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Ocodus

by

Gladlover


Ocodus watches as the two gladiators that Cashius and he will fight today enter the arena. They carry shortswords and bucklers, as do their opponents. The crowds are looking for a good fight. If they wanted only killing, there would be no shields. The sun is high and hot. Sweat rolls down Ocodus' chest and across his belly. Only his headband keeps it from his eyes. He has convinced himself that the sweat is from the heat, but fear sits hard in his gut. He knows that he will die in the arena, he wonders if it will be today.

"Ocodus … do you know them?" Cashius asks.

"I've seen them before. The taller one is a Moor. He has a few kills, the other is an Arab, new to the arena," Ocodus replied. He deliberately lied. He knew both men had fought many battles before. Cashius, while lean and muscular, is a small man, and relatively new to the arena. Ocodus thought him to be unlikely to survive for long. Most of his kills have been against untrained slaves. He needed him to hold off the other man until I can kill the tall one. Both were strong men. Their shoulders and chests were developed from everyday practice with a sword, their bellies hardened through hours of grueling work. Cashius would be no match for either of the gladiators. He will be dead in a few minutes. If he can only hold off the other man long enough, Ocodus might survive. He gestured to the shorter man. "You take that one." He gestured toward the Arab, the stronger of the two, sending Cashius to his likely death. "And remember, if we both win, you'll have to fight me … and I will kill you if I have to."

"I know," Cashius replied.

At the sound of the drums the combatants stride before the emperor. They shout their pledge of loyalty in death to his majesty. They all know that three of them will fulfill that pledge. Ocodus turns to face the Moor as Cashius moves across the arena to face his opponent. Trumpets sound and the warriors drop into their fighting stance. Ocodus lunges quickly, hoping to strike a quick killing blow. His opponent sidesteps away from the attack. Ocodus backs away, to look him over. A dark man, deeply tanned, coal black hair and eyes to match. He moves in and slashes. Ocodus uses his buckler to block the stroke, jabbing toward the Moor's leg. He shouts as Ocodus' blade finds his thigh. The wound is not deep, but blood flows down his leg as he backs away. Ocodus presses the attack on his wounded adversary. He lunges forwarded again, thrusting his sword and forcing the man to raise his buckler to protect himself. The Moor brings up his sword to parry the blow, and slashes again. Ocodus steps into the Moor and shoves him back with his shield. The Moor stumbles as Ocodus presses the attack. Ocodus again uses the buckler, and strikes his opponent in the face. The Moor staggers, nose and mouth bloodied, heavily stunned, his sword and shield dropping to his side. Ocodus thrusts again. This time his blade finds the belly of the Moor. He cries out as the pain shocks him trying to raise his sword again. Ocodus knocks it from his hand with his buckler. He thrusts again, pushing his sword deeper in the Moors belly. The Moor groans loudly as the blade slices through him. He buckles over as the blade exits his back and the hilt of the sword strikes his belly. Ocodus twists the sword as he pulls it from the dying man. He grabs his belly and staggers toward Ocodus, who stabs him again, above the first wound. His whole body jerks at this new wound. He falls to the sand as Ocodus pulls the blade from him.

Ocodus watches as the Moor pulls himself into a fetal position, blood pooling around him. Ocodus kicks him onto his back. He groans again as his guts painfully shift inside of him. His teeth are gritted and his eyes squeezed tightly as he fights against the agony, squirming in the bloody sand. Ocodus can see his erect manhood beneath his breechcloth. "The gods reward for a warriors death," he thought. Ocodus puts the point of his sword against the Moors chest. His eyes open as the blade nicks him, and he looks his killer in the eye. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but Ocodus doesn't give him the chance as he drives the sword deep inside of his chest. The Moor grimaces again. Blood spurts from the wound when the sword is pulled from him, and he spasms as his heart beats his last. His features relax as death takes him.

Ocodus raises his bloody sword to the emperor. He has survived another match. Screaming from across the arena interrupts his adulation.

The other gladiator is killing Cashius. Cashius is on his knees, blood and entrails pouring from a long slash across his belly. He looks toward Ocodus, hoping for a salvation that will not come. The Arab thrusts again, this time into Cashius chest. He arches back as the blade finds its way inside of him. Cashius gasps for air but gets none. The sword is pulled from his body, and he falls back. The Arab puts the blade into the hollow of his throat and thrusts, ending his suffering.

"Goodbye my friend," Ocodus spoke to himself, "you have done well." He sees that the gods have rewarded Cashius in the same way that they rewarded the Moor.

Ocodus and the Arab move to the center of the arena. Both drop into their fighting stance and begin the struggle. The Arab rushes and strikes first with an overhead blow. Ocodus is lucky to get his buckler up to block the sword. Ocodus tries a weak thrust but misses. The Arab strikes again, this time Ocodus dodges away and slashes. The Arab quickly parries that blow, catching Ocodus' sword by the hilt. The force spins Ocodus away, barely able to hold onto his sword, he turns to see the Arab attacking again. Again he parries the Arab's powerful blows. Ocodus steps into the Arab and locks swords with him. He steps forward and tries to trip the gladiator, but the Arab pushes him back, slashing again. Ocodus screams as the sword cuts into his pec. He feels the steel strike his breastbone as he jerks away, swinging his sword wildly. His shield arm is weakened from his wound, and blood streams from his chest. The Arab slashes again, now aiming for the shield. Each blow sends a blast of pain through Ocodus. Soon the shield falls from his hand.

Ocodus raises his sword, his shield hand pressed to his wounded chest. He knew his chances of survival were slim. He glanced over at the corpse of Cashius. "I'll be joining you soon, my friend," he thought.

He slashed as well as he could. The Arab used his shield to force him back. He was playing with him. Ocodus was weakening. Soon the Arab struck another strong blow, this time sending Ocodus' sword across the arena. Now he was doomed. The Arab rushed, and Ocodus grabbed his sword arm. Suddenly he saw stars as the Arab's buckler smashed into his head. His next sensation is white-hot pain in his gut as the Arab's sword slices inside of him. Ocodus freezes in agony and grabs the blade, slicing his hands. Arab continues his thrust, shoving the sword through him. His muscles clamp tightly around the blade.

Ocodus throws his bleeding hands over the Arab's shoulders and presses himself against him. More pain follows as the Arab jerks the blade up, and then out of his belly. Ocodus breaks his grip, and falls back to the sand. He arches back as his final agony overwhelms him. He bloody hands grab his wound, and he fights to sit up, hoping for relief. Through it all, he feels his manhood stiffen. "The gods … reward me." His thought was broken by a prick on his chest. Above him was the Arab. Ocodus lay back, his time was now. The sound of his bones breaking followed by the blade cutting inside his chest sent him into spasms of agonizing pain. He squirmed on the blade until the Arab pulled it free. His arms fell to his side and his body jerked in its death throes. Suddenly the pain subsided. His manhood was coming, the orgasm soothing his passage to the hereafter. Soon his body relaxed in the afterglow of death.

The crowds cheered as the corpses were removed from the arena. All were stripped of their breechcloths and loaded naked onto a cart and taken to a mass grave. It seemed ironic that men who were mortal enemies would lie together naked throughout eternity, but that is the way it always was.

Glarus and the Celt

by

Gladlover

Glarus had been selected by the arenamaster for the day's final bout. The master always gave the crowd a good battle to end the day's entertainment. By the end of the day, the crowd would be drunk and excited by blood lust. Glarus was used to the attention. He had been a gladiator since he had been a teenager, and was a crowd favorite. He had killed many times before. He wasn't sure who his opponent would be. It was usually a prisoner of war, or a slave from one of the less advanced provinces. It humored Glarus that many of the outlying provinces were considered barbaric, yet Rome was the only one that considered man-to-man combat to the death entertainment. It had given him a good life though, and he enjoyed it immensely. His arena slave prepared him for the battle, oiling his muscular body, and then preparing his weapons, a gladius and a small buckler. He looked over and noticed a tough looking young man, being prepared for the arena. "He must be my opponent," he thought. He wasn't as receptive to the oiling as someone who had fought here before. Shorter than Glarus, not quite as muscular, he was still a superb physical specimen. A strong, lean body; a broad chest leading to a flat abdomen that was strong, but didn't ripple with muscles. His strong shoulders were those of a man who hunted, not a man who made his living with a sword, like Glarus. Glarus' chest was much bulkier, and his abs much tighter. He wondered who this man was. His dark hair and eyes held no clues. His skin was pale; he obviously hadn't been training in the hot Roman sun, as the deeply tanned Glarus. The arena slave noticed that his master was eyeing the other man.

"He's a Celt," the slave whispered, "just got here the other day." The arenamaster likes them because they put up a good fight, but he wants them killed quickly, before they make trouble amongst the others.

Glarus knew that the Celts were fearsome warriors, noted for ripping arrows from their chests and bellies and continuing the fight until they would bleed to death. He wasn't worried. Today would be no different than any other day in his mind. One of them would die in agony for the entertainment of the crowd, and the other would live to fight again.

The Celt had been captured in Britain, and brought to Rome as a slave; his size and strength made him a perfect fit for the arena, he was too strong and surely too dangerous for most slave duties. He had been raised as a hunter, and killing another man was no different than killing any other animal. He knew that he had no way out of the ring. He knew his destiny was to die impaled on a blade of steel. He had been stabbed before. It was agonizing, but he knew he could tolerate the pain and keep fighting. During the wars he had seen men writhe in torment as he sliced their bellies open, and he knew that his death would be just as excruciating. But he fantasized about the rapture of a warrior's death that would ease his way to his final freedom.

Glarus walked down the tunnel to the ring past the butchered bodies of the previous contestants Stripped naked, covered with blood, some with entrails hanging from their wounds. Glarus had his weapon and shield. The Celt had no weapon, and was escorted by a guard. They both knew that one or the other would end up as the men whose bodies lined the passageway. It didn't scare either of them. The sun shined brightly as they walked into the ring together, naked, except for sandals and flimsy loincloths. The Celts weapon and shield were on the sand in the arena. There was fresh sand applied to the blood from the previous matches. There was a short ceremony. The crowd cheered at the mention of Glarus' name. His opponent was introduced by his heritage. Trumpets glared and they began to square off, to the crowd's noisy approval.

They circled each other, sizing each other up. The few blows that were exchanged were parried by a sword or blocked by a buckler. The crowd shouted for more action.

The Celt bellowed angrily at his adversary. Glarus didn't understand what the words were, but understood their meaning. The Celt eyed his opponent looking for weakness he could exploit.

"You'll be dead before you get the chance," Glarus thought out loud.

The Celt charged Glarus, screaming, sword over his head. The Celt was quick. Glarus sidestepped the attack just as the Celt swung toward Glarus. The Celt was very strong, one blow could be fatal. Glarus jabbed as The Celt went by. He spun to avoid the blade, but not fast enough. He yelled as the blade sliced into his side, just beneath the rib cage. The cut wasn't deep, but he could feel blood dripping down his side. There was pain, but the Celt ignored it. It would be nothing like the pain he was going to inflict on this Roman pig. He slashed towards Glarus' muscular pecs, this time coming across his body, and drew a painful gash across Glarus' chest; Glarus stumbled back, the pain telling him that the Celt would fight through his wounds. Blood dripped down his chest, a quick check telling him that it wasn't serious.

The Celt saw an opening and charged again. Through his pain he charged swinging wildly at Glarus. Glarus stepped aside and slashed across his adversary's flat belly. The Celt tried to pull back, but the blade caught him just to the right of his navel, and sliced deeply inside him, exiting halfway across his belly, strewing pieces of skin and gut across the ring. The Celt let out a death cry; he knew that he was being killed. The blade had cut through his gut and he could feel the blood pouring down his belly, both inside and out. The searing pain in his gut wasn't visible on his face. He glared at Glarus in anger, not agony.

Glarus felt his manhood stiffen. His reward was about to come. The wound would be fatal; it was a matter of time. He was impressed that the Celt could fight through the pain. He had wounded men like this before. Most of them had dropped to the soil, hoping for a mercy from the crowd that never came. Glarus stabbed them in the chest, ending the agony in their bellies. He watched his opponent stagger towards him with fury in his eyes. "This one isn't afraid of death," he thought. It excited him even more to kill such a strong warrior.

The Celt mustered up his last reserves of strength, thinking that he would take this bastard to hell with him. He spat a curse at Glarus and charged again, thrusting wildly at his throat, pulling himself off balance. Glarus jerked back at the last moment, avoiding the attack, and thrust to the advancing gladiators belly. The blade went into the Celt's belly just above his navel. He shouted in agony as his guts were ripped again, his stomach muscles tightening around the blade, but providing no protection as it blade tore his skin open and slid easily into his intestines. "Aaahhhh!" the Celt cried out deafeningly as he dropped his sword and buckler, his body shocked from defeat, and knowing that the freedom that death would bring was approaching. Glarus stepped forward, and forced the blade through him to the hilt, showing 10 inches of bloody steel out of his back back. The sweaty gladiators were chest to chest. The Celt arched back and grabbed his killer's arm. Glarus twisted the sword as she pulled it from the Celt's body. "Uuughh," he grunted as he doubled over in torment. The small slice from the blade was now a gaping hole. He fell to his knees grasping the wound, blood spurting over his hands and down his belly. He looked at Glarus as his body turned cold, and darkness began to close in on him. His manhood was stiff; his death rapture was approaching. He pulled himself up, hands to his wounded belly, and opened his chest to receive the death blow.

"What a man," thought Glarus.

He didn't have to wait long. Glarus turned his blade and thrust just beneath the Celt's left pec. The turned blade slid between his ribs, and deep inside his chest split his heart in two. He arched back grimacing, mouth agape and eyes squinting, the agony so intense that he couldn't scream. He fought for a final breath as Glarus put a foot against his chest and pushed him back pulling the sword from his chest as he fell. The Celt lay dying in the sand, convulsing from the anguish of his wounds. His manhood burst out, soaking his groin and numbing his pain with the ecstasy of orgasm. With a few final spasms, the pain subsided and only the ecstasy remained as the world became dark, and he got his freedom.

Glarus stood over his vanquished opponent, his manhood spurting in victory from beneath his loin cloth, onto the dead Celt's chest. The crowd cheered as he held the bloody sword over his head and gazed at the dead body beneath him. He took his victory walk around the arena, his juices dripping down his legs, the crowd shouting their approval. The attendants put a hook into the Celts chest, and drug his bloody corpse to the tunnel.

As he walked back through the tunnel, he saw the Celts' naked, gutted body, and stopped to admire his handiwork one more time. "They always have a look of surprise on their faces," he thought. The Celt was no different. Glarus looked into his dead eyes and spoke, "Better you than me."

The Death of Ced

by

Gladlover



Ced had achieved great fame in the arena. He had been a slave since he had been captured by the Romans as a child and a gladiator by his eighteenth summer, he took easily to killing, and rose in popularity with the crowds with each kill. Eventually, after he had killed scores of men in the arena, he was considered the champion by all of Rome. The other gladiators knew it was a death sentence to be paired against him.

It was no surprise when Adrailius drew him into his plot to assassinate the emperor's proconsul. He promised Ced his freedom and his own stable of gladiators if he would use his sword to kill the proconsul, as he had all of those other men. Adrailius was betrayed by his own loose tongue and his stable boy, who, under torture, gave the names of the conspirators, including that of Ced.

The emperor ordered the conspirators to be taken alive. Many of the others killed themselves before they were captured, others meekly surrendered. All would be tortured before execution. Ced had only been the killer; he did not understand the politics involved. When the soldiers came for him, he decided to fight. He killed three of them before they caught him in a weighted net and wrestled his sword away.

Ced was taken into the city. The soldiers beat him senseless, as revenge for the death of their comrades. Two held him up by the arms as a third pounded his belly, screaming at him the whole while.

"You fool! You're lucky the emperor wants to alive, or we'd have cut your guts out and fed them to you by now."

Ced fought for enough air to speak. "If you weren't such a coward … you'd give me a sword and we'd see who gets gutted."

Ced tightened his abs as the soldier slammed his fist into him again and again. He mustered enough strength to kick the soldier in the crotch. Ced laughed as he fell to the ground screaming, hand clutched against the pain between his legs. A bright flash of light shot through his head, accompanied by a quick blast of pain. The light faded and only darkness remained, and the pain became a dull, almost distant throb.

He awoke hours later, naked, in a filthy cell. He lay still for a long time, not sure if he was dead or alive. His guts ached, his head throbbed. Slowly he rose and looked around the cell. There was no bed; just four walls and no windows. What little light he had came through a slit in the door. He staggered to his feet and stumbled to a corner. He began to urinate, and cried out in pain. He was sure that he was passing blood, but it was too dark to see. He leaned against the wall until he finished. He walked across the cell and sat against the wall, drifting off to unconsciousness again.

Ced jerked up as the door crashed open. A noose went over his head and around his neck. It tightened as the soldier who held the pole it was attached to twisted it, jerking him to his feet, and into the hall. He was drug a large room and thrown to his knees in front of the emperor's inquisitor. The soldier pulled him up to face him.

"Cedus of Genua, he droned, "you are a lucky man. Your popularity with the citizenry and the respect of your fellow gladiators requires us to take a different approach with you. If we publicly crucified or hung you, the people would be deprived of the entertainment provided by your skills in the arena, and they would be in a state of distress with his majesty. If we tortured you to death, your fellow gladiators might become … mmm … shall we say restless."

"So what is to become of me?" asked Ced.

"Adrailius promised you a string of gladiators, and so you will get your string. You will face three of his best fighters in the arena tomorrow."

"And what will become of me after I've killed them," Ced asked, confident of his skill.

The inquisitor laughed and looked about the room. "Cedus is certainly sure of how this battle will end." The others in the room nervously joined in the laughter. They knew Ced wasn't joking. "You'll be killed in the arena by the guards should you survive the combat. You fight …" he paused and thought momentarily, "Die tomorrow. The arena will be filled. I understand that all of the talk about the city is the final fight of Cedus of Genua." He motioned to the guards, "Take him away."

The guard twisted the noose as the others tied his hands and legs. They carried him up a stairway, and to a cart. He was thrown in and taken to the coliseum, where he was thrown into a holding cell, still tied up. He moaned and struggled against his bonds. Suddenly he felt someone roll him on his stomach. He instinctively began to struggle.

"Hold still," a voice spoke as hands began to work on his bonds. It was Damaus, his slave. "I'm to prepare you for the fight as usual." He freed Ced and gave him a cup of water. Ced drank and crawled toward the cot. Damaus helped wrestle the heavy gladiator on his back and began to wash his wounds. Ced was asleep in no time. Damaus looked over the familiar body of his master. His smooth, strong chest rose and dropped gently with his breathing. His tight abs, bruised from the beatings, rippled as he shifted about and his manhood lay heavy against his thigh. Damaus thought about how many times that manhood had been filled him, before and after his matches. He went to the corner of the cell and watched Ced as he slept. Soon, he too fell asleep.

The door slammed open, shocking both Ced and his slave into wakefulness. One guard put the point of a spear into Ced's chest, keeping him down on the bed. The other jerked the diminutive Damaus to his feet.

"Prepare your master for the arena."

Damaus nodded as the guards stood back. He helped Ced to his feet and led him through the door and to the baths. The guards followed them, keeping a watchful eye on Ced and his slave. Damaus lowered Ced into the warm waters. Ced immersed himself, loosening his stiff and bruised body. Damaus removed his robe and joined him, washing Ced's body as he had done dozens of times before. Ced enjoyed this ritual. It relaxed him for the coming fight. Normally he focused his thought on battle to come, but today he would be killed. His thoughts drifted back to all of the men he had killed, and how they had died. Some had died as warriors, and some had died as cowards. He knew that he would die as a warrior. The men that had died as warriors had fought bravely and savagely; some of them fought on even though they were mortally wounded. That would be how he would die. With luck, he would take some of the legionnaires with him.

He liked killing; it was all he had ever known. What surprised him greatly was that the thought of his own death excited him just as much. He felt his manhood stiffen. He had always relieved himself before his matches with Damaus. Today would be no different. He rose from the bath and led the young slave to a nearby bench. Damaus knew what his masters needs were, and what to do next. Ced was fond of Damaus. It was unusual for a gladiator to have his own personal slave, but most died before they had gained the status that Ced had. Ced had started just as Damaus had, as a slave preparing gladiators for their appearance in the arena. He understood how the young men felt who serviced those who were about to die. Damaus lay on the bench, lifting his legs and spreading his buttocks to expose himself for his master. He felt himself spread open as Ced entered him. Damaus thought he felt especially large today. Damaus knew that this would be his masters last time, as well as his own. All thought of what was to come was obscured by the pleasure of Ced's manhood as it was thrust deeply inside of him. Damaus stroked his now erect cock as his master pleasured himself. Damaus loved the sight of Ced's muscular chest and belly as he pleasured himself. It thrilled him to know that he could give him this kind of pleasure.

Ced thrust deeply and quickly, knowing that this would be his last purely sexual pleasure. Ced thrust harder as his balls began to tighten. He groaned loudly as he shot his load deeply into the young slave. His muscles flexed tight as the pleasure spread through him. The sight of this pushed Damaus over the edge and he too shot his load on his belly. It thrilled Ced to watched as the white globs splashed on his slave's belly. Ced pulled his manhood from the slave and returned to the bath, where he would clean the residue of their pleasure from his body. Damaus joined him. He knew not to expect affection from Ced now, as he was focused on the fight to come.

"Whom will you go with after I'm dead?" Ced asked.

Damaus looked at his master. "I'm to be killed today."

Ced was shocked at the admission. "What for?" he asked angrily, "You weren't part of the plot! I'll speak to the emperor."

"It will do no good, you and your history are being wiped away," the slave replied. "I'm just another part of your life that will be ending today."

"I'm sorry."

"It's all right," Damaus smiled at him. He was proud that he was the slave of Ced. It had implied a certain status amongst the arena slaves. It would be an honor to die with him. "Come now. You need to get ready," he told his master. Damaus knew his status in the empire. Even if he wasn't to die today, he would have eventually entered the arena as Ced had. Most likely, he would have died there.

Damaus helped Ced into his loincloth. "They've not given you any armor, nor a belt."

"I'm to die," Ced replied, "Armor is for those who have a chance of survival."

The door opened again, and more soldiers entered. The last one through the door was an officer of the guard. He shouted orders out to the rest of the men.

"Seize the slave!" Two soldiers grabbed Damaus under the arms and jerked him toward the door. The other soldiers placed a spear point in Ced's chest. "Let's go." Ced was resigned to his death. He certainly wasn't going to let some legionnaire kill him in the bowels of the coliseum. He went along calmly. He stopped and looked at the officer.

"What will happen to him?" he asked, as he nodded toward Damaus.

"He'll be your first opponent today." The guards laughed as Ced was shoved down the hall to the arena.

"But he's just a boy! He hasn't trained with a sword!"

The soldiers laughed again. "He'll die just fine."

The soldiers led him into the arena. The crowd shouted their approval as he stepped into the bright sunlight. He looked around at those who would watch him die. "They'll cheer anything, as long as a man dies," he thought. In the middle of the arena lay a buckler and a shortsword. The guards backed away as he picked them up. The walls of the arena floor were guarded by legionnaires with bows and spears at the ready.

Ced looked up at the emperor. He would not offer the usual salutations today. The emperor hadn't expected him to do so. Such insolence was usually rewarded with death; and so it would be today. His majesty turned and signaled for the contests to begin. Trumpets blared as the gate opened across the arena. Ced turned to face his first adversary. There stood Damaus, bare-chested, with a sword and buckler like his own. He walked to the center of the arena and waited for Damaus to join him there.

They both went into a fighting stance. Ced first, and Damaus following his lead. They began to circle each other. "I will finish you quickly," Ced told him.

"I want a warriors death," replied the young man.

Ced had impressed his young slave with his philosophy of honorable death. In reality Ced found it difficult to kill a boy in such a brutal manner. "It is an agonizing way to die. Let me kill you fast; one stroke and it will be over."

"Let me die a warrior."

Damaus rushed him, slashing across the small shield. Ced jabbed his sword into the slave's buckler. Almost instinctively, Damaus pushed the blade out of the way, as Ced backed off.

"Why didn't you kill me?" Damaus smiled as he asked. "You had your chance."

"Your better than you think you are." Actually Ced had anticipated every move. He could have killed the slave easily, but he wanted him to have his warrior's death.

Damaus smiled, and he rushed Ced again. Ced used his shield to push the slaves sword aside. He turned into the attack, getting his sword arm behind his opponent's buckler. The slave was no match for the powerful gladiator. Ced forced his shield arm back, exposing his belly. Damaus was off balance and didn't know how to stop the attack. Ced pulled his sword back and plunged the sword went straight into Damaus' belly, just above his navel. His blade quickly slid deep inside the slave, and just as quickly he pulled it free, not twisting it as he usually did.

Ced stepped back and Damaus dropped his weapon and shield, his hands went to the tear in his belly. He dropped to his knees, the pain spreading through his entire being, blood pouring over his hands as it flowed from him. Damaus looked to his master and smiled. Suddenly his body shook in a spasm and he doubled over, face down in the sand.

Ced dropped his shield and went to his side, laying his sword close to his free hand; he lifted him up so he could say something to him before he died. "You are a warrior, my friend."

Damaus smiled. The crowd screamed in delight, but Ced could hear none of it. He could see the bulge form under his slave's blood soaked loincloth as he had seen many times before, but his own manhood didn't seem to take the usual pleasure in the young mans death.

Ced slipped the sword into his hand again. With luck, Damaus would be dead before he knew that Ced had stabbed him. "Goodbye my friend," he spoke, He looked into his eyes as he thrust into Damaus' chest, just beneath the sternum. Damaus gasped loudly as the sword sliced his heart in two. He opened his mouth to cry out but death took him before he could cry out. He slumped in Ced's arms, a trickle of blood falling from his mouth. Ced lay him down gently and pulled the sword from his chest. The crowd kept up their cheers, but Ced did not acknowledge the praise. Of all the men he had killed, this was the first one that he regretted. A charon ran to the arena. He lifted Damaus' head and lifted his hammer to apply the killing blow. Ced grabbed his arm and threw him aside.

"He's already dead! Leave him be!" he screamed. The charon grabbed the corpse by the arm and drug it from the arena. Ced knew that his slave would be stripped and thrown in to the mass grave with the corpses of the other dead gladiators and animals who had died there.

Again the horns sounded. Ced turned to the gates as they swung open. A young man walked toward him. Not as young as Damaus, but not a lot older. He was very tall and wiry, with long muscular arms and tight muscular abs. He reminded Ced of himself when he had first entered the arena. So thin that his ribs showed across his tight chest muscles. A few months of daily training with the sword would give him a thick muscular chest like Ced's; if he had a few months to build himself up "Too bad," Ced thought out loud, "he'll be dead in a few minutes." The gladiator had long blonde hair, pulled into a ponytail that surrounded an almost angelic face. As he got closer, Ced could see into his deep blue eyes, clear and focused on the battle at hand. Ced recognized him as a former attendant from the arena. He was prepared as was any gladiator. His body was bathed and oiled, and he wore the same loincloth as Ced, with an identical buckler and sword.

The gladiators moved around each other, first one way, then the other, sword and buckler at the ready. Crouched low, they both looked to find an advantage. The blonde struck first, using his long arms and greater height to slash down toward Ced's head. Ced drew his buckler up and blocked the blow, the crowd howling as the fight began in earnest. Ced thrust at the exposed belly of his opponent, but the blonde's long arms allowed him to easily dodge the blow. The blonde slashed again, this time catching the edge of Ced's buckler, and knocking it aside. Ced spun quickly away as the sword barely missed his shoulder. Ced slashed again, but his blow glanced harmlessly off the blonde's buckler.

Now that they had felt each other out, they both aggressively attacked. Blades clanged as each man took turns trying to get inside the others defenses. The blonde's longer arms kept Ced too far away for an effective strike. Ced began to quickly back away. The blonde moved in, sensing wrongly that his opponent was tiring. Both men were sweating freely under the hot midday sun. Ced's body glistened as he moved. The blonde's skin gleamed too. Ced thought him quite beautiful.

The blonde rushed Ced with his buckler in front of him, hoping to knock the gladiator off balance. The shields clashed loudly and the blonde thrust his blade toward Ced's pecs. Ced turned slightly and lowered his sword, letting the blonde go by, and impale himself on Ced's blade.

The blonde tried to spin away, but he wasn't fast enough, as the blade entered his belly just to the right of his navel. He cried out and spun away from Ced. It wasn't a deep wound, but the blade tore him open as he fell away. He managed to stay on his feet, and swung wildly at Ced. Blood rushed from the tear in his belly. Ced wasted no time in attacking again, slashing with all of his strength. The blonde was trying to stop the bleeding with his shield arm and still hold onto the only protection he had. He used only his sword to parry Ced's blows. Each move sent a painful reminder of his wound. Ced pressed the attack, slashing back and forth, eventually catching his blade on the hilt of the blonde's sword, and knocking it across the arena. Ced then struck the side of the buckler and moved it aside, knocking it to the sand. The blonde fell back, desperately backing away. He wasn't fast enough. Ced's blade plunged straight into his belly, just above the navel. The blonde froze in agony, throwing his head back and screaming. He grabbed the blade that was now inside him, tearing his guts. Ced kept thrusting, the blade slashed the blonde's hands as it quickly slid deep inside his belly. He fell back, groaning deeply as the reality of his death set in. Ced pulled the blade out quickly, twisting this time. The blonde cried out and arched as he grabbed his wounds, collapsing sandy floor of the arena. He squirmed as his life flowed from between his fingers. He stared up at his killer.

There was no doubt about the pleasure that Ced felt at killing this man. His manhood was stiff and proud underneath his loincloth, and he could see from the bulge in the blonde's loincloth that he was as excited as Ced was. Both men knew what was expected of them. Ced kneeled next to the man, placing the point of his sword in the space between the ribs that were so prominent on his chest. He gasped slightly as the point pricked him slightly. His chest heaved from exertion, the pain, and the anticipation of the deathblow. He raised his head to expose his neck to the sword, as was the tradition. Ced did not like to cut a man's throat. He thought that was how you killed a goat or a coward. Ced thrust the blade deep inside his chest. He could hear bones crack as the thick blade split them apart. The blonde shouted loudly and threw his shoulders back and expanding his chest, accepting the thrust like he would have accepted the thrust of a lover. He fought to draw his last breath. Foamy blood bubbled from his mouth. Ced jerked the sword to the side and pulled it from his body. A geyser of blood shot from his chest as he convulsed. His hands dropped to his side, as his body relaxed in death.

The crowd cheered as the Charons came to the arena and smashed the blonde in the skull, as though there were some question whether or not he was dead. They took a large hook, with a rope attached, and stuck it through the wound in his chest, and drug his corpse away.

The trumpets sounded again, and another man entered. This time, a Nubian. Tall and muscular, with huge shoulders and pecs, he seemed a perfect fit to become a prominent warrior in the arena, but the Roman prejudice against his kind would prevent that. He was armed with a trident and net, and again, there was no armor. Ced wondered what the Romans had told these gladiators about him. The Nubian glanced at the bloody stain where the blonde had been killed. He took a deep breath as he prepared to kill, or be killed.

The Nubian swung the net over his head as he moved toward Ced. The trident would keep Ced back while the Nubian could get close enough to ensnare and finish him while he fought to free himself. Ced stayed away. He thought it odd that they would have a Retarius fight against him. Normally only heavily armored gladiators fought the net bearers. No matter though. He would still have to kill this man.

The Nubian rushed toward Ced, throwing the net. Ced stepped back, using his buckler to try to knock the net aside. The weights wrapped around the small shield, and Ced found it caught in the net. The Nubian jerked hard, pulling Ced off balance, and aiming the trident towards Ced's belly. Ced released the grip on the buckler and it dropped to the sand. The Nubian yanked the net, and the buckler flew across the arena, as Ced lost his balance. The Nubian thrust and one of the tines of the trident struck Ced in the shoulder, and he yelled as the tearing in his shoulder turned to a burning sensation that he felt throughout his body.

The crowd rose to their feet in anticipation of the final blow. Ced scrambled away. The Nubian held the trident, now decorated with Ced's blood, in front of him and charged. Ced put his hand to his shoulder as he backed away. It ached greatly, but he could still fight. The buckler was too far away. It would be easier to fight without it, he thought.

The Nubian kept coming toward him. He lifted the trident above his shoulder, as though her were going to throw it. Ced stepped back again as the Nubian swung the net toward Ced's feet. The weights spun around Ced's ankles, and he fell as the Nubian pulled his feet out from under him.

The fall knocked the wind from him, and a fresh shock of pain went through his shoulder, but he managed to hold onto his sword. He looked up to see the Nubian hurrying toward him, with the trident ready to strike. As he thrust, Ced turned away. The trident struck the soil where he had laid an instant ago. Ced turned back, thrusting his sword upward into the Nubian's navel. It only went in a few inches, but he was off balance and fell forward, the blade cutting through him as he fell. He kept falling until he landed on Ced. The sword now completely through him, bloody steel showing out the back.

Ced let go of his sword and pushed the sweaty, mortally wounded gladiator off of him. The Nubian rolled on his side, and using both hands he began to pull the offending blade from his belly. Ced could see the agony that the man was going through. He pulled the trident from the soil and walked to him. The Nubian was in a world of his own, full of agony and fear of death. Sweat covered his body and mixed with what little blood flowed from his wound. Ced watched him for a moment, marveling at the intensity of the man. The Nubian had pulled the blade a few inches from his belly, and moved his hands to the blade, slicing his fingers. He had to be delirious with pain Ced thought. Ced reached down and grabbed the handle and pulled it from his body in one motion. The Nubian curled up into a ball as the sword shredded his insides even more on the way out, and blood streamed from both wounds.

Ced stuck the sword in the stand. He picked up the trident and kicked the Nubian onto his back, and placed the tines against the Nubians chest. His eyes were gripped tightly shut, and he grimaced as his guts shifted inside of him. Ced pulled the trident over his head and drove the tines squarely into his chest, the middle tine between his pecs and the others through them. There was a loud pop, and the Nubian's eyes and mouth opened wide. The thick points tearing deep inside his chest. A spray of blood burst from his mouth as his lungs filled. He convulsed momentarily, made a loud sigh, and slipped into death. Ced left the trident in his chest.

The attendants come out again as Ced accepted the exaltation of the crowd. One put his foot on the Nubians ribcage and pulled the weapon from him, and the other took the hook and drove it into the chest of the corpse. They dragged the body from the arena. "One man to go," Ced told himself, "then you'll feel the hook." He pulled his sword from the sand and moved to retrieve the buckler. His shoulder ached; he tried to ignore it. It would end shortly. Blood flowed down his arm.

The trumpets sounded again, and the next gladiator entered the arena. Ced thought him to be Roman, probably a slave or a soldier from a disgraced legion. The man had a broad chest, covered with a thick black hair that went down across his thick abs and around his navel. Heavily bearded, with coal black eyes, he seemed to look right through Ced. A soldier Ced thought. A worthy opponent.

Ced grabbed his buckler. Almost as quickly, it fell from his hand. He tried to lift it again. It did no good. He would have to fight without it.

The soldier looked him over. There would be great reward in the afterlife for having killed the great Ced. There would be great honor if one was killed by Ced, but only if the fight itself were honorable. The soldier threw his buckler aside.

Ced nodded to his adversary. They would fight with no protection. Such fights didn't last long. One of them would be dead very quickly.

They moved to the center of the arena and quickly slashed towards each other. Both men swung furiously, both as an attack and to keep the others blade from killing them. Ced kept his wounded arm close to his body. The soldier could more freely shift his weight to try to break Ced's defenses. The fight continued for what seemed to the two warriors like an eternity. Ced was tiring rapidly. More often than not the soldiers blade drove him back toward the arena walls. The legionnaires scattered when it looked like Ced would run into them. Ced managed to sidestep and move out toward the center of the arena. He wondered if he was only prolonging the inevitable.

The soldier kept moving in. Sweat soaked his body. What he had heard about Ced was true. He had given it everything he had and had yet to even touch him.

Ced kept moving away. He knew if he were to kill this man, he would have to be the aggressor. As the soldier moved in again, Ced quickly mustered the last of his strength and slashed from above. The soldier quickly pulled his blade across to block the blow, and his knees buckled at its force. Ced quickly thrust. Catching the soldier in the pec.

The soldier stumbled back, blood flowing through his hairy chest. The wound wasn't deep. He couldn't taste any blood, so he figured that his lung hadn't been pierced. He swung again, but Ced blocked his blow.

Ced moved in for the kill. He continued to swing wildly, not having the strength left to pick his targets. The soldier lunged toward him again. Ced caught the bottom side of his blade and drove it back into the mans face, cutting him above the eye. The shock froze the soldier. An instant later he felt Ced's blade slice into his gut. He dropped his sword and cried out to the heavens, as Ced pulled his sword free and thrust again into his belly. The soldier fell forward into the sand. He pushed himself onto one hand, the other grasping his wounds, and tried to crawl to his sword. Ced let him reach it. This man was a warrior; he should die with a sword in his hand.

The soldier fought to his knees and raised his sword toward Ced. Ced blocked the sword aside and grabbed his wrist. He raised his weapon and thrust it downward into the mans pectoral. There was the familiar tearing and popping sounds as the sword drove through his chest. Ced released his wrist, and the soldier's corpse slumped in to the soil.

His three opponents now dead, he turned to the emperor and looked at him with contempt. Any of those men were twice the emperor was. If only he was close enough to kill him. He knew that wasn't to be. It was now his time to die.

The legionnaires began to march toward him, spears at the ready. Ced thought about fighting, but knew he couldn't last. His wounds and the hot sun had taken its toll on him. He moved toward the center of the arena, near the body of the soldier, and swung wildly. Some of the legionnaires slowed down and others stepped back. Their officers shouted for them to advance. But it would be too late.

"To hell with you all!" Ced screamed. With that he lifted his sword, and turned it toward himself. With all of his might, he thrust it into his belly. Now he knew why men were erect when they died on his sword. The exquisite agony of the blade tearing through his gut excited him as never before. He dropped to his knees and savored the feeling, he pushed again and the blade, lubricated with the blood of the others, slid easily through his gut. He felt it pass out his back. Suddenly he felt cold, and the agony was replaced by the spasms of his manhood inside his loincloth. He fell on his face as death took him to the afterlife. Both hands still on the pommel of the sword.

The crowd cheered of course. As much as they liked Ced as a gladiator, most of them could not wait until he was dead. The emperor wasn't happy that his legionnaires hadn't killed him. They will suffer the cross for their cowardice.

The charons came to get Ced's body. A quick swing of the hammer and the back of his skull was crushed. Turned on his side, they pulled the blade from his body. They took a large hook and jammed it underneath his sternum. It took both of them to drag his body to the mortuary underneath the stands.

They threw his sword into a box used for collecting these things. The weapons from the earlier bouts were already there. They stripped him of his loincloth, and he lay naked in death. The attendants noted the residue of his orgasm on his legs and manhood. They knew that he's sent plenty of others to hell, and he was going the same way. They drug his body to the pit outside of the coliseum, and threw it on the pile. Here he would lay naked in the sun, with Damaus, the blonde, the Nubian, and the soldier for all eternity

Christano stepped into the sunlight, raising his arms to the crowd as they chanted his name. In one hand he held his helmet and his curved sword in the other, another handsome young man, his second, carried his small round shield. He hadn't been a gladiator long, but he had had quick success, and was a crowd favorite. He was a beautiful young man of Greek descent, tall and athletic with long flowing black hair; one could see the out line of every muscle in his body. Both Gladiators had been wiped down with oil, and his skin glistened in the late afternoon sun. He fought as his people would have, as a Thracian. He had fought 6 times; always victorious with three kills to his credit. He now thought of himself as invincible. He was no longer a fighter, bound by the code of honor, but a stone killer.

 Next to him, Razid stood waiting, watching out of one corner of his eye the show that Christano was putting on. He too had been wiped down with oil, mixed with his sweat, the thick black hair on his chest shimmered. He was a smaller man; muscular but sinewy. He was nimble and agile, characteristics that served him well as a Retiarius. Razid was a prisoner of war who had been relegated to the Arena rather than common labor. He was a good fighter, and his killing technique provided great entertainment for the spectators. His net hung over his shoulder as he held his weapon aloft for the crowd to see. His Trident had barbed tines on each side of the head and a long center spike, sharpened to a fine point, his net was weighted and was loosely attached to his wrist.

 The two Gladiators approached the podium of the arena. They raised their weapons in honor to the sponsor and editor, and saluted them, acknowledging the chance, even the likelihood of death. As they turned, Christano turned to Razid and spoke to him under his breath; "prepare to die," As he reached the center of the arena He turned to his second and looked into his eyes: "we'll be together soon," he told him. This excited the young man as Christano was especially aroused after a victory, and doubly so after a kill. He put his helmet on. He didn't buckle the chin strap because he figured it wouldn't be long before he would be victorious. His second handed him his shield and gazed at him in awe and desire, dreaming of tonight's carousal, his manhood begin to stiffen. He turned and ran to the Porta Sanavivra (Gate of Life), as he believed, as his lover, in the quick victory, and the quick kill.

 Razid said nothing, as he had heard the premonition of his death from many of his previous opponents: many of them dead themselves. He watched as the young gladiator swaggered to the center of the arena, mocking him with his pompous display of bravado. Razid understood that life is short for a gladiator; he decided that he could have no mercy, as this man saw him as another easy kill.

 The signal was given and the two gladiators went into their fighting crouch and began to circle each other. Razid moved more quickly, continually jabbing toward his opponent to keep him back, and snapped the net back and forth, looking for an opening. Christano suddenly lunged forward and slashed from over his head and downward, hoping to hit his opponent's unprotected head. Razid had been caught off balance, and the Thracian was too close to counter attack. He spun clumsily out of the way, and the curved sword struck his Galerus. Christano followed through and cut a nasty tear on his opponents arm

 He grunted loudly as he pulled back. The wound wasn't deep enough to cripple the arm, but blood gushed from the wound and soaked him. He showed no pain, as he backed away to regain his footing. Christano kept on the attack and quickly turned to pursue the Retiarius, slashing quickly and forcing him back. Razid used his trident to parry, and quickly stepped to one side as Christano charged. He threw the net, and it landed squarely on the Thracian. Still attached to his wrist, he pulled the Christano toward him, and thrust hard with the Trident. Christano pulled back to avoid the spikes, and had almost broken free from the net, when he felt a spike sink deeply into his thigh. He jerked back and the barb tore his leg open further.
 Razid now had the advantage. The running and constant charging would tire Christano, and the bleeding from his leg was heavy, and would impair his performance even more. "Now I've got him," he thought
 Christano stepped back to gather himself, and take a deep breath. The wound hurt, but he was unaware of the severity. He could feel the blood flowing from the wound, but thought it unimportant. He was angry now; he had yet to be wounded this badly, and would have his revenge.

 Christano kept up the pursuit, slowed but still aggressive. Razid threw the net again and Christano managed to clumsily dodge away. Each step was agony for the young fighter and made the bleeding worse. He pressed on; attacking with his sword. Razid continued to parry the blade with his trident. He threw the net again and caught the Thracians shield. Both gladiators pulled against the other. Christano stumbled as his wounded leg gave out, and his shield went flying. "I won't need it," he thought. Razid had placed himself between the shield and Christano. The Thracian kept on the attack; sweat poured from his body; mixing with the oil it dripped into his eyes. He began to grow cold as a result of the bleeding.
 The young Thracian was growing more and more frustrated. The Retiarius would thrust his trident, drawing him out, and then throw the net, or try to trip him with it. He knew that if he could just fight the Retiarius straight up, he would kill him quickly, but Razid would have none of that. He knew that his light armor and his speed was his advantage in the fight, and he used it well. The Thracian charged and slashed furiously. He stumbled slightly and Christano knew it was time to move in for the kill. He jabbed over and over again; first high and then low, forcing his opponent back. Without a shield Christano had no choice but to retreat. Christano had lost his bearings and did not know where he was. Razid used the net as a whip and it wrapped around the curved sword of his opponent.
 Christano tried to pull away as his only means of defense was wrapped in the net. Razid released the net, and Christano fell back expecting to fall to the sand, and was startled when he crashed backwards into the wall of the arena. His helmet flew from his head and he was stunned. His arms fell to his side, the net and his sword fell free, and his head spun around, blinded by the sun. He became aware of the screaming of the crowd; he had heard it before, as he was about to kill.

 Just then the razor sharp center spike of the trident reached his muscular flat belly just below his navel and tore inside him. The barbed spikes entered a second later. Razid didn't stop until he felt the spike hit Christano's backbone.

 He threw his head back and shrieked …Aiiiieeeee. He reached  forward and he grabbed the shaft of  the weapon in a futile attempt to pull it free. Razid pressed harder. Christano's intestines wrapped around the spikes buried deeply inside him. Razid pulled the weapon back slightly and thrust forward several times. Christano gasped each time the spikes tore him further. He grimaced in agony.

 Razid dropped the shaft of his weapon, and watched as Christano leaned against the wall, holding the shaft, fighting against the torment, he pulled the spikes from his body, doing even more damage and causing greater pain. The shouting of the crowd drowned out his screams of agony. He grabbed his belly with both hands, desperately trying to seal the wounds, but blood flowed freely soaking his crotch. He staggered forward, holding his guts in as he moved aimlessly toward the center of the arena. Razid stood back and let him go. He wanted him to suffer, and wanted to give the spectators a good show when he finished him. He picked up his 

 Christano finally dropped to his knees. He fell over and he supported himself with one hand, as blood dripped from his belly onto the sand below. Razid stepped forward and kicked him over on his back. Christano writhed in the sand groaning, arching his back in hopes of relief.

 He looked at the sky and breathed deeply and quickly, knowing that this would be his last taste of air. His cock began to stiffen, just as it had when he had killed others, the pleasure tempered the pain. He squirmed in pleasure as much as agony. He would savor his final orgasm.

 Razid enjoyed watching his agonizing spasms, but he didn't want him to die without his help. He wanted to finish him with a killing below. Christano had a smooth muscular chest, strained to it's limits his exaggerated breathing. Razid thought it to be quite beautiful. He placed the long middle point right in the middle of his victim's chest. Christano slowed his breathing when he felt the point prick his skin. He looked to his killer, knowing that his time had come. His cock stiffened even harder.

 Razid looked to the editor, and received permission to finish Christano. He leaned on his weapon, driving it straight down. His sternum popped as Christano drew a large breath and flexed upward, throwing his arms to his side, almost welcoming the spikes into his chest. The other spikes tore his nipples and broke ribs as well. He couldn't exhale and squirmed deeper into the sand as his cock began to come. He fought for air, and got only the taste of blood in his mouth, as it pored over and flowed down his cheek. The final pleasure subsided as he slumped back to the sand, arms and legs splayed out. His eyes widened and stayed open as his head rolled to the side. Razid began to cum as he savored Christano's death throes. He leaned harder against the weapon, the spikes a metaphor of his cock penetrating a man, like a lover. He too breathed deeply as the waves of pleasure overwhelmed him. They began to subside when he pulled the tines from the young mans chest. When the barbed tines caught on Christano's ribs, Razid jerked, raising his chest. Christano's chest was expanded and was hanging on the trident. It was a beautiful sight in Razid's eyes, a perfect way for his orgasm to end.

 Razid held his weapon over his head, with Christanos blood and viscera dripping from the tines and drew in the adulation of the crowd. He began to slowly walk toward the gate of life, acknowledging the cheers as he left the field of battle, cum flowing down his thighs.

 Arena attendants, one dressed as Charon hurried to the corpse; Charon would not have to use his hammer, as there was no doubt that that this man was dead. The others tied a rope around Christano's ankles, and drug him toward the Gate of Death (Porta Libitnensis). His arms dragged behind his head. What blood was left in his body smeared the sand, and other slaves raked it under. When he arrives at the spoilarium, he will be stripped naked of his armor and what little clothing he had on. He had no colleagues to claim his body and no money provided for his funeral; his body would go into the mass grave filled with the dead naked gladiators who had died as he had.

 Razid walked through the Gate of Life. To the side, he saw his opponent's second, eyes full of tears. "What shall I do now," he asked? Razid looked him up and down; "You belong to me." He wrapped his arm around the young man. They walked away together.

In honor of the magistrates birthday, Atticus and ninety-nine other gladiators would fight to the death. Only fifty would survive. It was a great birthday celebration.

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