Chapter LXV

Evening exhibitions, rare up to that period and given only
exceptionally, became common in Nero's time, both in the Circus and
amphitheatre. The Augustians liked them, frequently because they were
followed by feasts and drinking-bouts which lasted till daylight.
Though the people were sated already with blood-spilling, still, when
the news went forth that the end of the games was approaching, and that
the last of the Christians were to die at an evening spectacle, a
countless audience assembled in the amphitheatre. The Augustians came
to a man, for they understood that it would not be a common spectacle;
they knew that Cæsar had determined to make for himself a tragedy out of
the suffering of Vinicius. Tigellinus had kept secret the kind of
punishment intended for the betrothed of the young tribune; but that
merely roused general curiosity. Those who had seen Lygia at the house
of Plautius told wonders of her beauty. Others were occupied above all
with the question, would they see her really on the arena that day; for
many of those who had heard the answer given Petronius and Nerva by
Cæsar explained it in two ways: some supposed simply that Nero would
give or perhaps had given the maiden to Vinicius; they remembered that
she was a hostage, hence free to worship whatever divinities she liked,
and that the law of nations did not permit her punishment.

Uncertainty, waiting, and curiosity had mastered all spectators. Cæsar
arrived earlier than usual; and immediately at his coming people
whispered that something uncommon would happen, for besides Tigellinus
and Vatinius, Cæsar had with him Cassius, a centurion of enormous size
and gigantic strength, whom he summoned only when he wished to have a
defender at his side,--for example, when he desired night expeditions to
the Subura, where he arranged the amusement called "sagatio," which
consisted in tossing on a soldier's mantle maidens met on the way. It
was noted also that certain precautions had been taken in the
amphitheatre itself. The pretorian guards were increased; command over
them was held, not by a centurion, but by the tribune Subrius Flavius,
known hitherto for blind attachment to Nero. It was understood, then,
that Cæsar wished in every case to guard himself against an outburst of
despair from Vinicius, and curiosity rose all the more.

Every eye was turned with strained gaze to the place where the
unfortunate lover was sitting. He was exceedingly pale, and his
forehead was covered with drops of sweat; he was in as much doubt as
were other spectators, but alarmed to the lowest depth of his soul.
Petronius knew not what would happen; he was silent, except that, while
turning from Nerva, he asked Vinicius whether he was ready for
everything, and next, whether he would remain at the spectacle. To both
questions Vinicius answered "Yes," but a shudder passed through his
whole body; he divined that Petronius did not ask without reason. For
some time he had lived with only half his life,--he had sunk in death,
and reconciled himself to Lygia's death, since for both it was to be
liberation and marriage; but he learned now that it was one thing to
think of the last moment when it was distant as of a quiet dropping
asleep, and another to look at the torment of a person dearer to one
than life. All sufferings endured formerly rose in him anew. Despair,
which had been set at rest, began again to cry in his soul; the former
desire to save Lygia at any price seized him anew. Beginning with the
morning, he had tried to go to the cunicula to be sure that she was
there; but the pretorians watched every entrance, and orders were so
strict that the soldiers, even those whom he knew, would not be softened
by prayers or gold. It seemed to the tribune that uncertainty would
kill him before he should see the spectacle. Somewhere at the bottom of
his heart the hope was still throbbing, that perhaps Lygia was not in
the amphitheatre, that his fears were groundless. At times he seized on
this hope with all his strength. He said in his soul that Christ might
take her to Himself out of the prison, but could not permit her torture
in the Circus. Formerly he was resigned to the divine will in
everything; now, when repulsed from the doors of the cunicula, he
returned to his place in the amphitheatre, and when he learned, from the
curious glances turned on him, that the most dreadful suppositions might
be true, he began to implore in his soul with passionateness almost
approaching a threat. "Thou canst!" repeated he, clenching his fists
convulsively, "Thou canst!" Hitherto he had not supposed that that
moment when present would be so terrible. Now, without clear
consciousness of what was happening in his mind, he had the feeling that
if he should see Lygia tortured, his love for God would be turned to
hatred, and his faith to despair. But he was amazed at the feeling, for
he feared to offend Christ, whom he was imploring for mercy and
miracles. He implored no longer for her life; he wished merely that she
should die before they brought her to the arena, and from the abyss of
his pain he repeated in spirt: "Do not refuse even this, and I will
love Thee still more than hitherto." And then his thoughts raged as a
sea torn by a whirlwind. A desire for blood and vengeance was roused in
him. He was seized by a mad wish to rush at Nero and stifle him there
in presence of all the spectators; but he felt that desire to be a new
offence against Christ, and a breach of His command. To his head flew
at times flashes of hope that everything before which his soul was
trembling would be turned aside by an almighty and merciful hand; but
they were quenched at once, as if in measureless sorrow that He who
could destroy that Circus with one word and save Lygia had abandoned
her, though she trusted in Him and loved Him with all the strength of
her pure heart. And he thought, moreover, that she was lying there in
that dark place, weak, defenceless, deserted, abandoned to the whim or
disfavor of brutal guards, drawing her last breath, perhaps, while he
had to wait, helpless, in that dreadful amphitheatre, without knowing
what torture was prepared for her, or what he would witness in a moment.
Finally, as a man falling over a precipice grasps at everything which
grows on the edge of it, so did he grasp with both hands at the thought
that faith of itself could save her. That one method remained! Peter
had said that faith could move the earth to its foundations.

Hence he rallied; he crushed doubt in himself, he compressed his whole
being into the sentence, "I believe," and he looked for a miracle.

But as an overdrawn cord may break, so exertion broke him. The pallor
of death covered his face, and his body relaxed. He thought then that
his prayer had been heard, for he was dying. It seemed to him that
Lygia must surely die too, and that Christ would take them to Himself in
that way. The arena, the white togas, the countless spectators, the
light of thousands of lamps and torches, all vanished from his vision.

But his weakness did not last long. After a while he roused himself, or
rather the stamping of the impatient multitude roused him.

"Thou art ill," said Petronius; "give command to bear thee home."

And without regard to what Cæsar would say, he rose to support Vinicius
and go out with him. His heart was filled with pity, and, moreover, he
was irritated beyond endurance because Cæsar was looking through the
emerald at Vinicius, studying his pain with satisfaction, to describe it
afterwards, perhaps, in pathetic strophes, and win the applause of
hearers.

Vinicius shook his head. He might die in that amphitheatre, but he
could not go out of it. Moreover the spectacle might begin any moment.

In fact, at that very instant almost, the prefect of the city waved a
red handkerchief, the hinges opposite Cæsar's podium creaked, and out of
the dark gully came Ursus into the brightly lighted arena.

The giant blinked, dazed evidently by the glitter of the arena; then he
pushed into the centre, gazing around as if to see what he had to meet.
It was known to all the Augustians and to most of the spectators that he
was the man who had stifled Croton; hence at sight of him a murmur
passed along every bench. In Rome there was no lack of gladiators
larger by far than the common measure of man, but Roman eyes had never
seen the like of Ursus. Cassius, standing in Cæsar's podium, seemed
puny compared with that Lygian. Senators, vestals, Cæsar, the
Augustians, and the people gazed with the delight of experts at his
mighty limbs as large as tree-trunks, at his breast as large as two
shields joined together, and his arms of a Hercules. The murmur rose
every instant. For those multitudes there could be no higher pleasure
than to look at those muscles in play in the exertion of a struggle.
The murmur rose to shouts, and eager questions were put: "Where do the
people live who can produce such a giant?" He stood there, in the
middle of the amphitheatre, naked, more like a stone colossus than a
man, with a collected expression, and at the same time the sad look of a
barbarian; and while surveying the empty arena, he gazed wonderingly
with his blue childlike eyes, now at the spectators, now at Cæsar, now
at the grating of the cunicula, whence, as he thought, his executioners
would come.

At the moment when he stepped into the arena his simple heart was
beating for the last time with the hope that perhaps a cross was waiting
for him; but when he saw neither the cross nor the hole in which it
might be put, he thought that he was unworthy of such favor,--that he
would find death in another way, and surely from wild beasts. He was
unarmed, and had determined to die as became a confessor of the "Lamb,"
peacefully and patiently. Meanwhile he wished to pray once more to the
Saviour; so he knelt on the arena, joined his hands, and raised his eyes
toward the stars which were glittering in the lofty opening of the
amphitheatre.

That act displeased the crowds. They had had enough of those Christians
who died like sheep. They understood that if the giant would not defend
himself the spectacle would be a failure. Here and there hisses were
heard. Some began to cry for scourgers, whose office it was to lash
combatants unwilling to fight. But soon all had grown silent, for no
one knew what was waiting for the giant, nor whether he would not be
rcady to struggle when he met death eye to eye.

In fact, they had not long to wait. Suddenly the shrill sound of brazen
trumpets was heard, and at that signal a grating opposite Cæsar's podium
was opened, and into the arena rushed, amid shouts of beast-keepers, an
enormous German aurochs, bearing on his head the naked body of a woman.

"Lygia! Lygia!" cried Vinicius.

Then he seized his hair near the temples, squirmed like a man who feels
a sharp dart in his body, and began to repeat in hoarse accents,--

"I believe! I believe! O Christ, a miracle!"

And he did not even feel that Petronius covered his head that moment
with the toga. It seemed to him that death or pain had closed his eyes.
He did not look, he did not see. The feeling of some awful emptiness
possessed him. In his head there remained not a thought; his lips
merely repeated, as if in madness,--

"I believe! I believe! I believe!"

This time the amphitheatre was silent. The Augustians rose in their
places, as one man, for in the arena something uncommon had happened.
That Lygian, obedient and ready to die, when he saw his queen on the
horns of the wild beast, sprang up, as if touched by living fire, and
bending forward he ran at the raging animal.

From all breasts a sudden cry of amazement was heard, after which came
deep silence.

The Lygian fell on the raging bull in a twinkle, and seized him by the
horns.

"Look!" cried Petronius, snatching the toga from the head of Vinicius.
The latter rose and bent back his head; his face was as pale as linen,
and he looked into the arena with a glassy, vacant stare.

All breasts ceased to breathe. In the amphitheatre a fly might be heard
on the wing. People could not believe their own eyes. Since Rome was
Rome, no one had seen such a spectacle.

The Lygian held the wild beast by the horns. The man's feet sank in the
sand to his ankles, his back was bent like a drawn bow, his head was
hidden between his shoulders, on his arms the muscles came out so that
the skin almost burst from their pressure; but he had stopped the bull
in his tracks. And the man and the beast remained so still that the
spectators thought themselves looking at a picture showing a deed of
Hercules or Theseus, or a group hewn from stone. But in that apparent
repose there was a tremendous exertion of two struggling forces. The
bull sank his feet as well as did the man in the sand, and his dark,
shaggy body was curved so that it seemed a gigantic ball. Which of the
two would fail first, which would fall first,--that was the question for
those spectators enamoured of such struggles; a question which at that
moment meant more for them than their own fate, than all Rome and its
lordship over the world. That Lygian was in their eyes then a demigod
worthy of honor and statues. Cæsar himself stood up as well as others.
He and Tigellinus, hearing of the man's strength, had arranged this
spectacle purposely, and said to each other with a jeer, "Let that
slayer of Croton kill the bull which we choose for him"; so they looked
now with amazement at that picture, as if not believing that it could be
real.

In the amphitheatre were men who had raised their arms and remained in
that posture. Sweat covered the faces of others, as if they themselves
were struggling with the beast. In the Circus nothing was heard save
the sound of flame in the lamps, and the crackle of bits of coal as they
dropped from the torches. Their voices died on the lips of the
spectators, but their hearts were beating in their breasts as if to
split them. It seemed to all that the struggle was lasting for ages.
But the man and the beast continued on in their monstrous exertion; one
might have said that they were planted in the earth.

Meanwhile a dull roar resembling a groan was heard from the arena, after
which a brief shout was wrested from every breast, and again there was
silence. People thought themselves dreaming till the enormous head of
the bull began to turn in the iron hands of the barbarian. The face,
neck, and arms of the Lygian grew purple; his back bent still more. It
was clear that he was rallying the remnant of his superhuman strength,
but that he could not last long.

Duller and duller, hoarser and hoarser, more and more painful grew the
groan of the bull as it mingled with the whistling breath from the
breast of the giant. The head of the beast turned more and more, and
from his jaws crept forth a long, foaming tongue.

A moment more, and to the ears of spectators sitting nearer came as it
were the crack of breaking bones; then the beast rolled on the earth
with his neck twisted in death.

The giant removed in a twinkle the ropes from the horns of the bull and,
raising the maiden, began to breathe hurriedly. His face became pale,
his hair stuck together from sweat, his shoulders and arms seemed
flooded with water. For a moment he stood as if only half conscious;
then he raised his eyes and looked at the spectators.

The amphitheatre had gone wild.

The walls of the building were trembling from the roar of tens of
thousands of people. Since the beginning of spectacles there was no
memory of such excitement. Those who were sitting on the highest rows
came down, crowding in the passages between benches to look more nearly
at the strong man. Everywhere were heard cries for mercy, passionate
and persistent, which soon turned into one unbroken thunder. That giant
had become dear to those people enamoured of physical strength; he was
the first personage in Rome.

He understood that the multitude were striving to grant him his life and
restore him his freedom, but clearly his thought was not on himself
alone. He looked around a while; then approached Cæsar's podium, and,
holding the body of the maiden on his outstretched arms, raised his eyes
with entreaty, as if to say,--

"Have mercy on her! Save the maiden. I did that for her sake!"

The spectators understood perfectly what he wanted. At sight of the
unconscious maiden, who near the enormous Lygian seemed a child, emotion
seized the multitude of knights and senators. Her slender form, as
white as if chiselled from alabaster, her fainting, the dreadful danger
from which the giant had freed her, and finally her beauty and
attachment had moved every heart. Some thought the man a father begging
mercy for his child. Pity burst forth suddenly, like a flame. They had
had blood, death, and torture in sufficiency. Voices choked with tears
began to entreat mercy for both.

Meanwhile Ursus, holding the girl in his arms, moved around the arena,
and with his eyes and with motions begged her life for her. Now Vinicius
started up from his seat, sprang over the barrier which separated the
front places from the arena, and, running to Lygia, covered her naked
body with his toga.

Then he tore apart the tunic on his breast, laid bare the scars left by
wounds received in the Armenian war, and stretched out his hands to the
audience.

At this the enthusiasm of the multitude passed everything seen in a
circus before. The crowd stamped and howled. Voices calling for mercy
grew simply terrible. People not only took the part of the athlete, but
rose in defense of the soldier, the maiden, their love. Thousands of
spectators turned to Cæsar with flashes of anger in their eyes and with
clinched fists.

But Cæsar halted and hesitated. Against Vinicius he had no hatred
indeed, and the death of Lygia did not concern him; but he preferred to
see the body of the maiden rent by the horns of the bull or torn by the
claws of beasts. His cruelty, his deformed imagination, and deformed
desires found a kind of delight in such spectacles. And now the people
wanted to rob him. Hence anger appeared on his bloated face. Self-love
also would not let him yield to the wish of the multitude, and still he
did not dare to oppose it, through his inborn cowardice.

So he gazed around to see if among the Augustians at least, he could not
find fingers turned down in sign of death. But Petronius held up his
hand, and looked into Nero's face almost challengingly. Vestinius,
superstitious but inclined to enthusiasm, a man who feared ghosts but
not the living, gave a sign for mercy also. So did Scevinus, the
Senator; so did Nerva, so did Tullius Senecio, so did the famous leader
Ostorius Scapula, and Antistius, and Piso, and Vetus, and Crispinus, and
Minucius Thermus, and Pontius Telesinus, and the most important of all,
one honored by the people, Thrasea.

In view of this, Cæsar took the emerald from his eye with an expression
of contempt and offence; when Tigellinus, whose desire was to spite
Petronius, turned to him and said,--

"Yield not, divinity; we have the pretorians."

Then Nero turned to the place where command over the pretorians was held
by the stern Subrius Flavius, hitherto devoted with whole soul to him,
and saw something unusual. The face of the old tribune was stern, but
covered with tears, and he was holding his hand up in sign of mercy.

Now rage began to possess the multitude. Dust rose from beneath the
stamping feet, and filled the amphitheatre. In the midst of shouts were
heard cries: "Ahenobarbus! matricide! incendiary!"

Nero was alarmed. Romans were absolute lords in the Circus. Former
Cæsars, and especially Caligula, had permitted themselves sometimes to
act against the will of the people; this, however, called forth
disturbance always, going sometimes to bloodshed. But Nero was in a
different position. First, as a comedian and a singer he needed the
people's favor; second, he wanted it on his side against the Senate and
the patricians, and especially after the burning of Rome he strove by
all means to win it, and turn their anger against the Christians. He
understood, besides, that to oppose longer was simply dangerous. A
disturbance begun in the Circus might seize the whole city, and have
results incalculable.

He looked once more at Subrius Flavius, at Scevinus the centurion, a
relative of the senator, at the soldiers; and seeing everywhere frowning
brows, excited faces, and eyes fixed on him, he gave the sign for mercy.

Then a thunder of applause was heard from the highest seats to the
lowest. The people were sure of the lives of the condemned, for from
that moment they went under their protection, and even Cæsar would not
have dared to pursue them any longer with his vengeance.