Marcus

 Marcus was among them, barely past twenty. His face was boyish still—smooth-cheeked with wide hazel eyes that betrayed his youth—but his body was forged in the ludus like hammered bronze: shoulders spanning the width of a shield, arms roped with veins beneath sun-darkened skin, a chest hewn as if from marble, and abdomen cut into deep ridges that flexed with every swing of his sword. He fought with the ferocity of a cornered lion, tendons straining against his neck, teeth bared in a primal snarl, his raw strength propelling him through the chaos even when his untested footwork betrayed his inexperience.

He crashed against a Roman soldier, their swords clanging in a furious exchange. The Roman pressed hard, driving Marcus back step by step — until the young gladiator rallied, muscles straining, and forced him off. The clash dragged on, sweat and blood flying from both men, until at last the soldier’s blade slipped past Marcus’ guard. Steel slashed across his ribs. Marcus hissed, staggering as blood trickled down his bare torso.

But he recovered instantly. With a roar, he surged in close, slammed his shoulder into the Roman’s shield, and drove his sword straight into the man’s gut. The soldier gasped, stiffened, and fell dead at Marcus’ feet.

Breathing hard, Marcus glanced down at the cut along his ribs. Crimson rivulets snaked through the valleys between his muscles, staining the bronze skin that glistened with sweat and dust. The wound stung like fire but barely penetrated the thick wall of muscle beneath. An older gladiator — Atticus, his mentor from the days of the ludus — rushed to his side, sun-weathered face creased with concern, his own blood-spattered chest heaving. Calloused fingers probed the wound's edges.

"It's only a flesh wound — you'll live to fight another day!" Atticus laughed, tapping the flat of his sword against Marcus' flexed abs, the steel cool against the young gladiator’s taut, sweat-slicked belly.

Marcus chuckled, tightening his abs; the blade bouncing harmlessly off his thickly muscled abdomen with a dull thud. Atticus clapped him once on the shoulder and hurled himself back into the fray.

Marcus lingered for a heartbeat, smiling in the chaos, but distracted by the sting in his side. His left hand pressed the cut, trying to quell the pain.

That heartbeat cost him everything.

A Roman seized Marcus’ shoulder from behind and spun him violently around, his muscular arms flaring wide, leaving his torso open.

ssssssSSST!!!

In a flash of gleaming steel, the soldier’s sword drove forward with a sharp, wet crunch as the blade ripped into the very same wall of muscle Atticus had struck playfully moments before. But now the steel did not bounce harmlessly away — it carved deep, merciless, and final, cutting through flesh and muscle and erupting from his back in an explosion of blood. Marcus’ eyes went wide in shock as the steel tore into his gut.

“AAAAHHHH!!!” Marcus roared in agony, his body convulsing around the blade.

The soldier didn’t even meet his gaze. With a grunt, he ripped the blade free — then rammed it in again.

ssssssSSST!!!

A brutal, crisp snap of muscle giving way as Marcus was run through a second time, blood spilling hot over his abs.

“UUUUHHHHH!!!” he howled, throwing his head back, his cry swallowed by the din of battle.

“NO!” Atticus bellowed, spinning in horror just as Marcus hunched with the Roman’s steel jutting from his back. His cry was lost in the chaos, drowned beneath the roar of the legions and the screams of the dying. The soldier wrenched the sword out with a violent jerk and shoved Marcus aside, already moving on, another faceless enemy in the haze of battle.

Marcus staggered, clutching the two wounds, blood pouring down the ridges of his abs. Moments ago, he had laughed about his “flesh wound.” Now his thickly muscled young body was mortally wounded, Roman steel having run through his belly twice.

He collapsed onto his side, arms slipping limp. Rolling onto his back, his wide, glassy eyes stared skyward as life left him. Blood streamed in dark rivers down the planes of his naked torso, while Atticus fought on with fury, sorrow burning behind his strikes.

All around them, the battle raged without pause. Marcus’ death was only a heartbeat in the storm, one more body swallowed by the endless tide of blood and steel. The earth drank him as it had thousands of others, his name already lost in the roar of Rome and the screams of the dying.