Palus staggered to his feet and put up his gory hand to his yellow curls,
with a convincingly agonized gesture of grief and horror.
He uttered some words, I heard his voice, but not the words. Folk say he
said:
"I have killed the only match I had on earth, the second-best fighter
earth ever saw."
The audience, I among them, stared, awe-struck and fascinated, at Commodus
laying a bloody hand on his own head; we shuddered: I saw many look back
and forth from Palus in the arena to the figure on the Imperial throne.
The guards ran, the surgeons' helpers ran, even Galen ran, but Aemilius
Laetus reached Palus first, and, between the dazed and stunned _lanistae_,
picked up the big golden helmet and replaced it on his head, hiding his
features. The distance from the _podium_ wall to the center of the arena
is so great, the distance from any other part of the audience so much
greater, that, while many of the spectators were astounded, suspicious or
curious, not one could be certain that Palus was, beyond peradventure, the
Prince of the Republic in person. Palus stood there, alternately staring
at his dead crony and talking to Laetus and Galen.
The heralds had run up with the guards. Laetus, without any pretense of
consultation with the dummy Emperor on the throne, spoke to the heralds
and each stalked off to one focus of the ellipse of the arena.
Pages:
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771
772
773
774
775
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783