Nero had died while in training to
kill a lion; Commodus did not take the trouble to train. It was
the lions that were trained, not he. A skin on his shoulders, a
club in his hand, he descended naked into the ring, and there
felled beasts and men. Then, acclaimed as Hercules, he returned to
the pulvina, and a mignon on one side, a mistress on the other,
ordered the guard to massacre the spectators and set fire to Rome.
After entering the arena six or seven hundred times, and there
vanquishing men whose eyes had been put out and whose legs were
tied, the colossal statue which Nero had made after his own image
was altered; to the top came the bust of Commodus, to the base
this legend: THE VICTOR OF TEN THOUSAND GLADIATORS, COMMODUS-
HERCULES, IMPERATOR.
Meanwhile conspirators were at work. Like Nero, Commodus could
have sought in vain for a friend. His life was attempted again and
again; he escaped, but never the plotters; only when they had gone
there were more. He knew he was doomed. There was the usual comet;
the statue of Hercules had perspired visibly; an owl had been
caught above his bedroom, and once he had wiped in his hair the
hand which he had plunged in the warm wound of a gladiator, dead
at his feet. These omens could mean but one thing. None the less,
if he were doomed, so were others. One day one of those miserable
children that the emperors kept about them found a tablet.
Pages:
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113