



Produced by Annie R. McGuire








[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]

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VOL. II--NO. 82. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.

Tuesday, May 24, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per
Year, in Advance.

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[Illustration: THE DEATH OF CARUS.]

A STORY OF THE COLOSSEUM.

BY MRS. LIZZIE W. CHAMPNEY.


In the days of the Emperor Caracalla the Colosseum had ceased to be used
for terrible conflicts between man and beast. But the young student
Valentinian could not forget that eighty thousand spectators at a time
had looked down from its seats, only a few years before, to see
Christian martyrs given to the lions to be torn in pieces.

And Valentinian was a Christian. The persecutions had ceased. No more
cruel Emperor than Caracalla had ever occupied the throne of Rome; but
his cruelty found its victims in his own family and among his political
enemies, and the Christians were overlooked and forgotten. Even
Caracalla may have been sick of the blood spilled in assassinations,
executions, and battle; and so, as a mere change of scene, ordered that
the sports at the Colosseum should be of a bloodless character. At any
rate, chariot races were now the vogue, the population of Rome were now
all "horsy" men, and betting was the popular way of gaining or losing
their fortunes.

The Emperor, as reigning over and above all like the air, chose white to
mark his horses; the steeds of the soldiers were designated by red
badges and trappings--red, the appropriate color of Mars, of blood and
flame; the sailors of course chose blue; and the landed proprietors,
farmers, citizens, etc., grouped under green. When the enthusiasm
extended thus to all classes, it was impossible that Valentinian should
not feel it too. He was a soldier's son, and though he felt that it
would be a crime even to enter the building in which the martyrs had
been murdered, he could not repress a throb of exultation when the
scarlet-spangled horses were led out with shoutings as victors in the
race.

Valentinian loved a fine horse, and, boy though he was, he owned one
that had long been the envy and admiration of the different racing
fraternities of Rome. Those who knew the animal's history did not wonder
that Valentinian and his mother, the stately lady Placidia, had refused
a noble's ransom for the magnificent creature. It was the beginning of
the warm season, and Placidia had removed to her summer villa in shady
Præneste. Valentinian still remained in Rome to prosecute his studies,
but in the cool of the evening the youth would frequently drive out to
see his mother, and the horse on every such visit was certain of being
decorated with garlands by the fair hand of its mistress. On one of
these occasions Rufinus accompanied his friend. Valentinian knew that
the visit was not prompted by any fondness for his mother, for the lady
Placidia did not regard Rufinus as a sufficiently refined companion for
her son, and the dislike was mutual. He gave Rufinus credit for a
feeling of good-fellowship toward himself, and for an appreciation of a
moonlight ride to Rome. But Rufinus had a deeper motive on this
occasion; he had determined to persuade Valentinian to join in the
races, and he thought wisely that the long, solitary ride would give him
a good opportunity for persuasion. He began skillfully by praising his
friend's horse, and then spoke with some surprise of the affection that
Placidia lavished upon it.

Valentinian replied that Carus deserved all the love and distinction
that he received, for he was indeed a hero; and then he told how as a
war-horse he had followed the Roman standards with honor throughout all
the late disastrous campaign in Britain, and though he had fled with the
legions from the battle on the river Carun, where Fingal and his
Caledonian troops sang their exultant chant of victory in the ears of
the cowardly Caracalla, it was not his fault, for he was only a horse.
When Carus had felt his master, Valentinian's father, fall wounded upon
his neck, the feeble hands entwined in his mane, and the warm life-blood
bathing his glossy side, the faithful animal, who until then had rushed
on inflamed with all the fury of conflict, joined the general retreat,
and paced swiftly but carefully from the battle-field. The Captain of
the Legion, whose stiffening fingers were tangled in Carus's mane, did
not hear the loud boast of the Britons, and when Carus knelt at the door
of his tent, and other soldiers of the great "King of the World" (as
Ossian calls the Roman Emperor) lifted the rider from the steed, the
Roman heart had poured out all its blood on British soil; the brave
Centurion was dead.

At the death of his father, the Emperor Severus, Caracalla gave up the
war in Britain, and, impatient to assume his new dignities, hurried back
to Rome. The war-horse Carus was brought back too, and entered the
imperial city marching riderless at the head of its dead master's troop.
As the army approached the gates of Rome, the broad imperial highway
became more and more crowded. The return of the army was known, and the
citizens of Rome, small and great, swarmed out in vehicles, on horses,
or on foot, soldiers and slaves, the aristocracy and the beggars, old
families of Rome and foreigners.

Painfully the army forced its way through the surging crowd, attending
Caracalla, who so little deserved this enthusiastic welcome, to the
porch of the imperial palace "the house of Cæsar." Then the cohorts,
with the exception of the imperial body-guard, returned to the great
Prætorium camp outside, the city walls. One knight, a member of the
Equites that the master of Carus had so lately commanded, led the
Centurion's horse to the aristocratic street of the Carinæ, which ran
along the <DW72> of the Esquiline Hill, until he reached a house whose
portal was decorated with laurel, and where, from the swarms of entering
guests, pastry-cooks, and musicians, one might judge a feast was in
progress. As the knight paused at the door, a boy bounded into the
street, and sprang upon the back of the war-horse, lavishing upon the
noble creature the most eager caresses. At the same moment a stately
Roman matron appeared at the door, and greeted the knight, while a glad
eager light shone in her eyes.

"Welcome, my good Galerius," said the lady. "Where is my husband? Is he
detained at the palace with the young Emperor?"

"Nay, madam," replied the knight, gravely, "thy husband was happy in
knowing no Emperor but Severus."

Then the unhappy lady knew that her husband would never come to the
welcoming feast which she had prepared, and the young Valentinian
slipped from his father's horse to hide the tears which would come, but
which he as a Roman felt were womanish and shameful.

Rufinus, though a mere cub of a young man, with very little
susceptibility, seemed touched by this story. "Where did your father get
Carus?" he asked. "He is certainly not of the common Italian breed,
neither does he resemble the light, swift African barbs."

"No," replied Valentinian. "He is a much heavier and more powerful
animal. My father captured him from a Goth at the battle of Lyons, where
his own horse had been killed under him. Some of our Roman jockeys
affect to despise the Gothic horses as big and lumpish, but they are
swift."

"They are the best horses for chariots," replied Rufinus. "The Equites
have one set of four which they will enter for the next race. They are
black as night, like Carus there, and are, so far as I know, the only
other Gothic horses in Rome. How fine they will look in their red
trappings! They are sure of winning. I have invested all my ready money
in bets, and I shall quadruple them all."

A few days later the following note was handed to Valentinian:

     "LOVED VALENTINIAN,--I am ruined. The races are lost beforehand.
     One of the Gothic horses has fallen lame. The team is pledged for
     the race; we can only supply its place with a Roman beast, for we
     know not of another Gothic horse to be obtained in Rome, and there
     is no time to send to the provinces, else would we do it, for the
     entire military order are interested; some, like myself, have
     staked their all, and now see ruin stare them in the face. We have
     sent in a petition, through the Empress Julia, to have the races
     postponed until we can obtain another horse from Gaul, but there is
     very little hope.

      "_Later._--The Emperor has refused to postpone the races; he sees
      here an opportunity to curb the rising power of the army, which he
      has long feared. If many are in my desperate condition, the tyrant
      may tremble. Does he not know that in Rome it is the army that
      creates or dethrones the Emperor? Meantime I am lost. Farewell.
      Thy frantic

  "RUFINUS."

A wave of pity swept across Valentinian's compassionate heart, and he
sat down to write a hopeful, encouraging letter to Rufinus. When he had
finished it, a sentence from a letter written to the Roman and other
Churches, when persecution had scattered the members of the first
Christian Church at Jerusalem, flashed through his mind: "If a brother
or sister be naked and destitute of daily food, and one of you say unto
them, Depart in peace, be ye warmed and filled; notwithstanding ye give
them not those things which are needful, what doth it profit?"
Valentinian pushed the letter from him impatiently. How could he give
Rufinus the things which were needful? He could not pay his betting
debts and those of the whole army. "What am I to do?" he asked aloud,
and as an answer a gentle neigh floated up from Carus's stable. If he
lent his horse to the military club, the reds would probably gain the
race. What could be plainer? He would have nothing to do with bets and
bribes; he would not even see the race; surely every brotherly and
Christian instinct called upon him to rescue his friend's honor and
fortune, and that of the class to which his father had belonged. Was it
because he was so very sure of his duty that he did not drive out and
consult his mother? Perhaps, instead, it was a haunting suspicion that
she might not consider this a call of duty. He gave himself no time to
doubt, or even to think, but went at once to the Prætorian Prefect with
his offer.

Carus was accepted, the Prefect in his first burst of gratitude offering
Valentinian an important post in the army. This the youth declined; his
education had another aim, and he knew that it would break his mother's
heart to see him a soldier.

The morning of the races dawned at last. Valentinian had determined not
to attend them, and when Rufinus came with a band of gay young knights,
he refused to see them. From his window he could see the populace
flocking toward the Colosseum; and finding at last that he could not
read, he determined to take a walk to the suburbs. As he passed over the
Palatine Hill, he turned to enjoy the beautiful prospect--"with palaces
adorned, porches and theatres, baths, aqueducts, statues and trophies,
and triumphal arcs." Alas! the most prominent object of all was the
"gladiators' bloody circus," just at the foot of the hill; and
forgetting all his resolutions, he hurried to it, and entered among the
last.

He was so late that he could not find a seat in the circle near the
front, where he properly belonged, and he mounted to the upper tiers,
where he sat, crowded by such companions as beggars and slaves. He
looked for the first time upon the place where so many martyrs had
poured out their lives for their faith. He could just make out the
openings, closed with gratings, through which the wild beasts had been
admitted.

His thoughts were snatched suddenly from the martyrs and the past. At
the extreme left of the arena stood four four-horse chariots ready for
the start. He could tell the colors of the horses, but not, at this
distance, that of the trappings which distinguished the class to which
they belonged. The four milk-white steeds prancing impatiently before
the gilded car must be the Emperor's, and now, as the driver mounts and
takes the reins, the roar of applause that circles around the seats
tells that Caracalla is to drive in person. There are four bay horses:
these he knows have been imported from Asia by the sailors' club; but
the horses attached to both of the remaining chariots are black, and he
can not tell which belongs to the land-holders and which to the
soldiers. The signal for the start is given. The horses will be going
away from him for the first quarter of the race, then they will approach
him for half the distance. They keep nearly the same pace, and it seems
to him, at this distance, a very slow one. Ah! one chariot has fallen
behind; it stopped suddenly; there must have been some accident. One of
his neighbors suggests that a wheel has come off; but now they can not
even tell the color of the horses. The other three chariots are
approaching, but how slowly! Surely, if he were driving Carus there, he
could out-strip them all. Nearer, nearer, and now he knows that the
chariots just abreast are drawn, the one by black and the other by white
horses. The chariot gradually falling behind is drawn by black horses
too. The merchant-men will lose the profits of their last voyage, for it
was their chariot that halted at the outset.

Now the two that are leading the way are just in front of him, and
Valentinian realizes that they are really tearing along at a fearful
rate. It is only the distance which made them appear to move slowly. The
Emperor is bending far forward, lashing his white coursers terribly. He
is driving them across the track of the blacks at his side, and is
striving to gain the inside of the track. What a cloud of dust! He can
make out nothing but a general scramble. Another loud roar echoes from
the massive walls. What a frantic waving of scarfs, and eager movement
on the seats below! Valentinian can not understand it at all, and a
slave at his side explains that Caracalla has cut across the track of
the other