“I have said it. And now we must be practical.” Balthazar had also noticed the gesture, but it was rather as though he had seen it through a sheet of glass. Once, long long ago, he had loved his sister; and they’d taken her, kept her in a dark hut, fattened her up and then with flowers and the beating of drums, thrown her into the great river, a living sacrifice to N’Zana. Wasted. And for many years, to him there had been little difference between men and women, and the hand of the woman on the shoulder of the man had stirred nothing even remotely sexual. He had listened to what Melchior had said-the first time that he had heard the whole story—and seemed to have nothing to do with what he had come out to seek, about that he was more confused than ever. In a vague way he felt sorry for this couple, who must now leave this poor shelter and go into the night, into the world that was so hostile to humble people. Also it couldn’t be a very pleasant thing to be told, when your child was only a few days old, that he would live so short a time, whatever glory he might achieve in a few years. Considering their plight he studied the animals and hoped that they owned them, though a cow would slow down their flight and the nearest donkey was extremely old, more likely to-be a liability than an asset. Balthazar had a shrewd eye for a donkey; the Greek trader had owned
many and had been quick to discard a faulty animal.Melchior addressed Joseph.
“You have told her? She understands? She is fit to travel?”
“She is willing,” Joseph said, and the change of word spoke volumes.
“I can see that you are poor. I am poor myself, but I am trying to find a way to help you.” He turned to Caspar and spoke his name. Caspar came out of his dream and said :
“Yes?”
“If this child is to be saved, he must be removed. They are poor and travel is costly.”
“Travel is costly,” Caspar agreed; and he thought—I hope you will remember that, and how much I have spent on you, when I lay my request before you.
“The gold you carry,” Melchior said, ‘which you did not give to Herod—very rightly. Will you give it to these people ?”
Just that, the simple request, no reasoning, no pleading; the old man spoke as casually and with as much certainty of getting what he asked for as though, at table, he had suggested that somebody should pass him the salt. A really remarkable old man, old and poor and star crazed, but with the manners of a king.
He said, “Herod didn’t get my gift because I could see that he was useless to me. You, on the other hand, could be very useful. I will give what I carry to these people if you, in return, will do something for me.”
And as soon as the words were out he thought—Spoken like a true huckster! Unless I soon get back to my own place and my own people, I shall be thoroughly corrupt.
“And what in the world could I do for you?” Melchior asked, looking at the man who had financed him, and saved him from the robbers.
“You could come back to Jexal with me and use your skill on my behalf. A man who can read the stars as you can is not met with every day.”
Nor every century, not every millennium, Melchior thought with the supreme satisfaction of a man who has proved himself right. But there was no time for self-congratulation, nor for argument, or even for consideration. These humble custodians of the future Lord of the Earth were like conics, their only safety lay in flight, and the sooner they started the better. When, at the top of his tower, he had visualised himself giving that warning, Melchior had seen armies alerted, guards set and fortresses manned; now he saw a worried man bundling his wife and the precious baby on to a donkey and making off through the night. Not that it mattered. If the threatened danger could be averted the destiny was quite sure.
“Very well,” he said, after what had seemed only a second’s thought, “I will do that. But I must ask you to remember that I am no hired Chaldean. I cannot promise to tell you only acceptable things.”
“Am I the man to ask that? That is settled then. But there is another thing I must ask you to do for me. I want him, too.” He jerked his thumb at Balthazar.
“I want him to come and teach tongues to my young men.”
“That can wait, surely.”
“I want it done now. This is as important to me as your business is to you.”
A really remarkable young man, Melchior reflected; ignorant, in many ways uncouth, but issuing orders like a king.
With his own innate courtliness he looked towards the man and the girl and said:
“Excuse us, please. It is your business that we discuss,” Then he passed on Caspar’s request, as hastily as was compatible with clarity, to Balthazar, who faced with this in addition to all that had happened and had not happened, seemed to suffer a lapse from sanity.
“It is not possible,” he said.
“I have been thinking; I have been wrong. I came out to witness some great thing, and to do that I committed a crime; so I have seen nothing. I am a slave, the property of a Lady living in Edessa. Money was paid for me, so by running away I robbed her. I must go back and make full restitution … and take my punishment.”
He could hardly believe that he was saying these things, but he was, and in a far more firm and positive voice than he had ever used towards his fellow travellers. Even when he had urged the necessity of
entering Jerusalem, the slave wheedle hadtainted his voice; now he spoke like a free man.
Irritably now, because of the delay, Melchior translated. And, Caspar turned and looked, for the first time with any real respect at Balthazar, and gave him a cheerful man-to-man blow upon the shoulder, a gesture he reserved for the chosen few of the Five Hundred.
He spoke and Melchior spoke.
“He says you are to reckon your worth, double it, and this woman in Edessa shall have it, in rose jekkals. Also he says that from this moment you are free, because a teacher must have status and authority.”
How Balthazar took this astounding piece of news he did not stop to see, for he turned straight back to Caspar and said:
“Now please, the gold.”
“And what,” Caspar said, ‘about the stinking stuff you carry? You said it had value, equal with gold. Couldn’t they have that, and sell it?”
“Oh dear,” Melchior said, pushing himself to his feet, angry at the oversight.
“Of course, of course.” He had tried so hard to be practical. He said to Mary and Joseph :
“We have thought of a way to assist you.” But they had asked for nothing; they were decent poor people and had their feelings and their pride; so he added, “They are birth gifts for the baby, and you will honour us by accepting them.”
In Balthazar’s stunned mind only the word gifts made any impact. Of course, to a new baby one brought gifts, and Melchior and Caspar had come prepared. He had nothing. The child’s father, understanding Greek, would know that he was a slave—had been a slave, who did not even own himself; but the sweet-faced woman wouldn’t know. Judging by his clothes she would think him well-to-do, and mean.
Why he should mind what she thought was as mysterious as the impulse which had prompted his confession; and he had no way of knowing that he was the first of many millions who would wish to please her and shrink from her disapproval. He knew only that he had no gift, and shooting her a humble, apologetic smile, he followed the others into the yard, meaning to stay there and hide his shame, while trying to work out why his venture had been on the one hand so rewarding, making him a free man and a teacher, and on the other, so disappointing.
Neither Melchior nor Caspar glanced at the star as they used its last light to fumble for what lay hidden at the bottom of their bags of camel fodder. For Melchior its work was done; for Caspar it had never mattered much; it was not his star.
But Balthazar stared at it, and it was he who saw its end. Just as in his vision, it gathered itself into a great burst of glory, and was gone.
Now the only light in the inn yard was cold and came from a distance, from the ordinary stars and a young, thin crescent moon.