Quo Vadis: A Narrative of the Time of Nero
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 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