CHAPTER I
THE IVORY GATE
[Initial D]
Dark and stern, in their weird beauty, lower the sad brows of the Queen ofHell. Dear to her are the pomp and power, the shadowy vastness, and theterrible splendour of the nether world. Dear to her the pride of herunbending consort; and doubly dear the wide imperial sway, that rules theimmortal destinies of souls. But dearer far than these--dearer thanflashing crown and fiery sceptre, and throne of blazing gold--are thememories that glimmer bright as sunbeams athwart those vistas of gloomygrandeur, and seem to fan her weary spirit like a fresh breeze from therealms of upper earth. She has not forgotten, she never can forget, thedewy flowers, the blooming fragrance of lavish Sicily, nor the sparklingsea, and the summer haze, and the golden harvests that wave and whisper inthe garden and granary of the world. Then a sad smile steals over thehaughty face; the stern beauty softens in the gleam, and, for a while, thedaughter of Ceres is a laughing girl once more.
So the Ivory Gate swings back, and gentle doves come forth on snowy wings,flying upwards through the gloom, to bear balm and consolation to theweary and the wounded and the lost. Now this was the dream the birds ofPeace brought with them, to soothe the broken spirit of a sleeping slave.
The old boar has turned to bay at last. Long and severe has been thechase; through many an echoing woodland, down many a sunny glade, by copseand dingle, rock and cave, through splashing stream, and deep, dank,quivering morass, the large rough hounds have tracked him, unerring andpitiless, till they have set him up here, against the trunk of the oldoak-tree, and he has turned--a true British denizen of the waste--to sellhis life dearly, and fight unconquered to the last. His small eye glowslike a burning coal; the stiff bristles are up along his huge black body,flecked with white froth that he churns and throws about him, as he offersthose curved and ripping tusks, now to one, now to another of hiscrowding, baying, leaping foes.
"Have at him! Good dogs!" shouts the hunter, running in with a short,broad-bladed boar-spear in his hand. Breathless is he, and wearied withthe long miles of tangled forests he has traversed; but his heart is gladwithin him, and his blood tingles with a strange wild thrill of triumphknown only to the votaries of the chase.
"Have at him good dogs"]
Gelert is down, torn and mangled from flank to dewlap; Luath has the wildswine by the throat; and a foot of gleaming steel, driven home by a young,powerful arm, has entered behind the neck and pierces downwards to thevery brisket. The shaft of the spear snaps short across, as the thickunwieldy body turns slowly over, and the boar shivers out his life on thesmooth sward, soft and green as velvet, that exists nowhere but inBritain.
The dream changes. The boar has disappeared, and the woodland gives placeto a fair and smiling plain. Vast herds of shaggy red cattle are browsingcontentedly, with their wide-horned heads to the breeze; flocks of sheepdot the green undulating pastures, that stretch away towards the sea. Agull turns its white wing against the clear blue sky; there is a hum ofinsects in the air, mingled with the barking of dogs, the lowing of kine,the laughter of women, and other sounds of peace, abundance, and content.A child is playing round its mother's knee--a child with frank bold browand golden curls, and large blue fearless eyes, sturdy of limb, quick ofgesture, fond, imperious, and wilful. The mother, a tall woman, with abeautiful but mournful face, is gazing steadfastly at the sea, and seemsunconscious of her boy's caresses, who is fondling and kissing the whitehand he holds in both his own. Her large shapely figure is draped in snowyrobes that trail upon the ground, and massive ornaments of gold encirclearms and ankles. At intervals she looks fondly down upon the child; butever her face resumes its wistful expression, as she fixes her eyes againupon the sea. There is nothing of actual sorrow in that steadfastgaze--still less of impatience, or anger, or discontent. Memory is theprevailing sentiment portrayed--memory, tender, absorbing, irresistible,without a ray of hope, but without a shadow of self-reproach. There is astatue of Mnemosyne at one of the entrances to the Forum that carries onits marble brow the same crushing weight of thought; that wears on itsdelicate features, graven into the saddest of beauty by the Athenian'schisel, just such a weary and despondent look. Where can the British childhave seen those tasteful spoils of Greece that deck her imperial mistress?And yet he thinks of that statue as he looks up in his mother's face. Butthe fair tall woman shivers and draws her robe closer about her, andtaking the child in her arms, nestles his head against her bosom andcovers him over with her draperies, for the wind blows moist and chill,the summer air is white with driving mist, huge shapeless forms loomthrough the haze, and the busy sounds of life and laughter have subsidedinto the stillness of a vast and dreary plain.
The child and its mother have disappeared, but a tall, strong youth, justentering upon manhood, with the same blue eyes and fearless brow, ispresent in their stead. He is armed for the first time with the weapons ofa warrior. He has seen blows struck in anger now, and fronted the legionsas they advanced, and waged his fearless unskilful valour against thecourage, and the tactics, and the discipline of Rome. So he is investedwith sword, and helm, and target, and takes his place, not without boyishpride, amongst the young warriors who encircle the hallowed spot where theDruids celebrate their solemn and mysterious rites.
The mist comes thicker still, driving over the plain in waves of vapour,that impart a ghostly air of motion to the stones that tower erect aroundthe mystic circle. Grey, moss-grown, and unhewn, hand of man seems neverto have desecrated those mighty blocks of granite, standing there,changeless and awful, like types of eternity. Dim and indistinct are theyas the worship they guard. Hard and stern as the pitiless faith ofsacrifice, vengeance, and oblation, inculcated at their base. A wild lowchant comes wailing on the breeze, and through the gathering mist a longline of white-robed priests winds slowly into the circle. Stern and gloomyare they of aspect, lofty of stature, and large of limb, with long greybeards and tresses waving in the wind. Each wears a crown of oak-leavesround his head; each grasps a wand covered with ivy in his hand. The youthcannot resist an exclamation of surprise. There is desecration in histhought, there is profanity in his words. Louder and louder swells thechant. Closer and closer still contracts the circle. The white-robedpriests are hemming him in to the very centre of the mystic ring, and see!the sacrificial knife is already bared and whetted, and flourished in theair by a long brawny arm. The young warrior strives to fly. Horror! hisfeet refuse to stir, his hands cleave powerless to his sides. He seemsturning to stone. A vague fear paralyses him that he too will become oneof those granite masses to stand there motionless during eternity. Hisheart stops beating within him, and the transformation seems about to becompleted, when lo! a warlike peal of trumpets breaks the spell, and heshakes his spear aloft and leaps gladly from the earth, exulting in thesense of life and motion once more.
Again the dream changes. Frenzied priest and Druidical stone have vanishedlike the mist that encircled them. It is a beautiful balmy night in June.The woods are black and silver in the moonlight. Not a breath of air stirsthe topmost twigs of the lofty elm cut clear and distinct against the sky.Not a ripple blurs the surface of the lake, spread out and gleaming like asheet of polished steel. The bittern calls at intervals from the adjacentmarsh, and the nightingale carols in the copse. All is peaceful andbeautiful, and suggestive of enjoyment or repose. Yet here, lying closeamongst the foxglove and the fern, long lines of white-robed warriors arewaiting but the signal for assault. And yonder, where the earthwork risesdark and level against the sky, paces to and fro a high-crested sentinel,watching over the safety of the eagles, with the calm and ceaselessvigilance of that discipline which has made the legionaries masters of theworld.
Once more the trumpets peal; the only sound to be heard in that array oftents, drawn up with such order and precision, behind the works, exceptthe footfall of the Roman guard, firm and regular, as it relieves theprevious watch. In a short s
pace that duty will be performed; and then, ifever, must the attack be made with any probability of success. Youth isimpatient of delay--the young warrior's pulse beats audibly, and he feelsthe edge of his blade and the point of his short-handled javelin, with anintensity of longing that is absolutely painful. At length the word ispassed from rank to rank. Like the crest of a sea-wave breaking into foam,rises that wavering line of white, rolling its length out in themoonlight, as man after man springs erect at the touch of his comrade; andthen a roar of voices, a rush of feet, and the wave dashes up and breaksagainst the steady solid resistance of the embankment. But discipline isnot to be caught thus napping. Ere the echo of their trumpets has died outamong the distant hills, the legionaries stand to their arms throughoutthe camp. Already the rampart gleams and bristles with shield and helmet,javelin, sword, and spear. Already the eagle is awake and defiant;unruffled, indeed, in plumage, but with beak and talons bare and whettedfor defence. The tall centurions marshal their men in line even andregular, as though about to defile by the throne of Caesar, rather than torepel the attack of a wild barbarian foe. The tribunes, with their goldencrests, take up their appointed posts in the four corners of the camp;while the praetor himself gives his orders calm and unmoved from thecentre.
Over the roar of the swarming Britons sounds the clear trumpet-notepealing out its directions, concise and intelligible as a living voice,and heard by the combatants far and wide, inspiring courage andconfidence, and order in the confusion. Brandishing their long swords, thewhite-clad warriors of Britain rush tumultuously to the attack. Already,they have filled the ditch and scaled the earthwork; but once and againthey recoil from the steady front and rigid discipline of the invader,while the short stabbing sword of the Roman soldier, covered as he is byhis ample shield, does fearful execution at close quarters. But stillfresh assailants pour in, and the camp is carried and overrun. The youngwarrior rushes exulting to and fro, and the enemy falls in heaps beforehim. Such moments are worth whole years of peaceful life. He has reachedthe praetorium. He is close beneath the eagles, and he leaps wildly at themto bring them off in triumph as trophies of his victory. But a grimcenturion strikes him to the earth. Wounded, faint, and bleeding, he iscarried away by his comrades, the shaft of the Roman standard in his hand.They bear him to a war-chariot, they lash the wild galloping steeds, theroll of the wheels thunders in his ears as they dash tumultuously acrossthe plain, and then ... the gentle mission is fulfilled, the doves flydown again to Proserpine, and the young, joyous, triumphant warrior ofBritain wakes up a Roman slave.
The Gladiators. A Tale of Rome and Judæa Page 3