Finally, Decimus tripped him. Marcus went down, his helmet clattering off. The crowd saw his face—young, bleeding, but calm.
“The new Emperor of the underground,” Lucius corrected. “He holds gladiatorial fights in a renovated warehouse near the Tiber. Not for sport. For entertainment of the elite. Fights to the death. And tonight, he will unveil his prize: a legionary’s armor from the 9th Legion, the one that vanished in Britain. But the real prize is the man who wears it: Decimus, your captain, who will fight as ‘The Invictus.’”
But two weeks ago, his world collapsed. A black op in the Balkans went sideways. His squad was betrayed, and he was the only one who walked away—carrying a bullet in his shoulder and a court-martial threat over his head for "unauthorized engagement." Now, he was confined to the barracks, waiting for the axe to fall. Private - Gladiator -2002-
“No,” Marcus said, his voice echoing off the metal. “I’m a private. That means I serve something bigger than you. Bigger than this pit.”
Decimus fell. Marcus pulled the gladius free and stood over him, breathing hard. He looked at the wealthy men in the audience—the senators of this new Rome. He looked at Tony Gage, whose smile had vanished. Finally, Decimus tripped him
A Carabinieri officer approached. “Signore… what do we call you? Gladiator? Hero?”
Then the opposite door opened.
He walked into the night, leaving the arena behind—for the first time, truly free.
Decimus laughed. “Marcus? You’re a ghost. You’re already court-martialed. You’re nothing .” “The new Emperor of the underground,” Lucius corrected
“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.”