The Collected Short Stories Read online

“King Herod lives beyond the …”

  “We do not speak 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. We have come from the East to offer him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.”

  “I know nothing about any King of Kings,” said the boy, now gaining confidence. “I recognize only Augustus Caesar, emperor of half the known world.”

  The man robed in gold shook his head and, pointing to the sky, inquired of the boy: “Do 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 it was now clearer to the eye than it had been in sunlight.

  “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 man, “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.”

  “That’s just not possible,” said the boy, now almost shouting at them. “Augustus Caesar rules Israel, and half the known world.”

  But the three robed men did not heed his words, and left him to ride on toward Bethlehem.

  Mystified, the boy set out on the last stade of his journey home. Although the sky was now pitch black, whenever he turned his eyes toward Bethlehem the village was still clearly visible in the brilliant starlight.

  When he reached the great wooden gate, he banged loudly and repeatedly until the guard, his sword drawn and holding a flaming torch, came to find out who it was that dared to disturb his watch. When he saw the boy, he frowned.

  “The governor is very displeased with you. He returned at sunset, and is about to send out a search party for you.”

  The boy darted past the guard and ran all the way to the family’s quarters, where he found his father addressing a sergeant of the guard and a dozen legionnaires. His mother was standing by his side, weeping.

  The governor turned when he saw his son. “Where have you been?” he said in an icily measured tone.

  “To Bethlehem, sir.”

  “Yes, child, I am aware of that. But whatever possessed you to return so late? Have I not told you on countless occasions never to be out of the compound after dark?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then you will come to my study at once.”

  The boy looked helplessly toward his mother, then turned to follow his father into the study. The guard winked at the boy as he passed by, but he realized that nothing could save him now. His father strode ahead of him, and sat down on a wooden stool behind his table. His mother followed and stood silently drying her eyes just inside the door.

  “Now, tell me exactly where you have been, and why it took you so long to return. And be sure to speak only the truth.”

  The boy stood in front of his father and calmly told him everything that had taken place.

  He told how he had gone to the village and taken great care in choosing the food for their dinner, and how in so doing he had saved half the money his mother had given him; then how on the way back he had seen a fat lady on a donkey unable to find a place at the inn. He explained why he had followed her into the barn and parted with all their food; how the shepherds had shouted and beaten their breasts until there was a great light in the sky, when they had all fallen silent on their knees; and then finally how he had come to meet the three robed men who sat astride camels and were searching for the King of Kings.

  The father grew more and more angry at his son’s words.

  “What a story this is!” he shouted. “Do tell me more. Did you meet this King of Kings?”

  “No, six, did not,” the boy replied. His father rose and started pacing around the room.

  “Perhaps there is a simpler explanation as to why your face and fingers are stained red with pomegranate juice.”

  “No, Pater. 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 it only made his father angrier. 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, Pater, I …”

  “I will allow you one more chance to tell me the truth,” said his father as he resumed his seat behind the table. “Fail me, boy, and I shall give you a leathering you will never forget for the rest of your life.”

  The boy did not hesitate. “I have already told you the truth, Pater.”

  “Listen to me carefully, my son. We were born Romans, born to rule the world because our laws and customs are tried and tested and have always been based on complete integrity. Romans never lie; that is our strength and the weakness of our enemies. That is why we rule while others are willing to be ruled, and as long as that is so, the Roman Empire will never fall. Do you understand what I am saying to you, boy?”

  “Yes, Pater, I understand.”

  “Then you will also understand why it is imperative always to tell the truth, whatever the consequences.”

  “Yes, Pater, I do. But I have already told you the truth.”

  “Then there is no hope for you,” said the man quietly. “You leave me no choice as to how I will have to deal with you.”

  The boy’s mother raised her hand, wanting to come to her son’s aid, but knew any protest would be useless. The governor rose from his chair, removed the leather belt from around his waist, and folded it double, with the heavy brass studs on the outside. He then ordered his son to bend down and touch his toes. The young boy obeyed without hesitation, and his father raised the belt above his head and brought it down on the child with all the strength he could muster. The boy didn’t once flinch or murmur as each stroke was administered, while his mother turned away and wept.

  After the father had delivered the twelfth stroke he ordered his son to go to his room. The boy left without a word and climbed the stairs to his bedroom. His mother followed. As she passed the kitchen, she stepped in and took some olive oil and ointments from a drawer.

  She carried the little jars up to the boy’s room, where she found him already in bed. She went over to his side, sat on the edge of the bed, and pulled the sheet back. She told him to turn onto his chest while she prepared the oils. Then she gently removed his night tunic, for fear of adding to his pain. She stared down at his naked body in disbelief.

  The boy’s skin was unmasked.

  She ran her fingers gently over her son’s unblemished body, and found it as smooth as if he had just bathed. She turned him over. There was no mark on him anywhere. Quickly she slipped his tunic back on and covered him with the sheet.

  “Say nothing of this to your father,” she said, “and remove the memory of it from your mind forever.”

  “Yes, Mater.”

  The mother leaned over and blew out the candle by the side of his 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.”

  THE LOOPHOLE

  “That isn’t the version I heard,” said Philip.

  One of the club members seated at the bar glanced around at the sound of raised voices, but when he saw who was involved only smiled and continued his conversation.

  The Haslemere Golf Club was fairly crowded that Saturday morning. And just before lunch it was often difficult to find a seat in the spacious clubhouse.

  Two of the members had already ordered their second round and settled themselves in the alcove overlooking the first hole long before the room began to fill up. Philip Masters and Michael Gilmour h