The Battle

The fight was brutal. The two men were battling with nothing but their bare hands—one bare-chested with a powerful, muscular body, the other wearing a tunic but still thick with muscle. The outcome would decide who would lead the band of escaped slaves and gladiators against the Roman legions marching ever closer.

Roche, the bare-chested former gladiator, dominated from the start. His massive fists hammered Androcles again and again, driving him backward with every punishing blow. Androcles staggered, bent over, groaning as Roche’s relentless barrage broke through his guard. It seemed only a matter of moments before Roche finished him.

But treachery was afoot. Androcles’ men had mingled among the crowd of onlookers, waiting for the right moment to tip the scales. One of them—Lucius—stood closest, a cold readiness in his eyes, sword already drawn but kept low and hidden at his side.

Roche had Androcles beaten. The man sagged before him, barely able to stand. Roche pulled back his big, beefy arm high above his head, ready to deliver the final, devastating blow. The motion stretched his entire naked torso—every thick slab of muscle drawn tight, his abdomen completely exposed and unguarded.

Lucius’s gaze locked on the broad, flexed expanse of Roche’s unprotected belly. With his sword arm cocked far back, he charged from the crowd. Roche never saw him coming. In a flash, Lucius lunged and drove his blade into the center of Roche’s bare belly with brutal force. Flesh and dense muscle gave way, the steel punching through and ripping out Roche’s back in a wet burst of blood.

The former gladiator bellowed in agony, staggering as the blade was viciously run through his muscular torso. The crowd, moments before roaring for his victory, fell into stunned silence. Lucius yanked the sword free with a savage jerk, stepping back as Roche doubled over, clutching his gut with both hands, his face contorted in pain.

Androcles rose to his feet, his breathing ragged, and wrenched the sword from Lucius’s grasp. His left hand clamped down on Roche’s massive, blood-slick shoulder, lifting him upright so his naked, muscular torso was once again fully exposed.

He looked over the sea of faces and raised his voice so all could hear. “Sheer muscle alone won’t defeat the Romans!” he declared. “It will take cunning and trickery—a lesson lost on Roche!”

Without another word, Androcles pulled the sword back and brutally rammed it into Roche’s upper abs, driving the steel through to the hilt. The point burst from his back in a wet spray, the brutal force lifting him onto his toes.

Androcles tore the blade free and stepped away. Roche swayed for a heartbeat, then pitched forward and crashed to the dirt. His arms flopped limply to his sides, blood pumping from the two gaping wounds in his belly and rolling down the ridges of his powerful torso. The great gladiator lay still. Roche was dead.

Gasps rippled through the onlookers, some nodding in grim agreement, others exchanging uneasy glances. A few shouted approval, but most stood frozen, the weight of what they had just witnessed settling over them. 

Androcles turned back to the crowd, raising the crimson blade high above his head.

“Your champion is gone!” he roared. “I am your leader now—and I will lead you to stand against Rome!”

A murmur swelled into a roar of approval. The tribe had its new chief, and war with the legions was coming.