The Gladiator (Bailey)

HE slaves moved about the couches with goblets of honeyed wine. Glabrio in the middle, the fat host, drank and shone. The guest on his right, a dark, merry fellow, was busy with the breast of a peacock. The other man helped himself, from the panniers of the silver mule on the table, to black and white olives, and looked out across the cedar wood and tortoise shell and gold to the violet sea and the sunset.

“By Pollux,” said Glabrio in an unctuous voice, “you neither eat nor drink, Cæsar. One of these mullets? The loin of the bear? Come, man, a sucking pig at least?”

“You are the most splendid of hosts, my dear Glabrio. Your only fault is that in your house a man can never get anything to eat.”

“Nothing to eat?” Glabrio's jaw fell as he looked at mullets and eels, hares and peacock, boar and sow.

“Or drink, either. If I might have some bread, and nothing but snow.”

Glabrio roared at his slaves,

“Pray do not scold the lads, my friend,” Cæsar drawled. “They have offered me everything that is richest. And how could they honor me more than by supposing your tastes are mine?”

“You flatter me, Cæsar. You make me proud, by Hercules!”

Cæsar bowed to him and ate the bread. The third man, Cœlius, who was now at a jelly of eels, laughed at him. “What a Stoic you are, Caius!”

“My dear Marcus! I detest the gloomy tribe. I am a sworn Epicurean. I live for pleasure.”

“I can give it you,” Glabrio chuckled, “I'll show you a Venus to-night. And a Venus taught by the Muses! She sings like a siren. She dances like the nymphs. You shall see her veiled and unveiled—alabaster!”

“Our Glabrio becomes a poet,” said Cæsar, and took a quince stuffed with almonds.

White slaves and black bore the dishes out. From the ceiling came down a silver hoop hung with sweetmeats and fruits. Golden lamps shone on the tables, on the mounds of snow, on the scented steam hissing from the urn which stood by the golden goblets.

“Gods, who can drink hot on such a night?” said Cœlius.

“Well, it gives a man heart,” chuckled Glabrio, who was shining now more than ever. “And you'll like the scent, I think. Why, Cæsar, you are drinking nothing but snow.”

“I do not want a heart, my friend.”

“By Pollux, you must see my Zoe.” Glabrio clapped his hands.

Flute-playing girls came in and with them a girl who walked with her hands clasped behind her, her head bowed, her eyes cast down. She was all that is demure. But her bosom beat high and fast. Her little feet were bare, her arms bare, too, and the simple white robe she wore clung closely to a body of rich but slender fashioning. About her wrists were little garlands of red roses, and white roses were bound in her black hair.

“Hither, darling,” said Glabrio, and when she stood before him put out a fat arm and lifted her head. She showed a face of Greek perfection, flushed, smiling, but with a strange mockery. “In spirits to-night? A good girl now, eh?” He patted her. “Show us your best.” And he turned, grinning, to Cæsar. “Well, is she not a prize? I paid two hundred thousand sesterces for her, and Dromo warrants her in her teens and of the best Athenian breed. She looks it, and, immortal gods, she ought to be, for two hundred thousand sesterces.”

Cœlius laughed and held out his goblet to the girl, who bowed low and drew back.

“Whom does your smile mock, child?” said Cæsar, in Greek.

“I do not understand, sir,” she said, looked at him full a moment, and bent her head again.

“Come, dance, dance,” Glabrio cried. “What will you dance, Zoe?”

“I will dance Andromeda,” she said.

The flutes began to mourn and she cast herself on the ground. She lay quivering, contorted, then dragged herself up and slowly, bent, faltering, moved with gestures of distress across the room to fling herself against the wall as if she were crucified. There she stood, the shape of her body in relief against the crimson marble, her white arms spread rigid, her head drooping like a broken flower, her bosom shaking. She looked up. Again they saw that strange smile, but now it was bolder. Her arms moved, moved slowly, and then with a start of surprise at finding themselves free. Slowly, shyly, she stepped forward and then, as the music changed its mode, she broke into a wild dance of joy and triumph, and whirled out of the room.

Cœlius applauded. Cæsar turned on his couch. “But she has a soul, my good Glabrio,” he said in a tone of surprise,

“A queer dance. I do not care for it. It does not warm a man,” Glabrio said and called out. “Zoe! You have not pleased. Dance your unveiling.”

Slowly Cæsar let down his long legs from the couch, stood up, and arranged his toga elaborately.

“My dear friend!” Glabrio was distressed. “You do not find this tedious? I promise you she is a very goddess. A Venus of Praxiteles, and of a blushing life!”

“The goddesses do not unveil in this world. Not she, but you, will unveil. And you are not interesting, my Glabrio.”

“I? I dance? Gods, this is an ugly jest, Cæsar! I am a knight!”

“The knight and the goddess!” Cœlius laughed:

Cæsar looked down at the purple stripe of his toga and arranged it again and turned away to the window. But as he turned, there was a scream, a scurry of feet, and loud talking.

“Arms!” Cœlius cried. “I swear I heard the clash of arms. What, my Glabrio, is there civil war in your republic? Are the slaves in revolt? Oh, havoc!”

“Cœlius! But you are jesting. Gods, but there is certainly a great noise!” Glabrio stammered. “Glaucus! Glaucus, I say!” His freedman came running in. “What is the matter there?” The man was out of breath. “Why—why do you let us be disturbed, sirrah?”

“It is Zoe, my master,” Glaucus gulped. “It is Zoe. She has been carried off.”

Cæsar turned from the window to look at him.

“Yes, she has been carried off. I swear that I was not to blame. I was in the library working at your accounts, When I came, she was already gone. But I have discovered everything. There was a man came to the door and talked with the ostiarius, a big man and with a yellow beard. He talked very bad Latin and the ostiarius could not understand what he wanted. When Zoe came out from your presence, she sat down there in the hall. She was out of breath, she said to the flute girls, and when this man saw her, he broke past the ostiarius and caught her and dragged her away. The ostiarius would not let him pass, held him, shouted for help. But he has cut down the ostiarius and he has gone.”

“Immortal gods! What an outrage! What times we live in! Am I not safe in my own villa? Are my slaves cowards, then? Rascal! She cost me two hundred thousand sesterces.”

“Alas! master, I know it well.”

Cæsar turned away and after a moment stepped through the window into the dark.

“Who is this man then, the ostiarius, too, a stout fellow worth fifty thousand still, Who is this man that destroys my household?”

“Perseus,” Cœlius said with a laugh. “Andromeda has found her deliverer, my Glabrio. And you, well, I suppose you are the monster who would have eaten her. Now all the parts are cast. Only you must be turned to stone. Do you feel the petrifaction, my Glabrio?”

“Oh, trifler!” Glabrio roared. “Is this a time for my friends to jest? Arm all my slaves, Glaucus. Bid them out and after him. By Hercules, he is but one man, is he not, and they are many! Fifty sesterces for the slave who brings her back!”

“Certainly, my master, instantly. But—but they think he is a gladiator—one of the escaped gladiators.”

“Gods, are they not all slain? Crassus crucified a thousand last week.”

“Some lurk on the mountain, it is said.”

“What times we live in! The republic is a den of wolves! Send to the camp—no, I will write to the legatus myself. Go, arm the slaves, send them out to follow. Heaven! They can track the scoundrel at least, cowards that they are.” Glabrio heaved himself up and bustled out.

Cœlius lay back laughing. “Who says our Glabrio is a bore? Eh, Caius? What! Where have you gone to?” He saw a still white figure in the gloom outside. “Why, are you become a statue for Glabrio's terrace?”

Cæsar stood in the shadow of the house, looking out across the moonlit garden and beyond to the scarp of Vesuvius rising clear and sharp out to the cone. There was no smoke or fire in that century. Chattering slaves poured out of the house, and the gar. den was lit with their torches as they beat to and fro, but not far.

“How now, man?” Cœlius jogged his arm. “Have you seen a nymph?”

“What does one see of nights? Whatever gods there are.”

“Oh, if you philosophize! By Pollux, is that a god? Look! look!” Black against the moonlight, a heavy shape toiled up. “It is the gladiator carrying off his wench! Ho, Glabri” Cæsar's hand covered his mouth.

“Speak good words, Marcus, Perhaps it is a god.”

“What?” Cœlius burst out laughing, “Caius, you are a villain! You knew! You”

“By the immortal gods, I swear I know nothing! Go in, go in! This night, at least, is theirs.”

If you want to turn up the date, it is just after the death of Spartacus, Spartacus the First. His revolt of the slaves and the gladiators was crushed, and groves of crucifixions lined the highroad. There were still men in arms who had neither hope nor fear. Politicians might use the turmoil to arrange the assassination of a rival. Therefore Cæsar traveled with an escort. But a mile gone from Glabrio's villa, he bade it ride on and set his horse to the mountainside.

Cœlius was taken by surprise. “Pray, how long have you had this in your head? You are the most bewildering of men, Caius!”

“Forgive me! I thought you also were interested. But do not let me give you a tedious day. Ride on and I will join you at Baiæ to-night.”

“Tedious! No, Caius, I do not think your day will be tedious. Many thanks, but I will not leave you to go hunting the wolves of Spartacus alone.”

“My dear Marcus! Well, I think it will be amusing!”

“Oh, I suppose you will talk philosophy to the gentleman.”

“I should be delighted. He would give us some living thoughts, our—what is he, Marcus? Will you wager? Thracian or Gaul?”

“More likely a mongrel Roman. You are a dreamer, Caius. I will make you a wager. Either the fellow will lurk in his hole till we are tired of beating the mountain, or he will out upon us and cut our throats.”

“I permit no man to cut my throat till I am ready. And I am not ready yet. There are several things I have not done; for one, to talk to this gentleman with the yellow beard. He has many things to tell me; what he lives for, what he would die for.”

That prophecy was hardly spoken before they remarked a man above them making signs. He was a big fellow, and wore mail on body and arms. With some vehemence he was directing them to turn back.

“A gladiator, sure enough,” said Cœlius, “and a gladiator who does not want to fight. By Pollux, there are always plenty of them.”

“If I were a gladiator I should not want to fight,” said Cæsar, and rode straight at the man. As they came nearer, he shouted to them to turn, to leave the mountain, to go home. Cæsar held right on as if he would ride over him.

At the last moment the man sprang aside him cursing, yelling, “Are you mad?”

“Sir, I shall be glad of your opinion,” Cæsar said.

He followed upon their heels. In a little while they came upon broken, rocky ground and out of the rocks half a score of men sprang up, seized their horses' heads, and, clamoring, made them dismount.

“Gentlemen, you are too kind,” said Cæsar.

But some of them cried out, “Kill, kill!”

“All in good time. The games are only begun. I have an errand to a friend of mine—to him who took a woman from Glabrio.”

“He calls me friend. What Roman calls me friend? Let me see him.” Thrusting his comrades aside the man with the yellow beard stood before Cæsar. He wore full armor and a massive helmet wrought over his brow into the shape of a fish. He was a big man, taller than Cæsar by a head, broad of shoulder and brawny, but agile rather than heavy. “What do you seek of me, Roman?” he said in his halting Latin. “I am Cunoval.”

“Caius Cæsar salutes you!” Cæsar raised his right arm. “A citizen of Rome, as you say. And you, sir, are you a Gaul?”

“No, by the gods, a Briton.”

“I must come to your island some day, Cunoval. It breeds men. Well, will you walk apart?”

“No. No secrets. All are equal here.”

“A republic? Again I congratulate you.”

“But I am chief.”

“An admirable republic,” Cæsar laughed. “So then, Cunoval the chief, was it worth while?”

“You talk dark words, Roman.”

“Is there no light under that helmet, Briton? You make a cunning enemy, you rouse the hunt against your band again, and for what? For a little Greek girl. Was it worth while?”

“That is the voice of a slave. Yes, Roman, if I die in torments this day, it was worth while.”

“You are young, Briton, and a Roman is old. What is she then, this Greek dancing girl, to the swordsman from the rim of the world?”

“Roman slave! What is my woman to you?”

“What you are, Cunoval. A rare thing which I do not know. And she, born to baths and perfumes and Eastern fabrics, will she live like a fox in a hole and die like a fox in a trap for a barbarian, my Cunoval?”

“She is happy, Roman. Go, then. Go! What have you to offer us? Go!”

“Life. Is it a little thing, Cunoval, to her or to you? I offer life.”

“What life is there in Rome? The life of a slave, of a beast; fight for your pleasure, be the toy of your pleasures, die, at last, for your pleasure. I live free. I die as I choose.”

“Cunoval! The cavalry! The cavalry!” It was the man on watch who raised the shout. They scrambled up on the rocks to look. There was no doubt. Some troops of cavalry were riding in open order across the lower slopes.

“They come, then,” Cunoval muttered to himself and called, “Zoe!”

The girl came tripping over the stones. “By Pollux, she is like a flower,” Cæsar said. “A lily of the rocks!” She was white, her great eyes dark with fear, but still she had that strange, faint, mocking smile.

“It is the end, Zoe,” Cunoval said, and clasped her to his side, a little, frail creature against his big frame.

Cæsar laughed. “Children you are. Hear me, then, my children. You are in my hand. But I had not sought you out if I had nothing for you by the crucifixion. I give games this year in Rome. I have my school of gladiators in Capua. There is room in it for such as you. And there, you wipe out your past. No man dares anything against Cæsar's men. Will you follow me?”

“Will they follow?” Cœlius laughed, “Who chooses to be crucified?”

“What surety is there?” one of them called out.

“I am Cæsar.”

“Cowards!” Cunoval shouted. “The training school, the arena, slavery! Fight it out here, and here die!”

But he could not command them. He saw it, and cursing them in his own language, suddenly he flung the girl from him, drew his sword, and sprang at Cæsar.

It was he whom Cæsar had been watching. Cæsar caught the arm which held the sword, grappled, turned and checked, but could not stay the blow, and went down under it. Down they went both, and Cœlius flung himself upon them crying, “Pull the madman off, lads, or he will send you all to the cross.”

Whatever moved them, fear of the coming cavalry and the death of the crucified, or some obedience to the man who was Cæsar, they answered the call. Cunoval was dragged off and held helpless on the ground beneath the weight of his comrades. Cæsar stood up, wiped the blood from his head and bound it, and carefully put on his hat to hide the bandage. He dusted himself delicately and arranged and rearranged his cloak. Then, like one of the audience in an amphitheater, he made, with his thumb, the sign to spare a fallen gladiator's life. The gladiators roared laughter.

“Bind him,” Cæsar said. “Bind also the girl.”

Though Cunoval fought with two men's strength, bound he was, and the girl gave her hands to be bound. Neither he nor she spoke.

“Where is your den, Briton?” Cæsar strode across the rocks, “Yes, that will serve. Let them lie there.” Into the low cave man and woman were thrust. “So. Roll that stone to the mouth. Fall in, in file. March!”

No man of them hesitated. Cunoval wanted to die. They did not. The Roman was master. Down the mountainside they went. “So much for your philosophy,” said Cœlius, “You have got nothing by it but a headache, which is all a man can get, I think. Confess, Caius, your barbarian was a dull fellow.”

“He has something which I have not—faith.”

“Faith? Faith in what?”

“In freedom.”

Cœlius laughed. “He will be wiser before he dies.”

The cavalry cried a challenge. Cæsar rode forward. “The legatus?”

“See where he comes.”

“I am Caius Cæsar.” The legatus saluted. “I have here a band of gladiators whom I have enrolled for the games I give at Rome. I take them now to my school at Capua.”

“They are assuredly of the rebels, Cæsar.”

“Assuredly. But from me they will not rebel. They will amuse Rome better fighting than crucified.”

“We are seeking a rascal who stole a woman slave from Glabrio.”

“By Pollux, these have no women among them. Search them!” The legatus laughed. “Farewell, friend. Tell your general that Cæsar salutes Marcus Crassus and has spared him some trouble.”

Cavalry, scouring the mountain, did not find the two in the cave. Who could expect that living creatures had gone in where a rock hid the mouth? In vain Cunoval writhed against the thongs that bound him, and sweated and cursed. The woman lay still and sometimes spoke his name softly, and when he was weary she rolled close to him and gave her breast to his head. “Sleep,” she said, “sleep.”

“We shall sleep long enough soon.”

“Sleep is good,” she said.

“Life is better. Gods, gods, I will not die!” he shouted, and heaved himself up and tried to gnaw the thongs, but he could not reach them, and cursed again. “To die here in a trap, slowly, in the dark!” He rolled himself, his armor clattering, to the mouth of the cave and thrust his back against the rock. But he was too closely bound to use his strength. A new notion came to him, and he laughed. “I will loose you and you shall loose me.” He rolled back and began to bite at the thongs about her body. But the hide was too strong for him and after a while he fell back, spitting and groaning, “I thirst! Gods, how I thirst!”

Yet it was he who slept first, with his head upon her, and she lay still, her eyes wide in the dark.

He was waked by a grinding of the rock. A ray of pale light broke into the cave. “Woman, they come to kill us,” he said with parched lips.

“It is well,” she murmured.

The rock rolled away with a crash. Moonlight filled the cave. “By Pollux, I am weaker than I should be. This must be looked to,” they heard some one say. Into the mouth of the cave came a tall figure. “What, are you there yet, man and woman? How do you say now? Which is the better, life or death?”

“Mock at a man who is bound, Roman,” Cunoval said.

“You win that bout, barbarian. Well, let us try another.” Cæsar stooped and came into the cave, and drew his sword and cut their bonds, the woman's first. As soon as they were loosed Cunoval heaved himself up and clutched at him. Cæsar did not use his sword. With his left hand he flung the Briton back, for the numbed, cramped limbs had no strength in them. “Fool, I carry a sword!”

“My hands against your sword!”

“When your blood runs again, I do not doubt it. What, then? Shall I kill you now?” Cæsar laughed and sheathed his sword. “I did not come for that, Cunoval. I come alone.”

“Alone?” Zoe echoed.

“Ha, the Greek brain is here,” Cæsar said, and quoted Greek, “'Better to be the slave of a man of no substance who hath small livelihood than reign over all the shades of the dead.' Is it so, Zoe?”

“Better to die with one dear than live with none,” she said. “That Cæsar knows.”

“If I know that, I know nothing, most fair philosopher. Your will is still for death, then?”

“We will die free. We will die our own,” Cunoval said.

“Which of us is his own, Briton? Against necessity the gods themselves fight in vain.”

“I—I fight always,” Cunoval cried.

“Come then,” he led the way out of the cave. “There is bread and wine there in the saddlebag. Eat and drink as you go.” He mounted and rode on down the mountainside. “In the haven yonder, our Glabrio has a little yacht. Can you sail a boat, Briton?”

“To the end of the world!”

“Nay, the world is but yourselves, with you. It ends never, perhaps, Well, make the island in the bay. Buy food there, I give you gold, and water your boat, and sail away. North of west lies land, Briton, the isle of Corsica, and northward still the coast of Gaul.”

“Gods, you have all things in your head. All that is to come is clear to you like a thing done. You are a great man, Roman!”

“Alas, my barbarian, who knows? The unborn souls give judgment, What comfort is in that? I am in the court of Cunoyal's children's children, See, I give you the sword of Cæsar, I give you good fortune.”

“Good fortune to you! Hail! Farewell!”

Cæsar lifted his hand. “When you are come to your island, bid them look for Cæsar. Farewell, Zoe! Happy hours!”

“Live long and happy, Cæsar!”

He reined up his horse above the strand and watched them clamber aboard and cast off and set sail. And on the night wind came a shout from Cunoval, “Free! Free!”

“Immortal gods! If I could feel what that barbarian feels! Well, I should be what he is, a fool, and so come to the happy isles! Forward, Cæsar! There is for you only the world!” He rode away through the vineyards under the setting moon.