tlements and towers of the
Caesars' house, in full sight over against the Palatine Hill, floated the
imperial banners, gently waving their folds in anticipation of the
splendors of the ensuing days; and round about stood crowds of
strangers, wondering at the magnificence of the palace architecture, and
the vast compass of its walls, and straining their eager gaze in the
hope of being able to catch a chance glimpse of the emperor himself.
Farther down was the now completed Colosseum, around which other
thousands stood watching the pigmies who, in dark clusters upon the top
and along the edge, laboriously erected the poles upon which, in case of
need, to stretch the protecting velarium. This was the last outward
preparation of all; and when that was done, everything would be ready.
As one of these poles was being elevated, he who had hold of the lower
end of it lost his balance, and fell to the ground. He was lifted up
outside, dead--a shapeless, gory mass. The crowd shuddered to see that
helpless body falling from such a height; but, at the next moment, all
sympathy passed away. The man wore a slave's dress, and was recognized
as belonging to the praetorian lieutenant Patrocles. Upon the morrow, if
he had lived, he was to have appeared in the arena as a retiarius--he
would then most likely have been conquered and slain--it was merely a
day sooner--a victim outside the walls instead of within--he had
clambered up to overlook the ground upon which he was to have fought,
and need not thus recklessly have volunteered to aid the regular
laborers--it was his fate--_Deus vult_--what more could be said?

AEnone had not witnessed the fall, for she had not been looking at palace
or amphitheatre, both, of which were too familiar with her to attract
her attention. The one had been for years the centrepiece of her
view--and the other had grown up arch by arch and tier by tier so
steadily before her eyes that it seemed as though she could almost count
its stones. Her gaze was now fixed upon the open space beneath her
window, where the Sacred and Triumphal Walls joined--a space always at
that hour gay with a phantasmagoria of shifting life, and at this time
more than ever provocative of curiosity and attention. Its bordering
palaces, already being hung with lively tapestries for the morrow--its
sparkling fountains--its corners decked with arches--its pavement
thronged with carriages and horsemen--the crowds of slaves, beginning in
adva