Varro

Elsewhere in the crush, Varro — young, broad-shouldered, his body sculpted like a god of old — was fighting like a storm. His bare torso gleamed in the torchlight, sweat tracing the deep ridges of his chest and abdomen as he hacked forward with raw power. Each swing of his sword was driven by thick arms and a wide chest that seemed carved for war. The Roman before him staggered, faltering beneath the fury of the gladiator’s assault.

With a roar, Varro raised his blade high above his head to deliver the finishing stroke — when a soldier lunged in from the side, seizing his wrist. Another Roman rushed in, grabbing his other arm and wrenching it wide. Varro strained, muscles bulging, chest heaving, his arms held out like a sacrifice. His sword slipped from his hand and clattered into the dirt.

Pinned between them, Varro’s torso was spread helplessly open. His abs flexed hard as stone, his chest rising and falling in great heaves. The cowering Roman he had nearly slain now stepped forward, emboldened by fortune. A cruel smile twisted his lips as he pressed the tip of his blade to the center of Varro’s abs and slowly dragged it across the hard ridges of muscle, savoring the helpless gladiator’s tension. Varro clenched, trembling, his powerful frame quivering with rage and fear. He could not hide it. He knew the end that was coming.

The Roman toyed with him, the battle roar fading into silence around Varro’s straining body. The tip of steel traced his flexed abs, dragging slowly across the ridges of muscle, savoring his helpless tension.

Then, with a cruel smile, the Roman slid his left arm around Varro’s broad back, locking him close like prey — and with a savage shove…

ssssssSSST!!!

…he callously thrust the sword in. The steel brutally drove halfway into Varro’s bare belly, before the armor of dense muscle in his abdomen stopped the blade cold. Varro’s torso lurched forward, quivering around the half-buried steel.

“AAAHHHHH!!!” he roared, his cry of pain mixed with defiance.

The Roman felt the blade shudder in his grip, the thickly muscled wall resisting him, refusing to yield. Snarling in frustration, he twisted his body and thrust again, harder—

ssssssSSST!!!

…driving the blade the rest of the way through Varro’s thickly muscled torso, he rammed it to the hilt — the guard slamming against his sweat-slicked stomach.

“UUUUHHHHH!!!” Varro bellowed as the force of the second thrust carried the steel clean through him, the tip bursting out of his back in a spray of blood. His powerful frame convulsed around the steel run through his belly.

The two soldiers who had held Varro’s arms winced at the gruesome sight as the blade burst out of his back in an explosion of blood and tissue, crimson spraying across their armor. Their part done, they released their grip and quickly blended back into the battle. But the Roman wielding the sword only sneered, leaving the weapon lodged to the core of the young gladiator’s body.

Varro staggered forward a few steps, clutching the sword’s grip with both hands, his powerful body trembling, blood streaming down the ridges of his abs. His breath came ragged and wet; every step sent a fresh gush spilling from around the blade. He tried to pull the sword free, groaning in agony as his fingers scrabbled uselessly at the blood-slick steel. His knees buckled but he refused to fall, his body shuddering with the effort to stay upright — until his strength finally gave way.

He toppled onto his side, curling into the dirt. His chest gave one last shudder, then fell still.

The Roman lingered, standing over the fallen gladiator. Planting a boot on Varro’s bloodied belly, he callously wrenched the sword free, tearing it from the dead man’s torso in a gush of crimson. The steel came out slick and dripping from Varro’s body, the young gladiator left sprawled in the dirt, his muscular frame slack in death.

Varro — undefeated in the arena, his living armor of muscle finally yielding to Roman steel — had fallen not in glory, but in obscurity. His strength, his legend, all rendered insignificant in the vast, grinding tumult of the battle. The sword he had dropped at his feet still lay in the dirt, forgotten, as the fight raged on without him.