The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [82]
At the last stand, the boy watched an old woman haggling over an unusually plump live chicken. He marched toward her, and when she saw him she ran away in fright, leaving the fowl behind. He looked straight into the eyes of the standkeeper, refusing to bargain with such a peasant. He pointed to the chicken and handed the man one denarius. The vendor bit the silver coin, then peered at the head of Augustus Caesar, ruler of half the known world. (When his tutor had told the boy, during a history lesson, about the emperor’s achievements, he remembered saying, “Magister, I hope Caesar doesn’t conquer the whole world before I have a chance to join in.”)
“Come on, come on. I haven’t got all day,” the boy said, trying to sound like his father.
The man did not reply, as he had no idea what the boy was saying. All he knew for certain was that it was never worth annoying the invaders. He held the chicken firmly by the neck and, unsheathing a knife from his belt, cut its head off in one movement. He passed the bleeding fowl over to the boy together with some local coins, which had stamped on them the image of the man the boy’s father had described so often as “that useless Herod.” The boy kept his hand held out, palm upward, and the man continued to place bronze talents in it until he had no more.
Once the boy had left the man talentless, he moved on to another stand, where he pointed to bags containing raisins, figs, and dates. The new standkeeper measured out a libra of each, for which he received five of the near-worthless Herod coins. The man was about to protest, but the boy stared him fixedly in the eyes, the way he had seen his father do so often. The man backed away and simply 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 walked into the next street, and searched among the stands of fresh fruit until he found the largest pomegranates on display. He selected three and immediately broke one open, dug his teeth into it, and savored the cool taste. He spat out the pips, nodded his approval to the standkeeper, and paid him with two of the three remaining bronze talents (he wanted to keep one to add to Marcus’s coin collection when he returned home).
He felt his mother would be pleased that he had carried out her wishes and only spent one silver denarius. Surely even Pater would be impressed by that. He finished his pomegranate and, with his arms laden, began heading slowly out of the market and back toward the compound, trying to avoid the stray dogs that continually ran into his path, barking and sometimes snapping at his ankles. They obviously didn’t realize who he was.
When the boy reached the edge of the village he noticed that the sun was already melting behind the highest hill, and, recalling his father’s words about being home before dusk, he quickened his pace. As he walked up the middle of the stony path, those still on their way down toward the village stood to one side, leaving him a clear path as far as his eye could see (which wasn’t all that far, because he was carrying so much in his arms).
But there was one sight he could not fail to notice. A little way ahead of him was a man with a beard—a dirty, lazy custom, his father had often told him—wearing the ragged clothing that signified that he was of the tribe of Jacob. He tugged at a reluctant donkey that was laden down with a very fat woman who was, as their custom demanded, covered from head to toe in black. The boy was about to order them out of his way when the man pulled the donkey over to the side of the road, tied it up to a post, and entered