



Produced by Annie R. McGuire








[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]

       *       *       *       *       *

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.

       *       *       *       *       *

[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