The Blood Of The Martyrs. Naomi Mitchison

shall tell me if you still want to be my friend.’

      Argas wanted to answer, but didn’t know what to say. Only he felt happier and less tired. It was queer and nice going round with the Briton, putting out the lamps. Suddenly Beric said, over his shoulder, ‘Who did break that wine jar?’

      ‘You don’t want to punish for it twice,’ said Argas, a little uncomfortably.

      ‘I thought you were lying,’ Beric said. He went over, close to Argas. ‘I sent you off to get a whipping. What happened?’

      ‘I got it,’ Argas answered casually.

      But Beric was thinking about it differently and with increasing trouble. ‘I never bothered—about it being a person. Someone like me. And you were only a slave. So they tied your hands’—he was speaking with a kind of horror now— ‘to the ring in the kitchen yard. What did they give you?’

      ‘Ten.’

      ‘Cut you?’

      ‘No fear! Old Felix wouldn’t try that on me. After all, I’m not one of the kitchen slaves! Not like poor little Dapyx; he’s one of us, too.’

      ‘What did you think about while it was going on?’

      ‘You don’t think much while you’re being whipped. You just don’t squeal.’

      ‘And then he untied you.’

      Argas laughed. ‘Matter of fact, old Felix left me tied up for half an hour. He’d got me so that I could only stand on tiptoe. That hurt a bit.’

      ‘God!’ said Beric, ‘I’ll take it out of Felix!’

      ‘No you won’t,’ said Argas quickly. ‘It’s nothing to do with you. He had a bit of a down on me—that’s all. But I didn’t tell you as a master.’

      ‘What did you think about,’ Beric asked again, ‘while you were tied?’

      ‘I had my work cut out forgiving old Felix. But I did. That’s why you can’t touch him now—see?’

      ‘But it was me—I had you punished, Argas. For something you didn’t even do.’

      ‘Well, I forgave you, too. More or less. I knew she’d been at you. It’s all right. Don’t go getting upset about it!’

      ‘You were hurt and it was I who did it.’ Beric could hardly speak with misery and astonishment at what was having the power to make him miserable.

      ‘But I forgive you.’ Argas caught hold of the Briton’s hand and held it hard, with both of his. ‘Look—Beric—don’t go fussing about this, please! There are some houses where the slaves get it badly, and there are the mines, and… Oh, this was nothing! Good night and peace be with you—Beric.’