Every gladiator dreamed of a glorious death.

Did death come so? In shades of memory, light and dark?

For so did they come to him: the triumph of his blows against Theokoles, the scent of the sand, his own sweat, the strength of his body and sword.

All of Capua, roaring. The taste of glory in his mouth, so full he laughed with it. Ripe and sweet, but not as sweet the taste of she whose eyes he sought in the crowd. Finding her in the pulvudus, he saluted her, safe in his victory, glad that her love – and her relief – shone back at him like the sun.

The battle begun anew, and with it, the ashen rage of snatched glory. Dust in his mouth. The hilt of his sword, the heat of his shield.  That fucking Thracian rabbit, Spartacus, underfoot, in his path. The beast, roaring. Pain, like the gods themselves striking him down. The world itself spinning and falling, and him with it, held only by Naevia's gaze, so far away.

The sun in Naevia’s eyes gone out, sorrow darkening them, just as all around him dimmed.

An odd wonderment at the death coming for him; a strange pride that even defeated, he had seen her care for him. She had not turned away. Even in death, a kind of victory.

Sand. Pain. And the blinding blaze of the sun broken for an instant by a figure. An eclipse of a man – the rabbit?  Impossible -- , then the sounds of battle. The will to fight, though the pain and the sun yet flayed him. One last strike against his opponent; his helmet, and the sun, blinding Theokoles.

The eclipse complete, as all grew dark, save one last memory, flickering.

Last night Naevia had wept for him.

The scent of her tears seemed all around him now, like rain.

A glorious death, indeed.