Chapter XVII

A CHANCE FOR GLAUCUS.

THE hours passed in lingering torture over the head of Nydia from the

time in which she had been replaced in her cell.

Sosia, as if afraid he should be again outwitted, had refrained from

visiting her until late in the morning of the following day, and then he

but thrust in the periodical basket of food and wine, and hastily

reclosed the door. That day rolled on, and Nydia felt herself

pent--barred--inexorably confined, when that day was the judgment-day of

Glaucus, and when her release would have saved him! Yet knowing, almost

impossible as seemed her escape, that the sole chance for the life of

Glaucus rested on her, this young girl, frail, passionate, and acutely

susceptible as she was--resolved not to give way to a despair that would

disable her from seizing whatever opportunity might occur. She kept her

senses whenever, beneath the whirl of intolerable thought, they reeled

and tottered; nay, she took food and wine that she might sustain her

strength--that she might be prepared!

She revolved scheme after scheme of escape, and was forced to dismiss

all. Yet Sosia was her only hope, the only instrument with which she

could tamper. He had been superstitious in the desire of ascertaining

whether he could eventually purchase his freedom. Blessed gods! might

he not be won by the bribe of freedom itself? was she not nearly rich

enough to purchase it? Her slender arms were covered with bracelets, the

presents of Ione; and on her neck she yet wore that very chain which, it

may be remembered, had occasioned her jealous quarrel with Glaucus, and

which she had afterwards promised vainly to wear for ever. She waited

burningly till Sosia should again appear: but as hour after hour passed,

and he came not, she grew impatient. Every nerve beat with fever; she

could endure the solitude no longer--she groaned, she shrieked

aloud--she beat herself against the door. Her cries echoed along the

hall, and Sosia, in peevish anger, hastened to see what was the matter,

and silence his prisoner if possible.

'Ho! ho! what is this?' said he, surlily. 'Young slave, if thou

screamest out thus, we must gag thee again. My shoulders will smart for

it, if thou art heard by my master.'

'Kind Sosia, chide me not--I cannot endure to be so long alone,'

answered Nydia; 'the solitude appals me. Sit with me, I pray, a little

while. Nay, fear not that I should attempt to escape; place thy seat

before the door. Keep thine eye on me--I will not stir from this spot.'

Sosia, who was a considerable gossip himself, was moved by this address.

He pitied one who had nobody to talk with--it was his case too; he

pitied--and resolved to relieve himself. He took the hint of Nydia,

placed a stool before the door, leant his back against it, and replied:

'I am sure I do not wish to be churlish; and so far as a little innocent

chat goes, I have no objection to indulge you. But mind, no tricks--no

more conjuring!'

'No, no; tell me, dear Sosia, what is the hour?'

'It is already evening--the goats are going home.'

'O gods! how went the trial'

'Both condemned.'

Nydia repressed the shriek. 'Well--well, I thought it would be so. When

do they suffer?'

'To-morrow, in the amphitheatre. If it were not for thee, little

wretch, I should be allowed to go with the rest and see it.'

Nydia leant back for some moments. Nature could endure no more--she had

fainted away. But Sosia did not perceive it, for it was the dusk of

eve, and he was full of his own privations. He went on lamenting the

loss of so delightful a show, and accusing the injustice of Arbaces for

singling him out from all his fellows to be converted into a gaoler; and

ere he had half finished, Nydia, with a deep sigh, recovered the sense

of life.

'Thou sighest, blind one, at my loss! Well, that is some comfort. So

long as you acknowledge how much you cost me, I will endeavor not to

grumble. It is hard to be ill-treated, and yet not pitied.'

'Sosia, how much dost thou require to make up the purchase of thy

freedom?'

'How much? Why, about two thousand sesterces.'

'The gods be praised! not more? Seest thou these bracelets and this

chain? They are well worth double that sum. I will give them thee

if...'

'Tempt me not: I cannot release thee. Arbaces is a severe and awful

master. Who knows but I might feed the fishes of the Sarnus Alas! all

the sesterces in the world would not buy me back into life. Better a

live dog than a dead lion.'

'Sosia, thy freedom! Think well! If thou wilt let me out only for one

little hour!--let me out at midnight--I will return ere to-morrow's

dawn; nay, thou canst go with me.'

'No,' said Sosia, sturdily, 'a slave once disobeyed Arbaces, and he was

never more heard of.'

'But the law gives a master no power over the life of a slave.'

'The law is very obliging, but more polite than efficient. I know that

Arbaces always gets the law on his side. Besides, if I am once dead,

what law can bring me to life again!'

Nydia wrung her hands. 'Is there no hope, then?' said she,

convulsively.

'None of escape till Arbaces gives the word.'

'Well, then, said Nydia, quickly, 'thou wilt not, at least, refuse to

take a letter for me: thy master cannot kill thee for that.'

'To whom?'

'The praetor.'

'To a magistrate? No--not I. I should be made a witness in court, for

what I know; and the way they cross-examine the slaves is by the

torture.'

'Pardon: I meant not the praetor--it was a word that escaped me

unawares: I meant quite another person--the gay Sallust.'

'Oh! and what want you with him?'

'Glaucus was my master; he purchased me from a cruel lord. He alone has

been kind to me. He is to die. I shall never live happily if I cannot,

in his hour of trial and doom, let him know that one heart is grateful

to him. Sallust is his friend; he will convey my message.'

'I am sure he will do no such thing. Glaucus will have enough to think

of between this and to-morrow without troubling his head about a blind

girl.'

'Man,' said Nydia, rising, 'wilt thou become free? Thou hast the offer

in thy power; to-morrow it will be too late. Never was freedom more

cheaply purchased. Thou canst easily and unmissed leave home: less than

half an hour will suffice for thine absence. And for such a trifle wilt

thou refuse liberty?'

Sosia was greatly moved. It was true that the request was remarkably

silly; but what was that to him? So much the better. He could lock the

door on Nydia, and, if Arbaces should learn his absence, the offence was

venial, and would merit but a reprimand. Yet, should Nydia's letter

contain something more than what she had said--should it speak of her

imprisonment, as he shrewdly conjectured it would do--what then! It

need never be known to Arbaces that he had carried the letter. At the

worst the bribe was enormous--the risk light--the temptation

irresistible. He hesitated no longer--he assented to the proposal.

'Give me the trinkets, and I will take the letter. Yet stay--thou art a

slave--thou hast no right to these ornaments--they are thy master's.'

'They were the gifts of Glaucus; he is my master. What chance hath he

to claim them? Who else will know they are in my possession?'

'Enough--I will bring thee the papyrus.'

'No, not papyrus--a tablet of wax and a stilus.'

Nydia, as the reader will have seen, was born of gentle parents. They

had done all to lighten her calamity, and her quick intellect seconded

their exertions. Despite her blindness, she had therefore acquired in

childhood, though imperfectly, the art to write with the sharp stilus

upon waxen tablets, in which her exquisite sense of touch came to her

aid. When the tablets were brought to her, she thus painfully traced

some words in Greek, the language of her childhood, and which almost

every Italian of the higher ranks was then supposed to know. She

carefully wound round the epistle the thread, and covered its knot with

wax; and ere she placed it in the hands of Sosia, she thus addressed

him:

'Sosia, I am blind and in prison. Thou mayst think to deceive me--thou

mayst pretend only to take the letter to Sallust--thou mayst not fulfill

thy charge: but here I solemnly dedicate thy head to vengeance, thy soul

to the infernal powers, if thou wrongest thy trust; and I call upon thee

to place thy right hand of faith in mine, and repeat after me these

words: "By the ground on which we stand--by the elements which contain

life and can curse life--by Orcus, the all-avenging--by the Olympian

Jupiter, the all-seeing--I swear that I will honestly discharge my

trust, and faithfully deliver into the hands of Sallust this letter!

And if I perjure myself in this oath, may the full curses of heaven and

hell be wreaked upon me!" Enough!--I trust thee--take thy reward. It is

already dark--depart at once.'

'Thou art a strange girl, and thou hast frightened me terribly; but it

is all very natural: and if Sallust is to be found, I give him this

letter as I have sworn. By my faith, I may have my little peccadilloes!

but perjury--no! I leave that to my betters.'

With this Sosia withdrew, carefully passing the heavy bolt athwart

Nydia's door--carefully locking its wards: and, hanging the key to his

girdle, he retired to his own den, enveloped himself from head to foot

in a huge disguising cloak, and slipped out by the back way undisturbed

and unseen.

The streets were thin and empty. He soon gained the house of Sallust.

The porter bade him leave his letter, and be gone; for Sallust was so

grieved at the condemnation of Glaucus, that he could not on any account

be disturbed.

'Nevertheless, I have sworn to give this letter into his own hands--do

so I must!' And Sosia, well knowing by experience that Cerberus loves a

sop, thrust some half a dozen sesterces into the hand of the porter.

'Well, well,' said the latter, relenting, 'you may enter if you will;

but, to tell you the truth, Sallust is drinking himself out of his

grief. It is his way when anything disturbs him. He orders a capital

supper, the best wine, and does not give over till everything is out of

his head--but the liquor.'

'An excellent plan--excellent! Ah, what it is to be rich! If I were

Sallust, I would have some grief or another every day. But just say a

kind word for me with the atriensis--I see him coming.'

Sallust was too sad to receive company; he was too sad, also, to drink

alone; so, as was his wont, he admitted his favorite freedman to his

entertainment, and a stranger banquet never was held. For ever and

anon, the kind-hearted epicure sighed, whimpered, wept outright, and

then turned with double zest to some new dish or his refilled goblet.

'My good fellow,' said he to his companion, it was a most awful

judgment--heigho!--it is not bad that kid, eh? Poor, dear

Glaucus!--what a jaw the lion has too! Ah, ah, ah!'

And Sallust sobbed loudly--the fit was stopped by a counteraction of

hiccups.

'Take a cup of wine,' said the freedman.

'A thought too cold: but then how cold Glaucus must be! Shut up the

house to-morrow--not a slave shall stir forth--none of my people shall

honour that cursed arena--No, no!'

'Taste the Falernian--your grief distracts you. By the gods it does--a

piece of that cheesecake.'

It was at this auspicious moment that Sosia was admitted to the presence

of the disconsolate carouser.

'Ho--what art thou?'

'Merely a messenger to Sallust. I give him this billet from a young

female. There is no answer that I know of. May I withdraw?'

Thus said the discreet Sosia, keeping his face muffled in his cloak, and

speaking with a feigned voice, so that he might not hereafter be

recognized.

'By the gods--a pimp! Unfeeling wretch!--do you not see my sorrows?

Go! and the curses of Pandarus with you!'

Sosia lost not a moment in retiring.

'Will you read the letter, Sallust?' said the freedman.

'Letter!--which letter?' said the epicure, reeling, for he began to see

double. 'A curse on these wenches, say I! Am I a man to think

of--(hiccup)--pleasure, when--when--my friend is going to be eat up?'

'Eat another tartlet.'

'No, no! My grief chokes me!'

'Take him to bed,' said the freedman; and, Sallust's head now declining

fairly on his breast, they bore him off to his cubiculum, still

muttering lamentations for Glaucus, and imprecations on the unfeeling

overtures of ladies of pleasure.

Meanwhile Sosia strode indignantly homeward. 'Pimp, indeed!' quoth he

to himself. 'Pimp! a scurvy-tongued fellow that Sallust! Had I been

called knave, or thief. I could have forgiven it; but pimp! Faugh!

There is something in the word which the toughest stomach in the world

would rise against. A knave is a knave for his own pleasure, and a

thief a thief for his own profit; and there is something honorable and

philosophical in being a rascal for one's own sake: that is doing things

upon principle--upon a grand scale. But a pimp is a thing that defiles

itself for another--a pipkin that is put on the fire for another man's

pottage! a napkin, that every guest wipes his hands upon! and the

scullion says, "by your leave" too. A pimp! I would rather he had called

me parricide! But the man was drunk, and did not know what he said;

and, besides, I disguised myself. Had he seen it had been Sosia who

addressed him, it would have been "honest Sosia!" and, "worthy man!" I

warrant. Nevertheless, the trinkets have been won easily--that's some

comfort! and, O goddess Feronia! I shall be a freedman soon! and then I

should like to see who'll call me pimp!--unless, indeed, he pay me

pretty handsomely for it!'

While Sosia was soliloquising in this high-minded and generous vein, his

path lay along a narrow lane that led towards the amphitheatre and its

adjacent palaces. Suddenly, as he turned a sharp corner he found

himself in the midst of a considerable crowd. Men, women, and children,

all were hurrying or laughing, talking, gesticulating; and, ere he was

aware of it, the worthy Sosia was borne away with the noisy stream.

'What now?' he asked of his nearest neighbor, a young artificer; 'what

now? Where are all these good folks thronging?' Does any rich patron

give away alms or viands to-night?'

'Not so, man--better still,' replied the artificer; 'the noble

Pansa--the people's friend--has granted the public leave to see the

beasts in their vivaria. By Hercules! they will not be seen so safely

by some persons to-morrow.'

'Tis a pretty sight,' said the slave, yielding to the throng that

impelled him onward; 'and since I may not go to the sports to-morrow, I

may as well take a peep at the beasts to-night.'

'You will do well,' returned his new acquaintance, 'a lion and a tiger

are not to be seen at Pompeii every day.'

The crowd had now entered a broken and wide space of ground, on which,

as it was only lighted scantily and from a distance, the press became

dangerous to those whose limbs and shoulders were not fitted for a mob.

Nevertheless, the women especially--many of them with children in their

arms, or even at the breast--were the most resolute in forcing their

way; and their shrill exclamations of complaint or objurgation were

heard loud above the more jovial and masculine voices. Yet, amidst them

was a young and girlish voice, that appeared to come from one too happy

in her excitement to be alive to the inconvenience of the crowd.

'Aha!' cried the young woman, to some of her companions, 'I always told

you so; I always said we should have a man for the lion; and now we have

one for the tiger too! I wish tomorrow were come!'

Ho, ho! for the merry, merry show,

With a forest of faces in every row!

Lo! the swordsmen, bold as the son of Alcmaena,

Sweep, side by side, o'er the hushed arena.

Talk while you may, you will hold your breath

When they meet in the grasp of the glowing death!

Tramp! tramp! how gaily they go!

Ho! ho! for the merry, merry show!

'A jolly girl!' said Sosia.

'Yes,' replied the young artificer, a curly-headed, handsome youth.

'Yes,' replied he, enviously; 'the women love a gladiator. If I had

been a slave, I would have soon found my schoolmaster in the lanista!'

'Would you, indeed?' said Sosia, with a sneer. 'People's notions

differ!'

The crowd had now arrived at the place of destination; but as the cell

in which the wild beasts were confined was extremely small and narrow,

tenfold more vehement than it hitherto had been was the rush of the

aspirants to obtain admittance. Two of the officers of the

amphitheatre, placed at the entrance, very wisely mitigated the evil by

dispensing to the foremost only a limited number of tickets at a time,

and admitting no new visitors till their predecessors had sated their

curiosity. Sosia, who was a tolerably stout fellow and not troubled

with any remarkable scruples of diffidence or good breeding, contrived

to be among the first of the initiated.

Separated from his companion the artificer, Sosia found himself in a

narrow cell of oppressive heat and atmosphere, and lighted by several

rank and flaring torches.

The animals, usually kept in different vivaria, or dens, were now, for

the greater entertainment of the visitors, placed in one, but equally

indeed divided from each other by strong cages protected by iron bars.

There they were, the fell and grim wanderers of the desert, who have now

become almost the principal agents of this story. The lion, who, as

being the more gentle by nature than his fellow-beast, had been more

incited to ferocity by hunger, stalked restlessly and fiercely to and

fro his narrow confines: his eyes were lurid with rage and famine: and

as, every now and then, he paused and glared around, the spectators

fearfully pressed backward, and drew their breath more quickly. But the

tiger lay quiet and extended at full length in his cage, and only by an

occasional play of his tail, or a long impatient yawn, testified any

emotion at his confinement, or at the crowd which honored him with their

presence.

'I have seen no fiercer beast than yon lion even in the amphitheatre of

Rome,' said a gigantic and sinewy fellow who stood at the right hand of

Sosia.

'I feel humbled when I look at his limbs,' replied, at the left of

Sosia, a slighter and younger figure, with his arms folded on his

breast.

The slave looked first at one, and then at the other. 'Virtus in

medio!--virtue is ever in the middle!' muttered he to himself; 'a goodly

neighborhood for thee, Sosia--a gladiator on each side!'

'That is well said, Lydon,' returned the huger gladiator; 'I feel the

same.'

'And to think,' observed Lydon, in a tone of deep feeling, 'to think that

the noble Greek, he whom we saw but a day or two since before us, so

full of youth, and health, and joyousness, is to feast yon monster!'

'Why not?' growled Niger, savagely: 'many an honest gladiator has been

compelled to a like combat by the emperor--why not a wealthy murderer by

the law?'

Lydon sighed, shrugged his shoulders, and remained silent. Meanwhile the

common gazers listened with staring eyes and lips apart: the gladiators

were objects of interest as well as the beasts--they were animals of the

same species; so the crowd glanced from one to the other--the men and

the brutes--whispering their comments and anticipating the morrow.

'Well!' said Lydon, turning away, 'I thank the gods that it is not the

lion or the tiger I am to contend with; even you, Niger, are a gentler

combatant than they.'

'But equally dangerous,' said the gladiator, with a fierce laugh; and

the bystanders, admiring his vast limbs and ferocious countenance,

laughed too.

'That as it may be,' answered Lydon, carelessly, as he pressed through

the throng and quitted the den.

'I may as well take advantage of his shoulders,' thought the prudent

Sosia, hastening to follow him: 'the crowd always give way to a

gladiator, so I will keep close behind, and come in for a share of his

consequence.'

The son of Medon strode quickly through the mob, many of whom recognized

his features and profession.

'That is young Lydon, a brave fellow: he fights to-morrow,' said one.

'Ah! I have a bet on him,' said another; 'see how firmly he walks!'

'Good luck to thee, Lydon!' said a third.

'Lydon, you have my wishes,' half whispered a fourth, smiling (a comely

woman of the middle class)--'and if you win, why, you may hear more of

me.'

'A handsome man, by Venus!' cried a fifth, who was a girl scarce in her

teens. 'Thank you,' returned Sosia, gravely taking the compliment to

himself.

However strong the purer motives of Lydon, and certain though it be that

he would never have entered so bloody a calling but from the hope of

obtaining his father's freedom, he was not altogether unmoved by the

notice he excited. He forgot that the voices now raised in commendation

might, on the morrow, shout over his death-pangs. By nature fierce and

reckless, as well as generous and warm-hearted, he was already imbued

with the pride of a profession that he fancied he disdained, and

affected by the influence of a companionship that in reality he loathed.

He saw himself now a man of importance; his step grew yet lighter, and

his mien more elate.

'Niger,' said he, turning suddenly, as he had now threaded the crowd;

'we have often quarrelled; we are not matched against each other, but

one of us, at least, may reasonably expect to fall--give us thy hand.'

'Most readily,' said Sosia, extending his palm.

'Ha! what fool is this? Why, I thought Niger was at my heels!'

'I forgive the mistake,' replied Sosia, condescendingly: 'don't mention

it; the error was easy--I and Niger are somewhat of the same build.'

'Ha! ha! that is excellent! Niger would have slit thy throat had he

heard thee!'

'You gentlemen of the arena have a most disagreeable mode of talking,'

said Sosia; 'let us change the conversation.'

'Vah! vah!' said Lydon, impatiently; 'I am in no humor to converse with

thee!'

'Why, truly,' returned the slave, 'you must have serious thoughts enough

to occupy your mind: to-morrow is, I think, your first essay in the

arena. Well, I am sure you will die bravely!'

'May thy words fall on thine own head!' said Lydon, superstitiously, for

he by no means liked the blessing of Sosia. 'Die! No--I trust my hour

is not yet come.'

'He who plays at dice with death must expect the dog's throw,' replied

Sosia, maliciously. 'But you are a strong fellow, and I wish you all

imaginable luck; and so, vale!'

With that the slave turned on his heel, and took his way homeward.

'I trust the rogue's words are not ominous,' said Lydon, musingly. 'In

my zeal for my father's liberty, and my confidence in my own thews and

sinews, I have not contemplated the possibility of death. My poor

father! I am thy only son!--if I were to fall...'

As the thought crossed him, the gladiator strode on with a more rapid

and restless pace, when suddenly, in an opposite street, he beheld the

very object of his thoughts. Leaning on his stick, his form bent by

care and age, his eyes downcast, and his steps trembling, the

grey-haired Medon slowly approached towards the gladiator. Lydon paused

a moment: he divined at once the cause that brought forth the old man at

that late hour.

'Be sure, it is I whom he seeks,' thought he; 'he is horror struck at

the condemnation of Olinthus--he more than ever esteems the arena

criminal and hateful--he comes again to dissuade me from the contest. I

must shun him--I cannot brook his prayers--his tears.'

These thoughts, so long to recite, flashed across the young man like

lightning. He turned abruptly and fled swiftly in an opposite

direction. He paused not till, almost spent and breathless, he found

himself on the summit of a small acclivity which overlooked the most gay

and splendid part of that miniature city; and as there he paused, and

gazed along the tranquil streets glittering in the rays of the moon

(which had just arisen, and brought partially and picturesquely into

light the crowd around the amphitheatre at a distance, murmuring, and

swaying to and fro), the influence of the scene affected him, rude and

unimaginative though his nature. He sat himself down to rest upon the

steps of a deserted portico, and felt the calm of the hour quiet and

restore him. Opposite and near at hand, the lights gleamed from a

palace in which the master now held his revels. The doors were open for

coolness, and the gladiator beheld the numerous and festive group

gathered round the tables in the atrium; while behind them, closing the

long vista of the illumined rooms beyond, the spray of the distant

fountain sparkled in the moonbeams. There, the garlands wreathed around

the columns of the hall--there, gleamed still and frequent the marble

statue--there, amidst peals of jocund laughter, rose the music and the

lay.

EPICUREAN SONG

Away with your stories of Hades,

Which the Flamen has forged to affright us--

We laugh at your three Maiden Ladies,

Your Fates--and your sullen Cocytus.

Poor Jove has a troublesome life, sir,

Could we credit your tales of his portals--

In shutting his ears on his wife, sir,

And opening his eyes upon mortals.

Oh, blest be the bright Epicurus!

Who taught us to laugh at such fables;

On Hades they wanted to moor us,

And his hand cut the terrible cables.

If, then, there's a Jove or a Juno,

They vex not their heads about us, man;

Besides, if they did, I and you know

'Tis the life of a god to live thus, man!

What! think you the gods place their bliss--eh?--

In playing the spy on a sinner?

In counting the girls that we kiss, eh?

Or the cups that we empty at dinner?

Content with the soft lips that love us,

This music, this wine, and this mirth, boys,

We care not for gods up above us--

We know there's no god for this earth, boys!

While Lydon's piety (which accommodating as it might be, was in no

slight degree disturbed by these verses, which embodied the fashionable

philosophy of the day) slowly recovered itself from the shock it had

received, a small party of men, in plain garments and of the middle

class, passed by his resting-place. They were in earnest conversation,

and did not seem to notice or heed the gladiator as they moved on.

'O horror on horrors!' said one; 'Olinthus is snatched from us! our

right arm is lopped away! When will Christ descend to protect his own?'

'Can human atrocity go farther,' said another: 'to sentence an innocent

man to the same arena as a murderer! But let us not despair; the

thunder of Sinai may yet be heard, and the Lord preserve his saint.

"The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God."'

At that moment out broke again, from the illumined palace, the burden of

the reveller's song:--

We care not for gods up above us--

We know there's no god for this earth, boys!

Ere the words died away, the Nazarenes, moved by sudden indignation,

caught up the echo, and, in the words of one of their favorite hymns,

shouted aloud:--

THE WARNING HYMN OF THE NAZARENES

Around--about--for ever near thee,

God--OUR GOD--shall mark and hear thee!

On his car of storm He sweeps!

Bow, ye heavens, and shrink, ye deeps!

Woe to the proud ones who defy Him!--

Woe to the dreamers who deny Him!

Woe to the wicked, woe!

The proud stars shall fail--

The sun shall grow pale--

The heavens shrivel up like a scroll--

Hell's ocean shall bare

Its depths of despair,

Each wave an eternal soul!

For the only thing, then,

That shall not live again

Is the corpse of the giant TIME.

Hark, the trumpet of thunder!

Lo, earth rent asunder!

And, forth, on His Angel-throne,

He comes through the gloom,

The Judge of the Tomb,

To summon and save His own!

Oh, joy to Care, and woe to Crime,

He comes to save His own!

Woe to the proud ones who defy Him!

Woe to the dreamers who deny Him!

Woe to the wicked, woe!

A sudden silence from the startled hall of revel succeeded these ominous

words: the Christians swept on, and were soon hidden from the sight of

the gladiator. Awed, he scarce knew why, by the mystic denunciations of

the Christians, Lydon, after a short pause, now rose to pursue his way

homeward.

Before him, how serenely slept the starlight on that lovely city! how

breathlessly its pillared streets reposed in their security!--how softly

rippled the dark-green waves beyond!--how cloudless spread, aloft and

blue, the dreaming Campanian skies! Yet this was the last night for the

gay Pompeii! the colony of the hoar Chaldean! the fabled city of

Hercules! the delight of the voluptuous Roman! Age after age had

rolled, indestructive, unheeded, over its head; and now the last ray

quivered on the dial-plate of its doom! The gladiator heard some light

steps behind--a group of females were wending homeward from their visit

to the amphitheatre. As he turned, his eye was arrested by a strange

and sudden apparition. From the summit of Vesuvius, darkly visible at

the distance, there shot a pale, meteoric, livid light--it trembled an

instant and was gone. And at the same moment that his eye caught it,

the voice of one of the youngest of the women broke out hilariously and

shrill:--

TRAMP! TRAMP! HOW GAILY THEY GO!

HO, HO! FOR THE MORROW'S MERRY SHOW!

BOOK THE FIFTH

Chapter I

THE DREAM OF ARBACES. A VISITOR AND A WARNING TO THE EGYPTIAN.

THE awful night preceding the fierce joy of the amphitheatre rolled

drearily away, and greyly broke forth the dawn of THE LAST DAY OF

POMPEII! The air was uncommonly calm and sultry--a thin and dull mist

gathered over the valleys and hollows of the broad Campanian fields.

But yet it was remarked in surprise by the early fishermen, that,

despite the exceeding stillness of the atmosphere, the waves of the sea

were agitated, and seemed, as it were, to run disturbedly back from the

shore; while along the blue and stately Sarnus, whose ancient breadth of

channel the traveler now vainly seeks to discover, there crept a hoarse

and sullen murmur, as it glided by the laughing plains and the gaudy

villas of the wealthy citizens. Clear above the low mist rose the

time-worn towers of the immemorial town, the red-tiled roofs of the

bright streets, the solemn columns of many temples, and the

statue-crowned portals of the Forum and the Arch of Triumph. Far in the

distance, the outline of the circling hills soared above the vapors, and

mingled with the changeful hues of the morning sky. The cloud that had

so long rested over the crest of Vesuvius had suddenly vanished, and its

rugged and haughty brow looked without a frown over the beautiful scenes

below.

Despite the earliness of the hour, the gates of the city were already

opened. Horsemen upon horsemen, vehicle after vehicle, poured rapidly

in; and the voices of numerous pedestrian groups, clad in holiday

attire, rose high in joyous and excited merriment; the streets were

crowded with citizens and strangers from the populous neighborhood of

Pompeii; and noisily--fast--confusedly swept the many streams of life

towards the fatal show.

Despite the vast size of the amphitheatre, seemingly so disproportioned

to the extent of the city, and formed to include nearly the whole

population of Pompeii itself, so great, on extraordinary occasions, was

the concourse of strangers from all parts of Campania, that the space

before it was usually crowded for several hours previous to the

commencement of the sports, by such persons as were not entitled by

their rank to appointed and special seats. And the intense curiosity

which the trial and sentence of two criminals so remarkable had

occasioned, increased the crowd on this day to an extent wholly

unprecedented.

While the common people, with the lively vehemence of their Campanian

blood, were thus pushing, scrambling, hurrying on--yet, amidst all their

eagerness, preserving, as is now the wont with Italians in such

meetings, a wonderful order and unquarrelsome good humor, a strange

visitor to Arbaces was threading her way to his sequestered mansion. At

the sight of her quaint and primaeval garb--of her wild gait and

gestures--the passengers she encountered touched each other and smiled;

but as they caught a glimpse of her countenance, the mirth was hushed at

once, for the face was as the face of the dead; and, what with the

ghastly features and obsolete robes of the stranger, it seemed as if one

long entombed had risen once more amongst the living. In silence and

awe each group gave way as she passed along, and she soon gained the

broad porch of the Egyptian's palace.

The black porter, like the rest of the world, astir at an unusual hour,

started as he opened the door to her summons.

The sleep of the Egyptian had been usually profound during the night;

but, as the dawn approached, it was disturbed by strange and unquiet

dreams, which impressed him the more as they were colored by the

peculiar philosophy he embraced.

He thought that he was transported to the bowels of the earth, and that

he stood alone in a mighty cavern supported by enormous columns of rough

and primaeval rock, lost, as they ascended, in the vastness of a shadow

athwart whose eternal darkness no beam of day had ever glanced. And in

the space between these columns were huge wheels, that whirled round and

round unceasingly, and with a rushing and roaring noise. Only to the

right and left extremities of the cavern, the space between the pillars

was left bare, and the apertures stretched away into galleries--not

wholly dark, but dimly lighted by wandering and erratic fires, that,

meteor-like, now crept (as the snake creeps) along the rugged and dank

soil; and now leaped fiercely to and fro, darting across the vast gloom

in wild gambols--suddenly disappearing, and as suddenly bursting into

tenfold brilliancy and power. And while he gazed wonderingly upon the

gallery to the left, thin, mist-like, aerial shapes passed slowly up;

and when they had gained the hall they seemed to rise aloft, and to

vanish, as the smoke vanishes, in the measureless ascent.

He turned in fear towards the opposite extremity--and behold! there came

swiftly, from the gloom above, similar shadows, which swept hurriedly

along the gallery to the right, as if borne involuntarily adown the

sides of some invisible stream; and the faces of these spectres were

more distinct than those that emerged from the opposite passage; and on

some was joy, and on others sorrow--some were vivid with expectation and

hope, some unutterably dejected by awe and horror. And so they passed,

swift and constantly on, till the eyes of the gazer grew dizzy and

blinded with the whirl of an ever-varying succession of things impelled

by a power apparently not their own.

Arbaces turned away, and, in the recess of the hall, he saw the mighty

form of a giantess seated upon a pile of skulls, and her hands were busy

upon a pale and shadowy woof; and he saw that the woof communicated with

the numberless wheels, as if it guided the machinery of their movements.

He thought his feet, by some secret agency, were impelled towards the

female, and that he was borne onwards till he stood before her, face to

face. The countenance of the giantess was solemn and hushed, and

beautifully serene. It was as the face of some colossal sculpture of his

own ancestral sphinx. No passion--no human emotion, disturbed its

brooding and unwrinkled brow: there was neither sadness, nor joy, nor

memory, nor hope: it was free from all with which the wild human heart

can sympathize. The mystery of mysteries rested on its beauty--it awed,

but terrified not: it was the Incarnation of the sublime. And Arbaces

felt the voice leave his lips, without an impulse of his own; and the

voice asked:

'Who art thou, and what is thy task?'

'I am That which thou hast acknowledged,' answered, without desisting

from its work, the mighty phantom. 'My name is NATURE! These are the

wheels of the world, and my hand guides them for the life of all

things.'

'And what,' said the voice of Arbaces, 'are these galleries, that

strangely and fitfully illumined, stretch on either hand into the abyss

of gloom?'

'That,' answered the giant-mother, 'which thou beholdest to the left, is

the gallery of the Unborn. The shadows that flit onward and upward into

the world, are the souls that pass from the long eternity of being to

their destined pilgrimage on earth. That which thou beholdest to thy

right, wherein the shadows descending from above sweep on, equally

unknown and dim, is the gallery of the Dead!'

'And wherefore, said the voice of Arbaces, 'yon wandering lights, that

so wildly break the darkness; but only break, not reveal?'

'Dark fool of the human sciences! dreamer of the stars, and would-be

decipherer of the heart and origin of things! those lights are but the

glimmerings of such knowledge as is vouchsafed to Nature to work her

way, to trace enough of the past and future to give providence to her

designs. Judge, then, puppet as thou art, what lights are reserved for

thee!'

Arbaces felt himself tremble as he asked again, 'Wherefore am I here?'

'It is the forecast of thy soul--the prescience of thy rushing doom--the

shadow of thy fate lengthening into eternity as declines from earth.'

Ere he could answer, Arbaces felt a rushing WIND sweep down the cavern,

as the winds of a giant god. Borne aloft from the ground, and whirled

on high as a leaf in the storms of autumn, he beheld himself in the

midst of the Spectres of the Dead, and hurrying with them along the

length of gloom. As in vain and impotent despair he struggled against

the impelling power, he thought the WIND grew into something like a

shape--a spectral outline of the wings and talons of an eagle, with

limbs floating far and indistinctly along the air, and eyes that, alone

clearly and vividly seen, glared stonily and remorselessly on his own.

'What art thou?' again said the voice of the Egyptian.

'I am That which thou hast acknowledged'; and the spectre laughed

aloud--'and my name is NECESSITY.'

'To what dost thou bear me?'

'To the Unknown.'

'To happiness or to woe?'

'As thou hast sown, so shalt thou reap.'

'Dread thing, not so! If thou art the Ruler of Life, thine are my

misdeeds, not mine.'

'I am but the breath of God!' answered the mighty WIND.

'Then is my wisdom vain!' groaned the dreamer.

'The husbandman accuses not fate, when, having sown thistles, he reaps

not corn. Thou hast sown crime, accuse not fate if thou reapest not the

harvest of virtue.'

The scene suddenly changed. Arbaces was in a place of human bones; and

lo! in the midst of them was a skull, and the skull, still retaining its

fleshless hollows, assumed slowly, and in the mysterious confusion of a

dream, the face of Apaecides; and forth from the grinning jaws there

crept a small worm, and it crawled to the feet of Arbaces. He attempted

to stamp on it and crush it; but it became longer and larger with that

attempt. It swelled and bloated till it grew into a vast serpent: it

coiled itself round the limbs of Arbaces; it crunched his bones; it

raised its glaring eyes and poisonous jaws to his face. He writhed in

vain; he withered--he gasped--beneath the influence of the blighting

breath--he felt himself blasted into death. And then a voice came from

the reptile, which still bore the face of Apaecides and rang in his

reeling ear:

'THY VICTIM IS THY JUDGE! THE WORM THOU WOULDST CRUSH BECOMES THE

SERPENT THAT DEVOURS THEE!'

With a shriek of wrath, and woe, and despairing resistance, Arbaces

awoke--his hair on end--his brow bathed in dew--his eyes glazed and

staring--his mighty frame quivering as an infant's, beneath the agony of

that dream. He awoke--he collected himself--he blessed the gods whom he

disbelieved, that he was in a dream--he turned his eyes from side to

side--he saw the dawning light break through his small but lofty

window--he was in the Precincts of Day--he rejoiced--he smiled; his eyes

fell, and opposite to him he beheld the ghastly features, the lifeless

eye, the livid lip--of the hag of Vesuvius!

'Ha!' he cried, placing his hands before his eyes, as to shut out the

grisly vision, 'do I dream still?--Am I with the dead?'

'Mighty Hermes--no! Thou art with one death-like, but not dead.

Recognize thy friend and slave.'

There was a long silence. Slowly the shudders that passed over the

limbs of the Egyptian chased each other away, faintlier and faintlier

dying till he was himself again.

'It was a dream, then,' said he. 'Well--let me dream no more, or the

day cannot compensate for the pangs of night. Woman, how camest thou

here, and wherefore?'

'I came to warn thee,' answered the sepulchral voice of the saga.

'Warn me! The dream lied not, then? Of what peril?'

'Listen to me. Some evil hangs over this fated city. Fly while it be

time. Thou knowest that I hold my home on that mountain beneath which

old tradition saith there yet burn the fires of the river of Phlegethon;

and in my cavern is a vast abyss, and in that abyss I have of late

marked a red and dull stream creep slowly, slowly on; and heard many and

mighty sounds hissing and roaring through the gloom. But last night, as

I looked thereon, behold the stream was no longer dull, but intensely

and fiercely luminous; and while I gazed, the beast that liveth with me,

and was cowering by my side, uttered a shrill howl, and fell down and

died, and the slaver and froth were round his lips. I crept back to my

lair; but I distinctly heard, all the night, the rock shake and tremble;

and, though the air was heavy and still, there were the hissing of pent

winds, and the grinding as of wheels, beneath the ground. So, when I

rose this morning at the very birth of dawn, I looked again down the

abyss, and I saw vast fragments of stone borne black and floatingly over

the lurid stream; and the stream itself was broader, fiercer, redder

than the night before. Then I went forth, and ascended to the summit of

the rock: and in that summit there appeared a sudden and vast hollow,

which I had never perceived before, from which curled a dim, faint

smoke; and the vapor was deathly, and I gasped, and sickened, and nearly

died. I returned home. I took my gold and my drugs, and left the

habitation of many years; for I remembered the dark Etruscan prophecy

which saith, "When the mountain opens, the city shall fall--when the

smoke crowns the Hill of the Parched Fields, there shall be woe and

weeping in the hearths of the Children of the Sea." Dread master, ere I

leave these walls for some more distant dwelling, I come to thee. As

thou livest, know I in my heart that the earthquake that sixteen years

ago shook this city to its solid base, was but the forerunner of more

deadly doom. The walls of Pompeii are built above the fields of the

Dead, and the rivers of the sleepless Hell. Be warned and fly!'

'Witch, I thank thee for thy care of one not ungrateful. On yon table

stands a cup of gold; take it, it is thine. I dreamt not that there

lived one, out of the priesthood of Isis, who would have saved Arbaces

from destruction. The signs thou hast seen in the bed of the extinct

volcano,' continued the Egyptian, musingly, 'surely tell of some coming

danger to the city; perhaps another earthquake--fiercer than the last.

Be that as it may, there is a new reason for my hastening from these

walls. After this day I will prepare my departure. Daughter of

Etruria, whither wendest thou?'

'I shall cross over to Herculaneum this day, and, wandering thence along

the coast, shall seek out a new home. I am friendless: my two

companions, the fox and the snake, are dead. Great Hermes, thou hast

promised me twenty additional years of life!'

'Aye,' said the Egyptian, 'I have promised thee. But, woman,' he added,

lifting himself upon his arm, and gazing curiously on her face, 'tell

me, I pray thee, wherefore thou wishest to live? What sweets dost thou

discover in existence?'

'It is not life that is sweet, but death that is awful,' replied the

hag, in a sharp, impressive tone, that struck forcibly upon the heart of

the vain star-seer. He winced at the truth of the reply; and no longer

anxious to retain so uninviting a companion, he said, 'Time wanes; I

must prepare for the solemn spectacle of this day. Sister, farewell!

enjoy thyself as thou canst over the ashes of life.'

The hag, who had placed the costly gift of Arbaces in the loose folds of

her vest, now rose to depart. When she had gained the door she paused,

turned back, and said, 'This may be the last time we meet on earth; but

whither flieth the flame when it leaves the ashes?--Wandering to and

fro, up and down, as an exhalation on the morass, the flame may be seen

in the marshes of the lake below; and the witch and the Magian, the

pupil and the master, the great one and the accursed one, may meet

again. Farewell!'

'Out, croaker!' muttered Arbaces, as the door closed on the hag's

tattered robes; and, impatient of his own thoughts, not yet recovered

from the past dream, he hastily summoned his slaves.

It was the custom to attend the ceremonials of the amphitheatre in

festive robes, and Arbaces arrayed himself that day with more than usual

care. His tunic was of the most dazzling white: his many fibulae were

formed from the most precious stones: over his tunic flowed a loose

eastern robe, half-gown, half-mantle, glowing in the richest hues of the

Tyrian dye; and the sandals, that reached half way up the knee, were

studded with gems, and inlaid with gold. In the quackeries that

belonged to his priestly genius, Arbaces never neglected, on great

occasions, the arts which dazzle and impose upon the vulgar; and on this

day, that was for ever to release him, by the sacrifice of Glaucus, from

the fear of a rival and the chance of detection, he felt that he was

arraying himself as for a triumph or a nuptial feast.

It was customary for men of rank to be accompanied to the shows of the

amphitheatre by a procession of their slaves and freedmen; and the long

'family' of Arbaces were already arranged in order, to attend the litter

of their lord.

Only, to their great chagrin, the slaves in attendance on Ione, and the

worthy Sosia, as gaoler to Nydia, were condemned to remain at home.

'Callias,' said Arbaces, apart to his freedman, who was buckling on his

girdle, 'I am weary of Pompeii; I propose to quit it in three days,

should the wind favor. Thou knowest the vessel that lies in the harbor

which belonged to Narses, of Alexandria; I have purchased it of him.

The day after tomorrow we shall begin to remove my stores.'

'So soon! 'Tis well. Arbaces shall be obeyed--and his ward, Ione?'

'Accompanies me. Enough!--Is the morning fair?'

'Dim and oppressive; it will probably be intensely hot in the forenoon.'

'The poor gladiators, and more wretched criminals! Descend, and see

that the slaves are marshalled.'

Left alone, Arbaces stepped into his chamber of study, and thence upon

the portico without. He saw the dense masses of men pouring fast into

the amphitheatre, and heard the cry of the assistants, and the cracking

of the cordage, as they were straining aloft the huge awning under which

the citizens, molested by no discomforting ray, were to behold, at

luxurious ease, the agonies of their fellow creatures. Suddenly a wild

strange sound went forth, and as suddenly died away--it was the roar of

the lion. There was a silence in the distant crowd; but the silence was

followed by joyous laughter--they were making merry at the hungry

impatience of the royal beast.

'Brutes!' muttered the disdainful, 'Arbaces are ye less homicides than I

am? I slay but in self-defence--ye make murder pastime.'

He turned with a restless and curious eye, towards Vesuvius. Beautifully

glowed the green vineyards round its breast, and tranquil as eternity

lay in the breathless skies the form of the mighty hill.

'We have time yet, if the earthquake be nursing,' thought Arbaces; and

he turned from the spot. He passed by the table which bore his mystic

scrolls and Chaldean calculations.

'August art!' he thought, 'I have not consulted thy decrees since I

passed the danger and the crisis they foretold. What matter?--I know

that henceforth all in my path is bright and smooth. Have not events

already proved it? Away, doubt--away, pity! Reflect O my heart--

reflect, for the future, but two images--Empire and Ione!'

Chapter II

THE AMPHITHEATRE.

NYDIA, assured by the account of Sosia, on his return home, and

satisfied that her letter was in the hands of Sallust, gave herself up

once more to hope. Sallust would surely lose no time in seeking the

praetor--in coming to the house of the Egyptian--in releasing her--in

breaking the prison of Calenus. That very night Glaucus would be free.

Alas! the night passed--the dawn broke; she heard nothing but the

hurried footsteps of the slaves along the hall and peristyle, and their

voices in preparation for the show. By-and-by, the commanding voice of

Arbaces broke on her ear--a flourish of music rung out cheerily: the

long procession were sweeping to the amphitheatre to glut their eyes on

the death-pangs of the Athenian!

The procession of Arbaces moved along slowly, and with much solemnity

till now, arriving at the place where it was necessary for such as came

in litters or chariots to alight, Arbaces descended from his vehicle,

and proceeded to the entrance by which the more distinguished spectators

were admitted. His slaves, mingling with the humbler crowd, were

stationed by officers who received their tickets (not much unlike our

modern Opera ones), in places in the popularia (the seats apportioned to

the vulgar). And now, from the spot where Arbaces sat, his eyes scanned

the mighty and impatient crowd that filled the stupendous theatre.

On the upper tier (but apart from the male spectators) sat women, their

gay dresses resembling some gaudy flower-bed; it is needless to add that

they were the most talkative part of the assembly; and many were the

looks directed up to them, especially from the benches appropriated to

the young and the unmarried men. On the lower seats round the arena sat

the more high-born and wealthy visitors--the magistrates and those of

senatorial or equestrian dignity; the passages which, by corridors at

the right and left, gave access to these seats, at either end of the

oval arena, were also the entrances for the combatants. Strong palings

at these passages prevented any unwelcome eccentricity in the movements

of the beasts, and confined them to their appointed prey. Around the

parapet which was raised above the arena, and from which the seats

gradually rose, were gladiatorial inscriptions, and paintings wrought in

fresco, typical of the entertainments for which the place was designed.

Throughout the whole building wound invisible pipes, from which, as the

day advanced, cooling and fragrant showers were to be sprinkled over the

spectators. The officers of the amphitheatre were still employed in the

task of fixing the vast awning (or velaria) which covered the whole, and

which luxurious invention the Campanians arrogated to themselves: it was

woven of the whitest Apulian wool, and variegated with broad stripes of

crimson. Owing either to some inexperience on the part of the workmen,

or to some defect in the machinery, the awning, however, was not

arranged that day so happily as usual; indeed, from the immense space of

the circumference, the task was always one of great difficulty and

art--so much so, that it could seldom be adventured in rough or windy

weather. But the present day was so remarkably still that there seemed

to the spectators no excuse for the awkwardness of the artificers; and

when a large gap in the back of the awning was still visible, from the

obstinate refusal of one part of the velaria to ally itself with the

rest, the murmurs of discontent were loud and general.

The aedile Pansa, at whose expense the exhibition was given, looked

particularly annoyed at the defect, and, vowed bitter vengeance on the

head of the chief officer of the show, who, fretting, puffing,

perspiring, busied himself in idle orders and unavailing threats.

The hubbub ceased suddenly--the operators desisted--the crowd were

stilled--the gap was forgotten--for now, with a loud and warlike

flourish of trumpets, the gladiators, marshalled in ceremonious

procession, entered the arena. They swept round the oval space very

slowly and deliberately, in order to give the spectators full leisure to

admire their stern serenity of feature--their brawny limbs and various

arms, as well as to form such wagers as the excitement of the moment

might suggest.

'Oh!' cried the widow Fulvia to the wife of Pansa, as they leaned down

from their lofty bench, 'do you see that gigantic gladiator? how drolly

he is dressed!'

'Yes,' said the aedile's wife, with complacent importance, for she knew

all the names and qualities of each combatant; 'he is a retiarius or

netter; he is armed only, you see, with a three-pronged spear like a

trident, and a net; he wears no armor, only the fillet and the tunic.

He is a mighty man, and is to fight with Sporus, yon thick-set

gladiator, with the round shield and drawn sword, but without body

armor; he has not his helmet on now, in order that you may see his

face--how fearless it is!--by-and-by he will fight with his vizor down.'

'But surely a net and a spear are poor arms against a shield and sword?'

'That shows how innocent you are, my dear Fulvia; the retiarius has

generally the best of it.'

'But who is yon handsome gladiator, nearly naked--is it not quite

improper? By Venus! but his limbs are beautifully shaped!'

'It is Lydon, a young untried man! he has the rashness to fight yon

other gladiator similarly dressed, or rather undressed--Tetraides. They

fight first in the Greek fashion, with the cestus; afterwards they put

on armor, and try sword and shield.'

'He is a proper man, this Lydon; and the women, I am sure, are on his

side.'

'So are not the experienced betters; Clodius offers three to one against

him!'

'Oh, Jove! how beautiful!' exclaimed the widow, as two gladiators, armed

cap-a-pie, rode round the arena on light and prancing steeds. Resembling

much the combatants in the tilts of the middle age, they bore lances and

round shields beautifully inlaid: their armor was woven intricately with

bands of iron, but it covered only the thighs and the right arms; short

cloaks, extending to the seat, gave a picturesque and graceful air to

their costume; their legs were naked, with the exception of sandals,

which were fastened a little above the ankle. 'Oh, beautiful! Who are

these?' asked the widow.

'The one is named Berbix--he has conquered twelve times; the other

assumes the arrogant name of Nobilior. They are both Gauls.'

While thus conversing, the first formalities of the show were over. To

these succeeded a feigned combat with wooden swords between the various

gladiators matched against each other. Amongst these, the skill of two

Roman gladiators, hired for the occasion, was the most admired; and next

to them the most graceful combatant was Lydon. This sham contest did

not last above an hour, nor did it attract any very lively interest,

except among those connoisseurs of the arena to whom art was preferable

to more coarse excitement; the body of the spectators were rejoiced when

it was over, and when the sympathy rose to terror. The combatants were

now arranged in pairs, as agreed beforehand; their weapons examined; and

the grave sports of the day commenced amidst the deepest silence--broken

only by an exciting and preliminary blast of warlike music.

It was often customary to begin the sports by the most cruel of all, and

some bestiarius, or gladiator appointed to the beasts, was slain first,

as an initiatory sacrifice. But in the present instance, the

experienced Pansa thought it better that the sanguinary drama should

advance, not decrease, in interest and, accordingly, the execution of

Olinthus and Glaucus was reserved for the last. It was arranged that

the two horsemen should first occupy the arena; that the foot

gladiators, paired off, should then be loosed indiscriminately on the

stage; that Glaucus and the lion should next perform their part in the

bloody spectacle; and the tiger and the Nazarene be the grand finale.

And, in the spectacles of Pompeii, the reader of Roman history must

limit his imagination, nor expect to find those vast and wholesale

exhibitions of magnificent slaughter with which a Nero or a Caligula

regaled the inhabitants of the Imperial City. The Roman shows, which

absorbed the more celebrated gladiators, and the chief proportion of

foreign beasts, were indeed the very reason why, in the lesser towns of

the empire, the sports of the amphitheatre were comparatively humane and

rare; and in this, as in other respects, Pompeii was but the miniature,

the microcosm of Rome. Still, it was an awful and imposing spectacle,

with which modern times have, happily, nothing to compare--a vast

theatre, rising row upon row, and swarming with human beings, from

fifteen to eighteen thousand in number, intent upon no fictitious

representation--no tragedy of the stage--but the actual victory or

defeat, the exultant life or the bloody death, of each and all who

entered the arena!

The two horsemen were now at either extremity of the lists (if so they

might be called); and, at a given signal from Pansa, the combatants

started simultaneously as in full collision, each advancing his round

buckler, each poising on high his light yet sturdy javelin; but just

when within three paces of his opponent, the steed of Berbix suddenly

halted, wheeled round, and, as Nobilior was borne rapidly by, his

antagonist spurred upon him. The buckler of Nobilior, quickly and

skillfully extended, received a blow which otherwise would have been

fatal.

'Well done, Nobilior!' cried the praetor, giving the first vent to the

popular excitement.

'Bravely struck, my Berbix!' answered Clodius from his seat.

And the wild murmur, swelled by many a shout, echoed from side to side.

The vizors of both the horsemen were completely closed (like those of

the knights in after times), but the head was, nevertheless, the great

point of assault; and Nobilior, now wheeling his charger with no less

adroitness than his opponent, directed his spear full on the helmet of

his foe. Berbix raised his buckler to shield himself, and his

quick-eyed antagonist, suddenly lowering his weapon, pierced him through

the breast. Berbix reeled and fell.

'Nobilior! Nobilior!' shouted the populace.

'I have lost ten sestertia,' said Clodius, between his teeth.

'Habet!--he has it,' said Pansa, deliberately.

The populace, not yet hardened into cruelty, made the signal of mercy;

but as the attendants of the arena approached, they found the kindness

came too late--the heart of the Gaul had been pierced, and his eyes were

set in death. It was his life's blood that flowed so darkly over the

sand and sawdust of the arena.

'It is a pity it was so soon over--there was little enough for one's

trouble,' said the widow Fulvia.

'Yes--I have no compassion for Berbix. Any one might have seen that

Nobilior did but feint. Mark, they fix the fatal hook to the body--they

drag him away to the spoliarium--they scatter new sand over the stage!

Pansa regrets nothing more than that he is not rich enough to strew the

arena with borax and cinnabar, as Nero used to do.'

'Well, if it has been a brief battle, it is quickly succeeded. See my

handsome Lydon on the arena--ay--and the net-bearer too, and the

swordsmen! oh, charming!'

There were now on the arena six combatants: Niger and his net, matched

against Sporus with his shield and his short broadsword; Lydon and

Tetraides, naked save by a cincture round the waist, each armed only

with a heavy Greek cestus--and two gladiators from Rome, clad in

complete steel, and evenly matched with immense bucklers and pointed

swords.

The initiatory contest between Lydon and Tetraides being less deadly

than that between the other combatants, no sooner had they advanced to

the middle of the arena than, as by common consent, the rest held back,

to see how that contest should be decided, and wait till fiercer weapons

might replace the cestus, ere they themselves commenced hostilities.

They stood leaning on their arms and apart from each other, gazing on

the show, which, if not bloody enough, thoroughly to please the

populace, they were still inclined to admire, because its origin was of

their ancestral Greece.

No person could, at first glance, have seemed less evenly matched than

the two antagonists. Tetraides, though not taller than Lydon, weighed

considerably more; the natural size of his muscles was increased, to the

eyes of the vulgar, by masses of solid flesh; for, as it was a notion

that the contest of the cestus fared easiest with him who was plumpest,

Tetraides had encouraged to the utmost his hereditary predisposition to

the portly. His shoulders were vast, and his lower limbs thick-set,

double-jointed, and slightly curved outward, in that formation which

takes so much from beauty to give so largely to strength. But Lydon,

except that he was slender even almost to meagreness, was beautifully

and delicately proportioned; and the skilful might have perceived that,

with much less compass of muscle than his foe, that which he had was

more seasoned--iron and compact. In proportion, too, as he wanted

flesh, he was likely to possess activity; and a haughty smile on his

resolute face which strongly contrasted the solid heaviness of his

enemy's, gave assurance to those who beheld it, and united their hope to

their pity: so that, despite the disparity of their seeming strength,

the cry of the multitude was nearly as loud for Lydon as for Tetraides.

Whoever is acquainted with the modern prize-ring--whoever has witnessed

the heavy and disabling strokes which the human fist, skillfully

directed, hath the power to bestow--may easily understand how much that

happy facility would be increased by a band carried by thongs of leather

round the arm as high as the elbow, and terribly strengthened about the

knuckles by a plate of iron, and sometimes a plummet of lead. Yet this,

which was meant to increase, perhaps rather diminished, the interest of

the fray: for it necessarily shortened its duration. A very few blows,

successfully and scientifically planted, might suffice to bring the

contest to a close; and the battle did not, therefore, often allow full

scope for the energy, fortitude and dogged perseverance, that we

technically style pluck, which not unusually wins the day against

superior science, and which heightens to so painful a delight the

interest in the battle and the sympathy for the brave.

'Guard thyself!' growled Tetraides, moving nearer and nearer to his foe,

who rather shifted round him than receded.

Lydon did not answer, save by a scornful glance of his quick, vigilant

eye. Tetraides struck--it was as the blow of a smith on a vice; Lydon

sank suddenly on one knee--the blow passed over his head. Not so

harmless was Lydon's retaliation: he quickly sprung to his feet, and

aimed his cestus full on the broad breast of his antagonist. Tetraides

reeled--the populace shouted.

'You are unlucky to-day,' said Lepidus to Clodius: 'you have lost one

bet----you will lose another.'

'By the gods! my bronzes go to the auctioneer if that is the case. I

have no less than a hundred sestertia upon Tetraides. Ha, ha! see how

he rallies! That was a home stroke: he has cut open Lydon's shoulder. A

Tetraides!--a Tetraides!'

'But Lydon is not disheartened. By Pollux! how well he keeps his

temper. See how dexterously he avoids those hammer-like hands!--dodging

now here, now there--circling round and round. Ah, poor Lydon! he has

it again.'

'Three to one still on Tetraides! What say you, Lepidus?'

'Well, nine sestertia to three--be it so! What! again, Lydon? He

stops--he gasps for breath. By the gods, he is down. No--he is again

on his legs. Brave Lydon! Tetraides is encouraged--he laughs loud--he

rushes on him.'

'Fool--success blinds him--he should be cautious. Lydon's eye is like

the lynx's,' said Clodius, between his teeth.

'Ha, Clodius! saw you that? Your man totters! Another blow--he

falls--he falls!'

'Earth revives him, then. He is once more up; but the blood rolls down

his face.'

'By the thunderer! Lydon wins it. See how he presses on him! That blow

on the temple would have crushed an ox! it has crushed Tetraides. He

falls again--he cannot move--habet!--habet!'

'Habet!' repeated Pansa. 'Take them out and give them the armor and

swords.'

'Noble editor,' said the officers, 'we fear that Tetraides will not

recover in time; howbeit, we will try.'

'Do so.'

In a few minutes the officers, who had dragged off the stunned and

insensible gladiator, returned with rueful countenances. They feared

for his life; he was utterly incapacitated from re-entering the arena.

'In that case,' said Pansa, 'hold Lydon a subdititius; and the first

gladiator that is vanquished, let Lydon supply his place with the

victor.' The people shouted their applause at this sentence: then they

again sunk into deep silence. The trumpet sounded loudly. The four

combatants stood each against each in prepared and stern array.

'Dost thou recognize the Romans, my Clodius; are they among the

celebrated, or are they merely ordinary?'

'Eumolpus is a good second-rate swordsman, my Lepidus. Nepimus, the

lesser man, I have never seen before: but he is the son of one of the

imperial fiscales, and brought up in a proper school; doubtless they

will show sport, but I have no heart for the game; I cannot win back my

money--I am undone. Curses on that Lydon! who could have supposed he was

so dexterous or so lucky?'

'Well, Clodius, shall I take compassion on you, and accept your own

terms with these Romans?'

'An even ten sestertia on Eumolpus, then?'

'What! when Nepimus is untried? Nay, nay; that is to bad.'

'Well--ten to eight?'

'Agreed.'

While the contest in the amphitheatre had thus commenced, there was one

in the loftier benches for whom it had assumed, indeed, a poignant--a

stifling interest. The aged father of Lydon, despite his Christian

horror of the spectacle, in his agonized anxiety for his son, had not

been able to resist being the spectator of his fate. One amidst a fierce

crowd of strangers--the lowest rabble of the populace--the old man saw,

felt nothing, but the form--the presence of his brave son! Not a sound

had escaped his lips when twice he had seen him fall to the earth--only

he had turned paler, and his limbs trembled. But he had uttered one low

cry when he saw him victorious; unconscious, alas! of the more fearful

battle to which that victory was but a prelude.

'My gallant boy!' said he, and wiped his eyes.

'Is he thy son?' said a brawny fellow to the right of the Nazarene; 'he

has fought well: let us see how he does by-and-by. Hark! he is to fight

the first victor. Now, old boy, pray the gods that that victor be

neither of the Romans! nor, next to them, the giant Niger.'

The old man sat down again and covered his face. The fray for the

moment was indifferent to him--Lydon was not one of the combatants.

Yet--yet--the thought flashed across him--the fray was indeed of deadly

interest--the first who fell was to make way for Lydon! He started, and

bent down, with straining eyes and clasped hands, to view the encounter.

The first interest was attracted towards the combat of Niger with

Sporus; for this species of contest, from the fatal result which usually

attended it, and from the great science it required in either

antagonist, was always peculiarly inviting to the spectators.

They stood at a considerable distance from each other. The singular

helmet which Sporus wore (the vizor of which was down) concealed his

face; but the features of Niger attracted a fearful and universal

interest from their compressed and vigilant ferocity. Thus they stood

for some moments, each eyeing each, until Sporus began slowly, and with

great caution, to advance, holding his sword pointed, like a modern

fencer's, at the breast of his foe. Niger retreated as his antagonist

advanced, gathering up his net with his right hand, and never taking his

small glittering eye from the movements of the swordsman. Suddenly when

Sporus had approached nearly at arm's length, the retiarius threw

himself forward, and cast his net. A quick inflection of body saved the

gladiator from the deadly snare! he uttered a sharp cry of joy and rage,

and rushed upon Niger: but Niger had already drawn in his net, thrown it

across his shoulders, and now fled round the lists with a swiftness

which the secutor in vain endeavored to equal. The people laughed and

shouted aloud, to see the ineffectual efforts of the broad-shouldered

gladiator to overtake the flying giant: when, at that moment, their

attention was turned from these to the two Roman combatants.

They had placed themselves at the onset face to face, at the distance of

modern fencers from each other: but the extreme caution which both

evinced at first had prevented any warmth of engagement, and allowed the

spectators full leisure to interest themselves in the battle between

Sporus and his foe. But the Romans were now heated into full and fierce

encounter: they pushed--returned--advanced on--retreated from each other

with all that careful yet scarcely perceptible caution which

characterizes men well experienced and equally matched. But at this

moment, Eumolpus, the elder gladiator, by that dexterous back-stroke

which was considered in the arena so difficult to avoid, had wounded

Nepimus in the side. The people shouted; Lepidus turned pale.

'Ho!' said Clodius, 'the game is nearly over. If Eumolpus fights now

the quiet fight, the other will gradually bleed himself away.'

'But, thank the gods! he does not fight the backward fight. See!--he

presses hard upon Nepimus. By Mars! but Nepimus had him there! the

helmet rang again!--Clodius, I shall win!'

'Why do I ever bet but at the dice?' groaned Clodius to himself;--or why

cannot one cog a gladiator?'

'A Sporus!--a Sporus!' shouted the populace, as Niger having now

suddenly paused, had again cast his net, and again unsuccessfully. He

had not retreated this time with sufficient agility--the sword of Sporus

had inflicted a severe wound upon his right leg; and, incapacitated to

fly, he was pressed hard by the fierce swordsman. His great height and

length of arm still continued, however, to give him no despicable

advantages; and steadily keeping his trident at the front of his foe, he

repelled him successfully for several minutes. Sporus now tried, by

great rapidity of evolution, to get round his antagonist, who

necessarily moved with pain and slowness. In so doing, he lost his

caution--he advanced too near to the giant--raised his arm to strike,

and received the three points of the fatal spear full in his breast! He

sank on his knee. In a moment more, the deadly net was cast over him,

he struggled against its meshes in vain; again--again--again he writhed

mutely beneath the fresh strokes of the trident--his blood flowed fast

through the net and redly over the sand. He lowered his arms in

acknowledgment of defeat.

The conquering retiarius withdrew his net, and leaning on his spear,

looked to the audience for their judgement. Slowly, too, at the same

moment, the vanquished gladiator rolled his dim and despairing eyes

around the theatre. From row to row, from bench to bench, there glared

upon him but merciless and unpitying eyes.

Hushed was the roar--the murmur! The silence was dread, for it was no

sympathy; not a hand--no, not even a woman's hand--gave the signal of

charity and life! Sporus had never been popular in the arena; and,

lately, the interest of the combat had been excited on behalf of the

wounded Niger. The people were warmed into blood--the mimic fight had

ceased to charm; the interest had mounted up to the desire of sacrifice

and the thirst of death!

The gladiator felt that his doom was sealed: he uttered no prayer--no

groan. The people gave the signal of death! In dogged but agonized

submission, he bent his neck to receive the fatal stroke. And now, as

the spear of the retiarius was not a weapon to inflict instant and

certain death, there stalked into the arena a grim and fatal form,

brandishing a short, sharp sword, and with features utterly concealed

beneath its vizor. With slow and measured steps, this dismal headsman

approached the gladiator, still kneeling--laid the left hand on his

humbled crest--drew the edge of the blade across his neck--turned round

to the assembly, lest, in the last moment, remorse should come upon

them; the dread signal continued the same: the blade glittered brightly

in the air--fell--and the gladiator rolled upon the sand; his limbs

quivered--were still--he was a corpse.'

His body was dragged at once from the arena through the gate of death,

and thrown into the gloomy den termed technically the spoliarium. And

ere it had well reached that destination, the strife between the

remaining combatants was decided. The sword of Eumolpus had inflicted

the death-wound upon the less experienced combatant. A new victim was

added to the receptacle of the slain.

Throughout that mighty assembly there now ran a universal movement; the

people breathed more freely, and resettled themselves in their seats. A

grateful shower was cast over every row from the concealed conduits. In

cool and luxurious pleasure they talked over the late spectacle of

blood. Eumolpus removed his helmet, and wiped his brows; his

close-curled hair and short beard, his noble Roman features and bright

dark eye attracted the general admiration. He was fresh, unwounded,

unfatigued.

The editor paused, and proclaimed aloud that, as Niger's wound disabled

him from again entering the arena, Lydon was to be the successor to the

slaughtered Nepimus, and the new combatant of Eumolpus.

'Yet, Lydon,' added he, 'if thou wouldst decline the combat with one so

brave and tried, thou mayst have full liberty to do so. Eumolpus is not

the antagonist that was originally decreed for thee. Thou knowest best

how far thou canst cope with him. If thou failest, thy doom is

honorable death; if thou conquerest, out of my own purse I will double

the stipulated prize.'

The people shouted applause. Lydon stood in the lists, he gazed around;

high above he beheld the pale face, the straining eyes, of his father.

He turned away irresolute for a moment. No! the conquest of the cestus

was not sufficient--he had not yet won the prize of victory--his father

was still a slave!

'Noble aedile!' he replied, in a firm and deep tone, 'I shrink not from

this combat. For the honour of Pompeii, I demand that one trained by

its long-celebrated lanista shall do battle with this Roman.'

The people shouted louder than before.

'Four to one against Lydon!' said Clodius to Lepidus.

'I would not take twenty to one! Why, Eumolpus is a very Achilles, and

this poor fellow is but a tyro!'

Eumolpus gazed hard on the face of Lydon; he smiled; yet the smile was

followed by a slight and scarce audible sigh--a touch of compassionate

emotion, which custom conquered the moment the heart acknowledged it.

And now both, clad in complete armor, the sword drawn, the vizor closed,

the two last combatants of the arena (ere man, at least, was matched

with beast), stood opposed to each other.

It was just at this time that a letter was delivered to the proctor by

one of the attendants of the arena; he removed the cincture--glanced

over it for a moment--his countenance betrayed surprise and

embarrassment. He re-read the letter, and then muttering--'Tush! it is

impossible!--the man must be drunk, even in the morning, to dream of

such follies!'--threw it carelessly aside, and gravely settled himself

once more in the attitude of attention to the sports.

The interest of the public was wound up very high. Eumolpus had at

first won their favor; but the gallantry of Lydon, and his well-timed

allusion to the honour of the Pompeian lanista, had afterwards given the

latter the preference in their eyes.

'Holla, old fellow!' said Medon's neighbor to him. 'Your son is hardly

matched; but never fear, the editor will not permit him to be slain--no,

nor the people neither; he has behaved too bravely for that. Ha! that

was a home thrust!--well averted, by Pollux! At him again, Lydon!--they

stop to breathe. What art thou muttering, old boy

'Prayers!' answered Medon, with a more calm and hopeful mien than he had

yet maintained.

'Prayers!--trifles! The time for gods to carry a man away in a cloud is

gone now. Ha! Jupiter! what a blow! Thy side--thy side!--take care of

thy side, Lydon!'

There was a convulsive tremor throughout the assembly. A fierce blow

from Eumolpus, full on the crest, had brought Lydon to his knee.

'Habet!--he has it!' cried a shrill female voice; 'he has it!' It was

the voice of the girl who had so anxiously anticipated the sacrifice of

some criminal to the beasts.

'Be silent, child!' said the wife of Pansa, haughtily. 'Non habet!--he

is not wounded!'

'I wish he were, if only to spite old surly Medon,' muttered the girl.

Meanwhile Lydon, who had hitherto defended himself with great skill and

valor, began to give way before the vigorous assaults of the practised

Roman; his arm grew tired, his eye dizzy, he breathed hard and

painfully. The combatants paused again for breath.