The Making of the Lamb (43 page)

Jesus wrapped the loaves and put them in the satchel with the fruit. “So Imogen brought you home to your parents?”

“To Father,” Arvigarus said. “Mother had died long before” He had found some cheese and wrapped it. “Father’s second wife wanted her son Clotten to marry Imogen, even though Imogen was in love with Postumux, but…” he glanced at his brother with a crooked grin. “We took care of Clotten.”

Guiderius snickered.

Jesus hesitated. “What do you mean?”

Arvigarus tucked the cheese into his satchel. “Belariux, Guiderius, and I found Clotten while hunting. He insulted us, and Guiderius beheaded him.”

Jesus raised his eyebrow.

“We gave him fair warning,” said Arvigarus. “He was too thick-headed to back off.”

The Romans had written about the hot-tempered Celts, and Jesus had seen with his own eyes how quick they could be to draw weapons. But usually someone backed off before matters turned deadly. Celtic warriors were generally tactful in defusing such situations and getting back to their carousing.

“You would have done the same thing,” said Guiderius.

“That is not the way of my people,” said Jesus.

Arvigarus sighed. “Belariux recognized Imogen as the king’s daughter. He came with us to the hillfort. At first, Father rejected Imogen because she had defied his wishes in betrothing herself to Postumux. And then Guiderius admitted he had killed Clotten, and that drew Father’s ire.”

Guiderius snorted. “A bit.” He pulled a water skin from a peg and filled it from one of the mead casks.

“Our stepmother died shortly thereafter,” Arvigarus said. “Then we were reconciled to the king and restored to our rightful positions, and Imogen married Postumux.”

Jesus looked from one prince to the other. “I thought my life was complicated. How long has it been since you were restored?”

“Just about a year,” said Arvigarus. “There’s a lot more. Like how our stepmother tried to poison—”

“Please stop. I’m getting a headache,” Jesus interrupted. “But what happened, that Belariux is a threat now?”

“Father pardoned him for stealing us,” said Guiderius. “Since then, he’s been away on some business with the Ordovices. No telling what he’s been up to with them.”

“I would think such a crime would call for severe punishment,” Jesus said. “Your father is very merciful.”

Arvigarus tied the flap of his satchel closed. “Too merciful, it seems.”

In the morning, the twins parted with many hugs and some tears, but Jesus understood why Cymbeline was separating them. They could not both be king. Arvigarus needed to take another path, by immersing himself in the ways of the druids.

Jesus and Arvigarus mounted a sail on a jury-rigged spar on the curragh, and the wind from astern carried them up the Sabrina, which steadily narrowed as they made their way upriver. As they traveled, Jesus told Arvigarus about his upbringing as a Jew in Nazareth, the Romans’ domination of Israel, and the expedition to Britain with Joseph and Daniel. He did not mention that he was the son of God or his destiny as the Messiah, but he revealed his uncanny knack for finding ores and for picking up languages.

By nightfall on the second day, the river had begun to twist and turn among the low hills that rose higher toward the northeast. This made the sail impractical so they began to paddle.

The next morning, as they paddled upriver through the land of the Dobunni, they passed many homesteads and farms, but no large settlements. Small sheep grazed in the meadows.

“The farmers don’t seem to pay us any notice,” Jesus said.

“Why should they?” Arvigarus replied. “The Dobunni are peaceful farmers and artisans. They have some warrior garrisons, but none round here.”

They finally reached a settlement on the fifth day after leaving Caer Wysg. “It gets harder from here,” said Arvigarus. “That’s the Avon, where we’re going. We’ll have to portage the curragh.”

“I did plenty of portaging with the Dumnonii when we searched for tin lodes,” Jesus said.

“So you know it’s a lot of work.”

The settlement at the junction of the rivers turned out to be a market town. “We need supplies, but what are we going to do for money?” Jesus asked.

“No bother,” Arvigarus answered. “My father gave me a good supply of Dobunni coin.”

“Uncle Joseph told me that some tribes in Britain make their own coins, but I thought that was only in the southeast, where tribes trade directly with the Romans. Can I see one?”

Arvigarus opened his pouch. “Coin-making started to the east, but the Dobunni picked it up. My father is thinking of making coins, too, though it’s just as easy for him to use the coins of the Dobunni.” He dropped a coin into Jesus’s palm.

Jesus was surprised to see that the small silver coin bore the name
Anted
. “Is Anted a ruler of the Dobunni?”

“Yes, he is the high king for all of the Dobunni.”

“These are Latin letters. Are the Celts learning to write?”

“The ones that come in contact with the Romans are. The druids do not like it, but it is not impious unless someone writes a curse or anything about the gods.”

The houses, built around open courtyards, were larger and more sophisticated than anything Jesus had seen in Britain before. A few even had upper stories. The merchants’ stalls took the form of daub and wattle huts, but some of the merchants operated from rooms in their courtyard homes. Arvigarus easily replenished their supplies, not even bothering to haggle.

On their way back to the river, they came upon a house that smelled quite foul. Shouts and cries emerged from within. Jesus looked into the courtyard. It was the establishment of the local slave trader.

Men, women, and children sat in the main room. Jesus walked among them. Most did not wear chains. These were the docile ones, he presumed, sufficiently restrained by the tattoos on their foreheads and the knowledge of the fate that awaited them if they tried to run.

The slaver crossed the courtyard. He smiled as he approached, but Jesus waved him off.

“This might not be a bad idea, after all,” said Arvigarus. “We could use some help with those portages.”

“We can manage the portages,” said Jesus. “Let’s get out of here.”

Just as Jesus reached the street, he heard his name called from the courtyard. He turned to see a thin, emaciated figure emerge from one of the back rooms. His ragged tunic was pulled down from his waist. His sides bore the unmistakable red marks and blood of a recent whipping, and Jesus could only imagine what his back might show.

He was gasping for breath, whimpering more than speaking. He stumbled towards Jesus with an outstretched arm. “Jesus, I knew it was you when I heard your voice,” the wretched creature gasped.

The slaver raised his whip. “Get back, slave. This man is not going to buy the likes of you.”

“Hold on.” Jesus put his hand on the slaver’s arm to stay the whip stroke.

The miserable creature fell to his knees as Jesus approached.

Jesus looked into the man’s face. “Pirro, is it you?”

“Please, young sir,” said the slaver. “You do not want to purchase this one. He’s all worked out. I bought him at one of the mines, thinking I could put some muscle on him and sell him, but he is too disobedient and lazy. I am just about to give up on him. I will probably kill him tomorrow as an example to the others. Come, take another look at the good slaves I have. Good teeth, strong arms, fair prices.”

Jesus paid no attention to the slaver. He stared at Pirro, shaking his head. The memory of his treachery, his whining, his pathetic condition—it all filled him with disgust. Finally, he turned to the slaver. “I am sorry to disturb you. I have never been to a slaver before. I do not have any money.” Jesus turned away and walked out to the street.

Arvigarus hurried alongside, asking whether he was all right.

Jesus felt the tears streaming from his eyes. Shouldn’t it be obvious he was not?

Behind, in the courtyard, Pirro’s anguished cries waned further and further into the distance.

Arvigarus could tell something was still troubling Jesus when they arrived at their campsite on the riverside. Although he was going about the preparations for the night, he kept his teeth clenched and did not talk. “What is that slave to you?” Arvigarus asked.

“I did not want to speak of it,” said Jesus, “but I will tell you.” He sat cross-legged on the ground and told Arvigarus about Pirro’s history with Jesus’s family and his treachery at the battle for Rumps. “They said it was up to me to pass sentence upon him. I sentenced him to be sold into slavery. I see, now, that I sentenced him to a living death.”

“But for the traitor of Rumps? The sentence was just,” Arvigarus protested. “His life should have been forfeited for his treachery.”

“That is what my head tells me. I still feel so angry with him. Somehow, though, I did not have the heart to take his life at the time, but I ended up sending him to a living hell, and now he will die anyway.”

“You cannot blame yourself, Jesus. You did what you believed was just.”

Jesus shook his head. “Did your father kill Belariux for kidnapping you? That would have been just, but he showed mercy.”

“And look what has happened. Belariux has betrayed my father again. That’s why we have to go so far out of our way.”

“There are many who deserve to die, and yet live. Sometimes, those who deserve to live are visited with death. So what do we say to those who should have lived? I was angry, perhaps justly so, but I should not have been so quick to deal out death, even a living death.”

The next morning Jesus awoke to the sound of a cracking whip. In the fog of waking up, his first impression was that it must be a sound from the settlement—a farmer dealing with an obstinate mule, perhaps. Then, recognizing Arvigarus’s shout, he turned to look.

“Oh, good! You’re awake.” Arvigarus tossed the whip to Jesus. “You take it, he’s yours.”

“What?”

“The slaver was right. This slave is useless. He’s lazy.”

Jesus looked over to Pirro, whimpering close to the cooking fire. Then he turned back to Arvigarus. “How…?”

“You were so unhappy last night. So I went back to the slaver after you were asleep. I woke him up and bought the slave. Now, I am giving him to you. He’s a gift.”

“I don’t want a slave.”

“Kill him if you like. You mustn’t refuse the gift, though. That would be an insult. You do not do that to a Celt, particularly a prince. Remember what my twin brother did to Clotten after he was insulted by him.”

Jesus put one hand to his neck. “Suppose I think he has suffered enough, and I want to set him free.”

“He belongs to you now, and you can do what you like, but with a slave’s tattoo on his forehead, that’s not possible. The first warrior who sees him walking loose will kill him as a runaway. That is what I would do. If you want him dead, just kill him. Practice your swordsmanship on him.”

Jesus gave Arvigarus a look of exasperation. “I don’t want to kill him. I don’t want to get beheaded for insulting you. And I certainly do not want to be nice to him. I did not ask for this—”

“Master.” Pirro had walked to Jesus’s side.

“What do you want?”

“May I pour you some mead to have with breakfast?”

“Fine, why not. I will have some mead.”

“See, it’s not that bad,” Arvigarus remarked. “He’s a slave; just use him. It’s what people do.”

“I have a really bad feeling about this. I wish he would just go away.”

Joseph spent a restless night as the guest of the king of the Pencaire hillfort, on the summit of Tregonning Hill.

It was at the foot of this hill that Jesus had made his first discovery of tin ore. Back then, almost four years ago, it had all seemed so simple—in the beginning, anyway. Jesus had been safely beyond the reach of the Romans, and his knack for discovering tin was going to make them all rich. But then the scriptural prophecy had led Joseph to despair for his great-nephew’s future. He had hoped that bringing Jesus to Ynys Witrin would turn the boy toward peace, but Jesus seemed as convinced as ever that he had been called as King David’s Messianic successor.

Joseph lit a candle, and unfolded Jesus’s map. It indicated another untapped lode of tin. Joseph had already arranged for the hillfort king’s people to dig out the ore and bring it to Carn Roz. Kendrick would be sailing from Carn Roz on the morning tide to meet him at nearby Ictus, but Joseph still had not decided where he wanted the captain to take him.

More than a month ago, Kendrick had left him in Carn Roz to consider the possibility of running the tin operation without letting the boys know. He had expected Kendrick to take only a fortnight to retrieve a portion of the coin deposited in Armorica, deliver it to the boys in Ynys Witrin, and return for him in Carn Roz, but fourteen days had turned to twenty and then thirty with no word.

By the time Kendrick appeared, spring had banished the chill of winter. That had been several days ago.

Kendrick explained that the Roman port master in Nantes had held the ship for a petty bureaucratic inspection that took days to complete, and that then the ship had been caught in doldrums on the route to Ynys Witrin.