down—the continuity of the family and all that—well, young people want to make their own lives. We shall have to see the astrologers, Crispus, and get them to fix a day.’
Gallio grunted. ‘Astrologers! Mean to say you believe in that sort of nonsense, Balbus?’
‘Well, my dear fellow, there’s a lot in it, y’know—’
‘Lot of moonshine. Well, good night, Crispus, and thanks. Coming, Balbus? Yes, of course I’m walking. Think I’m going to be carried about in a litter like one of Nero’s nancies? You don’t know old Gallio!’
When he had seen his two old friends off, Crispus went along to bed, still sighing and shaking his head and wondering if it could be true that the Emperor was no better than the rest, that something was really wrong, so badly wrong that it could not be put right by going back—back to the manners and decencies and truthfulness and civilisation of Augustus—or farther. The slaves, however, waited to clear up, and Lalage was waiting to be paid. Hearing Crispus call for his personal servant to give him the usual ten minutes‘ bedtime massage, Argas came back to the dining-room. But by then Beric was there again, sitting on the end of the couch in his old place and glaring across the table at the other couch where Candidus had been. He shouted at Argas to get out and keep out. Argas who had seen what happened, the spilled wine and the blow! Argas shrugged his shoulders and went out. ‘No good,’ he said to Sannio, ‘the Briton’s there. And a nasty temper he’s in.’
‘Well,’ said Sannio, ‘the little cat’s done the dirty on him. Sitting there as if butter wouldn’t melt in her claws. Oh my, oh my!’
Phaon was crying, clutching and rubbing himself where Tigellinus had pinched him. ‘I hate him!’ he said, ‘I hate him, I’d like to kill him!’
Argas caught hold of him. ‘No, you don’t,’ he said, ‘you don’t, Phaon.’ And he whispered some words to Phaon which seemed to calm him down. The slaves yawned. They would have liked to go to bed, but they knew they’d catch it if they left the clearing-up till morning. Lalage was talking in a corner to Manasses, quite low, about something which seemed to interest them both. Sannio made a dirty joke, but Argas didn’t laugh.
At last Lalage said, ‘Well, I shall go in, temper or no temper, and make that precious Briton of yours pay up. And extra for Tigellinus!’ She patted Phaon and he smiled a little. The accompanist had nodded to sleep on a bench.
Lalage went into the room quietly, for she could be very quiet, and found herself behind Beric; she stood and watched him, for something seemed to be happening to him which was the kind of thing she understood. He was standing beside the couch where Candidus had been and he was talking to empty air, but, as Lalage listened, it became quite plain what he was doing. ‘Now, you swine,’ he snarled, ‘you Aelius Candidus, you’ve struck me. Struck me before witnesses. Me, a king’s son.’ He clutched about with his hands, felt at his belt, drew out a knife and pulled its edge across his thumb. Then he lifted it and held it point down and spoke again to emptiness, again from snarling misery. ‘No, go down on your knees, Roman, and beg for your miserable life. Say it. Say it after me. I, Aelius Candidus, in fear and trembling, beg of you, Beric, son of Caradoc the King …’
But already the harsh aching voice was quivering and dropping. He let the knife go, and, as it dropped with a little clatter, he turned and saw Lalage. In the moment before his anger, she spoke, gently: ‘But it wouldn’t have been any good, you know, even if you had done it then.’
‘It would have been!’ said Beric. ‘Now—now—oh, she said I was dirt and I’d got to get used to it!’
‘Who said that?’
‘Flavia.’
‘Was she—your Flavia?’
‘I thought she was. I don’t know. Oh, I don’t know anything now! It’s all gone!’ 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
