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<h2> Chapter VI </h2>
<h3> THE PORTER. THE GIRL. AND THE GLADIATOR. </h3>
<p>THE door of Diomed's house stood open, and Medon, the old slave, sat at
the bottom of the steps by which you ascended to the mansion. That
luxurious mansion of the rich merchant of Pompeii is still to be seen just
without the gates of the city, at the commencement of the Street of Tombs;
it was a gay neighborhood, despite the dead. On the opposite side, but at
some yards nearer the gate, was a spacious hostelry, at which those
brought by business or by pleasure to Pompeii often stopped to refresh
themselves. In the space before the entrance of the inn now stood wagons,
and carts, and chariots, some just arrived, some just quitting, in all the
bustle of an animated and popular resort of public entertainment. Before
the door, some farmers, seated on a bench by a small circular table, were
talking over their morning cups, on the affairs of their calling. On the
side of the door itself was painted gaily and freshly the eternal sign of
the chequers. By the roof of the inn stretched a terrace, on which some
females, wives of the farmers above mentioned, were, some seated, some
leaning over the railing, and conversing with their friends below. In a
deep recess, at a little distance, was a covered seat, in which some two
or three poorer travellers were resting themselves, and shaking the dust
from their garments. On the other side stretched a wide space, originally
the burial-ground of a more ancient race than the present denizens of
Pompeii, and now converted into the Ustrinum, or place for the burning of
the dead. Above this rose the terraces of a gay villa, half hid by trees.
The tombs themselves, with their graceful and varied shapes, the flowers
and the foliage that surrounded them, made no melancholy feature in the
prospect. Hard by the gate of the city, in a small niche, stood the still
form of the well-disciplined Roman sentry, the sun shining brightly on his
polished crest, and the lance on which he leaned. The gate itself was
divided into three arches, the centre one for vehicles, the others for the
foot-passengers; and on either side rose the massive walls which girt the
city, composed, patched, repaired at a thousand different epochs,
according as war, time, or the earthquake had shattered that vain
protection. At frequent intervals rose square towers, whose summits broke
in picturesque rudeness the regular line of the wall, and contrasted well
with the modern buildings gleaming whitely by.</p>
<p>The curving road, which in that direction leads from Pompeii to
Herculaneum, wound out of sight amidst hanging vines, above which frowned
the sullen majesty of Vesuvius.</p>
<p>'Hast thou heard the news, old Medon?' said a young woman, with a pitcher
in her hand, as she paused by Diomed's door to gossip a moment with the
slave, ere she repaired to the neighboring inn to fill the vessel, and
coquet with the travellers.</p>
<p>'The news! what news?' said the slave, raising his eyes moodily from the
ground.</p>
<p>'Why, there passed through the gate this morning, no doubt ere thou wert
well awake, such a visitor to Pompeii!'</p>
<p>'Ay,' said the slave, indifferently.</p>
<p>'Yes, a present from the noble Pomponianus.'</p>
<p>'A present! I thought thou saidst a visitor?'</p>
<p>'It is both visitor and present. Know, O dull and stupid! that it is a
most beautiful young tiger, for our approaching games in the amphitheatre.
Hear you that, Medon? Oh, what pleasure! I declare I shall not sleep a
wink till I see it; they say it has such a roar!'</p>
<p>'Poor fool!' said Medon, sadly and cynically.</p>
<p>'Fool me no fool, old churl! It is a pretty thing, a tiger, especially if
we could but find somebody for him to eat. We have now a lion and a tiger;
only consider that, Medon! and for want of two good criminals perhaps we
shall be forced to see them eat each other. By-the-by, your son is a
gladiator, a handsome man and a strong, can you not persuade him to fight
the tiger? Do now, you would oblige me mightily; nay, you would be a
benefactor to the whole town.'</p>
<p>'Vah! vah!' said the slave, with great asperity; 'think of thine own
danger ere thou thus pratest of my poor boy's death.'</p>
<p>'My own danger!' said the girl, frightened and looking hastily around—'Avert
the omen! let thy words fall on thine own head!' And the girl, as she
spoke, touched a talisman suspended round her neck. '"Thine own danger!"
what danger threatens me?'</p>
<p>'Had the earthquake but a few nights since no warning?' said Medon. 'Has
it not a voice? Did it not say to us all, "Prepare for death; the end of
all things is at hand?"'</p>
<p>'Bah, stuff!' said the young woman, settling the folds of her tunic. 'Now
thou talkest as they say the Nazarenes talked—methinks thou art one
of them. Well, I can prate with thee, grey croaker, no more: thou growest
worse and worse—Vale! O Hercules, send us a man for the lion—and
another for the tiger!'</p>
<p>Ho! ho! for the merry, merry show,<br/>
With a forest of faces in every row!<br/>
Lo, the swordsmen, bold as the son of Alcmena,<br/>
Sweep, side by side, o'er the hushed arena;<br/>
Talk while you may—you will hold your breath<br/>
When they meet in the grasp of the glowing death.<br/>
Tramp, tramp, how gaily they go!<br/>
Ho! ho! for the merry, merry show!<br/></p>
<p>Chanting in a silver and clear voice this feminine ditty, and holding up
her tunic from the dusty road, the young woman stepped lightly across to
the crowded hostelry.</p>
<p>'My poor son!' said the slave, half aloud, 'is it for things like this
thou art to be butchered? Oh! faith of Christ, I could worship thee in all
sincerity, were it but for the horror which thou inspirest for these
bloody lists.'</p>
<p>The old man's head sank dejectedly on his breast. He remained silent and
absorbed, but every now and then with the corner of his sleeve he wiped
his eyes. His heart was with his son; he did not see the figure that now
approached from the gate with a quick step, and a somewhat fierce and
reckless gait and carriage. He did not lift his eyes till the figure
paused opposite the place where he sat, and with a soft voice addressed
him by the name of:</p>
<p>'Father!'</p>
<p>'My boy! my Lydon! is it indeed thou?' said the old man, joyfully. 'Ah,
thou wert present to my thoughts.'</p>
<p>'I am glad to hear it, my father,' said the gladiator, respectfully
touching the knees and beard of the slave; 'and soon may I be always
present with thee, not in thought only.'</p>
<p>'Yes, my son—but not in this world,' replied the slave, mournfully.</p>
<p>'Talk not thus, O my sire! look cheerfully, for I feel so—I am sure
that I shall win the day; and then, the gold I gain buys thy freedom. Oh!
my father, it was but a few days since that I was taunted, by one, too,
whom I would gladly have undeceived, for he is more generous than the rest
of his equals. He is not Roman—he is of Athens—by him I was
taunted with the lust of gain—when I demanded what sum was the prize
of victory. Alas! he little knew the soul of Lydon!'</p>
<p>'My boy! my boy!' said the old slave, as, slowly ascending the steps, he
conducted his son to his own little chamber, communicating with the
entrance hall (which in this villa was the peristyle, not the atrium)—you
may see it now; it is the third door to the right on entering. (The first
door conducts to the staircase; the second is but a false recess, in which
there stood a statue of bronze.) 'Generous, affectionate, pious as are thy
motives,' said Medon, when they were thus secured from observation, 'thy
deed itself is guilt: thou art to risk thy blood for thy father's freedom—that
might be forgiven; but the prize of victory is the blood of another. Oh,
that is a deadly sin; no object can purify it. Forbear! forbear! rather
would I be a slave for ever than purchase liberty on such terms!'</p>
<p>'Hush, my father!' replied Lydon, somewhat impatiently; 'thou hast picked
up in this new creed of thine, of which I pray thee not to speak to me,
for the gods that gave me strength denied me wisdom, and I understand not
one word of what thou often preachest to me—thou hast picked up, I
say, in this new creed, some singular fantasies of right and wrong. Pardon
me if I offend thee: but reflect! Against whom shall I contend? Oh!
couldst thou know those wretches with whom, for thy sake, I assort, thou
wouldst think I purified earth by removing one of them. Beasts, whose very
lips drop blood; things, all savage, unprincipled in their very courage:
ferocious, heartless, senseless; no tie of life can bind them: they know
not fear, it is true—but neither know they gratitude, nor charity,
nor love; they are made but for their own career, to slaughter without
pity, to die without dread! Can thy gods, whosoever they be, look with
wrath on a conflict with such as these, and in such a cause? Oh, My
father, wherever the powers above gaze down on earth, they behold no duty
so sacred, so sanctifying, as the sacrifice offered to an aged parent by
the piety of a grateful son!'</p>
<p>The poor old slave, himself deprived of the lights of knowledge, and only
late a convert to the Christian faith, knew not with what arguments to
enlighten an ignorance at once so dark, and yet so beautiful in its error.
His first impulse was to throw himself on his son's breast—his next
to start away to wring his hands; and in the attempt to reprove, his
broken voice lost itself in weeping.</p>
<p>'And if,' resumed Lydon—'if thy Deity (methinks thou wilt own but
one?) be indeed that benevolent and pitying Power which thou assertest Him
to be, He will know also that thy very faith in Him first confirmed me in
that determination thou blamest.'</p>
<p>'How! what mean you?' said the slave.</p>
<p>'Why, thou knowest that I, sold in my childhood as a slave, was set free
at Rome by the will of my master, whom I had been fortunate enough to
please. I hastened to Pompeii to see thee—I found thee already aged
and infirm, under the yoke of a capricious and pampered lord—thou
hadst lately adopted this new faith, and its adoption made thy slavery
doubly painful to thee; it took away all the softening charm of custom,
which reconciles us so often to the worst. Didst thou not complain to me
that thou wert compelled to offices that were not odious to thee as a
slave, but guilty as a Nazarene? Didst thou not tell me that thy soul
shook with remorse when thou wert compelled to place even a crumb of cake
before the Lares that watch over yon impluvium? that thy soul was torn by
a perpetual struggle? Didst thou not tell me that even by pouring wine
before the threshold, and calling on the name of some Grecian deity, thou
didst fear thou wert incurring penalties worse than those of Tantalus, an
eternity of tortures more terrible than those of the Tartarian fields?
Didst thou not tell me this? I wondered, I could not comprehend; nor, by
Hercules! can I now: but I was thy son, and my sole task was to
compassionate and relieve. Could I hear thy groans, could I witness thy
mysterious horrors, thy constant anguish, and remain inactive? No! by the
immortal gods! the thought struck me like light from Olympus! I had no
money, but I had strength and youth—these were thy gifts—I
could sell these in my turn for thee! I learned the amount of thy ransom—I
learned that the usual prize of a victorious gladiator would doubly pay
it. I became a gladiator—I linked myself with those accursed men,
scorning, loathing, while I joined—I acquired their skill—blessed
be the lesson!—it shall teach me to free my father!'</p>
<p>'Oh, that thou couldst hear Olinthus!' sighed the old man, more and more
affected by the virtue of his son, but not less strongly convinced of the
criminality of his purpose.</p>
<p>'I will hear the whole world talk if thou wilt,' answered the gladiator,
gaily; 'but not till thou art a slave no more. Beneath thy own roof, my
father, thou shalt puzzle this dull brain all day long, ay, and all night
too, if it give thee pleasure. Oh, such a spot as I have chalked out for
thee!—it is one of the nine hundred and ninety-nine shops of old
Julia Felix, in the sunny part of the city, where thou mayst bask before
the door in the day—and I will sell the oil and the wine for thee,
my father—and then, please Venus (or if it does not please her,
since thou lovest not her name, it is all one to Lydon)—then, I say,
perhaps thou mayst have a daughter, too, to tend thy grey hairs, and hear
shrill voices at thy knee, that shall call thee "Lydon's father!" Ah! we
shall be so happy—the prize can purchase all. Cheer thee! cheer up,
my sire!—And now I must away—day wears—the lanista waits
me. Come! thy blessing!'</p>
<p>As Lydon thus spoke, he had already quitted the dark chamber of his
father; and speaking eagerly, though in a whispered tone, they now stood
at the same place in which we introduced the porter at his post.</p>
<p>'O bless thee! bless thee, my brave boy!' said Medon, fervently; 'and may
the great Power that reads all hearts see the nobleness of thine, and
forgive its error!'</p>
<p>The tall shape of the gladiator passed swiftly down the path; the eyes of
the slave followed its light but stately steps, till the last glimpse was
gone; and then, sinking once more on his seat, his eyes again fastened
themselves on the ground. His form, mute and unmoving, as a thing of
stone. His heart!—who, in our happier age, can even imagine its
struggles—its commotion?</p>
<p>'May I enter?' said a sweet voice. 'Is thy mistress Julia within?'</p>
<p>The slave mechanically motioned to the visitor to enter, but she who
addressed him could not see the gesture—she repeated her question
timidly, but in a louder voice.</p>
<p>'Have I not told thee!' said the slave, peevishly: 'enter.'</p>
<p>'Thanks,' said the speaker, plaintively; and the slave, roused by the
tone, looked up, and recognized the blind flower-girl. Sorrow can
sympathize with affliction—he raised himself, and guided her steps
to the head of the adjacent staircase (by which you descended to Julia's
apartment), where, summoning a female slave, he consigned to her the
charge of the blind girl.</p>
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