Gladiator Escape

The gladiators arrived at the Colosseum before sunrise.

They had been transported from their ludus in heavy wooden cages mounted upon horse-drawn wagons. Iron bars enclosed the men on every side, while mounted Roman guards rode alongside the slow procession with swords at their hips and spears resting across their saddles.

Two dozen gladiators stood crowded within the swaying cages as the wagons passed through the sleeping streets of Rome.

They were not being brought to the arena to fight.

The Emperor’s games were to begin the following day, and the gladiators had been summoned to rehearse the ceremonies that would open the spectacle: the procession onto the arena sands, the formal salute before the imperial box, the positioning of each fighting company, and the routes by which the combatants would enter and leave the arena.

For the rehearsal, none wore the traditional armor of his fighting class. Nearly naked behind the iron bars, the gladiators looked less like men than beasts being transported to slaughter. Each wore only a pale cloth loincloth secured low around the hips by a broad leather belt, dark wrist cuffs, and sandals. Their muscular torsos remained fully exposed as the horse-drawn cages rumbled over the dusty cobblestone streets of Rome.

The Romans saw no need to armor men who would spend the morning merely walking through ceremonial formations.

That assumption was essential to the plan.

The revolt had been plotted days earlier within the ludus.

Whispers passed between the cells after nightfall. Messages were exchanged during training, concealed beneath the clash of wooden swords and the shouted commands of the instructors. Every man knew his role before the wagons ever departed.

They would not attempt their escape on the streets.

The cages were too secure, and the mounted escort could cut them down before they reached the surrounding alleys. Nor would they wait until they entered the open arena, where archers and guards could surround them beneath the gaze of thousands.

The underground corridors of the Colosseum offered their only real chance.

There, narrow passages would prevent the Romans from using their numbers. Stone walls would separate the escort. Blind corners, holding pens, storage chambers, and iron gates would create confusion. Most importantly, the guards would be relaxed, believing the gladiators had been brought only to rehearse a ceremony.

The men had chosen the exact junction where the revolt would begin.

They knew the route from previous appearances at the arena. After entering through the service gate, the procession would descend into the tunnels and pass between two massive stone support columns. The corridor narrowed sharply there, forcing the escort to divide around the cages and later funnel the gladiators into a thin marching column.

Beyond that junction lay the animal pens.

Beyond the pens stood an iron gate leading into older service passages beneath the outer foundations of the Colosseum.

No one knew with certainty where those passages emerged.

Freedom did not require certainty.

Only opportunity.

The wagons rolled beneath the looming shadow of the Colosseum and entered through a guarded service arch. Hooves struck stone. Wheels groaned beneath the weight of the cages. Torchlight replaced the gray light of dawn as the procession descended into the underground complex.

The gladiators remained silent.

Roccia stood at the front of the first cage, both hands resting loosely around the iron bars. He was an escaped gladiator only in his own mind...for now, he remained Rome’s property, a towering mass of thickly sculpted muscle confined behind iron.

Tiberius stood behind him, shaggy brown hair falling across his brow. Cassius and Varro occupied the second wagon. Marcellus remained near the rear, calmly counting the guards as they passed beneath each torch.

The soldiers escorting them appeared unconcerned.

Some joked with one another. One complained about being summoned before dawn. Another boasted about the crowds expected for the Emperor’s games. They had transported gladiators many times and had never seen a serious attempt at rebellion.

The wagons stopped inside a broad receiving chamber beneath the arena.

Roman guards opened the cages one at a time.

The gladiators climbed down and formed two lines as ordered. Their wrists remained unbound. The soldiers believed shackles would interfere with the ceremonial rehearsal and saw little danger in allowing unarmed men to walk beneath close supervision.

The Romans carried swords and spears.

The gladiators carried nothing.

Yet every man among them had been trained to kill.

A centurion ordered the procession forward.

Roccia marched near the front. Tiberius followed several places behind him. Cassius walked beside Varro, while Marcellus remained near the rear, listening to the measured rhythm of armored footsteps.

No gladiator spoke.

They did not need to.

As the procession entered the chosen junction, the passage narrowed sharply between the two support columns. The guards at the front were forced several paces ahead, while those at the rear fell behind.

The escort stretched apart.

Roccia glanced over his shoulder.

Marcellus gave the smallest nod.

The signal passed silently from one gladiator to the next.

Then Roccia stopped.

The guard behind him barked an order and shoved the flat of his sword against the gladiator’s bare back.

Roccia turned.

His hand closed around the Roman’s wrist.

The soldier had only enough time to look surprised before Roccia dragged him forward and drove a massive fist into his face.

The Roman collapsed instantly.

His sword clattered across the stones.

At the same moment, Tiberius spun upon the guard beside him and struck the man squarely in the jaw. Cassius seized another soldier from behind and hurled him into the wall. Varro caught a spear shaft in both hands, tore it from its owner, and rammed the Roman backward into his comrades.

The narrow passage erupted.

The guards had expected a rehearsal.

Instead, they found themselves trapped among men bred and trained for violence.

Gladiators surged against them from both directions. Bare hands closed around sword arms, helmets, belts, and breastplates. Soldiers were smashed against stone, dragged to the floor, and buried beneath the powerful bodies of the men they had believed safely controlled.

Roman blood was the first to stain the stones.

A guard raised his sword to strike Roccia from behind, but Marcellus caught the soldier by the armor and flung him across the passage. The Roman crashed into the wall, and his weapon skidded to Cassius’s feet.

Cassius snatched it up.

Tiberius claimed another sword from the guard he had knocked senseless. Varro wrenched a blade from a fallen Roman’s hand, while Marcellus remained unarmed, using only his fists and extraordinary strength to drive the soldiers back.

Within moments, the escort had been overwhelmed.

But the alarm was already spreading.

A wounded guard staggered into the adjoining tunnel, shouting for reinforcements. Farther away, iron doors slammed open. Horns sounded through the underground corridors, followed by the pounding of armored feet.

The gladiators gathered what weapons they could.

There were not enough for every man.

Roccia looked toward the dark passage leading to the animal pens and the old service tunnels beyond.

“That way,” Marcellus said.

The gladiators bolted.

Behind them, fresh Roman soldiers poured into the junction with swords drawn. Ahead waited a maze of stone corridors, locked gates, and men determined to stop them before they escaped the foundations of the Colosseum.

The gladiators had broken free from their escort.

They had not yet escaped Rome.

The tunnels beneath the Colosseum became a battlefield.

Torchlight flickered across the vaulted stone passageways, revealing overturned cages, discarded weapons, and Roman guards struggling to contain the escaped gladiators surging through the underground maze.

Overhead, Rome prepared for the following day’s spectacle, unaware that a far deadlier contest had already begun beneath the arena sands.

Men who had once fought one another for Rome’s amusement now battled side by side for freedom.

Roccia fought at the center of the uprising.

He was a gladiator of extraordinary size and strength, towering above most of the men around him. His broad shoulders, massive chest, and deeply carved abdomen formed a thickly sculpted torso left completely exposed above the pale loincloth secured low around his hips by a broad leather belt. Dark wrist cuffs encircled his forearms, and sweat already glistened across his powerful body beneath the wavering torchlight.

He remained unarmed.

The Roman soldiers surrounding him were not.

One guard charged with his sword raised above his head.

Roccia stepped inside the descending blow, seized the Roman by the sword arm, and hurled him sideways into the stone wall. Armor struck rock with a deafening crash.

A second soldier lunged, wildly thrusting his sword blade at Roccia’s unguarded abdomen.

Roccia twisted beyond the thrust, caught the man by the breastplate, and flung him backward into two advancing guards. All three crashed onto the stones in a tangle of armored limbs and fallen swords.

Another Roman attacked from behind.

Roccia turned, caught him by the throat and belt, and lifted the armored soldier completely from the ground. With a violent heave, he threw the man across the passage.

The remaining guards drew back.

For a moment, none dared approach the nearly naked gladiator standing before them with his fists clenched and his massive chest heaving.

But the rebellion had spread far beyond Roccia.

Tiberius was fighting only a few passages away from the others.

He was younger than Roccia, with shaggy brown hair falling around a hard, youthful face, but he was every bit as powerful. Like the other gladiators, he wore only a pale loincloth secured low on his hips by a broad leather belt, dark wrist cuffs, and sandals.

His thickly muscled torso gleamed with sweat as he fought beneath the wavering torchlight.

One Roman already lay sprawled at his feet, dropped by a crushing fist to the jaw. The soldier’s sword had skidded across the stones, and Tiberius had snatched it up.

Now he battled two Roman soldiers at once.

The young gladiator moved with savage strength, meeting their blows in a blur of steel and muscle. He drove one soldier backward with a violent slash, turned, and knocked aside a thrust from the other.

One Roman chopped downward at his head.

Tiberius raised his sword above him to block the overhead stroke.

Steel crashed against steel.

In that instant, a third soldier came at him from behind.

Unseen and unwilling to face the young gladiator openly, the Roman slashed his sword across Tiberius’s bare lower back.

Tiberius jolted violently.

“AAAHHH!”

The blade tore a burning line across his flesh. He instinctively arched beneath the stinging pain, his sword arm still raised above his head.

The movement lifted his chest and stretched his entire muscular torso taut.

His abdomen was left fully exposed.

One of the soldiers before him saw the opening and lunged at once.

He furiously drove his sword into Tiberius’s fully stretched abdomen.

ssssssSSST!!!

The blade plunged deep into his muscular belly.

“UUUUHHHH!!!”

Tiberius grunted loudly, his body jerking around the steel in his gut. His mouth fell open in shock as the sword tore through the hard wall of his abdomen.

The Roman quickly ripped the blade free.

Blood spilled over the front of Tiberius’s bare torso.

Before he could recover, the second soldier stepped forward and viciously thrust his own sword into Tiberius’s abdomen above the first wound.

ssssssSSST!!!

“AAAAHHHH!!!”

The second blade drove deep into his belly, opening him again before he could even lower his raised sword arm.

Tiberius’s weapon slipped from his fingers.

It clattered uselessly onto the stones.

Tiberius desperately seized the second blade lodged in his belly with both hands, his thickly muscled abdomen clenching tightly around the invading steel.

The soldier viciously ripped the sword from Tiberius’s body, dragging the bloodstained blade through the gladiator’s hands as he desperately clutched the steel.

Tiberius’s knees buckled, and he staggered backward, both hands clenched tightly over his belly as blood poured between his fingers.

Then the young gladiator dropped heavily to the ground.

He landed on one knee before collapsing onto his side, clutching the two wounds in his abdomen. His chest heaved, and his shaggy hair fell across his face as he struggled to breathe.

The Romans stood over him, panting.

None could have defeated him in the open passage.

It had taken a coward’s slash from behind to expose his bare torso and give the other soldiers the opening they needed.

Tiberius tightened his hands over the wounds in his belly. His handsome young face contorted in agony.

His strength faded quickly.

The Romans moved on, leaving the young gladiator curled upon the stones as the battle thundered through the tunnels around him.

Cassius fought in another narrow passage branching away from the central tunnel.

He was a young gladiator of striking contrasts. Shaggy blond hair framed a fair-skinned, boyish face that belied the power of the body beneath it. Broad shoulders, a heavily muscled chest, and a deeply carved abdomen made him appear every bit as formidable as Roccia and Tiberius.

Like them, he wore only a pale loincloth held in place by a broad leather belt, dark wrist cuffs, and sandals, the full expanse of his muscular torso bare, unarmored, and perilously vulnerable.

The innocent cast of his features vanished whenever he raised a sword.

Cassius had taken his weapon from a defeated Roman. Its bloodstained blade had already been driven through the torsos of several soldiers who attempted to block his escape.

Another Roman now knelt before him.

The soldier had lost his weapon and could only stare upward as Cassius stood over him, breathing hard, his sword raised to deliver the final blow.

Cassius never saw the second soldier rushing from behind.

The Roman seized the gladiator’s shoulder with his left hand and violently spun him around.

Before Cassius could bring his weapon down, the soldier shoved him backward with both hands.

Cassius slammed into one of the arena's massive stone support columns with tremendous force.

His arms flew out to his sides. His sword struck the column and became trapped uselessly beside him. The rough stone dug into his bare back, and Cassius instinctively drew his shoulders rearward.

The movement lifted his chest and stretched his entire torso wide open.

His arms remained spread against the column. The thickly muscled ridges of his abdomen were drawn taut and left completely unguarded.

The Roman saw the opening and drew his sword arm back.

Then, with an explosive thrust, he rammed the blade into the center of Cassius’s abdomen.

ssssssSSST!!!

“AAAAHHHH!!!”

Cassius yelled uncontrollably.

The sword tore through the tightly stretched muscles of his belly and drove completely through his torso. Its bloodied point burst from his back and struck the stone column behind him with a sharp metallic crack.

The force of the thrust pinned Cassius upright.

His sword slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the floor.

Cassius doubled forward as far as the blade would allow, both hands closing desperately around the steel run through his abdomen.

The Roman jabbed his left hand into Cassius's chest and violently yanked the sword free.

“UUUHHH!”

Cassius lurched away from the column, clutching the wound with both hands. Blood poured between his fingers and streamed down the ridges of his abdomen.

The soldier gave him no chance to fall.

He shoved his left hand into Cassius’s heaving chest and slammed him back against the stone.

Cassius’s arms flew outward again. His back arched against the rough column, once more leaving his full muscular torso exposed and his wounded abdomen wide open.

The soldier cocked his sword back.

Cassius saw what was coming and instinctively clenched his abdominal muscles hard.

He attempted to lower his hands and protect himself, but the Roman was already driving the blade forward.

ssssssSSST!!!

The sword plunged straight into Cassius’s abdomen a second time, entering above the first wound.

“AAAAHHHH!!!”

Cassius’s body convulsed violently.

The blade ripped through dense muscle and was driven completely through his belly once more. Its point erupted from his back and struck the column behind him with another sharp crack.

Cassius was pinned upright again, his bare torso stretched around the blade run through his belly. His hands closed weakly around the Roman’s wrist, but the strength that had carried him through the tunnel was already draining away.

The soldier held him there for several seconds.

Then he tore the blade out.

“Uuuuuhhhh…”

Cassius groaned and folded forward, both hands flying to the two wounds in his abdomen.

His back dragged down the rough stone as his legs gave way. A long streak of blood marked the column behind him, tracing his slow descent toward the floor.

Cassius collapsed at its base.

He remained seated for a moment, shoulders pressed against the bloodstained stone, both hands clamped tightly over his belly. His chest heaved beneath the torchlight while blood continued to escape between his fingers.

The Roman stood over him, sword hanging at his side.

Cassius tried to lift his head, but the effort proved too much. His chin sank toward his chest, and his body slowly tipped sideways onto the stones.

The kneeling soldier Cassius had been about to kill scrambled to his feet and retrieved his weapon.

Neither Roman looked back.

They hurried deeper into the passage, leaving Cassius crumpled beneath the column, his youthful face strangely peaceful beside the powerful body their blades had brought down.

Varro fought beside one of the iron gates sealing the holding pens.

He was as formidable as the other escaped gladiators, a broad-shouldered warrior with dark hair clinging to his sweat-soaked forehead, a massive chest, and an abdomen deeply carved by years of training and combat. He wore the same pale loincloth, broad leather belt, dark wrist cuffs, and sandals.

A Roman soldier already lay dead at his feet.

Varro had taken the fallen man’s sword, and the bloodstained weapon moved swiftly in his hand.

Another soldier rushed him from the front, hacking wildly.

Varro caught the descending blade against his own, shoved it aside, and slashed across the Roman’s torso. The man reeled backward and struck the iron gate behind him.

A second soldier lunged low, aiming for Varro’s exposed abdomen.

Varro twisted aside, seized the Roman by the sword wrist, and drove his forehead into the man’s face.

The soldier crumpled to one knee, blood streaming from his nose.

Varro turned toward the first Roman to finish him.

He never saw the third guard charging from the side.

The soldier crashed shoulder-first into Varro’s chest with all his weight.

The impact hurled the gladiator backward.

Varro slammed into the iron gate.

The bars rang violently behind him. His arms flew out to either side, and his sword struck the iron, trapped uselessly in his outstretched hand.

The force of the collision drove Varro’s shoulders back against the bars and arched his spine. His broad chest lifted, stretching his full muscular torso taut against the gate.

For a heartbeat, he remained stunned.

The Roman who had driven him backward stepped away and saw the opening he had created.

Varro’s arms were spread.

His sword was pinned uselessly against the iron.

His thickly muscled abdomen was wide open and entirely unguarded.

The soldier cocked his sword arm behind him and lunged.

ssssssSSST!!!

The blade slammed into the center of Varro’s abdomen.

“AAAAHHHH!!!”

Varro yelled as the sword tore through the dense muscles of his belly.

The blade drove completely through his torso. Its bloodied point erupted from his back and passed between the iron bars behind him.

The force pinned Varro against the gate.

His body jolted against the iron, the bars rattling around the blade protruding through them. His arms remained thrown wide, and his captured sword hung loosely from his fingers.

Blood spilled over the ridges of his abdomen and ran across the belt resting low on his hips.

The Roman stared in disbelief.

Even with Roman steel run through his belly, Varro did not immediately collapse.

His massive chest heaved. His abdomen clenched violently around the blade as his powerful body fought against the wound.

Varro looked down at the hilt buried against his belly.

Then his expression hardened.

He released his sword and reached for the Roman.

One hand closed around the blade run through his abdomen while the other stretched toward the soldier’s throat. His fingers came within inches of the man before his strength faltered.

The Roman leaned away from Varro’s grasp but kept his hand locked around the grip, holding the sword firmly inside the gladiator’s abdomen.

He planted his feet and held Varro impaled against the gate, using the sword to keep the wounded gladiator beyond his reach.

Varro strained forward.

His muscles flexed and shuddered around the blade driven through his belly, his body trapped between the Roman’s sword and the unyielding bars.

At last, his reaching hand fell.

The soldier stepped closer and violently ripped the sword free.

“AAAHHH!”

Blood followed the blade in a sudden crimson rush.

Varro lurched away from the gate, both hands clamping over the wound in his abdomen. His stolen sword slipped from his weakening fingers and clattered onto the stones.

He staggered forward, hunched around the deep wound in his belly.

But he did not fall.

The soldier whose face Varro had smashed was back on his feet.

Blood streamed from his nose, and humiliation burned in his eyes. Varro had broken his attack, driven his forehead into the Roman’s face, and dropped him to his knees before the other guards.

Now the soldier wanted vengeance.

He snatched up his sword and rushed the wounded gladiator.

The Roman jabbed his left hand into Varro's chest and violently shoved him back against the iron gate.

The sudden movement tore Varro’s hands away from his wound.

Varro's bare back slammed into the iron bars again, his arms flew out to his sides. His back arched, lifting his broad chest and stretching his entire muscular torso before the Roman.

The first wound gaped in the center of his abdomen.

Above it, the hard ridges of his upper abdomen were fully exposed.

The vengeful soldier drew his sword back.

Varro saw the blade poised before him, but he was too badly wounded to defend himself.

The Roman viciously thrust the sword into Varro’s abdomen above the first wound, just below the sternum.

ssssssSSST!!!

“UUUUHHHH!!!”

Varro grunted loudly as half the blade tore through flesh and densely clenched muscle. The violent thrust lifted him onto the balls of his feet.

His body folded forward around the steel, but the soldier caught him by the shoulder and held him upright.

Still consumed by humiliation and vengeance, the soldier yelled out.

“TAKE THAT!!!”

Then he brutally shoved the full length of the blade into Varro’s belly to the hilt.

ssssssSSST!!!

“AAAAHHHH!!!”

Varro wailed.

The force of the thrust drove him violently backward against the gate. Steel erupted from his back between the iron bars.

His body convulsed violently as the second blade ran him through and pinned him against the iron once more.

His arms remained extended at his sides.

His back arched against the gate. His full torso shuddered around the sword buried beneath his sternum while blood streamed down his abdomen and soaked the pale cloth at his hips.

The soldier kept his left hand locked around Varro’s shoulder, holding him steady upon the blade.

Varro stared at him through a haze of pain.

His hands rose and closed weakly around the Roman’s wrist, but the strength that had overwhelmed the soldiers only moments earlier was rapidly abandoning him.

The soldier held him impaled against the gate for several agonizing seconds.

Then he violently tore the sword free.

“UUUHHH!”

Varro lurched forward, both hands flying to the two wounds in his abdomen.

The Roman shoved his palm into the gladiator’s heaving chest and drove him back against the iron bars.

Varro struck the gate once more.

His shoulders rattled the iron. His knees bent, but he fought to remain upright, pressing both hands tightly against his belly as blood poured between his fingers.

The soldiers stepped beyond his reach.

Even run through twice, Varro still appeared dangerously powerful.

He tried to push himself away from the gate and advance toward them.

One foot dragged across the stones.

Then his leg buckled.

Varro fell back against the bars, his broad chest rising sharply as he struggled for breath. The muscles across his abdomen clenched beneath his blood-slicked hands, but they could no longer contain the damage buried deep inside him.

His back began to slide down the iron.

A dark streak of blood marked the bars behind him as his legs slowly folded beneath his weight.

Varro came to rest seated at the base of the gate, his shoulders pressed against the cold iron and both hands still clamped over his belly.

His head remained upright for another moment.

He glared at the soldiers standing beyond his reach, as though sheer fury might force his body to rise again.

Then the tension left his shoulders.

His chin sank toward his chest.

Varro tipped heavily onto his side, curling around the two wounds in his abdomen as his final breaths faded in the torchlit passage.

The Romans stood over him with their bloodied swords.

None had been capable of defeating him openly.

It had taken an attack from the side, the unyielding iron gate, and two brutal thrusts of Roman steel through his belly to finally bring him down.

The guards stepped around Varro and followed the sounds of fighting deeper into the tunnels.

Marcellus fought near the end of a broad service passage where a heavy iron gate separated the underground tunnels from the animal pens.

He was as powerfully built as the others, a thickly muscled gladiator with dark, sweat-soaked hair, massive shoulders, and a deeply carved torso hardened by years in the arena. Like the others, he wore only a pale loincloth held low on his hips by a broad leather belt, dark wrist cuffs, and sandals.

A Roman soldier rushed him with his sword raised.

Marcellus knocked the blade aside with his forearm, drove a fist into the soldier’s face, and sent him crashing against the bars.

A second Roman attacked immediately.

Marcellus caught the man by the breastplate and hurled him into the wall.

The soldier struck the stone and collapsed.

Behind Marcellus, several escaped gladiators were racing toward the raised iron gate.

A Roman farther down the passage seized the release lever and wrenched it downward.

The iron gate dropped.

Marcellus spun at the grinding roar of chains.

He lunged beneath the descending gate and caught it with both hands.

The full weight of the iron gate slammed down upon his outstretched arms.

Marcellus grunted and bent beneath it, but the iron bars stopped before reaching the floor. Every muscle in his shoulders, chest, and abdomen swelled beneath the crushing strain as he forced the gate upward just high enough for the other gladiators to crawl beneath.

“Go!” he shouted.

One escaped fighter scrambled through.

Then another.

Marcellus remained planted beneath the iron gate, his arms raised above his head and his hands locked around the lowest crossbar. His back arched beneath the weight. His chest was lifted, and the long columns of his abdomen were stretched taut and left entirely unguarded.

The Roman he had thrown against the wall pushed himself upright.

He saw Marcellus trapped beneath the gate.

The soldier retrieved his sword and approached cautiously, watching the immense gladiator struggle to hold the iron barrier above him.

He would never have dared come so close while Marcellus’s hands were free.

Now both were occupied.

More gladiators crawled beneath the gate as Marcellus held the crushing weight overhead, his massive arms trembling and every muscle in his bare torso straining. With his back arched and both hands occupied, the ridges of his abdomen were stretched wide open.

One final gladiator was still crawling beneath the iron bars.

At that moment, Marcellus’s fate was sealed.

The Roman charged with his sword arm coiled fully back. Marcellus caught a glimpse of torchlight reflecting from the steel blade aimed at his belly, but it was already too late.

With a furious thrust, the soldier drove his sword into the center of Marcellus’s fully stretched abdomen.

ssssssSSST!!!

“UUUUHHHH!!!”

Marcellus’s body jolted beneath the iron gate.

Half the blade tore through the tightly clenched muscles of his belly. His hands remained locked around the crossbar overhead, his arms trembling as he fought both the crushing weight above him and the blade driven into his bare torso.

The final gladiator continued scrambling beneath the bars.

The Roman stared in disbelief.

Marcellus had been stabbed deeply, yet he continued holding the gate aloft.

Blood ran down the ridges of his abdomen and soaked into the belt hanging low around his hips. His knees bent, but his thick arms remained extended, keeping the iron gate from falling upon the man still escaping beneath it.

The soldier seized Marcellus by the shoulder.

Then he brutally shoved the rest of the sword blade into his belly.

ssssssSSST!!!

“UUUUHHHH!!!”

Marcellus grunted.

The blade sank to the hilt and burst from his back beneath the raised gate. His entire muscular body convulsed around the steel, but he still refused to release the iron crossbar.

The last gladiator dragged his legs clear of the gate.

He was safe.

The Roman yanked the sword free.

Blood followed the blade in a sudden rush.

Marcellus staggered beneath the immense weight, one arm beginning to buckle. The iron gate dropped several inches before he forced it upward again with a desperate surge of strength.

The other gladiators had escaped.

He no longer needed to hold it.

But Roccia had not followed them.

The enormous gladiator remained on Marcellus’s side of the gate, standing between the wounded man and the Roman soldiers flooding into the passage.

“Go!” Roccia roared through the bars at the fugitives beyond.

Marcellus released his right hand and tried to turn toward him. His left arm alone strained overhead, holding the iron gate for one final moment.

His wounded abdomen remained stretched wide, blood pouring from the terrible opening in its center.

A second soldier rushed forward.

He drew his sword back and viciously thrust it into Marcellus’s abdomen above the first wound, just below the sternum.

ssssssSSST!!!

“AAAAHHHH!!!”

The blade drove deeply into the gladiator’s belly.

Marcellus’s remaining hand tore free from the iron gate.

The heavy barrier crashed downward behind him with a deafening clang, sealing the escaped gladiators safely on the opposite side.

Marcellus dropped both arms and folded around the sword buried beneath his sternum. One hand closed around the blade while the other pressed against the first wound in his belly.

The soldier braced his left hand on Marcellus’s massive shoulder and shoved the sword deeper.

The blade drove through the full thickness of his torso and erupted from his back in a spray of crimson.

Marcellus cried out again, but the sound was weaker.

“AAAHHH!”

The Roman tore his sword free.

Marcellus staggered backward until his shoulders struck the iron gate. Through the bars behind him, the escaped gladiators turned and saw him.

One called his name.

Marcellus looked back at them through the gate.

He tried to straighten, pressing both hands against the two wounds in his abdomen. His chest heaved as blood spilled between his fingers and streamed down his bare torso.

Roccia stepped in front of him.

The Romans remained several paces away, wary of the enormous gladiator now shielding his wounded companion.

Marcellus’s strength finally abandoned him.

He slid slowly down the iron bars.

His legs folded beneath him, and he came to rest seated against the gate, his hands still clamped tightly over his belly. Blood marked the bars behind him and gathered across the stones beneath his body.

On the other side, the gladiators pulled uselessly at the locked gate.

Marcellus lifted his head and looked at them one final time.

He had held the iron gate long enough.

They were free.

His hands loosened against his abdomen. His broad shoulders settled against the bars, and his head slowly fell to one side.

Roccia glanced back at him.

Marcellus was still.

The surviving gladiators beyond the gate could not remain. Roman voices and the pounding of armored feet were already echoing from the older passages ahead of them. Reluctantly, they disappeared into the darkness beyond the animal pens.

Roccia turned toward the soldiers closing around him.

His breathing was heavier now. Sweat streamed across his massive chest and deeply carved abdomen, and the strain of the revolt had begun to settle into his limbs. He was still unarmed, his massive muscular body half-naked, but the Romans no longer rushed him one at a time.

They spread across the width of the passage and advanced together.

Two soldiers approached behind raised shields while a third moved cautiously along the wall, searching for a path around Roccia’s flank. Their swords remained poised above the rims of their shields, ready to strike the moment the gladiator committed himself.

Roccia backed toward the iron gate.

Behind him, Marcellus remained motionless against the bars.

The Romans tightened their formation.

Then they charged.

The first shield slammed into Roccia’s chest.

He absorbed the impact, planted his feet, and seized its upper edge with both hands. With a roar, he wrenched the shield sideways, dragging the Roman off balance and tearing open the soldiers’ formation.

A second guard thrust over his companion’s shoulder.

Roccia twisted away from the blade and drove his forearm into the soldier’s face. The Roman reeled backward, but another immediately attacked from Roccia’s left.

Steel flashed past his ribs.

Roccia caught the man’s sword wrist before the blade could return. He forced the arm downward, drove his knee into the soldier’s abdomen, and ripped the weapon from his grasp.

For the first time, Roman steel rested in Roccia’s hand.

He swung the captured sword in a broad arc, forcing the remaining soldiers to retreat. One guard raised his shield too slowly, and Roccia’s blade crashed against its rim with enough force to knock the man sideways.

Another soldier darted in from behind.

Roccia spun and struck the sword from his hand.

The weapon clattered across the stones.

But the effort cost him.

Roccia staggered one step and caught himself against the iron gate. His chest heaved as he fought to recover his breath, the captured sword hanging low in his right hand.

The Romans saw the momentary weakness.

They surged toward him together.

Roccia pushed away from the gate and met them head-on.

He drove the guard of his stolen sword into one soldier’s face, slashed another across the arm, then seized a third Roman by the breastplate before the man could retreat.

The soldier dropped his weapon and clawed desperately at Roccia’s hands.

Roccia released his stolen sword.

It struck the floor beside him.

Then, gripping the Roman by his armor and belt, Roccia lifted him completely from the ground.

The remaining soldiers halted.

With a tremendous surge of strength, Roccia raised the struggling man higher, until his arms were extended above his head and the armored Roman kicked helplessly in the air.

Roccia held the armored soldier aloft, his arms stretched high above his head and his naked, sweat-slicked torso drawn to its full length beneath the torchlight. Sweat gleamed across his massive chest, shoulders, and deeply carved abdomen. With each heavy breath, the broad expanse of his belly clenched into hard ridges, then relaxed again, leaving the magnificent body beneath the raised weight momentarily taut, exposed, and perilously vulnerable.

Roccia began to turn.

Every muscle in his shoulders, chest, and abdomen tightened beneath the burden.

But behind Roccia, another Roman saw his chance. He lowered his sword and charged.

The Roman gripped the weapon tightly in his right hand and drew it back beside his hip as he ran, gathering all his strength for a single killing thrust.

Roccia continued turning, still holding the struggling soldier high above his head, unaware of the Roman attacking from behind. His muscular torso remained fully exposed, his abdomen wide open and perilously vulnerable.

He never saw the attack coming.

As Roccia completed the turn, his fully stretched abdomen swung wide open directly into the path of the charging Roman’s blade.

The soldier furiously drove the sword forward.

ssssssSSST!!!

The blade ripped into Roccia’s belly just above the navel, the cold steel parting warm flesh and muscle.

“AAAAHHHH!!!”

Roccia’s entire body convulsed beneath the impact.

The sword blade was driven deep into the thickly clenched muscles of his abdomen, but Roccia did not immediately release the soldier above him. His arms remained extended, trembling violently as he continued to hold the armored Roman aloft.

For several impossible seconds, Roccia stood with a blade run through his belly and the soldier still raised over his head.

His mouth hung open in agony. His massive chest heaved. Blood began to run down his abdomen and across the broad leather belt hanging low on his hips.

The Roman gripping the sword stared upward in disbelief.

Even impaled, Roccia remained standing.

Even with Roman steel driven into his torso, he continued holding another fully armored man above his head.

Then the strength began to drain from his arms.

Roccia’s elbows bent.

The soldier descended heavily, still trapped in the gladiator’s weakening grasp. Roccia fought to keep him raised for another moment, but the sword buried in his gut had already begun to overcome even his monstrous strength.

His grip finally failed.

Roccia dropped the soldier hard onto the stone floor.

The armored man crashed at his feet and rolled away. Roccia remained standing, swaying, the Roman sword still lodged deep in his belly.

The charging soldier stepped closer, planted his feet, and violently ripped the blade free in a spray of blood.

“AAAHHH!”

Roccia staggered backward, one hand flying to the wound. Blood poured over his fingers and streamed down the front of his loincloth.

But somehow, he remained standing.

The soldier Roccia had lifted overhead was already rising.

Humiliated and furious, the Roman snatched up his sword. The gladiator had held him above his head and displayed his helplessness before the other guards.

Now his sword would avenge him.

He rushed Roccia from behind.

C

The soldier seized Roccia’s shoulder with his left hand and violently spun him around.

Roccia stumbled into the turn.

His arms flew out to his sides. His back arched, lifting his broad chest and stretching his entire muscular torso before the Roman. His abdomen was wide open and completely unguarded.

It was the opening the soldier had craved.

“My sword shall avenge me. Now you shall feel the wrath of Roman steel.”

He drew his sword arm back and, with a vicious thrust, drove the blade into Roccia’s abdomen just below the sternum.

ssssssSSST!!!

Half the sword tore through bare flesh and muscle.

“UUUUHHHH!!!”

Roccia grunted loudly, his body jerking around the steel. His head snapped back as the dense columns of his abdomen clenched savagely around the blade.

The soldier shoved forward, expecting the sword to pass cleanly through him.

It did not.

The force of the thrust had been stopped halfway by the resistance of Roccia’s fully flexed abdominal wall. The tightly clenched muscle gripped the blade and held it fast, denying the Roman the satisfaction of running him through.

Frustration flashed across the soldier’s face.

Even wounded and trapped upon his sword, Roccia’s powerful body seemed to resist him.

The failure enraged the Roman.

He tightened his left hand around Roccia’s shoulder, planted his feet, and leaned closer.

Roccia drew another strained breath. For an instant, the rigid muscles across his abdomen slackened beneath the agony.

The soldier felt the resistance weaken.

With a brutal shove, he rammed the rest of the sword into Roccia’s belly to the hilt.

ssssssSSST!!!

“AAAAHHHH!!!”

The full blade tore through his thick torso and erupted from his back in an explosion of crimson.

His back arched violently, forcing his broad chest upward as every muscle in his exposed body clenched around the steel. His arms remained flung out to his sides while the soldier held him upright with one hand gripping his shoulder and the other locked around the hilt.

For several agonizing seconds, Roccia did not fall.

He stood impaled before the Roman, his enormous body trembling uncontrollably. Blood streamed down the ridges of his abdomen, joining the crimson already coating his belt and loincloth.

The Roman stared into Roccia’s face and savored the reversal.

Only moments earlier, he had been held overhead, kicking uselessly while his comrades watched.

Now the gladiator who humiliated him stood trembling with Roman steel run through his belly, the immense strength that had hoisted him aloft like a rag doll slowly draining from the magnificent body stretched before him.

Roccia’s eyes lowered toward the hilt pressed against his abdomen.

His expression held disbelief more than fear.

His knees began to bend.

The Roman tightened his grip and kept him upright for another moment, refusing to allow the gladiator to collapse.

Then he shoved Roccia backward and violently tore the blade free.

“UUUHHH!”

Blood followed the steel in a sudden rush.

Roccia staggered away, both hands clamping over the wounds in his abdomen. He took one heavy step, then another, stubbornly refusing to fall before the soldiers surrounding him.

For an instant, he regained his full height.

He stood in the center of the tunnel with his blood-covered hands pressed against his belly, his massive chest rising beneath the torchlight.

Behind him, Marcellus remained motionless against the iron gate.

Beyond the bars, the last sounds of the escaping gladiators had disappeared into the darkness.

Roccia had bought them the time they needed.

None of the Romans moved closer.

Even after being run through with a blade twice, he still appeared dangerous.

Roccia drew one hand away from his abdomen and reached toward the soldier who had stabbed him. His blood-slicked fingers opened and closed, searching for something to seize.

The Roman stepped back.

Roccia attempted to advance.

His knee buckled, and he dropped heavily onto it. One hand struck the floor while the other remained pressed against his torn abdomen.

Still, he tried to rise.

The muscles across his shoulders and back swelled as he pushed against the stones, summoning the same strength that had lifted an armored soldier above his head.

But that strength no longer answered him.

His arm began to shake.

Roccia managed to lift himself halfway before his wounded body failed. His elbow folded, and he fell forward onto both hands.

“Uuhhh…”

The sound was barely more than breath.

He remained there for several moments, his broad back rising and falling as the Romans formed a loose circle around him.

None possessed the courage to approach.

They waited for the wounds to finish what their blades had begun.

Roccia slowly turned onto his side and rolled onto his back.

His arms fell open beside him, leaving his magnificent torso exposed beneath the wavering torchlight. The bloodstained iron gate rose behind him, Marcellus’s body resting against its bars.

Roccia’s chest rose sharply.

Then more slowly.

He drew one final breath.

The tension left his arms, his abdomen, and his broad shoulders. The tremendous body that had overwhelmed every soldier who dared face him finally became still.

For several moments, no Roman approached.

Elsewhere beneath the Colosseum, Tiberius lay curled around the two wounds in his belly. Cassius rested beneath the bloodstained column. Varro lay beside the iron gate against which Roman blades had run him through twice. Marcellus remained seated against the bars he had held open with the last of his strength.

Roccia lay closest to freedom, surrounded by the armored men he had thrown down with his bare hands.

Five formidable gladiators had fought for freedom in the tunnels beneath Rome.

Each had overwhelmed the soldiers who faced him openly.

Each had been brought down only when a cowardly attack, a fleeting moment of vulnerability, or the need to protect another man left his bare torso open to Roman steel.

The Romans stepped around Roccia’s body and gathered before the locked iron gate.

On the opposite side, however, the footsteps of the surviving gladiators were already fading through the old service tunnels.

For them, freedom was still possible.

Roccia had been the last to fall.

And for a little longer, the sacrifice of the fallen had not been in vain.