The Blood Of The Martyrs. Naomi Mitchison
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the wine had spilled when he jerked his cup. He didn’t care, but Argas came round and wiped it up; Argas laid a hand on his shoulder for a moment, but Beric didn’t seem to feel it.
Now Candidus was drinking Flavia’s health and there was plenty of applause, and Balbus asked if the little lady herself might not be induced to honour them with her company for a short time. Crispus, pleased, hesitated, and asked Beric what sort of show the dancer was going to give them. Beric answered low, that it was classical dancing—this seemed to disappoint Tigellinus—and that he was sure there was nothing Flavia could mind, at which Candidus shouted over at him to ask the little beauty to give them the pleasure of her society. Beric turned furiously to Crispus—he wasn’t even going to say yes or no to Candidus! But Crispus sent one of the slaves.
Lucan took his leave now; women bored him, and ladies bored him even more than women. Two of the slaves held back the curtains for Flavia to make an entrance. Beric, alone at his end of the couch, would not even look at her, but the others did, and a pretty picture she made, eyes downcast, cheeks flushed, lightly veiled over girlish curls, a white flower in place, silver sandals; at once the atmosphere of the dining-room responded. ‘If I was perfectly certain I could stand on my feet,’ said Candidus, ‘I’d take my garland and lay it at yours!’ Daintily she stepped round and sat on the edge of the middle couch between her father and future father-in-law; offered wine, she duly refused it; in any case she didn’t like it much. Tigellinus gave her a good stare and whispered to Erasixenos.
Now it was time for the dancer. ‘Ah—what is the young person’s name, again?’ asked Crispus. Beric answered that it was Lalage, and someone inevitably quoted Horace. Lalage appeared with her accompanist, a little old woman who crouched down in a corner with her harp and double flutes. The dancer was a striking young woman, black-haired, rather angular, fairly tall, expressionless. She was wearing a long heavy cloak which she threw off, abruptly, holding it for a moment at the end of one muscular arm. Under it she was wearing the traditional Maenad dress, the wide, finely pleated skirt, flaring out from the hips, the vine leaves low on the waist and the fawn skin over one shoulder, leaving the other breast professionally bared. Her accompanist played a single chord on the harp and Lalage took up her position. She looked at the supper party, then over her shoulder to the harpist: ‘If they talk, stop playing!’
The dancing was definitely good. After a few formal movements, the Maenad awoke, turning a succession of rapid cart-wheels all in the same square-yard of floor. She spun this way and that, and the skirt swirled into queer shapes. For a moment she sank into a slower rhythm; they could hear her panting. Aelius Candidus looked with interest at the nipple on the bared breast. ‘Do you like ’em sticking up that way?’ he asked Erasixenos in nothing like a whisper. ‘Just have a good look at this girl’s.’
Lalage frowned and stamped, and Gallio from the other couch growled at him: ‘You keep your eyes for your own girl, my lad!’
‘Yes,’ beamed Candidus, ‘I was just wondering about hers.’
Flavia ducked her head and giggled, and Beric said across the table and none too pleasantly: ‘If you do any more wondering out loud, the dance will stop.’
‘What did you say?’ observed Candidus loftily.
And Beric: ‘I said shut up!’
The dance came to an end, applauded, and Candidus threw a couple of gold coins. Lalage kicked them with one bare heel over to the harpist, who picked them up, and Flavia observed that she was glad she was going to have such a generous husband. Candidus glared at her, then at the dancer. But it wasn’t either of them; it was that Briton. Speaking like one of themselves! So you’d got to do something about it; got to put him in his place once and for all. Wouldn’t do to let these fellows behave as if they were citizens. His future father-in-law had been soft: obviously. So it was up to him.
Even Tigellinus was feeling all the more amiable for his wine. But a wave of cruel and efficient sobriety had come over Candidus. He walked over to the Briton; the slaves dodged quickly out of his way; Flavia caught her breath. ‘Do you know what you are?’ he said heavily, leaning at Beric. ‘An impudent foreigner taking advantages of the privileges Rome gives you. But that isn’t allowed, Mister Briton.’ For a moment Beric could think of nothing to say. ‘No. Not allowed,’ said Candidus, and smacked Beric’s face.
Flavia, peeping round her father, laughed out loud. So did Tigellinus. Beric jumped to his feet, but Crispus reached over and caught his hand: ‘No, Beric!’
‘If I weren’t under this roof—’ said Beric, low and heavily.
And Flavia, peeping round again, rubbed it in: ‘No, you’d never abuse father’s hospitality, would you, Beric?’
Candidus walked back to his own place almost steadily, and Beric dropped his head in his hands; nobody paid any attention to him. He heard Balbus scolding Candidus, saying he must always avoid getting involved in quarrels with persons not of his own race and class. He heard Tigellinus tickling Lalage and getting his ears boxed and laughing enormously. He heard Crispus telling Flavia that it was time for her to say good night; on the way out she pinched him, but still he didn’t look up. Then he began to hear a discussion about foreigners in Rome. Balbus and Crispus were talking rather low about the way each of these sets of foreign immigrants now had streets of their own: Syrians here, Phrygians there, Egyptians over by the Tibur, the Jews in their own quarter protected by the Empress Poppaea: Greeks everywhere. Every kind of poisonous foreigner, prostitutes and abortionists and murderers, men and women who would hire themselves out to anyone for anything! And probably the worst of the lot were a sect of Jews called Christians who hadn’t even any respectable people among them, but worshipped all kind of obscene animals, fishes and donkeys and whatnot.
Beric took a breath and sat up straight. On the couch in front of him Tigellinus and Erasixenos were having lots of fun with Lalage, but she was a sufficiently muscular and sharp-tongued woman to be able to deal with them. Her old accompanist watched from a corner as she must have watched the same thing evening after evening at other houses. Candidus was by now in a rather disconnected stage of drink. He seemed to be asleep for a few minutes; then he woke up and bit Lalage’s toe. Gallio clapped his hands and Phaon came running with the damp cloths and little pot. Crispus and Balbus were still talking about foreigners. Then—was it after all possible that Crispus thought of him, Beric, as a foreigner, as—an impudent foreigner taking advantage of what wasn’t his? And Fla she: Flavia had laughed at him; there was no getting over that.
A black slave with a horribly long knife at his belt came in, rattled the knife hilt to make Tigellinus attend, and handed him a set of tablets. He looked at them and swore, then heaved himself rapidly up, shedding Lalage like a blanket; she was on her feet at once, shook herself, and did a fade-out. Tigellinus explained to his host that he must go; it was an Imperial summons. ‘I’m sorry, Crispus,’ he said, ‘very sorry. This was just developing into a most agreeable evening.’ He added that it might mean a turn-out of the Praetorians, and prodded Candidus, who got up, remarking that when duty called beauty must wait. Beric got up too: it was his duty to see the guests off, to light their torches and hunt out their slaves. Tigellinus tipped him—inadvertently perhaps, not as a deliberate insult. Candidus merely hiccuped when Beric, holding himself in, wished them good night.
A minute or two later Erasixenos left too, though very politely; he was one of the foreigners. But if one had plenty of money it wouldn’t matter. Anyhow, the Greeks were different. Beric walked back through the main courtyard of the house, under the midsummer stars. He didn’t want to go into the dining-room again. The slaves would look at him—he knew they had seen, and he’d take it out of them next morning if they said a word!—look at him as if—as if—But perhaps they knew. For a few minutes he stood with his back to a pillar looking up at that soft, thick star-glow. The Stoics found comfort in contemplation of the movement of the stars. He didn’t. He went through into the small courtyard with the little fountain and the flower-pots. There was Flavia. He wanted to hit her, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t even say anything angry and splendid. He only said, ‘You might have told me.’
‘Yes,’