The Blood of the Martyrs (29 page)

Eunice was just getting out a couple of loaves and a jar of salt fish, when they heard another knock. Phaon went to the door. ‘Oh, Persis,' he said. ‘I knew it was you, somehow! Oh, good.' And he put his arms round her and kissed her hard.

‘I can't stay long or I'll be missed,' she said, breathless, ‘but I had to see you—and get news to Niger. He's chained at nights now, so he can't come. But whenever my master and mistress go to see his father, I go too. And somehow I always manage to see Niger.' She gave a
small giggle, ‘Aren't I clever, Lalage! But you see, he's only got me.'

‘You shall take back some of the bread, with our love and blessing, Persis,' said Lalage. ‘You're just in time. Brave girl. When will you see him?'

‘Tonight, after I get back. They're going over quite late.'

She took off her veil and laid it by, and then all of them came close round the table with the bread and the fish and the little meat rolls which Sapphira had cooked, and they held one another's hands. Argas too, had kissed Persis, feeling curiously glad and assuaged at seeing her again. Every time they met together was something snatched by them from the powers of darkness, something solid that could never be taken from them again. He had a consciousness of the two-way flow of time, anchoring them in eternity. If you had this, after all, what did it matter about dying? Death could not alter things that happened.

One after the other, Lalage looked at them, gathering them together, holding their minds and faces with hers, so that they were not aware either of her painted cheeks or of her dress made to excite as far as possible the men who paid her. She, the deacon, knew how much it mattered to get the thing right. To make it worthwhile for the slaves to risk the most horrible and disgusting punishments, for all to risk prison and probable death. Perhaps this might be the last time for some or all of them. Their last supper. That thought must be in more minds than hers. That dizzying identification with their Jesus, the One who had made it plain. The solemnity in her heart turned suddenly to violent joy: what luck, oh what luck for us!—to have this moment. She saw that they were picking up from her, most of them at least, themselves feeling the joy, knowing themselves blessed. ‘Lift up your hearts!' she whispered, taking hold of the bread.

‘He is with us,' Persis said, knowing it certainly, knowing it had been worth it to come across the terrifying night of streets to this.

‘Now we will say the Words together, friends,' Lalage said. That would be better than any prayer any of them could make up. They all said the Words. It was amazing for
a few slaves and freedwomen and quite poor, unimportant persons, to have been given this thing, to be able to be part of the Will and the Kingdom; it was the sort of astonishing event you just couldn't get over. It was too much for you. You could only and simply be boundlessly grateful for it.

Lalage broke up the loaves. They handed round the pieces, smiling and murmuring, in this state of clear and simple gratitude that they were in. You weren't anybody, and yet you were this. They sat or stood round, eating perhaps, or not bothering to eat. Going to live, perhaps, or going to die. In a state of personal humility combined with utmost glad pride about what you were part of.

Now Lalage lifted the wine jar to fill the cup. And again there was a quick knocking at the door. But everyone was in the room who could possibly be coming. Unless, she suddenly thought, Beric? Anyway, it didn't sound like the Guards. But, just in case, she held herself ready to dance—yes, to dance with the wine jar, a Bacchic dance. She signed to Sophrosyne and the old woman felt for her double flutes.

Eunice went to the door, opened it a crack, was speaking to someone, then said, ‘Come in!' and again shoved the bolt across. They all looked up; but only two or three recognised the veiled girl. It was Megallis, the little Sicilian whom Euphemia had freed, the one who had taken refuge with her after she and her tanner husband had been burnt out. She came uncertainly into the ring of lamplight, then threw herself on to the floor at Lalage's feet. ‘What is it?' said Lalage, bending over, seeing that the girl's hair was rumpled and her eyes red and swollen. ‘Why have you come, dear?' They were all watching and listening by this time.

The girl sobbed, ‘I want to be one of you. Please. Please. I want to be a Christian.'

‘What do you know about it, sister?' Lalage asked.

‘I know what it's for. I know what you all do. I know the way you are and I know it's right, and I want to be that way too!'

‘Why, my dear?'

‘I'll tell you,' she said. ‘I'll tell you all!' And she shifted round on the floor, still kneeling, still holding with one hand
to Lalage's dress, and sometimes sobbing as she spoke. ‘You know my Tertius. We've been married two years now. He bought me out, I'd ought to be grateful, oughtn't I?' She wiped her eyes with the edge of her veil. Sapphira, listening, pressed closer to Phineas, holding his hands in hers.

The girl went on, ‘Well, we got burnt out, lost everything we did, all our little bits of things and his tools. But I knew where to come. If you've ever belonged to someone, like I'd belonged to Euphemia before, well, you know what sort they are. And she took us in, treated us like we'd still got everything, fed us on the best, gave me this dress I've got on now, oh, I can't tell you! But if that's being a Christian—well, it's all right, isn't it. Only my Tertius—I don't know what it was, but he'd been used to having a place of his own, he didn't like to owe anything to anyone, leastwise not a woman. He got angry. Kept on finding fault. Then he started listening to all these stories that's about. Oh, I told him it was all lies! But he was set on believing something bad about Euphemia. And he got it into his head she'd bewitched me, got it into his head she'd been bad to me before, sold me out to customers—you know—as if she would! Said that was why I hadn't had a kid, though God knows he hadn't wanted one before! Oh, he was just clean silly!' She broke into wilder tears and Lalage knelt beside her, soothing her, trying to remember what she'd noticed of the young man when they'd all been lodging together in Euphemia's two rooms.

Megallis dabbed at her eyes and went on again, ‘So he went off to the police and told them a pack of lies, only he believes them himself, and they came and arrested her and pulled her across her own shop by her hair and broke her bottles of scent and tried to pour hair oil down her throat, and I don't know what all else. Oh, beastly it was! And all because she'd been kind. And I didn't know, not till this evening, it was my Tertius's doing. But I'll never go back to him now, no, not if he swears black's white! So I've come to you.'

‘Does he know where you are, my dear?' Lalage asked.

‘No. I said I'd drown myself, I meant to, I was that ashamed, and then I thought of you and came here instead.'

‘How did you find it out?'

‘He wanted to steal Euphemia's shop and her room, and me to carry on the business. Then, when he got talking about that, I thought there was something funny on, and then it all came out, and oh he was ever so nasty, and we had a dust-up and then I ran. Oh, I did used to love him so before he went and did this!'

Lalage said, ‘Perhaps he'll see he was wrong.'

Megallis shook and said, ‘Not even if he does see, I'll never forgive him, never!'

‘But Euphemia would forgive him if she knew.'

After a minute the girl said, ‘She told me about all that forgiving. But not a filthy thing like this. You couldn't.'

‘If Tertius finds out that you've come to us, he'll start thinking worse things of the Christians, won't he?'

‘Yes. What's more, he'll try and do you all in. I didn't think of that. I'd rather not be one of you than put you all into danger. Oh, look!'

Lalage, following her stare through the heavy-shadowed room, saw Josias at the door, slipping back the bolt, and Argas suddenly after him, snatching his arm away. Lalage went over quickly. ‘We're going to have the wine now, Josias,' she said. ‘Stay with us.'

‘I can't, I can't!' Josias sobbed. ‘That man'll be after her—get us all, too. Oh, Jesus!'

‘He won't be with you if you desert Him,' Lalage said. But Josias groaned and twisted his hands about, frightened out of all words. She and Argas held on to him; whatever happened, he mustn't be allowed to run out like this; in the state he was in he might say or do anything.

Then the girl Megallis got up and pulled her veil tighter round herself. ‘I'll put it right,' she said. ‘I'll go back and I'll try to forgive him. If you're sure Euphemia would have. Then he'll see, like you say, but it looks to me that's too good to be true. Oh, I don't want to go!'

‘Come back to us later,' said Lalage, ‘tomorrow if you like. You shall be one of us, dear, but not while you're hating. Not even for this. You know where to find me, Megallis.'

‘Yes,' she said sadly, then, ‘Oh please do something to make me feel like I
can
go back!' Josias had calmed
down now. Lalage let go of him and laid hands of blessing on Megallis, and then kissed her. The girl clung on to her for a moment, then Lalage opened the door and let her out.

Eunice said, ‘Someone'll go and say we've broken that home up.'

‘Yes,' said Lalage. ‘Our enemies are in our own households. The ones we love best. That's how it's bound to be: He knew.' She turned back to the room. ‘Brothers and sisters,' she said. ‘You see what we're up against. We need all our strength. All the strength we can get through one another and through Jesus. Shall we have the wine now?'

It was Phaon who said, ‘Wait. We've got to think out first what's been happening. Why we couldn't just take her.'

‘Because she didn't really understand,' Lalage said, ‘though she will.'

‘Yes. We've got to be dead certain now.' Phaon stood beside the table, gripping it, his face flushed, his lips a little open.

Lalage stood back; there was time still. ‘Interpret that, brother,' she said to him quietly.

Standing straight he said, ‘I believe when we ask for daily bread we don't ask only for security, but also for certainty. Oh, we can't want to die except for that! Listen, friends, it's like the poems I've had to learn, Homer and that lot. All about princes and heroes, those poems are, and they went out to fight in the war round Troy, wherever that was, and they weren't
sure
, none of them. It wasn't going to matter really, which side won; it wasn't going to mean something new—a fresh chance for the whole world—but only one old rule or the other coming out on top. The Kings of Troy, or the Kings of the Greeks. They didn't want to die, they only fought because they couldn't stay always young, and besides it's part of the old rule to fight and kill and to make other people do it for you, too! This that we're doing is a damned sight more dangerous than any old Trojan War, and more of us will get killed. But it won't be the same way they were, angry and proud or showing off or just shrugging their shoulders. We'll know every step of our way.'

Argas, who had also learned dining-room songs, said,
‘We're more like those other Greeks that fought at Thermopylae, holding Hellas against the Persians. They died for something they were sure about.'

‘They were getting nearer,' Phaon said eagerly, seeing it all in his mind. ‘They did have something new: they'd thought of the rule of all the citizens instead of just the rule of a King or a few of the rich. That was getting closer to our brotherhood, but it wasn't there yet! Same with Spartacus; that was something new; they'd thought of equality. But it wasn't right yet. We're right, though. We've got the first chance there's ever been of living and dying for something that's plumb sure. Isn't that the truth, friends?'

‘Yes,' said Lalage, ‘we're soldiers who fight because we're certain and with a new kind of sword.'

‘Brothers and sisters, let us drink this truth with our wine!' said Phaon, suddenly louder, and he took the cup—he was the youngest still—and lifted it. ‘In Jesus' name!'

They had drunk their wine in joy and brotherhood before; they drank it now as a more sober but no less passionate pledge. It seemed to Lalage that when the time came, as it must, she would be able to leave the Church to Phaon: the boy who had once felt their things in terms of drawing and dancing and singing, the Kingdom as it might be some day: but who now felt them as reason and history and danger, the Kingdom as it actually was. And Eunice thought, oh, if he is killed, it will be not only my loss, but the loss of all of us. And Argas suddenly thought how extremely glad he was that he'd stopped the little bastard from screaming that time, that he'd taken the beating for him—Phaon wouldn't scream now! Oh, they could be proud of one another, as the cup went round.

But after they had drunk it, saying the Name that was the seal of their certainty, they could not stay any longer. All went out separately, the slaves first, looking about them to see that no one was spying. Eunice walked back with Persis, who carried a piece of the bread for Niger tucked into the fold of her tunic. They didn't speak much, but
it was nice being with another woman. Persis was wishing that somehow she could let her mother know that it hadn't been for nothing, that she was faithful. She wondered which way Philippi was from here, under which star. But even if Bersabe was never to know, they'd have been together over this. When she got near the house, she saw the litter waiting at the door and ran, in a sudden panic, in case she was late; but all was well this time. Eunice had been making sure in her mind that she'd left everything in order at the bakery, in case—anyone came. No, there was nothing in writing, no signs, no marks, only the leaven steadily working in the kneading trough all through the night.