was no uncommon thing for
military fops, eager to win the applause of the multitude, or to goad
their jaded weariness of life into a momentary excitement by a spice of
real danger, to enter the lists of the arena; and Ligurius was at once
the most brilliant swordsman in the Twelfth Legion, and the most
_ennuy[e/]e_ and world-weary man in Rome.

He was pitted against a brawny Hercules, the strongest and hugest of the
whole school of gladiators--a British prisoner of war, who had been long
the pride and boast of the arena. As they stood face to face, the young
officer in burnished armour, inlaid with silver and gold, and the
mighty thews of his opponent encased in leather and bronze, the betting
was heavy in favour of the British giant. Each felt that he had a foeman
worthy of his steel. They walked warily around each other, each watching
with eager eye every movement of his antagonist. Every thrust on either
side was skilfully parried, any advantage of strength on the part of the
British warrior being matched by the superior nimbleness of the Roman
officer. At last a rapid thrust by Ligurius severed a tendon in the
sword-arm of his foe, and it fell nerveless by his side. With a giant
effort the disabled warrior sprang upon the Roman as if to crush him by
sheer weight; but Ligurius nimbly sprang aside, and his antagonist,
slipping in the gory sand, fell headlong to the ground. In an instant
the Roman's foot was on his neck and his sword at his breast. With a
courteous gesture, Ligurius raised his sword and waved it toward the
Emperors' tribune and to the crowded seats of the podium, as if asking
the signal to spare the vanquished gladiator, while the despairing look
of the latter seemed with mute eloquence to ask for life. "_Habet!
Habet!_" rang round the Coliseum, but not a single sign of mercy was
made, not a single thumb was reversed. "_Recipe ferrum_," roared the mob
at the prostrate giant; and then shouted to Ligurius, "_Occide!
Occide!_--Kill! Kill!"

The gallant Roman heeded them as he would heed the howl of wolves. "I am
not a butcher," he said, with a defiant sneer, and he sheathed his sword
and, much to the surprise of his discomfitted foe, lent his hand to
raise him from the ground.

"You are a brave man," he said, "I want you as a standard bearer for the
Twelfth Legion. That is better than making worm's meat of you. Rome may
need such soldiers before long."

The Emperors were not unwilling to grant this n