Chapter 9

Having had enough excitement for one day, Voldi put back to old Hebron for the night. Early the next morning he was on his way west again, past the cross-roads where yesterday he had encountered the thieving Idumean, on through sleepy little Adoraim, whose bloody history, had he known it, might have stirred his interest. Frequently he paused to ask farmers, in their carts and at work in their fields, whether they remembered seeing a young Arabian pass that way, a little more than a fortnight ago. Not only was there no information to be had, but the surly replies indicated that their concern for travelling Arabians was lacking in enthusiasm. Indeed, they seemed very uncivil, until Voldi speculated on the probable attitude of an Arabian shepherd if asked by a well-mounted Jew whether he had seen another Jew on the road some time ago. The shepherd would have seared him with comprehensive curses involving not only the Jew himself, but his parents, his uncle, his grandfather, and his heirs and assigns for ever. A very pretty world, it was.

These occasional detainments, while brief, added up to a considerable delay in the travel-schedule he had planned, and it was late in the day when he arrived at the squalid old town of Lachish, with fifteen miles more to go before reaching Gaza. The moon was too young to be of much service for night riding. He drew up in the stableyard of the only inn, finding it almost empty—a bad sign. He had already learned that where one found plenty of room there was always an easily discoverable reason.

A couple of loutish hostlers ambled forward to meet him, but he decided to attend personally to the comfort of his horse. While intent upon his task of rubbing down the faithful gelding—an operation that involved some quiet conversation between them to which Darik contributed an occasional nod and a playful nibble—Voldi became aware of a silent onlooker standing behind him. Turning, he met the amused eyes of a quite good-looking, well-dressed man of forty, obviously a Roman. Voldi straightened and they exchanged amiable greetings.

‘You are an Arabian, I think,’ said the Roman.

‘Yes, sir. My name is Voldi.’

‘Mine is Mencius. The caravan I am accompanying is camped up the road a mile. My horse is lame—or pretending. I had hoped to find a horseleech here, but there is none; and these stable-boys hardly know the time o’ day.’

‘Want me to take a look at him, sir?’ asked Voldi.

‘That would be very kind,’ Mencius said, ‘if it isn’t asking too much. You Arabians seem to know everything about horses.’

‘Not everything,’ protested Voldi. ‘But we do know that they get tired on a long journey and go lame; and the more intelligent they are, the worse they limp.’

‘Right!’ chuckled Mencius. ‘And sometimes they forget which leg it is and give themselves away. However—my horse may be telling the truth.’