He stood in the dust, fingers curled around the hilt of his sword. The shield felt heavy on his arm, its weight a comfort, if such a thing could be found in this place. Tension ran, like a wire, through him. Connecting him to those who watched. A deep, rumbling murmur washed over him. A thousand voices, whispering.

Denied an honorable warrior's death, he would end his life to the sound of their cheers. And they called him 'barbarian'. Glad, he was, that his woman had not survived to witness this final humiliation.

He spat into the dirt. He would take a few of the bastards with him, if he could; that would give them pause. To see their noble blood spilled like wine upon the sand. Not gods, not they. Mortal, after all.

He almost smiled.

Sweat trickled down his face. No breeze stirred the dust.

How hot, this foreign sun.

How cold those foreign eyes.

He waited. Still as stone. Patient as the death he knew would come.

He felt them gather around him, his savage gods. Their presence brought him peace. Through the haze of heat and dust a trumpet rent the air, its martial echo lingering to settle in his breast.

A flash of white; toga clad divinity come to oversee the game.

Hail, Caesar. We, who are about to die, salute you.

BIO: Sharon Partington lives in Alberta, Canada and is owned by her grown son, and two spoiled cats. She is the moderator of the Novel Crit Online Writing Workshop, and has just completed her first novel. Her work has appeared in Aphelion: A Webzine of Science Fiction and Fantasy, and Dimensions: Doorways to Fantasy & SF.