The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [81]
The boy smiled and, clutching the two small silver coins tightly in his fist, ran out of the house into the compound.
The guard who stood on duty at the gate removed a great wedge of wood and allowed the massive door to swing open. The boy jumped through, and grinned back at him.
“I hear you’re in trouble again,” the guard shouted after him.
“No, not this time,” the boy replied. “I’m about to be saved.”
He waved happily to the guard and started walking briskly in the direction of the village, reciting some verses from Virgil’s Aeneid, which reminded him of home. He kept to the center of the dusty, winding path that the locals had the impudence to call a road. It seemed as if he spent half his time removing small stones from inside 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 allow two chariots to pass.
And Mater would have told the serving girls a thing or two. Not one of them knew how to set a table, or even to prepare food so that it was at least clean. Since they had been stationed in Judaea, he had seen his mother in a kitchen for the first time in his life. He was confident it would also be the last. Soon his father would be coming to the end of his tour of duty, and they could all return to Rome.
He had learned many things during the past year, but in particular he was now certain that when he grew up he wasn’t going to be a tax collector, or work in the census office.
The village to which his mother had sent him was a few stades from the compound, and the evening sun shone down on him as he walked. It was a large, red sun, the same deep red as his father’s tunic, and it was still giving out enough heat to make 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 to show his friends how large they grew in this barbaric land. Marcus, his best friend, would probably have seen one as big, because his father had commanded a whole army in Asia Minor, but the rest of the class would be impressed.
When he reached the village, he found the narrow twisting lanes that ran between the little white houses swarming with people. They had all come from the surrounding area at his father’s command to be registered for the census, so that each of them might be taxed according to their rank. His father’s authority had been vested in him by the emperor himself, and once the boy had reached his sixteenth birthday, he too would serve the emperor. Marcus wanted to be a soldier and to conquer the rest of the world, but the boy was more interested in the law, and in teaching his country’s customs to all the barbarians who dwelled 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 replied. His friend didn’t seem impressed, and had dunked him in the nearest bath.
The boy quickened his pace. He knew he had to be back in the compound before the sun disappeared behind the hills: His father had warned him many times that they must always be locked safely inside before sunset. He had told his son that he would be safe while it was light, as no one would dare to harm him while others could see what was going on, but that once it was dark, anything could happen. The boy was aware that his father was not a popular man with the locals, but he dismissed the plebs from his mind. (It was Marcus who had taught him to refer to all foreigners as plebs.)
When he reached the marketplace, he began to concentrate on the supplies his mother had requested. He mustn’t make any mistakes this time, or he would undoubtedly end up with another leathering from his father. He ran nimbly between the stands, checking the produce carefully. Some of the local people stared at the white-skinned boy with the curly fair hair and a straight, strong nose. He displayed no imperfections