On the following morning, at the earliest gloaming, Quintus Claudius was conducted from the dungeons of the Tullianum to the underground cells of the Amphitheatre;[155] and with him were Cornelia and some of the other Nazarenes. About fifty were reserved for the last days of the festival.

The procession of the condemned moved silently along the Via Sacra; as they passed through the arch of Titus and the yellow grey of the eastern sky fell upon their faces, they looked like a file of corpses. Cornelia was as pale as death, and her eyes looked larger than ever. Only Quintus seemed to have lost little of his handsome and elastic youthfulness during these months of imprisonment.

The prisoners were all, without exception, calm and composed. Even those few who, when they first set out, had wept and lamented, soon recovered their firmness when they saw that of their fellow-sufferers.

Cornelia herself was perfectly unmoved. Though she had no ground for that happy assurance and sustaining comfort, which her companions found in their confident faith, she was invincible through her stolid contempt for life which, now that all hope was over, seemed to petrify her spirit and her senses. To live without Quintus was simply impossible. If Fate would not relinquish this victim, if the dark sisters were inexorable to her overwhelming grief, she could have but one wish: to die with the man she loved. To be free from this torment, to vanish into nothingness; this was the one idea that possessed her soul. Even the horror of the last scene of all—the dishonor of standing as a spectacle to the gaping crowd, the agonizing pain under the fangs of the beasts—of all this she took no account. And so it came to pass that she, disbelieving and hopeless, she who so lately tore her hair like one demented—now, on the road to death, bore herself as bravely as the staunchest confessors of the Redeemer; nay, more bravely than some. And the passing glance, a look from soul to soul, that she had exchanged with Quintus as they came out of the prison—the first for so many weeks—had only fanned this passionate desire for annihilation and eternal rest to a fiercer flame.

That look had had a very different effect on her lover. After struggling in the loneliness of a dark cell, and triumphing at length over all that could chain him to life; after a hundred victories over every torture of mind and body, won in the glorious name of duty; the fervent Christian, who hoped confidently that the Son of God would support those who endured such dreadful torment through faith in his sufferings, and that he would, through these torments, work their salvation—this unwavering hero quailed as at a new grief, when he saw the wasted form of the beautiful young girl. For the first time, since Caesar’s message of impossible respite had been brought to him, the thought flashed through his brain: Three beasts! could it be hoped for? But the flash vanished before it could dazzle him.—A gladiator’s short blade and a Gaetulian lion! Verily it was only adding mockery to brutality, if Caesar called this mercy!

Nevertheless the idea had found place in his mind, and though his reason rejected it at once and absolutely, it haunted the background of his thoughts.

How greatly must Cornelia love him, if merely out of defiance, merely to force him to recant, she could declare her adherence to the doomed sect, whom in her heart she scorned. What self-immolation, worthy of the highest crown. Or had a ray of that saving light fallen on her heart? Quintus felt it a duty to be sure on this point. Now, in the face of death, she could not deny the divine truth of the doctrine of Salvation; if she still should do so, well, she must and should, at that supreme moment, speak the truth—deny the faith, save her life and learn to believe afterwards perhaps. He did not know, that Cornelia was guilty also of attempting Caesar’s life; that corrupt witnesses had represented this deed, not as a desperate stroke for self-defence, but as an act of revenge for her uncle’s exile, and that the verdict had pronounced it a crime in the first degree.

When they reached the vaulted cells of the Amphitheatre, the victims were relieved of their fetters and well supplied with food and drink, that they might not appear too miserable in face of the final catastrophe; some, indeed, who refused to eat, were compelled to do so by force. After this they were left to themselves. The two exits from the vaults were barred and guarded on the outside.

Then many a heart-rending scene took place in those damp and dimly-lighted caverns; in every corner there was a group, whispering, praying, weeping.On a stone bench near the chief entrance sat our worthy Diphilus, his eyes fixed on his young wife, Euterpe, who was kneeling before him, her face hidden in his lap.

“And you forgive me?” she sobbed; “you forgive me for everything? Oh I have been very wicked; I have been a miserable sinner, and do not deserve that you should call me your wife.”

Her husband gently stroked her hair, but he did not speak; he seemed lost in thought. She, however, sobbed incessantly: “Forgive me, oh forgive me!” Then clasping her hands, she prayed: “O God! All-merciful Father, do not desert us! Have pity on Thy children for Jesus Christ’s sake! Almighty God, comfort us and have mercy on us!”

Presently she got up and sat down by the side of her speechless husband; she threw her arms round him and kissed him.

“Tell me,” she whispered, and she shuddered, “what prayer shall I say in the last awful moment, when they are tearing my limbs? But oh! it is impossible; God can never leave us to die like this. No, He cannot, He cannot. No earthly father would, why then should our Father in Heaven? Say, Diphilus, he will send us an angel to bear us away to the land of joy and peace? It is only to try us—say, Diphilus.”

“My poor child,” said Diphilus, and he broke into tears.

And then she began again, chattering in her sweet, silly way, till at last, almost while she was speaking, her eyelids closed, and her head sank gently on his breast; she was asleep—and in a few hours her round young limbs were to be mangled by beasts of prey.There was another couple of senatorial rank there besides Quintus and Cornelia: the consul, Flavius Clemens,[156] a man of blameless character and the highest merit, and with him his noble wife. Both in calm and silent resignation had joined a group, that had gathered round a girl of eight, who had sunk into a decline in consequence of her long imprisonment. Her father, an artisan from the Subura, had carried the poor child in his arms from one prison to the other. She was now half sitting and leaning against the wall, looking round her with large, ghastly-bright eyes, while her father held her hands and listened to her words as though they were a revelation from Heaven.

“Do not cry, father dear,” she said coaxingly. “That good angel, that has so often come to me, will not have your Cynthia torn by lions. He is coming to fetch me away. There—there—where the wall is open and you see the blue sky through—he is there in the sunshine.”

A faint smile fleeted across the wasted face, transient and melancholy as the last rosy hue of an autumn sunset. She closed her eyes, but opened them again at once in rapt ecstasy.

“Good-night, father,” she said with a sigh. “I am going first, up into that bright and glorious heaven. When the time comes, and your heart is breaking with terror and pain, remember me, father, and do not forget that I shall be praying to God to give you strength and courage to the last. Oh father, I thank you too for having loved me so much, and for having taught me to know the Saviour, and taken care of me in all your trouble. And I thank you too, dear good friends, and I will pray to God for you all as well. What a glorious sight! I can see far, far away into the gates of light. Yes, Angel of Hope, I am ready to follow you. Kiss me, father, once more, for He has got my hand—He is flying, dragging me up—up....” her arms fell into her lap, and she sighed deeply. Then she lay still, as if she had gone to sleep.

“Cynthia, my child!” cried the father, and with a loud sob he pressed the cold, slender hands to his furrowed face.

“She is dead!” he said. “God’s mercy has spared her the worst.”

The by-standers, who had so victoriously lived down their own sufferings, stood deeply moved at the sight of the gentle, innocent creature, that had been held captive like a criminal, and almost literally tortured to death.

“It is well with her!” said Flavius Clemens, clasping his weeping wife in his arms.

Calmer than all else, as it appeared, was the half-whispered dialogue between Quintus and Cornelia. Each was endeavoring to utter what was bursting their hearts, but in as indifferent a tone and with as little gesture as possible, so as not to attract the attention of their fellow-prisoners.

“Listen, Cornelia,” whispered Quintus, hardly daring to open his lips. “You are here solely in the hope of urging me to recant. It is not true, that you are really condemned to death?”

Cornelia looked him in the lace with a bitter smile.

“Of urging you to recant?” she repeated slowly. “Alas! if any sufferings of mine could have softened your heart, we should never have come to this! Why, you would see me torn to pieces ten times over by wild beasts, before you would yield a jot of what you call the truth. No, Quintus, it is quite true. You did not care to live with your devoted Cornelia—very good; then if you must suffer death, Cornelia dies too. It is as simple as a nursery rhyme.”

Quintus shuddered.

“But could any one condemn you?” he said. “You are not one of the sect.”

“I pronounced myself guilty—and they believed me.”

“Then you deceived your judges. Or has what was untrue become the truth by the force of conviction?”

Cornelia haughtily shook her head.

“My dearest,” said Quintus, hardly able to control his grief, “you are destroying my last hope of comfort. Ah Cornelia! if we could but have died united in a common faith! But as it is, woe to us both, Cornelia; your death is in itself a sin.”

“You alone are guilty of it.”

“I!” cried Quintus, in utter despair; his voice spoke grief too great for words, and Cornelia’s eyes humbly implored forgiveness.

“But how can I force my heart to submit?” she said as gently as an ill-used child. “Can I wish to live, if you die? Or again, can I believe what my reason condemns as a fable? Oh! I am not laughing at it, as I did when I first went to see you in prison! I feel now that faith is an invincible force, and gives bliss and strength even in the hour of death. And yet it seems to me a madness, a delirium of raving fancy. No, I cannot believe, however much I may desire it. My faith in Isis made me strong too—and it was all a lie, foul and base treachery. Ah! Quintus, Quintus, you are sacrificing your young and promising life for a mere dream, a delusion, a shadow—throwing everything away for an empty bubble!”

“My poor Cornelia!” said Quintus deeply moved. “The greatest idea, that ever dawned in the mind of man, you call a delusion and a dream. It is true, perhaps, that many of the aspects under which we shadow forth this great conception are petty and childish, for we are but weak and helpless mortals. But the essential part, the living principle which lies hidden behind these symbols, is true and perfect to all eternity. Poor, hapless Cornelia; how will you find courage to look death in the face; you, forsaken, alone, without a Saviour—hopeless—speechless—when the Nazarene can joyfully murmur the name of Jesus Christ? What prayer, what word of comfort can you find to whisper in that awful moment?”

“Can you ask?” said Cornelia, looking into his eyes. “The last words, that my lips will utter, will be your name, my first, last, only love. My god, my saviour, is called Quintus Claudius.”

Quintus could control himself no longer; the tears started to his eyes. He clasped her in his arms and covered her lips, cheeks and brow with passionate kisses.Thus they stood for a time in an oblivious embrace. Suddenly they heard the roll of drums; a sudden terror fell upon the party of prisoners. This drumming was the signal for the fights in the arena to begin. The scattered groups drew closer together; the flute-player had sprung up with a scream. Some of the men began to bewail themselves and lament loudly, but the consul presently succeeded in controlling this outburst of terror. In a firm, loud voice, he admonished his fellow-victims to emulate the example of the Redeemer, and to remain steadfast through all their torments, so that the sight of their unshaken courage might win Him new disciples among the people. Then he told them how nobly the servants of the Lord had died under Nero; how even when burnt by slow fires, lighted by the hand of Caesar himself, with their latest breath they proclaimed the truth in Christ Jesus. The prisoners listened with growing devotion to his enthusiastic appeal, and the vault was as still as the catacomb used to be, when the little congregation met there for their Feast of Love.

When Flavius Clemens ceased, a strange sound fell on the ear; it was the clapping and applause of the spectators, which was heard only as lulled by distance, like the tramp of a horse’s hoofs over a wooden bridge. The first scene of the bloody performance was over—a fight probably, like that of yesterday, between two gladiators. The fatal moment was drawing nearer and nearer.

Twice or thrice was this fearfully suggestive sound repeated, mixed with confused shouts and wild laughter; heavy steps were heard in the corridor and the principal entrance was unbarred.

The bravest quailed, paralyzed by terror, and stared with glassy eyes at the door, which opened slowly, creaking on its hinges. An armed soldier stood on the threshold, and two others were visible on the steps that led up to the arena.

“Diphilus, the carpenter, and Euterpe, his wife!” cried the warden in a harsh voice. Diphilus had started up the instant he heard his name called. With his head bent forward, he fixed his gaze on the apparition in the door-way as though he thought he might be dreaming. Euterpe had crept behind him; like a child threatened with punishment, she hid herself behind her husband’s stalwart form.

“Come on!” said the man. “Make haste! The people are waiting.”

“We are ready,” said the carpenter.

“No, no, no!” shrieked Euterpe wildly. “I will be hewn in pieces, before I go up to that horrible blood-stained place. I cannot, Diphilus—no, not if the Lord himself were to appear and command me.”

“Woman,” said the man-at-arms, “give over whimpering and do not keep me waiting. There is no help for you now; and besides,” he added with a jeer, “the beasts will only be all the hungrier.”

“Control yourself and pray to God,” whispered Diphilus.

“I cannot, I cannot,” sobbed Euterpe falling on her knees. “Why must I die—and I am so young, and this world is a very pleasant one! Mercy, for Christ’s sake have mercy! No, no, I am not a Christian. I am innocent, indeed I am. I was misled—go and tell Caesar, tell the cruel judges. I cannot die, I will repent before the altar of Jupiter—only let me live, and my good honest Diphilus.”“Miserable, weak creature!” said Flavius Clemens, going up to the distracted woman and stroking her hair with a pitiful smile. “God will forgive you for what you have said in your terror of death. It does not come from your heart, and God is love.”

Then turning to the man he said: “Is it not possible to give her a little longer time? If we came first—I and my wife?”

“Impossible,” said the man.

Meanwhile Diphilus had infused some little courage into the trembling Euterpe. She got up, but her knees gave way. He took her up, more dead than alive, and bursting into tears, clasped her in his arms.

The warden signed to his comrades; without saying a word they snatched her from him. One of them, a red-haired Sicambrian, lifted up the slender form of the weeping woman, as if she were a mere plaything, and carried her up the steps. The other two followed with Diphilus, who held himself bravely, and waved a farewell to those who remained behind.

The door fell to with a crash, and no sooner had the footsteps died away, than they heard the signal drum. Most of the prisoners fell on their knees at the horrible sound and raised their hands in passionate supplication. Flavius Clemens, Quintus and Cornelia remained standing.

There was a breathless silence; lips moved but spoke not, only a suppressed sob now and then broke the deathly stillness. Suddenly a convulsive shudder thrilled the worshippers, the dull roar of a lion was heard; involuntarily every eye was more fervently raised and hands were clasped more tightly. Then there was a fearful shriek, shrill, despairing, piercing—and then again the wild applause, the clapping, shouting and laughter.

“That was Euterpe,” whispered Quintus, pressing his face against the wall.

Nearly two hours went by, before the vault was opened again. The interval was occupied by a series of combats on horseback in grand classical style; and when the man next appeared he hailed twelve of the Christians at once.

It was strange, but the victims were now all calm and composed. The men and women, who at the first appearance of the messenger of death had flinched and quailed, now only betrayed by their shortened breathing, that the door that stood open before them led to death, and not to liberty.

“The Lord give you strength!” cried Flavius Clemens as the door closed upon them, and the remaining handful looked at each other with a sad and wistful smile. Their number was greatly diminished; at every moment the end drew nearer—nearer and more certain.

At noon the noble Flavius was led out to die, and a few minutes later his wife followed him. Then the rest, till at last only Quintus and Cornelia were left in the subterranean vault.

“They have reserved us for the last,” the girl began after a long and painful silence. “The most effective piece to conclude, as the connoisseurs say. Oh! Quintus, the disgrace is worse than the dread of death. Tell me, my dear love, you will not give the mob the triumph they long for, to see you fight like a gladiator? You will obey the voice of pride, which bids us rather turn the sword with calm dignity against our own breast?”“I shall fight, Cornelia.”

“Miserable man!” she groaned, hiding her face in her hands. “No worthy Claudius would say so! Or do you hope to be victorious over the lions?”

“I hope nothing, for I know that the short dagger is little better than a toy. But so long as my arm can wield it, I have no right to drop it out of self-conceit. If Providence has so willed, even that puny weapon will avail to fell the foe....”

“You are mad—or rather, I see now your creed is indeed the creed for slaves. It treads the pride of man into the dust.”

“True pride is that, which raises a man above all prejudice—which teaches him to despise scorn and look down on contempt. I know but one law—that of duty. But you, Cornelia, once more I implore you....”

The rattle of the bolts interrupted him; the dreadful moment had come.

For one second, breathless and with his eyes closed, he leaned against the wall. Then he stood calm and defiant Cornelia flung her arms round his neck.

“Say not another word, my own dearest love,” she said, with passionate devotion. “I too know the duty of a true and loving heart. I follow you joyfully, and my last breath is yours. Now be yourself, all yourself, and never think again about me. If I were to be left alone in the world—then indeed I might claim your tears; but, as it is, death cures every ill.”

Quintus felt that Cornelia was equally right from her own point of view, as he, as a Christian, was from his. He kissed her once more on the white and trembling lips, which in happier days had spoken so many a fond and tender word, blessed her for her heroic faithfulness, swearing that in that other unknown land, where they would presently meet again in glory, he would yet save the soul that was one with his own.

Then he took her hand, and led her up the steps.

The little gate-way was thrown open, and they slowly stepped out on to the arena. Whether it was the intense daylight after the dismal twilight of the dungeon, or their own tension of nerve and sense—they saw nothing; neither the endless ranks of seats, the thousands of heads that filled the Amphitheatre to the top-most course, nor Caesar in his gold-embroidered pulvinar. Everything swam before their eyes in a grey mist, a blank chaos. They were alone, together, in the midst of this vast multitude. At their feet spread the arena with its yellow sands, like an island in an ocean.

Cornelia tottered; she would probably have lost consciousness if the hard rattle of the drum, and immediately after the loud voice of the master of the ceremonies proclaiming the names of the victims, had not startled her into life again.

A servant came up to Quintus, and handed him the short dagger-like sword.

“Be sure to throw it,” he whispered stealthily in his ear.

Quintus, who recovered an unhoped sense of self-protection as soon as he felt himself armed, looked enquiringly in the fellow’s face.

“If you value your life,” the slave repeated, “throw at him, throw the knife.” And he withdrew to his place behind the parapet.

What could he mean? No doubt, if Quintus were close to the lion, even in the event of his striking a fatal blow, it might be considered certain that in his very death-struggle the beast would mangle him. Still, a stab must be surer to hit than a throw; besides which he might be able to stab twice, he could not repeat the throw. The suggestion then must be the malicious trap of some enemy, or at best the brutal joke of a ruffian.

The doors at the farther end of the arena were now flung open, and an enormous lion, all tawny gold, his wide head loaded with a thick and flowing mane, came calmly and majestically out on to the arena. A large black lock of hair hung over his eyes.

Quintus at once recognized that very beast, which had flung itself so furiously against the bars of its cage as it stood on the quay at Ostia. He clutched the handle of his weapon with a convulsive grip; it suddenly felt so small, so ineffectual, that he thought the spectators that sat watching must laugh at the absurdity.

Cornelia was standing a few paces to one side of Quintus, as pale and motionless as a marble goddess.

The lion came deliberately towards them, and Quintus fixed his eye steadily on the glaring eye of the foe. Suddenly the brute seemed to hesitate. Could he have recognized the face, which had before so roused his ferocity? He lashed his flanks with his sweeping tail, and foaming slaver dripped from his jaws. The muscles of his huge paws twitched to strike—and now he crouched to spring. Every sinew was strained, and the next instant he flung himself straight at Quintus. At the same moment Cornelia had thrown herself in the line of the brute’s attack, while Quintus started aside. The girl’s unexpected movement may have startled the beast; he sprang short, and fell on the ground very near to Quintus, and as he fell the sword pierced his shoulder with such force, that it went up to the hilt.

What was this? What an unheard-of stroke of skill! The knife had hardly hit the lion, when he sank limp and helpless; he shuddered with a tremendous convulsion, and then rolled over stark and stiff in the sand.—He was dead.

Quintus could not believe his eyes—some demon, he thought, must have tricked his excited senses. How was it possible? One of these monstrous beasts, in whose side half a dozen of lances would sometimes be broken, before their tenacious vitality was spent—and this sudden death had resulted from a single stroke, though, it is true, a shrewd one?

But the uproarious applause of the crowd gave him no time to meditate upon the miracle.

“Mercy for Quintus Claudius!” was shouted in a thousand voices, and from every side.

“Caesar, release him! Pardon for Quintus Claudius!”

Pale as death, his lips set, his brows knit, Caesar sat impassible in the midst of the storm. Clodianus went up to him and, with a meaning smile, whispered something in his ear. Caesar angrily shook his head.[157]“Pardon for Quintus Claudius! Pardon for his betrothed!” rang out incessantly, and louder than before, from every part of the Amphitheatre.

“My lord and husband,” said Domitia, bowing with dignified and well-feigned indifference to her frowning sovereign, “your clemency will save him?”

“Never!” cried Domitian, rising from his seat.

He signed to the herald, and the tumult was hushed.

“Romans!” said Caesar in a voice like distant thunder. “You are demanding mercy for a man, who pronounced his own sentence of death. He had his life in his own hands. One word, one single word of recantation, and he was free. His obstinacy refused to speak the word. Romans, Caesar pardons none but those who repent.”

“None but cowards!” shouted a voice from the top-seats.

“Pardon for Quintus Claudius!” the shouting began again—the building seemed to tremble at the terrific uproar.

“Quintus,” murmured Cornelia, closing her eyes, “speak the word, that will set you free! You will not escape your fate a second time. Quintus, if ever you loved me....”

A melancholy smile and a look of utter devotion were the only response.

Again Clodianus made some remark, in an undertone, to the wrathful sovereign, and once more the herald commanded silence.

“I am merciful and kind,” said Caesar. “I am always glad to fulfil the desires of my beloved Romans, so far as it is possible. But here I am bound by duty. The utmost I can grant is a reprieve. For this day the criminal is respited from carrying on the struggle. He may have time to recover himself and collect his strength; then victory may crown his efforts a second and a third time. Then, my faithful Romans, your heart’s desire will be fulfilled, and the object of your sympathy will be free!”

A murmur of discontent rose from the disappointed people; however, they felt that any farther insistence would be useless, if not rash. They had not failed to observe that, at the very beginning of the tumult, Domitian had beckoned the commander of the body-guard to his side, and when he was in this frame of mind some violent measures on the Emperor’s part were only too probable.[158] “Good counsel prevails over revenge,” said the voice from the upper circle.

The master of the ceremonies hastened to lead Quintus and Cornelia away. The dead lion, which lay with its long blue-black tongue hanging out of its foaming jaws, was dragged off through one of the gates, and the arena hastily strewn with fresh sand. A fight between a little girl of thirteen and a dwarf[159] soon put the incidents of Quintus’ struggle out of the heads of the spectators, and by the end of the day, when the whole arena was flooded with water and a magnificent naval fight was performed,[160] few indeed remembered the brave youth and his pale, beautiful companion.

Few—but still some did.

First of these was Caesar, who swore that he never would consent to save the life of a man, whom Cornelia would follow to death rather than enjoy the favors of Caesar. All the emptiness and nothingness of his existence had come home to his conscience, as he looked on at that life and death fight. He, who was only hated and feared, felt at that moment a wild hunger for love and constancy; but this impulse, in itself so purely human, at once assumed, in his degraded soul, the form of aggravated vindictiveness.

Then, there was Domitia. Her hatred, which had long been dying out, broke down altogether under the impression of what she had just witnessed—even her hatred for Cornelia, her happy and envied rival, over whose death in lingering torment the rancorous Empress had so long gloated in fancy.

Shortly after the beginning of the naumachia Domitia quitted the amphitheatre and returned to the palace, where her steward met her.

“Is my Lady and Mistress content?” he inquired in abject tones.

“Content?” repeated Domitia. “And is it any merit of yours if he won the victory in an unequal fight?”

“Madam,” said Stephanus, “the time was short, and every effort to move Caesar failed. I used the only means, that lay within my power. Or did you really suppose, that a Gaetulian lion could be killed like a hare with a nip of the hunter’s fingers? The dagger was poisoned.”

“Ah! I understand....” She would have said more, but Polycharma rushed breathless into the room.

“I want Stephanus—a messenger from the amphitheatre....”

“Bid him come in,” said the Empress.

A young man handed a note to the steward. Stephanus turned pale as he read it, and he closed his eyes as if blinded by a flash.

“Go, it is well,” he stammered, and he crushed the letter in his hand.

“What has happened?” asked Domitia.

“Madam—the worst that can happen. The master of the ceremonies suspects—the trick is discovered.”

The Empress flushed crimson.

“Then you no longer have Quintus alone to save, but yourself too, Stephanus. Your life is at stake as well as his. Remember, consider the reward that awaits you! Let Rome perish if need be, but prevent that last, worst....”

“You command, and I obey.”