The Blood of the Martyrs (31 page)

It all went back to childhood, that split between the selves. It was his mother's doing, mostly, that tough and able and immoral woman, Agrippina; she was forever forcing him, a sensitive, short-sighted, pretty little boy, to be what she wanted—the Roman, the leader, the Emperor-to-be, character-building him into the Roman pattern. And he would run away from her, back to his two nurses, Greeks both of them, Eclogé and Alexandra, and they would be gentle, petting and praising him, listening to his stories of
what he'd been doing, and giving him sweets and soft talk when he cried, instead of scolding or smacking him. Till he was quite a big boy, they would take him on their knees, and sing him Greek baby songs, about a lovely, lovely world where delightful and affable godlings would spring from tree or fountain with handfuls of presents.

So still he was caught between his mother and his nurses, even though Agrippina was dead—and how hard she'd been to kill, but murdering her couldn't get her out of his mind, nor yet the longing she had planted there for the little boy who cried to turn into the will and voice of Rome, to become the super-Roman of all time. Eclogé and Alexandra had retired to the country; it was months since he had seen either of them. But there were successors. There was Octavia, his Roman cousin, whom he had been made to marry, the girl so full of Roman virtues that it terrified him to sleep with her—so that he had to drive her off, divorce her, kill her… Just as Britannicus too had to be killed, the virtuous Roman youth, the prig, the rival: yes, had to be stamped out. But Seneca had known about Britannicus, the old hypocrite, talking down his nose about philosopher kings; he must have known, all those interminable weeks before the poison finally worked! And there had been plenty of Greeks. Acté herself, his own first choice, and probable virgins like this girl Asteropé, and others: boys too, virgin Greek boys such as tempted the delightful gods in the other dream, the dream in which the little boy became the will and voice of Hellas.

But perhaps Poppaea would be an escape from both; not Rome: not Hellas. She was not out of a dream; she was living for something else, for the individual, herself and him. She had leaped straight from her first husband into his arms. She had the same fears as his, and the same elations. Some day they would have a son—a wonder-child …

Asteropé came into the room, with her smooth, snooded hair, smelling of winter violets, and knelt at his feet. He crowned her with the wreath he had made himself; when she spoke them, his poems sounded purest classic. Perhaps after all he should have been a poet. Only a poet. Innocent. Living in a rush hut in some wild glade. Under the red, echoing cliffs of cloud-browed Parnassus, watching the gods
stepping enormously about their business between earth and heaven. He leant back, shutting his eyes. No, it was nobler to be a god than even to sing about gods! To assume the difficult, divine mantle, dispensing life and death. He began now to think slowly about methods of death for those who affronted and refused the gods. Christians and Epicureans and such. Superb wild beasts, beautiful as the panthers of Dionysos, would be his ministers. And fire. Flames in the night. What a marvellous sight Rome had been, burning … that wonderful sky, pulsing with reflection. He had given himself one supreme moment to regard it as an artist, although he had been so immensely energetic, sane and statesmanlike—everyone said so, everyone!—in dealing with the fire, both at the time and afterwards. The Roman virtues. He had them after all. His mother might have been proud of him! His mother … He shook his head angrily, chasing away these thoughts. Watching him, the girl Asteropé threw herself back a little and put increased spirit and sensitivity into the poem she was chanting for him.

Crispus came back from the country early in September; he had not intended to do so. Balbus was still out of town and so were many of his friends. The country was at its best. He had intended Flavia to come out and spend a nice week with him and his mother; it would have been good for the two young people to learn to miss one another. But as things were, he was too uneasy. Anything might be going on in Rome. He came back to find Beric anxious and not very communicative. Manasses was in the Mamertine prison, charged merely with being a Christian. ‘But that was dealt with last month,' said Crispus, ‘and—finished with. I shall go and explain that, although the boy was suspected of this thing at one time, it is no longer true. You see how necessary my preventive measures were, Beric.'

‘No good,' said Beric sombrely, ‘Manasses himself didn't deny that he was a Christian.'

‘But I can't make this out. The boy must have known that such an admission was—as things look just now—tantamount to a death sentence.'

‘Yes, he knew that.'

‘Then,
why
?'

‘Oh, can't you see,' said Beric, ‘it was the one thing that counted in his life—he was proud of it! He'd got to show it was worth dying for.'

‘I see,' said Crispus, and added, ‘Manasses appears to have had more courage—of a misguided kind—than one expects of a dancing boy. But I trust the others have been warned by his fate.'

‘Perhaps,' Beric said. He knew well enough how things were in the household, and particularly that, if Dapyx was arrested and tortured or even badly frightened, he might say
anything about any of them, or else perhaps on his own accuse them of the sort of fantastic crimes that Christians were being accused of. He knew that Argas wanted him to speak to Dapyx, but he couldn't. In some ways he didn't want to speak to any of them; he wanted to stop and think; he wanted events to remain static until he knew how he fitted into them. But they wouldn't do that.

Crispus was not only worried about Beric and what had been going on in his own household, but also about public matters. He had been talking to his cousin, Flavius Scaevinus. How long could the present state of affairs be tolerated? How long for that matter, could they themselves survive it? A tyrant only considers himself safe among slaves. Nero was getting worse. Perhaps the time had come to end this phase of Emperors. Or again, if it appeared necessary in order to please the common people, to continue with the title, it might be possible to restrict the Imperial power vastly, to have one of themselves wearing the purple, but strictly under the control of the Senate, which would come into its own again. Take, for instance, a man like Calpurnius Piso … So the talk went between the two cousins.

It was all extremely serious. The only relaxation which Crispus allowed himself, and which he could really enjoy, were his visits to his daughter. There she sat with her embroidery, the pet. And soon, no doubt, there would be hope of a grandchild. But now Balbus too came back to Rome. And the evening of the day he arrived his son and daughter-in-law duly came to pay their respects, and after she had left Candidus suddenly blurted out everything. The next morning Balbus went over to see Crispus and tell him. So that much of Crispus's happiness came to an end.

Niger was there with the rest of the litter-bearers. He was living through a bad story; everything came wrong in it. Everything was against the man in the story. There had been other stories before, good ones, but they seemed to be over. This house had been part of one. He didn't see now how he could ever get back into that story. Waiting in the yard, he saw Dapyx come out of the kitchen carrying two garbage pails. Another of the kitchen slaves, going by, gave
Dapyx a light-hearted kick; he stumbled, tipping over one of the pails, then went down on his knees, scrabbling hastily and awkwardly for the odds and ends of much that had slid out, looking round for the next kick or blow. The lobe of one of his ears was torn a bit; he saw Niger and looked at him with extreme hate. He was in a bad story, too. The expected blow for his spilled pail came; he squealed and held on to his torn ear. Niger looked away; beside him, the Cappadocian coughed, his hands on his chest. Zyrax was whistling and chewing something. The German was watching Dapyx being hurt; it was a kind of pleasure when other people were hurt, not oneself. Niger shut his eyes; he refused to let the good story be entirely taken from him; last night Persis had slipped away from her mistress and out to the shed where he was chained, and whispered a few words and closed his hand over a piece of white bread. Hard in his mind Niger began to remake the good pictures.

Josias came by. It was Josias who had talked to him that first time. Now Josias did not look his way; he was hurrying, his old limp catching him as it always did. But he had to hurry now, to be always doing something or looking as if he was. Josias saw Dapyx and Niger; he was frightened of them both, in different ways. If only he knew what was going to happen; if only they would stop hurting Manasses. If only Manasses would come back. If only he could do anything to save Manasses. If only he could speak about these things that were tearing and terrifying him. Shriek them out loud. It was so difficult even to see Argas alone, and Argas might be angry with him. He would never dare to go to another meeting again, not after that last one and the panic he had been in. That girl! He forgot how he had been assuaged for moments during the love-feast, how he had felt for a little time as though he and Manasses were together again, as though he had accepted what was being done to Manasses. He had dreamt again, after the love-feast, of the dye-factory in Tyre; but there was to be no getting away from it this time, because Manasses wasn't there any more to save him. Because they'd got Manasses too.

The litter slaves were shouted for, and jumped to their poles and trotted round to the front entrance. Balbus came
out and regarded them blackly. Zyrax, aware of nothing wrong, awaited directions with an expectant smile, but got instead a fist in his face. ‘Home!' snapped Balbus, bundling himself in, and they knew they'd got to do it at the double. Actually, the Cappadocian died that night, and Montanus had to get a new one. The others only had sore shoulders.

Crispus was very much upset as well. He walked about the room, trying to sort it out. His little girl. It was like all those stories he'd heard, but not attended to much, about Nero and his friends. Tigellinus must somehow have frightened her into it—poor little Flavia!

But why hadn't she told her father? He would have protected her! Why had she looked so sweet and comfortable? If Tigellinus had corrupted her to that extent, then—then—well, then it was time to consider very carefully the proposals about Calpurnius Piso: to get in touch with Seneca … and no doubt Gallio would have heard from his adopted brother … to take all risks so as to end this monstrous thing.

Sannio, who had peeped into the room and seen Crispus pacing about, frowning and twisting his hands into the folds of his gown, came and told Beric that something was wrong. Beric went along. He knew Balbus had been there. Suddenly he wondered if anything was wrong with Flavia, if she were ill, yes, it must be that … from one end of the corridor to the other he'd had time to forgive her for anything and everything … these summer fevers that struck and killed in three days! And she had no mother, it would have been all different if she'd had a mother, she would have been kind and gentle as well as so beautiful! Crispus looked up when he came in. ‘My boy,' he said and hesitated, then, ‘You will have to know. It is about Flavia.'

So it
was
that. ‘She's ill …' said Beric, trying not to let his voice shake.

‘I wish she were,' Crispus said, ‘it would have been better. No. No. She—'

And then Beric remembered Lamprion's story. And found he had not forgiven Flavia after all. He put his hand on Crispus's sadly groping arm. ‘I know. It's Tigellinus. Isn't it?'

‘Yes,' said Crispus. ‘How did you know?'

‘Slaves' gossip. I told them to hold their tongues. Thought it was lies.'

‘It should have been. My little Flavia. She can't have known. And now—it appears that this vile thing is being talked about. Rhymes being written. What shall I do?'

‘What is her husband going to do?'

‘He is in a most unfortunate position … considering that this brute is his superior officer… on whom his whole future depends… and the Emperor's friend! And I had been hoping—grandchildren. You and she were brought up together; you were fond of her, I think. Weren't you, Beric?'

‘I was.'

‘My poor boy. You will feel it too. What times we live in. I must see Gallio. I must send a letter to him. Tell Hermeias to bring his tablets. No, I shall write this myself.'

‘Can I write it for you?'

‘No. You are in quite enough danger as it is. Give me my pen. I trust, Beric, you have not become—in any way—any more involved?'

‘I kept my promise.'

‘Don't make any more difficulties for me, boy. I shall have—enemies. Ofonius Tigellinus is the key man. Now, leave me. I must consider what to say. What to do.'

Beric felt too much worried to talk to anybody, yet when he was alone he kept on thinking about Flavia—in ways he preferred not to think. So he went over to the gymnasium and spent most of the day there, practising various movements and asking anatomical questions of the pro. How far under the ribs was the heart? What length of dagger, for instance? He tried to make it all sound very casual. But supposing the key man was wearing armour of some kind under his tunic—well, one would have to find him at some moment when that was unlikely.

When he came back, he found Argas in his room, putting the week's clean wool and linen tunics, all nicely ironed, back into the chest. Beric wasn't sure how much he wanted to see Argas. Christians don't kill. Yes, but this would be
different. This would help the Kingdom. Help to destroy what was stopping the Kingdom from becoming actual and universal. But if Argas didn't think so? He sat and watched Argas, a slave putting away his master's clothes. What did that feel like? Did you take it as a matter of course? Well, a Christian wouldn't. He didn't even know, himself, exactly how many tunics he had. But there'd have been a row if he hadn't found a clean one when he wanted it! Argas turned his head and said in a whisper, ‘Why didn't you come last night?'

Beric was annoyed; he didn't want to have all this out again. But he answered gently enough, ‘I told you. Crispus asked me not to.'

‘Asked you!' said Argas. ‘You know what would happen to us if we were caught. That doesn't stop us.'

‘Quite,' said Beric coldly.

‘What's going to be done in the Arena next week doesn't stop us either! Not even Tigellinus can stop us,' he added in something above a whisper.

‘Don't say so at the top of your voice then,' said Beric, and walked out of the room. Tigellinus
would
be able to stop them, though, sooner or later, unless, unless …

In the middle of supper Crispus suddenly remarked to Beric that in view of his official position he would have to sit through the next Games, which would be starting in three days, including any execution of Christians or other criminals which there might be. He added that it was disgusting to have such things thrust upon one. He liked a good sporting fight as well as anybody, but it was intolerable to see one's fellow human beings, however depraved and however much without status, being torn to pieces unarmed. ‘I have always been against it,' he said, ‘but, of course, it has generally taken place during the lunch interval … when only the riff-raff stay … and at any rate in small numbers. Now it will be under our noses.'

‘Isn't there any chance of its being stopped?' Beric asked. Somehow he hadn't thought it would ever really happen—not to men he might have spoken to. Surely they couldn't be thinking of doing
that
to Manasses?

Crispus shook his head. ‘Not with the individuals who are at present in power. No doubt they enjoy it. Persons without education or philosophy!'

‘I suppose the Emperor wouldn't take any advice from Seneca now?'

‘Not the least chance. Though the gods know there was a time …' He drank off a cup of wine and snapped at Phaon to refill it quick.

So Crispus was helpless in this matter, he and all his decent, respectable, Stoic friends. And what was it Lalage had said—that something would turn up for Beric to do … if he looked for it. There didn't seem to be any other way. How many more times would one have supper here in comfort and privacy? May as well make the most of it, Beric thought, and held out his cup for Phaon to refill too.

The next morning, Crispus sent for Beric and gave him the letter for Gallio, asking him to take it over. ‘I'd sooner you took it than any of the slaves,' he said, and that made Beric feel curiously happy, as though he were repaying something. He went off at once towards the Esquiline, crossing some of the fire areas, with the new buildings going up already—and a damn sight better than the old ones, Beric admitted to himself, rather grudgingly. Many of them had been started with Treasury grants. As he came to Gallio's house, Beric hesitated; perhaps he was growing more suspicious, getting the mentality of an enemy of society. He felt there was something queer and, instead of going to the door, he went into a sweetshop, bought some honey drops and began to gossip. In no time it came out that there had been an arrest at the big house—yes, the master of the house, the old gentleman himself—in his toga—early that morning—and the guards were still there, searching. So Beric took the letter straight back and was hurrying through to see Crispus when Hermeias stopped him. ‘Lady Flavia is with her father.'

‘My news won't wait, Hermeias.'