The Blood Of The Martyrs. Naomi Mitchison
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In the hot afternoon, Beric who was no longer a child, had been with Flavia, who was no longer a child either. She had amused herself, but it was beginning to be dangerous. Supposing Beric came clear out of the dream in which he stroked and kissed her, in which he did what she wanted and no more? Well, there would soon be something better to think about than Beric: by no means a dream this time, but real. But Beric did not know. It was no business of the Briton’s to whom she was betrothed; she was more than certain that her father had not mentioned it in his presence so far. It would be funny when he knew. And suddenly she was bored with his light wavy hair and the red sunburn on his neck and shoulders, and his fingers merely repeating an old story. She sat up sharply, saying that she must dress. His hands slipped on her, he tried to hold her, but she pushed him off, and he, as his dreams subsided, remembered that he had to see to his arrangements for the dinner party that evening. He would have liked to kiss her gently goodbye, but she, suddenly brisk, would have none of it, shoved him impatiently, so that he knocked over a basket of grapes from the little table. He would have picked them up, but now she couldn’t bear him in the room one moment longer. ‘Let the slaves!’ she said, stamping. ‘What are they there for! And go quietly, you big ox!’
When he went out, she trod her toes into one of the fallen grape bunches; the juice was warm and sticky and a lovely colour on her instep; she paddled it about a little on the tiled floor, then clapped her hands. Little Persis came running in, with anxious eyes on her mistress, who was now slipping off her short sweaty muslin shift, dropped it, one hem in the grape juice, as Persis saw with half an eye of worry, and called for powder.
As Persis powdered her all over, Flavia stretched again and again, and stuck her fingers into her brown hair, pulling it back in crisp hot masses from her cheeks and neck. Her face was the right kind of face for a sixteen year old Roman aristocrat; her small breasts which the girl was powdering would certainly grow. She had enjoyed herself so far; she was going to enjoy herself much more when she left home. She had not yet made anyone do what she wanted except the slaves and Beric, but that was going to happen too.
The other slaves came in to dress her and admire her and brush her hair, the old woman who was supposed to be so good, but whom Flavia didn’t trust an inch, and the round-faced Italian maid who giggled. Persis was the youngest and newest and easiest to hurt. She began to clear up the squashed grapes. Her sleek black head bent to the floor; there was a tempting patch of brown shoulder. Flavia tiptoed and gave it a quick pinch; Persis jumped and squealed; the other two slaves laughed, applauding their mistress and wondering what she was going to try on them. She looked round idly and viciously for something to do or throw or hurt; the Italian girl ran and brought in her pet monkey, hoping she would tease it instead of teasing them.
In the meantime the dinner party had to be arranged. The food, of course, had been ordered days before; both the head cook and Beric had been to the market, though actually most of the meat, poultry, vegetables, fruit and cheese had come in from Flavius Crispus’s country estate, a pleasant little place to which old Domina Aelia, the grandmother, had retired. The flowers for the garlands had come from there too, but in this heat it was difficult to keep the roses from dropping. As for the entertainment, Beric had put the two dancing boys through a rehearsal of their new mime: Ulysses and the Cyclops—with the gouging out of the eye done as realistically as possible. Phaon was a tiresome, temperamental little brat, but the dancing boys were bound to be rather spoilt. He had been born in the house; his mother, Eunice, had been freed five years back, and now ran a little bakery. Sometimes she brought in some extra fancy rolls—there would be some today, shaped like swans and butterflies. Phaon was fifteen and his legs were pretty enough to—eat. He knew that all right, and half the time he was showing off like a regular Greek, which was what the guests liked, and then suddenly he’d go queer and sullen, as if he hated the kind of life he was leading, which was stupid and ungrateful of him; not many slaves were as well treated and as well trained as Flavius Crispus’s dancing boys.
The other was a young Jew, Manasses, older than Phaon and with much more experience; in fact, it was he who had taught Phaon; he was easier to deal with, and his dark curls and dark sidelong eyes made him a good contrast with the little Greek. But Beric didn’t like him much. Jews were a nuisance in a household anyhow, with all the different kinds of food they refused to eat, and their praying, and trying to sneak off from work one day a week. In the Jewish Quarter in Rome you could go there one day and there wouldn’t be a soul about, not so much as chopping wood or drawing water. Of course, there were certain things which he, Beric, did not eat—goose, for instance; naturally, no Britons ate goose! It always made him feel uncomfortable to see the Romans actually enjoy eating it, especially Flavia; it made him feel squirmy, as though he didn’t want to touch her for an hour or two afterwards. But everybody knew that pork was one of the best foods there is! He remembered helping in a great game one day when the rest of the household made the Jew slaves eat it—held them down and jammed it into their mouths. Most of them were sick afterwards. It was all in fun, of course, and the rest of them had laughed like anything.
Some of the others had manhandled Manasses a bit that time; the rest of the slaves were always jealous of the dancing boys, and, on the whole, Beric saw the point of that. Of course, all the dining-room slaves had a better time; they had the pick of what was left over—they were supposed not to, but neither Beric nor Crispus were going to be hard on them; when there were no guests they often talked to the slaves who were waiting on them; naturally they were more intelligent and trustworthy—and better-looking than the rest, too! They were mostly Greeks, Lamprion, Sannio, Argas, Mikkos, and the rest.
By now Beric did most of the running of the household, thus, as he sometimes said to himself, saving the price and keep of an overseer. Today, for instance, he had hired a professional dancing girl entirely on his own; well, as a matter of fact, Flavius Crispus had seen her somewhere when he was dining out, but it was Beric who had found out her name and where she lived. Sometimes he wondered what was going to happen to him later on, when he was a man grown, with a great brown moustache like his father. Not that he wasn’t big and strong enough now; they all said so at the gymnasium; he could throw most of his friends. But—later on? Some day soon he must ask Flavius Crispus.
Thirteen years ago, the British king, Caradoc, son of Cymbeline, had been chased out of Essex by the legions, west along the Thames valley and into Wales. There had been fighting there, the usual betrayal of barbarians by one another, and in the end Caradoc and his wife and children had been taken to Rome, where the old Emperor Claudius had, on one of his good days, seen and pardoned them—not, of course, to go back to Britain, but to live on as clients in Rome. And the youngest boy was given to Flavius Crispus to be brought up with his own motherless little girl. Beric had howled and kicked at first, but it was all a long time ago. Caradoc and his wife were dead years back, and Beric had not grieved much; he had never tried to get in touch with his brothers, who were probably somewhere in Italy; nor did he think of himself as the son of a king except sometimes with Fla Flavia. When they were quite little, she had made him crowns out of anything that came to hand, and pretended to do him homage. And again this last year it seemed to heighten everything for her; she had whispered it at him, king’s son, king’s son, making him do this or that, touch her or not touch her, thinking of new games to play with him as the afternoons burned and blazed from winter into July, and inside the shutters the square, dusky, rose-scented room was her practice ground where she would make him follow and beg or cry with rage or laugh low with delight. The slave girls whispered to one another sometimes that he was a king’s son, but he didn’t know or care about that. He wasn’t interested in slave girls, though last year at Saturnalia he had given special presents to Flavia’s maids: but not for what they said—only for what they left unsaid.
Now he went along to see if there were any more directions for the dinner party. He found Crispus quite worried, and indeed it was a rather awkward party. Beric had never bothered much about Roman politics, but even he couldn’t help knowing that no senator could enjoy having the present Praefect of the Praetorians to dinner. He was sorry and worried that Crispus should have to do it, sorry from affection and worried because—well, Crispus