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 chariot, and overturned it on his way. Yes, there he emerges from the whirlpool of dust, and sweeps swiftly along alone toward the goal.
No, not alone, for though one set of black horses lie kicking and struggling upon the sand in inextricable confusion, the exploit has consumed time, and the other set of blacks come skimming serenely along, their driver standing erect and motionless as a statue, the steeds gaining, gaining upon the Emperor without any apparent effort. The imperial jockey looks behind him, and again leans forward and lashes his own horses more furiously: evidently he fears for the result. They are neck to neck now, and the goal is only a few yards off. The white horses are galloping frantically, but the steady pace of the blacks carries them ahead by more than three chariot lengths, and the race is won. And won by black horses. How the sun glares, for the awning does not extend over this part of the amphitheatre. If he could only tell whether Carus is one of the victorious four, or one of the four that are being led away after their ignominious tumble! What a noisy hubbub! The spectators are starting to their feet and leaving their seats. "I have lost!" "I have won!" shout the slaves around him. "How do you know whether you have lost or won?" he shrieks. "Have you no eyes?" bawls a sturdy Ethiopian; "there is the color of the winners," and Valentinian, at the end of the course, sees a flag displayed—a scarlet flag. As he hurries down the staircases a soldier's hand is clapped upon his shoulder, other soldiers seize his legs, and he is lifted to a seat upon their shields, and borne unwillingly, in the midst of loud acclamations, to the course. His giddy brain reels with all this excitement: if he can only once get Carus and lead him away, he will never, never enter this place again. What is this?—a crowd of men about a fallen horse. Some one is wiping drops of blood from the animal's nostrils with a sponge; there are more red drops upon his foam-flecked sides—no, they are only the scarlet spangles. "Sunstroke?" asks one of the men. "Perhaps so," replies the man with the sponge. "He wasn't used to racing," remarks the driver; "I had to hold him in all the way, and when we stopped, he just dropped: lucky thing he didn't do it two minutes before."
Valentinian pushed them all aside, and fell in an agony of grief upon the neck of the dead horse. It was Carus. There is little left to tell. Valentinian's mother did not mourn over the death of the horse as much as her son had feared. "He has died in a good cause," she said, "if he has taught you the evils of racing and betting. O that all the youths of Rome might learn the same lesson!"
A LITTLE COQUETTE.