Sextus

 Sextus was the youngest of them, a firebrand whose pride burned hotter than his caution. Bare-chested and bronzed, he carried himself like a god among men, his every muscle perfectly proportioned, ridges of his abdomen tight as hammered bronze plates, shoulders broad and arms thick with raw strength. He had not yet known defeat, and in his mind, Roman steel could never pierce the living armor of his flesh. Impetuous and headstrong, he laughed at danger, rushing into the fray with reckless confidence, convinced that no mortal hand could bring him low.

Sextus was battling several Roman soldiers at once, their swords smashing together in a screech of metal. The fight drifted into the shadow of the forest, branches whipping and snapping around them, the ground churned to mud by boots and blood. Sextus smiled as he wielded his sword, his abs flexing like coiled ropes each time he twisted and turned his torso, thrusting and deflecting. Every stroke showed the flawless strength of his youth — a living statue in motion, gleaming with sweat and blood.

One Roman lunged recklessly, sword raised high. Sextus pivoted on his heel, his torso whipping around, abs tensing into ridged stone as he drove his blade up through the soldier’s chest. The steel burst out between the man’s shoulder blades, and Sextus shoved him off with a snarl, blood spraying across his flawless torso.

Another charged, shield forward. Sextus sidestepped and brought his sword down in a savage arc. The blow split helmet and skull alike with a sickening crunch, the man collapsing in a heap at his feet. Sextus threw back his head and laughed, his sweat-slicked body glistening in the broken light filtering through the canopy.

The third came harder, faster. Sextus met him head-on, their swords clashing in a storm of sparks. With raw power, he wrenched the blade aside and drove his fist into the soldier’s jaw, bones cracking. Before the man could fall, Sextus rammed his sword through his belly, twisting it cruelly as the soldier folded around the steel.

The young gladiator stood tall amid the carnage, chest swelling, muscles alive with the thrill of combat. For a heartbeat, he looked like a demigod loose in the forest, invincible, unstoppable. But in the shadows, more Romans gathered, eyes narrowing, patience hardening. They had seen enough of his bravado.

Sextus battled another soldier, hammering him back with relentless overhead strikes, each blow ringing through the trees. His shoulders bulged, veins standing out along his arms as he drove the Roman to his knees, the final stroke poised to split him in two.

But as Sextus raised his sword high, his torso stretched and exposed, another Roman crept in from behind. With a coward’s lunge, the man drove his blade forward. The thrust was clumsy, poorly aimed, but the steel ripped across Sextus’ flank, carving a long gash into his bronzed flesh.

“UUUUHHHHH!!!,” the gladiator snarled, his teeth bared as the pain flared hot.

The cut welled instantly red, the crimson line stark against his golden skin. He staggered, the muscles of his side twitching violently as blood began to trickle down over the ridges of his abs.

Still, Sextus brought his sword down with fury, cleaving his foe before him even as the pain seared his side. His breath hissed between clenched teeth, the shallow wound dripping freely, streaking crimson across his torso. It was not deep enough to kill him, but enough to distract him, to slow his rhythm, to make him vulnerable.

Before he could wheel around to strike the soldier who had cut him, a hand slapped hard against his bare chest — the flat of a Roman’s palm smashing into his pectorals — and shoved him backward with savage force. Sextus staggered, then slammed spine-first into the massive oak behind him. The impact boomed through his body, the bark biting deep into his skin.

His arms flailed out to the sides, fingers clawing for balance, but the tree held him pinned upright. His head rocked back, jaw clenched, breath heaving through his teeth. His torso — broad, flawless, every muscle cut in stark relief — was spread wide open before the Roman soldier, glistening with sweat and streaks of blood.

Just the soldier who had slashed him stood before him now. His first strike had been clumsy, his aim misguided — but not this time. With a roar, he lunged. The blade shot forward —

ssssssSSST!!!

— rammed into the center of Sextus’ abdomen. Steel split flesh and muscle, bursting out through his back and digging deep into the bark of the tree behind him.

“AAAAHHHH!!!,” Sextus cried, his body jolting, arms splayed wide, abs convulsing in violent ridges as the Roman drove in to the hilt.

Blood sprayed across the bark. His head snapped back, his sword slipping from his hand and falling to the forest floor, spinning as it went, the moment hanging in the air like slow motion before it struck the dirt with a dull thud.

The Roman wrenched his sword free with a violent tug, tearing it out of Sextus’ belly in a wet burst of blood. The young gladiator lurched forward, clutching at the ragged slit, his powerful torso folding as he staggered off the tree. The soldier met him with cold precision, slammed his palm flat into Sextus’ chest, and shoved him back hard into the bark. Before he could draw another breath, the Roman drove the blade forward once more —

ssssssSSST!!!

“UUUUHHHHH!!!,” Sextus bellowed, chest heaving, abs rippling in violent spasms as the steel punched clean through his body, the point grinding into the tree trunk behind him.

The Roman wrenched his blade free and stepped back, blood dripping from the steel. His first thrust had been clumsy, slicing only a shallow wound across the gladiator’s side — but once Sextus was slammed against the tree, his wide-open abdomen offered the hapless soldier an easy mark. The next two thrusts were lethally accurate, driving steel deep into the center of the young gladiator’s core. He gave Sextus a final glance, then faded into the chaos of the forest battle, his part done.

Sextus staggered in place, blood streaming from the slits in his belly, his hands clutching desperately at the torn flesh. He swayed, groaning, muscles spasming as he fought with every shred of his strength to remain upright. His chest heaved, abs tightening and releasing in violent ripples as though sheer will might hold him together. Still he stood, trembling, refusing to collapse.

At last, gasping, he turned and braced himself against the rough bark of the tree. His right hand pressed to the trunk, shoulders hunched, his torso stretched wide as he struggled to hold himself upright. Blood smeared across the bark as he leaned there, his abdomen heaving, the slits in his belly opening further with every breath.

A twig snapped in the brush. Another Roman turned, sword already raised. He froze as he saw the young gladiator clinging to the tree, wounded and defenseless. With a coward’s courage, he charged, sword arm cocked high. Mid-stride he rammed the blade straight into Sextus’ upper abdomen with brutal force —

ssssssSSST!!!

“Uhhhhh…,” Sextus groaned, collapsing forward as the steel ripped clean through him, bursting out of his back and striking sparks as it bit into the bark behind him before tearing free in a spray of blood.

The soldier barely broke stride, yanking the blade out and trotting off without a backward glance. To him it was nothing — not the slaying of a proud gladiator, but the butchery of an animal, another carcass left bleeding in the dirt.

Sextus lurched forward, then collapsed to the ground. His hands clutched at the slits in his belly, smearing across the blood-slick ridges of his abs. He writhed violently in the dirt, his great body twisting in agony, legs kicking weakly. At last he curled into the fetal position, shuddering as the life drained from him, blood still rolling down the tree trunk where he had been pinned.

For all his youth, his laughter, and the flawless strength that gleamed like bronze, Sextus fell nameless in the forest mud. No song would mark his defiance, no tale would recall his glory — the great body that had seemed untouchable was just another corpse swallowed by the chaos, forgotten as quickly as the blood that seeped into the earth beneath him.