The Blood of the Martyrs by Naomi Mitchison

accent who turned out to be the overseer to a travelling Roman official. So Argas was bundled into a big household, friendless, bewildered, missing his old master and mistress, expected to know where to go and what to do, and kicked when he didn’t know. In a little it became apparent that he was even to leave Hellas, perhaps for ever; they were all bound for Italy.
    It was in the close quarters on shipboard that some of his fellow slaves found his bundle, undid it, and got hold of the book. Seeing him anxious about it, they began to tease him, snatching it away and pretending to read it aloud, making dirty jokes about it; suddenly he went wild and began to fight them, struggling for his book. He got hold of one end, but someone grabbed it and tore it right across—the next moment it had been tossed out to sea. Argas went, furious and miserable, to complain to the overseer, who only said, ‘Book? What do you want a book for?’ And turned his back. It was altogether a wretched business, for Argas got on badly with all his fellow slaves; half his money was stolen, and again he could get no help from the overseer.
    This then, was a slave’s life: this utter insecurity, dependence on accident. Not worth living. One could, perhaps, kill oneself; there was always that way out. And yet, obviously, he had never had a really bad time, as some of his fellow slaves had; they talked endlessly and sickeningly about things that had been done to them or their women. Sometimes Argas thought he would be almost happy if he could at least know that Lykainis was back in somethinglike the old life, even if someone else were singing to her and carrying her water jug. But he couldn’t even know that. Never.
    For some time the household was at Ariminum in North Italy. Argas did his work fairly well and only got into trouble over fighting with the others. Then the overseer would threaten to send him to the mines and tell the cook to put him on bread and water. He didn’t mind much, but there was just nothing worthwhile from day to day. He was a dining-room slave, and sometimes helped the secretaries, but his master never spoke to him. He was not allowed to read any of the books, even though nobody else seemed to want to. Sometimes he got time off in the afternoon and went swimming by himself in the warm, shallow sea-water, thinking that this same sea went on and on till it touched the beaches of Hellas.
    Ariminum was full of temples and shrines; sometimes there would be a big sacrifice and processions going on, and his master would wear his official robes and go. People in a small way went to the little shrines with little offerings. Argas did not go. He thought it would take more than that to change his luck. There were one or two temples to foreign gods and goddesses, Isis and Serapis and some very queer ones indeed from Asia; all of them had their priests ready to put you right with the gods—if you were ready to pay. At least, that was how it seemed to Argas.
    One day he was in the kitchen having dinner with the rest, the usual black bread and stew with sour slaves ‘wine to wash it down. Nobody spoke to him and he spoke to nobody. Then he caught one of the under cooks staring at him, a little old man with a pointed beard, some kind of an Asiatic, Vono his name was, or something of that sort. ’Well?’ said Argas angrily.
    Vono grinned at him disarmingly and came over, sat beside him, so close that Argas could see a louse walking round his neck. ‘Things going badly, friend?’ said Vono in his bad Greek.
    â€˜What the hell is that to you?’ said Argas, and swallowed a big mouthful of stew and choked.
    But Vono was still grinning at him. He said, ‘We beenwatching you—some of us. And they tell me to say this—there is a way out.’
    For a moment Argas was on the point of throwing the remains of the stew in Vono’s face. Then he grunted, ‘Way out? Why don’t you