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.
'Young man,' said Eumolpus, in a low voice, 'desist; I will wound thee
slightly--then lower thy arms; thou hast propitiated the editor and the
mob--thou wilt be honorably saved!'
'And my father still enslaved!' groaned Lydon to himself. 'No! death or
his freedom.'
At that thought, and seeing that, his strength not being equal to the
endurance of the Roman, everything depended on a sudden and desperate
effort, he threw himself fiercely on Eumolpus; the Roman warily
retreated--Lydon thrust again--Eumolpus drew himself aside--the sword
grazed his cuirass--Lydon's breast was exposed--the Roman plunged his
sword through the joints of the armor, not meaning, however, to inflict
a deep wound; Lydon, weak and exhausted, fell forward, fell right on the
point: it passed through and through, even to the back. Eumolpus drew
forth his blade; Lydon still made an effort to regain his balance--his
sword left his grasp--he struck mechanically at the gladiator with his
naked hand, and fell prostrate on the arena. With one accord, editor
and assembly made the signal of mercy--the officers of the arena
approached--they took off the helmet of the vanquished. He still
breathed; his eyes rolled fiercely on his foe; the savageness he had
acquired in his calling glared from his gaze, and lowered upon the brow
darkened already with the shades of death; then, with a convulsive
