“C. Fannius, having fought many times with men, and having as often secured victory, claims permission to fight with more formidable antagonists. He will, therefore, with the help of certain associates who have been allotted to him for this purpose, contend with a lion, a lioness, and a bear.”
The “associates” were criminals who would in any case have had to undergo the ordeal.
The combat that followed proved to be a success, at least from the point of view of a Roman sight-seer. To us it would have seemed a peculiarly brutal exhibition. The result was that the lioness and the bear were killed, Fannius’ companions perishing in the struggle. Fannius, in fact, dispatched both animals while they were mangling the dead. A fierce conflict with the lion ended in the victory of the gladiator; though sadly mangled by the claws and teeth of his savage antagonist, he escaped with his [175] life, and, of course, received his discharge, together with a handsome present from the Emperor. He was taken down to the farm, and nursed with indefatigable patience and care by Epicharis and her aunt. The girl’s heart was softened as she tended her suffering lover, and she consented to become formally betrothed to him, though only on the condition that before their marriage the vengeance for which she lived should have been first exacted.
FANNIUS AND THE LIONS
It was in the midst of the joy and pride which he felt in securing an affection of which he had begun to despair, that Fannius imparted to Epicharis the secret of the conspiracy, the secret into which he had been himself initiated by Subrius. The matter had been left to his discretion by his superior, and he thought himself justified in what he did, by the belief, perfectly well founded, as we shall see, that he could not have secured a more zealous or more loyal associate. On her part the girl was almost frantic with delight. An object which had seemed almost unattainable was now within reach. It was not a weak woman; it was a powerful association of great nobles and great soldiers that had vowed vengeance against the tyrant. At the same time the love, for which hitherto there had scarcely been room in her heart by the side of the engrossing passion for vengeance, grew up and flourished apace. Before cold and distant, she now lavished upon her lover an affection which astonished as much as it delighted him.
[176] Then the blow fell. To the trainer the conduct of Fannius in choosing to fight with beasts rather than men had been unintelligible. If he guessed at any motive he would have said that it was a desire for notoriety. But a rival gladiator, who conceived himself to be affronted by the terms of the proclamation, which indeed, though, as had been said, not through any fault of Fannius, had a certain arrogance about them�was more acute. He knew something about Fannius, and was sure that he would not have committed himself to a desperate venture without some motive of solid worth. Fannius, he was sure, had every reason for wanting to live, and there must be some grave reason for his thus risking his life. What could it be but the same motive which prevented these gloomy sectaries, the Christians, from ever enjoying the spectacles of the Circus and the amphitheatre. On the strength of this conjecture he informed against Fannius as belonging to the forbidden sect of the Christians. The young man, who had now entirely recovered his health, came to Rome for the first time after his illness on the very day on which the edict was published, and was promptly arrested and thrown into prison.
Another of the prisoners was Phlegon, Pomponia’s steward. He had been arrested at Subrius’ country house. Whether the soldiers arrived before he expected them, or whether he deliberately lingered because he knew that they would not be satisfied [177] without making some arrest, it is not easy to say. Two slaves belonging to the household were seized along with him. Both, it so happened, were heathen, and were therefore in no danger; and he had the satisfaction of knowing, on the other hand, that the two women servants, left behind by Pomponia and Claudia, contrived to escape the notice of the soldiers. To his own peril, now that it had come to him in the way of duty, he was wholly indifferent. He had long since counted the cost of his Christian profession, and had resolved to pay it.
The authorities were seriously perplexed by the abundance of prey which they secured. They did not know where to lodge their prisoners. It must be remembered that the Romans did not habitually use imprisonment, after conviction, as a punishment. Commonly the criminal, if he was not executed, was banished. Sometimes he was consigned to the safe keeping of some distinguished person, (Footnote: This was called libera custodia. It has sometimes been practised by ourselves. Thus, after the accession of Elizabeth, some of the bishops who refused to accept the Reformed Liturgy and Articles were confined in the palaces of their successors.) or was kept in his own house; but the long-continued imprisonment with which it is now customary to visit serious offences was unknown. Nero resolved to cut the knot of this difficulty in his own fashion. To the guilt or innocence of the prisoners he was absolutely indifferent. That they had nothing to do with the [178] particular crime with which they were charged he had the best means of knowing; as to their offence in being Christians, he knew and cared nothing. What he did want was to shift upon them the notoriety which he wanted to divert from himself.
One means of doing this would be by the singularity of the punishment to be inflicted on them. To make a conspicuous example of some, and to permit the rest to escape, was the course which commended itself to him. How he succeeded will now have to be told.
During the two centuries and a half during which the Christian Church had to endure from time to time the hostility of the rulers of Rome, there were many persecutions that reached further, that lasted longer, that were in many ways more fatal; but there was not one that left on the minds of men so deep an impression of horror.
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WHAT THE TEMPLE SERVANT SAW
[179] IT was of course impossible that Pomponia and her young companion should remain in ignorance of what was going on in Rome. That something like a reign of terror prevailed, that multitudes of men, women, and even children were being daily arrested and imprisoned�no one exactly knew on what charge�they heard from their hostess, who, however, did her best to soften the story which she had to tell. But there came a time when they had to hear a tale which transcended in horror all that they could have imagined possible.
Commonly the temple servant’s house was remarkably quiet. The old man was a peace-loving personage, who seldom entertained others, and still more seldom went out. The dwelling was so small that the apartment occupied by the ladies could hardly be said to be out of hearing of that where Statia and her husband sat in the evening. Commonly there was silence, the woman being busy with her needle, the old man sleeping in his chair. Now and then there would be heard a gentle murmur of conversation. Once or twice the ladies could distinguish a third [180] voice, which they supposed to be that of an occasional visitor. One night, however, after they had been in their refuge about a month, they could not help overhearing what seemed to be a very loud and animated discussion. Fragments of talk even reached their ears, and though they did not attempt to piece them together, the words they heard left a general impression of uneasiness and even fear in their minds. The next morning their hostess was in an evident condition of agitation and excitement, divided between eagerness to tell her news, and a kind-hearted desire not to give pain to her guests.
“Oh, my lady!” she burst out, “there were terrible doings last night; such as were never heard of, they say, in Rome before, ever since it was a city.”
The two women listened in silent dismay. That the storm which had been gathering would soon burst, they had clearly foreseen; in what terrible form its violence would break forth, with such a creature, permitted by God to plague the world for its sins, who could tell?
“I did not see them myself,” Statia went on, “thanks be to the gods! But my husband did, and he was fairly sick and faint with the horribleness of the whole business when he came home. You see, he is not one that goes out much to sights. I haven’t known him go to the Circus or the amphitheatre as much as once in the last ten years. You see, he would sooner stop at home quiet with me; and the [181] best place, too, for an old man; aye! and for a young one, too, in my judgment. But last night a friend of his that serves the same temple would have him go and see some fine show, as he called it. The Emperor, my husband’s friend said, was to throw open his gardens to the people, and there were to be such wonderful sights as had never been seen before. Well, my good man goes; and as I said, he comes home before it was over, quite sick with what he had seen. As soon as he was inside the gardens, he found a crowd of people hurrying to the theatre that there is in the gardens. Naturally he goes with them, and finds himself in a good place in front, where he could see all that was going on. In the arena were a number of animals,�bears, and lions, and tigers, and bisons, and other creatures that he did not know the names of,�at least, that was what he thought at first; but when he looked again he thought that there was something curious about them, they looked so awkward and clumsy. ‘What ails the beasts?’ he said to his next neighbour. The man laughed. ‘They are not beasts at all!’ he said; ‘they are men!’ ‘Then what do they dress them up like that for?’ asks my husband. ‘Wait a moment,’ says the other, ‘and you will see.’ And sure enough he did see. Some doors under the seats were opened, and a whole pack of dogs came leaping out�the biggest and fiercest looking dogs, my husband said, that he had ever seen. ‘They’ve kept them hungry on purpose,’ said the [182] other man, ‘giving them nothing to eat for two days, I am told.’ ‘But who are the poor creatures?’ asked my husband, ‘and what have they done?’ ‘Who are they?’ answered the other, ‘why, they are Christians, to be sure, whatever that may mean, for I don’t rightly know myself; and ‘tis said that it is they who set the city on fire.’ “