“Yes, killed,” repeated Brinnaria, viciously. “Killing is what he deserves, mere killing is too good for him. If he wanted to commit suicide why couldn’t he do it decently at once and privately without all this elaborate machinery of selling himself as a slave, and lying about his intentions and disgracing himself by becoming a prize-fighter and exposing himself to getting killed in public? Why couldn’t he get killed at Treves or Lyons or Aquileia? Why must he humiliate me by this exhibition of himself before me and all Rome? The quicker he is killed the better. I’m praying he’ll be killed at once.” “Oh, Brinnaria!” groaned the horrified Manlia. The Thracian was not killed in that first fight; he was never in any danger of being killed. He played with his man as a cat plays with a mouse; held him off without an effort, caught the attention of all the nearby spectators; won their interest by the perfection of his sword-play; and aroused their enthusiasm by that nameles quality which marks off, from even the best drilled talent, the man who is a born genius in his line. He pinked his victim between corselet and helmet, so lightly that only those spectators watching most closely saw the lunge, so effectually that the man died almost as he fell. “You must have prayed for him to win; I did,” spoke Manlia. “I didn’t,” Brinnaria snapped. “I prayed for him to be killed. I wish he had been. I’m not the only one who has recognized him. Aurelius has and he has told Antoninus; I watched him.” “How could you?” Manlia exclaimed. “How could you watch anything but Almo?” “I could and I did,” Brinnaria asseverated. “I’m looking all ways at once, just now. The news is all over the Imperial loge already. They are looking at me as well as at him. I hope he’ll be killed this next bout.” The lanista, in fact, at once matched Almo with another full-armed giant. Again Almo gave an exhibition of perfect swordsmanship. The Romans were as quick to appreciate form in fighting as we moderns are to applaud our best bail players; they recognized pre-eminence in the swordman’s art, as we acclaim the skill of a crack baseball pitcher or cricket bowler. Almo caught the eye of spectator after spectator, till most of the audience on that side of the arena were watching the fight in which he took part to the exclusion of everything else that was going on. He displayed that perfect balance of all the mental and physical faculties, that instantaneous co-ordination of eye, brain and muscle, which only an occasional phenomenon can attain to. He made no mistakes, bore himself like a dancer on a tight-rope, circled about his adversary, warded off all his thrusts, lunges and rushes, turned aside his long sword with his small round shield without a trace of effort, and at his leisure found a joint in his body armor and pierced his heart with an ostentatiously difficult lunge delivered with the acme of apparent ease. “There,” sighed Manlia, “I prayed hard.”