there had always been, until this day, Nathan's pipe.  There
were other reminders too; but this cold day, entering by the door he
had looked at the notches and then towards the pipe.  He always did, he
always would.  But on this day the hook was empty.

He greeted his wife, and his elder daughter, named for her mother, who
were in the room; the girl her mother's very image, even to the way she
stirred a savoury-smelling pot on the hearth.  Then he said, "Where's
Nathan's pipe?"

His wife said, "Oh, the pipe, Lazarus has it.  Mary went along with him
to Ebenezer; he is going to teach him to play."

"Teach him!"  Josodad said.

"Nathan taught himself to play.  What is more he made that pipe
himself.  If Lazarus wanted a pipe he should have made his own!"  And

then, all at once,knowing that nothing but disharmony could result,
but feeling something beyond his power to control, a mental scab which
itched, and must be scratched, he said, "And Mary must go along, to
guard a boy of seven.  Two hundred yards along a village street.  What
did he think would get him?  Wolves?"

The elder Martha said to the younger, "Go and see if the little brown
hen has laid yet.  She's our only hope today.  If she hasn't and is on
her nest, stand by her."

"You must watch, this pot, then," the young Martha said, 'its bottom is
wearing thin and unless you stir the beans stick."

"That's my good sensible girl," Martha said; and she took the long
spoon her daughter had been using, but did not employ it.  Instead she
pulled the pot to the side of the hearth and squared herself, facing
Josodad.  She said: "You are my husband; but I have had enough of
this!"

"Enough of what?"

"Many things," she said.

"The constant criticism of Lazarus for one.  So, he is seven years old,
and at that age, we all know, Nathan was a shepherd with short legs and
a short crook and he wasn't afraid of anything.  I know, I'm tired of
hearing it said, by word or by look.  Oh, you may think I cannot read
your looks, but I can.  And every time I think--One family could not
expect to breed two such wonders.  One we had, and we lost him--through
his own folly.  Now we have one ordinary little boy who happens to be
timid.  Remember, to get to Ebenezer's he must pass the inn, and that
Ephorus is always drunk.  Nathan thought him funny, but Lazarus is
scared of him; and I for one see nothing wrong with that.  Nor with his
taking the pipe.  Nathan made it; but since there it is, made already,
why should Lazarus risk cutting his fingers making another?  Tell me
that!"  And then, before Josodad could frame an answer, if there was
one, she ran on:

"There's another thing, too.  And that is why I sent Martha out of the
room...."  The mention of the good sensible girl reminded her of her
duty to the cooking and she turned, gave the savoury mess a perfunctory
stir, and went on, her words hitting Josodad like little hailstones.

"You may not have noticed," she said, 'but the girls are growing up.
Martha is fifteen, and if she isn't betrothed soon she never will be;
Mary is almost fourteen.  Have you ever asked yourself what will become
of them?  In the old days men came to the house, asking your advice,
wishing to buy your sheep; anyone with a flock which he wished to
improve might very well have taken one of your daughters and a few
choice sheep as dowry.  But it is very different now..  .."

He said harshly, "I know that!"  He'd realised on his return from
Jerusalem that it had been a mistake to sell the whole of his flock
outright; he should have sold them and then raised money on the rear,
bear, shear and share basis by which he would have been able to claim
one lamb out of two, and half the price of the fleeces; but he'd
thought of nothing except laying hands on the money and getting away to
Jerusalem as quickly as possible.  And this woman, fluffing herself out
like a hen defending chicks from a hawk, was right to reproach him.  He
had sacrificed three to one.  And uselessly.

"So," Martha's voice was relentless, 'you know.  That at least is
something.  What I am asking is, what do you propose to do about it?"

"What can I do?  You know my wage.  You know what it costs to live."

"Who better?  So there will be the girls without dowry and they'll die
unwed; Martha, my true daughter, who would make an excellent wife, and
Mary, less good in the house, but sweet and gentle.  And then," she
said, her voice sharpening, 'you blame me for treating Lazarus as I
do!"

There must be some connection--Martha, even in anger, did not talk
incoherently--but he could not see it, and was obliged to say:

"What do you mean by that?"

That I want him to stay alive; to recognise danger, and be careful."
Then she added, "You reared Nathan!"

In the three final words he recognised a twenty-year-old jealousy.
Justified, in a way; from the time that he could toddle the boy had
always wanted to be with his father, had been as Martha said, 'a

shepherd with short legs'.  And that would havemattered less if
another child had been born, or on the way.  There was a gap until
young Martha was born.

Alongside the jealousy there was blame.  He had reared Nathan to be
hardy, to minimise risks .. . and so indirectly he was responsible for
what had happened.  A dreadful accusation, and one he could not accept,
but the idea added one more twist to his misery.

Young Martha returned, cradling an egg in her hand.  He viewed her from
the aspect to which her mother had drawn attention.  It was true;
somewhere, imperceptibly, she had passed the borderline between
childhood and womanhood; and what was going to happen to her?

"Good," his wife said, seeing the egg.

"Put on the pan and begin to cook it when your brother comes in."

"Is the boy sick?"  Josodad asked, knowing that the question was a
return to a sore subject, and yet unable to hold it back.

His daughter answered, saying gravely, "He isn't sick, but he would be
if he ate that," she indicated the bubbling pot.

"I think the grease upsets him."  She took the long spoon and
stirred.

"He has a delicate stomach," she said.

Then Lazarus and Mary came in and Josodad eyed them as though he were
seeing them for the first time.  Mary, only a year and a few months
younger than Martha, was still a child, thin and angular with
beautiful, dreamy, almost sleepy eyes.  The boy was tall for his seven
years, taller than Nathan had been at that age, but fragile-looking;
and, at the moment, wearing a sulky look.

Josodad roused himself and made an effort.

"Well," he said, 'and how did the lesson go?  Can you play the pipe,
Lazarus?"

"No.  Ebenezer was horrid to me.  He said I had no ear."

Why that report should please him Josodad could not have said, but it
did; and the fact that it did proved that there was something very
wrong with him.

"I tried," Mary said.

"When Lazarus had done," she glanced at her mother as she made this
explanation.

"And I have an ear.  Ebenezer said so.  And he said it was a pity
because pipe-playing is not for girls."

"I should think not!"  her mother said.

Martha boiled the egg, cracked it and put it into a small bowl and set
it before her brother.  Her mother began, rather slowly Josodad
thought, to dish the savoury mess of mutton, onions and beans into the
plates.  Then, with a plate in her left hand and the spoon in the
other, she turned her head, looking at the door and listening; it was
all right, her expression said; and in a few seconds in walked her
brother Lazarus, the one for whom the second boy had been named.  He
was a big, handsome, jovial man who up to four years ago had made a
humble but adequate living as a weaver.  Then his wife, a childless
woman, had died and soon after he had married a widow who owned a
prosperous vineyard.  Upon her he had begotten a child, but she was too
old for successful breeding; she and the child had died, less than a
year ago.  Since then he had eaten, several times a week, at his
sister's house, and once he had said to Josodad that he now knew that
it was God's will that he should be childless.

"So I look on these as my own," he had said, indicating his nephew and
his nieces.  Josodad had known a moment's envy for the cheerful man who
could suffer two bereavements in a short time--three if you counted the
still-born boy--and find comfort where it was to be found.  Lazarus,
like his sister, was sensible; they mended up the hole in their lives
and didn't go about with great, raw-edged wounds in their hearts.

For the first time Josodad noted, but without the least feeling of
envy, the difference in the quality of the welcome extended to the
uncle and that which he, the father, had evoked.  His own presence cast
a gloom, with Lazarus the sun entered and they all basked in its
radiance.

The boy recounted, for his uncle's benefit, his unsuccessful attempt at
pipe-playing and Ebenezer's verdict; and Lazarus said:

"No ear?  That can't be right.  You have two; I can see them.  One,
two!"  he said, pulling each ear in turn, and the boy's sulky
expression lifted and he laughed.

Then Mary made her report, and Lazarus said, "Well, there I agree with
the old man.  You know why?  To play the pipe properly you have to

screw up your lips and in time that'd spoilthe shape of your pretty
mouth."

To the younger Martha he said, "Something tells me that you had a hand
in this delightful dinner, my dear."

Josodad's wife said, "She did; she was almost entirely responsible. How
did you know?"

"By the seasoning," he said.

"It is exactly how you used to cook, Martha, when you could think of
the taste and not how long the salt and herbs must last."

He pleased them, effortlessly.  Josodad, eating his own tasteless
portion--all food tasted the same to him these days--felt like a
stranger in his own house.  And the worst of it was that he didn't mind
at all.  They were happy.  They gave the impression of being a happy,
united family with the uncle as its centre.  And that, even if he had
resented it, was so natural that resentment would have been absurd and
unworthy.  Of course children clung to those who amused and approved of
them and made simple little jokes.  And of course a woman like Martha,
who had mended her own life, felt more at home with her brother, who
had mended his, than with a man whose grief was unassuageable.

It occurred to him suddenly, just as the elder Lazarus said:

"It will snow before sunset; of that I am sure," and he himself had
said:

"Then I must be getting back," and sensed that his going would be a
relief, I might as well be dead!

He regarded that thought for a minute and then revised it--They'd all
be better off, if I were dead.

Lazarus, a good brother, as well as a pious Jew, would do his duty,
take his sister and the children into his house, exert himself to find
husbands for the girls, leave his vineyard to the boy.  And when
sometime Uncle Lazarus said--as he surely would, being a man of
sense--That is a ruinous way to bring a boy up!  the mother would take
heed.  She couldn't turn on her brother with the unanswerable
words--You reared Nathan!

He left them.  Uncle Lazarus was in no hurry to get back; there was
nothing he could do about the snow if it fell, except be thankful that
it had come instead of frost.  His winters now were easy and leisurely
and he was prepared to spend the rest of the day in the cosy house
where young Martha had mended the fire and they were all about to roast
apples.  There was nothing wrong with the leave-taking, he was their
father and the children were reared to be mannerly; Martha asked when
he would next be home and he told her truly that he did not know; much
depended upon the weather.  Lazarus said the snow was certain but he
hoped that for Josodad's sake it would be a light fall.

Then he was out in the cold air, alone; but no more alone than when he
sat amongst his family.

His house stood a little apart from the village and he had to descend a
slight slope, cross the end of the street and then mount again to where
the flock lay in a sheltered valley between two hills.  The last of the
houses in the street was the smaller of the two inns in the town, the
one kept by Ephorus the Greek, if the word 'keep' could be used in
connection with Ephorus who, as Martha had said, was usually drunk.  It
was curious, and ironic, but it was true that the idle, drunken sot of
an innkeeper, Greek by birth, was the only person who had ever come
near seeing the depths of Josodad's desolation.  He had also, by a
timely word, prevented Josodad from becoming a sot, too.  For there had
been a time, during the first autumn after Nathan's death, when
Josodad, having tried every mental form of self-consolation, faith in
God, prayer, joy in his living children, and dismally failed to find
what he sought, had experimented with drunkenness and found that to lie
down with one's head spinning, one's stomach slightly sickened, did at
least mean that one slept.  Then, when one waked, grief, denied its
nightly outlet, clamped down more fiercely, and a feeling of guilt
because one had slept and forgotten, mingled with the sorrow; and the
only remedy was more wine.

But one evening, Ephorus, quite drunk himself, had said, "Don't do it,
Josodad.  Comfort is not to be found at the bottom of a wine cup.  I
know.  I sought it there myself."  And Josodad, so lately a
flock-master, and still a respected member of his own community, had
been shocked back to sobriety by the thought that a drunken, Greek

innkeeper should feel compelled to speakto him like that.  That had
been his first reaction.  Then Ephorus said, "We all have our losses
you know, and they cripple us.  But a cripple would be a fool to invite
leprosy as well.  I know," he said, "I did it.  Grief made a cripple of
me and then I made myself a leper--I'm speaking metaphorically, of
course, and I'm a fool to do it.  You Jews don't understand
metaphors."

"We call them parables," Josodad said, thinking of the prophet Nathan
... Nathan ... Nathan ... who had rebuked King David for taking Uriah's
wife by telling him a parable of the man with the one ewe lamb.

"Use your own word," Ephorus said, concentrating so fiercely that he
was almost cross-eyed.

"And don't go saying I'm a leper.  I'm not a leper; nor a cripple as
anybody about here understands the words.  I'm just trying to tell you,
because I feel for you, Josodad, I feel for you.  I had a loss and it
crippled me, I lost Dorcas and then I took to wine-bibbing and so I'm a
leper, socially.  Don't you travel the same road.  I'm just warning you
.. . warning you."  He'd tossed off another cup of wine and relapsed
into his usual silence.  And Josodad had left his cup as it was, and
had not, as he had intended, asked to have his flask filled to buffer
him against his night thoughts.

He'd never been inside the inn since, but he'd always remembered
Ephorus with a kind of affection; the one man in Bethlehem who
understood what a loss was, an amputation that could cripple a man.

On this evening, so busy with his own gloomy thoughts, he noticed, with
a distant, impersonal satisfaction on Ephorus's behalf, that the inn
was very busy.  Bethlehem-born men coming back in accordance with the
new order, to put their names on the tax register.  He'd registered
that morning, before going home.

Name?  Josodad, son of Nathan.  Occupation?  Hired shepherd.  Place of
residence?  Bethlehem.  Age?  Forty-eight.

As the questions were rapped out, the answers given, he'd thought,
Nathan should have been here beside me, and the answer to the second
question should in both our cases have been, "Flock-master'.

Thinking about the tax register had been some slight relief and carried
him on, in the teeth of the biting wind, to the top of the hill from
which point he could look down upon the sheep, just visible in the
gathering dusk.  They were huddled together and he thought--They know.
Lazarus was right; it will snow before dark.  And almost instantly a
few flakes, slowly, indecisively, seeming sometimes even to ascend,
filled the air.

He thought--I chose the spot well.  If I'd listened to Arad or Ibri we
should now be lying nearer the town, with nothing between us and the
snow-bearing wind.  Not that I was thinking of snow, only of the wind;
sheep don't like the wind from the north.

Arad and Ibri had collected plenty of fuel and made a good fire.  They
were playing with Ibri's stones, the light danced on their moving
hands, and on their laughing faces.  He could hear the laughter and the
loud talk as he approached; but when he joined them they fell silent
and took on glum expressions, as though his presence were a rebuke to
their merriment.  He thought--Here too I cast a shadow.  He tried to
think of something to say and could only think of a question, "Is all
well?"  And that, he knew, would strike a wrong note, as though he
thought that in his absence things were bound to go wrong.  Yet he
could have asked Nathan that question as unthinkingly as he breathed.
So he thought again, and produced a remark about the weather.

"It looks as though we're in for a nasty night."

Ibri--recently married--said, "All nights apart from Ruth are nasty for
me."  Then he said, "Your turn, Arad," and the game went on, but in a
muted way.

A kind of contrition made itself felt in Josodad; he thought-- I have
resented them because they are live while Nathan is dead.  And he
remembered the perverse pleasure he had felt over Lazarus' failure to
manage the pipe.  He thought of wounds: some healed, leaving no mark,
or only a dry, healthy scar, some went festering on and on until they
had poisoned the whole body.  That was what grief had done to his mind,
to his very nature, poisoned the whole.  He was now fit company

fornobody, not even himself.

He opened the bag of food which the two Marthas had packed for him,
small loaves of sweet crusty bread, some fresh cheese, some of the
salted, smoked mutton which the Jews prepared in the same way as
unbelievers treated pig-meat.  And as he opened the bag he saw that the
food was exactly the same as that which Nathan had carried with him on
the fateful journey during which he had fallen in with Dan.  So
although he had intended to offer the food in a pleasant, conciliatory
manner, his voice, when he said, "Help yourselves," came out harsh,
offhandedly as though he were offering food to animals.

Arad said, "But if we eat this, what'll you do tomorrow?  And the day
after?"  He was reminding Josodad that he and Ibri both had their home
visits to make, and he must be on duty.

"There's more than I shall need, even if you eat your fill."  And he
thought--Never to be obliged to eat again, mumbling the tasteless stuff
I Never to think again; or to remember ... He knew then what he meant
to do.  The thought--I might as well be dead--had fallen, like a seed,
into fertile soil.  The first sign that it had rooted had been the next
thought--They'd be better off if I were dead; and now, springing to
full life the growth had revealed its nature, a determination to be
dead.  To end it.  To have, done with everything.

There was plenty of time; he must wait until Arad and Ibri were asleep.
He felt restless and would have liked to say--I'll just walk round; but
if he did that they would misinterpret his motive, think that he
suspected some neglect on their part.  So he sat down, within the
fire's radiance, but a little apart, and watched the snowflakes spin
down.

It would be, as Lazarus had wished that it should be, a light fall.
Already in the west the low clouds were breaking up.

He sat wrapped in his thick cloak and thought of what he intended to
do; he thought of it from every aspect.  Family first.  He was sure
that they would be better off.  His brother-in-law was a good man, and
his business brought him many contacts.  The girls would be seen,
admired, spoken for; the boy would take kindly to his uncle's business,
there being nothing in a vineyard to frighten him, as a ram had once
frightened him when Josodad had tried to introduce him to the flock,
Martha would be happy.

He then thought about God, who, though He had failed him, could not be
ignored without condemning Nathan to oblivion.  (And the strange thing
here was that though for himself he desired nothing more than complete
oblivion--Let Josodad be blotted out as though he had never been--he
couldn't accept oblivion for Nathan, that merry laughing boy.) There
was nothing in the commandments against killing yourself.  He ran them
through in his mind, and there was nothing.  He then called to mind
such of the stories of the past as he had heard and could remember.
After his defeat on the Mount of Gilboa Saul had fallen upon his sword.
But Saul had been mad, deserted by God.  Then there was the story of
Elijah the prophet and how he had gone into the wilderness and sat down
under a juniper tree and prayed, "Now, O Lord, take away my life."  His
life had not been taken, because he still had work to do; but the
prayer had been suicidal, and he had never been rebuked for that.  And
there was an account of somebody--the name escaped him--turning his
face to the wall and willing himself to die.

He considered it all quite calmly, and reached the conclusion that if
Nathan were now in the safe-keeping of God, his own self-destruction
would be no barrier against their reunion.

And what was the alternative?  Years and years more of this life, days
during which he would steadily alienate himself from his fellows,
nights when he would doubt his God.

But he would, he thought, give God one last chance!  And then, for all
his doubts, his orthodoxy rose in protest.  A blasphemous thought. He'd
ask God one last favour.

So he made his evening prayer, "Blessed art thou, O Lord our God, King
of the Universe, who at thy word bringest on the evening twilight..."
and then he added his special request: that he might die as he slept.

It was usual for shepherds to draw lots for the order in which they
should watch; but he and Arad and Ibri had long ago abandoned that
custom.  If he slept at all it was always in the first watch, then he'd
wake with that jolt and spend most of, if not all, the rest of the

night awake.  His two companions, after avery short time, had turned
this to their advantage.  No need, they said, for two people to stay
awake.  So one of them, or both of them officially, stayed awake and
watched while he slept the brief sleep of exhaustion and then he
watched for the rest of the night.  Most often, when he woke, they were
both asleep.  In winter there was danger from wolves that would sneak
down from the hills, and always there was danger from sheep-stealers,
and these were not all men-of-the-hills, hungry and stealing for food.
There were professionals, very skilled and soft-footed, who could
snatch a sheep from the edge of a flock--the more easily if it were a
large flock, like this, smother its head in a cloth and bear it off and
sell it to a butcher.

There was no outcry, no trail of blood.  In the morning there was a
sheep missing, and somewhere, far away, an unidentifiable carcase on a
hook.

Tonight, however, there was little danger from thieves.  Men who lived
by sheep-stealing were, fundamentally, men who liked ease and comfort
without working to earn either; the cold and the snow would deter them.
A visitation from wolves was .  unlikely, too, with the flock lying so
near to Bethlehem, it would take a prolonged spell of bad weather to
make them desperate enough to venture so near a town.  As for the
men-of-the-hills, their raids had in the past two years been so
infrequent that it seemed to Josodad as though the resistance movement,
which had cost Nathan his life, was dying down.  So the flock was safe,
and it wouldn't matter if he died in his sleep and Ibri and Arad slept
on, as was their habit.

As he thought these things he was aware of the absurdity.  At this
crisis of his life, what did the flock matter?  If the flock were
stolen or ravaged, he'd be out of reach of any blame or chiding. Still,
even now, he reckoned the risk to the flock carefully, because at heart
he was still the good owner shepherd, not a hireling, like Ibri or
Arad.  And when, dead to this world, he woke in the next--if there was
another, and faced the judgement of God, he hoped that it would be
taken into reckoning that though as a man, as father and husband, he
was a failure, as a shepherd he had been reliable.

So he looked over the flock before he lay down.  All was well.

The fire was bright, and beside it the two young men were still
engrossed in their game.

He couldn't, in the traditional manner, turn his face to the wall, but
he turned it towards the rock, under whose overhanging edge they had
made their little camping place.  And as he lay down he thought with a
profound feeling of relief that now he had done with it all, done with
the grief and the toil, the searing doubts, the consequent
self-recrimination.  As he composed himself for sleep, faith came
flooding back; he had prayed and he believed that this prayer would be
answered.  So he began to sink down into darkness and softness and
not-knowing as gently as he had done in the happy days.  His last
thought was that he had not approached sleep by such a. pleasant path
since he had shared a night watch with Nathan..  ..

Shortly before midnight he woke, with the old familiar jolt.  Something
wrong?  He raised his head and listened and, as usual, knew that with
the flock all was well, with him all was wrong.  The feeling of loss
and disaster fell upon him again.  Not dead.  Alive and wide awake,
back with his misery.

He stood up and looked around him.  The snow had ceased; the sky had
cleared and overhead the stars were brilliant.  Arad and Ibri were
sound asleep beside the fire which had died down to a pinkish glow
under a shroud of ash.  The sheep were sleeping too, lying close like
the boulders in a dry riverbed.  It was all as usual.  He thought--God
has failed me again; and this time felt no self reproach.  It was
simple truth.  God had failed him all along.  He'd kept the Law, done
his duty, paid his dues, made his prayers, and never, until tonight,
asked a favour for himself.  On Nathan's behalf he had prayed for an
acquittal, then for swift death; both denied.

He thought, in plain peasant fashion, that if you knocked on the door
of a human friend, once and again and again, and had no answer, you'd
conclude that he was not there, or that he was, for some reason, no
longer.your friend.  Did not the same apply to God?

The wind blew coldly and he stood there between the great empty space

of earth and the great empty space of heaven,between a vast flock of
senseless sheep and a vast flock of unheeding stars and knew the
ultimate loneliness.  He faced-for the first time without recoil or
protest--the fact that Nathan had gone for ever, the strong merry,
bright-eyed boy who had made music and cracked jokes and loved his food
was now just a dead thing, rotting; what he had been had vanished into
darkness.

And I will follow, Josodad thought.  I will make an end.  He knew just
how to do it.  His knife was sharp; one firm slash across his left
wrist would suffice.

Even now, in this moment of no faith, of dead belief, his mind
reverted, from habit, to the Law by which he had lived all his life.
Thou shall not kill.  That was plain enough and any believer in the Law
would understand that suicide as well as murder was forbidden.  Yet it
was never held against Saul that he had thrown himself on his sword
after his defeat at Gilboa.  His suicide, indeed, had inspired one of
the most beautiful of David's songs.  But Saul had long before lost
touch with God.  Like me, Josodad thought.  He drew his knife and saw
the starlight sparkle on the clean bright blade.

Then he paused.  He had lost touch with God, but not with man, and not
with sheep.  Arad and Ibri didn't like him, he knew that; to his face
they were sullen and suspicious, behind his back they laughed at him
and called him Old Tup; but it would spoil their breakfast if they woke
and found him here by the dead fire, lying in his blood.  And the sheep
would be upset, too.  All animals were sensitive to blood; carnivores
liked, were excited by the smell of it; sheep, oxen, horses abhorred
it.  So he must go away to do what he had to do.

He began to scramble, making as little noise as possible over the
sheltering rocks.  At the top he walked a hundred paces and then looked
around for some hidden niche in the broken ground where he could lie.
The boys would wake in the morning and look over the flock in their
casual fashion, have their breakfast, remark upon his absence, and
wait.  Eventually one of them would report to Ezra and a search would
be organised.  Maybe by that time the kites would have picked his bones
clean.  His death would cause nobody any bother, or any grief.

Up here the stars seemed even brighter and there was one, very large,
very golden, hanging low in the sky, a star which he had never noticed
before in his sleepless nights.  Once he had thought of the stars, as
of the sun and the moon, that they were all part of the miracle of
creation, the result of God's order, Let there be light!  But tonight
the courts of heaven were untenanted, and the throne was empty.

Searching for what was to be his last bed he turned his eyes from the
sky to the ground and was startled to see his own shadow very black and
sharply defined, stretching ahead of him.  No amount of starlight could
cast such a shadow.  He turned and saw that behind him the sky was
luminous, filled with light that was not of the moon or the stars,
light without origin or focus, visibly brightening.  It was, he
thought, as though the sky were opening.

A fearful terror came upon him, terror so complete that he could not
move, or breathe, or even tremble though the marrow of his bones
vibrated.  The light grew dazzling, and shifted, and took shape.  Then
suddenly, brighter than the light, more beautiful than anything ever
seen or imagined, there was the angel, leaning down along the shafts of
radiance and speaking with a golden voice.

The angel said, "Fear not; for behold I bring you tidings of great joy,
which shall be to all people.  For unto you is born this day in the
city of David, a Saviour which is Christ the Lord.  And this shall be a
sign unto you; ye shall find the babe, wrapped in swaddling clothes,
lying in a manger."

The Saviour.  The Messiah.  Something in Josodad's mind shouldered fear
aside.  He said in a loud, almost angry voice, "Didn't I tell him so?
Didn't I say that in His own time, in His own way, God would deliver
His people.  He had only to wait.  The waste of it!"

He had felt that his misery was absolute, that nothing could add to
it.

But he had been wrong.  There was this extra bitterness to come.

"Too late," he said.

"This is too late for Nathan who is dead, and too late for me, who have
denied my God."

Then he saw that the angel was not alone.  Around him there was a

multitude, a great host, all with bright, beautiful faces.But of the
host Josodad had eyes only for one familiar, beloved face; and in the
chorus of voices singing, "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth
peace, goodwill toward men', he heard only the voice of his own son.

They vanished and he was alone in the starlight.  He stood there
knowing that Nathan was not a dead thing in the ground, but alive,
recognisable and happy, part of some inconceivable glory.  He was
filled with joy, and mingling with the joy was remorse because he had
allowed grief to sour him, to estrange him from his family, from his
fellow men, from life itself.  All those years wasted in grief and
bitterness, with Nathan, young and beautiful, safe in the hands of God
all the time.  He said aloud, "O God, maker of the Universe, forgive
me.  How could I know?"  The answer came from his own mind: no man
could know, but a man should have faith.

He began to shake then, realising how nearly he had escaped final
calamity.  Moving like a palsied man he hurried, not caring how much
noise he made, over the rocks and down into the sheltered place.  Arad
slept the sleep of the carefree single man, but Ibri was awake,
blinking and bemused.

"I saw a great light," he said.

"I heard voices."  He spoke as though the light and the voices had been
things he had dreamed.

Josodad said, "Come, let us go to Bethlehem."

ELEVEN

JERUSALEM 8 miles Except on state occasions, when he must appear as a
king, it pleased Herod to wear the simple toga that was the mark of the
Roman citizen.  This he was entitled to do, for the first Caesar,
Julius himself, had conferred full citizenship, with all its
privileges, upon his father, Antipater, forty years earlier.

On this day, however, he wore his kingly, almost Oriental robes, with
jewelled clasps and a jewelled belt, a coronet of emeralds on his head,
where the hair was still plentiful and crisp, the black only just
frosted with white at the temples; on his wrists he wore bands of gold,
set with other emeralds and rubies and sapphires, and his fingers were
stiff with rings.

He was about to go out and show himself to his people, so that those
who loved him and those who hated him might see for themselves what
rumour was worth.  His friends had been grieving, his enemies
rejoicing, over the state of his health; and both had had good cause.
He had been gravely ill: but he had made a most painful journey by
litter, across the Jordan, to a place called Calirrhoe, and there he
had taken medicinal baths and drunk immense quantities of revolting,
bitter-tasting water, and been not only restored to health, but
rejuvenated.  The pain that had gnawed, a wolf in his belly, had gone;
his ravenous appetite was now normal, and his complexion, lately the
colour of beeswax, had regained its smooth, faintly tanned Idumean
hue.

He had come back, jubilant, just in time for the Feast of Saturnalia,
and inside his palace he had celebrated, merrily: but he was far too
cautious, far too wary of the High Priest and his following, and of the
orthodox Jews, to make any public appearance during the Festival.  So

on this day he intended to ride out.The gentleman-attendant, whose
duty it was, held open his cloak, purple velvet, lined with fur and
embroidered with gold thread.  Parosh was a Jew, of the Hellenised kind
whom Herod found tolerable, so to him he could say, "Solomon in full
glory could not have been better clad!"  and be sure of provoking a
smile.

"I am ready, now," Herod said, shrugging his shoulders into the
cloak.

"And if Archelaus keeps me waiting, I shall disinherit him."

The threat to disinherit was one of his slightly sour, self-mocking
jokes; he never for a moment deceived himself about the extent of his
power.  He was King of Judea because his father had been a friend of
the Romans and because his own personality and abilities had
recommended him to Mark Antony and Octavius while they were still
friends and shared the government of Rome.  He had remained King of
Judea because he had been wily, and because even when Antony and
Octavius had fallen out, and Antony was dead and Octavius supreme, the
latter had had the good sense to see that there was nothing to gain and
much to lose by deposing a man who was managing well, who had put down
civil war in Judea with a heavy hand, who was a good friend of Rome,
whose half-Jewish blood made him acceptable to at least part of the
nation he ruled.  But when he died, even though he made a will and
showed clearly which of his sons should succeed him, there was no
certainty that Archelaus or any of his other sons would be chosen by
Octavius-now Caesar Augustus, to occupy the throne.

Of his five remaining sons--Archelaus, the youngest, was his favourite;
most like him in appearance, and, though only sixteen years of age,
most compatible in mind.  Unless something very regrettable happened,
Herod intended to use all his influence, even his posthumous influence,
on behalf of this boy; and with that in mind often appeared with him in
public, frequently sent him on visits to Rome, and while he was in
Jerusalem never failed to bring him to the notice of any visiting
Roman.

Archelaus was punctual and Herod, looking him over, was satisfied by
his appearance; he was dressed as befitted a prince, but not in such a
way as to offer any competition to his father.

Herod, who had on at least three occasions placed policy before
paternal feelings and murdered his sons as though they were enemies,
was fond enough, at this moment, to say: "No cloak?  They tell me the
wind is very cold."  The escort waited; six members of the palace
guard, a body of men whom Herod had organised very much upon the lines
of the Emperor's Praetorian Guard in Rome; imitation, so long as it was
not tainted by competitiveness, was a useful means of flattery.  It
often seemed to Herod that many men of intelligence failed to succeed
because they lacked knowledge of human nature.  In one of the long,
rambling complaints which the priests were always sending by delegation
to Rome, one charge was that Herod copied the Emperor; and Augustus had
given the reply that any sensible person could have expected.

"Whom better could he copy ?"  Augustus had asked.

Herod had felt well when he wakened, well as he was robed; now with a
horse between his knees again, he felt even better.  Before his visit
to Calirrhoe he had been able only to ride in a litter, and even that
was painful.  Now he rode a superb horse, one of Arab breed, brought up
from his native Idumea.

They rode through a wide courtyard where the grass was always green,
even in the height of summer, because it was intersected at regular
intervals by small irrigation streams.  There were many fountains, too,
bronze or marble figures of boys and girls, holding bowls of torches
out of which the water spouted, horses and deer and strange mythical
beasts with water pouring from their mouths.  Such things were
detestable to the pious Jews who took the first commandment literally.
But there was no need for any Jew to enter this way; there were other
entrances, some containing nothing likely to offend.  In this as in
other things Herod had been Willing to compromise between what he
wished and what was acceptable.  About the water supply, so essential
in a civilised city, compromise had been impossible; one could not
build an aqueduct secretly, nor cheaply, and there had been a short,
sharp rebellion when it was discovered that some of the Temple funds
had been appropriated for the aqueduct.  But to balance that, Herod
could point to the immense amount of work he had done to embellish

theTemple itself.  It was now finer than the one that Solomon had
reared, which had been destroyed by the Babylonians.  At the return
from exile, the Jews under Ezra had rebuilt it, but small and plain.
Herod had greatly enlarged and beautified it.

Behind him, as he rode out this morning, was the Palace, upon which he
had lavished money and planning genius, and across the huddled roofs of
the city, as he gazed ahead, he could see the Temple.

He said, "I intend to do something generous and spectacular to show my
gratitude to Calirrhoe.  The waters there are as good as any in the
Empire, but the buildings are nothing, and the place is amateurly run.
I think I shall build a great new bath with a musician's gallery and a
library and rooms for massage and amusement.  To make the place popular
would be an investment.  As the roads improve more people will travel.
That fellow Quintilius who dined with us the other evening, was on his
way there."

The old man talked as though he had years of life ahead of him,
Archelaus thought; and really since his return from the baths, he
looked as though he had.

Aloud he said, "Now what did you make of him, sir?"

Herod thought--I could tell you exactly.  He's an independent observer,
in other words a spy.  Augustus had heard of my illness and was
beginning to plan ahead.  Reports from officials are always biased.. ..
But it was unwise to be too open, either of mouth or heart, even to
your favourite; so he answered by asking:

"I don't know.  What did yo ?"

"It struck me that either his gout was very mild, or he has found some
very powerful opiate.  He ate and drank everything that was put before
him."

"That was very observant of you."

"Also," Archelaus said, 'his appetite for information was as insatiable
as his greed.  He seldom asked a direct question, though.  I noticed
that.  He had a way of bringing the conversation round, so that the way
was open for you to tell him things."

"Did you tell him anything?  I saw you in conversation for a
considerable time."

"I told him nothing--at least nothing he wanted to know.  He told how
badly he and his brothers agreed when they were young; and the way was
wide open for me to tell him how Antipas and Antipater and I hate the
sight of one another.  But I did not do so.  In fact, I think, sir,
what I left him with the impression that I was somewhat slow in the
uptake."

"Never fear that!  It's the slow-witted ones who gulp down the bait, my
boy."

From under their hooded lids his bright eyes looked at Archelaus with
something like approval.  The boy had his wits about him.  From Herod's
point of view there was only one thing wrong with him--apart, of
course, from what was wrong with every human being,
untrustworthiness--he was the son of the wrong mother!  Whenever he
approved of Archelaus he was bound to reflect that if he could breed
such a boy upon an ordinary woman, how exceptional his sons by Mariamne
would have been.  They, however, Alexander and Aristobulus, had allowed
their untrustworthiness to become blatant, and he had been obliged to
have them murdered.

This, however, was no moment to think of Mariamne or her sons.  He gave
his attention to his capital.

Most of the streets they rode along were narrow and steep, presenting,
under the heavy grey of the sky, a dull, ancient, rather grim
appearance.  The people, huddled against the cold, looked dull too.  In
many places the sullenness of the sky was reflected in the faces turned
towards the clattering little cavalcade.  To many Jews Herod was a
semi-barbarian, a usurper, a man who endeavoured both openly and
secretly to bring them, their city, their way of life, into line with
the pagan ways that masqueraded under the term 'civilisation'.

"I often think," Herod remarked as they passed a group of men who
stared, silent and hostile, 'that of all rulers, he who governs a
theocracy has the most thankless task.  People are so busy praising God
for his mercies--mainly invisible--that they can't be ordinarily
grateful for tangible advantages."

Archelaus privately decided that when he was King--as he fully intended
to be, by craft and corruption if qualification was not enough--he

would do something about these surly, stubbornpeople.  If they
wouldn't smile and cheer from loyalty and gratitude, they should do it
from fear.  He looked at his father and thought, with some
bewilderment, that you couldn't honestly say that he was a soft man;
he'd killed hundreds and would not hesitate to kill again; but he was
oddly careless about the attitude of the ordinary man towards him.

Once, on a similar ride, a man, safely anonymous in a crowd, had flung
a taunt; "Son of Esau!"  he had shouted, referring to Herod's ancestry.
Herod had turned in his saddle and laughed and shouted back, "Thank
you!"

Archelaus, younger then, had said, "But sir, that was an insult."

"From a Jew, a compliment," Herod said.

"If you must go picking over your pedigree like a race-horse, who
wouldn't rather be a descendant of Esau, the first-born, the good
hunter, than that lying, cheating, mother's darling who spawned this
lot?"

Archelaus remembered that incident, and thought--Well, that's one way
of looking at it; that's one way of governing, so completely to despise
those you rule that whether they cheer or not doesn't matter: all the
same, when I ride these streets as King, people will cheer or I shall
know why!

In places they were cheered.  Anywhere where there was building going
on.  Even a Jewish builder knew the value of full employment and over
the rebuilding of the Temple alone, ten thousand workmen had been
employed steadily for six years.  There were loud acclamations, too,
from people about the theatre, the amphitheatre and the hippodrome
where the workers were mainly Greeks or half-breeds of one kind or
another, with some Jews who were prepared to accept civilising
influences in the proper spirit.  In places where the reception was
warm and friendly Archelaus responded with a guarded enthusiasm.  To be
popular for yourself alone, and to endeavour to foster popularity was
not a safe thing, if you were Herod's son.  Antipater, at the moment,
enjoyed great popularity, simply because he and his father were always
quarrelling.  They would have a row in the Palace overnight, and
somehow the word would spread and be all over the city by morning and
on And pater's next appearance he would have a tumultuous greeting. But
that kind of thing merely worsened the situation between father and
son, and Archelaus was clever enough to realise it.  He was risking
nothing; after all, Herod was seventy, and the Romans had enough
respect for his judgement, and enough awareness of all he had done to
keep this province of the Empire peaceful and prosperous, to take some
note of any wish he expressed on his deathbed.  Archelaus intended to
wait.

When, with the wind growing colder and the grey sky darkening towards
twilight, they passed the Royal Portico of the Temple, on their way
back to the Palace, Herod said:

"I have the High Priest and five other Sanhedrin members dining with me
this evening.  It's amusing to think that they have probably spent most
of the day composing a complaint to send to Rome because I allowed
Saturnalia to be celebrated.  Unless Octavius lost his sense of humour
when he became Augustus, he must often have a good laugh over these
deputations."

"They show such poor judgement," agreed Archelaus who had once been in
Rome when such a deputation arrived.

"One deputation, I remember, complained, hardly pausing for breath
between, that three men had been unjustly tried and sentenced to death
and that you wore the toga.  Augustus did smile--he seldom laughs
outright--and he said, "Which of these is a serious crime?  One I
commit regularly myself!"  ' They have too much money; too much money
by far," Herod said darkly.

"Jews scattered all over the face of the earth, prosperous some of
them, many poor, but all sending back money, sending back money, for
the Temple funds.  But when the harvest failed--oh, long before you
were born--and pestilence broke out; did the damned priests lift a
finger or give a sesterci to help the people?  Did they even remit
their tithes?  They did not.  I remitted my tax, my income, for a whole
year.  I also sold treasures from my Palace that I have never been able
to replace.  My best gold candlesticks ended up in Pontus, I believe;
and there was a table of lapsis lazuli.... I bought corn from Egypt,
they'd had a good harvest, and I gave it away, free.  And what thanks
did I get?  I was trying, they said, to pauperise upright Jewish

citizens by imitating the dole-giving in Rome.  They said that with
their mouths full of my bread.  Ingrates!"

There again, Archelaus thought, the contradictory streak; if when he
ruled a year of famine came, he wouldn't sell a candle to help, leave
alone a candlestick!

"Well," Herod said, 'that's over.  They know I'm alive and well, and
early next week I can go to Caesarea."

That was a new town, his own creation, a beautiful place.  It was
cosmopolitan too, and the heavy leaden hand of the Jewish faith lay
there so lightly as hardly to be felt at all.  There he would not be
expected to dine with six priests and spend the evening in solemn
conversation.

Archelaus said, "May I come with you?"  eagerly.

"It's about time you went to Rome again," Herod said.

"You can do a double errand there.  You can give Caesar a first-hand
account of my health.  I think you'll know what to say about that I And
you can find out his favourite sculptor and his favourite pose and
order a statue, twice life-size, to go in the atrium of the new baths
at Calirrhoe.  I owe my throne to the Emperor and my life to Calirrhoe,
and that would be a suitable way of combining my expressions of
gratitude.  You can let that information fall in a casual way.  Even
flattery profits by a touch of subtlety; always remember that, my
boy."

"I know exactly what you mean," Archelaus said, thinking-That's
clever!

"I believe you do; otherwise I should not be sending you.  You can come
to Caesarea and take ship from there.  Now I will go and don my
detested toga, so that the High Priest's disapproval lends some flavour
to this dismal meal."

It would be, as always on these occasions, as nearly meagre as could be
served at a King's table.  The Jews had all these ridiculous rules
about what could and what could not be eaten or drunk; let them abide
by them.  The meal this evening would be just that served in any
well-to-do Jewish family's household; mutton and beans, onions and
horse-radish.  And the wine would be a cheap local product, from grapes
grown on Jewish soil, gathered by Jewish hands, the wine of Kiddush.
Herod himself much preferred Falernian.

There would be one bright spot in the evening, too; sooner or later the
priests were bound to mention the new taxes and the census; and there
Herod would be on very sound ground.  He could say, "Caesar gave that
order; I had nothing to do with it.  You should have sent a deputation
to Rome if you had any valid objection."

There was another comforting thought.  On the last occasion when he
entertained the Sanhedrin members, he'd been in the throes of his
illness; ravenously hungry; the miserable meal had done nothing to
appease the wolves gnawing in his belly and he had hardly been able to
wait until the priests left and he could order another, better meal,
knowing all the time that it would merely feed the wolves and
strengthen them for tomorrow's assault.  Tonight he would be able to
eat normally.

He was hardly inside the Palace when one of the stewards came bustling
up to say that three travellers had arrived and humbly craved
audience.

They were insistent and were waiting.

"From Rome?"  Herod asked, instantly alert.

"No, my Lord, from the East.  Only one of them speaks a recognisable
tongue."

The East ?  Parthia?

"Who sent them?  What credentials do they carry?"

"None, my lord."

"You are sure of that?"

"Dumah questioned them and is certain they have no mission-except their
own, which is a wish to see you, my lord."

"Then why should they imagine that I should receive them?  If I opened
my door to every chance traveller I might as well be on show in the
menagerie!  Send them away."

"My lord, Dumah did gather that a prince is concerned."

Herod made a sound of exasperation.  Antipater again.  Women?  Debts?

"Is one of these a merchant?"

"So Dumah thought.  A black man; better dressed than the others, and
the spokesman."

Herod could guess what had happened.  In one of their recent quarrels
he had absolutely forbidden Antipater to obtain credit in any city

under his jurisdiction; he had a generous, a wildlygenerous allowance,
and he must keep within it.  But Antipater had simply taken advantage
of the words 'within my jurisdiction' and had gone to the free cities
of the Decapolis and there run up debts.  Now a black-faced fellow,
probably a freedman-and they were the sharpest traders in the
world--had come, with two witnesses, to ask payment.  And his daring to
come showed how highly those citizens of the independent Greek cities
valued themselves.  Insolent upstarts I He was on the verge of saying
that the men should be hustled off, roughly; then he remembered that
the Decapolis was under Roman protection.  The next thing he knew
they'd be sending a deputation to Augustus complaining that Herod had
no control over his own son.

He said, "Tell the Treasurer to deal with it, whatever it is," and
strode angrily along to his own apartments where the attendants waited
to disrobe and dress him again.  But his anger with Antipater had
opened the old wound in his heart: his true sons, his real heirs, had
been Mariamne's sons, and they were dead.  So was she.  And the fact
that he had been responsible for their deaths, planned and ordered the
executions, did nothing to lesson his grief.  A man with a rotting limb
might be driven to cutting it off with his own knife, that he performed
the operation himself would not lessen the pain, nor the loss.

Brusquely he waved aside those waiting to serve him and went to the
high, bronze decorated door that separated his rooms from those of
Mariamne.

Her sleeping chamber, a large room with a silver and ivory bed on a
dais, was warmed by braziers that gave off sweet scent as well as
warmth, and the air was also full of the scent of roses.  A slave had
already lighted many candles, at the sight of Herod, he scuttled away.
The light shone on the flowers and on the dressing table with its
silver mirror, its flasks and pots of rose-crystal, jade and alabaster;
it was just as she had left it.  Easy enough to delude oneself that
this room's occupant, a fastidious woman, superlatively served, had
just been robed, had painted her face and dressed her hair and gone out
of the room for a moment and would, in a moment, be back.  His attitude
towards his murdered wife was the most evident sign of that
contradictory streak in Herod which those close to him had noted.  He
had loved her, distrusted her deeply, and had her killed.  Immediately
after he had given orders that her rooms were to be kept exactly as she
had left them, that she was always to be spoken of as though she were
alive.  He had never cancelled the order for the daily delivery of
roses; during rose-less seasons in Jerusalem they were brought from far
places, cut in bud, wrapped in damp cotton fibre, transported by the
swiftest means, and arranged.  On any occasion when, alive, she would
have shared a meal with him, her place was set; he visited her
apartments once every day as a matter of routine, and frequently at
other times when he was worried, puzzled, exultant, or sorry for
himself.  Often he spoke her name, a thing to which his courtiers and
staff were accustomed but disconcerting to strangers.

There were some who worked in the Palace who were not so sure that the
whole thing was a mere foible.  When Herod called "Mariamne' there was
no answer but an echo; her wraith was never seen, but occasionally
someone walking a hall or a corridor where there were no roses would
become aware of the sweet scent which had been her favourite.  Once a
slave, dusting the table where Mariamne had been used to sit,
beautifying beauty, had dropped and broke a glass phial and then reeled
back, her hand to her face, screaming.  Later she had a bruise to show
to corroborate her story that she had been slapped.  Night-watchmen,
too, told uneasy stories of the behaviour of the hounds which made
their rounds with them.  Over the years the Palace had become a place
where few men willingly walked alone after sunset.

Herod was as jealous of these hints that other people as well as
himself were aware of her as he had been jealous of anyone who
approached her when she was alive.  He, the sceptic, the murderer, the
extremely rational man, liked to believe, did believe, that somewhere
she lived on, entirely his at last, understanding why he had done what
he did, and full of sweet forgiveness and deeply concerned with his
well-being.  This imaginary Mariamne bore little resemblance to the
haughty, intractable Asmodean princess whom he had married from

expediencyand who with a glance or the movement of a hand could convey
her scorn of him, a half-breed upstart and usurper.  In her lifetime
she had never forgiven a misplaced word, much less a wrong, and when he
had killed her brother, who was High Priest at the time, she had
immediately turned to plotting, with her mother, the old Queen
Alexandra, and then with Cleopatra of Egypt, another deadly enemy of
his.  Yet their life together had not been without its good moments;
there had been times when his passion had seemed to evoke an answering
passion in her; and it was around these rare and lovely times that he
had built his fantasy, softening and changing the character of his love
into what he would have wished her to be.  He invariably came to this
room and laid his problems before her; he sat on one particular couch,
emptied his mind, called on her name and waited.  He did so now.

"Mariamne!"  he called; then he told her that he was angry with
Antipater, stared at the nearest bowl of roses and waited.

To his attendants the waiting time seemed long; to Melchior, his nerves
shredding with impatience, it seemed interminable.  But finally Herod
emerged, moving briskly, a slight, puzzled frown on his forehead.

"I've no time," he said to the man who moved forward to begin the
disrobing.

"Three strangers asked to see me.  Run, tell Dumah I will receive them;
in the small Silver Room.  If they've gone, they're to be followed and
brought back.  Run I' To a second attendant he said, "Find Prince
Archelaus and ask him to receive and entertain the High Priest and his
staff until I can join them.  I won't keep them long."

To yet a third he said, "I want no attendants at this interview.

That was unusual; when Herod received visitors he liked to do so in
pomp, surrounded by his lords.

"With guards at the door, my Lord?"

After a second's thought, Herod nodded.  The room was called small
because it was so compared with other audience chambers, but it was
sixty feet long, and whatever these strangers had to tell him could not
be overheard by the guards in the doorway.

And what, he wondered, as he strode, rustling, towards the Silver Room,
could three strangers, without credentials, one a merchant, have to
tell him of such importance and urgency that Mariamne had seemed to
persuade him to change his mind and receive them?  That it was urgent
and important he was sure.  Only once had he acted against the
inspiration which seemed to flow into him as he sat in that quiet,
flower-filled room, and then the result had been regrettable.

As he crossed the shining tessellated floor upon which were portrayed
the seasons of the year, and took his seat in the great silver chair
under a purple canopy, his mind reverted to Parthia where there were
scores of petty kingdoms, loosely knit, some of them chafing under the
Parthian yoke.  It could be that these men 'from the East' were
emissaries of so secret a kind that they carried no credentials.  He
was known to be Caesar's friend and an intriguer with skill and
experience; somebody might have had the idea of making an approach to
Rome through him.  If so it was fortunate that Archelaus was about to
go there and could be entrusted with a verbal message.  And then,
thinking of Archelaus, he was reminded of a tale the boy had brought
back from his last visit.  From somewhere farther away, eastward even
of Parthia, some fellow, Pella, Pelli, Pello, no matter, had appealed
to Augustus for help in regaining a throne he had some kind of claim
to.  Archelaus had recounted how Caesar had called for maps and studied
them and then said, "The place is not even marked..  .."

The three men were brought to the door and there left to make their own
way towards him.

Certainly two of them came from some very distant place; their clothes
were most outlandish.

There was an old man, frail and brittle as an autumn leaf wearing a
curious black hat, like a pent roof, and a stained coat of quilted
cotton cloth, with wide sleeves.  He looked neither to right nor left
as he entered and he was the first man, in Herod's experience, to enter
this room with the beaten silver panels on.  the walls, and the
beautiful floor, and not to show either admiration, envy, disapproval

or awe.  He walked straight forward,moving swiftly, his eyes fixed
upon Herod's face.  A king paying a visit to a king was the thought
that flashed through Herod's mind before he turned his attention upon
the second man.  He was younger, a man in his prime, just as freakishly
clad, but with an air of arrogance.  He showed more awareness of his
surroundings; as he walked his glance took in the room and its
furnishings, and Herod under the canopy, as though he were summing them
all up.  And then, into his eyes, very blue and bright, there came an
expression which suddenly and sharply reminded Herod of Mariamne at her
most scornful.  This man walked with the gait of a man who spent more
time in the saddle than on foot.  The third Herod summed up and
dismissed; black, emasculated, 'well-to-do, typical freedman.

Melchior halted when he was within about six paces of the chair; the
others took their places, one on each side.  Melchior put his right
hand into his left sleeve, his left in his right and made a slight,
formal bow.  Caspar, stiffly upright, raised his right hand in the
desert horseman's salute which Herod, the Idumean, recognised.  The
open palm, turned to face the one greeted, said, "See, I come in peace,
unarmed'.  Balthazar, very conscious that he was in a palace, in the
presence of a king, and that he must do the talking, bowed his head and
bent his knees as he was accustomed to do when entering the Lady's
room.

Herod, with the cordiality which endeared him to people who were not on
personal or political grounds prejudiced against him, said:

"You wished to see me?  What is your errand?"

Melchior put his hand on Balthazar's sleeve.

"Briefly now.  Just ask where the child is and the quickest way to get
there."

Herod leaned his hands on the elaborately wrought arms of the silver
chair and said:

"Ask me yourself!  Your Greek is like mine or near enough, learned from
a book and not much used.  Where do you come from?"

Pyangyong; but that does not matter.  Where is the child?"

"What child?"

"The child whose horoscope I read, nine months and more ago.  I am an
astronomer.  He is of ancient lineage, royal, and will be born, if he
is not, as I fear, already born, no more than ten or twelve miles from
where I stand.  I assure you that it is of the utmost importance that I
should have speech with his parents."

Herod rapidly reviewed his family, his household.  Two sons named
Philip, Antipater, Antipas, Archelaus ... secret liaisons?  Ancient
lineage?  Had he overlooked some Asmodean princeling who had gone into
hiding and spawned?  He said, "There is no child here."

"What did I tell you?"  Melchior said, speaking to Balthazar but
sharing his look of malice between him and Caspar.  To Herod he said,
forcing himself to courtesy: "We are sorry to have troubled you.  It
was a mistake.  My friend here was under the delusion that the child
would be born King of the Jews."

"Nobody can be born to that title.  I hold it by favour of Caesar
Augustus, who will choose my successor."  And even as he said the words
something clicked into place at the back of his mind.  Ancient, royal
line, King of the Jews..  ..

His attachment to the Jewish faith was purely formal and expedient; in
public he kept the law, in public he observed the rites.  Of Jewish
history he was ignorant, and of Jewish literature.  His mother had been
a Jewess, but he'd spent no time with her; his father, a brilliant
soldier and a shrewd politician, had been his hero, and from the moment
that he was safe on a horse he had been his father's companion.
Mariamne, however, was as learned as any scribe, and she had often
entertained him with stories; it was she who had told him about Esau
and Jacob, about Solomon whose glory had stunned the Queen of Sheba,
about Samson slaying a lion barehanded, and Baalam's ass which had
spoken with a human tongue.  He had always welcomed such stories
because Mariamne had related them in moments of friendliness.

What he remembered now was not a story and it had not been told in a
friendly mood; it had been flung at him, in the middle of one of their
quarrels, like a stone.  Something about a Messiah, of the house of
David, who would deliver the Jews from their enemies, 'of whom you are

first and foremost!"Mariamne had said.

Melchior said, "If you will excuse us.  Time is of importance, and we
still have some distance to travel."

"Wait," Herod said.

"It is possible that I may be able to help you."

Experts were handy.  By this time the High Priest and his companions
would have arrived, been received by Archelaus, and be waiting for
their dinner.  They would know all about the legend, the prophecy, as
Mariamne had called it.

He was about to clap his hands and call and attract the attention of
the guards when caution intervened.  Mariamne again?

The priests were all sensible, hard-headed fellows, as professionally
priests as he was professionally King; but you never knew; there might
be one amongst them who was susceptible to Jewish myths, who might go
out and talk, who might even see some way of turning this information
to his own advantage.  It would be far better to keep this trio and the
priests apart.

There was another thing to consider, too; the High Priest's dignity,
the respect that he considered due to his office.  He might very well
already be offended at being received by Archelaus, instead of Herod
himself; he would almost certainly be incensed to be sent for.  Hating
the High Priest, and all his works and ways, liking to annoy him as far
as it was safe, Herod was never blind to the fact that the man had
power.

Everywhere that the Romans went they liked to use the existing
mechanics of government and they had recognised that to a very
religious nation like the Jews the priesthood was a source of
authority.  Twice during his early reign Herod had asserted himself
against a High Priest, and though he had survived, he had learned to be
careful.  Cold, formal, just-sufficient civility cost nothing.

"I shall not delay you long," he said to Melchior, and rose to his feet
and rustled away, his wily mind already busy with the question of how
to extract information without giving any.

"Perhaps we have not, after all, wasted time," Balthazar said.  He
spoke timidly, still feeling guilty about his .obstinacy over the
gateway, and also deeply disappointed because nothing had happened.  He
had recognised the gateway as surely as he had recognised Melchior and
Caspar, and the robe and the turban and the sandals.  And he had seen
the star, with which Melchior's errand was involved.  All the
ingredients were now assembled and yet nothing had happened.  And--with
shame he admitted this--he was terribly hungry again.

"We shall see," Melchior said noncommittally.

Caspar said, "I shall give this man no gifts; he is already decked like
a kept woman, and he smells like one.  Also he is ignorant.  Water was
not offered us.  Nor food I' All the time that the incomprehensible
talk had been going on he had been watching Herod, and like many other
men, far more sophisticated and experienced, had been deceived. Another
dressed-up jewel-hung figurehead, with soft hands and nails trimmed
like a woman's, he had thought; no ally for a man like me.  His
thoughts had reverted to the wild men of the hills, of whom he had so
far seen no sign at all.

"To wash, to eat, would have wasted more time," Melchior said.

"Not if food and water had been offered, as they should have been, when
we arrived.  Of all that talk, I understood one word.  Caesar Augustus,
he said.  What did he say of him?"

Melchior dredged up the remark, unimportant and therefore already half
forgotten.

"Oh, he said that he held his throne by favour and that the one who
follows him will be chosen, not born to rule.  Which confirms what I
said; this is not the place and we should not have come here.  How long
is he intending to keep us waiting?"

Caspar began to prowl about the room, noting the great urns of jaspar,
the braziers exuding scent as well as heat, the marble troughs, the
hanging baskets, filled with flowers, the silken draperies, the
soft--he prodded them with a stiff finger-cushions in the silver chair.
All familiar, all contemptible.  Jexal all over again.  The city rot,
the city stink!  He swung on his heel and turned to Melchior.

"Ask him one thing for me.  How many rebels are there in the hills."


"Three less than there were," Melchior said with his thinsmile.  He
really must remember not to allow his exasperation with Caspar to show;
but for him the camels would have been lost.  Balthazar had his uses
too; but Melchior wished once more that it had been possible for him to
make the journey alone___ He began to twist his hands together, pulling
at his fingers so that the joints gave off little brittle snapping
sounds.

"They were not the true men," Caspar said.

"They were I robbers, and witless ones at that."  His lips moved in a
smile as 4 he remembered the speed and efficiency with which he had
done the killing.

"I shall now count up to a hundred," said Melchior who had spent his
youth in an ordinary house and the rest of his life in a room twelve
feet square and had no notion of the distances in palaces, 'and then I
shall leave.  No information he can give is worth this delay.  The star
is my guide."  He began to count and had reached twenty when Herod came
back.

Neither Melchior nor Balthazar noted any change in his appearance, but
Caspar knew the symptoms of fear as well as any man alive.  He saw that
just at the base of Herod's strong, arched nostrils there were tiny
white patches as though fingers had pressed there and been withdrawn.
He thought--Something has frightened him, and he is a man who might be
dangerous when frightened.  He changed his stance.

Herod had wasted no time.  He had taken a short cut to the opposite
side of the Palace, the side entered from a court in which there was
nothing likely to offend the most fanatical Jew.

The room in which he always entertained members of the Sanhedrin was
likewise void of anything offensive.  The tiles on the floor were
plain, the walls lined with cedarwood and undercoated, the candlesticks
of solid, unchased silver.  There were three low tables of green
marble, arranged to make three sides of a square, and on the outer side
of the tables were divans covered in green velvet.  Herod had learned
in Rome that the ideal number for an intimate dinner was nine; tonight
there were six priests, himself and two government officials, both Jews
and both from priestly families.

In Roman fashion, too, this dinner was beginning with wine and a
selection of small delicacies at which early guests could nibble while
awaiting later arrivals, but the wine was sweeter than any Roman of
taste would have drunk before a meal, and the variety of titbits was
limited because of the dietary rules.

The greetings on Herod's side were a shade more cordial than usual
because he had kept them waiting, and must keep them waiting again.
Time mattered, but he must not appear hurried.  So he sat down in the
place which Archelaus had vacated and accepted the cup of wine which
the boy, forestalling anyone else, poured, asking as he presented it,
"May I go now?  I have an engagement of my own."

"Yes, go.  I'm sorry you have been delayed.  I apologise to you all for
this delay.  Three men arrived, unexpectedly.  They are on their way to
the Essenes at Quram."  That was a cunning touch.  Mention the Essenes
to an orthodox priest and he flinched as though touched by a red-hot
iron.  The Essenes lived apart, were celibate, owned nothing,
everything being the property of the community, in many ways their
beliefs and their ritual did not conform to the Law by which ordinary
Jews lived; they claimed to be at once better informed and more holy
than secular priests.  Herod disliked them every bit as much as the
High Priest did, but he had hit on the use of their name both as cover
for his question and as a means of quelling before it arose any
interest the priests might feel in his visitors.

"These three," he said, having watched the effect of the word, 'are
argumentative amongst themselves; only one speaks Greek; they have no
Latin, no Aramaic.  So far as I can make out they are arguing about the
Messiah and his prophesied birthplace."

As he had aged the High Priest's face had dropped into jowls below his
jaw, small, well-filled pouches which at the word "Messiah' seemed to
fall lower and go limp.  Other faces altered in other ways.  They were
all Jews, all, in theory at least, believers in the prophets and their
prophecies, but the word inspired no welcome.  Consternation rather.
They were professional priests, very comfortably situated, enjoying
less authority than they considered to be their due, but protected,
respected, provided for, easily performing their set duties, happily
collecting their set dues.  The actual arrival, on earth, of the

promisedMessiah, the Son of God, could only disrupt their lives.

The High Priest recovered himself quickly.  The mention of the Messiah,
made by, of all people, Herod, had disconcerted him for a moment, but
it was, he reflected, just the kind of thing which curious strangers,
bound on a visit to an Essene community would wish to discuss.  He
said:

"The place, by tradition, is Bethlehem."  His voice took on the note of
one who quotes, knowledgeably.

"And thou Bethlehem, in the land of Juda, art not the least among the
princes of Juda;

for out of thee shall come a governor that shall rule my people
Israel.

That is the prophecy; does it settle the argument?"

Herod remembered the certainty with which the old man in the curious
hat had said, "No more than ten or twelve miles from where I stand."
Now the High Priest had said the place was Bethlehem, the city of
David.  It was at this moment that the white patches made their
appearance beside his nostrils and they were not, as Caspar was
presently to suppose, the brand of fear, they were signs of a deadly
determination.

He said lightly, "Armed with that information from the highest
authority, they can go and argue with the Essenes."  He took a sip from
his cup and set it down.

"I shall be with you before the first dish is served."  He rose and
rustled away.

The priests began to talk amongst themselves, about the Essenes, and
then, free of Archelaus' presence, about Herod.  Only one of them took
no part in the conversation, but sat brooding.

He was a friend of Zacharias, had actually been on duty with him in the
Temple when the older man had stiffened and stared and seemed to go
into a cataleptic trance from which he had emerged completely dumb.
Some time after that Zacharias' wife, a woman far past child-bearing
age, had become obviously pregnant, and in the previous midsummer, she
had borne a son.  On the eighth day after the birth the child had been
circumcised and named, and Elkanah had been invited to be present at
the joyful ceremony.  And a very curious thing had happened.  Everybody
had taken it for granted that the boy should be named after his father,
but when the moment came, Elisabeth, a very quiet and retiring woman,
had suddenly raised her voice and said: "Not so; he shall be called
John."

The fact that at her age she had borne a child at all had attracted
attention and there had been many neighbours present and practically
every relative on both sides of the family except Mary, a cousin
married to a carpenter in Nazareth, who was pregnant herself, and when
Elisabeth said "John," all the families had burst into protest.  In
neither family had there ever been a man of that name.  Boys were
always named for their fathers or some respected elderly relative or
friend.  Why John?  everybody asked.  But Elisabeth was adamant, the
child must be named with the name which she had chosen.  It seemed
arbitrary and someone had suggested that Zacharias should be asked.
They had made signs at him, assuming, as everybody always did, that a.
dumb man must necessarily be deaf as well.  Zacharias had written upon
one of the prepared tablets which since his affliction he had always
carried, and he had held it out to be read by the nearest literate
person, who happened to be Elkanah; and what Elkanah had read out was,
"His name is John."  Not should be, or will be, or even must be, just,
"His name is John," as though in another place the child had already
been named.

So the alien-sounding name had been given, and that was no sooner done
than Zacharias recovered his power of speech and burst into a chanting
song, declaring that this child should go before the face of the Lord
to prepare his ways.  That was six months ago.  Now there were men
asking where the Messiah should be born.  Elkanah had a great deal to
think about... .

To the three waiting men Herod said :

"I have wise men in my household.  I have consulted them and there is a
general agreement that a. child of some importance may be born in
Bethlehem."

"South of here," Melchior said, not asking a question, stating a
fact.

"Thank you, we know now what road to ask for in leaving the city.  That
will help."

His hands moved towards his sleeves, he was about to take hasty leave

when Herod said, "Wait," and at the same time Caspar said:"Ask him my
question!"

"This one," Melchior said, past all patience, 'would be a good
companion were he dumb.  Now before we can leave he must ask, how many
unruly men live in the hills?"

Momentarily diverted by this inconsequent question, Herod said:

"Six hundred; debtors hiding from their creditors, men hiding from
their wives."

"Six hundred," Melchior said to Caspar in the tongue they shared.  And
again he made the preliminary gesture of polite leave-taking.

"I wanted to ask you a favour," Herod said.

"If this child is as important as you say..."

"Nothing that I could say would tell you how important," Melchior
said.

"And for that reason I must go."

"Go," Herod said, 'go swiftly; search diligently; but when you have
found him, come back and tell me where and in what condition you found
him.  Of such importance and born in my realm, it would be only right
that I should make some sign of recognition.  You will, in any case, be
returning this way."

Something in his speech struck Melchior as being very odd.  If the man
had his own soothsayers, or whatever they were, who could pin-point the
very place of birth for the child, why should he make that request?  It
didn't make sense; and all his life Melchior had dealt with things
which, properly regarded, did make sense.  This man, he thought,
consulted nobody; he looked at a map, came back and gave me a name
within the right distance, and is now relying upon me to return and
tell him where the star led me..  .. And the baby is not of his
lineage, or he would not need to be told.  Such a pity, the old man
thought, looking at Herod with his study-dimmed eyes; I have never yet
deceived anyone, even myself, but this man could be dangerous, and to
him I must lie.  He did it as evasively as he could.  He said: "That is
indeed little to ask in return for the help you have given us."  The
sad truth was that once you came down from your tower you had to deal
with people, and in their own currency.  He had made what sounded like
a promise, while privately determining that neither he nor either of
the others would come back this way.

Then Herod, all unwittingly, confirmed Melchior's worst suspicions.
Anxious to ingratiate himself, he belatedly offered refreshments.

"Thank you, no!"  Melchior said.

"We must be on our way."  Time was now more pressing than ever.  If
Herod had looked at a map, pinned one leg of the compass on Jerusalem
and set the other leg at ten or twelve miles, he would already know
roughly where that baby was.  And Kings had enormous resources, men on
horseback, men on foot.... Then why ask us to return?  Oh, I see,
because I know; I might be dangerous too.... "We thank you," he said,
making his bow.

"Come, we must go."

Outside the brisk cold wind had cleared the clouds and their star
shone, with a myriad others, lighting the night.  Melchior said, "We
must ride now as we have never ridden before."  Balthazar, very humbly,
said, "The visit was not all wasted time.  We know the place now."

"We know what place he named," Melchior snapped.

"I place no faith in that man.  I shall go where the star leads; and by
the shortest road."  He slapped his camel with a hand that trembled a
little more than it had done.

Herod sat for a little time in the great silver chair in the room where
never before had he been alone.  He said, softly:

"Mariamne.  Mariamne."  And when he felt, in that inexplicable way,
that contact had been established, he said, "I thank you!"  The danger
had been so narrowly avoided.  If he had sent that old man, with all
his dangerous knowledge, away, to go blabbing about royal lineage and
great destiny ... If he hadn't remembered, as willingly or unwillingly
he remembered every word that Mariamne had ever said to him .. . what
might have happened was horrible to contemplate.  If that story had
once reached, in however garbled a fashion, the ears of the

religiouspatriots amongst the Jews almost anything could have been
expected.  More than once during his reign Herod had seen what
religious frenzy could do to a crowd.  Unarmed, they had lain down in
the streets and allowed themselves to be trampled to death in the
attempt to hold up the progress of something obnoxious to their faith.
Give them a fulfilled prophecy, a glimmer of hope in Jehovah's direct
intervention, and they would rise in full-scale revolt; and that would
mean military action on the part of Rome, a proconsul established in
Jerusalem, the end of Herod.

However, thanks to Mariamne that had been avoided.  The child would be
identified and, as soon as identified, slain.  The three men would
return, and once they had entered the Palace they would never leave it
again.  Herod, who had never shrunk from killing even his nearest and
dearest when policy dictated such action, would think nothing of adding
four more murders to his score.  Killing was effective.  Once, long
ago, when he had seen Mark Antony falling under Cleopatra's spell, he
had advised him, "Kill her!"  If that advice had been taken, how
differently things would have turned out.  He realised that he must not
sit here, thanking Mariamne and inviting her approval of the way in
which he had handled things; it would be injudicious to keep the
priests waiting any longer.

So, ruthless and determined, Herod went in to his dinner.  Melchior,
Caspar and Balthazar, pressing their camels hard, rode through the
starry night, the old man turning every now and again to make certain
that they were not being followed.  In and around Bethlehem little
children slept in their beds, or in their mothers' arms.

twelve A ROMAN BARRACKS Half-mile By Balthazar's reckonings--he had
inquired in the city which gate of exit and which road to take, and how
far to Bethlehem-they had done three-quarters of the last lap of their
journey when Melchior, who had been constantly urging his camel, halted
it and made a moaning noise, like an animal in distress.

"Are you ill?"  Balthazar asked.  It seemed likely to him that the old
man's frail body, so ill-fed and subject to such strain, might at last
have given way.

"This is the wrong road," Melchior said.

"Look!"

The star was now low in the sky, and did appear to be to the left of
them, while the road ran straight ahead.

"But there is only the one road.  I inquired most carefully.  I asked
in the city which gate, and at the gate I asked again.  This is the
road to Bethlehem and all we can do is to follow it and then turn left
to seek the place indicated."

"I can go across country," Melchior said and began to edge his camel
towards the bank which divided the tilled land from the road.

"That is cultivated land."

"Nothing grows in midwinter."

"I was thinking of fences and irrigation ditches, and hard going over
the ploughland."

"And I am thinking how little time is left."  He struck his camel,
which baulked at being asked to mount such an obstacle, but, guided
inexorably, gave in and scrambled awkwardly up the bank, balanced at
the top of it for a precarious second and then plunged down.  The
others followed.

Caspar had understood no word of the talk, but its tone hat been
argumentative and he guessed that his companions well once again

wrangling over direction.  He was indifferent.  He'dcome out to see
what was to be seen and though his observations had been impeded by
Melchior's impatience, and by the need to have every question, every
answer twice translated, he had learned a lot.  He would have been
willing to have turned back towards Jexal upon leaving Jerusalem; but
two things held him fast to Melchior.  One was that without him he
would have been as helpless as a stray dog; in this country he could
not ask for a bite of bread or a cup of water, he the leader of the
Five Hundred, the ruler of Jexal.  His second reason for sticking to
Melchior was that he had been impressed by the old man's powers of
navigating; far away in Jexal he had spoken of Jerusalem as a possible
destination, and with a few tools and his charts, he had found
Jerusalem, grumbling all the time that the city was not in truth, his
destination, and in that he seemed to have been right.  In Jexal he had
said that he was seeking a child, and if--as Caspar was now inclined to
believe--there was a child at the end of the journey, he would know
that Melchior had the ability to use the stars in two ways.  Such a man
could be vastly useful to a ruler.  Melchior was penniless, and far
from home; it was reasonable to suppose that he would welcome an offer
of honourable employment.  Nonetheless the proposition would have to be
put tactfully; the old man had a tough character.  Caspar remembered
how, when the robbers came, he had shown no fear for himself; he hadn't
cried "Save me' he had said "Save the camels."  The members of the Five
Hundred wouldn't laugh and jeer at him, as they did at the scholars and
so-called wise men of Jexal.

The black fellow could be useful too.  Amongst other things that this
trip had taught Caspar was the disadvantage of knowing only one
language in a multi-lingual world.  Suppose the worst came to the
worst, and Rome by supporting Pella, provoked him to strike first, if
he could, and he came this way again, with his Five Hundred, strings of
spare horses and an abundance of arms and tried to make contact with
the men-in-the-hills.  (He still had faith in them; and if Herod, the
fop, admitted to the existence of six hundred you could safely double
the number.) What use would it be if nobody could speak to them?  He
wanted Balthazar to go back to Jexal with him too, and give lessons.
The lessons should be compulsory for the young; older men could please
themselves, but he himself would set an example by trying to learn, and
he knew that every man of the Five Hundred who valued his good
opinion-which meant five hundred--would follow.

Balthazar was keeping close to Melchior because it never occurred to
him to do otherwise.  Events in Jerusalem had disappointed him, and he
was conscious of a great gulf between what the star meant to him and
what it meant to Melchior; what connection could there be between a
flashing vision of a whole new world and a child, however famous that
child might live to be?  Yet behind all the confusion something
glimmered.  His insistence upon entering Jerusalem had proved useful;
muddled as things seemed some pattern might yet emerge.  And even
without this hope he could not have left the pair who without him
couldn't have managed; Melchior often spoke sharply to him, Caspar, he
knew, despised him, but a lifetime's slavery had inured him to sharp
speaking and disesteem.

So they rode close; and presently as Balthazar had foreseen they came
to a thickset thorn fence, a living wall, as high as a man.  As far as
they could see in the bright starlight it stretched across their path.
Melchior said, "To the right," and they skirted the fence which
presently, at a corner, ended.  From somewhere within the closed space
a dog barked, geese cackled and a man's voice shouted.

They rode on, and there was a drystone wall, built of stones picked
from the fields it divided.  In many places it was bound and reinforced
by leafless brambles.

"Right again!"  Melchior cried, and they followed the wall until
presently they reached an opening, closed by a stout hurdle held in
place by ropes tied to the thickly thorned bramble stems.

Without hesitation Balthazar made his camel kneel, and while the other
two were struggling to keep their animals on their feet, he untied the
rope, scratching his hands, opened the makeshift gate, held it while
Melchior and Caspar rode through, led his own camel through, and tied
the hurdle in place again.  After that they came, in quick succession,

to two irrigationditches, one narrow enough to be crossed by a camel's
stride, the other wide.  But the camels were unaccustomed to water
except as something to drink.  At the first ditch they drank, against
Melchior's wishes, but Caspar said, "Be reasonable; a drink will keep
them going."  At the second ditch the camels sidled and danced
grotesquely and had to be cajoled and forced into crossing.

But after that it was remarkably easy going, a flat, hard,
uninterrupted space at the far edge of which there were lights.

"There, you see.  We have saved time.  There is the star and there are
the lights of Bethlehem I' But Balthazar had his doubts.  The lights
were indisputable but he had never yet seen a village where every
lighted window was exactly in line with its neighbour and exactly the
same shape and size.  Village lights were haphazard; poor men had low
houses, rich men higher ones; on the ground floor women cooked supper
at about this time, on upper floor ladies dressed their hair.

He said, tentatively, "This might not be a village.  Only Romans build
so straight.  And it's all one building, I think.  It could be a
barracks.  We should do well to avoid it."

"Look how low the star is now.  We have no time to make a detour.  Even
if it is a barracks we can ride past it."

"Not if we are on their ground," Balthazar said, arguing as he had
argued about fences and irrigation ditches, from his greater knowledge
of the country.

"I think we are already trespassing.  This flat ground is where they
march and exercise.  We had better turn back to the ditch and seek
another path."

"I am not going back," Melchior said stubbornly.

"I have come from Pyangyong to deliver a message and I have hardly any
time in which to do it."

"What is it now?"  Caspar asked.

"He thinks it is a barracks, a place for soldiers.  Romans."

"Oh," Caspar said, his interest quickening, 'that I should like to
see."

"By the grave of my fathers," Melchior said, forgetting absolutely that
Caspar had paid for his journey from Jexal and dealt with the robbers,
and that Balthazar's insistence upon entering Jerusalem had enabled him
to pinpoint the source of the threatened treachery, "I am tired of you
both!  I care nothing for his caution, or for your wish to see things.
I go where the star leads and you can please yourselves whether you
come with me or not...," He slapped his camel and rode headlong into a
sentry who cried, "Ho.  Who goes there?"

It was Latin, it meant nothing; no more to Melchior than the voice of
the man shouting above the noise of the dog's barking and the geese
cackling inside the thorn fence.  With one hand he guided his camel to
avoid the man who shouted, with his other he slapped it, to hasten its
pace.  But the sentry had resources that the old man hadn't dreamed of.
He let out another, louder, roaring shout and suddenly the night was
full of men, of bobbing lights, noise.

After that it was all confusion.  Balthazar was prudent enough to make
his camel kneel immediately, so he escaped rough handling; but his
heart sank.  Romans had a passion for law and order; they'd ask who you
were and where you came from, they'd inspect your papers, if you had
any.

Caspar thought--They're alert, which is as it should be; and we have
done nothing wrong; this will enable me to see them at really close
quarters.

Melchior said, "Take me to your chief.  Your khan.  Your head man," and
realised with a lurch of the heart that nobody understood him.  Once
again dependent upon Balthazar whose advice he had disregarded, once
again wasting time.  He looked at the star, moving, moving,... In a
thin voice he said, "Balthazar, speak to them.  Ask for the head man."
Balthazar said, "We ask to have speech with your officer."

"You shall have it," one of the soldiers said.

"Here he is, now."  Caepio, who, with his century, had come to do a two
months' tour in Bethlehem and had arrived a few days before, came out,
treading heavily.

He was in a cheerless mood, missing his drinking companions, the lively
girls he knew, the opportunities for amusement that Jerusalem offered.
Here there was nothing except duty, boredom and Vatinius, the permanent

centurion-in-chargewho acted as though he owned the place.  Caepio
knew all the gossip about this man; he had a blunt tongue and an
inflexible nature, and so, though an experienced and reliable soldier,
had missed the aim of all centurions--to be primus pilus, and had
instead been promoted downstairs and put in charge of this dismal
backwater.  Caepio had expected to find an embittered, disappointed
man, and since he himself was a man with a grievance, he had expected
that they would have a good deal in common.  But he found a contented
man, apparently unaware of how he'd been pushed into a backwater,
apparently pleased with himself and his job, holding himself a little
aloof, and on good terms with several Jews.  There'd been, so far, none
of the " long, grumbling sessions which Caepio had anticipated; nor had
there been the one thing that compensated for the dullness of the
place, leisure.  Vatinius went about finding jobs to keep everyone
busy, and if he couldn't find one, he'd invent one, like a captious
housewife.

That was bad enough; but this evening Caepio felt that he had been
insulted.  A visitor had arrived, not a Jew, a Roman, with a train of
slaves, including a skilled cook, and Vatinius had not invited Caepio
to join them at dinner.

So the centurion was in no mood to be sympathetic to three men who had
come, after dark, and from the rear, on to barracks property. Balthazar
did his best, explaining how they came to be trespassing, assuring
Caepio of their harmlessness, begging to be allowed to proceed.  He was
lavish with the word 'sir' and when that did no good, substituted
'lord'.  All to no avail.  Had they been three stray sheep Caepio would
have impounded them, if only for the pleasure of proving to Vatinius
that while he was feasting--the gentleman's dinner had smelt
delicious--his sentries had been alert, he had been available and
prompt to act.  He could see himself, in the morning, saying, "Oh, by
the way ..."  and relating what had happened.  Vatinius would be almost
certain to ask, "Why didn't you inform me?"  and the answer to that was
civil and correct, yet conveying a slight rebuke, "I thought you would
not wish to be disturbed, sir."  He issued his order.

"Search them."

Melchior, who had nothing to hide, only understood the order when he
saw a soldier advance upon Balthazar; then he cried:

"This is intolerable!  Even the cow-worshippers and the mare-milk
drinkers never treated me thus."

Caspar did not understand the order either, but the action spoke for
itself.  His knife!  He carried it, in its sheath, stuck into the
waistband of his baggy trousers, inside the belt.  He drew in his
stomach muscles sharply and under pretence of a willing raising of his
hands, knocked his wrist against his leather jacket and the knife fell
into the pouch where his trousers overhung his boots.  He had been
standing watching the soldiers with an unwilling admiration; they
seemed well disciplined, they looked hard and tough and clean.  But
when the soldier slapped his hands under his arm, around the waist and
at the knees and said, "Nothing, sir' he thought--These people can be
fooled, too!  And he felt happier.

"What about the camels?"

"Fodder-bags, sir.  And ... these."

"Balthazar," Melchior said, 'tell them not to touch my possessions.  Is
there no law in this country?"

Balthazar said, "Lord, they are the humble tools of his trade.  Without
them he is ruined."

"You'll all be ruined in the morning," Caepio said.

"All right; take them away.  Lock them up, separately."

Melchior cast a despairing look at the star and began to protest,
angrily, in his own tongue.  Caspar said:

"There are too many of them," and he was speaking to Melchior and
himself.  He had quickly calculated their chances of escape by violence
and seen that there was no hope even had his knife been ready in his
hand.  A good soldier must take chances of course, but part of being a
good soldier was knowing when you were hopelessly outnumbered.  And to
give no sign of dismay; so he stalked, a little more arrogantly than
usual, as he was led away.  Melchior went on protesting until he
realised that by doing so he was inviting rough handling; then he
subsided, knowing that a wise man bows to the inevitable once he

knowsthat it is inevitable.  And this, he had, in a way, brought on
himself; he had insisted, against advice, in riding across country.  He
called to Balthazar : "You were right, "I was wrong.  I am sorry."
Balthazar let himself be led away like a sheep.

Even the indignity of being searched had not prepared Gas-par for the
sheer horror of what happened to him next.  They pushed him into a tiny
space, nothing more than a hole in the wall; six feet wide, less than
six feet long.  It was built of brick and whitewashed, and along its
length there was a ledge, also of brick, upon which a man might lie or
sit.  Nothing else at all.  When the door was closed he was walled in,
and once he realised it he began to go mad.  His own simple language
had no word for the peculiar thing he suffered from, the mental quirk
which made him feel uneasy when he rode into Jexal and even more uneasy
when he entered the Palace, that made him prefer the Balcony Room to
any other apartment, made him sleep--once he brought himself to sleep
there--with the door and window of the bedchamber wide open.  There was
no torture that the Romans could have thought of that would have hurt,
hurt, hurt so much as being shut in, in this tiny airless space.

For a time he went frantic, behaving much as a newly captured wild bird
thrust into a small cage will behave.  He tried to break out, throwing
himself against the walls, against the door, against the built-in
bench.  He emitted loud hoarse cries.  He beat his hands bloody, he
bruised his shoulders, his elbows, his thighs.  Then, spent,
suffocating, about to die, he thought of his knife; better to slit your
throat and die quickly than to suffer this torment and be stifled.  One
small remaining grain of sanity told him that this was a desperate
remedy, was there no compromise?  High up in the door was a grating,
could he jump and set his fingers in it and push his nose close,
breathe, control his panic, and live?  Could he?

The grating was set at a level from which anyone in the , passage,
which was higher than the cell, could look in upon the prisoner. Caspar
jumped and jumped, several times missing his hold; but at last he
managed the jump-and-clutch that was necessary and had his fingers
through the grating and hung for a moment against the door, like a
carcase suspended from one limb.  Then he tautened his bruised muscles
and had just succeeded in bringing his face level with the grating when
the guard, attracted by the noise, noticed the protruding, clutching
fingers and dealt them a paralysing blow with the flat of his sword.
The fingers loosed their hold and inside the cell Caspar fell like a
sack, striking his head on the floor.

And he was back in Jexal, easy in the saddle, riding in with Kalim and
Lakma and several others, on a sunny morning along the wide street,
dappled with shade from the trees, all in flower.  Their water bags
were empty and he was thirsty, looking forward to a long cool drink.
They came to the Fountain-of the Maidens, and there Ilya was waiting,
with a great, two-handled silver cup in her pale hands.  As he came
level with her she offered him the cup, and this time there was no
accident; he took the cup in his hands and drank and drank and drank..
..

Outside, the guard thought--That was the noisy one, and I've quietened
him.

Balthazar, pushed into an identical cell, went and sat on the built-in
bed, and thought--This is the end!

The soldier who had searched him had either missed, or not been
interested in the manumission paper which he carried inside his robe.
But tomorrow it would be taken out and studied and its falsity would be
detected.  Tonight's search had been perfunctory--they had missed
Caspar's knife.  Balthazar knew, from his experience in Metellus'
household, how meticulous the Romans were about property and ownership;
if they had the slightest suspicion about his forged paper they would
get in touch with the Lady and she would claim him, and punish him so
severely that he would die.

He looked back, calmly over the event that had brought him to this
situation, and finally he thought--I deluded myself.  Once and once
only did I truly see the future, and that was in Cleo's black ball,
after she had conjured up the vision.  She was a real seer, what she

saw was the truth; she saw the Greekdying, and I, for a moment, shared
her vision.  What I saw afterwards was what I wished to see; a waking
dream, of no more substance than the dreams of sleep.  I wished myself
free, finely clad, in the company of free men.  So I saw what I wished,
and it meant nothing... .

Wait a bit, he said to himself; and he remembered that Metellus had
always said that every bit of evidence must be weighed.  And against
this theory of self-delusion, he must, in fairness, set the fact that
he had found Melchior and Caspar, he had found the very clothes in
which he had seen himself; in Jerusalem he had recognised the
gateway.... But all to what end?  The star had been the link between
him and Melchior, and now, outside in the night it was dying, while in
one little brick cell Melchior fretted over his wasted errand, and in
another Balthazar saw his vision as nonsense and faced the possibility
of death.  And he thought, it might be that it was death that I came
out to seek.  I thought it was the death of the world, but it might be
only my own.  I thought I saw an end to slavery, and death would end my
bondage.  When I die, under the lash, a whole world will die with me;
my world; my youth; my mutilation, my ability as an accountant, my gift
of tongues, everything that-made me me, and not the other fellow, all
my thoughts, my hopes and disappointments.  The death of a man is the
death of a world.  And in death my dream will be fulfilled, for death
does put a slave on the level with a soldier, making all men equal,
death does stop the mouth of hunger, and puts an end to heartbreak and
homesickness.

Thinking these and a multitude of other tumbling thoughts Balthazar was
quiet and gave no trouble.

With Melchior it was otherwise.  He sat down thankfully, and he was
glad to find himself alone in a quiet place, conducive to thought.  He
cast back, in his mind, to the moment when, at the top of his tower, he
had seen this journey as something that must be undertaken, and for the
life of him he could not see that he had at any point made a
miscalculation of such immensity that it resulted in his being
incarcerated here while the star moved on, came to its appointed end
and the whole thing was made nonsense.  In very circumstance he had
been sensible, reasonable, and meticulous.  In turning off the road
perhaps a little impatient, but surely impatience then had been
justified.

He sat very still, but his heart beat so fast and so hard that he could
only breathe in little shallow gasps and his whole body quivered. There
must be some way out.  There always had been, hitherto.  He thought of
how he had arrived in Jexal, penniless on a spent camel--and there had
been Caspar.  Then, when he arrived in a country where nobody
understood him and Gas-par's money was dwindling at an alarming rate,
there'd been Balthazar.  True, outside the walls of Jerusalem he'd
wished he'd never seen either of them, but even that waste of time had
been justified.  Now this!

Inside his distressed old body the trained, obedient mind worked on. He
thought of his own attempted protests in the faces of the grinning
soldiers, the hard-eyed officer; of Balthazar's pleading voice and
subservient manner.  Something had been missing, one decisive,
propulsive word.  A catalyst.  There must be one.  There must be
something--and it must be a word, since there was nothing to be done. A
word known to him, and recognisable to these barbarian men.  Of course;
he had it.  Herod!

He took off his shoe, stood up and went to the door and rapped smartly
on it, just below the grating so that the sound would carry.  He had a
little trouble with his breathing, but he mastered it, drawing a deep
breath, counting while he held it, ten the first time, then twenty. And
when he felt sure of producing a firm clear sound he said:

"Herod."

Then he rapped again, breathed, repeated the word.  The name sounded
and died along the whitewashed passage much as the name of Mariamne
sounded and died through the halls and corridors of Herod's palace.
Even in this extremity Melchior realised the absurdity of calling the
name as though he expected Herod himself to answer; so he began to make
sentences.

"Herod will be very angry," he said in his abominable Greek.


"I was with Herod this afternoon.  Herod is expecting a reportfrom me.
I am on an errand from Herod.  Herod is waiting for me.  Herod, the
king in Jerusalem.  I was in Jerusalem with Herod this afternoon."

He rapped with his shoe, waited, repeated his simple uninformative
sentences, resolutely keeping his voice steady; it would never do to
sound hysterical.

"Herod will be angry.  I was with Herod this afternoon...."  The
soldier on duty at the end of the passage said to another, "The old one
is carrying on now.  Listen!  All gibberish, but it sounds to me as
though every now and then he says "Herod".  What do you think ?"

"I am on an errand for Herod.  Herod is waiting my report..  .."
Melchior chanted.

"Right enough.  It's Herod he's talking about."

"I reckoned they looked a funny lot the minute I clapped eyes on them,"
the one on guard said.

"And Herod's pretty touchy.  Think he ought to be told?"  He nodded his
head in the direction of the place where Caepio might be expected to be
at this hour.

"If I was you, I would."

Caepio came out and listened, and for a moment there was no sound,
Melchior was drawing breath.  Then he rapped and resumed his chant.
Caepio recognised the one important word and it occurred to him that if
the King of Judea was in any way, however remotely, concerned with
these mysterious men the responsibility for retaining them had better
be shuffled, as soon as possible, on to Vatinius.  So he turned, and
went quickly, though still heavy-footed,; towards the little room which
Vatinius regarded as his own, his home.

THIRTEEN

A ROMAN BARRACKS Half-mile Earlier that day, just as the daylight was
fading, a very elegant litter, borne between two mules, had come to a
standstill before the small barracks from which Eunice and Ephorus drew
so much of their custom.  The litter's occupant was obviously a
well-to-do man who travelled in style; there were three pack mules and
four slaves in his train.  The mules were all plump and sleek-coated,
the slaves, young, plump and well dressed; and when from inside the
litter a hand moved and pushed back the bronze-coloured velvet
curtains, it was seen to be a plump hand with a large ruby ring upon
the forefinger.

"Ask," said a voice, well used to issuing orders, 'for the centurion,
Vatinius; and say that Quintilius is here."

Vatinius was inspecting stores.  The last day of December had seen a
fresh century of soldiers come marching down from Jerusalem to occupy
the barracks for three months, and the stores had, as usual at the
change-over, been delivered.  As usual they had been stored, all in
confusion, and Vatinius had waited, tactfully, until Caepio, the
centurion who had come with his men, had had time to settle in and get
things into order.  Like many before him, he had done nothing, so then
Vatinius had said, "This is a filthy mess and muddle; you can't tell
wine from vinegar, honey from oil.  Set a couple of men to put it
straight."  Caepio had heard something of Vatinius' fussy ways--and his
other peculiarities--before he came to Bethlehem; he had given the
order, muttering to himself that he was a soldier, not a housewife. Now
Vatinius was viewing, with only mild approval, the job the two men had
made of the store-room.  The point was, he said to himself, that in an
orderly store-room a depredation was so much more quickly detected.

When the message reached him, he exclaimed, "Quintilius,here?"  and
not waiting even to snatch his cloak, had gone out and stood by the
litter.  The curtains parted more widely and in the failing light the
two men, once comrades-in-arms, closest of friends, had looked one
another in the face for the first time in sixteen years.

Quintilius said, in an easy, jocular way:

"You seem dumb-struck, Vatinius.  I assure you, I am no apparition.  I
am bound for the baths at Calirrhoe--for my gout.  Being in the
neighbourhood and hearing that you were here, I proposed to spend an
evening with you, and cadge a night's lodging."

"A barracks is not a hostelry," Vatinius said; 'but there is one, a
good one, kept by a Greek, only a short distance along the road.  I'll
send a man to guide you."

"But this, I understand, is your home.  I have come to visit you in
your home.  Is this a way to receive an old friend?"

"I told you, long ago in Arcta that if you did .. . what you did ...
you were no friend of mine."

Lowering his voice a little, Quintilius said:

"I am now Caesar's friend.  I think, that if I need to, I could
commandeer this barracks.  But I would prefer to be invited."

After a perceptible pause Vatinius said, "You are invited."

"Good!"  Quintilius said and snapped his fingers.  Two slaves ran
forward, and with tender care, unlashed the litter, lowered it to the
ground, then lifted it--the other two slaves having led the mules out
of the way--and staggering a little under the weight, carried it to the
entry and there set it down, and assisted their master to alight.

Quintilius stood up cautiously, his left foot, swollen and bandaged
inside the soft velvet shoe, barely touching the ground.

"That will do," he said.

"Hand me my stick.  Now, Vatinius, if you will lend me your arm, I
shall manage very well."

With obvious reluctance Vatinius bent his weathered, heavily muscled
arm, and held it stiffly, keeping as much distance as possible between
him and the weight, the warmth, the scent of this man, beside whom he
had once marched and drilled, sweated and laughed and slept, and swum
in the waters of a faraway river called the Rhone.

"Gout," Quintilius said, 'is not a contagious disease."  Damn you,
Vatinius thought, you miss nothing; you never did.

They made slow progress along a straight, lime-washed passage towards
the rear of the building where Vatinius had his quarters.

Quintilius said, "I am well provided; if my fellow can have the use of
a hearth he will prepare a meal which I hope will please you--unless
you have fallen victim to this Oriental nonsense about only breaking
bread with your friends.  Not that I have ever entertained any but
friendly feelings towards you, Vatinius.  Every word you said was fully
justified; I knew that at the time...."

"If you don't mind, I'd prefer not to hark back," Vatinius said.  He
made the opening of a door an excuse for releasing his arm.

"These are my quarters," he said.

It was a fair-sized room, with walls of whitewashed brick.  There was a
heavy wooden table, a chair, and against the wall a wide bench with
curved ends, upon which from time to time, a soldier lay to submit
himself to such rough surgery as an experienced centurion could
perform.  There was a set of shelves upon which maps and rolled records
were ranged with precision, and there was a row of hooks which held
weapons and equipment.  An oil lamp, just lighted and emitting a faint,
disagreeable odour, stood on a wall bracket, and a candle burned in an
iron stick on the table.  An uncurtained alcove in one side wall was
furnished with a hard-looking bed and an iron tripod holding a basin
and ewer.  In the outer wall a shutter rattled in the wind.  The
general effect was neat, soldierly and cheerless.

"How familiar it smells," Quintilius said.

"So this is your home."

It had been his home for a little more than three years, and Vatinius
had never before entered it without a small secret feeling of
satisfaction.  His ultimate goal, to become primus pilus, he had never
achieved, but out of the shifting, homeless thing that was army life,

he had made his little niche for himself, and for three years he had
enjoyed more independence, more privacy and more authority than most of
his kind could hope for.

Tonight, however, viewing the only home he had through Quintilius'
eyes, he saw it as stark, devoid of comfort, and impermanent.  It was
not his own; it was government property and his tenuous hold upon it
could be ended tomorrow by a word spoken by a man he had never seen,
and to whom he, Vatinius, was not,even a name.

He said, "You'll need a cushion, even on the chair."

"I shall need three," Quintilius amended, glancing at the bench where
Vatinius had pulled aching teeth and set broken bones.  Two of the big
cushions from his litter along its length and one between its head and
the wall and it would be converted into a couch of moderate comfort.

"I'll have them fetched," Vatinius said.  As he went into the passage
to shout the order, he thought--He's had a long experience in making
himself comfortable.  Unwillingly he remembered various occasions in
the past when Quintilius' genius for finding the easiest way, the best
place, the little bit extra, had contributed to his own well-being.

Propped on his stick, leaning his hip against the table as he waited
for the cushions to be brought, Quintilius said, when Vatinius
reentered:

"So you are in charge here?  Permanently?"

"You should know that in the army nothing is permanent.  I've been here
rather more than three years.  The place is occupied by one century,
for two months, turn and turn about, and there was always trouble about
the state it was left in, or a discrepancy in the stores.  So the
tribune decided that it would be best if one man was made wholly
responsible, and stayed here.  I was chosen."

Quintilius remembered the gossip in the Antonia in Jerusalem; blunt
tongued, inflexible by nature, and thirty-five years old, and without a
single black mark on his charge sheet, Vatinius had been steered into
this backwater by very willing hands; and here would stay, if authority
had its way, until he reached retirement age, or became infirm.

"If the appointment pleases you, my congratulations," he said.

"And I think it does please you.  You have the look of a contented
man."

Vatinius realised, with a slight shock, that up to the moment of
Quintilius' arrival he had been contented.  Too easily contented?

The entry of an orderly bearing the three cushions, gave him an excuse
for making no reply.  The cushions were placed and Quintilius arranged
himself.  Then one of the slaves came in, soft-footed, to say that the
meal would be ready in an hour; another brought in a tall flagon, made
of glass, in a filigree net of silver and two wine-cups, silver,
decorated with a pattern of vine-leaves, the tendrils making the
handles.  A third brought a flat silver dish containing salted prawns,
sardines and anchovies, olives and almonds, delicacies calculated to
provoke appetite without allaying it, and to keep thirst lively.

"I have brought you a really prime Falernian," Quintilius said to
Vatinius.  To the slaves he said, "Bring the table nearer to me, then
you can go and I will pour.  Now Vatinius, turn the chair about and
make yourself comfortable."

He reached out his plump, beringed hand; and Vatinius saw the lean,
brown calloused hand of his young fellow legionary.  The mental vision
shifted and expanded, and he saw two young men, walking back from the
Games in the arena at Arcta; heard himself say, "Then you choose
between him and me.  Nobody's boy-wife is going to be a friend of mine.
If you take up with that turd, Marius, I shall never speak to you
again!"

All long ago and far away.  And it was crazy to think that now, by
eating and drinking and talking with him, one was condoning.  It was
crazier still to feel that in some subtle way the food and the wine
were contaminated.  He'd eaten, in his time, what was practically
carrion, drunk out of filthy ditches.

There was also--and this he must face, rationally--the practical
considerations.  Quintilius had said something about falling victim to
Oriental nonsense; and Vatinius knew what was said of him in
Jerusalem--'as near Jew as a non-Jew can be'.  It needed only one
malicious remark, which Quintilius was capable of making, and somebody
was going to say, "It's high time Vatinius was shifted."  On at least

two occasions, when soldiershad come into conflict with the natives,
he had tried to be impartial; that would not have escaped the sharp eye
of authority, or done him any good.  Better be careful.  He took up his
cup and deliberately chose one of the salted prawns.

Quintilius, before drinking, tilted his cup a little and spilled a few
drops, a libation to the gods.

"Good fortune, Vatinius!  Now, let me look at you.  You have worn very
well.  Very well.  I swear that had I met you in Sabatra, I should have
recognised you.  You could hardly say, I fear, the same of me."

"I might have blinked twice.  But I should have known you.  Inside
every fat, middle-aged man, if you look close enough, you can see the
young man he once was."

"You never learned, did you?  That blunt tongue of yours!  Fat,
middle-aged.  True, most regrettably true; but such things should not
have been said.  You should have remarked that my hair has not receded,
and my teeth are sound."

The words, though a rebuke, were spoken with such charm, such good
nature, that something in Vatinius wished to respond and say that
indeed the hair, the teeth were as beautiful as they ever had been; but
he stiffened himself and said: Tm too old to learn such civilities
now."

"You were always," Quintilius said, 'the most honest man I ever met.  I
fear you always will be."  His bright glance cast about the bare rooms
and made a silent comment--This is where an honest man lands!

"Yes," Vatinius said, 'you are right.  Not about the honesty; if I'm
honest it's no more to my credit than the length of my foot.  I have,
all along, tripped over my tongue."

"Not for lack of warning."

That was dangerously close to harking back; so Vatinius said, again
gruffly and bluntly:

"What exactly are you doing here?  You spoke of Caesar's
friendship--but even that would not empower you to commandeer barracks,
unless you had some special errand."

"How very indiscreet of me to have said that!  The sight of you, after
all these years, and wearing such an unwelcoming look, must have
disarmed me.  Still, between old friends ... Or is that harking back?
... here and there along my route I have paid more attention to
Caesar's business than to my own.  Gout, oddly enough, is a most useful
travelling companion; it comes and goes.  There are days when even the
jolting of my litter would be intolerable.  So I can always halt when
I'm interested and move on when I'm bored."

Vatinius was on the point of asking what there was of interest in a
subsidiary barracks just outside Bethlehem, but that might be twisted
by Quintilius into sounding self-important.  He'd find out in another
way, if he could, if there was anything to find out.  Quintilius as he
remembered him had a better appetite than head for wine; and he had
already emptied his cup and refilled it.

"Let me not be egotistic," Quintilius said.

"Tell me something about yourself.  You were at Colenus, were you
not?"

Nobody ever spoke of that engagement as a battle; rightly so; it had
been a bloody massacre of trained Roman soldiers by ill-armed barbarian
Germans.

"I was there.  Of our maniple fourteen survived, all wounded.  And of
that fourteen I am the only one still serving."

"I heard of it, and wondered about you.  It was quite a time before I
learned that you had been fortunate and that I had wasted my grief."

Vatinius remembered the nightfall on that green meadow, where the grass
had slowly shed its round flowers of blood; and how, as they counted
their dead and did what they could for the wounded, he had wished
Quintilius among the dead, a friend who could be rightly mourned and
remembered with respect.  A curious thing to remember now, with the
man, so sleek and prosperous, here in his room.  He made no comment
upon Quintilius' mention of having grieved for him, though he believed
it.  He sat looking at the grain in the scrubbed table top.  The
silence grew.

"I went to Alexandria, and to Corinth, to Rhodes, Crete and Cyprus.
Marius died there, poor man, at Pathos Apart from a tactful, token
legacy to Caesar, he left me all he had; he was richer than anyone
guessed.  But, as I explained to you at the time, mere money was never

my objective."That was true, Quintilius had said at the time--I'm not
doing it for money; I'm doing it to escape, to have some pleasure and
comfort and status.  What have we to hope for if we aren't killed?  To
reach centurion's rank, and be honourably retired and granted a few
acres of land to grub a living out of, like a peasant.  Straighten out
your ideas, Vatinius, and as soon as I am established I'll find you a
rich gentleman friend in Marius' circle, who'll do as much for you. And
to that Vatinius had replied--I can tell you where you'll end, with a
painted face, soliciting outside the baths I He now said, "Did you
break your journey here for the purpose of showing me how well things
had gone with you?"

Quintilius said pleasantly, "Well, I thought that if the years had
brought you tolerance you might like to know that your direst
predictions had not been fulfilled.  And if they haven't you might be
interested to hear that I have rehabilitated myself.

The means was to hand.  A widow, very well connected.  Her husband--as
I have reason to know-was impotent; can you imagine a woman married for
twelve years and still a virgin?

There's not the slightest doubt in my mind that, tiring of her state,
she poisoned him.  She was not young, and she died in childbed.  No
condolences are necessary, she was not of an amiable nature.  The boy
is all I could wish, almost thirteen years old.  Handsome and
intelligent.  And though his father was merely rich, his mother was a
Flavian, so he'll never have the troubles we did."

"Upon him," Vatinius said, "I congratulate you."  He was not--or at
least not consciously--envious of this success story; but as Quintilius
told it he seemed to realise something that had hitherto escaped him.
The job in which he had been so happy and satisfied was virtually a
sinecure; he was nothing but a figurehead.  Each century that marched
down the road brought its own centurion with it; every duty was known
and assigned; he was treated with respect, he was in charge but he was
nothing but a caretaker, a stock-keeper.  There wasn't, for example, a
single thing which he could at this moment claim called for his
attention so that he could get away from this man, out of this room. If
fire broke out, or a wall fell down, or twenty men fell sick at the
same moment Caepio would deal with the crisis and report it in the
morning.  By this time every-body in the place would know that he had a
guest: they'd say-A Roman, for a change and respect his privacy all the
more for that.  So here he was, stuck with Quintilius, and the endless
evening stretched ahead.

"I had a very interesting stay in Jerusalem," Quintilius said, moving
to another subject with the skill of a socially expert man.

"Herod has made vast improvements.  The Hippodrome is one of the best I
have seen.  Well patronised, too.  A surprising number of Jews seem to
have come round to the idea.  Of course, at the gateways an even
greater number were expressing disapproval, groaning and making
peculiar hissing noises.  Strange people, don't you think?  Or are you,
like most Romans, oblivious to them so long as they behave?"

"I know several Jews.  The ones in this district are simple people,
inclined to credit me with powers I don't possess, so they come with
complaints and pleas.  If I can deal with the matter I do so, if not I
explain, or advise, and I must say I've always found them very
reasonable and responsive."

"You have friends amongst them?"

"So that's it!"  Vatinius set down his cup with a jolt which slopped
the wine.

"That's why you came.  To spy on me.  By the blood of the bull, who'd
have dreamed that I warranted so much attention?  Very well then!
Ebenezer's cabbage field was ruined and I said so in my report; and
that lout Crassus did attempt to rape Caleb's daughter, and I punished
him to the utmost, not for the attempt, which could never be proved,
but for being late back, for being improperly clad, for dumb insolence
and everything else I could find against him.  I know what stories get
back to Jerusalem, but I don't care.  We're supposed to be an occupying
army, not an invading rabble."

"You sound very heated," Quintilius said.  He leaned over and filled
Vatinius' cup.

"As for spying upon you, my dear man you must know there is no need.  A
hundred men and a centurion go back to Jerusalem six times a year.
Clever as I am, could I learn in an evening what they had failed to see

in two months?""Yes; that was absurd.  The thing is that over the
cabbage field and the girl what I did was extremely unpopular.  I have
made friends here.  Ask yourself what my life would be if I hadn't.  A
hundred men come, after two months they go.  I can't consort with the
men and every single centurion who has ever come here has resented me,
openly or covertly.  So they go away and call me a Jew-lover."

"I sympathise with you," Quintilius said, and he sounded sincere.

"It's strange, isn't it, how unpopularity centres around nationality;
in Jerusalem they still call Herod "that Idumean".  He's a character,
if you like.  I dined with him one evening.  He complained bitterly of
the Jews' ingratitude towards him; he knows he is unpopular, yet he
never does anything to endear himself to his people."

"What could he do?  A murderer many times over."  Vatinius remembered
the light way in which Quintilius had accused his late wife of murder,
and felt bound to explain.

"Jews--the pious sort--have respect for human life; that is why they
don't like the Games or the chariot races."

"At least Antipater is popular."

"Is he?  Is he?  I should say that most people cheer him as a means of
knocking Herod on the nose.  And it's dangerous for him.  My friends
never expect to see him on the throne."

"Indeed; why not?"

"To be popular isn't healthy, if you're Herod's son."

"About that, I must tell you a joke."  Quintilius poured wine.

"Caesar made a pun, in Greek--Better Herod's pig than his son, meaning
that Herod would kill his son, but being half-Jew, wouldn't touch a
pig.  The point is that when Herod has no Jew at his table, he eats
just as you and I would.  And what do you think his favourite food is?
This is true, he told me himself.  That hard, pork-and-garlic, Danubian
sausage that you and I used to carry to supplement our rations."

Sliding back, Vatinius thought, back to the pleasant, rambling talks
that we used to have, the kind of talk I've never had with anyone else.
He was always so interested in everything.  And it was his mind I
loved, not his body, splendid as it was.  Yet when he sold his
body--for that is what it amounts to, and he sold it twice, to Marius
for money, to the widow for position-I cut him off, disregarding his
mind.

"If your friends don't expect to be ruled by Antipater, what do they
look for?"

"How should I know?"  Vatinius asked, with a return to his old
gruffness.

"The Jews I know are not politicians; they're poor simple men whose
main concern is to make a living.  And if they had political opinions
they would conceal them from me, out of courtesy.  I can tell you this.
It'll interest you.  Their main hope centres around a bit of folklore.
They believe that their -subjection is the result of their god's
displeasure and that in his own good time he will deliver them by
sending them what they call a Messiah.  But neither Caesar nor Herod
need tremble, because this Messiah is to be born of a virgin.  So by my
reckoning they have a long time to wait."

"Oh well, how was Minerva born?  Or Mithras?  He was born of a rock we
are told.  As a putative parent, rock or virgin, I'd wager on the
latter, wouldn't you?  Remember how we toyed with Mithraism?  In those
days I thought that the rock birth was symbolic.  One says, sound as,
solid as, immovable as a rock, Qualities that make Mithras superbly
suitable to be a soldier's god, I understand that more and more go over
to him every day.  Now a god born of a virgin sounds unlikely to be a
deliverer of a subject people, don't you think?  Very innocent, pretty,
pure and sentimental.  I've noticed that at the Games the Vestal
Virgins--though, their virginity is largely a matter of
nomenclature--are always the first to turn up their thumbs and lead the
crowd to spare the defeated.  If symbolism counts this Messiah would be
a curious kind of god."

"Ah," said Vatinius, throwing himself into the argument, 'according to
my friends, he'd also be the son of Jehovah; and about him there is
nothing pretty or sentimental.  He's a god of battles, and he laid down
a code of behaviour, stricter than any ... I ever heard of."  He had
paused and added the last four words in a trailing voice, for he had
remembered what one of his Jewish friends had said about Jehovah and
men like Marius and Quintilius.

"They shall surely be put to death."  And when Caleb had told him that,

Vatinius had thought--Well, thatwould be a way of putting a stop to
it, this thing, which like a disease was spreading rampantly, was no
longer disapproved of, was used as a ladder by ambitious young men.

And here he was, with the man to whom he had sworn never again to
speak, succumbing to the old charm.  He folded his hands into fists and
pushed the knuckles together, wishing with all his heart that
something, anything, might happen that Caepio couldn't deal with and
that he might be called away.

Relief was at hand.  The slaves came in and began to reset the table.
Quintilius reached for his stick and stood up.

"The bog," Vatinius said, 'is next on the right."  Without thinking he
had used the old army word.

"And if you want to wash .. ."  He indicated the tripod in the
alcove.

"I'll get a clean towel."

He made no attempt to help Quintilius along the short length of passage
to the latrine; he laid the clean towel on the edge of the bowl and
then made a rapid survey of his small domain, still hoping against hope
that there might be something that would give him an excuse for not
sitting down to eat with his self-providing, self-invited guest.  Too
many memories were involved; all the meals he had eaten with
Quintilius; hasty meals on the march, dull regulation meals in
barracks, and those happy times, when, their free times coinciding,
they could take a loaf, some cheese or meat, a little fruit and if
Quintilius had succeeded in one of his little schemes, some wine, and
walk away and find a place, sheltered in winter, shaded in summer, and
throw themselves down and eat and drink and talk, and be not soldiers,
rigid and purposeful, but two young men, interested in everything and
involved in nothing.

But in the whole of the little barracks there was not one thing which
justified a moment's absence.  He went back to his room, and saw
Quintilius drop the used towel on the floor and begin to hobble back to
his couch, and then the slaves, with nice timing, brought in the first
dish.

"These mullet;' Quintilius said, 'were alive this morning in a pool not
far from the Antonia.  And if Plautus, my flat-foot, has smothered
their delicate flavour with a sauce too highly spiced, he'll smart for
it."

Fresh fish, as opposed to the salted and smoked kind upon which inland
places were bound to depend, offered Vatinius an impersonal subject for
talk.  He had theories about diet.  He said that he -was certain that
the irritable skin lesions, the softening of the gums which so often
afflicted soldiers--and it was said, all sailors--was caused by too
much eating of preserved, easily portable food.  It could be cured, he
said, and he had proved it time and again by the eating of fresh meat,
fruit, vegetables.

Especially cabbage.

"To my mind the least pleasant vegetable; but as a medicine, maybe
acceptable," Quintilius said.

"Tell me, are you much bothered by guerrillas?"

"Very little.  There have been incidents.  Fewer of late."  And he
thought--Curse you for bringing that subject up, ruining what little
appetite I had.  He saw that in becoming the friend, the near-intimate
of a few Jews, he had put himself in a well-nigh untenable position.
Ebenezer and Caleb and Reuben were tactful in the extreme, but there
had been mention of a man called Josodad whose son Nathan, a wild young
man, had with other wild young men, been convicted and executed for the
killing of a Roman soldier.  It was impossible for Vatinius, a soldier
and a Roman, not to feel that the sentence had been just and right; it
was equally impossible for anyone who was a friend of the Jews not to
see the whole thing as a tragedy.  There was no doubt about it, We was
easier if you ran on the orthodox lines; you could then say, I am a
Roman and whatever the Romans do is right.  Vatinius had once held that
view; but a ruined cabbage field, a nearly raped girl, had opened his
eyes.  He'd come to know the people of the countryside, and sometimes
he had asked himself--What are we doing here?  In Gaul, and by the
banks of the Rhine, by the banks of the Danube you could at least give
yourself the answer that you were a civilising agent; but here, no. The
Jews were civilised.

Caleb had once said to Vatinius, "My friend, Jerusalem and Jericho were
orderly cities when Rome was a haunt for wolves."

Vatinius had refuted that with a sturdy answer.

"Age has nothing to do with it.  Babylon was an orderly city when your

people lived in tents."Then Caleb had retorted, "In the tents the Law
was kept."

"How many are there?"  Quintilius asked.

"Nameless ones?  The official reckoning is, I believe, six hundred; but
you could treble that and still be short of the mark."

"How would you, or your friends, give their numbers?"

With a brusque return to caution, Vatinius said:

"How should I know?  I'm acquainted with four or five Jews, all
respectable, settled men.  None of them is a guerrilla, or related to
one, or likely to become one, so far as I can judge.  They're just
ordinary fellows who do what they're told--and pay their taxes."

"And await a miracle, eh?"

"Not entirely without reason.  They have, more than once, been saved by
what they call miracles and you and I would terra lucky accidents. Once
they were besieged by the Assyrians, and plague broke out in the camp. 
They were slaves in Egypt, and in Babylon, and both times, for some
reason, set free and sent home.  But you see, the orthodox Jew, from
the moment he fastens his shoes to the time when he takes them off
again, in everything he does, down to killing a chicken, is in the hand
of his god; to him there are no lucky accidents.  All is Jehovah's
will."

"As Herod said, fanatics.  So according to you, the worst thing he, or
Caesar, has to fear is some simple Jewish girl who had, shall we say,
an unlucky accident and couldn't or wouldn't name her seducer and
claimed that her conception was Jehovah's will."

"I don't think that could happen.  For one thing the genealogy of the
mother is known, and girls who are eligible belong to good families,
and are not only well guarded, but extremely prudish.  That I know for
a fact.  I was four years in Jerusalem, and I've been here three, and
in all that time I've hardly seen a loose Jewish woman, who wasn't left
without a single male relative.  Take my friend Caleb; he's a
shoe-maker, he earns pitiably little, but as well as his own family he
supports his own mother, his wife's mother and his widowed sister, and
thinks nothing of it.  It is the Law."  Vatinius thought, too, of
Ebenezer, with his two poor fields; when he grew corn every ear
counted, yet he always left some to be gleaned by those who had no
field at all; that was the Law.

"Very admirable.  I think you do admire them."

"For those I know I have profound respect," Vatinius said.  He could
not tell Quintilius, he could not tell anyone, that when his time for
retirement came, he hoped to settle in this country, have a small white
house, an orchard and a vegetable plot.  A typical old soldier's dream,
except that most men dreamed of returning to their homeland, not of
staying in the place of exile.

The slaves came in with the next dish; breasts of pheasant cooked in
wine.  When the door was open Vatinius lifted his head and listened,
his trained ear seeming to catch the sound of some faint commotion
somewhere.  Then he heard what was certainly Caepio's tread.  Better
not to interfere.  Caepio had resented the store-room incident and
would need tactful handling for a few days.  So he sat still and
Quintilius chatted on, saying how highly Herod had spoken of the waters
of Calirrhoe, and what a beautiful city Caesarea was.  Seemingly
aimless talk which yet persisted in returning to the Jews.  Once
Quintilius, who seemed to have wasted no time in Jerusalem, mentioned
the Sanhedrin.

"They struck me as being mercenaries," he said of its members, using
the word as only an ex-legionary would do.  And Vatinius thought--How
odd, that is exactly how Ebenezer and the others regard them.  Then
Quintilius said, as a more than usually vicious gust rattled the
shutters: "Travelling South I did not expect such barbarous weather,"
and gave a little shiver.

"I am at fault," Vatinius said, "I should have ordered a brazier."  He
rose to go and shout in the passage; but before he called he listened.
The place was not silent; there was the noise, so familiar as to be
unnoticeable, of a hundred men busy with their evening routine or
relaxation; there were voices, talking and singing, the twang of a
stringed instrument, laughter, the rattle of dice, footsteps.  All just
as usual, and yet ... Then he knew that it was not his ear that sensed

something out of theordinary, it was his nose.  Mingled with the odour
of leather, men's sweat, lamp oil and whitewash and cooking there was
something else.  My scented visitor, Vatinius thought, simply by
walking in he tainted the air.

He said, "Bring a brazier," to the man who came running in answer to
his call, and unwillingly went back to his room.

When the brazier had been brought and they were alone again, Quintilius
said:

"I hope Calirrhoe will do as much for me as it has for Herod; butafter
all he is seventy or thereabouts; and he is only human.  Of his sons
which would your ordinary Jew choose to take his place?"

"The younger Philip," Vatinius said, after some thought.

"He's reported to have frugal tastes and is what the Jews call a just
man.  But the truth is, the Jews don't take very kindly to kings at
all.  From what I hear, when they had their own, there was always a
prophet busy keeping them in order."

"Soothsayers?"

"Not exactly, they use the word differently.  Certainly they foretold
events, but that was a sideline.  Holy men is the nearest word."

He thought how eagerly, in the old days, he would have told Quintilius
some of the fascinating stories which in Jewish households were spoken
of as sober fact.  Elijah, regarding as a miracle, a feast, a few
scraps of carrion dropped from the beaks of glutted ravens, for
example.  It was too late, now; such talk could only be shared with
friends.

The dishes were changed again; the slaves brought in small cutlets on a
mound of rice, perfectly cooked, each grain separate and fluffy.

Indicating that he had already eaten his fill, Vatinius said, not
entirely without malice:

"Small wonder, that you have gout, if you eat like this every day."

"This!"  The surprise in Quintilius' voice was genuine.

"Why, this is only a makeshift meal, easily carried, quickly cooked. At
home eight or nine courses is the rule.  After all, Vatinius, eating is
one of the certain pleasures, and should be made the most of while it
is available.  Barring the dubious blessing of early death we're all
going to end without teeth, or appetite, mumbling slops.  A fearsome
thought.  Do you ever feel time seeping away, like water from a leaky
goatskin?"

Vatinius remembered that even as a young man Quintilius had been
unusually aware of passing time; the awareness had contributed to his
decision.  He'd said--I'm twenty and what have I ever had?  Half my
life or almost, sped, with hard work, hard food, hard beds and hard
words.... "I've thought of it; I shouldn't think there's a man who
hasn't, at some time or another."

"The thought haunts me, Quintilius said; he spoke almost peevishly, and
something of his worldliness seemed to drop away.

"I look at my boy and see him bald, with a paunch.  I take a bath, am
well-scraped, freshly clothed, but I feel the skeleton there under the
flesh and the silk.  But I try not to brood.  Out of the dark we came,
and into the dark we go and all we can do about it, all anyone can do,
is make the best of the little time we have."  He took up his cup and
drank deeply.

"There," Vatinius said, 'the Jews have the advantage of us.  They hold
that this life is no more than so much," he measured a tiny space
between finger and thumb, 'in a life as vast as the sea."

"Have you ever contemplated turning Jew?"

"Jews are born.  I suppose one could adopt their beliefs; but my
credulity has limits."

"Mithras promises immortality, too.  All these Eastern faiths are much
the same."

"I might have taken to Mithras when I was young, but for one
thing..."

"I remember.  Your mother!"

With all that he had seen and been and done and heard, he had
remembered, across the years, those conversations on the banks of the
Rhone.  There was something so disarming, so almost touching, about
this that Vatinius felt embarrassed.  His voice was gruff again as he
said, repeating what Quintilius remembered : "I couldn't have truck

with a faith that excluded my motherwho was worth any ten men.  Let's
talk about something cheerful.  Your son; nearly thirteen you say. What
is his name?"

"His name?"  For a second Quintilius looked down at his food, then he
lifted his eyes and looked straight at Vatinius.

"Oh, I called him Vatinius, after a friend I once had, in Gaul."  To
his complete chagrin Vatinius felt a pulse leap in his throat, and the
red blood pour up under his weather-beaten skin.  He said in a
half-choked voice: "There was no need for that!"

"No need at all," Quintilius agreed, deliberately misunderstanding,
'but boys must have names.  And I ... well, write me down as a
sentimental fellow."

No sound he had ever heard had been so welcome to Vatinius as the sound
of the door opening behind him.  He turned in his chair and said, "Oh,
Caepio!  Enter.  What is it?"

Caepio reported, in clipped formal phrases, the arrival of the three
trespassers.

"There seemed no need to disturb you, sir.  I locked them up and
intended to report it in the morning.  Now one of them is causing a
disturbance.  He mentions Herod.  I thought you should be informed,
sir."

"I'll come at once."  Deliverance.  Just when the situation had become
unbearable.  Another minute, and they'd have been weeping on one
another's shoulders!

"Wait," Quintilius said, quietly, but with authority.

"This could be of interest to me.  Have them brought here."

Vatinius hesitated.  A curious coincidence that in this unvisited
place, in one evening, there should arrive Quintilius on some
mysterious errand from Caesar, and now three men on Herod's business.
It was an axiom that spies were always spied upon.

"What sort of fellow is this?  Likely to be violent?"

"Oh no.  Very old.  Very frail."

"A Jew?"  Quintilius asked.

Caepio acknowledged the source of the question by giving Quintilius a
glance, but he punctiliously addressed Vatinius as he answered.

"None of them is a Jew, sir."

"Bring him in," Vatinius said.

Melchior, having attained his aim by being noisy, was quiet again.  He
put his hands in his sleeves and bowed and said in a voice in which
politeness, impatience and petulance mingled:

"Please, who is chief here?  I asked, when we were arrested, to be
brought to someone in authority."

Vatinius stared, uncomprehending.  Quintilius, stirring a little on his
cushions, said:

"It is a form of Greek.  He asks who is chief here."  I wonder myself,
Vatinius thought, angry at having been baulked in his attempt to
escape.

"Tell him I am, Caepio, would you fetch Atticus; he's a Greek."

"We came," Melchior said, 'to the back of the house, like thieves.  I
am to blame for that.  We are not thieves, we are harmless men on a
very important errand, and we are already late.  I beg you, let me and
the black man proceed.  Hold the other as hostage if you must.  It is
of the utmost importance that I should reach Bethlehem without
delay."

"He says," Quintilius said, 'that he has an urgent errand in
Bethlehem."

"Ask him why he mentioned Herod."

"Simply as a means of gaining attention.  I meant nothing.  I shouted
the most important name I knew."

Melchior was now in quandary such as he had never imagined.  His
suspicions of Herod had so worked upon his mind that he felt it would
not be safe to divulge his real errand; and yet these men must be
persuaded to let him and Balthazar go.  And how could that be done?

"What is your errand?"  Quintilius asked.

"Harmless.  Of no importance to anyone but me.  I have to ask for the
release of the black man because he speaks for me."

Caepio returned, bringing Atticus.

Glad to exclude Quintilius, Vatinius said, "Now Atticus; ask this old
man where he is going, and why, and why he mentioned the name of Herod
the King."

Atticus spoke; Melchior answered.  Atticus said:

"I'm sorry, sir.  I don't understand a word he says."


"I'm not surprised," Quintilius said, 'pure Greek is worsethan
useless.  An ear accustomed to attuning itself and a mind capable of
making leaps are of more service.  Shall I try again?"

"Do," Vatinius said, grudgingly.

"Ask him how he has made his needs known, speaking a tongue that only
you seem able to understand."

"He says," Quintilius said, 'that the black man speaks for him."

"All right," said Vatinius.

"Atticus, go back to your dice.  Caepio, fetch the others.  We may as
well see them all."  He looked at the old man, saw that he was deeply
distressed, tremulous and confused, and that part of him which had
sympathised with Caleb and Ebenezer, and at second-hand with Josodad,
came uppermost.

"Tell him not to worry.  Tell him to take the chair and calm himself.
Tell him he's in no danger and that I've sent for the friend who speaks
for him."

Translated, these sentences drove Melchior to the very verge of panic.
Balthazar knew that his errand was with the child.  He'd blurt it all
out, in this place where Herod's name meant so much.  It seemed to be a
place for soldiers and it was on the very verge of Bethlehem.  Oh, what
had he done, acting always--except that he had implied to Herod that he
would return while determining not to--in a straightforward, honest
way?  A simpleton, that is what I have proved myself to be, he thought,
and I thought I was the wisest man in Korea.

Caepio, thinking--He treats me like an errand boy, but I'll show him
that I am at least an efficient errand boy, released the obviously
harmless fellow first.  To Balthazar, roused from sleep and still
dazed, he said, "Walk straight ahead, turn right and wait by the first
door."  Then he released Caspar who only two minutes before had
regained consciousness, groped for his knife, and was on the point of
going crazy again.  When the door opened he had been thinking that
death by his own hand, by his own knife, would be better than enduring
the torture that being shut in this dreadful little cell inflicted upon
him.  Then the door opened and he thrust the knife, with one of his
rapid movements, into the front of his jacket; and his heart rejoiced
because, if he were to be locked in again, and thus forced to kill
himself, he would kill one or two of his captors first.

Caepio opened the door, and having recognised Caspar as the dangerous
one of the three, would have taken him by the arm; but Caspar said;
"Don't lay your hand on me}' with such vehemence that though the words
were without meaning, the tone and the look that accompanied them was
perfectly clear.

So, let Vatinius, the storekeeper, the fussy housekeeper, the
Jew-lover, deal with him, Caepio thought, and he beckoned and pointed,
and finally ushered both Balthazar and Caspar into the room where
Vatinius awaited them.

As soon as Melchior saw Balthazar, he said, in a low, sibilant whisper,
"No mention of the child.  Say anything, but not the truth."  And he
was fortunate, for Caepio was, in the same moment, saying:

"I think, sir, that this one has a knife," "You think!  Weren't they
searched?"

"Yes.  This one, I think, concealed his weapon."

Vatinius looked at Caspar and saw him for what he was, and knew that
had he been called, when he should have been called, he would have had
such an obviously dangerous man stripped to the buff.  Caepio, like
every other centurion who had ever come here with his century, had made
some fumbling, futile attempt to undermine his authority.  Well, he
must learn.

He said, almost casually:

"If you think he has a knife, take it from him."

Testing me, Caepio thought; but alongside that thought ran another. Men
returning from their two months' boring sojourn, all agreed that
Vatinius was fussy, strict, a Jew-lover; but they'd add that he never
asked anybody to do what he wasn't willing to do himself, that he was
brave, a good soldier.

So, with complete confidence that should aid be needed, Vatinius was
there to supply it, Caepio went to take away Caspar's knife--if he had
one, if that sudden furtive movement as the door opened had meant what
Caepio was almost certain that it did.

But he had reckoned without any knowledge of Caspar, in whose country

one was either quick or dead.  There was a briefscuffle; then the
centurion, solid and heavy as oak, went reeling back against the wall,
pain painting a white band about his mouth and in his mind the
certainty that his back was broken.  So swift and cunning a throw had
never been seen in any arena.  Caspar had not even drawn his knife;
but, having thrown Caepio, he leaped upon the table, and stood there,
knife in hand, his teeth bared in a wolfish grin, his eyes like a
cornered rat's.

Before anyone else could speak or move, Melchior turned, and with a
movement swifter even than Caspar's brought the edge of his thin old
hand down on the desert man's wrist with a gesture of a woman chopping
meat for a stew.  At the same time he screeched some kind of rebuke or
instruction.  The knife fell to the floor and Balthazar retrieved it
and laid it before Vatinius.

"Get down from there," Melchior said to Caspar in the tongue that only
they shared.

"Things are bad enough!"  To Quintilius he said, "I beg you, pardon
this barbarian; he suffers from claustrophobia, he cannot bear to be
shut in.  But he is a good man and intends no harm."

"He means no harm," Quintilius translated, sardonically.

"No harm," Caepio said, still leaning against the wall, 'he's well-nigh
broken my back."

Vatinius thought--If you'd made a thorough search in the first place ..
. But his voice was kind and concerned when he spoke, reaching for a
flask which stood, .with others, on the shelf under the maps, "This is
good strong liniment.  Get somebody to rub you, hard, as he would a
horse.  And tomorrow rest.  I will undertake your duties."

Moving like a cripple Caepio departed.

Balthazar had had time to think, to muster his forces, and when
Vatinius said to him :

"You speak for this old man, I understand.  Tell me, as briefly as
possible, where you are bound and on what errand," he said, smoothly,
meekly.

"Sir, my master is an astrologer; he casts horoscopes and he has been
asked to go to Bethlehem to predict a favourable day for a wedding."

Melchior, anxious and trembling, had no idea of what story Balthazar
was telling, but he saw with great relief that it was received with
some amusement.

Astrology had enjoyed a brief and lucrative hey-day in Rome, but
charlatans had exploited it and gradually it had fallen into disrepute;
nowadays only slaves and the most ignorant, credulous people gave it
any heed "An astrologer?"  Vatinius said, looking at the old man.  And
suddenly he knew that whatever the man claimed to be he was, integrity
was written all over him, just as servility was written over Balthazar
"And who's this hothead?"  he nodded towards Caspar.

"Oh, he rides with us, sir, for protection against robbers."

All three fitted the characters assigned.  But Vatinius was nothing if
not careful..

"Your master spoke of Herod the King.  Why?"

"Because the King received us this afternoon and wishes my master to
call upon him as he goes back through Jerusalem."  Sheer inspiration
visited Balthazar; he knew that he was in a tricky position.  Melchior
wouldn't be understanding any of this; if the one who could communicate
with him asked a question and received an answer that didn't match ...
"It is in order to get back to Jerusalem, to the King, that my master
is in such haste."

That sounded reasonable, too.  But in Vatinius' mind something jarred a
little.  Jews, so far as he knew, did not dabble in anything that
savoured of necromancy or magic or fortunetelling.

"The family that plans the wedding," he said, 'of what nationality are
they?"

"Greek, sir," said Balthazar without hesitation.  It was a safe thing
to say; there were Greeks everywhere.

"I speak Greek, too; that is why he needs me."

"And why did you arrive at the rear of this barracks?"

"We were taking a short cut, having been delayed in Jerusalem."

To Vatinius it all sounded satisfactory enough; the old man was what
one would imagine a professional astrologer looked like; the black man

was somewhat finely clad for a servant, butmany people took pride in
their servants' appearance, and a servant who spoke Greek and Latin was
a valuable one; the third man looked like a guard--and a good one.  He
was about to say that it was all right, they could go, when Quintilius
said softly:

"Very plausible.  A little too plausible, don't you think?"

"In what way?  What do you suspect?"

"Everything and everybody, except you, Vatinius.  May I take a hand
here?  You," he addressed Melchior, 'take your companions and go and
stand by the door.  Close to the wall."

Balthazar, understanding, moved without prompting; Melchior spoke to
Caspar who had been standing with his arms folded, hearing the talk as
senseless gabble, but ready, at the first sign of danger, to take
action.  Here, he thought, as he moved without taking his eyes from the
two men behind the table, it was exactly as it had been in Jexal, while
he watched and waited.  It was always the ones clad in silk, the ones
with soft hands, who gave the orders.  And that was not as it should
be; that was bad.

Quintilius swung his feet to the floor and patted the place where they
had been.

"Sit down; and listen to me."  He lowered his voice so that Vatinius
had to bring his head very close in order to hear.

"It could be a trick.  Herod is very wily.  Practically every day
deputations go to Rome complaining about him, and he may be planning a
counter-attack.  I suppose it never struck you that your nice little
sinecure here is a frontier post.  What lies between here and Egypt?
You take my point?  Three men, apparently harmless, come to the rear of
a barracks, at night; they tell a garbled tale.  If you wave them away
by the front door, how does that look?  How will it sound?  Herod might
very well complain that security measures were very slack; and that is
something Caesar would take note of."

"How does it sound if I hold them?  They say they were with Herod
earlier today."

"I've no doubt they were.  Cooking up his fairy-tale.  Truly, Vatinius,
the one sensible thing to do, the thing that would vindicate you
however it was looked at, would be to send a fast rider to Herod,
saying that three mystery men have arrived here and you are holding
them until you have word from him as to the validity of their
errand."

Vatinius backed away, looking at his one-time friend in horror.

"You want to ruin me?  I, a Roman, a soldier, take orders from Herod?
Are you in this damned plot, too?  The planted, independent, civilian
witness?"

"Oh, don't be silly," Quintilius said, a little wearily.

"I'm advising you.  Send two men if you wish, one of the tribune."

All at once Vatinius felt dizzy.  What had seemed to be solid earth
under his feet, the daily round of an obscure man in an obscure place,
was so swamped with suspicion, trickery, uncertainty that it had turned
into a quaking quagmire.  It was quite possible, now, to imagine
Quintilius reporting somewhere to somebody--I arrived, I was received
without question, we drank together, and when a decision was called for
he obeyed me like an ox.  He is not fit to be in charge of a strategic
post.

And to be honest, he had never until now, regarded his post as being of
importance, except as all places where soldiers were stationed were
important; places to be manned, kept in a sanitary condition, always
alert.  Only a very short time ago he had, in a moment of depression,
thought that he was nothing but a caretaker; but when Quintilius had
asked--What lies between here and Egypt?  he had realised that he held
and had held, unknowingly for three years, one point of a great
empire's frontier.  Not that there was anything to fear from Egypt,
that was part of the Empire; but to the South East there was the whole
of Arabia.  Well might somebody in authority think it worth while to
test his alertness, his integrity.

He looked at Melchior and Melchior looked back at him with the urgent,
dumb appeal of an animal, endeavouring to convey something, wordlessly.
Whom can I trust?  Vatinius asked himself; the old man with his look of
integrity and other-worldliness; the black man with his facile tongue;
my one-time friend?

Well, he thought, if I go down, I go down, making my own decisions; if

I'm to be ruined I'll do it myself, by my owncalculated error.

He said to Balthazar:

"If your master is an astrologer he should carry the tools of his
trade.  Where are they?"

"On his camel, sir, if they have not been removed."

"Go and fetch them.  The man on duty at the door will show you the
way.

Bring them.here, and be quick."

Balthazar scuttled as all his life he had scuttled in obedience to
orders.

Quintilius said in a detached way, "They'll be in perfect order.  Herod
is no fool."

That thought had not occurred to Vatinius, and hearing it expressed
undermined his self-confidence still further, made him feel that he was
a simple-minded fool, ill-equipped to deal with a world in which nobody
could be trusted.

But he was equipped to maintain an unruffled demeanour in awkward
situations, to remaining calm, seemingly confident, however he might
feel.  He said:

"I am in charge here, Quintilius.  I'm ready to take responsibility for
what I do."

Balthazar, breathless and sweating, for all the night air was so cold,
came hurrying back and laid on the table with the uncleared dishes and
Caspar's knife, the cane chart case, the compasses, the piece of
lodestone, the tube with its end of glass, even the bit of sharpened
chalk.

Melchior gave a sharp cry, as though someone had stabbed him.  He came
forward to the table and spread his thin shaking hands over his
treasures; they fluttered like distressed parent birds over a
threatened nest.

"No!  No!"  he cried in his native tongue.

"They are all I have.  All that are left to me.  To you they would be
useless."

He looked at them, the pitiable remnants of that great fortune, which
would have kept any ordinary man in comfort and happiness all his
life.

The slow, difficult tears of an old, usually well-controlled man, rose
to his eyes and stood there, unspilled, between the scanty lashes.
Nobody, not the best, the most celebrated actor in Rome, however
schooled, however bribed, could have put on such an act, Vatinius
thought.

He said shortly, "You may go!"

"We may go," Balthazar said to Melchior: Melchior said to Balthazar,
"We go."  Then he looked from his possessions to Vatinius, and Vatinius
answered with a nod.  In furious haste Melchior gathered his things,
stuffing them into the front of his robe, holding the cane case in his
hand, as though it were a wand of office.

For a second the knife lay there.  A beautiful knife with a keen,
bright blade and a handle of gold shaped to the hand, and with, between
blade and hilt, a hand shield, curiously worked.  Nobody saw it as a
symbol, the knife between the barbarian and the towering might of
Rome.

Then Caspar, thinking that if Melchior could take his gear, he could
claim what was his, snatched it up, asking no one's permission.

Balthazar was the only one to take civil leave.  Bowing his head,
bending his knees, he said in his beautiful Latin :

"Sirs, we thank you."

He was grateful to them because they had been instrumental in restoring
some trace of his self-esteem; he couldn't read the stars, he couldn't
kill robbers; his dreams seemed to come to nothing; but apparently he
could tell, on the spur of the moment, and with no help from anyone, an
acceptable tale.

"Come along, come along," Melchior said, now in a frenzy of
impatience.


"We haven't a moment to lose."FOURTEEN

JOURNEY'S END

"This," Melchior said, 'is the place."  Exhaustion, varied emotions,
and that desperate need for haste made his voice shake a little, but he
spoke with complete confidence.

The dying star, hanging like a luminous apricot, was now so low that it
was possible to pick out from the uneven huddle of roofs, exactly the
one which he had crossed a continent to find.  The whole inn yard was
awash in mellow light; and looking round he was inclined to hope that,
despite all his fears, he might still be in time--but only just.

The end of the long journey appeared to be a shed or a stable; very
low, built of clods and roofed with mud and boughs.  That a journey
planned at the top of a stone and glass tower which had cost a fortune
should have ended in this humble place neither surprised nor troubled
him.  His business was with the child and its parents; the surroundings
were quite irrelevant.

He tapped his camel's neck and it knelt willingly.  He alighted
briskly, defying his weariness; one more effort, the greatest and the
last, then he could lie down and sleep; he felt as though he could
sleep for ever.

Caspar and Balthazar also alighted, less briskly; they also were
pent.

"Now," Melchior said, addressing Caspar first.

"I want no interruptions from you.  You will not understand anything
that is said, so stand quietly and do not bother us with any foolish
questions."

Caspar grunted.  The place where he had hit his head when he fell was
beginning to ache and throb, but he ignored the pain, as he had been
bred to do and fixed his mind once again on the extremely satisfactory
way in which he had thrown that great hulking Roman.  He also thought
about his plans for the future and began to wonder how best to place
his proposals before Melchior and Balthazar, and how long, if they
bought fresh camels, it would take them to ride back to Jexal.

Balthazar was now dazed by hunger and fatigue and the speed at which so
much had happened, and all so inexplicable; but when Melchior, moving
towards the low doorway, said, "Balthazar' his lifetime of slavery, of
pushing himself and his thoughts into the background and of
concentrating on other people's business, enabled him to say, brightly
and attentively, "Yes?"

"Now this is most important.  It is unlikely that anyone here will
understand me, so you must speak and you must say exactly what I say.
You must repeat it word for word, and watch their faces.  If they look
confused, or ask a question, or make a protest, stop me at once.  Do
you understand?  I rely upon you absolutely."

"I will do my best," Balthazar said.  Melchior opened the door which
moved silently because Joseph had re-hung it and oiled its hinges.

It was, as the old man had thought, a stable.  A lantern hung on the
wall, but compared with the light of the star outside the illumination
it gave was poor and dim, and he was obliged to close his eyes for a
second or two, screwing them up, to accustom them.  Then he looked
around and all the vital organs in his body seemed to fall away,
leaving him hollow.  The disappointment was not to be borne; he would
die here of sheer misery, of the knowledge that he had been completely
fooled.  For there was no child.

There was a heap of straw and on it two people lay asleep.  One was a
girl, very young with what even Melchior's old eye recognised as a
virginal look.  The other was a man, much older.  Father?  Brother?  He
was wrapped in a brown cloak, and he was not sleeping peacefully; he
tossed and muttered.  There was a long manger, occupied at its farther
end by a cow and two donkeys.  No child!

"But this is impossible," Melchior said aloud, in a voice shrill with
incredulity.

Then the man awoke and with a movement as swift as any even Caspar had

ever seen, was on his feet, between them and the woman, alert,
defensive; he had a chisel in his hand.

Balthazar said hastily, "We come in peace."

The woman woke then, raised herself and looked anxiously towards the
unoccupied end of the manger; Melchior's gaze, following hers, found
what it sought; there, wrapped like a cocoon, lay a baby, fast
asleep.

"Then you are welcome," Joseph said; but he still looked wary.

Melchior acknowledged this with his most formal bow; and Caspar gave
his salute, because he respected a man who could be asleep, awake,
armed and ready all in the same breath space.  He approved of the
brown, sinewy hand.  This was a man more like those legendary
men-of-the-hills than any he had yet seen: and he must be some sort of
outlaw, if this was the best place he could find for his woman to give
birth in.

Balthazar bent his head and flexed his knees.

The girl on the straw acknowledged each salutation with a smile and a
curiously dignified movement of her head.  She looked very pale and
very frail, and Melchior regretted that the message he carried would
compel her into instant action.  Still, it must be done; and there was
no time to lose.

"Who are you, and what do you want?"  Joseph asked.

"Balthazar, say this.  I have come to congratulate you upon the birth
of a wonderful child.  A child of great destiny.  And I have come to
warn you."  He spoke slowly, and paused to give Balthazar time to put
the sentences into Aramaic; but there was no need.  As soon as he had
begun to speak the man had poised his head as though listening to some
distant, just recognisable sound; he frowned in concentration, and at
the word 'warn' shot Melchior a glance which, though startled, was not
surprised.  It was almost as though the word confirmed something that
he had suspected.  And before Balthazar could begin to speak he asked
quietly, in bad Greek:

"What is the warning?"

"I can speak to you direct?  Good.  That will save time.  I have come
to tell you that this is a very special child."

Joseph said cautiously, "To their parents all children are special." He
had just wakened from a terrifying dream; and though these men said
they came in peace, and looked harmless--at least two of them looked
harmless, he felt it best to be careful.

"But this is different," Melchior said.

"I am an astronomer and I read his destiny in the stars, nine months
and some days ago, at the time of his conception.  I was astounded. You
can have no idea of the importance of this child.  If he lives, he will
govern all the world we know, and places as yet unmarked on any map."

He was amazed because the man's face betrayed no astonishment.  Surely
this was--to put it mildly--an unusual destiny that he was
foretelling.

Perhaps after all the man did not fully understand.

"Do you understand what I am saying?"  he asked.

Joseph nodded.

"I travelled a bit when I was younger, and Greek worked anywhere.  I
know what you're saying."

I will astound you yet!  Melchior thought.  It was essential to make
the man understand the importance of the child before issuing the
warning.  So he tried again:

"Kings," he said, 'will bow down before him.  Great armies will march
behind his banners--occasionally defeated, but in the end triumphant.
He will rule an Empire compared with which that of Alexander was
nothing, for his will reach to north and south, to east and west."  All
innocently, anxious only to inspire belief in a future which present
circumstances made almost unbelievable, he moved his thin hand as he
named the compass points.

Mary, watching and listening, understanding nothing of what was said,
had thought that with his grave dignity, his outlandish garb, his
glittering eyes and impressive way of talking, the old man was very
much as she had always pictured the prophets to be.  When he made his
gesture she knew that he was making a prophecy; and he had drawn on the
air the sign of the cross.  Despite all her faith, all her acceptance,
in her heart she cried, Oh no!  No!  Not that lovely little body, flesh
of my flesh, nursed at my breast.  But begotten of God, she reminded
herself; with every day of his life planned and foreseen, a man of

sorrows, and acquainted with grief..  ..She thought again that no
other woman had ever been called upon to bear what she must bear.  She
looked back upon that moment amongst the flowers, when Elisabeth had
hailed her as blessed among women, and she had answered that her soul
magnified the Lord.  A moment of ecstasy, and such came all too rarely.
However, God had chosen her, and would give her strength to face what
must be faced; but even that thought could not prevent her being
sorrowful.

Even the mention of Alexander had not, Melchior observed, moved this
father to giving any sign of excitement or surprise.  Such words,
spoken of a royal baby, lying in a golden cradle in a palace of marble,
would have aroused some wonder, surely.

"People who know nothing of him but his name," he said, 'will hold it
in awe.  And his Empire will not split up at his death; if anything his
death will consolidate it.  He will die young--I regret to be obliged
to tell you that--thirty-two or three years will be his life-span.  If
he survives now.  And here I come to my warning.  There were very
strong counter indications, with influences of the utmost malignancy.
Unless precautions are taken he will die by treachery before he is
weaned."

Maybe the man's face changed a little then, the anxiety becoming more
marked; but still no surprise.

"Until this afternoon," Melchior went on, "I did not, of course, know
from what direction danger threatened.  Now I am suspicious of a man
called Herod, a King in Jerusalem.  Most misguidedly I mentioned
something of my errand to him, and he knows my destination."

Now he had made an impression.  The man's face was that of a man who
knows that his worst fears are confirmed; it lost colour and every line
in it stood out darkly as though drawn by one of Melchior's sharp chalk
sticks.

Melchior said quickly, "But we have a full day.  I was not followed, or
forestalled, and I think he is depending upon me to go back and tell
him where the child is.  Tomorrow, when he realises that I have tricked
him, he will act, and swiftly.  By that time you should be as far away
as possible."

There, he had now said it all.  His mind presented him with the kind of
picture--the whole lifetime in a flash which drowning men were said to
see.  (But who could know that he had asked himself when first he heard
that theory, since no drowned man had ever been able to relate his
final experience?) He saw himself, as a young man, knowing that
astronomy was the only thing he cared about, he saw the long years
devoted to the study, the fortune spent upon it, the decision taken on
a cold spring night at the top of the tower, and then the journey,
probably the longest journey any man had ever yet made.  Now it was
done; and he was an old, incredibly tired man; and he knew that unless
he sat down quickly his legs would give way under him and he would
fall.  He looked about and saw the stool.

It was the one which Eunice had allowed Ephorus to borrow from the
house in order that Mary might sit on it and the more easily nurse her
child.  Once long ago, it had been a fine piece of furniture, with a
cover of crimson silk and legs inlaid with mother-of-pearl.  Now the
cover was shredding and many pieces of the inlay were missing, but
Eunice treasured it, and had said, "Even to please you, Ephorus, I
wouldn't lend my stool to just anyone.  But I know courage when I see
it, and that slip of a girl is brave.  I could see she was in for a
hard time and I told her to yell if she wanted' to, there would be
nobody to hear her but me.  Yet when the time came, and she had good
cause for yelling, she remembered that this was an inn and it was
night, with people asleep all around.  So she stuffed her sleeve into
her mouth and bit on it hard.  She can have my stool."  So there it
was, and Melchior sat on it.

Joseph stood for a moment, thinking about his dream.  In it the same
angel had come to him again, bringing not comfort this time, but a
warning.  He was to take the young child and his mother and flee into
Egypt because Herod was planning murder.  The dream had been so real
that Joseph had thought how small his resources were.  Fleeing he would
not dare to stop, look for work and earn money.  He had been on the
very point of asking the angel's advice, asking how this was to be
done, when these men had arrived and he had wakened.

Now here was this old man, first confirming all the prophecies about

the child being the Messiah, and then issuingexactly the same warning
as the angel had done; naming the same enemy; setting safety's limit.

Mary, seeing the trouble on his face, said, "What is it, Joseph?  What
did he tell you?"

He crouched down in the straw beside her and told her, softening
everything, trying not to alarm her, yet unable to conceal his mounting
anxiety.

Then the three men watching saw her put out her hand and lay it on
Joseph's shoulder in what was recognisably a comforting and sustaining
gesture.

It reminded Melchior, oddly enough, of old Senya.  Not that she had
ever touched him; but she had a way of knowing when something in his
work, all a mystery to her, had gone wrong; at such times she would put
his food bowl before him in a special way, a way that said--Don't
worry; you'll manage.  This woman's hand on the man's shoulder said
just that.

Caspar noticed the gesture and he stared at the girl who made it with
fierce attention.  Her hand was small, finely boned, though the skin of
the fingers showed that it was the hand of a working woman.  The wrist
was delicate.  So was the girl's neck.  She was a pale, frail creature,
with great shadowy eyes, in no one way measuring up to his ideal of
womanhood.  Yet the movement of her hand had not signified weakness or
dependence; on the contrary it was strong and heartening, conveying
exactly the reassurance which even the most self-sufficient man felt
the need of at times.  And she had borne a wonderful, strong-looking,
beautiful baby, in circumstances as comfortless as any desert woman
ever knew.

He thought of Ilya, but in a different fashion from the way in which,
at the back of his mind, he had thought of her since the moment when,
in the Balcony room, their eyes had met; not with yearning lust,
strictly governed, not with defensive scorn, but with love.  The last
rational barrier between him and what he wanted went down.  Melchior
had weakened it, by proving that when necessary a frail body could be
indomitable; this girl, with a movement of her hand had demolished it
altogether.  It had been his last defence, the thought that a delicate
creature must needs be a bad breeder and a clog on a man.  It wasn't
true; and he knew, with a great up rush of joy that he would go back to
Jexal and stand up in the Sun's eye and mingle his blood with that
which in his bigoted folly he had called dregs.  And what, he thought,
would Lakma say to that?  He knew that he would say--You great fool, I
wanted her for myself, all along.  Probably they'd fight again, and
Lakma would break another finger for him, and he'd give Lakma another
crack over the skull.  And it wasn't by any means all sentimental
nonsense either; there'd been some truth in what the boy, Malchus, had
said; this marriage would unite the old and the new, so that if trouble
came Jexal would stand undivided.  He could hardly wait for the moment
when they would head back for home.  He said to Melchior : "Have you
said all that you came to say?"

"I have said it.  And now we must be practical."  Balthazar had also
noticed the gesture, but it was rather as though he had seen it through
a sheet of glass.  Once, long long ago, he had loved his sister; and
they'd taken her, kept her in a dark hut, fattened her up and then with
flowers and the beating of drums, thrown her into the great river, a
living sacrifice to N'Zana.  Wasted.  And for many years, to him there
had been little difference between men and women, and the hand of the
woman on the shoulder of the man had stirred nothing even remotely
sexual.  He had listened to what Melchior had said-the first time that
he had heard the whole story--and seemed to have nothing to do with
what he had come out to seek, about that he was more confused than
ever.  In a vague way he felt sorry for this couple, who must now leave
this poor shelter and go into the night, into the world that was so
hostile to humble people.  Also it couldn't be a very pleasant thing to
be told, when your child was only a few days old, that he would live so
short a time, whatever glory he might achieve in a few years.
Considering their plight he studied the animals and hoped that they
owned them, though a cow would slow down their flight and the nearest
donkey was extremely old, more likely to-be a liability than an asset.
Balthazar had a shrewd eye for a donkey; the Greek trader had owned

many and had been quick to discard a faulty animal.Melchior addressed
Joseph.

"You have told her?  She understands?  She is fit to travel?"

"She is willing," Joseph said, and the change of word spoke volumes.

"I can see that you are poor.  I am poor myself, but I am trying to
find a way to help you."  He turned to Caspar and spoke his name.
Caspar came out of his dream and said :

"Yes?"

"If this child is to be saved, he must be removed.  They are poor and
travel is costly."

"Travel is costly," Caspar agreed; and he thought--I hope you will
remember that, and how much I have spent on you, when I lay my request
before you.

"The gold you carry," Melchior said, 'which you did not give to
Herod--very rightly.  Will you give it to these people ?"

Just that, the simple request, no reasoning, no pleading; the old man
spoke as casually and with as much certainty of getting what he asked
for as though, at table, he had suggested that somebody should pass him
the salt.  A really remarkable old man, old and poor and star crazed,
but with the manners of a king.

He said, "Herod didn't get my gift because I could see that he was
useless to me.  You, on the other hand, could be very useful.  I will
give what I carry to these people if you, in return, will do something
for me."

And as soon as the words were out he thought--Spoken like a true
huckster!  Unless I soon get back to my own place and my own people, I
shall be thoroughly corrupt.

"And what in the world could I do for you?"  Melchior asked, looking at
the man who had financed him, and saved him from the robbers.

"You could come back to Jexal with me and use your skill on my behalf.
A man who can read the stars as you can is not met with every day."

Nor every century, not every millennium, Melchior thought with the
supreme satisfaction of a man who has proved himself right.  But there
was no time for self-congratulation, nor for argument, or even for
consideration.  These humble custodians of the future Lord of the Earth
were like conics, their only safety lay in flight, and the sooner they
started the better.  When, at the top of his tower, he had visualised
himself giving that warning, Melchior had seen armies alerted, guards
set and fortresses manned; now he saw a worried man bundling his wife
and the precious baby on to a donkey and making off through the night.
Not that it mattered.  If the threatened danger could be averted the
destiny was quite sure.

"Very well," he said, after what had seemed only a second's thought, "I
will do that.  But I must ask you to remember that I am no hired
Chaldean.  I cannot promise to tell you only acceptable things."

"Am I the man to ask that?  That is settled then.  But there is another
thing I must ask you to do for me.  I want him, too."  He jerked his
thumb at Balthazar.

"I want him to come and teach tongues to my young men."

"That can wait, surely."

"I want it done now.  This is as important to me as your business is to
you."

A really remarkable young man, Melchior reflected; ignorant, in many
ways uncouth, but issuing orders like a king.

With his own innate courtliness he looked towards the man and the girl
and said:

"Excuse us, please.  It is your business that we discuss," Then he
passed on Caspar's request, as hastily as was compatible with clarity,
to Balthazar, who faced with this in addition to all that had happened
and had not happened, seemed to suffer a lapse from sanity.

"It is not possible," he said.

"I have been thinking; I have been wrong.  I came out to witness some
great thing, and to do that I committed a crime; so I have seen
nothing.  I am a slave, the property of a Lady living in Edessa.  Money
was paid for me, so by running away I robbed her.  I must go back and
make full restitution ... and take my punishment."

He could hardly believe that he was saying these things, but he was,
and in a far more firm and positive voice than he had ever used towards
his fellow travellers.  Even when he had urged the necessity of

entering Jerusalem, the slave wheedle hadtainted his voice; now he
spoke like a free man.

Irritably now, because of the delay, Melchior translated.  And, Caspar
turned and looked, for the first time with any real respect at
Balthazar, and gave him a cheerful man-to-man blow upon the shoulder, a
gesture he reserved for the chosen few of the Five Hundred.

He spoke and Melchior spoke.

"He says you are to reckon your worth, double it, and this woman in
Edessa shall have it, in rose jekkals.  Also he says that from this
moment you are free, because a teacher must have status and
authority."

How Balthazar took this astounding piece of news he did not stop to
see, for he turned straight back to Caspar and said:

"Now please, the gold."

"And what," Caspar said, 'about the stinking stuff you carry?  You said
it had value, equal with gold.  Couldn't they have that, and sell
it?"

"Oh dear," Melchior said, pushing himself to his feet, angry at the
oversight.

"Of course, of course."  He had tried so hard to be practical.  He said
to Mary and Joseph :

"We have thought of a way to assist you."  But they had asked for
nothing; they were decent poor people and had their feelings and their
pride; so he added, "They are birth gifts for the baby, and you will
honour us by accepting them."

In Balthazar's stunned mind only the word gifts made any impact.  Of
course, to a new baby one brought gifts, and Melchior and Caspar had
come prepared.  He had nothing.  The child's father, understanding
Greek, would know that he was a slave--had been a slave, who did not
even own himself; but the sweet-faced woman wouldn't know.  Judging by
his clothes she would think him well-to-do, and mean.

Why he should mind what she thought was as mysterious as the impulse
which had prompted his confession; and he had no way of knowing that he
was the first of many millions who would wish to please her and shrink
from her disapproval.  He knew only that he had no gift, and shooting
her a humble, apologetic smile, he followed the others into the yard,
meaning to stay there and hide his shame, while trying to work out why
his venture had been on the one hand so rewarding, making him a free
man and a teacher, and on the other, so disappointing.

Neither Melchior nor Caspar glanced at the star as they used its last
light to fumble for what lay hidden at the bottom of their bags of
camel fodder.  For Melchior its work was done; for Caspar it had never
mattered much; it was not his star.

But Balthazar stared at it, and it was he who saw its end.  Just as in
his vision, it gathered itself into a great burst of glory, and was
gone.

Now the only light in the inn yard was cold and came from a distance,
from the ordinary stars and a young, thin crescent moon.

And then, to Balthazar, understanding came in a flash.  Melchior's
errand and his merged and made sense.  It was in the reign of this
child, and under his influence, that the old world would end and a new
one be born, and the bad things, like slavery, be done away with.

He wished with all his heart that he had a gift to offer this wonderful
child; and even as he wished it, he knew that he had.  A small gift but
useful.  He had the pot of myrrh ointment, stuff of such potency that
only two dressings of it had healed his festering sores and the wound
the dog had made.  And every child had rashes and scratches, fell when
it took its first steps and bruised its face, grazed its knees.  The
old woman had said that the ointment improved with keeping. Remembering
her he wished that he had bought an alabaster pot.

So the gifts lay in Mary's lap; the jewelled gold crown that had rolled
from the head of a dead king; the frankincense that had been intended
for the altar of an unknown god; the pot of myrrh that had eased a
slave's sores.  She read their meaning plainly: gold for kingship,
frankincense for priesthood; and myrrh for the anointing of a dead
body.  Just as it was written.  But of what she knew she gave no sign;
she thanked each man as he made his gift and smiled with a smile
intended for him alone.


"And now," Melchior said to Joseph, 'you will leave at once.""At once.
Nothing that I can say can express the thanks I feel.  You came from
God!"

Gratitude and another unnameable emotion choked him.  In the last few
days he had lost faith, regained it, lost it again.

Mary had always held that the baby would be born just an ordinary human
baby, but privately, in his heart he had hoped for some sign, something
out of the ordinary and reassuring, even if it came secretly, to them
alone.  The birth had been like all others, a painful, bloody business,
and Eunice had treated him as the women in charge always treated the
man regarded as responsible for such an unpleasant procedure; coming to
tell him the news she had said, "You have a fine son; better than you
deserve, keeping her on her feet till the last minute, you thoughtless,
feckless fool!"  And Ephorus had said, "We must drink to the boy." What
could have been more ordinary?  It had been impossible to shake off the
sense of something lacking.  Then, when Mary was sleeping, three
shepherds had arrived; one of them had seen angels, and heard heavenly
voices, one had seen and heard something, the third knew nothing.

But Joseph had taken their coming as a sign, and so had Mary, until
Eunice, bringing a bowl of gruel and seeing the shepherds depart,
taking with them Joseph's cautious warning not to say anything about
this to any but faithful, trustworthy Jews, had said, "Was that
Josodad, the shepherd?"  Joseph said that he did not know the names of
any of them.

"I recognised him," she said.

"Poor man, he is demented; he lost his favourite son and has never been
the same since.  And he drinks.  Not here, Ephorus discouraged him; but
he drinks."

And the shepherd had talked about seeing his son, dead these five
years.  So what did one make of that?  Drunken men did see strange
things; Joseph knew a fellow carpenter who had seen snakes, bright blue
ones, in his bed.  A man crazed with grief and full of wine, might have
had an hallucination and communicated his hysteria to his companions,
seen a light, felt the.  urge to communicate, and then, being a Jew,
knowing the prophecies, seeing a new born child, said all that the
shepherd had said.

After that there had been the ordinary days; until tonight when he had
had his dream, been about to ask how the journey could be managed and
then these men had arrived, bringing the answer.  And the old man had
spoken with the true prophetic voice.

It seemed to Joseph that he was always falling out of the hand of God,
falling, falling, only to be caught again in the hand of God.  So,
standing there, he uttered a brief prayer, extempore-Lord God of my
fathers, I do believe; help me when next I doubt.

But even as he did that he was thinking about Micah's old donkey.
Standing idle and well-fed, it had again taken on that deceptive
appearance of roadworthiness, and Mary, he knew, would insist upon
taking it.  And he thought about Anne's jibe that Mary owned two
donkeys; it was justified.  His faith, like the donkey's gait, flagged,
was restored, and then failed again.

Another thought assailed him, had it not been for the broken-down
donkey they would not have landed in this place, with the innkeeper so
attentive, his wife so competent and both so kind.  Nor would they have
been here tonight, to be found by this old man who confirmed all the
prophecies and who had brought the answer to the question he had been
about to ask in his dream--How is this to be managed?  It was all--he
thought-far beyond the understanding of a plain simple fellow like
himself, and the most he could do was to blunder along, doing his best
from day to day.

"We will go at once," he assured Melchior and looked at Mary, who, as
though she understood, rose up, straight and strong.

"There is no reason," she said, 'to rouse the house at this hour.  I'll
fold the blanket and leave it on the stool, with the coin that
Elisabeth and Zacharias gave us.  Eunice and Ephorus will understand.
But first, I think our friends should see him.  I must wake him
anyway."

She went to the place where the child lay, lifted him and turned,
holding the baby towards them, as though offering them a reward for
their journey, for their gifts.

And suddenly they were all smiling.  Joseph with his faith restored,

Melchior with his errand done, Balthazar who hadseen this wonderful
thing and Caspar- who had found his heart.  Even Mary, burdened with
the weight of knowledge, knowing the end at the beginning, troubled by
so much that must be kept locked in her heart, smiled, as any woman
does, feeling the weight and warmth of her child, smelling the sweet,
clean, milky scent.

So she held him towards them, and the beam from the lantern was caught
in the soft fuzz of baby hair; so that to those who watched it seemed

for a moment that he wore a halo of light.