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

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

ready 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