When Plotinus’s eyes were at length opened, they fell not this time
upon the faithful Porphyry, but upon two youthful followers of Plato
who were beguiling the tedium of their vigil at his bedside by a game
of dice, which prevented their observing his resuscitation. After a
moment’s hesitation Plotinus resolved to lie quiet in the hopes of
hearing something that might indicate what influences were in the
ascendant in the philosophical republic. He had not long to wait.
“Dice is dull work for long,” said one of the young men, indolently
throwing himself back, and letting his caster fall upon the floor. “To
think how much better one might be employed, but for having to watch
this old fool here! I’ve a great mind to call up a slave.”
“All the slaves are sure to have gone to the show, unless any of them
should be Christians. Besides, Porphyry would hear you, he’s only in a
cat’s sleep,” returned his companion.
“Well, I mean to say it’s a shame. All the town will be in the theatre
by this time.”
“How many gladiators, said you?”
“Forty pairs, the best show Campania has seen time out of mind.”
“How has it all come about?”
“Oh, news comes of the death of Postumus, killed by his own soldiers,
and this passes as a great victory for want of a better, ‘We must have
a day of thanksgiving,’ says Theocles. ‘Right,’ says Leaena, ‘I am
dying to see an exhibition of gladiators.’ Theocles demurs at first,
expecting to have to find the money—but Leaena tugs at his beard, and
he gives in. Just at the nick of time the right sort of fellow pops up
nobody knows whence, a lanista with hair like curling helichryse, as
Theocritus has it, and a small army of gladiators, whom, out of
devotion to the Emperor, he offers to exhibit for nothing. Who so
pleased as Theocles now? He takes the chair as archon with Leaena by
his side, and off goes every soul in the place, except Pannychis, who
cannot bear the sight of blood, and Porphyry, who is an outrageous
humanitarian, and us poor devils left in charge of this old dreamer.”
“Couldn’t we leave him to mind himself? He isn’t likely to awake yet.”
“Try him with your cloak-pin.” The student detached the implement in
question, which was about the size of a small stiletto. Feeling
uncertain what part of his person was to be the subject of experiment,
Plotinus judged it advisable to manifest his recovery in an
unmistakable fashion.
“O dear Master, what joy!” cried both the students in a breath.
“Porphyry! Porphyry!”
The trusty scholar appeared immediately, and under pretence of fetching
food, the two neophytes eloped to the amphitheatre.
“What means all this, Porphyry?” demanded Plotinus sternly. “The City
of Philosophers polluted by human blood! The lovers of wisdom mingling
with the dregs of the rabble!”
Porphyry’s account, which Plotinus could only extract by consenting to
eat while his disciple talked, corresponded in all essential
particulars with that of the two young men.
“And I see not,” added he, “what we can do in the matter. This
abomination is supposed to be in honour of the Emperor’s victories. If
we interfere with it we shall be executed as rebels, supposing that we
are not first torn to pieces as rioters.”
“Porphyry,” replied Plotinus, “I should esteem this disgrace to
philosophy a disgrace to myself if I did not my utmost to avert it.
Remain thou here, and perform my funeral rites if it be necessary.”
But to this Porphyry would by no means consent, and the two
philosophers proceeded to the amphitheatre together. It was so crowded
that there was no room on the seats for another person. Theocles was
enthroned in the chair of honour, his beard manifesting evident traces
of the depilatories administered by Leaena, who nevertheless sat by his
side, her voluptuous face gloating over the anticipated banquet of
agony. The philosophic part of the spectators were ranged all around,
the remaining seats were occupied by a miscellaneous public. The master
of the gladiators, a man of distinguished appearance, whose yellow
locks gave him the aspect of a barbarian prince, stood in the arena
surrounded by his myrmidons. The entry of Plotinus and Porphyry
attracted his attention: he motioned to his followers, and in an
instant the philosophers were seized, bound, and gagged without the
excited assembly being in the least conscious of their presence.
Two men stepped out into the arena, both fine and attractive figures.
The athletic limbs, the fair complexion, the curling yellow hair of one
proclaimed the Goth; he lightly swung his huge sword in his right hand,
and looked as if his sole arm would easily put to flight the crowd of
effeminate spectators. The other’s beauty was of another sort; young,
slender, pensive, spiritual, he looked like anything rather than a
gladiator, and held his downward pointed sword with a negligent grasp.
“Guard thyself!” cried the Goth, placing himself in an attitude of
offence.
“I spill not the blood of a fellow-creature,” answered the other,
casting his sword away from him.
“Coward!” yelled well-nigh every voice in the amphitheatre.
“No,” answered the youth with a grave smile, “Christian.”
His shield and helmet followed his sword, he stood entirely defenceless
before his adversary.
“Throw him to my lion,” cried Theocles.
“Or thy lioness,” suggested Hermon.
This allusion to Leaena provoked a burst of laughter. Suddenly the Goth
aimed a mighty blow at the head of the unresisting man. A shorn curl
fell to the ground, the consummate skill of the swordsman averted all
further contact between his blade and the Christian, who remained erect
and smiling, without having moved a muscle or an eyelash.
“Master,” said the Goth, addressing the lanista, “I had rather fight
ten armed men than this unarmed one.”
“Good,” returned his lord, with a gesture of approval. “Retire both of
you.”
A roar of disapprobation broke out from the spectators, which seemed
not to produce the slightest effect on the lanista.
“Turn out the next pair,” they cried.
“I shall not,” said he.
“Wherefore?”
“Because I do not choose.”
“Rogue! Cheat! Swindler! Cast him into prison! Throw him to the lion!”
Such epithets and recommendations rained from the spectators’ seats,
accompanied by a pelting of more substantial missiles. In an instant
the yellow hair and common dress lay on the ground, and those who knew
him not by the features could by the Imperial ornaments recognise the
Emperor Gallienus. With no less celerity his followers, the Goth and
the Christian excepted, disencumbered themselves of their exterior
vesture, and stood forward in the character of Roman soldiers.
“Friends,” cried Gallienus, turning to the plebeian multitude, “I am
not about to balk you of your sport.”
At a sign from him the legionaries ascended to the seats allotted to
the philosophic portion of the audience, and a torrent of wisdom in
their persons, including that of Leaena, flung forth with the energy of
a catapult, descended abruptly and violently to the earth. They were
instantly seized and dragged into an erect attitude by the remainder of
the soldiery, who, amid the most tempestuous peals of laughter and
applause from the delighted public, thrust swords into their hands,
ranged them in opposite ranks, and summoned them to begin the fight and
quit themselves like men. It was equally ludicrous and pitiable to see
the bald, mostly grey-bearded men, their garments torn in their
expulsion and their persons bruised by the fall, confronting each other
with quaking limbs, helplessly brandishing their weapons or feebly
calling their adversaries to come on, while the soldiers prodded them
from behind with spears, and urged them into the close quarters they so
anxiously desired to avoid. Plotinus, helpless with his bonds and gag,
looked on in impotent horror. Gallienus was often cruel, but could he
intend such a revolting massacre? There must be something behind.
The honour of developing the Emperor’s purpose was reserved for
Theocles, who, with admirable presence of mind, had ever since he found
he must fight been engaged in trying to select the weakest antagonist.
After hesitating between the unwieldy chief of the Peripatetics and the
feminine Leaena he fixed on the latter, partly moved, perhaps, by the
hope of avenging his beard. With a martial cry he sprang towards her,
and upraised his weapon for a swashing blow. But he had sadly
miscalculated. Leaena was hardly less versed in the combats of Mars
than in those of Venus, having, in fact, commenced her distinguished
career as a camp-follower of the Emperor Gordian. A tremendous stroke
caught him on the hand; his blade dropped to the earth; why did not the
fingers follow? Leaena elucidated the problem by a still more violent
blow on his face; torrents of blood gushed forth indeed, but only from
the nose. The sword doubled up; it had neither point nor edge.
Encouraged by this opportune discovery the philosophers attacked each
other with infinite spirit and valour. Infuriated by the blows given
and received, by the pokings and proddings of the military, and the
hilarious derision of the public, they cast away the shivered blades
and resorted to the weapons of Nature. They kicked, they cuffed, they
scratched, they tore the garments from each other’s shoulders, they
foamed and rolled gasping in the yellow sand of the arena. At a signal
from the Emperor the portal of the amphitheatre was thrown open, and
the whole mass of clawing and cuffing philosophy was bundled
ignominiously into the street.
By this time Gallienus was seated on his tribunal, and Plotinus,
released from his bonds, was standing by his side.
“O Emperor,” he murmured, deeply abashed, “what can I urge? Thou wilt
surely demolish my city!”
“No, Plotinus,” replied Gallienus, pointing to the Goth and the
Christian, “there are the men who will destroy the City of
Philosophers. Would that were all they will destroy!”