THE ARENA
A hundred thousand tongues, whispering and murmuring with Italian
volubility, send up a busy hum like that of an enormous beehive into the
sunny air. The Flavian amphitheatre, Vespasian’s gigantic concession to
the odious tastes of his people, has not yet been constructed; and Rome
must crowd and jostle in the great circus, if she would behold that
slaughter of beasts, and those mortal combats of men, in which she now
takes far more delight than in the innocent trials of speed and skill for
which the enclosure was originally designed. That her luxurious citizens
are dissatisfied even with this roomy edifice, is sufficiently obvious
from the many complaints that accompany the struggling and pushing of
those who are anxious to obtain a good place. To‐day’s bill‐of‐fare is
indeed tempting to the morbid appetites of high and low. A rhinoceros and
tiger are to be pitted against each other; and it is hoped that,
notwithstanding many recent failures in such combats, these two beasts may
be savage enough to afford the desired sport. Several pairs of gladiators,
at least, are to fight to the death, besides those on whom the populace
may show mercy, or from whom they may withhold it at will. In addition to
all this, it has been whispered that one well‐known patrician intends to
exhibit his prowess on the deadly stage. Much curiosity is expressed, and
many a wager has been already laid, on his name, his skill, the nature of
his conflict, and the chances of his success. Though the circus be large
enough to contain the population of a thriving city, no wonder that it is
to‐day full to the very brim. As usual in such assemblages, the hours of
waiting are lightened by eating and drinking, by jests, practical and
otherwise, by remarks, complimentary, sarcastic, or derisive, on the
several notabilities who enter at short intervals, and take their places
with no small stir and assumption of importance. The nobility and
distinguished characters of this dissolute age are better known than
respected by their plebeian fellow‐citizens.
There is, however, one exception. Though Valeria’s Liburnians lay
themselves open to no small amount of insolence, by the emphatic manner in
which they make way for their mistress, as she proceeds with her usual
haughty bearing to her place near the patrician benches—an insolence of
which some of the more pointed missiles do not spare the scornful beauty
herself—it is no sooner observed that she is accompanied by her kinsman,
Licinius, than a change comes over the demeanour even of those who feel
themselves most aggrieved, by being elbowed out of their places, and
pushed violently against their neighbours, while admiring glances and a
respectful silence denote the esteem in which the Roman general is held by
high and low.
It wants a few minutes yet of noon. The southern sun, though his intensity
is modified by canvas awnings stretched over the spectators wherever it is
possible to afford them shade, lights and warms up every nook and cranny
of the amphitheatre; gleams in the raven hair of the Campanian matron, and
the black eyes of the astonished urchin in her arms; flashes off the
golden bosses that stud the white garments on the equestrian benches;
bleaches the level sweep of sand so soon to bear the prints of mortal
struggle, and flooding the lofty throne where Cæsar sits in state, deepens
the broad crimson hem that skirts his imperial garment, and sheds a
deathlike hue over the pale bloated face, which betrays even now no sign
of interest, or animation, or delight. Vitellius attends these brutal
exhibitions with the same immobility that characterises his demeanour in
almost all the avocations of life. The same listlessness, the same weary
vacancy of expression, pervades his countenance here, as in the senate or
the council. His eye never glistens but at the appearance of a favourite
dish; and the emperor of the world can only be said to _live_ once in the
twenty‐four hours, when seated at the banquet.
Insensibility seems, however, in all ages to be an affectation of the
higher classes; and here, while the plebeians wrangle, and laugh, and
chatter, and gesticulate, the patricians are apparently bent on proving
that amusement is for them a simple impossibility, and suffering or
slaughter matters of the most profound indifference. And on common
occasions who so impassible, so cold, so unmoved by all that takes place
around her, as the haughty Valeria? but to‐day there is an unusual gleam
in the grey eyes, a quiver of the lip, a fixed red spot on either cheek;
adding new charms to her beauty, not lost upon the observers who surround
her.
Quoth Damasippus to Oarses (for the congenial rogues stand, as usual,
shoulder to shoulder)—
“I would not that the patron saw her now. I never knew her look so fair as
this. Locusta must have left her the secret of her love philtres.”
“Oh, innocent!” replies the other. “Knowest thou not that the patron
fights to‐day? Seest thou her restless hands, and that fixed smile, like
the mask of an old Greek player? She loves him; trust me, therefore, she
has lost her power, were she subtle as Arachne. Dost not know the patron?
To do him justice, he never prizes the stakes when he has won the game.”
And the two fall to discussing the dinner they have brought with them, and
think they are perfectly familiar with the intricacies of a woman’s
feelings. Meantime Valeria seems to cling to Licinius as though there were
some spell in her kinsman’s presence to calm that beating heart of which
she is but now beginning to learn the wayward and indomitable nature. For
the twentieth time she asks: “Is he prepared at all points? Does he know
every feint of the deadly game? Are his health and strength as perfect as
training can make them? And oh, my kinsman! is he confident in himself?
Does he feel sure that he will win?”
To which questions, Licinius, though wondering at the interest she betrays
in such a matter, answers as before—
“All that skill, and science, and Hippias can do, has been done. He has
the advantage in strength, speed, and height. Above all, he has the
courage of his nation. As they get fiercer they get cooler, and they are
never so formidable as when you deem them vanquished. I could not sit here
if I thought he would be worsted.”
Then Valeria took comfort for a while, but soon she moved restlessly on
her cushions.
“How I wish they would begin!” said she; yet every moment of delay seemed
at the same time to be a respite of priceless value, even while it added
to the torture of suspense.
Many hearts were beating in that crowd with love, hope, fear, and anxiety;
but perhaps none so wildly as those of two women, separated but by a few
paces, and whose eyes some indefinable attraction seemed to draw
irresistibly towards each other. While Valeria, in common with many ladies
of distinction, had encroached upon the space originally allotted to the
vestal virgins, and established, by constant attendance in the
amphitheatre, a prescriptive right to a cushioned seat for herself and her
friends, women of lower rank were compelled to station themselves in an
upper gallery allotted to them, or to mingle on sufferance with the crowd
in the lower tier of places, where the presence of a male companion was
indispensable for protection from annoyance, and even insult.
Nevertheless, within speaking distance of the haughty Roman lady stood
Mariamne, accompanied by Calchas, trembling with fear and excitement in
every limb, yet turning her large dark eyes upon Valeria, with an
expression of curiosity and interest that could only have been aroused by
an instinctive consciousness of feelings common to both. The latter, too,
seemed fascinated by the gaze of the Jewish maiden, now bending on her a
haughty and inquiring glance, anon turning away with a gesture of affected
disdain; but never unobservant, for many seconds together, of the dark
pale beauty and her venerable companion.
When she was at last fairly wedged in amongst the crowd, Mariamne could
hardly explain to herself how she came there. It had been with great
difficulty that she persuaded Calchas to accompany her; and, indeed,
nothing but his interest in Esca, and the hope that he might, even here,
find some means of doing good, would have tempted the old man into such a
scene. It was with many a burning blush and painful thrill that she
confessed to herself, she must go mad with anxiety were she absent from
the death‐struggle to be waged by the man whom she now knew she loved so
dearly; and it was with a wild defiant recklessness that she resolved if
aught of evil should befall him to give herself up thenceforth to despair.
She felt as if she was in a dream; the sea of faces, the jabber of
tongues, the strange novelty of the spectacle, confused and wearied her;
yet through it all Valeria’s eye seemed to look down on her with an
ominous boding of ill; and when, with an effort, she forced her senses
back into self‐consciousness, she felt so lonely, so frightened, and so
unhappy, that she wished she had never come.
And now, with peal of trumpets and clash of cymbals, a burst of wild
martial music rises above the hum and murmur of the seething crowd. Under
a spacious archway, supported by marble pillars, wide folding‐doors are
flung open, and two by two, with stately step and slow, march in the
gladiators, armed with the different weapons of their deadly trade. Four
hundred men are they, in all the pride of perfect strength and symmetry,
and high training, and practised skill. With head erect and haughty
bearing, they defile once round the arena, as though to give the
spectators an opportunity of closely scanning their appearance, and halt
with military precision to range themselves in line under Cæsar’s throne.
For a moment there is a pause and hush of expectation over the multitude,
while the devoted champions stand motionless as statues in the full glow
of noon; then bursting suddenly into action, they brandish their gleaming
weapons over their heads, and higher, fuller, fiercer, rises the terrible
chant that seems to combine the shout of triumph with the wail of
suffering, and to bid a long and hopeless farewell to upper earth, even in
the very recklessness and defiance of its despair—
“Ave, Cæsar! Morituri te salutant!”
Then they wheel out once more, and range themselves on either side of the
arena; all but a chosen band who occupy the central place of honour, and
of whom every second man at least is doomed to die. These are the picked
pupils of Hippias; the quickest eyes and the readiest hands in the Family;
therefore it is that they have been selected to fight by pairs to the
death, and that it is understood no clemency will be extended to them from
the populace.
With quickened breath and eager looks, Valeria and Mariamne scan their
ranks in search of a well‐known figure: both feel it to be a questionable
relief that he is not there; but the Roman lady tears the edge of her
mantle to the seam, and the Jewish girl offers an incoherent prayer in her
heart, for she knows not what.
Esca’s part is not yet to be performed, and he is still in the background,
preparing himself carefully for the struggle. The rest of the Family,
however, muster in force. Tall Rufus stalks to his appointed station with
a calm business‐like air that bodes no good to his adversary, whoever he
may be. He has fought too often not to feel confident in, his own
invincible prowess; and when compelled to despatch a fallen foe, he will
do it with sincere regret, but none the less dexterously and effectually
for that. Hirpinus, too, assumes his usual air of jovial hilarity. There
is a smile on his broad good‐humoured face; and though, notwithstanding
the severity of his preparation, his huge muscles are still a trifle too
full and lusty, he will be a formidable antagonist for any fighter whose
proportions are less than those of a Hercules. As the crowd pass the
different combatants in review, none, with the exception perhaps of Rufus,
have more backers than their old favourite. Lutorius, too, notwithstanding
his Gallic origin, which places him but one remove, as it were, from a
barbarian, finds no slight favour with those who pride themselves on their
experience in such matters. His great activity and endurance, combined
with thorough knowledge of his weapon, have made him the victor in many a
public contest. As Damasippus observes to his friend, “Lutorius can always
tire out an adversary and despatch him at leisure;” to which Oarses
replies, “If he be pitted to‐day against Manlius, I will wager thee a
thousand sesterces blood is not drawn in the first three assaults.”
The pairs had already been decided by lot; but amongst the score of
combatants who were to fight to the death, these formidable champions were
the most celebrated, and as such the especial favourites of the populace.
Certain individuals in the crowd, who were sufficiently familiar with the
gladiators to exchange a word of greeting, and to call them by their
names, derived, in consequence, no small increase of importance amongst
the bystanders. The swordsmen, although now ranged in order round the
arena, are destined, for a time at least, to remain inactive. The sports
are to commence with a combat between a lately imported rhinoceros, and a
Libyan tiger, already familiarly known to the public, as having destroyed
two or three Christian victims and a negro slave. It is only in the event
of these animals being unwilling to fight, or becoming dangerous to the
spectators, that Hippias will call in the assistance of his pupils for
their destruction. In the meantime, they have an excellent view of the
conflict, though perhaps it might be seen in greater comfort from the
farther and safer side of the barrier.
Vitellius, with a feeble inclination of his head, signs to begin, and a
portable wooden building which has been wheeled into the lists, creating
no little curiosity, is now taken to pieces by a few strokes of the
hammer. As the slaves carry away the dismembered boards, with the rapidity
of men in terror of their lives, a huge, unwieldy beast stands disclosed,
and the rhinoceros of which they have been talking for the last week
bursts on the delighted eyes of the Roman public. These are perhaps a
little disappointed at first, for the animal seems peaceably, not to say
indolently, disposed. Taking no notice of the shouts which greet his
appearance, he digs his horned muzzle into the sand in search of food, as
though secure in the overlapping plates of armour that sway loosely on his
enormous body, with every movement of his huge ungainly limbs. So intent
are the spectators on this rare monster, that their attention is only
directed to the farther end of the arena by the restlessness which the
rhinoceros at length exhibits. He stamps angrily with his broad flat feet,
his short pointed tail is furiously agitated, and the gladiators who are
near him observe that his little eye is glowing like a coal. A long, low,
dark object lies coiled up under the barrier as though seeking shelter,
nor is it till the second glance that Valeria, whose interest, in common
with that of the multitude, is fearfully excited, can make out the
fawning, cruel head, the glaring eyes, and the striped sinewy form of the
Libyan tiger.
In vain the people wait for him to commence the attack. Although he is
sufficiently hungry, having been kept for more than a day without food, it
is not his nature to carry on an open warfare. Damasippus and Oarses jeer
him loudly as he skulks under the barrier; and Calchas cannot forbear
whispering to Mariamne, that “a curse has been on the monster since he
tore the brethren limb from limb, in that very place, for the glory of the
true faith.” The rhinoceros, however, seems disposed to take the
initiative; with a short labouring trot he moves across the arena, leaving
such deep footprints behind him, as sufficiently attest his enormous bulk
and weight. There is a flash like real fire from the tiger’s eyes,
hitherto only sullen and watchful—his waving tail describes a semicircle
in the sand—and he coils himself more closely together, with a deep low
growl; even now he is not disposed to fight save at an advantage.
[Illustration: ‘with a short labouring trot he moves across the arena.’]
A hundred thousand pairs of eyes, straining eagerly on the combatants,
could scarce detect the exact moment at which that spring was made. All
they can now discern is the broad mailed back of the rhinoceros swaying to
and fro, as he kneels upon his enemy, and the grating of the tiger’s claws
against the huge beast’s impenetrable armour can be heard in the farthest
corner of the gallery that surrounds the amphitheatre. The leap was made
as the rhinoceros turned his side for an instant towards his adversary;
but with a quickness marvellous in a beast of such prodigious size, he
moved his head round in time to receive it on the massive horn that armed
his nose, driving the blunt instrument, from sheer muscular strength,
right through the body of the tiger, and finishing his work by falling on
him with his knees, and pressing his life out under that enormous weight.
Then he rose unhurt, and blew the sand out of his nostrils, and left, as
it seemed, unwillingly, the flattened, crushed, and mangled carcass,
turning back to it once and again, with a horrible, yet ludicrous,
pertinacity, ere he suffered the Ethiopians who attended him to lure him
out of the amphitheatre with a bundle or two of green vegetable food.
The people shouted and applauded loudly. Blood had been drawn, and their
appetite was sharpened for slaughter. It was with open undisguised
satisfaction that they counted the pairs of gladiators, and looked forward
to the next act of the entertainment.
Again the trumpets sound, and the swordsmen range themselves in opposite
bodies, all armed alike with a deep concave buckler, and a short,
stabbing, two‐edged blade; but distinguished by the colour of their
scarves. Wagers are rapidly made on the green and the red; so skilfully
has the experienced Hippias selected and matched the combatants, that the
oldest patrons of the sport confess themselves at a loss which to choose.
The bands advance against each other, three deep, in imitation of the real
soldiers of the empire. At the first crash of collision, when steel begins
to clink, as thrust and blow and parry are exchanged by these practised
warriors, the approbation of the spectators rises to enthusiasm; but men’s
voices are hushed, and they hold their breath when the strife begins to
waver to and fro, and the ranks open out and disengage themselves, and
blood is to be seen in patches on those athletic frames, and a few are
already down, lying motionless where they fell. The green is giving way,
but their third rank has been economised, and its combatants are as yet
fresh and untouched; these now advance to fill the gaps made among their
comrades, and the fortunes of the day seem equalised once more.
And now the arena becomes a ghastly and forbidding sight; they die hard,
these men, whose very trade is slaughter; but mortal agony cannot always
suppress a groan, and it is pitiful to see some prostrate giant,
supporting himself painfully on his hands, with drooping head and fast‐
closing eye fixed on the ground, while the life‐stream is pouring from his
chest into the thirsty sand. It is real sad earnest, this representation
of war, and resembles the battle‐field in all save that no prisoners are
taken and quarter is but rarely given. Occasionally, indeed, some
vanquished champion, of more than common beauty, or who has displayed more
than common address and courage, so wins on the favour of the spectators,
that they sign for his life to be spared. Hands are turned outwards, with
the thumb pointing to the earth, and the victor sheathes his sword, and
retires with his worsted antagonist from the contest; but more generally
the fallen man’s signal for mercy is neglected; ere the shout “A hit!” has
died upon his ears, his despairing eye marks the thumbs of his judges
pointing upwards, and he disposes himself to welcome the steel with a calm
courage, worthy of a better cause.
The reserve, consisting of ten pairs of picked gladiators, has not yet
been engaged. The green and the red have fought with nearly equal success;
but when the trumpet has sounded a halt, and the dead have been dragged
away by grappling‐hooks, leaving long tracks of crimson in their wake, a
careful enumeration of the survivors gives the victory by one to the
latter colour. Hippias, coming forward in a suit of burnished armour,
declares as much, and is greeted with a round of applause. In all her
preoccupation, Valeria cannot refrain from a glance of approval at the
handsome fencing‐master; and Mariamne, who feels that Esca’s life hangs on
the man’s skill and honesty, gazes at him with mingled awe and horror, as
on some being of another world. But the populace have little inclination
to waste the precious moments in cheering Hippias, or in calculating loss
and gain. Fresh wagers are, indeed, made on the matches about to take
place; but the prevailing feeling over that numerous assemblage is one of
morbid excitement and anticipation. The ten pairs of men now marching so
proudly into the centre of the lists, are pledged to fight to the death.
It would be a disgusting task to detail the scene of bloodshed; to dwell
on the fierce courage wasted, and the brutal useless slaughter perpetrated
in those Roman shambles; yet, sickening as was the sight, so inured were
the people to such exhibitions, so completely imbued with a taste for the
horrible, and so careless of human life, that scarcely an eye was turned
away, scarcely a cheek grew paler, when a disabling gash was received, or
a mortal blow driven home; and mothers with babies in their arms would bid
the child turn its head to watch the death‐pang on the pale stern face of
some prostrate gladiator.
Licinius had looked upon carnage in many forms, yet a sad, grave
disapproval sat on the general’s noble features. Once, after a glance at
his kinswoman’s eager face, he turned from her with a gesture of anger and
disgust; but Valeria was too intent upon the scene enacted within a few
short paces to spare attention for anything besides, except, perhaps, the
vague foreboding of evil that was gnawing at her heart, and to which such
a moment of suspense as the present afforded a temporary relief.
Rufus and Manlius had been pitted against each other by lot. The taller
frame and greater strength of the former were supposed to be balanced by
the latter’s exquisite skill. Collars and bracelets were freely offered at
even value amongst the senators and equestrians on each. While the other
pairs were waging their strife with varying success in different parts of
the amphitheatre, these had found themselves struggling near the barrier
close under the seat occupied by Valeria. She could hear distinctly their
hard‐drawn breath; could read on each man’s face the stern set expression
of one who has no hope save in victory; for whom defeat is inevitable and
instant death. No wonder she sat, so still and spell‐bound, with her pale
lips parted and her cold hands clenched.
The blood was pouring from more than one gash on the giant’s naked body,
yet Rufus seemed to have lost neither coolness nor strength. He continued
to ply his adversary with blow on blow, pressing him, and following him
up, till he drove him nearly against the barrier. It was obvious that
Manlius, though still unwounded, was overmatched and overpowered. At
length Valeria drew in her breath with a gasp, as if in pain. It seemed as
if she, the spectator, winced from that fatal thrust, which was accepted
so calmly by the gladiator whom it pierced. Rufus could scarcely believe
he had succeeded in foiling his adversary’s defence, and driving it deftly
home, so unmoved was the familiar face looking over its shield into his
own—so steady and skilful was the return which instantaneously succeeded
his attack. But that face was growing paler and paler with every
pulsation. Valeria, gazing with wild fixed eyes, saw it wreathed in a
strange sad smile, and Manlius reeled and fell where he stood, breaking
his sword as he went down, and burying it beneath his body in the sand.
The other strode over him in act to strike. A natural impulse of habit or
self‐preservation bade the fallen man half raise his arm, with the gesture
by which a gladiator was accustomed to implore the clemency of the
populace, but he recollected himself, and let it drop proudly by his side.
Then he looked kindly up in his victor’s face.
“Through the heart, comrade,” said he quietly, “for old friendship’s
sake;” and he never winced nor quailed when the giant drove the blow home
with all the strength that he could muster.
They had fed at the same board, and drunk from the same winecup for years;
and this was all he had it in his power to bestow upon his friend. The
people applauded loudly, but Valeria, who had heard the dead man’s last
appeal, felt her eyes fill with tears; and Mariamne, who had raised her
head to look, at this unlucky moment, buried it once more in her kinsman’s
cloak, sick and trembling, ready to faint with pity, and dismay, and fear.