Stiff and bruised, the young man flung himself on the bottom of the skiff, and panted and nursed himself after his mortal struggle.

Now that the combat was over he felt weak and sore enough, and was quite content to let Cappadox adjust such improvised bandages as were available, and scull him toward Puteoli.

Fortunately none of the bruises was caused by any harder weapons than fists, and, though his body was black and blue, he had sustained no serious hurt.
And so he rested his head on a wrap, and closed his eyes, and called up before his mind the vision of Cornelia.

How beautiful she had been when he met her! How much more beautiful when she thrust her way through the fighting slaves and put the sword in his hand, at that moment of mortal combat, which he expected to be his last! Did he only love her because her face was sweet, her voice was sweet, and the touch of her hair was sweet?
Happy was he, her lover;--he could say "no," and have never a fear that his sincerity would be tested.

And Lucius Ahenobarbus?
He hated him with a perfect hatred.