‘I suppose some of them—the Stoics—they talk a lot about poverty.’
‘But what they’d all love would be a philosopher-king ruling everyone with an iron rod. One of themselves!’
‘No, Felicio, they’d be the Council behind him—’ Beric was remembering all the talk he’d been hearing at Crispus’s house for the last five years. ‘And he’d be a kind of dressed-up dummy to impress the masses. All for their own good, of course!’
‘Even Plato saw that didn’t work, before he died. When his precious philosopher-king at Syracuse started going the way of all kings. But the Romans are still hoping it’s going to work with the next Emperor—or the next but one.’
‘I suppose,’ said Beric a little doubtfully, ‘that there was more real brotherhood in the Garden than anywhere else.’
‘Yes. Epicurus had it himself. And some of his followers. But look what Rome’s made of it! Their idea of happiness: eating and drinking and having women!’
‘My old tutor,’ said Beric, suddenly thinking of him again, ‘was always supposed to be a Stoic. But he had a good many Epicurean ideas. He was a Greek, of course. I liked him.’
‘You had a proper Roman education, had you?’
‘Yes. Look here, Felicio, how do you know about me? Because you obviously do.’
They were standing at a corner now. There was a full moon, and they could see one another very well. And through the blue moonlight there was a curious reddish glow in the sky, to their right. Felicio asked, ‘Do you mind?’
‘I don’t think so. Only, I would like to know—’
‘Whose slave I am. Well, I was there this morning at the betrothal, helping with the documents. I saw you. I belong to Lady Flavia’s future father-in-law.’
‘You saw me, did you?’
‘Yes.’ Felicio hesitated. ‘There was one moment when you looked so unhappy that—I couldn’t help supposing—for whatever reasons—you didn’t like Aelius Candidus any more than I do.’ Beric didn’t answer. He put his arm up against the wall and leant his forehead against it. He wondered how many more slaves knew what was happening to him! Would it have been any help or pleasure to box the ears of this one? Not actually, he decided. Felicio went on, impersonally, ‘I don’t suppose there is anyone in that Church who has not been hurt. Quite badly hurt. I suppose you need some kind of knock before you’re prepared to take it. Before, as they’d say, you were reborn. Or become adult. I’m not quite sure which. They tend to use these words that come from the heart rather than the head. Perhaps it’s because I haven’t had a knock that, though I like them, I’m probably not going to come in.’
Beric had been given time to recover, to get away from himself; he said, ‘I don’t like thinking that all those slaves of ours have been hurt. I know about Argas. Funny, the thing that seems to have hurt him most was really quite small—having a book taken away from him. I suppose—I don’t begin to know what things are like for them.’
‘You may yet,’ said Felicio, ‘and that will be interesting. Of course, it happened to a good many Greeks. Epicurus himself, for instance, lost everything in a war between states. And Plato was sold as a slave. But naturally his friends bought him back. And I very much doubt if he had to clean the boots when he was a slave! But it doesn’t happen to Romans. They’re rather too secure. Except for their Great Big Divine Insecurity in the Palace. Only that’s different. But perhaps your own slaves will be able to tell you what’s been done to them, so that you’ll see. I don’t suppose they’ve spoken to you yet as equals.’
‘No,’ said Beric, ‘only just now and then for a minute or two. And then it all goes. How do you manage it?’
‘Well, I’m a secretary. I write people’s letters for them. Take all their lies down in shorthand and then write them out beautifully. That doesn’t leave you feeling so inferior. Besides, it’s rather easy to feel morally and intellectually superior to Aelius Candidus.’
‘But all the same he might—hurt you.’
‘Yes, I know, and as a matter of fact, I dislike pain. But one can’t pay too much attention to that sort of thing. For that matter, you might turn round now and beat me up. And you well might, by all the rules, for my speaking as I have.’
‘You don’t think I would, do you?’ said Beric quickly.
‘No. You aren’t a Roman. Perhaps you’ll allow me to say I like you.’
‘I like you,’ said Beric, suddenly thinking that there was, after all, an element of pick-up in it, only—on both sides. And then he noticed that the glow in the sky was getting wider and brighter. ‘There must be a big fire somewhere,’ he said.
‘I don’t wonder,’ Felicio said, ‘the whole place is as dry as tinder. No rain for a couple of months. And then some fool of a woman is a bit careless with a cooking-pot. And a whole tenement goes up. And the people in the top rooms are popped off by the flames like so many lice.’
‘Yes, it’s usually the poor quarters that suffer. I suppose the fire brigades aren’t in such a hurry.’
‘Personally,’ said Felicio, ‘I shouldn’t mind if the whole of Rome was burnt down. If this judgment the Christians talk about meant that, there would be something to be said for it. Don’t you think so?’
‘If it was destroyed for ever. With all that it stands for. Then there could really be brotherhood.’
‘Exactly. But, of course, it wouldn’t be destroyed for ever. The rich are always covered. And the poor not. So I’m doubtful whether we shall get brotherhood that way. You know, it looks like quite a large fire!’
‘Yes. It must be up by the Circus Maximus. The glow’s spreading. Oh, well, I expect they’ll get it under soon.’
CHAPTER VIII
Euphemia
Euphemia was a freedwoman. She had lived in a more or less legalised way with her old patron, and when he died he left her quite a handsome sum. But that was twenty years ago when she was young and pretty and a genuine blonde. A good deal of the legacy had gone, in the end, on the dowry for their daughter, who had married very respectably. Too respectably, Euphemia sometimes thought; for she hardly ever saw her daughter now, or her two dear little grandchildren. They lived at Neapolis, but even when they visited Rome she couldn’t help thinking her daughter was really rather ashamed of her and the shop and everything. And as to letters—it took Euphemia a week to write one, and what with one thing and another she never had time.
The rest of the legacy had gone in setting her up in business. Her first venture had been in Pompeii; they had lived near there. But somehow it wasn’t quite the class of customer she liked; she wanted to have everything respectable. And at first, just because she was still nice-looking, people had thought she was that sort. So then she had moved to Rome and started in business again. There was nothing like Rome, not really. At first she’d stuck to perfumes, cosmetics, hair-oils and that, and had a couple of girls in the shop. She was still trying to be a lady, for her daughter’s sake. But it didn’t do; you’d got to run the place yourself or you lost money all the time. Besides, she liked doing things with her own hands. By that time she’d got her daughter’s marriage fixed up, very suitably, with an old client of her father’s, an official in the municipality of Neapolis. Once that was dealt with Euphemia sold one of her girls and began to turn to herself. She fixed up a connection with one of the really good Baths and would either visit customers there or at their own houses; hair and nails were what she liked, though she could do a bit of taking out wrinkles and massaging away double chins. But she never had anything to do with poisons, and as to her tonics, well, there was nothing in them that would hurt a fly—she really didn’t go in for them, only made them up for old friends. And as to abortions, she just wouldn’t touch them. There were always plenty who would and did, but not Euphemia.
She made the perfumes herself at the back of her shop, in her cosy little room with the two pictures on wood, one of her daughter wearing a bride’s crown and veil—for she’d had everything there ought to be at that weddin
g—and the other of her old patron with a scroll in one hand and a gold cup in the other. She used often to look at this picture, feeling puzzled. He wasn’t like that, she’d say to herself, I’m sure he wasn’t, he was always hopping about after something. If he only hadn’t taken his duties as magistrate so seriously, he mightn’t have died when he did, nor so sudden, I’d only just time to run to him. Euphemia had lots of friends who used to come in and sit with her in that room while she was making up the perfumes and lotions and face-paint and that, and some of them would tell her things. She’d think to herself that she’d kept more of other people’s secrets than any woman in the Quarter.
Then Megallis, the girl who was still working for her, had gone and fallen in love with a decent young man, a tanner, and Euphemia had let him buy the girl out for not much more than half her real value. But there, they were ever so happy, and when Euphemia went over to their little house, it was more like a daughter’s than her own girl’s ever was. And after that she didn’t buy another slave. It was just as simple to shut up the shop when she went out to her customers with the neat basket on her arm with the clippers and razors and curlers and that. She made enough to live on and give a meal to a friend any day, and what more do you want?
There was only one time in her life that she didn’t like thinking about. And yet, in a way, she did, too. That was when she was still not so old, had still got her daughter living with her and doing fine sewing at home and weaving her bottom drawer linen, as a nicely brought up girl ought to do. And Euphemia had gone and fallen in love. You know, the real thing. Well, naturally, she’d loved and respected her patron, but then he was nearly forty years older than she was, and that makes a difference, doesn’t it? This time it was one of her customers. She could still remember those fingernails of his, ever so long, and terribly brittle: broke if you looked at them. What a lot of trouble she’d taken over that one set of nails! But she didn’t tell him, not for months, but wore her prettiest dress and a flower and hoped he’d guess. And she kept on going to fortune-tellers, and if she’d had a chance she’d have slipped him a tonic—and not one of her own!—but she never had. And then she just couldn’t keep it in any longer and she told him. And—he didn’t take her seriously.
Well, that doesn’t sound so much. But he said some nasty things. And laughed. And that was the end. Night after night she went to bed crying and the girls got quite worried and kept on asking what was the matter. Nice girls they were, though she was always having to get after them to make them work. But it got her right down. She kept on wondering who was taking care of his nails now. Sometimes she thought, if only I could tell somebody! But she just couldn’t; it was all making her feel so ashamed; you can stand getting the chuck, but not having made a fool of yourself! She tried not to see any of her old friends, even. She was afraid of them asking questions, and being sorry for her, and then perhaps laughing themselves afterwards. It was just luck her running into Eunice. Or perhaps not luck. Perhaps something better than luck.
Eunice was still a slave in those days, but knew she was going to be freed soon: any time she was prepared to leave the house and start in business on her own; she knew she’d have to leave the boy, as he was wanted in the house, but Phaon was sure to be freed too, later on. And anyway, there was nothing in it, the boy could always run round the corner to see her. He was a little Tartar anyway! Three or four years younger than Euphemia’s girl and ever such a tease.
Well, it all just came out, and by the end she was crying on Eunice’s shoulder like a girl her first time. And somehow she was sure Eunice wouldn’t laugh at her afterwards behind her back. And then Eunice told her all about everything. Not all at once, of course, but now she couldn’t remember how long it had taken; only suddenly realising that she’d stopped feeling ashamed and almost stopped feeling unhappy. And by and by quite stopped. After that she came to the meetings regularly, and regularly gave to the Church funds, and was always ready to visit the sick or anything like that. Anything she felt she could do.
The only thing she never could manage was telling anyone about it herself. She tried to talk to her own daughter first, but she just didn’t pay any attention, and now, with her husband in an official position, it would be ever so much more difficult. Later on, perhaps—And two or three times she’d meant to have a talk to Megallis, but somehow she never could get round to it. And anyway Megallis and her husband were so happy and you can’t have everything.
Of course, she hadn’t got it right to start with, how could you? She hadn’t realised, not for a long time—but there, that kind of thinking wasn’t her game—how much it meant going against, really, all her old line of business. Because, after all, perfumes and that went plumb against the Kingdom, the way they were used now anyway, just for pride and grab. It was a bit upsetting at first, having to see that. There were days she half hoped the coming of the Kingdom wouldn’t be in her time. Or that it could all happen some magic way—in some other world or something—and she wasn’t the only one in the Churches to do a bit of that sort of fancying. Well, it was all right if you kept it as a fancy, but once she and some others began to let it get at them. That was when they used to go mostly to Aquila’s house, on the other bank, and when Aquila found what was going on he had them all up and gave them a straight talk, and showed them where it was going to lead. One or two dropped out after that, but not Euphemia. She repented and tried to think straight, with God’s help.
Coming into the Church had meant a whole lot of new friends for Euphemia, and best of all Lalage. She couldn’t always understand Lalage, but she did like listening to her. If one of her perfumes or powders had come out specially good, she’d always keep some for Lalage and put it into her hand after the meeting. Lalage often bought things from her, too. Once she had come to the shop with Claudia Acté, and that was something to think about for days, but, of course, she couldn’t expect Claudia Acté to buy anything; she didn’t stock that class of goods.
At the end of that last meeting she had come out with Lalage, wanting to ask about that young man: for Lalage was the one who knew—and Euphemia had always wanted something like that for her! But they knew there was something wrong almost at once; there were people in the street talking and pointing. The fire had been going a couple of hours by then, and it was quite obviously in the direction of Lalage’s room. And Lalage thought about her dance dresses and her magpie and Sophrosyne’s musical instruments and also about the girl on the third floor who was so silly sometimes—She pushed Sophrosyne into Euphemia’s arms and ran straight up the street towards the fire like a deer. Euphemia took Sophrosyne back with her to the little shop, telling her she was sure it was all right, bound to be. All the others hurried off—Niger afraid he’d have to go a long way round because of the fire and might be late getting back and would catch it. The fire was nowhere near the Jewish Quarter, but Phineas was worrying about his wife all the same.
An hour or two later Lalage came back to Euphemia’s shop. She had scorched one hand and there were spark holes burnt in the front of her dress. She was very tired and, while Euphemia did up her hand, she said, ‘Everything gone. I’m sorry, Sophrosyne, all your instruments.’
‘No,’ said the old woman. ‘I kept my double flutes on me. I had a kind of whisper. So I’ll be able to play for you, dear.’
‘I don’t feel like ever dancing again,’ said Lalage, ‘it all just went up in one flame like—like hell. The third-floor girl who was going to have a baby, she tried to jump.’ Lalage shuddered. ‘The cobbler got his wife out, but he’s lost everything. Well, he’s a citizen; he won’t starve. I don’t know what happened to old Demetrius, and those kids from upstairs are all badly burned.’
‘What about your savings, dear?’
‘They were all behind a brick in the chimney, Euphemia; they’re gone. And my magpie; he was such company. And all my dresses. Well, Sophrosyne and I, we’ll have to come on to the Church funds now!’
‘You tuck up on the bed, dear, a
nd get a nice sleep,’ Euphemia said. ‘After all, you can stay here as long as you like. And there’s all the brothers and sisters and all the love and joy we’ll have yet. Oh, I can’t say it like you could yourself, but this is what being a Christian’s for, isn’t it? You’ve got all of us and you’ve got Him. And we’ll have a special subscription for some new dance dresses for you!’
‘Oh, I’m all right,’ said Lalage. But she was still thinking of the third-floor girl and how she hadn’t quite died for what seemed a very long time. Lalage had tried to move her, but it wasn’t any use. That was how she’d got her hand scorched.
Suddenly Euphemia said, ‘Do you think it might be the judgment?’
‘Yes,’ said Sophrosyne, ‘the flames that were foretold! Then He’ll come back in a glory.’
But Lalage said, ‘How could it be? She was such a pretty girl, and there must have been dozens like her burned in the other tenements. That couldn’t be the Will. Innocent, ordinary people.’
‘I’ve always liked looking on at fires,’ Euphemia said, ‘apart from anything nasty happening, I mean. I’d have gone with you now, if I hadn’t had Sophrosyne with me. Of course, I haven’t been to the Arena since I was a Christian any more than any of us and I never did like all that fighting and killing. But I did like races and sham fires and that.’
‘This was a real fire,’ Lalage said, ‘it is still.’
‘I suppose it’ll be a real fire when the judgment does come,’ Euphemia said, ‘I always thought so. Only it would be a fire up on the Palatine. All those big houses and the rich people running out screaming in their night clothes, not able to save a thing. Screaming for mercy to us before the judgment gets them!’
‘We’d give it, though,’ said Lalage, ‘I wouldn’t send anyone to a fire. Now that I’ve seen one. This fire didn’t have mercy. You could see through the windows how the staircase just boiled up into flames. They hadn’t a chance! Let’s pray.’ All three of them prayed for quite a long time and then Lalage dropped on the bed and was asleep in half a minute. Euphemia lifted her over nearer the wall. There was plenty of room for two and Sophrosyne shook down on the floor with some extra blankets.
The Blood of the Martyrs Page 16