ruthless. Many of his spies among us have died;
most, if not all, of the rest are known. They, too, shall die. Glatius,
for instance. Once in a while, by the luck of the gods, a man kills a
better man than he is; but Glatius has done it six times in a row,
without getting a scratch. But the next time he fights, in spite of
Nero's protection, Glatius dies. Word has gone out, and there are
gladiators' tricks that Nero never heard of."

"Quite true. One question, and I too may begin to hope. This is not the
first time that gladiators have plotted against Ahenobarbus. Before the
plotters could accomplish anything, however, they found themselves
matched against each other and the signal was always for death, never
for mercy. Has this...?" Livius paused.

"It has not. It is that which gives me the hope I have. Nor are we
gladiators alone in this. We have powerful friends at court; one of whom
has for days been carrying a knife sharpened especially to slip between
Nero's ribs. That he still carries that knife and that we still live are
proofs enough for me that Ahenobarbus, the matricide and incendiary, has
no suspicion whatever of what is going on."

(At this point Nero on his throne burst into a roar of laughter, his
gross body shaking with a merriment which Petronius and Tigellinus
ascribed to the death-throes of a Christian woman in the arena.)

"Is there any small thing which I should be told in order to be of
greatest use?" Livius asked.

"Several. The prisons and the pits are so crowded with Christians that
they die and stink, and a pestilence threatens. To mend matters, some
scores of hundreds of them are to be crucified here tomorrow."

"Why not? Everyone knows that they are poisoners of wells and murderers
of children, and practitioners of magic. Wizards and witches."

"True enough." Patroclus shrugged his massive shoulders. "But to get on,
tomorrow night, at full dark, the remaining hundreds who have not been
crucified are to be--have you ever seen sarmentitii and semaxii?"

"Once only. A gorgeous spectacle, truly, almost as thrilling as to feel
a man die on your sword. Men and women, wrapped in oil-soaked garments
smeared with pitch and chained to posts, make splendid torches indeed.
You mean, then, that...?"

"Aye. In Caesar's own garden. When the light is brightest Nero will ride
in parade. When his chariot passes the tenth torch our ally swings his
knife. The Praetorians will rush around, but there wil