Thrasaric turned, and saw the figure of the young Moor coming toward him. He had been bound hand and foot, and though successful in breaking the rope around his ankles, he had been unable to sever the one firmly fastened about his wrists, and was greatly impeded in forcing a way through the crowd by his inability to use his hands.
"Let him go! Let him run!" ordered Thrasaric.
"No," shouted the pursuers. "He has just knocked his master down by a blow of his fist. His master commanded it! He must die! A thousand sestertii to the man who captures him."
Stones flew, and here and there a spear whizzed by.
"A thousand sestertii?" cried one Roman to another. "Friend Victor, let us forget our quarrel and earn them together."
"Done. Halves, O Laurus!"
The fugitive now darted like an arrow straight toward Thrasaric. His lithe, noble figure came nearer and nearer. Lofty wrath glowed on the finely moulded young face. Then, close beside Thrasaric, Laurus grasped at the rope hanging from the Moor's wrists. A violent jerk, the youth fell. Victor grasped his arm.
"The thousand sestertii are ours," cried Laurus, drawing the rope toward him.
"No," exclaimed Thrasaric, snatching his short-sword from its sheath. The weapon flashed through the cord. "Fly, Moor!"
The youth was instantly on his feet again; one grateful glance at the Vandal, and he was in the midst of the race-horses.