There was a boy about the same age as Persis, one of the Greeks; he was a dining-room slave, clever at dancing and miming and all sorts of tricks, and able to get round the old master. He was born in the house; Eunice, his mother, had been in the kitchen for years and, even now she’d been freed, was still in and out quite often. It was she who had spoken in a friendly way to Persis, asking her to come over some evening to her little bakery, which was quite close. Persis hadn’t wanted to at first; she didn’t like Phaon, who was a cheeky, teasing little devil, quite sure he was going to be freed himself soon; and besides, she knew about the house where she was now, the best and the worst of it. She wasn’t going to risk looking outside; there wouldn’t be anything worth looking at. She knew what a slave girl’s life was now; it wasn’t any use doing any silly hoping or picturing.
All the same, fat old Eunice asked her again; she said, rather surprisingly, ‘My boy said you were lonely.’ Persis thought angrily, what right had he to talk about me! And then, but he didn’t look as if he cared. And while she was thinking that, Eunice had taken her by the arm, and then Persis found herself crying and sobbing that she had lost her mother—had lost everything—and Eunice stumped straight off to Flavia’s old slave woman and said she was taking Persis along with her that evening and there was to be no fuss, and before Persis had quite stopped hiccoughing from her burst of tears, she was out in the street, with Eunice patting her and talking to her. Persis hardly listened to the words; it was the kindness behind them that mattered. That was like the rich warm smell of new bread that she breathed in at the bakery, curled up on a rug on the floor at Eunice’s feet. By and by Phaon came tumbling in. Persis made to jump up, but Eunice wouldn’t let her, and Phaon curled up on the rug too. He was much nicer now; he didn’t tease her at all, and perhaps, thought Persis, his teasing me before was just his way of trying to make friends. She stayed there for the best part of the evening, and forgot she was a slave girl who had been bought and sold and forcibly made adult at Delos and other toughening places, and remembered she was fifteen and it was still nice to dig one’s fingers into dough and play silly games with Phaon and his mother.
After that she came fairly often, whenever she could get away for half an hour. Sometimes she would find one or two of the others, Manasses perhaps, or Josias or Argas, another of the Greek boys. But she didn’t pay much attention to them; what she wanted was to be allowed to be clean and a child again. Perhaps, after all, the whole world wasn’t hateful.
Sometimes she and Phaon helped with the baking. Most of it was rye bread or some mixture, but there were always a few white loaves for the better class customers, and often Eunice made them up into fancy twists. Phaon was very good at this; he would give the dough a flip and mould it with his fingers, and it turned into a swan or a rose. ‘Make something else, do!’ said Persis. He laughed and dipped his hands into the flour and began on another lump of dough. In a couple of minutes it had turned into a fish with beautiful fins. His mother looked at it, smiled, and then said, very seriously.
‘I can’t bake that, Phaon.’
‘Why not?’ asked Persis, ‘it’s lovely!’ And then saw that Phaon and his mother were looking at one another with a strange sort of understanding, and suddenly remembered something she had forgotten for more than a year and said breathlessly, ‘Do you mean the fish is—something else?’
‘It’s only a joke,’ said Phaon quickly, and Persis thought, oh no, of course not, that would have been too good to be true, and looked it, for Eunice took her hand and asked,
‘Did you ever hear of a fish that meant something different?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Persis, and knew she was bound to cry in a minute, because remembering that meant remembering everything. In a blur she saw the piles of cut wood and the round oven and the table with the dough on it, and Phaon looking straight at her, catching at her, saying very eagerly,
‘What was your fish, Persis?’
Was it dangerous to say? Hadn’t there been some warning from Evodia?—she musn’t speak unless she was sure. But oh, in this little room she’d had kindness! ‘They were the Name letters,’ she said, and it all came back to her, and she stared at the dough-white flesh and murmured them.
‘Persis, how lovely!’ said Phaon, and kissed her, but not teasingly; no, like a brother.
And, ‘Why didn’t you tell us, dear?’ said Eunice. ‘You could have been coming to the meetings—all this time.’
‘But I didn’t know,’ said Persis. ‘I thought—oh, I thought it was all no use and Jesus had forgotten me.’
‘That doesn’t happen,’ said Eunice. ‘Now tell me: what was your Church and of whom your baptism?’
‘Philippi,’ said Persis, ‘and I was baptised by Epaphroditus—but then, you see, I was sold—’
‘I know, my lamb, my lamb,’ said Eunice, cuddling her, ‘but you’ve come here. Think if you’d been sold, the way my brother was—he was a skilled man, of course, a joiner—right away into Spain, where there’s no Church—unless he was able to make one.’
‘Don’t you know about him, then?’ asked Persis.
‘No, my dear, and it will be seven years, come midsummer. Only I keep on hoping he found what he could make a Church out of, with God’s help.’
‘But what could he make a Church out of?’
‘Why, what I’ve been trying to give you, all this time, not knowing you were one of us: poor folk’s feeling for each other. Kindliness, as you might say, or, it might be, love. Once you’ve got it, and you do get it mostly, among slaves and that, then you can build on it. You can start telling what He said it was, and how He lived and died to make it plain for those that can’t see. My brother could have told all that. A skilled man, he was. But you’ll come to the meetings now, Persis. Sometimes we hold them here and sometimes at the house, in one of the back rooms.’
‘Do any of the masters know?’
‘No, nor your young lady. It’s no concern of theirs. It’s ours.’
‘But Epaphroditus at Philippi, he was a gentleman, or almost.’
‘It’s not that way in Rome. Of course, one of them might perhaps come. If he’d had a bad time—got in wrong with the Emperor, say. But it doesn’t come natural to them. A gentleman wouldn’t want to share, not really.’
‘Epaphroditus had a farm. But I know it didn’t pay. Mother said he never got any new clothes, and that old mule of his was a sight!’
Phaon giggled. ‘I don’t see the old man putting all his money into the bag, nor yet your Scratch-Cat not getting herself a new dress!’ That last was their name for Flavia; sometimes the scratching was quite literal—on the face. Persis knew already. Phaon added, ‘I can bring you into the meeting, Persis, can’t I? They’ll want someone to stand surety for you, and I never have for anyone yet. May I?’
‘Oh do, Phaon!’ said Persis, ‘who else is in the Church?’
‘Oh, Manasses and Argas and Josias, and one or two from other houses. There’s always enough of us, sometimes the full twelve, sometimes more. I am glad you’re one of us, Persis!’
If only mother knew,’ she said.
‘Perhaps she’ll have a dream,’ said Phaon hopefully. ‘Oh, Persis, I’m simply longing for the next meeting! Come on, we can’t leave the Fish. He’s done what he was meant for. Look, you take one end and I’ll take the other. We’ll make him into a loaf.’
After that she was never really unhappy, even when Flavia hurt her and she couldn’t help crying, or when the old woman scolded her. Nothing was bad for long, and Argas and Manasses used to save her sweets from the dining-room. And once or twice, when she had done Flavia’s hair really beautifully, Flavia gave her an old dress. She was rather frightened of the Briton, who never seemed to notice whether she was there or not, but was always looking at Flavia. She shut her mind tight against what else he might be doing; it was none of her business. Things were different in Rome, at any rate for the ladies and gentlemen.
She had to stay up late, of cou
rse, when Flavia kept late hours. She slept on a mattress just outside the door of her mistress’s room, ready to jump up if she was called; in winter she always had to get up once in the night to refill the lamp, in case Flavia might wake in the dark. The mattress was her own territory; there was a hole in it, next to the wall, where she kept things; there was a fish amulet there, which Eunice had given her; she didn’t dare to wear it, but it was lovely to put in her hand and feel, and know that her cheek was resting just above it all night.
She was sitting on her mattress, waiting, half asleep, when Flavia came back to her room after the dinner-party. How beautiful she looks, thought Persis, and wondered if it was nice being her. Nice being rich and having all those lovely clothes and jewels. Nice being a Roman. Or didn’t you notice if you were like that to begin with? She had jumped up, and now she ran into the room to light all the lamps; the one by the bed was a very pretty, silver, three-necked one, and it burned special oil, scented, from Alexandria. Flavia flopped down to be unpinned, stretching and yawning. ‘What a lovely colour madam has tonight!’ said Persis shyly.
Flavia laughed and looked at herself in the silver mirror and said over her shoulder, ‘I’m going to be betrothed next week.’
‘Ooh, madam!’ said Persis, feeling so pleased to have been told.
‘Yes, and I shall have to see about a new dress. Candidus is going to give me an emerald necklace. And bracelets. Don’t pull my hair, you little idiot! I wish I knew what kind of bracelets the Empress was wearing. Well, when I am married I shall be able to go to the Palace and everywhere. I wonder if Tigellinus will give me anything. I like a man to have black hairs on his arms; that’s a sign of strength. Tigellinus has black hairs right on to his shoulders. They say that means a man’s always going to get his own way.’
‘Oh, does it, madam?’ said Persis, and tried not to think about the Briton’s arms, which certainly had fair hair.
‘Does it—does it!’ said Flavia. ‘You silly little thing, why don’t you try? I believe you’d scream if anyone kissed you. You are stupid! When I’m married I’ll see if Candidus hasn’t got a big slave with nice black hairy arms—you know, you’d love it!’
‘Oh, please, I wouldn’t!’ said Persis, terrified.
‘You little fool, of course you would! Everyone does. I ought to have emerald ear-rings, too. Open the shutters a little. How intolerably hot it is. You can fan me now, but don’t stop till I’m really asleep, or I’ll bite you.’
CHAPTER IV
Argas
All that summer there was nothing to eat but beans and chick-peas and vetches and sometimes porridge made out of the sourest sort of meal; the children went hunting for wild berries and roots, but came home so hungry that it was worse than if they’d stayed still. It was the same everywhere; little Argas and his friends were always talking about food. Sometimes they went into the rich quarter of the town and stole from the shops, but it was getting more and more difficult. And sometimes there was something to be got by hanging around the Temples. There had been bad weeks before when father couldn’t get work. He was a skilled mason, but nobody was building houses and they were even skimping their tombstones. Sometimes one of the citizens who was still tolerably well off would distribute some grain or have an ox roasted, but what you got was hardly worth standing a couple of hours for. But this year the bad time just went on and on. The last baby had been exposed, of course; everybody had to do that. But the older children were so thin; they weren’t growing; they looked better than they were because they were all sunburnt, but they got tired as easily as old people.
There had been a time when Epidauros was prosperous and full of life. But now Hellas was dying. They were a Province, and if there was any blood in it, Rome sucked the blood. The Achaean League still went on; some people took it seriously, dressed up, talked about freedom and honour and all that. Who cared? The Romans let them; they knew they had only to say the word and the whole thing would crumble. And little Argas and the rest of the boys threw chestnut burrs at the processions. But even the chestnuts did badly that year. It didn’t do to think what winter would be like. But winter came and mother got ill; she just hadn’t had enough to eat for a long time. When fathers are out of work, mothers usually give the food to the others and make do themselves on the smell of the cooking-pots and a joke or two, and it was the same in Epidauros. But father went out with Argas one day, and came back without Argas, but with enough meal and dried fish for a month. And when mother cried he said that at least Argas was going to be fed now.
That was what Argas remembered about the first week of his slavery, crying and eating at the same time. And then being taken away, to Corinth perhaps, and sold again. For quite a long time he was a house slave in Athens; they were an old family, not so well off as they had been, always treating their servants well. At New Year they always used to give Argas a little present of money and stuff for a tunic, and when he wasn’t well, the old mistress looked after him herself. Some day, he thought, he would buy himself out and go back to Epidauros, but it was no good if he was to go back penniless. With enough to eat, he grew up into a tall, handsome boy; his master had him taught to read and write, and also some Latin, as there were often Roman visitors at the house. Sometimes Metronax, his master, used to talk to him, mostly about the old days, when Athens had been the centre of the world, and his own city, Epidauros, had been something to be proud of, too. Those were the days when a single person, a statesman or a soldier, could change the destinies of a people: wild and heroic times. But now all power was in one place, now everything was ordered and you knew from year to year more or less what taxes you had to pay, and nothing could be done without the leave of the Roman Governor. And if the Romans wanted anything, they took it, and you had to stand by and say nothing.
There was a statue that was taken out of one of the Temples, carefully and efficiently packed, and shipped to Rome; apparently the Emperor loved anything Hellenic … A good many Athenians went to see that being done; from time to time they were elbowed out of the way by a Roman official. Metronax came home and sat down and cried about it. Young Argas, kneeling beside him, very bothered, tried to understand. The statue was a goddess, the special goddess of Athens. But Metronax didn’t believe in the old gods and goddesses; Argas knew that. His master only believed in some kind of very remote god or gods who had really nothing to do with people, only with sun and stars and the progress of the years and justice and virtue and things like that. So why was he crying? Argas couldn’t make out; he himself didn’t believe in the gods of Olympos either; they were all a fairy-tale, for rich people, and even they didn’t believe in them now. He, Argas, didn’t believe in anything, except perhaps luck. It was better not to do anything that was generally supposed to be unlucky; and you could alter the course of things by going to a witch; but that cost money. He thought for a moment about love philtres and one of the maids, a girl called Lykainis. But that could wait. He brought his master a cup of wine; if only he would drink and say something dry and hard, anything except just sit there looking so miserable! Argas began singing; sometimes his master liked that and if he didn’t—well, it would be something if Metronax would even look up and scold him. His voice had broken and was now very deep; he sang the old-fashioned songs that his master liked, not the tuney ones he liked best himself. For a minute or two Metronax cried more painfully, and then he straightened himself up and wiped his eyes, sipped at the wine and laid a hand affectionately on the shoulder of his young Hellenic slave. ‘Can you understand, Argas,’ he said, ‘that this statue meant something that people thought worth living for and worth dying for? It was part of a value in people’s minds and now we have all had to see that this value is finished. There is nothing for us worth living for or dying for any longer. Not for an Athenian.’
Argas thought he did understand. ‘It’s nice to be proud of something,’ he said shyly.
‘Athens was a very proud city, a very great and beautiful city,’ his master said
, ‘and then the gods closed their hands on us. Because we did the things which men do carelessly and wickedly in their pride, but yet justice must in time be made manifest. But the justice of the gods is very hard to bear for us who are not immortal, but in the flux of time.’ And he wiped his eyes again.
‘But then,’ said Argas hopefully, ‘if the gods are really just, Rome will fall one day! And we shall get everything back.’
‘Perhaps in the gods’ time,’ said Metronax, ‘but not in mine, and hardly in yours, lad.’
‘Oh, no—in your time—it might be—’ Argas said quickly. He couldn’t bear Metronax talking as though he might die any minute! ‘Master, you’ll have years and years still!’
Metronax patted his arm and laughed. ‘Well, we’ll see. In your time, let’s say. You won’t be a slave all your days, Argas. Save up like a sensible boy, and you’ll go home, and perhaps you’ll be able to help your own city to be a place worth living and dying for again.’
‘I will,’ said Argas, and bent quickly and shyly and kissed his master’s knee.
Argas was happy that year; Lykainis was lovely and smiled at him and let him carry the water jugs for her when she went to the well. In the evenings she would lean against a pillar, spinning, with an easy, steady movement of her hands and arms, and he would sit at her feet and sing to her, sometimes making up the words himself, and when he tore his tunic it was she who mended it for him. But then Metronax died suddenly, and most of the slaves cried like children and mourned after his body and came back to the house wondering who the heir was, for there were no sons living and the old lady was very frail. It turned out after some days that the heir was a son-in-law who had been living in Corinth, a merchant-shipper and a very different kind of man from his father-in-law, whom he had always rather despised. He opened the will, which had been made years before; according to it, some of the older slaves were to be freed, but there was nothing said about the younger and newer ones. Then it became clear that the house was going to be sold and the old lady taken to live with her daughter. And the slaves?
The Blood of the Martyrs Page 7
