He heard the crowd roar.
The beast that would be his executioner must have been released. He quaked with dread, but in the midst of it he remembered something. He remembered that he had once had the peculiar thought that if he were to be eaten by a beast, he would spare a prayer for it, too.
May the gods look kindly on the beast that is to kill me. May it live out its life even if I can't.
He smiled at himself. What a strange prayer! Yet while he was making it, for those brief seconds, he forgot his terror.
But it returned.
His time had come. He dragged a deep, rough breath, that rattled over his fear like the sea over pebbles, and stiffened himself.
Two guards threw open the door of his cell. They gave him no chance to walk with dignity, but dragged him along the corridors and swiftly up some steps to a barred gate leading directly into the arena. Through it, Julius could see his appointed killer, standing on the far side, under the Imperial Box; his bright stripes were like nature's danger signal.
A strange wash of pride covered Julius's fear for a moment. Not an ignominious death then, in the foul breath of hyenas or even at the teeth of the common lion. Nothing less than the great man-eating tiger! Something for the crowds, indeed! At least his death might be remembered— for an hour or two.
And then something totally unlooked-for happened. One of the guards put a sword into his hand.
Julius looked down at it stupidly. He was to be given the chance to defend himself! But he was no gladiator. What was the use of a sword to him? Yet he clutched it, as a man must clutch the slightest hope.
The rattle of chains … The gate opened upward and he was pushed forward. A moment later it clanged shut behind him.
The crowd fell silent. Sunlight poured down, as if the gods were flooding the arena with a light fiercer than usual, the better to watch the show from their Olympian heights. The tiger standing thirty paces from Julius turned its head, and gazed at him. It began to move slowly toward him. When it had covered half the distance between them, Julius's mouth fell open.
That wasn't Brute! It was Boots.
Boots! His tiger! But changed—no longer plump and sleek, but thin and hungry-looking. His head hung low, his tail twitched. From his throat came deep sounds. Not growls. A singing whine. Julius knew that sound, he had once or twice interpreted it for Aurelia: “Now listen to him! He's saying, I'm not happy, I'm bewildered, reassure me!”
Julius dropped the sword in the sand.
The crowd gasped.
He walked toward the tiger with one hand—his sword hand—held out. The raked sand had never received the imprint of such strides toward danger.
Boots smelled him coming. He ran the last steps and rose on his hind feet, his head and upstretched paws high above Julius's head. The crowd cried out in an ecstasy of anticipation. But when the great paws came down, they fell gently onto the man's unprotected shoulders, and he didn't fall backward, he stood his ground, and … and …
Now the crowd rose to its feet in waves of audible disbelief.
The man was caressing the tiger's ears, he was smiling, he was talking to it! The beast was rubbing its face against the man's jaw!
Aurelia and Marcus were unashamedly clinging to each other, their eyes, huge with suspense, fixed on the scene being played out directly below them.
As the vast crowd broke into shouts and roars—of astonishment, delight, and approval—Aurelia jumped up. Her eyes still riveted to the beloved pair in the ring, she forced her way among the other guests in the Imperial Box to her father's side and tried to hug him.
“Oh, Pata! That's Boots! You knew he wouldn't hurt him. Thank you! Thank you! I love you after all—I love—”
Her father, without even looking at her, pushed her away so violently that she almost fell.
“Watch!”
It was a command.
She backed away. The other guests, shocked, made way for her and in a moment she was back in her seat beside Marcus.
He wasn't looking at her. His eyes were on the ring.
“Oh, Relia,” he muttered hollowly. “Look.”
She looked. For a moment she doubted her senses. There were two tigers in that vast space. Another had appeared as if from nowhere—from the ground.
• • •
Boots turned his head first, because he had caught that scent again. That familiar, tantalizing evocation of intimacy in another place and time. He turned to face the newcomer, who was bounding straight toward them, low to the ground, with unmistakable intent.
Boots moved forward, in front of Julius, who stood stock-still, petrified.
Brute stopped almost in midspring. The two stood a tiger's length apart, gazing at each other. Boots uttered a low whine.
Brute roared, the fur on his shoulders erect, his lips clear of his fangs.
He feinted to one side, as if to spring, but the other stood in his path.
Boots advanced toward his brother. Brute put his head on one side and roared. He was baffled. The other tiger kept creeping closer, belly touching the ground, eyes down, making a low, singsong sound. Now he could smell him. He was of his blood—yes. But there was something strange. Male, and yet not male. And there was no threat. No sign of challenge.
When Boots got very close, he lay down and rolled over on his back in the posture of submission.
Brute backed off, bewildered. Beyond, the two-legs was within easy reach. He had no pointed stick. He was defenseless. Brute could smell him through the disturbing brother-smell. Every instinct and all his experience told him this was his prey. But between them lay this other.
From all around, a developing mutter arose. Fifty thousand people were growing impatient. The amusing novelty of a tame tiger and a magician was over. The man-eater was here! They wanted what they'd paid for—a battle, a death.
Brute knew that sound. It acted on him like the jabs from the pointed stick, provoking him. Hesitation and bafflement were overcome. With a snarl, he leaped over the supine body before him and launched himself at the two-legs.
In that fateful moment, as the terrifying shape seemed to fly through the air toward him, all Julius's determination to die without resisting was overwhelmed by his instinct to save himself.
His body took charge. It leaped aside. The black and gold shape flew past, landed, and turned. But Julius had turned too, and run—toward the glint in the sand. The sword! The tiger was behind him, close, but not running as fast as he might have done without a lump of meat in his stomach. Julius braked—the sword lay at his feet—he swooped on it, snatched it up, clutching the pommel through a handful of sand that fell back in a shower.
The crowd shouted its approval.
Julius just had time to turn—he was only half on his feet—before Brute leaped on him. In total terror Julius turned his head aside and screwed up his eyes, but his hands functioned without his orders, bracing the sword against his chest.
Brute leaped on to it. When you leap against the sharp point, it is not there.
But this time, it was.
The weight twisted the sword to one side, and knocked Julius to the ground. But it had wounded the tiger in the chest, deeply enough to make him back away with a furious yowl. The first blood of the day spotted the sand.
Julius regained his feet with a mighty effort. The tiger stood off, his snarling head writhing like a snake and all his claws extended, swiping at the sword. Julius jumped back, away from those scimitar claws, sweat standing out all over his body, every nerve electric with the urge to flee. Run! Run!
Suddenly through the tumult, from above his head, he heard Aurelia screaming: “Fight, Julius! Fight!”
Julius dared not take his eyes for one split second from the tiger. But now he knew she was there. Her words sank into him like a barb and dragged him toward valor. He took a better grip on his sword. Yes! He must fight. He would lose, of course. But he must fight. He planted his shifting feet and straightened his body so that he stood up
to his full height.
And then an incredible realization came to him.
He knew what his enemy was thinking.
Not for nothing had Julius spent hours with Boots, learning his language, translating it for the princess. Now, what was this tiger in front of him saying? He looked at the glaring yellow eyes, the writhing head, the lashing tail. The swiping forepaw. All said, I'm angry! I'm in pain! I want revenge! But there was something more. There must be, or he would spring. What was it … ?
I'm uncertain. I'm afraid.
Keeping his eyes fixed on Brute's, Julius, calling on all his courage, forced his foot to take a step forward.
As he did it he noticed the tiniest movement in the animal. A shrinking—only a fraction, but it was a flinch. He knew that for this moment, and probably no longer, he was the dominant one. He took another step and pointed the sword directly at the tiger's face. This was a battle of wills, and with his special understanding, there was just a faint chance he could win.
Brute crouched, wriggling his hips, willing himself to pounce. But the two-legs’ eyes were fixed on his. Brute could not meet them.
He looked away.
Julius felt his heart leap with excitement. He understood the movement! In his head he explained to Aurelia: “You see? He's saying, Why aren't you afraid of me? Men who aren't afraid of me are more powerful than I am.” He took another step forward. Around him, he sensed the crowd, absolutely silent, paralyzed with suspense.
“Brute!”
Brute looked at him for a second, startled. His name!
“Go back. Go back. Go back.”
At each order, another step forward.
The tiger felt the command in every nerve and sinew. This two-legs was his master. He began to back away, slowly, belly to the sand, giving that same singsong whine. The whine his brother had given. The sound of submission.
“What's he saying now, Julius?”
“Now he's saying, You've got the better of me. But beware. Look away, and I will take you! ”
“Then don't! Don't look away! I want you to live!”
The dialogue was going on in his head, but in very truth she was up there, above him, in the Imperial Box. She was watching. She had called to him, acknowledged him. His veins ran hot with courage and hope.
The tiger went back and back. When he was far enough away, he lay down in the sand and dropped his head on his paws. Then he rolled onto his side and, tucking in his chin, began licking his wound. There was no fight left in him— he had surrendered. Slowly, in a gesture of conquest, Julius lowered the point of his sword.
A Triumph of Will
AHE CROWD seemed to explode. The whole Colosseum was filled with standing, cheering Romans.
Julius turned to face the Imperial Box. Through the sweat running into his eyes he saw Aurelia, beautiful in her brave bright colors, standing now, her hands to her face, tears on her cheeks. She was weeping for him!
He saw the guests and guards, standing too, straining for-ward, some nearly falling over the rail as they cheered him.
He saw the Emperor. He alone was not cheering or showing the slightest emotion. He stood erect as if frozen amid the hysterical crowd in his box and around it—all around the vast arena.
Julius saluted and bowed. The crowd screamed with joy and waved their arms and threw objects into the air. Julius could see that the Emperor—that tiger among men—was baffled, as Brute had been. He had determined on Julius's death. He had only to give the signal and the ring would fill with merciless killers, who could put an end to him in an instant. He could see from the Emperor's face that it was in his mind, that he longed to use his power.
But he could not go against the people. Not when they were in this mood. Not when invaders were threatening the Empire and the populous had to be placated.
Slowly, with grinding reluctance, he did what he had to do. He took off his wreath of laurels and with a stiff, furious gesture, tossed it to Julius, who set it on his head.
The crowd gradually became quiet to hear the Emperor's citation.
“You have done well,” he said, for all to hear.
There was a brief silence, and then the shouts broke out again.
“Free him! Free him! Free him!”
Caesar raised his arms. His face was now dark with frustration and rage. But he uttered the words and fifty thousand spectators heard them.
“You are a free man.”
The crowd broke into renewed cheers, this time of approval for the Emperor's decision. And while they cheered, the Emperor summoned the gladiators.
Julius, in a haze of joy and relief, watched them entering the ring—six of them, massive, their brass armor and drawn swords harshly glittering in the sunlight, their face-concealing helmets giving them an inhuman look. Were they going to fight each other in three pairs? Why were they coming in now, before the tigers had gone back to their cages?
Suddenly Julius saw the Emperor point, first to one tiger, then to the other, and turn his thumb down. Three at a time, the armored giants bore down on Boots and Brute.
“No! No!”
Julius heard her voice, clear and shrill above the quietening crowd.
“Don't hurt them!” she cried, and now they all heard her. “Don't punish the tigers, the beautiful ones! Let them live!”
Caesar's thumb jabbed downward again. He was going to take his revenge on the beasts for his defeat and humiliation.
But the crowd would have none of it. The great concourse of people had the power now, and they sensed it. They would not permit the tigers to be put to death! Not after this! There was the thrill of bloodshed, but this—this unique performance—was a thrill of another kind. This was conquest by will and courage, and besides, the tigers must live to fight and give them pleasure another day.
A single male voice took up the princess's cry.
“Show mercy, Great Caesar! Spare the tigers!”
And again the roar of the crowd deafened Julius and defeated Caesar's intention. The gladiators, uncertain, stopped in their tracks and turned to the Imperial Box, waiting for instructions. The Emperor's arm was still extended, but as the people's chanting roars battered him in waves, the sinews twisted, the fist slowly reversed itself. The thumb turned upward.
Objects began to rain down onto the sand as the people threw flowers, laurels, coins, pieces of jewelery, articles of clothing. The crowd was hysterical in its delight, reinforced by a sense of its own power. There was not one person in the crowd who did not realize that they had overcome Caesar's strongest intentions, that their mass will had triumphed.
Something hard—a sandal—struck Brute on the flank.
He leaped up, and, alarmed by this sudden rain of missiles, fled toward Boots, leaving a trail of blood. They drew together. Julius watched them. Now they were pressed to each other, side to side. Do they remember they are brothers? Did it matter? They were the same species—it was tigers against men. Two against a vast mob that must seem to them like one great animal, menacing them from above and from all around.
This was the way of it, Julius realized. However strong, however fierce an animal, however bravely it fought, it was never enough in the arena. In the end, the forces of man could always win. Man, the absolute master of what the world produces. The heartless conqueror.
The injustice of it! The cruelty of it! And it was the same with Rome. None could stand against its power—the power of the Caesars.
Julius felt a great heat rising in him as he looked at the two tigers huddled together, cowering, gazing in fear at the gladiators standing ready to inflict death at the order of Caesar. Yet a moment ago, Caesar had suffered a defeat— had been turned from his purpose by his own people, any one of whom, individually, he could have had killed without thought or scruple.
He could still have Julius killed.
Julius, looking up at him in his own moment of victory—of freedom! He was no longer a slave!—with the people's plaudits ringing in his ears, knew that h
e might still be a dead man. That when the arena was cleared and the people had gone home, when the tigers were back in their cages, Caesar could send some agent to seek Julius out and murder him.
Yes. He would be capable of that. Of freeing Julius, and then wiping him out like a hated stain.
Julius gave one burning look at Aurelia. Their eyes met, and there it was—he saw it. He saw love for him shining from her eyes. Love that at last he could feel he had earned. And as if to prove it, she snatched the paüa from her shoulders and, rolling it up to give it substance, she threw it down to him. He caught it on the point of his sword. Under the furious eyes of Caesar, he draped it around his neck and raised his arm to her. It was like a blown kiss, and Caesar went white to the lips.
The crowd, however, loved the gestures, and went completely mad.
And so, it seemed, did Julius.
The feel of the warm silk on the skin of his neck banished all traces of fear. He turned on his heel from the Imperial Box, and strode toward the tigers where they stood huddled together, frightened, cowed. He put his hands on their heads—yes, on Brute's, too, and Brute submitted. Julius backed away, calling them, beckoning in the special way that Boots understood. Boots came, and his brother, not to be abandoned, followed.
The newly freed man took them out of the arena through the one opening that led not down into the cellars, but out into the streets of Rome.
No one stopped them. In that great arena, so wondrously constructed that it could be emptied of its many thousand spectators in a few minutes, doors were easily opened. The guards on the outer gate saw a man emerge, and moved to intercept him—and then came two tigers, walking side by side, unrestrained…. The guards shrank instinctively, unable to hold their posts, and then, as the beasts came nearer, dropped their spears and fled.
Julius stood, looking about him at the empty streets under the hot noonday sun. The tigers stood before him, as if waiting for his command. Behind them, over the top of the high, curved perimeter wall, the crowd could still be heard, baying its approval.
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