The multitude had far other intentions. They were not yet sated with slaughter; they had not yet gloated long enough on faces convulsed with the death-agony; they wanted to see how the beautiful young Phrygian would look when an opponent stood over him with a sword at his throat.
But the soul of Glanydon was filled with disgust and disdain. He loathed those fat, shouting, comfortable burghers, those hard-faced women, those finical dandies, of whom he felt that he could have driven a score before him like sheep. He strode to the barriers and set his back against them, refusing to fight.
A yell of fury rose from the people. ‘Kill him!’ they shouted. ‘Kill him! scourge him! burn him! Why is he so afraid of cold steel? Why can’t he die like a man? Ho! scourgers, lash the youth into the combat again, to make the sides equal.’
The Briton stood as in a dream, and as his thoughts reverted to his home and the maiden whom he loved, the amphitheatre swam before his eyes. Five or six mastigophori came running up to him, and he felt the curling lash of one of them come stinging round his body. The agony aroused him. With a cry as of a wounded lion he sprang on the scourger, and with one buffet laid him senseless, while the others fled in confusion before him. Then, with the boldness of despair, he strode under the podium, and, raising his clenched fist, cursed the Emperor aloud.
‘Murderer of thy mother!’ he cried; ‘thou infamy of manhood, I will fight again. But think not that thou shalt escape. Speedily the doom shall overtake thee, and thy death shall be more shameful and horrible than mine.’
He had thundered forth so loudly his indignant words that they rang through the whole amphitheatre, and the wildest tumult arose. The Emperor cowered back in his seat, pale with superstitious terror, yet almost suffocated with rage; and his favourite page, springing up from the low stool at his feet, began to sprinkle his face with perfume.
The Prætorians drew their swords, and in one moment would have slain the criminal who thus dared to blaspheme their human god. That a common gladiator—a thing to flesh men’s swords upon—should dare to curse the Emperor! It was a portent! But there was no time to interfere, for, with a shout, Glanydon sprang back among the gladiators, and began so furious an affray that the other side gave way and fled. He sprang on an opponent, and the crimson rush that followed his sword-thrust again awoke the deep ‘Habet!’ of the excited crowd. But as he pressed on, now blind with fury, he fell, face forward, over the loose helmet of a slain mirmillo, and before he could recover himself a netsman, seizing his opportunity, flung his net, entangled the limbs of the Briton by a dexterous twist, and, without waiting for any signal, drove his trident into his breast. The Briton died without a groan. But the advantage of the light-armed fighters was only momentary. Their courage had been daunted by Glanydon, and, after a few moments of flight and fight, the Samnites were victorious and the net-throwers were all wounded and dropped their arms, except Onesimus. They knelt with their forefingers uplifted, and, as they had fought with courage and had been hardly used, handkerchiefs began to be waved in their favour and thumbs to be turned downwards. Octavia and Acte had both recognised the face of Onesimus as he retreated before one of the Samnites, and failed to entangle him by the throw of his net. Filled with pity, they turned their thumbs downward in sign that the combat should be stopped and the lives of the defeated be spared.
But unhappily Onesimus was only a few feet distant from Nero, and Nero had recognised him too. The curse of Glanydon had shaken the Emperor’s nerves. He was in a peculiarly brutal mood, and, with thumb turned towards his breast, he gave the fatal sign that the four netsmen should be slain. Three of them were so deeply wounded already that their limbs were bathed in blood, and without an instant’s pause the Samnites thrust their swords through them to the hilt. But the sight seemed to inspire Onesimus with some divine despair. He seized his trident and dagger—he had already gathered the net round his shoulder—and, springing towards one of the Samnites, flung, entangled, tripped, and stabbed him. Plucking his trident from the wound, but not waiting to recover his net, he flew on the second and smote him down. The third, who was already staggering from a wound received earlier in the fight dropped his arms and upheld his forefinger, and, before the fourth could recover from his amazement, Onesimus, leaving the defeated combatant, had again seized his net and chased his opponent with it in act to throw. Being far superior in speed, he swiftly overtook him, flung the net and, hurling his opponent to the ground, brandished his dagger over him. The peopled walls of the amphitheatre rang with shouts of delight and admiration. Never had they seen a more astonishing and gallant feat. This retiarius—and he a mere tiro—had, single-handed, defeated four Samnites in succession. The thing was unheard of. Every thumb was turned up for Onesimus to give the finishing stroke to his conquered enemy, and thousands of voices clamoured that, as the sole surviving victor of the combat, he should be rewarded with the palm and foil.
But the brief spasm of wrath was over. Onesimus could not and would not butcher his comrades in cold blood. He recognised in the young Samnite a gladiator named Kalendio, one of the least objectionable of his fellows in the school—the only one who had never gone out of his way to annoy or taunt him. At the same moment he caught sight of the body of Glanydon. A rush of tears blinded him; he flung down net and dagger and trident, and, retreating to the barrier, stood there with folded arms. The acclamations which had greeted his prowess were followed by a groan of astonishment and disappointment. Kalendio had by this time torn and cut himself free from the net, and sprang upon the unhappy Phrygian who had spared his life. Onesimus did not resist him or appeal for mercy; the Samnite, who was an utter stranger to the scruples and compunctions which had led Onesimus to spare him, drove his sword into him; life and sense flowed from him, and he fell heavily upon the bloody sand.