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."