of his cell-mate. "We are well
fed, well kept, well exercised; like horses. But, like horses, we are
lower than slaves. Slaves have some freedom of action; most of us have
none. We fight--fight whoever or whatever our cursed owners send us
against. Those of us who live fight again; but the end is certain and
comes soon. I had a wife and children once. So did you. Is there any
chance, however slight, that either of us will ever know them again; or
learn even whether they live or die? None. At this price, is your life
worth living? Mine is not."

Livius the Bithynian, who had been staring out past the bars of the
cubicle and over the smooth sand of the arena toward Nero's garlanded
and purple-bannered throne, turned and studied his fellow gladiator from
toe to crown. The heavily-muscled legs, the narrow waist, the
sharply-tapering torso, the enormous shoulders. The leonine head,
surmounted by an unkempt shock of red-bronze-auburn hair. And, lastly,
the eyes--gold-flecked, tawny eyes--hard and cold now with a ferocity
and a purpose not to be concealed.

"I have been more or less expecting something of this sort," Livius said
then, quietly. "Nothing overt--you have builded well, Patroclus--but to
one who knows gladiators as I know them there has been something in the
wind for weeks past. I take it that someone swore his life for me and
that I should not ask who that friend might be."

"One did. You should not."

"So be it. To my unknown sponsor, then, and to the gods, I give thanks,
for I am wholly with you. Not that I have any hope. Although your tribe
breeds men--from your build and hair and eyes you descend from
Spartacus himself--you know that even he did not succeed. Things now are
worse, infinitely worse, than they were in his day. No one who has ever
plotted against Nero has had any measure of success; not even his
scheming slut of a mother. All have died, in what fashions you know.
Nero is vile, the basest of the base. Nevertheless, his spies are the
most efficient that the world has ever known. In spite of that, I feel
as you do. If I can take with me two or three of the Praetorians, I die
content. But by your look, your plan is not what I thought, to storm
vainly Nero's podium yonder. Have you, by any chance, some trace of hope
of success?"

"More than a trace; much more." The Thracian's teeth bared in a wolfish
grin. "His spies are, as you say, very good. But, this time, so are we.
Just as hard and just as