Somebody threw a piece of jagged tile and Beric jerked up his arm as far as the chains would let him to protect his companion, whom Nausiphanes, pushing through, recognised as another of the dining-room boys. The prisoners were halted outside the Circus while official notes were interchanged. Beric was licking the new cut on his arm that the tile had made, just as he had done when he was a little boy out with his tutor and had tumbled over a stone. He was not looking beyond his group at the outside world. Nausiphanes had to call his name twice, ‘Beric! Beric! Are you really one of them?’
Beric looked at Nausiphanes for a moment as though he did not recognise him, then nodded and spoke evenly, as though, in some way, he had expected to be asked. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and now I can prove it.’
It sounded as though he had the courage all right, the courage that you needed to stand against Rome, yet Nausiphanes had to make sure, had to twist and bruise his heart into asking and watching. For a moment he couldn’t think how to ask; he had been fond of the boy, and then, after his years of tutoring were over, had forgotten him rather, had been dealing with other, quicker brains. But none with more courage. He had taught him riding, too. He asked in a whisper at last, ‘Ready for the fence, Beric? And all of you?’
‘That’s easy!’ said Beric, and he tossed his head the old way, and Nausiphanes saw how bruised he was. ‘I should have made mistakes if I’d been living for it. I’ve only got to die for it now and nothing’s going to stop me doing that. Don’t look so down about it, Nausiphanes. I’m not. You wouldn’t be if you were one of us.’
‘To save you when you were a child, Beric, and now—to do this to you. Oh, that’s Rome.’
‘But it’s this that’ll smash Rome in the end. You’ll see. Nausiphanes, we’re winning just because everyone wants the Kingdom really, at the bottom of their minds. So it’s bound to come. It’s only the rule that stops them thinking they want it. Even the Emperor’s bound to want what we want. And we’ll show him!’
Now the bars were pulled back and the Christians were being shoved through into the dark. Beric and Argas were jerked forward, with only a look back at Nausiphanes. Some of them ahead were singing. A very few were crying. Euphemia turned to the guard next her and said, ‘Goodbye, brother. I saw you stop them poking sticks at me. I do thank you ever so much, I’m sure.’
‘Get on there!’ said the guard; the hell of a brother he was being to them! Oh, you’d got to do it. But—this barmy lot of women—what were the Christians, anyhow?
‘Come in and watch us die,’ said Lalage, looking at him as though she knew what he was thinking. ‘We aren’t just crazy; we’ve got something to die for. And thank you, brother.’
And all along the line, here and there, some man or woman would be saying that, and after the last Christians were in and the bars up and the guards standing easy while the sergeant was getting his note countersigned, Nausiphanes said to the one who had been next to Beric, ‘I knew that lad, guard. What did you think of them?’
The man looked round. ‘Queer. That’s what they are. Going like that to the beasts. ’Tisn’t natural!’
Another guard said heavily, ‘It made me feel right bad. Getting thanked. I can’t see what they done to deserve that.’ The noise of the beasts, the yapping and roaring and howling, was very unpleasant from where they were. ‘Hope the poor bastards in there don’t hear it,’ the guard said, and suddenly turned in sharp anger on Nausiphanes, ‘Here, clear out, you! Nosing around—you one of them, hey?’
But Nausiphanes, expert by now at dodging and disappearing into a crowd, was gone. And this—this was being effective in shaking the primary roots of men’s being. Once these are shaken, the reasonable mind, which is fed by such roots, can itself be approached. And this Kingdom of theirs was, Nausiphanes thought, the same as the Epicurean Garden, the place of love and equality and trust. So that was all right. But for Beric—his Beric— There were things you couldn’t quite believe. Not at first. No doubt, since they were facts, you would come to believe them later.
The jumping horses again, were a spectacle for the upper seats, pretty enough when you saw them all together, but not so exciting. However, most of the audience were back for the net and trident fights. These were highly skilled and had the necessary element of strangeness and extra-humanity. The net and trident man had to fight a swordsman with armour and a far better weapon who could only be overcome when netted; then the comparatively useless, clumsy trident could be plunged into an unarmoured throat, as into a fine turbot or mullet. If the net cast short, its bearer must run, gathering it in behind him, pursued by the swordsman, dodging amongst other couples, unlikely to escape. The eyes of the spectators were constantly busy. Many of the combatants were old friends, known by nicknames to thousands, shouted and encouraged or booed if they were thought to flinch. An old favourite had more chance if downed. Several were spared this time for future amusement.
Balbus had persuaded Crispus to come. Indeed, it was necessary, in view of the position, but Crispus was in no mood for it. He had got no satisfaction from the prison, only promises. He did not know if there would really be a chance of his interceding for Beric. Perhaps if he went straight to the Emperor—? It was just on the cards. If he did that and if by any chance he had some kind of success, then he must be out of the Piso conspiracy. It would be worth it. If he could save Beric he would never touch politics again. So far he had not even got all his slaves back; Mikkos and Sannio were still held on some excuse. However, Hermeias was with him again; the poor man had been somewhat shaken, but after a rest in the morning had insisted on accompanying his master in the afternoon; he and Balbus’s Felicio sat on the floor behind their master’s seats, getting a look round from time to time and noting bets. Balbus was insisting on Crispus betting with him; it would take his mind off anything else.
The big brothel scene was arranged on a series of raised stages, so that there should be an uninterrupted view from all parts of the Circus. Tigellinus was chaffing the Alexandrian Erasixenos about the habits of his home town. The main scene with the most amusing expertisms, was set in front of the Imperial Box; Nero was amused. Constant fanning and scent spraying and sprinkling of lily garlands had kept the box and its immediate neighbourhood in a highly civilised though somewhat unreal condition. But as the hot air, laden with other than floral scents, lifted towards the top blocks of hourly close and sweating thousands, the dream that they had come with and which was the reality of the Circus, had become more and more charged, breaking down all common barriers, so that men, and women as well, abruptly emitted spoken desires towards actions of an extreme and final kind on human bodies opened and wriggling and twitching either in perhaps assumed pleasure or in certainly genuine terror and pain and death. Curious hootings of appreciation or impatience came down in waves from above. Nor did the more aristocratic seats always disdain to be carried away with the rest into the unanimity of the wolves which were the symbols of Rome.
It was into this blood dream that about sixty Christians were driven out of the dark cells to be torn to pieces and eaten by a considerably large number of carnivorous animals. They were marched round in groups and each group was preceded by a large written board saying: Christian Murderers: We Set Fire to Rome: Christian Baby-stealers: Christian Traitors: We Rape Priestesses: We Abuse the Home: Christian Poisoners: and so on. There had been some trouble about these notices; the original idea had been that they should be carried by members of each group, but it was found quite impossible to coerce them into doing so. That was the worst of dealing with people who knew they were going to be killed anyhow. As it was, they shouted out that the notices were all lies and called their own slogans instead. This did not matter very much though, because everyone yelled and pelted them if they could, and what the Christians were saying could only be heard in the best seats, whose occupants in any case, probably knew that these notices were not intended to be the exact truth. Naturally the best seats had the best views, again. Faces were quite d
istinct. There were those amongst the better class spectators who had to say to themselves firmly that these people were a danger to the State, to all that must be held sacred, that it was an unfortunate necessity, and anyhow, most of them were only slaves and foreigners and one had better not think too much about it.
Flavia, close to the front, suddenly in the middle of a group, had seen and been seen by. And as she looked away again, as she must, must look away, lips tight against gums, fingers tight against breasts, all there was for comfort was only Candidus revenging himself in a long stare. No mother, no father even, and what would Father think. Must pick oneself up, laugh, however that was done, the little noise in the throat, ha-ha, yes, they had passed, everyone else was laughing and Flavia was oh, so afraid because she was not being able to laugh properly with the others, and Candidus was leaning cruelly towards her, and the King’s son was going to die and she wouldn’t be able to help seeing that and in a moment Father would know.
Lucan recognised the noble savage, about whom he had once nearly written a poem, and was taken very much aback. He then recognised a little dancer whom he had seen several times, yes, it must be the same, though she looked distinctly battered. This new infection of life appeared to be everywhere! Flavius Scaevinus recognised Crispus’s Briton, and also, since he dined at the house less than twenty four hours before, one of the slaves who had been waiting on him; he half rose in his seat and then decided, no, all the more reason to maintain a Roman and Stoic calm, to be oneself, utterly unsuspected of dangerous thoughts.
Crispus, having been to some extent distracted by the gladiators, and having sat through the next act with some impatience, had decided to leave. He knew it was possible that he might see one of his own slaves among the condemned. Though very unlikely, of course. Besides—But Balbus had pressed him to stay. And, even to his oldest friend, he could not exactly say why he had so very much rather be away. Intolerable to find oneself in a position where one must prevaricate to this extent! When the poor wretches were marched in, he decided not to look. And suddenly Balbus, who had been chaffing him in a friendly way, became exceedingly intent that he should continue not looking. Nor would he have, but for Hermeias behind him, who saw Manasses first of all and completely lost his head and pointed, with, ‘Oh, sir, there!’ And then realised that he was also pointing at Beric.
‘Cover your face!’ whispered Balbus urgently, leaning across, one arm round Crispus, the other pulling at a loose fold of his toga. ‘Keep still. Felicio, hold him! No, no, my dear friend, I understand, but don’t—remember where we are! Crispus, don’t look, you can do nothing, none of us can, it will be over—Gods, he’s seen you!’ And what would Crispus do then, how could Balbus save his old friend from some completely disastrous action?
It was Beric who did that, waving and smiling. You couldn’t hear what he said, only saw the head up and the smile. ‘Hell,’ said Balbus, ‘that boy’s good!’ And Crispus, having seen that too, allowed the slaves to pull him down, allowed his friend to cover his eyes and ears. The louder sound of the beasts as the gates of the cages were opened, came to him dulled as part of darkness and nightmare. Yet it was very certain that he would ask afterwards how it had been. So Balbus, who would now also much rather not have watched, yet being a friend and a Stoic, did watch for him.
Felicio, his hands on the old man’s arm, watched too. Hell, I would have liked to see him again. We might have had fun with one another. And now the bloody fool goes and gets himself killed. That night. And it never went on. I’d hoped it would. God, I liked him. God, he is brave standing there. All of them. The women too. Supposing they’ve got hold of the right end of the stick after all? If none of them scream that’s what they’ve done. And that’s a bet. Right. I’m taking that on. Now. Now. When the wolves. They’re saying things, to us. You can’t hear over the din. God, I love him. If he doesn’t scream. Now. He did not scream. He shouted. Not to me. None of them screamed. I have lost my bet: or very possibly won it. That remains to be seen.
Clinog had been enjoying himself thoroughly; there hadn’t been a dull moment. How they’d laughed and shouted, he and Calvinus. Did you good, that. And now they were going to see these famous beasts, including the lions from the Emperor’s menagerie. Well, it was a fine way of discouraging criminals. There would not be many Christians left in Rome after this, no!
Now the criminals were being marched in. There were a great many women among them. Well, it might be Calvinus was right, women could certainly be as dangerous as men, and indeed more so, because of witchcraft, although these ones were not his idea of witches. Now they were being tied up in groups all round the Circus so that there should be a good view for everyone. It was a pity they were not actually to fight the beasts, there was always more sport in a fight. ‘But most of these wretches wouldn’t put up a show,’ Calvinus said. ‘They don’t even come from the country. They’re a bloodless, gutless lot out of the gutters of the big cities: bred there like sewer rats. Just a product of overcrowding, this Christianity.’
‘All the same,’ said Clinog regretfully, ‘there are a few who look to my eye as if they could be made to fight.’
‘What, that fair one down on the left? Looks a bit like one of your countrymen, Clinog, what!’
‘Indeed, he might be. Calvinus, he looks—’
‘What on earth is it? What’s taken you? Sit down, man! Here come the lions, you’re getting in everyone’s light!’
But Clinog was shouting at the top of his voice, shouting—fortunately no doubt—incomprehensible words in a foreign language. And down on the sand, the fair, tall one had shouted back. As the wolf leapt. And Calvinus and several others had got hold of Clinog and were pulling him down, and he was throwing them off, fighting, as the men on the sand were not fighting. Had to be tied, kicked, trampled on before he was quiet. And by that time the act was practically over. One of the police agents came up and whispered to Papinius Calvinus, but the latter, being a Provincial citizen, without the proper feelings of respect that a pure Roman would have had, told the agent to get to hell out of there.
There had also been a disturbance in one of the upper blocks, some way farther along. A young woman had recognised someone she knew down there. No, she hadn’t screamed, but she had begun in a loud voice explaining just how good the woman had been to her and how these Christians were really kind and decent and truthful and honest and all the things you had been told they weren’t. Her husband had managed to shut her up at last, but he seemed a bit uncomfortable himself, and what the girl had said sounded true, somehow. And if all those Christians weren’t the set of wicked murderers they were made out to be, well—well, then it was like you murdering them. Down there on the sand.
One way and another, in fact, there was considerable disturbance. Tigellinus did not like it; the thing was not working out quite as he had intended. It was not his fault, nor his stage manager’s fault. It was the fault of these Christians not looking like the criminals they were. Looking too respectable, blast them! He’d change that next time. Sew up the next lot in beast skins and have them chased by wild dogs! That was an idea. But this lot—they’d hardly run at all. It was as if—as if they wanted to die. So that hundreds of these fools who were too stupid to see past what was exactly under their noses, would start disbelieving what had been told them, shifting the blame for everything they happened not to like off the Christians and onto—the Master of the World and his friends. Defeating the ends of justice. But all the same, thousands had taken it the right way and were now shouting for more. Thousands. Well, they should have it! The others … it didn’t matter. He’d get it under. See it didn’t spread. After all, if a few hundred boneheads did take it the wrong way, even so, they wouldn’t dare to do anything … not after this.
There, now everything was being cleared up again, clean sand spread for the torch race. Tigellinus didn’t believe much in torch races and all that himself; but Nero had insisted. It didn’t seem that this was going to be quite
what the crowd wanted, either. He listened closely to the shouting, then whispered an order and set one of his men running. Put on another show of dancers first, just a taste of them. Went better with blood. There was a good old stink now! Even in the Imperial Box. It was one of the smells you weren’t quite sure about. Went to the head. And to the stomach. Made you feel. If he could get hold of Flavia and— You wouldn’t get rid of that smell now for the rest of the evening. Not for any of those thousands. It was loosed into the dream until tomorrow and past tomorrow.
During the torch race Crispus uncovered his face and sat stonily. Balbus watched him, but could find nothing to say. Before the acrobats came on, Crispus rose to go out. Balbus and the two slaves followed. A little way from the exit, beyond the talking, glancing crowd, Flavius Scaevinus was waiting. ‘Come to my house, Crispus, old friend,’ he said. But Crispus shook his head.
The Blood of the Martyrs Page 42
