finished to resemble gilded eagle's wings, projected over the arena so
that it was well screened and in shadow. There was none, observing from
below, who could have sworn it had not been the emperor himself who sat
in the box and watched Paulus the gladiator showing off his skill.

The assembled gladiators, perfectly aware of Paulus' true identity, went
through the farce of solemnly saluting as the emperor the man who stared
down at them from beneath an awning's shadow between golden eagle's
wings, and who returned the salute with a wave of the arm that all Rome
could have recognized.

Commodus, nearly as naked as when he was born, came running from a
dressing room and pranced and leaped over the sand to bring the sweat-
beads to his skin; then, snatching at the nearest gladiator, wrestled
with him until the breathless victim cried for mercy; dropped him then,
as crushed as if a python had left a job half-finished, and shouted for
the ashen sword-sticks. In a minute, with a leather buckler on his left
arm, he was parrying the thrusts and blows of six men, driving and so
crowding them on one another's toes that only two could seriously answer
the terrific flailing of his own ash stick. He named them, named his
blow, and laid them one by one, half-stunned and bleeding on the sand,
until the last one by a quick feint landed on him, raising a great
crimson welt across his shoulders.

"Well done!" Commodus exclaimed and smote him on the skull so fiercely
that he broke the sword-stick. "You have killed him," said a senator as
two men promptly seized the victim's arms to drag him out.

"Possibly," said Commodus. "That blow I landed on him would have killed
a horse. But he is fortunate. He dies proud--prouder than you ever