Instantly all else is forgotten; dignified men scramble over one another. In the free benches there are several genuine fights and many a torn toga or lacerna. The winning tickets to-morrow will draw jars of wine, packages of edibles, or even quite a few denarii in cash; but if the editor had been the Emperor the prizes could well have been fine jewelry, pictures, beasts of burden, tidy sums of money, or even—as the grand prize—a small villa.

This distribution silences all the discordant howlings; and the people are further amused by a kind of theatrical pageant, some popular pantomimes giving the Judgment of Paris in a clever and not inelegant manner, without scenery in the broad arena. After that two ostriches are unloosed and the crowd is put in an excellent humor while four Moorish riders on shining desert steeds chase down the speeding, doubling birds and finally lasso them. All is at last ready for the real business of the day—the gladiators.

341. Beginning the Regular Gladiatorial Combats.—The hunters of the beasts, duly reënforced by many others, reënter the arena again in grim procession. Approaching the editor’s seat on the podium they can be seen passing up their weapons for Cluentius, to let him satisfy himself that every edge is sharpened beyond the possibility of shamming. He hands back each spear or sword with a nod, then the long file straightens and every combatant lifts his right arm: “Ave, prætor!” sounds the deep chant, “morituri te salutamus!” “Ave!” answers Cluentius gesturing haughtily. “Low-browed scoundrels,” mutters Calvus to a fellow senator; “Most of them are lucky to end up this way and to escape the cross.—Ah! they begin.”

First, however, to get well limbered, wooden swords are handed about, and the troop fence with one another skilfully yet harmlessly; but the people are waxing impatient—“Steel! Steel!” rings the shout from the whole amphitheater, and the dense array of women in the upper gallery is calling it as fiercely as the men on the ocean of benches. A terrific blast of trumpets sounds from mid-arena, and a gigantic lanista acting as a kind of umpire motions with his spear. Soon every heart in the myriads is thrilled by the clash of weapons.

Cluentius (an unoriginal though free-spending magistrate) has arranged a very conventional series of combats. First two Britons dash about in chariots pelting each other with javelins. Their armor turns the darts for long, then one of the horses is wounded and while his driver is struggling to control him another missile strikes through a joint in the warrior’s armor. He totters in the car while all the amphitheater rises and yells together “Habet!” “He’s got it!”—and then as the poor wight tumbles back into the sands, “Peractum est!” “He’s done for!”

Immediately there appears a grotesque figure, arrayed as Charon, the dead man’s ferryman. He bears a hammer wherewith he strikes the body of the victim to see if he is counterfeiting death. The fallen chariot warrior stirs not—and “Charon” with a long hook drags away the corpse into one of the dens under the podium. The benches are now leaping, gesticulating, and yelling—the noise is indescribable, and Cluentius’s friends hasten to tell him that the combats have started admirably.

342. Mounted Combats: the Signals for Ruthlessness and Mercy.—The surviving charioteer disappears amid plaudits. In his place ride out four horsemen; and two mounted duels can thus take place at either side of the arena. One pair contend evenly and stoutly, but the other contest soon ends—the less skilful rider is dashed from his seat by his opponent’s sword, and is so hurt he can barely lift himself upon the sands. The victor leaps down and stands over him waving his reddened blade, while his disarmed victim in sheer helplessness raises the right hand, the fist clinched except for one upraised finger—the demand for “Mercy!”

The conqueror obsequiously looks toward his employer Cluentius upon the podium, and the Prætor, bound to be gracious to the populace, motions somewhat inquiringly toward the spectators—let them decide! If the defeated gladiator had fought more gamely and had striven to rise and renew the fight, possibly enough white handkerchiefs—the token of mercy—would have been waved to warrant the editor in flourishing his own also;—but the fellow had collapsed too easily and the mood of the crowd demanded blood. “Occide! Occide!” “Kill! Kill!” is the yell; and thousands of thumbs are ruthlessly pointed downward. Cluentius’s own thumb is pointed down likewise. The victor raises his weapon and without scruple plunges it in the breast of the vanquished, who sustains the honor of his profession by receiving the mortal blow without flinching.

Again the Charon enters with his hook and clears the arena. In the interval the other mounted duelists, cool and experienced warriors, have partly suspended their combat and now they profit through their comrade’s death by the umpiring lanista’s declaration of a draw. The people are sated for an instant and Cluentius nods approval as the two ride out; he is inwardly glad to spare them, because the owners of dead gladiators have to be indemnified.

343. Combats between Netters (Retiarii) and Heavy-Armed Warriors (Thracians).—So combat follows combat, while the sands grow red and one warrior falls simply by slipping upon the gore. The suffocating fumes of blood rise through the bars of sunlight under the great awning. The people grow more and more excited. There will be hundreds of beggars to-night in Rome on account of the reckless wagering.

At last the trumpets sound for what is always the crowning feature of the exhibition—the chief thing which the multitudes have really waited all day to see—ten retiarii are to fight ten “Thracians.” The retiarii (“netters”) wear not the least armor. They carry nothing but three-pronged lances and thick nets, which last they endeavor to fling over their adversaries, entangle them, and then stab with their tridents ere they can cut loose. The “Thracians” have heavy suits of armor and formidable swords.[218] If a netter misses his cast, there is nothing for him to do but to fly for dear life. The sight of a powerful, armed Thracian toiling after the leaping, dodging retiarius is a source of universal joy to the amphitheaters. The people rise on the benches and join in a kind of intoxication and blood orgy. “Verbera! Verbera! Occide! Occide!” “Lay on! Kill!”—rises as a thunder to heaven.

344. End of the Combats: Rewarding the Victors.—It profits not to dwell on the half hour which follows. Plenty of skill, valor, and swiftness are shown alike by netters and by heavy-armed warriors. One by one part of the twenty drop, and for a while the passions of the people permit no mercy. The Charon appears several times; but there is a young Spanish netter whose nimbleness and reckless courage win great favor, and many are muttering, “We want to see him again.” There is also a very experienced Thracian whose owner will demand from Cluentius a round indemnity, if the fight is pushed to a finish and his precious chattel is slain.

As a result when four wounded men together drop their weapons and signal for mercy, white handkerchiefs begin waving all over the amphitheater and Cluentius is glad to shake out his also. The combats are over. The victorious gladiators, if they are unhurt enough to stand, are led before the podium and to each are handed palms of victory.

There is furthermore a crowning ceremony. One Certus, a very famous netter, has by previous understanding taken only a formal part in the combats. Now, while the whole multitude leaps up to acclaim him, Cluentius himself rises and gives him the wooden sword—the sign that he need fight and risk his life no more. Henceforth Certus will become himself no doubt a lanista, and train hundreds of other brawny youths to yield up their lives for the amusement of Rome.

The amphitheater empties from all its numerous vomitoria. The crowd goes home well contented, praising Cluentius and hoping he will be assigned a fine province to govern. True it has not been as if the Emperor were present—then there might have been two hundred or more gladiators, an enormous slaughter of beasts; fountains could have played in the arena to refresh the air, and perfumes could have been scattered from the awnings; or the arena might easily have been flooded for a sea fight between two squadrons of small galleys.

Nevertheless, Cluentius has done very well for a mere Prætor; and he will have to pay indemnity for about fourteen of his forty gladiators, a very fair average to get butchered. “It has been a pleasant enough holiday (say many) in a toiling and busy world, and the rumor goes that for the next Ides at the Consul’s games they have rounded up a whole gang of robbers who will all be fed to the lions!”