Poor old Crispus really disliked hearing that kind of story about the Emperor; he tried hard to disbelieve them. Aelius Candidus obviously thought them grand, but was a little shy, with his father there, of telling any himself.
After that there were drinks and compliments all round the table, not to Beric, of course, except from his neighbour Lucan, who was really drinking to Freedom, even if she had fled to the barbarians. Beric wasn’t sure if he liked being called a barbarian. He always rather hated it when he was explained away to guests, as that tin soldier Aelius Candidus was doing now at the far side of the table to Tigellinus, who got it a bit wrong and said loudly that it must be awkward having one of these Germans about the place, especially if there was a pretty daughter.
At that Beric shut himself away, closing himself against everything but his own dream. As the toasts went round he drank more deeply than usual. The slaves refilled his cup, but he did not notice their hands on the heavy jugs. It was as though he were back in the room Fla with Flavia. Circles of colour swelled and burst across his mind, golden and rose, golden and hot black. Out of childhood a great blue pond swam up, almost level to the marshes, the high reeds, the very green, slimy marsh plants. Fish rose turning, bursting bubbles, enormous dragonflies planed, touched the surface of the pond to shivers, almost, almost submerging in one long ripple the willing marshes. The Horse-Goddess lifting circles of colour for the delight of warriors, golden and rose, golden and hot black, stepped with one hot hard hoof sizzling into the great pond of childhood, that he knew now as the great reed-blocked Thames, few forded, flooding suddenly, king-river of Britain. He was the king’s son, master of rushes and water and the golden Goddess.
But now Crispus was proposing the health of Aelius Candidus in a long and involved speech, since he had by now got outside a good deal of his own excellent wine, as indeed they all had. ‘Here’s a young fellow,’ he said, beaming round the table, ‘excellent young fellow. Going to have a most distinguished career. Going to start it by marrying my daughter!’
Everyone clapped. And the dream, found out, shrivelled into contemptible childishness. Would never visit Beric again. That had been said. That. Crispus went on, ‘So now I ask you all to drink to the health and prosperity of my future son-in-law, Marcus Aelius Candidus!’ It was only then that Beric noticed the red splash on his tunic where the wine had spilled when he jerked his cup. He didn’t care, but Argas came round and wiped it up; Argas laid a hand on his shoulder for a moment, but Beric didn’t seem to feel it.
Now Candidus was drinking Flavia’s health and there was plenty of applause, and Balbus asked if the little lady herself might not be induced to honour them with her company for a short time. Crispus, pleased, hesitated, and asked Beric what sort of show the dancer was going to give them. Beric answered low, that it was classical dancing—this seemed to disappoint Tigellinus—and that he was sure there was nothing Flavia could mind, at which Candidus shouted over at him to ask the little beauty to give them the pleasure of her society. Beric turned furiously to Crispus—he wasn’t even going to say yes or no to Candidus! But Crispus sent one of the slaves.
Lucan took his leave now; women bored him, and ladies bored him even more than women. Two of the slaves held back the curtains for Flavia to make an entrance. Beric, alone at his end of the couch, would not even look at her, but the others did, and a pretty picture she made, eyes downcast, cheeks flushed, lightly veiled over girlish curls, a white flower in place, silver sandals; at once the atmosphere of the dining-room responded. ‘If I was perfectly certain I could stand on my feet,’ said Candidus, ‘I’d take my garland and lay it at yours!’ Daintily she stepped round and sat on the edge of the middle couch between her father and future father-in-law; offered wine, she duly refused it; in any case she didn’t like it much. Tigellinus gave her a good stare and whispered to Erasixenos.
Now it was time for the dancer. ‘Ah—what is the young person’s name, again?’ asked Crispus. Beric answered that it was Lalage, and someone inevitably quoted Horace. Lalage appeared with her accompanist, a little old woman who crouched down in a corner with her harp and double flutes. The dancer was a striking young woman, black-haired, rather angular, fairly tall, expressionless. She was wearing a long heavy cloak which she threw off, abruptly, holding it for a moment at the end of one muscular arm. Under it she was wearing the traditional Maenad dress, the wide, finely pleated skirt, flaring out from the hips, the vine leaves low on the waist and the fawn skin over one shoulder, leaving the other breast professionally bared. Her accompanist played a single chord on the harp and Lalage took up her position. She looked at the supper party, then over her shoulder to the harpist: ‘If they talk, stop playing!’
The dancing was definitely good. After a few formal movements, the Maenad awoke, turning a succession of rapid cart-wheels all in the same square-yard of floor. She spun this way and that, and the skirt swirled into queer shapes. For a moment she sank into a slower rhythm; they could hear her panting. Aelius Candidus looked with interest at the nipple on the bared breast. ‘Do you like ’em sticking up that way?’ he asked Erasixenos in nothing like a whisper. ‘Just have a good look at this girl’s.’
Lalage frowned and stamped, and Gallio from the other couch growled at him: ‘You keep your eyes for your own girl, my lad!’
‘Yes,’ beamed Candidus, ‘I was just wondering about hers.’
Flavia ducked her head and giggled, and Beric said across the table and none too pleasantly: ‘If you do any more wondering out loud, the dance will stop.’
‘What did you say?’ observed Candidus loftily.
And Beric: ‘I said shut up!’
The dance came to an end, applauded, and Candidus threw a couple of gold coins. Lalage kicked them with one bare heel over to the harpist, who picked them up, and Flavia observed that she was glad she was going to have such a generous husband. Candidus glared at her, then at the dancer. But it wasn’t either of them; it was that Briton. Speaking like one of themselves! So you’d got to do something about it; got to put him in his place once and for all. Wouldn’t do to let these fellows behave as if they were citizens. His future father-in-law had been soft: obviously. So it was up to him.
Even Tigellinus was feeling all the more amiable for his wine. But a wave of cruel and efficient sobriety had come over Candidus. He walked over to the Briton; the slaves dodged quickly out of his way; Flavia caught her breath. ‘Do you know what you are?’ he said heavily, leaning at Beric. ‘An impudent foreigner taking advantages of the privileges Rome gives you. But that isn’t allowed, Mister Briton.’ For a moment Beric could think of nothing to say. ‘No. Not allowed,’ said Candidus, and smacked Beric’s face.
Flavia, peeping round her father, laughed out loud. So did Tigellinus. Beric jumped to his feet, but Crispus reached over and caught his hand: ‘No, Beric!’
‘If I weren’t under this roof—’ said Beric, low and heavily.
And Flavia, peeping round again, rubbed it in: ‘No, you’d never abuse father’s hospitality, would you, Beric?’
Candidus walked back to his own place almost steadily, and Beric dropped his head in his hands; nobody paid any attention to him. He heard Balbus scolding Candidus, saying he must always avoid getting involved in quarrels with persons not of his own race and class. He heard Tigellinus tickling Lalage and getting his ears boxed and laughing enormously. He heard Crispus telling Flavia that it was time for her to say good night; on the way out she pinched him, but still he didn’t look up. Then he began to hear a discussion about foreigners in Rome. Balbus and Crispus were talking rather low about the way each of these sets of foreign immigrants now had streets of their own: Syrians here, Phrygians there, Egyptians over by the Tibur, the Jews in their own quarter protected by the Empress Poppaea: Greeks everywhere. Every kind of poisonous foreigner, prostitutes and abortionists
