And was it? In the
ascending spiral is the new revolt, the attempt to assassinate
Trajan, the capture of the conspirators, the advance of the
legions, the retreat of the Dacians, burning their cities as they
go, carrying their wounded and their women with them, and at last
pressing about a huge cauldron that is filled with poison,
fighting among themselves for a cup of the brew, and rolling on
the ground in the convulsions of death. Farther on is the treasure
of the king. To hide it he had turned a river from its source,
sunk the gold in a vault beneath, and killed the workmen that had
labored there. Beyond is the capture of the capital, the suicide
of the chief, a troop of soldiers driving captives and cattle
before them, the death of a nation and the end of war.
The subsequent triumph does not appear on the column. It is said
that ten thousand beasts were slaughtered in the arenas,
slaughtering, as they fell, a thousand of their slaughterers. But
the spectacle, however fair, was not of a nature to detain Trajan
long in Rome. The air there had not improved in the least, and
presently he was off again, this time on the banks of the
Euphrates, arguing with the Parthians, avoiding danger in the only
way he knew, by facing it.
It was then that the sheen of the purple glowed. If lustreless at
home, it was royally red abroad. In a campaign that was little
more than a triumphant promenade he doubled the empire.
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