CHAPTER XVII.

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April, the sweetest month in the south, had decked the land in all its wealth of beauty. The City of the Seven Hills, with its endless gardens and plantations, wore a really enchanting aspect. It seemed to have put on its freshest and gayest attire in honor of the secular games, which had already begun on the previous day with magnificent races in the Circus Maximus. To-day, the sixth after the calends,[125] at two hours after sunrise, gladiators and ships were to fight in the Flavian Amphitheatre, and men were to fight with beasts.

It was still nearly an hour to the time, but in the Forum and all the neighboring streets the slanting light of morning fell on a crowd so dense as to defy all description. Long files of litters, gorgeous in purple and gold, pushed their slow way through the surging masses of men struggling along the Via Sacra towards the entrance to the amphitheatre.

Three hundred lions[126] and as many panthers, fifty Cantabrian bears, forty elephants and other beasts, six hundred gladiators and boxers—among them some women and dwarfs—a dozen of highwaymen from the Appian Way, and about ninety Christians, were to shed their blood, some in single combat, others in larger or smaller divisions, and all in the course of the next three days, for the evening of the fourth saw the end of the great festival.[127] Indeed, the herald who invited the populace in the Emperor’s name, spoke the truth in more senses than one, as he shouted the usual proclamation: “Come hither to see what none of you has ever yet seen, or ever will see again!”[128] To-day, the second day, the interest and excitement seemed even greater than yesterday. The number of strangers, gathered together from all parts of the Empire, was certainly swelled and, although the amphitheatre could accommodate above eighty thousand spectators, the crowd was so enormous, that many visitors were doubtful of succeeding in fighting their way to places.

In the stream of litters, which were moving towards the Arena, not from the Forum only but from the Cyprian Way, was one of conspicuous elegance and splendor. The curtains were drawn open, and two handsome but over-dressed and painted girls sat chattering among the billowy cushions. These were Lycoris and one of her friends, Leaina, a native of Asia Minor, who had spent the winter in Athens as companion to an Egyptian lady of rank, and had arrived only yesterday evening in Rome, the sea-passage being only just considered as open for the season. Lycoris had a sort of sisterly kindness for Leaina—all the more because she was well aware, that the oriental could not compare with her in beauty; and Leaina, who had originally filled a very humble position as a dancer in a low tavern at Capua, had been introduced into society by Lycoris, and felt for her a feeble reflection of the feeling, which in a deeper nature might have risen to gratitude. As they sat together in the litter, splendidly dressed, their eyebrows darkened with stibium,[129] and the veins in their temples outlined with blue color, they seemed to be of one heart and one mind.

“It is delightful,” cooed Lycoris, “to have you at least—to enjoy the fights in the amphitheatre with me. That stupid ship to be so late—particularly when I think of your love for races. They were splendid, my dear, positively splendid! First there was the great procession from the Capitol to the Circus Maximus;[130] all the finest young men in Rome on milk-white horses—a lovely sight! Then the two-wheeled and four-wheeled chariots, the dancers, flute-players and cithara-players, the priests in full dress, and last of all the judges, with crowns of golden oak-leaves and robes of ceremony, like the hero of a triumph. That was enough to show what the greatness of Rome means! As a rule, all that people say of the glory of the Roman name and such speech-making, is to me simply laughable; but when I see a sight like that, it gives me a shiver down my back, and I feel a sense of—what shall I call it?—the sublime—of—I do not know whether you understand the feeling?”

“Yes, yes,” said Leaina, vaguely. “But you mentioned the priests; was Titus Claudius present, the high-priest of Jupiter? You wrote to me, a few weeks since, that his son Quintus had been charged before the Senate with having joined the Nazarenes, and was condemned to the beasts. I should think his father would hardly care to take part in a festival....”

“My dear child!” interrupted the Massilian. “I see that Athens is indeed out of the world. You do not know what has been the talk of Rome for some days; ever since the ides of March Titus Claudius has been lying at death’s door. He has a violent fever, is quite delirious and, indeed, out of his mind. His hair, they say, has grown white in these few months like that of a very old man. Rome does not generally find time to think of the misfortunes of individuals, but the sympathy in this case has been universal. At first every one blamed Quintus Claudius, but now he is only pitied, and hundreds of the most influential men in Rome are exerting themselves to save him. Even I, who am indolence itself, have appeared as a suppliant at the consulate. Seriously, Leaina, I feel for him deeply; it is a pity, he is so young and so handsome. Wherever I had a chance I tried—with the chamberlain, whom I can generally twist round my little finger—at last even with the Empress—I forget, whether I told you when I wrote, that even the Empress had done me the honor to smile upon me.... All in vain, Caesar is inexorable. Even when the father offered in sheer despair to be a victim to the law in his son’s stead, and to kill himself in expiation, Domitian would not hear of mercy. Now the only hope is, that even in the Arena the people will demand his release.”

“And Cornelia, his betrothed? She too was arrested?”“She is to share his fate. Indeed she is guilty of a double crime: she is a Nazarene, and she tried to murder Caesar. To ask pardon for her would be tantamount to high-treason.”

“It is a strange story altogether,” said Leaina, with a little sigh. “And after all, tell me, what is the particular crime of being a Nazarene? What is it that they do?”

“Indeed, my dear, you ask me more than I can answer. It would appear, that they carry on all sorts of idolatrous worship, and concoct schemes of rebellion. Norbanus told me that they want to turn the world upside down, and make the masters slaves, and the slaves masters. I told him, that did not sound to me at all a likely story; for, if it were so, only slaves would have anything to do with them. And now, besides Quintus, the consul Flavius Clemens,[131] a relative of Caesar, has been caught and converted; so there must be something more in it than that.”

“Of course!” said Leaina.

“Very likely the whole business is somehow connected with the disturbances, that have been reported lately from the Rhaetian frontier. It is said that the conspirators—you know, Cornelius Cinna, Ulpius Trajanus and the rest—have formed an alliance with some Germanic princes, and are marching on Rome!”

“But that would be frightful! Just now too, when the best season of the year is coming on!”

“Oh! do not be alarmed. Clodianus discovered it all in good time. And to make sure, he is bringing troops out of the provinces—out of Gallia Lugdunensis I rather fancy—down into the peninsula. If it comes to the worst, they will give the rebels a lesson. But, as you see, the feast is the only thing in men’s minds. If they had the remotest idea even....”

“Well, by Cypris! I do not know what I should do. Only think of it, a conflagration like that under Nero perhaps! The whole season would be ruined.”

“You silly child!” laughed Lycoris. “But what is the matter again, Philemon? Every minute we come to a stand-still.”

“Mistress,” said the bearer, “the city-watch have got a man in charge, and the people are crowding round them and have stopped the way.”

Lycoris leaned as far as she could out of the litter. To the left, not far from the entrance to the baths of Titus, two stalwart officials had rushed at a pale young man, who defended himself desperately at first, but was overpowered after a short struggle.

“I surely know that face,” said Lycoris. “And yet I cannot be sure.... Philemon, find out what that man has done to be arrested.”

The bearer sent one of the slaves, who went in front of the litter, across to the spot where the two men-at-arms were now binding their prisoner’s hands behind his back. In a few minutes the messenger returned.

“It is Eurymachus, the slave of Stephanus, who was hunted for through all Latium only last autumn.”

“To be sure, it is he!” cried Lycoris. “Do you remember, Leaina? It was just before you left Rome. Of course; now I recognize his pale, determined face. Only he has cut off his beard, which made him look even paler then. My dear, do you know I shudder when I think of that scene! Since Quintus has been condemned to the beasts, I have grown quite nervous. That Eurymachus was his evil genius. Only see how desperately he looks about him—and then he was perfectly calm, even when he was led to the foot of the cross.”

“It would seem, that the last few months had taken down his spirit a little.”

“No, no—he must have some other reason, that you may depend upon. Besides—as he certainly was involved in this business of Quintus—oh! perhaps there may be some new aspect of the question! He ought to be heard.—Philemon, ask those men to come this way, to me.”

The two men, extremely astonished, came up to the splendid litter, dragging their prisoner between them.

“Listen,” said Lycoris, in condescending tones. “You have caught a prize this time. I know the fellow, and I know that Stephanus has set a great reward on his head. Now, if you wish to find special favor in his master’s eyes, just do as I advise you. Take my tablets, on which I will write two lines, and carry them instantly, with your prisoner, to Stephanus. You will still find him at home—for he is very busy, and will not come to the Arena before noon. Will you do as I desire you?”

“Mistress,” said one of the men, “it is all the same, whether we take the prisoner to the city-prefect or to his owner’s house. If you wish it....”

Lycoris signed to the slave, who had called the men to speak to her, and the servant took out of his robe two gold pieces, which he gave to them, while Lycoris wrote on her tablets:

“Lycoris to the illustrious Stephanus, greeting:

“With these lines you will receive your slave, Eurymachus, whom you have so long sought in vain. Keep him in safety, but do him no hurt, till you have taken counsel with me. Why, I will tell you when we meet. I would go to you at once if it were not so late, but I am afraid of missing the beginning of the games. I am writing in my litter—in the Cyprian Way, where your slave was taken. Expect me to dinner. Farewell!”

She gave the tablets to the man, and bid him take the greatest care of them. Once more she glanced at the pale and sadly-handsome face of the prisoner, and a strange feeling stole into her heart, a stirring of pity and of confusion. Most assuredly—so she thought—if, that evening, she had seen the victim’s face so close, she would have spoken a good word for him! Those grave, drooping lids veiled a wonderful glow in the eyes! and the mouth, with its expression of silent suffering and self-suppression, was a curious contradiction to that fiery glance! It was altogether a fascinating riddle for the Massilian’s mobile fancy. It was only a pity, that the problem should offer itself under so unattractive a guise! A young officer, a Roman knight, a senator’s son, with such a mysterious countenance, would have captivated her.—It was disappointing, by Cypris! positively vexatious! There was something bewitching in the man, as he raised his eyes to her face—she could well understand, that it must have had a great effect on a nature so impressionable as Quintus’.

The more she thought about it the more determined she became; she must find out how it all had come about. The man, Eurymachus, to be sure, looked by no means incapable of refusing point-blank to give her any information. But did not his fate depend upon her? His death was inevitable, and she alone could save him; so if she said: “Speak, tell me all, or I leave you to your fate, which will be certain death.”—Absurd! of course he would speak. And it must be a wonderful secret indeed, that could induce a youth like Quintus....

And then it suddenly struck her, that Eurymachus was not exposed to the vengeance of the steward only. As a Christian he was condemned by law—and she could not interfere with the course of the law. The chief point still remained open: she would examine him closely, if indeed Stephanus agreed to her request. And he must, positively must. Only the other day she had had him in leading-strings, but the child had suddenly outgrown her management. Since she had become so intimate with Parthenius—Parthenius! And might not this prime favorite of Caesar’s be of some service? If Parthenius spoke the word, Eurymachus would be set at liberty, in spite of any sentence passed upon him.

Lycoris passed her hand across her forehead; her head was burning. What strange ideas were these, that had taken possession of her? What a concatenation of foolish fancies and wild, confused ideas! She hardly perceived, that meanwhile the litter had reached the entrance to the Flavian Amphitheatre. Leaina had to rouse her from her dreamy mood.

“What is the matter with you, golden-haired maid?” she said in a low voice. “You seem depressed, and just now you were all in the mood for enjoyment! Tell me—the sight of that refractory fugitive has reminded you of the performance, which ended so unfortunately?—Oh! but your vanity as a hostess makes you too sensitive. Smile again, enchantress! Consider, half Rome is looking at us.”

“You are very right, child,” replied Lycoris. “Our part is to look beautiful, and we may leave grave thoughts to the vestal virgins.”

They got out of the litter, while one of the slaves obtained at an office on the right hand of the door-way, the tesserae, ivory tickets of admission,[132] on which the numbers of the seats were marked in Latin and in Greek. The two girls took their tickets and slowly made their way through the crush, to the places pointed out to them by an attendant in a gaily-colored holiday tunic.[133] They gave him a small gratuity in silver, dropped on to the cushions, which a slave had carried in for them,[134] and drew a deep breath, quite tired out with standing, climbing and struggling.

The amphitheatre was a magnificent spectacle. The fighting was not to begin for half an hour yet, but the rows of seats, particularly the higher and cheaper ones, were already crammed. Every part was as gay as a flower-garden with gorgeous dresses,[135] eager eyes, and faces flushed with expectation. Even the poorest had donned a newly-cleaned and bleached toga. The gentler sex, decorated with gold pins and diadems, was particularly strongly represented, from the matron of senatorial rank to the artisan’s wife, and the gay Syrian of more than doubtful origin.

Now the gaudily-gilt podium, kept for the senators,[136] began to fill. They took their seats deliberately, with an air of affected dignity; the Fathers of the State, as they were called, who were now little more than tools in the hand of a despot. And there was many a gap in their ranks, for Caesar’s suspected and proscribed foes still languished in prison, vainly awaiting a judicial trial, much less a verdict of acquittal.

Immediately after, the vestal maidens came in, in long white robes; for them too law and custom reserved a place of honor. Ah! and the boldness of Quintus Claudius in an audacious moment, in addressing one of these priestesses as his ladylove, was not so outrageous as his father had represented it, for those sacred robes were a cloak for more than one broken vow,[137] and the irony of Lycoris’ remark was not altogether undeserved.

More and more crowds of spectators kept pouring up the stairs and corridors; a hum of voices, like the surges of the Tyrrhenian sea, rose from every part of the vast oval. At last the place was filled to the very last corner. Only the purple and gold pulvinar,[138] prepared for the Emperor, and the seats of honor immediately near to it now remained unoccupied. All eyes were fixed on the shining gates, through which the sovereign and his suite were to enter. The velarium too—the enormous canvas awning,[139] which was stretched across the whole oval of the amphitheatre and supported by fifty masts—bellied and flapped, as though it shared the impatience of the audience. Any one, seeing it for the first time, would have been tempted to think that the sky was about to fall in on the earth.

Ave Caesar!”[144] shouted the mob to hail the tyrant, and he graciously bowed, and with theatrical exaggeration raised his hand to greet his faithful Romans.

“A quarter of an hour yet,” said a fruit-seller, who passed in front of Lycoris and Leaina. “Fresh oranges from Tauromenium![140] Take some, mistress.”

“Bye-and-by, my little friend! Look, Leaina, there, in the fourth row—do you know him?”

“I am too short-sighted.”

“It is Martial, our famous wit; and there, in the same row, the tenth or twelfth seat from you[141]—he is stooping forward now....”“The priest of Isis!” said Leaina. “Oh! his amulet was invaluable. Close to Rhegium[142] we had such a storm....”

“He is looking uncommonly grave over it, is Barbillus.”

“Perhaps he is thinking, that the same fate may overtake him and his Isis-creed, as has fallen on the Nazarenes.”

“Nonsense,” laughed Lycoris. “He is in high favor with the chamberlain.”

“Do you see any more acquaintances near us?”

“Acquaintances, oh yes! But no one I care about. There sits that most ridiculous creature—do you know her, the silly Gaditanian, Melinno?—I think I wrote to you about her. A Hispanian knight—she is his freedman’s wife—brought her here a few weeks since, and now the simpleton tries to ape me and my way of living, thinking to put me out of fashion. Why, she even attempted to get up a recitation; Statius was to do her the honor.—Oh! she is exquisitely funny with her affectation of culture; and all the time she cannot even read.”

Leaina colored, for she was conscious of being equally ignorant, and to change the subject she hastily enquired as to the order of the games and fights. Lycoris could not give her much information on the subject. She only knew, that the master of the festival had paid particular attention to the variety and due alternation of the different entertainments, so that, on each of the three days, every kind of fight should be represented, and in typical completeness.

“You may be sure of good entertainment, ladies,” said a well-dressed young man with an ingratiating smile; he was sitting a row above them, and had heard their last words. “Women even are to fight with knives—indeed the condemned Nazarenes are more than half of them women.”

“And are they supposed to be able to defend themselves?” asked Lycoris. “Against lions and tigers?”

“As well as they may,” said the lad, shrugging his shoulders. “Some of the men are to have swords. I do not know whether the women are to be so armed.”

“What can it matter?” said Leaina. “They are bound to die as criminals.”

“Very true; and a few inches of steel cannot make much difference. Even Quintus Claudius, who is one of the strongest and best fighters in Rome, will find out the difference between a fight with a lion, and a wrestling-match in the ring at the baths.”

“I fancy the people will demand a pardon for him,” said Lycoris.

“Then Caesar will refuse it. If ever all means and ways were tried to save a man, they have been in his case. All he would concede was, that the criminal should be let off after conquering three beasts, and what that means no Roman needs be told.”

“True indeed!” sighed Lycoris. “A Gaetulian lion, and a little, short knife! It is as if I were to try to pull these walls down with my own hands.”

“A very good simile.—How often have we seen it from this very spot. The cleverest stroke—the knife to the hilt in the brute’s breast—never saves the man from being torn to pieces at last. And even if what seems impossible should happen once, how can we hope that the impossible should happen twice?”

A rattling roll of drums interrupted this dialogue. The roar of voices in the amphitheatre was suddenly hushed. The gates behind the gorgeous couch of state slowly opened, and Domitian, the awe-inspiring Emperor, who—as his flatterers expressed it—moved the world by a wink of his eyelash,[143] came forward in magnificent array, and took his seat on the decorated throne.

Domitia took her place on the Emperor’s right hand; the seat to the left remained vacant.[145] It had been intended for Titus Claudius Mucianus, the miserable man, who—but a few hundred paces distant from the scene of these hideous combats—was lying on a bed of anguish in a dark struggle with madness and death.

Among the suite, that followed Domitian, was Parthenius, as ever the perfect courtier and man of the world, smiling graciously, a very Sun of condescension and affability. Clodianus, too, upright and soldierly, only a little paler than usual; but perhaps his paleness was only a reflection from the velarium which, now that Caesar had taken his place, hung in a long curve over the arena, as though stricken with reverence.

The herald’s drum rattled once more. Horns and trumpets struck up, shrill, loud and exciting, as if the legions of the Republic were marching to meet Hannibal. Then, down in the arena, the doors were opened for the gladiators. Slowly and solemnly the combatants came out from their cells on to the scene of action; tall and powerful forms, mostly fair-haired, for the greater number were northerners by birth. They marched round the arena with defiant looks, and pausing in front of the imperial couch, they bowed and shouted in loud chorus: “Ave, Caesar, morituri te salutant!”[146] When they had all passed by, the manager of the ceremonies came forward, bowed to the sovereign, and said in a distinct voice:

“Marcus the Suevian will fight with Tumelicus the Cheruscan.” Wild, noisy music began to play, and the rest of the gladiators retired into the lairs, the master of the fights described with a staff the circle within which the struggle was to take place. The two gladiators were armed by slaves; they had helmets given them, and round shields, and short broadswords. Then again a drum gave the signal to begin.There was breathless silence. Often as the Roman populace had seen the bloody games of the arena, they never failed of their absorbing interest. The matrons and maidens, with their golden ornaments, forgot even the vicinity of their flattering gallants,[147] who till this moment had done their utmost to fulfil to the letter Ovid’s advice as to availing themselves of favorable opportunities.

Stealthily, like panthers waiting to spring, the combatants went towards each other; each was watching for an unprotected spot in his antagonist, while trying to expose himself as little as possible. They probably had known each other for some time; they had most likely lived for some months in the same barrack and been in daily intercourse; they perhaps had made friends—if the occupation of a gladiator could leave room for the feeling of friendship—and now they had but one idea: To kill, in order not to be killed.

There was a loud ring of metal; Marcus had dealt the Cheruscan a fearful blow on the helmet. Tumelicus nearly lost his balance; he withdrew a step or two, anxiously screening himself with his shield. Thus he recovered from the shock of the onslaught. He rushed forward, and retorted with a still more tremendous stroke. His attack was better than that of his opponent. The Suevian turned pale; the blow had shattered his sword and so severely wounded his right-hand, that it seemed impossible that he should defend himself any longer; he flung away his shield without more ado. A roar of mocking laughter from eighty thousand throats rent the air. He stretched out his arm and held up his thumb, in token that he acknowledged himself beaten and implored for mercy.

Fresh shouts of laughter! What, a man, whose clumsiness had so shamefully shortened their entertainment, could hope for mercy! How little he knew the Roman mob.

All the spectators’ thumbs were turned down,[148] as if at a preconcerted signal; there was not a single exception, and Leaina even put out both her fat little hands glittering with rings, to give emphasis to her demonstration.

Thumbs downwards, that meant death.

The hapless gladiator glanced despairingly upwards, as though to call on Heaven and the future to avenge his miserable fate. He panted for breath, and terrible anguish was depicted in his face. His thoughts flashed back perhaps, in that instant, far away to his German home, where a yellow-haired maiden sat sadly by the hearth, and his blind old mother wept for his return; away to the hills of the Black Forest, where in the happy days of his freedom, he had hunted the chamois and the wild goat, or gathered the alpine rose for a wreath for that golden head. He clenched his fist and his lips quivered. Then suddenly his expression settled into dull resignation; he bent his head and silently awaited his death-blow. He was too well schooled as a gladiator, not to know that, by all the rules of the art, he must yield and die.

Tumelicus came up to do the office of executioner; he drove his knife in just below the shoulder blade, into his antagonist’s heart. The Suevian fell on his knees, gazing fixedly at the ground. The Cheruscan slowly drew out his weapon, and a gush of blood sprinkled the victor with its red flood.

The air shook with the storm of applause; the Emperor himself approved. But it was especially the fairer portion of the spectators, who seemed beside themselves with delight. Leaina clapped so indefatigably, that it seemed doubtful whether she did it out of sheer pleasure, or rather to display her round, plump arms. Lycoris too, naturally swam with the stream, though less eagerly than her companion. She seemed somewhat languid and indifferent to-day.

When the storm of plaudits had somewhat subsided, a handsome youth, dressed as Mercury, appeared on the scene. He had silver sandals with wings; he carried an iron staff, red-hot at one end. It was his duty to touch the body of the fallen gladiator with the hot iron, to make sure that life was extinct. The Suevian, however, seemed still to breathe, though he had lost consciousness.

Mercury signed to a servant, who stood in the doorway with a shining axe in his hand, ready to give the ‘coup de grace’ to the victim. One mighty stroke—as a butcher might fell an ox—and all was over. Immediately a second ruffian came forward with a harpoon in his hand. He struck it into the bleeding corpse, with brutal force, and the remains of the hapless Marcus were dragged away to the Porta Libitinensis—the gate of the dead.

The whole scene was repeated twice more, and in neither case did the people respite the conquered victim. They seemed possessed with a special blood-thirstiness. It was not till the fourth scene, a tilting-match, when a rider, who was a favorite with the women, happened to be unhorsed, that their thumbs were turned up, so that the admired and splendid champion, who had so often proved victorious and the hero of many a gallant adventure, should be respited to achieve future deeds of valor. His antagonist’s lance had pierced his thigh; cries of “Habet,”[149] resounded from the upper galleries, and when the women had pronounced in his favor, three slaves came forward and carried him away with the utmost care.

These single combats on foot and horseback were only introductory. The fights with wild beasts were now to begin. When the servants had strewn the arena with sand[150] and, so far as possible, hidden the traces of blood, the master of the ceremonies appeared once more, and proclaimed: “The criminal, Calenus, condemned as a Nazarene, will fight with a mountain lion from Gaetulia.”

“Calenus, a wretch—one of the brood of traitors,[151] and a contemner of the gods!” said the stranger behind Lycoris.

The door opened, and two slaves led forward the tall, solemn figure of the sightless man, with his long snow-white hair. He held in his hands a wooden cross, the symbol of his faith, the only weapon that the tyrant’s ferocity had vouchsafed him.

“He was a soldier,” their unknown informant whispered, “and often punished for his insubordination. Let us see how he will behave himself now!”

“How can he fight?” said Lycoris, “he is blind. Only see how helplessly he stands there; he does not know which way to turn.”

“Blindness cannot save a criminal from punishment.”

“Punishment, by all means; but the master of the ceremonies said a fight!”

“Well, and why not?” said the young man scornfully. “The Nazarenes declare, that their cross is a mighty weapon, and that their God shows them a path even in darkness.”

Lycoris turned away; her eye fell on Barbillus. The handsome and expressive head of the oriental priest had a strange, fixed and lifeless look. And, in truth, the scene, which was now going forward in the arena, was well calculated to excite and impress such a man as Barbillus. He, absolutely bereft of convictions, felt the power of faith come home to his soul as a strange phenomenon. Brought up in his early youth by priests, and then trained at Athens in philosophy and sophistry, he had always been accustomed to regard everything supernatural from the vantage ground of mere self-interested trickery. The more devoutly and zealously his credulous followers gave themselves up to this jugglery, the more convinced he felt, that all faith was the result of a sickly hallucination—particularly in women, a disorder of the system, which must be dissipated like mist by the rough breath of reality. And that this ecstatic frenzy should carry grave and ripe men so far, that they could cling to it in defiance of the law of the land, and sacrifice their lives to a death of excruciating torment—this to the sensitive physique of the Asiatic was astounding, shocking! It was incomprehensible; a man—to all appearance a well-educated man, while his lofty brow indicated superior capacity—and that man believed! That man was at the point of death in witness of his belief—and he did not even tremble.

Barbillus pressed his hand to his heart, which seemed to be rising into his throat, and his breath rattled as he drew it.

The door, which barred the egress of the wild beasts from the dens, now opened. A lion came bounding into the arena, paused, looked round him, licked his fangs, and gave a mighty roar. Suddenly he started back a step or two. Calenus, who till this minute had stood upright, had dropped on to his knees; and clasping his cross with both hands, he held it up towards heaven, praying audibly:

“Jesus Christ, my Lord and Saviour! behold me about to die for Thy sake. And in dying I declare before all men: Thou alone art the Light and the Truth. O God, my God, have mercy upon me, for Thy Son’s sake, who died upon the cross for the redemption of the world.”

Dull murmurs, jeering laughter, and a few words of pity were heard as the blind man ended his prayer. The priest of Isis had turned paler than ever and perfectly rigid; he leaned forward; the veins in his forehead swelled, and his lips quivered. A thousand dancing flashes mocked his sight. His whole spirit was in torment under a fearful and paralyzing vision.The cross, which the blind-man raised skywards, seemed to grow till it was four, five times as tall as the kneeling man. The galleries of the amphitheatre were deserted. The senators and vestal virgins vanished in smoke; the Sovereign of the World and his court were lost in thin air; every living creature was swallowed up in the yawning depths of a vast gulf. The splendid arcades were empty and silent, the marble and stucco facings dropped away from the pillars, clinking as they fell, till the rough masonry and brickwork of the main structure stood unadorned and bare. Nettles, darnel and ferns sprouted from every seam. Crows and daws fluttered in flocks from arch to arch, filling the air with melancholy croaking—but still, down there in the arena, the cross stood up on its stone plinth, the triumphant emblem of a despised faith, whose adherents were torn to pieces to feast lions and tigers by Caesar’s commands.

Barbillus sat gazing at the awful picture, that his brain had raised, his eyes almost starting out of his head. He wanted to shriek, but he was speechless; only a choked rattle came from his lips, a groan of torture and terror. Utterly overpowered and bewildered, he covered his face with his robe. A roar of applause roused him from his trance, and he looked up once more. The hideous vision was gone. There sat Caesar on his purple throne, and the wind still flapped the waving screen. A hoarse growl resounded through the arena, the lion crouched for his spring, and in a moment was standing victorious over the body of his defenceless prey. Calenus was no more than a bleeding and lifeless mass.

Barbillus rose from his seat, tottering and half-stunned; the ground seemed to burn under his feet. He hastily made his way out. “When, when is this vision to be fulfilled?”[152] he asked in his trembling soul. Then he rushed home, bolted himself up in his room, and wrote:

“I, Barbillus, the priest of Isis, saw on the second day of the secular games, in the sixteenth year of Domitian, a wonderful vision—whether sent me by the gods (if gods there be), or a trick played me by some daemon. I thought I saw with these eyes things which were not there to be seen....” So he wrote, and told his story.

In the Flavian Amphitheatre meanwhile—the Coliseum as it is now called—the bloody festival goes on—only interrupted for a while by the dinner-hour—till supper-time puts an end to it for to-day.[153] Tired and exhausted, but not yet satiated with blood, the Roman people withdraw to the triclinium, to discuss the incidents of the day over sparkling Falernian or the muddy liquor of Veii. All are looking forward to the morrow, for each day of this glorious festival is to be more delightful than the last.

Lycoris and her friend went to Stephanus. Parthenius, Clodianus, and the colonel of the body-guard, supped with Caesar. Rome was quiet, Rome was happy. So, at least, said Clodianus in the speech in which he proposed health to Caesar, the glorious president over these unequalled centennial games, and drank it in Opimian wine.


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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