That hurt Rhodon; he had to try and defend the remains of something. ‘That’s not the way I see it,’ he said. ‘Mithras was my god and my crown.’
‘Now,’ said Eunice, ‘you’re saying that, friend, but what does it amount to? You were told about your redeemer. But you never asked yourself, who was he really? Did you now?’
‘No,’ said Rhodon, ‘I didn’t need to.’
‘Why not? Who told you?’
‘Well, the priests.’ It made him feel bad, saying that, as though he had given something away to this woman. Well, he’d done it now.
‘Then supposing Mithras was only a story made up by these priests, what then?’
Rhodon looked unhappy: he did not want to think like this. ‘There must be priests,’ he said.
‘But not between you and God. Not—you know—making up stories for the rest to believe. Not richer than other people.’
Rhodon thought of the sacred things which the priests did, which were in a way not real: the pretended murder, the frightening of the novices. But those in the higher grades knew it was all a pretence, just something which had to be done. And who but the priests could make the great sacrifice, the killing of the bull? ‘There must be priests,’ he repeated firmly.
Eunice said to him, ‘There’s only one sacrifice which matters, and that’s the sacrifice of one’s life for what’s worth dying for. And that’s a sacrifice that any one of us can make. Man or woman.’ Or dog, thought Rhodon suddenly, and his eyes were full of tears. Eunice went on, ‘Our Redeemer made that sacrifice Himself. And He isn’t a story. He was a real man.’
‘The Messiah,’ said Phineas, but Rhodon did not know what he meant; he was beginning to attend to Eunice.
She went on, ‘He healed the sick and He taught about the Kingdom and about forgiveness, and in the end He gave His own body as the sacrifice for the Kingdom; that was the only way people would be sure to see it mattered. People all over the world.’
‘His own body,’ said Rhodon, thinking of the Bull which was also Mithras, ‘His Self?’
‘Yes,’ said Eunice, ‘He made them crucify Him. He gave Himself for the coming of the Kingdom. So now all of us can go towards it, we can live and work for it, just knowing it was worth His life.’
‘Others, too, have died for it,’ the young wife Sapphira said eagerly. ‘Stephen—’
But Rhodon was thinking of something else. ‘Was he really a man,’ he asked, ‘an ordinary man like us?’
‘He was a wood-worker, the son of a wood-worker.’
‘A skilled man,’ said Rhodon with a kind of relief in his voice; ‘tell me some more about what he died for.’
That was how Rhodon came into the Church. He was rather slow at learning because he got the old and the new prayers mixed up, and besides, he got tired more easily over anything than a man would have done who had not been once badly wounded. So it was some months before he could be baptised. But he liked it. He liked being in a Church again, feeling that there was an organisation round him, something to hold on to. He got used to women being in it, and sometimes, instead of going to the fish-shop, he went to Eunice’s bakery in the evenings after work, especially in winter, when it was so warm and pleasant.
Sapphira was a little tied up by the children, especially when the new baby came. Besides, she found it nearly as good if Phineas went and told her all about it when he came back. Phineas had been born in Rome. His father, Gedaliah-bar-Jorim, was one of the Jerusalem Nazarenes, intensely patriotic, a friend of James, who had never quite got the hang of his queer elder brother, but had always stood by him in spite of the things he kept on saying in anger about his family and what a nuisance they were. In spite of his having obstinately gone to certain death in Jerusalem when he might have been the Messiah. When asked, he had not denied that he was the Messiah. And afterwards— It appeared that he might be going to be the Messiah after all.
When the dreadful news came that the Emperor Gaius was going to desecrate the Temple in Jerusalem, shaming all Judaea, Gedaliah-bar-Jorim was one of a deputation to Rome. Before they got there even, the Emperor was dead, but several of the deputation stayed on in Rome and married. Gedaliah married the daughter of a respectable, hard-working family and settled down to his trade of carpet weaving. A couple of years later, Phineas was born, the eldest son, much loved by his violent father, who brought him up to look forward to the sudden reappearance of the Messiah, this time visibly a God and a destroyer, and the establishment of the Kingdom. Any time it might happen, while he was at school or out in the street playing; he would be saved but his companions licked up by one enormous flame. Whenever there was a thunderstorm, little Phineas began to expect the Coming. But it kept on not coming, and Phineas began to have other thoughts about the Kingdom. And he got into touch with others in Rome—Gentile Christians—and even ate with them. His younger brothers and sister seemed to be able to go on expecting the Messiah, in the same way, year after year, never disappointed. He couldn’t do that. Yes, Jesus was the Messiah, but not, oh, not just to bring us all back to Jerusalem, to make it another Rome, ruling the world! He did not like even discussing it with his father now; they meant such different things by the same words.
Phineas had been baptised as a boy, and it was intended that he should, in due time, marry the daughter of a neighbour who was also a Jerusalem Nazarene—if the Messiah had not appeared by then. But he fell in love with a slave girl, redeemed her out of his own savings, and married her. Thank God she was at least a Jewess, though from one of the coast towns, and her fathers had been free; as Phineas was going now he might even have thought of marriage with a Gentile! And Sapphira was quiet and gentle and very grateful and a good housewife. And she believed everything that Phineas believed. That was good in a wife, but she should have paid attention to her father-in-law, and she did not. She even contradicted him, defending her husband and the foolish beliefs of these new Christians, as they called themselves. She even went to the meetings and sat with Gentile women—yes, and men—but at least she had given her father-in-law two healthy grandsons.
It was Phineas who had brought Sotion to the meetings. He had seen him hanging about several times, and when Sotion asked him point blank if he was a Christian, he had answered yes, very happily, and brought Sotion in to one of the gatherings at Eunice’s house. Sotion had been very eager to join the Church and had asked quantities of questions. He was a freedman and his job was rent collecting. He was rather small, with bad teeth, and very friendly to everyone. Manasses had baptised him. Once he had gone as a delegate from their Church to the Church in Caesar’s household, and had been very accurate and painstaking with his report.
It was just after Sotion’s baptism, that Rhodon had saved up enough to buy his freedom. He went on working for Barnabas, at a slightly increased wage, and nothing was really altered except that he enjoyed being free. His master had never ill-used him, or indeed any of his slaves, and now he let Rhodon take a little private work and do it at his old bench and forge after hours. Actually, Rhodon worked rather harder than he had done before, but also put a little more each week into the funds of the Church; that was another thing he enjoyed doing. But he still got tired rather suddenly and sometimes his arm ached.
Phineas and Rhodon and the watch-dog walked over together that night to Eunice’s house; Rhodon had trained the watch-dog to stay on guard outside. On the way they picked up Sotion, who asked after Sapphira. Phineas explained that she couldn’t come just now as she was still nursing the baby. He spoke softly and lovingly of her and the children. When they got to the bakery, they found Lalage and Sophrosyne there already; then Euphemia came and got them all laughing with a funny story about one of her customers. Then Niger came, looking as miserable as ever, and with him Felicio, the young Italian from his household whom he had brought once before, quiet and intelligent and well read, a slave. Then they heard Manasses’s voice at the door, and the voices of the others from the household of Flavius Crispus. Soon it would
be the full meeting. Rhodon wondered why Lalage had stood up, where she could see over Euphemia who was sitting in front of her, and why she was looking so excited.
Manasses in the doorway said, ‘Peace be with you.’ And they all answered, ‘Peace—peace, brother,’ and he came in, Josias behind him, then Phaon, then Dapyx with an awful boil on his neck that looked as if it might burst at any moment. ‘Persis can’t come tonight; her mistress wants her. But—’ And Manasses half turned to the door. Argas came in, and with him someone whom none of them knew except Eunice, and she jumped up, one hand at her mouth, with a queer look. ‘Peace be with you,’ Argas said, and then turned to his friend, ‘You say it.’
‘Peace be with you,’ said the newcomer, in rather unsteady Greek, with an accent they couldn’t quite place, and as they answered him they all stared at him, taking in his tunic and cloak which were certainly old, but the stuff—you could tell the stuff!—and his sandals that hadn’t been mended, hadn’t ever needed mending—and then the look of his face, washed and shaved, well, you couldn’t help knowing— And most of them rose, as they hadn’t for Manasses, their deacon, their brother, and most of them were half excited and half frightened. Niger remembered who it was and he felt sick and he wanted to hide. ‘But you can’t—’ Eunice began, her voice trembling. Lalage spoke to her quickly, across Euphemia, ‘It’s all right, Eunice, it is really! I only didn’t tell you because I wasn’t sure. I’ll be his surety.’ And Beric whispered to Argas, urgently, ‘For God’s sake let’s sit down in a corner somewhere or their eyes’ll all drop out of their heads!’
Argas grinned and pushed him round into the corner behind the kneading trough, but Eunice said, ‘Oh, but he must sit in front—take my chair—bring him round, Argas!’
‘Oh no!’ said Beric, and Phaon giggled.
‘But who is he?’ Sotion whispered eagerly.
Manasses answered, with a funny mixture of pride and casualness, ‘He’s our young master.’
Phaon giggled again, and then Lalage pushed Eunice back into her chair and Euphemia walked over to Dapyx and said, ‘Here, son, let me see that boil of yours.’ Then she took him through into the scullery with a lamp and began squeezing the boil. Dapyx said it was where the iron ring he’d had on his neck for months had caught him. Euphemia made him hold the lamp so that she could see what she was doing, then asked, ‘Who is he, really?’
‘Manasses said—it’s him,’ Dapyx answered.
‘Your master? Well, I couldn’t hardly believe it. But then—what’s he doing here? Don’t wriggle, son; it’ll be done in a minute. Now tell me, do. Did you know he was coming?’
‘No. When I get to the others, he’s standing there.’
‘Weren’t you scared stiff?’
‘Yes. But he makes the sign. To me.’
‘There! Now I’ll put a nice piece of rag round it. What do you think’ll come of it, Dapyx?’
‘Don’t know. Maybe better times for me.’
‘But what I can’t see is, what one of them wants, coming in with us. Whatever can he be after?’
‘Maybe he’s a fool. But—he calls me brother. Me.’
‘Well, I never. There, that’s done. Come on back, son, I want to have a good look at him.’
But when they got back Beric had got himself well wedged into a dark corner, sitting on the edge of Eunice’s bed, between Argas and Josias. Everyone was pretending not to look at him, and Rhodon was saying to Phineas that he hoped they’d get started soon, there was a lot of business to get through. In this Church, too, Rhodon was one of the administrators of the funds. Only nothing had to go for upkeep here, nothing for bells and candles and robes and sacrifices. Then Manasses rose for the first prayer.
CHAPTER VII
Niger
On the edge of the brown desert there was a village behind a stockade of thorns, with dried mud houses tumbled and piled together, and a space in the middle where the young men could leap and yell and fling their feather-tufted spears high in the air and show off to the grave, watching girls at the women’s end. Squatting along the sides, the old men commented on the black shining bodies of the boys; they were working up for a raid over the mountains and into the rich country where there was metal and horses and plenty of food.
The raiding-party started off, some riding, some running on foot, all dressed for war with ostrich feathers and dangling pieces of metal and the glossy, swinging tails of wild beasts. They crossed the mountains by a pass and came down among crops and fruit trees. They were hoping mostly for horses. In the mountains they had shouted war-cries, but now they went silently, looking for hoof prints.
By now the Province of Tingitana, farthest west of the North African Provinces, was used to these raids. It was not a case for legions, but there were patrols of auxiliaries all along the frontiers, ready to gallop when the message came for them, as it did now. In an hour they were on to the raiders, had killed several, taken a few prisoners and sent the rest scuttling back over their mountains. The prisoners, with their hands tied, were made to run beside the horses most of the way into Volubilis; that took the fight out of them properly. Here they were turned over to the regular slave trade and the auxiliaries left again for the frontier patrol.
The newly caught slaves were kept chained the whole time, fed on beans and water, and separated from one another, so that, until they chose to know the Latin words for things, they could not communicate with anyone. From time to time they were beaten just to show them what was what. Some of them were wounded; the wounds were looked after efficiently but without regard for pain. Then they and some others were marched across Tingitana to Siga, the port from which they were to be shipped to Rome. They had no names now. Their old names were unpronounceable; they had ceased even to be angry and bewildered individuals, they had become part of the silent mass of slaves.
Aelius Balbus had an overseer, an Italian called Montanus, who saw to it that his employer was comfortable. He was reasonably honest, did not chivvy the slave girls much because his wife usually heard of it, and did not get drunk. Balbus was quite satisfied with him. He went off to the market to get another litter slave for Balbus; it had to be a black one, like the last, who had ruptured himself and was no use any longer. Montanus had proposed to sell him to anyone who could use him up, but Balbus had said he could stay on in the kitchen, which was really very kind of him, as things went.
Balbus had four slaves for his litter: a German from up near the Rhine who had been taken prisoner in one of those interminable wars that were always going on there—he was a blond, extremely strong and rather stupid: a red-haired, freckled tough called Zyrax, from Moesia or thereabouts, who knew something no one else knew about the overseer and was thus in a better position than the rest of them: a dark-haired, dark-eyed Cappadocian who would probably be the next to go, and a black to make up the lot into an amusing colour contrast. They all wore iron rings on their necks and iron cuffs on their wrists, by which, theoretically and sometimes on very special occasions, they were chained to the litter, and blue and yellow livery tunics. There were a couple of spares who walked behind, but Balbus preferred always to have the same ones carrying him.
Montanus bought one of the slaves who had recently been imported from Tingitana; he was called Niger, like his predecessor. He did not understand at first that this was his name now and for the rest of his life, but he soon got used to it. He could speak a little Latin and he found that he also had to know some Greek, as that was what Zyrax and the Cappadocian spoke ordinarily, and a good deal depended on being in their good books. There was nothing very difficult to learn, except actually lifting the loaded litter without tilting it in the least; that was the moment when litter-bearers were apt to rupture themselves. And Aelius Balbus was a fair weight. If he was in a hurry they had to trot, in so far as that was possible in the crowded streets of Rome; and there was endless waiting about, sometimes in the full sun in summer—the German still managed to blister with that!—or in east wind and
frost in winter. If they bumped the litter into anything, they were all beaten when they got back, or all except Zyrax, who was very expert at getting off things.
Niger could hardly remember the village any longer, the tossing spears and the dark glisten of the girls’ eyes and breasts. That had been wiped out. This alone was happening. His predecessor was from Nubia, southwest of Egypt, and they did not even speak the same language. Also, the ruptured and discarded Niger hated the new one and was always trying to get him into trouble.
Sometimes they carried the son of the house, Aelius Candidus, and sometimes father and son together, in which case the two spares gave a hand. Or sometimes Balbus had a friend with him, or, if he had much business in hand, one of the secretaries, young Felicio, for instance. Several other slaves, also in livery, went ahead to clear the street, carrying torches if it was dark. That was easy. If litter-bearers lived to any age they often had asthma, and those who could not afford to have a succession of new litter-bearers every so many years, would have to put up with an accompaniment of unpleasant asthmatic noises as they were carried about the streets. Occasionally, too, a litter-bearer would die of heart failure.
Flavius Crispus, the way to whose house they knew well, had nothing fancy about his litter-bearers. They were just Thracians or Moesians, all more or less alike, easy to replace. The last lot which had been replaced were sent off to his country estate to do light work. But Flavius Crispus did not have an economical overseer like Montanus.
Aelius Balbus had never actually spoken to Niger. He gave all his orders to Zyrax, who nodded cheerfully, whatever they were. But he once personally ordered Niger to be whipped for letting his pole down too suddenly. Niger was merely frightened of him. But not so immediately frightened as he was of Montanus. When he saw Montanus coming he was apt to stand absolutely still, flattening himself against a wall, perhaps, as though he hoped not even to be seen. But this annoyed Montanus, who would give him a prod in the belly as he passed by.
The Blood of the Martyrs Page 14