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I remember how he looked the first time I saw him. He had just been purchased by my Master at a slave auction, one of a number of barbarian warriors rounded up in the aftermath of another of Rome's victories.

Precisely why my Master thought he could make a gladiator I never knew. After all, he was one of the ones who had allowed himself to be captured rather than die in battle, not a recommendation normally. I had an idea, of course, the first time I saw him though, and it wasn't his mastery of a sword.

He was naked on the practice ground, hooves scraping across gravel sweat dripping off his coat. His sword moved clumsily, amateur at best, and the lanista was landing blow after blow with his wooden stave on the helpless young stallion seemingly at will.

"Horse...at least try to block will you? You will make us all look bad with your pathetic flailing" I made it as cutting as possible, getting a round of laughter from my fellow veterans come to watch the pretty pony get schooled. The lanista was becoming frustrated, and ordered him to stand for a whipping to teach him to try harder.

He stood, defiant but still, and took the whip without flinching or making a sound. I saw his nostrils flare though, and his ears twitched instead of flattening, and his ice blue eyes registered barely contained hate. He had spirit, this one, and more besides.

It was impossible not to notice him. A shimmering silver-gold coat, a pure Akhal from the wild plains. He would be noticed anywhere. His mane was plaited in barbarian fashion, and his tail bore a ring of plaited mane up near the dock. He had the look, and no amount of training would be needed for that. He would be popular in the arena, with males and females alike.

Still, he had to survive it first, and that seemed unlikely.

Some weeks later, after another punishing session on the sand, we were both in the baths getting clean. I let the slave work oil into my coat, leaning back on the marble edge, studiously aloof when the stallion came in and trotted to the steps to enter the heated pool. I noticed him though, as I had that day, and as I had every day since as he settled into the world of our little school of the damned. But I kept my eyes from him, and let my other senses savour his delights. Nostrils flared, I drank in his scent, sweat, musk, the scents of young potent stallion. And my ears flicked listening to him, the heartfelt sigh as he let the water take him and soothe the many bruises left by the tender mercies of the lanista.

He moved closer though, this time, and motioned to the slave. The cat knew better than to assist a mere youngling in preference to a veteran champion though, and I could not avoid a little grin of satisfaction at his frustrated nicker.

"Wolf...sorry, Gladiator...it is Marcellus isn't it?"

He was looking at me now, I could sense it, and I let him wait before turning nonchalantly to favour him with my gaze. It was a mistake though; here, naked, sweat dripping, he was beautiful. Even the slave cat seemed to notice, and stopped his work on my back to admire.

I nodded, and swallowed.

"I am...",he began, but I cut him off curtly.

"Larixes, so I am told." I wanted to let him know I knew, keep him in his place. He seemed to take it differently, smiling a genuine smile of warmth.

"You say it better than the Romans do...you remind me of my own people..."

He looked so lost then, wistful, young. He could not be more than eighteen summers, with the lean body of youth just blossoming into stallionhood. The hard work would help him there, and already was. His muscles flowed under that magical coat, pectorals and thighs already bulging afresh.

Our conversation was neutral until he got up the courage to get to the point. When he did, it surprised me.

"Marcellus, I...I need help. I know the lanista tries..."

"They are good, little stallion."

"But you are the best. Everyone knows. I saw your bout with the bull, Narxes..."

It troubled me how pleased I was to know he had seen. Narxes was a cocky young fool, but he was good, and he had a good fifty pounds in muscle on me. He expected to teach me a lesson, and claim the champion's wreaths. Instead he ended up a writhing mass of pained calf on the sand, forced to beg mercy from his most hated adversary. I think he hated that less than what followed though; a night bound to my bed at my mercy. Such was the price of losing a private fight amongst our kind. He still could not look me in the eye.

I looked him over, admiring his body, even more his spirit. He was earnest, this one, and his eyes were respectful, even admiring. I craved that even more than Narxes hate. Still, there were limits.

"If I took you on youngster, there would be a price..."

He swallowed, and nodded. He did not step back, did not look down at the water, did not flatten his ears as I expected. He looked me in the eye, and there was a flash of something in the ice blue. I felt my cock stir, the heat of the water suddenly surmounted by a deeper heat in my groin.

With a motion I dismissed the cat. He seemed put out, but I did not feel like an audience for this. This would be for me alone.

One step and I stood before him. He was tall, taller than me, though I had him in bulk. My muzzle came to his neck, where I noticed a simple necklace, the leather run through a shining black stone.

"First you will give me this."

He looked angry now, just a flash, but quickly concealed. He obeyed though, clumsily but eventually he untied it and handed it to me. I placed it beside the pool.

Then I reached for him, gripping his sheath, my claws raking the soft leather of his intimate place, feeling the shudder that went through him. He let out a soft nicker but didn't flinch.

"Now you will give me this..."

His member was magnificent, pink and mottled black, swelling to full erection under my touch. I cupped his scrotum and rubbed his flare, and drew his muzzle into a heated kiss that made him shudder even more. He shook like a leaf in a storm, but he didn't move otherwise, letting me set the tone.

I gripped one hand, clenched to a fist by his side, and pulled it to my own needful length. His fingers grazed my cock, grasping the heated flesh almost instinctively. He let out a shuddering whinny as his hand circled my shaft and stroked down to my sheath.

First I used his muzzle, gently, letting him set the pace. Sunk to the hilt in his wetness I felt the stirrings already building and it took all my control to hold back. He licked down my shaft then, tongue poking between my sheath and shaft, the musky depths drawing him like a moth to a candle, and he lapped up all my thick musk with hunger until I pulled him to his hooves by his mane.

I took him standing, bent over the edge of the pool, tail wrapped round my wrist and pulled taut, his wide spread crevice a valley of pure delight. I would savour it in time, for now I needed, waiting only to use some of the oil left behind by the slave cat to coat my cock and, with a two fingered thrust, his clenching tunnel.

From the first thrust I knew he was no virgin. He cried out, but not in pain, and I sank to the hilt easily. One paw roamed his body, and then clasped his cock, he was achingly hard still, and I stroked teasingly with paw and cock at the same time.

I was a long way from completion when his tail slapped my chest and I felt his length twitch and suddenly he spent, coating the marble with his spunk. The impetuosity of youth; I remembered it well, and bent my muzzle to his to kiss him and gently mock him for his lack of control.

It was then I noticed the tears, running across his cheek. I licked them up, tasting salt, and whispered soothingly in his ear as I rode him to my own ending, finishing by tying him harshly as my orgasm neared. That drew a cry of pain finally, but no other complaint, and with a little more gentle pleasuring, a fresh shot of stallion seed.

"Speed is not everything colt; the art is in slowing everything down. You will need to learn control little stallion, in here and in the arena. Lucky for you, we have time for both..."

Our days were spent in earnest study of the finer points of our profession. Our nights spent in even more earnest study of the arts of love. He was hungry, my stallion, his body responding to my touch and even my voice in time. I could have him erect and drooling just by whispering in his ear, my claws running through his mane. And then I would take him muzzle to muzzle, his hooves over my shoulders, and show him how to take his time, how to build and crest and build again, until the dawn.

One night I found him crying again, after we coupled, and I licked his tears and tasted the salt. My paw gripped his length, pleasuring him the way I knew he liked, pads barely caressing the flesh of his stallionhood, but it did not work. I noticed him looking at the necklace.

"What are you thinking of colt..."

"Nothing."

He got a nip on the ear for that, and he would not look at me as he spoke. His words were laced with pain.

"My lover...he gave that to me. Before..."

"Yes?"

"Before he died, in the first charge against the Roman formation. Alone. I should have been beside him, but he made me stay with the mares to protect them because he did not trust my skills. All I wanted to do then was die; and yet, I found I could not."

"Instead you have become a warrior, like him..."

"Not like him. I am a slave, nothing more."

"You are alive...that is always more."

I soothed him as best I could, with my body. We had learned, over the months, how to give and take. I gave now, riding his length, feeling the pulse of his flare deep inside me, hearing his cries and moans. There were no more tears when we finished, exhausted, though I knew they were still under the surface. That was the way with pain.

I remembered all this in a flash as I lay on the sand. The helmet lay beside me, abandoned and useless. My paw gripped at a gaping wound in my belly, thick blood dripping unheeded into the coarse gravel. I watched it pool there fascinated, the red liquid clumping sand into little rubies of death. Red like fire, red like my cock aching for his body... life incarnate and yet...

There was sound to match. The roar is like an animal I always feel. It pulses with life at its most potent; and death too. Yet I enjoyed bathing in it all the same. When the crowd in the arena have been watching for a whole day, their appetite for blood building with each fresh contest, the roar circles the marbled terraces and throbs through your body as you stand on the sand.

Now it throbbed as I lay. I heard the harsh pant of breath nearby, even over the roar, and the shuffle of hooves.

"Gladiator, I am the instrument of your judgement, but I bear you no ill. May your shade fight on in the afterlife, and may I fight by your side when my time comes."

I looked up at him, holding his sword, with my life blood dripping from it's surface shining in the sun. He looked beautiful in the sun, naked except for a belt gilt with silver, and the necklace I had returned to him last night. As he spoke the ancient words laced with sorrow and regret, I watched a single tear drip down his cheek before hitting the dust, then several more joined it. Alas, this time I could not lick them away. Even red with tears though, his eyes were shining. They would be the last thing I saw, but there were worse ends.

"Forget everything I taught you stallion. This is one time to make it quick..."

Drink, sweet Earth, and bring us peace at last...