The Blood Of The Martyrs. Naomi Mitchison
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to take food from the hands of friends that he bit into the good bread, which the others then ate with him, and so, in the space of two hours, he got three things: repentance, baptism and the breaking of bread.
He was late getting back, but the old porter let him in and thought, by the way he looked, that he had been sleeping with a woman for the first time and so, sympathetically shaking his head, did not even scold him. And he did his work without grumbling and while he stood, still as a statue, behind his master’s couch at dinner, he had something filling his mind all the time, making the mere business of being alive worthwhile. Soon spring was beginning and there was almond in light blossom in the courtyards. And then the same thing happened. His master was going to take up a position somewhere in Gaul. Nobody told Argas till a few days before the move.
He told them at the next meeting at Eunice’s house, trying not to be angry all the time, trying to let the Will be done on him. Eunice and Manasses put their heads together and Manasses went straight out, saying he thought he might be able to do something. He came back in half an hour; most of them had left, but Argas was staying on, wondering desperately whether he would ever see this room again, trying to pray. He saw that Manasses was not alone, that there was someone with him, not one of them, one of the masters. Eunice and Phaon stood up and so did Argas; Eunice whispered to him it was the Briton, and he knew that it must be the young master from Manasses’s household. He saw someone about his own age, with queer blue eyes and a fair, long-shaped head, and the eyes were looking at him as masters ‘eyes mostly looked: remotely and appraisingly. He heard Manasses explaining that this was the dining-room slave whom he had spoken about—whose master was leaving Rome—he was sure he was for sale. And he, Manasses, would guarantee that he was satisfactory. ‘That him?’ said the Briton. ‘Looks a bit young.’ Argas came forward a couple of steps, aware that his destiny was in this man’s hands, not knowing what to say. Eunice spoke for him too. ‘Boyfriend of yours, Eunice?’ the Briton asked, and laughed. He walked over to Argas and began to handle him, looking at eyes and teeth. Obediently, Argas stripped; there was nothing wrong with him. He confirmed that he could read and write, was well trained, could do anything about the house. ‘You take him,’ said Eunice, ‘he wants to come. Knows a good master when he sees one.’ The Briton said, ‘Well, if we can get him reasonably cheap, I don’t mind taking him.’ He turned his back on Manasses and ate one of Eunice’s little cakes. The next day Argas was in the new household, trying to show that he had been a good bargain.
He wanted most of all to show the young master, the Briton. But, although Beric was quite pleasant to him, often had a word or two with him, and had never lost his temper with him at all badly, he could never speak to his master as he wanted. Never as though they were just two young men living in the same house. There was a barrier between them that nothing could break down. And, after the Scratch Cat began her tricks on the Briton, there was less chance than ever. Beric’s temper began to fray; he was sometimes unjust, sometimes accused or threatened the slaves for things they hadn’t done, or actually punished instead of only threatening. Once he had thrown a roll-book at Argas, cut Argas’s cheek with the spike on the end and torn the book. Argas hated to see a book torn; it reminded him of his book. He caught himself wanting terribly to tell the Briton about that book. Fool, he wouldn’t care! But all the same, he used to like to be the one to wait on the Briton, to wake him in the morning or carry a lamp for him or fill his bath. But now nobody liked that; the Briton might be in any kind of temper. And they all knew why!
Argas had wanted desperately to say something at dinner that day. If only the Briton hadn’t been so far! And then afterwards, when he came in with the bucket of water, at first he had not understood, only he felt that something was happening, and he had to start it by speaking to Lalage. And then the barrier between him and Beric began to crumble; for the first time they looked at each other as one man to another. Some day he would be able to help the Briton, to do something for him, give him something—
After they had all said the Words together, and while Manasses was still praying quietly to himself, Beric looked at Argas as though something had amused him a lot and said, ‘Well, I’ve said your words. What are they going to do to me? Going to turn me into a fish?’
That made Argas feel rather uncomfortable, but he saw that the Briton had thought they were magic, so he said, ‘It’s not what they do with you, it’s what you do with them. They aren’t a spell; they only say what we want.’
‘A kingdom?’
‘Oh, it’s not like you think, sir! Can I tell you?’
‘You’d better,’ said Beric. It was really Manasses’s place to tell the Briton, since he was by now the deacon and leader of the Church in Crispus’s household, but he saw that the Spirit had come to Argas; so he and Phaon finished mopping up quickly, and took out the bucket and rags, leaving the other two. Manasses knew, just as Lalage, for instance, knew, that there were many ways in which the prayer could be interpreted, but Argas would probably explain it one way only. That didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was the one who had been called to do it. Beric sat down on the couch and motioned to Argas to sit beside him. ‘This is a mad day,’ he said. ‘Well, come on, tell me what it’s all about.’ Argas was shy, sitting on the same couch as his master, in this equality he had wanted so much. He tried to remember Athens, but by now he’d had too much Rome, and still for a moment he could not speak. Beric, suddenly wanting to help him, said, ‘Argas, were you ever free?’
‘Yes,’ said Argas quickly, ‘when I was a boy in Epidauros! My father was a mason, but there wasn’t any work. He had to sell me to get food for the others. That’s how it was, sir.’
‘Rotten luck—brother,’ said Beric.
Then the Spirit came again to Argas; he said, ‘The prayer is first, to the Father, who is also, Justice and Honour and Freedom and Love. That is, He is for everyone, because these things are the same in Rome and Athens and Alexandria and away in Parthia and Thrace and Gaul—’
‘Even in Britain,’ said Beric, a little ironically, but Argas didn’t notice that.
‘And we ask Him, first, and tell ourselves every day, that what we want is the Kingdom of Heaven. And that’s to be the time when everyone is without fear and without shame and without hatred, when there aren’t any more rich and poor, masters and slaves—’ He suddenly stopped, wondering what the Briton thought. He had spoken of it before only to other slaves or those who had been slaves.
Beric said, ‘That means the end of things as they are, doesn’t it? And that can’t come by just wanting it. Only —by making it happen. For instance, here, you could only make it happen by killing Crispus and me and—the others.’ He didn’t want to say her name.
‘No!’ said Argas. ‘If we did that it wouldn’t come. Because we mustn’t ever do anything wrong to hurry it. We don’t murder, we Christians. We don’t steal. We—we want not even to hate or envy. And often we don’t.’
‘Clever chaps!’ said Beric, and then, ‘But how are you going to get your Kingdom if you don’t mean to kill?’
‘Well,’ said Argas, daring, ‘You didn’t want the Kingdom an hour ago, and now you do. Though you are my master.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘You called me brother,’ said Argas haltingly, ‘and now it’s going to be difficult for you, ordering me about and all—not, I don’t mean, that you’ve ever been hard on me, I don’t mean that—’
‘I cut your face open with a book.’
‘Well, you might feel bad if you did that tomorrow—not that I care, at least, not about getting my face cut, only—’
‘If I ever do it again, you can throw it back at me. That’s what you’re after, isn’t it, Argas?’
‘Just that. And that’s a bit of the Kingdom.’
‘Equality. That’s Stoic doctrine you know, Argas, only carried a bit further.’ He puzzled over it, talking half to himself. ‘The