Calvia having completed her duties, now bowed low before her strange Empress. The androgynous creature, of whichever sex it was, thanked her in tones which the young Greek recognised as belonging to Sporus equally with Sabina. Then presently Calvia quitted the room.

  The bride, finding herself, as she thought, alone, looked in all directions and then, thinking that nobody either saw or heard her, dropped her hands dejectedly and sighed, while two tears trickled from her eyes. Then she approached the bed with an evident feeling of profound disgust, but on placing her foot upon the first step, she drew back in astonishment, uttering a cry of alarm, for behind the purple hangings she had just caught sight of the pale face of the Corinthian girl who, seeing that her presence was discovered, and thinking that her rival would escape her, sprang on her like a tigress. However, the creature whom she pursued was too feeble either to run away or to defend herself, but fell upon her knees with arms extended towards Acté and trembling as she saw the blade of the dagger gleaming in her hand; suddenly a ray of hope shone in her eyes.

  “Is it you, Acté? is it you?”

  “Yes, yes, it is I — Acté: but who are you? Are you Sabina or Sporus? man or woman? answer, speak, will you?”

  “Alas! alas!” cried the eunuch, falling in a swoon at Acté’s feet, “alas! I am neither the one nor the other.”

  Acté, overcome with astonishment, dropped her dagger.

  At this moment the door was opened and several slaves entered hurriedly for the purpose of placing round the bed the statues of the gods who were the patrons of marriage. They saw Sporus lying on the ground in a dead faint, and a woman with dishevelled hair, pale and with glaring eyes, bending over him, while a dagger lay on the floor. Hastily guessing at the situation, they seized Acté and took her off to those same palace prisons close to which she had passed on that sweet night when Lucius had sent for her, and whence she had heard such plaintive groans proceeding.

  In the prison she found Paul and Silas.

  “I was expecting you,” said Paul to Acté.

  “O my father!” cried the young Corinthian, “I came to Rome to try and save you.”

  “And, being unable to do so, you would die with me.”

  “Oh! no, no,” cried the girl in confusion, “I had forgotten about you. No, I do not deserve that you should call me daughter; I am a foolish, unhappy girl who deserves neither pity nor forgiveness.”

  “You still love him, then?”

  “No, I no longer love him; that were impossible. Only, as I have told you, I am mad; who can save me from my folly? there is neither man on earth nor God in heaven powerful enough for that.”

  “Remember the slave’s child; he who heals the body can heal the mind.”

  “Yes, but the slave’s child possessed innocence in lieu of faith, while I have not yet faith, and have lost my purity.”

  “And yet,” said the Apostle, “all is not lost, since there remains repentance.”

  “Alas! alas!” murmured Acté with an accent of doubt.

  “Well! come here,” said Paul, seating himself in a corner of the cell. “Come, I want to speak to you of your father.”

  Acté fell on her knees and laid her head on the shoulder of the old man, who talked with her until far into the night. Acté replied only by sobs; but when morning came, she was prepared to receive baptism.

  Nearly all the prisoners who were confined with Paul and Silas were Christians taken from the Catacombs. During the two years that Acté had lived among them they had had time to appreciate her virtues, while they were ignorant of the sin into which she had fallen; during that whole night therefore they had prayed that God would cause the light of faith to illumine the heart of this poor Pagan. So it came in the nature of a solemn and affecting declaration when the Apostle proclaimed with a loud voice that another was added to the number of the believers.

  Paul did not leave Acté in ignorance of the extent of the sacrifice which the profession of the Christian name would entail upon her — the first being the sacrifice of her love, the second, perhaps, that of her life. Almost daily some victim was selected at random from the prison by way of expiation or for the public festivals; on such occasions many offered themselves in their eagerness for martyrdom, and they were carried off haphazard and without selection, for any person who was capable of suffering was good enough to be placed on a cross or thrown into the arena. Under such circumstances an abjuration of heathenism was not merely a religious ceremony; it was the devotion of oneself to death.

  Acté thought then that the very danger would compensate for her small knowledge of the new faith. She had seen enough of the two religions to make her curse the one and bless the other; all the criminal examples with which she had been brought in contact belonged to Heathens, all the spectacles of goodness that had been presented to her had been afforded by Christians. Above all, the certainty that she could not live with Nero made her desire to die with Paul.

  Therefore it was with an ardour which doubtless in the sight of God atoned for her weak faith that she herself knelt among the circle of kneeling prisoners, beneath the ray of dawn descending by an air-hole through the grating by which she caught a glimpse of the sky. Paul stood behind her, his hands raised in an attitude of prayer, while Silas knelt holding the vessel of holy water and the consecrated sprinkler. At this moment, and while Acté was reciting the apostolic formula, that ancient creed which, unaltered to our own day, has remained the symbol of the faith, the door opened with a loud noise and a number of soldiers appeared with Anicetus at their head. Struck by the strange spectacle which met his gaze, for all had remained on their knees in prayer, he halted on the threshold and stood silent and motionless.

  “Who is it you come for?” said Paul, questioning the man who came sometimes as judge, sometimes as executioner.

  “I come for this girl,” answered Anicetus, pointing to Acté.

  “She will not follow you,” replied Paul, “for you have no authority over her.”

  “This girl belongs to Caesar,” cried Anicetus.

  “You are mistaken,” answered Paul, pronouncing the baptismal formula and pouring the holy water over the neophyte’s head — ” this girl belongs to God!”

  Acté uttered a cry and fainted, for she felt that Paul had spoken truly, and that the words he had just uttered severed her for ever from Nero.

  “Then I shall take you to the Emperor instead of her,” said Anicetus, motioning to the soldiers to seize Paul.

  “Do as you will,” said the Apostle, “I am ready to follow you; I know that the time has come for me to render account of my earthly mission to Heaven.”

  Paul was taken before the Emperor and condemned to be crucified, but as a Roman citizen he appealed against this sentence, and his rights as an inhabitant of Tarsus, in Cilicia, being recognised, he was beheaded the same day in the Forum.

  Caesar was present at the execution, and as the populace, who had reckoned on the sight of a more prolonged punishment, indulged in some murmurs, the Emperor promised them an exhibition of gladiators for the coming Ides of March by way of celebrating the hundredth anniversary of the death of the Dictator Julius Caesar.

  CHAPTER XV

  NERO had hit the mark. This promise of his instantly stilled the murmurs; for among all the spectacles with which their Aediles, Praetors, and Emperors had surfeited the people, those of which they were most greedy were exhibitions of wild animals and gladiators. Formerly these two classes of spectacles had been distinct; but Pompey during his second consulate, on the occasion of the dedication of the temple of Venus Victrix, had for the first time conceived the notion of uniting them for the purposes of combat, and arranged a contest of twenty wild elephants against a number of Gaetulians armed with javelins. True a long time previous to this, according to Livy, one hundred and forty-two elephants had been killed in the arena on a single day; but these elephants had been taken in a battle with the Carthaginians, and Rome, at that time poor and prudent, was unwilling either to feed these animals or to give them to the allies, so that in the end they were slaughtered with arrows and javelins by the spectators from the benches of the amphitheatre. Eighty years later, in the year of Rome 523, Scipio Nasica and Lentulus had sent into the arena sixty-three African panthers, and the Romans were becoming tired of this kind of sport when Securus, transferring the spectacle to another element, filled the floor of the amphitheatre with water and let loose into this artificial sea fifteen hippopotami and twenty-three crocodiles. Sulla, when praetor, had exhibited a hundred maned lions; the great Pompey had given an exhibition of three hundred and fifteen, and Julius Caesar one of four hundred; lastly, Augustus — who had inherited from Octavius a thirst for blood — in the fêtes given by him in his own name as well as in that of his grandson, had some three thousand five hundred lions, tigers, and panthers slaughtered. Again there was a certain Publius Servilius, of whose life no details have been preserved save the fact that he gave a performance at which were killed three hundred bears and as many lions and panthers brought from the deserts of Africa. Later on this luxury surpassed all bounds, and the Emperor Titus had five thousand wild beasts of all kinds slaughtered at a single performance.

  But of all others, the man who had given the most sumptuous and varied exhibitions was Nero; in addition to the tribute of silver imposed on the conquered provinces he had laid the Nile and the Desert under contribution, and the river and the sand supplied him with their quota of lions and tigers, panthers and crocodiles. As for the gladiators, the prisoners of war and the Christians had advantageously and economically replaced them; they lacked, it is true, the skill which the study of their art gave to the gladiators, but they made up for this by their exalted courage, which added a romantic and novel fascination to their sufferings, and this was all that was required to revive the curiosity of the public.

  All Rome, therefore, poured into the amphitheatre. The deserts and the prisons had on this occasion been drawn upon with unsparing hand; there were human victims and wild beasts enough for the spectacle to last for the whole day and night, in addition to which the Emperor had promised to light up the amphitheatre in a novel manner. So he was received with unanimous acclamations; this time he was dressed to resemble Apollo, bearing, like the Pythian deity, bow and arrows, since he intended to give proofs of his skill during the intervals between the combats. Trees had been uprooted from the Alban Forest, and had been transported to Rome and planted in the arena, branches and all, and on these branches peacocks and tame pheasants, expanding their gold and purple plumage, offered a mark for the Emperor’s arrows. Sometimes too it chanced that Caesar took pity on some wounded beast, or that some animal that failed to attack its victim aroused his wrath; he would then take his bow or his darts, and from his throne where he was sitting despatch, like Jove the Thunderer, a missile of death to the other extremity of the arena.

  Scarcely was the Emperor seated when the gladiators arrived in their chariots. Those who were to commence the combats had been purchased from their owners as was the usual custom; but this being a specially great occasion, some young patricians had united with the professional gladiators by way of paying court to the Emperor. It was even reported that among their number were two nobles, known to be ruined owing to their dissolute extravagances, who had been hired, one for the sum of two hundred and fifty thousand, the other for three hundred thousand sesterces.

  At the moment when Nero entered, the gladiators were in the arena, awaiting the signal and practising thrusts with each other as though the forthcoming combats had been mere fencing-bouts. But no sooner had the cry, “The Emperor! the Emperor!” resounded through the amphitheatre, and Caesar- Apollo was seen to be seated on his throne opposite the Vestal virgins, than the masters of the games entered the arena holding in their hands sharpened weapons which they presented to the combatants, receiving from them in exchange the blunt ones with which they had been practising. The combatants then passed in procession before Nero, raising their swords towards him that he might satisfy himself that they were sharp and keen, which he was able to do by bending forward, his box being only raised some nine or ten feet above the level of the arena.

  The list of combatants was then handed to Caesar, that he might himself appoint the order in which they should fight. He decided that the retiarius and the mirmillo should begin; after them were to come two dimachœ, then two andabatce; while to close the first performance, which would end at noon, two Christians, a man and a woman, were to be thrown to the wild beasts to be devoured. The people appeared well satisfied with this first programme, and amid shouts of “Long live Nero! Glory to Caesar! Good luck to the Emperor!” the first two gladiators entered the arena from opposite doors. These were, in accordance with Caesar’s decision, a mirmillo and a retiarius. The first of them, called also the secutor, because he more often pursued his adversary than was pursued by him, was clad in a bright green tunic with transverse stripes of silver; his waist was surrounded by a belt of embossed copper in which shone incrustations of coral; his right leg was protected by a high boot or legging of bronze, and a visored helmet resembling those worn by knights in the fourteenth century, surmounted by a crest representing the head of a buffalo with long horns, concealed the whole of his face; on his left arm he wore a large round shield, while in his right hand he carried a javelin and a leaded club. This constituted the armour and costume of the Gauls.

  The retiarius held in his right hand the net from which he derived his name, and which was something like what fishermen in our own day term a casting net, and in his left, which was protected by a small shield called a parma, a long trident with a handle of maple and three prongs of steel; his tunic was of blue cloth, his gaiters of blue leather and his boots of bronze gilt; his face, unlike that of his adversary, was exposed, his head having no other protection than a long cap of blue wool from which hung golden network.

  The two adversaries drew together, not taking a straight line, but moving in circles round and round each other, the retiarius holding his net in readiness, the mirmillo poising his javelin. When the retiarius thought himself at the proper distance he sprang forward swiftly, at the same time unfolding his net and making a cast with it; but none of his movements had escaped the mirmillo, who took a similar jump backwards, the net falling at his feet. At the same moment, and before the retiarius had time to protect himself with his shield, he hurled his javelin, but his adversary, seeing the weapon coming, stooped, not so rapidly, however, but that the dart, which should have struck his chest, carried away his smart head-dress. Thereupon the retiarius, though armed with his trident, began to flee, dragging his net after him, for the only use to which he could put his weapon was to enable him to slay his adversary when caught within its folds. At once the mirmillo dashed off in pursuit, but his course, retarded by his heavy club and the difficulty of seeing through the small holes which formed the visor of his helmet, gave the retiarius time to prepare his net afresh and put himself once more on guard. This done, he resumed his former position, while the mirmillo stood in an attitude of defence.

  The secutor, while running, had picked up his javelin and suspended his adversary’s cap at his girdle as a trophy. Each combatant had, therefore, regained his own weapon. This time the mirmillo began the attack; his javelin, hurled with the whole force of his arm, struck the shield of the retiarius in the centre, pierced the bronze plate that covered it and the seven thongs of folded leather underneath and grazed his chest; the people believed him to be mortally wounded, and from all sides resounded the cry of “Hahet! habet!” (“Hit! hit!”)

  But the retiarius, at once pushing away from his breast the shield, from which the javelin remained suspended, showed that he was scarcely touched, whereupon the air was rent with shouts of joy, for what the spectators feared above everything was that the combats should last too short a time. Accordingly they regarded with contempt any gladiator who struck at his adversary’s head, although such a proceeding was not actually against the rules.

  The mirmillo began to fly, for his club, though a terrible weapon when pursuing the retiarius if disarmed of his net, was almost useless when the retiarius carried the net on his shoulder, for, in order to approach near enough to his adversary to strike him, he gave the latter the opportunity of enveloping him in its deadly folds. Then began the spectacle of a flight according to the recognised rules, for the flight was also an art. But once more, just as when he had been the pursuer, the mirmillo found himself impeded by his helmet; soon the retiarius was so close upon him that shouts broke out to warn the Gaul, who, seeing that he was lost if he did not rid himself of his useless helmet, opened, while still running, the iron clasp that kept it dosed, and, tearing it from his head, threw it far away. Then the spectators to their great astonishment, recognised in the mirmillo a young man named Festus, belonging to one of the noblest families in Rome, who had put on this visored helmet much more for the purpose of disguising than of protecting himself, and this discovery redoubled the interest taken by the spectators in the combat.

  The young patrician now began to gain upon his opponent, who, in his turn, found himself hampered by his shield pierced with the javelin, which he was unwilling to pull out, for fear of supplying his adversary with a weapon. Excited by the shouts of the spectators, as well as by seeing his opponent increasing his distance, he threw away both shield and javelin, upon which the mirmillo, either thinking this action so rash that it gave him a chance of equalising the contest once more, or being tired of running away, suddenly stopped and swung his club round his head. The retiarius, on his part, got his net ready for action, but before he could get within reach of his adversary, the club with a whizzing noise like that made by the great beam of a catapult, struck the retiarius full in the chest; he staggered for a moment and then fell, entangled in the folds of his own net. Festus rushed to the shield and tore the javelin from it, then, with one spring, dashing back towards his opponent, he placed the iron head of the javelin to his throat and looked round to ask the people whether he should slay or spare him. All hands were then extended, some clasped, others held apart with thumbs pointing downwards; but, as in such a crowd it was impossible to ascertain the majority, there was a shout of “To the Vestals! to the Vestals!” since with them lay the appeal in case of doubt. Festus accordingly turned towards the balcony: the twelve Vestals stood up — eight had their thumbs turned downwards; the majority were for death. Seeing this, the retiarius himself seized the iron point, placed it at his throat, cried for the last time, “Caesar is God!” and without uttering a murmur, made the javelin of Festus sever the artery of his neck and penetrate his breast.

 

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