Author's thoughts: "This is part of the previous chapter. Ideally, these two chapters should be combined into one to build a good climax."
The silence around Gannicus's corpse was like a hole in the heart of the storm. The closest rebels, who had witnessed their champion fall, froze. Their roars died in their throats, replaced by expressions of indescribable horror. On the other side, the exhausted Cohors Prima soldiers stared at their commander, their breaths ragged, their eyes filled with an awe that bordered on fear.
Ulixes did not let the moment linger. Victory was an opportunity, and opportunities vanished if not seized immediately. He pulled his gladius from Gannicus's chest with a swift motion, blood spurting onto his already crimson armor. He turned to Flamma.
"Flamma!" he bellowed, his voice hoarse but filled with undeniable authority. "REFORM! FORM A RETREATING SHIELD WALL! WE RETURN TO THE MAIN LINE! NOW!"
The order seemed to snap everyone out of their shock. Cohors Prima, with their remaining strength, moved with ingrained discipline. They quickly formed a tight square formation, shields on all sides, a battered but unbroken steel fortress. They began to move backward, step by step, leaving the champion's corpse lying alone in the no-man's land.
A few of the most fanatical rebels, driven by rage over their hero's death, tried to charge the formation. But they were met by a solid shield wall and quick, deadly gladius thrusts from its gaps. The withdrawal was slow, brutal, and perfectly controlled.
As they moved away from the center of chaos, Ulixes's gaze could now sweep the wider battlefield. He saw the impact of what they had done. Gannicus's death and the disruption of the rebel command had created doubt that spread like a disease. The rebel ranks, which had been pushing forward with united force, now wavered. Some segments began to retreat without orders.
It was at that precise moment that Ulixes heard it. A different sound. Not the hoarse trumpets of the infantry, but the piercing, sharp call of cavalry horns, a summons to slaughter.
He turned to the right flank.
And he saw it. The tidal wave was coming. Thousands of Roman cavalry, held back by Crassus until now, exploded from behind the hills. The ground trembled under thousands of hooves. They were an avalanche of horse, man, and steel, hitting the already faltering left flank of the rebel army with devastating force.
Ulixes watched the rebel shield wall on that side shatter as if made of glass. Roman horsemen crashed through their lines, their long spatha swords cutting down from above, cleaving helmets and heads with ease.
Then, a second trumpet sounded from the direction of the main Roman line.
Ulixes saw the fresh reserve legions, who had been waiting in the rear, now moving forward. They did not run. They marched with steady, inevitable steps, flowing into the gaping breach that Cohors Prima had created moments ago. They were the second wave, coming to drown all that remained.
The battle was over. Now there was only mass execution.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of marching, the battered Cohors Prima successfully reached the safety of the main legion lines. Soldiers from the Sixth Cohort opened a path for them, their eyes filled with awe as they watched the blood-soaked elite unit return from hell.
Ulixes leaned against his shield, his breathing heavy, every muscle in his body screaming in protest. He looked down at the plains below. The scene was a grotesque work of art of total victory. The rebel army was now completely shattered, running in all directions, relentlessly hunted by the cavalry.
He had done his part. He had been the spearhead. He had twisted the knife. He had killed a hero. And he had helped win the war.
Ulixes did not give his men time to rest. Fatigue was an enemy that came after the adrenaline subsided. He had to keep them focused.
"Flamma!" he called, his voice hoarse. "Gather the medics! Treat the most severely wounded first! I want a casualty report within the hour!"
"Yes, Praefectus!" Flamma replied, his stern face showing immense exhaustion, but his eyes gleamed with pride.
Ulixes walked among his men. He stopped beside a young soldier who was sitting on the ground, his hands trembling as he tried to re-bandage his arm. Ulixes knelt before him, took the bandage from the trembling soldier's hand, and with quick, efficient movements, tied it securely.
"You fought well today," Ulixes said quietly.
The young soldier could only nod, too shocked and exhausted to speak.
Ulixes stood up. He could feel the cost of their victory. In every groan of the wounded, in every blank stare of the survivors. It was then that a figure approached him, his steps calm and unhurried. Julius Caesar.
He stopped beside Ulixes, his eyes fixed on the plains below them, where the final slaughter was underway. Roman cavalry moved like a pack of wolves, hunting down the fleeing remnants of the rebels.
"A magnificent sight," Caesar said, his voice flat.
Ulixes did not reply. He simply continued to observe.
Caesar turned, his sharp eyes now looking directly at Ulixes. "They say one man can turn the tide of battle. Today, you proved it, Acilius."
"I merely opened the door," Ulixes replied, his eyes still fixed on the scene below. "The legions destroyed the house."
Caesar offered a faint smile. "Doors do not open themselves. Someone must have the strength to break them down."
They stood in silence for a moment, two very different officers, observing the results of their work. The battle itself had essentially ended. All that remained was the mop-up.
But Ulixes knew, this war wasn't truly over until the real serpent's head was severed. His tactical brain now shifted from the big picture to a single focal point. His eyes swept the battlefield, past thousands of corpses and pursuing soldiers, looking for the two most important figures.
He saw Crassus's command standard in the distance, slowly moving among the troops, the general overseeing the final destruction.
Then, his eyes searched again. In another direction. Towards where the fiercest last stand was still raging. And there he saw it. A small, isolated battle around a small hill. At its summit, stood a single figure surrounded by his personal guard.
Spartacus.
Caesar followed Ulixes's gaze, his eyes narrowing to focus on the fierce skirmish on the hill in the distance. He saw a single figure in the center of it, fighting with a ferocity that defied logic.
"He chose a good place to die," Caesar said, his voice still flat, a cold appreciation from one tactician to another. "High ground. It gives the illusion of hope."
Ulixes did not reply. He merely continued to observe. He turned briefly and gestured to Flamma. "Hold position. Let the men rest and drink. Our work here is done."
Flamma nodded with relief and passed the order. The remaining Cohors Prima soldiers, with groans of relief, began to lower their heavy shields and sit on the blood-soaked ground, their tired eyes still fixed on the distant drama unfolding.
From his vantage point, Ulixes watched the slow execution. The circle of Roman legionaries around the hill tightened, like a net slowly being drawn. Spartacus's personal guards fell one by one, not without fierce resistance, but their numbers were too few. Each time one of them fell, the defensive circle around the rebel leader shrank further.
Spartacus himself was still fighting. Even from this distance, Ulixes could see the power in his every movement. He saw him parry three attacks at once, twist his body, and cut down a legionary. He was a giant, a wounded lion refusing to surrender. But he was alone.
Then, Ulixes saw a new movement. A group of horsemen, led by a single figure in gleaming armor and a commander's red cloak, arrived at the foot of the hill. Crassus.
The general dismounted. He did not immediately attack. He stood there, surrounded by his most elite personal guards, and simply watched, letting the ordinary legionaries exhaust his prey.
Spartacus, seeing the arrival of his main enemy, seemed to find new strength. He roared, a sound barely audible from that distance but its energy palpable, and he charged down the slope, attempting to reach Crassus.
It was a final, desperate mistake.
Crassus's personal guards moved forward to intercept him. The fight was brutal and short. Spartacus, already exhausted and wounded, managed to bring down two of them before a spear pierced his thigh, bringing him to his knees.
He tried to rise again, supporting himself with one hand, his sword still defiantly raised.
It was then that Crassus finally stepped forward. He walked with calm, unhurried steps past the corpses, towards the slave king now kneeling before him.
Ulixes watched in silence as Crassus stopped before the kneeling Spartacus. From this distance, they were just two small figures on a vast stage, but the weight of the moment was felt even from the hilltop. The wind carried the faint murmur of tens of thousands of Roman soldiers who had now ceased fighting and turned to witness the end of their war.
Crassus did not raise his sword. He simply stood there, looking down at his arch-enemy, his long shadow covering the rebel leader's body. He appeared to speak, his gestures calm and measured. Ulixes could not hear his words, but he could imagine their content. The words of a victor. The words of a master. Words of order restored and rebellion crushed.
Spartacus, with his remaining strength, slowly raised his head. He did not look at Crassus. He looked up at the sky, at the now blazing sun, as if searching for something he would never find again. He said something, a last word lost to the wind. Then, he spat towards Crassus's polished boots.
It was his final act of defiance.
Crassus did not react. His face remained unchanged. He simply gave a very slight nod to the guards beside him.
Two personal guards stepped forward in unison. They did not hesitate. Their movements were efficient and emotionless. Two spears rose, then plunged down.
Ulixes saw Spartacus's body violently convulse as both spear tips pierced his back and chest, lifting him momentarily from his kneeling position before pinning him to the ground.
It was over.
The oppressive silence now broke into a tremendous roar of victory. The sound of forty thousand Roman soldiers cheering in unison, a wave of sound that shook the plains, a proclamation of Rome's triumph.
Ulixes did not join the cheering. He simply stood silent, his eyes fixed on the now lifeless figure in the distance. His hand, which had unconsciously gripped his sword hilt, finally relaxed. He let out a long breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
He felt an immense weariness spread through every inch of his body. Not the physical fatigue of battle, but a weariness of the soul. A chapter in his life, an echo of his past on the arena sands, had now truly closed.
He turned away from the sight. The war had been won.
Flamma approached him, the harsh lines on his stern face seemed to soften for the first time. He waited for orders.
Ulixes looked at him, his eyes once again cold and vacant, his mind already turning to the next tasks. To logistics. To the survivors. To the long march back to camp.
"Gather the survivors," Ulixes said, his voice calm. "We return to camp."
He turned, his back to the sight of Rome's victory, and began to walk down the hill, leaving his past buried forever on that red plain.
Night fell over the plains of death. Thousands of campfires lit by the surviving legionaries looked like stars fallen to earth, flickering across the vast expanse of darkness. The air was cold, carrying the faint, sickly sweet scent of drying blood and the sharp aroma of wood smoke. In the distance, the faint groans of thousands of rebels left to die on the battlefield could be heard. Rome did not waste medicine on defeated enemies.
Ulixes sat on an empty ammunition crate, cleaning his gladius with a piece of oiled cloth. His movements were methodical, slow, and deliberate. He scraped every dried bloodstain from the sharp blade. Around him, the remnants of Cohors Prima did the same in heavy silence. There was no celebration. No songs of victory. Only immense, bone-deep exhaustion.
Flamma approached him, handing him a hot bowl of porridge. "Eat, Praefectus," he said. "You haven't touched food since dawn."
Ulixes took the bowl without looking at it. "How are the troops?"
"Three hundred twenty-seven men still able to fight," Flamma replied, a cold, brutal statistic. "The severely wounded have been tended to by the medics. We lost almost half our strength, Dominus."
"They are not lost," Ulixes said quietly, finally looking at the old soldier. "They bought this victory with their lives. Make sure their names are recorded. Every one of them."
Flamma nodded. "They will be remembered."
As silence settled over them once more, the sound of rapid hoofbeats broke the stillness. A single horseman, not from a regular patrol, spurred his horse frantically through the camp, heading directly for Crassus's main command tent.
Ulixes and Flamma exchanged glances. That was not how a messenger of victory rode. That was how a bearer of bad news rode. Soon after, a Centurion from Crassus's guard arrived in their area. "Praefectus Acilius. Dominus summons you and all senior officers. Immediately."
Inside the command tent, now brightly lit by dozens of oil lamps, the atmosphere felt colder than the night air outside. Crassus stood before his map, his back to them. Caesar and the other legion commanders had gathered, their faces tense.
The courier, still panting and streaked with travel dust, stood in the center of the room.
"Repeat your report," Crassus commanded, his voice flat.
"Dominus," the courier said, his voice trembling. "A message arrived from the north. The forces of Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus have arrived from Hispania. They intercepted a group of five thousand rebels attempting to flee through Etruria. They have slaughtered them all."
The silence in the tent was deafening.
"And..." the courier continued hesitantly. "He has sent a message to the Senate. Its content is..." He swallowed. "...'The war begun by Crassus, I have finished'."
Ulixes saw it. He saw Crassus's shoulders tense for a split second. The general slowly turned. He walked to the table, picked up a silver goblet full of wine.
Ulixes watched Crassus's hand. He saw how the general's fingers clenched the polished silver. He saw his knuckles whiten with pressure. Then, with a soft but clear crunch in the silence, the silver goblet dented in his grip, red wine trickling like blood between his fingers.
Crassus didn't seem to notice. He raised the now ruined goblet.
"Pompey the 'Great Boy' has returned," he said, his voice was very low, almost a whisper, and each word was coated in a quiet hatred. "He wants to pick the fruits from a tree he never planted."
He looked at his officers, his cold eyes seemingly piercing their souls. "Let him feast on scraps. We have won the war. And Rome will know who the true victor is."
He placed the shattered goblet back on the table with a sharp clink. His greatest victory had been tainted, stolen at the last moment by his political rival. The war against Spartacus might have ended, but the war against Pompey was just beginning.
Crassus signaled with a dismissive wave of his hand. The meeting was over. The officers, with tense faces, began to disperse one by one, leaving the command tent in an awkward silence.
Ulixes was among the last to exit, stepping into the cold night air. He paused for a moment, letting his eyes adjust back to the darkness. Behind him, Caesar stepped out, stopping beside him.
They both stared out at the vast camp, at the thousands of flickering campfires, where soldiers celebrated a victory that now felt hollow.
"You see, Acilius?" Caesar said, his voice quiet, almost a whisper. "Wars are not won with swords. Wars are won with pens that write their history."
Ulixes turned slightly towards him. He saw Caesar's sharp profile under the moonlight. He fully understood the meaning of those words. Their bloody victory on the plains, thousands of lives lost, now reduced to a few lines on a papyrus scroll sent to the Senate by Pompey.
"Then we must ensure Crassus holds that pen," Ulixes replied coldly.
Caesar chuckled softly, a dry sound devoid of mirth. "Crassus holds the sword, and Pompey holds the pen. That is the game in Rome. It always has been."
He clapped Ulixes lightly on the shoulder. "You fought well today. You earned your honor. But remember, honor on the battlefield and power in Rome are two different beasts."
With those words, Caesar walked away, disappearing among the tents, leaving Ulixes alone with his thoughts. He had just received the most important lesson of his Roman career, not from a general, but from a politician who happened to wear armor.
As he was about to return to the Cohors Prima barracks, a Centurion from Crassus's guard stopped him. "Praefectus. Dominus Crassus commands all senior officers to remain. There is a final order."
Ulixes returned to the command tent. Crassus was now seated, the dented silver goblet replaced by another, intact one. His face was calm again, as if his rage from moments ago had never happened.
He waited until all the senior officers had re-gathered.
"There are six thousand rebels we captured alive," Crassus said, his voice flat. "They await their fate."
He sipped his wine slowly. "Pompey may have the remnants of their fleeing forces. I will take their fear."
He set down his goblet. "I will build a monument along the road to Rome. An eternal reminder to every slave, every merchant, every politician, of the price of defying Marcus Crassus."
He looked at them one by one, his eyes were devoid of any light or pity.
"Crucify them all. Along the Appian Way. From here to the gates of Rome."
The order hung in the air, cruel and absolute. It was not merely a punishment. It was a message written in blood and suffering, directed squarely at Pompey and the Senate.
Ulixes stood silent, feeling the weight of the order. He looked at Caesar, who met his gaze with a single, very slow nod of his head. Both understood. The feast for the vultures was about to begin.
The journey home was not a victory parade. It was a long funeral procession. For days, Crassus's triumphant legions marched on the ancient stones of the Appian Way, moving back into the heart of the world. There were no songs. No cheers. Only the constant rhythmic sound of tens of thousands of leather sandals hitting the ground, the constant clinking of armor, and the creaking of carts carrying the wounded.
Ulixes rode his horse at the head of Cohors Prima, his dull red commander's cloak fluttering gently in the wind. He felt no conqueror's pride. He only felt a bone-deep weariness. Behind him, he could hear the heavy breaths of his men, the survivors who had been forged in fire and were now forever changed.
As they drew closer to Rome, the air began to change. A faint scent of death began to drift, carried by the wind from ahead. At first it was faint, like the smell of rotting flesh in the distance. Then it grew stronger, thicker, a sickeningly sweet aroma that made his stomach churn.
Then, as they rounded a bend in the road, he saw it.
On the right side of the road, stood a tall wooden pole. On it, a body hung, arms outstretched and nailed, head slumped to its chest. The first of six thousand.
The entire front line of the legion fell silent. Their steady march wavered for a split second. They had all seen death. They lived with death every day. But this was different. This was not quick death on the battlefield. This was suffering on display, a grotesque work of art of Roman power.
Ulixes did not look away. He forced himself to see. He saw the man's bluish face, his bulging eyes, his mouth agape in a silent scream.
They continued to march.
That one cross then became two. Then ten. Then a hundred. On both sides of the road, as far as the eye could see, a forest of dark wood and pale bodies now lined the road. On each "tree" hung its human "fruit." Men, women, and even children. Their faces were masks of indescribable suffering, their bodies twisted in painful poses of death.
Ravens feasted, their hoarse caws the only music on that road of death.
Ulixes continued to ride his horse in silence, his cold eyes scanning each cross he passed. He wasn't looking for anything specific. He was simply absorbing the horror, letting it become a part of him. This was the true face of victory. This was the price of order.
He saw a man he remembered fighting in The Pit. He saw a Gallic woman who had once served him wine in a tavern in Capua. Every face was a story that had now ended in the same way.
Then, his eyes stopped.
On one of the crosses, hung a body that somehow still exuded an aura of defiance even in death.
Ulixes stopped his horse. He recognized him.
Gannicus.
Ulixes dismounted, handing the reins to a nearby soldier without a word. He walked closer to the cross, his steps steady on the now silent stone road. The soldiers behind him halted, giving their commander space.
He stood beneath Gannicus's cross, looking up. He saw the thick iron nails piercing the man's wrists and feet. He saw the wounds on his body from their last battle, now blackened with dried blood. He saw the expression on Gannicus's face, an expression that seemed to mock the gods, to mock Rome, even in death.
An echo from the past rustled in Ulixes's mind. Echoes of the arena sands, of the crowd's roar, of the brief brotherhood forged among men who faced death every day. Gannicus had chosen his path. A wild, uncompromising path to freedom, which ultimately led him to this wooden pole.
Ulixes had chosen another path. The path of ambition. The path of power. The path that now had him standing here, wearing the armor of a Roman commander, looking at the corpse of his former brother.
He felt no grief. He felt no regret. He only felt a silent acknowledgment, devoid of any warmth or sorrow. A closure. He extended his hand, not to touch, but just as a last, unseen gesture, before finally turning away.
He remounted his horse and signaled his troops to keep moving. The procession of death continued. Cross after cross, corpse after corpse. The forest of horror seemed endless.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the scenery began to change. In the distance, on the crest of the horizon, he saw it. The silhouette of the legendary seven hills. The glittering terracotta roofs under the afternoon sun. The towering white marble peaks of the temples.
Rome.
The legions continued to march, leaving the Appian Way and Crassus's monument of cruelty behind them. They entered the city through bustling gates, greeted by citizens who stared at them.
Ulixes did not see their faces. His eyes were fixed straight ahead, towards the Palatine Hill, towards the Forum, towards the heart of Roman power. He felt no relief of a soldier returning home. He felt the sharpened mind of a chess player who had just arrived at a new and much larger game board.
He looked at the city, not as a home, but as the next battlefield. A battlefield that would not be won with swords and shields, but with whispers, alliances, and betrayals.
The war against Spartacus was over. His war to conquer Rome was just beginning. End of Spartacus Series.