Peeps at Many Lands: Ancient Rome (Yesterday's Classics) by James Baikie Page B

lightning, comes the end. The Samnite delivers a straight thrust at his rival's throat just beneath the visor, and the round buckler swings up to meet the point; but the thrust was never meant to be sent home. Almost in the act of thrusting the line of the point is changed, and the short blade goes home just beneath the Thracian's ribs. Antonius staggers as Avilius draws out the reddened steel, recovers himself for a moment, and tries feebly to continue the fight; but the blood is flowing fast down his side, and a wild-beast roar comes from the whole vast crowd—"Habet!" (He has it).
    The vanquished gladiator stands swaying on his feet. He has dropped his scimitar and shield, and he raises his left arm, the forefinger of the hand uplifted, in acknowledgment of defeat and in prayer for mercy. Behind the impassive mask of his visor, his eyes, already clouding, scan the long rows above, with the faint hope that he may see the down-turned thumbs that mean at least the chance of life—such chance as his wound may afford. Titus, of course, has the final word, and if the Emperor consulted his own inclination, no doubt he would give the poor bleeding wretch his chance. But, on such a day as the opening of the great Amphitheatre, not even Titus, popular as he is, would dare to cross the wishes of the crowd. Judgment will have to come from the soul of Rome, and surely a fighting race will be merciful to a brave fighter.
    Do you think so? The Emperor looks round—first, of course, to the Vestal Virgins, whose position in Rome is such that they, almost more surely than the Emperor himself, can give life or refuse it. Among all those noble and gently-nurtured women, not one sign of mercy. Every thumb is turned upwards, and the cruel verdict of the Vestals is repeated all round the Amphitheatre. Rome would despise itself if the first fight in its great new pleasure-house ended without the finest of all sights, a violent death. Antonius has read his fate, and, as his trembling limbs refuse to support him longer, he gradually sinks on one knee, propping himself feebly on his outstretched arm. The Samnite comes behind him, and one merciful blow closes the tragedy. The attendants appear, strike a hook through the belt of the dead gladiator, and drag the corpse from the arena. Fresh sand is sprinkled over the pool of blood, and we are ready for another sensation. The Flavian Amphitheatre has received its baptism of blood.
    You have seen one Roman gladiatorial combat, and I think you will agree with me that one is quite enough. So there will be no need to drag you through the rest of the day's programme. After Samnite and Thracian, follow Retiarius and Mirmillo. The Retiarius has no weapons save a net and a trident, and his aim is to entangle his opponent in the net, and then disable him with the trident. The Mirmillo, on the other hand, is armed with helmet, sword, and shield. Sometimes the audience calls him a Secutor, or pursuer, because when his enemy has missed the cast with the net, the heavy-armed man pursues him, and tries to run him through with the sword before the net can be gathered up for another cast. The Mirmillo's helmet is of the Gallic shape, with a fish for its crest, and the net-man, as he advances to the attack, often chants a doggerel verse, which means something like this: "I am not fishing for you, I am fishing for a fish; why do you run away from me, you Gaul?"
    Net and trident, you would imagine, would have no chance whatever against shield, helmet, and sword. The very opposite is the case, however. Net and trident generally win, and there is no more popular fighter among the gladiators than this deadly fisherman with his gigantic toasting-fork and his grim rhyme.
    When the fisherman has caught his Gallic fish, or the fish has caught the fisherman, as the case may be, there will be chariot-fights, which the Romans have learned to like since the legionaries brought back word from Britain of how the woad-stained