grief through the increasing numbers of their following and lack of
discipline; he could think of a dozen who had been betrayed by paid
informers of the government, posing as friendly brigands.

And besides, he had no intention of adopting brigandry as a profession,
though he realized that he must make a reputation as a brigand if he
hoped to be anything else than a helpless fugitive. As a rebel against
Commodus it might be possible to raise a good-sized army in a month or
two, but that would only serve to bring the Roman armies out of camp,
led by generals eager for cheap victories. He must be too resourceful
to be taken by police--too insignificant to tempt the legions out of
camp. Brigandry was as distasteful to him and as far beneath his
dignity as the pursuit of brigands was beneath the dignity of any of
those Roman generals who owed their rank to Commodus. For them, as for
himself, the pettiness of brigandry led nowhither. Only one object
appealed to them--fame and its perquisites. Only one object appealed to
himself: to redeem his estates and to avenge his father. That could be
accomplished only by the death of Commodus: He laughed, as he thought
of himself pitted alone against Commodus the deified, mad monster who
could marshal the resources of the Roman empire!

Such thoughts filled his mind until he reached the lonely cross-road,
where the narrower, tree-lined road to Daphne met the great main highway
leading northward over the mountains. There was the usual row of
gibbets reared on rising ground against the sky by way of grim reminder
to slaves and other would-be outlaws that the arm of Rome was long, not
merciful. Five of the gibbets were vacant, except for an arm on one of
them, that swayed in the wind as it hung by a cord from the wrist. The
sixth had a man on it--dead.