<span style="font-family: 'Book Antiqua'">Regulus looked on, taking his time as mulled over the sight below him. At that moment he was the master of life and death; a god looking down on the pathetic waste of a pathetic man. He smiled a dry, thin smile and with a flourish of his hand he addressed his men below. He was far from being done with his cruel games.<br/>
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"Fighters and hopefuls of Ludus Macatus, you have just witnessed what, for some of you, is the closest thing to an arena bout that you have ever seen. As spectators, as the crowd, what say you? Before you stands a clear victor, and one who has been clearly defeated. What end would you cry for from the stands in the arena? Mercy? Or death?"<br/>
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Tiberious' eyes widened, but he did not dare to make his unease known to Dominus. What end did he wish to accomplish? Would the men be divided? Would they divide in their choice and side each one to the man they were closer to? Think and choose as the cruel mob would? Would they hazard a guess to the Dominus' pleasure and choose accordingly? Far away from the sands, he watched an equally riveting drama unfold.<br/>
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Ezara, too, stayed in place, eyes on Yannis and Mettius, reading their faces, their convictions and wills. He had not expected such a turn of events, but he was also not shocked by it. Again the Dominus of Ludus Macatus showed his shrewd strength. Mettius had shown disrespect, recklessnes, and was now grievously injured. Only a gladiator of well renown might garner enough favor to be lavished with the kind of care that would be needed to heal such and injury. He keenly looked to the men's faces, tried to read their thoughts through their expressions. </span>