Marcus stared at the gladius. “You want me to go in there? A US Army private, fighting a corrupt officer in a billionaire’s blood sport?”
Lucius opened a crate. Inside, nestled in foam, was not a vase or a statue. It was a gladius —a short sword, its steel impossibly bright, its hilt carved with a wolf’s head. Beside it lay a bronze helmet with a scratched, silver visor. Private - Gladiator -2002-
Marcus grabbed a handful of sand from the arena floor. He threw it into Decimus’s eyes, rolled, and drove the gladius up through the gap between Decimus’s cuirass and belt. Marcus stared at the gladius
“Private First Class Marcus Tullius,” Lucius said, savoring the name. “Your mother was Roman. Your father, American. You were born between worlds. That is why you survived.” Inside, nestled in foam, was not a vase or a statue
As the elite scrambled, Marcus walked to the exit. He picked up his helmet, the wolf staring at him with empty eyes.
Marcus went. Not for glory, but for answers.
The crowd gasped.