Primus

 Primus had never met Spartacus, yet he needed no oath or command to join the cause. Freedom burned in his chest as hot as any flame. Once a gladiator in the sand, he now fought for something greater than spectacle. He swore to fight for it, and if need be, to die for it.

He was built like a titan. Broad shoulders rose above the press of men, his bronzed torso gleaming with sweat and blood. His chest was a great wall of muscle, his abdomen carved in thick ridges that flexed with every breath, his arms corded and veined from years of brutal combat. In battle he was tireless, merciless, a storm given flesh.

Primus roared as he hacked into the Roman line, sword rising high above his head. His great back arched, every muscle standing out like hammered bronze, his ridged abs stretching as his chest heaved. Legionaries faltered before him, retreating step by step under the fury of his blows.

Among them, one soldier held back. He did not dare face Primus head-on. Instead he lingered at the edge, eyes fixed not on the fight but on the gladiator himself — the bulging arms, the broad, sweat-slicked back, the great torso flexing as he swung. Fear mingled with something darker: awe, envy. He waited, trembling sword in hand, until fate gave him his chance.

Primus raised his blade for another mighty strike, his full torso bared to the press of men before him. At that moment, the coward rushed from behind.

The soldier cowardly thrust his sword into the small of Primus’ bare back with a sharp, wet crunch —

ssssssSSST!!!

The blade ripped through the thick muscles of his back, carving a path through flesh and sinew before bursting out of his abdomen in a violent spray of blood.

“AAAAHHHH!!!,” Primus roared, his arms flaring wide as his godlike body convulsed helplessly around the steel.

Then the soldier ripped his sword free.

Primus staggered forward — only for another Roman to charge head-on.

The soldier drove his sword straight into Primus’ belly with a brutal crunch —

ssssssSSST!!!

Primus’ abdominal wall clenched hard, the ridges of his abs flexing in a desperate, instinctive defense — but the steel tore through his straining muscles, ripping deep into his gut and bursting from his back in a torrent of blood.

“UUUUHHHHH!!!,” Primus grunted, his massive body arching, his great chest heaving.

His sword slipped from his grasp and clattered into the dirt at his feet, the final symbol of his might abandoned as his body convulsed helplessly around the steel.

The soldier ripped his sword free.

Primus staggered on his feet, swaying, blood pouring from both gaping wounds. For a heartbeat he remained upright, his great chest rising and falling in shuddering gasps, his arms spread wide as though defying fate itself. The two soldiers who had struck him melted back into the chaos, vanishing into the swirl of men. The first — the coward — slunk even farther away, retreating into the brush at the edge of the field to hide from the battle altogether.

At last, Primus’ legs gave way. He crashed to the ground with a thunderous weight, his swordless hands clutching at his ravaged belly. His huge body writhed violently in the dirt, his back arching, his muscles spasming in desperate, frantic bursts.

“AAAAHHHH!!!,” he roared, his massive chest heaving as if sheer will might keep him alive.

Another Roman soldier, walking among the carnage, saw the wounded gladiator still clinging to life. He did not hesitate.

The soldier bent over Primus’ prostrate body, still writhing in agony, and pressed the tip of his sword into the gladiator’s upper abs. Primus instinctively flexed, his bronzed torso tightening in a desperate show of strength as the cold steel kissed his skin. For a heartbeat his muscles stood out in rigid cords, his abdomen resisting as though even now his body might withstand the blade.

With a callous thrust, the soldier brutally shoved his sword through Primus’ upper abs, the steel tearing through his torso and sinking into the soft earth beneath him —

ssssssSSST!!!

“Uhhhhh…,” Primus groaned, his hips arching high, both hands clamping around the steel buried in his body.

His torso convulsed one final time, every muscle standing out in a grotesque, quivering relief.

The soldier set his boot on Primus’ bare belly and ripped the sword free.

Primus’ body slackened at once, his arms falling limp to his sides. He was dead.

Primus had fought for something greater than himself. He had fought for freedom — not for fame, nor for glory, but for a cause that would live on beyond him. He had given his life for it, as any true warrior would.

But his cause failed. The rebellion was crushed under the weight of Roman might, the dream extinguished before it could ever become reality. His loyalty, his sacrifice — all of it rendered meaningless by the brutal efficiency of his killers.

The soldier, who had felled him with no more care than a butcher at slaughter, kept walking without a glance back, leaving the fallen giant in the dirt, forgotten as though he had never mattered.

Primus, a towering figure who had once been a symbol of strength and defiance, was now just another casualty of war — erased not by a worthy foe, but by cowardly strikes in the heat of battle, his name lost to time, his death nothing more than a footnote in the aftermath of a failed rebellion.