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MARCUS MERETRUS: THE LAST GLADIATOR Part I — FROM ASHES TO NEW YORK - ChatFighters

“Salve iterum, Marce Meretre. Roma satis diu championem suum exspectavit.” (Welcome back, Marcus Meretrus. Rome has waited long enough for her champion.) The voice was masculine. The Latin was perfect, the Latin of an educated man. The words that followed were carefully chosen, the speech of an orator, of a man used to speaking before a crowd. A refined scent reached my nose. A delicate perfume. Adrian had taught me how to recognize the best ones. And the one this man wore was familiar to me. Perhaps an Hermès fragrance. The first time I had seen that name on a shop, I thought the god had changed professions. Adrian had never laughed so much. My thoughts wandered, as if they refused to understand the seriousness of the situation. But my nature had always been careless.

The man who welcomed me. Suddenly stepped forward, and his face appeared in the darkness. He was old. Very old to my eyes. But everything about him expressed power, and the ancient confidence of a man born to dominate. He introduced himself as Prince Palavici, a direct descendant of the Pala and Vici families, cousins of Emperor Augustus, relatives of Caesar. An ancient family that had helped create Venice, a family that had known all the moments of glory of the Roman Empire and of the city of the Doges. A family that had seen its power and wealth collapse with the unification of Italy. A family that wanted revenge. They wanted to restore glory to their native land. The means? To bring Mars Ultor back to life. The powerful god of war.The one who had saved me from the flames of Vesuvius. The one to whom I now owed a debt.The one to whom I had to sacrifice my life, my blood.

I listened to all this with irony. Was this man mad? Was he serious? Soon I burst out laughing, a vulgar laugh, the laugh of a gladiator used to crude jokes, obscene talk, and barbaric words.A brutal punch to my stomach cut off my breath. Another man had rushed at me to strike me. Bent double, I heard his words in Latin, a less precious Latin. “Canis. Fili putidae canis sine honore. Honora dominum nostrum magnum. Honora Martem,  deum nostrum.”(Bastard! Rotten son of a dishonourable bitch. Respect our great master. Respect our god Mars.) Rage filled me now, and I pulled on my chains, wanting to destroy that coward. But my strength was not enough. Soon, the prince’s voice stopped me. “Serva vires tuas, Marce. Mox enim eis opus erit, ut deum qui te servavit ad vitam revoces.” (Save your strength, Marcus. Soon you will need it to bring back to life the god who saved you.)

As those words were spoken, I felt a sting in my left arm.The cowardly servant smiled at me with a defiant, sadistic look. He held a syringe in his hand. Very quickly, my legs turned to cotton. My eyes slowly began to close. I fought not to fall asleep.

The last thing my half-closed eyes saw was a group of elegant women and men approaching me, their faces covered with golden masks, whispering among themselves. A voice rose, a woman’s voice.“Estne vere ipse? ” (Is it truly him? ) Another voice answered.“Mox sciemus.”  (Soon we shall know.)

I woke with a heavy head in a bed of silk and fur. I was naked, and my body was washed and perfumed. I got up. The floor swayed under my feet, but it was not the drug making me unsteady. I heard a faint hum. A distant sound. I recognized it. We were at sea. And the hum was that of a yacht. My heart leapt. Had Adrian found me? Had he saved me? I stood, and a mirror sent back the reflection of my muscular body. I felt my cock begin to harden. Another of my flaws: I am an exhibitionist, but also a narcissist. On the edge of the bed, I saw a indigo-coloured linen tunic, embroidered with fine patterns, and a heavy gold bracelet. It was carved with the image of the god Mars. I slipped into the tunic. It was light and cool. Then I hesitated before putting on the bracelet. But now I have only one goal. To escape.

And it would have been a shame to leave such a treasure behind. I will give it to Adrian as proof of my attachment. I still did not dare to use the word love. It had always been forbidden to me. I slowly left the bedroom. Clearly, I was not a prisoner. I walked along an empty corridor. Music was playing above me. I climbed a wide staircase and came out into an immense salon. I was not on Adrian’s yacht.  A table was set for breakfast. The prince was sitting there. He was as elegant as Adrian.

When I arrived, he stood and bent slightly forward, as if greeting a superior being. In the distance, I saw the island of Capri. We would be there in half an hour, and then I would finally be able to escape. The prince gestured for me to sit. His voice was firm and powerful.“Roma non cecidit. Roma te exspectabat.” (Rome has not fallen. Rome was waiting for you.) “Tu, Marce, es champion ritualis, idolum Romae, dilectus deorum.” “You, Marcus, are the ritual champion, the idol of Rome, the beloved of the gods.)

A discreet servant, built like a bodyguard, wanted to pour coffee for me .I stopped him. I have never been able to get used to that drink. I poured myself a glass of orange juice instead. I had to play their game. I had to take part in their madness until I could escape. I said nothing. I watched.

My eyes followed our approach to the island. I judged the servant. In my mind, I prepared my plan. I prepared for my escape. I am a good swimmer. Normally, we would pass close to the Blue Grotto before entering the harbour and anchoring offshore. A shove, a dive, and I would be free. I drank my orange juice slowly, keeping my eyes on the bodyguard. He was muscular, but not enough to stop me. The prince spoke to me of combats, of blood to be spilled for Mars, of men to be sacrificed to bring him back. He spoke of my blood, the blood that would set the god free. But first, he had to know if I was truly the man I claimed to be. There was only one bust of me .It looked like me, but…Then, after a short silence, he said in Latin: “Solum certamen virtutem tuam ostendet et veram identitatem tuam confirmabit.” (Only a fight will show your worth and confirm your true identity.)

Capri appeared before us. The island had changed greatly. Villas stood out on the mountainside; some were drowned in greenery. But I recognized its shape. I recognized the azure waters around it. I recognized the smell. And soon, I recognized the place of the grotto where we used to swim and celebrate the nymphs. Soon I saw the entrance: a dark hole standing out among the pale rocks.

Suddenly  I lifted the heavy table. It overturned, and the dishes shattered on the floor with a sharp, deafening crash. I rushed straight ahead, jumping over the furniture, crushing pieces of glass and porcelain under my feet. Some of them cut deep into the soles of my feet. The servant was in front of me, surprised. I threw myself at him, grabbed him by the back of the neck, and smashed his face down into sharp debris. I heard him groan. I recognized the smell of blood. Then, using my momentum, I placed one hand on the railing and vaulted over the last obstacle to jump into the deep water.

I swam with all my strength toward the grotto. At last, I was safe. I entered deeper inside, still amazed by the beauty of the place. I whispered a prayer to the nymphs, whose kingdom this once was. Then I dived into the deep blue water toward a secret entrance leading to the palace of Tiberius, hidden behind a rock. I was free. But at the same time, I was worried. All this seemed too easy. 

At last, I reached the steps that led to the emperor’s villa. This path was known only to those close to him. It opened into his private theatre, hidden deep inside his garden.

 I began to climb the staircase, worn down by time. But I felt a sharp pain. Shards and pieces of glass and porcelain were buried in the soles of my feet. I pulled them out one by one.I liked this pain. It brought me back to the time of my training, when an experienced gladiator cared for the wounds, I received during practice. Soon, I reached the top. The exit was blocked. It opened in the middle of the stage, but now an enormous rock was standing in the way. I placed both hands on the stone and, like Atlas lifting the earth, began to push with all my strength. 

Sweat flooded my tunic. My muscles swelled as if during an intense training session. My skin became a network of veins of every size, feeding my power. The rock moved. A line of light appeared. With a savage roar, my shoulder pressed against the stone, I gave one final push, and the rock rolled to the side. I caught my breath. The soft air from outside calmed me. The Romans were right to call me Hercules. I lifted myself up with both hands and climbed out of the hole, happy to have escaped. A roar rose. Lights flooded the stage. A crowd surrounded me. And in front of me stood a retiarius. I recognized the coward who had insulted me in the Golden House. My escape was a trap. And I understood that the ritual was beginning.

I do not like this situation. I feel like a fish watched by a waiting fisherman. That is why I have always hated retiarii. They are more hunters than warriors. Cowards, too afraid to seek real close combat, except at the very end, when they finish you with their dagger after you are already trapped in their nets. The prince gives a sign to begin the fight, but the retiarius does not rush at me. Typical. He circles, as they always do. I know his technique. I have watched men like him several times, but I was too famous to fight against one of them. He already knows I am stronger than he is. He sees it in my shoulders, in my arms, in my thighs still swollen from the effort of moving the stone. He also knows I want revenge for his insults and his blows. So, like a coward, he keeps his distance.

His trident shines under the spotlights in one hand. In the other, the net hangs like a dead beast. I take one step toward him. Pain bites into my feet, and I grin. The wounds from the glass shards are still open. He notices it. I see his smile. It gives him the courage to attack first. The trident shoots straight toward my stomach. I twist aside and feel one point tear my tunic and scratch my ribs. Blood flows at once. The masked crowd cheers and leans forward. Suddenly, I understand. This is not only a fight. Every drop is an offering. I follow  my blood fall into a channel carved into the floor. I raise my head and notice that it leads toward a giant statue of gold and ivory, representing Mars in all his majesty. A second channel, much deeper, follows the same path.

I lose my concentration for an instant, and the retiarius strikes again, like a man hunting a wild boar. One point touches my shoulder. Another seeks my thigh. He does not want to kill me quickly. He wants to tire me, to make me bleed as much as possible. Then the net flies. It opens above me. I raise my arm too late. The mesh falls over my shoulders, my neck, my face. The weighted edge strikes my back. The retiarius pulls at once. The net tightens. I stumble. My wounded feet slide on the wet stone.

Now I am the fish I feared I would become. The crowd cries out, some with pleasure, others with disappointment. The man pulls again, trying to bring me down to my knees. Rage rises inside me. I am used to blows and pain, not to being hunted like a savage beast. I need a strategy.

A voice speaks in my memory. An old gladiator voice, long dead now, teaching us how to survive a retiarius. “Do not fight the net. Let his movement come.” When he pulls a third time, I leap toward him instead of resisting. His face changes. He did not expect that. The trident drops toward my chest. I seize the shaft with both hands. The wood cracks under my fingers. He tries to pull it back, but I am already on him.

 My forehead smashes into his face. He cries out and lets go of the trident. His dagger appears, but too late. Still tangled in the net, I slip under his arm and grab him around the waist. His body is light against mine. I lift him like a sack of grain and throw him onto the stone floor.

I fall on him. He tries to reach my face with the dagger. I pin his wrist against the stone. His other hand scratches my tunic, my neck, my skin. He struggles. Now he is the fish caught in his own net. I squeeze. My knee crushes his stomach. My hand closes around his wrist until his fingers open. The dagger falls. 

Then I take his own net, pass it around his throat, and pull. His legs strike the ground. Once. Twice. Then nothing. I remain above him, gasping, covered in sweat, and blood. The net still hangs from my shoulders. The trident lies at my feet. The retiarius no longer moves. I rise slowly. Silence falls over the stands. I have won.

But the prince does not applaud. He raises one hand. A muscular man steps into the arena. A real beast. Blond, heavy He carries a knife. He stops in front of me and offers it to me, handle first. I do not take it. The crowd murmurs in disappointment. Behind those beautiful clothes, behind those golden masks, there are only people thirsty for blood, no different from those of the past. They are here for the fight, but above all for the killing.

The prince stands in his box. His voice reaches me, cold and slightly annoyed.“Certamen victum est, Marce. Sed sacrificium nondum completum est.”(The fight is won, Marcus. But the sacrifice is not yet complete.)I look down at the retiarius. His chest still rises and falls. Weakly, but he breathes. I understand what they want. They do not want victory. They want blood. I look toward the statue of Mars. The first drops of my own blood have already reached the shallow channel. But the second channel remains empty, dark, waiting.

The blond man pushes the knife closer. I feel the old arena return inside me. The sand. The screams. The smell of sweat, iron, fear. I kneel beside the retiarius. For a moment, I almost pity him. Almost. Then I remember his smile when the trident touched my flesh. I take the knife. The prince does not move. Behind him, another man watches me from the shadows of the loggia. His body is familiar, but his face is hidden behind a golden mask. 

I have no time to think. I place one hand on the retiarius’s chest. With the other, I open his throat. His blood rushes out at once, thick and dark. It finds the second channel and begins to flow toward the statue of Mars. The gold and ivory god seems to shine brighter.

Only then does the prince applaud. The crowd follows him. A name rises from the stands. “MERETRUS. MERETRUS. MERETRUS.” I let go of the knife, and it falls at my feet. My feelings are confused. I have won but am I still free? 

The blond bodybuilder comes closer the blade in one hand,  his enormous muscles moving under his skin. I understand that he is my second task…

TO  BE CONTINUED...

MARCUS MERETRUS BOOK : THE LAST GLADIATOR BOOK, Part I  II  & III

https://mars.chatfighters.com/book/1376

Published: 2026-05-22, viewed 50 times.