The Blood Of The Martyrs. Naomi Mitchison
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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?
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