It began to dawn on Argas that he was almost certainly going to be sold again, into another household, perhaps not even in Athens, and there was no certainty or even likelihood that Lykainis would be sold to the same owner. Terribly upset, he went to one of the older slaves, who gave him no hope. This was what you had to expect. And by the end of the week it was quite definite that all the household effects, including the slaves, were to be sold at once. The old lady gave Argas a present, a little money and one of his old master’s poetry books; he promised to treasure it and said goodbye very shakenly; she was crying too, poor old dear, not wanting to be uprooted any more than they did. But Argas and Lykainis never even managed to say goodbye to each other; they were taken off separately to be stripped and sold. Argas went to a purchaser with an odd accent who turned out to be the overseer to a travelling Roman official. So Argas was bundled into a big household, friendless, bewildered, missing his old master and mistress, expected to know where to go and what to do, and kicked when he didn’t know. In a little it became apparent that he was even to leave Hellas, perhaps for ever; they were all bound for Italy.
It was in the close quarters on shipboard that some of his fellow slaves found his bundle, undid it, and got hold of the book. Seeing him anxious about it, they began to tease him, snatching it away and pretending to read it aloud, making dirty jokes about it; suddenly he went wild and began to fight them, struggling for his book. He got hold of one end, but someone grabbed it and tore it right across—the next moment it had been tossed out to sea. Argas went, furious and miserable, to complain to the overseer, who only said, ‘Book? What do you want a book for?’ And turned his back. It was altogether a wretched business, for Argas got on badly with all his fellow slaves; half his money was stolen, and again he could get no help from the overseer.
This then, was a slave’s life: this utter insecurity, dependence on accident. Not worth living. One could, perhaps, kill oneself; there was always that way out. And yet, obviously, he had never had a really bad time, as some of his fellow slaves had; they talked endlessly and sickeningly about things that had been done to them or their women. Sometimes Argas thought he would be almost happy if he could at least know that Lykainis was back in something like the old life, even if someone else were singing to her and carrying her water jug. But he couldn’t even know that. Never.
For some time the household was at Ariminum in North Italy. Argas did his work fairly well and only got into trouble over fighting with the others. Then the overseer would threaten to send him to the mines and tell the cook to put him on bread and water. He didn’t mind much, but there was just nothing worthwhile from day to day. He was a dining-room slave, and sometimes helped the secretaries, but his master never spoke to him. He was not allowed to read any of the books, even though nobody else seemed to want to. Sometimes he got time off in the afternoon and went swimming by himself in the warm, shallow sea-water, thinking that this same sea went on and on till it touched the beaches of Hellas.
Ariminum was full of temples and shrines; sometimes there would be a big sacrifice and processions going on, and his master would wear his official robes and go. People in a small way went to the little shrines with little offerings. Argas did not go. He thought it would take more than that to change his luck. There were one or two temples to foreign gods and goddesses, Isis and Serapis and some very queer ones indeed from Asia; all of them had their priests ready to put you right with the gods—if you were ready to pay. At least, that was how it seemed to Argas.
One day he was in the kitchen having dinner with the rest, the usual black bread and stew with sour slaves ‘wine to wash it down. Nobody spoke to him and he spoke to nobody. Then he caught one of the under cooks staring at him, a little old man with a pointed beard, some kind of an Asiatic, Vono his name was, or something of that sort. ’Well?’ said Argas angrily.
Vono grinned at him disarmingly and came over, sat beside him, so close that Argas could see a louse walking round his neck. ‘Things going badly, friend?’ said Vono in his bad Greek.
‘What the hell is that to you?’ said Argas, and swallowed a big mouthful of stew and choked.
But Vono was still grinning at him. He said, ‘We been watching you—some of us. And they tell me to say this—there is a way out.’
For a moment Argas was on the point of throwing the remains of the stew in Vono’s face. Then he grunted, ‘Way out? Why don’t you take it, then?’
‘I have taken it,’ said Vono. He went on, apologetic: ‘True, I do look like dog’s dinner! But I’m all right—inside.’
‘Well,’ said Argas, wondering if the old man were a little mad, ‘Spit it out.’
‘There is hope,’ said Vono, ‘for us who get done down now. The poor. The slaves. Suppose, some day, we was to have a kingdom of our own, all over the world, what would you say?’
‘I’d say you’d had a knock on the head,’ said Argas.
‘But it is true. Our Leader said so.’
Argas looked more interested. ‘Got a leader, have you?’
‘Yes. Jesus Christ. He said so. He said I was to come to you. To ask how could we help you.’
Argas puzzled for a minute. ‘I think I’ve heard of him,’ he said, ‘some kind of a prophet—rebel—’
‘He was the Son of God.’
‘They all say that. Whatever he was, the Romans smashed him up, didn’t they?’
‘They crucified Him.’
‘And you ask me to believe what he said!’
‘We ask you, first, be friends with us. Don’t believe till you see. We got something to give you. To make it—all right, being alive. You come this evening when all sleeping. Will you?’
Argas thought a moment. Why not? ‘I’ll come,’ he said.
Little old Vono came for him in the dark and they went together to the stables and up into the loft. There were five men there, and two women. They were mostly from the household, and one was Rufus, a secretary whom he had worked for occasionally. Argas wondered why, if any of them wanted to get hold of him, it hadn’t been Rufus. But apparently they left it to the feelings of the individual, and it was Vono who had felt called to bring him in. And perhaps that was right, thought Argas; if it had been Rufus, I’d have thought he was trying to trap me into something.
They began to tell him about this Jesus Christ of theirs and what He had taught and how He had lived, and about this idea of a kingdom of the poor and oppressed. It was new. It didn’t fit in with any of the old gods. And it didn’t seem to cost anything. You weren’t asked to give a beast to be sacrificed; there weren’t any priests sitting on top of it. And—well, it was the first time since Athens that he’d been treated as a person. Someone with a mind. He said he wouldn’t mind if he did join. Yes, he would like to stay for their eating together, and he would take what oath they liked to say nothing about it. They did not bind themselves with oaths? Well, then, he would promise. There were certain rites which he could not share yet, not till he had become a full member. Yes, he understood. He would wait while he was on trial for them to see what they thought of him. But in the meantime he could come to the meetings and ask questions. Or if he was ever alone in the library with Rufus … Yes. Yes.
He went back to bed and slept on it. The whole thing seemed good sense, this idea of a chance and a hope for the ones underneath. The ones—he suddenly thought—that there were more of. And always had been. It took a prophet to think of that. Or a Son of God? Well, the way he remembered, the gods were always having sons.
Things went pretty well for a few weeks. It was grand to go swimming with Rufus, as he did a couple of times, talking about all that out at sea, the sun hot in their faces as they floated. And now when he saw old Vono in the kitchen he winked at him, and Vono dug him in the ribs or made a queer sign at him if they were alone. Once when he went out on some errand, he saw one of the women, with her big basket, marketing, and wondered if she’d ball him out, seeing it wasn’t at a meeting—and took a chance—and s
poke to her, a free woman, and she called him brother, and they bargained together for the chicken and carrots. He felt himself a living person again, a man, and it seemed to him that everyone recognised it, not only the brothers. There was a kind of friendliness about all sorts of people who had been just hateful before. Perhaps it only was that he was no longer immediately hating himself, but that was how it looked to him. Grand.
He heard a good deal more about what they believed and what they did. He learnt the signs. He thought he would like to do everything with them, to belong really, to take what they had to give. To be reborn. It would be fine to throw off all the thoughts and hates that had been getting him down all this time, to have them washed away. He would like to be good. He would fast for two days and then they would baptise him and he would be able to share in everything.
And then, of course, the same thing happened. His master’s brother was going to Rome and wanted a few extra slaves to take with him. Casually looking round the dining-room slaves for his choice, he jerked a thumb at Argas and said he would take him.
There were five days to go before they left, but Argas bitterly refused to be baptised. Again he was betrayed and hating everyone, half hating even Rufus and Vono and the others who were for the moment secure. For after all, nothing was altered. Life had turned back its devilish face on to him. Nothing counted but luck, and he, being a slave, had bad luck. Rufus tried to talk to him; Argas knocked him down and blacked his eye. The others caught Argas and held his arms. Rufus, who was, after all, one of the secretaries and someone of a certain importance in the household, sat up dizzily and said to Argas that it was quite all right, they were still friends, he forgave him. ‘The hell you do!’ yelled Argas and broke away from the others and ran off. The next day Rufus met him and tried to say the same thing, but again Argas bolted; why couldn’t Rufus have had him whipped while he was about it? That would have been the ordinary thing and made the bad luck complete.
As they left, someone pushed a bundle of food into his hand; when he opened it at their midday halt, he found that one roll of bread had been split and inside, in Rufus’s handwriting, was a note giving him the name of a woman in Rome and the street she lived in. If there had been any more nonsense about forgiveness, Argas would have torn it up. As it was, he shrugged his shoulders and kept it. And they went on and up and over the hills for days, and down through dust and thunder, past market carts yoked to white oxen, and ugly little houses, and vegetable fields stinking of city manure, and so to the gates of Rome.
The new household was much like the old. Argas lived in it suspiciously and angrily, working no more than he had to. After a time he thought of the note with the woman’s name and address and decided to try and find it. He didn’t know what it would be, a witch or a brothel or anything. It was winter now, and cold, and he had no thick cloak or tunic; his master had gone out and he had the evening—at least if he wasn’t wanted before he got back. He hurried across Rome, staring about him a bit, but mostly at the shops; he would have liked to steal something—anything almost. He came to the street and asked, and was at once told to go to the bakery, which he had spotted already by the good smell. He knocked and a woman opened. ‘Are you Eunice, daughter of Hermas?’ he asked roughly. The woman said yes, and asked him to come in. When the door was shut she said kindly, ‘Who are you?’ He blinked at the bright edge of fire under the oven door and answered his name and his master’s name. ‘But who sent you?’ she went on. ‘Have you come to buy bread—cake? No? But someone must have sent you, surely?’
For a moment he didn’t want to answer. But if he didn’t answer he would be turned out of the warm room. He muttered that he had come from Ariminum and again said the household. For a moment the woman seemed puzzled, then her face lit up and she put her hands on to his shoulders. ‘From the brothers?’ she asked. He nodded. He wished he hadn’t come. She pulled his head down by the ears and kissed him. She was old enough to be his mother and she had a round brown face with little veins showing, and smelt of dough. ‘Come and sit in the warm by the oven,’ she said, ‘and tell me about them.’ She pulled him over and sat him down on a stool and gave him a big slab of warm, sticky pastry. ‘Eat that up first, son,’ she said, looking at him. It was nice to be in the warm, to have one’s mouth full of the sweet stuff. She began to tell him that one of the women in the church at Ariminum was her sister. ‘She was all right,’ said Argas, relieved at not having anything more difficult to talk about, ‘only she had twin boys last May. Did you know?’
‘Fancy that—twins!’ said Eunice. ‘Did you see them?’
‘No. I—I wasn’t there long.’
Eunice looked at him quickly. ‘Are you baptised?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘No fear! It’s all lies.’
Eunice opened the door of the oven to see her batch of bread; a sweet hot air came out at him. After a minute she said gravely, ‘Then why did you come to me?’
Uncomfortably and angrily he answered, ‘I didn’t know you were one. If you are! Anyway, I’m going.’
He felt he oughtn’t to have eaten the pastry. Well, she gave it him—it was her look out! ‘Do you want to go?’ she asked. ‘It’s cold out.’
‘Got to get back,’ he mumbled; he knew it would be cold.
She said, ‘Don’t you want me to lend you a warm cloak?’
He turned at the door. ‘Forgiving me, are you?’ he said. ‘Rufus started doing that and I knocked him out!’
‘Did that stop him?’ asked Eunice.
Argas came a step nearer. ‘What do you think you’ll get out of all this forgiving? I tell you, I won’t be baptised!’
‘If poor people can’t do that for one another,’ said Eunice, ‘there isn’t much left for them that’s worth doing.’ Then she said, ‘Why don’t you stop, now you are here, and give me a hand with the dough for tomorrow?’
Well, that wouldn’t hurt. It would make up for the pastry he’d eaten. ‘Well, where is it?’ he said.
She taught him how to knead properly and thoroughly; he had never done it before. It amused him to be doing something, not because he’d been made to, but because he’d been asked to, and with an accompaniment of bad jokes from Eunice, who had dropped all that about Christians. And a good job too. He finished it off, while she saw to the bread that was baking and then mended a boy’s tunic. Once or twice customers came; she seemed to be on good terms with them, and they paid cash down. When the dough. was thoroughly kneaded Eunice gave him some delicious ends of fresh white bread—masters’ stuff. Then she said he must take the warm cloak and come back another evening and do some more kneading for her. He looked at her sideways: was she trying to get at him? Well, if he thought she was when he got home, he’d keep the cloak and never come back!
However, he did come back a week or so later. It would be nice, he said to himself, to have some more pastry, and he didn’t mind if he did do some more kneading for the old lady. When he came this time there was someone else sitting by the oven, a metal-worker called Rhodon, a skilled man from Asia. At first Argas thought he was free or at least a freedman, but by and by found he was a slave too, but getting a small wage; he would be able to buy himself out some time. He was tired out and Eunice had made him a hot drink. When he left, Argas said to Eunice, ‘He one of you Christians?’
Eunice said quite gravely, ‘You mustn’t ask questions.’
Argas felt hurt, or thought he did. ‘So you believe I’m going to give you away!’
Eunice said, ‘We have to be careful.’
‘Then you don’t trust me,’ said Argas, and went on kneading angrily.
After a time Eunice said, ‘I’m not sure if you know just how badly we Christians are looked on in Rome. We might have the police on us any time. They say we’re atheists. Not respectable, that means! And not respectful, either. Not of their things. And you might even get a reward for putting the police on to me.’
‘Catch me going to the police!’ said Argas contemptuously.
> ‘It might be a big reward,’ said Eunice. ‘Big enough to—help you get free.’
‘Oh, come off it!’ said Argas, moving along the kneading trough, suddenly aware how very much he would like that reward—if it really—if she wasn’t—but, anyway, he wasn’t that sort! Out of the blue there came at him the image of his old master, Metronax, talking about honour and justice, things that were in the care of the remote gods, but yet existed, and existed alike for master and slave. In Athens. His hands were all doughy, but he rubbed his upper arm over his face, so that she shouldn’t catch him crying. Eunice had begun shaping little rolls; she said nothing. After a bit Argas said, ‘Then—could it be really dangerous—being a Christian?’
‘Yes,’ said Eunice, ‘we’re all right so long as things go tolerably well with Rome. But if things looked dirty—well, they might want to take it out of us—see?’
‘I don’t mind if I join,’ said Argas.
Eunice answered slowly, ‘But I’m not sure if we want you, Argas.’
‘Oh, all right!’ said Argas fiercely.
‘Don’t knead so hard. The bread won’t rise even, and I’m not going to lose my reputation for your temper.’ She went over to him, and took on the dough herself; then, ‘If you still want to be one of us in another ten days, come back.’
It was more than ten days before Argas came back, but he did as soon as he had a chance. It was another bitterly cold night, and the warmth of the bakery made him almost dumb again. He was strictly determined on what he was going to do, even though he knew it meant being forgiven. After all, it was sense what they’d told him at Ariminum. Nothing altered that. Eunice came to him quickly. ‘Come in, son,’ she said. He sat and warmed his hands and feet by the oven. She offered him a bit of pastry, but he refused it.
The Blood of the Martyrs Page 8
