“I am sure you thought so,” Lutorius agreed. “It was natural for you to feel that way. You were very angry. But your anger will wear off.” “My anger may,” Brinnaria admitted, “but never my resentment and my disgust.” “Only time can prove whether your forecast is correct,” the Pontiff soothed her, “but are you justified even in being resentful? Ought you not rather to be thankful that chance or fate or the direct intervention of the gods working through Almo gave you the precious opportunity to free yourself from the shadow of an imputation that lay upon you from your entrance into the order? Rome vaguely suspected you of too warm an interest in Almo. Much of Rome had seen and all Rome had heard of your theatrical rescue of a gladiator totally unknown to you. All Rome knew your impulsive nature. All Rome has now seen you perfectly controlled and outwardly calm with Almo on the verge of death before your eyes. Everybody has watched you ignore him and show less interest in his fate than you once manifested towards a casual savage. Your outward observance of the conventions under such trying circumstances has abolished any qualms the people felt because of your many past unconventionalities. This puts you in a very strong position toward any possible accusation or trial. You know how earnestly you have talked to me of your dread of such contingencies. Ought you not, after thinking it over, to forget your anger against Almo and to feel positively grateful for the opportunity so to exalt ourself?” “Perhaps I ought,” Brinnaria mused. “The value to me of the results I had not thought of, but admit it now that you expound it. But I am not grateful. I suffered too much. I am still smarting with indignation. “And, apart from any remains of anger, I ache with the humiliation of it all. Think of the infamy, of the degradation Almo has brought on himself!” Lutorius pursed his lips. “There is a certain social stigma upon any man who has joined a prize-fighting gang,” he conceded, “but the obloquy resulting from having been a gladiator has greatly attenuated amid the loose manners of our day. Nothing that becomes fashionable remains disgraceful. The social disgrace of it has greatly lessened as the thing has become more usual, and freemen who have been gladiators are rather acclaimed and sought after than condemned and shunned. They win a sort of vogue, if successful fighters. “The treatment of such persons has greatly changed in recent years. Even since I began to remember there has been an all but universal alteration in the general attitude towards such cases--they have become too numerous for the old feelings to survive. Not only Roman citizens have entered gladiatorial schools, risen high in the profession, fought countless fights, served out their time as prize-fighters, and returned to their families, but noblemen have done so, even senators. Vescularius is as much a senator as if he had not won seventy-eight bouts in three years.”