"I haven't much faith in the gods," said Narcissus. "They may be all
like Commodus. I heard Galen say that men created gods in their own
image."

Sextus smiled at him.

"You have been listening, I suppose, to Marcia and her Christians."

"Listening, yes, but I don't lean either way. It doesn't seem to me
that Christianity can do much for a man when javelins are in the air.
And besides, to be frank with you, Sextus, I rather hope to make a
little something for myself. God though he is said to be, I would like
to see Commodus killed for I loathe him. But I hope to survive him and
obtain my freedom. Pertinax would manumit me. That is why I applied
for the post of trainer in this beastly ergastulum. It is bad enough to
have to endure the gloom of men virtually condemned to death and looking
for a chance to kill themselves, but it is better than treading the sand
to have one's liver split, one's throat cut, and be dragged out with the
hooks. I have fought many a fight, but I liked each one less than the
last."

He got up and strode again along the corridor, glancing into the cells,
where gladiators sat fettered to the wall.

"This whole business is getting too confused for me," he grumbled,
sitting down again. "You want to kill Commodus, as is reasonable.
Marcia has ordered me to kill you, which is unreasonable! Yet for the
present she protects you. Why? She knows you are Commodus' enemy. She
seems anxious to save Commodus. Yet she encourages Pertinax, who
doesn't want to be emperor; he only dallies with the thought because