“Is there anything wrong? Are you ill? You do not seem yourself!” Each time Brinnaria had positively denied that anything was wrong and had asserted that she was entirely herself.
About the middle of the afternoon, the arena was filled with pairs of gladiators, all the couples fighting simultaneously. Each pair had with it a trainer, called a lanista, who watched, guided or checked the fighting.
The contending pairs were of a kind much liked by the Romans, because of the excitement they afforded, each pair consisting of a light-built, light-armed, nimble expert pitted against a heavily built, heavily armed ruffian, the two supposed to be equally matched, the strength and weapons of the one fully balanced by the skill and agility of the other.
Viewing fights of this kind Manlia felt rather than heard or saw a change in Brinnaria next her, felt her stiffen and grow silent, rigid and tense. Manlia glanced at her, followed her gaze and became interested in the fight Brinnaria was watching. Before them, not immediately below them, but some distance out in the arena, fought a conspicuous pair of gladiators. One was a great hulking full-armored brute of a Goth, helmeted and corseleted, kilted in bronze-plated leather straps, booted, as it were, with ample shin-guards of thick hide, bronze-plated like the straps of his flapping kilt. He carried a big oval shield and threatened with a long straight sword his adversary, a Roman in every outline, a slender young man, barefoot, bare-legged, kilted with the scantiest form of gladiator’s body-piece and apron, clad in a green tunic and carrying only the small round shield and short sabre of a Thracian. He wore a helmet like a skull cap with a broad nose-guard that amounted to a mask, above which were small openings for his eyes.
Conning this pair Manlia’s attention was riveted by the slighter man. He was very light on his feet, jaunty of bearing and, as it were, ablaze with self-confidence.
Manlia, who was an expert judge of sword-fighting, perceived at once that he was a master of his art. His method for the moment was to hold back, lead his opponent on and bide his time. His attitudes and movements bespoke the most perfect knowledge of sword play in all its finest details. But what most held Manlia’s attention was his beauty of form and a strange something about him, a long-armed, long-legged appearance. She turned to Brinnaria.
“I should have sworn,” she said, “that there was not in all the world another man like Segontius Almo. But that Thracian is a duplicate of him, as like him as if he were his twin brother.”
“More like him than a twin brother,” Brinnaria replied, her voice muffled and choked. “I’ve been watching him ever since he came in. I recognized him in the procession this morning. That is Almo.”
“Almo!” breathed Manlia, in a horrified whisper.
“Yes, Almo!” hissed Brinnaria.