Maximus - bronzed, muscular, good-looking - strided into the Arena in nothing but a pair of purple speedoes. He was the undefeated champion of the Roman world. He had lately made two magnificent conquests. In the arena in Madrid he had defeated Pedro, the Spanish champion, a beautiful man with long black hair, in a straight sword fight. Pedro had been outclassed; he had died on Maximus�s sword. Then later in Berlin Maximus had defeated Jurgen, the champion of Germany. Jurgen had fought him with an axe but Maximus, fighting with a club, had defeated him with a blow to the head which had smashed the German�s handsome shaven skull. Both men had died at Maximus�s bare feet. They were good gladiators, but pitted against Maximus they were defeated gladiators. Each had left the arena feet first. Now Maximus felt he could take on anyone and win.

The Champion was now back in Rome,in the Coliseum, defending his title against a challenger from Britain. Garth entered the Arena, wearing nothing but blue speedoes, small, hairy-bodied, cocky, prancing around.

"You�re dead meat, Champion!" shouted Garth contemptuously.

"Who ya tryna�kid?" replied Maximus, "I�m gonna take your life today!"

But Garth did not intend to forfeit his life easily. Maximus had made the mistake of underestimating his little opponent.

Maximus was armed with a club - the same one with which he had defeated Jurgen - and a shield. He also had sharp blades attached above his ankles by thick leather straps - like a cock in a cock-fight. Garth had a sword and a shield, and also had ankle blades.

A horn sounded and the death fight began. The men exchanged blow after blow, parrying each blow with their shields. Each man was desperate to bring about the other�s death. This was a fight to the death with no mercy, no pity, expected nor given. The spectators enjoyed blow after blow, the muscular heat of the big man and the little man engaged in their almost-naked death battle, barefoot in the hot sand of the Roman Arena.

Maximus managed a blow to Garth�s shield that was particular forceful, almost knocking the little man off his feet. "Great,", thought Max, "I�ll follow it up with a blow to his neck with my ankle blade, and that will snuff the little weakling!"

And that was Maximus�s mistake. He raised his foot, raised his leg to deliver this conquering blow - but too slowly. In a daring move, the wily little Briton dropped his shield, caught hold of Maximus�s long bare foot, and stopped him delivering this decisive blow. But more importantly he did not let go of Maximus�s foot. To the crowd�s astonishment, he held Maximus�s foot in mid air, steadfastly refusing to let go. Maximus�s ankle blade was now impotent, but crucially his leg was now exposed, and Garth still had his sword. Quickly, Garth slashed into Maximus�s thigh, once - twice - three times. He slashed deeply and mercilessly. Everyone could see the agony on Maximus�s face. Then a couple of blows to Maximus�s muscular calf. Only then did he release Maximus�s foot from this undignified lock. Maximus staggered to avoid falling over. Then, taking advantage of the Roman�s shock, Garth slashed Max's remaining thigh twice for good measure. Maximus�s once-powerful legs had been cut to ribbons. He could barely stay on his feet. He staggered one way, then another. Garth did nothing but enjoy Maximus�s agony, raising his arms already and punching the air in victory. Then Maximus fell. He fell on the hot sand of the Arena. He tried to get to his feet again, but his efforts were too feeble.

Maximus raised his finger to admit defeat to Garth. Would the crowd be merciful? But Garth had defeated Max so totally, so brilliantly, that the crowd were in no mood for mercy. Forgotten were his triumphs over Pedro and Jurgen. The crowd forgot how they had cheered when Maximus had soundly defeated those two manly warriors. The crowd was only interested in today's winner. All they saw was the end of an era. All they saw was a champion conquered, his hard legs torn to shreds. A vanquished champion who had to die. They put their thumbs decisively DOWN.

Ring attendants arrived and removed Maximus�s club and shield. They also unstrapped his ankle blades and took them away. Then, cruelly, they tied the ankles of the very-much-alive Maximus together so that he was ready to be dragged out of the Arena feet first. So Maximus was left sitting on his butt, unarmed, his bare feet strapped together, his muscular legs cut to ribbons - defeated, humiliated, humbled. His fine body, his victories over Pedro and Jurgen, were of no account now. They could not save him from his fate. He had been defeated and outsmarted. His fate was death - and to be dragged from the Arena by his feet.

Garth - the bulge in his speedoes swelling ever thicker with the thrill of Maximus�s defeat - circled the Arena, Maximus watching miserably, impotently. Then Garth approached his conquered foe. Maximus watched Garth�s manly feet as his conqueror strided, sword in hand, towards him - smiling, flushed with victory, full of life. Maximus raised his eyes to Garth's grinning face and could see in Garth's eyes the virile killer instinct that had signed his death certificate.

Once at Maximus�s shoulder, Garth grasped a clump of Maximus�s short hair, yanked his head up to expose the full glory of Maximus�s broad, tender throat, and cut his throat with the sword. Moaning, Maximus fell back to die - throat bleeding, lungs heaving. Maximus�s death agony was brief. As Garth raised his bloody sword in victory, Maximus finally died as he was being dragged feet first out of the Arena, hearing the crowd cheer at the death of the defeated champion and the crowning of a new, more virile, champion.