ROME
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Meanwhile the British slave, unconscious that he was already the object of
Valeria’s interest and Myrrhina’s admiration, was threading his way
through the crowded streets that adjoined the Forum, enjoying that vague
sense of amusement with which a man surveys a scene of bustle and
confusion that does not affect his immediate concerns. Thanks to the
favour of his master, his time was nearly at his own disposal, and he had
ample leisure to observe the busiest scene in the known world, and to
compare it, perhaps, with the peace and simplicity of those early days,
which seemed now like the memories of a dream, so completely had they
passed away. The business of the Forum was over: the markets were
disgorging their mingled stream of purveyors, purchasers, and idle
lookers‐on. The whole population of Rome was hurrying home to dinner, and
a motley crowd it was. The citizens themselves, the Plebeians, properly so
called, scarcely formed one half of the swarming assemblage. Slaves
innumerable hurried to and fro, to speed the business or the pleasure of
their lords; slaves of every colour and of every nation, from the
Scandinavian giant, with blue eyes and waving yellow locks, to the sturdy
Ethiopian, thick‐lipped, and woolly‐haired, the swarthy child of Africa,
whose inheritance has been servitude from the earliest ages until now.
Many a Roman born was there, too, amongst the servile crowd, aping the
appearance and manner of a citizen, but who shrank from a master’s frown
at home, and who, despite the acquirement of wealth, and even the
attainment of power, must die a bondsman as he had lived.
Not the least characteristic feature of the state of society under the
Empire was the troop of freedmen that everywhere accompanied the person,
and swelled the retinue of each powerful patrician. These manumitted
slaves were usually bound by the ties of interest as much as gratitude to
the former master, who had now become their patron. Dependent on him in
many cases for their daily food, doled out to them in rations at his door,
they were necessarily little emancipated from his authority by their
lately acquired freedom. While the relation of patron and client was
productive of crying evils in the Imperial City, while the former threw
the shield of his powerful protection over the crimes of the latter, and
the client in return became the willing pander to his patron’s vices, it
was the freedman who, more than all others, rendered himself a willing
tool to his patrician employer, who yielded unhesitatingly time,
affections, probity, and honour itself, to the caprices of his lord. They
swarmed about the Forum now, running hither and thither with the
obsequious haste of the parasite, bent on errands which in too many cases
would scarce have borne the light of day.
Besides these, a vast number of foreigners, wearing the costumes of their
different countries, hindered the course of traffic as they stood gaping,
stupefied by the confusing scene on which they gazed. The Gaul, with his
short, close‐fitting garment; the Parthian, with his conical sheepskin
cap; the Mede, with his loose silken trousers; the Jew, barefoot and robed
in black; the stately Spaniard, the fawning Egyptian, and amongst them
all, winding his way wherever the crowd was closest, with perfect ease and
self‐possession, the smooth and supple Greek. When some great man passed
through the midst, borne aloft in his litter, or leaning on the shoulder
of a favourite slave, and freedmen and clients made a passage for him with
threat, and push, and blow, the latter would invariably miss the Greek to
light on the pate of a humble mechanic, or the shoulders of a sturdy
barbarian, while the descendant of Leonidas or Alcibiades would reply in
whining sing‐song tones to the verbal abuse, with some biting retort,
which was sure to turn the laughter of the crowd on the aggressor.
If Rome had once overrun and conquered the dominions of her elder sister
in civilisation, the invasion seemed now to be all the other way. With the
turn of the tide had come such an overflow of Greek manners, Greek
customs, Greek morals, and Greek artifice, that the Imperial City was
already losing its natural characteristics; and the very language was so
interlarded with the vocabulary of the conquered, that it was fast
becoming less Latin than Greek. The Roman ladies, especially, delighted in
those euphonious syllables, which clothed Athenian eloquence in such
melodious rhythm; and their choicest terms of endearment in the language
of love, were invariably whispered in Greek.
That supple nation, too, adapting itself to the degradation of slavery and
the indulgence of ease, as it had risen in nobler times to the exigencies
of liberty and the efforts demanded by war, had usurped the greater
portion of art, science, and even power, in Rome. The most talented
painters and sculptors were Greeks. The most enterprising contractors and
engineers were Greeks. Rhetoric and elocution could only be learned in a
Greek school, and mathematics, unless studied with Greek letters, must be
esteemed confused and useless; the fashionable invalid who objected to
consult a Greek physician deserved to die; and there was but one
astrologer in Rome who could cast a patrician horoscope. Of course he was
a Greek. In the lower walks of criminal industry; in the many iniquitous
professions called into existence by the luxury of a great city, the
Greeks drove a thriving and almost an exclusive trade. Whoever was in most
repute, as an evil counsellor, a low buffoon, a money‐lender, pimp,
pander, or parasite, whatever might be his other qualifications, was sure
to be a Greek. And many a scrutinising glance was cast by professors of
this successful nation at the Briton’s manly form as he strode through the
crowd, making his way quietly but surely from sheer weight and strength.
They followed him with covetous eyes, as they speculated on the various
purposes to which so much good manhood might be applied. They appraised
him, so to speak, and took an inventory of his thews and sinews, his
limbs, his stature, and his good looks; but they refrained from accosting
him with importunate questions or insolent proposals, for there was a bold
confident air about him, that bespoke the stout heart and the ready hand.
The stamp of freedom had not yet faded from his brow, and he looked like
one who was accustomed to take his own part in a crowd.
Suddenly a stoppage in the traffic arrested the moving stream, which
swelled in continually to a struggling, eager, vociferating mass. A dray,
containing huge blocks of marble, and drawn by several files of oxen, had
become entangled with the chariot of a passing patrician, and another
great man’s litter being checked by the obstruction, much confusion and
bad language was the result. Amused with the turmoil, and in no hurry to
get home, the British slave stood looking over the heads of the populace
at the irritated and gesticulating antagonists, when a smart blow on the
shoulder caused him to wheel suddenly round, prepared to return the injury
with interest. At the same instant a powerful hand dragged him back by the
tunic, and a grasp was laid on him, from which he could not shake himself
free, while a rough good‐humoured voice whispered in his ear—
“Softly, lad, softly! Keep hands off Cæsar’s lictors an’ thou be’st not
mad in good earnest. These gentry give more than they take, I can promise
thee!”
The speaker was a broad powerful man of middle size, with the chest of a
Hercules; he held the Briton firmly pinioned in his arms while he spoke,
and it was well that he did so, for the lictors were indeed forcing a
passage for the Emperor himself, who was proceeding on foot, and as far as
was practicable _incog._, to inspect the fish‐market.
Vitellius shuffled along with the lagging step of an infirm and bloated
old man. His face was pale and flabby, his eye dim, though sparkling at
intervals with some little remnant of the ready wit and pliant humour that
had made him the favourite of three emperors ere he himself attained the
purple. Supported by two freedmen, preceded and followed only by a file of
lictors, and attended by three or four slaves, Cæsar was taking his short
walk in hopes of acquiring some little appetite for dinner: what locality
so favourable for the furtherance of this object as the fish‐market, where
the imperial glutton could feast his eyes, if nothing else, on the
choicest dainties of the deep? He was so seldom seen abroad in Rome, that
the Briton could not forbear following him with his glance, while his new
friend, relaxing his hold with great caution, whispered once more in his
ear—
“Ay, look well at him, man, and give Jove thanks thou art not an emperor.
There’s a shape for the purple! There’s a head to carry a diadem! Well,
well, for all he’s so white and flabby now, like a Lucrine turbot, he
could drive a chariot once, and hold his own at sword and buckler with the
best of them. They say he can drink as well as ever still. Not that he was
a match for Nero in his best days, even at that game. Ay, ay, they may
talk as they will: we’ve never had an emperor like _him_ before nor since.
Wine, women, shows, sacrifices, wild‐beast fights;—a legion of men all
engaged in the circus at once! Such a friend as he was to _our_ trade.”
“And that trade?” inquired the Briton good‐humouredly enough, now his
hands were free: “I think I can guess it without asking too many
questions.”
“No need to guess,” replied the other. “I’m not ashamed of my trade, nor
of my name neither. Maybe you have heard of Hirpinus, the gladiator?
Tuscan born, free Roman citizen, and willing to match himself with any man
of his weight, on foot or on horseback, blindfold or half‐armed, in or out
of a war‐chariot, with two swords, sword and buckler, or sword or spear.
Any weapon, and every weapon, always excepting the net and the noose.
Those I can’t bear talking about—to my mind they are not fair fighting.
But what need I tell _you_ all about it?” he added, running his eye over
the slave’s powerful frame. “I must surely have seen you before. You look
as if you belonged to the Family(2) yourself!”
The slave smiled, not insensible to the compliment.
“’Tis a manlier way of getting bread than most of the employments I see
practised in Rome,” was his reply, though he spoke more to himself than
his companion. “A man might die a worse death than in the amphitheatre,”
he added meditatively.
“A worse death!” echoed Hirpinus. “He could scarce die a better! Think of
the rows of heads one upon another piled up like apples to the very
awnings. Think of the patricians and senators wagering their collars and
bracelets, and their sesterces in millions, on the strength of your arm,
and the point of your blade. Think of your own vigour and manhood, trained
till you feel as strong as an elephant, and as lithe as a panther, with an
honest wooden buckler on your arm, and two feet of pliant steel in your
hand, as you defile by Cæsar and bid him ‘Good‐morrow, from those who have
come here to die!’ Think of the tough bout with your antagonist, foot to
foot, hand to hand, eye to eye, feeling his blade with your own (why a
swordsman, lad, can fence as well in the dark as the daylight!), foiling
his passes, drawing his attack, learning his feints, watching your
opportunity; when you catch it at last, in you dash like a wild‐cat, and
the guard of your sword rings sharp and true against his breastbone, as he
goes over backwards on the sand!”
“And if _he_ gets the opportunity first?” asked the slave, interested in
spite of himself at the enthusiasm which carried him irresistibly along
with it. “If your guard is an inch too high, your return a thought too
slow? If you go backwards on the sand, with the hilt at your breastbone,
and the two feet of steel in your bosom? How does it feel then?”
“Faith, lad, you must cross the Styx to have that question fairly
answered,” replied the other. “I have had no such experience yet. When it
comes I shall know how to meet it. But this talking makes a man thirsty,
and the sun is hot enough to bake a negro here. Come with me, lad! I know
a shady nook, where we can pierce a skin of wine, and afterwards play a
game at quoits, or have a bout of wrestling, to while away the afternoon.”
The slave was nothing loth. Besides the debt of gratitude he owed for
preservation from a serious danger, there was something in his new
friend’s rough, good‐humoured, and athletic manhood that won on the
Briton’s favour. Hirpinus, with even more than their fierce courage, had
less than the usual brutality of his class, and possessed besides a sort
of quaint and careless good‐humour, by no means rare among the athletes of
every time, which found its way at once to the natural sympathies of the
slave. They started off accordingly, on the most amicable terms, in search
of that refreshment which a few hours’ exposure to an Italian sun rendered
very desirable; but the crowd had not yet cleared off, and their progress
was necessarily somewhat slow, notwithstanding that the throng of
passengers gave way readily enough before two such stalwart and athletic
forms.
Hirpinus thought it incumbent on him to take the Briton, as it were, under
his protection, and to point out to him the different objects of interest,
and the important personages, to be seen at that hour in the streets of
the capital, totally irrespective of the fact that his pupil was as well
instructed on these points as himself. But the gladiator dearly loved a
listener, and, truth to tell, was extremely diffuse in his narratives when
he had got one to his mind. These generally turned on his own physical
prowess, and his deadly exploits in the amphitheatre, which he was by no
means disposed to underrate. There are some really brave men who are also
boasters, and Hirpinus was one of them.
He was in the midst of a long dissertation on the beauties of an encounter
fought out between naked combatants, armed only with the sword, and was
explaining at great length a certain fatal thrust outside his antagonist’s
guard, and over his elbow, which he affirmed to be his own invention, and
irresistible by any party yet discovered, when the slave felt his gown
plucked by a female hand, and turning sharply round was somewhat
disconcerted to find himself face to face with Valeria’s waiting‐maid.
“You are wanted,” said she unceremoniously, and with an imperious gesture.
“You are to come to my lady this instant. Make haste, man; she cannot
brook waiting.”
Myrrhina pointed while she spoke to where a closed litter borne aloft by
four tall Liburnian slaves, had stopped the traffic, and already become
the nucleus of a crowd. A white hand peeped through its curtains, as the
slave approached, surprised and somewhat abashed at this unexpected
appeal. Hirpinus looked on with grave approval the while. Arriving close
beneath the litter, of which the curtain was now open, the slave paused
and made a graceful obeisance; then, drawing himself up proudly, stood
erect before it, looking unconsciously his best, in the pride of his youth
and beauty. Valeria’s cheek was paler than usual, and her attitude more
languid, but her grey eyes sparkled, and a smile played round her mouth as
she addressed him.
“Myrrhina tells me that you are the man who brought a basket of flowers to
my house this morning from Licinius. Why did you not wait to carry back my
salutations to my kinsman?”
The colour mounted to the slave’s brow as he thought of Automedon’s
insolence, but he only replied humbly, “Had I known it was your wish,
lady, I had been standing in your porch till now.”
She marked his rising colour, and attributed it to the effect of her own
dazzling beauty.
“Myrrhina knew you at once in the crowd,” said she graciously; “and indeed
yours is a face and figure not easily mistaken in Rome. I should recognise
you myself anywhere now.”
She paused, expecting a suitable reply, but the slave, albeit not
insensible to the compliment, only blushed again and was silent. Valeria,
meanwhile, whose motives in summoning him to her litter had been in the
first instance of simple curiosity to see the stalwart barbarian who had
so excited Myrrhina’s admiration, and whom that sharp‐sighted damsel had
recognised in an instant amongst the populace, now found herself pleased
and interested by the quiet demeanour and noble bearing of this foreign
slave. She had always been susceptible to manly beauty, and here she
beheld it in its noblest type. She was rapacious of admiration in all
quarters; and here she could not but flatter herself she gathered an
undoubted tribute to the power of her charms. She owned all a woman’s
interest in anything that had a spice of mystery or romance, and a woman’s
unfailing instinct in discovering high birth and gentle breeding under
every disguise; and here she found a delightful puzzle in the manner and
appearance of her kinsman’s messenger, whose position seemed so at
variance with his looks. She had never in her life laid the slightest
restraint on her thoughts, and but little on her actions—she had never
left a purpose unfulfilled, nor a wish ungratified—but a strange and new
feeling, at which even her courageous nature quailed, seemed springing up
in her heart while she gazed with half‐closed eyes at the Briton, and
hesitated to confess, even to herself, that she had never seen such a man
as this in her life before. It was in a softened tone that she again
addressed him, moving on her couch to show an ivory shoulder and a rounded
arm to the best advantage.
“You are a confidential servant of my kinsman’s? You are attached to his
person, and always to be found in his household?” she asked, more with a
view of detaining him than for any fixed purpose.
“I would give my life for Licinius!” was the prompt and spirited reply.
“But you are gentle born,” she resumed, with increasing interest; “how
came you in your present dress, your present station? Licinius has never
mentioned you to me. I do not even know your name. What is it?”
“Esca,” answered the slave proudly, and looking the while anything but a
slave.
“Esca!” she repeated, dwelling on the syllables, with a slow soft cadence;
“Esca! ’Tis none of our Latin names; but that I might have known already.
Who and what are you?”
There was something of defiance in the melancholy tone with which he
answered—
“A prince in my own country, and a chief of ten thousand. A barbarian and
a slave in Rome.”
She gave him her hand to kiss, with a gesture of pity that was almost a
caress, and then, as though ashamed of her own condescension, bade the
Liburnians angrily to “go on.”
Esca looked long and wistfully after the litter as it disappeared; but
Hirpinus, clapping him on the back with his heavy hand, burst into a
hearty laugh while he declared—
“’Tis a clear case, comrade. ‘Came, saw, and conquered,’ as the great
soldier said. I have known it a hundred times, but always to men of muscle
like thee and me. By Castor and Pollux! lad, thou art in luck. Ay, ay,
’tis always so. She takes thee for a gladiator, and they’ll look at
nothing but a gladiator now. Come on, brother; we’ll drink a cup to every
letter of her name!”