As they lifted Rhodon, the pains in his shoulders and ankles increased and shot about. He was going to speak this time. He knew he was going to speak. If they wanted names and accusations they could have them. Even if it cut him off forever. If he could never face the others again. He had been in prison longer than the rest of them. He had stood it. He couldn’t go on standing it. That was all quite clear; only the pain was blurring everything. In a moment they would begin again. And he would speak. Out of darkness and pain, words came at him, an image, a Saviour and Redeemer. As though once more a dog had been licking his hand. He answered the words as they should be answered.
‘I told you so!’ said Cario triumphantly, and then, to Rhodon, with great tenderness, ‘We will save you, brother.’
Rhodon opened his eyes and looked at the man who had called him brother, the instrument of his Saviour. After a time he recognised the man as his torturer. ‘I am a Christian,’ he said, as he had said a hundred times already. It would begin again.
Toxilus nudged Cario and frowned, but Cario disregarded him. ‘No,’ he said gently, ‘that was all a mistake, brother, you are a Soldier, a Soldier of Mithras.’
‘A Soldier,’ said Rhodon: yes, he was sure of that. Again Cario whispered some words and again Rhodon gave the answers. He had forgotten them for a long time, but now they came easily. It rested him to say them. It was like at the love-feast when they were waiting for the Spirit to come.
‘We’ll get you out of here,’ Cario said. ‘It will all not have happened.’
‘No—more—questions?’
‘No more.’ Cario was untying his ankles; he did not move at all, but lay stretched on the frame that stank of bodies that had struggled and contracted and loosed in the wrenching tides of pain. It would not any longer happen for him. He thought he said again, I am a Christian, but the words were only inside his head, never on his lips. Still without moving he watched Cario’s face anchored in lantern light above him; that face had changed, had become good. He had known this to happen before, when a man was seized in some way by the Spirit; it was the sudden and definite moment when the metal becomes hot enough to work, to take the shape that it was intended for.
Toxilus was beside him now, holding a cup of wine and water for him to drink slowly. The torturers were expert at giving or denying drink to the terribly thirsty. But now the cup was given not in malice, nor for any end except that of human kindness. Toxilus was convinced, and amazed at his fortune in having been part of the drama; it was all the kind of thing you hear about in stories! ‘There, brother,’ he said, eager to be recognised too.
They untied his arms and wrists; then they did something to his shoulder which hurt terribly for a moment; that was so surprising that he yelled and clutched on to Cario, but almost at once he recognised that they had put his shoulder back into place. Now they were tying it round with a bundle of soft rags; he still held on to Cario, and Cario looked down at him and wiped the sweat off his face, touching the brand mark again. ‘The brothers will all be there in the Cave,’ he said, ‘to welcome you.’
And all would be in order again. And he had not done anything wrong; he had not, after all, spoken; he had not denied anything. But yet he had been saved. He remembered the time before when his Saviour had not come; he tried to speak of it, to tell how this was different. ‘On the ship,’ he said, ‘the ship to Delos—and He never came—and now …’ But the others paid no attention; they put their arms behind him and heaved him up. He could not stand alone, but he could hobble a little with their support at both sides. Toxilus picked up the lantern in his other hand. They went out through the room with Blephano’s table and stool. Light was coming in through the window now. They whispered that they would take him out to the shed and hide him there for a time; they would bring him food and he would sleep long and deep there. He was in the hands of his brothers now; he trusted them to do whatever was best for him.
CHAPTER VII
The Third Sacrament
Neither Paul nor Gallio had slept well that night: when the light began to filter through into their cells, both had despaired of getting any sound rest, and had got up. Gallio looked at his Christian slave who was still calmly asleep; it seemed a shame to wake him, poor little devil, considering that any day … But the boy had heard him and jumped up, apologising and blinking and shoving his hand through his hair. ‘All right, all right,’ said Gallio amiably. ‘Old bones up early! Get me some water, there’s a good boy.’ Of course, the washing arrangements in the prison were none too good, but still you couldn’t complain. He dressed leisurely, leaving the boy to clip his beard and shave round the edges; he thought about some of the difficulties in the way of the removal of the Emperor; it was never certain about the slaves and freedmen in the Imperial household; you could bribe the underlings easily enough, but the chamberlains were a little different. They were already so rich, some of them, that a bribe didn’t mean much; what they liked was power, and the excitement of staking one’s life on one’s own individual capacities, and they would realise that the kind of régime the Senators had in mind would remove all their power from them. They might even be genuinely devoted to their masters’ interests; that was pardonable. But Gallio thought with extreme distaste of Halotus, the cup-bearer who had been so abominably insolent to him the last time he had attended an Imperial function; and then of Helios and Polyclitos, who pretended to take all the dull routine work off the Emperor’s shoulders, and who had wormed themselves into positions where they could sign edicts or do anything they pleased against Senators, even! Intolerable that one’s action for the well-being of Rome could be so easily thwarted by a pack of stateless, swordless, and often sexless Asiatics! Well, when it was over, they should be dealt with … appropriately. As befitted slaves who had become insolent.
While Gallio was considering this, he noticed a distinct shakiness in the hands of the boy who was combing and trimming his thick grey beard. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, ‘hear anything when you went for the water?’
The young slave swallowed and said, ‘It is today.’
‘Who for? You?’
‘We don’t know, sir. But a lot of our people are going to be taken. And the guards keep on telling us—what happened last night, sir.’
‘You mean those burnings? Wasn’t sure, myself, if they’d do that when it came to the point. A most deplorable business. Not, mind you, that I don’t think some punishment is necessary, but—know any of them, boy?’
‘My father and mother were in the other prison, sir. Where they were taken from to be burnt.’
‘Dear me!’ For a moment Gallio found nothing to say; he was unused to consorting with criminals. Did slaves think about their parents, for instance, as one did oneself? He looked round at the boy who was half turned away, one arm across his face: apparently slaves did feel the same. ‘Come, boy,’ said Gallio, ‘don’t cry! Be a man! Remember, it’s over. Pain is of the body only, so it cannot endure. They are beyond it now.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the slave and looked round again. ‘I keep on telling myself that. And they’ve been witnesses; they’ll be part of the Kingdom now, won’t they, sir?’
‘Of course, of course,’ said Gallio awkwardly.
The slave took his hand and kissed it. ‘You’re ever so kind, sir! I do thank you, I’m sure. Oh sir, I do wish I wasn’t so frightened of the beasts! It’s not being buried decent, nor even in one place, but to be in bits in the stomachs of a set of filthy animals!’ He was crying again now.
What did one do about that? Scold him—threaten to dismiss him or complain to the Governor of the prison? No, didn’t do. ‘Mustn’t look at it like that, you know,’ Gallio said. ‘These lions … just instruments of power. Injustice. You’ve got to show you can beat that. Whatever instruments it uses. Got to show me you can die well. No worse than being killed in war really, and eaten by vultures like some of my own ancestors were. Just think of the worst the beasts can do to you: think clearly. It’s
no worse than good men have suffered before you and it will only last a little time.’
‘And I shall forgive the people who are making it happen,’ the slave said; his voice was steady now, almost glad. ‘I shall forgive the Emperor!’
He began to trim up the other side of Gallio’s beard and his hands weren’t shaking any longer. He had twisted the Stoic consolation his own way. Well, let him. But it made Gallio rather oddly uncomfortable; this slave was proposing to forgive the Emperor whom Gallio and his friends were proposing to murder. There was something new about forgiveness. Something, perhaps, superior. The Emperor could stop those who tried to assassinate him; apparently he could not stop his forgivers.
Paul, having combed his own beard, was already out in the yard; it seemed a little fresher in the early morning. He was trying to break through a curious entanglement of childish images, connected in some way with his parents, a complex of love and blood punishment and inexplicable forgiveness. It was something to do with Jesus Christ and with the Kingdom, but he could not see just how. Sometimes he thought it was a plain mirroring; he longed then to be a child again, in direct relationship with all this, a good and chastised and forgiven child, sitting quietly on a Sabbath evening with the candles lit, aware that all is well, that there will be kisses at bedtime, and that the great winged angels are keeping away all the bad dreams and the pains and the sickening giddiness that from time to time besets the child. And sometimes he shook this off, knowing that he was a man and part of something greater than any family, because it did not merely hold him with love, but must be made and shaped by his adult and unceasing efforts. Thinking this out he paced up and down, shaking his head and muttering. After a time Euphemia came out of the women’s cells and went up to him. She was part of this pattern which must be made, even though she interrupted his thinking out of it; any human being matters more to God than any idea. ‘Yes, Euphemia?’ he said, then, looking at her more attentively, ‘They’ve been questioning you again?’ She nodded. Once more, as so often, Paul felt ashamed of his own citizenship and immunity to this. It made him rough and abrupt, but she did not notice. She began to tell him what had happened last night in the punishment cells. He asked a good many questions about Beric; he had heard of him from Manasses, but hadn’t thought much about him so far. ‘If they bring him out here,’ said Paul, ‘I shall see him. Come and tell me.’
‘Yes, Paul,’ said Euphemia. Then, ‘That other doctor put some stuff on to Lalage’s burns, but if Luke did happen to come—’
‘I’ll send him along,’ Paul said. ‘You know, Euphemia, it may be today: for all of you.’
‘I’m ready, Paul.’
When Gallio came out, Paul went over to him and explained what had been happening. Gallio’s eyebrows twitched. ‘Pity the boy didn’t get Tigellinus. As it is … Crispus may be held responsible.’
‘So may we. Not that one accusation more against the Christians will necessarily have any effect. I doubt if lies matter so much as one is inclined to suppose, in any case; they pass. He seemed a promising young man, this Beric. A pity, for his own sake, that he has made this deviation.’
‘Crispus will be very much upset. Perhaps I shall be able to see the boy.’
‘Perhaps. That depends on what they have done to him. They may prefer none of us to see. But if I see him and if he is repentant, I intend that at least he shall not die unbaptised.’
‘Think it matters a lot, don’t you? I wonder if Beric will.’ It was really very peculiar, Gallio thought, the company one found oneself in. The Christians talked to him openly enough now, and he was fairly certain that if they did normally do anything shameful or criminal, he would have found out about it. By now there were more of them about; he nodded to a few, hoping that this might give them a shade more courage. Some of them were looking horribly frightened, and he was becoming extremely anxious that Nero should not have the satisfaction of seeing too many of these fellow-prisoners of his screaming or running when the lions were set on to them. By and bye Luke was let in; Paul spoke to him and he went off towards the main block of the prison, where those who had been questioned were likely to be. He had been gone some little time when Megallis was let in; she found Euphemia almost at once. ‘Whatever have they been doing to you now?’ she said.
‘They wanted me to talk,’ Euphemia said, ‘but I wasn’t talking. Funny I call it, and me always such a one to chatter!’
Megallis began to stroke Euphemia’s face very lightly over the bruises and little edgy cuts. ‘There, and there, and there,’ she whispered, ‘and your hands. Oh, your poor nail! Euphemia, you didn’t ever go forgiving that, did you?’
‘It takes your mind off what’s being done if you start in on forgiving it,’ Euphemia said, ‘and this is nothing to what some of us have had done—and forgiven.’
‘Euphemia,’ said Megallis, ‘there’s something I got to say. It was my man, Tertius, that told on you. You could be safe at home but for him, Euphemia. But for us, that is, because if I hadn’t gone and brought him to your house …’
She began to cry; Euphemia put one arm round her, a bit stiffly because the elbow felt no end funny after what they’d done. ‘If I’d been safe at home I’d have been missing this, Megallis. And it’s what my whole life’s been for, in a manner of speaking. You see dear, it’s not much, is it, even having a little business and the right kind of customers, not much, I mean, if you think of the sun and stars and that. But this is big enough to match all the big things. Don’t you go doing anything silly about that man of yours, not on account of me dear, will you?’
‘You mean—you’re forgiving him?’
‘Why, of course I am. There dear, don’t you take on so! Like a daughter, you’ve been.’ And there was something else that was ever so funny if you thought it out, the way Euphemia, who was going to be torn to pieces by wild beasts, was comforting and petting Megallis, who might be going to live to a comfortable old age and die in her bed like any nice woman wants to!
Beric was pushed out into the yard among the other prisoners; he recognised it as the same yard he had been in before, first when he and Hermeias had fetched out the house slaves, and then when he had come with Crispus. A long time ago. He sat down on a bench and tried to shift the chains on his ankles a little and began feeling in his mouth for the broken teeth; it was annoying to have one’s teeth broken—and distinctly painful; he spat out another mouthful of blood. But why worry about teeth when you are going to die in a day or two. Probably after another night of it. Which you deserved for having failed. Yes, deserved it. You’d got more or less used to the idea of dying, but not to being hit and hurt and being quite unable to hit back. Like a slave. Like Argas. God, where were the others!
He knew they’d been there too; he’d been told that, all right, and what was being done to them, hour by hour. To make him admit they were his friends and the whole thing a Christian plot. Well, he hadn’t done that. And it was because of his bungling that it had all happened. What would they be looking like now! Thinking of that, feeling sick, he knew he couldn’t face them. Best just to die and end everything.
Somebody sat down beside him, said, ‘Are you one of us? Have you been beaten and chained for Jesus Christ’s sake brother?’ ‘No,’ he said, and was left alone again. Was this going to involve Crispus? Had he just messed up everyone he was fond of? It looked like that. They’d get them all, Argas, Phaon, Persis, Eunice, the whole of the little Church. If they hadn’t taken him in, tried to make a brother out of him, been decent to him like they were decent to one another, it mightn’t have happened. He was crying a bit now; one of the cuts on his cheek bones opened again and began to bleed, a sore tickle through everything he was thinking about.
He became aware that someone else was sitting beside him, had been for some little time. ‘Listen to me, son,’ said the other person in an energetic, educated voice.
Beric looked round. ‘I am not a Christian,’ he said, ‘I am a murderer.’
�
��I know all about you, son,’ the man said, ‘I am Paul of Tarsus.’
Beric shifted uneasily; he had heard plenty about Paul; he couldn’t just chase him off. ‘Then you know I’m not one of you,’ he said, ‘I haven’t been baptised.’
‘You’d like to be baptised, wouldn’t you, son?’ Paul said.
‘How could I be! I’m here for trying to murder Tigellinus.’
‘I know. Why did you want to? Wasn’t it because you thought you could help us that way? Yes? Well, then, you made a mistake. If you had really been one of us, and known what you were doing, it would have been a sin. But as you did not know it can be washed out before you die. I will do that for you, Beric.’
‘I did know it was wrong,’ Beric said. ‘They told me. And I did it in spite of them, and they were arrested and tortured … Oh, I don’t begin to be fit for baptism!’
‘It will change everything. You will begin again and afresh, bought out of your sin and fear by the love of Jesus.’
‘What I did will go on,’ Beric said, ‘for me and for others. I can’t begin my actions again and they’re what count.’
The Blood of the Martyrs Page 38
