wore, for he was proud of the many scars which gleamed red and white on
his fair skin. He had pushed back his little bronze helmet, so that the
terrible aspect of the left side of his face might not be lost on the
populace. While he was engaged in fighting three panthers and a lion,
the lion had torn out his eye and with it part of his cheek. His name
was Tarautas, and he was known throughout the empire as the most brutal
of gladiators, for he had also earned the further privilege of never
fighting but for life or death, and never under any circumstances either
granting or asking quarter. Where he was engaged corpses strewed the
plain.

Caesar knew that he himself had been nicknamed Tarautas after this man,
and he was not ill pleased; for, above all things, he aimed at being
thought strong and terrible, and this the gladiator was without a peer in
his own rank of life. They knew each other: Tarautas had received many a
gift from his imperial patron after hard-won victories in which his blood
had flowed. And now, as the scarred veteran, who, puffed up with
conceit, walked singly and apart in the long train of gladiators, cast a
roving and haughty glance on the ranks of spectators, he was filled out
of due time with the longing to center all eyes on himself, the one aim
of his so frequently risking his life in these games. His chest swelled,
he braced up the tension of his supple sinews, and as he passed the
imperial seats he whirled his short sword round his head, describing a
circle in the air, with such skill and such persistent rapidity, that it
appeared like a disk of flashing steel. At the same time his harsh,
powerful voice bellowed out, "Hail, Caesar!" sounding above the shouts of
his comrades like the roar of a lion; and Caracalla, who had not yet
vouchsafed a friendly word or pleasant look to any Alexandrian, waved his
hand graciously again and again to this audacious monster, whose strength
and skill delighted him.