The Blood Of The Martyrs. Naomi MitchisonЧитать онлайн книгу.
He made a wild gesture. ‘All my life now—Romans are going to be able to treat me like that—like dirt! She said—’
‘I know,’ said Lalage soothingly, and now you can remember all the things you didn’t say to her. Poor king’s son!’
‘King’s son!’ he said; ‘yes, and then—dirt. Impudent native. She’d have me whipped. And now I’m blubbering about it to a dancing girl!’
‘Why not?’ said Lalage, ‘I’m dirt, too.’ And she smiled at him.
Suddenly he grabbed at her, pulled her down beside him. ‘Listen!’ he said, ‘I’ve never thought about it before—hardly ever—but it’s all true. I am dirt. I’m nothing. I’m only here by the accident of Claudius Caesar being soft! My father’s dead. It’s all just a mistake that I’m not a chained slave. And it’s a mistake they might take back. Then I’d be a slave really.’
‘And couldn’t you bear it?’
‘No. No! I thought I was happy and now I know it’s all lost.’
‘All lost. But that’s the best time in life. No, look at me, Beric, son of Caradoc, listen. When everything is lost you can be born again.’
‘I wish I could! As a Roman. The equal of anyone. Instead of dirt!’
‘Dirt? You?’ She shook him; he felt in her hands and arms that she was strong, a dancer at the top of her physical powers, and he listened, feeling an increasing strangeness and excitement. ‘Look at you; you’re wearing a clean tunic. I expect you’ve got a dozen more put away. You’ve got gold pins at your shoulders. You’re not hungry. You’re not in pain. You’ve only been hit once. If it comes to dirt, I’m more like the real thing. I used to belong to an old woman who hired me out. To anyone. That makes you feel properly dirty. Coming back dirty in the mornings and knowing it was all going to happen again. Well, I made enough to pay her off and start on my own. And even now—you saw for yourself what I have to put up with: and look as if I liked it. But I don’t feel as if I was dirt. All that had to happen to me just so as to give me a chance to become myself—to be reborn as my real self.’
She stopped. Beric wanted her to go on. ‘How?’ he said; ‘tell me some more!’ But Lalage made a funny movement with her right hand, touching her forehead and chest in a queer way. She was silent for a minute, looking away from him, and all at once he became wildly impatient: ‘Go on!’ he half shouted at her.
Lalage turned to him again, speaking very firmly: ‘This is only the beginning. You’re going to have His help. Even I can see that.’
Now Beric was completely bewildered. ‘Whose help?’
‘The help of One who lived for us who’ve lost hope and found it again and been reborn. Who promised that He would feed the hungry and give their turn to the humble and meek. Who will see there is equal justice at last, not one scale weighted. Not Romans and natives, Beric. Not masters and servants. Not ladies and whores.’
He thought he was beginning to understand. ‘Is it—a leader? Against Rome?’ Rome had killed King Cymbeline his grandfather and King Caradoc his father and Togodumnus his uncle—and the Queen of the Iceni—and oh, everywhere, the King of the Parthians, the Queen of Egypt, the King of the Jews … But Lalage was speaking again and he wanted to listen.
‘He’s not the kind of leader you’re thinking of still. He’s not a king. But yet He’s stronger than all the rich and all the power they’ve got. He’s the strength of the poor. My strength. I would like to tell you about Him,’ she went on, slowly and softly.
Beric found he was wanting to put himself into her hands. ‘I promise—’ he began, and then wondered what he had meant to promise.
She seemed to accept it though; she took a deep breath and began to explain. ‘You see, the whole thing has to come from us. The dirt. People can’t be reborn if they’re all mixed with owning things. Thinking about the things they own. The lucky ones are allowed to start from the very bottom, without possessions, without power, without love.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Beric; ‘how can a man be lucky when he’s penniless and helpless and alone?’
‘Not alone any more,’ said Lalage. ‘He’s with us. He lived among us, among poor people, and women like me. And in the end He got the whip on His back and the nails in His hands and feet. He had to be crucified, because that’s the worst, filthiest kind of death. Nothing worse than that happens to the lowest of the dirt. He couldn’t have helped us if He hadn’t taken on our life and died our death.’
‘But then He’s dead. Crucified. Like a slave. Do you mean your leader is dead, Lalage?’
‘He had to suffer everything before He became our leader. Life and death.’
Beric considered all this. There obviously was a leader, alive or dead. Lalage wasn’t making it up. He thought he had heard about leaders who came back … But it was too puzzling to talk about any more. Instead he asked, ‘Lalage, what was that you did with your hands just now?’
‘That? Oh, that’s His sign, the sign of the poor and the hurt and the ones who are kind to one another. The brothers. See if you can make it.’ She guided his hands into the sign of the cross; it was a kind of magic; he felt dazed and rather happy. He sat quite quiet and she sat quiet too.
The slaves came in. ‘Will it be all right if we clear, sir?’ asked Argas, and Beric nodded. They began to clear up, talking to one another in whispers. Sannio and Mikkos took out the cups and dishes to wash up. Manasses and Phaon were tidying the couches. Suddenly Phaon began shaking the cushions violently and sobbing again: they were the cushions Tigellinus had been lying on. ‘Steady on, kid,’ said Manasses, ‘you’ll have the stuffing out.’
‘Wish I had his stuffing out!’ said Phaon.
Manasses said low: ‘Don’t be a fool. You’ll be lucky if you don’t get worse done to you than that before you’re much older. There’s some houses—’
‘You’ve told me that already!’ said Phaon, and his voice rose to a squeak. ‘But I won’t stand it! Not always.’
Argas looked up, frowning, from his bucket and rags, and Manasses caught the boy by the wrist and said very quietly, ‘It won’t go on always. We know that.’
Phaon choked and swallowed. ‘Yes,’ he whispered. ‘Yes. We are not to be oppressed. He shall fill the hungry with good things.’
Manasses whispered back the answer, ‘And the rich He shall send empty away.’
But Argas was watching Beric and Lalage, scrubbing towards them. Half aloud, he said to Lalage, ‘Got your pay yet?’
Lalage answered rather oddly, ‘I think I am being paid now.’
Beric was disturbed by her speaking. He looked up and saw Argas, but he did not seem to mind now that Argas had seen the spilled wine and the blow. Perhaps Argas, also, had once been free and proud and then lost everything—what was it?—lost power, lost possessions, lost love. He had never thought of Argas that way before; he had been one of the slaves, just one of the slaves. Now their glances met, fumbling, and he heard Lalage saying into his ear, ‘Make the sign, Beric, son of Caradoc the king, the way I showed you.’
Uncertainly he made the sign, and Argas, sitting back on his heels in the dirty water, answered him quick with the same sign, and Manasses and Phaon came slipping round from the other couch and made it too. Manasses whispered urgently to Lalage, ‘Does he know the Words, too?’
‘The words?’ said Beric, bewildered. ‘I don’t know what you’re all talking about! I don’t even know the name of the one you follow.’
Manasses, behind, whispered, ‘Take care!’
But Argas, watching him steadily,