AURELIUS returned from Syria with his victorious army in the nine hundred and twenty-ninth year of Rome, 176 of our era, ten years after the great pestilence. He had merely crushed a local rebellion, but a vast coalition of nomadic Arab tribes of the desert had been allied with the rebels, and to the Romans it seemed that their Emperor had won a great victory in a mighty campaign. Aurelius humored their mood, and with good judgment, for they needed all the encouragement possible. He arranged to have his return celebrated by shows of all kinds, theatrical performances, fights of gladiators, beast fights, horse-races uncountable and above all, by that thrilling procession of a victor and his armed soldiers through the city along the Sacred Street, up to the great temple on the Capitol, which was the highest honor an army and a commander could receive at the hands of the Roman government, which signalized a notable victory over notable odds, which was called a triumph. Of triumphs Rome had seen fewer than three hundred in more than nine hundred years. Not one of the three hundred had been as magnificent as the triumph of Aurelius.
Its auxiliary spectacles were similarly magnificent. In particular the gladiatorial shows surpassed anything within the memory of the oldest living spectator.
Causidiena, whose eyes troubled her greatly, found that watching the triumphal procession caused her so much pain that she absented herself from the remaining shows. To all of these, races, beast-fights and combats of gladiators, she insisted that the other five Vestals should go together. The arrangement was unusual, but no one could object, for no one would hint or even think that the sacred fire would be in any danger of going out with such a Chief Vestal as Causidiena caring for it or that she needed any other Vestal to assist her. Likewise her five colleagues were genuinely pleased that not one of them would miss any part of the shows.
As the number was odd, Causidiena decreed that they should be conveyed to the spectacles each in her own state coach, attended by her maid of honor. The maids, of course, did not sit with the Vestals, but had seats far back with the populace.
In their luxurious private box in the Colosseum the five Vestals sat in the ample front row arm-chairs. They were seated not according to seniority, but Numisia in the middle, Meffia and Brinnaria, as the youngest, on either side of her, Gargilia next Meffia, and Manlia next Brinnaria.
In the Imperial loge near them Aurelius, now for more than a year a widower, presided over the games, clad in his gorgeous silk robes and attended by his fifteen-year-old son Antoninus, afterward known by his nickname of “Commodus.” The four tiers of the Colosseum were packed with spectators, pontiffs, senators, nobles, ambassadors magistrates and other notables in the front seats along the coping of the arena wall, lesser notables in the first tier, well-to-do persons in the second tier, traders and manufacturers and such like in the third tier and the commonalty in the fourth.
Besides the ninety thousand seated spectators* many thousand more stood in the galleries, in the openings of the stairways, in any place where a foothold could be found and from which a view could be obtained. The outlook from the Vestals’ box was across the level sand to the gigantic curve of seats, all hidden under their occupants, so that the interior of the Amphitheatre was a vast expanse of flower-crowned heads, eager faces and waving fans.
*The author forgets himself. Earlier in the book hedescribes an audience of 100,000 as Brinnaria tells theemperor how she felt down on the sand in her shift, with“two hundred thousand eyes” (implying one hundred thousandpeople) staring at her. In fact, the Colosseum could handlean audience of about 45 to 50 thousand.—GB ed.
During that second day of gladiatorial fighting Manlia had several times said to Brinnaria:
“Is there anything wrong? Are you ill? You do not seem yourself!” Each time Brinnaria had positively denied that anything was wrong and had asserted that she was entirely herself.
About the middle of the afternoon, the arena was filled with pairs of gladiators, all the couples fighting simultaneously. Each pair had with it a trainer, called a lanista, who watched, guided or checked the fighting.
The contending pairs were of a kind much liked by the Romans, because of the excitement they afforded, each pair consisting of a light-built, light-armed, nimble expert pitted against a heavily built, heavily armed ruffian, the two supposed to be equally matched, the strength and weapons of the one fully balanced by the skill and agility of the other.
Viewing fights of this kind Manlia felt rather than heard or saw a change in Brinnaria next her, felt her stiffen and grow silent, rigid and tense. Manlia glanced at her, followed her gaze and became interested in the fight Brinnaria was watching. Before them, not immediately below them, but some distance out in the arena, fought a conspicuous pair of gladiators. One was a great hulking full-armored brute of a Goth, helmeted and corseleted, kilted in bronze-plated leather straps, booted, as it were, with ample shin-guards of thick hide, bronze-plated like the straps of his flapping kilt. He carried a big oval shield and threatened with a long straight sword his adversary, a Roman in every outline, a slender young man, barefoot, bare-legged, kilted with the scantiest form of gladiator’s body-piece and apron, clad in a green tunic and carrying only the small round shield and short sabre of a Thracian. He wore a helmet like a skull cap with a broad nose-guard that amounted to a mask, above which were small openings for his eyes.
Conning this pair Manlia’s attention was riveted by the slighter man. He was very light on his feet, jaunty of bearing and, as it were, ablaze with self-confidence.
Manlia, who was an expert judge of sword-fighting, perceived at once that he was a master of his art. His method for the moment was to hold back, lead his opponent on and bide his time. His attitudes and movements bespoke the most perfect knowledge of sword play in all its finest details. But what most held Manlia’s attention was his beauty of form and a strange something about him, a long-armed, long-legged appearance. She turned to Brinnaria.
“I should have sworn,” she said, “that there was not in all the world another man like Segontius Almo. But that Thracian is a duplicate of him, as like him as if he were his twin brother.”
“More like him than a twin brother,” Brinnaria replied, her voice muffled and choked. “I’ve been watching him ever since he came in. I recognized him in the procession this morning. That is Almo.”
“Almo!” breathed Manlia, in a horrified whisper.
“Yes, Almo!” hissed Brinnaria.
“What shall we do?” quavered Manlia.
“Do?” snorted Brinnaria, “do nothing.”
“But we can pray,” Manlia panted. “We can pray. Surely you are praying, Brinnaria?”
“I am praying,” came the answer, in a viperish whisper. “I’m praying he may be killed.”
“Killed!” Manlia gasped.
“Yes, killed,” repeated Brinnaria, viciously. “Killing is what he deserves, mere killing is too good for him. If he wanted to commit suicide why couldn’t he do it decently at once and privately without all this elaborate machinery of selling himself as a slave, and lying about his intentions and disgracing himself by becoming a prize-fighter and exposing himself to getting killed in public? Why couldn’t he get killed at Treves or Lyons or Aquileia? Why must he humiliate me by this exhibition of himself before me and all Rome? The quicker he is killed the better. I’m praying he’ll be killed at once.”
“Oh, Brinnaria!” groaned the horrified Manlia.
The Thracian was not killed in that first fight; he was never in any danger of being killed. He played with his man as a cat plays with a mouse; held him off without an effort, caught the attention of all the nearby spectators; won their interest by the perfection of his sword-play; and aroused their enthusiasm by that nameles quality which marks off, from even the best drilled talent, the man who is a born genius in his line.
He pinked his victim between corselet and helmet, so lightly that only those spectators watching most closely saw the lunge, so effectually that the man died almost as he fell.
“You must have prayed for him to win; I did,” spoke Manlia.
“I didn’t,” Brinnaria snapped. “I prayed for him to be killed. I wish he had been. I’m not the only one who has recognized him. Aurelius has and he has told Antoninus; I watched him.”
“How could you?” Manlia exclaimed. “How could you watch anything but Almo?”
“I could and I did,” Brinnaria asseverated. “I’m looking all ways at once, just now. The news is all over the Imperial loge already. They are looking at me as well as at him. I hope he’ll be killed this next bout.” The lanista, in fact, at once matched Almo with another full-armed giant. Again Almo gave an exhibition of perfect swordsmanship. The Romans were as quick to appreciate form in fighting as we moderns are to applaud our best bail players; they recognized pre-eminence in the swordman’s art, as we acclaim the skill of a crack baseball pitcher or cricket bowler.
Almo caught the eye of spectator after spectator, till most of the audience on that side of the arena were watching the fight in which he took part to the exclusion of everything else that was going on. He displayed that perfect balance of all the mental and physical faculties, that instantaneous co-ordination of eye, brain and muscle, which only an occasional phenomenon can attain to. He made no mistakes, bore himself like a dancer on a tight-rope, circled about his adversary, warded off all his thrusts, lunges and rushes, turned aside his long sword with his small round shield without a trace of effort, and at his leisure found a joint in his body armor and pierced his heart with an ostentatiously difficult lunge delivered with the acme of apparent ease.
“There,” sighed Manlia, “I prayed hard.”
“So did I,” Brinnaria murmured, “but I prayed the other way. He ought to have been killed already. Numisia has recognized him and he has been recognized by three or four nobles along the coping. The rumor is spreading from each of them and running through the audience.” Manlia, in fact, looking about was aware of an unusual stir among the spectators, of notes being handed along and read, of whisperings, callings, signs, pointings; of messengers worming their way from row to row and from tier to tier.
Almo won his third bout. While it was in progress Manlia had seen one of the Emperor’s orderlies enter the arena from one of the small doors in the wall and confer with the chief lanista, who directed the fighting.
By the time Almo began a fourth bout half the audience was looking at him or at Brinnaria. There were thousands present who had survived the pestilence, who had been present fifteen years before when she had let herself down into the arena and had rescued the retiarius. They remembered her spectacular interference and were curious as to how she would now comport herself. Brinnaria, erect and calm, fanned herself placidly.
Almo won his fourth bout.
By this time the arrangements of the lanistas had been so far modified that, instead of a great throng of fighters, there were, in the whole immense arena, not more than twenty pairs.
With scarcely a breathing space Almo was pitted against a fifth adversary. By the time he had disposed of him the entire audience, fully a hundred thousand souls, were as well aware of what was going on as was Brinnaria herself. She was pale, but entirely collected. To Manlia she whispered venomously:
“Castor be thanked, he is certain to be killed, Aurelius has attended to that.” In fact the Roman sense of fair play was offended when the lanista gave Almo a mere moment of rest and then set against him a sixth antagonist. Murmurs ran from tier to tier, there were hoots and cat-calls.
Aurelius put up his hand and the people became still.
It was not often that the entire throng in the Colosseum focussed its attention on anyone fighter. That happened now. The dozen or more other pairs of fighters were ignored, all eyes were on Almo and his opponent—all eyes that did not stray towards Brinnaria.
Almo was not showing any signs of weariness, but he was plainly husbanding his strength. The sixth bout was tame—seldom had the Amphitheatre displayed so mild a set to. The heavy-armed man had seen Almo dispose of five like himself, he was timid; Almo was not timid, but he was cautious. The result was a tedious exhibition of fencing for position, each sword monotonously caught on the other shield. At the end Almo slashed his opponent’s wrist, feinted, pretended to be unable to avoid a clumsy thrust, slipped inside the big man’s guard and drove his sabre deep under his arm-pit.
The Colosseum rang with cheers.
Without so much as a sponging down or a mouthful of wine Almo was faced by a seventh fresh swordsman in complete armor. This time there were no caterwaulings or groans. Even the upper gallery had recognized Almo or been told who he was, even the populace had remembered or had been informed of the relation between Almo and Brinnaria. Everybody had recalled or been reminded of her rescue of the retiarius.
The audience collectively comprehended that Aurelius meant Almo to be defeated and put at an adversary’s mercy before Brinnaria, that he was testing her.
The habitual hubbub, hum, and buzz of undertones was checked to a very unusual degree, the Amphitheatre became almost still.
But when Almo fairly duplicated his first bout and neatly, almost without effort, cut his victim’s throat, the audience cheered him vociferously.
Louder, if possible did they acclaim his calm and adequate strategy against his eighth antagonist.
A ninth and a tenth were promptly put beyond power to hurt him by wounds ingeniously disabling, but far from deadly.
The eleventh bout was more tedious than the sixth.
Almo divined some greater strength or skill in this adversary and played him warily. When the audience was bored to the point of being almost ready to call for something diverting Almo slaughtered his man with a terrible wound between his corselet and kilt.
The twelfth, thirteenth and fourteenth antagonists Almo plainly despised. He stood almost still, hardly altering the position of his feet except to turn as the huge barbarians circled ponderously about him. Each he brought down with his first lunge.
As the fifteenth bout began the audience was manifestly impatient and restive. But they were not bored. That one Thracian, almost without rest, should successively dispose of fourteen antagonists, in the fullest armor, was a notable feat. The perfect form of Almo’s fighting was even more notable. At each victory the audience cheered him till they were hoarse. They seemed to cheer quite spontaneously and to need the relief for their feelings. But also they seemed to mean to give him as long a rest as was in their power. They were all for him.
But no man could go on fighting continually without fatigue. In his fifteenth bout Almo moved heavily.
The other man was unusually quick for a big man. He handled his big sword deftly. After much sparring he was too quick for Almo, and the point of his slender blade scratched Almo’s splay vizor, nicked his chin, and tore a long shallow slash in the skin of his right breast.
Blood welling through it stained the green of Almo’s tunic; blood dropping from his chin spotted the bright green.
The populace groaned.
Manlia prayed.
Brinnaria, under scrutiny of two hundred thousand eyes, sat erect, fanned herself steadily, and gazed straight before her. To all appearance she was as indifferent to Almo as if he did not exist.
After that Alma moved like a sleep-walker or a man in a dream, dully and dazedly.
The big man feinted and lunged cleverly. The point of his weapon ripped Alma’s thigh on the outside above the knee. No man could stand up after such a wound. He went down, his shield under him.
From all around the arena, from every tier, automatically, thousands of arms shot out, thumb flat. Instantly every arm whipped back and was hidden under its owner’s robe. All realized that expression of sympathy was not their business. A hush fell. Everybody looked at the Emperor and at Brinnaria.
Brinnaria sat erect in her arm-chair, fanning herself evenly, staring straight across the arena. The same instinct, the same curiosity which actuated the rest of the audience, restrained the Vestals from giving the sign of mercy. All felt that the matter concerned only Aurelius and Brinnaria, that for anyone else to interfere would be flouting the Emperor.
Brinnaria, white as a corpse, dizzy and numb, kept up the unvarying motion of her fan. Otherwise she was perfectly still.
The victor rolled his eyes along the rows of spectators. He got no inkling of their feelings.
He gazed at the Vestals. The audience saw him gaze that way. Brinnaria ignored him. Almo and all the world.
The victor looked toward the Emperor.
Aurelius held out his right hand, thumb out.
The lanista removed Almo’s helmet. If anyone had doubted his identity the doubt was dispelled among all near enough to make out his face.
The victor put one foot on Almo’s chest. Almo stretched his neck.
Brinnaria sat there, tense, pale, but as collected as if she had no interest in what was going on.
The savage standing over Alma glanced a second time towards the Emperor.
Aurelius was holding his arm at full stretch over the coping, thumb flat against the extended fingers.
Brinnaria knew that she had won, that Aurelius had put her to the test before all Rome, that she had stood the test, that all Rome was witness. Her fingers clutched the handle of her fan. She could hardly feel it in her grasp.
The big man took his foot from Almo’s chest.
The audience broke into howls of applause, gust after gust of cheers, roaring like a storm wind in a forest.
Brinnaria saw the arena, saw the spectators, through a film of mist, through a gray veil, through a fog of blackness. She realized that, for the first time in her life, she was on the verge of fainting. Mechanically she looked about her. Her glance fell on Meffia crumpled in her arm-chair.
That steadied her. If Meffia had fainted, she would not, she would not.
She did not faint. She fanned herself steadily as she watched the lanistas help Almo to hobble from the arena. When he was gone her attention returned to Meffia. Gargilia and Numisia were trying to rouse her.
She remained crumpled, she collapsed, she slid off her chair to the floor of the box. She lay in a horrid heap unmistakable in its limpness. The excitement had been too much for Meffia. She was stone dead.
THE death of a Vestal, except from old age, was always regarded by the Roman populace as a sign of the gods’ disfavor. The death of a young Vestal, sudden, unexpected and unexplained, could not but cause great uneasiness throughout all classes of the population.
Moreover, gladiatorial exhibitions were part of the Roman public worship, which largely proceeded on the naive assumption that the gods liked just about what men liked and that, the best way to please the gods and win their favor was to delight them with such spectacles as men enjoyed, acrobatic exhibitions, dramas, beast-fights, fights of beasts with men or of men with men, chariot-races and similar exciting displays, and so put the gods in a good humor. This underlying theory of diverting spectacles as a species of prayer and as the most effective kind of prayer was not so much definitely expressed by the Romans, as tacitly and unconsciously assumed. It was, nevertheless, entirely real and all Romans felt every public show as an act of public worship, as a hallowed function.
Most Roman rites were held to be entirely vitiated if a death took place among the worshippers during the course of the ceremony. To all solemnities at which only a few persons were present this applied without qualification and positively. Naturally a death among the crowd about a temple was held of much less import.
Still less could anyone regard a death amid the vast throng in the Colosseum or the Circus Maximus. So that Meffia’s sudden end was not necessarily held a certain indication of the wrath of the gods. But, as the death of one of the most important functionaries present at the spectacle, it caused much concern. The dismay of the people the pontiffs tried to alleviate by all the means in their power, by consultation of the augurs, soothsayers and professional prophets, and by official consultation of the Sibylline Books. The general anxiety was somewhat allayed by their placards and proclamations, announcing that Meffia’s death was wholly due to her personal weakness and was not to be regarded as a portent, in particular that it in no way indicated the wrath of the gods or their rejection of the petition for public safety embodied in the spectacles celebrating the triumph of Aurelius.
The Temple and the Atrium of Vesta made up an institution in which death was entirely disregarded. As no seriously ill Vestal was ever allowed to remain within the limits of the Atrium, but, as soon as alarming symptoms appeared, was removed from the Atrium and put in charge of relations or friends, so also the body of a dead Vestal was always turned over to the care of her family or connections. Though the Vestals, alone among Romans, possessed the privilege of being buried inside the walls of Rome, though their funerals were magnificent public processions, participated in by all the functionaries of the state and lavishly provided at the public expense, yet the death itself was held to be a concern of the family of the dead Vestal, not of her surviving colleagues. The Vestals might mourn but the Atrium was never in mourning. Its routine went on as if nothing had happened; no sign of grief was displayed or even permitted; visitors were received as usual.
Among the first visitors to the Atrium on the morning after Almo’s fight and Meffia’s death was, naturally, Flexinna.
At the first word Brinnaria cut her short.
“I don’t want to hear his name,” she declared. “I’m done with him forever. I don’t love him any longer; I don’t care for him, even; I hate him. It does not concern me whether he recovers or not. I’d rather he wouldn’t recover. The best thing for both of us would be for him to die anyhow. I wish he were dead; I wish one of those heavy men had killed him.”
“B-B-Brinnaria!” Flexinna remonstrated, “you t-t-talk like a raving maniac! You look like a F-F-Fury!”
“I’m furious enough!” Brinnaria snarled, “and I’ve plenty of good cause for being angry. Was ever woman on earth put in a position so invidious, so embarrassing? Everybody knew of my rescue of the retiarius, thousands had seen me rescue him. Everybody knew of my involvement with Almo before I was taken for a Vestal, of our love for each other, of my expressed intention to marry him at the end of my service. Everybody recognized Almo.
“And there I was with the one man on earth in the jaws of death before my eyes and I with the power to save him if I chose and a hundred thousand people watching me to see what I would do. And because I had once before rescued a man in that same situation everybody expected me to do something unusual and spectacular to save Almo.
“If it had been any other man it would have been the most natural thing in the world for me to give the signal for mercy and nobody would have thought anything of it. But, because the man before me was the man I had expressed my intention of marrying at the end of my service, therefore, if I had tried to save him, that would be taken as a confession of my being actuated by the sort of interest which no Vestal has a right to feel for any man.
“A delightful situation to be placed in!
“And he must needs go out of his way to put me in that position! When all he had to do was to live the normal life of a Roman gentleman and all things would in time come right for both of us, he must needs strain the powers of human ingenuity, compel the forces of time and space, of wind and wave to conspire to produce that situation and make me suffer those unnecessary agonies!
“Furious!
“Of course I’m furious.
“Never name him to me!”
When Lutorius Rusco, the new Pontifex of Vesta, called on her she was less explosive, but still fuming.
She received him in the large room at the east end of the peristyle of the Atrium, a sort of parlor which had on either side of it three very small rooms, the six, used as private offices by the six Vestals. There each had her writing desk, and the cabinets in which she kept her important papers, letters and such possessions.
After they had exchanged greetings Lutorius motioned towards Brinnaria’s little sanctum. Brinnaria bridled.
“I’ve nothing to say that we cannot say out here,” she advertised, “and I do not want to hear anything that cannot be said out here.”
Lutorius was tactful and had his way. When they were alone, he said:
“You were magnificent! You behaved splendidly. You could not have done better. We are all proud of you, from the Emperor down to the lowest slumgullion, every single Roman of us. You are certainly the most popular woman alive and your popularity is now of a sort to last as long as you live, complete and unqualified. You were popular before, but with considerable reservations. The hierarchy liked you, but were not sure that they ought to approve a Vestal who had perpetrated such exploits as yours, particularly your trouncing poor old Faltonius. The nobility admired you, but shook their heads over your stock-farming. The populace were enthusiastic about you, but, like the upper classes, were uneasy because of your expressed intention to marry at the end of your service and to marry a specified man, who had been your boyish lover. All classes acclaimed you as a woman, but nearly everybody was dubious about you as a Vestal.
“Now nobody has any hesitation about feeling that you are all a Vestal should be, a priestess whose prayers are certain to be heard and answered.”
Brinnaria made a wry face.
“My prayers were not heard yesterday,” she sighed. “Almo was not killed. I was praying hard to have him dead and have it all over with and done with forever.”
Lutorius turned on her a slow, benignant, indulgent smile.
“Daughter,” he said, “you must remember that you are not the only Vestal. Four Vestals were praying that Almo be saved, each praying not only with her lips but with every fibre of her being. And your heart and soul were praying silently with them and against the fierce prayers of your lips.”
“It is not so,” she denied. “Every fibre of me was praying as my lips prayed. My prayers were genuine.”
“I am sure you thought so,” Lutorius agreed. “It was natural for you to feel that way. You were very angry. But your anger will wear off.”
“My anger may,” Brinnaria admitted, “but never my resentment and my disgust.”
“Only time can prove whether your forecast is correct,” the Pontiff soothed her, “but are you justified even in being resentful? Ought you not rather to be thankful that chance or fate or the direct intervention of the gods working through Almo gave you the precious opportunity to free yourself from the shadow of an imputation that lay upon you from your entrance into the order? Rome vaguely suspected you of too warm an interest in Almo. Much of Rome had seen and all Rome had heard of your theatrical rescue of a gladiator totally unknown to you. All Rome knew your impulsive nature. All Rome has now seen you perfectly controlled and outwardly calm with Almo on the verge of death before your eyes. Everybody has watched you ignore him and show less interest in his fate than you once manifested towards a casual savage. Your outward observance of the conventions under such trying circumstances has abolished any qualms the people felt because of your many past unconventionalities. This puts you in a very strong position toward any possible accusation or trial. You know how earnestly you have talked to me of your dread of such contingencies. Ought you not, after thinking it over, to forget your anger against Almo and to feel positively grateful for the opportunity so to exalt ourself?”
“Perhaps I ought,” Brinnaria mused. “The value to me of the results I had not thought of, but admit it now that you expound it. But I am not grateful. I suffered too much. I am still smarting with indignation.
“And, apart from any remains of anger, I ache with the humiliation of it all. Think of the infamy, of the degradation Almo has brought on himself!”
Lutorius pursed his lips.
“There is a certain social stigma upon any man who has joined a prize-fighting gang,” he conceded, “but the obloquy resulting from having been a gladiator has greatly attenuated amid the loose manners of our day. Nothing that becomes fashionable remains disgraceful. The social disgrace of it has greatly lessened as the thing has become more usual, and freemen who have been gladiators are rather acclaimed and sought after than condemned and shunned. They win a sort of vogue, if successful fighters.
“The treatment of such persons has greatly changed in recent years. Even since I began to remember there has been an all but universal alteration in the general attitude towards such cases—they have become too numerous for the old feelings to survive. Not only Roman citizens have entered gladiatorial schools, risen high in the profession, fought countless fights, served out their time as prize-fighters, and returned to their families, but noblemen have done so, even senators. Vescularius is as much a senator as if he had not won seventy-eight bouts in three years.”
“I know it,” Brinnaria admitted, “and I have thought over all that. But I am old-fashioned in my feelings even if I have often been the reverse in my behavior. I am revolted at the thought of Almo as a professional cut-throat—I was insulted at the sight of him in the arena. I feel that by his abasement of himself he has obliterated my love for him. It is as if he had never existed. I shall not marry him, even if we both outlive my obligatory term of service. I shall never marry anybody. I shall die a Vestal.”
“You feel that way now, of course,” Lutorius agreed, “but you will get over it, though you do not think so now.”
“I do not believe I shall ever get over it,” Brinnaria declared. “So many things rankle in my thoughts, the small things even more than what is more important. I grind my teeth over the mere legal consequences of his having been a gladiator. He will forfeit half the properties he inherited and he can never hold any office, civil or military.”
“All that,” said Lutorius, “the Emperor will attend to in full. And your thinking of such trifles shows that you even yet care more for Almo than you admit to yourself.
“You must let me tell you about him. He is in the care of the best physicians in Rome. They assure me that he will recover, that his face will show but the merest trace of a scar, no disfigurement whatever, and that he will walk without the slightest limp. He is comfortable and convalescing nicely. I am going to bring you news of him daily, whether you think you want it or not, and you are going to listen to me because I tell you to.”
Brinnaria, for once in her life, was submissive and silent.
Not many days later the Pontiff greeted her with a contented smile.
“Almo,” he said, “is now practically recovered. He is well enough to have enjoyed brief visits from several of his former cronies. He is in his house on the Carinae, and it is besieged by all the fashionables of Rome, not only his boyhood friends and acquaintances, but people who never spoke to him. Everybody is rushing to call on him.
“He is a free man again. At an intimation of the Emperor’s wishes Elufrius became as supple as possible and all willingness to oblige. He asked a huge price for Almo’s release, and no wonder, for after the advertisement you gave him, Almo could have commanded fabulous fees for all future fights and the profits accruing to Elufrius must have been enormous. So Elufrius had to be paid a large sum, but nothing compared to even one year’s accumulation of revenue from Almo’s estates administered by his agents. So Almo will never feel that. The papers have all been drawn, signed and sealed. The cash has been paid. Almo is no longer a member of a gladiatorial band.
“And, at a word from the Emperor, the Senate framed and passed a decree relieving Almo of all the legal disabilities inhering in his past. He has been restored to his former rank in the nobility, has been confirmed in the possession of all inheritances which he might otherwise have forfeited, has been declared free from all stain and entirely fit to hold any office in the service of the Republic. The decree has been engrossed, sealed and signed by the Emperor. Almo is a nobleman as before. Are you pleased?”
“I am,” Brinnaria confessed.
Lutorius nodded.
“Now, do not take umbrage,” he said, “at what I am about to ask. If you must say no, say no without being offended. May I tell the Emperor what you have said to me?”
“Certainly,” Brinnaria authorized him. “Aurelius is so good a friend to me that sometimes I think he is the best friend I have on earth.”
After an interval of some days the Pontiff hinted that the Emperor desired to see her. Brinnaria’s disposition to stand upon ceremony and to insist on her full rights as a Vestal had waned as she grew to maturity. In her dealing with Aurelius she had long laid it aside altogether and likewise with Lutorius, both were so unassuming, so manifestly actuated by the sincerest regard for her. Now she obediently sent in her application for an audience with the Emperor.
It was accorded her about twenty days after Almo’s fight. Aurelius came straight to the point.
“Daughter,” he said, “I want you to tell me the entire truth. You can confide in me without reservation and you should do so without hesitation, since I ask it.
“What I wish you to tell me is this: Has your lover’s behavior effaced your regard for him, as you asserted to Lutorius, or were you self-deceived? Is everything at an end between you and will you ignore his existence in future and remain a Vestal for life or have your feelings overcome your displeasure and are you again thinking of him and of your future as you did in the past?”
“Castor be good to me,” Brinnaria confessed. “I did think his folly had alienated me from him forever, but the more I brood over it all the more I realize that no matter what he has done or does or will do I love him just as genuinely as if he deserved it, and as far as I can judge I shall love him to the last breath I draw. I am ashamed of my weakness, but I foresee that, when my service is over, I shall be just as eager to marry him as if he had been all he ought to have been.”
“You please me,” said Aurelius, “particularly in the way you put it.
“I am not in the habit of giving a second chance to any man. But Almo’s case is so peculiar and the circumstances so unusual and my interest in him is so compelling that I am going to make an exception in respect to him. I shall give him another opportunity as an officer. I have reflected where to send him and I have concluded to relegate him to Britain. There, in the north, our frontier, pushed far beyond the former line, is ceaselessly attacked by the Caledonian savages. My predecessor’s great earthwork needs larger garrisons. There Almo will find occupation and may rehabilitate himself. There he will be under the watch of Opstorius, who is a stern and scrupulous governor. He sets out this very day.
“Now is the time for me to speak to you of Calvaster. Calvaster, unfortunately, is as indispensable as ever, even more so. My impulse was to banish him, but I had to forego the idea. I contented myself with summoning him to my presence and telling him in so many words that the slightest suspicion of any further machinations by him against you or Almo would draw down on him the unescapable consequences of my severest displeasure. By that admonition, and by his chagrin at the unexpected and unwelcome outcome of his plot, I think him sufficiently punished. Also I think him thoroughly cowed. He will make no further attempt to trouble you.
“It appears that when he was touring Spain, inspecting the copies of the sacred books at all the chief temples of the five provinces, he recognized Almo in the arena at Corduba. He at once used all the influence in his power to arrange that Elufrius should bring his gang of fighters to Rome and that their bouts should be so managed that Almo would be saved to fight before you as he did. Almo himself found this out through Elufrius since he became again a free man and in control of his fortune, and it took a great deal of money and the participation of a great many experts to uncover and prove the facts. Proved they have been to my satisfaction and Calvaster’s confusion.
“Almo had expected to serve his three years in Spain and was as dismayed as possible when he found he was to be transferred to Rome. But an articled gladiator has taken oath to submit to anything, specifying death, torture, burning, wounding, flogging and more besides, an articled gladiator cannot object to fighting anywhere. Almo had to acquiesce.
“And now, having heard that it was not wholly his fault that you were so cruelly tried before all of us, will you not agree to say farewell to him a second time?”
In the flood-tide of her revulsion of feeling Brinnaria could refuse Aurelius nothing. The Emperor gave a signal and Almo was ushered in as he had been six years before.
Brinnaria’s eager scrutiny could detect no limp in his gait, could barely descry the scar on his chin, even when she knew so well where to look for it. She noted that he looked well, vigorous and very handsome in his gilded armor and scarlet cloak. She contrasted their magnificent surroundings with the rough frontier to which he was going.
Almo tried to speak and choked.
“Caius,” she said, “the Emperor has told me how it all came about. Don’t ask me to forgive; I ask your pardon for misconceiving you; I have nothing to forgive in you. If you are what I believe you to be I shall never have to forgive anything from you. Go, and with the help of the blessed gods, prove yourself all you ought to be. Farewell!”
And Almo, as he bowed, managed to say:
“Farewell!”
TERENTIA FLAVOLA, who was taken as a Vestal to fill Meffia’s place, was a really beautiful girl.
Her hair was golden hair in fact, not merely in name; her eyes were an intense, bright blue; her complexion was exquisite, the delicate texture and perfect whiteness of her skin emphasized by the healthful coloring which came and went on her cheeks. Every one of the Vestals fell in love with her at once, most of all Brinnaria.
Besides her good looks Terentia had a charming disposition, a pretty unconsciousness of herself and a winning deferentialness towards her elders. The combination made her irresistible.
Also she was an interesting child, being amazingly precocious, not as Brinnaria had been, in growth and behavior, for she was a complete child in all respects, but in being what moderns call an infant prodigy. Infant prodigies in ancient times displayed their unusual powers chiefly by recitations, mostly of poems, which they learned by rote and repeated with very little understanding of what they rehearsed. More than most of her kind Terentia comprehended what she declaimed, but she knew by heart many poems entirely beyond her childish grasp. At barely eight years of age she was able to reel off without hesitation or effort anyone of an amazingly long list. With little prompting she could recite some of the longest narrative poems in Latin literature and she needed prompting only to give her the cue words at the beginning of each book and of each important episode.
Besides her amazing powers as a reciter she was already proficient in Greek, talked it easily and knew many poems in that language, which all educated Romans spoke and which was used more than Latin at Court.
But her chief distinction came from her capability as a musician. In music she was not only an infant prodigy, but very much of a born genius. Her memory for any composition she heard once was unfailingly accurate; her rendition of anything she knew was more than perfect, since to perfection of rendition she added sympathetic interpretation. She was already reputed the best female performer on the lyre, the most popular instrument in ancient times. The lyre had an effect something between that of a guitar and a harp, with some of the characteristics of the modern banjo, zither and mandolin.
Since the lyre was looked upon as frivolous and unsuited to the gravity of a Vestal, Brinnaria introduced Terentia to the organ. This instrument the child had heard, but had not learned to play, as organs were expensive in those days, whereas Terentia’s family, although of the most ancient nobility, were in very straitened circumstances.
To the organ Terentia took with great enthusiasm, and in performing on it she soon surpassed her teacher.
Brinnaria’s playing on the water-organ was similar to the piano music of a modern girl who has mostly taught herself and who plays largely by ear; Terentia played it as a born genius in our days plays her piano, with impeccable exactitude, inimitable individuality and compelling charm. Her organ recitals were soon a chief feature of the social life in the Atrium, each thronged by the most fashionable ladies in Rome, who competed for invitations. Her vogue in no way spoiled Terentia, who played with just as much zest for her co-inmates of the Atrium, or when she was entirely alone amusing herself at the organ. Teaching her, playing with her, listening to her, took up a good deal of Brinnaria’s time and came to be a great solace and comfort to her.
Even more was this abundance of good music a solace and a comfort to Causidiena, for, like Dossonia, her predecessor, like so many former Chief Vestals, Causidiena was going blind from some disorder slow, painless and obscure, altogether baffling to the best medical and surgical skill.*
*Clearly cataracts. As a matter of fact they WERE sometimes treated even this long ago, but the treatments did not meet with much success, and Causidiena probably would not have cared to take the risk.
For much of the ritual of Vesta and much of the participation of the Vestals in the public worship in general, the presence of the Chief Vestal was essential.
She was the Vestal, the others were only her assistants and in training to succeed her. But as Causidiena became less and less able to see, all matters which could be attended to by others devolved more and more upon Numisia. Among her colleagues Numisia had greatest confidence in Brinnaria, so that Brinnaria’s duties occupied her insistently.
Besides her ritual duties and her music she kept up her interest in horse-racing; in fact, she became more and more devoted to this pastime, which Lutorius countenanced, but which her detractors characterized as indelicate.
The success of her venture was notable. She became an important local dealer in racers. Her colts, sold at well-advertised auctions, were sought after, were competed for, brought fancy prices, won many races, came to have a reputation that spread beyond the city, over all Italy, even into the provinces. Her career as a stock farmer was brilliant, meteoric, phenomenal.
Between her duties, her music and her horse-breeding Brinnaria’s mind was pretty well occupied. She had no time to brood and passed six contented and almost happy years.
She had reason for happiness in the fact that reports from Almo were uniformly good. To Flexinna he wrote at intervals and his letters reached their destination without much irregularity. In those days communication with Britain was by no means so easy as with Africa. Gaul was a country well Romanized and very populous, busy and prosperous. All across it were good roads, excellent bridges and frequent post houses. But between Italy and Gaul were the Alps, where the winter snows blocked the roads for months at a time and where avalanches and floods suspended traffic at unpredictable intervals at all times of the year. The only sure road uniting Italy and Gaul was not through the Alps but past them along the sea-coast, and that was roundabout.
At the other end of Gaul the sea interposed a barrier which the Romans found annoying. In the state of seamanship in those ages a head-wind was an insuperable obstacle. As long as the wind blew the wrong way there was nothing to do but wait for the wind to change. High winds made navigation altogether impossible. Between storms and head-winds, on more than half the days in the year attempting the passage of the channel was not to be thought of. Moreover, bitter experience had taught the Romans that the weather-signs of the Mediterranean were not to be relied on when one dealt with Atlantic weather conditions. In particular they found that a clear sky, a light breeze, warm air and a calm sea in the morning not infrequently heralded a terrible storm before dusk.
Consequently their attempts to cross from Gaul to Britain or from Britain to Gaul were restricted to occasions when, at and after sunset, the sky was clear, the sea calm and the wind favorable. Only under those circumstances could they be reasonably sure of the conditions remaining unaltered until the transit was accomplished. In practice about sixty-five nights in a year promised well for traffic. With sea transit so restricted, communication with Britain was infrequent, and news of Almo irregular.
Besides his letters to Flexinna he wrote occasionally to Vocco. Vocco also had hopes of hearing from some of his comrades in arms. But as Valentia was a place of semi-exile for incompetent, illiterate, drunken and reckless officers, small reliance could be placed on any such channel of news.
Therefore, with Brinnaria’s knowledge and at her expense, Vocco had arranged to have an unremitting watch kept on Almo by skillful hirelings of the Imperial information department. These men sent messages whenever it was possible, and their reports were consistently favorable.
The frontier of Caledonia offered no such opportunities for distinction and promotion as the outskirts of the Sahara had afforded. Military duty from the Forth to the Clyde was monotonous and wearisome. But, considering his environment, Almo did very well. He was liked by his companions, loved by his subordinates and worshipped by his men. What there was to do he did capably, and in his leisure, among comrades who guzzled wine and gambled like madmen, he was always sober and never abused the dice, which were an inevitable social feature of all Roman outpost existence.
Aurelius spent the last four years of his life along the headwaters of the Danube and Rhine, where the rising tide of Germanic migrations beat incessantly at the outworks of the Empire. His death at Vienna occurred when Brinnaria was twenty-nine years old and had been nineteen years a Vestal. He was succeeded by his son Antoninus, whose obliging disposition and easy-going manners made him exceedingly popular with his cronies, the young fops, dandies and sports of Roman society, and led to his being known among them as “the good fellow,” which nickname of “Commodus” soon supplanted his given names and official titles, on the lips first of the Romans, then of the Italians, soon of all his subjects everywhere.
Commodus was not in Rome when his father died and it was therefore not possible for Brinnaria to have an audience with him. She dreaded that a change of governors in Britain might work unfavorably for Almo.
In consultation with Vocco she did what she could, through the city Prefect in charge of Rome during the Emperor’s absence, and through other officials, to make sure that any new governor of Britain would be fully informed of the secret instructions which Aurelius had given Opstorius concerning Almo. She also did all that was possible to have Commodus reminded of the matter. This was difficult at a distance and a delicate undertaking at any time and in any place, no Emperor ever relishing the assumption that he need be reminded of anything, while the necessity for emphasis and secrecy at one and the same time taxed the best ingenuity. With the great influence possessed by the Vestals, they hoped that they had succeeded.
But when Commodus had been Emperor a little over a year, Brinnaria, as she descended from her carriage at Vocco’s door, felt a thrill of vague foreboding. On entering the house her premonition of something wrong intensified. At first sight Flexinna’s face confirmed her suspicions. However, she asked no questions and worked off her feelings by a series of high dives, followed by fancy-stroke swimming under water. She came up from her tenth plunge sufficiently exhausted to feel to some extent soothed.
As they composed themselves on the dining-sofas Vocco and Flexinna exchanged glances. Brinnaria did not wait for either to speak.
“I am afraid,” she said, “that my appetite is not as reliable as it was ten years ago. I think we had best eat our dinner first and discuss our bad news afterwards.” Vocco and Flexinna looked distinctly relieved.
Brinnaria’s appetite seemed excellent. She ate abundantly, and, after the dinner tray was removed and the dessert tray brought in, she relished a half a dozen of her favorite purple figs. Savoring her glass of Vocco’s exquisite Setian wine she asked:
“What has gone wrong, Quintus?”
“Just precisely what we feared has happened,” Vocco replied. “In spite of all our efforts Hostidius appears to have known nothing whatever about Almo’s peculiar past or of the special instructions Aurelius gave Opstorius.
“Almo has practically repeated the vagary he perpetrated at Hippo. He induced Hostidius to give him a full, honorable discharge from the army and later wheedled the governor into authorizing him to have himself sold as a slave.”
“What maggot can he have in his brain,” Brinnaria burst in, “that he is so fascinated with the idea of being sold as a slave? What earthly basis can there be for the enticement it holds out to him? Being sold as a slave is universally regarded as the worst fate that can befall a man in life. What makes the prospect of life as a slave so alluring to him?”
“Flexinna and I have been debating that point,” said Vocco, “but we cannot so much as think up a conjecture.
“As to the facts there can be no doubt. He was publicly sold in the marketplace of Eboracum.”
“At least,” Brinnaria breathed, “we have not lost track of him this time.”
“We have not,” Vocco answered, “and I’ll wager we shall not.”
“Is it prize-fighting again?” Brinnaria queried, “or is it really charioteering this time?”
“Neither,” said Vocco. “I must say it sounds like lunacy. But all Almo’s words and all the small details of his behavior show no signs of derangement. Up to the last report he slept well, ate well, looked well, talked sensibly, in respect to all minor matters acted like a rational being, and seemed to thrive. But what he did in the large sense appears incredible.
“He had himself advertised for sale as an expert farm overseer, was bought by a prosperous proprietor whose properties are situated in the southwestern part of Britain and there, near Ischalis, he has settled down to the management of a large estate; large at least for that part of the world. He was giving excellent satisfaction in his dealings with the slaves and by his knowledge of budding, grafting, transplanting and of all the mysteries of gardening, orchard lore, and of agriculture in general.”
“Yes,” Brinnaria reflected, “he was keen on all that sort of thing while he was at the villa near Falerii. Such knowledge, gained in boyhood, sinks in deep and is never forgotten. He is not playing a part or pretending; he is really enjoying farm life. But what kink in his head makes him fancy that he prefers to enjoy it as a slave rather than as a free man? That puzzles me. Why be sold as a slave in order to bask in rural delights when he could buy the ten largest estates in Britain and never feel the outlay? When after his honorable discharge from the army he was at liberty to remain in Britain openly and to do as he liked? Can you see through it?”
Flexinna and Vocco agreed that they saw no glimmer of light.
“At least,” Brinnaria summed up, “he is in Britain and we can arrange to prevent his leaving the island. Certainly we can have him watched, wherever he goes.”
Vocco at once set about making the arrangements to ensure that Almo would not leave Britain. Within a half year he had to report that their efforts had been futile.
“We were too late,” he said. “He did not remain at Ischalis a year. Egnatius Probus, of Fregellae, had been in Britain more than ten years as adviser to the tax-department. His health had given way and he was taking the waters at Aquae Solis. He was an acquaintance of Almo’s owner and went down to Ischalis after his water-cure had had its effect and he felt better. While visiting and idling at Ischalis he took a fancy to Almo, offered a high price for him and bought him. He returned home by way of Marseilles and from there by ship to Puteoli. He is now on his estates near Fregellae and Almo is his head overseer, in charge of the entire place. He has been there three months already.”
Brinnaria fidgeted on her sofa, for, as on the previous occasion, Vocco had imparted his news after dinner.
“Give me another goblet of that Setian you bought from Zaelis,” she said. “I’m getting to be a confirmed wine-bibber. At every piece of bad news I need a bracer.”
After she had emptied her glass, she burst out:
“If Almo is acting as villicus of an estate near Fregellae he must be living with some slave-woman or other.”
“He is not,” Vocco informed her. “I made careful inquiries on just that point and got my information from two different sources. Almo told Egnatius that he was a woman-hater and could not endure a woman about him. Egnatius humored him and he is acting villicus without any villica. The wife of the assistant overseer does whatever is necessary in the way of prayers and sacrifices and such duties of a villica. She and her husband occupy the overseer’s house and Almo is living in the hut meant for the assistant villicus.”
“Did anybody ever hear the like!” exclaimed Brinnaria.
Vocco’s agents verified this news and made it quite certain that Almo was masquerading as a slave and as a villicus of a fine estate in lower Latium, near Fregellae, southeast of Rome on the Latin highroad, about half way between Capua and the capital.
Brinnaria found herself very much in a quandary, and discussions with Flexinna and Vocco, however lengthy and however often repeated, left her just where she started. They could not decide whether it was best to do nothing or to interfere, and whether, if they were to interfere, what form their intervention should take.
Should Vocco travel to Fregellae and force an interview with Almo and try to appeal to his better self? If so, should he do so without apprizing Egnatius of the real name and origin of his overseer? Or should they enlighten Egnatius under a pledge of secrecy and afterwards decide whether or not to make an attempt to recall Almo to his natural way of life? Should they do any of these things without appealing to the Emperor or would it be better first to inform Commodus? They debated over and over every line of conduct any one of them could suggest. After all complete inaction and entire secrecy seemed best.
This view was confirmed when Brinnaria consulted Celsianus, the most reputed physician of Rome. She had already confided in Lutorius, who informed Celsianus, arranged for an interview and was present at it.
The great man said: “Almo is not necessarily or even probably deranged. On the face of what you tell me the most unfavorable conjecture I could form would be that he has resolved to commit suicide. You will say that the idea is absurd, that suicide is easy and that the means are always at hand, which is quite true.
“But there are cases, more numerous than you could fancy, of persons who make up their minds to bring about their end in some unimaginable manner, of which nobody but themselves would ever have thought. Then they lay complicated plans and by devious ways approach their purpose. If they are thwarted or diverted, they never end their lives in any other fashion than by the special method they have devised.
“I am inclined to think that Almo’s entrance into a gang of sword-fighters was caused by some such intention, that he is alive because the circumstances he looked forward to never conspired to give him just the kind of death he preferred. I am inclined to think that he is now working towards some unthinkable exit from life.
“But I am not much disposed to think his such a case at all. It may be a mere whim of self-torment, or it may be spontaneous yielding to a genuine liking for the life he is living. What one human being likes cannot be realized by other human beings, in many cases.
“My advice is to let him entirely alone. If you interfere you may precipitate his suicide, if he meditates suicide. By calling in the help of the Emperor or of his owner or both, you may destroy the chances, the very good chances, of his returning to his full senses. Men in his state of mind are often sane in all respects, and, if unsettled, are deranged only in one particular. They are generally wholly reasonable on all points except as to their fad of the moment. If that wears off they are entirely rational. Let him alone. Watch him, but take no other steps.”
This advice seemed simple enough, but carrying it out proved more of a strain than Brinnaria could have foreseen. The knowledge that Almo was in Italy, near Fregellae, actually in Latium and within seventy miles of Rome, that he was living in the hut of an under-farm-bailiff, that he perhaps purposed some eccentric method of suicide proved racking to her nerves. She became irritable and fidgety, her music failed to solace or comfort her and sometimes almost bored her. She groped blindly for something to distract her mind.
First she had a brief but violent attack of solicitude for her pauper tenants. She found entertainment in visiting her slum properties and in endeavoring to alleviate the condition of their inmates. They were far from grateful. To have a Vestal, clad in the awe-inspiring dignity of her white robes, with all her badges of office, six braids, headdress, headband, tassels, ribbons, brooch and all descend from her dazzlingly upholstered carriage and invade the courtyard of their hive was thrilling but still more disconcerting to a swarm of slum spawn. They bragged of the honor for the rest of their lives and strutted over it for months, but they were unaffectedly relieved to see her depart.
Her inquiries as to their means of livelihood were excruciatingly embarrassing. The Roman populace, all freemen with their wives and children, were legally entitled to free seats at the spectacles and to cooked rations from the government cook-shops in their precinct. They throve on their free rations. Of their own efforts they had merely to clothe themselves and pay the rent of their quarters. Cash for rent and garments they obtained in whatever way happened to be easiest, often by dubious means. As to their resources they were reticent.
In particular, Brinnaria was unable to cajole any admission, by word or silence, from any dweller in one of her largest rookeries, and they were better off than any tenants she had, too. What was more, not one of their neighbors would impart any information about them..
Brinnaria’s curiosity was aroused. She bethought herself of Truttidius, the sieve-maker, and of his intimate knowledge of all the dens and lairs in the city.
She asked him. He laughed.
“On the Fagutal?” he made sure, “at the second corner beyond the end of the Subura?”
He laughed again.
Then he tactfully explained that the tenants in that particular congeries of buildings were professional secret cut-throats, good enough husbands and fathers and amicable among themselves, but earning an honest livelihood by putting out of the way any persons displeasing to anybody able to pay for their services.
Brinnaria abruptly ceased slumming.
All the more she threw herself into her horse-breeding. She visited her stud-farms oftener; and, oddly enough, as the result of her overwrought state of mind, the management of the farms themselves came to mean less to her than the means of reaching them and returning. She paid close attention to the make of her road-carriage, to the speed and pace of her roadsters. She bought picked teams of blooded mares, selecting them especially for their ability to keep up a fast walk without breaking pace. She boasted that she had six spans of mares, any one of which could, at a walk, outdistance any team in Rome owned by anybody else.
By specializing in fast-walking cattle she saved much time in passing from the Atrium to the city gates and in returning.
Outside the city her mares displayed their capacity for other paces than the walk. She saw to it that her coachman kept them at their utmost speed. The sight of her tearing along a highway became familiar everywhere throughout the suburban countryside. She made a hobby of extremely fast driving and of buying fast mares.
Also she fell into another fad, at the time all the rage, invented since the accession of Commodus and made fashionable by the young Emperor. Some popinjay had conceived a whim for travelling by litter instead of in his carriage. It was far less expeditious and far more expensive. But the notion took. All at once every fop in Roman society must needs take his country outings, go to his villa and come back from it, not in his carriage but in his litter. The plea was that a carriage jolted and that riding in a litter was less tiring. There was something in that, for carriage springs had not been invented in those days. But mostly it was just a craze among the very wealthy, as distinguishing them from people who could afford but one set of litter-bearers. An ordinary four-man litter could be used only for going about the city—longer distances were impossible, and excursions into the country soon tired out eight bearers. For road travelling one must have sixteen bearers, two sets relieving each other in turn. Brinnaria bought sixteen gigantic negroes and tested them on her inspections of her stock-farms. She tried German bearers, Goths and Cilicians. Her bearers became famous for their speed and endurance. If she heard of any squad reputed better than hers, she bought it at any price, until, not counting the teams of bearers belonging to the Palace, there was only one gang in Rome which she envied. She tried to purchase them but could not. They belonged to her mother’s friend Nemestronia.