Usually if their master went visiting and was going to be a long time in the house, at a dinner party, say, the slaves would bring the litter into the yard and themselves would sit with the house slaves; if they were lucky they got something to eat. They always did at Flavius Crispus’s house, if the young master there, the Briton, happened to see them, and he would make some cheerful remark to Zyrax who, of course, grinned back. But one day when they were there Zyrax was angry with Niger, and revenged himself by chaining him to the litter by his iron collar and cuffs and leaving him in the yard. The Cappadocian was probably rather sorry for him, but the German only laughed, going into the warmth and company of the house. Niger could have loosed himself, but he didn’t dare, in case Zyrax did something much worse: complained of him to Montanus.
It was cold in the yard and he could smell food from the kitchen. Besides, with the litter on the ground he had to kneel in a cramped position beside it because of the chains. He got colder and colder; his mind was like a frozen stone. Occasionally one of Crispus’s slaves passed and glanced at him, but said nothing. At last one of them asked, ‘Why aren’t you in with the others?’ This was a house and kitchen slave, Josias; Niger had spoken to him once or twice. Now he only pointed at the chains.
Josias came over and began to unhook the chains, but Niger stopped him. ‘No! Zyrax will be angry. I must stay.’
‘You poor devil,’ said Josias and went into the house. That was all, Niger thought, but in a few minutes Josias came back with a bit of blanket, which he put over Niger’s shoulders, and a bowl of food. Josias watched him wolfing the food for a moment, hesitated, and then said, ‘I can stay if you like.’ Till he heard that, Niger had not particularly noticed how lonely he was; that was just part of it all. But now he caught Josias’s hand with a look of such gratitude that Josias caught himself at what he least liked remembering: the dye-works in Tyre. He said to Niger, ‘I’ll tell you a story,’ and sat down on the edge of the litter. Niger was now beaming with pleasure. He loved being told stories; in the village there had been nights and nights of story-telling. All the old men told stories. But no one had told him a story since he had been a slave.
Josias spoke slowly, using simple words, because he knew Niger did not understand Greek as well as most of them. He told the story of Jesus-bar-Joseph, who was also the Christ, but that wouldn’t mean anything to Niger. After about an hour they heard the others coming out. Josias picked up the bowl and blanket quickly; it wouldn’t do for Zyrax to see that Niger had been fed or warmed. Niger, who had been quite silent, so silent that Josias wondered sometimes if he was really listening, said, ‘Next time—tell me more.’
There was hardly any need to tell Niger to hold his tongue about it; there was no one for him to talk to, and he hardly ever managed to get to the tongue-loosening stage of drink. He had no money at all, and nobody ever stood him anything. For a long time he was suspicious of the rest of the congregation; he could not believe they might not suddenly turn against him. But he trusted Josias. It only came to him gradually that there was comfort and joy in the Church; he went there at first just to hear more stories, and because it was warm and dark and he felt safe, and because Josias wanted him to come. But gradually it began to sink into him; he began to feel that he was part of something which was bringing back his manhood to him. After the first prayers he would begin to forget that he was only a slave. He had been given a direction and he took it with all his being.
After his baptism he came whenever he possibly could, but that was not always. He had nothing to bribe the porter into letting him out, unless sometimes when he got it from the money-bag of the Church. Sometimes he had to go for weeks without once getting the comfort of the love-feast. But he repeated the prayer to himself and told himself again all he had heard, over and over, all the stories. The litter slaves had to clean and polish the litter and the chains which might be fastened on to their own necks and wrists. One day he was doing this alone, and as he did it he kept repeating the prayer to himself. Once to each of the chains. And when he turned round the young secretary, Felicio, was standing and watching him. He crouched back, like a dog, not even daring to lift a hand to ward off the blow.
Felicio said, ‘I came to order the litter round in ten minutes. But this is much more interesting. I believe you’re a Christian.’ Niger said nothing; he didn’t know what to say. Felicio was one of the kind that rode in the litter, almost a master. ‘Well,’ said Felicio, ‘are you?’ No help came to Niger, no way out. ‘Yes, sir,’ he answered.
‘Caught you,’ said Felicio, ‘the litter in ten minutes: get your livery on.’ The others came running up. Niger scurried for his tunic, then ran to the litter pole. They were kept waiting half an hour, of course, and then had to trot. Niger didn’t begin to know what might be done to him, whether he would just be punished alone or made to give names or what. Could he manage to knock his brains out on a wall? Once he stumbled and Zyrax whispered to him viciously that he’d catch it when they got back. He couldn’t even pray.
When they got back he caught it all right; Zyrax saw to that. And then? He kept on waiting. It was the night for the breaking of bread and he longed most painfully to go. If he could have gone, he said to himself, and just had it all once more, just once, then he could have stood anything. But he didn’t dare try to go out. He waited in acute fear.
But he did not see Felicio again till the next day. Then the secretary, coming softly as before, tapped him on the shoulder and beckoned him to follow. They went up into an attic under the roof where old books and furniture were stored. Niger wondered how Felicio was going to hurt him. So deep was his slavery that he did not even think of killing, which he could easily have done, as Felicio was half his size. But Niger did not even have to say to himself that Christians do not murder. He just stood and looked at Felicio, waiting, and then, as Felicio had not yet done anything to him, went down on his knees. Then Felicio laughed and said, ‘I thought Christians were braver than that! Dangerous people. I thought they’d learnt not to be afraid of anything!’
Slowly Niger realised that this was an accusation which must be met. He got up and said heavily, ‘I can stand anything you do.’
Felicio regarded him. ‘You’d be a fine-looking creature,’ he said, ‘if you hadn’t got the soul of a slave inside it all.’ He tapped him on the chest. ‘Why don’t you get rid of it?’
‘What you going to do?’ Niger asked. Till he knew that he couldn’t know anything else.
‘Nothing. What do you think? You don’t seem to realise, Niger, that I’m a slave, too.’
‘You. You go in the litter.’
‘And you go in the Christian meetings. Now then, Niger, tell me all about it.’
‘Why?’
‘Why? Because if you don’t I’ll see you get whipped.’
‘I don’t care. I been whipped before.’ Niger was recovering his balance now. Whether Felicio meant one thing or the other.
‘All right, then. Tell me because I want to know.’
‘What you want to know for?’
Felicio began to fidget about the room, neat and light, his hair properly clipped, his young beard properly shaved off. ‘If anyone comes, Niger, you’re moving a desk for me—see?’ Niger nodded approvingly. Felicio picked up a book-roll, put it down again, said, ‘That means telling you all about me. Care to know?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Niger happily, aware that this was going to be a story again.
‘You may have heard, I come from the country estate. I was born there. My father was doorkeeper. He was an old man, they wouldn’t let him marry when he was young. Didn’t want to have a lot of brats about the place. So there was just me. Well, they’re often not there for months at a time, and as I grew up I used to hang around the house and look at pictures and finger the books; then I taught myself to read. I read a good deal: that’s been my life really. But reading s a funny business. You don’t notice at the time you’re reading a book, but afterwards you find
you’ve been shifted a bit. In whatever direction your mind’s going. That is, if you’ve got a mind. Some people haven’t. I don’t suppose you have, Niger.’
‘No, sir,’ said Niger obediently, not sure what all this was about.
‘I taught myself Greek, of course. There is no other language! I read the philosophers. Once I heard there was a travelling lecturer staying overnight at the village; I thought he’d be able to answer my questions, but he couldn’t. At first he thought I was a young gentleman and he was very polite, but when he found I was a slave with no money he threw me out. Well then, once when he was up there, Aelius Balbus found me reading and thought he’d have me trained as a secretary. He’s a decent old bird, though you wouldn’t think it, Niger. So I came to Rome. And there were more books here. Too many books.’ He looked round the attic, frowning; you could smell the rather musty leather cases of the old book-rolls.
Niger suggested humbly, ‘There’s plenty more in Rome besides books.’
‘Oh yes. There are girls, for instance. And boys. Almost everyone has something for sale. And there are lovely circuses with elephants if that’s what you like. Or you can always see a few criminals being killed in the arena if you want a nice change. And there are several kinds of mysteries. Or one can go and raise evil spirits with a witch. Ever go to a witch, Niger?’
‘Christians don’t go to witches.’
‘Well, they don’t miss much. But, you see, I kept on looking about and poking into holes and corners and temples and lecture-rooms. And I can’t lay hands on whatever it is I’m shifting towards. And one of the things I haven’t gone into is Christianity. I haven’t been able to trace it down. Whenever I think I’ve got it, it’s always turned out to be Judaism, and that’s a bore: the angry old man up top like a master of all masters. There are some good ideas in it, but a lot of bad ones too, and somehow most people take the bad ideas out of any system and leave the good ones to rot. Have you understood a word of what I’m saying, Niger?’
‘No, sir.’
‘I thought not. Now, Niger, I am determined to know about Christianity and you’ve got to show it to me.’
‘I can’t make all that explaining!’ said Niger anxiously
‘I don’t suppose for a moment you can, but you can take me to a meeting of your Church or whatever it is. I can pretend to be a Christian.’
‘You don’t do that,’ said Niger, ‘Christians can’t lie.’
‘No, but I can! Come on, Niger, take me. I won’t breathe a word to anyone.’
‘I can’t take you,’ Niger repeated, ‘not except you’re serious.’
‘Fool, I am serious!’ Felicio’s voice rose a little. ‘I wouldn’t have read through all those intolerable books if human life hadn’t seemed to me to be damned serious. And now you, you great blockhead, you can’t see!’
Niger scratched his ear. Then he said, ‘First time I was took to the meeting, I didn’t understand. Not a thing. Maybe I could take you in for the beginnings. But I got to stand surety for you. If you tell—’
‘Off goes your head. You needn’t worry, Niger. When can we go?’
‘By rights we could go next week. But maybe I can’t get out.’
‘Is it at night?’
‘Yes, but the porter—’
‘I’ll fix the porter. Now tell me, are there any books about Christianity?’
Niger looked blank. ‘Books? No. Why should there be books?’
‘I see. Tell me another thing: are the rest of your Church all like you?’
‘Like me? Black? No.’
‘They may be pea-green for all I care. Are they all stupid? Have they all got slave-souls?’
For a minute Niger didn’t answer. Then he said, ‘I wasn’t so stupid, long time back. When I was free. I could hunt wild beasts—angry, quick beasts. I could make all kinds of things—different things—I don’t have the words for them here. I could dance.’
Felicio put a hand on his arm. ‘And they knocked it all out of you. And knocked the slave-soul in. I know. A nice place, Rome: I understand the Christians are against it … But you were born free. I’ve been a slave all my life. Trying to get rid of my slave-soul. Perhaps I shall manage to do that some time.’
Felicio found the meeting quite interesting. He had met one or two of Crispus’s slaves before, also Euphemia; it was a surprise to see women there at all. He asked Manasses a good many questions, both at the time and later on when he happened to go over to the house with his master, and was there for an hour while the two old men gossiped; they had been fixing up everything about Flavius and Candidus. Felicio would not promise Manasses anything; he would think it over. At present he did not feel like joining the Church. But he would certainly come again.
He was rather angry with Niger for being so upset that evening when Beric came in: the slave-soul again. Nor did he himself rise and shuffle and stare at the young master. That was stupid. The meeting was rather like the first one that he had been at. There was business, the dividing up of the Church funds, where the next meeting was to be, what was happening at the other Churches in Rome, who had come lately from Jerusalem or Ephesus: how Trophimos who was due to go on a mission to Gaul, but had caught some kind of fever in Miletos, was now better and probably on his way: about the book that the doctor was writing for them all: about Paul of Tarsus who was held in the Mamertine on an appeal to the High Court from the Governor of Judaea. Lalage had been to see him—anyone could who didn’t mind the risk of being put on to the police black list. He had his own cell, with books and writing material and anything else he needed. Of course, he was a Roman citizen. That made all the difference. She had asked him, as delegate from the Church, two simple questions on what had actually happened at a certain point in the life of the Christ. Here were the answers. ‘But I wonder if any of us really know,’ said Lalage, ‘even Paul.’
‘Did you say that to him, sister?’ Manasses asked.
‘More or less. And at first he was snappy, said I’d got my answer. Then he asked me if I thought it mattered. So I answered, in the name of our Church—and I hope you’ll say I was right, friends—that what we really wanted him to tell us wasn’t so much how things happened, but what was pushing them into happening.’
‘And what did Paul say?’
‘He said, in that sharp way he has, “Now you’re talking sense—for once. Counting heads isn’t for those who know, and knowing is living, so tell your Church to go on living the Way, and that’ll push things into happening all right.” So, you see, you can take it or leave it. I’ve given you just what he told me, and what Luke is going to write in his book, about what happened when they were in the waste ground by Bethsaida. And I’ve given you what else he said.’
‘I think we can each take it as we like,’ Manasses said. Niger had thought it a lovely story, about the magic fishes and bread. He knew what he was going to believe. Rhodon was glad to know the exact number who had been fed. He wrote it down.
Between business one or another might say something in the nature of a prayer, or as if they were speaking freely about what was in their spirit because they were among friends and it wouldn’t be laughed at or used against them. Sophrosyne told them about a dream she’d had, and Phineas capped it with a story about a healing which he had heard from one of the old Nazarenes. Then Manasses said, ‘There are two here who are with us but not of us. Not yet. Have Felicio or Beric any questions?’ Beric had been whispering questions at Argas on and off during the whole evening; he sometimes found the slaves’ Greek rather hard to follow and there were special Christian words in the prayers which puzzled him. Now Argas told him to ask his questions out loud. But Beric wouldn’t. They’d got to get used to him before he’d stand up in the meeting. Felicio asked a couple of questions and was answered. Then Manasses said that the two must go. As Beric got up, Argas unexpectedly kissed his bare arm. Beric was hoping desperately that they wouldn’t all stand for him again. One or two did, but most of them just stared. And I put
on my oldest tunic on purpose, thought Beric, but I suppose it does look all wrong.
He and Felicio met in the doorway and went out together. It was now so late that there was no one about and few lights to be seen in the houses. Beric wondered what to do. He rather wanted to walk the short way back by himself and think it all out, even to walk alone a little farther. But perhaps it would be better—more what it was all about—more like the Kingdom—to talk to this other chap. Who might be lonely. Who might be a slave. With a certain effort he said, ‘Which way are you going, friend?’
‘Up past the Esquiline,’ said Felicio, and added, ‘You’ve not got far yourself.’
‘No,’ said Beric, a little uncomfortable because this other man knew all about him, who he was, and where he lived, while he, on the other hand, had no idea about—what was his name?—Felicio. He added, ‘I’m in no hurry. Would you care—shall we perhaps—walk part of the way back in your direction?’
‘Certainly,’ said Felicio, ‘if you don’t mind walking back with a slave.’
‘Of course not!’ said Beric, realising that his voice was rather over-cordial, but quite unable to get it right. Silly bastard, he thought, why does he need to make such a fuss about being a slave? I’d be walking back with him just as much if he’d been a pick-up! But not in equality? No, not ever when there’s something for sale. And there isn’t really any love if you pick up a boy or a woman on the streets at night. Or damned little.
‘Was this your first time?’ Felicio asked after a minute or two.
‘Yes. I wish they hadn’t all fussed about me so!’
‘You can’t blame us. It was like seeing—oh, a flying pig! Most of them haven’t got steady minds. They’re in this through their hearts, not their heads.’
‘And you?’
‘I’m not one of them. I don’t know yet if I’m going to be. I’m not sure what their concept of brotherhood really amounts to, in practice. After all, it’s something which has been put forward before. And not acted upon much.’
The Blood of the Martyrs Page 15