Quo Vadis by Henryk Sienkiewicz (detective books to read .TXT) đź“–
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to him.
“I know,” said he, dropping his eyes. “I have thought of her and of
that giant who killed Croton.”
“In that case both are saved,” answered Petronius, calmly.
But Tigellinus came to the aid of his master: “She is in prison by the
will of Cæsar; thou thyself hast said, O Petronius, that his sentences
are unchangeable.”
All present, knowing the history of Vinicius and Lygia, understood
perfectly what the question was; hence they were silent, curious as to
the end of the conversation.
“She is in prison against the will of Cæsar and through thy error,
through thy ignorance of the law of nations,” said Petronius, with
emphasis. “Thou art a naive man, Tigellinus; but even thou wilt not
assert that she burnt Rome, and if thou wert to do so, Cæsar would not
believe thee.”
But Nero had recovered and begun to half close his near-sighted eyes
with an expression of indescribable malice.
“Petronius is right,” said he, after a while.
Tigellinus looked at him with amazement.
“Petronius is right,” repeated Nero; “tomorrow the gates of the prison
will be open to her, and of the marriage feast we will speak the day
after at the amphitheatre.”
“I have lost again,” thought Petronius.
When he had returned home, he was so certain that the end of Lygia’s
life had come that he sent a trusty freedman to the amphitheatre to
bargain with the chief of the spoliarium for the delivery of her body,
since he wished to give it to Vinicius.
Evening exhibitions, rare up to that period and given only
exceptionally, became common in Nero’s time, both in the Circus and
amphitheatre. The Augustians liked them, frequently because they were
followed by feasts and drinking-bouts which lasted till daylight.
Though the people were sated already with blood-spilling, still, when
the news went forth that the end of the games was approaching, and that
the last of the Christians were to die at an evening spectacle, a
countless audience assembled in the amphitheatre. The Augustians came
to a man, for they understood that it would not be a common spectacle;
they knew that Cæsar had determined to make for himself a tragedy out of
the suffering of Vinicius. Tigellinus had kept secret the kind of
punishment intended for the betrothed of the young tribune; but that
merely roused general curiosity. Those who had seen Lygia at the house
of Plautius told wonders of her beauty. Others were occupied above all
with the question, would they see her really on the arena that day; for
many of those who had heard the answer given Petronius and Nerva by
Cæsar explained it in two ways: some supposed simply that Nero would
give or perhaps had given the maiden to Vinicius; they remembered that
she was a hostage, hence free to worship whatever divinities she liked,
and that the law of nations did not permit her punishment.
Uncertainty, waiting, and curiosity had mastered all spectators. Cæsar
arrived earlier than usual; and immediately at his coming people
whispered that something uncommon would happen, for besides Tigellinus
and Vatinius, Cæsar had with him Cassius, a centurion of enormous size
and gigantic strength, whom he summoned only when he wished to have a
defender at his side,—for example, when he desired night expeditions to
the Subura, where he arranged the amusement called “sagatio,” which
consisted in tossing on a soldier’s mantle maidens met on the way. It
was noted also that certain precautions had been taken in the
amphitheatre itself. The pretorian guards were increased; command over
them was held, not by a centurion, but by the tribune Subrius Flavius,
known hitherto for blind attachment to Nero. It was understood, then,
that Cæsar wished in every case to guard himself against an outburst of
despair from Vinicius, and curiosity rose all the more.
Every eye was turned with strained gaze to the place where the
unfortunate lover was sitting. He was exceedingly pale, and his
forehead was covered with drops of sweat; he was in as much doubt as
were other spectators, but alarmed to the lowest depth of his soul.
Petronius knew not what would happen; he was silent, except that, while
turning from Nerva, he asked Vinicius whether he was ready for
everything, and next, whether he would remain at the spectacle. To both
questions Vinicius answered “Yes,” but a shudder passed through his
whole body; he divined that Petronius did not ask without reason. For
some time he had lived with only half his life,—he had sunk in death,
and reconciled himself to Lygia’s death, since for both it was to be
liberation and marriage; but he learned now that it was one thing to
think of the last moment when it was distant as of a quiet dropping
asleep, and another to look at the torment of a person dearer to one
than life. All sufferings endured formerly rose in him anew. Despair,
which had been set at rest, began again to cry in his soul; the former
desire to save Lygia at any price seized him anew. Beginning with the
morning, he had tried to go to the cunicula to be sure that she was
there; but the pretorians watched every entrance, and orders were so
strict that the soldiers, even those whom he knew, would not be softened
by prayers or gold. It seemed to the tribune that uncertainty would
kill him before he should see the spectacle. Somewhere at the bottom of
his heart the hope was still throbbing, that perhaps Lygia was not in
the amphitheatre, that his fears were groundless. At times he seized on
this hope with all his strength. He said in his soul that Christ might
take her to Himself out of the prison, but could not permit her torture
in the Circus. Formerly he was resigned to the divine will in
everything; now, when repulsed from the doors of the cunicula, he
returned to his place in the amphitheatre, and when he learned, from the
curious glances turned on him, that the most dreadful suppositions might
be true, he began to implore in his soul with passionateness almost
approaching a threat. “Thou canst!” repeated he, clenching his fists
convulsively, “Thou canst!” Hitherto he had not supposed that that
moment when present would be so terrible. Now, without clear
consciousness of what was happening in his mind, he had the feeling that
if he should see Lygia tortured, his love for God would be turned to
hatred, and his faith to despair. But he was amazed at the feeling, for
he feared to offend Christ, whom he was imploring for mercy and
miracles. He implored no longer for her life; he wished merely that she
should die before they brought her to the arena, and from the abyss of
his pain he repeated in spirt: “Do not refuse even this, and I will
love Thee still more than hitherto.” And then his thoughts raged as a
sea torn by a whirlwind. A desire for blood and vengeance was roused in
him. He was seized by a mad wish to rush at Nero and stifle him there
in presence of all the spectators; but he felt that desire to be a new
offence against Christ, and a breach of His command. To his head flew
at times flashes of hope that everything before which his soul was
trembling would be turned aside by an almighty and merciful hand; but
they were quenched at once, as if in measureless sorrow that He who
could destroy that Circus with one word and save Lygia had abandoned
her, though she trusted in Him and loved Him with all the strength of
her pure heart. And he thought, moreover, that she was lying there in
that dark place, weak, defenceless, deserted, abandoned to the whim or
disfavor of brutal guards, drawing her last breath, perhaps, while he
had to wait, helpless, in that dreadful amphitheatre, without knowing
what torture was prepared for her, or what he would witness in a moment.
Finally, as a man falling over a precipice grasps at everything which
grows on the edge of it, so did he grasp with both hands at the thought
that faith of itself could save her. That one method remained! Peter
had said that faith could move the earth to its foundations.
Hence he rallied; he crushed doubt in himself, he compressed his whole
being into the sentence, “I believe,” and he looked for a miracle.
But as an overdrawn cord may break, so exertion broke him. The pallor
of death covered his face, and his body relaxed. He thought then that
his prayer had been heard, for he was dying. It seemed to him that
Lygia 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
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