THE ARENA
The games that were to be given in the amphitheater of Nemausus on the
nones of March were due to a bequest of Domitius Afer, the celebrated, or
rather infamous, informer and rhetorician, who had brought so many
citizens of Rome to death during the principate of Tiberius. He had run
great risk himself under Caligula, but had escaped by a piece of adroit
flattery. In dying he bequeathed a large sum out of his ill‐gotten
gains—the plunder of those whom he had destroyed, and whose families he
had ruined—to be expended in games in the amphitheater on the nones of
March, for the delectation of the citizens, and to keep his memory green
in his native city.
The games were to last two days. On the first there would be contests with
beasts, and on the second a water combat, when the arena would be flooded
and converted into a lake.
Great anxiety was entertained relative to the weather. Unless the mistral
ceased and the rain passed away, it would be impossible for the sports to
be held. It was true that the entire oval could be covered in by curtains
and mats, stretched between poles, but this contrivance was intended as
shelter against sun and not rain. Moreover, the violence of the wind had
rendered it quite impossible to extend the curtains.
The town was in the liveliest excitement. The man guilty of having
mutilated the statue had been sentenced to be cast to the beasts, and this
man was no vulgar criminal out of the slums, but belonged to one of the
superior “orders.”
That a great social change had taken place in the province, and that the
freedmen had stepped into power and influence, to the displacement of
their former masters, was felt by the descendants of the first Ægypto‐
Greek colonists, and by the relics of the Gaulish nobility, but they
hardly endured to admit the fact in words. The exercise of the rights of
citizenship, the election of the officials, the qualification for filling
the superior secular and religious offices, belonged to the decurion or
noble families. Almost the sole office open to those below was that of the
seviri; and yet even in elections the freedmen were beginning to exhibit a
power of control.
Now, one of the old municipal families was to be humbled by a member being
subjected to the degradation of death in the arena, and none of the
Falerii ventured to raise a voice in his defence, so critical did they
perceive the situation to be. The sodality of the Augustals in conclave
had determined that an example was to be made of Marcianus, and had made
this plain to the magistrates. They had even insisted on the manner of his
execution. His death would be a plain announcement to the decurion class
that its domination was at an end. The ancient patrician and plebeian
families of Rome had been extinguished in blood, and their places filled
by a new nobility of army factors and money‐lenders. A similar revolution
had taken place in the provinces by less bloody means. There, the transfer
of power was due largely to the favor of the prince accorded to the
freedmen.
In the Augustal colleges everywhere, the Cæsar had a body of devoted
adherents, men without nationality, with no historic position, no
traditions of past independence; men, moreover, who were shrewd enough to
see that by combination they would eventually be able to wrest the control
of the municipal government from those who had hitherto exercised it.
The rumor spread rapidly that a fresh entertainment was to be provided.
The damsel who had been rescued from the basin of Nemausus had surrendered
herself in order to obtain the release of her mother; and the magistrate
in office, Petronius Atacinus, out of consideration for the good people of
the town, whom he loved, and out of reverence for the gods who had been
slighted, had determined that she should be produced in the arena, and
there obliged publicly to sacrifice, and then to be received into the
priesthood. Should she, however, prove obdurate, then she would be
tortured into compliance.
Nor was this all. Baudillas Macer, the last scion of a decayed Volcian
family, who had been cast into the pit of the _robur_, but had escaped,
was also to be brought out and executed, as having assisted in the rescue
of Perpetua from the fountain, but chiefly for having connived at the
crime of Falerius Marcianus.
To the general satisfaction, the wind fell as suddenly as it had risen,
and that on the night preceding the sports. The weather remained bitterly
cold, and the sky was dark with clouds that seemed ready to burst. Not a
ray of sunlight traveled across the arena and climbed the stages of the
amphitheater. The day might have been one in November, and the weather
that encountered on the northern plains of Germania.
The townsfolk, and the spectators from the country, came provided against
the intemperance of the weather, wrapped in their warmest mantles, which
they drew as hoods over their heads. Slaves arrived, carrying boxes with
perforated tops, that contained glowing charcoal, so that their masters
and mistresses might keep their feet warm whilst attending the games. Some
carried cushions for the seats, others wolf‐skin rugs to throw over the
knees of the well‐to‐do spectators.
The ranges of the great oval were for the most part packed with
spectators. The topmost seats were full long before the rest. The stone
benches were divided into tiers. At the bottom, near the _podium_ or
breastwork confining the arena, were those for the municipal dignitaries,
for the priests, and for certain strangers to whom seats had been granted
by decree of the town council. Here might be read, “Forty seats decreed to
the navigators of the Rhône and Saone;” at another part of the
circumference, “Twenty‐five places appointed to the navigators of the
Ardèche and the Ouvèze.”
Above the ranges of seats set apart for the officials and guests were
those belonging to the decurions and knights, the nobility and gentry of
the town and little republic. The third range was that allotted to the
freedmen and common townsfolk and peasants from the country, and the
topmost stage was abandoned to be occupied by slaves alone. At one end of
the ellipse sat the principal magistrates close to the _podium_ at one
end, and at the other the master of the games and his attendants, the
prefect of the watch and of the firemen.
Two doors, one at each end, gave access to the arena, or means of exit.
One was that of the _vivarium_, whence the gladiators and prisoners issued
from a large chamber under the seats and feet of the spectators. The other
door was that which conducted to the _libitinum_, into which were cast the
corpses of men and the carcasses of beasts that had perished in the games.
Immediately below the seat of the principal magistrates and of the
pontiffs was a little altar, on the breastwork about the arena, with a
statue of Nemausus above it; and a priest stood at the side to keep the
charcoal alight, and to serve the incense to such as desired to do homage
to the god.
It was remarked that the attendance in the reserved seats of the decurions
was meager. Such as were connected with the Falerian family by blood or
marriage made it a point to absent themselves; others stayed away because
huffed at the insolence of the freedmen, and considering that the sentence
passed on Marcianus was a slight cast on their order.
On the other hand, the freedmen crowded to the show in full force, and not
having room to accommodate themselves and their families in the zone
allotted to them, some audaciously threw themselves over the barriers of
demarcation and were followed by others, and speedily flooded the benches
of the decurions.
When the magistrates arrived, preceded by their lictors, all in the
amphitheater rose, and the Quatuor‐viri bowed to the public. Each took a
pinch from the priest, who extended a silver shell containing aromatic
gums, and cast it on the fire, some gravely, Petronius with a flippant
gesture. Then the latter turned to the Augustal _flamen_, saying: “To the
god Augustus and the divine Julia (Livia),” and he threw some more grains
on the charcoal.
“Body of Bacchus!” said he, as he took his seat, “a little fizzling spark
such as that may please the gods, but does not content me. I wish I had a
roaring fire at which, like a babe out of its bath, I could spread my ten
toes and as many fingers. Such a day as this is! With cold weather I
cannot digest my food properly. I feel a lump in me as did Saturn when his
good Rhea gave him a meal of stones. I am full of twinges. By Vulcan and
his bellows! if it had not been for duty I would have been at home adoring
the Lares and Penates. These shows are for the young and warm‐blooded. The
arms of my chair send a chill into my marrow‐bones. What comes first? Oh!
a contest with a bull. Well, I shall curl up and doze like a marmot. Wake
me, good Smerius, when the next portion of the entertainment begins.”
A bull was introduced, and a gladiator was employed to exasperate and play
with the beast. He waved a garment before its eyes, then drove a sharp
instrument into its flank, and when the beast turned, he nimbly leaped out
of the way. When pursued he ran, then turned sharply, put his hands on the
back of the bull, and leaped over it.
The people cheered, but they had seen the performance so often repeated
that they speedily tired of such poor sport. The bull was accordingly
dispatched. Horses were introduced and hooked to the carcass, which was
rapidly drawn out. Then entered attendants of the amphitheater, who
strewed sand where the blood had been spilt, bowed and retired.
Thereupon the jailer threw open the gates of the _vivarium_ and brought
forth the prisoners. These consisted of the taverner who had murdered his
guests, the manumitted slave who had robbed his master, Baudillas,
Marcianus and Perpetua.
A thrill of cruel delight ran through the concourse of spectators. Now
something was about to be shown them, harrowing to the feelings,
gratifying to the ferocity that is natural to all men, and is expelled,
not at all by civilization, but by divine grace only.
It enhanced the pleasure of the spectators that criminals should witness
the death of their fellows. Eyes scanned their features, observed whether
they turned sick and faint, whether they winced, or whether they remained
cool and callous. This gave a cruel zest to their enjoyment.
A bear was produced. Dogs were set on him, and he was worried till he
shook off his torpor and was worked into fury. Then, at a sign from the
manager of the games, the dogs were called off, and the man who had
murdered his guests was driven forward towards the incensed beast.
The fellow was sullen, and gave no token of fear. He folded his arms,
leaned against the marble _podium_, and looked contemptuously around him
at the occupants of the tiers of seats.
The bear, relieved from his aggressors, seemed indisposed to notice the
man.
Then the spectators roared to the criminal, bidding him invite the brute
against himself. It was a strange fact that often in these horrible
exhibitions a man condemned to fight with the beasts allowed himself a
brief display of vanity, and sought to elicit the applause of the
spectators by his daring conduct to the animal that was to mangle and kill
him.
But the ill‐humored fellow would not give this pleasure to the onlookers.
Then the master of the sports signed to the attendants to goad the bear.
They obeyed, and he turned and growled and struck at them, but would not
touch the man designed to be hugged by him.
After many vain attempts, amidst the hooting and roar of the people, a
sign was made. Some gladiators leaped in, and with their swords dispatched
the taverner.
The spectators were indignant. They had been shown no sport, only a common
execution. They were shivering with cold; some grumbled, and said that
this was childish stuff to witness which was not worth the discomfort of
the exposure. Then, as with one voice, rose the yell: “The wolves! send in
the wolves! Marcianus to the wolves!”
The master of the games dispatched a messenger to the Quatuorvir who was
then the acting magistrate. He nodded to what was said, waved his hand in
the direction of the master’s box, and the latter sent an attendant to the
keeper of the beasts.
The jailer‐executioner at once grasped the deacon Falerius Marcianus by
the shoulders, bade him descend some steps and enter the arena.
Marcianus was deadly white. He shrank with disgust from the spot where the
soil was drenched with the blood of the taverner, and which was not as yet
strewn over with fresh sand. He cast a furtive look at the altar, then
made an appealing gesture to the magistrate.
“Come here, Cneius Marcianus,” said Petronius. “You belong to a
respectable and ancient family. You have been guilty of an infamous deed
that has brought disgrace on your entire order. See how many absent
themselves this day on that account! Your property is confiscated, you are
sentenced to death. Yet I give you one chance. Sacrifice to the gods and
blaspheme Christ. I do not promise you life if you do this. You must
appeal to the people. If they see you offer incense, they will know that
you have renounced the Crucified. Then I will put the question to their
decision. If they hold up their thumbs you will live. Consider, it is a
chance; it depends, not on me, but on their humor. Will you sacrifice?”
Marcianus looked at the mighty hoop of faces. He saw that the vast
concourse was thrilled with expectation; a notion crossed the mind of one
of the freedmen that Marcianus was being given a means of escape, and he
shouted words that, though audible and intelligible to those near, were
not to be caught by such as were distant. But the purport of his address
was understood, and produced a deafening, a furious roar of remonstrance.
“I will not sacrifice,” said the deacon; “I am a Christian.”
Then Petronius Atacinus raised his hand, partly to assure the spectators
that he was not opposing their wishes, partly as a signal to the master of
the games.
Instantly a low door in the barrier was opened, and forth rushed a howling
pack of wolves. When they had reached the center of the arena, they stood
for a moment snuffing, and looked about them in questioning attitudes.
Some, separating from the rest, ran with their snouts against the ground
to where the recent blood had been spilt. But, all at once, a huge gray
wolf, that led the pack, uttered a howl, and made a rush and a leap
towards Marcianus; and the rest followed.
The sight was too terrible for the deacon to contemplate it unmoved. He
remained but for an instant as one frozen, and then with a cry he started
and ran round the ellipse, and the whole gray pack tore after him. Now and
then, finding that they gained on him, he turned with threatening gestures
that cowed the brutes; but this was for a moment only. Their red eyes,
their gleaming teeth filled the wretched man with fresh terror, and again
he ran.
The spectators clapped their hands—some stood up on their seats and
laughed in ecstasy of enjoyment. Once, twice he made the circuit of the
arena; and his pace, if possible, became quicker. The delight of the
spectators became an intoxication. It was exquisite. Fear in the flying
man became frantic. His breath, his strength were failing. Then suddenly
he halted, half turned, and ran to the foot of the barrier before the seat
of the Quatuor‐viri, and extended his hand: “Give me the incense! I
worship Nemausus! I adore Augustus! I renounce Christ!”
At the same moment the old monster wolf had seized him from behind. The
arms of the deacon were seen for an instant in the air. The spectators
stamped and danced and cheered—the dense gray mass of writhing, snarling
beasts closed over the spot where Marcianus had fallen!