_Of this Edition of Whyte‐Melville’s Works One Thousand and Fifty
Copies only have been printed by Morrison and Gibb Limited,
Edinburgh, who have distributed the type_
THE WORKS OF
G. J. WHYTE‐MELVILLE
EDITED BY
SIR HERBERT MAXWELL, BART.
VOLUME XXII.
THE GLADIATORS
[Illustration: Monogram]
[Illustration: ‘The Briton watching his opportunity seized the bit in
his powerful grasp.’]
THE GLADIATORS
A TALE OF ROME AND JUDÆA
BY
G. J. WHYTE‐MELVILLE
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY HARRINGTON BIRD
LONDON
W. THACKER & CO., 2 CREED LANE, E.C.
CALCUTTA: THACKER, SPINK & CO.
1901
_All rights reserved_
CONTENTS
EROS
CHAP. PAGE
I. THE IVORY GATE 1
II. THE MARBLE PORCH 6
III. HERMES 15
IV. APHRODITÉ 20
V. ROME 28
VI. THE WORSHIP OF ISIS 36
VII. TRUTH 46
VIII. THE JEW 55
IX. THE ROMAN 61
X. A TRIBUNE OF THE LEGIONS 71
XI. STOLEN WATERS 81
XII. MYRRHINA 86
XIII. NOLENS—VOLENS 95
XIV. CÆSAR 100
XV. RED FALERNIAN 108
XVI. THE TRAINING‐SCHOOL 117
XVII. A VEILED HEART 125
XVIII. WINGED WORDS 135
XIX. THE ARENA 144
XX. THE TRIDENT AND THE NET 155
ANTEROS
CHAP. PAGE
I. THE LISTENING SLAVE 163
II. ATTACK AND DEFENCE 172
III. “FURENS QUID FŒMINA” 179
IV. THE LOVING CUP 186
V. SURGIT AMARI 194
VI. DEAD LEAVES 200
VII. “HABET!” 209
VIII. TOO LATE 214
IX. THE LURE 221
X. FROM SCYLLA TO CHARYBDIS 229
XI. THE RULES OF THE FAMILY 238
XII. A MASTER OF FENCE 245
XIII. THE ESQUILINE 252
XIV. THE CHURCH 260
XV. REDIVIVUS 269
XVI. “MORITURI” 280
XVII. THE GERMAN GUARD 286
XVIII. THE BUSINESS OF CÆSAR 293
XIX. AT BAY 300
XX. THE FAIR HAVEN 307
MOIRA
CHAP. PAGE
I. A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF 311
II. THE LION OF JUDAH 321
III. THE WISDOM OF THE SERPENT 330
IV. THE MASTERS OF THE WORLD 338
V. GLAD TIDINGS 345
VI. WINE ON THE LEES 352
VII. THE ATTAINDER 360
VIII. THE SANHEDRIM 368
IX. THE PAVED HALL 376
X. A ZEALOT OF THE ZEALOTS 384
XI. THE DOOMED CITY 392
XII. DESOLATION 398
XIII. THE LEGION OF THE LOST 406
XIV. FAITH 416
XV. FANATICISM 423
XVI. DAWN 427
XVII. THE FIRST STONE 435
XVIII. THE COST OF CONQUEST 440
XIX. THE GATHERING OF THE EAGLES 446
XX. THE VICTORY 453
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
“THE BRITON, WATCHING HIS OPPORTUNITY, SEIZED THE BIT IN _Coloured
HIS POWERFUL GRASP” Frontispiece_
“‘HAVE AT HIM! GOOD DOGS!’” 2
“LICINIUS HOLDS THE BRITISH MAIDEN TO HIS BREAST” 63
“WITH A SHORT LABOURING TROT HE MOVES ACROSS THE ARENA” 150
“‘YOU ARE SAFE,’ SHE SAID” 197
“SHE WAS ACCOSTED BY A DARK SALLOW OLD WOMAN” 221
“HER EYES GREW DIM, HER SENSES SEEMED FAILING” 255
“‘THEIR POINTS ARE POISONED,’ HE SHOUTED” 304
“SHE WALKED BOLDLY UP TO HIM” 407
“SANK DOWN HELPLESS ON THE PAVEMENT AT HIS FEET” 439
THE GLADIATORS
THE GLADIATORS
*EROS*
CHAPTER I
THE IVORY GATE
[Initial D]
Dark and stern, in their weird beauty, lower the sad brows of the Queen of
Hell. Dear to her are the pomp and power, the shadowy vastness, and the
terrible splendour of the nether world. Dear to her the pride of her
unbending consort; and doubly dear the wide imperial sway, that rules the
immortal destinies of souls. But dearer far than these—dearer than
flashing crown and fiery sceptre, and throne of blazing gold—are the
memories that glimmer bright as sunbeams athwart those vistas of gloomy
grandeur, and seem to fan her weary spirit like a fresh breeze from the
realms of upper earth. She has not forgotten, she never can forget, the
dewy flowers, the blooming fragrance of lavish Sicily, nor the sparkling
sea, and the summer haze, and the golden harvests that wave and whisper in
the garden and granary of the world. Then a sad smile steals over the
haughty face; the stern beauty softens in the gleam, and, for a while, the
daughter of Ceres is a laughing girl once more.
So the Ivory Gate swings back, and gentle doves come forth on snowy wings,
flying upwards through the gloom, to bear balm and consolation to the
weary and the wounded and the lost. Now this was the dream the birds of
Peace brought with them, to soothe the broken spirit of a sleeping slave.
The old boar has turned to bay at last. Long and severe has been the
chase; through many an echoing woodland, down many a sunny glade, by copse
and dingle, rock and cave, through splashing stream, and deep, dank,
quivering morass, the large rough hounds have tracked him, unerring and
pitiless, till they have set him up here, against the trunk of the old
oak‐tree, and he has turned—a true British denizen of the waste—to sell
his life dearly, and fight unconquered to the last. His small eye glows
like a burning coal; the stiff bristles are up along his huge black body,
flecked with white froth that he churns and throws about him, as he offers
those curved and ripping tusks, now to one, now to another of his
crowding, baying, leaping foes.
“Have at him! Good dogs!” shouts the hunter, running in with a short,
broad‐bladed boar‐spear in his hand. Breathless is he, and wearied with
the long miles of tangled forests he has traversed; but his heart is glad
within him, and his blood tingles with a strange wild thrill of triumph
known only to the votaries of the chase.
[Illustration: “Have at him good dogs”]
Gelert is down, torn and mangled from flank to dewlap; Luath has the wild
swine by the throat; and a foot of gleaming steel, driven home by a young,
powerful arm, has entered behind the neck and pierces downwards to the
very brisket. The shaft of the spear snaps short across, as the thick
unwieldy body turns slowly over, and the boar shivers out his life on the
smooth sward, soft and green as velvet, that exists nowhere but in
Britain.
The dream changes. The boar has disappeared, and the woodland gives place
to a fair and smiling plain. Vast herds of shaggy red cattle are browsing
contentedly, with their wide‐horned heads to the breeze; flocks of sheep
dot the green undulating pastures, that stretch away towards the sea. A
gull turns its white wing against the clear blue sky; there is a hum of
insects in the air, mingled with the barking of dogs, the lowing of kine,
the laughter of women, and other sounds of peace, abundance, and content.
A child is playing round its mother’s knee—a child with frank bold brow
and golden curls, and large blue fearless eyes, sturdy of limb, quick of
gesture, fond, imperious, and wilful. The mother, a tall woman, with a
beautiful but mournful face, is gazing steadfastly at the sea, and seems
unconscious of her boy’s caresses, who is fondling and kissing the white
hand he holds in both his own. Her large shapely figure is draped in snowy
robes that trail upon the ground, and massive ornaments of gold encircle
arms and ankles. At intervals she looks fondly down upon the child; but
ever her face resumes its wistful expression, as she fixes her eyes again
upon the sea. There is nothing of actual sorrow in that steadfast
gaze—still less of impatience, or anger, or discontent. Memory is the
prevailing sentiment portrayed—memory, tender, absorbing, irresistible,
without a ray of hope, but without a shadow of self‐reproach. There is a
statue of Mnemosyne at one of the entrances to the Forum that carries on
its marble brow the same crushing weight of thought; that wears on its
delicate features, graven into the saddest of beauty by the Athenian’s
chisel, just such a weary and despondent look. Where can the British child
have seen those tasteful spoils of Greece that deck her imperial mistress?
And yet he thinks of that statue as he looks up in his mother’s face. But
the fair tall woman shivers and draws her robe closer about her, and
taking the child in her arms, nestles his head against her bosom and
covers him over with her draperies, for the wind blows moist and chill,
the summer air is white with driving mist, huge shapeless forms loom
through the haze, and the busy sounds of life and laughter have subsided
into the stillness of a vast and dreary plain.
The child and its mother have disappeared, but a tall, strong youth, just
entering upon manhood, with the same blue eyes and fearless brow, is
present in their stead. He is armed for the first time with the weapons of
a warrior. He has seen blows struck in anger now, and fronted the legions
as they advanced, and waged his fearless unskilful valour against the
courage, and the tactics, and the discipline of Rome. So he is invested
with sword, and helm, and target, and takes his place, not without boyish
pride, amongst the young warriors who encircle the hallowed spot where the
Druids celebrate their solemn and mysterious rites.
The mist comes thicker still, driving over the plain in waves of vapour,
that impart a ghostly air of motion to the stones that tower erect around
the mystic circle. Grey, moss‐grown, and unhewn, hand of man seems never
to have desecrated those mighty blocks of granite, standing there,
changeless and awful, like types of eternity. Dim and indistinct are they
as the worship they guard. Hard and stern as the pitiless faith of
sacrifice, vengeance, and oblation, inculcated at their base. A wild low
chant comes wailing on the breeze, and through the gathering mist a long
line of white‐robed priests winds slowly into the circle. Stern and gloomy
are they of aspect, lofty of stature, and large of limb, with long grey
beards and tresses waving in the wind. Each wears a crown of oak‐leaves
round his head; each grasps a wand covered with ivy in his hand. The youth
cannot resist an exclamation of surprise. There is desecration in his
thought, there is profanity in his words. Louder and louder swells the
chant. Closer and closer still contracts the circle. The white‐robed
priests are hemming him in to the very centre of the mystic ring, and see!
the sacrificial knife is already bared and whetted, and flourished in the
air by a long brawny arm. The young warrior strives to fly. Horror! his
feet refuse to stir, his hands cleave powerless to his sides. He seems
turning to stone. A vague fear paralyses him that he too will become one
of those granite masses to stand there motionless during eternity. His
heart stops beating within him, and the transformation seems about to be
completed, when lo! a warlike peal of trumpets breaks the spell, and he
shakes his spear aloft and leaps gladly from the earth, exulting in the
sense of life and motion once more.
Again the dream changes. Frenzied priest and Druidical stone have vanished
like the mist that encircled them. It is a beautiful balmy night in June.
The woods are black and silver in the moonlight. Not a breath of air stirs
the topmost twigs of the lofty elm cut clear and distinct against the sky.
Not a ripple blurs the surface of the lake, spread out and gleaming like a
sheet of polished steel. The bittern calls at intervals from the adjacent
marsh, and the nightingale carols in the copse. All is peaceful and
beautiful, and suggestive of enjoyment or repose. Yet here, lying close
amongst the foxglove and the fern, long lines of white‐robed warriors are
waiting but the signal for assault. And yonder, where the earthwork rises
dark and level against the sky, paces to and fro a high‐crested sentinel,
watching over the safety of the eagles, with the calm and ceaseless
vigilance of that discipline which has made the legionaries masters of the
world.
Once more the trumpets peal; the only sound to be heard in that array of
tents, drawn up with such order and precision, behind the works, except
the footfall of the Roman guard, firm and regular, as it relieves the
previous watch. In a short space that duty will be performed; and then, if
ever, must the attack be made with any probability of success. Youth is
impatient of delay—the young warrior’s pulse beats audibly, and he feels
the edge of his blade and the point of his short‐handled javelin, with an
intensity of longing that is absolutely painful. At length the word is
passed from rank to rank. Like the crest of a sea‐wave breaking into foam,
rises that wavering line of white, rolling its length out in the
moonlight, as man after man springs erect at the touch of his comrade; and
then a roar of voices, a rush of feet, and the wave dashes up and breaks
against the steady solid resistance of the embankment. But discipline is
not to be caught thus napping. Ere the echo of their trumpets has died out
among the distant hills, the legionaries stand to their arms throughout
the camp. Already the rampart gleams and bristles with shield and helmet,
javelin, sword, and spear. Already the eagle is awake and defiant;
unruffled, indeed, in plumage, but with beak and talons bare and whetted
for defence. The tall centurions marshal their men in line even and
regular, as though about to defile by the throne of Cæsar, rather than to
repel the attack of a wild barbarian foe. The tribunes, with their golden
crests, take up their appointed posts in the four corners of the camp;
while the prætor himself gives his orders calm and unmoved from the
centre.
Over the roar of the swarming Britons sounds the clear trumpet‐note
pealing out its directions, concise and intelligible as a living voice,
and heard by the combatants far and wide, inspiring courage and
confidence, and order in the confusion. Brandishing their long swords, the
white‐clad warriors of Britain rush tumultuously to the attack. Already,
they have filled the ditch and scaled the earthwork; but once and again
they recoil from the steady front and rigid discipline of the invader,
while the short stabbing sword of the Roman soldier, covered as he is by
his ample shield, does fearful execution at close quarters. But still
fresh assailants pour in, and the camp is carried and overrun. The young
warrior rushes exulting to and fro, and the enemy falls in heaps before
him. Such moments are worth whole years of peaceful life. He has reached
the prætorium. He is close beneath the eagles, and he leaps wildly at them
to bring them off in triumph as trophies of his victory. But a grim
centurion strikes him to the earth. Wounded, faint, and bleeding, he is
carried away by his comrades, the shaft of the Roman standard in his hand.
They bear him to a war‐chariot, they lash the wild galloping steeds, the
roll of the wheels thunders in his ears as they dash tumultuously across
the plain, and then ... the gentle mission is fulfilled, the doves fly
down again to Proserpine, and the young, joyous, triumphant warrior of
Britain wakes up a Roman slave.