A Book of Golden Deeds

C >> Charlotte M. Yonge >> A Book of Golden Deeds

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When the Emperor had seated himself and given the signal, the sports
began. Sometimes a rope-dancing elephant would begin the entertainment,
by mounting even to the summit of the building and descending by a cord.
Then a bear, dressed up as a Roman matron, would be carried along in a
chair between porters, as ladies were wont to go abroad, and another
bear, in a lawyer's robe, would stand on his hind legs and go through
the motions of pleading a case. Or a lion came forth with a jeweled
crown on his head, a diamond necklace round his neck, his mane plaited
with gold, and his claws gilded, and played a hundred pretty gentle
antics with a little hare that danced fearlessly within his grasp. Then
in would come twelve elephants, six males in togas, six females with the
veil and pallium; they took their places on couches around an ivory
table, dined with great decorum, playfully sprinkled a little rosewater
over the nearest spectators, and then received more guests of their
unwieldy kind, who arrived in ball dresses, scattered flowers, and
performed a dance.

Sometimes water was let into the arena, a ship sailed in, and falling to
pieces in the midst, sent a crowd of strange animals swimming in all
directions. Sometimes the ground opened, and trees came growing up
through it, bearing golden fruit. Or the beautiful old tale of Orpheus
was acted; these trees would follow the harp and song of the musician;
but--to make the whole part complete--it was no mere play, but real
earnest, that the Orpheus of the piece fell a prey to live bears.

For the Coliseum had not been built for such harmless spectacles as
those first described. The fierce Romans wanted to be excited and feel
themselves strongly stirred; and, presently, the doors of the pits and
dens round the arena were thrown open, and absolutely savage beasts were
let loose upon one another--rhinoceroses and tigers, bulls and lions,
leopards and wild boars--while the people watched with savage curiosity
to see the various kinds of attack and defense; or, if the animals were
cowed or sullen, their rage would be worked up--red would be shown to
the bulls, white to boars, red-hot goads would be driven into some,
whips would be lashed at others, till the work of slaughter was fairly
commenced, and gazed on with greedy eyes and ears delighted, instead of
horror-struck, by the roars and howls of the noble creatures whose
courage was thus misused. Sometimes indeed, when some especially strong
or ferocious animal had slain a whole heap of victims, the cries of the
people would decree that it should be turned loose in its native forest,
and, amid shouts of 'A triumph! a triumph!' the beast would prowl round
the arena, upon the carcasses of the slain victims. Almost incredible
numbers of animals were imported for these cruel sports, and the
governors of distant provinces made it a duty to collect troops of
lions, elephants, ostriches, leopards--the fiercer or the newer the
creature the better--to be thus tortured to frenzy, to make sport in the
amphitheatre. However, there was daintiness joined with cruelty: the
Romans did not like the smell of blood, though they enjoyed the sight of
it, and all the solid stonework was pierced with tubes, through which
was conducted the stream of spices and saffron, boiled in wine, that the
perfume might overpower the scent of slaughter below.

Wild beasts tearing each other to pieces might, one would think, satisfy
any taste of horror; but the spectators needed even nobler game to be
set before their favorite monsters--men were brought forward to confront
them. Some of these were at first in full armor, and fought hard,
generally with success; and there was a revolving machine, something
like a squirrel's cage, in which the bear was always climbing after his
enemy, and then rolling over by his own weight. Or hunters came, almost
unarmed, and gaining the victory by swiftness and dexterity, throwing a
piece of cloth over a lion's head, or disconcerting him by putting their
fist down his throat. But it was not only skill, but death, that the
Romans loved to see; and condemned criminals and deserters were reserved
to feast the lions, and to entertain the populace with their various
kinds of death. Among these condemned was many a Christian martyr, who
witnessed a good confession before the savage-eyed multitude around the
arena, and 'met the lion's gory mane' with a calm resolution and hopeful
joy that the lookers-on could not understand. To see a Christian die,
with upward gaze and hymns of joy on his tongue, was the most strange
unaccountable sight the Coliseum could offer, and it was therefore the
choicest, and reserved for the last part of the spectacles in which the
brute creation had a part.

The carcasses were dragged off with hooks, and bloodstained sand was
covered with a fresh clean layer, the perfume wafted in stronger clouds,
and a procession came forward--tall, well-made men, in the prime of
their strength. Some carried a sword and a lasso, others a trident and a
net; some were in light armor, others in the full heavy equipment of a
soldier; some on horseback, some in chariots, some on foot. They marched
in, and made their obeisance to the Emperor; and with one voice, their
greeting sounded through the building, Ave, Caesar, morituri te
salutant! 'Hail, Caesar, those about to die salute thee!'

They were the gladiators--the swordsmen trained to fight to the death to
amuse the populace. They were usually slaves placed in schools of arms
under the care of a master; but sometimes persons would voluntarily hire
themselves out to fight by way of a profession: and both these, and such
slave gladiators as did not die in the arena, would sometimes retire,
and spend an old age of quiet; but there was little hope of this, for
the Romans were not apt to have mercy on the fallen.

Fights of all sorts took place--the light-armed soldier and the netsman
--the lasso and the javelin--the two heavy-armed warriors--all
combinations of single combat, and sometimes a general melee. When a
gladiator wounded his adversary, he shouted to the spectators, Hoc
habet! 'He has it!' and looked up to know whether he should kill or
spare. If the people held up their thumbs, the conquered was left to
recover, if he could; if they turned them down, he was to die: and if he
showed any reluctance to present his throat for the deathblow, there was
a scornful shout, Recipe ferrum! 'Receive the steel!' Many of us must
have seen casts of the most touching statue of the wounded man, that
called forth the noble lines of indignant pity which, though so often
repeated, cannot be passed over here:

'I see before me the Gladiator lie;
He leans upon his hand--his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony.
And his droop'd head sinks gradually low,
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy one by one,
Like the first of a thunder shower; and now
The arena swims around him--he is gone
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.

'He heard it, but he heeded no--this eyes
Were with his heart, and that was far away.
He reck'd not of the life he lost, nor prize,
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay,
There were his young barbarians all at play,
There was their Dacian mother--he their sire,
Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday.
All this rush'd with his blood--Shall he expire,
And unavenged? Arise ye Goths and glut your ire.'

Sacred vestals, tender mothers, fat, good-humored senators, all thought
it fair play, and were equally pitiless in the strange frenzy for
exciting scenes to which they gave themselves up, when they mounted the
stone stairs of the Coliseum. Privileged persons would even descend into
the arena, examine the death agonies, and taste the blood of some
specially brave victim ere the corpse was drawn forth at the death gate,
that the frightful game might continue undisturbed and unencumbered.
Gladiator shows were the great passion of Rome, and popular favor could
hardly be gained except by ministering to it. Even when the barbarians
were beginning to close in on the Empire, hosts of brave men were still
kept for this slavish mimic warfare--sport to the beholders, but sad
earnest to the actors.

Christianity worked its way upwards, and at least was professed by the
Emperor on his throne. Persecution came to an end, and no more martyrs
fed the beasts in the Coliseum. The Christian emperors endeavored to
prevent any more shows where cruelty and death formed the chief interest
and no truly religious person could endure the spectacle; but custom and
love of excitement prevailed even against the Emperor. Mere tricks of
beasts, horse and chariot races, or bloodless contests, were tame and
dull, according to the diseased taste of Rome; it was thought weak and
sentimental to object to looking on at a death scene; the Emperors were
generally absent at Constantinople, and no one could get elected to any
office unless he treated the citizens to such a show as they best liked,
with a little bloodshed and death to stir their feelings; and thus it
went on for full a hundred years after Rome had, in name, become a
Christian city, and the same custom prevailed wherever there was an
amphitheatre and pleasure-loving people.

Meantime the enemies of Rome were coming nearer and nearer, and Alaric,
the great chief of the Goths, led his forces into Italy, and threatened
the city itself. Honorius, the Emperor, was a cowardly, almost
idiotical, boy; but his brave general, Stilicho, assembled his forces,
met the Goths at Pollentia (about twenty-five miles from where Turin now
stands), and gave them a complete defeat on the Easter Day of the year
403. He pursued them into the mountains, and for that time saved Rome.
In the joy of the victory the Roman senate invited the conqueror and his
ward Honorius to enter the city in triumph, at the opening of the new
year, with the white steeds, purple robes, and vermilion cheeks with
which, of old, victorious generals were welcomed at Rome. The churches
were visited instead of the Temple of Jupiter, and there was no murder
of the captives; but Roman bloodthirstiness was not yet allayed, and,
after all the procession had been completed, the Coliseum shows
commenced, innocently at first, with races on foot, on horseback, and in
chariots; then followed a grand hunting of beasts turned loose in the
arena; and next a sword dance. But after the sword dance came the
arraying of swordsmen, with no blunted weapons, but with sharp spears
and swords--a gladiator combat in full earnest. The people, enchanted,
applauded with shouts of ecstasy this gratification of their savage
tastes. Suddenly, however, there was an interruption. A rude, roughly
robed man, bareheaded and barefooted, had sprung into the arena, and,
signing back the gladiators, began to call aloud upon the people to
cease from the shedding of innocent blood, and not to requite God's
mercy in turning away the sword of the enemy by encouraging murder.
Shouts, howls, cries, broke in upon his words; this was no place for
preachings--the old customs of Rome should be observed 'Back, old man!'
'On, gladiators!' The gladiators thrust aside the meddler, and rushed to
the attack. He still stood between, holding them apart, striving in vain
to be heard. 'Sedition! Sedition!' 'Down with him!' was the cry; and the
man in authority, Alypius, the prefect, himself added his voice. The
gladiators, enraged at interference with their vocation, cut him down.
Stones, or whatever came to hand, rained down upon him from the furious
people, and he perished in the midst of the arena! He lay dead, and then
came the feeling of what had been done.

His dress showed that he was one of the hermits who vowed themselves to
a holy life of prayer and self-denial, and who were greatly reverenced,
even by the most thoughtless. The few who had previously seen him, told
that he had come from the wilds of Asia on pilgrimage, to visit the
shrines and keep his Christmas at Rome--they knew he was a holy man--no
more, and it is not even certain whether his name was Alymachus or
Telemachus. His spirit had been stirred by the sight of thousands
flocking to see men slaughter one another, and in his simple-hearted
zeal he had resolved to stop the cruelty or die. He had died, but not in
vain. His work was done. The shock of such a death before their eyes
turned the hearts of the people; they saw the wickedness and cruelty to
which they had blindly surrendered themselves; and from the day when the
hermit died in the Coliseum there was never another fight of the
Gladiators. Not merely at Rome, but in every province of the Empire, the
custom was utterly abolished; and one habitual crime at least was wiped
from the earth by the self-devotion of one humble, obscure, almost
nameless man.

THE SHEPHERD GIRL OF NANTERRE

A.D. 438

Four hundred years of the Roman dominion had entirely tamed the once
wild and independent Gauls. Everywhere, except in the moorlands of
Brittany, they had become as much like Romans themselves as they could
accomplish; they had Latin names, spoke the Latin tongue, all their
personages of higher rank were enrolled as Roman citizens, their chief
cities were colonies where the laws were administered by magistrates in
the Roman fashion, and the houses, dress, and amusements were the same
as those of Italy. The greater part of the towns had been converted to
Christianity, though some Paganism still lurked in the more remote
villages and mountainous districts.

It was upon these civilized Gauls that the terrible attacks came from
the wild nations who poured out of the centre and east of Europe. The
Franks came over the Rhine and its dependent rivers, and made furious
attacks upon the peaceful plains, where the Gauls had long lived in
security, and reports were everywhere heard of villages harried by wild
horsemen, with short double-headed battleaxes, and a horrible short
pike, covered with iron and with several large hooks, like a gigantic
artificial minnow, and like it fastened to a long rope, so that the prey
which it had grappled might be pulled up to the owner. Walled cities
usually stopped them, but every farm or villa outside was stripped of
its valuables, set on fire, the cattle driven off, and the more healthy
inhabitants seized for slaves.

It was during this state of things that a girl was born to a wealthy
peasant at the village now called Nanterre, about two miles from
Lutetia, which was already a prosperous city, though not as yet so
entirely the capital as it was destined to become under the name of
Paris. She was christened by an old Gallic name, probably Gwenfrewi, or
White Stream, in Latin Genovefa, but she is best known by the late
French form of Genevieve. When she was about seven years old, two
celebrated bishops passed through the village, Germanus, of Auxerre, and
Lupus, of Troyes, who had been invited to Britain to dispute the false
doctrine of Pelagius. All the inhabitants flocked into the church to see
them, pray with them, and receive their blessing; and here the sweet
childish devotion of Genevieve so struck Germanus, that he called her to
him, talked to her, made her sit beside him at the feast, gave her his
special blessing, and presented her with a copper medal with a cross
engraven upon it. From that time the little maiden always deemed herself
especially consecrated to the service of Heaven, but she still remained
at home, daily keeping her father's sheep, and spinning their wool as
she sat under the trees watching them, but always with a heart full of
prayer.

After this St. Germanus proceeded to Britain, and there encouraged his
converts to meet the heathen Picts at Maes Garmon, in Flintshire, where
the exulting shout of the white-robed catechumens turned to flight the
wild superstitious savages of the north,--and the Hallelujah victory was
gained without a drop of bloodshed. He never lost sight of Genevieve,
the little maid whom he had so early distinguished for her piety.

After she lost her parents she went to live with her godmother, and
continued the same simple habits, leading a life of sincere devotion and
strict self-denial, constant prayer, and much charity to her poorer
neighbors.

In the year 451 the whole of Gaul was in the most dreadful state of
terror at the advance of Attila, the savage chief of the Huns, who came
from the banks of the Danube with a host of savages of hideous features,
scarred and disfigured to render them more frightful. The old enemies,
the Goths and the Franks, seemed like friends compared with these
formidable beings whose cruelties were said to be intolerable, and of
whom every exaggerated story was told that could add to the horrors of
the miserable people who lay in their path. Tidings came that this
'Scourge of God', as Attila called himself, had passed the Rhine,
destroyed Tongres and Metz, and was in full march for Paris. The whole
country was in the utmost terror. Everyone seized their most valuable
possessions, and would have fled; but Genevieve placed herself on the
only bridge across the Seine, and argued with them, assuring them in a
strain that was afterwards thought of as prophetic, that, if they would
pray, repent, and defend instead of abandoning their homes, God would
protect them. They were at first almost ready to stone her for thus
withstanding their panic, but just then a priest arrived from Auxerre,
with a present for Genevieve from St. Germanus, and they were thus
reminded of the high estimation in which he held her; they became
ashamed of their violence, and she held them back to pray and to arm
themselves. In a few days they heard that Attila had paused to besiege
Orleans, and that Aetius, the Roman general, hurrying from Italy, had
united his troops with those of the Goths and Franks, and given Attila
so terrible a defeat at Chalons that the Huns were fairly driven out of
Gaul. And here it must be mentioned that when the next year, 452, Attila
with his murderous host came down into Italy, and after horrible
devastation of all the northern provinces, came to the gates of Rome, no
one dared to meet him but one venerable Bishop, Leo, the Pope, who, when
his flock were in transports of despair, went forth only accompanied by
one magistrate to meet the invader, and endeavor to turn his wrath side.
The savage Huns were struck with awe by the fearless majesty of the
unarmed old man. They conducted him safely to Attila, who listened to
him with respect, and promised not to lead his people into Rome,
provided a tribute should be paid to him. He then retreated, and, to the
joy of all Europe, died on his way back to his native dominions.

But with the Huns the danger and suffering of Europe did not end. The
happy state described in the Prophets as 'dwelling safely, with none to
make them afraid', was utterly unknown in Europe throughout the long
break-up of the Roman Empire; and in a few more years the Franks were
overrunning the banks of the Seine, and actually venturing to lay siege
to the Roman walls of Paris itself. The fortifications were strong
enough, but hunger began to do the work of the besiegers, and the
garrison, unwarlike and untrained, began to despair. But Genevieve's
courage and trust never failed; and finding no warriors willing to run
the risk of going beyond the walls to obtain food for the women and
children who were perishing around them, this brave shepherdess embarked
alone in a little boat, and guiding it down the stream, landed beyond
the Frankish camp, and repairing to the different Gallic cities, she
implored them to send succor to the famished brethren. She obtained
complete success. Probably the Franks had no means of obstructing the
passage of the river, so that a convoy of boats could easily penetrate
into the town, and at any rate they looked upon Genevieve as something
sacred and inspired whom they durst not touch; probably as one of the
battle maids in whom their own myths taught them to believe. One account
indeed says that, instead of going alone to obtain help, Genevieve
placed herself at the head of a forage party, and that the mere sight of
her inspired bearing caused them to be allowed to enter and return in
safety; but the boat version seems the more probable, since a single
boat on a broad river would more easily elude the enemy than a troop of
Gauls pass through their army.

But a city where all the valor resided in one woman could not long hold
out, and in another inroad, when Genevieve was absent, Paris was
actually seized by the Franks. Their leader, Hilperik, was absolutely
afraid of what the mysteriously brave maiden might do to him, and
commanded the gates of the city to be carefully guarded lest she should
enter; but Geneviere learnt that some of the chief citizens were
imprisoned, and that Hilperik intended their death, and nothing could
withhold her from making an effort in their behalf. The Franks had made
up their minds to settle, and not to destroy. They were not burning and
slaying indiscriminately, but while despising the Romans, as they called
the Gauls, for their cowardice, they were in awe of the superior
civilization and the knowledge of arts. The country people had free
access to the city, and Genevieve in her homely gown and veil passed by
Hilperik's guards without being suspected of being more than an ordinary
Gaulish village maid; and thus she fearlessly made her way, even to the
old Roman halls, where the long-haired Hilperik was holding his wild
carousal. Would that we knew more of that interview--one of the most
striking that ever took place! We can only picture to ourselves the
Roman tessellated pavement bestrewn with wine, bones, and fragments of
the barbarous revelry. There were untamed Franks, their sun-burnt hair
tied up in a knot at the top of their heads, and falling down like a
horse's tail, their faces close shaven, except two moustaches, and
dressed in tight leather garments, with swords at their wide belts. Some
slept, some feasted, some greased their long locks, some shouted out
their favorite war songs around the table which was covered with the
spoils of churches, and at their heads sat the wild, long-haired
chieftain, who was a few years later driven away by his own followers
for his excesses, the whole scene was all that was abhorrent to a pure,
devout, and faithful nature, most full of terror to a woman. Yet, there,
in her strength, stood the peasant maiden, her heart full of trust and
pity, her looks full of the power that is given by fearlessness of them
that can kill the body. What she said we do not know--we only know that
the barbarous Hilperik was overawed; he trembled before the
expostulations of the brave woman, and granted all she asked--the safety
of his prisoners, and mercy to the terrified inhabitants. No wonder that
the people of Paris have ever since looked back to Genevieve as their
protectress, and that in after ages she has grown to be the patron saint
of the city.

She lived to see the son of Hilperik, Chlodweh, or, as he was more
commonly called, Clovis, marry a Christian wife, Clotilda, and after a
time became a Christian. She saw the foundation of the Cathedral of
Notre-Dame, and of the two famous churches of St. Denys and of St.
Martin of Tours, and gave her full share to the first efforts for
bringing the rude and bloodthirsty conquerors to some knowledge of
Christian faith, mercy, and purity. After a life of constant prayer and
charity she died, three months after King Clovis, in the year 512, the
eighty-ninth of her age. [Footnote: Perhaps the exploits of the Maid of
Orleans were the most like those of Genevieve, but they are not here
added to our collection of 'Golden Deeds,' because the Maid's belief
that she was directly inspired removes them from the ordinary class.
Alas! the English did not treat her as Hilperik treated Genevieve.

LEO THE SLAVE

A.D. 533

The Franks had fully gained possession of all the north of Gaul, except
Brittany. Chlodweh had made them Christians in name, but they still
remained horribly savage--and the life of the Gauls under them was
wretched. The Burgundians and Visigoths who had peopled the southern and
eastern provinces were far from being equally violent. They had entered
on their settlements on friendly terms, and even showed considerable
respect for the Roman-Gallic senators, magistrates, and higher clergy,
who all remained unmolested in their dignities and riches. Thus it was
that Gregory, Bishop of Langres, was a man of high rank and
consideration in the Burgundian kingdom, whence the Christian Queen
Clotilda had come; and even after the Burgundians had been subdued by
the four sons of Chlodweh, he continued a rich and prosperous man.

After one of the many quarrels and reconciliations between these fierce
brethren, there was an exchange of hostages for the observance of the
terms of the treaty. These were not taken from among the Franks, who
were too proud to submit to captivity, but from among the Gaulish
nobles, a much more convenient arrangement to the Frankish kings, who
cared for the life of a 'Roman' infinitely less than even for the life
of a Frank. Thus many young men of senatorial families were exchanged
between the domains of Theodrik to the south, and of Hildebert to the
northward, and quartered among Frankish chiefs, with whom at first they
had nothing more to endure than the discomfort of living as guests with
such rude and coarse barbarians. But ere long fresh quarrels broke out
between Theodrik and Hildebert, and the unfortunate hostages were at
once turned into slaves. Some of them ran away if they were near the
frontier, but Bishop Gregory was in the utmost anxiety about his young
nephew Attalus, who had been last heard of as being placed under the
charge of a Frank who lived between Treves and Metz. The Bishop sent
emissaries to make secret enquiries, and they brought word that the
unfortunate youth had indeed been reduced to slavery, and was made to
keep his master's herds of horses. Upon this the uncle again sent off
his messengers with presents for the ransom of Attalus, but the Frank
rejected them, saying, 'One of such high race can only be redeemed for
ten pounds' weight of gold.'

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