front of the Altar of Jupiter, one of the Africans moved towards Tisias,
as if to conduct him to the place where it behoved him to kneel; but he,
observing what was his intention, forthwith prevented him, and walked of
himself steadily close up to him in whose hand the sword was unsheathed.
Being come thither, he immediately took his station over against the
block, and having for a moment placed his hand upon his eyes, and moved
his lips, as it seemed, in fervent supplication, dropped his one knee on
the ground, and stretched forth his neck towards the block; but suddenly,
after he had done so, he sprung again upon his feet, and began to gaze
with a keen eye all around the assembly, as if he were in search of some
one to whom he had something yet to say. In vain, however, as it appeared,
did he make this endeavour; for after a little space, he shook his head
despairingly, and gave over the steadfastness of his look. Nevertheless,
he lifted up his voice, and, surveying once more the whole face of the
Amphitheatre round about, from side to side, said audibly,—“There is one
here who made last night a promise to me in my dungeon. I cannot see him
where he is; but I conjure him to take good heed, and execute, as he is a
man and a Roman, all those things which he said to me he would do.” Now,
when I heard him say so, I well knew within myself that it was for me only
his eye had been searching, and half did I arise from my seat, that he
might see I was there, and observe my resolution to keep the faith I had
plighted voluntarily to him in his prison. But Sabinus, having watched my
earnestness in contemplating Tisias, and comprehending something of that
which was meant, held me firm upon the bench, whispering, “As you regard
me, Valerius, and as you regard your own safety, be still.”
Being thus constrained, I neither rose up, nor made any attempt to attract
the attention of Tisias—for which forbearance, I confess to you, I have
since that day undergone the visitation of not a few bitter thoughts—but
remained steadily in my place, while the old man once more addressed
himself to kneel down upon the block that was before him. Calmly now at
length did he kneel, and with much composure did he place himself. Yet,
before the gladiator was ready to strike, he lifted his head once again,
and gazed upwards for a moment towards heaven, with such a countenance of
faith and hope, that there went through all the assembly a murmur, as it
were, and a stirring breath of admiration. Then bowed he for the last time
his gray hairs, and almost before he had rested his neck upon the tree,
the strong sword of the African smote with merciful fierceness, and the
headless trunk falling backwards upon the sand, the blood spouted forth in
a gushing stream, and sprinkled all over with red drops the base of the
statue of Jupiter Capitolinus, and the surface of the marble altar,
whereupon the sacrifice of the Flamens had been offered.
The executioner having made an end of his duty, wiped his sword from the
blood of the Christian, and advancing towards the seats of the
magistrates, claimed the largess that was due to him,—which when he had
received, as is the custom, he and all his attendants withdrew immediately
from the arena; the Emperor, at the same moment, and the Consulars, and
all they that were about him, departing also from the assembly; and the
whole Amphitheatre speedily being filled with the clamours of an universal
upbreaking and dispersion.
_BOOK II. CHAPTER I._
I saw, my friends, that you listened with not less of indignation, than of
astonishment, to the account which I yesterday gave you of a day spent in
the Amphitheatre of Vespasian. Neither did I expect that it should be
otherwise with young persons of ingenuous minds, whose feelings have never
been hardened by any experience of the life of Rome.
And yet, when you reflect a little more upon the matter, I think you will
abate something of the wonder you manifested on hearing of the fondness of
the Roman people for some of those cruel, ruthful spectacles. You will
admit, at least, that there is a certain natural principle, on an
exaggerated and morbid obedience to which, rather than on any total and
absolute departure from the laws of our mind, much of that which excited
so much of your astonishment and indignation also may be supposed to
depend. In and by myself, I maintain it must always be a most interesting
thing for a man to witness, in whatever shape, the last moments of any
human creature. I mean not those merely corporeal struggles, in which
there must always be every thing to revolt, and nothing to interest,
because in them, it is evident, the nobler part of our nature can have no
share—the soul being already swallowed up, and its divinity absorbed in
the intense convulsions of animal suffering. These are things on which no
eyes can gaze willingly, without indicating degradation of spirit. But
before that curtain falls, beyond which every one must shudder to
penetrate, there is a last terrible act of the real tragedy, which must
ever have power to fix the eyes with an earnestness not the less deep,
because of its being preceded by some struggles of reluctance. We live in
a state in which, however we may clothe ourselves in the armour of levity,
or with the more effectual armour of occupation, it is impossible that the
one fearful idea of dissolution should not ever and anon come to scare us
with its terrors. We feel that we are walking over a soil, on the most
level and the most rugged parts of which it is equally possible we may
meet with the dark pit wherein it is our destiny to stumble. How sudden,
or how gradual soever the inevitable fall may be, we well know we shall
have little enough space to prepare ourselves for the last leap, when we
shall be fairly on the declivity; and I maintain, once more, that it is a
rational, no less than a natural, curiosity, which leads us to seek to
supply, in some measure, this necessary defect, and to gather, if
possible, from witnessing the last moments of others, some hints which may
be of use to us when our own dark hour shall come. We see a being standing
on the edge of a precipice, to which the only thing we know certainly, is,
that we ourselves shall one day be brought; and shall it be possible to
feel no curiosity concerning the manner in which he conducts himself on
that giddy brink? That which is denied to us in our own person, may, in
part, be supplied in his; and the eyes which dwell upon his features,
while they are filled with the overwhelming expectation of near
approaching death, make the closest approximation of which our nature
admits to penetrating the actual mysteries of the unseen region. For
myself, both wiser and better did I come away from all that mournful
spectacle. But perhaps I am joining together things which, after all, had
no necessary connection, when I ascribe to my contemplation of the death
of Tisias, and the other cruel sights which, as it seemed, were regarded
with indifference by the great multitudes around me, so much of the change
which, about this period, my own spirit underwent.
The slumbers which followed that busy day of novelties and terrors, were
long and heavy; for utterly worn out were both mind and body, and youth
hastened to repair the waste of its energies, by drinking deeply at the
great fountain of natural refreshment. Nevertheless, although the hand of
sleep had lain steadily upon me, when I awoke in the already-confirmed
light of morning, I found myself yet filled with a confused and tremulous
sense of excitation, as if the spirit had disdained to be idle after
having received so much food for activity, and Fancy had still been
garnishing the passive sphere of the night with aerial representations of
all the gorgeous and solemn realities of the by-past day. I lay there
ruminating amidst the dispersing shadows of the mysterious world of
dreams, and scarcely as yet aware that a whole night had passed since I
had returned from the Amphitheatre, when I was at length roused to a
sudden and complete recollection of all things by the entrance of Boto.
“My dear master,” said he, making a sort of start after he had come in, “I
was afraid you would be angry with me for not coming to you sooner, but
now I perceive you have been as lazy as the rest of us. Why, surely, you
are not aware what time of day it is! What would my dear old lady over the
water say, if she heard of my young master lying in bed till within three
hours of noon? Oh, what a place is this you have brought me to! Why, when
I awake in the morning, the first thought that comes into my head always
is, What, Boto, and is it really possible that all that wide roaring sea
lies between you and the green banks of quiet Anton? Is it truth, good
truth, and neither dream nor witching, that you, _Boto_, are in _Rome_?
But I sometimes have to jump up, and take a look out of the window before
I am quite convinced; and then, to be sure, I know well enough that I, who
used always to dream about driving cattle to Venta, and perhaps kissing a
Brigian lass by the way, could never dream of so many fine things unless I
were really among them. Good heavens! what a heap of stories I shall have
to tell, when we get safe back to Old Britain!”—“Indeed, Boto,” said I,
“you will be quite a travelled man. Be sure you do not give yourself too
many airs on the occasion.”—“Travelled man, in faith,” replied the clown.
“I should like to know, who it is that will be able to hold up his head
with me, when I am once fairly back again? Oh, how the old smith will be
humbled! He thought himself such a mighty person, because my old master,
your father, had taken him with him as far as Camolodunum, and how he used
to brag of what he had seen there; but now, I trow, Master Pernorix will
be fain to talk quietly about his journeys.—O Rome, Rome! what fine things
shall I have to tell them all about Rome,—and the lions, and the monkeys,
and Cæsar, and the elephants, and the fighting men, and the Christian, and
all the wonderful sights we saw yesterday. But the worst of it is, that
nobody will ever be able to believe one half of what I shall tell
them.—And when does my dear Master Valerius think we shall be returning to
my old lady, and all the rest of them in Britain?”
“Of a truth, good Boto,” said I, “that is more than I can pretend to give
you any notion of; but I dare say, you shall have both time and
opportunity to pick up a few more marvels still before we go. In the
meantime, you are comfortable, I hope, in your quarters, and Dromo takes
good heed of you.”—“Dromo,” quoth he, looking as arch as his massive
features would admit of,—“Dromo, indeed!—If I had nobody to trust to but
him, I should be very ill off. Dromo is a great man; the young lord of the
house has him up in his chamber every day to talk with him by himself; and
when he comes down again, or returns from any of the errands he is sent
out upon, there is no bearing with him in the court-yard, where we are all
huddled together. As for the overseer, old Sarcalus, the freed-man, he has
quite given him up. Nobody dare speak about whipping him; he looks upon
himself as almost as important a person as his master, I believe, if the
truth were known; and yet I should not complain, for, after all, it was
Dromo that carried me yesterday to the Amphitheatre.”—“Ay, that was very
kind of Dromo—I should have thought of it myself. And did he not see that
you got your supper snugly, when you came back?”—“Ah! now, master, don’t
make them whip me—I see they have told you all.”—“All!” said I—“I do
assure you they have told me nothing about you; but come, speak out. It
must be something very bad that would make me think of having you whipt.
You have only been three days in Rome—I shall make allowance for a few
vagaries, provided they be not very extravagant.”—“Well, then, Master
Caius,” quoth he, “since they have told you nothing beforehand, and you
seem inclined to be so good-natured with me, I shall e’en tell you all
myself, and I hope you won’t think me, after all, very much to
blame.”—“Speak out, my honest Boto, and remember there is Dromo also to be
examined, in case you keep any thing back from me.”—“Ah! master, but Dromo
would not be so easily caught as poor Boto. Dromo is a cunning man, and a
close; and besides, they say he was born in a city they call Crete, and
the people of that place can’t speak a word of truth, even although they
were willing. Do not think any thing at all about Dromo; but trust
entirely to your own poor Boto, and he will tell you every thing. Dromo is
a sad dog.”
I know not what more he might have proceeded to say concerning Dromo, had
not that crafty Cretan, who, without question, had been listening all the
while behind the door, just at that moment glided in on very delicate
tiptoe, and coming close up behind the British slave, as he stood in the
act of haranguing me, smote him a smart fillip upon the cheek with the
back of his fingers, mimicking, at the same time, the outlandish accent of
the man, and repeating after him into his tinkling ears, the words, _Dromo
is a sad dog—Dromo is a cunning man, and a close—Dromo would not be so
easily caught as poor Boto_.—“Ha, ha! Master Valerius,” then said he to
me, “and so you would really take the trouble to ask questions of this
worthy man, when you had it in your power to send for me? I thought it had
not been for nothing that three persons I could name entered upon a
certain alliance—but ’tis all one to the Cretan.—Both Sextus, and you, may
manage your own affairs for yourselves, if such be your pleasure.”
I knew not on this whether to be more amazed with the impudence of the
Cretan, or the confusion of poor Boto, who stood rubbing his cheek with a
strangely mingled aspect of sheepishness and sulkiness; but Dromo soon put
an end to the affair, by turning round with a face of admirably feigned
astonishment to my Briton, and saying, “Good heavens! Boto, are you still
there? Do you not perceive that your master and I have something to say to
each other in private? Begone, my good man—shall I never be able to render
you susceptible of the smallest polish?”
These last words being accompanied with a gentle push on the back, soon
expelled poor Boto, who, nevertheless, did not depart without casting
towards me a look of woful appeal over his shoulder. But I perceiving
plainly, in the midst of all his frolicsome behaviour, that Dromo had
really something to say to me; and suspecting, of course, that the
interest of Sextus might be concerned in what he had to say, suffered my
slave to withdraw in good earnest. Dromo, after the door was shut, laid
his finger upon his lip, and stood still for a moment in an attitude of
close attention; but the heavy heels of the reluctant Briton were heard
with great distinctness, lumbering along the marble floor of the gallery;
so, being satisfied that there was no eavesdropping in the case, the
varlet seated himself forthwith in a posture of great familiarity on the
nether end of my couch, and, to judge from the expression of his
countenance, seemed evidently to be preparing himself for a disclosure of
some importance. At length, after not a few winks of much intelligence, it
was thus he began:—“You may hear Boto’s story, sir, at any time you
please, and I dare say it will amuse you; but, in the meantime, I must
really have you attend to me, for, without jesting, things are by no means
in so fair a train as I had thought for my young master; and if something
effectual be not speedily discovered, I am really at a loss to think how
we shall be able to get out of our difficulties, in such a manner as may
be either satisfactory to him, or creditable to my management. But you had
better get up and dress yourself, and while you are doing so, I will tell
you every thing.”
I did as he bade me, and then the Cretan proceeded:—“As I was coming out
of the Amphitheatre yesterday, I happened to find myself rubbing shoulders
with a certain old fat Calabrian, whom I had seen before about Rubellia’s
house in the Suburra, and thinking that no harm could possibly come of
being civil to him, I began immediately to ask his opinion of the
spectacles. I wish you had been there to see how much he was delighted
with the attention I paid him, and how he plumed himself on being admitted
to talk on such subjects with such a person as me; for the man himself is
but an ignorant fellow, and seems never to have kept company but with the
grooms and hinds. From less to more, we began to be the greatest friends
in the world; and by the time we got to the Arch, it was evident that we
could not possibly part, without having a cup together to cement the
acquaintance. Well, we were just about to dive into one of the
wine-cellars there, below the gate-way, when I saw your friend Boto
standing by himself in the middle of the street, apparently quite a-gaze
and bewildered, and not able to form the smallest guess which way he ought
to take in order to reach home; and being a good-natured fellow, in spite
of all that has been said, I immediately shouted out his name till he was
compelled to hear me, and then beckoned to him to come along with us,
which indeed he did without much coaxing.”
“Well, Dromo,” said I, “and so all your great news is, that you have been
leading my Briton into one of your debauches? In truth, I think you need
not have made such an affectation of mystery withal.”—“Stop now,” quoth
he, cutting me short; “if the slave be too slow, I am sure the master’s
quickness will make up for it.—Hear me out before you begin commenting;
such interruptions would bring the Stagyrite himself to a stand. We were
soon, all three of us, seated in one of those snug little places, which if
you have not yet seen, you are ignorant of the most comfortable sight
within all the four walls of Rome,—a quiet cleanly little place,—three
good hassocks upon the floor, a handful of sausages, a plate of dried fish
as broad as the shield of Ajax, and a good old fashioned round-bellied
jolly jug of Surrentine in the midst of us. I dare say, there were a
hundred besides employed in the same way in the house; but we shut the
door, and were as private as behind the altar of Vesta.”—“A tempting
scene, Dromo; and what use did you make of your privacy?”—“All in good
time, Master Valerius; you would have the apple before the egg. We had
scarcely emptied our first jug, ere the conversation between the Calabrian
and me took a turn that was not quite unnatural; for slaves, however
little you may trust them, will always be smelling out something of the
truth; and you may be sure, all this visiting, and feasting, and riding
about in chariots, and sitting together at the Amphitheatre, has not been
going on, without causing a good deal of talk both in this house and the
rich widow’s. The courtship was of course the subject of our conversation,
and I, pretending to know nothing of it myself, except from the common
report of the slaves about our house, affected to consider it as highly
probable, that the fat Calabrian might have had much better opportunities
than mine of being informed how the affair really stood.”
“And did he really seem to have any knowledge about it?” said I.—“Not
much—not much; but still the man did tell me something that I think may
turn out to be well worth the knowing. ‘I am sure,’ said I, (by this time
Boto was fast asleep,)—‘I am sure, if Rubellia won’t have my young master,
it won’t be for want of presents; for we all know he has already given her
a whole casket of rings and bracelets that belonged to his mother, and he
is sitting for his picture, which, they say, he is to give her
besides.’—‘And _I_ am sure,’ quoth the Calabrian in return, ‘that if your
young master don’t have my lady, it won’t be for want of presents neither;
for she is the most generous open-handed lady in the world, and that her
worst enemies will allow, although her father be an old rogue, and an
usurer, as all the town says he is. No, Dromo,’ continued he, ‘nor will it
be for want of philtres, nor of charms, nor of any thing that soothsaying
can procure; for, between ourselves, my lady keeps up a constant traffic
of late with all that sort of gentry; and what the issue of it all may be,
Hecate only knows.’ Now, Master Valerius, when I heard him speak of
philtres and charms, you may be sure I began to quicken up my ears more
keenly than ever.”
“Dromo!” said I; “you are not serious. You do not mean surely to make me
think that you believe in the efficacy of love-potions, or any such
quackeries?” “Quackeries! do you call philtres quackeries? Why, there was
a girl once gave myself a philtre that kept me raving for six
months.”—“What sort of a looking girl was she, good Dromo?”—“Bah!” quoth
he; “don’t expect to jeer me out of memory as well as judgment. Heavens
and earth! when did any body ever hear of any body denying the efficacy of
philtres? What an atheistical sort of barbarians those Britons must be. I
wonder you are not afraid of some evil coming upon you. Remember Dian’s
handful; remember the fate of Actæon!”—“Good Dromo,” said I, “I suppose
you also suffered from peeping. But talk seriously; are you yourself a
dealer in philtres, that you are so anxious I should believe in their
power? Or what is your meaning?”
“My meaning is this,” quoth he, with great vehemence,—“it is, that if
Rubellia gives Sextus such another philtre as a certain cunning damsel
gave me, before I left pleasant Crete, to be a drudge and a packhorse here
in Rome, where a man may sweat all his life in another’s service without
being once thanked for his pains, and perhaps be laid out, look ye, for a
supper to the vultures at last, because no body will treat his carcase to
a blaze of old sticks,—I say, that if the Lady Rubellia contrives to give
Sextus such another philtre as that, the game’s up, Master Valerius; and
we may as well set about painting the dead, as try to save him from her
clutches. The man’s gone—he’s as lost as Troy.”—“Well, Dromo,” said I, for
I perceived there was no use in fighting it with him, “and have you not
been able to hit upon any feasible scheme?”—“Ay, have you come to that at
last? that is just what I have been cudgelling my brains about for the
last twelve hours. But if I do hit upon any thing, I shall need
assistance. In such cases, the best judgment can do nothing by
itself.”—“Fear not, Dromo,” quoth I; “if my assistance can do you any
good, you well know you can command it to the utmost.”—“Then prepare,”
replied the Cretan, rising up with an air of much solemnity—“then prepare
in good earnest; for, may Cerberus growl upon me, if I don’t find out some
scheme before another day goes over, and shew you all what stuff I am made
of. To think of entrapping Sextus without consulting Dromo!—No, by Cretan
Jove, she shall not accomplish it—no, not even with a sea of philtres.”
“And, in the meantime,” said I, “what must Sextus do with himself?”—“He
must not go near the Suburra; he must remain closely at home; and as for
tasting any thing at her house, or any thing that comes from her—by
heavens, if he does not take his oath against that—we may as well leave
him to his destiny. If he will but take good care for this one day, I
think there is every chance something may be hit upon ere the morning. I
have got my cue, and shall not be idle, I promise you; but I undertake
nothing, unless you swear to keep Sextus safe, and at a distance from her,
till night-fall.”—“Good Dromo,” said I, “make yourself easy on that score;
it will be a new circumstance indeed, if we find any difficulty in
persuading Sextus to stay a single day away from the Suburra.”
“Persuading!” quoth the slave; “who ever heard of such a word as
persuasion at such a crisis as this? I tell you he _must_ be kept away;
and if no other plan can be fallen on, I have a great mind to turn the key
on him and his pedagogue both together. I heard them hammering at their
lessons already as I came along—and that puts me in mind that I have a
very shrewd notion there is more between that bearded goat of ours and
this Rubellia, than any of us had been suspecting. Unless that Calabrian
lies—and I think lying is above his sphere—this old rogue has been oftener
in the Suburra of late than we had any thought of. So help me Hermes! I
believe Licinius has been employing him to go his private messages to
Rubellia—but that is only one insult more, and I shall have my revenge all
in a lump.”