The Blood of the Martyrs by Naomi Mitchison Page A

take it, then?’
    â€˜I have taken it,’ said Vono. He went on, apologetic: ‘True, I do look like dog’s dinner! But I’m all right—inside.’
    â€˜Well,’ said Argas, wondering if the old man were a little mad, ‘Spit it out.’
    â€˜There is hope,’ said Vono, ‘for us who get done down now. The poor. The slaves. Suppose, some day, we was to have a kingdom of our own, all over the world, what would you say?’
    â€˜I’d say you’d had a knock on the head,’ said Argas.
    â€˜But it is true. Our Leader said so.’
    Argas looked more interested. ‘Got a leader, have you?’
    â€˜Yes. Jesus Christ. He said so. He said I was to come to you. To ask how could we help you.’
    Argas puzzled for a minute. ‘I think I’ve heard of him,’ he said, ‘some kind of a prophet—rebel—’
    â€˜He was the Son of God.’
    â€˜They all say that. Whatever he was, the Romans smashed him up, didn’t they?’
    â€˜They crucified Him.’
    â€˜And you ask me to believe what he said!’
    â€˜We ask you, first, be friends with us. Don’t believe till you see. We got something to give you. To make it—all right, being alive. You come this evening when all sleeping. Will you?’
    Argas thought a moment. Why not? ‘I’ll come,’ he said.
    Little old Vono came for him in the dark and they went together to the stables and up into the loft. There were five men there, and two women. They were mostly from the household, and one was Rufus, a secretary whom he had worked for occasionally. Argas wondered why, if any of them wanted to get hold of him, it hadn’t been Rufus. But apparently they left it to the feelings of the individual, and it was Vono who had felt called to bring him in. And perhaps that was right, thought Argas; if it had been Rufus,I’d have thought he was trying to trap me into something.
    They began to tell him about this Jesus Christ of theirs and what He had taught and how He had lived, and about this idea of a kingdom of the poor and oppressed. It was new. It didn’t fit in with any of the old gods. And it didn’t seem to cost anything. You weren’t asked to give a beast to be sacrificed; there weren’t any priests sitting on top of it. And—well, it was the first time since Athens that he’d been treated as a person. Someone with a mind. He said he wouldn’t mind if he did join. Yes, he would like to stay for their eating together, and he would take what oath they liked to say nothing about it. They did not bind themselves with oaths? Well, then, he would promise. There were certain rites which he could not share yet, not till he had become a full member. Yes, he understood. He would wait while he was on trial for them to see what they thought of him. But in the meantime he could come to the meetings and ask questions. Or if he was ever alone in the library with Rufus … Yes. Yes.
    He went back to bed and slept on it. The whole thing seemed good sense, this idea of a chance and a hope for the ones underneath. The ones—he suddenly thought—that there were more of. And always had been. It took a prophet to think of that. Or a Son of God? Well, the way he remembered, the gods were always having sons.
    Things went pretty well for a few weeks. It was grand to go swimming with Rufus, as he did a couple of times, talking about all that out at sea, the sun hot in their faces as they floated. And now when he saw old Vono in the kitchen he winked at him, and Vono dug him in the ribs or made a queer sign at him if they were alone. Once when he went out on some errand, he saw one of the women, with her big basket, marketing, and wondered if she’d ball him out, seeing it wasn’t at a meeting—and took a chance—and spoke to her, a free woman, and she called him brother, and they bargained together for the chicken and carrots.