AURELIUS returned from Syria with his victorious army in the nine hundred and twenty-ninth year of Rome, 176 of our era, ten years after the great pestilence. He had merely crushed a local rebellion, but a vast coalition of nomadic Arab tribes of the desert had been allied with the rebels, and to the Romans it seemed that their Emperor had won a great victory in a mighty campaign. Aurelius humored their mood, and with good judgment, for they needed all the encouragement possible. He arranged to have his return celebrated by shows of all kinds, theatrical performances, fights of gladiators, beast fights, horse-races uncountable and above all, by that thrilling procession of a victor and his armed soldiers through the city along the Sacred Street, up to the great temple on the Capitol, which was the highest honor an army and a commander could receive at the hands of the Roman government, which signalized a notable victory over notable odds, which was called a triumph. Of triumphs Rome had seen fewer than three hundred in more than nine hundred years. Not one of the three hundred had been as magnificent as the triumph of Aurelius.

Its auxiliary spectacles were similarly magnificent. In particular the gladiatorial shows surpassed anything within the memory of the oldest living spectator.

Causidiena, whose eyes troubled her greatly, found that watching the triumphal procession caused her so much pain that she absented herself from the remaining shows. To all of these, races, beast-fights and combats of gladiators, she insisted that the other five Vestals should go together. The arrangement was unusual, but no one could object, for no one would hint or even think that the sacred fire would be in any danger of going out with such a Chief Vestal as Causidiena caring for it or that she needed any other Vestal to assist her. Likewise her five colleagues were genuinely pleased that not one of them would miss any part of the shows.

As the number was odd, Causidiena decreed that they should be conveyed to the spectacles each in her own state coach, attended by her maid of honor. The maids, of course, did not sit with the Vestals, but had seats far back with the populace.

In their luxurious private box in the Colosseum the five Vestals sat in the ample front row arm-chairs. They were seated not according to seniority, but Numisia in the middle, Meffia and Brinnaria, as the youngest, on either side of her, Gargilia next Meffia, and Manlia next Brinnaria.

In the Imperial loge near them Aurelius, now for more than a year a widower, presided over the games, clad in his gorgeous silk robes and attended by his fifteen-year-old son Antoninus, afterward known by his nickname of “Commodus.” The four tiers of the Colosseum were packed with spectators, pontiffs, senators, nobles, ambassadors magistrates and other notables in the front seats along the coping of the arena wall, lesser notables in the first tier, well-to-do persons in the second tier, traders and manufacturers and such like in the third tier and the commonalty in the fourth.

Besides the ninety thousand seated spectators* many thousand more stood in the galleries, in the openings of the stairways, in any place where a foothold could be found and from which a view could be obtained. The outlook from the Vestals’ box was across the level sand to the gigantic curve of seats, all hidden under their occupants, so that the interior of the Amphitheatre was a vast expanse of flower-crowned heads, eager faces and waving fans.

During that second day of gladiatorial fighting Manlia had several times said to Brinnaria:

“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.

“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.

“I didn’t,” Brinnaria snapped. “I prayed for him to be killed. I wish he had been. I’m not the only one who has recognized him. Aurelius has and he has told Antoninus; I watched him.”

“How could you?” Manlia exclaimed. “How could you watch anything but Almo?”

“I could and I did,” Brinnaria asseverated. “I’m looking all ways at once, just now. The news is all over the Imperial loge already. They are looking at me as well as at him. I hope he’ll be killed this next bout.” The lanista, in fact, at once matched Almo with another full-armed giant. Again Almo gave an exhibition of perfect swordsmanship. The Romans were as quick to appreciate form in fighting as we moderns are to applaud our best bail players; they recognized pre-eminence in the swordman’s art, as we acclaim the skill of a crack baseball pitcher or cricket bowler.

Almo caught the eye of spectator after spectator, till most of the audience on that side of the arena were watching the fight in which he took part to the exclusion of everything else that was going on. He displayed that perfect balance of all the mental and physical faculties, that instantaneous co-ordination of eye, brain and muscle, which only an occasional phenomenon can attain to. He made no mistakes, bore himself like a dancer on a tight-rope, circled about his adversary, warded off all his thrusts, lunges and rushes, turned aside his long sword with his small round shield without a trace of effort, and at his leisure found a joint in his body armor and pierced his heart with an ostentatiously difficult lunge delivered with the acme of apparent ease.

“There,” sighed Manlia, “I prayed hard.”

“So did I,” Brinnaria murmured, “but I prayed the other way. He ought to have been killed already. Numisia has recognized him and he has been recognized by three or four nobles along the coping. The rumor is spreading from each of them and running through the audience.” Manlia, in fact, looking about was aware of an unusual stir among the spectators, of notes being handed along and read, of whisperings, callings, signs, pointings; of messengers worming their way from row to row and from tier to tier.

Almo won his third bout. While it was in progress Manlia had seen one of the Emperor’s orderlies enter the arena from one of the small doors in the wall and confer with the chief lanista, who directed the fighting.

By the time Almo began a fourth bout half the audience was looking at him or at Brinnaria. There were thousands present who had survived the pestilence, who had been present fifteen years before when she had let herself down into the arena and had rescued the retiarius. They remembered her spectacular interference and were curious as to how she would now comport herself. Brinnaria, erect and calm, fanned herself placidly.

Almo won his fourth bout.

By this time the arrangements of the lanistas had been so far modified that, instead of a great throng of fighters, there were, in the whole immense arena, not more than twenty pairs.

With scarcely a breathing space Almo was pitted against a fifth adversary. By the time he had disposed of him the entire audience, fully a hundred thousand souls, were as well aware of what was going on as was Brinnaria herself. She was pale, but entirely collected. To Manlia she whispered venomously:

“Castor be thanked, he is certain to be killed, Aurelius has attended to that.” In fact the Roman sense of fair play was offended when the lanista gave Almo a mere moment of rest and then set against him a sixth antagonist. Murmurs ran from tier to tier, there were hoots and cat-calls.

Aurelius put up his hand and the people became still.

It was not often that the entire throng in the Colosseum focussed its attention on anyone fighter. That happened now. The dozen or more other pairs of fighters were ignored, all eyes were on Almo and his opponent—all eyes that did not stray towards Brinnaria.

Almo was not showing any signs of weariness, but he was plainly husbanding his strength. The sixth bout was tame—seldom had the Amphitheatre displayed so mild a set to. The heavy-armed man had seen Almo dispose of five like himself, he was timid; Almo was not timid, but he was cautious. The result was a tedious exhibition of fencing for position, each sword monotonously caught on the other shield. At the end Almo slashed his opponent’s wrist, feinted, pretended to be unable to avoid a clumsy thrust, slipped inside the big man’s guard and drove his sabre deep under his arm-pit.

The Colosseum rang with cheers.

Without so much as a sponging down or a mouthful of wine Almo was faced by a seventh fresh swordsman in complete armor. This time there were no caterwaulings or groans. Even the upper gallery had recognized Almo or been told who he was, even the populace had remembered or had been informed of the relation between Almo and Brinnaria. Everybody had recalled or been reminded of her rescue of the retiarius.

The audience collectively comprehended that Aurelius meant Almo to be defeated and put at an adversary’s mercy before Brinnaria, that he was testing her.

The habitual hubbub, hum, and buzz of undertones was checked to a very unusual degree, the Amphitheatre became almost still.

But when Almo fairly duplicated his first bout and neatly, almost without effort, cut his victim’s throat, the audience cheered him vociferously.

Louder, if possible did they acclaim his calm and adequate strategy against his eighth antagonist.

A ninth and a tenth were promptly put beyond power to hurt him by wounds ingeniously disabling, but far from deadly.

The eleventh bout was more tedious than the sixth.

Almo divined some greater strength or skill in this adversary and played him warily. When the audience was bored to the point of being almost ready to call for something diverting Almo slaughtered his man with a terrible wound between his corselet and kilt.

The twelfth, thirteenth and fourteenth antagonists Almo plainly despised. He stood almost still, hardly altering the position of his feet except to turn as the huge barbarians circled ponderously about him. Each he brought down with his first lunge.

As the fifteenth bout began the audience was manifestly impatient and restive. But they were not bored. That one Thracian, almost without rest, should successively dispose of fourteen antagonists, in the fullest armor, was a notable feat. The perfect form of Almo’s fighting was even more notable. At each victory the audience cheered him till they were hoarse. They seemed to cheer quite spontaneously and to need the relief for their feelings. But also they seemed to mean to give him as long a rest as was in their power. They were all for him.

But no man could go on fighting continually without fatigue. In his fifteenth bout Almo moved heavily.

The other man was unusually quick for a big man. He handled his big sword deftly. After much sparring he was too quick for Almo, and the point of his slender blade scratched Almo’s splay vizor, nicked his chin, and tore a long shallow slash in the skin of his right breast.

Blood welling through it stained the green of Almo’s tunic; blood dropping from his chin spotted the bright green.

The populace groaned.

Manlia prayed.

Brinnaria, under scrutiny of two hundred thousand eyes, sat erect, fanned herself steadily, and gazed straight before her. To all appearance she was as indifferent to Almo as if he did not exist.

After that Alma moved like a sleep-walker or a man in a dream, dully and dazedly.

The big man feinted and lunged cleverly. The point of his weapon ripped Alma’s thigh on the outside above the knee. No man could stand up after such a wound. He went down, his shield under him.

From all around the arena, from every tier, automatically, thousands of arms shot out, thumb flat. Instantly every arm whipped back and was hidden under its owner’s robe. All realized that expression of sympathy was not their business. A hush fell. Everybody looked at the Emperor and at Brinnaria.

Brinnaria sat erect in her arm-chair, fanning herself evenly, staring straight across the arena. The same instinct, the same curiosity which actuated the rest of the audience, restrained the Vestals from giving the sign of mercy. All felt that the matter concerned only Aurelius and Brinnaria, that for anyone else to interfere would be flouting the Emperor.

Brinnaria, white as a corpse, dizzy and numb, kept up the unvarying motion of her fan. Otherwise she was perfectly still.

The victor rolled his eyes along the rows of spectators. He got no inkling of their feelings.

He gazed at the Vestals. The audience saw him gaze that way. Brinnaria ignored him. Almo and all the world.

The victor looked toward the Emperor.

Aurelius held out his right hand, thumb out.

The lanista removed Almo’s helmet. If anyone had doubted his identity the doubt was dispelled among all near enough to make out his face.

The victor put one foot on Almo’s chest. Almo stretched his neck.

Brinnaria sat there, tense, pale, but as collected as if she had no interest in what was going on.

The savage standing over Alma glanced a second time towards the Emperor.

Aurelius was holding his arm at full stretch over the coping, thumb flat against the extended fingers.

Brinnaria knew that she had won, that Aurelius had put her to the test before all Rome, that she had stood the test, that all Rome was witness. Her fingers clutched the handle of her fan. She could hardly feel it in her grasp.

The big man took his foot from Almo’s chest.

The audience broke into howls of applause, gust after gust of cheers, roaring like a storm wind in a forest.

Brinnaria saw the arena, saw the spectators, through a film of mist, through a gray veil, through a fog of blackness. She realized that, for the first time in her life, she was on the verge of fainting. Mechanically she looked about her. Her glance fell on Meffia crumpled in her arm-chair.

That steadied her. If Meffia had fainted, she would not, she would not.

She did not faint. She fanned herself steadily as she watched the lanistas help Almo to hobble from the arena. When he was gone her attention returned to Meffia. Gargilia and Numisia were trying to rouse her.

She remained crumpled, she collapsed, she slid off her chair to the floor of the box. She lay in a horrid heap unmistakable in its limpness. The excitement had been too much for Meffia. She was stone dead.