Quo Vadis by Henryk Sienkiewicz (ebook reader macos TXT) 📕

“We do not,” answered Petronius. “I should prefer that arms were

given,” said Tullius; “if not, the arena will become like butcher’s

shambles too early. But what a splendid amphitheatre!”

The sight was, in truth, magnificent. The lower seats, crowded with

togas were as white as snow. In the gilded podium sat Cæsar, wearing a

diamond collar and a golden crown on his head; next to him sat the

beautiful and gloomy Augusta, and on both sides were vestal virgins,

great officials, senators with embroidered togas, officers of the army

with glittering weapons,—in a word, all that was powerful, brilliant,

and wealthy in Rome. In the farther rows sat knights; and higher up

darkened in rows a sea of common heads, above which from pillar to

pillar hung festoons of roses, lilies, ivy, and grapevines.

People conversed aloud, called to one another, sang; at times they broke

into laughter at some witty word which was sent from row to row, and

they stamped with impatience to hasten the spectacle.

At last the stamping became like thunder, and unbroken. Then the

prefect of the city, who rode around the arena with a brilliant retinue,

gave a signal with a handkerchief, which was answered throughout the

amphitheatre by “A-a-a!” from thousands of breasts.

Usually a spectacle was begun by hunts of wild beasts, in which various

Northern and Southern barbarians excelled; but this time they had too

many beasts, so they began with andabates,—that is, men wearing helmets

without an opening for the eyes, hence fighting blindfold. A number of

these came into the arena together, and slashed at random with their

swords; the scourgers with long forks pushed some toward others to make

them meet. The more select of the audience looked with contempt and

indifference at this spectacle; but the crowd were amused by the awkward

motions of the swordsmen. When it happened that they met with their

shoulders, they burst out in loud laughter. “To the right!” “To the

left!” cried they, misleading the opponents frequently by design. A

number of pairs closed, however, and the struggle began to be bloody.

The determined combatants cast aside their shields, and giving their

left hands to each other, so as not to part again, struggled to the

death with their right. Whoever fell raised his fingers, begging mercy

by that sign; but in the beginning of a spectacle the audience demanded

death usually for the wounded, especially in the case of men who had

their faces covered and were unknown. Gradually the number of

combatants decreased; and when at last only two remained, these were

pushed together; both fell on the sand, and stabbed each other mutually.

Then, amid cries of “Peractum est!” servants carried out the bodies,

youths raked away the bloody traces on the sand and sprinkled it with

leaves of saffron.

Now a more important contest was to come,—rousing interest not only in

the herd, but in exquisites; during this contest young patricians made

enormous bets at times, often losing all they owned. Straightway from

hand to hand went tablets on which were written names of favorites, and

also the number of sestertia which each man wagered on his favorite.

“Spectati”—that is, champions who had appeared already on the arena and

gained victories—found most partisans; but among betters were also

those who risked considerably on gladiators who were new and quite

unknown, hoping to win immense sums should these conquer. Cæsar himself

bet; priests, vestals, senators, knights bet; the populace bet. People

of the crowd, when money failed them, bet their own freedom frequently.

They waited with heart-beating and even with fear for the combatants,

and more than one made audible vows to the gods to gain their protection

for a favorite.

In fact, when the shrill sound of trumpets was heard, there was a

stillness of expectation in the amphitheatre. Thousands of eyes were

turned to the great bolts, which a man approached dressed like Charon,

and amid the universal silence struck three times with a hammer, as if

summoning to death those who were hidden behind them. Then both halves

of the gate opened slowly, showing a black gully, out of which

gladiators began to appear in the bright arena. They came in divisions

of twenty-five, Thracians, Mirmillons, Samnites, Gauls, each nation

separately, all heavily armed; and last the retiarii, holding in one

hand a net, in the other a trident. At sight of them, here and there on

the benches rose applause, which soon turned into one immense and

unbroken storm. From above to below were seen excited faces, clapping

hands, and open mouths, from which shouts burst forth. The gladiators

encircled the whole arena with even and springy tread, gleaming with

their weapons and rich outfit; they halted before Cæsar’s podium, proud,

calm, and brilliant. The shrill sound of a horn stopped the applause;

the combatants stretched their right hands upward, raised their eyes and

heads toward Cæsar, and began to cry or rather to chant with drawling

voice,—

“Ave, Cæsar imperator! Morituri te salutant!”

Then they pushed apart quickly, occupying their places on the arena.

They were to attack one another in whole detachments; but first it was

permitted the most famous fencers to have a series of single combats, in

which the strength, dexterity, and courage of opponents were best

exhibited. In fact, from among the Gauls appeared a champion, well

known to lovers of the amphitheatre under the name of Lanio, a victor in

many games. With a great helmet on his head, and in mail which formed a

ridge in front of his powerful breast and behind, he looked in the gleam

of the golden arena like a giant beetle. The no less famous retiarius

Calendio came out against him.

Among the spectators people began to bet.

“Five hundred sestertia on the Gaul!”

“Five hundred on Calendio!”

“By Hercules, one thousand!”

“Two thousand!”

Meanwhile the Gaul, reaching the centre of the arena, began to withdraw

with pointed sword, and, lowering his head, watched his opponent

carefully through the opening of his visor; the light retiarius,

stately, statuesque, wholly naked save a belt around his loins, circled

quickly about his heavy antagonist, waving the net with graceful

movement, lowering or raising his trident, and singing the usual song of

the retiarius,—

“Non te peto, piscem peto; Quid me fugis, Galle?”

[“I seek not thee, I seek a fish; Why flee from me O Gaul?”]

But the Gaul was not fleeing, for after a while he stopped, and standing

in one place began to turn with barely a slight movement, so as to have

his enemy always in front, in his form and monstrously large head there

was now something terrible. The spectators understood perfectly that

that heavy body encased in bronze was preparing for a sudden throw to

decide the battle. The retiarius meanwhile sprang up to him, then

sprang away, making with his three-toothed fork motions so quick that

the eye hardly followed them. The sound of the teeth on the shield was

heard repeatedly; but the Gaul did not quiver, giving proof by this of

his gigantic strength. All his attention seemed fixed, not on the

trident, but the net which was circling above his head, like a bird of

ill omen. The spectators held the breath in their breasts, and followed

the masterly play of the gladiators. The Gaul waited, chose the moment,

and rushed at last on his enemy; the latter with equal quickness shot

past under his sword, straightened himself with raised arm, and threw

the net.

The Gaul, turning where he stood, caught it on his shield; then both

sprang apart. In the amphitheatre shouts of “Macte!” thundered; in the

lower rows they began to make new bets. Cæsar himself, who at first had

been talking with Rubria, and so far had not paid much attention to the

spectacle, turned his head toward the arena.

They began to struggle again, so regularly and with such precision in

their movements, that sometimes it seemed that with them it was not a

question of life or death, but of exhibiting skill. The Gaul escaping

twice more from the net, pushed toward the edge of the arena; those who

held bets against him, not wishing the champion to rest, began to cry,

“Bear on!” The Gaul obeyed, and attacked. The arm of the retiarius was

covered on a sudden with blood, and his net dropped. The Gaul summoned

his strength, and sprang forward to give the final blow. That instant

Calendio, who feigned inability to wield the net, sprang aside, escaped

the thrust, ran the trident between the knees of his opponent, and

brought him to the earth.

The Gaul tried to rise, but in a twinkle he was covered by the fatal

meshes, in which he was entangled more and more by every movement of his

feet and hands. Meanwhile stabs of the trident fixed him time after

time to the earth. He made one more effort, rested on his arm, and

tried to rise; in vain! He raised to his head his falling hand which

could hold the sword no longer, and fell on his back. Calendio pressed

his neck to the ground with the trident, and, resting both hands on the

handle of it, turned toward Cæsar’s box.

The whole Circus was trembling from plaudits and the roar of people.

For those who had bet on Calendio he was at that moment greater than

Cæsar; but for this very reason animosity against the Gaul vanished from

their hearts. At the cost of his blood he had filled their purses. The

voices of the audience were divided. On the upper seats half the signs

were for death, and half for mercy; but the retiarius looked only at the

box of Cæsar and the vestals, waiting for what they would decide.

To the misfortune of the fallen gladiator, Nero did not like him, for at

the last games before the fire he had bet against the Gaul, and had lost

considerable sums to Licinus; hence he thrust his hand out of the

podium, and turned his thumb toward the earth.

The vestals supported the sign at once. Calendio knelt on the breast of

the Gaul, drew a short knife from his belt, pushed apart the armor

around the neck of his opponent, and drove the three-edged blade into

his throat to the handle.

“Peractum est!” sounded voices in the amphitheatre.

The Gaul quivered a time, like a stabbed bullock, dug the sand with his

heels, stretched, and was motionless.

Mercury had no need to try with heated iron if he were living yet. He

was hidden away quickly, and other pairs appeared. After them came a

battle of whole detachments. The audience took part in it with soul,

heart, and eyes. They howled, roared, whistled, applauded, laughed,

urged on the combatants, grew wild. The gladiators on the arena,

divided into two legions, fought with the rage of wild beasts; breast

struck breast, bodies were intertwined in a death grapple, strong limbs

cracked in their joints, swords were buried in breasts and in stomachs,

pale lips threw blood on to the sand. Toward the end such terrible fear

seized some novices that, tearing themselves from the turmoil, they

fled; but the scourgers drove them back again quickly to the battle with

lashes tipped with lead. On the sand great dark spots were formed; more

and more naked and armed bodies lay stretched like grain sheaves. The

living fought on the corpses; they struck against armor and shields, cut

their feet against broken weapons, and fell. The audience lost self-command from delight; and intoxicated with death breathed it, sated

their eyes with the sight of it, and drew into their lungs the

exhalations of it with ecstasy.

The conquered lay dead,