A Gladius in one hand, leather on the handle amalgamates with weathered epidermis as if together for so long, there is no real division between one and the other. A Parmula in the other, the protector, second appendage aside a most ravenous blade. Muscles so tense, nerve endings burst with electrical energy, capturing the spirit of the terrible beast within the man, nay, the Gladiator.
The beast tightens his foothold into the sand, raging strength forcing down, sand pressured through each phalanges as if water through a spout. Positioning each arm carefully and with the intent of maximizing damage and avoiding attacks, through cunning and powerfulness, designing death with each glare of the field. His focus, that of the hawk in the hunt or the statesmen in great debate...calculating all the angles, possibilities, and outcomes, defining his moment in time before ever even arriving there, his blood pumps.
The blood courses through his veins like molten hot lava from the core of Mount Vesuvius, ready to feed the vicious requirement of vigor needed to drive the man beyond men, who means to deliver the utmost devastating horror unto the flesh of other just as ferocious men, but none that contend. The strength of ages shown in the ripples of a warrior's poetic mastery to human excellence within war, for the ruthless decimation of human parts in a most savage fashion.
The shattered Gladiator takes that last few seconds, those trice right before battle
......where all time ceases......
To look down at the blood pumping harmoniously through veins before his eyes, he thanks the gods for his passion, power, and even his demise...and at that moment of singularity, he can hear his very blood in motion, as if all the world is silent, even against the crowds of the Coliseum that rival the sound of ten thousand heavy armored horse in full charge crashing lines of men
.......yet he can hear the breath pass his lips, as he breathes that last easy air of peace.
As the opponents he means to send to the afterlife enter into their final space of rest, the roar begins to shake the sands at the suspect of impending death. The Gladiator sees each lusting harder than the other at the thought of his murderous actions given as the sport of all. Loving the blissful pleasures of watching him extinguish the light in men's eyes at his most arrogant time, all in name of a game. The Gladiator clinches his teeth in great anticipation, as the Roman speaks in foreign words which requires a submissive bow, and an utterance of a silly vow, which has no meaning.
And despite his many occasions in this very situation, there is still no greater sensations then when hardened metals smash together in the most destructive manner, setting the sounds alight that is music to the ears of a monstrous warrior who dances with death so often, he has learned to avoid the steps, more often leading, for skills that are the best, and death has all but removed him from his list...
Save a tiny little cyst in his hypothalamus.....he would have never died in battle.