“What shall we do?” quavered Manlia.
“Do?” snorted Brinnaria, “do nothing.”
“But we can pray,” Manlia panted. “We can pray. Surely you are praying, Brinnaria?”
“I am praying,” came the answer, in a viperish whisper. “I’m praying he may be killed.”
“Killed!” Manlia gasped.
“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.