A Quiver Full of Arrows

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 toward Bethlehem the village was still clearly visible in the brilliant starlight. Once again he started running toward 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 discover 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 toward his mother, who was still crying, but now 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 of 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. Romans 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 onto 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 of the 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: