On the following morning, at the earliest gloaming, Quintus Claudius
was conducted from the dungeons of the Tullianum to the underground
cells of the Amphitheatre;[155] and with him were Cornelia and some of
the other Nazarenes. About fifty were reserved for the last days of the
festival.
The procession of the condemned moved silently along the Via Sacra;
as they passed through the arch of Titus and the yellow grey of the
eastern sky fell upon their faces, they looked like a file of corpses.
Cornelia was as pale as death, and her eyes looked larger than ever.
Only Quintus seemed to have lost little of his handsome and elastic
youthfulness during these months of imprisonment.
The prisoners were all, without exception, calm and composed. Even
those few who, when they first set out, had wept and lamented, soon
recovered their firmness when they saw that of their fellow-sufferers.
Cornelia herself was perfectly unmoved. Though she had no ground for
that happy assurance and sustaining comfort, which her companions
found in their confident faith, she was invincible through her
stolid contempt for life which, now that all hope was over, seemed
to petrify her spirit and her senses. To live without Quintus was
simply impossible. If Fate would not relinquish this victim, if the
dark sisters were inexorable to her overwhelming grief, she could
have but one wish: to die with the man she loved. To be free from
this torment, to vanish into nothingness; this was the one idea that
possessed her soul. Even the horror of the last scene of all--the
dishonor of standing as a spectacle to the gaping crowd, the agonizing
pain under the fangs of the beasts--of all this she took no account.
And so it came to pass that she, disbelieving and hopeless, she who
so lately tore her hair like one demented--now, on the road to death,
bore herself as bravely as the staunchest confessors of the Redeemer;
nay, more bravely than some. And the passing glance, a look from soul
to soul, that she had exchanged with Quintus as they came out of the
prison--the first for so many weeks--had only fanned this passionate
desire for annihilation and eternal rest to a fiercer flame.
That look had had a very different effect on her lover. After
struggling in the loneliness of a dark cell, and triumphing at length
over all that could chain him to life; after a hundred victories over
every torture of mind and body, won in the glorious name of duty; the
fervent Christian, who hoped confidently that the Son of God would
support those who endured such dreadful torment through faith in his
sufferings, and that he would, through these torments, work their
salvation--this unwavering hero quailed as at a new grief, when he
saw the wasted form of the beautiful young girl. For the first time,
since Caesar’s message of impossible respite had been brought to him,
the thought flashed through his brain: Three beasts! could it be hoped
for? But the flash vanished before it could dazzle him.--A gladiator's
short blade and a Gaetulian lion! Verily it was only adding mockery to
brutality, if Caesar called this mercy!
Nevertheless the idea had found place in his mind, and though his
reason rejected it at once and absolutely, it haunted the background of
his thoughts.
How greatly must Cornelia love him, if merely out of defiance, merely
to force him to recant, she could declare her adherence to the doomed
sect, whom in her heart she scorned. What self-immolation, worthy of
the highest crown. Or had a ray of that saving light fallen on her
heart? Quintus felt it a duty to be sure on this point. Now, in the
face of death, she could not deny the divine truth of the doctrine of
Salvation; if she still should do so, well, she must and should, at
that supreme moment, speak the truth--deny the faith, save her life and
learn to believe afterwards perhaps. He did not know, that Cornelia was
guilty also of attempting Caesar’s life; that corrupt witnesses had
represented this deed, not as a desperate stroke for self-defence, but
as an act of revenge for her uncle’s exile, and that the verdict had
pronounced it a crime in the first degree.
When they reached the vaulted cells of the Amphitheatre, the victims
were relieved of their fetters and well supplied with food and
drink, that they might not appear too miserable in face of the final
catastrophe; some, indeed, who refused to eat, were compelled to do so
by force. After this they were left to themselves. The two exits from
the vaults were barred and guarded on the outside.
Then many a heart-rending scene took place in those damp and
dimly-lighted caverns; in every corner there was a group, whispering,
praying, weeping.
On a stone bench near the chief entrance sat our worthy Diphilus, his
eyes fixed on his young wife, Euterpe, who was kneeling before him, her
face hidden in his lap.
“And you forgive me?” she sobbed; “you forgive me for everything? Oh
I have been very wicked; I have been a miserable sinner, and do not
deserve that you should call me your wife.”
Her husband gently stroked her hair, but he did not speak; he seemed
lost in thought. She, however, sobbed incessantly: “Forgive me, oh
forgive me!” Then clasping her hands, she prayed: "O God! All-merciful
Father, do not desert us! Have pity on Thy children for Jesus Christ's
sake! Almighty God, comfort us and have mercy on us!"
Presently she got up and sat down by the side of her speechless
husband; she threw her arms round him and kissed him.
“Tell me,” she whispered, and she shuddered, “what prayer shall I say
in the last awful moment, when they are tearing my limbs? But oh! it is
impossible; God can never leave us to die like this. No, He cannot, He
cannot. No earthly father would, why then should our Father in Heaven?
Say, Diphilus, he will send us an angel to bear us away to the land of
joy and peace? It is only to try us--say, Diphilus.”
“My poor child,” said Diphilus, and he broke into tears.
And then she began again, chattering in her sweet, silly way, till at
last, almost while she was speaking, her eyelids closed, and her head
sank gently on his breast; she was asleep--and in a few hours her round
young limbs were to be mangled by beasts of prey.
There was another couple of senatorial rank there besides Quintus
and Cornelia: the consul, Flavius Clemens,[156] a man of blameless
character and the highest merit, and with him his noble wife. Both in
calm and silent resignation had joined a group, that had gathered round
a girl of eight, who had sunk into a decline in consequence of her long
imprisonment. Her father, an artisan from the Subura, had carried the
poor child in his arms from one prison to the other. She was now half
sitting and leaning against the wall, looking round her with large,
ghastly-bright eyes, while her father held her hands and listened to
her words as though they were a revelation from Heaven.
“Do not cry, father dear,” she said coaxingly. “That good angel, that
has so often come to me, will not have your Cynthia torn by lions. He
is coming to fetch me away. There--there--where the wall is open and
you see the blue sky through--he is there in the sunshine.”
A faint smile fleeted across the wasted face, transient and melancholy
as the last rosy hue of an autumn sunset. She closed her eyes, but
opened them again at once in rapt ecstasy.
“Good-night, father,” she said with a sigh. “I am going first, up into
that bright and glorious heaven. When the time comes, and your heart is
breaking with terror and pain, remember me, father, and do not forget
that I shall be praying to God to give you strength and courage to
the last. Oh father, I thank you too for having loved me so much, and
for having taught me to know the Saviour, and taken care of me in all
your trouble. And I thank you too, dear good friends, and I will pray
to God for you all as well. What a glorious sight! I can see far, far
away into the gates of light. Yes, Angel of Hope, I am ready to follow
you. Kiss me, father, once more, for He has got my hand--He is flying,
dragging me up--up....” her arms fell into her lap, and she sighed
deeply. Then she lay still, as if she had gone to sleep.
“Cynthia, my child!” cried the father, and with a loud sob he pressed
the cold, slender hands to his furrowed face.
“She is dead!” he said. “God’s mercy has spared her the worst.”
The by-standers, who had so victoriously lived down their own
sufferings, stood deeply moved at the sight of the gentle, innocent
creature, that had been held captive like a criminal, and almost
literally tortured to death.
“It is well with her!” said Flavius Clemens, clasping his weeping wife
in his arms.
Calmer than all else, as it appeared, was the half-whispered dialogue
between Quintus and Cornelia. Each was endeavoring to utter what was
bursting their hearts, but in as indifferent a tone and with as little
gesture as possible, so as not to attract the attention of their
fellow-prisoners.
“Listen, Cornelia,” whispered Quintus, hardly daring to open his lips.
“You are here solely in the hope of urging me to recant. It is not
true, that you are really condemned to death?”
Cornelia looked him in the lace with a bitter smile.
“Of urging you to recant?” she repeated slowly. “Alas! if any
sufferings of mine could have softened your heart, we should never have
come to this! Why, you would see me torn to pieces ten times over by
wild beasts, before you would yield a jot of what you call the truth.
No, Quintus, it is quite true. You did not care to live with your
devoted Cornelia--very good; then if you must suffer death, Cornelia
dies too. It is as simple as a nursery rhyme.”
Quintus shuddered.
“But could any one condemn you?” he said. “You are not one of the sect.”
“I pronounced myself guilty--and they believed me.”
“Then you deceived your judges. Or has what was untrue become the truth
by the force of conviction?”
Cornelia haughtily shook her head.
“My dearest,” said Quintus, hardly able to control his grief, “you are
destroying my last hope of comfort. Ah Cornelia! if we could but have
died united in a common faith! But as it is, woe to us both, Cornelia;
your death is in itself a sin.”
“You alone are guilty of it.”
“I!” cried Quintus, in utter despair; his voice spoke grief too great
for words, and Cornelia’s eyes humbly implored forgiveness.
“But how can I force my heart to submit?” she said as gently as an
ill-used child. “Can I wish to live, if you die? Or again, can I
believe what my reason condemns as a fable? Oh! I am not laughing at
it, as I did when I first went to see you in prison! I feel now that
faith is an invincible force, and gives bliss and strength even in the
hour of death. And yet it seems to me a madness, a delirium of raving
fancy. No, I cannot believe, however much I may desire it. My faith in
Isis made me strong too--and it was all a lie, foul and base treachery.
Ah! Quintus, Quintus, you are sacrificing your young and promising life
for a mere dream, a delusion, a shadow--throwing everything away for an
empty bubble!”
“My poor Cornelia!” said Quintus deeply moved. “The greatest idea,
that ever dawned in the mind of man, you call a delusion and a
dream. It is true, perhaps, that many of the aspects under which
we shadow forth this great conception are petty and childish, for
we are but weak and helpless mortals. But the essential part, the
living principle which lies hidden behind these symbols, is true and
perfect to all eternity. Poor, hapless Cornelia; how will you find
courage to look death in the face; you, forsaken, alone, without a
Saviour--hopeless--speechless--when the Nazarene can joyfully murmur
the name of Jesus Christ? What prayer, what word of comfort can you
find to whisper in that awful moment?”
“Can you ask?” said Cornelia, looking into his eyes. “The last words,
that my lips will utter, will be your name, my first, last, only love.
My god, my saviour, is called Quintus Claudius.”
Quintus could control himself no longer; the tears started to his eyes.
He clasped her in his arms and covered her lips, cheeks and brow with
passionate kisses.
Thus they stood for a time in an oblivious embrace. Suddenly they heard
the roll of drums; a sudden terror fell upon the party of prisoners.
This drumming was the signal for the fights in the arena to begin. The
scattered groups drew closer together; the flute-player had sprung up
with a scream. Some of the men began to bewail themselves and lament
loudly, but the consul presently succeeded in controlling this outburst
of terror. In a firm, loud voice, he admonished his fellow-victims to
emulate the example of the Redeemer, and to remain steadfast through
all their torments, so that the sight of their unshaken courage might
win Him new disciples among the people. Then he told them how nobly the
servants of the Lord had died under Nero; how even when burnt by slow
fires, lighted by the hand of Caesar himself, with their latest breath
they proclaimed the truth in Christ Jesus. The prisoners listened with
growing devotion to his enthusiastic appeal, and the vault was as still
as the catacomb used to be, when the little congregation met there for
their Feast of Love.
When Flavius Clemens ceased, a strange sound fell on the ear; it was
the clapping and applause of the spectators, which was heard only as
lulled by distance, like the tramp of a horse’s hoofs over a wooden
bridge. The first scene of the bloody performance was over--a fight
probably, like that of yesterday, between two gladiators. The fatal
moment was drawing nearer and nearer.
Twice or thrice was this fearfully suggestive sound repeated, mixed
with confused shouts and wild laughter; heavy steps were heard in the
corridor and the principal entrance was unbarred.
The bravest quailed, paralyzed by terror, and stared with glassy eyes
at the door, which opened slowly, creaking on its hinges. An armed
soldier stood on the threshold, and two others were visible on the
steps that led up to the arena.
“Diphilus, the carpenter, and Euterpe, his wife!” cried the warden in
a harsh voice. Diphilus had started up the instant he heard his name
called. With his head bent forward, he fixed his gaze on the apparition
in the door-way as though he thought he might be dreaming. Euterpe had
crept behind him; like a child threatened with punishment, she hid
herself behind her husband’s stalwart form.
“Come on!” said the man. “Make haste! The people are waiting.”
“We are ready,” said the carpenter.
“No, no, no!” shrieked Euterpe wildly. “I will be hewn in pieces,
before I go up to that horrible blood-stained place. I cannot,
Diphilus--no, not if the Lord himself were to appear and command me.”
“Woman,” said the man-at-arms, “give over whimpering and do not keep me
waiting. There is no help for you now; and besides,” he added with a
jeer, “the beasts will only be all the hungrier.”
“Control yourself and pray to God,” whispered Diphilus.
“I cannot, I cannot,” sobbed Euterpe falling on her knees. “Why must I
die--and I am so young, and this world is a very pleasant one! Mercy,
for Christ’s sake have mercy! No, no, I am not a Christian. I am
innocent, indeed I am. I was misled--go and tell Caesar, tell the cruel
judges. I cannot die, I will repent before the altar of Jupiter--only
let me live, and my good honest Diphilus.”
“Miserable, weak creature!” said Flavius Clemens, going up to the
distracted woman and stroking her hair with a pitiful smile. “God will
forgive you for what you have said in your terror of death. It does not
come from your heart, and God is love.”
Then turning to the man he said: “Is it not possible to give her a
little longer time? If we came first--I and my wife?”
“Impossible,” said the man.
Meanwhile Diphilus had infused some little courage into the trembling
Euterpe. She got up, but her knees gave way. He took her up, more dead
than alive, and bursting into tears, clasped her in his arms.
The warden signed to his comrades; without saying a word they snatched
her from him. One of them, a red-haired Sicambrian, lifted up the
slender form of the weeping woman, as if she were a mere plaything, and
carried her up the steps. The other two followed with Diphilus, who
held himself bravely, and waved a farewell to those who remained behind.
The door fell to with a crash, and no sooner had the footsteps died
away, than they heard the signal drum. Most of the prisoners fell on
their knees at the horrible sound and raised their hands in passionate
supplication. Flavius Clemens, Quintus and Cornelia remained standing.
There was a breathless silence; lips moved but spoke not, only a
suppressed sob now and then broke the deathly stillness. Suddenly a
convulsive shudder thrilled the worshippers, the dull roar of a lion
was heard; involuntarily every eye was more fervently raised and hands
were clasped more tightly. Then there was a fearful shriek, shrill,
despairing, piercing--and then again the wild applause, the clapping,
shouting and laughter.
“That was Euterpe,” whispered Quintus, pressing his face against the
wall.
Nearly two hours went by, before the vault was opened again. The
interval was occupied by a series of combats on horseback in grand
classical style; and when the man next appeared he hailed twelve of the
Christians at once.
It was strange, but the victims were now all calm and composed. The men
and women, who at the first appearance of the messenger of death had
flinched and quailed, now only betrayed by their shortened breathing,
that the door that stood open before them led to death, and not to
liberty.
“The Lord give you strength!” cried Flavius Clemens as the door closed
upon them, and the remaining handful looked at each other with a sad
and wistful smile. Their number was greatly diminished; at every moment
the end drew nearer--nearer and more certain.
At noon the noble Flavius was led out to die, and a few minutes later
his wife followed him. Then the rest, till at last only Quintus and
Cornelia were left in the subterranean vault.
“They have reserved us for the last,” the girl began after a long
and painful silence. “The most effective piece to conclude, as the
connoisseurs say. Oh! Quintus, the disgrace is worse than the dread of
death. Tell me, my dear love, you will not give the mob the triumph
they long for, to see you fight like a gladiator? You will obey the
voice of pride, which bids us rather turn the sword with calm dignity
against our own breast?”
“I shall fight, Cornelia.”
“Miserable man!” she groaned, hiding her face in her hands. “No worthy
Claudius would say so! Or do you hope to be victorious over the lions?”
“I hope nothing, for I know that the short dagger is little better than
a toy. But so long as my arm can wield it, I have no right to drop it
out of self-conceit. If Providence has so willed, even that puny weapon
will avail to fell the foe....”
“You are mad--or rather, I see now your creed is indeed the creed for
slaves. It treads the pride of man into the dust.”
“True pride is that, which raises a man above all prejudice--which
teaches him to despise scorn and look down on contempt. I know but one
law--that of duty. But you, Cornelia, once more I implore you....”
The rattle of the bolts interrupted him; the dreadful moment had come.
For one second, breathless and with his eyes closed, he leaned against
the wall. Then he stood calm and defiant Cornelia flung her arms round
his neck.
“Say not another word, my own dearest love,” she said, with passionate
devotion. “I too know the duty of a true and loving heart. I follow you
joyfully, and my last breath is yours. Now be yourself, all yourself,
and never think again about me. If I were to be left alone in the
world--then indeed I might claim your tears; but, as it is, death cures
every ill.”
Quintus felt that Cornelia was equally right from her own point of
view, as he, as a Christian, was from his. He kissed her once more
on the white and trembling lips, which in happier days had spoken so
many a fond and tender word, blessed her for her heroic faithfulness,
swearing that in that other unknown land, where they would presently
meet again in glory, he would yet save the soul that was one with his
own.
Then he took her hand, and led her up the steps.
The little gate-way was thrown open, and they slowly stepped out on
to the arena. Whether it was the intense daylight after the dismal
twilight of the dungeon, or their own tension of nerve and sense--they
saw nothing; neither the endless ranks of seats, the thousands of heads
that filled the Amphitheatre to the top-most course, nor Caesar in his
gold-embroidered pulvinar. Everything swam before their eyes in a grey
mist, a blank chaos. They were alone, together, in the midst of this
vast multitude. At their feet spread the arena with its yellow sands,
like an island in an ocean.
Cornelia tottered; she would probably have lost consciousness if the
hard rattle of the drum, and immediately after the loud voice of the
master of the ceremonies proclaiming the names of the victims, had not
startled her into life again.
A servant came up to Quintus, and handed him the short dagger-like
sword.
“Be sure to throw it,” he whispered stealthily in his ear.
Quintus, who recovered an unhoped sense of self-protection as soon as
he felt himself armed, looked enquiringly in the fellow’s face.
“If you value your life,” the slave repeated, “throw at him, throw the
knife.” And he withdrew to his place behind the parapet.
What could he mean? No doubt, if Quintus were close to the lion, even
in the event of his striking a fatal blow, it might be considered
certain that in his very death-struggle the beast would mangle him.
Still, a stab must be surer to hit than a throw; besides which he might
be able to stab twice, he could not repeat the throw. The suggestion
then must be the malicious trap of some enemy, or at best the brutal
joke of a ruffian.
The doors at the farther end of the arena were now flung open, and an
enormous lion, all tawny gold, his wide head loaded with a thick and
flowing mane, came calmly and majestically out on to the arena. A large
black lock of hair hung over his eyes.
Quintus at once recognized that very beast, which had flung itself
so furiously against the bars of its cage as it stood on the quay at
Ostia. He clutched the handle of his weapon with a convulsive grip; it
suddenly felt so small, so ineffectual, that he thought the spectators
that sat watching must laugh at the absurdity.
Cornelia was standing a few paces to one side of Quintus, as pale and
motionless as a marble goddess.
The lion came deliberately towards them, and Quintus fixed his eye
steadily on the glaring eye of the foe. Suddenly the brute seemed to
hesitate. Could he have recognized the face, which had before so roused
his ferocity? He lashed his flanks with his sweeping tail, and foaming
slaver dripped from his jaws. The muscles of his huge paws twitched
to strike--and now he crouched to spring. Every sinew was strained,
and the next instant he flung himself straight at Quintus. At the same
moment Cornelia had thrown herself in the line of the brute’s attack,
while Quintus started aside. The girl’s unexpected movement may have
startled the beast; he sprang short, and fell on the ground very near
to Quintus, and as he fell the sword pierced his shoulder with such
force, that it went up to the hilt.
What was this? What an unheard-of stroke of skill! The knife had
hardly hit the lion, when he sank limp and helpless; he shuddered with
a tremendous convulsion, and then rolled over stark and stiff in the
sand.--He was dead.
Quintus could not believe his eyes--some demon, he thought, must have
tricked his excited senses. How was it possible? One of these monstrous
beasts, in whose side half a dozen of lances would sometimes be broken,
before their tenacious vitality was spent--and this sudden death had
resulted from a single stroke, though, it is true, a shrewd one?
But the uproarious applause of the crowd gave him no time to meditate
upon the miracle.
“Mercy for Quintus Claudius!” was shouted in a thousand voices, and
from every side.
“Caesar, release him! Pardon for Quintus Claudius!”
Pale as death, his lips set, his brows knit, Caesar sat impassible in
the midst of the storm. Clodianus went up to him and, with a meaning
smile, whispered something in his ear. Caesar angrily shook his
head.[157]
“Pardon for Quintus Claudius! Pardon for his betrothed!” rang
out incessantly, and louder than before, from every part of the
Amphitheatre.
“My lord and husband,” said Domitia, bowing with dignified and
well-feigned indifference to her frowning sovereign, “your clemency
will save him?”
“Never!” cried Domitian, rising from his seat.
He signed to the herald, and the tumult was hushed.
“Romans!” said Caesar in a voice like distant thunder. “You are
demanding mercy for a man, who pronounced his own sentence of death.
He had his life in his own hands. One word, one single word of
recantation, and he was free. His obstinacy refused to speak the word.
Romans, Caesar pardons none but those who repent.”
“None but cowards!” shouted a voice from the top-seats.
“Pardon for Quintus Claudius!” the shouting began again--the building
seemed to tremble at the terrific uproar.
“Quintus,” murmured Cornelia, closing her eyes, “speak the word,
that will set you free! You will not escape your fate a second time.
Quintus, if ever you loved me....”
A melancholy smile and a look of utter devotion were the only response.
Again Clodianus made some remark, in an undertone, to the wrathful
sovereign, and once more the herald commanded silence.
“I am merciful and kind,” said Caesar. “I am always glad to fulfil the
desires of my beloved Romans, so far as it is possible. But here I am
bound by duty. The utmost I can grant is a reprieve. For this day the
criminal is respited from carrying on the struggle. He may have time
to recover himself and collect his strength; then victory may crown
his efforts a second and a third time. Then, my faithful Romans, your
heart’s desire will be fulfilled, and the object of your sympathy will
be free!”
A murmur of discontent rose from the disappointed people; however, they
felt that any farther insistence would be useless, if not rash. They
had not failed to observe that, at the very beginning of the tumult,
Domitian had beckoned the commander of the body-guard to his side,
and when he was in this frame of mind some violent measures on the
Emperor’s part were only too probable.[158]
“Good counsel prevails over revenge,” said the voice from the upper
circle.
The master of the ceremonies hastened to lead Quintus and Cornelia
away. The dead lion, which lay with its long blue-black tongue hanging
out of its foaming jaws, was dragged off through one of the gates, and
the arena hastily strewn with fresh sand. A fight between a little
girl of thirteen and a dwarf[159] soon put the incidents of Quintus'
struggle out of the heads of the spectators, and by the end of the day,
when the whole arena was flooded with water and a magnificent naval
fight was performed,[160] few indeed remembered the brave youth and his
pale, beautiful companion.
Few--but still some did.
First of these was Caesar, who swore that he never would consent to
save the life of a man, whom Cornelia would follow to death rather than
enjoy the favors of Caesar. All the emptiness and nothingness of his
existence had come home to his conscience, as he looked on at that life
and death fight. He, who was only hated and feared, felt at that moment
a wild hunger for love and constancy; but this impulse, in itself
so purely human, at once assumed, in his degraded soul, the form of
aggravated vindictiveness.
Then, there was Domitia. Her hatred, which had long been dying out,
broke down altogether under the impression of what she had just
witnessed--even her hatred for Cornelia, her happy and envied rival,
over whose death in lingering torment the rancorous Empress had so long
gloated in fancy.
Shortly after the beginning of the naumachia Domitia quitted the
amphitheatre and returned to the palace, where her steward met her.
“Is my Lady and Mistress content?” he inquired in abject tones.
“Content?” repeated Domitia. “And is it any merit of yours if he won
the victory in an unequal fight?”
“Madam,” said Stephanus, “the time was short, and every effort to move
Caesar failed. I used the only means, that lay within my power. Or did
you really suppose, that a Gaetulian lion could be killed like a hare
with a nip of the hunter’s fingers? The dagger was poisoned.”
“Ah! I understand....” She would have said more, but Polycharma rushed
breathless into the room.
“I want Stephanus--a messenger from the amphitheatre....”
“Bid him come in,” said the Empress.
A young man handed a note to the steward. Stephanus turned pale as he
read it, and he closed his eyes as if blinded by a flash.
“Go, it is well,” he stammered, and he crushed the letter in his hand.
“What has happened?” asked Domitia.
“Madam--the worst that can happen. The master of the ceremonies
suspects--the trick is discovered.”
The Empress flushed crimson.
“Then you no longer have Quintus alone to save, but yourself too,
Stephanus. Your life is at stake as well as his. Remember, consider the
reward that awaits you! Let Rome perish if need be, but prevent that
last, worst....”
“You command, and I obey.”
FOOTNOTES:
[155] THE UNDERGROUND CELLS OF THE AMPHITHEATRE. The greater part
of what in our theatres we call “behind the scenes,” was
underground in the Roman amphitheatre; especially the cages
for wild beasts, and cells for condemned criminals. The
subterranean rooms in the Flavian amphitheatre are still
visible.
[156] THE CONSUL FLAVIUS CLEMENS AND HIS NOBLE WIFE. The wife of the
consul Flavius Clemens was a relative of Domitian. According
to Dio Cassius (LXVII, 14) she was called Flavia Domitilla,
According to this historian, she was not condemned to the wild
beasts, but only to exile at Pandataria. How near Flavius
Clemens originally stood to the emperor’s person, appears from
the narrative of Suetonius (_Dom._ 15,) where it is said, that
the emperor publicly designated the two sons of his cousin
Flavius Clemens, then little boys, to be his successors, and
therefore gave one the name of Vespasianus and the other that
of Domitianus, in place of the one hitherto borne. Besides,
according to Suetonius, the Christianity of Flavius Clemens is
not so clearly shown as my story supposes. See also note 137,
Vol. I, and note 131, Vol. II.
[157] CAESAR ANGRILY SHOOK HIS HEAD. Usually the emperors had
endeavored to heed the publicly-expressed wishes of the
people. Only Domitian and a few others were an exception.
Thus Suetonius (_Dom._ 13) states that Domitian, when the
audience at the combats in honor of the Capitoline Jupiter,
asked for the reinstatement of Palfurius Sura, who had been
expelled from the senate and now crowned as orator, did not
even vouchsafe an answer, but through the mouth of the herald
unceremoniously ordered silence. The compliance with the
demands of the audience at the circus, who required the recall
of the empress, described in this story (note 148, Vol. I.)
does not contradict this trait of character, for there the
emperor was bound by an express promise.
[158] SOME VIOLENT MEASURES ON THE EMPEROR'S PART WERE ONLY TOO
PROBABLE. Dio Cassius, LXVII, 8, gives us a striking example
of such violence towards the spectators at public games.
A terrible storm arose during a brilliant performance in
the circus. The wind howled, the rain poured in torrents,
but no one ventured to leave the place, even for the short
time necessary to get a cloak. The emperor himself, on the
contrary, constantly changed his upper garment. “Many” writes
Dio Cassius, “took cold and died.”
[159] A FIGHT BETWEEN A LITTLE GIRL OF THIRTEEN AND A DWARF. See
note 177, Vol. I. Also Dio Cass., LXVII, 8.
[160] A MAGNIFICENT NAVAL FIGHT WAS PERFORMED. The sea-fights
(_naumachia_) took place either in basins and ponds, specially
dug for the purpose, or in the arena itself, which by means
of the high state of perfection attained by the Romans in the
science of hydraulics, could be flooded in a few moments.