The Blood Of The Martyrs. Naomi Mitchison
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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 spoke 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