Decimus

 Decimus cut a towering figure on the blood-soaked field, a young colossus forged in the arena. His bronzed torso gleamed in the harsh light, each ridge of muscle alive with power — thick pectorals heaving, broad shoulders rolling, veins standing like cords along his arms as his sword flashed and struck. The deep wall of his abdomen clenched and flexed with every breath, living armor that no Roman steel had yet pierced. Around him, he saw the fall of his brothers — mighty gladiators undone not by valorous combat, but by cowardice and chance. Spears from the shadows. Swords from behind. Roman steel cowardly run through exposed bellies as his comrades sagged to their knees. Rage boiled in Decimus’ chest, fueling every swing, every charge. He fought with the fury of a god betrayed, daring the legions to come at him, his invulnerable form defying their steel — though even the mightiest warrior may yet be undone by the hand of treachery and fate.

Decimus plunged into the fray like a storm unleashed. His sword carved arcs of death, each swing fueled by the fury that boiled within him. A Roman lunged recklessly, shield raised high — Decimus’ blade hammered low, smashing through the gap and driving straight into the soldier’s belly. The steel tore deep, splitting muscle and flesh, the man folding forward around the blade as blood poured from the wound. With a savage jerk, Decimus wrenched the sword free, hurling the soldier aside like refuse.

Another Roman charged with a spear, thrusting for his chest. Decimus caught the shaft in his left hand, veins bulging as he wrenched it sideways, the wood splintering under his grip. With a roar, he yanked the soldier close and drove his sword straight into the man’s abdomen — the point bursting out of his back in a hot spray of blood. The Roman convulsed helplessly as Decimus ripped the blade free, collapsing at the young gladiator’s feet.

The bodies of the fallen littered the ground around him, sprawled in grotesque poses where they had dropped. Each one bore the mark of Decimus’ fury — bellies split wide, torsos run through, crimson soaking the dirt. The gladiator stood at the center of the carnage, his bronzed chest heaving, his sword dripping with blood. For a moment, the chaos of battle seemed to part around him, as though even war itself recoiled from his might.

Decimus’ eyes roved the field, blazing with wrath. He turned slowly, searching for another knot of legionaries, another group of cowards to cut down. His fists tightened on the hilt, veins bulging across his forearms, the cords of his abdomen tightening like drawn bowstrings. He looked like a god of war incarnate, invincible in the eye of the storm — yet beyond the veil of silence, shadows shifted, and fate’s hand waited, biding its time.

Among the corpses strewn at his feet, a figure stirred. One Roman soldier, battered and dazed, whom Decimus had smashed aside earlier in the melee, slowly dragged himself upright. His sword was gone, lost somewhere in the dirt, but he still clutched a battered shield, edges slick with blood. He had lain there feigning death, too terrified to rise while Decimus raged nearby, hoping the gladiator’s fury would pass him over.

Now, as silence fell in the circle of carnage, the coward found himself still alive. He staggered to his feet, crouching low among the fallen, his breath sharp and shallow. Decimus did not see him. The soldier froze, trembling, terrified that the gladiator might turn and finish what he had started. But fear made him reckless. With a strangled cry, he crept up behind Decimus, raised the shield high, and brought it crashing down —

CRACK!

— across the back of the gladiator’s skull.

Decimus staggered, his sword dipping, vision flashing white. Again, the shield came down —

CRACK!

— smashing into him with desperate force. A third blow followed, clumsy but brutal, leaving the gladiator swaying, legs buckling, his bronzed torso pitching forward as he fought to stay upright. Dazed, half-conscious, he reeled but still stood, his massive body left unguarded. Terrified of what might follow, the coward dropped the shield and bolted back into the chaos, leaving Decimus dazed and reeling, ripe for another’s blade.

Not far ahead, another Roman was locked in the clash, his sword clattering against a rebel’s blade. In the midst of the struggle, he glanced back — and froze.

There stood Decimus. The gladiator still loomed, but unsteady, his frame swaying, his grip loose on the sword that hung at his side. The blows had left him dazed, his focus shattered. His massive chest rose and fell in ragged heaves, the thick slabs of his pectorals trembling with each breath. Below them, the ridges of his abdomen clenched and loosened helplessly, laid bare, wide open. Fortune itself had laid the muscle-bound gladiator’s half-naked body defenseless before him. The gladiator’s torso, once the image of invincibility, was now fully exposed, perilously open to the leering Roman’s sword. A cruel smile tugged at the soldier’s lips; it was a gift no lesser man deserved, yet one he would not refuse.

The Roman lunged without hesitation, sword cocked high behind him. Mid-stride he drove forward with all his weight —

ssssssSSST!!!

— the blade rammed into the very center of Decimus’ belly.

“AAAAHHHH!!!” Decimus roared, his bronzed torso convulsing as every ridge of his abdomen jolted and flexed around the invading blade.

The steel ripped through the dense wall of muscle, punching into his core with brutal force. The shock snapped him out of his haze — his head jerked back, eyes wide, his massive body buckling forward at the waist, folding around the Roman’s sword.

The Roman’s eyes went wide at the sound of that roar. With a desperate jerk he tore the sword free, ripping it from Decimus’ gut in a hot rush of blood. He stumbled back, raising the weapon again but not advancing, unsure if the savage thrust had done enough to break the massive gladiator.

Decimus staggered in place, his sword wavering in his grip. He bent forward, clutching at the gaping wound in his belly, blood pouring hot between his fingers as his abdomen convulsed around the injury. His massive chest heaved, each ragged breath tearing through him like fire.

“Uhhhhh…” he groaned through clenched teeth, his broad shoulders trembling as his torso writhed in pain.

But even as the strength bled from him, rage flared hotter still. He glared at the Roman, eyes burning with fury at the cowardice of the strike. His body shook, veins standing out across his arms and neck, his jaw clenched against the agony. The rage built, clouding his instincts, overwhelming reason — and with a roar, he straightened, lifting both arms high above his head, sword clutched in his right hand, ready to strike.

But the motion was reckless, careless. His back arched, his shoulders thrown wide, and his entire torso was laid bare. The thick slabs of his pectorals heaved as his abdomen stretched tight, every ridge pulled taut and fully exposed. The fortress of muscle that had defied all steel was thrown open in his blind fury, leaving him perilously vulnerable as he bore down on the Roman.

The soldier lunged forward in panic and desperation, sword cocked back. With a furious cry, he drove the blade straight through Decimus’ fully stretched abdomen —

ssssssSSST!!!

“UUUUHHHHH!!!” Decimus bellowed, his massive frame jolting as the steel rammed clean through, bursting from his back in a spray of blood.

Decimus’ shoulders flew back, his abdomen spasming in wild ripples around the blade. His eyes flew wide, his mouth gaping as his sword slipped from his fingers, still high above his head, and clattered uselessly to the ground.

The soldier wrenched the blade out with a violent jerk, tearing it from Decimus’ body in a rush of blood. He staggered back, eyes wide, still fearful, unsure if the savage thrust had done enough to bring the gladiator down.

Decimus lurched forward, his great frame shuddering. Both arms dropped from above his head and flew to his belly, clenching desperately at the two gaping stab wounds. Blood welled hot between his fingers and streamed down the ridges of his abs, his chest heaving in ragged, shallow gasps as he fought to hold himself together. His torso convulsed uncontrollably, spasms rippling across his broad chest and belly as he struggled to master the agony. His legs buckled, his shoulders trembled, his breaths came in shallow, broken gasps. He groaned, staggered, twisted, his powerful body writhing as though trying to throw off the mortal wounds.

Yet still he stood. His glare fixed on the Roman — blazing with pain, with fury, with the bitter rage of one who knew he had been struck down by cowardice, not valor. Every tremor of his chest, every spasm of his abdomen, stoked the fire of his wrath until it drowned the pain.

Then, with a groan, Decimus lunged. Both hands remained clenched on his belly, unarmed, yet he stumbled forward at his foe with raw defiance. Fear overtook the soldier. Panicked, he drew back his sword and thrust desperately. The blade rammed into Decimus’ chest just below the slab of muscle on his left pectoral —

ssssssSSST!!!

The steel ripped through and pierced his heart. Decimus’ eyes went wide, his mouth dropped open, and the strength fled from him in an instant.

The soldier yanked the blade back and stumbled away. Decimus fell straight onto his back, dead before he struck the ground. His massive, muscular body lay sprawled among the Romans he had slaughtered earlier, his bronzed torso streaked with blood. Crimson rolled down his ribs and pooled beneath him, a dark crown for a fallen gladiator who had seemed untouchable until coward’s steel brought him low.

Decimus had survived the arena unbroken, his living armor never once pierced by an opponent’s steel. Yet here, on the field of battle, he was undone not by a worthy foe but by the treachery of two cowardly Roman soldiers — one who struck from behind, the other who drove his sword home while the gladiator reeled.

He fell, and his death meant nothing. The mighty gladiator who once defied every blade was reduced to another corpse in the dirt, sprawled beside the Romans he had slaughtered. His massive body, his proud strength, his fury — all of it forgotten in an instant, swallowed by the tide of war. Soon he too would be dust, nameless and unremembered, indistinguishable from the dead at his side.