XXXIX.

SPARTACUS TO THE GLADIATORS.

It had been a day of triumph at Capua. Lentulus, returning with victorious
eagles, had amused the populace with the sports of the amphitheatre, to an
extent hitherto unknown even in that luxurious city. The shouts of revelry
had died away; the roar of the lion had ceased; the last loiterer had
retired from the banquet, and the lights in the palace of the victor were
extinguished. The moon, piercing the tissue of fleecy clouds, silvered the
dew-drop on the corselet of the Roman sentinel, and tipped the dark waters
of Volturnus with wavy, tremulous light. It was a night of holy calm, when
the zephyr sways the young spring leaves, and whispers among the hollow
reeds its dreamy music. No sound was heard but the last sob of some weary
wave, telling its story to the smooth pebbles of the beach, and then all
was still as the breast when the spirit has departed.

In the deep recesses of the amphitheatre, a band of gladiators were crowded
together, their muscles still knotted with the agony of conflict, the foam
upon their lips, and the scowl of battle yet lingering upon their brows,
when Spartacus, rising in the midst of that grim assemblage, thus addressed
them:--

"Ye call me chief, and ye do well to call him chief, who, for twelve long
years, has met upon the arena every shape of man or beast that the broad
empire of Rome could furnish, and yet never has lowered his arm. And if
there be one among you who can say that, ever, in public fight or private
brawl, my actions did belie my tongue, let him step forth and say it. If
there, be three in all your throng dare face me on the bloody sand, let
them come on!