The First Miracle
Tomorrow it would be I A.D., but
nobody had told him.
If anyone had, he wouldn't have
understood because he thought that it was the forty-third year in the reign of
the Emperor, and in any case, he had other things on his mind. His mother was
still cross with him and he had to admit that he'd been naughty that day, even
by the standards of a normal thirteen-year-old. He hadn't meant to drop the
pitcher when she had sent him to the well for water. He tried to explain to his
mother that it wasn't his fault that he had tripped over a stone; and that at
least was true. What he hadn't told her was that he was chasing a stray dog at
the time. And then there was that pomegranate; how was he meant to know that it
was the last one, and that his father had taken a liking to them? The boy was
now dreading his father's return and the possibility that he might be given
another thrashing. He could still remember the last one when he hadn't been
able to sit down for two days without feeling the pain, and the thin red scars
didn't completely disappear for
over three weeks.
He sat on the window ledge in a
shaded corner of his room trying to think of some way he could redeem himself
in his mother's eyes, now that she had thrown him out of the kitchen. Go outside
and play, she had insisted, after he had spilt some cooking oil on his tunic.
But that wasn't much fun as he was only allowed to play by himself. His father
had forbidden him to mix with the local boys. How he hated this country; if
only he were back home with his friends, there would be so much to do. Still,
only another three weeks and he could . . . The door swung open and his mother
came into the room. She was dressed in the thin black garments so favoured by
locals: they kept her cool, she had explained to the boy's father. He had
grunted his disapproval so she always changed back into imperial dress before
he returned in the evening.
"Ah, there you are,"
she said, addressing the crouched figure of her son.
"Yes, Mother."
"Daydreaming as usual. Well,
wake up because I need you to go into the village and fetch some food for
me."
"Yes, Mother, I'll go at
once," the boy said as he jumped off the window ledge.
"Well, at least wait until
you've heard what I want."
"Sorry, Mother."
"Now listen, and listen
carefully."
She started counting on her
fingers as she spoke. "I need a chicken, some raisins, figs, dates and . .
. ah yes, two pomegranates."
The boy's face reddened at the
mention of the pomegranates and he stared down at the stone Door, hoping she
might have forgotten. His mother put her hand into the leather purse that hung
from her waist and removed two small coins, but before she handed them over she
made her son repeat the instructions.
"One chicken, raisins, figs,
dates, and two pomegranates," he recited, as he might the modern poet,
Virgil.
"And be sure to see they
give you the correct change," she added. "Never forget the locals are all thieves."
"Yes, Mother . . ." For
a moment the boy hesitated.
"If you remember everything
and bring back the right amount of money, I might forget to tell your father
about the broken pitcher and the pomegranate."
The boy smiled, pocketed the two
small silver coins in his tunic, and ran out of the house into the compound.
The guard who stood on duty at the gate removed the great wedge of wood which
allowed the massive door to swing open. The boy jumped through the hole in the
gate and grinned back at the guard.
"Been in more trouble again
today?" the guard shouted after him.
"No, not this time," the
boy replied.
"I'm about to be
saved."
He waved farewell to the guard
and started to walk briskly towards the village while humming a tune that
reminded him of home. He kept to the centre of the dusty winding path that the
locals had the nerve to call a road.
He seemed to spend half his time removing
little stones from his sandals. If his father had been posted here for any
length of time he would have made some changes; then they would have had a real
road, straight and wide enough to take a chariot. But not before his mother had
sorted out the serving girls. Not one of them knew how to lay a table or even
prepare food so that it was at least clean. For the first time in his life he
had seen his mother in a kitchen, and he felt sure it would be the last, as
they would all be returning home now that his father was coming to the end of
his assignment.
The evening sun shone down on him
as he walked; it was a very large red sun, the same red as his father's tunic.
The heat it gave out made him sweat and long for something to drink. Perhaps
there would be enough money left over to buy himself a pomegranate. He couldn't
wait to take one home and show his friends how large they were in this barbaric
land. Marcus, his best friend, would undoubtedly have seen one as big because his
father had commanded a whole army in these parts, but the rest of the class would
still be impressed.
The village to which his mother
had sent him was only two miles from the compound and the dusty path ran alongside
a hill overlooking a large valley. The road was already crowded with travelers
who would be seeking shelter in the village. All of them had come down from the
hills at the express orders of his father, whose authority had been vested in
him by the Emperor himself. Once he was sixteen, he too would serve the
Emperor. His friend Marcus wanted to be a soldier and conquer the rest of the
world. But he was more interested in the law and teaching his country's customs
to the heathens in strange lands.
Marcus had said, "I'll conquer
them and then you can govern them."
A sensible division between
brains and brawn he had told his friend, who didn't seem impressed and had
ducked him in the nearest bath.
The boy quickened his pace as he
knew he had to be back in the compound before the sun disappeared behind the hills.
His father had told him many times that he must always be locked safely inside
before sunset. He was aware that his father was not a popular man with the
locals, and he had warned his son that he would always be safe while it was
light as no one would dare to harm him while others could watch what was going
on, but once it was dark anything could happen. One thing he knew for certain: when
he grew up he wasn't going to be a tax collector or work in the census office.
When he reached the village he
found the narrow twisting lanes that ran between the little white houses swarming
with people who had come from all the neighbouring lands to obey his father's
order and be registered for the census, in order that they might be taxed. The
boy dismissed the plebe from his mind. (It was Marcus who had taught him to
refer to all foreigners as plebe.) When he entered the market place he also
dismissed Marcus from his mind and began to concentrate on the supplies his
mother wanted. He mustn't make any mistakes this time or he would undoubtedly
end up with that thrashing from his &then He ran nimbly between the stalls,
checking the food carefully. Some of the local people stared at the
fair-skinned boy with the curly brown hair and the straight, firm nose. He
displayed no imperfections or disease like the majority of them. Others turned
their eyes away from him; after all, he had come from the land of the natural rulers.
These thoughts did not pass through his mind. All the boy noticed was that
their native skins were parched and lined from too much sun. He knew that too
much sun was bad for you: it made you old before your time, his tutor had
warned him.
At the end stall, the boy watched
an old woman haggling over an unusually plump live chicken and as he marched towards
her she ran away in fright, leaving the fowl behind her. He stared at the
stallkeeper and refused to bargain with the peasant. It was beneath his
dignity. He pointed to the chicken and gave the man one denarius. The man bit
the round silver coin and looked at the head of Augustus Caesar, ruler of half
the world. (When his tutor had told him, during a history lesson, about the Emperor's
achievements, he remembered thinking, I hope Caesar doesn't conquer the whole
world before I have a chance to join in.) The stallkeeper was still staring at
the silver coin.
"Come on, come on, I haven't
got all day," said the boy sounding like his father.
The local did not reply because
he couldn't understand what the boy was saying. All he knew for certain was
that it would be unwise for him to annoy the invader. The stallkeeper held the chicken
firmly by the neck and taking a knife from his belt cut its head off in one
movement and passed the dead fowl over to the boy. He then handed back some of
his local coins, which had stamped on them the image of a man the boy's father
described as "that useless Herod". The boy kept his hand held out, palm
open, and the local placed bronze talents into it until he had no more. The boy
left him talentless and moved to another stall, this time pointing to bags
containing raisins, figs and dates.
The new stallkeeper made a
measure of each for which he received five of the useless Herod coins. The man
was about to protest about the barter but the boy stared at him fixedly in the
eyes, the way he had seen his father do so often. The stallkeeper backed away
and only bowed his head.
Now, what else did his mother
want? He racked his brains. A chicken, raisins, dates, figs and . . . of
course, two pomegranates. He searched among the fresh-fruit stalls and picked
out three pomegranates, and breaking one open, began to eat it, spitting out
the pips on the ground in front of him. He paid the stallkeeper with the two
remaining bronze talents, feeling pleased that he had carried out his mother's
wishes while still being able to return home with one of the silver denarii.
Even his father would be impressed by that. He finished the pomegranate and,
with his arms laden, headed slowly out of the market back towards the compound,
trying to avoid the stray dogs that continually got under his feet. They barked
and sometimes snapped at his ankles: they did not know who he was.
When the boy reached the edge of
the village he noticed the sun was already disappearing behind the highest
hill, so he quickened his pace, remembering his father's words about being home
before dusk. As he walked down the stony path, those still on the way towards
the village kept a respectful distance, leaving him a clear vision as far as
the eye could see, which wasn't all that far as he was carrying so much in his
arms. But one sight he did notice a little way ahead of him was a man with a
beard - a dirty, lazy habit his father had told him - wearing the ragged dress
that signified that he was of the tribe of Jacob, tugging a reluctant donkey
which in turn was carrying a very fat woman. The woman was, as their custom
demanded, covered from head to toe in black. The boy was about to order them
out of his path when the man left the donkey on the side of the road and went
into a house which from its sign, claimed to be an inn.
Such a building in his own land
would never have passed the scrutiny of the local councilors as a place fit for
paying travellers to dwell in. But the boy realised that this particular week to
find even a mat to lay one's head on might be considered a luxury. He watched
the bearded man reappear through the door with a forlorn look on his tired
face. There was clearly no room at the inn.
The boy could have told him that before
he went in, and wondered what the man would do next, as it was the last
dwelling house on the road. Not that he was really interested; they could both
sleep in the hills for all he cared. It was about all they looked fit for. The
man with the beard was telling the woman something and pointing behind the inn,
and without another word he led the donkey off in the direction he had been
indicating.
The boy wondered what could
possibly be at the back of the inn and, his curiosity roused, followed them. As
he came to the corner of the building, he saw the man was coaxing the donkey through
an open door of what looked like a barn. The boy followed the strange trio and
watched them through the crack left by the open door. The barn was covered in
dirty straw and full of chickens, sheep and oxen, and smelled to the boy like
the sewers they built in the side streets back home. He began to feel sick. The
man was clearing away some of the worst of the straw from the centre of the
barn, trying to make a clean patch for them to rest on - a near hopeless task,
thought the boy. When the man had done as best he could he lifted the At woman
down from the donkey and placed her gently in the straw. Then he left her and
went over to a trough on the other side of the barn where one of the oxen was
drinking. He cupped his fingers together, put them in the trough and filling
his hands with water, returned to the fat woman.
The boy was beginning to get
bored and was about to leave when the woman leaned forward to drink from the
man's hands. The shawl fell from her head and he saw her face for the first
time.
He stood transfixed, staring at
her.
He had never seen anything more beautiful.
Unlike the common members of her tribe, the woman's skin was translucent in
quality, and her eyes shone, but what most struck the boy was her manner and
presence. Never had he felt so much in awe, even remembering his one visit to
the Senate House to hear a declamation from Augustus Caesar.
For a moment he remained
mesmerised, but then he knew what he must do. He walked through the open door
towards the woman, fell on his knees before her and offered the chicken. She
smiled and he gave her the pomegranates and she smiled again. He then dropped
the rest of the food in front of her, but she remained silent. The man with the
beard was returning with more water, and when he saw the young foreigner he fell
on his knees spilling the water onto the straw and then covered his face. The
boy stayed on his knees for some time before he rose, and walked slowly towards
the barn door. When he reached the opening, he turned back and stared once more
into the face of the beautiful woman. She still did not speak.
The young Roman hesitated only
for a second, and then bowed his head.
It was already dusk when he ran
back out on to the winding path to resume his journey home, but he was not afraid.
Rather he felt he had done something good and therefore no harm could come to
him. He looked up into the sky and saw directly above him the first star,
shining so brightly in the east that he wondered why he could see no others.
His father had told him that different stars were visible in different lands,
so he dismissed the puzzle from his mind, replacing it with the anxiety of not
being home before dark. The road in front of him was now empty so he was able
to walk quickly towards the compound, and was not all that far from safety when
he first heard the singing and shouting.
He turned quickly to see where
the danger was coming from, staring up into the hills above him. To begin with,
he couldn't make sense of what he saw. Then his eyes focused in disbelief on
one particular field in which the shepherds were leaping up and down, singing,
shouting and clapping their hands. The boy noticed that all the sheep were
safely penned in a corner of the field for the night, so they had nothing to
fear. He had been told by Marcus that sometimes the shepherds in this land
would make a lot of noise at night because they believed it kept away the evil spirits.
How could anyone be that stupid, the boy wondered, when there was a flash of
lightning across the sky and the field was suddenly ablaze with light. The
shepherds fell to their knees, silent, staring up into the sky for several
minutes as though they were listening intently to something. Then all was
darkness again.
The boy started running towards
the compound as fast as his legs could carry him; he wanted to be inside and hear
the safety of the great gate close behind him and watch the centurion put the
wooden wedge firmly back in its place. He would have run all the way had he not
seen something in front of him that brought him to a sudden halt.
His father had taught him never
to show any fear when facing danger. The boy caught his breath in case it would
make them think that he was frightened. He was frightened, but he marched
proudly on, determined he would never be forced off the road-When they did meet
face to face, he was amazed.
Before him stood three camels and
astride the beasts three men, who stared down at him. The first was clad in
gold and with one arm protected something hidden beneath his cloak. By his side
hung a large sword, its sheath covered in all manner of rare stones, some of
which the boy could not even name. The second was dressed in white and held a
silver casket to his breast, while the third wore red and carried a large
wooden box. The man robed in gold put up his hand and addressed the boy in a
strange tongue which he had never heard uttered before, even by his tutor. The
second man tried Hebrew but to no avail and the third yet another tongue
without eliciting any response from the boy.
The boy folded his arms across
his chest and told them who he was, where he was going, and asked where they might
be bound. He hoped his piping voice did not reveal his fear. The one robed in
gold replied first and questioned the boy in his own tongue.
"Where is he that is born
King of the Jews? For we have seen his star in the east, and are come to
worship him."
"King Herod lives beyond the
. . ."
"We speak not of King
Herod," said the second man, "for he is but a king of men as we
are."
"We speak," said the
third, "of the King of Kings and are come to offer him gifts of gold,
frankincense and myrrh."
"I know nothing of the King
of Kings," said the boy, now gaining in confidence. "I recognise only
Augustus Caesar, Emperor of the known world."
The man robed in gold shook his
head and, pointing to the sky, inquired of the boy: "You observe that
bright star in the east. What is the name of the village on which it
shines?"
The boy looked up at the star,
and indeed the village below was clearer to the eye than it had been in sunlight.
"But that's only Bethlehem
," said the
boy, laughing. "You will find no King of Kings there."
"Even there we shall find
him," said the second king, "for did not Herod's chief priest tell
us:
And thou Bethlehem
, in the land of
Judah, Art not
least among the
princes of Judah
, For out
of thee
shall come a
Governor That shall rule
my people Israel
."
"It cannot be," said
the boy now almost shouting at them. "Augustus Caesar rules Israel
and all
the known world."
But the three robed men did not
heed his words and left him to ride on towards Bethlehem
.
Mystified the boy set out on the
last part of his journey home. Although the sky had become pitch black, whenever
he turned his eyes towards Bethlehem
the village was still clearly visible in the brilliant starlight. Once again he
started running towards the compound, relieved to see its outline rising up in
front of him. When he reached the great wooden gate, he banged loudly and
repeatedly until a centurion, sword drawn, holding a flaming torch, came out to
find out who it was that disturbed his watch. When he saw the boy, he frowned.
"Your father is very angry.
He returned at sunset and is about to send out a search party for you."
The boy darted past the centurion
and ran all the way to his family's quarters, where he found his father addressing
a sergeant of the guard.
His mother was standing by his
side, weeping.
The father turned when he saw his
son and shouted: "Where have you been?"
"To Bethlehem
."
"Yes, I know that, but
whatever possessed you to return so late? Have I not told you countless times
never to be out of the compound after dark? Come to my study at once."
The boy looked helplessly towards
his mother, who was still crying, but not out of relief, and turned to follow
his father into the study. The guard sergeant winked at him as he passed by but
the boy knew nothing could save him now. His father strode ahead of him into the
study and sat on a leather stool by his table. His mother followed and stood silently
by the door.
"Now tell me exactly where
you have been and why you took so long to return, and be sure to tell me the
truth."
The boy stood in front of his
father and told him everything that had come to pass. He started with how he
had gone to the village and taken great care in choosing the food and in so
doing had saved half the money his mother had given him. How on the way back he
had seen a fat lady on a donkey unable to find a place at the inn and then he
explained why he had given her the food. He went on to describe how the
shepherds had shouted and beat their breasts until there was a great light in
the sky at which they had all fallen silent on their knees, and then finally how
he had met the three robed men who were searching for the King of Kings.
The father grew angry at his
son's words.
"What a story you
tell," he shouted. "Do tell me more. Did you find this King of
Kings?"
"No, Sir. I did not,"
he replied, as he watched his father rise and start pacing around the room.
"Perhaps there is a more
simple explanation as to why your face and fingers are stained red with
pomegranate juice," he suggested.
"No, Father. I did buy an
extra pomegranate but even after I had bought all the food, I still managed to
save one silver denarius."
The boy handed the coin over to
his mother believing it would confirm his story. But the sight of the piece of silver
only made his father more angry. He stopped pacing and stared down into the eyes
of his son.
"You have spent the other
denarius on yourself and now you have nothing to show for it?"
"That's not true, Father, I
. . ."
"Then I will allow you one
more chance to tell me the truth," said his father as he sat back down.
"Fail me, boy, and I shall give you a thrashing that you will never forget
for the rest of your life."
"I have already told you the
truth, Father."
"Listen to me carefully, my
son. We were born Romans, born to rule the world because our laws and customs
are tried and trusted and have always been based firmly on absolute honesty. Rornans
never lie; it remains our strength and the weakness of our enemies. That is why
we rule while others are ruled and as long as that is so the Roman
Empire
will never fall. Do you understand what I am saying, my
boy?"
"Yes, Father, I
understand."
"Then you'll also understand
why it is imperative to tell the truth."
"But I have not lied,
Father."
"Then there is no hope for
you," said the man angrily. "And you leave me only one way to deal
with this matter."
The boy's mother wanted to come
to her son's aid, but knew any protest would be useless. The father rose from his
chair and removed the leather belt from around his waist and folded it double,
leaving the heavy brass studs on the outside. He then ordered his son to touch
his toes. The young boy obeyed without hesitation and the father raised the
leather strap above his head and brought it down on the child with all his
strength. The boy never flinched or murmured, while his mother turned away from
the sight, and wept. After the father had administered the twelfth stroke he
ordered his son to go to his room. The boy left without a word and his mother
followed and watched him climb the stairs. She then hurried away to the kitchen
and gathered together some olive oil and ointments which she hoped would soothe
the pain of her son's wounds. She carried the little jars up to his room, where
she found him already in bed. She went over to his side and pulled the sheet
back. He turned on to his chest while she prepared the oils. Then she removed
his night tunic gently for fear of adding to his pain. Having done so, she
stared down at his body in disbelief.
The boy's skin was unmarked.
She ran her fingers gently over
her son's unblemished body and found it to be as smooth as if he had just
bathed. She turned him over, but there was not a mark on him anywhere. Quickly
she covered him with the sheet.
"Say nothing of this to your
father, and remove the memory of it from your mind forever, because the very
telling of it will only make him more angry."
"Yes, Mother."
The mother leaned over and blew
out the candle by the side ofthe bed, gathered up the unused oils and tiptoed to
the door. At the threshold, she turned in the dim light to look back at her son
and said:
"Now I know you were telling
the truth, Pontius."
