XXVI

   [Bìxîa, things do not seem right.]

    He looked at who was talking. The gladiator seemed serious. He didn't know what for. But he hadn't seen him as that ever. He was tempted to believe that what he was saying was of great consequence. He had no choice but to believe that. He was a pawn of his own feeling. He allowed the pain etched in the forehead of the gladiator to ease. He knew that the fellow had his stances and had quite the number of things to project. He had no idea how and why. He was simply at the verge of spilling his guts. Everyone who has to do that would simply do just that. Their was no exception to it. There had never been. The gladiator was keen. His robe were becoming grey at the tip of his collar. He had no idea when last the gladiator had washed it. And that didn't matter. If he had given them the right to make meaning of their lives, that probably wouldn't had happened. He probably was responsible for wha