with it. Hearts had been
ecstatically in throats. Each person there, man or woman, had felt the
indescribable thrill of death--vicariously, safely--and every fiber of
their lusts demanded more. More! Each spectator knew that one of those
men would die that afternoon. None wanted, or would permit them both to
live. This was to the death, and death there would be.

Women, their faces blotched and purple with emotion, shrieked and
screamed. Men, stamping their feet and waving their arms, yelled and
swore. And many, men and women alike, laid wagers.

"Five hundred sesterces on Fermius!" one shouted, tablet and stylus in
air.

"Taken!" came an answering yell. "The Gaul is done--Patroclus all but
had him there!"

"One thousand, you!" came another challenge. "Patroclus missed his
chance and will never get another--a thousand on Fermius!"

"Two thousand!"

"Five thousand!"

"Ten!"

The fighters closed--swung--stabbed. Shields clanged vibrantly under the
impact of fended strokes, swords whined and snarled. Back and
forth--circling--giving and taking ground--for minute after endless
minute that desperately furious exhibition of skill, of speed and of
power and of endurance went on. And as it went on, longer and longer
past the time expected by even the most optimistic, tension mounted
higher and higher.

Blood flowed crimson down the Gaul's bare leg and the crowd screamed its
approval. Blood trickled out of the joints of the Thracian's armor and
it became a frenzied mob.

No human body could stand that pace for long. Both men were tiring fast,
and slowing. With the drive of his weight and armor, Patroclus forced
the Gaul to go where he wanted him to go. Then, apparently gathering his
every resource for a final effort, the Thracian took one short, choppy
step forward and swung straight down, with all his strength.

The blood-smeared hilt turned in his hands; the blade struck flat and
broke, its length whining viciously away. Fermius, although staggered by
the sheer brute force of the abortive stroke, recovered almost
instantly; dropping his sword and snatching at his gladius to take
advantage of the wonderful opportunity thus given him.

But that breaking had not been accidental; Patroclus made no attempt to
recover his balance. Instead, he ducked past the surprised and shaken
Gaul. Still stooping, he seized the mace, which everyone except he had
forgotten, and swung; swung with all the totalized and synchronized