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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 hisanger, she spoke, gently: ‘But it wouldn’t have been any good, you know, even if you had done it then.’
    â€˜It would have been!’ said Beric. ‘Now—now—oh, she said I was dirt and I’d got to get used to it!’
    â€˜Who said that?’
    â€˜Flavia.’
    â€˜Was she—your Flavia?’
    â€˜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—’
    â€˜I know,’ said Lalage soothingly, and now you can remember all the things you didn’t say to her. Poor king’s son!’
    â€˜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!’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜And couldn’t you bear it?’
    â€˜No. No! I thought I was happy and now I know it’s all lost.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜I wish I could! As a Roman. The equal of anyone. Instead of dirt!’
    â€˜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’mmore 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