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Sacrificial Offering
Thrust
back with the force of the blow, he landed with his broad back thudding
against the bare ground, making clouds of dust rise in tiny jets. In the same
second, his head cracked against the dry earth, stunning him momentarily. He
tried to focus his eyes, but he had temporarily forgotten where he was and
what he had been doing. Then he felt the three points resting threateningly
against the mound of his lower abdomen between his navel and his groin. His
eyes shot open with sudden lucidity and he stared at the puckers made in his
skin by the trident’s tines. His eyes followed the lines of the handle up to
the hands that held the forked instrument steadily against him. His opponent,
as naked as he was, was breathing heavily from the exertions of a heavy and
well-fought battle, sweat dripping from his brow and arms, his penis
semi-erect. The
prone victim’s belly heaved, too, as his lungs attempted to regain the air
they so desperately needed, pushing his lower belly against the threatening
points. The victor stood motionless, waiting--a small smirk on his face to
let the vanquished know who was the master, the better combatant. Marcus
raised his shoulders and moved his arms so he could see the
"fisherman" and gazed, almost dully, at the spectator box with the
grieving patrons who had paid for this display of manly skill in combat. This
was the tradition for the Romans long before the gladiatorial spectacles of
Rome’s later years. In these early days of the empire, such exhibitions were
performed for the grieving male family members of the wealthy. There were
more mourners in the small arena’s seats than just the family, as guests,
friends, even servants of the deceased had been invited to attend and to
watch this traditional display. But
Marcus’ attention was on the small enclave of men, who had the hoods of their
garments up to cover their heads in a useless attempt to hide their
"grieving" faces from the merely curious, and who would otherwise
attempt to validate the extent of the family members’ grief by their
expressions-and promptly wag their tongues in gossip to denigrate the fine
family members. The
small group of men, Gaius’ son, nephews, their sons, and the sole grandson,
had bent their heads solemnly together to discuss and to decide the prone and
defeated man’s fate. Marcus looked into the face of the grandson, a youth of
16 years of age, and made his own decision. He had seen the youth before,
when the group of men had come to the "stables" (as he referred to
the cells where he and the other gladiators were housed for their training)
and he had been very much taken by the boy’s charm, looks, and especially by
his haunting blue eyes. Then, the group of men had been chatting quietly with
the owner of the training center and they even
spoke quietly to the potential combatants. The youth, bored with the slowness
and subdued voices of his grieving elders, had approached Marcus, examining
him as some housewife might examine the poultry at the market. They spoke,
and Marcus, himself charismatic and charming, had gotten the details of the
event: Gauis, the youth’s grandfather, had been a
high-ranking military officer in his younger years. The family’s wealth had
been well established before the grandfather had become a brilliant military
man. Now, as an older man, the retired soldier had died quietly in his sleep. The
youth found himself talking freely to the fighter and revealed that his
grandfather had given him a new sword as a gift, since he was to enter the
military soon. Marcus
turned and the tines of the trident bit into his skin and scratched the
sweaty surface, but he did catch the youth’s eyes as they turned away from
the faces of his uncles and father. Marcus saw the disappointment in those
cerulean orbs and knew that the men had decided his fate. The fight had been
a good one-an honest one-with two worthy opponents, one of them beaten. As
the men reached into the sleeves of their robes to remove the same
handkerchiefs that they had carried to Gaius’ funeral, Marcus’ heart began to
race. He had to act now, he knew, and it would take all the courage and
daring he had to complete the duty that he decided was now his. "Wait!"
he shouted, breaking the near silence that was usually appropriate for such
an occasion. Startled, the family members looked at the prone man. "I
have a request, a statement, to make before you finish your decision. Your
father," he looked unabashedly into the face of the middle-aged son,
"was a soldier who led men into battle numerous times." There
was a slight nod of assent from the still incredulous man in the seats. "He
saw his own men combat the enemy and even watched as some his most beloved
comrades perished in battle. He also killed the soldiers of the armies that
had dared to attack Roman outposts, is that not so?" Again,
there were more nods from the son and the nephews. Marcus
took a quick breath. He knew if he failed to continue now, he would not
succeed in the task he had taken upon himself. Marcus pushed himself and
rushed on with his impromptu and dangerous speech. "He
was a courageous man whose bravery helped Rome and he endangered his own life
in those battles. If he had fallen in battle, as I have fallen, his attackers
would not have hesitated to kill him, or worse, to capture him and execute
him. Those were the risks he took as a good soldier. Those were the
sacrifices he was willing to make to keep Rome safe. "I,
too, have taken risks as a gladiator, but I have lost my battle. Now I ask,
no I demand, that, in memory of the noble Gaius, that you honor
him appropriately and ask for my death." He
stared boldly into the men’s faces as they gasped at such a request. "My
combatant," he nodded at the victorious gladiator who still held the
trident against his gut, "has won the battle as the honorable
Gaius often did. He now stands where you father," he looked squarely
into the youth’s blue eyes, "and grandfather cannot stand today. Let him
act in the great man’s place and issue your decree that he should do what the
great Gaius would have completed in combat." There
was a silence followed by a slight murmur of admiration among the hooded men.
Seeing that he had swayed the men, Marcus spoke with more force, his
trepidation having vanished now that he had determined his own fate. "And
though this warrior, my opponent, should not be deprived of ramming his
implement into me, for that is the reward of the victor over the vanquished,
this occasion calls for more." Again
eyebrows were raised and the youth even smirked as he saw the sparkle grow in
Marcus’ eyes. He had gotten an erection during the fight that wouldn’t go
away, and now, knowing he would see this well-built man slaughtered before
his calm blue eyes, his manhood sought release. When
he had gotten the questioning attention of the family once more, Marcus
continued. "Aurelius,"
Marcus nodded toward the youth, "as the grandson of the honorable Gaius, will soon be joining Rome’s army to take
on the noble duty of defending Rome. He has a new sword given to him by his
grandfather-a gift to take into battle to use to defend and build he empire.
The sword has never tasted blood. The youth has never caused a man to perish.
He is untested, as yet, in this virile undertaking as a soldier of Rome. Let
him come into the arena and bathe his sword in my blood. Let him feel the
resistance of flesh against metal so that, in battle, he will not hesitate to
defeat the opponents of Rome or to jeopardize his own life by failing to
adequately take action against his enemies. Let him look into the eyes of his
foe, my eyes, and not flinch to take another’s life." There
was applause at this speech and vigorous nods of approval as enthusiastic
hands patted the grandson’s back as they guided the all-too-eager youth from
the spectators’ stand to the participants’ arena. The
youth strode eagerly into the arena, raising his sword above his head as he
grinned at the spectators. He stopped only briefly to speak with Marcus and
then with the victor of the battle, and then he took his own position along
Marcus’ flank. With
the sword still held high above his head, he thrust his other arm out in
front of him. With eyes that silenced the crowd with the natural superiority
and sense of command that the youth inherited from his grandfather, he lifted
his thumb. Slowly, deliberately, watching the mourners as if to dare them to
stop him, he aimed the thumb down, and, with a sneer, he gave it a final
downward jerk. Marcus’
stomach fluttered. The
crowd solemnly thrust their own arms out and repeated the gesture. "Aurelius,
Octavious, Gaius. I, a poor gladiator, who am about
to die, salute you in your new undertaking as a defender of Rome."
Marcus rested back on his elbows as he watched, as if an interested but
detached observer, to what was to take place. A
nod from Aurelius to the standing gladiator gave him his cue, as Aurelies crossed his bare arms over his chest. Withdrawing
the trident from his fallen comrade’s abdomen, Marcus’ opponent drew it back,
his upper arm bulging with power. With a powerful drive, he plunged the
implement down into the exact place where it had rested before, only this
time, the three metal teeth bit into the skin, piercing the surface. Within a
second, Marcus could feel the metal shafts of the tines as his flesh
surrounded them. The
reclining Marcus’ eyes popped open and he gasped at the suddenness of this
rape of his gut and the intensity of the pain as his opponent followed
through on the motion to rest his full weight along the trident’s shaft. With
a fluid motion, Aurelius straddled Marcus, bringing his sword back. With a
deftness that belied his inexperience, he aimed the point above the waiting
navel and drove the virgin point into the waiting man’s gut as deep as it
would go. When he could feel that the point had emerged on the opposite side
and had struck the arena’s hard ground, he tilted the handle upward in an
arc, slicing a line along the center of the muscled
abdomen open. Marcus
grimaced. The pain had been too intense to endure. His fingers had curled
against the ground as he tightened up and fought against the impulse to dart
toward the implements making the wounds. He felt the release of the trident
as it was removed, but this only released a rivulet of blood from each of the
three holes and to increase his suffering. His
arms shook, and his hand reached towards his wounds as if to soothe and heal
them. But before his hands could reach, he felt the sole of Aurelius’ sandal
on his shoulder, forcing him back to the ground. An instant later, at he felt
the stab of the trident’s points into his right pectoral. The
anguish from his pain made Marcus thrash and his head arch back. The muscles
on his neck tightened and bulged as he grimaced against the unbelievable
agony. Squeezing
his eyes shut, he didn’t see the glint of the sword’s blade as it descended
across those hard muscles, drawing first a crimson line that spread open as
the wound opened as a gaping gash. The momentum of the blade forced the edge
into the hard ground, severing the suffering man’s head and bringing him
welcome respite from his pain. Aurelius,
his adrenaline rapidly flowing through his blood, grabbed the fallen head,
grasping it by its curly, dark locks, and raising it high for the crowd to
see and applaud. His chest heaved in victory under his tunic. He wanted to
thrust his sword into another body and he briefly eyed the other man standing
with him. A different impulse pestered him and he lowered his sword. The
fallen man’s corpse was dragged off the field of combat and the mourners
left, but Aurelius stayed, taking his fighting comrade back to his cell and
plunging his flesh sword deep into the willing man’s anus. Both he and the
new soldier learned that the taking of another’s life is a powerful
aphrodisiac, and the two men coupled several times that night. Aurelius
became an excellent soldier, and his gladiator companion was always there in
his tent after each battle, waiting eagerly for his master’s return. And
Marcus Aurelius (for he took on the name of the heroic man who gave him his
start) became a worthy and powerful general who fought valiantly for
Rome-never once hesitating to use his weapon in combat. |
