The litter slaves were shouted for, and jumped to their poles and trotted round to the front entrance. Balbus came out and regarded them blackly. Zyrax, aware of nothing wrong, awaited directions with an expectant smile, but got instead a fist in his face. ‘Home!’ snapped Balbus, bundling himself in, and they knew they’d got to do it at the double. Actually, the Cappadocian died that night, and Montanus had to get a new one. The others only had sore shoulders.
Crispus was very much upset as well. He walked about the room, trying to sort it out. His little girl. It was like all those stories he’d heard, but not attended to much, about Nero and his friends. Tigellinus must somehow have frightened her into it—poor little Flavia!
But why hadn’t she told her father? He would have protected her! Why had she looked so sweet and comfortable? If Tigellinus had corrupted her to that extent, then—then—well, then it was time to consider very carefully the proposals about Calpurnius Piso: to get in touch with Seneca … and no doubt Gallio would have heard from his adopted brother … to take all risks so as to end this monstrous thing.
Sannio, who had peeped into the room and seen Crispus pacing about, frowning and twisting his hands into the folds of his gown, came and told Beric that something was wrong. Beric went along. He knew Balbus had been there. Suddenly he wondered if anything was wrong with Flavia, if she were ill, yes, it must be that … from one end of the corridor to the other he’d had time to forgive her for anything and everything … these summer fevers that struck and killed in three days! And she had no mother, it would have been all different if she’d had a mother, she would have been kind and gentle as well as so beautiful! Crispus looked up when he came in. ‘My boy,’ he said and hesitated, then, ‘You will have to know. It is about Flavia.’
So it was that. ‘She’s ill …’ said Beric, trying not to let his voice shake.
‘I wish she were,’ Crispus said, ‘it would have been better. No. No. She—’
And then Beric remembered Lamprion’s story. And found he had not forgiven Flavia after all. He put his hand on Crispus’s sadly groping arm. ‘I know. It’s Tigellinus. Isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Crispus. ‘How did you know?’
‘Slaves’ gossip. I told them to hold their tongues. Thought it was lies.’
‘It should have been. My little Flavia. She can’t have known. And now—it appears that this vile thing is being talked about. Rhymes being written. What shall I do?’
‘What is her husband going to do?’
‘He is in a most unfortunate position … considering that this brute is his superior officer… on whom his whole future depends… and the Emperor’s friend! And I had been hoping—grandchildren. You and she were brought up together; you were fond of her, I think. Weren’t you, Beric?’
‘I was.’
‘My poor boy. You will feel it too. What times we live in. I must see Gallio. I must send a letter to him. Tell Hermeias to bring his tablets. No, I shall write this myself.’
‘Can I write it for you?’
‘No. You are in quite enough danger as it is. Give me my pen. I trust, Beric, you have not become—in any way—any more involved?’
‘I kept my promise.’
‘Don’t make any more difficulties for me, boy. I shall have—enemies. Ofonius Tigellinus is the key man. Now, leave me. I must consider what to say. What to do.’
Beric felt too much worried to talk to anybody, yet when he was alone he kept on thinking about Flavia—in ways he preferred not to think. So he went over to the gymnasium and spent most of the day there, practising various movements and asking anatomical questions of the pro. How far under the ribs was the heart? What length of dagger, for instance? He tried to make it all sound very casual. But supposing the key man was wearing armour of some kind under his tunic—well, one would have to find him at some moment when that was unlikely.
When he came back, he found Argas in his room, putting the week’s clean wool and linen tunics, all nicely ironed, back into the chest. Beric wasn’t sure how much he wanted to see Argas. Christians don’t kill. Yes, but this would be different. This would help the Kingdom. Help to destroy what was stopping the Kingdom from becoming actual and universal. But if Argas didn’t think so? He sat and watched Argas, a slave putting away his master’s clothes. What did that feel like? Did you take it as a matter of course? Well, a Christian wouldn’t. He didn’t even know, himself, exactly how many tunics he had. But there’d have been a row if he hadn’t found a clean one when he wanted it! Argas turned his head and said in a whisper, ‘Why didn’t you come last night?’
Beric was annoyed; he didn’t want to have all this out again. But he answered gently enough, ‘I told you. Crispus asked me not to.’
‘Asked you!’ said Argas. ‘You know what would happen to us if we were caught. That doesn’t stop us.’
‘Quite,’ said Beric coldly.
‘What’s going to be done in the Arena next week doesn’t stop us either! Not even Tigellinus can stop us,’ he added in something above a whisper.
‘Don’t say so at the top of your voice then,’ said Beric, and walked out of the room. Tigellinus would be able to stop them, though, sooner or later, unless, unless …
In the middle of supper Crispus suddenly remarked to Beric that in view of his official position he would have to sit through the next Games, which would be starting in three days, including any execution of Christians or other criminals which there might be. He added that it was disgusting to have such things thrust upon one. He liked a good sporting fight as well as anybody, but it was intolerable to see one’s fellow human beings, however depraved and however much without status, being torn to pieces unarmed. ‘I have always been against it,’ he said, ‘but, of course, it has generally taken place during the lunch interval … when only the riff-raff stay … and at any rate in small numbers. Now it will be under our noses.’
‘Isn’t there any chance of its being stopped?’ Beric asked. Somehow he hadn’t thought it would ever really happen—not to men he might have spoken to. Surely they couldn’t be thinking of doing that to Manasses?
Crispus shook his head. ‘Not with the individuals who are at present in power. No doubt they enjoy it. Persons without education or philosophy!’
‘I suppose the Emperor wouldn’t take any advice from Seneca now?’
‘Not the least chance. Though the gods know there was a time …’ He drank off a cup of wine and snapped at Phaon to refill it quick.
So Crispus was helpless in this matter, he and all his decent, respectable, Stoic friends. And what was it Lalage had said—that something would turn up for Beric to do … if he looked for it. There didn’t seem to be any other way. How many more times would one have supper here in comfort and privacy? May as well make the most of it, Beric thought, and held out his cup for Phaon to refill too.
The next morning, Crispus sent for Beric and gave him the letter for Gallio, asking him to take it over. ‘I’d sooner you took it than any of the slaves,’ he said, and that made Beric feel curiously happy, as though he were repaying something. He went off at once towards the Esquiline, crossing some of the fire areas, with the new buildings going up already—and a damn sight better than the old ones, Beric admitted to himself, rather grudgingly. Many of them had been started with Treasury grants. As he came to Gallio’s house, Beric hesitated; perhaps he was growing more suspicious, getting the mentality of an enemy of society. He felt there was something queer and, instead of going to the door, he went into a sweetshop, bought some honey drops and began to gossip. In no time it came out that there had been an arrest at the big house—yes, the master of the house, the old gentleman himself—in his toga—early that morning—and the guards were still there, searching. So Beric took the letter straight back and was hurrying through to see Crispus when Hermeias stopped him. ‘Lady Flavia is with her father.’
‘My news won’t wait, Hermeias.’
‘Well, just as you like, of course.’ Hermeias
shrugged his shoulders slightly. If the Briton insisted on putting his head into a wasps’ nest! Beric pushed the curtain back and walked in. They were sitting opposite one another. She was looking—exceedingly pretty. Doing her hair a new way. You wanted to get it in your hand—Crispus frowned at him, motioning him to go, but he said quickly, ‘I have some bad news.’
‘The gods avert it!’ said Crispus mechanically, then, ‘What—more than I know already?’
‘Gallio is arrested,’ Beric said, not even glancing at Flavia now, ‘they’re searching his house,’ and he slipped the letter back to Crispus, who gasped and went rather pale. ‘Is there nothing I can do?’ Beric asked.
‘No. Nothing.’ He held on to the letter. ‘Thank you, my boy. Thank you. I shall have to see what I can do—later. I shall have to see the authorities.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Flavia sweetly, ‘I could do something, father?’ Then she turned to Beric. ‘You’re not being very amiable this morning, are you?’
‘Flavia!’ said Crispus.
‘That maid of mine that you used to be so interested in is waiting about somewhere, Beric,’ she went on, curling back in her chair like a soft kitten. ‘Wouldn’t you like to see her?’
‘Thanks. I shall go and kiss her at once!’ said Beric savagely, and walked out.
So that was what she was like now. After Aelius Candidus and Ofonius Tigellinus. To start with. It suited her. And Crispus? What had her father done that she should want to hurt him? Not brought her up properly, he thought, remembering what Domina Aelia had said, not shown her anything worth dying for. So she’s taken to power: power over people, because she’s a woman. But if she’d been a man it would have been power over money and politics.
People too, in the end. He almost bumped into Persis. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘could I speak to you a minute?’
‘Of course,’ he said, and suddenly wondered if perhaps she had a private message to him from her mistress, then hated himself for thinking it—for being such a fool—for wanting to eat carrion. He gave her a little push, ‘We’ll go along to my room, Persis.’
She followed him and, half way, whispered, ‘Please—could I see Argas or Phaon, too?’
‘Oh, all right,’ he said, and called across to a slave, ‘Here, Mikkos, tell that fool Argas to get me a clean bath towel!’
She slipped into the room after him. He sat down on the bed and pulled her down, gently, beside him. ‘I told Flavia I was going to kiss you,’ he said, ‘and you can tell her I did if she asks you. There, silly! What d’you think one asks a pretty girl to come to one’s room for?’
‘I thought—I thought … Oh, aren’t you one of us any longer—’
‘Yes, of course I am. Persis, you’re a little goose. Why did you shove me away?’
‘I—I didn’t know—if you were a friend still.’
‘I’m a friend.’ He picked up her hand and kissed the fingers, one after the other. ‘There—not frightened? You are a pretty girl, you know, Persis. Would you rather not be?’
‘Not till the Kingdom’s come. I’d like to be then. When we’re all free.’
‘I’m not thinking of you as a slave, Persis. You know that?’
‘I know, brother.’
Argas came in quickly. ‘You wanted me?’ And then to Persis, very low: ‘Peace, sister.’
‘She wanted you,’ Beric said. ‘Now then, Persis, what is it?’
Persis said, ‘After the last meeting—Lalage and Sophrosyne were arrested.’
Argas made the sign of the cross, jerkily. That was that. ‘On the same charge?’ Beric asked. She nodded. ‘Getting close, isn’t it?’
‘I keep on hearing,’ said Persis, ‘when that man—when Tigellinus is in the house—about the things they’re going to do to us. Oh, he keeps on talking about it! The things they’re going to do to the women. I think I could bear being killed. But …’
‘Who’s to be deacon now?’ Argas said.
‘You, Argas?’
‘I can’t be. It’s all I can do to get away for a meeting. I’m not even sure of that.’ He glanced at Beric. ‘What about Phineas or Eunice?’
‘He said he didn’t want to be; he didn’t feel sure enough. It had better be her; she’s not suspected yet. At least, we don’t think so.’
‘They’ve got her name as like as not. Per sis, are we going to talk about this in front of him?’
‘Go and talk in the passage if you think it’s safer,’ said Beric, and let go Persis’s hand.
‘Don’t be silly, Argas,’ said Persis, ‘he’s one of us.’
‘Is he?’
‘Look here, Argas,’ said Beric, cold and quietly, getting to his feet, ‘I don’t think I’m going to stand for this. You can go to the Arena your own way. I shan’t help you.’
The two men stood very close in the small room, each face a few inches from the other, tense, enemy face. Persis had jumped up too. ‘You can’t—you’re Christians! Oh, stop looking like that, Argas. Remember Manasses. He wouldn’t—remember Jesus!’ Argas gave a kind of gasping cry and jerked up his hand in front of his mouth. Persis was whispering to him, ‘Say you’re sorry, Argas. It was your fault. Oh do make it right!’ But Argas couldn’t. It was not fair—not fair—that the masters should be able to say such things! Then, from out in the courtyard, Sannio was calling for Persis. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I must go. Oh you are unkind to me to quarrel. Both of you!’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Beric, and pushed through the curtains with his arm round her and kissed her in front of Sannio—whatever he thought this time!—before she ran off. Then he went back into the room and Argas was still there, Argas who was a Christian and had been whipped for it, who had a right to be angry—as he would have been angry if he had been a whipped British slave, with the Kingdom always being taken out of his reach. He looked gently at Argas and said, ‘Why did you want me so much at the love-feast?’
Again Argas gave that little cry of war against himself. He looked away and down, past Beric, and muttered, ‘We’re so few now. We don’t know what’s going to happen to us. Nor to anything. We can’t look forward to the next time now. Maybe there won’t be any next time. I can die all right. It’s been worth it. If I knew it would go on.’
‘I can’t help you to be certain of that, Argas,’ Beric said.
‘No. Not really. Only—I wanted you in. Then our Church would have gone on. Even if all the rest of us zgot killed.’
‘I might be killed too.’
‘You. They wouldn’t kill you.’
‘Why not? I’m not even a citizen.’
‘You’re—different.’
‘Am I? Am I, Argas?’ He took Argas’s hand and held it against his own chest, over the heart. Argas at last looked up and met his eyes. ‘Aren’t we brothers, Argas?’ he said again.
‘Then why won’t you—take our baptism—now—be one of us? We wouldn’t feel so few then.’
‘Listen, Argas,’ said Beric, ‘I wanted to be baptised last time. Before all this. It’s not because I’m afraid that I’m not asking for it now. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Argas, ‘I know that, Beric.’
‘There are two things. First, there’s Crispus. Well, I’ve got to decide sooner or later how much I’ve the right to hurt him. I expect I’ve got to. And then. I haven’t told anyone this. I killed Sotion.’
‘But—you know we don’t kill. Ever. You can’t be in the Kingdom if you’re a murderer.’
‘I know. So you see why I can’t come to the love-feast. But—do you think it really counted about Sotion? He was only a miserable little thing. I killed him like you’d kill a beetle on the floor.’
‘Sotion was our enemy and we forgave him. It wasn’t easy, but we did it. All of us. Manasses forgave him almost at once, and then he showed us how. We had to see what it was like for Sotion to do it. He did it for money; he was a poor man.’
‘Not so poor as most of you.’
‘Well, we didn’t let ou
rselves be tempted, and he did. That’s all. He was stupider than the rest of us, too; he didn’t see what he was missing. Most likely the police had got something on him, besides, and so they made him do it. We thought out all that when we were in prison. And you spoiled our forgiveness by killing him.’
‘Then—I’m out of it.’ Suddenly Beric felt very much upset; this was much worse than having a ghost after one!
‘Not if you’re sorry for killing him, Beric. Not if you’ll see you had no right to kill him, if you’ll take the weight of having done it. Then we can forgive you in Jesus’ name and you can be baptised and wash it off. Shall we, Beric?’
Beric stood silent. He was sorry for something—something to do with them all and the Kingdom—but was he sorry that Sotion was dead? The man was certainly better out of the way, wasn’t he? If they’d all forgiven him, would he possibly have become different? Would he not have given any more names? It was so very unlikely that anyone would change that much, that you couldn’t take it into account. Or could you? The prisoners could forgive him because it was the only thing they could do about him, the only action they could take. But he, Beric, he’d had a choice of actions … He couldn’t put himself into the man’s place, as Argas apparently could. Because he’d never been poor himself, never had the beginnings of that temptation. You don’t understand other people’s temptations when you haven’t had them yourself. And there was Argas, wanting to baptise him so much! Into danger. Into death. If that mattered. He couldn’t quite think about it, couldn’t yet picture death affecting him. If he let Argas do it, then Argas would feel as if he were free …
Persis came slipping back between the curtains. ‘She didn’t want me after all! Oh, is it all right? Have you forgiven one another?’
‘We didn’t even need to say so,’ Beric answered her.
But Argas said, ‘Persis, he’s our brother. But he killed Sotion.’
‘Oh!’ said Persis. ‘Then it wasn’t because you’re a gentleman that you wouldn’t come to the love-feast, but because you’re a murderer.’
The Blood of the Martyrs Page 30
