CHAPTER XXXIX THE FIGHT IN THE ARENA

‘Quid vesani sibi vult ars impia ludi?

Quid mortes juvenum? quid sanguine parta voluptas?’

Prudentius.

‘Mera homicidia sunt.’—Seneca, Ep. 7.

The morning broke in cloudless splendour. Long before the dawn thousands of the Roman populace had thronged into the amphitheatre to secure the best places. The City Præfect was known to be a man of taste and a favourite of Nero, and the Emperor himself was certain to grace the display with his idolised presence. The pairs of gladiators were not numerous, nor were there many wild beasts; but everything was to be choice of its kind, and it was rumoured that some beautiful foreign youths were to make their first appearance as fighters.

About eleven o’clock the rays of the sun became too strong for comfort, and a huge awning, decorated with gay streamers, was drawn over the audience by gilded cords.

By this time the amphitheatre, except the seats reserved for distinguished persons, was thronged from the lowest seats to the topmost ambulatory, where stood a dense array of slaves and of the lowest proletariat. They did not get tired of waiting, for the scene was one of continual bustle and brightness, as group after group of burghers, in their best array, took their seats with their wives and families. Any well-known patrician or senator was greeted with applause or with hisses. The buzz of general conversation sometimes rose into a roar of laughter, and sometimes sank into a hush of expectancy. Little incidents kept occurring every moment. Interlopers tried to thrust themselves into the fourteen rows of seats which were set apart for the knights, and an altercation often ensued between the seat-keeper, Oceanus, and these impostors. Now the people laughed at the unceremonious way in which he shook one of them who, to escape notice, had pretended to be asleep. They were still more amused when the impatient official turned out a finely dressed personage who protested that he was a knight, but unluckily dropped in the scuffle a large key, which showed him to be a slave.

At last the shouting of the multitude who thronged about the principal entrance announced the arrival of the Præfect. Amid the acclamations of the populace, the magnificent procession by which Pedanius was accompanied passed round the arena to the reserved seats. Pedanius was scarcely seated, when the Emperor, surrounded by a group of his most brilliant courtiers, took his place in the imperial box. As the roar of applause continued, he rose again and again with his hand on his heart, to bow and cringe before the public—omnia serviliter pro imperio. For the mob of Rome was at once his master and his slave, and was as ready at slight excuse to burst into open menaces as into blasphemous adulation. Nero was as well aware as Tiberius that ‘he was only holding a wolf by the ears;’ and he often quoted the saying of that keen observer, that few realised ‘what a monster Empire was.’

Then Pedanius rose in his seat and flung down the scarlet napkin which was the signal that the sports were to begin.

The opening amusements were harmless and curious. First a number of German aurochs were led round the circus. They had been trained to stand still while boys hung from their huge horns, or danced and fenced standing on their broad backs. A tiger was guided by its keeper with a chain of flowers. Four chariots swept past in succession, the first drawn by leopards with gay silken harness, the second by stags champing golden bits, the third by shaggy bisons, the fourth by four camels who amused the people by their expression of supercilious disapproval. Then an elephant performed some clumsy dances under the bidding of its black keeper. Next a winged boy led in a wild boar by a purple halter. Last of all, a tame lion was introduced, which, to the delight of the shouting populace, dandled a hare in its paws without hurting it, and then suffered its keeper to put his head and his hand in its open mouth. But at this point a frightful tragedy occurred. Wherever the dazzling white sand of the arena chanced to have been disturbed or stained, it was raked smooth, and fresh sand sprinkled, by boys dressed as Cupids with glittering wings. One of these boys, presuming on the lion’s tameness, hit it rather sharply with his rake. The royal brute had been already excited by hearing the howling of the animals of all sorts with which the vivarium was crowded, as well as by the shouts of the spectators, and its keeper had stupidly neglected to notice the signs of its rising rage. But when the sharp edge of the rake struck it, the lion’s mane bristled, and with a terrific snarl he first laid the poor lad dead with one stroke of his paw, and then sprang with a mighty bound upon a second lad, on whose quivering limbs he fleshed his claws and teeth.77 A cry of horror and alarm rose from the people, and those who sat just above the level of the amphitheatre started up in terror, for they were only protected from the wild beasts by rails, which had been finished off with amber and silver, but did not look very strong. The brute, which had thus shown ‘a wild trick of its ancestors,’ was soon overpowered, for the keeper was skilled in the use of the lasso. But this incident did but whet the appetite of the spectators for blood. They shouted to Pedanius to begin the venatio and the wild-beast fights which formed the morning show. No expense had been spared to sate the insatiable cruelty of the mob. For an hour or two longer they were gratified with a prodigality of anguish. Ostriches and giraffes were chased round and round, and shot to death with arrows. Wild beasts fought with tame beasts and with wild beasts, and beasts with men. Bears, lions, and tigers were worried and hacked by armed bestiarii, and sometimes a bestiarius in his turn lay rolling on the sand, crushed by a bear or torn by the fierce struggles of a panther. Lastly, some unskilled, defenceless criminals were turned loose into the amphitheatre amid a fresh batch of animals, infuriated by hunger and mad with excitement. None of the poor weaponless wretches—sine armis, sine arte, seminudi—could stand up for a moment against the bear’s hug or the tiger’s leaps. They stood in attitudes of despairing stupefaction, watching the horrible rolling gait of the bears, or the crouching of the tigers as they glared on them with yellow eyeballs and bristling manes, lashing their haunches with their tails, and at last, with a hoarse carnivorous roar, curving their backs for the final spring. The venatio degenerated into a mere butchery meant to fill up the time.78

All this was regarded as child’s play in comparison with the luxury of courage, skill, and massacre which was expected in the afternoon; but it was already too much for one of the spectators. This was the philosophic thaumaturge Apollonius of Tyana, who happened to be paying a brief visit to Pætus Thrasea. Thrasea had been compelled to be present, because he knew that everything which he did or failed to do was watched with deadly suspicion; and Apollonius had accompanied his host from a desire to see the strange animals which were to be exhibited. At first he had looked on with real delight and interest; but when he saw the noble creatures wantonly killed, his Greek instinct for the beautiful was disgusted. He had been shocked by the callousness with which the vast audience had recovered from its momentary fright when the two poor boys had been slain by the lions; but when he saw them shouting with delight while the arena was wet with the blood of mangled men and tortured beasts, he turned his back on the amphitheatre with disdain and horror, and whispered in the ear of his companion, ‘Rome is a Bacchante rolling in blood and mud.’

Of all these scenes Onesimus and Glanydon had been spectators; and such spectacles were little calculated to dispel the gloom of dreadful anticipation which hung over the coming afternoon. They had marched in the procession of gladiators which formed part of the opening pomp, and from behind a lattice-work of one of the dressing-rooms they could see all that was going on. But now the rays of the early summer were pouring a dazzling flood of warmth and light which penetrated even through the awning. The vast audience required a little rest. The awning was sprinkled with perfumes. Saffron-water fell in a delicate dew upon the hot and tired multitude. The passages between the seats were flushed with pure cold water. Refreshments and baskets of fruit were freely handed about, and while they were enjoying the light mid-day meal every one chatted freely with his neighbour.

‘Who are those in the podium with the Emperor?’ asked a provincial from Gaul of the young Spaniard who sat beside him.

‘Don’t you know?’ said Martial, for he it was. ‘That well-dressed, handsome, smiling man is Petronius. The tall senator with the intellectual face is Seneca. He is a countryman of whom I am proud.’

‘Seneca!’ said the provincial; ‘the greatest man of his age! Only to think that I have seen Seneca!’

Martial only smiled. Such enthusiasm was refreshing.

‘The young man with black hair who sits just behind him with a frown on his forehead is his nephew Lucan, the poet. The king in purple robe is Herod Agrippa II., with his lovely sister Berenice by his side. Just watch the flash of that diamond on her neck. That splendid fellow with fair hair, all smiles, who has grace and beauty in every movement, is the actor Paris, and beside him is his friend and rival, Aliturus. The exquisite, who looks as if he would be paralyzed by the weight of his own rings, is Senecio.’

‘And that lady with her face half veiled, so that you only catch a glimpse now and then of her loveliness?’

‘That is Poppæa, Otho’s wife. No wonder Nero loves her better than that pale sad lady who sits among the six vestals.’

‘Yet she, too, is young and beautiful. Who is she?’

‘The Empress.’

‘Octavia, the daughter of Claudius? May the gods bless her!’

The provincial gazed long at Octavia.

‘But now tell me,’ he continued, ‘who is that purpureal personage, with large rings, scarlet boots, and a very white forehead?’

Martial laughed aloud. ‘His forehead may well be white,’ he said. ‘Do you know what it is made of?’

‘Made of?’ asked the young Gaul in astonishment.

‘Yes. It is made of sticking-plaster! If you took it off, what do you think you would see under it?’

‘His skin, I suppose.’

‘His skin, yes! But with three letters on it.’

‘What three letters?’

‘O Simplicitas!’ said Martial; ‘the three letters F. U. R.’

‘Is he a thief?’ asked the Gaul. ‘Then why do they let him sit there among the knights?’

‘Because his thieving has made him rich,’ answered Martial.

‘But his riches don’t make him honest; and every one seems to be treating him with great respect.’

Martial laughed long and loud. ‘O Sapientia!’ he exclaimed, ‘O Innocentia! From what new Atlantis do you come? Don’t you know that at Rome the rule always is “Riches first, virtue next”?’

‘If that be the rule at Rome,’ said the other, ‘I should prefer to live at Ulubræ or at Venta Belgarum.’

But Martial had no more time to listen to a morality so refreshingly unsophisticated. ‘Hush!’ he said. ‘They are going to scatter down the presents and the lottery tickets on us.’

First came a shower of countless coins of thin metal, every one of which was stamped with a wanton image. Then all kinds of little presents like those exchanged at the Saturnalia. The audience did not exert themselves to catch these, but it was very different when handfuls of lottery tickets were flung among them. For these they scrambled wildly, and with many a curse and blow; for he who secured one might find himself the happy possessor of a slave, a statue, a fine vase, a rare foreign bird, a suit of armour, a Molossian dog, a Spanish horse, or even a villa; although the mystery which the number concealed could not be made known till he presented the ticket the next day.

But by this time the attendants with rakes were scraping the surface of the arena smooth, and sprinkling it afresh with dazzling white sand brought in ship-loads from Africa, to hide the crimson stains of the life-blood of animals and men. For now was to begin the splendid exhibition of strength and skill and pluck, and the awful pageantry of death, under that blue sky, under that gleaming sunlight; and men and women were preparing themselves to be thrilled with sanguinary and voluptuous excitement which would make the blood course through their veins like fire. Most of the gladiators were men of approved prowess, stalwart and well known; and from the senators’ seats to the topmost gallery bets were being freely laid on their chances of victory, and on those who should be left dead at evening, indifferent forever to those wild shouts. The only two who were not spectati—the only two tiros who were to make their appearance—were the young British captive and the young Phrygian slave.

The long defiant blast of a trumpet smote the air; the folding doors of the main entrance were flung open, and, headed by their trainer, the gladiators in a body marched in proud procession and with firm steps to the space beneath the podium, on which stood the gilded chair of the Emperor. They were only sixty in number, but had been selected for their skill and physique, and belonged to various classes of gladiators. They were clad in glittering array—their helmets, their shields, and even their greaves, richly embossed and gilded.

And none were more curiously scanned than Onesimus, who walked last of the net-throwers, and Glanydon, who closed the file of the Samnites. It was impossible not to observe the towering stature and herculean mould of the Briton, the lithe and sinewy frame of the dark-eyed Asiatic. Then the Prætor once more flung down the napkin, in sign that the fighting should begin. Grouped under the Emperor’s seat, they all uplifted to him their right hands and chanted in monotone their sublime greeting: ‘Hail, Cæsar! we who are about to die salute thee!’

Nero flung them a careless glance, and scarcely broke the animated conversation which he was holding with Petronius.

Before the hard fighting began there was some preliminary skirmishing among all the gladiators, with blunt weapons, merely to display their skill; and a pair of andabatæ amused the people by their difficulties in fighting practically blindfold, for their loose helmets had no eyelet-holes.

Then the trumpet blew once more, and a herald cried out, ‘Lay aside your blunt swords and fight with sharp swords;’ and Pedanius examined the weapons to see that they were duly sharp. The display began with the contests of the horsemen and the charioteers (essedarii). It was not long before two of the chariots were broken, and their wounded occupants flung down under the hoofs of their own plunging horses.

Next, two horsemen, both of them popular favourites, of well-tried prowess and well-matched strength, rode out on white horses to fight each other in mortal conflict. Hippias wore a short mantle of blue, and rode from the east side of the arena; Aruns, in a red mantle, rode from the western side. Both wore on their heads golden helmets, and military standards were carried before them.79 The combat between them was long and fierce, for each knew that it was to be his last. They charged each other furiously, raining on heads and shoulders a tempest of blows, till, after a tremendous bout, Aruns thrust his spear through a joint in the armour of Hippias, and the stream of crimson blood which followed was greeted by the roar of ‘Habet!’ from eighty thousand throats. The rider fell lifeless. He required no finishing stroke, and the mob cried, ‘Peractum est!’ (‘There’s an end of him!’) This contest had excited much interest from the fame of the fighters, and large sums of money changed hands on the result. One of the senators, named Cæcina, had hit on an ingenious way of telling his distant friends whether they had lost or gained. Since Hippias was in blue, and Aruns in red, he had carried with him into the amphitheatre a number of swallows in two cages, of which some were painted blue and some red; and, since Aruns had slain his adversary, he let loose those which were painted red.80

After this the other mounted gladiators joined combat. In a very short time nearly all were wounded, and three acknowledged their defeat. Dropping their swords or javelins, they upheld their clenched hands with one finger extended to plead for mercy. The plea was vain. No handkerchief was waved in sign of mercy, and, standing over them, the victors callously drove their swords into the throats of their defeated comrades. The poor conquered fighters did not shrink. They looked up at the shouting populace with something of disdain on their faces, as though to prove that they thought nothing of death, and did not wish to be pitied. To see that none were shamming dead, a figure entered disguised as Charon, who smote them with his hammer; but the work of the sword had been done too faithfully—he only smote the corpses of the slain.81

By this time the whole atmosphere of the place seemed to reek with the suffocating fumes of blood, which acted like intoxication on the brutalised passions of the multitude. They awaited with savage eagerness the next combat, which was to be the main show of the afternoon. Twelve Samnites and mirmillos were to be matched against as many net-throwers and chasers; and the contest was all the more thrilling because the latter were very lightly clad, so that every wound and gash was visible in all its horror on their naked limbs, while the unhelmed faces showed every triumphant or agonised expression which swept across them in that stormy scene.

After half an hour’s fighting in terrible earnest, in which each side had exchanged many a well-aimed blow, and had shown prodigies of skill, valour, and swiftness, many of the gladiators had fallen, and others dropped their arms in sign of defeat. Their vanquishers strode over them awaiting the signal to be executioners of their brethren. The fight was stopped till the signal had been given with ruthless unanimity. The defeated men, like those who had been killed before them, gazed without blenching on the hard and lolling multitude, as though to show by their calm demeanour how easy a thing it was to die.

But to make sure that they had been really killed, once more a slave entered, who, for variety’s sake, was dressed in the wings and carried the serpent-rod of Mercury. He touched each corpse with a red-hot iron wand. No limb shrank from his touch. Other attendants, therefore, laid the dead on biers—which the admiring spectators observed to be inlaid with amber—and they were carried out through the gate of Libitina into the spoliarium, where they were carelessly flung out in a heap.82

So far both the tiros had escaped. They had instinctively avoided each other, and neither had butchered his opponent except in fair fight. Of the eight who survived, four were Samnites and mirmillos, four were net-throwers. They thought that the fight was over and that they might severally be regarded as victors, and might look for the gifts of crowns and money, or even of the foil which set them free from the horrid trade. They stepped back beyond the lines which the trainer had marked, resting on their arms, and expecting to be ushered out of the triumphal gate.

The multitude had far other intentions. They were not yet sated with slaughter; they had not yet gloated long enough on faces convulsed with the death-agony; they wanted to see how the beautiful young Phrygian would look when an opponent stood over him with a sword at his throat.

But the soul of Glanydon was filled with disgust and disdain. He loathed those fat, shouting, comfortable burghers, those hard-faced women, those finical dandies, of whom he felt that he could have driven a score before him like sheep. He strode to the barriers and set his back against them, refusing to fight.

A yell of fury rose from the people. ‘Kill him!’ they shouted. ‘Kill him! scourge him! burn him! Why is he so afraid of cold steel? Why can’t he die like a man? Ho! scourgers, lash the youth into the combat again, to make the sides equal.’

The Briton stood as in a dream, and as his thoughts reverted to his home and the maiden whom he loved, the amphitheatre swam before his eyes. Five or six mastigophori came running up to him, and he felt the curling lash of one of them come stinging round his body. The agony aroused him. With a cry as of a wounded lion he sprang on the scourger, and with one buffet laid him senseless, while the others fled in confusion before him. Then, with the boldness of despair, he strode under the podium, and, raising his clenched fist, cursed the Emperor aloud.

‘Murderer of thy mother!’ he cried; ‘thou infamy of manhood, I will fight again. But think not that thou shalt escape. Speedily the doom shall overtake thee, and thy death shall be more shameful and horrible than mine.’

He had thundered forth so loudly his indignant words that they rang through the whole amphitheatre, and the wildest tumult arose. The Emperor cowered back in his seat, pale with superstitious terror, yet almost suffocated with rage; and his favourite page, springing up from the low stool at his feet, began to sprinkle his face with perfume.

The Prætorians drew their swords, and in one moment would have slain the criminal who thus dared to blaspheme their human god. That a common gladiator—a thing to flesh men’s swords upon—should dare to curse the Emperor! It was a portent! But there was no time to interfere, for, with a shout, Glanydon sprang back among the gladiators, and began so furious an affray that the other side gave way and fled. He sprang on an opponent, and the crimson rush that followed his sword-thrust again awoke the deep ‘Habet!’ of the excited crowd. But as he pressed on, now blind with fury, he fell, face forward, over the loose helmet of a slain mirmillo, and before he could recover himself a netsman, seizing his opportunity, flung his net, entangled the limbs of the Briton by a dexterous twist, and, without waiting for any signal, drove his trident into his breast. The Briton died without a groan. But the advantage of the light-armed fighters was only momentary. Their courage had been daunted by Glanydon, and, after a few moments of flight and fight, the Samnites were victorious and the net-throwers were all wounded and dropped their arms, except Onesimus. They knelt with their forefingers uplifted, and, as they had fought with courage and had been hardly used, handkerchiefs began to be waved in their favour and thumbs to be turned downwards. Octavia and Acte had both recognised the face of Onesimus as he retreated before one of the Samnites, and failed to entangle him by the throw of his net. Filled with pity, they turned their thumbs downward in sign that the combat should be stopped and the lives of the defeated be spared.

But unhappily Onesimus was only a few feet distant from Nero, and Nero had recognised him too. The curse of Glanydon had shaken the Emperor’s nerves. He was in a peculiarly brutal mood, and, with thumb turned towards his breast, he gave the fatal sign that the four netsmen should be slain. Three of them were so deeply wounded already that their limbs were bathed in blood, and without an instant’s pause the Samnites thrust their swords through them to the hilt. But the sight seemed to inspire Onesimus with some divine despair. He seized his trident and dagger—he had already gathered the net round his shoulder—and, springing towards one of the Samnites, flung, entangled, tripped, and stabbed him. Plucking his trident from the wound, but not waiting to recover his net, he flew on the second and smote him down. The third, who was already staggering from a wound received earlier in the fight dropped his arms and upheld his forefinger, and, before the fourth could recover from his amazement, Onesimus, leaving the defeated combatant, had again seized his net and chased his opponent with it in act to throw. Being far superior in speed, he swiftly overtook him, flung the net and, hurling his opponent to the ground, brandished his dagger over him. The peopled walls of the amphitheatre rang with shouts of delight and admiration. Never had they seen a more astonishing and gallant feat. This retiarius—and he a mere tiro—had, single-handed, defeated four Samnites in succession. The thing was unheard of. Every thumb was turned up for Onesimus to give the finishing stroke to his conquered enemy, and thousands of voices clamoured that, as the sole surviving victor of the combat, he should be rewarded with the palm and foil.

But the brief spasm of wrath was over. Onesimus could not and would not butcher his comrades in cold blood. He recognised in the young Samnite a gladiator named Kalendio, one of the least objectionable of his fellows in the school—the only one who had never gone out of his way to annoy or taunt him. At the same moment he caught sight of the body of Glanydon. A rush of tears blinded him; he flung down net and dagger and trident, and, retreating to the barrier, stood there with folded arms. The acclamations which had greeted his prowess were followed by a groan of astonishment and disappointment. Kalendio had by this time torn and cut himself free from the net, and sprang upon the unhappy Phrygian who had spared his life. Onesimus did not resist him or appeal for mercy; the Samnite, who was an utter stranger to the scruples and compunctions which had led Onesimus to spare him, drove his sword into him; life and sense flowed from him, and he fell heavily upon the bloody sand.