Chapter 3 – The Greater Good
The rebels had moved like smoke through the hills for weeks, leaving blood and whispers in their wake. Rome called them fugitives. To the slaves they freed, they were hope given steel.
At dawn, Spartacus crouched on a ridge, eyes on a Roman caravan winding below. Thirty soldiers marched with it, armored and disciplined, guarding wagons of grain and salted meat.
Crixus sneered, hand tightening on his sword. "Thirty. Twice our number. Let us fall upon them and spill their blood!"
Oenomaus frowned. "Fall upon them blind, and we die in the dust. Rome thrives on arrogance. We cannot afford it."
Spartacus turned to Ivar. "What do you see?"
The boy scanned the gorge, every detail turning in his mind. The narrow path. The river crossing ahead. The soldiers' tired steps.
"I see weakness," he said at last. "The wagons slow them. The river divides them. Strike at the crossing, and half their line drowns before the rest can raise shields."
Spartacus' lips curled in grim approval.
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The Ambush
By midday, the Romans reached the river. Water rushed high from recent rains, the wooden planks of the crossing slick with moss.
They never saw the shadows among the rocks.
At Ivar's sharp whistle, the rebels struck. Stones rolled from above, shattering the first wagons. Horses screamed, soldiers stumbled, shields raised too late.
Spartacus led the charge, bellowing like thunder. Crixus crashed into the front line, rage breaking armor as if it were clay.
Ivar moved like a blade of the storm. He darted between Romans, twin swords flashing — longsword hacking shields aside, shortsword darting into exposed flesh. He ducked under a spear, turned, and swept the man's legs before plunging both blades into his chest.
The river swallowed soldiers, their armor dragging them under. The rest broke, scattered, cut down as they fled.
The rebels seized the wagons, tearing open sacks of grain, cheering as food spilled into desperate hands. For once, hunger eased.
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The Greater Good
That night, fire crackled and bellies were full. Spirits lifted. Yet Spartacus sat apart, watching freed slaves eat with tears in their eyes.
"This is greater than vengeance," Spartacus murmured. "Each raid, each strike, it feeds the hungry, frees the chained. Rome thinks us beasts, yet we give hope."
Ivar sat across from him, calm, sharpening his short blade. "Hope is sharper than steel. Rome cannot kill it once it spreads."
Oenomaus approached, standing tall, gaze steady. "You think like a tactician, boy. Not a child. Not even a gladiator. You see war as more than blood."
Ivar looked up, sea-green eyes glinting. "Blood wins battles. Minds win wars."
The old Doctore gave a rare smile. "Then perhaps you are destined for more than the arena. Perhaps the gods did not waste their gift in you."
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The Shadow of Rome
But even as laughter rose around the fire, shadows lengthened elsewhere.
In Capua, Glaber received the report of another destroyed convoy. His jaw tightened as the messenger stammered.
"They say Spartacus leads them… but there is another. A boy with black hair and sea-green eyes. He fights with two swords, fast as shadow, cutting men apart like wolves through sheep."
Glaber scoffed, though unease flickered in his eyes. "A boy? You bring me ghost stories."
Yet when the messenger met his gaze, voice trembling, he whispered:
"Romans are beginning to fear him more than Spartacus. They call him… Twin Steel."
Glaber's expression hardened. "Then we will bleed the legend from him."
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⚔️ Do you want me to move straight into Chapter 4 (Episode 4 – Empty Hands), where Ivar insists on saving civilians in the chaos of rebellion, or pause here for a short interlude showing how the rebels themselves are beginning to mythologize Ivar — almost as if the gods walk with him?