‘Do you fear death?’ asked the Briton. ‘If so, I pity your lot.’
‘The gods—or God if there be but one God—cannot be worse than men,’ answered Onesimus gloomily.
Glanydon was silent. After a pause, he said, ‘I am a rude barbarian, as they call me here; yet he who taught me spoke much of “love for all and hope for all.”’
Onesimus sat with bowed head, and the Briton was moved. ‘We are brothers,’ he said. ‘Even in this hell we can love one another.’
But one sickening thought was in the breasts of both of them. They had sat side by side in daily intercourse; their common friendlessness, their common sympathies, had thrown them together in the closest bonds, and those bonds had been strengthened by the discovery that both had been taught at least the rudiments of a holy faith. But the day of the games was rapidly approaching, and the chances of the lot, or the caprice of the Prætor, might easily cause them to be pitted against each other. It was horrible to think that either of them might be compelled to drive sword or dagger into the throat or heart of his friend.
‘Supposing that we are matched together?’ said Glanydon, the evening before the display.
‘Then we must fight,’ said Onesimus. ‘Have we not taken the oath “to be bound, to be burned, to be scourged, to be slain,” or do anything else that is required of us as legitimate gladiators, giving up alike our souls and our bodies?’[75]
‘Which of us will win?’ asked Glanydon, with a sad smile.
‘You,’ said the Phrygian. ‘You are stronger than I am, and taller.’
‘Yes, but you are quicker and more active, and you can’t tell how I hate that net of yours. I know you will catch me in it—’